Disclaimer: Be serious. The only way I would ever own Harry Potter would be by a freak accident with J.K.involving a chainsaw, a rhinocerous, and three thousand kilos of jam.

Summary: Harry's suffering, and he needs something to quell the pain. But the only person who's got the painkiller doesn't exactly want to give it to him... one or two HBP spoilers. Harry/Snape non slash. Set during November of sixth book. A little AU.

Note: Okay, this story is a little weird, but I suppose that if you thought like me, maybe a little plausible. But probably not. I just wanted to see more Harry/Snape interaction in the sixth book, and I didn't get it. Dammit!
Also, I guess if it reads a little weirdly, it's because I wanted to give the impression that the narrator was like a friend beside him. Meh.

Pain

It's the pain, you know.

It gnaws at you. Constantly. Day. Night. It's all the same now.

Sometimes you'll stop in the middle of a room, unsure as to why you were there in the first place — the pain distracts you, confuses you, makes you feel panicky inside. You're scared you're losing your mind. You know that you need to keep yourself together, but it's so hard when parts of you feel like they're trying to detach themselves from your body.

The universe pulls you in so many different directions, like an iron filing surrounded all sides by magnets. You feel tossed about on the waves of reality; nothing seems lucid or clear anymore. You're always faintly puzzled, slightly disoriented.

You remember what it was like to feel purposeful— pointed and sharp. But now your head is so blurry, and your friends have begun to notice.

Are you all right, they'd ask, concerned. Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?

But your brain is so lost that you do. You feel very faintly dizzy most of the time.

It's the pain. The headaches. You can handle the pain, but its constant presence has wormed its way into your thinking until you are not quite sure any more. You just want the pain to stop.

So, what to do? A painkiller, that's what you need. Something to take away that bustling confusion in your temples.

It's strange, though. Everyone is asking how you're sleeping. You tell them, okay. A nightmare once in a while, but that's okay. Can none of them see how distanced you've become? It should be obvious to them, if you've realised it yourself. It's not the nightmares. It's the constant, never-ending, unceasing headaches. Not the sharp pangs in your scar you've become accustomed to, but wide, throbbing dull, pressured aches that won't leave you alone.

You no longer differentiate between headaches, as other people do, i.e. there and not there. Your experience is either a slight, throbbing sensation behind the eyes or a full-out nuclear war on your brain.

Glance at your clock: Five minutes past two. The armpit of a particularly bad night— your head feels like a rock that's being split open with a blunt pick. You can't sleep. It's agony, even for you.

Need to stop the pain. It's making you faintly nauseous. Not a new occurrence, but this time you think that your stomach might do more than merely threaten you.

Need to stop the ache.

Swing your legs out of bed. It's okay, it's holiday time— Seamus and Dean are gone. Neville sleeps like a rock, and Ron could slumber his way through a Death Eater raid.

Pull your socks on. Your concentration on even such a meagre task is scarily little— your focus slips far too easily.

Boy, do you need that painkiller.

Remove your pyjama bottoms, pull on underwear and jeans. Swap your buttoned pyjama top for a t-shirt, and a jumper. Toe your trainers onto your feet while wrapping a scarf around your neck. It's autumn and it's chilly. Thrust your wand into your pocket. All set.

The dull pressure in your head could drive you insane, and you worry it's already begun. You'd rather have your leg broken for a sharp while, without painkillers, that have to endure this perpetuating headache as you have done since July. Four months you've survived. Four months too long.

Swallow your pride. Go get help.

Stand up. Feel a little shaky, but that's okay, you're doing fine; stomach rebels for a moment, then settles, but it's clearly not happy, and constantly reminds you so.

Why you have this ache you do not know - perhaps the muscles of your head decided they didn't like their lot in life, and wanted to make you suffer. Perhaps it's the fault of little pixies. Or maybe the work of Satan. Who knows? You don't. You just want it to stop.

Walk slowly down the steps, and into the common room. Good, that's good. Take a moment to steady yourself and to catch your breath. You're weak; constant battling with the pain in your head has done this to you. Right. Climb through the portrait hole, and set off upwards.

Forget your map and your cloak. If anyone catches you, you can just say you are off to the Hospital Wing. It is true, after all.

The corridors are silent. Your footfalls don't echo, swallowed up by the almost pregnant silence of the castle. The dark is tangible, like cobwebs. You run your hand through them but it slips over your skin like a glove. Like a reflection. It's untouchable. You can't resist a small smile. There's always somewhere you can hide, if you want to: she shadows know you well and you know them, and they'll shelter you from the world should you need it.

The air is cooler on your heated skin. It feels good; maybe even lessens the pain somewhat, but you're not sure if that's just your overheated and overfed imagination.

Keep walking. You feel better already; cooler air and the shadows have killed some of the pain. But it's still bad, it's still like a vulture eating your mind. You need relief from that.

Another flight of stairs. You set off up them.

About halfway up, you have to sit down; the air feels too thin to support you and you're almost gasping. Your muscles feel like vital steel cable supports have been removed.

Sit there, rest, for a moment. Observe your surroundings.

Portraits doze. No lights. Your old friend, the shadows. A little gibbous moonlight comes through one of the tall windows, but you don't mind. It's clear and white, and helps you think better.

Okay; you feel better, stand up. Keep moving, keep going upwards.

Pause again, for a few seconds this time to let you regain your breath, this time at the top. You've made it. Hooray! A mini-celebration.

Glance along the passageway, to where another staircase meets your eye. Never mind. You have all the time in the world tonight. Pain will wait patiently in your head until you finally reach a means of dispelling it.

Walk along the corridor until you reach the staircase, and start to climb again.

Take your time. It's okay; pause, breather. Keep climbing. You always try to rest near a window— you like being able to look out over the cool, clear night. Silent. Perfect. You've nothing against it being full of life during the day, either, but tonight it feels like a natural performance, just for you.

Okay. Keep going. Nearly there.

Yes! The top of the staircase. Feel better in yourself, although the pain in your head has stepped up a couple of notches.

It's quite a large door, but, to be fair, it's one of the most popular (or, at least, most frequently-visited) places in the school. The hospital wing.

Push open the dark, wooden door, and into a room that's almost so silent as to make you think it's empty for a moment. But no; a few beds are occupied, by the usual unfortunates who stood in the way of an unpleasant curse, had their food spiked with a nasty potion, or merely caught a bad cold.

Walk slightly unsteadily to a door at the other end of the ward, and knock one, twice, thrice.

Hear the sounds of movement and wait, patient to give Madam Pomfrey as much time as she needs. The headache has made you lose all sense of impatience; you view the world like an iceberg. Slow, patient, calm, hiding more than anyone could possibly imagine.

Madam Pomfrey opens her door and squints at you, wearing a dressing gown, fluffy slippers and hairnet. Her eyes open a little more in recognition, and vague irritation.

"Yes? What can I do for you?"

You clear your throat, and say quietly, "May I have a painkilling potion, Madam Pomfrey?" Your voice sounds pale and tired to your own ears.

"Can it not wait until the morning?" she yawns, irritation growing. Is that all you disturbed her for? you can almost hear her thinking. A measly potion?

You step back into a slant of moonlight, and you know what she sees: you're thin, tired, pale with pain and pupils dilated in slight shock. You see her eyes scan your face for more symptoms, and you know she sees that your eyes are dull with fatigue.

You need this potion so bad. Your steady patience begins to melt a little.

Madam Pomfrey nods, once, and indicates you to sit on a bed. She comes out of her room, shutting the door behind her, and goes toward another door. It's smaller. It's a store cupboard, you know. It's almost embarrassing, the way you know your way around the hospital wing blindfold.

There is the soft chink of glass being moved about, then a pause. You swing your head up, and know that the sound is not promising. The muffled clink comes again, and the Madam Pomfrey comes out, looking solemn. She shakes her head.

"We're due another batch in today," she tells you. "I used the last vial up about six hours ago. I'm sorry, Mr. Potter. Can you wait until tomorrow?"

Suddenly, abruptly and without warning, you want to scream. You made your way up here, slowly and doggedly, to be told, no, sorry, first-come-first-served.

Ah, yes, the mood-swings— another symptom of his fatigue and pain. Ah, well.

She can't read the disappointment and pain on your face because the moonlight is behind you, and you've slumped your shoulders a little, head hanging forward. You look up to say thank you for trying, to see her eyeing you with a finger on her bottom lip.

"It's a long shot," she says slowly, but now you're clutching at straws like a drowning man, yet drowning is right: the pain thins the air, making it harder to breathe. You need this. Please, God. "What?" you ask, almost desperately.

"Well... because it's the holidays, I'm taking advantage to ask the Potions department for as many unusual potions as possible," she tells you, eyeing you critically, as if to judge you worthy or not of receiving this information. You're sat on the edge of the bed, fingers white from gripping the edge of the bed too tightly. You don't notice. Please, God...

"I've asked for as much help as possible, and even though Professor Snape now teaches Defence, I think he'll still be up brewing potions. Some of them need brewing at a particular time of day, time windows, et cetera. He should have finished the latest batch of painkillers by now. If you want to go ask him..."

It's a sentence with an invitation on the end. You dodge it by stating, clearly and truthfully, that Sna­- sorry, Professor Snape would probably tear your head off and make potions out of your body parts if you so much as dare to go into the dungeons at this time of night. You detect a small twitch of a smile from Madam Pomfrey; whilst she and Snape may have a working relationship, she is probably as subject to his brutal words as anyone else. You feel you've hit the right button here.

She turns abruptly, and returns to her room. Straining ears report to your hurting brain the sounds of a quill on parchment.

You rub your forehead gingerly, the skin and flesh below tender, almost sore. Unconsciously, your fingers trace the pattern of your scar.

It has grabbed your attention a few times these past few months... maybe once or twice a fortnight. Its sensitivity to Voldemort's moods has increased, you know that— and you know that no-one can tell you otherwise. They don't have a magically-tuned scar.

But it doesn't bother you anymore. It's the headache that harms you now, destroys your thinking, decimates your focus, melts away your emotional stability. It disarms your mental shields against the world, leaving your mind feeling raw all the time. It's a feeling you can never get used to; it hurts too much.

Uh-oh. You feel a breakdown coming on. Calm. Breathe. Focus on that. Feel better. Your stomach gives an angry rumble to remind you it's there and, no, it's not happy about it.

The pain appears to have affected every part of your body; you've lost some sensitivity in your fingers, your reactions are slow and your stomach occasionally throws a cog (and threatens to throw a hell of a lot more.). It's calmed a little.

You're feeling worse. Come on, Madam Pomfrey... hurry...

She emerges from her room, a roll of parchment in hand. She hands it to you. The way it has a wax seal on it and her general demeanour says that you shouldn't read it. You decide that obeying orders would possibly be the best route if you want to achieve your goal.

"I've said that you need a painkiller and that I've authorised it. Good Lord, Potter, you're the most significant drain I've ever had from one person on my medical supplies." You think you catch a ghost of a smile, and the corner of your lips twitches as you transfer the parchment to your other hand.

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey. Will Professor Snape be in the classroom?"

"Yes, he needs frequent access to the store cupboards."

You nod your thanks, and are heading from the hospital wing. You know Madam Pomfrey is watching you go.

Ah, Professor Snape... you know that your hatred for him is rational and just, but you can't help rebuking yourself for it. So is his hatred, after all. But, to be fair, you're perfectly willing to grovel if it means you getting your hands of a cool vial of painkiller. The dull storm pressure in your head has intensified again, and it's making you slightly dizzy and weak. Your stomach is sending warning signals to your brain that your dinner may be erupting within the next hour, unless something settles it.

It's not difficult to get to the dungeons. Just head downwards as far as you can go. Suddenly, you are thankful for the scarf wound around your neck; whilst you may have regretted it at one point, flushed from the exercise of climbing stairs, you know you're going to need it for the freezing dungeons down below.

Slip, miss a step; damn! You grab at the banister and sit down heavily, panting, top of your head tingling unpleasantly from the adrenaline rush. Your heart is doing triple-time and you force it to slow as you feel blood race through your fingertips, sweat moistening your forehead. It felt close. This weak, you're not sure if you could stand a tumble down cold stone steps and live to tell the tale.

Right. Stand up. Calm. You're okay. Keep moving, one step at a time.

You descend the stairs, taking your time, even though the pain behind your eyeballs is reaching fever pitch.

Okay. Ground floor. Now head down again.

You take another five or so minutes to reach the wooden door that marks the entrance to your potions classroom— Snape's old room, now the domain of Slughorn.

You pause and lean against the wall, taking a moment to get some air into your lungs. You can see your breath hanging in the air — cloudy representations of your lifeforce that fade as swiftly as you will, one day.

Okay. Better.

You make sure the parchment is in your hand as you knock on the door: two solid knocks that feel a lot of more confident than you do.

There is a sharp silence, and then harsh footsteps get louder, closer, fiercer. The door is yanked open to reveal the fierce face of Snape. Without letting him get a word in edgeways, you thrust the parchment at him, and wait 'till he takes it. He hasn't spoken a word to you yet, but that's just as well, as it would probably only be a sneer anyway. You don't think your already-aching head could deal with a torrent of abuse from a man who apparently has a bottomless pit of snide comments.

Snape scans the parchment, and you take the opportunity to look at him properly: still taller than you, although you're getting there; long hair ever-present, with its unhealthy sheen; sickly-pale skin, and eyes like empty tunnels. His eyebrow quirks for a moment at something on the parchment.

Finally, he stops reading, and looks at you, sneer firmly in place. You know he's looking you over and you know that your image hasn't changed from that of what Madam Pomfrey saw in the hospital wing, albeit the fact you're shaking very slightly from a combination of cold and fatigue.

It's not the first time you've lain awake, wishing for the pain to disappear, wishing for blessed oblivion, and quite frankly it's taken its toll. You look exhausted, pale-white and about to drop. At this moment in time, you feel it, too. You have that boiled-eyeball feeling that normally comes from studying too late at night. The headache has drained your strength and energy, and you know that the man standing in front of you can read most of this.

Wait, patiently, until he's finished his overview, and he stands silently aside to let you enter. You take three steps forward, into the dark and gloomy classroom, and you hear the door rattle back to its frame behind you. Snape stalks away from you, down towards his desk where there is a cauldron set up, and numerous ingredients. There are candles around the walls, each casting their own little pools of light. You move carefully into the very centre of the room where you feel more comfortable, cloaked in the deeper darkness that lurks there.

There are wooden crates stacked against the wall. Snape approaches them and lifts the top crate off with both hands. He deposits it carefully on a desk, and carefully pulls out a vial of bright red potion. You look at it and you know that this is the potion you want. Instantly, you fight the urge to leap the desk and chug the lot. Let's see what Snape has to say about it.

You walk forward toward Snape and out of the shadows. He flashes you a condescending look but you're too focused on the vial and its contents to care. He appears to notice this, and his finger close around the vial, putting an invisible barrier between you and it. You glance at him to find he's enjoying your pain. You don't care, to your vague surprise.

"Dragonroot potion," says Snape, slowly and deliberately. "The most potent painkiller I am legally allowed to supply the hospital wing with. Madam Pomfrey has authorised your use of it."

Where is he going with this? He's watching you, studying your every move. Perhaps he can't figure out what you need it for. If he wants to know, why the hell doesn't he ask?

Okay, okay. Calm down. You've survived four months with this pain in your skull, slowly building, you can survive a few more minutes. Let's just see what he wants.

"A... medium-difficulty potion to brew, involving a few of the rarer ingredients."

You think he knows you're waiting him out, and you detect the very first resonance of anger in his tone. He's waiting for you to beg. To ask. You're not going to. Your patience has served you thus far, and you know you could probably outwait Snape. The darkness and coolness of the dungeon has removed the serrated edge of your headache, but its heaviness is still there.

You know Snape doesn't want to give it to you too quickly. His fingers haven't moved. It's okay; you have all the patience in the world at the moment. Madam Pomfrey has authority in the medical matters, and at some point Snape is going to have to let you have it.

You shoot a sideways glance at the cauldron on Snape's desk. There is a thin liquid in it, and you figure it isn't long before it boils over. Bringing your eyes back to Snape, you know that he knows this, and it makes him angry.

He can escape this with his dignity intact, and he knows this. So he simply removes his hand from the vial and stalks back to his desk in angered silence, robes billowing.

Step forward, quickly. Take the vial, feel cool glass on your fingers. Retreat into the centre of the room, cloaked and covered in shadows. Take the stopper from the bottle and tip the liquid down your throat.

It tastes... bittersweet, and very slightly tangy. You think you detect traces of... sour lemon juice? It's mostly bitter. Refreshing. You drain the bottle, and place it back on the desktop.

Nothing. It's calmed your stomach, but the headache persists. Of course; it needs about a minute to be properly established in the body. It will head for the brain, and use the nervous system to detect the greatest source of pain. You sit down and wait for a moment.

Your headache thuds in your temples. It's a familiar thing. You try not to focus on it.

Then comes the sensation of cool water filling your skull. You close your eyes for a moment; the feeling is euphoric. You feel as though you've lost a heavy weight from your mind. It's gone; God, it's gone!

And it's only now you realise how utterly exhausted you feel. Now that the pain is gone your brain can process the fatigue in your limbs and the weariness in your muscles.

You stand, praying your knees won't buckle. It's a long way to Gryffindor tower, you remember.

Picking up the glass vial, you move back to where the red-stocked crate still stands, and place the glass carefully next to the wooden box.

"Thanks," you say quietly. Snape looks at you, still angry with himself, and even more so at you.

"Do not make this a regular occurrence, Potter," he snarls at you. You just look at him, eyes glazed with tiredness. Shrug. These things happen.

Turn around and trudge towards the door. Snape's gaze feels like twin weights on your shoulders. You don't care. There's not much you can do about it.

You reach the door to the classroom, but there's something wrong. Something feels unsaid; incomplete. Unfinished.

Turn, slowly, and look over your shoulder; Snape is staring at you, from behind his cauldron. The vapour rising from the liquid's surface makes his image waver a little. But there's no mistaking the menace in his eyes, the way his fists are clenched and the way he wishes you didn't exist.

"We're at war," you whisper softly. And it could mean anything. It could mean, we're at war with Voldemort. It could mean we're at war with each other. It could mean we're at war, and need to get along. But maybe it means, why are we fighting?

You don't think he's got an answer for that. You know you should loathe him, but you're too tired. Too tired to hate. Too tired to fight. Too tired to resent him for hating you any more.

His lip curls, almost imperceptibly, and in an equally soft tone of voice, he replies, "Leave, saviour."

It cuts deeply. Harshly. Like a sabre thrust to your chest.That went in, the barbed little word, and has hurt you. Deeply.

You're not sure if it reflects in your eyes. Neither you or Snape has moved, or broken eye contact. You can't be sure if he's rifling through your memories or not— but, quite frankly, your exhaustion should provide a pretty impenetrable shield.

What does he want you to say? What does he expect from you?

Nothing.

And perhaps that's why his words cut deeper than anyone else's could've. He understands. He's been on the other side of the veil— he's seen, first-hand, how a cult of blood, death and black works, like you. You're so similar in so many ways: suffered the loss of those close; been near enough to Voldemort to touch and lived to tell the tale.

Animosity lies thick in the air, like a low-grade energy beam. You turn away, fighting impotent anger. It's not right.

The headache is gone. Be thankful.

Let's go to bed.