Everything hurt. Arms, hand, back and shoulders. His neck . . . oh, God. And his ankle throbbed, the one Dudley's friend had stomped on. Not for the first time, the boy considered just not waking. But he had dreamt of the burning sun and a snake who whispered to him in the dark, and wrapped itself around his neck, coiling tighter and tighter until he couldn't breathe.

He didn't want to dream any more, and he was used to pain. As he decided to face what lay ahead, and come awake, he felt a light pressure on his arm and heard gentle words encouraging him. When he opened his eyes, the man was sitting beside him. The boy could see his face, still curtained by dark, shoulder length hair. He looked weary, his mouth a thin line.

The boy averted his gaze immediately and looked at the clouds on the ceiling.

Moments later, the man helped him to sit up a bit, plumping big pillows behind his back. It hurt a lot, bones rubbing together and bruises twinging, but he knew to not make a sound. Uncle Vernon didn't like complaining, not a bit. Before he could really catch his breath, though, the man held a thin glass bottle to his lips.

"Drink up," the man said. His voice was smooth and low, just like it had been before. "It will help with the pain."

Lips pressed together, the boy shook his head and kept his face turned away. He knew this game.

"Open you mouth," the man said, a note of annoyance in his voice.

A thrill of fear went through the boy, but he knew better than to drink things offered to him when he'd been bad. Last time Aunt Petunia had told him to "drink up," and had given him something yellow that smelt of lemons, it had burned his throat and his stomach. He'd been sick for days, and not allowed in the house. He'd deserved it, thought. She'd said so. He shook his head again, hoping the man would not hit him for his impertinence, even though he hunched his shoulders, expecting a blow.

The man was quiet for a long time, then took the bottle away. "I'll take a sip first, shall I?"

Surprised, the boy cut a glance at the man and nodded slowly. He watched as the man put the bottle to his mouth and drank a long pull of the thick blue fluid. After the man swallowed, he held up the bottle so the boy could see that the level of fluid was definitely lower.

"All right then?"

Gaze still on the bottle, the boy nodded and let the man hold it to his lips again. This time, before drinking, he flicked a glance at the man's face. An expression appeared there that he was unfamiliar with, at least when directed at himself. Aunt Petunia had looked at Dudley like that, though, when Dudders fell off his bike and she was cleaning his scraped knees.

The boy wasn't sure he understood that look, but when the man tilted the bottle up so he could drink, he took a mouthful. The medicine was chalky and kind of bitter. He gulped it down quick and shuddered at the taste, but it didn't burn or anything, so he took another sip before the man took the bottle away. In an instant, the pain faded from most of his body, though his stomach still ached with hunger.

Surprised again, he looked at the man in time to see the merest hint of a smile on his lips. "Better?" the man asked.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," the boy said, then kept his head down, though he chanced a look up through his bangs to see what the man would do next.

The man put down the odd medicine bottle and picked up a glass of what looked like milk. "You'll like this better, I imagine," the man said. "It's just milk, with a little water. It'll help clear the taste of the potion, all right?"

"Yes, sir." Still, he waited until the man took a swig of that, too, before he reached for the glass. His hand was shaking, and the man continued to hold the glass, though he didn't object to the boy putting his hands on it as well. It was milk, cold and soothing as it went down. Probably the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. He gulped it as fast as he could, afraid the man would try and take it away. His hands on the glass tightened with every swallow.

"Easy, Harry. Not so fast, or you'll be throwing it up next."

Harry. His name was Harry. He glanced at the man through his lashes, squinting a little to see his face more clearly. The man didn't look displeased or like he would take the milk away, but Harry didn't loosen his grip on the glass. Soon enough, it was drained.

"Good," the man said. The cup joined the "potion" bottle on a small table by the bed. "We'll give that a few minutes to settle before you have any more."

"Yes, sir." Harry picked at the quilt that was pulled across his lap. His hands were really clean, he noticed, cleaner than they'd been for some time. And the night shirt he was wearing was very soft, and didn't seem to have any holes or rips in it. He wondered who had grown out of it. They must've grown real fast to leave it in such good shape for Harry to use. Did the man have a son, too, like Dudley? He hoped not.

The man was watching him; Harry could always tell when he was being watched, as it made him feel prickly on the back of his neck, and he didn't like it. But he knew the best thing to do was pretend he didn't notice, so he ran his fingers along the stitching on the quilt and counted the blocks of color in it. He was up to eight different colors in triangles and six of squares before the man picked up something else from the little table. A bowl this time, Harry saw from the corner of his eye.

"Broth," the man said, and held the bowl closer to Harry's face. He dipped in a spoon and moved it toward Harry's mouth.

Harry drew back, looking aghast. "Sir?"

The corner of the man's mouth twitched. "Don't need help feeding yourself then?"

"No, sir!"

"Very well." There was a glint in the man's eyes as he turned away for a moment and said, "Dappin."

A short, wrinkle-skinned creature appeared out of nothing. Harry gasped and stared at its floppy ears and big, bulbous blue eyes. Dappin was completely bald, and wore a blue cloth trimmed with silver slung over one shoulder that draped to the knees. Was this whose night shirt he'd gotten? But his was nicer than Dappin's, he thought.

"A mug for the broth," the man said, "so we're less likely to slosh it."

The creature's ears bounced as it nodded wildly, showing pointed teeth in a wide smile. "Yes, Master Snape, sir. Dappin is getting a mug, sir." Dappin took the bowl from "Master Snape" and vanished again with another POP!

"What--" Harry cut off his question and hunched his shoulders again with a wince. He wasn't allowed to ask questions.

But the man seemed to understand what he wanted to know, and he didn't seem angry about Harry starting a question. Sometimes, even with Uncle Vernon, he could get away with one mistake. "Dappin is my house elf. She cleans, cooks and looks after the house."

Harry bit his lip and guessed he was a house elf for Master Snape now, too. Before he could make sure, though, Dappin popped back into the room, this time with a large mug in her long fingered hands. She held the green mug out to Master Snape, who took a swallow, showed him he had done so, then lifted it to Harry's mouth, letting him put his hands around it, too. The broth had warmed the mug, though not enough to burn his hands, and with Master Snape's help, he sipped at it gratefully.

Salty and tasting of chicken, the broth soothed his throat even more and spread warmth through his belly. Too soon, his stomach was uncomfortably full, though, and he pushed the mug away. "Thank you, Master Snape, sir," he said, making sure to say it like Dappin had. He was sleepy again. His eyes felt heavy, and he almost had to force them open after each blink.

Master Snape took the mug away. His voice was gentle as he said, "You did well, Harry. Go on back to sleep now."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. Curling on his side in the warm, soft bed, he pulled his legs to his chest and immediately sank towards sleep. He very much liked being a house elf for this Master Snape.

----

After the boy feel asleep, Severus watched him a while longer, to make sure he was well and truly under. He brushed an errant lock of hair off the child's forehead and away from his eyes, but sighed when Harry's face scrunched up as if he was wincing away from the touch. Clearly, the child had been mistreated and knew little in the way of physical comfort. From Harry's distrust of the drinks offered, to his perfectly polite form of address, even earlier, when he'd been in vast amounts of pain, Severus had other painful insights into the boy's home life. Alas, the circumstances of such maltreatment were not unfamiliar to him.

The more he pondered the child and what he had observed, his rage at the Dursleys was subsumed only by the realization that Dumbledore must have known. Hadn't he said there were people watching the boy and reporting back to him? Who were these watchers? Severus wondered. And how many of them could he strangle before he was sent to Azkaban?

He and his new employer were going to have serious words on this issue, and if the Headmaster's answers were unsatisfactory . . . well. He would decide what to do at that juncture, but his relationship with Dumbledore would be severely impacted, at the least.

The boy had not asked where he was and had expressed little interest in his surroundings at all, beyond what cup or glass was offered to him, and Dappin's sudden appearance. Such apathy worried him, if he were to be perfectly honest. Was the boy still in shock? Or were his reactions symptomatic of scarring, more severe than Severus would be able to handle?

He was out of his depth, either way.

Now that the worst of Harry's injuries were healed, he should move the boy to Hogwarts, assuming his conversation with Dumbledore went at all well. Then Madam Pomfrey could deal with him, and the Headmaster could offer his sage advice, if any, and Severus could get back to work setting up for his first term as a professor.

Perhaps.

After instructing Dappin to keep an eye on the boy, Severus cast a charm to alert him in case Harry woke, and headed downstairs to the sitting room to floo call Albus.