If Harry said he was surprised, he would have been lying. Harry could not even feign surprise when he was told he had a week to live. Threats to his life were normal occurances, more than what the average person would experince. To him, the prospect of dying was an average Tuesday.

Harry's silent reaction to the news struck worry into the great haired professor's heart, but he dismissed the thought. The Potter spawn seemed unfazed in the face of death. That was concerning, especially coming from a mere 13 year old boy.

But, Snape thought bitterly, it's not numbness on the boy's face. It's arrogance. Stupid boy.

Albus just stared at the two, a twinkle in his eye. "Harry," the Headmaster spoke, his eyes fixated on only Harry now, "If you mess up, you die. You understand, yes?"

Oh, how the many times Harry had heard that phrase before. The Dursley's, Voldemort, Snape, etc. Though with all various degrees of truth and intensity, it was still a phrase he had heard so many times before. Frankly, he was getting tired of it.

If you mess up, you die.

"Yeah," Harry spoke softly after a moment. "I get it."

The uncomfortable silence that followed was deafening.

Snape sneered at the child. How dare he be so calm in the face of almost certain death! How dare he be so full of himself to think he stood a fighting chance! How dare he be so filled with such certainly on the face of everything unknown!

He really was his father's son.

He's also, a small part of his whispered back, Lily's son.

Snape sniped this thought away; the boy was nothing like his mother.

"I've got a week to do this, right? It'll be cutting it short, but it's enough." Harry spoke, but not with us much confidence as he had hoped. "I can do it, sirs. I'm the Boy-Who-Won't-Die, right?" Harry smiled at his empty attempt at humor.

"Are you insane, child!?"

Harry frowned. "Snape-"

"Professor Snape-"

Harry resisted the urgue to roll his eyes, "Professor Snape," he continued, "I know what I'm doing. No need to doubt my sanity."

"This is a very, very," Snape drew out the second word, "difficult potion. Not many seventh years would be able to accomplish this, much less in a week. And the spells you must learn? Difficult for even mean. Why do you think you will be able to do this?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Albus spoke before he could. "Why damper on young Harry here's hope? Why, he won't be alone in the learning of these things. He will do it, that I have no doubt." Albus's eyes twinkled once again. "I believe he can do it."

Snape glared at the old man. How he'd love to be able to hex him without risking his position. Just one stinging hex, even just one.

Harry's potion had blown up, an hour before their meeting, in an unceremonious boom! Snape had gone off on the child, before noticing how week Potter had seemed.

His face was pale, his small frame swaying slightly, his breathing seemed labored. Before Snape could think anything of it, the boy promptly collapsed and had a seizure.

Snape had sighed. Why did he have to faint in his class, of all places? He begrudgingly instructed two Slytherin third years to carry Harry to the infirmary. Snape, though dispising the thought of voluntarily spending another second in his presence, came along. He figured somone needed to explain what had happened, and Snape had had a front row seat to it.

Poppy ran her diagnostic charm, and moments after got the result. She frowned. This, she thought, is not ideal.

"So? What's wrong with the brat?" The professor snapped at the silence.

"Whatever he put in that cauldron to mess up a rather easy mixture," Snape smirked, "was the worst thing to put, apparently. He's cursed himself. Something similar to that, at least."

"Get to the point, woman."

"He will die," she said, "Unless he drinks and makes some potions," she waved her hand distractedly, as if saying she'd show him the potions later, "And he must cast three spells, if i recall correctly, on himself. All ingredients in the potion must be put in by him, and all spells must be cast by him. He's got," she paused, thinking, "a week to do it."

Snape raised a brow. "Why would a dotched potion curse a student? That's never happened before. And why must it all be done by the boy himself? Why can't someone else do it?"

"Because," she said, "Magic."

As if that explained everything.

Snape thought the Golden Boy would be fine. He could cast spells, who couldn't, and though Potter was utter rubbish at brewing, he could manage, Snape was certain, if his life was on the line.

After seeing the listed spells and potions Harry must make and cast, Snape was not so sure anymore.

When he had told the Headmaster the situation, to which the old man responded nothing but certainty the boy would be fine, Snape had snapped, "You cannot be serious!"

"I am nothing but, Severus."