Child Of My Heart

Title: Child of My Heart pt.2/?
Author: Soulseeker
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: HP/SS, RL/SS
Rating: NC-17 for language, sexual content, male preg, abuse
Summary: Can a forced marriage bring happiness?
Disclaimers: I owe nothing. It’s useless to sue me for anything.
Warnings: Sirius Black and Dumbledore are still alive. This is my universe and I get to say who dies or not. Well, at least in this story anyway.
Beta: Greeneyes
 
 
 

                                               Child of My Heart
 

Severus Snape stared in complete shock at the still sleeping Harry Potter, whose glasses were slightly askew. No longer a skinny, short boy, Potter had finally shot up to 6’2”. His shoulders had broadened from his Quidditch playing; in fact, he’d filled out quite nicely. He was even more handsome then his father had been at the age of 24.
 
Severus swallowed heavily. The sight of Harry Potter in his bed had actually shocked him now that he was sober. He was bewildered at the thought that he and Potter had . . .  well, done what they did last night. As far as he knew, the younger man hated his guts. Because of the Dark Lord, Potter had been unable to follow his dream of being a professional Quidditch player until now. Now that Voldemort was permanently eradicated, Potter could now pick and choose among all the professional teams still vying for his attention. Now Potter could leave the school grounds for good, instead of being held virtually a prisoner after his seventh year.
 
The enforced stay, for his protection and extra training, had turned the young man angry and bitter. He was confined to Hogwarts, unable to Apparate to Hogsmeade or The Burrow for any change of scenery. Snape didn’t really blame him for the attitude. After his cover as a spy had been blown, the Potions Master had also been confined to the school for his own safety until the final showdown, a fact that Snape had privately celebrated
 
At Hogwarts, he didn’t have to dance in attendance to anyone, other than Headmaster Dumbledore. But at least Albus respected him, respected his abilities, and other than a few fleetingly light touches on his arms or shoulders, the Headmaster never touched him. Never grabbed him and tore his clothes off. Never chained him naked next to his chair, forcing him to spread his legs for any Death Eater’s amusements. Never laughed and clapped as Lucius Malfoy shoved his fist, and then his entire forearm, up his ass, causing massive tearing and bleeding.
 

The kaleidoscope of memories bought the nausea back with a vengeance. Snape barely made it to the toilet in time to expel all the contents in his stomach. He stayed kneeling on the cold, hard floor until his stomach stopped its painful contractions. The shakes started up, and Snape belatedly realized that he was naked. Too weak to stand, he crawled his way out of the bathroom and managed to drag a clean robe out of his half-closed closet. He never let anyone at Hogwarts see him completely nude. The shame of the scars he carried, the fears of vulnerability, caused him to be hyper-sensitive regarding his own modesty. Not even Poppy had ever seen him with all of his clothes off. Until now, that is.
 

The warmth of the robe was finally filtering though, but he still stayed hunched over on the floor, wondering what to do next. Any thoughts of getting more of those kisses flew out the window at the sight of Harry Potter in his bed. Snape briefly considered fleeing, except that it was his bedroom and his bed being invaded. No one had ever had the audacity to be in his bedroom before, and he didn’t quite know how to handle this entirely new situation. And except for Dobby, not even the house elves were allowed in his only true sanctuary.
 
A quiet, masculine groan shook Snape out of his turbulent thoughts. Potter was waking up. Snape watched as the young man groaned and stiffly sat up. Snape averted his eyes at the sight of Potter’s thick manhood still covered with blood. His blood, Snape dully realized. He himself hadn’t even noticed his own blood-covered backside or thighs. The surprise of his bed partner had driven that out of his mind. Now, the sight of the blood caused Snape to note his own throbbing soreness and the familiar itchiness of drying blood. The damage mustn’t be extensive, he surmised, if the blood flow had already stopped.
 
Snape managed to stand up on shaky legs just as Potter took one blurry look at him and bolted for the open door of the loo. Not the reaction the Potions Master had hoped for, although, he wasn’t really sure what reaction he should’ve expected. This situation was entirely too new and too bewildering for him to figure out. He had a naked man - in his private rooms - throwing up in his loo. Whether the fact was that the man was sick because of the sight of Snape, because of a hangover, or both, didn’t really register.
 
Snape waited until the sound of vomiting tapered off and the sound of running water from the sink began before he cautiously edged over to the door. He kept his eyes trained on the back of Potter’s head, refusing to glance down even once. He’d seen enough naked backsides to last him a lifetime and longer. He had no desire to peruse yet another one, especially not one that belonged to a former student.
 
Harry rinsed out his mouth and splashed his face one-handed with cold water, his other hand holding his ever present glasses in a loose grip. How much had he drank last night? His fuzzy brain struggled to remember the events of the evening. His head pounded and it felt like Mrs. Norris had crawled into his mouth and died. He grimaced at the mental picture. Maybe after he figured out where the hell he was, he could visit Madam Pomfrey and beg on bended knees for a hangover potion. However, if he was unlucky with that, maybe Hagrid would be kind enough to put him out of his misery.
 
The Man-Who-Defeated-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rested his forehead on the cool glass of the mirror and closed his eyes. Fuzzy pictures filtered though, and he tried to make some sort of sense out of them. There had been a celebration at Hogwarts. There had been lots of toasts, with lots of liquor. There had been music and dancing. He remembered dancing with someone, and then that someone left.
 
He remembered . . . stumbling into an alcove in the wall and then finding his arms full of someone else. Someone slim and smaller then he, delicate compared to his now filled out body. He remembers kissing that someone and then dragging them both off to a room, a bedroom. Whose bedroom he really couldn’t say right now.
 
More memories filtered though Harry’s hazy mind as he recalled more kissing and the familiar taste of cock in his mouth. So that someone was a he, with long hair if his brain was remembering correctly. Harry smirked to himself; that could be just about anyone, including the greasy git of a Potions Master. His mind was drawing a blank on the face and body though. The only thing that was absolutely, positively crystal clear was that the man had the sweetest, tightest ass Harry had ever been in.
 
The memory of that tight, hot hole squeezing around him caused his shaft to fill and twitch. Harry wondered if maybe the guy, whoever he was, would be up for another round. Hangover or not, he was always ready for a quick shag.
 
Harry grinned and licked his lips at the thought of plowing into that perfect piece of tail again. This time, however, he would certainly remember every exquisite detail. Maybe, if he was persuasive enough, he could convince the guy to come with him when he left Hogwarts for good. He’d keep the guy hanging around for awhile until he grew bored of bedding him, and then he’d shove him out the door after he found someone else. The guy might put up a fuss at first, but not everyone could say that they got fucked by the Famous Harry Potter.
 
Harry’s prick continued to swell and throb at the thought of another go at that sweet meat from last night. He was convinced that all it would take was another go and the guy would be panting at his heels. Just thinking about bending the other lad over the first available surface and shoving into that heavenly hole was almost enough to make Harry shoot his load.
 
He quickly grabbed his balls by his free hand and gave them a sharp tug downwards to prevent that very act. It wouldn’t do for the Famous Harry Potter to lose control like a teenager with his first wet dream. Maybe he’ll get his newest conquest to suck him off, come down the sweet throat that came with the sweet ass. That way, the next hard-on would last longer.  
 
Harry frowned as his balls holding hand registered something strange. There was an odd stickiness covering his testicles, and, now that he thought about it, his dick too. It was too tacky and too much to just be cum.
 
Putting his glasses on, he nearly screamed. His penis, balls and upper thighs were streaked with drying blood. Harry blinked hard, trying desperately to deny what his eyes saw. He knew that it wasn’t his. He’d been hit in the crotch before and knew how the debilitating pain would bring a man to his knees. He felt no pain anywhere, except for his pounding head. 
 
Harry’s face blanched. Dear God, what happened last night? Did he actually rape someone? But no, his mind instantly rejected that thought. He didn’t remember the guy fighting him or hearing the word ‘no’. No matter how drunk he was, that would never have happened. Besides, the guy could’ve fought back and overpowered him easily as inebriated as he was. So, he had just been too rough with the guy. He’ll just apologize to him and charm himself back into his good graces. Harry still wanted another go before he left.
 
Harry found a washcloth and cleaned himself up. Time to face the music and find out who his bed partner had been. Taking a big breath, he turned around and strolled out of the bathroom. He came face to face with Severus Snape.
 
Harry stared in shock at the other man. Snape was pale, paler then usual and dark circles shadowed his black eyes. A few inches shorter than Harry, the man appeared frail and was clearly uncomfortable under Harry’s scrutiny. Harry wanted to deny that he had sex with Snape, but couldn’t due to the fact that the man stood in front of him wearing nothing but a robe clutched between two trembling hands. He watched as the Potions Master’s face flushed and look away. If it had been anyone else, he would’ve immediately taken the other man in his arms to soothe him
 
But it wasn’t anyone else. This was Severus Snape, the Potions Master. The greasy git who made his life hell since he came to Hogwarts at the age of 11. This man had done nothing but take away House points and make snide, cutting remarks to an orphaned boy who only wanted to belong to somewhere or someone. Harry became angry and all thoughts of an apology for the rough handling flew out the window.
 
“You?! I shagged you last night?”
 
“Well . . . yes.” Snape wasn’t going to deny it. How could he when he was standing before Potter wearing nothing but a robe? He wanted disappear under Potter’s cutting glare. He wanted to cast an Obliviate spell on the boy, no - man, just so that he could face Potter later without feeling shame over the disappointment and horror dawning in those green eyes.
 
There was a long silence as jet black eyes peeked out between the long black hair half covering the Potions Master’s face. He forced himself not to flinch as he saw the growing anger on Potter’s face.
 
“What did you do?” said Potter accusingly. “Did you slip something in my drink? Use a glamour to make me think I was with someone else? If I thought for one second that I was fucking you, I would’ve run the other way. I can’t believe I actually touched you! I can’t believe I was that drunk. I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but it’s over with now. I don’t want anything to do with the likes of you!”
 
Harry gave one last contemptuous look before locating his clothes and wand. He rapidly dressed; the only thing on his mind was to get away from Severus Snape as soon as possible. He never stopped to look at the misery etched in the Potions Master’s pale face, nor the quailing posture as the object of his hatred and ridicule tried to make himself as small a target as possible under the verbal assault.
 
Harry turned at the bedroom door and pointed his wand at Snape. So used to being cursed and hexed after sex, the Potions Master didn’t so much as flinch at the familiar movement. He only waited patiently for the oncoming pain.
 
But instead of bodily pain, Potter ripped apart the last shreds of Snape’s soul. The younger man’s voice dripped with contempt and hatred, his blazing green eyes froze the Potions Master in place. “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll deny it. It was a mistake. A drunken one night stand that didn’t mean anything. Just because we fucked doesn’t mean that I have feelings for you. I don’t love you; no one could love a thing like you. You’re nothing to me. You’re nothing to anyone decent. The world would have been better off if Voldemort had killed you. I don’t want you to ever come near me again.”
 
Harry whirled around and slammed the door on the way out. He gave a similar treatment to the sitting room door exiting to the outside corridor.
 
Snape waited until the vibration from the abused doors silenced before he began to move to the loo. The tremors started again, shaking his thin frame violently. The cruel words echoed in his mind and he realized that Potter was right. He started a scalding hot shower and climbed in, robe and all.
 
He was nothing. No one had ever loved him with the exception of his mother. But she had died a long time ago, leaving a heartbroken, unlovable son behind. How could anyone love him? He was tainted. Used goods. Filthy garbage that was only good to be fucked. Who could ever love a whorish slut who had been nothing but a bed toy for Voldemort and his Death Eaters?
 
Dragging off the sodden robe, Snape huddled in the far corner of the tub. Trembling hands reached for the harsh soap and stiff brush. He was dirty again and he needed to try to get clean. Although he knew that he would never be ‘pure,’ maybe, just maybe, he might be able to scrub some of the wrongness away.
 
He stayed under the magically hot water for hours, soaping and scrubbing himself. He only uncurled from his cramped position to brutally scrub at his previously hidden private parts. His pale skin soon turned to a light pink, then to a bright red, and then back to pale with red scratches from the hard brush. He still didn’t stop.
 
Snape scrubbed until he finished the large bar of soap and he was just too exhausted to continue. He still felt cold and numb despite the steaming hot water. He stared dully at the light pink water swirling down the drain, seemingly unable to connect the color of the water to the raw wounds he now sported from the vicious cleaning.
 
Snape would have sat in the tub all day if the water hadn’t stopped. It took a few minutes for his brain to register the cessation of water. He looked up to see the very large, very worried eyes of Dobby the house elf.
 
Dobby had been in his rooms many times. To clean, to bring food when he had to miss meals, or to generally bring him messages from Headmaster Dumbledore. Snape knew many of the messages from Albus had been frivolous in nature; sometimes he thought that the reasons Dumbledore sent for him so often was so that the Headmaster could ease his own mind about Snape. The older wizard had become very protective since his cover as a spy had been blown. Snape had been missing for two months before his battered half-dead body was dumped outside of Hogwarts gates as a message to all that opposed Lord Voldemort.  Since then, Dumbledore had been pressing Snape to make friends, to confide in someone who would listen and not judge. Someone who was his equal in intellect.
 
But Snape resisted any and all overtures. He didn’t want friends. He had always been afraid that they would discover just how damaged he was, and either abandon him or turn on him. He had been fucked over enough in his existence; having a ‘friend’ use him as well would just be too much.                                           
 
But Dobby wasn’t exactly a friend. He was a house elf, a free house elf, but nevertheless not human. So it was somewhat safe to trust the creature, especially since Dobby had been the Malfoy’s house elf. Malfoy Manor, where many of the Death Eater meetings had been held. Malfoy Manor, where Snape had often been the only entertainment provided. 
 
Elf and Potions Master sadly stared at each other in silence, the drip-drip from the faucet the only sound. At last, Dobby broke eye contact and retrieved a fluffy towel. He held it out to the naked man and Snape gratefully wrapped it around his slim waist as Dobby helped him out of the tub. He sat on the edge as Dobby snagged another towel and carefully dried the human.
 
Dobby kept his mouth shut and his touch as light as possible. It wasn’t the first time he had done this, taken care of the wounded, silent man. As a Malfoy house elf, Dobby had often been assigned the task of patching and cleaning up Snape after the others had had their fun with him.
 
Dobby’s heart wrenched yet again at Snape’s pain. He was the only human that Dobby had ever seen treated worse then a house elf. And until he’d been freed, the only human who had ever extended any kindness towards Dobby. And it was because of that kindness, and Snape’s worry over Harry Potter’s safety, that the house elf had had the courage to leave Malfoy Manor to warn the young boy away from Hogwarts.
 
Not that it did any good, though. The young wizard had returned to the school despite Dobby’s bumbling interference. But it all turned out right in the end. Master Harry Potter was safe for another year and Dobby was freed from the Malfoy family. Headmaster Dumbledore had hired Dobby and the little elf had been overjoyed to be near Snape again. At least at Hogwarts, Dobby didn’t have to witness Snape’s pain firsthand. He didn’t have to listen to the small whimpers of fear and pain that escaped as man after man violated his human friend. No, he didn’t have to see it anymore, but that didn’t lessen the pain of watching Master Severus Snape return from mission after mission with shattered eyes and bloody body, just for a sliver of information for the Light
 
Dobby was still the only one who really cared for Snape’s well being. The Potions Master only allowed brief examinations from Madam Pomfrey, sitting still just long enough for the medi-witch to treat what she could before he left for the dungeons. Dobby was the only one he trusted to undress him and bathe him when he was too weak to do it himself. Dobby was the only one he allowed to see his vulnerability. Because Dobby knew what it was like to hurt inside, a hurt so bad that no physical pain could compare. So, Dobby was the only house elf allowed in Severus Snape’s private rooms. Harry Potter might have freed Dobby from Malfoy Manor, but it was Severus Snape who held the little house elf’s heart.  
 
Not that Dobby had any competition to attend to the black-clad Potions Master. The other house elves were just as terrified of the usually grim faced Potions Master as most of the student body. Yes, he yelled a great deal. Yes, the man looked as if he would cheerfully slit the throat of any child who dared to challenge him. Yes, he was sarcastic and demanding of his students. That only meant that he cared for his students’ future. He only wanted them to do their best and it frustrated him to no end that most were squandering their talents in potions. However, Dobby knew that most of Snape’s attitude was just blustering nonsense. The human had been nothing but kind and respectful to the elf. And for that, Dobby would gladly give up his freedom if the man asked him to.
 
Once the human was dried, Dobby fetched a healing cream from the cabinet built at house elf level beneath the bathroom sink. It was another example of the kindness of Master Severus Snape. Knowing that Dobby would most likely be fetching him potions or healing salves when he was unwilling to face Poppy’s mothering, Snape had installed the cabinet so that Dobby wouldn’t have to climb up and down the sink. He claimed that it was so that the clumsy elf wouldn’t drop a bottle, but Dobby knew better. Dobby knew that Master Severus Snape was the kind of person who would do something nice, but complain about it loudly so that no one would know.
 
Taking a soft flannel, Dobby dabbed the cream on the worst of the injuries, leaving the towel covered waist alone. Snape attended to that himself while the house elf fetched him his night shirt. Even though it was still late afternoon, Snape was tired. Tired and numb. He wanted nothing more then to close his eyes and let sleep erase the rest of the day.
 
Dobby returned with his long underwear and his usual high necked, long-sleeved, calf-length flannel night shirt. It covered him much like his robes, providing a sense of safety for the Potions Master. The house elf followed Snape into the bedroom. The thin man looked at his bed with a growing panic spreading throughout his body.
 
His bed. The only bed that Snape had ever felt safe in. The only bed that he had never experienced the humiliation and physical pain of sex in. The only bed that had ever contained one body, one Severus Snape, and no one else. That sense of safety was now destroyed. He could never again sleep in that bed again without feeling the ghostly fear and pains of intercourse.
 
“Get rid of that bed, Dobby,” Snape said. His hands were clinched at his sides, panic edging his voice.  
 
“But Master Severus Snape, Sir . . . “
 
“I said get rid of it! And everything that goes with it; pillows, blankets, everything. I don’t want it just transformed. I want it gone, Dobby. I want all of it gone. Please.”    
 
“Yes, Master Severus Snape Sir. Dobby get Sir new bed. Bestest bed. Is Sir hungry? Sir missed breakfast and lunch. Sir must eat.”
 
Snape’s stomach twisted at the thought of food. He knew that even the smell of toast would cause him to begin heaving again, even though there was nothing left in his system.
 
“No, Dobby, no food. I’m just . . . tired. I think that I’ll just rest on the couch for awhile. If anyone asks for me, tell them . . . something, anything. I don’t wish to be disturbed at all.”
 
Dobby followed Snape into his setting room. The tall Potions Master folded himself into a small, tight ball into one corner, using his thin, bony arm for a pillow. He was sleepy, but he really didn’t want to close his eyes. He feared the dreams that would haunt him.
 
Dobby tucked a thick comforter around the ridged human. He began to hum a wordless, seemingly tuneless song. It was a song that every house elf knew, one that they used to soothe fussy babies. The notes were high and soft, warbling and softly swirling in the quiet setting room. It was so unique, so magical, that no one was ever able recreate it. Many witches and wizards though the ages had tried, wanting to capture the gossamer-like song for themselves. However, every spell, every potion, every magical musical instrument used to recreate the fey-like sounds failed. Once the sounds ceased from a house elf’s mouth, the magic ended.                                                                
 
Snape gave a long shuddering sigh as he allowed the subtle magic to pull him into a mercifully dreamless sleep. Dobby watched as the rigid ball relaxed, the stern face softening into something resembling innocence. The sleeping man never noticed the huge tears falling down the elf’s face and splashing on the cold, dungeon floor. 
 
Once he was sure that Master Snape was deeply asleep, Dobby retreated back into the bedroom. He had been so worried about Master Snape’s missed meals, that he had ignored anything out of place. However, his sharp nose now detected the smell of sex in the rumpled sheets. Startled he stumbled back, his overly large feet tangling in a small rug. Arms waving, he lost his balance and fell right on his almost nonexistent butt. His mind reeled with the implications of the evidence. No wonder Master Snape wanted the bed gone. His sadness deepened as he realized that Master Snape’s behavior wasn’t the result of bad nightmares. Dobby sometimes found him in the tub like that after a particularly bad one.
 
The little house elf knew how Master Snape viewed sex. The dark clad man detested it, feared it even. It was very unlikely that the recent encounter had been consensual, at least on Master Snape’s part. Dobby wondered who had dared to abuse his friend so in his own quarters. He promised that no house elf would ever serve that . . . that beast as long as he was at Hogwarts.
 
Dobby stood up and straightened his tea towel. With a twitch of an ear and a snap of his fingers, he sent the bed and all of its contents straight to the heart of the Forbidden Forest. Let some dark creature make the bed its home, it was no longer useful or wanted at Hogwarts.
 
The room looked much bigger without the large four poster bed dominating it. Dobby scratched his head, right between his overly large ears, at the new problem he’d just discovered. It was a bedroom without a bed. Master Snape couldn’t sleep on the couch forever. It was very unlikely that Master Snape would want another bed that looked like his old one, and the only other beds in the castle were student or hospital beds. The house elf didn’t think that Master Snape would like either one of those.
 
Suddenly, the house elf’s ears began to quiver and his large eyes sparkled. Dancing in excitement, Dobby remembered some muggle magazines that Mistress Malfoy had hidden away. They had been decoration magazines and Dobby remembered that one page pictured beds, day beds to be exact. Although Dobby didn’t understand why someone wanted a bed for day time. Everyone slept at night, so why weren’t they called night beds? 
 
Dismissing the puzzle of human behavior for another day, Dobby tapped his left foot and wiggled his right thumb, conjuring a student bed placed lengthwise against the stone wall. Concentrating hard enough to cross his eyes, the house elf lengthened the bed and transformed the four posters and canopy into an elaborate cherrywood scroll headboard that framed the bed on three sides. A sneeze saw the bed dressed in a dark blue comforter with matching pillows and bed skirt. It was just large enough for the Master Snape to have some spreading room and small enough so that the book loving Potions Master could add more bookshelves to his chamber if he wanted them. Dobby hoped that Master Snape liked it.
 
Speaking of which, Dobby nipped back to the setting room to check on him. The house elf adjusted the slipped comforter, tucking it more securely around the bony shoulders. With one last wish for a restful sleep, the little house elf disappeared with a soft pop, leaving his friend in a dreamless sleep.
 
~*~
 
Three months later
 
Snape rested his head against the cold porcelain bowl. This was the fifth morning that had found him like this, hunched over his toilet and losing the contents of his stomach. Whatever illness he had was taking its toll on him. Nausea hit him at any time of the day, he ached in odd places, he had fallen asleep grading essays, and he had even snapped at Dobby, something he had never done before.
 
Once his knees stopped shaking, Snape wearily stood up and rinsed his mouth. He flushed the toilet on the way out and tiredly dressed for the day. Maybe during his free period he would do some research and try to find a stronger anti-nausea potion. The ones he had made hadn’t seemed to make a dent in his problem, and the thought of going to Poppy gave him the shudders. The woman always wanted to either coddle him or bully him during his examinations. He refused to be poked, prodded, and ‘hmmed’ at, only to be told he had a stomach virus.
 
Snape made his reluctant way to breakfast, knowing that if he didn’t at least show up, it would only send a concerned Dumbledore searching for him, and the only thing worse then Poppy’s fluttering around him was an overly protective Headmaster. Really, those two needed a new hobby besides Snape Watching.
 
Snape was the last to arrive at the large head table and he took his usual seat next to the Headmaster. The overwhelming smell of food hammered at his sensitive nose and he had to swallow heavily in order to keep the rising nausea at bay. He wasn’t going to humiliate himself by getting sick in front of the entire school. He sipped at the hot tea that appeared before him and listlessly nibbled on a slice of dry toast. Snape really didn’t want the toast, but knew that if he didn’t at least make an attempt at eating, he would have to deal with Dumbledore and Poppy.
 
Black eyes glanced sideways at the Headmaster. Albus was staring at him; his normally twinkling eyes were full of concern. Snape resisted the urge to squirm under the penetrating glaze of the old wizard, feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Really, Snape didn’t find himself that fascinating.
 
Putting the toast down and swallowing the tiny bit in his mouth, Snape asked the Headmaster, “Have I suddenly grown a second head, Albus?”
 
The old wizard had the nerve to chuckle. “No, no. Nothing like that my dear boy.”
 
“Then why do you persist on staring at me as if I have?”
 
Dumbledore’s voice held a note of concern as he said, “I was just wondering if you were feeling alright, Severus. You look a little more peaked than usual. You’re not coming down with anything, are you? Perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey to be on the safe side.”
 
“Absolutely not, Headmaster. I’m perfectly capable of knowing whether I’m ill or not. There is no need to send Pomfrey clucking around me only to pronounce me fit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a double potions class with third year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff that I have to prepare for.”
 
Standing up, Snape gripped the edge of the table as a wave of dizziness swept though him. Everything tilted and he inhaled sharply to keep his meager breakfast down. He felt all of his blood drain to the bottom of his feet and then rush to his head at an alarming rate. The buzzing of bees filled his brain and his lips tingled.     
 
His eyes closed tight, Snape became aware of two sets of warm hands holding him up and the absolute silence of the Great Hall. Heart still pounding in his ears and hunched over, the Potions Master opened his eyes to find the concerned faces of Dumbledore and Hagrid looming over him. His pale face flooded with heat as he realized that everyone had witnessed his momentary show of weakness. Every child and adult in the Hall was staring at him as if he had suddenly announced that he was wearing a muggle bikini under his robes. 
 
“Are you alright, Severus?” Albus asked, his voice overly loud in the stillness of the hall.
 
Snape answered him though gritted teeth, “I’m fine, Headmaster. I merely stood up too quickly. There is nothing to be concerned about.” He stared at the hands on him until they released him.
 
Straightening up, Snape spotted Madame Pomfrey coming at him in a fast clip, wet towels and wand in hand. Whipping out his own wand, he pointed it at the incoming medi-witch and coldly announced, “Come near me, woman, and I’ll hex you into the next millennium!”  
 
Startled, Pomfrey slid to a halt, towels falling from her hands. She gave him a reproachful frown, which he ignored. Standing as straight and as rigid as usual, Snape gathered the tattered remains of his dignity and made for the side door. The Great Hall was still silent until Snape closed the door behind him. Not even the thick door was able to mask the babble of children speculating on his ’illness’.
 
Snape sighed heavily and tiredly made his way to his classroom. Just another rumor to float around about him. He was shocked and dismayed to feel the prickle of tears and forced them back. He had been humiliated before and never cried; by Merlin, he would not break down now. He had students to torture—uh, teach.
 
Snape watched from his desk as his first class of the day filed in. They were unusually quiet, even more so then normal. There had been no post-class chatter, no sounds of gossiping. Indeed, they sat quietly in their seats and stared at him as if he was going to keel over at any second. Well, he did love to disappoint the little monsters.
 
“Books away, quills and parchments out. We are going to have a little quiz today,” he announced. His voice echoed in the silent classroom.
 
Snape smirked as all the students groaned as one. That would teach them to nose about in other people’s business. He waved his wand at the board, the questions writing themselves on it. Nothing too strenuous, nothing to cause those little brains to burst, but hard enough to keep them busy for the full two hours.
 
Black robes billowing, Snape stalked among the students, peering over their shoulders and making them sweat. Snape was positive that before the day was out, his little ’episode’ at breakfast would be completely forgotten. He would be back to being the mean, greasy-haired bastard once again. One student looked up and nearly wet himself at the sight of the Potions Master’s grim, cold smile before immediately going back to work.
 
Snape kept this attitude up until his last class before lunch; first year Gryffindors and Slytherin. He looked out among them, noting that the Gryffindors outnumbered the Slytherins, even at this year. He had lost so many of his House during the War; too many older students had defected to the Dark side and some of the younger students were turned over to Voldemort by their own parents. He had saved as many as he could, but he just couldn’t save them all.
 
Sighing over the loss, he had the class pair up to brew one of the simpler potions. He wanted to try harder with this class; indeed with all of his first year students. The War was over, there was no need to terrorize the youngsters now, or to keep them at a distance. With his first years he was able to relax a bit, in fact, to actually enjoy teaching. He even found himself liking quite a few of them.
 
One shy Hufflepuff had actually told him that she enjoyed his class. He had wanted to frown at her, but found that he just couldn’t do it. With his more relaxed attitude, the students were actually learning more then he hoped for. Moreover, none of his first years ratted him out about his new attitude towards them. Indeed, he had caught one Ravenclaw telling his older brother that he was absolutely right about the git of a Potions Master. Snape had felt a wave of sadness sweep though him at the perceived betrayal. He had tried his very best to break though the barriers and still the students hated him. However, before he could take away House points, the little bugger had winked at him behind his brother’s back. He then realized that the first years didn’t hate him, in fact, they loved him. But, they wanted to keep his reputation intact with the rest of the student body. And for that, he awarded each class ten House points.
 
Snape came back to the present as the students finished pairing up according to his specifications, the strongest with the weakest. As usual with the reduced Slytherin House, there was an odd student left. Snape picked the one with the highest grade from the last test and had he or she work alone. He knew that student would be more then capable of the task and would need help the least. All the students worked well together, keeping their minds on the task ahead. Snape walked among them, stopping every so often to give a hint, a suggestion, or a nudge in the right direction. A few of them outright grinned at him when he gave out compliments or encouragements.
 
At last, Snape steeped up to Helen Stoodlemocker and Ulus Phiffle. He had thought that Neville Longbottom had been the worst potions student there ever was, but that was before he met Helen Stoodlemocker of Gryffindor House. This girl actually made Longbottom look like a Potions genius.
 
Steeling himself, Snape looked into the caldron and couldn’t disguise the wince. Instead of the vivid blue of a correctly brewed potion, this was a sickly green. It looked rather like split pea soup that had been left out in a bog for a few days after the trolls had bathed in it.
 
Swallowing the nausea that threatened at the sight of that potion, he averted his eyes and asked, “Miss Stoodlemocker, why is the potion that color?”
 
“Isn’t it suppose to look like that, Professor Snape?” came the soft reply.
 
Snape rubbed his temples. He was beginning to get a headache. “No, Miss Stoodlemocker. The color is suppose to be a bright blue. That is nowhere near blue. Please tell me what you did, in the order that you did it in.”
 
As the girl first recited the ingredients, Snape glanced at her supplies. Half of the things she had were not part of the recipe. In fact, the things she had wrong had some very subtle differences in the spelling. There was nothing wrong with her sight. She never squinted or stumbled in her walking. Could it be that the child had trouble reading? Was that the reason that her potions were disastrous and her essays filled with mistakes and ink blotches? Deciding to test the emerging theory, Snape interrupted Miss Stoodlemocker.
 
“Miss Stoodlemocker, please fetch the bottle containing the Mayfly wings for me.”
 
Nodding, the girl scampered over to the shelves and studied the bottles closely. Making her selection, she grabbed the bottle and returned to her station. By then, the whole class was silently watching.
 
Snape lifted the bottle and read the label. Magfly wings were written in his customarily flowing script. He was right, the child had a reading problem.
 
Snape turned to her and said, “Miss Stoodlemocker, I would like you to tell your Head of House that I need to speak to you both.” At the fearfully pale look on her face, he hastily reassured her. “It’s nothing disastrous, nor anything that you have done wrong. I would just like to speak to you both right after dinner.”
 
Miss Stoodlemocker reluctantly nodded, and Snape felt a stab of sympathy for the first year student. Having a learning problem wasn’t something to be ashamed of, but the girl would need extra tutoring and special help to keep up with the rest of her class. Potions and spells could help, but they wouldn’t heal her permanently and then she would just be right back to where she was before. It was best to teach her how to cope with her disability now while she was still young enough to benefit from the tutoring. Since a learning disability wasn’t something that could be kept secret for very long, the little Gryffindor would likely be teased by others, even by some in her own House. However, Snape vowed that she wouldn’t be teased in his class. Perhaps she would even become stronger for it. Merlin knew that Snape himself had grown a hide as hard as a hippogriff’s beak over the insults heaped upon him in his own school years.
 
Just as he was about to have Miss Stoodlemocker and Mr. Phiffle clean the cauldron, he noticed that it began to bubble and boil. The Potions Master had just managed to get the children away from it before it blew up, but unfortunately, Snape was caught in the blast.
 
Despite the lab wards that had been erected specifically for just such an occasion - indeed, the wards had gotten quite a workout during the Longbottom years - Snape was lifted up and thrown against the far wall. There was a sickening thud as his head collided with the wall before he crumpled to the floor.
 
There was a stunned silence once the noxious fumes cleared and the students discovered their teacher still and silent on the cold dungeon floor. They crowded around him in a circle, each in a state of shock.
 
“Blimey, Stoodlemocker. You killed the teacher,” someone said in a whisper in the hushed atmosphere.
 
Helen Stoodlemocker promptly burst into tears at the thought. Images ran though her head at the penalties of such a dastardly deed. At best, she would be expelled and her parents would turn her out on the streets in disgust. She would grow up alone and friendless, living in an old rundown shack with 99 cats. She would have to make her living by scrounging in bins like she had seen homeless people do. Kids would scrawl ‘Teacher Killer’ on her rickety front door and throw rocks through her already broken windows as they ran away.                                                                                                                                                      
 
At worst, she would be sent to Azkaban, maybe for life. Maybe she would even receive the Dementor’s kiss. Even though it was an accident, she did kill a teacher. It was nothing less then she deserved.
 
Her tears were joined by all of the students, especially by the Slytherins at the thought of losing their Head of House. Professor Snape had been more of a parent to the Slytherins then their own flesh and blood. All of the first years were heartbroken at the thought of losing their precious Potions Master.
 
The crying was so loud that a passing prefect heard and followed the sound. He wasn’t a bit surprised to find that it came from the dungeon school room. He had seen more then one student, male and female, burst into tears over a scathing sarcastic remark from that git of a Potions Master. The fact that it sounded like more then one kid that had turned on the waterworks made him curious. What could have irritated Snape so badly that he would turn on the whole class? Although, it didn’t take much to anger the greasy git.
 
Hoping for a bit of juicy gossip to share at the Hufflepuff lunch table, prefect Herman Dansin cautiously poked his head around the open potions lab.
 
What he saw took him by surprise. Instead of finding the greasy bastard looming over the class, screaming his head off, he saw all of the students clustered around one of the far walls. Snape was not in sight.
 
Herman waded though the crowd, meeting no resistance in his search. Reaching the front, the sight of Snape lying there looking like a raven with his black robes spread out like broken wings, stunned him. One little first year, Herman didn’t know her name because she didn’t belong to his House, saw him and wailed louder. With tears streaming down her face and hiccupping, she managed to stutter out “I . . . I . . I k-k-killed him!”
 
Herman looked at her red puffy eyes, snot running down her nose as she renewed her hysterical crying. She reached up with one arm and wiped her nose on the sleeve, leaving a large smear of goo on the garment. Herman grimaced and stared at Snape some more.
 
Snape’s face was sheet white and there was a thin trickle of blood staining the wall where his head must have hit it. The prefect nearly danced with joy over Snape’s demise until he saw the black clad chest moving ever so slightly. The happiness died a quick death as he noticed that the most hated teacher in school was still among the living.
 
Frowning in disappointment, he announced, “He’s still alive.”
 
But whether or not they heard him, the students continued their crying. Rolling his eyes in disgust and disbelief, the prefect went to fetch Madam Pomfrey himself. He knew that it would be less than useless to send one of these howling first years.
 
Herman took his time, half hoping that the Potions Master would expire before he received any help; the git deserved it for failing him on the last test. As usual, the school nurse was in the infirmary, taking her weekly inventory. Headmaster Dumbledore was with her, chattering away and handing her supplies when she asked for them. They both looked up at Herman’s footsteps.
 
“There’s been an accident in the Potions lab. Snape’s been hurt,” he blandly announced.
 
The adults froze for a space of a second before Dumbledore swept out of the room and Pomfrey began to gather supplies and ask questions. 
 
“When did the accident happen?”
 
“Dunno. Didn’t hear anything.”
 
“How did it happen?”
 
“Dunno. Just heard the kids crying.”
 
“How bad is he?”
 
“Dunno that either. He’s on the floor unconscious.”
 
Pomfrey gave an exasperating sigh as she shoved potions and slaves into a bag. “Is there anything you do know?”
 
“A first year Gryffindor claimed that she killed him. No such luck, though.”
 
That earned him a look so scalding that the prefect actually cringed. Pomfrey was pleased to note that it was a look worthy of the Potions Master. Thinking of the fallen professor, she grabbed a miniature stretcher and hurried down to the dungeons.
 
By the time the older woman made her way down to the lower levels of Hogwarts, Herman had spread the news about the accident. The corridor outside the classroom was packed by anxious students, gleeful students, and concerned teachers. She had to fight her way though the crowd to reach the doorway.
 
Stepping inside of the classroom, she was pleased to note that Dumbledore had recruited Filch and McGonagall to keep the students away from the prone Potions Master. Dumbledore was kneeling over Snape, searching for further life signs while keeping him still in case of any sudden movements.
 
The medi-witch waved the Headmaster to the side and slowly ran her wand up and down Snape’s long body, chanting under her breath. It wasn’t a though diagnosis, she was just looking for signs that would make moving him dangerous. Pomfrey breathed a small prayer of relief when no such sign emerged. It would be safe to move the injured man, as there was no indication of a damaged spine or broken neck.
 
More wand waving and softly spoken charms saw that Snape was gently lifted up and placed on the now full sized stretcher. The stretcher obediently followed Pomfrey out of the dungeons and to the infirmary. She shoved everyone out who wasn’t medical personnel and began her healing.
 
Dumbledore paced the corridor outside the double doors, feeling utterly helpless with nothing to do but wait and worry. The corridor quickly filled up with silent students and teachers. There was a silent unanimous decision to cancel the rest of the classes. No one felt like teaching or learning over the worry of an injured Potions Master. All of the Slytherins and the first years prayed for Snape’s recovery. The rest of the student body prayed for a painful and lingering death.
 
Dumbledore had always hated this part, not knowing of  the Potions Master’s condition. It was bad enough when Severus had been a spy and came back from his missions battered and bloody. At least the boy complained loud enough about Poppy’s bedside manner that Dumbledore was positive that he would be all right. This time, he wasn’t so sure. This time, Severus had been too pale, too still, too silent for the older wizard’s comfort. He should have been awake by now, yelling and shouting loud enough to bring down the roof. The fact that he wasn’t was a very bad sign indeed.
 
Dumbledore was nudged out of his lingering thoughts as McGonagall led a very red-eyed first year up to him. With the exception of Severus Snape at that age, the old wizard never thought he had ever seen a sadder looking child.
 
The closer they got, the larger the eyes on the little girl became. Dumbledore realized that she was very frightened about something.
 
“Headmaster,” McGonagall said, “this is Helen Stoodlemocker, one of my first years. She said that she has a . . . a confession to make. Come along, Miss Stoodlemocker and tell the Headmaster exactly what you told me.”
 
Dumbledore bent down until he was at the little girl’s level. If it hadn’t been for McGonagall’s grip, Miss Stoodlemocker would have bolted right then and there. Instead, the transfiguration teacher had to drag the little confessor from the back of her voluminous robes, where she had taken up hiding.
 
Once she was in the light of day, she hung her head and mumbled into her shoes. She just couldn’t face anyone, especially the head of the whole school.
 
“I’m sorry, Miss Stoodlemocker, I didn’t quite hear that. Could you repeat that again, but a little louder this time?” Dumbledore dearly wished that he had thought to bring his lemon sherbets with him. Sweets always seemed to calm a distraught child. Those, and the soothing charms he placed on them.
 
Big fat tears slipped down Helen’s cheeks as she repeated herself. “I said it was my fault that Professor Snape is hurt. It was my potion that blew him up. I didn’t mean for it to happen, honest! Even when he said that he wanted to speak to my Head of House, I wouldn’t have done it. I really didn’t want to hurt him.”
 
Dumbledore made sure that the child was looking directly at him and listening to what he said. “Miss Stoodlemocker, I know that it was an accident. Neither I, nor Professor Snape, I’m sure, blame you for anything. It was not your fault, and I’m equally sure that Professor Snape would be most distressed if you blamed yourself. Now, I want you to be a brave young lady, dry your tears and think good thoughts about Professor Snape. I’m sure that that would help him the most. Alright?”
 
Helen nodded and used the handkerchief that McGonagall produced to dry her eyes. She loudly blew her nose and went to hand it back to the Deputy Headmistress, who managed to refuse it without the look of horror she felt. The little first year went to join her friends and to do as the Headmaster bade her to do, think good thoughts about Professor Snape.
 
Dumbledore was pleased to note that he managed to straighten back up without the groan he wanted to voice. He addressed the other teacher. “Minerva, do you know why Snape wished to speak to you about?”
 
“No, Albus. However, I’m sure that it has something to do with Miss Stoodlemocker. She tries hard, but her grades are abysmal. Perhaps the Sorting Hat should have put her into Hufflepuff. She had the willpower to make an adequate witch, but her marks are something less to be desired.”
 
They both fell silent, each lost in their thoughts about the Potions Master. Lunch and dinner came and went without a single student or teacher in the Great Hall. No one felt like eating. Most of the children waiting around were hoping that the most hated teacher in the world had finally bit the dust, taken a dirt nap, kicked the bucket. The rest of the students were fearful that he had done just that.
 
Dobby popped in and sat across the doors to the infirmary, a miserable lost look on his little face. Dumbledore didn’t know how to comfort the little house elf about his friend. He knew that Dobby and Snape had a strange and special friendship and nothing he could say would be able to wipe the worried look out of those big eyes. So the Headmaster simply sat beside Dobby and held his little hand, both hoping and wishing for good news.
 
Poppy stepped back and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. After many spells and potions, she had managed to decrease the swelling in Snape’s brain and to stop the internal bleeding in his skull. His three broken ribs were easier to fix, although his side would remain tender. Snape was now in a natural healing sleep and would continue to sleep so until morning. The man would wake up with a doozy of a headache, but at least he would wake up. However, those injuries were the least of his problems.
 
Poppy Pomfrey had run the tests several times. They all said the same thing, no matter what modifications she applied to them. Severus Snape was pregnant. There was absolutely no doubt about her diagnosis, and Poppy didn’t know what to do about it.
 
Checking the clock, she was startled to find that it was almost 8:30 p.m. She needed to tell the Headmaster that Snape was out of danger, but she would keep the pregnancy to herself for the time being. She wouldn’t reveal anything until she had a chance to talk to Snape first. She had made a promise to him long ago, and she would keep her word.
 
Pomfrey opened one of the infirmary doors to a sea of faces, some hopeful and some fearful of the coming news. She stood there, guarding the doors against any curious student or teacher. Snape needed to rest, he certainly didn’t need morbid children crowding around his bed watching him breathe. She let the Headmaster come to her, a little house elf she recognized as Dobby trailing after him.
 
“I hope that this is good news, Poppy,” Dumbledore inquired as he reached her.
 
Mindful of little ears, and big ears when she thought of some of the faculty, Poppy reassured everyone. “Snape will be just fine. He’s in a deep sleep right now and shouldn’t be disturbed. He will have a doozy of a headache when he wakes up, but he will wake up.”     
 
There were sighs of relief from some of the crowd and, at the same time, groans of disappointment. For the first time ever, Poppy longed to lose her professional manner and jab a student with a long, sharp muggle needle. That would teach them about thinking ill of an injured teacher.
 
Dumbledore turned and addressed the students crowding the corridor. “All right, everyone, you have all heard the good news. Since it’s close to curfew, I strongly suggest that everyone return to their respective Houses. I will see if I can get the house elves to bring sandwiches and snacks to your common rooms, seeing that most of you skipped the last two meals. I will substitute in Potions class until Professor Snape is feeling more the thing. Now, off to bed with the lot of you.”
 
Dumbledore watched as the teachers herded the children out; hearing some of the students loudly complain on the luck some people had, he silently deducted ten points from their Houses for each child. He waited until the last, lingering child had left, leaving Poppy, Dobby and himself in privacy. The old wizard turned to the medi-witch, his eyes no longer twinkling. His face was grave and serious as he asked her, “What are you not telling me, Poppy? I know that you’re keeping something from me. How serious is his condition?”
 
Pomfrey pulled herself up to her full height and looked the Headmaster in the eyes. “I told you the truth, Albus. Snape will make a full recovery. The bleeding in his brain has stopped and the swelling has gone down. All of his other injuries will heal just as well. However, anything else concerning my patient will be discussed with my patient first. Snape is my first priority; he comes before even you, Headmaster. However, if he wished to inform you of anything concerning his health, I will be sure to notify you of his decision.”
 
As the witch and wizard stared each other down, Dobby popped out and reappeared in the infirmary. He made his way over to the only occupied cot in the vast ward.
 
Professor Snape Sir looked so pale lying there in that hospital cot. His face was as white as the pillow his head rested on; the only colors were the inky black hair spilled on the fat pillow and the soot colored lashes resting on sharp cheekbones. Dobby stared at the thin chest, watching it move ever so slightly under the stiff hospital sheets. Madame Pomfrey had said that Professor Snape Sir would be fine, but Dobby could tell that she was keeping something back. Something else was wrong with his human friend and Dobby had never been so worried in his life.
 
The elf fussed with the covers a bit, wanting something to do, but not knowing how to help. Pomfrey reentered the room and took in the sight before her. She knew, as did all of the staff, that the dour Potions Master and the freed house elf had a strange sort of attachment to each other. Dobby was the only elf allowed in Snape’s private quarters and Snape often left Dobby small treats beyond socks without making it seem like charity. Dobby might be a freed house elf, but he was a house elf with pride, something that most of the adults at Hogwarts had never seen before.
 
The witch tried to frown at the little worried creature in front of her, but just couldn’t do it. Large wet eyes focused on the still figure as stick-like fingers smoothed the already unwrinkled sheets.
 
Heaving a deep sigh, Pomfrey placed a chair beside the cot and told the little visitor, “If you’re going to make yourself a nuisance, Dobby, at least be a useful nuisance. I need to rest, so I want you to sit here and watch Professor Snape. Don’t bother him, but let me know if he wakes up, alright?”
 
Poppy received a very enthusiastic nod as Dobby hopped onto the chair, his ears still quivering as he settled himself down. His little feet didn’t quite reach to the end of the seat as the little house elf stared intently at the sleeping human. That was the last sight that the medi-witch saw before she retired to her own room that was attached to the infirmary. If Snape so much as twitched an eyelash, Dobby would probably dance with joy as he fetched her.
 
She smiled at the thought, but it quickly faded as worry took its place. Snape was pregnant and she had made a promise to him long ago. She knew how the man viewed sex and by some of the nature of past injuries, she blamed him not a bit. She had managed to treat some of the injures when he had been too out of it to protest, and escape her clutches. Poppy knew that as a spy he had most likely received far rougher treatment than that, but the Potions Master preferred to keep to himself.
 
As Poppy readied herself for bed, she remembered Snape’s mother.  Eudora Snape was a cousin of one of Poppy’s childhood friends and the woman had managed to drag the shy Eudora to a few teas in Diagon Alley. Poppy remembered her as a small and delicate lady who was always soft spoken and polite. Poppy couldn’t even remember if the woman had ever spoken above a whisper. Come to think of it, Eudora had often been ill and she remembered that the woman had died quite young. One day she was there and the next she was gone, leaving a loud, overbearing husband and a child that resembled her more then anyone else. Severus had the same raven black locks and delicate features as his mother. Too bad that the large nose and height he received from his father overshadowed his features.
 
However, Severus was nothing like the shy Eudora. Poppy recalled telling the first year Severus that he looked just like his mother. Severus had been small as a child, smaller and more delicate looking then any of the other first years at the tender age of eleven. That had really set him apart from most of the students, and children had an appalling habit of going for the weaker ones. But, Severus soon disputed them of any notion that he was in any way, shape, or form of vulnerability.
 
When Poppy had innocently compared him to his late mother, the young Severus had actually growled at her, and even threatened to hex her if she ever said such a thing again. He hotly informed the stunned witch that he was nothing like his mother. His mother was weak and dead, and he never wanted to hear that he was just like her.
 
The poor boy had stalked off then, leaving a bewildered and sad medi-witch behind. She had chalked the behavior down as a young confused child still missing his mother, and she never spoke of it again. However, she kept her eye out for him, hoping for some small crack in his armor, but she never saw one. Severus Snape kept to himself, as a student and as a teacher. Moreover, except for Dobby and his colleagues, Snape didn’t seem to have any friends, which saddened Poppy greatly; everyone needed at least one friend, one confidante to draw comfort from.
 
Poppy drifted off to sleep, worried about the news she would have to deliver once Snape was awake and aware. Whatever his decision would be, she would comply with it. The coming morning wouldn’t be easy on either of them.
 
T.B.C.