A Cure for Frost, for inoru_no_hoshi Title: A Cure for Frost Author:the_con_cept Giftee:inoru_no_hoshi Word Count: 8,587 Rating: R Pairing: Um, this is a Snape/Harry fest, right? Warnings: Chan (Harry is fifteen), AU, set in the middle of Book 5 Disclaimer: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, introduction and inspiration from Hans Christian Andersen's The Snow Queen. Beta: Much thanks to A, and all further mistakes are my own. Summary: Harry breaks a mirror and subsequently finds himself in possession of a small snow cloud. It’s Snape’s responsibility to cure the boy, whether he wants it or not.
A Cure for Frost
There was once a dreadfully wicked hobgoblin. One day he was in high good spirits because he had made a mirror which reflected everything that was good and beautiful in such a way that it dwindled almost to nothing, but anything that was bad and ugly stood out very clearly and appeared much worse. The most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled spinach. The nicest people looked repulsive or seemed to stand on their heads or had no middles and their faces were so distorted that they could not be recognized. And if anyone had a single freckle you might be sure it would look as if it had spread over his whole nose and mouth. That's the funniest thing about it, thought the hobgoblin.
One day the hobgoblin was flying high among the clouds, maliciously flashing his mirror on all the countries below. Suddenly it slipped from his hands and crashed to the earth, shattered into millions and billions of pieces. And now came the greatest mischief of all, for most of the pieces were hardly as large as a grain of sand, and they flew about all over the world. If anyone got a speck of the mirror in his eye there it stayed. From then on he would see everything crooked, or else could only see the ugly side of things, for every tiny splinter of glass possessed the same power as the whole mirror.
Some people got a splinter in their hearts, and that was dreadful, for then the heart would turn into a lump of ice. A few of the fragments were large enough to be used as windowpanes, but how terrible it would be to look at one's friends and neighbours through such a window!
The hobgoblin was so pleased he laughed till his sides ached, as the tiny bits of glass continued to whirl about in the air.
~The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen
~o~o~O~o~o~
Snape raised his wand. “One—two—three—Legilimens! ”
He could see Potter's face screwed up in concentration as he tried to force Snape out of his mind . . . Snape could make out a hazy vision of a hundred dementors swooping toward Harry across the lake in the grounds, but they seemed to be fading . . . it was working . . . perhaps the boy was learning, after all . . .
Potter raised his own wand.
“Protego!”
Snape staggered; his wand flew upward, away from Harry—and suddenly Potter was in his head; Snape was drowning in old memories--his father was shouting at his mother as she cowered and Snape cried nearby . . . He was alone in his bedroom, a lonely, bored teenager, flicking his wand and bringing down flies . . . He was failing his first flying lesson, his broomstick about to buck him off to the jarring laughter of his classmates—
“ENOUGH!” he roared.
As though he'd been pushed hard in the chest, Potter stumbled several staggering steps backward and hit some of the shelves covering Snape's walls. Snape heard something crack. Snape was shaking slightly, feeling ill. Harry looked up, saw the books above him wobble, and threw his arms up to protect himself.
The mirror balanced on the highest shelf teetered, tilted, then crashed down on Potter's head.
Served the brat right.
The glass shattered, tinkling in a silvery rain at the boy's feet. “Damn it!” Potter swore.
“Ten points from Gryffindor for unacceptable language,” Snape told him.
Harry glowered at him. “Why did you even have a mirror, anyway?” he grumbled churlishly.
Snape straightened. “It was a Hobgoblin's Mirror,” he said. “Vaguely like another mirror you're familiar with, only . . . slightly different. They're very rare and very dear. I'll expect you to reimburse me,” he added.
Potter's lip curled as he brushed sparkling dust from his hair and shoulders. “Why don't you just cast a Reparo on it?” he demanded.
“It wouldn't work on a magic mirror,” Snape informed him.
“Well anyway, I'm not paying for it.” Harry straightened, looking Snape in the eye. He finished brushing himself off and let out a long huff of air—Snape could see his breath. Was it really that cold? Discreetly, Severus turned and let out a short sigh of his own, but it failed to crystallize as Potter’s had.
Something wasn't right. He glanced sharply at the boy again.
As Snape watched, condensation began to form on the lenses of Potter's glasses. A chill made its way down the back of Snape's neck, as though someone had exhaled an icy breath against his skin. Feeling misgiving, he stepped forward and roughly took hold of Potter's chin. Potter jerked away from his touch.
“Leave off,” he snarled.
“Your skin is cold to the touch,” Snape observed.
Harry looked at him, unimpressed. “So what?”
Snape stared at the boy. “Go back to your dormitory,” he said after a moment. “I need to speak with the headmaster.”
Potter turned and walked away without another word, his footsteps crunching oddly on the stone. Snape looked down and saw, on the cold dungeon cobbles, a thin crust of frost. He looked speculatively after Potter, tapping a finger against his lips. He knew the properties of the mirror and the symptoms the sufferers exhibited, and it seemed likely that Potter had fallen victim to its curse.
For when Snape had looked at him, Potter's eyes were no longer Lily's emerald green, but a dazzling, frigid blue.
OoOoOoOoO
Snape divulged the incident to the headmaster, but Dumbledore seemed to have other things on his mind. Snape was well aware of Voldemort's plans to acquire the prophecy and the headmaster's intentions to thwart them, but both seemed unimportant in the face of Potter's problem.
Something's wrong with Harry, people whispered. He told Hermione Granger that her teeth were unsightly and when he went up to his room the other night, he took one look at Ron Weasley and collapsed in a fit of laughter. What's happened to him?
Potter did not have potions again until Thursday, by which time Snape had heard every sort of rumour about the boy. Potter was behaving stand-offishly with his close friends; Potter was unresponsive when Malfoy tried to start a quarrel; Potter was uninterested in his lessons, staring out the window . . .
Potter came to class with something of a cloud hanging over his head—literally. Snape had grown used to the brat's hangdog days and flares of anger, but a physical manifestation . . . it was unexpected.
Snape arched a brow. “Nimbostratus,” he remarked.
Potter scowled. “Same to you.”
The potions master sighed and prodded the thing with his wand; it sank in and disappeared, and when he pulled the wand out, its wooden tip was glittering with ice crystals. “I was commenting on your friend,” Snape explained testily. He glanced at the class. “Anyone?” Snape heaved another sigh as Granger's arm shot into the air.
“It's a uniformly grey, formless layer of cloud—but—it's—”
Potter gave her an indifferent look and waved a lazy hand through the thing, and it dissipated immediately.
“How did you do that?” Snape demanded.
Potter shrugged.
“Ten points from Gryffindor for bringing unwanted humidity into my classroom,” the man provoked.
To his great displeasure, Potter didn't even deign to answer.
Snape strode to the front of the classroom. “Today we are going to have an examination.”
There were quiet gasps and groans of dismay as well as mutterings of, “We didn’t even get any warning. How are we supposed to study for an exam without any warning?”
Snape paused in the act of scrawling questions across the blackboard. “You are supposed to be studying regardless of whether you expect to be tested on the material,” he said. “This is a school. Now, you’re going to list for me the properties of Star of Bethlehem. I expect to know its toxicity, its scientific name, effects, symptoms, uses, antidotes and treatments, and reaction time. One roll of parchment per student, expected by the end of class.”
The students began to unfurl their parchment and get out their quills, now grumbling very little, for they knew it would have no effect and complaining would only use up precious writing time, anyway. Snape settled behind his desk to watch them. Potter was staring at the board, eyes empty—though likely not as empty as his head. Snape couldn’t see from here, but his eyes seemed darker in the middle, but ringed with a lighter blue, as though a coating of frost was developing over his irises. Snape nearly shuddered, but controlled himself. He wondered what the boy saw.
Could he possibly be more repellent to the brat? Hook-nosed, crooked-toothed and unpleasant, Snape needed no Hobgoblin’s Mirror to frighten students. But Potter did not look revolted, merely distracted. He twisted his quill in his fingers and Snape watched as the vanes in the feather crackled, turned crisp, then fell to the table, breaking off one by one, frozen solid.
Potter frowned.
The feather melted in a little puddle on his desk.
“You’re wasting time, boy,” Snape said.
Potter glanced up long enough to give the man a dirty look, but it lacked its usual heat.
Snape licked his lips. “You’re going to fail if you can’t remember a single, simple thing about Star of Bethlehem,” he whispered.
Potter’s lips tightened as he stared down at his paper. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his face, quickly followed by another. He seemed to be concentrating very hard, his eyes narrow in his pale, puckish face. Snape shifted uncomfortably as he watched. The dungeons were far too cold for the boy to be sweating.
Snape leaned forward on his elbows. “Potter, are you precipitating in my classroom?” he demanded.
Someone sniggered, and Potter looked up ferociously. His eyes were, for a brief flickering moment, fiery green, but quickly froze over as sort of mist swirled up the collar of his shirt and trickled into one of his ears. “I can remember something about Star of Bethlehem,” he told Snape. “That’s what you said, right? I’d pass if I could remember a single, simple thing about Star of Bethlehem.” Harry leaned forward, scribbling a short sentence.
Snape and the rest of the class watched. Though the boy had taken liberties with his words, he was curious to know what Potter intended to do.
Then Harry sat back, plunking his mostly featherless quill down in the jar of ink, which began to scintillate as glittering ice crawled up its sides. “Done,” he said, then rose and left the room and his astonished classmates behind.
“What are the rest of you gaping at? Back to work,” Severus barked, and they quickly ducked their heads and went back to their own writing.
Snape sat and counted his heartbeats for the rest of the period, watching students chew their quills and tap their feet as they struggled to remember pertinent information. Finally, it was time to go, and he ordered them to turn in their exams. One by one they came to the front of the class and set their rolls of parchment on his desk.
He waited until the very last one had gone, closing the door behind her, before he slowly got to his feet and went to Potter’s desk. The words were short and sharp, and Snape held the parchment up briefly to read the boy’s note.
Star of Bethlehem, it read. Also known as Summer Snowflake.
Snape sighed, banished the parchment as well as all the others, and went to research an antidote.
OoOoOoOoO
Snape stood at the edge of the lake, watching the black water ripple against the banks. He pulled his cloak tighter and turned to look at the castle. It was late February, and it hadn't snowed in ages. No snow, no rain, no sleet, no precipitation at all. It was some sort of a winter drought. Come summer, the country would be arid, if something didn’t change soon. The grounds were desolate earth, bald and barren, a palette of dull brown and sickly, pale yellow. He frowned at the landscape, turning his head back to the lake when a soft splash attracted his attention.
A tentacle flipped out of the water, carefully holding spoonfuls of murky lake water in several suckers. “Thank you,” Snape muttered after looking furtively around to make certain no one had seen him. For some reason the Squid had always struck him as a symbol of daftness and unwarranted sentiment--a creature that reminded him of Dumbledore and left him in chagrin. He didn't wish to be seen accepting favours from it. All the same, he really had no choice. Clearing his throat, he held up a small vial and the Squid carefully tipped the water into it. The tentacle disappeared into the depths once more and Snape looked up at the clear blue sky.
No snow today, either.
He turned and trumped back to the castle, tucking the vial of Asterionella formosa into the depths of his cloak.
Dumbledore met him at the door, looking grave. “Severus, Harry's behaviour is becoming a problem,” the headmaster informed him.
There were shouts from somewhere behind him, and suddenly the Granger girl sprinted past in a blur of bushy hair. Snape got the distinct impression she was crying. Severus shifted uncomfortably. “Potter's behaviour has always been a problem,” he countered. “You're usually too maudlin over him to notice. Besides, it's nothing to be concerned over. The boy . . . may have caught a bit of a cold, that's all.”
Dumbledore gave him a look and continued, “I think it's rather more than that. Mirror magic can be very dangerous, you know. I shudder to think what would become of him—and therefore, the world—should Voldemort acquire another shard and use it against him.”
“I've destroyed the remains of the mirror,” Snape said immediately.
“I'm glad to hear it. Still, I think you shoulder much of the responsibility for the accident.”
Snape gave the man a sharp look. “And what do you expect me to do about it?” he pushed his way past the headmaster, careful not to look him in the eye. “Potter is belligerent and uncooperative at the best of times.” He strode away, heading for his office and hoping the headmaster would come to his senses and drop the subject.
“I appreciate that,” the man said, unperturbed, “but as you can see, steps are going to have to be taken.”
“Why?” Snape inquired, but even as the word left his mouth, he heard a commotion ahead of him. Draco Malfoy was calling out, sounding frightened or in pain. Snape took the stairs two at a time, suspicion blooming in his chest.
Draco was crouched at the bottom of the steps in a puddle, trembling, his platinum locks plastered to his head.
“What's going on?” Snape hissed.
Draco looked furious. “It's that filthy—” Before he could complete his sentence, his head was whipped back, a stinging sphere of hard-packed snow glancing off his cheek.
Snape's head shot up and he caught Potter staring impassively at them, still, pale and indifferent as a marble statue. Snape could just make out a pale, fluffy form circling his neck and shoulders like a stole. It quivered and drew close around the boy, becoming more opaque.
“Did you do this, Potter?” Snape demanded.
Harry just looked at him.
“Answer me!”
“I didn't lift a finger,” Potter replied icily.
“That's a lie!” Draco snarled, outraged. “He did it! The Blizzard Wizard—he thinks he’s so cool.” Draco said mockingly. “That psychotic freak made his pet storm cloud—” Draco broke off to duck as the cloud emitted another icy missile aimed at his head. “You see?”
“Be quiet, Draco,” Snape commanded, glaring at Potter and trying to think what to do. It didn't help that he could feel the headmaster's reproachful gaze staring gimlets between his shoulder blades and willing him to do something.
Potter turned his head away, lifting a hand to stroke it through the fleecy entity floating on his shoulder. Was it Snape's imagination, or did the thing look intolerably self-satisfied? No, that wasn't possible; it didn't even have a face. On the other hand, if he tilted his head to the side and shut one eye, he could sort of make out—
“Did you need something, Professor?” Potter asked with a cool half-smile, arching a brow. Snape felt unutterably stupid and immediately ceased trying to see shapes in the cloud.
“Potter, you're an absolute menace.”
“Severus is right, Harry,” the headmaster announced. “I'm afraid you're a danger to yourself and those around you.”
Potter gave a quasi shrug, unaffected. His gaze had already drifted away. “So?”
“I think it would be best to isolate you—for your own sake, as well as the faculty and students.”
Snape turned to look at the man. Dumbledore seemed tired and aged. Snape understood how he felt. “Where do you plan to put him?”
The headmaster smiled slightly. “I've sent Hagrid on an errand which should take several days. The two of you could stay in his cabin until his return, or until you've returned Harry to his original state.”
Snape blinked. “Me?”
The headmaster nodded firmly. “As I said—I believe this burden is yours. I'm afraid I can't allow you to leave the boy out in the cold.”
Snape sighed. "Very well."
OoOoOoOoO
Harry trudged along behind Snape, his trunk bobbing beside him and the fluffy cloud at his heels. He looked absent-minded and not at all interested in his surroundings—except for the sky, which he was more or less staring at.
“Name the toxic substance found in the Patternoster pea,” Snape demanded.
Harry blinked.
“Well?”
Grudgingly, Potter stopped short and looked to his feet, and the cloud bumped into his ankles—then flowed around them. After a moment, Potter seemed to be literally standing on cloud nine. He smiled a little. “Abric acid,” he recited, “which contains a titanic glycoside in the seeds.”
Snape scowled. “Stop using that infernal thing to cheat.”
“I’m not,” Harry replied. The cloud emitted a gentle rumble of thunder like the purr of an abstract cat.
“Fraudulent fog,” Snape mumbled. They reached the door of the hut and he flicked his wand, swinging it open. A deep, joyful bark came from inside, and before he could do more than arrange his face in an appropriate expression of horror, he was borne backward by two huge paws on his chest. Having a rather stringy build, he didn’t have the mass—or, at the moment, the wits—to hold his ground, and fell to the weedy ground by the front steps, slammed onto his back.
Potter gave a short laugh. “Good job, Fang,” he said. “Nice reflexes, Snape,” he added cuttingly.
With Fang now jumping round the boy and licking his face—a face that stayed licked, by gods—Snape was able to get painfully to his feet. “That’s sir,” he ground out.
“Nice reflexes, sir, ” Potter said with an eye roll. The cloud had climbed to his shoulder and seemed uncomfortable with the advances of the large, slobbering dog.
Snape eyed the thing as it drew back from one of Fang’s more enthusiastic overtures. They made their way inside, dog and trunks following obediently. Snape deposited his at the end of Hagrid’s large, lumpy bed. “You get the couch,” he said.
“Fang usually sleeps on the couch.”
“Fang will have to budge up and learn to suffer his lot in life with grace and fortitude,” Snape replied. “Stop raining.”
Harry looked down. There was a puddle forming round his feet. “I don’t think Mr. Schnookums likes Fang very much.”
Snape’s head whipped around. “Mr. Schnookums?” he repeated distastefully.
Harry’s answering smile was brittle. “I just wanted to see if I could get you to say it,” he explained.
“I see,” Snape said dryly. “In any case, tell ‘Mr. Schnookums’ to do that outdoors.” The hems of Potter’s robes were soaked.
“I don’t think he can get that far away from me,” Harry said doubtfully. He patted the thing and slowly, the rain trickled to a halt. Potter made his way to the couch and deposited his trunk at the end, then sank into the cushions while Snape got a fire going. Fang grabbed a rag doll from the floor and dropped it in Harry’s lap. Harry tossed the thing a few feet, and the dog happily leapt to retrieve it, the enthusiastic wags of his tail blowing Mr. Schnookums away from Harry and over the back of the couch. It floated back over, enveloping the boy’s head and obscuring his face.
“Doesn’t that bother you?” Snape wondered. “Isn’t it cold in there?”
He could hear the wry smile in Potter’s voice. “It’s the humidity that gets me,” he replied.
Fang began a vigorous game of tug-of-war with Potter, growling and worrying his toy. “We have to get that thing off of you,” Snape remarked.
“It doesn’t bother me,” Harry answered.
“I think your judgment is clouded on this particular matter,” Snape said. “Perhaps if I get it warm enough in here, it will disperse.”
Harry shrugged. He let go of the toy and Fang made to lick his face. Mr. Schnookums stood this treatment for a moment before hissing and zapping the hound on the nose with a short burst of electricity. Yipping, Fang hid under Hagrid’s bed. “Don’t do that,” Harry told the thing, rapping it sharply. It dissolved enough so that he struck himself in the head and scowled. “Dirty trick,” he muttered.
Snape hid a smile and stoked the fire. Too bad the boy’s godfather didn’t get a snootful of lightning, he thought ruefully. The snow demon floated protectively near Harry, still rather hazy around the edges and grumbling unhappily. If only it could be trained, the thing could be useful. I suppose every cloud has a silver lining. Still, its loyalty didn’t lie with Snape, and that was reason enough to be rid of it. Ignoring the thing, Snape turned his attention back to the fire, watching sparks climb up the chimney flue. Worry clouded his brow. He hoped he could cure the boy, he really did.
OoOoOoOoO
Snape covered all the windows and kept the heat up. The hut was like a sauna, but though Harry seemed to be sweating, his skin was cool to the touch, and Snape suspected Mr. Schnookums would not be got rid of so easily. The boy seemed pale and wilting in the heat, but didn’t object.
Snape flopped down in the recliner across from the boy and pushed his own sweaty hair out of his face. He’d been through his books and consulted various other professors, but no one seemed to know how to handle an apparent snow demon.
Potter trickled in meek silence. “What?”
He glowered at the boy. “Only you could manifest something so weird as an animate cloud named Mr. Schnookums,” he spat.
Harry shrugged. “It’s your fault,” he said indifferently. A halo was beginning to form around his head.
“Stop that.”
“What?”
“The cirrus cloud and the halo. It isn’t cute.” Unfortunately, it was rather cute. Potter’s hair was even messier than usual from the humidity, and the bewildered look on his face was also appealing in a childlike way.
Which Potter was. Fifteen years old—a child still.
A very pretty child with fine, marble features and adorably messy hair. Snape tried harder to really loathe the boy, but it was simply too hot and sticky for that. Hate was so ridiculously energy-consuming. Snape shook himself.
The fire was beginning to die down despite Snape’s best spells, and anyway it was so humid it was difficult to breathe. Giving up, he went and opened the door a crack. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a shadow behind Potter; an anvil shaped cloud spreading against the ceiling of the hut. Snape gulped. He could hear distant thunder and, in his mind’s eye, saw the bright flash of lightning as powerful as any killing curse.
Before the thing could strike, Potter sat up and said innocently, “Are we done for tonight? Can I go outside?”
Snape nodded wordlessly and Harry got to his feet, the cloud sinking to slip round his shoulders again, fluffy and deceptively warm-looking, tucked under his chin. Snape edged away as the boy passed him to go out on the front stoop and stare into the darkening sky.
OoOoOoOoO
Sometime during the night, the fire died completely.
Snape grasped the blankets in his sleep, pulling the thick down comforter up around his ears, but nothing could keep out the cold. Finally he set a charm on the bed, and didn’t even object when Fang nosed his way in under the covers, settling heavily on Snape’s legs. He could only be grateful for the dog’s warmth as he tossed and turned. Every time he fell asleep, he found himself in the same nightmare, tumbling from a cloud, falling and falling, somersaulting head over heels, drifting slowly through the nothingness like a lone, lost snowflake.
Finally he gasped himself awake, flailing and dislodging Fang from at least one leg. Panting, Snape realized he could see his own breath. With a scowl, he got out of bed, dragging the bedclothes with him. Fang followed, trying to stay under the warm blankets and tripping Snape up as he made his way to the fireplace. After he’d got the fire going again, he went over to Potter, dozing quite contently on the couch.
Snape stared. The boy was nestled in a thick cover of snow, granules of ice winking in his hair. Mr. Schnookums was curled at his feet, but pushed the cover of snow right up to Harry’s chin as Snape watched. The entire blanket of snow just sort of unfurled over the boy, as if pushed by invisible winds.
Harry smiled a tiny, secret smile in his sleep, still out cold.
Sighing, Snape went to make himself a hot cup of tea, Fang bumping his shins. After Snape banged around in the tiny kitchen, eventually producing an acceptable cup of piping-hot tea, Potter sat up, yawning. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, combing the snow out with his fingers.
“Hagrid is going to be displeased to come home to a three foot snowdrift covering his couch,” Snape informed him.
Harry got to his feet and stretched, his shirt rising up and giving a peek of alabaster stomach. He crooked his finger and the cloud leapt from the back of the couch to his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes at the bank of snow, and the cloud began to swirl. Snape watched, mesmerized, he witnessed a sort of reverse snowstorm, the flakes rising back into the cloud and being absorbed until the couch was completely normal again.
Of course, Potter was still a complete weirdo, but that went without saying.
“Breakfast?” the man said.
Harry drifted into the kitchen and settled onto a wooden chair. “Cold cereal, please,” he requested.
Naturally. Snape handed him a bowl and box and watched him pour. Mr. Schnookums began to sleet, then snow again, as if being indoors was just too much for him . . . it. Snowflakes drifted down, clinging to the boy's feathery lashes until Harry got annoyed with them and brushed them away with the back of his hand. Snape noticed they didn't melt.
After Harry had eaten and pushed the bowl away, he looked up expectantly. “What now?”
“Now I ply you with antidotes and hope one of them works,” the man answered.
OoOoOoOoO
“Drink this,” Snape commanded.
“Not another one,” Harry groaned. Steam was still coming out of his ears from the last attempt, but the small white cloud was still anchored to him, undisturbed. The boy gulped at the concoction and made a face. “Is it just me, or is it even more foul than your previous potion?”
Snape smiled bitterly. “If the potion itself doesn’t work, perhaps its taste will dissuade you from drizzling on the carpet like a wayward whelp. Even Fang is trained better than Mr. Schnookums.”
“If I stop dripping, can I go outside?”
“What is so fascinating about the outdoors? The whole landscape looks like boiled spinach.”
“Yes, but . . . the sky,” Harry mumbled.
“What about it?”
“It’s such a perfect blue—cold and crystal clear,” he sighed.
“You’re growing more freakish by the hour,” Snape remarked. “Stop that damned cloud from sleeting. The carpet’s drenched.”
Harry frowned, curling in on himself and looking distant.
“Don’t you want to be cured?” Snape asked hopelessly. “Don’t you want to rejoin the world of the only moderately bizarre and play with your little friends again?”
“No, I don't,” Harry said snippishly.
“Don’t you miss them? Worry about what they’re getting into without you?”
Harry looked up, his eyes piercing. “Not particularly,” he replied.
Snape rested his chin on a fist. “Really? What if they’re in mortal peril? What if they’re injured, awaiting rescue? What if they’re dead? ”
For a moment Harry’s eyes were stormy, but again, the callous frost consumed the expressive green and he shrugged. “I’m sure someone would have told me, anyway,” he mumbled.
Huffing in dissatisfaction, Severus got up and began another brew, this time adding a droplet of Asterionella formosa. The liquid turned amber, oily. Snape added a pinch of crushed beetles and stirred clockwise. When he turned, Harry was at the window, flickering his fingers over the pane and watching crystal flowers bloom across the glass.
“Get your head out of the clouds and come here, Jack Frost,” Snape grumbled. “You know, it’s very tedious to work to cure someone who patently does not wish to be cured.”
Harry hummed apathetically. “So don’t,” he suggested.
“And lose my job? And therefore be killed by the Dark Lord?”
Harry looked away, eyes pulled inexorably back to his feathery, frosted art. “Yeah,” he said numbly. “Who cares, anyway? Why bother?”
Snape frowned. “That’s the mirror talking,” he rebuked. “Fight it.”
Harry gave him a swift and biting smirk. “Make me.” He tossed back the potion, which had absolutely no effect. “Can I go outside yet?”
Looking for a way to stall, Snape pointed to the dishes in the sink. “Clean those, first,” he said.
Potter’s eyes glittered. “Easy,” he said, and snapped a finger. Mr. Schnookums slid over to the sink and began to pour. The thing could rain very hard when it wanted to, the tap-tapping quickly getting up Snape’s nose. “Good enough?” the boy asked when it was done.
Snape inspected each dish carefully. “Say please.”
He turned, watching the boy glare icy daggers at him. “Please.”
“Like you mean it.”
Potter’s gaze drifted back to the window. “Please, sir,” he whispered, soft as snowfall.
Snape swallowed hard.
“Please. You know I won’t hurt anything. I just want to be outside. It feels right when I’m outside.” He offered a small, white smile.
“No flying,” Snape stipulated. “I don’t want your broomstick freezing solid fifty feet in the air. You’ll break your neck.”
Harry gestured to Mr. Schnookums. “I’m sure I could manage a soft landing,” he said.
“No,” Snape grated. Harry shrugged and went out, the cloud shadowing him and beginning to flurry again. Snape shook his head. “Please,” he said bitterly. “What a snow job.”
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That night, Snape decided to examine the boy more closely. He took the boy’s blood pressure, which was low, as was his barometric pressure. He was blowing from the south-west, which was annoying. He listened to the boy’s heart, and could make out only a muffled, feeble thumping. It was probably encased in ice. The thought gave Snape goosebumps—or perhaps that was just Mr. Schnookums, sleeting down the back of Snape’s collar.
“Stop that,” he said irritably, and conjured a thermometer. Harry looked at him, stone cold, snow whirling around him, perfect little snowflakes caught in eddies round his ears, gusts of arctic air spiralling round his body in a magical vortex of snow. Snape scowled at him. “You’ve got a case of wind tonight, haven’t you?” he said contemptuously. He stuck the thermometer in the boy’s mouth as it opened to offer a no doubt chilly response.
Harry eyed him, remote as the peak of a glacier, his strange blue eyes glinting.
Snape removed the thermometer. He peered at it closely, frowning. It wasn't possible—the boy's temperature was normal? But it couldn't be—his skin was icy, his breath a winter breeze. There was snow piling up on his head and shoulders, for God's sake, flumes of the stuff around his face. After staring at the thermometer, perplexed, he turned back to the boy. “Open your mouth again,” he instructed.
Clearly expecting the thermometer again, Harry obediently did so, eyes widening as Snape slipped a long finger into his slack mouth. A hot, wet tongue tried to nudge his finger back out, but Snape was so stunned by the warmth he completely forgot himself and stood there, eyes unfocussed, his finger encircled by Harry's lips.
A stabbing pain brought him back to himself and he jerked his hand free to slap the boy, striking him with a lightning backhand. “You little bastard,” he gasped, shaking his hand.
Harry looked sullenly at him, a slight frown on his otherwise impassive face. Snape noticed that he had not raised a welt or a mark of any kind—the boy's skin hadn't reddened in the least. “What the devil is wrong with you?” he hissed.
Harry stood and jerked his chair back, causing Fang to leap to his feet. “I'm going outside,” he said, and the dog ran joyful circles around him in anticipation. Snape said nothing, but went to the window after the boy had gone out.
Harry's pet cloud was flinging snowballs across the grounds as Fang chased after them, puzzled when the snow exploded on the ground, leaving him nothing to carry back to drop at the boy's feet. The cloud, at least, seemed to have a sense of mischief, but Harry didn't seem to notice at all. He stood in the cold, black night, craning his neck and staring, expressionless, at the stars.
Snape noticed that although it was well below freezing out and Fang's pants came in great foggy clouds, he couldn't see Harry's breath at all. The boy’s arms were wrapped tightly around his body though, and he was shivering. He didn’t feel the cold, so was it fear? Loneliness? Or was his body beginning to shut down?
Snape shook his head, watching the placid face. He just wasn’t the Potter Snape was used to. The bluster was still there, but the—the vim and vigour were gone. He couldn’t even raise the boy’s ire anymore.
Harry tilted his head, his long neck pale in the light of the winter moon. Snape traced the boy’s contours with his eyes—the scruffy head, the upturned nose, the slender body, the pert little bum. Snape felt his own blood begin to warm. When the boy wasn’t actively harassing him, he was actually a very tender morsel. Idly, Severus wondered if Harry’s skin would be cool against his lips, and if that might not be incentive enough to rouse the boy to fight back—or rouse him in other ways.
Snape half smiled, turning away from the window and returning to his potions. Perhaps there was more than one way to raise Potter’s body temperature. Snape would think on it awhile.
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When Potter finally returned, Snape had done some brainstorming. “I’ll overlook your biting me if you’ll keep the blizzards to a minimum this evening,” the man offered. He was angry the brat had stayed out so long, but he didn’t seem likely to catch cold, and the storm cloud was more than enough for most enemies. He waited for the boy’s apology.
Harry gave him the cold shoulder, going straight to the couch and ignoring the food Severus had prepared.
“Potter,” Snape warned.
The boy did not respond, eyes riveted to the window. Snape could just make out clouds covering the swollen moon. He looked down at Potter’s frozen expression, his glassy stare.
“You are walking on thin ice, boy,” he said.
This caused Potter to crack a smile. “Not walking,” he muttered. “Just lying down.”
Snape felt hot fury bubble up inside him and he went to shake the boy hard. “You sodding little wretch,” he snarled.
There was a tinkling noise. The boy had been developing icicles. They clung to his lashes, his hair and his fingertips. Cobwebby frost coated his skin. Snape felt his blood run cold. “What’s happening to you?” he gasped.
“Nothing,” Harry replied.
Snape jerked his hands away; it hurt to touch the boy—his skin was so cold it burned.
He reached out hesitantly. “Let me help you,” he urged.
“I don’t want your help,” Harry replied, resting his head on the cloud.
Snape looked at him for a long moment. “Why?”
Harry’s eyes slid over him. “It’s easier.”
“Explain. How is this easier? You’re dying, Potter. Can you not see that? You’re dying.”
Harry sighed, shutting his eyes. “Dying is easier,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fight,” he said in an odd voice. “You just get tired, and you want to go to sleep. That’s what it’s like. No one kills you. You just go.”
“Potter . . .”
“It doesn’t hurt,” the boy continued. “Like watching Cedric die. It isn’t scary, like being in the graveyard. It isn’t hard work and you don’t get confused, and no one depends on you. You don’t have to—you don’t have to fight,” he choked.
Snape leaned down. He bit his lip, wondering what to say to break the ice. Suddenly, he knew what to do. “Yes, you do,” he said firmly, and kissed the boy.
Severus was sure the boy would rally, would object but Harry was so surprised that his lips parted a little, and Snape kissed him deeply, searching for that spark, that heat, feeling for it with the tip of his tongue.
Snape pulled away for breath and Harry looked up at him uncertainly, a crack in his armour. “Are you afraid?” the man asked.
“No,” Harry disputed promptly.
“Liar,” Snape told him. “That’s what this is. This is the coward’s way out,” he said, gesturing to the cloud, which puffed itself up in indignation.
Harry shook his head hard, but couldn’t seem to find the words to contest the assertion. “No,” was all he could offer. “No.”
“Do you hate me?” Snape asked, running a fingertip down the frigid surface of Harry’s cheek.
“No,” Harry replied bleakly.
“Hate is warmth. Emotion is warmth. You think you’re numb, but you were anything but when I kissed you. I felt it, you know.” The boy swallowed, and Severus watched the Adam’s apple move along that snowy throat. “There’s still heat in you, if I can only kindle it,” Snape said. “Like plunging my hand through the thin crust of ice on a brook in the spring. It’s there; it’s flowing and thriving and ready to become a torrent, if only I can reach it in time,” he muttered, half to himself.
Harry gazed at him, eyes wide with wonder, and Snape traced his lip. He bent forward and kissed the boy again, and again; Harry seemed helpless—he was melting in Snape’s arms. Snape rose with the boy, carrying him to the bed. Harry held tightly to him, trembling. “Does it—the snow demon—know what you’re doing?” the boy asked.
Snape glanced up at the cloud, hovering anxiously overhead. Most elementals didn’t really have a keen concept of abstract emotion, but they could feed off of fear or anger. “It probably has a foggy idea,” he admitted. He carried Harry over to the washtub, stripping him and setting him in the basin, looking thin and bewildered. “Aguamenti, ” he hissed, and watched the steaming water jet forth over the boy.
Mr. Schnookums, though, was not going to let go of his prey easily. The temperature dropped, and Fang hid under the bed as blinding snow began to fall.
Snape ignored it, reaching in to touch Harry, cupping water and pouring it over his head, running warm hands down his smooth, cool body. Harry mewled, looking dazed. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered, sounding almost like himself.
“You have a frost in your heart,” Snape told him. “But I’m going to fix it.” He leaned in and kissed Harry again, not on the mouth but on the frozen marble column of his throat. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down Harry’s body, running a flat tongue over skin as white as sugar, and just as sweet in its own way. Potter did not protest, but threw his head back, groaning. Snape looked up and saw the boy’s mouth, red as the bud of a spring rose. Yes, this would work.
Snape touched him, caressed him gently, feeling the skin become pliable, the still chest begin to rise and fall in panting breaths. Harry squirmed and the snow spun down dizzily, obscuring everything. Snape kissed a small, rock-hard nipple, nipped it until it flushed pink.
Harry could never be cold—no, not Harry. Harry was in the full bloom of youth. His perfect, lissom body twisted, making ripples in the water. He was beginning to shake, and Snape stripped off too, slipping into the warm water and wrapping himself around the boy.
Harry allowed this for a while, letting Snape’s warm mouth work over the nape of his neck, but soon he was whispering that he felt funny, and couldn’t Snape do something?
Snape let the boy to turn in his arms, lifted him a little, and made his way down and took the length of the boy into the warmth of his mouth, sucked him, felt him cry out. There was warmth there, yes, but all around them, the snow spun in dizzy circles, hissing as it met the hot water in the tub. The cold was biting—penetrating—the frozen blasts of air were tearing at Snape’s body, turning his skin raw. He felt Harry’s arms come up around his shoulders, his small hands holding on tightly. The water was cooling rapidly; the cloud could kill Snape, could chill him and—
“Don’t—” Harry gasped.
Snape drew back. "Getting cold feet?" he inquired.
Harry shook his head. “Not you,” he said. He nodded toward the cloud, which was billowing into a great thunderhead. There was an unearthly moan, but the demon could not disobey.
The wind howled, the white-out so severe that he could not even make out Harry’s face, but Harry was howling, too, and it was a howl of pleasure. Snape bent the boy over, reached blindly for the vial of oil he’d set up near his cauldron and cast a quick summoning charm.
Harry was not afraid of this; he welcomed Severus’ probing fingers, and then the hot throb of his cock. Snape slipped into him, feeling constriction and—yes—there it was—the lost heat of Harry’s body. He gripped icy hips, plunging in, feeling that tight heat in his own body expand and take him over. He thrust, again and again, turning Harry’s head, tilting it back to kiss the side of that red, red mouth, water splashing over the sides of the tub. He grasped the boy tighter, imagining his fingers branding Harry, marking him and melting him and leaving Snape's fingerprints scorched into the flawless skin of Harry's supple, squirming body.
Severus threw his head back and shut his eyes, revelling in the fluctuations of chill and heat, the roll and ripple of Harry's shifting hips, the moment they teetered, balanced between cool pragmatism and smouldering desire. Was it a sin to take pleasure in what needed to be done?
The weather shifted, and they were no longer in the midst of a snowstorm. Rain began to pour; it drove down in sheets, plastering Severus’ hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down Harry’s spine and over the swell of his bum—but Severus noticed that it was a warm rain. He was winning. The fog rolled over them, thick and dark. Harry groaned as Snape’s hips rolled; thunder crashed over them, bouncing from wall to wall, and the rain mixed with the snow in the tub, throwing up a surge of white foam.
They rocked together, rode out the waves of rain, clutched at each other, slippery and slick in the heavy, heaving mists. The elemental demon was going mad, trying to figure out what weather would dislodge Snape from his position atop Harry. The rain rose up beneath them, swelling into a wave, froth breaking over their writhing bodies, but Snape held tight to the boy.
He kissed the water from Harry’s lips, surged forward, claiming Potter in a way the demon never could. The water billowed up around them, but it was no longer cold, Siberian blue, but clear, emerald green. Snape smiled at little.
“If I can feel this kind of heat for you,” he whispered, warm breath ghosting over the boy’s ear, “then you can feel heat for me.”
“No—I—I’ll lose it—the power—” Harry whimpered. He reached out, up, as if grasping at the sky.
Snape groaned. “Mr.— Schnookums—is not—an indoor pet,” he explained.
Harry laughed huskily, shaky gasps coming as Snape slammed into him. “But I’ll lose—my atmosphere,” he grunted.
“We can make our own atmosphere,” Snape promised.
Harry ground his teeth, but Snape would not be denied this pleasure. He reached down and wrapped a hand around Harry’s cock—it was stiff and lovely-warm. He began to pump, feeling the silky slide in his fist, watched, enraptured, as Harry’s mouth opened, his brows knitted and then—a spurt of heat.
Snape, too, snapped his hips and came with a delicious shudder. He nuzzled Harry’s shoulder. “Well?”
Harry sank into the warm water, wrapping his arms around his knees. The snow had stopped; the cloud had vanished. Inexplicably, the boy did not seem pleased to have broken from the spell. “I’m alone,” he groaned. “I can feel it.”
Snape ran a finger down the boy’s spine. “You’re not alone,” he said softly.
The boy's face was contorted; it seemed so long since Snape had last seen him with any expression at all, he couldn't quite understand at first. Suddenly, it hit him; Harry was struggling not to cry. He was biting his lip, scowling, his shoulders hunched and jerking with little, tightly restrained sobs. His head was down, his hands clenched, and Snape reached out and pushed Harry's fringe out of his face.
After being numb so long, the thaw, the remembrance of pain and grief and hatred and even the vulnerable agony of love, it was not wonder Potter was feeling overwhelmed. The greater part of the change—the flood—was happening inside, spilling over the icy dam that had surrounded the boy's heart.
Potter looked up, eyes wide and glimmering with unshed tears. Snape stared. Each pupil was—well—cracking. There was no other word for it. Each arctic blue iris was scored by a deeper, darker blue, a ragged line that splintered and spread like a spiderweb even as Snape watched. He cupped the boy's chin, forcing it up, holding him in place. The fragments of blue didn't look like irises anymore—they looked like broken windows; they were dropping away, breaking free and floating on the surface of a deeper, darker green. The boy blinked, and the glittering chips of ice clung to his trembling lashes for a moment before spilling down his cheeks, washing out by the cleansing tears.
His eyes were the verdant aspiration of spring, the first new growth in a harsh and achromatic land. The thaw had come, and Harry Potter was reborn.
Snape quickly wiped Harry's cheeks with a handkerchief, carefully collecting the shards of glass trickling down his face, carried out by his tears.
Harry snuffled, then leaned forward, resting his head against Snape's chest. He kept his arms at his sides, making no other move to touch Snape, but the man ran a hand down his back, feeling the small body wracked with sobs. After a long time, Harry gave a great shuddering sigh and fell quiet. “Feel better?” Snape asked, standing up and summoning a large towel and wrapping it around them both as Harry rose, as well.
Harry nodded against his chest.
“Look,” Snape said, nodding to the window. The midnight sky was white; fat, feathery snowflakes were drifting gently to earth. Sometimes one of them would flutter against the window pane, soft as a farewell kiss. They stared at the scene in silence. After a moment Harry nudged Snape toward the bed, and Snape went, relieved that Potter’s obsession with the outdoors had faded. Fang crawled out from under the bed to look out the window, then ran around the room, tail wagging. He licked the tears from Harry’s face, and Harry laughed a little, petting the shaggy head.
“Sometimes it's better to get it out,” the man noted. “Isn’t it? The pain is good, and you can use it, use it to protect yourself and the people you care about. Use it to make yourself strong.”
“Am I strong?” Harry wondered.
Snape rested his head on Harry’s messy hair, now warm and slightly damp. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, and one of the bravest,” he admitted quietly.
“Thank you,” Harry whispered. He pulled away to look up at Snape. “You, too,” he said. He smiled sunnily, looking suddenly youthful and full of life once more.
Snape sighed. “You scared the bloody hell out of me,” he complained. “I thought we were both going to die. Promise me you’ll never do that again.”
Harry looked cheeky. “I promise I’ll never be possessed by a Hobgoblin’s Mirror and go about making blizzards again,” he swore.
Snape thought of all the leeway this promise left, and all the other trouble Potter could get into, and he groaned. “That’s a bit of a cold comfort,” he noted.
Harry laughed.
Snape gave a crooked smile and leaned down to kiss him, then pulled the warm comforter over them, Harry in his arms, and Fang at his feet, all of them watching the long-overdue breaking of the storm. Outside it was undoubtedly freezing, but here, the fire had finally triumphed. They were warm and cosy, the three of them, and happy just to watch the winter paint the landscape white. Snape smiled a little, running long fingers through Harry’s unkempt hair. Potter was a marvel. Whatever life threw at him, he could take. Whatever demons he faced, he would prevail, strong and kind, hot-tempered and cheeky, more sensible than many adults, but still a rather wonderful fifteen-year-old boy.
Snape hid a smile as he watched Harry drowsing, head tilted back, eyes following the meandering fall of a snowflake outside the window. One of Harry's hands curled round his own, squeezing it tightly, and his hand was warm. Perhaps he was not completely innocent, but he was somehow, in his own way . . . pure as the driven snow.