The next day Snape brought Harry back to the cottage. Thanks to Madame Pomfrey’s expert care and a wizard’s constitution, the boy was up and about, prowling the hall and obviously itching to get out. Severus watched the little winces and nearly suppressed wobbles that told him the brat needed the rest despite vigorous lobbying to go to the barn. With a mild twinge of something he assumed must be regret he ignored his promise to speak to Harry’s friends today and instead kept a surreptitious eye on his charge.

Snape wondered what Harry was thinking, what his feelings were on the talk they had. Then he wondered when he started worrying about anyone’s feelings. Resisting the urge to legilimize the boy was difficult but with his new understanding of Harry’s motives he was able to get a good idea by mere observation. He didn’t like what he saw.

The boy was avoiding eye contact and had yet to ask for any potions to alleviate the pain Snape knew he was enduring from the wand wound. The wrinkle in the young wizard’s forehead and the tooth prints in his lower lip spoke volumes about his level of discomfort. Having seen the boy endure broken bones with a complete lack of visible pain, it took extreme restraint to keep from grabbing the brat by the front of his robes and forcing a pain relieving potion down his ungrateful throat. He hoped the boy would be self absorbed enough to miss the grinding of his teeth as they passed in the hall.

After a long day of biting his tongue, Severus sat down to dinner with his ward. Harry dropped into his chair and after removing his glasses, propped his elbows on the table to give his face a lingering rub. When he finished kneading the scar, now a thin white line from the corner of his jaw, up across his nose and ending at his left eyebrow he gazed across the table with bleary eyes. The sight sent a pang of concern straight to the potion master’s previously unreachable heart. Severus silently cursed Malfoy, who had practically filleted the boy, for Merlin’s sake, and felt his face heat up with his anger. The loss of control made Severus even angrier and he stood up with an abrupt jerk, knocking his chair to the ground as he strode from the room.

After ten minutes of prowling around his laboratory Severus was no closer to the control he sought. It was strange, he mused, that for five years he had heaped misery on this boy and now, after spending a few weeks in his company he found himself in a fit of anger over the thought of someone hurting him. He wondered if Black had felt this irrational protectiveness over the boy. The whole mess at the DOM was starting to make a lot more sense to him. A completely unexpected wave of empathy for his former tormentor came over him but he squelched it with the awareness that Black was always so out of control he probably never noticed the difference.

Uneasy with this line of thinking, Snape made an attempt to justify his behavior. He was hungry and that was turning his anger at the situation into irrational fury at Harry whose presence was keeping him from the dining room. Yes, that was it. Stalking back into the room he ignored the brat’s startled flinch and headed to his place at the table. After righting his chair with a wave of his wand he sat and summoned a serving dish.

As the first bites took the edge off his irritation he became aware of Harry’s eyes on him. He wondered why the boy was watching him until he realized he was eating stew, a dish he normally eschewed as being too common. Widget had begun to serve it because Harry favored it but Snape always made sure to eat something else. “Gods!” he growled, throwing down his fork in disgust. Now even his eating habits were subject to contamination by The Bloody Boy Who Lived.

After getting a new plate and filling it with something more civilized Snape finished satisfying his hunger. As he ate he watched the boy who kept his expression carefully blank as he toyed with his sticky dessert. The potion master consoled himself with the knowledge that he would never stoop to consuming anything as disgusting as treacle tart. The very idea made him nervous and he declined any dessert rather than risk eating something else from the boy’s ridiculous menu.

Widget collected the dishes as Snape sat back with an irrefutably non Potteresque glass of merlot and turned to Harry. Since waiting for the boy to come to him had not worked he decided to go for a more direct approach. “When are you planning to ask me for pain relief?”

Harry dropped his poker face and a bewildered expression took its place. “What are you talking about?” When Snape raised an eyebrow and glared he expected the boy to confess his discomfort. Instead he watched the shuttered expression he had come to associate with Harry’s efforts to occlude cross the boy’s face and heard the famous Potter standby phrase, “I’m fine.”

The boy’s withdrawal spiked Snape’s anger again and he snarled, “Did nothing I spoke about yesterday mean anything to you? Or are you a completely hopeless imbecile?” He slammed his fist on the table and felt a twinge of shame when the boy flinched away with a wary look on his face. They had built a fragile trust and this anger was in danger of damaging that, perhaps irreparably. Snape found that was something he didn’t want to risk and he made a concerted effort to rein in his temper.

“Why are you avoiding help for the pain from the wanding?” he asked in a voice that he was pleased to note held no trace of emotion.

Harry lowered his eyes and tugged his fingers through his hair. In a subdued voice he answered Snape’s original question, saying, “I heard everything you said.” He drew his fingers across the table and gazed at the design created by his fingerprints as if he could read it like the tea leaves in Divination. “I heard everything, I’m just not sure what I think about it.” As the boy continued to avoid his gaze in favor of the tabletop Snape drew in a breath and let it out slowly.

“Fine,” Snape said. “I can respect your need to consider the facts.” Harry’s unguarded expression of shock at those words did not help his temper but Snape managed to keep his expression under control. “In the meantime, will you accept some help with your recovery?”

Harry’s hand strayed to his new scar then went back to smearing the table. “It’s not that bad,” he asserted. “I’d rather not take any potions, they make me…dozy.” His eyes finally came up and he held Snape’s gaze. “It won’t matter, will it?”

Snape sighed. He remembered the last time Harry had asked a similar question and wondered how much consideration Harry was really giving to their discussion. If the boy found it acceptable to endure unnecessary pain but would not endanger the war effort by incurring any permanent damage then he must still think of himself as the order’s weapon. “No, it won’t matter other than you are suffering needlessly.”

With a shrug Harry slid away from the table and stood up. “I just don’t like feeling drugged. Can’t afford it, really.” He was pale and Snape noticed a sheen of sweat on his forehead. As he watched the boy shuffle off to bed Snape let his head drop into his hands. He had done all he felt he could to help the young wizard. It was up to Potter now. He had to take that information and use it to help him heal the damage inflicted by the Dursleys.

The next morning the sun woke Snape. He was not surprised to see that Harry’s bed was empty and the bike was gone.

OoOoOoOoOo

Hermione waited with Ron at headquarters. It was three days after the incident at the racetrack and they had told no one about their deatheater encounter nor the ensuing drama with Harry. She had spent hours the first day researching the wizard’s debt and the scrying technique Snape had used. Having exhausted the library and its calming effect she was growing desperate for information. It was a measure of her anxiety that she was considering Ron’s plan to use the floo when Snape arrived after lunch. He ignored the teens and addressed Mrs. Weasley. “I am restocking my laboratory and could use the assistance of Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger. Could I perhaps borrow them for the afternoon?”

Mrs. Weasley, who was quite put out with Ron for a prank he had pulled on Ginny that morning, was all too eager to agree. “I think it would be good for them to get out of the house for a while and do something productive.” She turned to Ron and Hermione who was trying not to look too eager. “Get changed into some work clothes and go with Professor Snape for the afternoon. Perhaps, “she said with a glare at Ron, “it will take the edge off if you do something productive for a change.”

It was only a matter of a few minutes before they were changed and back at the floo. “We’re ready Professor,” said Hermione. She schooled her features to look unhappy at the prospect of spending the day in the professor’s laboratory. While upstairs she had instructed Ron to do the same but he was having less luck. Instead of looking discontented he was managing to look somewhat sleepy but fortunately it was good enough to fool his mother.

When they stumbled out of Snape’s floo he pointed to a large, dusty cabinet. “We will empty this and evaluate the contents for freshness.” He met the shocked stares of the two teens with a sneer. “Did you think I would not capitalize upon this?” Hermione trod heavily on Ron’s foot when it looked like he would protest. She met his eyes and gave a quick shake of her head to silence him.

“Just get it done, Ron,” she hissed. “The quicker we finish the quicker he’ll start talking.” He scowled and his ears reddened but he grabbed a vial and began checking its contents.

Several dusty hours, two spilled potions, and one minor explosion later they were finished. Snape led them into his office where he had the house elves bring tea. Hermione frowned at the use of “slavery” but eagerly sipped her tea, rinsing the dust from the cabinet out of her throat. The biscuits were quickly demolished by Ron as Snape watched with ill concealed distain. “If you have finished inhaling your tea?” the potion master said with a subtle inclination of his head. Ron wiped his lips with his sleeve and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Yes, Professor. Could you please tell us how Harry is?” Hermione tried to be patient but worry was eating her up inside. She tugged on her hair and worked on keeping her expression politely respectful. When Snape did not immediately reply she blurted, “I’ve read about wand wounds. According to Miranda Wandworks it’s hypothesized that residual dark magic plagues the victim and the degree of pain is directly proportional to the amount of dark magic practiced by the wizard who inflicted the wound.” She twisted her hands in her lap and would have continued had Ron not grabbed her hands and silenced her with a look.

Snape snorted inelegantly. “The brat is fine as usual. Ms. Wandworks’ information is definitely correct but your friend has found his own way of dealing with the problem.” He held up a thin hand, palm out. “I will allow him to explain it to you. The mark from Lucius’ wand still plagues him but he has returned to his summer employment today.” Snape scowled as if he had tasted something foul. “It would be easier to manage the wound if he were less adverse to potions.” Feeling limp with relief Hermione sat back in her chair and nursed her tea as she waited for Snape to continue.

Ron spoke up with a grin. “That sounds like our Harry.” The grin faded and he asked, “Does he remember anything from… that day?”

With a trademark swirl of robes, Snape stood and paced in front of the fireplace. “He has not spoken of it other than to ask about the two of you. I do not believe he will recall the confession he made.”

When it did not appear he would continue Hermione prompted him by saying, “I’ve thought a lot about what you said about Harry, professor.” Snape leaned against the mantle studied them both with his glittering black eyes. Feeling cowed by his intense gaze, Hermione wondered how Harry tolerated it every day. She tried to appear unfazed as she waited for him to speak.

Finally Snape broke the silence. “And what have you concluded, Miss Granger?”

Hermione took a calming breath. She really wanted to know what the potion master thought about the situation, so calling on her rather miniscule powers of misdirection, she kept her voice steady and said, “I’m not sure I know enough to have a conclusion, sir.” As she sat back and crossed her ankles, she kept her eyes on Snape’s face and her expression mild, hoping to elicit an explanation from the normally taciturn profession. Ron watched their verbal sparring with parted lips, his teacup forgotten in his lap.

Snape sighed and sat down opposite them. He ran his finger around the gold rim of his teacup as he contemplated his next words. “There is little more to know. The dark lord is back and claiming to be immortal.” He looked over at the two teens who nodded their concurrence with his statement. “The headmaster and I have examined this from every angle and have found no means of defeating him.” Ron nodded but Hermione could not prevent a dubious expression from crossing her face. It did not escape Snape’s sharp eyes and she mentally winced as she smoothed her visage. Snape sighed again. “You will have to accept that for now, Miss Granger. Perhaps the headmaster will share his notes with you later.” Hermione blushed and looked at her hands as she nodded.

“The dark lord has heard part of the prophesy; enough to believe that Potter is a threat to him, enough to know that he must destroy him.” Snape did not wait for them to agree before continuing. “The boy must attempt to fulfill the prophesy, whether you accept it as truth or not, Miss Granger, or the dark lord will kill him.” As Snape paused Hermione glanced over at Ron. He nodded at her, obviously in agreement with the potion master’s analysis. It didn’t matter if it were true or not, Voldemort would not risk leaving Harry alive to find out. Hermione felt her gut clench as she accepted the reality of the situation.

“This is where you come in. The boy’s lack of self worth will lead him to destruction; you have seen the truth of that. When he believes his own demise is the only solution you must convince him otherwise. You must persuade him to keep fighting.” Snape spread his hands, his long fingers pointing at them in supplication. “It appears this is the only way to defeat the dark lord… and to save… Potter.”

Hermione sat back and contemplated Snape’s hypothesis. Having come to the same conclusions herself she had hoped for a different analysis from the potions master. She glanced over at Ron, expecting him to look completely gobsmacked. Instead, the redhead’s forehead was creased in thought. He looked exactly as he did when assessing his chessboard and planning his next move. She wished she had access to his thoughts at that moment. Their introspection was interrupted by a soft pinging noise.

“The brat is nearing my cottage.” Snape stood back and indicated the fireplace. “Use the floo to return to headquarters, I must go back. It seems it is reassuring for him to come h…. return and find me there.” He rolled his eyes. “I cannot believe I have sunk to this level.” With a pop he was gone.

Hermione gaped at Ron as they moved to the fireplace. “Never thought I’d see the day,” she said, her eyes round with shock.

“Me neither, ‘Mione. Me neither.”

oOoOoOoOo

The following day Snape spoke with Ron and Hermione again as they continued to help him organize his laboratory. A sort of truce was established between the former adversaries as ideas for helping Harry were bantered about. Hermione favored the direct confrontation approach but Ron and Snape knew that Harry would simply pretend to agree to everything then fall back into his old ways in short order. Ron’s ideas usually involved highly convoluted scenarios that both Snape and Hermione could not imagine would ever play out. After describing another elaborate plan and having it shot down Ron sat back, exasperated.

“If you’re so smart why haven’t you come up with a plan yet? Sir.”

Snape surveyed him over the tops of his steepled fingers and sighed. “I don’t know how to get through to him. We will need a bloody miracle.” He wrestled his trademark sneer into place. “And I do not believe in miracles.”

oOoOoOoOo

Harry rolled into the yard just as the sun was beginning to break the horizon and parked the bike next to the other lads’ cars. The first four days back had been pure hell. Arthur had taken one look at his enfeebled condition and assigned him the easiest jobs he could find, all of them non-riding. After painting fences and cleaning water buckets for what seemed like forever he had been proclaimed fit to ride and he was eager to get back in the saddle today.

The work had given him time alone to think about what Snape had said in the hospital wing. In an abstract way he understood what the professor had been trying to tell him but when he tried to apply it to his own life he found himself unable to get past the idea of putting Ron and Hermione or even Snape in danger. It was up to him to see this thing through and it didn’t require anyone else he cared about getting hurt or worse. They were just going to have to see things from his point of view, he decided.

With a yawn he rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. It had been a week but he still flinched as his fingers came into contact with the wand wound. He’d had Snape cast a glamour to hide the scar from the muggles but it still ached unmercifully. Refusing to dwell upon his troubles he shook his hair back and surveyed the still darkened sky, muttering, “Bloody hell! Who invented mornings anyway?” He noticed the light on in the clubhouse and decided to put his head in the door to say good morning to Arthur. A cup of tea would do wonders to clear his foggy head. As Harry neared the door he overheard unfamiliar voices.

“This’ll teach you to ignore our instructions, Art, my boy,” snarled a strange voice. Soft thudding noises punctuated the end of the sentence. A groan of pain twigged Harry as to what was happening. He started to grab the door handle when another voice stopped him.

“Maybe we need to get some of your lads in here and drive the point home by giving them some of this too.”

Arthur’s deep baritone, driven higher than normal by pain, came through the door. “Don’t hurt the boys! They had nothing to do with this.” Harry could hear Arthur struggling as more thuds resonated through the entry. There was a loud groan followed by a thump and the floor shook as the man’s body hit the ground.

“It’s everyone’s problem when our boss looses money because you don’t follow orders to loose when we tell you to. Maybe we need to get that new jockey of yours and shoot him in the kneecaps. That’ll slow him down!” The man laughed menacingly and Harry heard the sound of a gun being cocked. He backed away from the door and thought furiously. From the voices he could tell there were at least three unfriendlies in there. He would need the help of the other lads in order to save Arthur.

Without further hesitation he fled to the yard. Grabbing Kelly and Patrick he called urgently to the others to join him in the tack room. “There are some thugs beating up Arthur in the clubhouse,” he said breathlessly. As one they stood to race to the rescue. “They have a gun,” he said loudly. The exodus stopped as quickly as it had begun.

What’ll we do?” squeaked Pippin, one of the younger lads who seemed to look upon Arthur as a surrogate father. The boy wrung his hands as his eyes darted nervously from Harry to the door. Clearly he was expecting Harry to come up with a plan. “We can’t let Arthur get killed.” Harry swallowed and stepped forward.

“He’s in trouble for not fixing races. We’ve all said how much we like it here because we can ride to win. Now’s the time to ante up.” He assessed all the boys in the room with a hard green stare. “Who’s in?”

Patrick stepped up. “We’re all in Ian, but what can we do against a gun?”

Harry looked at Kelly quickly. The squib immediately realized Harry’s problem. “It will have at least six bullets. They can fire very rapidly but once the magazine is exhausted they must reload.” He gave Harry an anguished frown. “It’ll kill you, Ian, if you’re hit in the right spot.”

Harry swallowed his fear at the thought of being shot. Arthur needed their help and there was no time to hesitate. “Right. I’ll go in the front and distract them.” He nodded to the two oldest boys in the group. “Patrick, you and Robbie sneak in through the window in the back and get Arthur out as soon as they are diverted.” They bumped fists and started to move out.

“What about the rest of us?” said Pippin. “We want to help too.”

Harry eyed the rest of the lads. He knew Arthur would rather die than have any of the youngsters under his care get hurt. He also knew the lads needed to help just as he had when he thought Sirius was in trouble. “All right. I want you to help me distract them. Andrew, do you still have those fireworks?” At the boy’s nod he grinned. “Grab them and, uh, ignore the safety warnings. Get it?”

“Right you are, Guv!” Andrew chirped with an impromptu salute. He scuttled out the door like there was a hippogriff on his tail.

“Pippin, get the rest of the lads and grab pitchforks or whatever else looks sharp and back me up. One thing though, if things start to go badly, I may have to resort to, er, extreme measures.” He caught Kelly’s eye and the boy nodded quickly. “If you hear me yell, ‘Stupify,’ or anything like that it means I’m setting off a, a…” he trailed off, waving his hands in vague circles.

“An incendiary device,” supplied Kelly, his eyes sparkling.

Harry snapped his fingers and pointed at the squib. “Exactly!” He moved quickly toward the door. “Let’s get moving before they kill him.” The boys raced out and to their respective tasks. Harry grabbed Patrick’s shirt. “Let’s get this done before they get back,” he hissed. The taller boy nodded grimly and together with Robbie they marched off to the clubhouse. As the teens reached the front door they paused. Harry looked up into their pale, scared faces. “Keep your heads low. In and out quick and simple,” he said with a grin.

Patrick slugged him in the shoulder and said, “Just you keep your own head low, Ian.”

Robbie grinned too but then turned serious. He squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Safe trip,” he said and tugged Patrick off into the shrubs surrounding the building.

Harry took a deep breath and expelled it noisily. “Show time,” he muttered. He laid his hand on his tattoo and bolstered his courage with Sirius’ unflagging presence. With an unsteady hand he grasped the doorknob and walked into the room. His eyes went immediately to Arthur who was leaning against the pillar he had run into on their first meeting. Harry’s resolve strengthened as he remembered the many times the horseman had helped him and the other jockeys. ‘I’ve faced Voldemort, for Merlin’s sake,’ he thought. ‘A few nasty muggle yobs should be a piece of cake.’

“So, Arthur. It’s your jockey,” sneered the tallest of the group. He turned to the man next to him and said, “Maybe you’ll get to shoot his kneecaps after all, Jack.”

Harry spoke up. “You’ll have to do better than threats, asshole,” he said boldly.

The tall man laughed. “Take a look at your boss, kid. We’ll do better than threats, don’t worry about that.” Arthur wearily raised his head.

“Get out of here, Ian. This is my problem, not yours. Your safety is more important than me, get out!” he pleaded. Harry nearly stumbled as Arthur’s words registered. That was exactly what he said to Ron and Hermione. He finally understood why they refused to back down. He might be the only one who could kill Voldemort but it was their fight too and just because he cared for them didn’t make it any less so. He laughed as the irony hit him. Leave it to me to finally figure it out at a time like this, he thought as he squared off to confront the muggles.

“Not bloody likely, Arthur,” Harry rejoined. “This is my fight too.” He smiled widely as his usual sangfroid took over. “Besides, wanker,” he said to the tall muggle, “I’ve got an advantage over you three toothless wonders.”

“What’s that, boy? You gonna bite my ankles or somethin’?” The three roughnecks laughed and as one they took a step toward Harry. Arthur moaned and slid back down to the floor. Harry grinned and beckoned them closer with a wink.

“I’m not gonna bite you, I’m gonna wipe up the floor with you, butt head,” he said provocatively. The tall man sneered and strode toward the wizard with fists clenched. With his peripheral vision Harry saw his accomplices slide through the window, grab Arthur and begin to drag him to safety. Robbie clamped his hand over the trainer’s mouth as he tried to protest. Keeping his eyes resolutely on the men in front of him Harry continued to play his role as a diversion. “You see, gentlemen,” he continued in a loud voice, “I have an advantage.”

The third man scowled. “Let’s get him,” he said murderously. “I’m through playing games.”

“You see,” Harry said in a loud voice with a quick step backwards, “I am completely insane.” The three men stopped and looked at each other uneasily. “That’s right, boys. So you’ll never know just what I’m going to do. Completely unpredictable, that’s my advantage.” He mock lunged toward Jack then laughed uproariously when the man flinched backward. He was dimly aware of Robbie and Patrick heaving Arthur through the window.

A small groan escaped Arthur’s lips. Harry yelled and quickly surged forward to keep the men’s attention. He swatted the tall man on the nose then with seeker quickness he jumped back again as the man took a swing at him. “Completely bonkers, batty, that’s me!” he called gleefully. He ducked and spun as the three began to come at him. Feeling like he was flying against the Hungarian Horntail again he grinned with fierce joy. He felt Sirius romping across his shoulders and laughed aloud as he rode a wave of adrenaline.

Suddenly the door burst open and the other boys poured in, pitchforks and shovels ready. Dismayed, Harry paused and that was his undoing. The third man threw a punch that connected and Harry fell hard, his temple striking the floor with sickening force. Gray shadows threatened to overtake his vision as he struggled to gain his feet. The stable lads stood behind him, nervously brandishing their makeshift weapons.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” brayed Jack. He swung the pistol in a careless arc. “More examples for the other stables. Who do you think I should shoot, Jerry?” He looked at the man who had hit Harry. Jerry wordlessly pointed his chin at the wizard. Jack laughed and before Harry could react he pointed the gun at him, squeezing off a shot with a look of vicious delight.

Searing pain arced through his body and Harry grabbed his thigh. As hot blood squirted through his fingers instinct drove him to try to staunch the flow with his hands. Biting back a howl of pain he fell backward onto the floor, the room swimming in a haze of white hot agony. He was dimly aware of a horrified silence from the lads, which was broken when three bottle rockets howled through the window, spraying the combatants with sulfurous fumes. As the thugs hit the ground with their arms over their heads Harry ground out, “Run now!”

The fireworks ricocheted about the room in a terrifying shower of sparks and smoke as the boys flung their weapons aside and scattered, leaving The-boy-who-lived looking straight into the murderous eyes of his attackers. Harry felt consciousness slipping away as his blood pooled on the worn linoleum and he knew he had to come up with something quickly. If the yobs escaped they would continue to exercise their scare tactics on other innocent victims. As shadows converged in his vision his eyes lit on the column in front of him and inspiration struck.

“Wanna see something really insane?” he said with a ghost of his former grin. Pointing a shaky finger at the pillar he gathered his strength, feeling the magic coiling inside him, ready for his command. “Reducto!” he cried. Wild magic flowed out, fueled by his anger and pain. The pillar exploded and with an eerie groan the roof collapsed over him and the attackers.

As the debris pinned him to the floor and his life continued to seep out the bullet hole in his leg Harry managed a coherent thought. ‘How ironic that I should finally figure out what my friends have been trying to tell me and now I’m going to bleed to death before I can apologize.’ Consciousness fled and he lay unresisting beneath the settling timbers.