The room was stifling, with no air allowed in through the boarded up window. Harry huddled, shivering, on the thin mattress of his bed under a dirty sheet, though sweat covered him in a thin sheen. He slept in fits and starts, swamped by fever dreams and nightmares. His back still burned from the beating his Uncle had given him soon after he arrived here for the summer, and the sheet was crusty and stained with yellow patches of pus. The wounds were weeping and infected.

The pain in his gut from hunger had long since passed, and when he was aware enough to notice such things, he could feel the skin stretched over his bones, and even see the veins and tendons in his hands and forearms, standing out like his ribs.

He was dying.

After all that had happened, all the times he had survived attacks by Voldemort, a basilisk, Merpeople and dragons, Death Eaters, and all of what had happened at the Department of Mysteries, he thought it was supremely ironic that he was going to die of starvation and lack of penicillin.

Or maybe it was just pathetic.

How long had it been since anyone had unlocked the door, or even stuffed food through the cat flap? At this point, it didn't matter, for even if his Aunt had shoved a seven course meal in to him, he couldn't have gotten it. He couldn't have crawled that far.

And it didn't matter anyway, not really, since it was obvious he was doomed. The only thing he really regretted was not taking down Voldemort with him. The guilt and shame of that tightened his chest, and -- he had to admit -- was the only thing now that kept him fighting for his life. If he could just hold on until the Order sent someone -- and they would, wouldn't they? If he didn't send the letters he was supposed to, the ones they'd made him promise to send -- if he could just hold on, everything would be fine. He could get back to school, continue training, and everything would go back to normal.

Except Sirius would still be dead.

The thought hit him like a physical blow, and his vision swam with new tears. But like all the tears that had come to his eyes over the last days, -- weeks? -- he blinked them away before they fell. He didn't deserve to mourn Sirius, not when he was responsible for killing him. He only deserved to die.

But, Merlin, it hurt so much.

And he was so tired.

The thin sliver of light beyond the boards on the windows was waning, lengthening the shadows in the room, so it must be getting to be evening. Another day gone. Another day, hopefully, closer to rescue.

Even if he didn't deserve it.

#

When rescue came, it was not by anyone he wanted to see. The night was dark and still, and Harry lay somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when he heard a sound from outside, a sharp crack that lasted only a split second. Then another, and a third Apparition. They were coming!

Dragging himself upwards, Harry caught his breath and tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, but he was too weak. His head hurt, and swam with dizziness. A flash of excruciating pain swept over him, centered in his gut and flowing over his back, and it was all he could do to not vomit all over himself. But if he was going to be taken from here, he needed his wand, and the invisibility cloak, both hidden under a loose floorboard under his bed. He couldn't leave them behind.

Gulping down some air, he slid to the edge of the bed, then off it, falling with a soft bump, which almost covered the sound of the front door opening downstairs. No other sounds came from the stairs or hallway, while Harry struggled with the loose board. He finally got his wand out, and was just reaching for the cloak when he heard the bolts slide back from the locks in the door. One, two, three, four, five, so quickly it must have been from a spell.

Harry closed his eyes, awash with gratitude, and pushed himself back up straight, leaning back against the side of the bed. As the door eased open, Harry forced back the pain in his head and body enough so he could smile at his rescuers, but when he looked at who came through the door, he could not suppress the horrified gasp at the black cloak and white skull mask.

Death Eaters!

Without thinking, he aimed his wand at the first one through the door and said, "Expelliarmus!" though the words came out as a rasping whisper from his unused throat. The Death Eater's wand went flying just the same, and smacked Harry in the arm, as his reflexes were pretty much shot.

A hysterical laugh from the hallway sent shivers up his spine. He knew that laugh. Its owner shoved the first Death Eater roughly out of the way, and blocked Harry's next curse easily. "Awww. Widdle Baby Potter wooks all surpwised," Bellatrix gloated. "Isn't he cute!" She blocked his next curse with a snarl then leveled her wand at him. "Crucio!"

Harry didn't have enough breath in him to scream, but his back arched and his limbs flailed. He tasted blood in his mouth. Fire raced along every nerve, needle sharp and unending. Shards of glass rode his veins. Tears leaked from his eyes as he scrabbled at the floor with fingers and toes. Stop, please, make it stop. All he could hear was her laughter and his own rasping breaths.

"Enough," another voice said, and the spell ended. Tremors ran through his body, but mercifully, he could breathe at last. The sores on his back had opened, and the floor under him was slick with blood and serum. He coughed wetly, and his chest hurt. Perhaps some ribs were broken.

"You spoil all my fun," Bellatrix whined.

"The Dark Lord's prize is not here for your amusement," someone responded. Even through his pain and with eyes tightly closed, Harry would have recognized that voice anywhere. Snape. His heart fell into his stomach.

Hand still trembling, he lifted his wand again and pointed it at the doorway. "Stupe--"

Bellatrix laughed again, and spat, "Protego," and the curse rebounded on him. He was too weak to dodge it, and found himself flat on his back. His wand was still clutched in one hand, not that it made any difference, when Snape moved into his line of vision and crouched beside him to pry it out of his fingers.

"Stupid, Potter," Snape muttered under his breath. "Very stupid." His fingers rose to Harry's mouth with something in them. Harry's eyes widened, and he tried to shake his head, but he couldn't; he couldn't move at all. Everything hurt. His breath came in short pants while he tried to keep from vomiting. "Hold still," Snape growled, and Harry felt something cool against his lips. A vial. A potion. Snape was trying to poison him.

"For pain," Snape whispered, but Harry didn't believe him until the fluid was forced down his throat, and the tremors in his arms eased a little, and he could finally draw a full breath. "Another," Snape said. He held another vial to Harry's lips, and Harry did not pull away this time. Snape's hand snaked behind his neck and held his head steady as the second potion slid down his raw throat. The edges of his vision tinged with black, and Snape's almost soundless voice echoed in his mind as the black encroached further. "Go to sleep, Harry."

Harry fought it; how cold he not? Bellatrix was right there. She would kill him, or torture him, or do other freaky things. But the potion was too strong, and he was too tired. With a soft gurgle of a sigh, he slept, even as he realized Snape had called him by his given name for the first time in memory.

Harry woke shivering, lying on the cold ground, and it took a few minutes to open his eyes. His lids were stuck closed, crusted together, and stung when he peeled them open, though there was little light to see by. Everything was blurry; he had lost his glasses somewhere. But what he could see made him wish he was still unconscious.

The cell was small, not much larger than his own prone form, with gray stone walls, no windows and only one door. Hanging on the walls, in various states of repair, were devices obviously used for torture: whips and flails and knives of all sorts, like something out of a movie about the Inquisition. But they must have been just for show, he thought. Voldemort and his Death Eaters liked to use magic to play their games, to torture and eventually kill their prisoners. Through his curse scar, he'd watched enough of their meetings and the treatment of their prisoners to know. But Muggles would recognize the instruments. And it would make them afraid.

He had to admit to being scared himself, of torture by magic or Muggle devices or whatever. Though he knew he deserved to die, and that he had to, to fulfill the damned prophecy, he honestly didn't want to.

His breaths were still coming hard, each one seeming to pierce his chest. Ribs, he remembered. Probably broken. He could still taste blood in his mouth, and he wanted to spit it out, but in truth, he was too tired to turn his head. And he ached everywhere, especially at the point of his scar. Voldemort must be nearby.

So he swallowed the blood, and rested his head, waiting for the show to start. He didn't have to wait long.

When footsteps echoed outside his cell, he roused himself enough to roll onto his back and used his elbows to edge back towards the wall. The door opened inward and a cloaked figure stood framed in the space. He couldn't tell who it was at first, just squinted at them and remained silent.

"Looking a bit peaky, Potter," a smooth, cultured voice said. Lucius Malfoy took one step into the cell and looked around it with disdain. His white hair hung loose, and Harry was just as glad he could not see the elder Malfoy's eyes; they always gave him the creeps. "A pity, really, that your relatives left us so little to work with."

Harry gathered the rest of his strength and levered himself to a sitting position. The wall was cold and damp against his back, but he barely noticed. One hand pressed to his aching diaphragm, he squinted at Malfoy again. "Like I care," he rasped.

"You will, Potter," the Death Eater bit out. "When the Dark Lord makes you scream."

"Done that," Harry told him, and had to stop to take a wheezing breath. "Don't care."

That seemed to take the wind out of Malfoy's sails, and Harry rewarded himself by letting his eyes drift closed. He must have dozed, for when he opened them again, the door to his cell was shut and Malfoy was gone. Good. One Death Eater down, only seventeen thousand to go.

--------------------

The next visitor to his cell was not so accommodating. Harry was roused from sleep when the door scraped open and he heard a high pitched giggle that could belong to only one person, someone he hated more than anyone else in the world. "Is widdle Potty feewing sad again?" Bellatrix crooned.

Harry tried to ignore her, but she crept into the cell like a darkling shadow. He blinked up at her when she poked his leg with the toe of her boot. As if about to convey a great secret, she leaned toward him, close enough that Harry could smell her breath, and whispered, "Where did they go?"

Head lolling against the wall, Harry ran a dry tongue over his chapped lips and turned his face away.

"They were all gone," Bellatrix chanted in a mocking sing-song. "All gone, gone from home, leaving baby all alone." She grabbed his chin and wrenched his face back to look at her. Her eyes sparkled with madness, and when she lowered her face to put them nose to nose, Harry thought bizarrely for a moment that she was going to kiss him. His stomach churned at the very idea. Instead, she went back to her crooning tone, "They must've wuved you vewy, vewy much, baby Potter, to empty their house of everything except you."

Startled, despite his private vow not to listen to anything Bellatrix said, ever, Harry's mouth opened of its own volition. "What?"

Bellatrix shrieked a laugh, spraying Harry with spittle. She patted his cheek, like he was a good boy. "Oh! They didn't even tell you! Your relatives, they moved out and left you behind to rot. Your house was empty!"

"No," he whispered. They wouldn't have moved away without him. He knew they hated him, had always hated him, hated magic and anything to do with it, but they wouldn't have done that.

"Yes!" Bellatrix screeched. She flew around the cell like a creature possessed, arms outstretched as if she was a bird, laughing her mad laugh.

Harry closed his eyes again, willing her to leave. The Dursleys had moved away and left him for dead. It was true, had to be. They had voided the wards on the house, the ones Dumbledore was so protective of. How had the Death Eaters found him, otherwise? How had they gotten in?

"No, no, no," Bellatrix said softly. She was back in front of him, crouched on her heels and swaying slightly to music only she could hear. Her fingertips slid down his cheek, almost gently, and he flinched. "No more sleeping for the baby."

When she reached for him, he batted her hand away, but it was useless. He knew that, yet he had to try. She hauled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all, and maybe he didn't. How long had the Dursleys been gone from 4 Privet Drive anyway? It took a few moments for him to catch his balance, and even then, he was so weak, she had to support him. With a hand on his arm, Bellatrix shoved him roughly for the door. He stumbled, and she half dragged him into the corridor. There, two more Death Eaters, these wearing masks, waited.

"The Dark Lord wants him now," one of them said. Bellatrix pushed Harry at the pair, and one of them caught him before he fell. The man sighed in annoyance, but turned smartly and, with the other masked person, frog marched Harry down the hallway. They had to help him up some stairs and practically carried him the last hundred feet to a set of ornate double doors.

Though he'd barely put in any of the work of the journey, Harry's breaths were short and sounded wet. Behind them, Bellatrix kept up her soft singing, and it made the hair on Harry's neck rise to hear it.

"He's waaaai-tiiiing," she sang, to no one, or everyone. "For his special treat."

The Death Eater who'd spoken earlier nodded, rapped heavily on the right hand door, and opened it without waiting for a response. Harry was propelled before them, into the middle of a huge room full of Death Eaters.

The pain in Harry's scar flared to an excruciating level, just as he caught sight of Voldemort, waiting on a throne at the far end of the room, like a king accepting supplicants. Harry had fallen to his knees, and the Death Eaters dragged him forward. He clutched at his head, clenching his jaws around a scream.

The crowd parted before them, making their trip to the throne rather quicker than it might have been. But Harry knew only pain, holding his head to keep it from splitting open. He barely noted when the two Death Eaters dropped him unceremoniously on the floor at the feet of Lord Voldemort.

The Order of the Phoenix was in chaos. Only days after Hogwarts had let out for the summer, a series of events had virtually everyone of the Old Crowd existing on no sleep and minimal time to even eat. A break out at Azkaban, engineered by Voldemort, no doubt, had freed all the prisoners who had been captured at the Ministry only weeks before. The Dementors, usurped by Voldemort and no longer guarding the prison, had been responsible for no fewer than seven separate attacks on Muggles and Muggleborns across southern England in the first two weeks of July. The Order was doing all it could to assist the Ministry, which had its hands full keeping the creatures at bay, and cleaning up after them. They also tried hard to keep the Muggles from looking too closely, or worrying too much, about these odd, faceless attacks that left its victims catatonic or dead but with virtualy no physical wounds.

Despite all their efforts, the public panicked anyway. Holidays meant for late summer were re-booked for "as soon as possible," as long as they were out of the country, and thousands of people flocked to points north. Once concentrated, however, it was only a matter of time before Voldemort and his Death Eaters focused their attention there, and by mid July, Muggle and Wizarding papers alike were reporting attacks in the Borders, the Lakes and the Dales.

Dumbledore sat in his office, taking a well-deserved five minutes to himself, and stared at his old, gnarled hands. Things had gone from bad to worse so quickly. And he'd just received the worst news by far. Slowly, he removed his glasses and rubbed at the ache that always seemed to linger between his eyebrows these days. Eyes closed, he ordered his thoughts. The Muggles entrusted with Harry's care had been among those who'd fled their homes, though they would have been far, far safer remaining in Surrey.

With all that had happened the last couple weeks, Dumbledore had pulled off some of the watchers from Privet Drive, a decision he had soon come to regret. Not until Arabella Figg fire-called him three days ago, to let him know that the house was completely empty, had he realized there was a problem. At first, he'd assumed that Harry had gone with the Dursleys, though that in itself was unsafe, but when Tonks, Moody and Shacklebolt went to check out Figg's report, they found signs of a struggle in the boy's room, as well as blood on the bed and floor, some of it fresh.

Due to the state of the rest of the house, it was clear that the boy had been left behind by his relatives some time ago. Then he had been taken, quite probably by force, by someone else. Without knowing where the boy was, they had no means to rescue him. To make matters worse, he had been unable to contact Severus Snape for several days. Added together, he had to assume that Voldemort had the boy. If that was the case, there was little he could do but hope, and he had not much of that left.

Sliding his glasses back onto the edge of his nose, Dumbledore rose and went to his fireplace. Time to tell the rest of the Order what a fool he had been.

---------------

Hundreds of miles away, in a large hall of one of Voldemort's holdings, Harry lay on the floor where the Death Eaters had dropped him. He forced back the searing pain in his forehead, trapped it behind a wall that looked an awful lot like a cupboard door, shut the door and locked it firmly. Though his head still pounded like he was being kicked repeatedly by a dozen hippogriffs, he was no longer blinded by the pain. His stomach roiled, though, and if he had had anything to eat recently, he would have thrown it up immediately. Taking quick, panting breaths, he glanced up as Voldemort rose from his throne. The man peered down at him, but his oddly smooth, snake-like face was blurry enough to Harry's eyes that he couldn't see the man's expression. Just as well, he thought. Like I need to see more nuttiness now.

Above him, Voldemort shook his head. "Poor, poor boy," he said, and his voice sounded almost sad. "My Bella tells me the nasty Muggles left you alone to die."

Harry clenched his jaw and said nothing, but struggled to get his feet under him, hating to feel so exposed. He managed, after some frantic movement, to lean on his side.

"Is it true, then?" the sibilant voice asked. "Did they beat you and starve you and make you cry? Or did the tender care of my faithful bring you to such a state?"

Still stubbornly refusing to answer, Harry pressed his hand to his chest again, just trying to breathe, and wondering where this was going. He'd figured to be dead by now, in truth.

"Severus," Voldemort hissed softly, and one of the black clad figures, head bowed, stepped closer to where Harry lay. "I detect the remnants of the Cruciatus about the boy, though muted. I know you hate him. Is this your doing?"

"My Lord." Snape's voice was tempered, deferential. Harry was quite sure he'd never heard such a tone from that man. "I did give the brat a potion to ease the tremors. I did not know if he would survive the portkey, else."

"Well done," Voldemort told him. "But tell me, then, who cast the curse, when I recall my explicit instructions were to do him no harm?" He wasn't even looking at Snape anymore, but toward the Death Eaters who had brought him forward, and to Bellatrix Lestrange, beside them.

"My Lord!" she cried, and threw herself down next to Harry, prostrate before Voldemort. She pressed her forehead to the floor as she groveled at his feet. Her voice, though, was almost a growl. "I was only defending myself! He may look frail, but with his wand . . . I couldn't let him get away with insulting you!"

"Tsk, tsk, my Bella. When I give orders, I expect them to be obeyed. You have disappointed me."

Bellatrix gasped, but did not raise her head. "I beg forgiveness, my Lord. I am yours to command."

"Ah, yes, I do so love to hear you beg, sweet Bella," Voldemort said softly. With a flick of his hand and a murmured Crucio, he had her writhing. In moments, she was screaming and begging and drumming her heels on the cold stone floor.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his forehead was a manageable ache now, and Harry reveled in the miniscule hope the loss of that pain gave him. As for sounds next to him, even though it was Bellatrix receiving punishment for hurting him, he couldn't feel any satisfaction from it. He knew too well the pain of that curse, and though he'd once tried to cast it, he could not imagine ever doing so again.

Bellatrix's screams trailed off as the curse was lifted, and she choked on her breath. Harry opened his eyes in time to see Voldemort descend from his short dais and prod her in the side with one unshod toe, much like she had done to Harry in his cell. The reversal of their positions was so unexpected, he had to stifle a sudden laugh.

Voldemort turned keen eyes on him. "Something amuses you?" he asked, sounding anything but amused.

Harry shook his head, but lifted his gaze to meet the man's. "Just . . . get on with it," he whispered, as much sound as he could manage.

"Oh, we shall," Voldemort promised. "But first, I would like you to answer some of my questions."

"You should . . . know . . . better," Harry told him between gasping breaths. "Won't . . . tell you . . . anything."

"You misunderstand me, dear Harry." He sounded almost friendly, and Harry squinted up at him, having a very bad feeling about the sudden change in tone. "I don't imagine a boy such as yourself has anything worthwhile to tell me about a senile old man's machinations and attempts to thwart me. No, I want to know about you."

After he made his announcement, Dumbledore held himself still, at the head of the table in the kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, and waited for the inevitable explosion. He didn't have to wait long. Only seconds, really.

"How could you!" Remus Lupin was on his feet, eyes already halfway to yellow. A bad sign, that.

Molly Weasley was next. Her strident voice, used to chastising errant boys, cut across Lupin's like a hot knife through a chocolate frog. "I never! You left him all alone, Albus, and unprotected with those horrid Muggles, when there are dozens of people in this room who would have taken him in. I cannot believe--"

"Now, now, Molly," her husband Arthur began, his tone conciliatory, even though he slanted a look of deep disappointment at Dumbledore. "I'm sure we'll find him, right as rain."

Alastor Moody snorted into his glass of firewhiskey and shook his head. "While it's all to t'good we've not seen signs of a body--" he started, only to be interrupted by a gasp from Molly. Moody shot her a look and continued, "Since if he was dead, that old bastard would've let the whole world know by now. No, he's still alive, and whilst he is, we've a decent change of recovery. But the longer he's gone, the less chance he has of coming back . . . whole."

Lupin was still on his feet, trembling with rage. Looking like he'd been woken from a sound sleep, with heavy bags under his eyes and wrinkled clothes, he was obviously still recovering from the last full moon, just two nights ago. But his deceptively rumpled appearance hid a great protective streak, especially when it came to Harry. "What do you propose we do, then?" he snarled.

"Look for him, in all the places we know of from the old days," put in Dedalus Diggle. He turned his hat around in his hands and nodded at the others, as if his statement were obvious.

"The old days . . . but that's dozens of places," Molly objected. "Close to a hundred, certainly."

"I didn't say it would be easy," Dedalus said with a shrug.

"We don't have the manpower for a search of that scope," Moody said quietly, and Dumbledore was glad it was Alastor who said it and not him, then chastised himself for cowardice in the face of combined Lupin and Weasley wrath. All faces swiveled toward Moody. "The Dementors," he reminded them, "are still at large and wreaking havoc. Attacks on Muggles are getting worse by the day, more frequent, and--"

"We get it," Lupin whispered. He sank back into his seat and buried his face in his hands. "Harry has no chance of rescue at all."

"Not true," Dumbledore said and paused until he had everyone's attention. "There is still Severus."

------

After a few moments of Harry peering up at Voldemort and gasping for breath, the Dark Lord turned away with a negligent flick of his hand. "See to it he is healed of his injuries. All of them. I will not have my conversation interrupted by this incessant wheezing."

Harry stared after the pale, gaunt man as he took up his throne once more, wondering if he was dreaming. Was he still at Number 4 Privet Drive? Still in the midst of a fever-drenched delusion? What could possess Voldemort to heal him . . . unless he only wished to have a "worthy opponent" like he'd claimed, the night Cedric died. He'd given Harry back his wand and freed him from the gravestone, just so he could show his followers that he could beat Harry Potter, that what happened years ago in Godric's Hollow was a fluke.

That must be it, Harry decided, even as several Death Eaters scooped him from the floor and escorted him from the hall. Voldemort just wanted to prove himself the most powerful wizard in the world.

Harry was still faint with hunger, and the grating of his ribs against each other as he was forced down the corridor again, coupled with his pounding head, made the hallway spin around him like a carousel, but faster. Too fast. Mere steps from their destination, Harry's body contracted with a violent spasm, trying to expel whatever it could from his stomach. But there was nothing in it except for blood, which sprayed bright red on the floor and walls and even the door as he retched again and again. The world swirled to black.

-----

Back in the great hall of Topsham Manor, Severus Snape watched with dread as the Boy Who Lived was helped from the room. He knew what the Dark Lord was doing, of course, and he wasn't sure he could do anything to prevent it. He had wanted to go with Potter, to make sure the Dark Lord's orders were properly carried out, but he had to maintain his bloody cover. And no matter how much the wizarding world foolishly relied on the continued existence of a not-quite-sixteen-year-old boy, he could not be seen voluntarily helping him. Not by anyone here, at any rate.

To say he had been distressed by the condition they had found the boy in, at his relatives' home, was an understatement of giant proportion. A whole shift in his world view had occurred between one breath and the next. Far from the spoiled snotling he'd expected to find, surrounded by the largesse of a doting family, this boy had been starved and abandoned, left to die in filth and decay.

And when Potter still managed to raise his wand and disarm Nott, with a mere whisper of an incantation, Severus had wanted to shout his relief. The boy, despite appearances, had not broken. Of course, Severus could not cheer, would not, even if he had known how, but he had done the next best thing and set Bellatrix Lestrange up for punishment. Never had he wanted to hurt someone more than at the moment she brought her wand to bear on the boy. The Cruciatus had audibly snapped several of his bones, even as he suffered its agony in near silence, with no breath to scream. And still, he had tried to Stupefy Lestrange when it was over. Oh, the boy had heart. Alas, he had likely aspirated blood in the ordeal, putting further strain on his damaged lungs. With the other infections, it would be a miracle if he ever regained true health again.

Now, in the great hall, Lord Voldemort had his followers come to him, one by one to kiss the hem of his robe, to grovel at his feet and thank him desperately for the favor of his attention. When it was Severus' turn, he played his part, even allowed the push of the Dark Lord's mind into his own. He showed the Dark Lord his memory of Bellatrix's perfidy again; perhaps Voldemort would punish her some more. And he showed memories of Hogwarts, and the brat's annoying, defiant arrogance that always made Severus so angry, as well as a taste of confusion about what Voldemort was planning to do with the boy. The Dark Lord would accept these memories as proof of Severus' loyalty, but in truth, Severus had little confusion about what these plans were.

The Dark Lord would try and turn Potter against his puppeteers, would attempt to subvert Dumbledore's hold on Potter's loyalty. Take by cunning what he could not have by force, in true Slytherin fashion. If Lord Voldemort insinuated the right things, peppered his lies with just enough of the truth about Dumbledore's scheming and manipulations, and reminded the boy just often enough of who had actually saved him from death this summer . . . Well. Severus wasn't as concerned for Potter's physical well-being as he was for the boy's soul.

For the sake of the light, and in honor of the Boy Who Would Not Break, Even When He Clearly Should, Severus had to protect Potter from such shadow, or die trying.

-----

Three days passed before Harry saw Voldemort again. Three days of pain relief potions, healing potions and assorted medical charms. Three days of light food, to ease his stomach back to rights. Broth alone, then bread soaked in broth, then a thin oatmeal porridge which grew progressively thicker, so that by the third day, he was offered a lunch of watered tea, plain boiled potatoes and mashed peas.

Though he had one or more caretakers with him around the clock -- no sign of Snape, though, or Bellatrix either, for which he was grateful -- Harry refused to let them help him eat. The more he could do for himself the better, and he would not let this lot use his infirmity against him. Once he was better, he would have to duel Voldemort; he knew that, and wanted to just get it over with.

The Death Eaters had ensconced him in a bedroom nothing like the one on Privet Drive. This one had a high double bed (that he unfortunately needed assistance getting into) hung with sheer blue curtains, with generous down pillows and sheets so soft it was like sleeping on a cloud. And sleep is what he did, mostly, for three days, when he wasn't covered in blankets and propped in one of the chairs by the small fireplace. The room never seemed warm enough to him, even though it was the middle of summer. Harry had been given clothes, too: robes, woolen trousers and sweaters, along with an assortment of underthings, but he was constantly chilled and a cough remained that would not go away despite the ministrations of his personal "nurses."

A door in one wall led to the en suite bath, and Harry had soaked a long time in the sunken marble tub, soothing his aching bones. He'd scrubbed himself raw with a soft flannel and lightly scented soap, after refusing to let anyone help him there, either. That had provoked the first argument with the Death Eater nurses, and one Voldemort had apparently decided in his favor. At least, Harry assumed so. He'd refused to let Nott and Avery into the bathroom with him and gotten so frustrated with their heavy handed attempts to force him that he'd lashed out with magic. Everything glass in the bedroom, from mirrors to lamps to the one tall window, had exploded, showering everyone but Harry with stinging slivers. Avery had stormed out, and come back minutes later, pale and shaking, with word that "Potter is to take his own damned bath."

A small victory, perhaps, but one that Harry cherished.

Another victory came when Harry finally dressed himself completely without assistance or being reduced to wheezing. That was the morning of the fourth day.

After breakfast -- applesauce and dry toast dunked in tea -- Harry was sitting in the chair before the fire. A heavy quilt covered his legs. He looked around when the door opened to admit Voldemort, flanked by two more of his Death Eaters, these masked, unlike his nurses. Voldemort motioned for the two current nurses to leave. Nott bowed and hurried out, followed by Rookwood. The two new Death Eaters stayed by the door as the thin form of Lord Voldemort, swathed head to toe in lengths of black cloth, moved closer.

Harry could feel the power flowing off the man, and the lightning shaped scar on his forehead pulsed with sudden fire, almost taking his breath away. He clapped a hand to his forehead and bent over at the waist. Voldemort remained silent, watching Harry as he gathered the pain into a tight bundle and shut it in the special cupboard in his mind. Taking a slow breath once he was able to see again, Harry looked up at his captor.

"Forgive me if I don't get up," he said quietly, and unflinchingly held the red-tinged snake-like gaze.

"I am told you are recuperating well," Voldemort replied. "Have I been misinformed?"

"No," Harry said. "I'm getting better. . . ." He rushed on before he lost courage, "How long have I got?"

Voldemort frowned, a turning down of thin lips and a wrinkling of his nearly white, hairless brow. "For what?"

"Until you've decided I've recovered enough to kill me. That's why you're doing this, isn't it? So you can fight me when I'm a proper opponent and not a weakling."

The shadow of a smile touch the man's lips, and he inclined his head minutely. "If it pleases you to think so."

In the end, he sighed and looked away rather than respond. He was too tired for this. A low, breathy chuckle made him shiver, but he did not look at Voldemort again, just tucked his quilt more snuggly around his legs. A moment later, the dark wizard had settled into the other chair and crossed one leg over the other, as if just stopping by for a friendly, casual chat between two old friends.

"I want you to tell me, young Harry," he began in that soft, sibilant voice, "how much you know about the night your parents died."

Harry's head snapped up, wide green eyes met Voldemort's red ones. A sudden rage swept through him. His hands trembled with it. He buried them in the quilts draped over his legs as he tried to form coherent thought. He dared speak of that night? NOW? Here, of all places?

Gaze never leaving the pale, snake-like face, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Why do you have to ask?" His voice rose, and he forced it back to some semblance of civility. He was in Voldemort's territory, here on his sufferance, and he needed to keep that in mind. "You were there."

"As were you. Despite this, neither of us knows the full truth." Voldemort tilted his head as if he were a snake and Harry a fretful bird. "We spoke somewhat about that night, on the occasion of my rebirthing, you recall."

As if he could forget! Cedric's blank, dead eyes, the Cruciatus, his mother advising him on how best to escape, once her ghost had been freed from Voldemort's wand by the Priori Incantatem. He recalled some of what Voldemort had said that night, about the protection his mother had given him by dying, but he would not admit it, not to this man.

"I was a bit busy," Harry said instead. "Screaming, I think. What with the Cruciatus and all."

Voldemort waved the statement away with his hand. "That was later, to prove a point." His gaze appraised Harry shrewdly. "I gave you your first taste, did I not?"

"What?"

"It was your first time, yes? In the throes of that Unforgiving embrace."

Harry couldn't help it. He was so disgusted he snorted a laugh. Then he shook his head. Was Voldemort trying to get a rise out of him? Perhaps trying to see how controlled Harry's uncontrolled magic was under stress? In a tight voice, he said, "Yes."

"Then I am impressed. Many wizards older that you, or more sure of their own courage, would have succumbed to the first wave of agony. After the second, I certainly did not expect you to rise again. And for that to be your first time. . . ."

"Yeah, well, I'm good at handling pain." He'd had loads of experience, even, or especially after starting at Hogwarts. It seemed like every year he got mangled somehow, by possessed DADA teachers or basilisks or Dementors or Quidditch.

Voldemort gave him a searching look, then his gaze sought the fire in the hearth, and he stared at it for quite some while. "Let me ask you then, the night your parents died--"

"The night you killed them," Harry pointed out.

"As you like. Do you know why you were left in, what is it called? Little Whinging?"

"Yeah. Blood wards. Like you said."

Voldemort nodded. "But ones not used to best effect, if those whose blood bound the wards to protect you, relinquish their hold."

"By leaving me, you mean, leaving me alone when they fled. Isn't that what you're getting at?" Harry's hands curled into fists, and his chest felt tight, like he had not enough skin to cover his ribs, making the rest stretch and pull.

A long pause, then, "Do you like your relatives, Potter?"

Harry frowned. What the hell was this anyway? "Why do you want to know? Never mind. I don't care. It doesn't matter anyway, as I'm never going back there."

Voldemort made some kind of non-committal noise, and the red, snake-eyed gaze found his again. Harry flinched involuntarily. He had the pain of their connection through the scar fairly well under control, but sometimes the intensity of it was enough to overcome his blockade.

Head starting to pound again, Harry glared. "Why are you here?"

"In this room, or in the world?"

"The first one. I know why you're here," Harry snapped, and gestured to imply the whole of reality. "You want absolute power."

"And immortality," Voldemort said quietly. "Don't forget that."

"Right. So, why are you in this room with me? Do you think I'm going to get all sappy and sentimental with you and cry on your shoulder because I'm so misunderstood and my childhood was as crap as yours? Do you think I care that you had to grow up in an orphanage because your bastard of a father abandoned you and your mum died? The only thing I care about is that you killed my parents and my godfather and want to kill me. Everything else is rubbish."

Harry was shaking badly by the end of his tirade. The fire in the hearth shot up so high it engulfed the stones, blackening them with soot. The pitcher of water on the small table between the chairs rattled ominously.

Voldemort smiled. "Ah, good. You were listening. I should not like to have to repeat myself."

"Are you listening to me?" Harry seethed. Merlin, he wanted to strangle this man. "Why are you here?"

Abruptly, Voldemort stood. "I believe we'll save that for another time. Perhaps when you are further along in your recovery."

A growl formed in Harry's throat. The only thing that kept him from launching himself at Voldemort and punching his ugly face in was that he'd started wheezing again. The fact that Voldemort knew he was unable to continue their conversation just made him angrier, which further impaired his breathing, resulting in a vicious spiral that left him coughing and sputtering and pressing his arms against his abdomen.

Without another word, Voldemort departed, along with his two Death Eaters. The door shut behind them.

Wresting his rage -- and magic -- back under his tenuous control, Harry tried to take slower, measured breaths, but had little luck. Voldemort's smile bothered him a lot. It was if he thought Harry had performed some complicated trick. And he had, hadn't he, with his yelling and the fire spouting up like that. Shame washed over him for having risen to such obvious bait. He was so stupid! His temper had gotten the best of him again, just like always, and he'd shown his enemy exactly where his weaknesses lay.

But he was tired, so tired. Tired of thinking of Cedric and Sirius and his parents, all of whom died for him, because of him, and he just didn't want to hear anything else Voldemort had to say about them. Trying not to think of the triumphant look on his captor's face, he hung his head in his hands. When the tears came, for once he let them flow.

----

Outside Potter's room, Severus Snape shrouded himself in the shadows of an alcove and watched as the Dark Lord left with two of his servants. As he waited for them to move out of sight, he pondered the short conversation he'd overheard, puzzling over Voldemort's words. While he could, at some later time, Legilimize one of the two Death Eaters who had been in the room, and learn the whole of the conversation that way, he rather liked the Eavesdropper spell, a variation on a baby monitoring charm used by many Wizarding parents. He'd Imperioused Nott into putting the charm on the room yesterday, before Obliviating him, and it had worked very well.

It also let him know that for the first time in days, Potter was alone.

Once the Dark Lord and the two guards disappeared up the stone stairs toward the great hall, Severus moved quickly for the door. He could still hear Potter's wheezing breaths and had a vial of Easy Breather potion already uncorked as he unlocked the door. In moments, he had slipped inside.

Potter, bundled in a chair by the fire, looked up at him, and what he saw surprised him enough that he almost retreated a step. Tears coursed down the boy's face, and his eyes were so bloodshot they gleamed almost red in the firelight. His breaths came in stuttering gasps which he was trying to control, to no avail.

As the boy hid his face and hurriedly wiped it, Severus strode forward with his potion held out.

Only then did Potter seem to recognize him, for Severus had left up the black hood of his robes, effectively shadowing his face. The look in the boy's eyes slid immediately towards loathing, and Severus suppressed a sigh. It was true, he detested the boy just as much as the boy did him, or had, at least, until recently. But he could be honest with himself enough to realize the enmity between them was more his doing than the boy's. And they needed to get past it, in order to get him out of here. They could not work at cross purposes, or it would be worse than death for both of them.

Keeping his own expression blank, he offered the potion again. Potter still would not take it. "It's not poison," Severus hissed. "It will help you breathe."

Air rattled in and out of Potter's lungs, putting the lie to his next words, "My . . . breathing's . . . fine, sir."

"Of course it is. This will help you sleep then."

Potter rolled his eyes, and Severus briefly considered slapping him. Instead, he growled, "Drink it. If I wanted to kill you, I could have done so at your Uncle's house." To appease anyone listening, he added, "The Dark Lord wishes it."

For another long moment, Potter peered into his eyes, and only by force of will did he not Legilimize the boy on the spot to teach him a lesson about staring. But then he held out a trembling hand, and Severus gave him the potion. Potter made a face as he swallowed it down, and handed back the empty vial.

"Better?" Severus asked him, though he didn't really need to. Potter's face had regained some color, and no more wet rasping sounds issued from his chest. The boy nodded, his gaze on his hands.

Severus glanced over his shoulder at the door. It was inconceivable no one else was monitoring the room, so he had to go very carefully here, and hope the boy could understand what he meant from hints. He wondered if they would be able to get past their mutual animosity long enough to work this out? What could he say, to show he wanted to help the boy?

Knowing he had only minutes before he was discovered, Severus said, "I want to extend my condolences to you . . ." He steeled himself and pressed on, "for the loss of Snuffles."

The look of pure shock on the boy's face might have been amusing to him at any other time, but he was afraid he had just made a grievous error as Potter's face reddened immediately. "You? You extend condolences?!"

"Now, Potter, take it easy. Your breathing is--"

"Sod my breathing! How can you -- you -- after what you put him -- that's -- it's unbelievable!"

"Potter!" he yelled. "Get control of yourself. There is no place for histrionics here."

"No place for -- that's a laugh!" The boy choked on a sob, hiccuping and hiding his face again. "I bet you're laughing about it all the time, aren't you? About him dying, and what a prat I was to fall such a stupid trick. You hated him, and hate me, and--"

"No." The forceful word had a note of finality to it, startling the boy into stopping his rant and peering back up at him. Severus had to stop this fit before it got totally out of hand. The boy was coming apart at the seams, and it would do him no good at all to harbor such resentment toward Severus, nor guilt for his own part in Sirius' death. He folded his arms into his cloak and shook his head. "I did not hate . . . Snuffles. Not really. And . . . I do not laugh about that."

"Or anything," Potter muttered, watching Severus' face carefully.

Had he made a joke? Perhaps all was not lost. "Yes. Well." He took a step closer to the boy, who frowned and bit his lip. Then, after flicking a glance at the door, the boy mouthed the words, Can we escape?

Severus drew a sharp breath; the boy was as subtle as a Blast-Ended Skrewt. But he nodded, still holding Potter's gaze.

Something released that had been holding the boy tightly wound, and Potter sagged bonelessly against his chair, looking relieved. It seemed his resigned despair was quiescent, at least for now.

"I will continue to make potions for you," he said, voice as bland as he could make it. "The Dark Lord wants you in good health."

"You've said. It'll make a better point when he kills me." The boy was nibbling his lip again, which Severus realized meant he was thinking. "I'm nearly there, though. Healthy." His green eyes blazed with hope so naked it was painful to see, as if he understood that when he was healthy enough to run, they would.

Severus hated to damper that hope, even a little. But for both their sakes, he had to. "I think it will be some time before you are fully healed." Before he could make any kind of plan that would not end in their demise. "Your relatives did you a disservice."

"Yeah, well, so did Bellatrix."

Good boy, Severus thought. And thus is Voldemort reminded again. "She does seem keen on causing you pain," he murmured. Another glance at the door, and he stepped back to leave.

"Thank you, sir," Potter said before he could go.

"Hm?" Severus paused with his hand on the doorknob, hoping the boy was not a complete fool.

"For the potion. It helped."

Letting out a tense breath, Severus nodded acceptance and acknowledgment of their "code." "I will get you another, for emergencies," he promised. And with that, he left, his mind already spinning through their options, few as they were.

Five more days passed before anyone but the Death Nurses entered Harry's room. The monotony of the days really got to him, especially after his breathing had calmed down again, and he started to feel much better overall. He still felt chilled most of the time, but he was putting on weight again, and could usually keep warm enough not to shiver with regular clothes . . . a few extra layers, certainly, but without a pile of quilts. After the fifth day of little to do but pace his room, and listen to the caretakers grouse about this duty and make pointed remarks about how it was such a waste seeing to it that "the boy" was healed up, considering where he was headed, Harry had had enough.

Nothing quite annoyed Harry as being called "the boy." Uncle Vernon had called him little else, except when in a particularly vicious mood, as had his aunt, but he would not tolerate it anymore. When Nott made a scathing reference to the condition they'd found Harry in at his relatives house and intimated that they should have just left him there to rot, Harry whirled on him.

"Shut UP! Shut up! I didn't ask for you to get me, I didn't ask to be brought here, and I certainly didn't intend to be fattened for the slaughter. So if you could just SHUT UP about it for five minutes, that'd be really welcome!"

Nott looked almost taken aback, until Avery smirked at him. Then he jumped to his feet and advanced on Harry, wand drawn. "You're the one who needs to mind his tongue, boy. Maybe I should remove it for you."

"Oh, nice," Harry scoffed. "You couldn't get me when I had a wand, but I'm a perfect target for you now that I'm unarmed, huh? Coward."

With a growl, Nott lunged for Harry, leading with his wand, and yelled an incantation Harry had never heard before. Pain exploded in his head, in his mouth, fire-hot agony worse than anything but Cruciatus. Knives attacked his face, his neck and eyes. Inside his mouth he felt a sudden hollowness -- his tongue was gone! He writhed on the floor as blood poured out of him, from his mouth and ears and nose. It sluiced over his face, hot and sticky like he'd bitten into an overripe melon. He couldn't breathe, couldn't scream, and the pain went on and on . . .

Noise erupted nearby, sounding as if it came from deep underwater. Harry was curled in a ball, arms protecting his head as shouts and spells went off around him, and he tried to push the pain into the cupboard of his mind. He swallowed mouthful after mouthful of blood and gagged on the emptiness where his tongue should be. His stomach lurched. Retching, he expelled blood and bile into a puddle his face now laid in. Oh, Merlin. Please. Make it stop . . .

What seemed an eternity later, a hand touched his shoulder. He flinched away, causing a new wave of agony to sear through him. He curled tighter, wishing with all his heart for the pain to just end.

"Harry, let me help. I need to see."

Snape's voice, still sounding as if from the depths of the lake.

Screwing up his courage, he lowered his arms slightly. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not respond, and he wondered, frantically, if he would ever see again.

Snape made a low hissing sound as he saw the damage, but in a moment had incanted several spells that took the worst of the pain away. Harry tried to tell him about his eyes, about his tongue, but could not form the words. All that emerged from his mouth was a pitiful grunting sound, and so he closed his mouth and wished for an end to it all.

----

"Dear Merlin," Severus whispered as he looked at what Nott's spell had wrought. He grasped Harry's head and lifted it a little, a potion pressed to the boy's bloody lips. Half the potion slid back out again to dribble down the boy's front, but at least some managed to get in. It would help with the pain, and the spells he'd cast should grow back most of the tissue and organs -- Nott had really severed the boy's tongue! -- in the next day or so. It would be a wearying, painful night for the boy, though.

"Don't try to open your eyes," he said as he saw the boy struggle to do just that. "They're damaged, and if you expose them to light too soon, it will be permanent. Here," he conjured a bandage and wrapped it around the boy's eyes. "This should help."

Harry nodded his head against Severus' arm, and Severus realized he still held the boy close. He almost pushed Harry away, but there was no one to see. Nott was dead, and Avery was stunned and Petrified, and the door was closed. Still, he needed to be more careful.

"Come on," he said, and stood with the boy in his arms. He was easy to carry, still damnably light for all his appetite seemed to be good. Two long strides brought him to the bed, and he laid Harry on it, then took a moment to clean the worst of the blood away with a Scourgify or three. The boy seemed to have fallen asleep, though his body trembled fitfully, and Severus sighed. How stupid could this one child be? Baiting a Death Eater in this place.

Once done with his cleaning, he glanced over at Nott's body and grimaced. There would be a price to pay for that.

Just as Avery was coming around, the door opened, and the Dark Lord entered, flanked as before by two of his servants. Voldemort stepped over Nott's body as if it were not there, and approached the bed.

"You heard what happened, Severus?" the Dark Lord asked. "And came to assist the boy."

That much was obvious, and Severus dared not lie. "I did, my Lord. I admit I was nearby and heard yelling. When I realized what spell Nott cast, I was afraid the brat would die of blood loss. I knew you would not like that."

"No. I would not like that." The Dark Lord lifted a white, long fingered hand and brushed it over the boy's cheek, then hovered over his bound and blinded eyes. Severus noted that Voldemort's hand never went near the accursed scar. "You did well, Severus," he said, then glanced at Avery getting to his feet, and the still body of Nott, "although I would prefer if you left the punishment of my servants to me, unless I give you leave."

"Of course, my Lord. As you say."

"Always, Severus. Let me remind you, however. Crucio!"

And then his world was pain, and he voiced the screams that Harry could not, and he took comfort in that, until at last it was over and he was on his hands and knees, panting for breath, and Voldemort was gone.

Avery, leaning against the wall, gave him a dangerous look as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "The Dark Lord said you are to be his caretaker now, Snape. You can stay in here all the bloody time, too, he said, so you won't be too late to stop anyone from hurting the boy next time." Only then did he aim a sneer in the direction of Nott's body, before he pushed off the wall and opened the door. "Good luck to you."

The door closed with a note of finality, and Severus was suddenly unsure if he had just been made a prisoner as well.

It was fully 24 hours before the boy came around enough to make more noise than the pathetic groans and grunts that passed for speech when he had no tongue. The first words out of Severus' mouth when he knew the boy was awake were: "How stupid are you?"

"Sorry," the boy whispered, against all his expectations, and subsided without further justifying himself.

But Severus was not done. "Nott is dead. I killed him, for you, as it was the only way to cease that spell." A look of anguish crossed what he could see of the boy's face, and he pressed on. "The Dark Lord has determined that, although I was in the right in keeping him from killing you, that I must remain in here with you, until you are sufficiently recovered. The door is locked and warded; thus I am as much a prisoner as you. This is what happens when you lose your temper, when you do not control your emotions."

"I said I'm sorry," the boy said, his voice still quiet and calmer than it should be.

"Sorry will not help us here." He huffed in annoyance. He didn't know what would help them anymore. He couldn't Disapparate with the wards around the manor, and he couldn't even get them out of the room without the Dark Lord knowing in an instant. He wasn't altogether sure the Dark Lord had accepted his words on why he had been near the boy, or why he had stepped in. It could be that he was under more suspicion than usual. Certainly he was, from Avery.

In the meantime, he was concerned that the boy had lost his will to fight.

"I know, sir," came another whisper from the boy. "What can I do?"

"Just rest," Severus told him. "The more you rest, the faster the damage will heal."

"Will I . . . will I be able to see again?"

The voice now contained an edge of fear, and Severus did not want to add to it, but neither did he want to lie to the boy.

But Harry took his hesitation as an answer. "Oh . . . oh no. . . ."

"Wait now, Potter. It's more than likely you'll regain your sight, but there was a lot of damage. It may take a while."

"What are the chances, sir?"

"Of being permanently blind?" Severus sighed and considered. "No more than 20 percent, I would say. If I had access to my potions, I would be better able to help, but I can't summon anything into this room, and I am not allowed to send for things from my chambers." At least he still had his wand, so there was still hope he could salvage his position.

Silence then, from the boy.

"Tomorrow, we'll remove the bandage. Today," Severus finished quietly, "just rest."

----

Harry lay on the bed, in darkness and misery, feeling more ashamed than ever before in his life. There was a profound difference, he knew, between courage and rank stupidity, and he had crossed that line when he baited Nott. And now Nott was dead, because of him, and Snape had taken the fall. It was because of Snape that Bellatrix had stopped casting the Cruciatus at him, and it was because of Snape that he'd gotten better from the treatment (or lack thereof) at the Dursleys'. Hell, it was because of Snape that he'd lived past first year at Hogwarts and his first Quidditch match. And now, Snape was in trouble, his position of spy compromised, because Harry was too dumb to keep his mouth shut.

They'd had a terrible time of it, getting Harry to control his thoughts and feelings, when Snape had tried to teach him Occlumency. Harry had never really wanted to learn; he'd thought the connection with Voldemort would be helpful, and that he could see things that were important. It didn't help, of course, that Snape seemed to not want to explain things to him, but expected him to already know, just like he'd expected Harry to know what a Bezoar was on their first day, when it was impossible, given his Muggle upbringing.

But really, it wasn't Snape's fault.

Alone in the darkness of his mind, Harry's thoughts whirled, spinning so fast he could hardly make sense of them. The same issues came up again and again. Why did Voldemort not just kill him? Was it just because he didn't know the last bit of the Prophecy, or was there more to it than that? Something even more sinister? And how was Harry going to escape here, now that Snape was locked in with him? His only hope had been for Snape's outside help to get him out, and now that hope was gone. And he just wasn't up for more mind games with the Dark Lord. He didn't know what Voldemort wanted, and his prospects were grim.

And now he was blind. Perhaps not permanently. Eighty percent chance of getting his sight back. How could he fight the Dark Lord if he was blind? How would he go back to Hogwarts? How could he do any magic at all?

Despair closed over him like the lid of a coffin, and he fell into its darkness where it had always waited for him, quiet and unassuming and completely alone.

---

Severus had let the boy's silence go on long enough. He received food from Avery twice a day and served it out to the two of them, making the boy eat when his obvious lethargy would have prevented it. "Potatoes at 3 o'clock on the plate," he'd say, or, "It's shepherd's pie, at noon," hoping the boy would show some inclination of helping himself. When Potter didn't, he let it go on for a day, and then decided it was no good to let it continue.

"Snap out of it, Potter," he hissed at the boy, when Potter made no move to eat the food in front of him. "I haven't kept you alive all this time so you can starve yourself to death."

Silence.

"Answer me, Potter! Or are you so arrogant you think you're above pretty niceties?"

The boy only shook his head, with a whispered, "No, sir."

Annoyed now - he'd never admit to himself to being worried - he growled, "If your parents could see you now, or your beloved Dogfather, what would they think of their precious boy?"

"Shut up," Potter said, but there was no feeling in it.

Severus frowned. "They sacrificed everything for you. Their lives, Potter. Is this how you repay them? By giving up? By cowering away from reality? Are you that weak?"

But none of his usual taunts got a rise out of the boy like they should have, and Potter lay on the bed, his bandaged face aimed toward the ceiling, and ignored him.

They had to get out of here, now.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the window of his office that overlooked the grounds of Hogwarts, stared at the Forbidden Forest, and tried not to give in to despair. All the signs he'd received pointed to Harry still being held by Voldemort, and yet, still alive. The only thing he could think of was that Voldemort was trying to kill Harry by other than magical means. Starvation, perhaps, or exposure. Why else would he keep the boy so long, and with no gloating pictures in the Daily Prophet -- where he practically owned the editors -- or the faintest word of boasting from any of his minions? Lucius Malfoy, for one, had been uncommonly quiet these last weeks, and it disturbed Dumbledore no end.

The Order was in fine fettle in containing many of the Dementor attacks, but they were spread thin, too thin to spare anyone to search for either of his "two boys." It was not hearing from Severus that particularly worried him. There had been no word from him, not one. Not in almost two weeks. Always, always, Severus sent word, via Patronus message or owl or something, when he was going to be gone longer than expected. And he had been gone since the day Harry disappeared.

Turning from the window, Dumbledore caught sight of the other person in his office: Minerva McGonagall. She was being terribly patient with him, considering she had her own duties to see to, and he was wasting her time by staring out of windows. But he had used the time wisely, he thought. He had come up with a plan.

"Minerva," he said as he gazed at her over the half-moons of his spectacles. "How much do you know about population dynamics?"

---

Many, many miles away, Severus Snape sat in front of a fire, in a room that was too warm, and brooded. Behind him, on a bed, the Golden Boy slumbered, his rasping breaths the only audible reminder of his presence. Severus was angry with the boy, and not just because of the way he had goaded Nott, or because Severus had been forced to kill to save his life, and not even because the boy's eyes just didn't seem to be healing properly. No, he was angry because the boy showed no signs of getting over his latest sulk.

Oh, Severus understood, sort of, the teenager's desire to be sulky. Hell, Severus enjoyed a good brood as much as the next person. But they couldn't afford it now. Not where they were, and not with the Dark Lord watching their every move. It was only a matter of time before-

A scream broke his reverie, and Severus was on his feet in an instant. The boy was still in bed, hands clutched to his face, still covered by the bandage . . . no, they were at his forehead. His back was arched as if he was currently under the Cruciatus, and the scream! Merlin's ghost! Like a wounded rabbit. Severus went to his side and grabbed at the boy's arm, to keep his fingernails away from where they dug at flesh, tearing at the scar. Despite his recent infirmities, however, the boy's panic made him strong, and he ripped his arm away from Severus, back still arched so taut, Severus was actually afraid it might snap.

Blood dripped from the boy's hands, and gouged skin lay under his nails, and still he clawed, and screamed.

Severus grabbed him again, this time at the shoulders, and pulled the boy close, turning him so he could press the boy's back against his chest, pinning his arms at his sides. "Occlude, Harry," he whispered into the boy's ear. It was unlikely anyone would hear him over the screams. "Clear your mind. Come on, now. Push him out." But the boy did not seem to hear him, or could not do it, and long minutes passed, of horrific screams that grew softer only because the boy's voice hoarsened. And then, panting breaths and near silence, signaling the end of this trial, and Severus loosened his grip.

He had heard, of course, that the boy suffered nightmares, and visions of the Dark Lord, when he slept. But he had never seen it. The actuality was far worse than he thought. The boy was still trembling with the after effects of the Cruciatus. He recognized the symptoms all too well. He'd wondered, a time or two the previous year, if that's what he was seeing when he met the boy in a dark corridor or in Dumbledore's office late at night, after one of these "nightmares", but had thought it impossible. And now he knew. Very few things were impossible, he was learning, when it came to Harry Potter.

The tremors would ease with time, he knew, but the process would speed if he could give the boy a potion he'd specifically developed for the purpose. He debated asking for permission to fetch one, but decided against it. It was possible the Dark Lord did not know the full extent of the boy's connection to him . . . and if he did not, getting a potion to ease the effects of that spell would clue him in.

He realized after a few minutes that the boy was clinging to him, now, hands fisted in the sleeves of Severus' robes, and that he still had not spoken. Quietly, Severus said, "Vision?"

The boy nodded against his chest, and drew a shuddering breath. "Was havin' ‘nother go at Bella. He's still mad."

Severus suppressed a savage smile of triumph. He'd never liked the cold, crazed bitch, and for her to have fallen out of favor was all to the good. "Anything else?"

Harry shook his head, then let out a moan; the movement obviously pained him.

"Just stay still awhile," Severus told him. "It will pass."

"I know." The voice was so tired sounding, so resigned, that Severus was taken aback. Did any of them know, truly, what this boy had gone through? Especially over the last five years. He knew, vaguely, about what had happened when Potter met Quirrell in the room with the mirror, and that he had somehow fought a basilisk and the spirit of Tom Riddle, and once more come out victorious. He knew that Potter had gone against Dementors more times than any who did not live at Azkaban, and had faced Voldemort again at the cemetery of the Dark Lord's rebirth. But he hadn't really thought about it in more than the abstract. He hadn't really considered what the impact of all that fighting and surviving had been on the boy's psyche.

If the Dark Lord's plan was to show this boy kindness and thus gain his trust whilst usurping him for his own purposes . . . it was possible it would work.

In the meantime, though . . . "You need to get up now, and wash yourself, Potter. You're a bit ripe."

The boy stiffened, obviously affronted, and Severus continued, "How many days has it been since you had a proper bath?"

A shrug. Back to indifference, were they? "Tell you what, Potter. Either you get up and take a bath, or I'll dunk you in there, clothes and all."

The boy shot up, wresting himself away from Severus' hold. "You wouldn't!"

"I would. It's high time you snapped out of this . . . this lethargy. You've spent enough time wallowing."

"Wallowing!"

"Yes, wallowing," he sneered. "The Headmaster thinks so highly of you. What would he say if he could see you like this?"

"He'd see that I'm blind, Snape! And, and . . ."

"And?"

"And here, and alone, just like always."

"Oh, for pity's sake, stop it. You're not alone. I'm here, locked in just like you."

"Not like me!" A flush had crept up Harry's neck and reddened his cheeks. He'd turned around on the bed, so that he was facing Severus, even though his eyes were still covered. On his knees, his hands in fists. "What do you know, anyway? You think you know me, but you have no idea what I'm like, or what's happened to me."

Since Severus had just been thinking along those lines, he made a non-committal noise, which might have been interpreted as a snort of amusement, if one had it in mind to take it that way. As he expected, the boy exploded. "Laugh, sure! What does it matter to you, if everyone who ever cared about me is dead? If my relatives hate me or abandoned me to die? All that matters to you is that I look like my dead father, who was an arse to you when you were kids. I've never done anything to you like that, and yet you've always hated me. You treat me like I'm dirt, just like they do." His hand swung out to encompass the whole of the world.

"What of your fan club?" Severus asked, still prodding the boy out of his malaise.

The boy actually growled at him. "The same fan club who whispers about me every time that Skeeter woman prints her stories? The same ones who thought I'd petrified students and tried to kill them and who thought I was telling lies for attention? Those fans?"

"I meant your Miss Granger and Mister Weasley."

"Oh. Them." The boy subsided once more. "Hermione's always stood by me. Always. Ron . . ." He sighed. "Not so much."

Surprised, though he really should be, he supposed - the youngest Weasley boy was rather immature - Severus pushed a bit farther. "Not as enamored of you as she is?"

Potter made a snorting noise of his own, sounding disgusted. "He was jealous of me, jealous, when my name came out of that bloody cup in fourth year. Jealous that some Death Eater git was trying to kill me. I told him he could have the bloody fame and the whispers and Daily Prophet stupidity and all of it. I sure don't want it. I just wanted to be normal. Not some freak."

The way he said the word made Severus frown. "Freak?" he echoed.

The boy slumped, cushioning his head in his hands and hiding his face. His shoulders hitched up in a shrug and he shook his head. "Never mind."

Oh, no, you don't, Severus thought. Not when I've gotten so close to having you back to your defiant self. "Who called you that?" he asked, taking a guess.

Only one shoulder shrugged this time. "Dursleys. But I don't care."

"No?"

"No!" Potter's face came up again, looking furious. Good. "And neither do you, so leave me alone!"

"I would like nothing better," Severus said. "Alas, we are stuck together, you and I, and we shall have to make the best of it."

Potter snorted again and turned away, rolling over on the bed. "Whatever."

"I warned you . . ." Severus used his wand to levitate the boy, who squawked with indignation as he rose off the bed. With a swish and flick, he sent the boy floating into the bathroom, and he followed, manually turning on the taps and adjusting the temperature. Wand still up, as Potter shouted protests from his position near the ceiling, Severus let the water run long enough to get a good few inches in the deep tub, and then lowered the boy into it with a splash.

Sputtering, Potter swiped hair off his face. "You stupid, slimy-"

"Git?"

"Yes!" he said fiercely.

"Indeed. Now, you'd be better served if you removed your clothes . . . or would you like me to do that for you, too."

"No! I'll do it." And he immediately started pulling off his soggy shirt.

Satisfied, Severus moved to the door. "I expect soap to be used liberally, Potter. We'll change the dressing on your eyes when you are through, but try not to get it wet, regardless."

As he closed the door to the bathroom, the boy muttered, "Yeah, well, shouldn't have dunked me then . . ."

Severus returned to his place before the fire, and smiled.

---

Harry griped and muttered through his whole bath, though he did use a liberal amount of soap, and he did try not to get the bandage on his eyes wet. He didn't like his chances for being able to see again, and he certainly didn't want to do anything to jeopardize them. But Snape was such a git! And mean! And sarcastic and snarky and completely unsympathetic!

And he'd tried to talk Harry through his vision, and tried to ground him, help him through the pain. It hadn't worked, of course. Voldemort was too close, he thought, and his anger too harsh. And, of course, Harry was rubbish at Occlumency.

But Snape had tried. And he had warned Harry about washing, really. And Harry had to admit the potions master was right about that; he was ripe. How many days had it been since his eyes were injured, since Nott died? He didn't know. It was hard to track the days when he couldn't see, and even harder, when he refused to eat, and couldn't sleep properly. He'd been falling into a black hole with smoothed sides that he could not climb, and though he still did not know how to get out of it, at least he realized someone was watching him from above, and might be able to throw him a rope.

Maybe.

Washing his hair was hardest, with trying to keep his face dry, but he leaned back into the water, keeping his face out, to wet it, and then, after shampooing, to rinse. Probably there was some residue, but without his wand, he couldn't cast a proper spell to get it all out. Not that he was allowed to use magic on summer hols anyway, not till he was seventeen . . .

A sudden thought struck him, making the constant trembles from Cruciatus worsen. He'd used magic, at the Dursleys, when the Death Eaters had come for him. If nothing else, if he lived to get out of this place, and his eyesight was restored, he had an expulsion from Hogwarts to look forward to. Or a trial like the one last year, at any rate.

Rage and despair warred inside him as he finished washing, scrubbing his skin violently, teeth clenched and all his muscles tense. He rinsed off more slowly as his rage subsided, leaving him hollow inside. When he was done, he stood unsteadily in the tub and groped for a towel where he remembered them being before. The soft cloth was gentler on his skin than he had been, and soothed him, at least a little. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went back to the other room, feeling his way along the wall.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Potter?" Snape's voice came from near the fire, he thought, and sounded very neutral to his ears, without that same tone of condescension he heard so often and expected now.

"Could you . . ." He sighed and swallowed his pride. It hurt his throat, going down. "Could you help me with clean clothes, sir?"

"Yes, Potter."

He heard Snape rise and walk toward the chest of drawers, a drawer opened, and then the side of the wardrobe. Movement again, closer. "Come here, Potter," Snape said. "Toward the sound of my voice. I've laid your clothes out on the bed."

Hesitantly, Harry obeyed, having to trust a man who hated him so readily and fervently. He took two steps, small ones, and then a bigger one, and his hand brushed the top of the bed. Groping again, he found the clothes: shirt, jumper, pants, under clothes.

"All right then?" Snape asked. As Harry nodded, he continued, "Let me give you some privacy, so you may dress." Harry heard the door close to the bathroom, and hurriedly pulled on the dry clothes, wondering what had taken the snark out of the snarky man.

A few minutes later, Snape had him sitting in a chair by the fire, and was changing the dressing on his eyes. He had Harry open his eyes briefly, to check for damage. Harry could discern light, but no shapes, and the light burned. He closed his eyes quick again as tears formed against the burning. Snape didn't say anything for long moments, but pried one lid up, and peered at him, then pried up the other, shielding the light from his eyes with his own body.

"What is it?" Harry asked after the second lid had been replaced. "Are they getting better?"

"It's slow going," Snape said. "It'll be some time before we know for certain."

Harry nodded, swallowing thickly. It was his own stupidity that had brought him to this. All of it.

"It would be better if I had access to my lab. I have an idea for a potion that might help." His voice was very soft, and Harry had trouble catching it, but the meaning was clear.

"He won't let you brew here?"

The snort of amusement was clear this time. "Not for my own purposes. And not now, at any rate." A pause. "Are you feeling better?"

Harry held out his arm. Tremors still ran through it, but not as bad as just after he'd woken from the vision. "Yes, sir."

"Good." A hand grasped his elbow and pulled him to the bathroom, where Snape turned on the water in the sink, the tub, and then flushed the toilet. In the ensuing roar of water, a low voice whispered in his ear. "We're leaving here tonight."

Minerva McGonagall crouched on the corner post of a stone wall as she watched her "contacts" retreat back into woods and farmland. Her eighth such meeting of the night had given her more information than any of the others, specifically regarding the nearby town of Topsham and the manor named for it, that lay on the outskirts. It was almost two am, time to check in again.

Minerva arched her back and stretched, very catlike, as the last of her sources twitched their tails, vanishing into the darkness, then transformed back into her normal, bespectacled self. A few Apparitions and Floo rides later, and she entered the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

Albus was there, as well as Nymphadora Tonks, who was midway through her own report. "No change on the south coast, and minimal difference in and around Swindon. Not enough to show any significant dark curses being thrown around."

The women watched as Albus crossed several more names off the list in front of him, then shifted his gaze to Minerva, silently asking for her report. She told him about three of the places she'd visited since their last check in, and watched him cross off those names, too. Then she addressed Topsham.

"How sure are you?" he asked.

"Fairly." She drew herself up and adjusted her tartan shawl. "According to my sources, the vibrations around Topsham Manor point to very dark magic indeed. In the last fortnight, the emanations have increased tenfold, and the numbers of native creatures inhabiting the surrounding areas has decreased dramatically. I believe that is where we will find him."

Albus nodded, his gaze pensive and focused inward. "Good. Excellent work, ladies."

Tonks turned from Minerva, and a stubborn expression crossed her malleable features. "I want to go on the rescue."

"I, as well," Minerva put in. She would not be put off this time.

But Albus shook his head, taking another lemon drop from his never ending supply. "I need you to mind the school," he said gently.

"Albus! You can scarce afford to send anyone else. What of the attack you said was planned for Leeds? The school can mind itself for a few hours."

The Headmaster was quiet so long, head bent, that she was sure he was going to refuse. But then he nodded, at last. "It's true," he said, and his bright blue eyes met Minerva's. For once, they were not twinkling. "I have no one to spare for this mission. The most I can do for you is try to remove any blocks or wards on the property, so you may gain entrance." He studied each of them in turn. "I need not remind you that not only will this be dangerous, but that if you are caught-"

"We will not be caught," Minerva told him. "But, in the unlikely event that occurs, we will not expect relief from outside."

Tonks nodded, beside her, and Albus spent a few minutes making each of them a portkey out of an old lemon drop tin. The portkeys would take them, plus one other, directly to the Hogwarts infirmary. They spoke a while longer, finalizing plans, and then Albus shooed them out of his office, with his promise to inform them the very moment the manor wards were breached. Minerva and Tonks Apparated from the gates of Hogwarts to the edge of the town of Topsham, and Minerva led the younger woman toward the manor, where they awaited the signal.

The night was warm, and the moon a mere sliver of yellow, which set behind the distant hills, even as they waited. The first touches of false dawn lit the sky before the stone in the charmed ring on Minerva's finger flared to orange.

Time to go!

---

Just after midnight, Severus held a muted conference with the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Bloody-Annoy-Him in the bathroom, with water running in tub and basin both. He boy was pale and shaking again. Apparently, a raid planned for Leeds had not gone well for the Death Eaters. They had been interrupted by Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, and several of their number were killed or arrested. The Dark Lord was angry.

The result of his anger had required Potter to bathe again, as he'd covered himself and his bedclothes in vomit before being rendered unconscious. The lightning scar on his forehead bled freely, and burned ugly red against the boy's otherwise quite pale skin. Severus was having second thoughts about the escape, not least because he couldn't get the stubborn boy to agree to anything! Right now, he was trying to convince the fool to use the portkey Severus kept for emergencies. The problem the boy kept harping on was that it was set for only one person to use, so Severus could not be followed by someone who meant him harm. It also meant, he could take no passengers.

"I can find my own way, you arrogant child!" Severus spat.

From his seat on the edge of the tub, Potter turned his face up to the potions master. Severus had transformed a teacup into dark glasses, and had minimized the bandages on the boy's eyes so they were hidden by the glasses. He hoped no one they met would realize just how blind he was. Anything they could use to their advantage, they would.

"Who's arrogant now?" the boy growled softly. "How will you get out? I'm not leaving you behind."

"As if you have a choice!"

The boy set his jaw and Severus barely refrained from grabbing and shaking him. "I can choose not to leave."

With narrowed eyes, Severus considered the boy and his utter obnoxiousness. While he found Potter's determination to continually play savior rather irritating, it was also good to know the boy had courage to spare, and would not duck and run at first opportunity. But Severus was not going to be the one responsible for getting him killed. He sighed and explained. "I will need to get you out beyond the wards that prevent Disapparition, or the portkey won't even work. Then, you will use the portkey, and I will Apparate. Unless you are suddenly capable of that now?"

"No, sir." Potter's chin came up a fraction more. "But I want you to promise me you'll do it."

"Do what?"

"Apparate. Promise you won't stay behind and try to spy anymore."

Severus gaped at the boy's audacity. What was he playing at now? It wasn't as if the arrogant whelp gave a rat's fart whether his slimy git of a potions professor lived or died. "I can't do that," he said at last.

"Then he'll kill you." Potter's voice actually broke over the words, startling Severus still further.

"No. He needs his potions, Potter, and his spy into the Order." He would be punished, horribly, for letting the brat get away, but he would not be killed. Probably. And if there was anything to be salvaged from this debacle, he would do his best to find it. He owed Albus that much, and more.

The boy was quiet long enough that Severus thought he had acquiesced, but he was still surprised when Potter nodded. "I'll need your wand. If you're staying behind, it'll look better if I've taken your wand."

"No. Absolutely not." How dare he even suggest-

"Then I'm not going. He'll know, otherwise. How could I have overpowered you and snuck away without even a wand?"

"Fine!" Severus grated, finally out of patience. This boy might literally be the death of him. "Now, listen to me. The guards will be changing in less than five minutes. Ten minutes more, and I will unlock the door and hit them both with Stupefy. We'll have very little time after that; alarms will have sounded . . ."

----

It had been, all in all, a stupid plan, borne of desperation, with too many ways it could go horribly awry. Still, they had made it as far as the back entrance to the manor, with Potter gripping the wand in one hand, and a fold of Severus' cloak with the other. The wand was aimed at Severus' back, as if he were holding the older wizard hostage and forcing him assist him in an escape. Though Severus was as alert as he ever was - which was to say, very -- Potter heard the others first, and jerked him to a stop, seconds before Severus saw them for himself. Seconds before a burst of red light streamed into the space he would have occupied, one step later.

Damn, damn, DAMN!

Severus spun to re-capture his wand, knowing that the boy would not be able to use it very well without his sight. But the brat surprised him again and had aimed at the trio of Death Eaters who emerged from the shadows. With a shout of "Expelliarmus!" he disarmed one of them.

Curses and counters flew back and forth, and the boy seemed to have a preternatural feel for where spells would come from, and where they would go, and he dodged and ducked to avoid each one, except when he set up a block. He hit another of the Death Eaters with a body bind curse, and had taken aim at the third when Severus heard the thundering of more footsteps. Many more.

"Out!" he shouted to the boy. He seized Potter's shoulder and dragged him to the door. They had just made the back steps when the Death Eaters appeared behind them, more than a dozen, from all over the manor, it seemed like. And more came at them from the shadows of the grounds. They were surrounded, with odds of fifteen to one, and the edge of the wards was over a hundred yards away.

Severus shoved the boy to the ground as spells converged on the space where he had been. The Death Eaters' curses ricocheted and hit manor walls, trees, and each other. Severus took a cutting curse to the leg, and his knee buckled beneath him, pain radiating from the wound. He gritted his teeth against it and grabbed the boy by the shirt collar, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him stumbling forward toward a space between Death Eaters that had opened when the curses rebounded.

Rather than just running, Potter swung the wand around and aimed again. He hurled more curses, "Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Petrificus Tot-"

Amazingly, two of the curses found their marks, but then the boy lurched over the uneven ground and lost his footing. A bright band of yellow light slammed into him from the side. He crumpled, and lay still. Momentum made Severus trip over him, but he managed to catch hold of Potter's shirt and yank him up anyway. Though dead weight, the boy was light enough to carry, and Severus staggered forward with his burden, flinging Potter over one shoulder.

He knew that it was lost, that they had lost, and he was known for a spy. Still, he had to try and get them out. Taking possession of his wand once more, he hurled another curse behind him, and one to the side, still grinding forward. If he hadn't had the boy over his shoulder, he might have been able to duck the curse that brought him down at last. But "what ifs" were pointless to consider in the split second between light and darkness, between the struggle to freedom, and the knowledge that he had failed. When he fell, he thrust the boy away, even now hoping to give him those last few feet. But he failed at that as well, and he knew true despair as the high shriek of Bellatrix's laughter assaulted his ears, just before darkness claimed him.

---

Harry woke slowly, and in pain. He could hear voices around him, but could not make out the specifics. His eyes were gummed shut again, though the bandage was gone, as were the special glasses Severus had transformed for him. His head throbbed, and when he touched his temple, his fingers came away sticky with what he assumed was half-congealed blood. The stone floor was cold against his skin, and he realized the worst, perhaps, was that he was completely naked.

There were three, no four others in the room. He didn't know how he knew, any more than he knew how he had been able to sense where the Death Eaters were when he and Snape had been ambushed and pursued across the grounds. He just knew, as if he could see them by the pulse of their magic, even though his eyes couldn't see them. Maybe it was because he couldn't see with his eyes. No matter. He knew Snape was here, too, still unconscious on the floor nearby.

"He's awake," said the high, cold voice he was most dreading, and he focused on that one pulse of magic, felt it ripple across his body like a dark wave, trying to drag him under.

The magic emanating from the wizard pressed on him from all sides, and kept him from drawing a full breath. His scar pulsed in time with the magic, a steady beat of agony. Voldemort took a step closer to him, and Harry forced himself up so he was sitting, brought his knees to his chest for some protection, and stared in the dark wizard's direction.

"You have abused my hospitality, Potter," Voldemort said, and Harry shuddered at the threat in the man's voice. "I am very disappointed."

Harry lifted his chin a little more, not wanting to show fear. "Yeah, well, get used to it," he said, and was gratified to hear the other two in the room, both Death Eaters, he assumed, gasp at his impertinence.

But Voldemort did not rise to the bait. "I am even more disappointed about my potions master's defection, I must admit. I had my suspicions, but . . ."

"Let me kill the traitor for you, my lord," offered an excited voice. Bellatrix. Harry shuddered again, and not from the cold. "Please. I brought him down for you! I should be the one-"

"Silence!" Voldemort roared. "I shall decide who will have the honor of that sweet task, Bella." The man turned briefly, and Harry could sense the build-up of power in him, like a rising tide. "In the meantime, I find I must teach a lesson in manners to our little, blinded friend. Lucius, bring him to me."

Harry sensed Lucius Malfoy approaching, and put his magical signature to memory, as he had with Bellatrix and Voldemort. With a soft chuckle and a whispered, "You're mine, Potter," Malfoy grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair and used it to drag him forward while Harry tried to get his feet under him.

A pointless exercise, as it turned out. The first Crucio had him writhing on the floor, and was a mere taste of what was to come. Snape woke at some point, Harry knew, but could do nothing to aid him, and although Harry tried, for his professor's sake, to hide the waves and crests of pain in that dark cupboard in his mind, it was a near impossible task. Finally, when Voldemort let Lucius rape him, to Bellatrix's jeering catcalls, and then took Harry himself, he broke utterly, screaming and pleading for their mercy.

But they had none.

Afterwards, when his voice was gone, and he was covered in blood, from wounds both internal and external, he could barely remember his name, never mind what made him think he could escape from this monster in the first place. All he knew - all he deserved -- was pain.

---

It was nearly dawn when the boy finally broke. Severus was honestly surprised he had lasted so long. Lying on his side, in a full body bind, he could not turn away, could not even close his eyes to the boy's torment. He knew when Potter realized Severus had woken, knew because of the change in his demeanor, and how he struggled all the harder to remain stoic and separate from the horrors they put him through. Part of him marveled at the very idea that Potter should want to appear brave before his greasy git of a professor, but a larger part of him grieved for what the sadistic bastards did to him.

It wasn't until Lucius and the Dark Lord each took their gruesome pleasure from the boy by force that Potter resorted to begging and sobbing, telling his captors over and over again that he was sorry.

Severus found himself angrier than he had ever been in his life. He had never excelled at wandless magic, though he could do a passable Lumos, and Scourgify. But the unnerving cries of the boy on the floor near him, underscored by the hideous laughter of the madwoman, Bellatrix, drove him to new heights of rage. His magic boiled through him, igniting his blood, his bones, everything. The bonds holding him vanished in an eruption of light and sound, drowning everything else in a roar of thunder, and he flung himself at the boy in the ensuing chaos. He pried a tiny ring off his left pinky, and pressed the stone before jamming the ring into the curl of Potter's fist. If it was going to work it would be in just three seconds, two, one . . .

The boy vanished, very much to his surprise.

Severus bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile and climbed to his feet to face the Dark Lord. Seconds later, he was shocked - but undeniably pleased -- to find Professor McGonagall appear suddenly in front of him and grab his arm. With a familiar tug behind his navel, the Deputy Headmistress' portkey pulled him away.

The second the portkey let him go, Severus hit the infirmary floor running. "Where is he?" he asked McGonagall, though she could hardly know more than he, having arrived at the same time Severus did.

Still, she nodded at a bed not five feet away, which Poppy was currently hovering over, and he got there in two strides, one hand out conjuring robes for himself without even thinking about it. He pulled the dark clothes over his head in one motion and then took in the Boy Who Incredibly Still Lived, lying pale and unmoving under the white sheets of the hospital bed, which were hastily drawn over his body. Only his face showed now . . . probably the only part of him currently unmarked, but for the inflamed scar on his forehead.

"My stars," McGonagall said, and put a hand over her mouth. She looked to Severus for answers he knew he wouldn't be able to give. "What happened to him?"

"Nothing good," he answered shortly. He glanced at Poppy, and she ignored him in favor of running diagnostics. Just as well. Still, he summoned a chair from the other side of the room for Minerva, hardly missing his wand in the effort. Anger was great for something, after all.

Nymphadora Tonks materialized in the infirmary only moments later, clutching a battered lemon drop tin, and looking startled and disheveled. McGonagall went to her, and they conversed in low tones as Severus tried to listen in. Then, giving it up, he approached the medi-witch.

She looked over at him, then down at his bare feet, and frowned. "Do you need anything? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. His leg would need to be seen to, but he could deal with that on his own, later. "How far have you gotten?" he asked quietly.

"How many times?" she asked back. Her voice was even lower than his. She knew, then.

"Twice." He swallowed. "Lucius, then the Dark Lord himself."

She drew a sharp breath, then nodded solemnly as she let it out, professional to the core. "Just as well he's not conscious, then, for the healing I have to do. Pull the curtain round, will you?"

Severus complied, then staggered as adrenaline left him in a rush that made his head swim. They were safe, for the moment. Out of the awfulness of that manor-house prison, and safe. He would never be able to go back to his spying, now that the Dark Lord knew his true loyalties . . . he would never have to go back to his spying.

Perhaps some good could come from this after all.

Outside Potter's sanctuary, McGonagall grabbed Severus' arm before he could fall down, and settled him in the chair he'd meant for her. He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion taking the place of his rage.

"You were bleeding, too, Severus," McGonagall said. "Your leg . . ."

"It's fine," he said and stared at the curtain that hid the broken body of the savior of the Wizarding world. He knew, he knew what such an experience could do to the boy. Would he survive it, or would it be the proverbial straw to break Potter's back? As he'd mused days ago - or was it weeks? - this boy had been through so much in such a short time that it was frankly amazing he still had his sanity intact. Or at least, he'd had it before this latest encounter.

Watching the Dark Lord teach the boy his lessons in "manners" had been one of the hardest things Severus had ever been forced to witness. He had lost count of the number of times each of them - Lucius, Bellatrix, and Voldemort - had cast the Cruciatus on Potter, likewise the number of cutting curses, stinging hexes, and all the rest. But with everything and anything they did, the boy bore it better than any Wizard or Muggle he'd ever seen. His courage, his fortitude, was undeniable. Potter had endured it all, until the end.

"What did they do to Harry?" Tonks murmured, loud enough for him to hear.

"Everything," he said under his breath. "Everything they could think of, to break him." While Minerva and the young Auror stared at him with wide eyes, he climbed to his feet again. He'd promised the boy he'd make a potion for his eyes. If he got going on it now, he might even have it done before Potter woke. That is, if he woke-

No. He wasn't going to be fatalistic about this. Not this time, despite the self-recriminations he was currently indulging in over what had happened. It had been his plan, his fault they were captured. Wouldn't they have been better off just remaining the Dark Lord's captives, ensconced in their pretty room? If he had known what would happen, he would never had made any plan to escape. Never. Ai, Merlin!

Stepping briefly behind the curtain, he said to Poppy, "Let me know when he wakes. I might . . . I might be able to help."

She acknowledged his words with a nod and went back to her work. Severus caught a glimpse of the whip-like gashes on Potter's bloodied back before she blocked his view again. He left the infirmary with only a slight limp slowing him down.

---

It was almost twenty-four hours later before the boy woke. Severus had already prepared the potion for his eyes. He had cleaned and healed the gash on his leg, and even slept, badly, for a few hours. And for the last three hours, he had been sitting by Potter's bedside, watching him. Waiting. He didn't know, exactly, why he felt the need to sit vigil, and yet, here he was.

And he wasn't sure what he had been expecting when the boy came back to consciousness, but a brief furrowing of his forehead before lapsing back into blankness was not it. The boy's eyes were shut, still, and bandaged up again, by Poppy, but Severus knew he was awake. "Potter," he said quietly, and was ignored.

His lips twisted sourly before he made himself say, "Harry. I know you're awake. I want . . ." He cut himself off and changed what he was going to say. "I have a potion for you, for your eyes. You need to drink it."

No response, as if the boy were deaf as well as blind.

Frustration welled in him, tempered by . . . understanding? But he couldn't let this go on. "Very well," he said. "I don't want to have to use force, but this potion is very important. Unless you'd rather remain blind?"

Nothing.

So be it. Severus made a show of uncorking the vial loudly. Snitch-fast, he snaked his arm under the boy's head and brought the potion to Potter's lips. Still, though he expected something, he was unprepared for the ferocity of Potter's reaction. The boy slapped his hand away, knocking the vial into the air, and jumped sideways several feet to get free of Severus' arm.

"Don't! Get away!" Body trembling as much as his voice, Potter stood next to the bed, dressed in hospital wing pajamas, with one arm flung out to ward off intruders into his personal space.

At least it was a reaction. And Severus had several vials of the potion.

"Harry," he said again, but much more quietly this time. "I want you to drink this potion. Please."

The boy shook his head minutely, but it might have been tremors left from the Cruciatus; he couldn't tell.

"No? Care to tell me why not?"

"I -- I dunno." Potter wrapped his arms around his middle. "Tired."

"I'm sure you are," Severus agreed, keeping his voice as reasonable as possible. "But that shouldn't keep you from taking the potion. It's for your eyes. Once you drink it, then you can go back to sleep, all right?"

"I . . . " The boy swallowed and hitched his shoulders up, but then nodded, finally. "Okay, yeah. All right."

"Do you want to climb back in bed first?"

With jerky movements, owing as much to his blindness as to his level of upset, Potter found the bed's covering again, and pulled them up so he could slip beneath them.

Severus waited until the boy was situated before uncorking another vial. "The potion is near your left hand, all right? You take it and drink it, and then I'll leave you alone." For a bit, anyway.

Watching the extent of the tremors in Potter's hand as he reached for the vial was instructive . . . and worrisome. But the boy tossed the potion back and hardly made a face at the taste, then held out the empty vial. Severus was careful not to touch him as the vial passed between their hands. One startlement of that kind was more than enough for day one.

"We'll give that a few hours, and I'll come back and check to see how well it's worked," Severus told him. But he was back to being ignored, as Potter curled up on his side and drew his legs to his chest. He hesitated, then decided to offer, regardless of how much heed his words might be taken. "If you need anything before then, even just . . . just to talk, or have someone sit with you, let Madam Pomfrey know, and she will send for me."

He stopped by Poppy's office and let her know that the boy should have some Dreamless Sleep potion, soon. She nodded, but searched his face with an unreadable expression, until he had to turn away. Duty done for the moment, Severus returned to his chambers and tried not to think. At all.

---

Harry lay in darkness and tried not to think. If it wasn't so dark, if he could just see, he wouldn't still feel like they were touching him, he could see that they weren't there, and he was in a bed, instead, in Hogwarts, but he couldn't see, and he was sure they were there, waiting for him to let down his guard. And they were laughing. Horrible, ugly laughter that set his teeth on edge and made him want to vomit over and over until there was nothing left inside.

There was nothing left inside.

He curled his legs in tighter to his chest, and rested his head on his knees. He was small. He was invisible. No one could see him anymore. No one was touching him; no one! They weren't, they couldn't be. No one could touch him, no one could see him when he hid deep inside his cupboard.

Ah, Merlin! Snape had seen, seen everything! Harry's face burned with shame and mortification, and his stomach flipped over. He had broken down. He had wept and pleaded with them, his captors, and Snape has seen it all. And then, then he had come here, and . . . he hadn't laughed.

Head still reeling, Harry hardly noticed when someone new approached the bed, but the moment they spoke -- she spoke -- he flinched away. But it was only Madam Pomfrey. Her voice was soothing, yet crisp. "Sit up, now, Mister Potter, there's a good lad. I've a potion for you . . . "

He couldn't make sense of her words, though; it was like they swam through his head, never touching his ears. He was in the cupboard, door shut tight now, and it was the only safe place he knew. Dark, and quiet, with no more screaming, and no one could ever find him or bother him ever again. Even if they cursed him and bloodied him, even if they put hands on him, or laughed at his pain, at his screams, he wasn't really there. Only his body. Not him. He was hidden, far, far away.

After another couple hours, Severus could no longer stand the silence of his quarters, nor justify not making a complete report -- he'd given Dumbledore a few of the highlights, or lowlights, rather, the day before, when the Headmaster showed up briefly in the infirmary to check on Harry.  And so he sought out the Headmaster's office at last.  "Fizzing Whizbees," he said to the gargoyles, and was allowed onto the stair, which spun its lazy circle to deposit him on the entry way to Dumbledore's demesne.  The door opened all on its own.  He hated when it did so, that heavy-handed emphasis on Dumbledore's knowledge of all the comings and goings in the school, including his own. 

He shut the door carefully behind him and stood before the Headmaster's desk, feeling, not for the first time, like one of the miscreants he taught.  Or tried to teach.  "I've come to make a full report, sir," he said.

Dumbledore nodded, his smile careworn.  "I appreciate it, Severus.  But it can wait, if you'd rather."

"No, I wouldn't, and no, it can't.  The Dark Lord shared some of his plans with me, with his servants, that bear telling."

"Was this intelligence from before or after you were revealed as a spy?"  His words were softly spoken, but Severus could have screamed from the way they cut through him.

"Before," he admitted in a murmur.  " I apologize for losing my . . . status in his ranks, Headmaster.  But the boy was flailing, and I thought the risk too great to remain there.  His sight, for one--"

"I quite agree," Albus interrupted.  "I am only sorry we could not retrieve you sooner."  He paused, and took out his never ending supply of damnable candies.  "Lemon drop?  No?  Please sit down, at least, Severus.  Poppy tells me you have continued to visit Harry and are concerned about his condition."

With less aplomb than he would have liked, Severus took a seat, but refused the candy.  The thinking he had promised himself he would not have to do, swamped his brain and mired him in its bleak intensity.  "Concerned?  Of course I'm damned well concerned.  Anyone with a conscience would be.  Anyone with a shred of humanity.  If he's to be the bloody Chosen One who will defeat the sodding Dark Lord, I hardly think catatonia will work to our advantage."

"Language, Severus."

The potions master sneered, but inclined his head.  "My apologies, Headmaster."

Albus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, tucking a finger up under his spectacles.  Then he placed his hands on his desk, folded together, and peered over the lenses at Severus.  "I've made arrangements to have him sent to St. Mungo's for treatment."

Severus leapt to his feet.  "What?  You can't be serious!  The press will get wind of it quicker than you can say 'The Boy Who Went Crazy.'  And he won't be safe there from the Dark Lord, I can assure you of that."

Spreading his hands, Albus said, "What would you have me do, Severus?  His family has fled.  His godfather is gone now, too.  I can't send him to the Weasleys, for the same concern about his safety, and he simply cannot remain in the hospital wing until he's amply recovered."

It was all true.  He wasn't sure why such righteous indignation on the boy's behalf should so suddenly manifest in him, and yet, it did.  "He can't go to St. Mungo's.  They'll have no idea how to help him.  And who will guard him there, if we are stretched as thin as Minerva said?"

Albus looked pained, but not willing to budge.  "Severus--"

"I'll take him," Severus offered, and at once thought, What??  Yet, his mouth continued to move.  "He will stay in my quarters and I'll see to it that he comes back to himself."  Or he would die trying.

A thin hint of a smile creased the Headmaster's lips, a shadow of his usual merriment.  "If you think it will work . . ."

"It may be the only real chance the boy has," Severus said quietly.  And wasn't that a kick in the teeth?

---

Hours later, at Potter's bedside, Severus had cause to kick himself, again, for his rash offer.  The boy lay quite still.  Unresponsive, even when manhandled so he could be forced to drink potions.  Not so much as a twitch, Poppy told him, since Severus had doused him with the potion for his eyes.

For a few agonizing moments, he worried he'd inadvertently poisoned the boy with some kind of nerve toxin.  But it was the kind of worry not based in reality, and he went over the potion and its formulation in his head three times before he was satisfied that he was not -- directly -- to blame for the boy's current state.

Indirectly, however. . . .

Part of his offer to take the boy in was undoubtedly due to the guilt gnawing at his insides, the feeling that he should have done more -- or less! -- to prevent what the Dark Lord and his two chief lieutenants had done to him.  And he hated guilt, hated it with a passion unmatched by any other, except perhaps for his hatred of Sirius Black, no matter what he'd told Potter during their imprisonment.  He was just not the type to engage in self-flagellation.  If he could assuage his guilt by helping the brat, so much the better.

Sighing, Severus resigned himself to the task once again, and stood.

Poppy materialized at his elbow.  "I can cancel my trip," she said, again.

Severus shook his head and he leaned over the bed and gathered the thin child to his chest.  Dead weight, like there was nothing inside.  No one home.  He straightened with Potter in his arms.  "No.  We'll be fine.  You have family to see to."

"Severus . . . are you sure this is a good idea?"  Her look of concern was directed as much at him as it was at the boy, and he was warmed by it, briefly.

"No," he admitted.  "But it will have to do."

She nodded, reluctantly, and he carried the hope of the Wizarding world to his quarters, in the form of a broken child.

After placing the boy on a bed he had conjured earlier, on a room only recently spelled into being, Severus stood back and took a good look at Potter . . . Harry.  He supposed if he was to have the care of the boy, they might as well be a bit more informal.  He wouldn't put up with any disrespect, however!  None of his cheek . . .

Closing his eyes briefly, Severus drew a slow breath.  He had no reason, at the moment, to be angry with the boy.  And he couldn't very well vent his own inchoate rage, with Lucius and Voldemort, on their victim, no matter that the boy had been an easy target for him in the past.

Poppy had done well, he realized, in healing Harry's physical body . . . at least what he could see outside of the light blue hospital pajamas.  Thin pink scars lined his arms, but looked like they would fade well enough with time.  Rather than assume, however, he lifted the pajama shirt and checked Harry's stomach,. And was glad to find most of the scars there, too, would fade.  A couple looked nastier than the others, probably Bella's work.  He'd have to get a potion for those.

As for the boy's mind . . . well.

First things first.  Food, water, sleep.  Plus clothes, shelter, a place of safety.  The rest would come in time.

Without thinking, he smoothed the pajama top back over the boy's skin, then brushed an errant strand of dark hair out of the boy's eyes.  His fingers traced the lightning scar on Harry's forehead, and he shook his head.  So much pain, here. 

Was he doing the right thing?  He had no idea, really, how to make the boy all "better," or even if anything ever could.  But if they were to win the war, they needed their chosen warrior to be up to the fight.  Hating himself for thinking of the boy as a pawn - for that's what he was, pure and simple, just like Severus himself - he knew he had to do what was best for Wizarding kind, not necessarily what was best for Harry.

"Come back to us, child," he whispered, cupping the boy's head lightly in his palm, potion-stained thumb stroking circles on his temple.  "I know you don't want to, but we need you out here."

There was no response.  Not that he'd expected one, truly, but it have been nice to be pleasantly surprised for once.

---

In the darkness of the cupboard, Harry floated adrift, silent as the moon.  He was alone here, just the way he liked it.  Nothing and no one could touch him.  Even when he felt tingles on his flesh, he knew it was just spiders, not the other.  Spiders spinning their webs, minding their own business, and not intending to let him know they were there.  He had no problems with spiders.

There was no pain here, and the feeling was welcome.  For years, day after day, paid had been part of his body, of his life.  Here, he was comfortable, and comforted.  After some long while of restfulness, he could even hear someone's voice, soft and oddly sibilant, whispering to him that everything was all right, that he was all right, and that nothing would hurt him anymore.  He wanted so much to believe the voice that when it whispered that it could take care of him, if only he would let it, he could not find it in himself to refuse.

"Just let me in," the voice whispered, and promised safety, and warmth and caring, such as he had never known.

"No hurting," Harry whispered back.

"No hurting," the voice agreed.  "Safety, my dear, sweet boy.  And love."

He was not worthy of love, had never been.  As far back as he could remember, back to where the cupboard and darkness began, no one had ever spoken those three little words to him before, the words he longed to hear . . . I love you.  And he knew he was nothing, worthless, despicable and a freak, but still . . . he wanted so much to be loved.

A long time passed, how long, he couldn't say and he didn't care, really.  But finally, he gave in to the soothing, slippery voice, lifted away the last barrier and allowed the presence inside.

And for a little while, there was peace.

---

Severus was beside himself.  More than a week had passed with no change from the young Gryffindor.  Severus had fed him, given him potions and tea, had Scourgified him and vanished waste from his bladder with a wave of a wand.  The wand was a back-up he kept for emergencies, since his own was still at that loathsome manor.  He'd made sure the boy was comfortable in the bed at night and during the mornings, when Severus was preparing potions for Harry and for the school infirmary, and he had propped the boy up on pillows in the main room during the afternoons, in front of the fire, as he'd seemed to like in Topsham.

Because Harry was so unresponsive, Severus could not even be sure the eye treatment had worked.  Though he'd given the boy several more doses of the potion he'd developed, he had no idea if the boy could see yet.  But Harry stared at the fire each afternoon, almost unblinking, and seemingly mesmerized by the flames.  So he had high hopes, for that at least.

Harry's mouth moved betimes, but no sound ever came out.  Except once, and Severus still winced at the recollection.  Days ago, while the boy was propped on the long couch in front of the fireplace, Severus had been reading a new potions journal article aloud, hoping at least the sound of his voice would eventually stir some reaction, when he'd distinctly heard hissing.  More than anything else, it reminded him of that damned Parseltongue, which had given the boy so much trouble in his second year.  But it only lasted a second, and afterwards, when he'd risen and gone to the boy, and crouched in front of him, only to meet blank eyes, he wasn't sure he'd heard it at all.

If he had made any noise at all, Harry had since gone back to silence.

Which was why he was so completely gobsmacked when they were in their customary places one afternoon, Harry on the couch, and he on a winged chair, reading aloud from a Wizarding story book, when a small voice said, "Please, some water?"

Severus almost dropped his journal.  Indeed, he fumbled it in his hands as he hurried to put it down, even as he leapt to his feet.  "Harry?" he asked, peering at the boy.

Green eyes looked back at him tiredly, and the spark in them was more dampened than he had ever seen it - except perhaps that night after Cedric Diggory died - but it was there.

"Can you see me?"

Harry blinked heavy eyes, but nodded.  "Blurry."

"Your glasses," Severus looked around, finding the horrid NHS frames on the table beside him.  "Here, let me," he continued as the boy struggled to free his hands from the cocooning quilt, and settled the glasses on Harry's nose.  "Better?"

"Yes, sir."  His tone was hesitant, and softer than a whisper.  If these dungeons weren't so naturally quiet, Severus would never have heard.

In a trice, he conjured a small glass of water, and waited for Harry to get his hands free to take it.  The boy's hands still trembled as he accepted the drink, but not nearly like they had in the infirmary, just the faintest of tremors, really.  The new post-Cruciatus potion he'd developed, this one for prolonged exposure, was working swimmingly, it appeared.  He'd have to send a sample along to St. Mungo's.

Harry sipped at the water, the first independent thing he'd done since their incarceration, and Severus watched him with a strange sense of satisfaction.

When the boy had drunk almost half the glass, he stopped and closed his eyes again.

Severus took the glass from him and banished it to the kitchens.  "Harry?" he said again.  "Anything else I can get you?"

"M'tired, Professor," the boy said and did not open his eyes again, though he did pull the quilt closer and hunch himself inside it.  "Just tired."

Well.

It was a start.

From the comfort of the couch, Harry watched, through heavily lidded eyes, as the professor stalked about his chambers with the grace normally associated with felines. He and the other Gryffindors often referred to Snape as the Greasy Git, or the Big Bat of the Dungeons, but in truth, he was neither batlike, or terribly gittish . . . was gittish a word? Harry thought it over for a while, glad to give his mind something to focus on that wasn't Snape or Snape's-quarters related.

After due consideration, he decided gittish should be a word, if it wasn't already, and Hermione, who seemed to dislike made up words immensely, since she couldn't find them in any book, would just have to get over it.

He still had no idea why he was in Snape's quarters, and at Hogwarts either, for that matter. Snape hadn't said. Hadn't said much at all, really, since Harry had woken up yesterday afternoon . . . if it could be called waking, when he'd actually just felt like he'd blinked . . . for a long time. He was really, really tired, though, and had a bunch of haziness in his mind that he didn't like much, but Snape hadn't said anything about that, either. Right now, the professor was looking up potion interactions, he'd said. He didn't seem to care if Harry talked or not, which was fine with Harry. And he seemed all right with Harry just staying curled up on the couch in front of the fire.

Of course, he'd insisted that Harry go to bed at a "reasonable hour" last night, and even made him take an awful tasting Dreamless Sleep potion before brushing his teeth -- with a brand new brush! And he'd asked what Harry wanted for breakfast in the morning, prompting him to get out of bed, when Harry had thought he might just have a lie in instead. But mostly, he'd been very ungittish. Very unSnapelike, really. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.

At last, the professor seemed to find what he was looking for, and returned to the wing-backed chair he'd occupied yesterday, with three books of differing sizes. Harry, snugged under his quilt on the couch, watched him page through them one at a time.

Eventually, Snape looked up at Harry, who pretended to be staring at the bookcases instead. "Are you hungry?" he asked, his dark eyes keenly observant. "Thirsty?"

"No, sir."

"Is there something you wanted to talk about, Harry?"

Harry got an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, but shook his head. How weird was it that the professor was calling him by his first name? What was wrong with him? Why had he suddenly changed? "No, sir."

"Very well." The professor was quiet again, the only sound that of slowly turned pages. His head was bent low over the book, his hawkish nose almost touching the pages, as if squinting at the script, and Harry was hit hard by a memory, one not even his own.

"I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

Snape lifted his gaze to meet Harry's, and there was something in them that Harry couldn't place. Wariness? Concern? He wasn't sure, but knew it wasn't supposed to be on Snape's face, whatever it was. "Oh? What for?"

"For looking." Harry twisted his hands together, and couldn't help but look down at them. But he was a Gryffindor! So he had to look the one he'd wronged in the eye. He owed Snape that much, at least. The professor only looked confused now, not infuriated, so Harry elaborated, "In your pensieve. Last year. I shouldn't've done it, sir, and I'm sorry."

Snape sighed and closed his book. His eyes sparked with a reflection of the rage Harry remembered from that last Occlumency lesson, but he didn't shout this time, or throw anything, and after a moment, he shook his head. His voice was oddly . . . calm as he said, "That's over and done, Harry."

"I just thought . . ." Harry shook his head in a mirror of the professor's action. He wouldn't make excuses for himself, not this time. He'd been dumb and intrusive and had thrown away a chance to learn something important for mere curiosity. "I'm still sorry," he mumbled.

But Snape frowned. "What did you think?"

Squinching his eyes shut for a moment, Harry shrugged, then looked back at his hands. "I thought you were hiding something important from me, you and Dumbledore both. Something that would help me figure out those stupid dreams that Vol--" A lump Apparated into the middle of Harry's throat, and he couldn't finish. His stomach gave another twist and he bent over his hands, hiding his face.

"Harry?" He was much closer this time, and Harry instinctively shrank back into the couch. "What is it?"

Harry didn't answer. He'd suddenly felt more afraid than he ever had before, and his scar was burning, and he wasn't exactly sure why. He just knew he shouldn't move or speak, or else he might scream, and never stop screaming, and he really didn't want to do that.

The soft voice inside him soothed, "Shhh, it's all right. You can't trust him, but it's all right. I won't let anyone else hurt you, never again . . . " and he relaxed a little.

The couch sagged next to him; the professor had sat down. Harry rubbed his scar briefly and took a deep breath before looking up. Both of them were silent for long minutes, until Snape said, in the most neutral tone Harry had ever heard from him, "Were you just thinking about the Dark Lord?"

"No, sir," Harry said. "Why?"

Snape's eyes narrowed, and Harry shrank back a little more. "What do you remember about how you got here?" The professor asked.

"To Hogwarts?"

"Yes. And to my quarters."

Harry shrugged. "I don't, really. Must've been out of it, I guess. I was at the Dursleys, and they . . ." The pain hit him anew and he stopped, hunching over to cradle his stomach with his hands.

"They left," Snape said, very softly, as if Harry might bolt if he spoke louder.

"Yeah. Yes, sir." Harry looked over at him. "Is that why I'm here? 'Cause they left?"

"In a way."

"Will I stay here the rest of the summer, then?" With you, he left unspoken.

Snape nodded. "It is likely." The professor rose and put his books away, one by one, taking his time, and looked to be considering something. Then he returned and stood in front of Harry, who stared back at him, warily. "I believe you are pushing some of your memories away, so you won't have to deal with them. This is neither good for you nor for your recovery. Therefore . . ." He paused and drew his wand. "I will help you recover them."

"What? No!" Harry held up his hands, as if that might stop Snape. "No, I'm not . . . you can't go rummaging in my brain."

There was no sneer, as Harry might have expected, on the professor's face as he said, "Yes. Actually, I can. It will be better . . . later. Now, it . . . I apologize, as it will likely cause you some distress."

"See!" the voice crowed inside him. "I knew he would hurt you. You can't trust him, only me . . ."

"No! I won't let you!" Harry said, and pushed off the couch, head down, avoiding the man's gaze. He tried to duck around Snape, to get to the room he'd slept in last night.

But Snape was fast, almost fast enough to be a Seeker, and he grabbed Harry's arm and swung him around. "You've been avoiding this for days now, Potter-"

"Oh, see how angry he gets, and so easily!" the voice warned. "Watch out for him, I bet he hits!"

"-and I will not let you hide any more."

"Let go of me!" Harry cried, and yanked at his arm, trying to pull out of Snape's grasp. "Please! Let go!"

Snape pushed him at the couch instead. "Sit still and look at me," he ordered.

"Don't let him! He'll only hurt you! You heard him, he doesn't care about you, only what he can do to your mind."

"I know!" Harry hissed back. "I won't let him-"

The color from Snape's face drained away and the hand holding his wand fell to his side. "Who are you talking to, Potter?" he said in a low tone. "Answer me!"

"I . . . I don't . . . None of your business! It's no one. Just leave me alone!" Harry darted past the Potions Master again, and this time, Snape didn't even try to catch him. He made it to his room, slammed the door behind him, and went to lock it and put up a ward, too, when he realized his wand was gone.

Where was it? Had Snape taken it?

That cold feeling had settled into his stomach again, but he was warmed by the soft hum of the voice inside him, even when it asked calmly, "Do you even need to ask? You know he did. Now, let me show you how to lock your door without a wand."

---

Stunned, Severus let the boy escape. Behind him, the door slammed shut, and the sound threw him into action at once. He hadn't been mistaken. The boy had used Parseltongue again, and there was only one person he could be speaking with like that. He Floo-called Dumbledore, then went through to the Headmaster's office and relayed his concerns.

Instead of expressing the appropriate amount of dismay, however, Albus seemed . . . preoccupied, dealing with the myriad issues being brought to his attention by the new Minister of Magic, and the daily battles against the Death Eaters and their allies on the streets of various towns, up and down the Isles.

"He's gained access to the boy's mind!" Severus nearly shouted, after ten minutes of trying to convince the old coot that this was a dire situation. "Potter's always been difficult about Occluding, but this time . . . he has no defenses at all. I can only imagine what the Dark Lord has told him, to get such access, what promises he's made."

"You'll have to find a way to break through, Severus," Dumbledore said, his face haggard and gray. "Unless you've changed your mind and want Harry sent away for treatment."

"Of course not! That won't help in the least. Unless you want the rise of another Dark Lord . . ."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "I don't believe that will be an issue."

Severus shook his head. "You have no idea, none! I've seen what the boy is capable of. How much pain he can take and how much it took to break him. He's rather easily closed those human feelings off, when they became too difficult to manage, and very nearly lapped up every word the Dark Lord told him, just because someone was willing to ask him how he felt, and what he wanted. How often have you done so, Albus? When has anyone?"

"But Tom turned on him, in the end."

"It doesn't matter!" Severus paced, gnashing his teeth and gesticulating wildly. "The boy has no current memory of that happening, and he won't allow me access to his mind so I can show him. He trusted me well enough before we escaped, so something - or someone - is poisoning his mind against me. Along with these Parseltongue conversations, that means he's let the Dark Lord in, and his memories of that ‘betrayal' are gone."

Albus sighed. "As I said, it will be up to you to get through to him."

"Fine!" Severus shouted and headed back to the fireplace, hands grasping for Floo powder before he'd even unclenched them. "I just thought you should know."

As the flames claimed him, he saw the Headmaster bury his face in his hands.

The boy's door was closed, and when Severus tried it, he found it wizard locked. Impossible! The boy had no wand; Voldemort had confiscated it at once, after he was captured. It was probably destroyed by now. Of course, as he'd said himself, very little was actually impossible, when it came to Harry Potter.

"Alohamora," he incanted, but the door still held fast. Growling now, with irritation, and not a little worry, he cast a few more counter charms on the door and was surprised to find that the one that finally worked was one of the strongest that he knew.

He swept through the doorway and came face to face with a very angry Harry Potter. Wandless, but with a hand outstretched as if he held one, and just a hint of red in his eyes.

"Harry," he started, but was interrupted immediately.

"Get out of here, Professor. I won't let you in my mind."

Severus sneered his best sneer. "But you'll give the Dark Lord access?"

"No! No one."

"Then who are you talking to when you speak Parseltongue? Tell me who, and if it isn't the Dark Lord," he'd eat his grade book, "I'll go away and leave you alone."

"It isn't!"

"How do you know?"

"I would know! I wouldn't just . . . I didn't . . ."

"How. Do. You. Know?"

"I . . ." The boy clutched at his head suddenly, at his scar, and doubled over, gritting his teeth and hissing through them.

"Tell me what's happening. Harry! Don't talk to him!" Severus lunged for the boy as he toppled over, and eased him to the ground. On the floor, he sat with the boy half in his lap, holding the thin, trembling body as if it might shatter.

"No . . ." came a hushed whisper from the boy, the merest breath. "Said . . . wouldn't hurt. . . . promised . . . no more . . ."

"Oh, child," Severus sighed. He held the boy closer, hoping to give some sort of comfort. "He lies."

Potter went back to sleep finally, and Severus wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. He'd held the teenager for much of the afternoon, even after he stopped struggling, kicking and punching like a miniature troll. After the first hour, he'd worn himself out. Severus had tried to get through to him, through the newly erected barriers, but Potter wouldn't speak to him anymore.

On the other hand, just to add to the maddening situation, Potter was still hissing in Parseltongue, when he wasn't humming some inane tune under his breath, one Severus almost, but not quite, recognized. Even after he lapsed into semi-consciousness, Potter was still hissing softly, or humming, and this worried Severus immensely. What was he saying? And what was the Dark Lord telling him in return?

Severus had a couple ideas of how to find out, exactly, but none would be pleasant or easy, and at least one was guaranteed to make both he and Potter absolutely miserable. But when Potter abruptly ceased responding to Severus' voice at all, he knew he had to do something very soon, or the boy would be lost for good. Though he was currently rather aggravated with Potter's lack of mental fortitude, he could not let the Dark Lord get away with this invasion.

Firstly, he needed fortification of his own. A headache thundered in his skull already, and nothing he thought to try would improve his situation, nor would any method of helping the boy be improved if he could not concentrate. So, leaving Potter on his bed, he retreated to his main room, poured two fingers of Ogden's finest and swallowed it down in two gulps. The burning in his throat centered him nicely. Considering further, he Accio'ed a bottle of Calming Draught and consumed it, waited ten minutes, then returned to Potter's room.

Pot -- Harry's face was pale and pasty, sweat soaked and creased in pain, as if he were fighting an inner battle. If he was, then good. Severus could work with that. The boy's lips moved soundlessly, but when Severus put his hand in the space just about Pot -- Harry's mouth, he could feel his soft exhalation of breath. But no hissing. Also good.

First order of business, then, to get the bloody Dark Lord out. Severus preferred to have eye contact for this, but it wasn't completely necessary. Instead, he put a hand on Harry's forehead, raised his wand and muttered, "Legilimens."

---

The sun shone prettily upon the carousel, where painted centaurs pranced next to old-fashioned hovering carpets in gaudy colors and dragons in mid-flight. Harry sat on a narrow wooden bench, watching the carousel go round and round, as the smell of spun candy wafted to him on a light breeze. The park around him was clean and airy. Red and yellow flowers speckled a verdant lawn, under the brightest blue sky Harry had ever seen. Children laughed and shouted to each other, clambering over the dragons and centaurs, and the joyous sound, weaving through a thin strain of music from the carousel itself, lifted his spirits. A young man with dark hair and dark eyes sat beside him, one arm slung over the back of the bench, and seemed to be mesmerized by the scene before them, too.

Harry couldn't remember how he had gotten here, but it was so peaceful, so relaxing, he didn't want to consider it too much. His companion was mostly silent, but on occasion made observations with a quirked half-smile, such as, "Lovely weather we're having," and "Such a nice view, really," making Harry nod in agreement.

Still, Harry knew something wasn't right. The day was too perfect, the children too innocent, to be real. A cloud passed over the sun with that thought, and Harry shivered. Everything was thrown into shadow. The dying echo of children's laughter lingered for a moment, then silenced, and a flicker of movement on the carousel drew Harry's eye. The children had vanished.

He turned to the young man beside him, to point this out, and the man was staring at him, his dark pupils almost encompassing the whole of his eyes. "Only you can bring them back, Harry Potter," he said.

"How?" He couldn't look away from the strange eyes. He didn't want to.

"The sun. If you will the cloud to pass, the children will return. They're innocents, Harry. So happy and carefree. Nothing can harm them while they're here, remember?" The young man smiled. "Don't you want them to return?"

"Of course," Harry said and focused his will on the cloud until it slid past, uncovering the sun and bringing back the laughter, the children. The happiness. The shadow passed from his mind.

The young man leaned back on the bench, eyes half-lidded, watching the scene, and Harry relaxed again. That was close, he thought. I have to clear my mind of doubt, or fear. Only then can this remain.

---

Severus appeared on a field of yellow and red flowers. The sound of gaily tinkling music carried to him on the breeze, and he turned. The music was familiar . . . Ah. Harry's low humming, back in the waking world. And indeed, on a bench in front of a carousel sat the Brat Who Lived, next to a young man . . . whose appearance made Severus shudder in recognition. They both looked relaxed, gazing at the spinning raised platform and its multi-colored figures.

Severus headed for the bench, his long strides eating up the distance. As he neared the pair, he caught another glimpse of the carousel. What he'd thought were children, laughing and skipping in amongst the unicorns and dragons and broomsticks, were clearly Inferi. Their dead flesh hung in tatters. Hollow eyes bored into him, accusing him of unknown crimes, as he approached.

At the same time he recognized the "children" for what they were, the flowers he strode through were revealed as long dead and dried to husks in the stifling heat of the sun. The trees, leafless and blackened with rot, were still, with no breeze to move through them, and the ground was barren sod.

But Harry, he could tell, saw none of this. His smile was fixed, his eyes curiously blank and unmoving. He wore school robes, like the young man beside him, though neither of them with house emblems.

"Potter!" he called.

No response. Oh, not this again.

"Potter!" he shouted this time. "Harry!"

The boy turned. His eyes widened a fraction. "Professor?"

The young man -- the younger version of the Dark Lord -- put a hand on Potter's -- Harry's -- arm. Harry twitched, but did not pull away.

"Po -- Harry. Come here. Come away from that man."

The young Dark Lord's eyes flashed red before fading back to black, and he hissed something incomprehensible. Harry's expression hardened.

"I don't know what he's told you," Severus said quickly, "but he does not mean you well. He lies. I told you that. All this is a lie."

Harry shook his head. The sun glinted on his hair, oddly casting a wreath of gold on his head. Bright green eyes were narrowed, suspicious, as they regarded him.

"Look around you!" Severus took another step forward. "These aren't happy children. This isn't a pastoral Sunday afternoon. You can't just bury the truth with pretty lies and hope it goes away. It doesn't work like that. Life doesn't work like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry said. "You can't see what I see. You don't know--"

"I see the truth, Potter!" Another step. "And I do know a thing or two about life. Even about wanting to hide. But it is not in you, Harry. You're a Gryffindor." The last was a grasp at straws, he knew, to appeal to the boy's house identity. But if it was the only way his courage would manifest. . .

The boy mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "Hat wanted Slytherin," but Severus did not countenance it, especially when the Dark Lord, in the form of a charismatic, handsome, and demanding Tom Riddle, tugged on Harry's arm, hissing again, and Harry answered him the same way.

Severus took another step toward them. He was close enough now that he could grab Harry if he needed to, but he kept his hands carefully by his sides. "Look, Pot -- Harry," Severus pleaded. "Look around you, truly."

The boy made no effort to do so, but leaned back against Riddle, as if for support.

"LOOK!"

When Potter still did not comply, Riddle smirked at Severus. He sidled closer to Harry and whispered in the boy's ear. A dark look passed over the boy's face and he continued to glare at Severus. Sudden foreboding made Severus' heart stutter in his chest, but he held his ground. Then Riddle snaked an arm around Potter's back and slid his body along the teenager's side, in a blatant attempt to show Severus how much control he truly had over Harry.

But he'd gone to far.

A cloud passed over the sun, dark and angry, as a look of horror appeared on Potter's face.

---

Harry leapt to his feet. "Don't touch me," he hissed at the young man, who suddenly seemed nauseatingly familiar.

"You didn't mind before," the young man replied, his voice low and sensual, insinuating.

Harry swallowed. "I . . ." Confused, Harry took a step back. "You . . . I don't remember before."

"It's all right, I'll help you." The young man smiled disarmingly. "Come and sit with me again, and we'll watch the children at play."

The sky darkened considerably, storm clouds collecting. Harry couldn't remember. He didn't like not remembering. And though the young man on the bench had seemed decent enough earlier, he made Harry's skin itch. And then there was Snape . . .

"Professor?" he said, still rather uncertain, and hoping for some kind of guidance.

"Look behind you, Harry. Please."

It was the pleading that made the difference, in the end. Harry'd never heard that particular tone from Snape before, not once. He turned to the carousel, squinting at what should have been a scene of innocence and happiness and youthful joy. But nothing was the way it had been moments ago.

Pallid, rotting flesh and dead eyes. Silence instead of laughter. A wave of cold dread rolled over Harry from the mob of Inferi. They perched on chipped and pitted figures in torment: demonic horses that rolled eyes of fire to gaze balefully at their riders and whose heaving sides were wet with bloody foam.

Harry stumbled back, away from the nightmarish scene. Away from . . . Tom Riddle, who jumped up and grabbed for him. Harry shrank back again, revolted. Bile rose in his throat and threatened to choke him. His hands went to his throat, and he almost screamed when strong hands grasped his shoulders. He jerked away, but caught his breath again as Snape's smooth voice urged him to listen, to remember. Snape's hands settled on his shoulders again, and this time he allowed it. Tom glared at him, and glared at Snape, and the hate he saw in the Dark Lord's eyes made Harry decide that maybe he was doing the right thing, finally.

"Remember, child," Snape said. His voice was oddly soothing, lacking its usual sneering sarcasm. "It's hard, I know, but you need to remember."

Harry closed his eyes and nodded. "What . . . what happened, Professor?" he asked.

Snape's hands tightened, pinching his flesh. "Your relatives fled, leaving you behind. Do you remember that?" When Harry nodded again, Snape continued, "The Dark Lord sent his servants to get you, once the wards were breached. I think it had been some days since the Dursleys left. I was there, and I tried to help you, gave you potions after Bella . . . after she cast the Cruciatus upon you. Do you recall that now?"

Harry started trembling, the nod of his head a spasm. He did remember that, and Bellatrix's laugh, and trying to disarm one of the Death Eaters, and Snape's potions. And then he remembered . . . NO!

Snape went on, holding him steady, "You were imprisoned, and the Dark Lord tried to subvert you, tried to gain your trust and support, but after I killed Nott and you lost your sight, we tried to escape him, you and I. And we were caught." Snape paused, and his voice was so soft Harry almost couldn't hear, and he didn't want to hear it, he didn't, and yet he knew, if he ran now, he would lose everything. Still, tears ran down his cheeks, unnoticed, unchecked, and tremors in his legs threatened to topple him.

"He . . . punished you," Snape said, and squeezed his shoulders tighter. "He and Lucius and Bellatrix. With curses and torture, and then they raped you. Remember, now, Harry. To get through this, you have to. The Dark Lord gained access to your mind while your defenses were low, and only you can push him out again."

Harry clenched his teeth and hissed, "No . . . You're lying."

"I'm not. I know you don't want to believe it, but you must. Burying the truth will only help him. He hurt you, I know. I saw." Snape paused. "I'm sorry."

"You're LYING!"

"No, Harry," and Snape's voice was so filled with regret that it hurt him deep inside. "I wish I was."

"I can't . . . No. Don't make me . . ."

"You can. You're strong. You've endured so much already. Open your eyes now, and see the truth."

Harry drew a shuddering breath. "No, I can't . . . I can't do this alone."

Snape's sigh was warm and gentle on the back of his neck. "I'm here, child. You won't have to face this alone."

Harry's vision was blurred with tears when he complied, yet he could see everything so clearly now. The obscene carousel crept by in a stuttering circle, in the middle of a black and barren landscape. In front of him was Voldemort in his current form: white skin, red glowing eyes and no nose but snake-like slits. One skeletal hand reached for him.

"Get away from me!" Harry shrieked. A sob caught in his throat and he screamed to get it out. "Get away! Get out and LEAVE ME ALONE!" Red tinged his vision and light exploded everywhere, brighter than the sun and ten times hotter on his skin. Pain seared through him, radiating from his scar and a magical wind whipped up like a cyclone. The wind scoured the dreamscape from his mind: carousel, bench, Dark Lord, all gone.

Empty. Everything was gone.

The only thing that kept Harry from collapsing altogether were the arms surrounding him, an anchor in the storm. In the utter silence that followed, Harry turned in those arms, clung to his Professor and wept.

---

Back in Harry's bedroom, the boy clung to him and cried as Severus withdrew from his mind. Merlin. Everything hurt. His mind was battered, his body knocked about like an old tin can. But Harry remembered now, and the Dark Lord had gone from his mind. That was all that was important. Severus suspected Voldemort would need to regroup after his own violent expulsion from the boy's mind.

For the time being, however, Severus offered what comfort he could, and let the Chosen One sob himself out.

"Where. Is. He?"

Remus had never looked so angry, Albus decided. Not when Sirius tried to use him for a prank that almost killed Severus in their fifth year. Not when Sirius' innocence couldn't be proven, once Peter Pettigrew escaped again, in Harry's third year. And not even when he'd learned it was Delores Umbridge who had set Dementors on Harry last summer. But now, here, it looked like he was fully capable of losing control of his wolf, and Albus, for the first time since meeting Remus as a boy of a mere eleven years, was afraid of him.

A bit.

"He is well, Remus," he said, knowing that was both more and less than the truth.

"That tells me nothing! It has been more than three weeks. Three weeks since he disappeared, that we know of, and all you tell me is he's well? Is he still in You-Know-Who's grasp? Tell me that, at least."

"He is free of the prison, at least, Remus." He offered the man - who'd burst in here moments ago, already shouting - a boiled sweet. Remus didn't even deign to look at it. Albus popped the lemon drop in his mouth and sucked on it as he considered what exactly to say. "He was rescued a week ago, but it wasn't until very recently that we could be sure of the extent of his injuries. Until we knew, we couldn't tell anyone. Too much danger of the wrong word getting out, you know."

"Who is this ‘we'?" Remus' glare was nothing on Severus', but it was growing more impressive by the minute. "Obviously, you could tell someone."

"Madam Pomfrey. Myself. Severus, of course." He left off the two rescuers, seeing no purpose for either of them to have to deal with Remus' ire.

"Why ‘of course'?" Remus paced in front of Albus' desk. "Was he really with Harry all that time?"

"He was. And before you ask," Albus said, holding up a hand, "he is not at any fault for what happened to Harry. He has given me a comprehensive report of all that transpired during Harry's capture, and captivity, his own, too."

A low growl sounded from Remus' throat. "I want to see him."

"Impossible."

"Albus! I'm as good as legally his godfather now. You have no right-"

"I have every right!" Albus took a measured breath, watching the werewolf closely, to see how much his outburst had impacted the young man. Remus looked startled, but not suspicious. Good. "We still don't know how much influence Voldemort has managed to get past Harry's defenses. He could still be in danger . . . and not just to himself."

Remus had already opened his mouth again, but closed it with a snap. His golden-tinged eyes were still narrowed. "How are you gauging the level of influence, then? Does Harry have pain through his scar still? Is it worse?"

"I'm sorry, Remus, I can't tell you any more. When his condition improves to the point where he can have visitors, I will let you know."

Though he looked like he wanted to argue further, Remus contented himself with shaking his head angrily. "If you let him come to further harm, I will never forgive you."

As Remus stormed out, Albus seconded the vow. He wasn't sure if he could ever forgive himself, already.

---

Below stairs, in the potions master's chambers, three days after casting Voldemort out of his mind, Harry Potter was, to put it mildly, pitching a fit.

He was absolutely fed up with potions. He hated the taste and smell and texture and everything about them. And he hated being cooped up indoors, in windowless rooms, in a dungeon, without his wand or any wand, with none of his friends, and without any clothes besides what had been shrunk for him from Snape's personal collection of black shirts, black trousers, and maybe a black jumper for variety.

He hated black.

And he hated Severus Stupid Slimy Sneering Snape.

Right now he hated Snape because the git kept trying to make him take potions he didn't want, and wouldn't get out of his bloody face for five freaking minutes without reminding him of something or asking him something or telling him something else! He'd already thrown one nutrition potion against the wall and another was about to go the way of all meat.

"That's enough!" Snape roared, and used his wand to Accio the second potion mid-flight. Grabbing it out of the air, he glared at Harry like Harry was some species of bug he'd never seen before.

Harry glared right back, hands balled into fists. "Leave me alone!"

"I would like nothing better, Mr. Potter, but that notion, as pleasing as it might be to both of us, is completely beyond my control."

"I. Don't. Want. Any. Damn. Potions!"

"And I don't want my walls festooned with your handiwork. But life is all about not getting what you want."

He could say that again.

"What was that, Mr. Potter? Is it too much to trouble you to speak--"

"I said you could say that again! If I ever got what I wanted, I'd be living with Sirius, instead of stupid people who bloody well abandoned me, or better, with my Mum and Dad! I'd be fucking normal, instead of some stupid, arrogant, spoiled, little freak!" He pounded his hand on the table and threw some of Snape's own words at him, glad to see the man wince - almost - at hearing them shouted. The rest were courtesy of Uncle Vernon, and he'd heard them often enough he was pretty sure they were true, too. "I wouldn't have to drink nasty, slimy, horrible potions to counteract bloody Cruciatus spells and stupid nightmares, or . . . or eat vegetables, or go to bed at a reasonable hour or do my homework or anything!"

He was shrieking by the end of his tirade, and it took some moments to get his breath back. His head hurt, again, as it always did if he got too "worked up," as Snape called it. And his eyes, too.

"Are you quite done?"

Harry couldn't have said more - or screeched more - if he tried. So he nodded instead.

"Mm." Snape prowled closer. "Not bad this time. Under ten minutes. No personal possessions destroyed. No cuts, I assume? Bruising at all?"

Harry shook his head, his gaze on his hands. He'd worked up a sweat, and as he cooled down, he shivered a little in the dungeon air.

"Blanket?" Snape asked.

With a nod, Harry accepted that the "fight" was done, that he was done. For the moment. Snape brought him a quilt from his room and draped it over his shoulders. "Look at me," he said, and Harry complied. His professor stared into each of his eyes, first one, then the other, scrutinizing him, then finally nodded. "Any pain?"

"No, sir. Well. Not much."

"Elaborate."

"They just ache. Not stinging."

"Very well." He sighed. "Listen Potter . . . Harry, I know-"

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said, beating him to the lecture. "That I lost my temper." Again.

"You are very angry, about a lot of things. It makes sense you'd want to rant a bit." Snape paused, then, "But I notice in your rant that although you bemoan the potions that help with the tremors from Cruciatus, you didn't actually rail against the curse itself. For instance."

Not this again. . . . "Professor, I don't want to talk about it."

"No. I imagine you don't. But what did I say in my rant? About life and wants?"

Harry sighed. "Can I . . . Can I have some tea or something first?"

Snape nodded and went into his small kitchen, where he filled a pot and set it on the hob, then spooned a generous helping of leaves in. Whilst he was busy, Harry bit at one of his thumbnails, and the skin surrounding it, nibbling off layers until he drew blood. The tiny wound stung in the open air, and Harry put his hands in his lap as Snape returned with two cups, hovering a pitcher of cream and a small bowl of sugar to the table before him. Harry stirred a little sugar into his tea and blew over the top of the cup until it cooled enough to sip.

Snape waited, with his own unaltered cup in hand, and watched him.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Harry told him, after a while.

"Start with something easy, perhaps. For instance, why did your relatives leave you behind when they fled from Surrey?"

"Oh, that's an easy one?" Harry grumbled.

Snape gave an eloquent shrug, which Harry took to mean that he could certainly think of much harder questions to ask. And Harry knew that was true, but still. He didn't have to like it.

"Fine. They left me behind because they hated me."

"You've said that before. In what ways did it manifest?"

It was Harry's turn to shrug. "I don't know."

"Potter . . ."

"Okay! They hate everything to do with magic, and that means me, too. They thought my parents were freaks, and claimed my father was driving drunk and got them in an accident that killed them, instead of anyone finding out the truth. I didn't even know the truth till Hagrid told me on my 11th birthday."

Snape nodded, and gestured for him to continue.

Harry glared, his rage rising again. "What else do you want to know? That they thought making me live in a cupboard for ten years would crush the freakiness out of me? That they gave me Dudley's second bedroom after my Hogwarts letter arrived, just ‘cause they thought someone was finally watching what they did to me? Or that they worked me like a house elf, and only let me eat their left-overs, when they weren't withholding food outright?" He put a hand to his head and closed his eyes, trying to soothe the ache. "They hated me. That's all."

"I can see," Snape said, his voice neutral and slow, as if he were picking his words very carefully, "how distressing it must have been for you to have your . . . pampered lifestyle brought up for ridicule. By those who knew no better."

"Like you?" Harry asked, bringing his head up.

Snape inclined his head. His eyes hid his true thoughts rather well, and Harry didn't like it, not knowing if Snape was actually apologizing, or what. "So," the professor continued, "tell me about this cupboard."

This time, Harry put his head down on his arms, on the table and groaned audibly. "I don't want-"

Snape only had to lift his eyebrows to cut him off. "You brought it up."

"Fine! My cupboard, under the stairs. It was my bedroom, I guess, until after I got the letter." He blew out a sharp breath and raised his head, looking Snape in the eye. "But you should already know that, or . . . who writes out the Hogwarts letters?"

"They're sent with an automatic quill. Why?"

"Mine was addressed to the Cupboard Under the Stairs. That's why they moved me, after. Couldn't have anyone know they were as mental as me. But I always figured Dumbledore knew all this stuff, since my letter went there."

Snape shook his head. "I doubt he knew his Golden Boy was being so maltreated."

"Whatever." Harry took another sip of tea. It was quite good, with a hint of cinnamon and orange. The thinnest of smiles touched his lips. "I didn't really know they were mental, you know. Not until I was older, at primary school at least. I thought all freaky cousins lived in closets."

Snape's answering half-quirked smile showed he knew Harry was joking. Mostly. "What kind of work does a house elf do in Surrey?"

Harry shrugged again. He was becoming quite good at it, and Snape let him get away with it, sometimes. Sometimes, not. When Snape lifted his eyebrows, Harry sighed. This was a not. "You know, gardening, weeding, pruning hedges and trees, mowing the lawn. Um, dusting, vacuuming, cooking, cleaning bathrooms and bedrooms, sweeping. You know, housework."

With an unreadable expression, Snape said, "You did all those jobs?"

"Well, yeah. I started out with little things, like the dusting and stuff. But I could cook by the time I was four or five, and after I started primary school, I was doing most of the outside work, too. Why?" Harry smirked over his cuppa. "Did you think I was lazing around on my fat arse over the hols?"

Since that was probably exactly what the professor thought of him, at least he didn't dignify the remark with a denial. "And the lack of proper nutrition, I assume, is responsible for your coming back after each summer looking scrawnier than when you left?"

"I'm not scrawny!"

"Whatever," Snape murmured into his tea and took a long swallow, his expression bland, except for the tiny glint in his eyes.

Harry wrested his indignation under control and tried to answer the question. But scrawny! Ironic from a skinny, batlike, greasy . . .

"Potter!"

Blowing out a breath, Harry glared some more. "Well, Uncle Vernon liked yelling, didn't he, when I'd bollocks things up. But Aunt Petunia was the one who mostly made me go without food. I usually got to eat every day, though."

"Usually?"

"Sometimes I didn't. If I'd made a real mess of something. Could be a couple days in the cupboard with nothing."

"How old were you? When they sent you to your . . . cupboard?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "I told you. Until I was eleven."

"Locked in?"

"Er, yeah."

"Bathroom breaks?"

"What!?" He was not going to discuss that with Snape. Never! No way!

"I will use small words, if that will help. Did they let you out to go to toilet?"

"No! I had to piss in a bucket! Happy now?"

Snape had put down his teacup and lifted his wand, almost surreptitiously, as if expecting to need to Reparo something soon. But his voice was mild as he said, "Surely you do not think even I am so great a sadist as to find pleasure in that?"

Through clenched teeth, Harry admitted, "No, sir."

Silence for a long moment, while both of them waited to see if Harry could unclench his jaw all by himself. When it became clear he couldn't, Snape said, "Do you wish to break the cup, Harry?"

His fingers tightened on it, of their own accord. He could imagine, quite clearly, hurling the stupid piece of stupid pottery right at the wall and seeing it shatter into a million stupid, sodding, sharp, glorious pieces. It would be brilliant. "Yes, sir."

"Very well." Snape gave an almost inaudible sigh. "But finish the tea, first, if you would."

This was getting ridiculous, Albus decided.  He might as well put out a press release:  Boy Who Lived Has Been Rescued!  Stop Bothering Headmaster!  Alas, that was unlikely to stop Scrimgeour's blatant pressure, but might slow the constant flow of worried faithful who came to harangue him about Harry's whereabouts.  He stared over the rims of his spectacles at, of all people, Rubeus Hagrid, who was hoping to bring Harry some of his favorite treats.

"I'm afraid Harry is not quite up to company yet, Hagrid," he said to the large man.  Surely Molly had put him up to this; only yesterday, she'd promised to annoy Albus to death if he didn't come up with the boy, and soon!  Of course, she'd phrased it more politely, though not by much.

"It's jus' I'm worried ‘bout ‘im," Hagrid admitted.  "Not seen ‘im since ‘e got back; no one has."

"Ah, that's where you're mistaken," Albus assured him, putting on his most congenial smile.  "For I have seen him myself, and have been monitoring his progress very closely."  Through a proctor.  "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to meet with members of the Ministry about what happened in Wells next the Sea over the weekend."

"O' course, sir.  Terrible business there, terrible.  Give these t'Harry, though, will ye?  He loves these rock cakes."

"Of course, Hagrid.  Good day."

After the half-giant left, Albus had all of ten minutes to prepare for the next scheduled onslaught from Scrimgeour.  The lion-bearded man always left him feeling slightly aggravated after one of their meetings, and betimes he wished he could just hex the Minister and be done with it.  But politics must be played, and he could not afford to have more interruptions at Hogwarts of the kind they'd suffered last year.  At least that hag, Umbridge, was tucked away in a safe ward at St. Mungo's, undergoing treatment.

Albus spent some few of those ten minutes considering the boy he wanted - still - to go to the hospital for observation.  Severus had been very close-mouthed with him about his progress with Harry, only saying that they had at least managed to get Voldemort out of the boy's head, a minor miracle in itself, considering how completely shattered Harry had been when he was first rescued.

"The Minister's on the way," Everard's portrait advised him.

"Thank you," Albus murmured, and set out a fresh dish of sherbet lemons.  Not that it ever helped, as Rufus was almost as paranoid as Severus.  Still, one could hope.

---

Severus watched the boy fiddle with his quill for another few minutes without saying aught, but he suppressed another sigh.  He'd given Harry a journal, of sorts, in which he was supposed to express his thoughts for just twenty minutes a day, using a medium which did not require spells to repair any damage afterwards.  Twelve minutes had passed already, and the boy had yet to set quill to parchment.  Instead, he sat hunched over the small writing table, chewing alternately on the quill and on his fingernails and otherwise staring into space.  The nail chewing behavior was just going to have to stop.  Severus found the whole experience - watching, listening, finding the gnawed bits on the carpet through sock feet - extremely distasteful.

In the meantime . . . "Potter."  The boy jumped, and Severus kept his voice quiet and steady as Harry turned around to glare.  "I gave you a choice.  Either write, or we discuss your nightmare right now."

Harry set his jaw, and Severus lifted his eyebrows and held the gaze until Harry sighed and turned back to the blank book.  He even dipped the quill into the little pot of ink Severus had spelled to not tip over - or be available for throwing, should the mood take the boy; he was not that generous - but he did not write.  Severus let it go for another three minutes, and then closed his own book - a rather comprehensive account of the origins of the Draught of Peace and its permutations and adaptations over the years - and rose from his chair by the fireplace.  He still kept a small fire in the grate for Harry's sake, as the boy seemed to remain cold even in the dead of summer, but it was banked now.

Harry stiffened in his seat as Severus crossed behind him to replace the book on its shelf, and his hand trembled where he gripped the quill.

Once back in his chair, Severus cleared his throat.  "Come over here," he said, using the same tone he'd use with a frightened dog, or perhaps a slightly stupid cow.

Biting his lip - another disturbing habit Severus longed to break the boy of - Harry turned back to him, then drug himself up from his chair as if he were a zombie, and shuffled over to the couch where he plunked himself down, looking miserable.  His face was paler than Severus had ever seen it, and the scar still stood out raw and red on his forehead.  He also hadn't been eating properly - aside from fingernails, which held little in the way of appropriate nutritional value for a growing teen - and so was looking rather more fragile than Severus had hoped for, after almost two weeks in his company.

"I want to go outside," Harry said, and though not quite a whine, it was close enough that Severus sneered at him.

"And I want you to write in the blasted journal."

"Why?  It's not like it'll do any good.  Sir."

Severus suppressed another sigh.  Really, it was too much, sometimes.  "How exactly would you know that?  You haven't actually written anything yet."

"I just know, all right?"

"No, in fact, it is not ‘all right.'  Since you have refused to write today, you will need to tell me about the dream you woke screeching from at three-thirty this morning.  If you answer my questions, to my satisfaction, you will be allowed thirty minutes time out of doors.  Understood?"

Potter seemed to perk up a bit.  "Can I go flying?"

"I believe you have a lifetime ban, still in effect."

With a scowl that almost put one of his own to shame, Harry grumbled, "No, that was for Quidditch.  I should still be allowed to just fly."

Hm.  A sore spot, that.  "Tomorrow, perhaps," he raised a warning finger, "if you write in your journal for the full twenty minutes.  And eat three full meals."

"But-"

"No exceptions.  You eat a proper dinner tonight, breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and you put an entire twenty minutes of your thoughts, should you indeed have that many, in that book, and you will be allowed flying time in the afternoon."

For a moment, it looked like Harry would argue some more, but then he relaxed and gave Severus a half smile.  "Thank you, sir."

Severus inclined his head.  He could certainly use this particular bargaining chip in the future, and he had not said how much time the boy would be allowed to fly.  "Now.  Your nightmare."

"I - I don't want to talk about it."

"We had a deal, Potter," Severus growled.

Harry paled even further, if possible.  Both his hands were shaking.  "I know, sir, I just . . . I can't."

Tapping his lips with a forefinger, Severus considered.  It was likely the nightmare had to do with what happened at Topsham, and he was quite certain that Harry was not ready to address that issue yet.  He could compromise, briefly.  "Then we will discuss topics of my choosing."

"O-okay."

How easy he was to manipulate.  How easy it would be for Severus to completely destroy him, with a wrong word or harsh tone.  Not for the first time, he cursed Albus Dumbledore for laying this burden on him, and then, again, not for the first time, he reminded himself that it was a burden he had chosen to take up, and that Albus already expected Harry to be little more than a lost cause.

Though what he expected the boy to do about the prophecy, if that was so, was anyone's guess.

"Good.  Tell me, then, who was the appallingly overweight boy who chased you through the park when you were younger?"

"Sir?"

"It's a simple enough question, Potter.  Who was-"

"My cousin.  Dudley.  Why do you want to know about him?"

Severus ignored the question.  After all, he didn't want to know about Dudley at all, but it would behoove Potter to speak of his past some more.  "Has he always been so . . . huge?"

"Erm, yeah.  Every since I can remember.  I mean, obviously he was smaller when we were really young, but he's always been big for his age."  Potter was beginning to relax.  Good.

"And he called the game of chasing you what?"

Some color returned to Potter's cheeks.  "Harry Hunting," he mumbled.

"Mm.  Was he a skilled hunter?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"I think you understand my meaning."

Potter shrugged and tried to hunch in on himself. 

Severus frowned.  "None of that, or there will be no outside time for you today."

The boy sighed, but pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his chin on them.  "Yeah, he was all right at it.  I knew some decent places to hide, though."

"Such as?"

"Oh, bins, up in trees, and sometimes I could duck into a shop.  There was a little one, a bookshop, nearby, I could hide in for hours."  He gave a low snicker.  "Wasn't like Duds was ever going to go looking in where he might touch a book."

"And you mentioned you got his ‘second bedroom' after your Hogwarts letter came.  Why did he have two bedrooms to begin with?"

"Well, they spoiled him rotten, didn't they?" Harry said, and there was heat in his voice again.  "Gave him everything he asked for, and lots of what he didn't.  So when he got tired of playing with something, or he'd broken it, it went into the second room."  His arms tightened around his calves, where he hugged them close.  "That's where I got any of my toys from."

"Explain."

The boy clenched his jaw and squinched his eyes shut.  "No, it's stupid."

"Potter.  Answer or you won't-"

"All right!  They never bought me anything, so I only got the leftovers of Dudley's toys, same as with food."

Severus stared, wondering if this was exaggeration, and knowing he was going to have to ask.  "Surely they bought you something.  Clothes, for instance, treats at Christmas . . ."

"Are you kidding me?" Harry snarled at him.  "I got Dudley's old clothes, too.  The ones that were worn out at the knees, or frayed at the cuffs, or that he'd torn up because he didn't like the color.  And, as you noticed, he was much bigger than me, so I never had clothes that fit till I came to Hogwarts and had to buy my own robes.  But I can't even wear any nice things at their house, ‘cause they'd want to know where I got the money for ‘em, and then they'd want the money and I'd have nothing left from my parents at all!"  He took a stuttering breath.  "Did you even see the crap I was wearing when you took me from there?"

Severus nodded, not rising to the obvious bait.  "I saw.  But what about Christmas, birthdays. . . ."

"Oh, right, I was so bloody pampered, obviously they lavished me with gifts."

"Answer the question-"

"Just shut up, all right?  I'm tired of talking."  He buried his face against his knees, his whole body rolled into a ball no bigger than a niffler.  "It's stupid anyway.  Like I should care."

"About what?" Severus asked, softly.  This was the moment of every one of their recent conversations he dreaded.  Either tears or raging would follow.  He could never tell which it would be, and though he preferred the latter, as he knew better how to deal with it, neither option was particularly enjoyable.  Not for either of them.

There was a soft, sniffling sound.  Tears, then.  "P-presents.  Never till . . . First one I ever got was from Hagrid.  He g-gave me Hed - Hedwig."

For the first time, Severus realized the boy's owl was nowhere in evidence.  He tried to recall if he had seen it, when he and Bellatrix and Nott took him from the Dursley home.  He could picture the dark room, the boarded over window, the thin dirty sheet covered in blood and pus, the effluvia from the boy's wounded back.  And he recalled an empty bird cage half caved in, lying on top of a lopsided dresser.

"Where is Hedwig, Harry?"  He almost didn't recognize his own voice, it was so soft, and he almost sure he knew what the boy was going to say.  Still, he winced at the words when they did come.

Harry's shoulders were shaking, and his voice was muffled by hiccupping sobs.  "H-he killed her.  Uncle V-vernon d-did.  He killed her because she was making too damn much noise, and I tried to stop him, but he's loads bigger even than Dud, and he hit me, and I - I - I fell and then he was kicking and she was screeching, and then there was nothing, and she was gone."

Oh, Merlin.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head.  First pet.  First present, a familiar, killed by a maniac Albus had sent the boy back to year after year.  He had nothing but contempt for those Muggle relatives of Harry's.  He knew what sort Petunia was, and after what Harry had confessed about his home life, he didn't doubt the bastard had killed the snowy owl, just for hooting.

But Harry was still sobbing, and Severus rose with some reluctance, and crossed to the couch.  He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, to offer some kind of comfort - he knew what it was like to lose a precious familiar, after all - but was unprepared for the boy's reaction.

Harry's head came up and he was out of his seat like a shot, shrieking.  "Don't touch me!  Don't - don't you ever touch me!  NO ONE!  Never, never again!"

Severus put his hands up, where they could be clearly seen.  "No one's touching you, Harry," he said, more calmly than he felt.  "I'm going to sit down now.  I suggest you do the same."  He matched actions to his words, and retook his seat by the fireplace, keeping his gaze on Harry the whole while.

But Harry wrapped his arms around his middle and hunched over, sobbing again, great tearing things that wracked his thin body.  In between wheezing gasps for breath and wrenching sobs, he hugged himself tight and rocked slightly, as Severus had often seen in children who were denied any kind of comfort from their caregivers during their formative years.  Whispered words poured from his mouth in a stream, that Severus craned to hear.  "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. . . ."

"Who do you hate?" Severus asked, wanting to be sure who the target was.  There were so many choices, after all. Too many.

"Uncle," cough, "Vernon.  Hate him."  Wheeze.  "Hate.  Him.  Hate.  Him."  Before Severus realized what he was going to do, Harry had turned to the wall and punctuated each word with a punch to the thick gray stones.  "Hate. Him!"

Damn it!  He got in three punches with the right and two with the left before Severus reached him and grabbed his arms from behind, holding them across the boy's chest.  "Stop, Harry.  No punching!"

"Let me go!  Let go!"

Severus didn't, but tightened his hold on the frantically wriggling boy.  "Not till you've calmed.  No self harm.  We agreed!"

But Harry was barely listening, twisting this way and that to get away from Severus and screaming at a decibel level that Severus had previously considered humanly impossible.  "Let go!  Let me go!  I hate you, I hate you!  Get away from me, I'll kill you!"

Severus just held on, trying the low, soft voice with no real meaning in the words that had calmed Harry after he'd woken early this morning, and let the boy wear himself out.  ". . . Get away!  I'll kill you, you're going to die!  Everybody's dead.  Everybody's . . ."  Another sob filled the air and Harry dropped like a stone, with only Severus to keep him from hitting the ground, hard.  "Everybody.  I kill everybody.  All - all my f-fault."

"Nonsense," Severus told him in that same low voice.  "You haven't killed anyone. . . ."  Again, he got the impression that Harry wasn't really listening, and he knew they'd have to address this issue later, when both of them were far calmer, but the boy did stop screeching soon after, and his sobs lessened until they were merely hitched breaths and sniffles.

At that point, Severus walked Harry back to the couch and eased him down, then took a look at the boy's hands, and the rapidly swelling knuckles.  He shook his head and Accio'd a bruise salve.  "Make a fist," he said, of each hand, then opened the jar and spread the salve onto Harry's abraded skin.  "I don't believe you've broken anything.  This time.  But you may not conduct yourself in that manner again.  We discussed the rules of staying here versus going to hospital.  If you can't abide by them, I will need to make other arrangements."

"No," Harry whispered.  "Please.  I'm sorry, sir.  I won't do it again, I swear."

"I'll hold you to that," Severus told him sternly.  "I have no problem cleaning up a bit of crockery, but I will not put my skills to use fixing your body if you can't be bothered to respect it yourself.  And before you ask, I won't just let you heal yourself either.  One more incident and I will go to the Headmaster."

"Yes, sir.  I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Harry."  He closed his eyes briefly, then stood up and capped the jar of salve.  "And for what it's worth, I am too.  Sorry.  About your owl.  I know how much she meant to you."

Harry nodded, looking exhausted, and Severus couldn't blame him.  He was rather exhausted himself.

Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day.

After twenty minutes, Harry closed the book and looked up at Professor Snape, who was sitting in what was probably his favorite chair -- he certainly never let Harry sit in it -- and reading. For fun.

Almost immediately, Snape lifted his gaze to meet Harry's. "Done?"

"Yes, sir. Can I go flying now?"

Snape replaced the bookmark in between pages, set aside his book and stood. "Yes, of course. I'll get our brooms."

"Our . . . our brooms?"

"Certainly. You didn't think, when there are undoubtedly those who still wish you harm about, that I would let you let fly off wherever you felt like?"

Since Harry had been hoping for that very thing, he said nothing, while Snape went to get the brooms. He wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize his first trip outside in what felt like years, but which Snape assured him had only been a couple of weeks. And he would do absolutely anything to make sure he got to fly, even if meant being watched like a hawk by Snape.

Would he still be able to fly? he suddenly wondered. What if he couldn't anymore, because his wand was gone . . . or because his magic was all wonky after everything that had happened this summer. Snape had said he could get a new wand before school started, and that he should be fine, magically, but what if . . .

His thoughts were interrupted when Snape returned holding a Nimbus series broom, as well as Harry's Firebolt. A jolt went through him, looking at the Firebolt. Sirius had given that to him. Sirius, who he had hardly even thought about for the last week, who'd died only a bit more than a month ago, died to save Harry, died because Harry had been too stupid to tell a true vision from a trick.

"Are you well, Potter?"

Harry set his jaw and reached for the broom. He would not cry. Not again. Not in front of Snape. "Yes, sir."

Snape still hesitated before handing over the Firebolt. "Come on, then."

The sky was bright and clear, then sun warm on his face as they exited through one of the side doors, the fastest way to get to the pitch. A light breeze was blowing, carrying the scent of cut grass and mossy stone.

Before they went more than a few yards, Snape stopped him and raised his wand. Harry jumped back, away from him. "What are you doing?"

"A small covertcy spell to keep your antics in the air from being noticed by anyone who's not supposed to know you're here. It doesn't hurt," Snape added with a sneer.

Harry braced himself to run, if necessary. "Who's not supposed to know I'm here?"

"Everyone, except me, Madam Pomfrey and the Headmaster. So, if you don't mind . . ."

Well, he did mind, but what was he going to do, argue with the one person who'd let him go flying, when he was so close he could taste it? "All right," he sighed.

Snape snorted a laugh and cast the spell. Or at least, Harry assumed it was cast. He felt no different.

"Did it work?"

With an eye-roll Ron would be proud of, Snape said, "Of course it worked. Now, would you like to stand here for the rest of the afternoon, or . . ."

"No! No, sir. Please, let's go." Harry jogged towards the Quidditch pitch, desperate to get into the air.

Snape's long strides kept him up with Harry easily, but the moment they reached the pitch, Harry straddled his broom and kicked off, leaving everything terrible behind. Stupid journals, and thoughts of Sirius, nightmares and Snape's piercing stares. The weight of al those things fell away from his heart. All that existed now was the wind in his face, the swooping feeling in his stomach as he turned and dove and rolled, the spike of adrenaline as he neared the ground, faster than a phoenix, and pulled up at the last moment. Nothing but the air, the broom and Harry.

It was some while later than he even realized that Snape was riding near him. He gave the professor a tight grin and dove again, wondering if Snape would follow another feint. Seemed so, for when he darted up toward the sky once more, Snape matched him, though not at quite the same speed, and looked a little green around the edges.

But he didn't tell Harry to stop.

Even though the professor was gulping breaths in a way that suggested he suffered from broom sickness, and sweat covered his face, he wasn't telling -- or even asking -- Harry to stop.

That, more than anything, make Harry stick to standard turns and maneuvers for a while. He knew, really, that Snape was doing everything he could to help Harry get through this summer, even if it seemed, sometimes, that he was being a real git.

The rules, for instance. Harry frowned, just thinking about them, and Snape's reasons for handing them down in the first place. He'd insisted that Harry must agree to the rules, or he would have to go to St. Mungo's, like the Headmaster wanted, and be treated there. Otherwise, the professor would not be able to trust him, and would not be able to help him. Such coerced agreements chafed Harry, but he had promised to abide by the rules. Besides, Snape had promised things in return, like not ever using any body bind spells on him, and rewards like flying.

Rule number one had been that he was not allowed to languish in bed. He had to be up and dressed for breakfast and was not allowed to return to bed until night time. Though Harry had thought it a stupid rule at first, he knew he would have preferred, in the days after he'd woken in the dungeon, to just curl back up in bed, pull up the covers and ignore the whole world. But Snape hadn't let him, and he was grateful. Probably. Deep down.

Rule two was that he had to take any potions Snape said he needed. Whenever Snape said he needed them. With no arguments. Oh, how that irked him. On the other hand, Snape was very skilled at potions, and Harry's physical recovery, at least, had been pretty good, he thought.

Rule number three had been the one about no self harming behaviors. Incensed by the very idea that he should need such a rule, when Snape first handed it down, he now understood why. His hands -- now clutched around the handle of his broomstick -- still ached somewhat after his wall punching yesterday. And he knew he wanted to punch some more. A lot more, if he was honest. He wanted to punch and kick and scream until his voice was hoarse.

As if Accio'd by the very thought of a throwing a fit, rage swept through him, leaving him shaking. His knuckles were white, and he had to work to unclench his jaw. He wanted to kill them, kill them all. Everyone who had ever hurt him. But he wanted them to suffer first, like he had. And he wanted nothing more than for it all to be just . . . over.

God, he hated this.

Shaking his head wildly, he turned his broom skyward and took off like a shot, heading for the sun, for the warmth he could so rarely feel any more.

---

Severus was grateful for the brief respite the brat gave him, after a few too-close-to-the-ground-for-comfort rolls and dives, when they stuck to a median height, and median velocity. He'd never really cared for broom travel. It took too long, for one thing, as a mode of transport, and one was constantly at the mercy of things such as wind resistance and weather conditions. Bah. Apparition negated all that.

Still, he had never thought himself an abject slouch when it came to flying, until the last few minutes. Potter really was quite talented. And it was more than his life was worth keeping up with him. But he wasn't letting the brat out of his sight -- or reach. The last thing he'd need is for Potter to suddenly decide smashing his broom head first into the ground would be just the way to get out of any difficulties he was having. He didn't think the boy was actively suicidal, but it was a distinct possibility, one he kept in the forefront of his own mind as he watched Potter loop and dive and careen around the pitch like a madman.

When Potter suddenly aimed his broom almost vertical and accelerated, Severus' stomach lodged in his throat, even as he pushed his older, less powerful broom to keep up. It was a losing proposition, he knew, but he couldn't not try.

Harry was crouched over his broom, almost lying flat upon it, and Severus could barely see him, as he was angled into the sun. Damn!

The air cooled, the higher they went, until Severus could barely feel his hands, or his face. The glare of the sun ripped tears from his eyes, which stung as they turned to ice on his cheeks. Still, he kept going, not slowing, even long after he'd last glimpsed the boy. Up and up and up . . . until his breaths were only cold pain in his throat and lungs and his vision wavered, edged in darkness.

"Harry!" he called, knowing there was not a hope in Hogsmeade the boy could hear him.

The last thought he had before he blacked out was, Huh. I never thought it would be a broom accident . . .

Previously:

Harry had shut his eyes long ago, and the sun felt great on his face, as if it was the only light in the world and he was finally being allowed to sense it. He could feel, like he had back at Topsham Manor, the magical energy trailing behind him which could only be Snape, and for a moment, he was surprised that the professor was still trying to keep up with him.

Higher and higher he went, until the air was cold again, and he started to acknowledge that he would never, truly, reach the sun, no matter how far or fast he flew. Neither could he escape everything on the ground. Sirius was gone, yes. And Cedric and his parents, too. So was what little had remained of his innocence, at the hands of Voldemort and Malfoy. But he was still alive, despite everything. And though he longed, desperately, to feel loved, like he knew Sirius had loved him, like he knew his parents had, he knew that just wasn't meant to be, for him. He was meant to kill Voldemort, so other people could be happy and loved.

So other people could be safe.

Like Snape, who had saved him time and time again.

At the split second he came to this realization, a ripple splashed over him from Snape's magical signature, right before it vanished, like fog in a high wind. Harry's heart plummeted into his stomach, and he banked immediately to the left, pulling the broom around so abruptly that he almost blacked out from the force of it. He kicked the broom into a speed it had rarely if ever been pushed to, as he sought out Snape's magic again.

He darted through clouds on his way back down, and the dampness chilled him, but not as much as knowing he'd sent his professor to his death. Droplets clung to his glasses, and he wiped them with the back of his arm, peering down at the ground, so far below. He couldn't see anything.

He couldn't feel anything either.

He'd been blind at the manor when he felt other signatures, like Malfoy's and even Voldemort's. Maybe he couldn't feel, if he could see. . . . Harry squeezed his eyes shut, and reached out, questing. There! Just on the edge of perception, and quite far away, was the free-falling body of his professor. Keeping his eyes closed, he turned slightly and angled in that direction, setting his trajectory to align with where Snape would have fallen to, by the time Harry reached him.

Snape's arms were outstretched, as if he was imitating a bird, but he was falling like a stone. Harry darted underneath him. Arms braced to catch, he still wasn't prepared for the slam of dead weight that hit him. His broom jiggered sideways, almost dumping them both. Steering with his knees, Harry clung to the professor as they made their descent.

The professor's face was pure white, except for his blue lips, and Harry was not certain if he was alive or dead. He flew flat out, straight to the castle, bypassing the pitch entirely. When he reached the castle doors, he hauled Snape off the broom and staggered under the sudden weight. Though Harry had never been a weakling, really, this summer had really taken a toll on him, and he could barely hold Snape up. How was he going to carry him up several flights of stairs to the infirmary?

If only he had his wand!

But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, as Aunt Petunia used to say, so he did what he could, manhandling the professor into the entrance hall and toward the stairs. The professors heels dragged along the floor, as Harry hefted him, arms wrapped around Snape's chest from behind, and his own hands clasped together. Each step up wrenched something in Harry's shoulder that he'd pulled in the initial catch, up in the air, but Harry ignored the pain and kept going.

One foot, up one step, then a hard tug to bring the professor up, along with his other foot, then the first foot again. They made slow progress, but when Harry was almost half way up the first flight of stairs, his foot slipped on one of the tricky steps and he fell on his bottom. The two of them slid down half a dozen steps like they were on a toboggan.

Harry could have cried in frustration. He couldn't even tell if Snape was breathing or not. His face still seemed to have no color. He was going to die -- if he wasn't dead already -- and it was all Harry's fault! He'd been so stupid! So oblivious. So completely selfish.

Rage and shame warred inside him and as he struggled to his feet again. His limbs trembled and his chest heaved with hard won breaths. He would not let Snape die! He wouldn't! Growling low in his throat, he gritted his teeth and pulled hard once more with all this strength. The professor soared into the air and hovered there, as if held by a Leviosa. Harry gaped at him, then grabbed at the professor's cloak and, at a run, dragged him, now airborne, to the infirmary.

Coming out the door as Harry shoved his way in was Professor Lupin, who stared at Snape as if seeing a ghost. "What the . . .?"

"Remus! Help me get him inside," Harry pleaded.

But Remus didn't look at him or say anything, just turned back around and called, "Poppy! Come quick!" and Harry remembered the spell Snape had put on him when they first went outside.

Madam Pomfrey supposedly knew about him, though, so she should be able to see him and hear him. "Madam Pomfrey!" he yelled. "It's Professor Snape, he's hurt!"

The Matron charged out of her office and over to them. "Let him go, Mr. Potter," she said, and used her wand to hover Snape over to one of the many empty beds and lower him into it. Her wand was already making passes over Snape's body, and she didn't look at Harry when she said, "What happened?"

"He fell. We were flying, and I didn't realize he was following, and we went too high and he fell. I'm sorry! Is he dead? Will he be all right?"

At the same time, Remus said, "I don't know. Wait, what did you say first? Is Harry here?"

"Not now, Remus," Madam Pomfrey said. "The professor is still alive, if barely. Go on, both of you. I'll take it from here." With that, she pulled a curtain around Snape's bed and Harry couldn't see him anymore.

Harry staggered back against the wall. Snape was still alive. He hadn't killed him. Madam Pomfrey would help him; she had to. His heart felt like a hummingbird was trapped in his chest, fluttering madly, and he knew if he didn't sit down in the next few seconds, he was going to throw up, from pure relief. He slid down the wall, putting his head between his knees and waited for the nausea to pass.

In front of him, Remus was still looking around with a bemused expression. "Harry? Do you have your cloak on? I can't see you."

Harry had no idea how long the spell lasted, and no idea how he could let Remus know he was there, with it still in effect, so he just sat, and waited, and after a few minutes, Remus sat down too, except on a chair he Accio'd from across the ward.

"I don't know if you're still here, Harry," Remus said quietly. "But if you are, and you're afraid for me to see you, I wish you wouldn't be. I'm so glad you're okay. That you're safe. I've been trying to see you for days," here he laughed harshly, an almost anguished sound to Harry's ears, "but Dumbledore refused to tell me where you are."

Remus stared at his hands. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I failed you."

Harry's head came up and, although he knew Remus couldn't hear him, said, "No. You never did!"

"I should have been there for you after James and Lily died. I should have checked on you, and made sure you were being well cared for. They . . . the Ministry wouldn't have let me take you, not with my . . . condition," another horrible, self-deprecating laugh, "but I should have tried, just the same."

"It wasn't your fault, Remus! None of it!"

"I wish . . . I want to be there for you now, Harry. I wish you knew how much I care about you. How proud I am of you, and how strong you are. I'm just sorry I have never been there for you, like your parents would have wanted. They would have been proud of you, too. I know they would.

"No, they wouldn't, Harry thought. Not when he'd almost killed a professor. Not when he had killed Sirius.

Remus lapsed into silence, and Harry was glad of it; he wasn't sure he could take any more gross mischaracterizations. They waited, and waited, and finally, Remus looked over at him in shock, stumbling off his chair. "Harry!"

"Hi, Remus." Harry tensed up when it looked like Remus might want to hug him, but the former professor stopped at the last minute.

"Are you . . . how are you, Harry?"

"Tired," he admitted. "You?"

Remus laughed softly and settled down beside him on the floor. He didn't touch Harry, though, and stayed almost a foot away, so that was good. Harry didn't think he could explain to Remus if he suddenly started shrieking in the middle of the infirmary. "As well as can be expected, when I've been so worried for you. Where have you been?"

Harry gestured at the curtain, where Madam Pomfrey was still tending the professor. "With Professor Snape."

"What?! I know you were both captured together, Harry, but is that really the best place for you? I mean, he's--"

"He's been helping me, Remus. He . . . he knows what happened there, and he's been helping me." The nausea was back, and Harry swallowed it down. He was not going to get sick all over Remus.

"What did happen?" Remus asked softly. "You can tell me anything."

Harry shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Not now, or not with me?"

"Both. I'm sorry, Remus. I just--"

"It's okay, Harry. Really." Remus' words were comforting, but he sounded sad, and kind of disappointed.

Harry's heart ached for it, but he couldn't talk about what had happened in Topsham. Not now. Maybe never. But if he ever did, it was going to be with someone who knew, someone he trusted to understand and not pretend that everything was just peachy, and who'd let him rant and cry and everything else he needed. Someone like Snape.

---

The first thing Severus said upon waking was, "Harry!"

Poppy was there a moment later, her bustling and businesslike air putting him somewhat at ease. "He's fine, Severus. How he managed to cart you up here is anyone's guess. The boy's just skin and bones, haven't you been feeding him? But he'll be glad to know you've pulled through again."

She thrust a potion in his face, and he batted it away, though the enormity of his relief made him feel faint. He'd been sure the boy was dead. For all his precautions and all his monitoring, he was sure Harry had killed himself, and it would have been all Severus' fault. "I'm fine, woman. Put that away!"

"Well," Poppy sniffed. "You must be feeling better if you're surly already. But I'm not releasing you from the infirmary till we've got you completely warmed up. Now drink!"

With an aggravated sigh, Severus took the bottle of Pepper-up potion and gulped it down. The familiar warmth surged through him, and steam blasted out his ears. Once he had his breath back, he growled, "Satisfied?"

"I don't know why I bother," the medi-witch complained. "Between you and Mr. Potter, I don't know which of you is harder to manage when you've ended up in my care."

"Potter," Severus told her.

"Nah. It's Professor Snape," Potter said, peeking his head around the corner of the curtain.

Severus snorted and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling almost giddy, a completely unnatural feeling for him, seeing the boy unharmed. Maybe he was having a heart attack? "I should say not. I am a model priso -- rather, patient. You, on the other hand, are incorrigible."

"Incorri-what?" The boy came fully around the curtain, frowning now.

"Have you never met a dictionary, Potter? I should be glad to introduce you, if not."

"Ha. Very ha." The boy smiled a little. "I mean, very ha, sir."

Severus sighed and waved his hand at the curtain. "Do you mind? I would like to make my escape from here as soon as possible, but I'd rather have a bit of privacy for dressing."

"Oh! Sorry, sir." Red-faced, the boy made an about turn and fled the cubicle.

Severus raised his eyebrows at Poppy, and with another disdainful sniff, she vacated the area as well. He dressed slowly, as despite the Pepper-up and whatever else Poppy had force fed him, he was exhausted. But soon enough, he was ready to push aside the curtain and face the world -- or at least, this small portion of it -- again.

Harry was lingering just on the other side of the enclosure, and down near the double doors leading to the outside corridor was Lupin. Severus cast a sneer the werewolf's way, but his heart wasn't in it. Nothing like a near death experience to make certain truths quite clear. And one of them was that life was too short to put too much energy into maintaining old feuds.

"Come along, Harry," he said as he made his way toward the double doors and freedom.

Harry gaped at him for a moment, but then did as he was told, and followed Severus out of the hospital wing.

"See you later then, Harry?" Lupin said as they passed him by.

"Er, yeah, Remus. Okay." But the boy's shoulders twitched up as he said it, and Severus knew he was uncomfortable with the idea of being in anyone's presence. Well, that would come with time, like everything else. Time they were running out of, unfortunately. Classes would start up again in less than four weeks, and Harry needed to be ready to face other students by then.

They walked down to the dungeon in silence. Severus hesitated briefly at the warded entrance to his quarters. Harry had never come in this way, at least not consciously, and he wasn't altogether sure he wanted the boy to know the password. But . . . well, if Harry was going to be here till September 1st, he probably should know how to get inside.

"Give me your hand," he said, and Harry looked at him askance. "I'm not going to bite it. The door needs to recognize you, and you'll need to put your hands on a particular spot for it to do so. Unless you fancy lingering about in the hallway whenever I'm not available to let you in?"

"No, sir! I mean, yes, sir." Harry held out his hand.

Severus took it and pressed the boy's thumb and forefinger onto two nearly invisible indentations. "Serpentia extremitas," he murmured, and the door warmed to the new person's touch. "Now you'll be allowed to enter," he told Harry. "Just press those two spots again and say the password. Clear?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Give it a try."

Harry startled but pressed the two spots and mumbled his way through the Latin -- Merlin, his accent was atrocious! -- and the door swung inwards, revealing the sitting room once more.

"Tea?" Severus asked as the door shut on its own behind them. They were going to have to talk, and he'd found the boy did better if he had something in his hands that he could focus on.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Well aware of the routine, Harry collapsed onto the couch, looking tense already.

Severus suppressed a sigh and went about making tea for them. He glanced at the boy while he set up a tray, and wondered what was going on in that knobbly head of his. More self-recriminations, he was sure.

Back in the sitting room, he waited while the boy adjusted his tea with sugar and cream, waited for him to blow on the drink a bit, waited till the boy took a tentative sip and then finally met his gaze.

"Well," Severus said. "That was an adventure I don't care to repeat."

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry blurted. "I didn't realize you . . . I didn't know your broom . . . I'm sorry I almost killed you."

"I daresay. That wouldn't look good on your transcript at all."

Harry gaped at him again. This was getting old. "Did you . . . are you joking?"

"Naturally. I would hope that your transcript would be the least of your concerns in the event of my untimely demise."

"Yes, sir! I didn't mean to put you in danger, I just . . ."

"You just what, Harry?" he asked softly. "What were you doing, going up like that?"

The boy stared at his teacup with an intensity Severus seldom saw in him, ever. "I'm just so cold, Professor. Everything feels . . . I feel like I'm in a dungeon. His dungeon, and I can never get warm. I just wanted to feel warm again."

"I see." He took a sip of his own tea, letting it sit in his mouth a moment before swallowing. "You do realize, of course, that the higher you go, the thinner the air, and thus, the colder it becomes."

Twin blotches of red appeared on the boy's cheeks. "Yes, sir. I know. Or, I knew that, but it . . . it didn't seem real, not until I felt you fall away."

Severus frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know, exactly. Just, when I was blind, and we were there, I could tell where other wizards were, from their magical . . . signature, I guess. That's what I've been calling it. It's how I knew where to aim when we were trying to escape."

"And how you knew when I'd awoken, later," Severus said softly.

"Yes."

Severus waited, but it seemed the boy was not ready to go on about Topsham, yet. "And so today . . ."

"Today, I felt you following me, but it wasn't till I realized that you'd stopped that I figured it out. About the sun, I mean, and not being able to touch it, really." Harry turned the cup around in his hands. "It was weird, what I was feeling. But then, once you were gone . . . I was just afraid."

"Afraid that you'd killed me."

Harry nodded, but remained silent.

"Well. I bear at least part of the responsibility for that," Severus admitted. When the boy looked at him in shock, he waved his hand lightly. "We hadn't set any limits for you in the vertical plane. I should have done so, to avoid any confusion. I shall rectify that oversight before we fly again, I assure you."

The boy's mouth moved, not unlike a large fish. "Are . . . are you serious? I almost killed you, and all you say is that you should have told me not to?"

"Not exactly. I should have told you not to go above a thousand meters, for instance. Then there would have been a rule that you would have broken, and we could deal with the consequences of that. This," he waved his hand again, "was merely a miscommunication."

"Aren't you going to send me away?" Harry's emotions were splayed all over his face; he'd never make an Occlumens this way. They'd have to work on that. "To St. Mungo's?"

"Have you broken any of our rules?"

"N-no, sir."

"Well, then, why should I send you away?"

Harry shook his head, as if trying to wrap his mind around a difficult concept. "Because I almost killed you!"

"But you didn't. And, in fact, I believe Madam Pomfrey, for one, is under the impression that you saved my life. So." He inclined his head. "Thank you."

A bark of a laugh escaped the boy's throat, and he looked torn between laughing more, or perhaps bursting into tears. Severus prepared to Reparo something, if need be. "I will never understand you, Professor," Harry said at last.

"Good," Severus replied. It would never do to be predictable.

Aug. 7

He's crazy. I mean, I thought for a while it was me, but really, he's the one who's crazy. He laughed today. It was creepy. He has really crooked teeth and when he laughs, you can see them all, and it isn't pretty. I wish I knew what the hell he expected from me in this journal, or from the stupid talks we have, when he thinks he can serve me tea and get me to spill my guts, but when I ask, he won't do any more than stare at me and lift his eyebrows, like that means something, and wait till I go crazy just like him.

This whole thing is stupid and a waste of time.

Let's see, then. The main ingredients in Draught of Living Death are asphodel, wormwood, Sopophorus bean, and valerian roots. The main ingredients in Draught of Peace are powdered moonstone and syrup of hellebore . . .

Once more Harry closed the book after twenty minutes and looked over at the Professor, expectantly. He wasn't sure what to expect, exactly, but it was sure to be . . . interesting. Snape had been in a weird mood, ever since the fall yesterday, and Harry didn't like it, at all. He liked his Professor being predictable, surly and nasty and condescending. This . . . he wasn't sure what to do with this.

Harry almost breathed a sigh of relief when Snape ignored him and continued to read. That he could handle. He was good at being ignored. But Snape merely finished the page he was on, closed his own tome and looked up into Harry's eyes.

"I imagine you'd like to go flying again today."

"I would, sir, but . . ."

"But? Come on, Potter, spit it out. I haven't got all day to wait for thoughts to form in that head of yours."

Ah, there was the disdain he'd come to know and respect. "But I don't want to trouble you, sir. Not after yesterday. I . . . I know you said Madam Pomfrey told you I saved your life, but I didn't really. It was an accident. I mean . . . I was really responsible for you almost dying in the first place."

"I see." Snape rose and went to the kitchen.

Harry sighed. Not again! "Do we have to talk? Can't you just . . . punish me or something?"

Snape peered at him through an almost perfect curtain of hair as he measured tea into the waiting kettle. His dark eyes were like polished cuts of onyx and about as warm. "What kind of punishment do you feel you deserve, Potter, for your behavior yesterday?"

"You could . . ." He made himself say the words, though he desperately wished he didn't have to. "You could take away my broom, sir."

"And would you learn self control that way?"

"Self control?"

"Are you a parrot? Never mind." Snape put the kettle on the hob and leaned against one of his counters, arms across his chest. "Understand this. What drove you to be reckless yesterday was an abhorrent lack of self control. Something Gryffindors are notorious for."

Harry set his jaw, though guilt and shame swamped him. If he'd been able to control himself, his impulses, then Sirius would be alive still, and his friends wouldn't have gotten hurt at the Ministry. He was as responsible for them as he was for everything else. He'd be lucky if they ever forgave him for almost getting them killed, if they ever even talked to him again. "Right. Yes, sir. I want to learn self control."

Snape laughed again. This time it was more of a chuckle, forced through a sneer, but it was directed at Harry, who bristled, even before he heard the man's cutting words. "I'll just forget you ever said that, shall I? When we both know it isn't true."

"It is. I . . . Like I told you the other day . . . I kill everyone who gets close to me, everyone who gets near me. My parents, Sirius-"

"Are all dead because the Dark Lord wanted them to be. Spare me the melodrama, Potter. You have no control over his actions. Only your own."

"But if I hadn't gone to the Ministry, Bellatrix-" Sharp pain ran through him, searing into his head and gut at the very thought of the woman who had killed Sirius, and who had tortured him, who had laughed at his screams. He could still hear her laughter sometimes, when it was quiet. When he tried to sleep. In his dreams. . .

"Harry?" The word was spoken very close to him, and he instinctively shied away and put his hands up to ward whoever it was from coming closer. He shivered, freezing, lying in darkness on the stone floor in the huge hall. If he focused on the laughter, he didn't have to listen to the screams.

"Harry. Tell me what's going on, now. Where are you?"

"It's cold," he said. "I can't get warm."

"It's warm here," the voice said softly. "Come, sit by the fire."

Hands tried to touch him and he shoved them away, scrambling backwards until he hit a wall. He couldn't have hands on him! "NO!"

"All right. It's all right, Harry. Here's some tea, right by your hand. Take the cup now."

He fumbled for the cup, and brought it to his mouth, unseeing. Everything was dark, like midnight on the night of a new moon. But the tea was hot and warmed him a little, though not enough. It was never enough.

"Take another sip."

He obeyed; it was easiest to do so. But the cup shook in his grip and he spilled some of the hot liquid on his lap. He barely felt it, though he brushed at it with his other hand, trembling like a stupid, scared child. Tears formed in his eyes, he could feel them, hot and stinging with salt, but he dared not let them fall. The laughter would worsen, and he didn't think he could take it. He squeezed his eyes shut instead.

"Talk to me, Harry," the other said, the one who's magic stood like a stalwart beside him. Then the other pressed a small towel into his hand, so he could dab at the mess on his trousers. "Tell me what's going on."

"Hurts," Harry whispered and took a shuddering breath, twisting the towel in his hands and pressing back against the wall. If he could just stop the screaming, everything would be fine.

"What hurts? Harry?"

"Everything." He couldn't hold back anymore, not even to curtail the awful, screeching laughter he knew would follow. The tears fell and he couldn't make them stop. His throat ached and his head hurt, and everything . . . he just wanted everything to stop. He squashed himself into as tight a ball as he could manage, to get away, to stop the pain. "Oh, god, it hurts; he's hurting me."

"Who is? Harry, who's hurting you?" A hand came down on him.

The touch burned and ripped him open from one end to the other, bones melting into hot shards of glass, and he screamed. Screamed through every drop of his blood spilled and every bone broken. Screamed through the sickening laughter and the high cold voice that crowed delight, "Let's see how he does with Crucio at the same time, Lucius. Does his agony make it sweeter for you?"

Then the breathless whisper against his ear that made him vomit, "Oh, yes, my Lord. Please."

"NO!" Harry shrieked. "Please, please stop, I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry! I'll be good, I promise! Please, don't hurt me anymore. . . ."

And now the hand was gone, and the soothing voice that was there to trick him into staying and listening, and all that remained was cold stone, laughter, and pain.

---

Severus sat back on his heels in front of the silently weeping Boy Who Lived, and swore. He'd thought they were making progress. Aside from the debacle of yesterday's flight, there had been no tears and nothing broken for almost 48 hours, and he'd considered it a decent step forward. But now Harry had gone two giant steps back, at first withdrawing into himself and pleading for all the hurting to stop, and now rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tight around his middle, and not responding at all. The bloody hope of the bloody Wizarding world.

Flashback, he knew, from some of his own experiences, and the best thing would be to ground Harry in the here and now. But he wasn't sure if Harry could even hear him anymore, and he certainly wasn't going to try and touch the boy again. He didn't need that scream replayed, thank you very much.

Instead he returned to muttering the inane words he hoped would somehow get through this newest wall. "You're in the sitting room, Harry, in my quarters. We're at Hogwarts. You're on the wool rug, can you feel it? It's warm here, in front of the fire. Harry, open your eyes and see where you are. It's my sitting room at Hogwarts. . . ."

After little less than half an hour, the boy blinked and looked at him. "Professor?"

"I'm right here," Severus replied, although that was obvious. "Would you like to get off the floor now?"

Potter peered around, his big green eyes still blinking owlishly behind his glasses. "Where are . . . we're at Hogwarts?"

Severus nodded, and even let pass the perfect opportunity he had to cut the boy's mental capacity down to size. He must be getting senile in his old age . . . or terminally sentimental. "In my quarters. Now, the floor, while a sensible place to put one's feet, is hardly suitable for sitting upon. So, if you would . . .?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry." Potter pushed himself to his feet, making no move to take the hand that Severus offered to help him. Severus wasn't even sure the boy noticed it. He swayed a little, once standing, and Severus managed - just - not to grab his arm to steady him. "I'll . . . I'm kind of tired, Professor. Can I lie down awhile?"

"You know the rules, Potter." Best to keep them on track.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Potter swiped a hand across his eyes, then held it up, as if surprised he could see it. "Sorry I . . . I kind of lost it. I dunno what happened."

"Go wash up, Potter. Your face is a mess. I'll make tea."

A bleak smile of acknowledgement greeted his words, which was all Severus could really hope for at the moment. He busied himself in the kitchen while the boy washed his face and changed his clothes, presumably, and when Harry returned, he had the table laid out. He pushed a phial of translucent green liquid across the table. "Drink. It's a calming draught."

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled, and did as he was told, then pulled one of the cups of tea towards himself and added his customary cream and sugar before taking a biscuit and nibbling the corners off.

Severus waited a good few minutes, until he was sure the calming draught had taken effect, and that the boy had drunk some of his tea, before speaking again. "Your nightmares," he started, conversationally.

Harry's shoulders tensed, and his fingers gripped the tea cup, despite the potion. "Yes, sir?"

"They are not abating."

"No, sir." Harry sighed and looked deep into the cup, as if he could see more in there than even that dingbat, Trelawney. "I'm sorry if I . . . if I've kept you awake."

Severus waved his hand dismissively. "That's not why I mention them. You must Occlude when you lie down to rest. The meditative properties of clearing your mind will help you avoid your nightmares, too."

A green-eyed gaze flicked to meet his for a millisecond. "Meditative what?"

"Did you not learn anything from our past lessons?" Severus growled. "I'm talking about when you clear your mind! Through breathing or picturing waves upon the beach or however you tried it. Meditation, boy!"

"I . . ." Harry stared, his expression a mix of shock and outrage. "But you never told me any of that! Breathing? All you said to me, ever, was that I had to get my emotions under control and clear my mind! How was I supposed to know how to do that?"

Severus glared right back. "I assumed you would seek ways to accomplish it, outside of our lessons, which were meant for far more important aspects of learning Occlumency, ones you could not complete on your own." He leaned forward and jabbed a finger in the boy's direction. "You could have, for instance, researched methods of clearing your mind, perhaps with the help of that Know-it-all you spend so much time with. Surely Miss Granger could have found copious volumes of meditative techniques for you in the library, if you were unable to wrap your pea-sized brain around the concept yourself!"

Harry gaped at him, at a loss for words. For once. About time, too. But it was too much to hope it would last long, however, as the Brat Who Lived opened his mouth and muttered, "You could have mentioned as much."

Through gritted teeth, Severus spat, "You wasted my time. You never took the training seriously, and you have the nerve to castigate me?"

At once, the boy's whole face grew red, neck and ears and all, and he bowed it over his tea as he murmured something more.

"What is it, boy? Speak up!"

With a gulped breath, Potter dared a glance up at Severus, and by some miracle, held his gaze. "I said I'm sorry, sir." His voice was half contrition, half ashamed, and Severus raised one eyebrow. "I really am. You're right. I . . . I'm sorry I'm such a waste of time. If I had it to do over, I'd . . ." He shrugged, and Severus let it go this once.

"You are not a waste of time," he said, after allowing the silence stretch while he got his temper back under control. "But your lack of self-control - of your emotions, of your mind - makes you a liability, to your friends, to yourself, and to the cause we are fighting for."

"Yes, sir."

The boy looked properly cowed, now, yet somehow, his submission did not hold the wondrous flavor and texture as once it had. Harry was broken, Severus reminded himself. And he did not like to toy with broken things. "Perhaps . . ." Severus sighed and overruled his better judgment. "Perhaps I could loan you reading material that might aid your attempts to clear your mind. Once you've read and made use of the information, we might consider another attempt at Occlumency."

"Really?" The boy straightened in his chair. Hope shined in his eyes. "I mean, that would be great, sir. Thank you!"

So easy, Severus reflected again. It would be so easy to turn this boy against everyone and everything he knew, into little more than an extension of his own will, with a few kind deeds and tempered words. And yet, if he was to be their one and only hope . . . Well. If that was the case, then it was really up to Severus to make sure Potter got back on his feet and arm him with all the weapons at his disposal.

He just wished he had more time.

Twenty minutes passed, but Harry didn't close the journal right away. Instead, at the end, he scribbled, Why's it all got to be so hard, anyway?

He stared at the sentence, then crossed it out and slammed the journal closed. He would not get all self-pitying and woe-is-meing, and he would not fucking cry again, ever! He didn't care how much Snape bullied him, or didn't.

"Professor?" he asked, turning from the desk. "Can I go flying today?"

Snape looked up at him from his own book, but didn't say anything immediately.

"Please?"

"Very well," the professor said at last. "I suppose you'll be even more useless in our lessons if I don't indulge your need for outdoor time. But we'll be having tea afterwards." His lips gave an almost imperceptible twitch. "If I am not unduly indisposed."

Was that supposed to be a joke? Harry frowned at him. Surely he wouldn't joke about almost dying! Again, he though, remembering that Snape had make the jest about Harry's transcript, too. Maybe Snape was just naturally all over giggly about death or dying.

Harry could almost understand that. If he didn't laugh about some things, he would surely scream instead. Oh, sure, events like taking on that troll first year, or even sliding the sword from the Sorting Hat during second year, weren't funny at the time. But now? Now he could look back and laugh. Sort of. How daft was it, after all, that he'd fought a basilisk, which outweighed him by a million stones and had poison fangs to boot, with just a pointy bit of metal? Even if the creature had been blind? He knew better than most, now, that being blind didn't make you helpless.

Not entirely, anyway.

Mercilessly shoving thoughts of that under the stone, he nodded. "Okay. If I don't kill you, we can have tea afterwards."

Snape lifted an eyebrow, and his mouth did that twitchy thing again -- maybe he was developing a tic? -- before he rose and put aside his book. "My broom? I don't imagine you were able to catch it, too."

"No, sir. But it came through the Floo when you were doing potions in your lab yesterday. I think Dumbledore found it."

"Ah. And you put it where?"

Harry tilted his chin over towards the bookcase closest to the door. "In the corner." He stood and stretched, working the kinks out of his shoulder from where he'd bruised it the other day. "It's not a bad broom, sir. But it's got nothing on a Firebolt."

"So I discovered." Snape took up the broom and peered at Harry. "Just so there are no misunderstandings, you are to remain within the confines of the pitch on the horizontal, and to go no more than twice the height of the goal posts, in the vertical. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir." He hesitated, then, "Can I use a snitch from the school stores? I'd just like to practice. It's not really playing Quidditch, just . . . just chasing the snitch."

Snape pursed his lips. "I think not." He held up a hand when Harry was about to launch into protests. "Not this time. Even practice snitches may not stay within the parameters I have set for you. And I must be at least able to see you to protect you."

Harry gritted his teeth and managed -- barely -- not to argue anyway. He knew the professor was right. Didn't mean he had to like it, though. Then he latched on to one of the things Snape had said. "Not this time, you said. In the future you'll let me?"

"I will discuss the matter with the Headmaster."

"But you--"

"I will discuss with him, Potter. I will not make you false promises."

That stopped him. Snape was like that. He didn't promise things he didn't know he could hold to. It was one of the things Harry actually appreciated about the man. That and the fact that he always treated Harry like he was a person, even if just a childish, arrogant person, and not just a famous scar.

"Yes, sir," he said again, and went to get his broom.

---

Flying was brilliant! Sometimes, like lately, it was the only thing worth getting out of bed for, and the best part of everyday. It was like . . . breathing, but breathing laughing gas, because he couldn't hardly keep the smile from his face when he was in the air, broom tucked between his knees, soaring over the world with the wind in his face and no one to trouble him at all.

Keeping his promise to remain in the -- purely arbitrary, he thought -- confines Snape allowed was difficult, but he managed, and nothing could choke all the fun out of flying. Not even Snape's hovering, nor his occasional snipes to "Check your speed, Potter!"

Too soon, it was over, and Snape actually sneered at him -- it was disturbing how comforting seeing the sneer was -- when he said Harry could have as much time in the air each day as he spent working on his journal beforehand.

Harry groaned, but he still had more than half the alphabet of potions to get through. He could make that stretch an hour or more tomorrow, easily!

Back inside, while Snape made tea, Harry sat at their customary table and fidgeted. He truly detested these talks. He didn't like the out of control feeling he had when Snape maneuvered him into saying more than he wanted, nor the sick churning in his gut when he felt like the git was prying plasters off his carefully hidden wounds and exposing them to the air.

So he was almost pleasantly surprised when, after taking his first sip, Snape said only, "Tell me about the Sorting Hat."

"What?!"

"You mentioned once that the Sorting Hat had a different idea about where you belonged. I am curious as to what you meant."

Harry stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. What could it hurt? "The hat wanted to put me in Slytherin. I didn't want to, so it sorted me into Gryffindor instead."

With cup halfway to his mouth, Snape froze, and his dark eyes were wider than Harry had ever seen them. "Why, pray tell?"

Sighing, Harry admitted, "Well, Hagrid told me all wizards who'd ever gone bad came out of Slytherin, and I had just learnt that day that my parents were killed by a Dark Wizard, so I didn't want to become like him." It was hard, very hard, to keep every thought of that monster shielded under the thick layer of stone, but if he didn't, he was going to crack up, no lie.

"And besides, Malf--" He sucked in a breath, feeling acutely dizzy. The room tilted, and sweat coated him as he strained to reach the stone. He was going to vomit, he really, really was . . .

"Breathe, Harry." The voice was so close he could feel the air move on his face. "Take one breath, come on. Breathe in."

He struggled to obey, but his gut hurt, and he pressed his hands to his stomach and heaved all over the floor. He drew a breath, but only so he could retch again. The stone, he had to reach the stone with this memory, or he would hurl up his intestines next. He scrabbled towards it, in the morass of memory that clung to him in the darkness. He barely registered the whispered, "Scourgify," nor the continuing encouragement from nearby to "Just breathe, dammit," as his fingers at last found pitting on the stone sized for him to grip, and he shoved the latest horrors away and underneath the gray slab.

And then he breathed.

Choking on sour bile until someone -- Oh, yeah. Snape -- handed him a glass of water to wash out his mouth, Harry pressed a hand to his eyes. He hated this. He hated Snape, and tea and stupid, sodding memories and, and everything!

The glass was very smooth under his fingers, and he gripped it tight, wishing Snape would just go away and leave him alone.

"All right now?" Snape asked, and Harry almost threw the glass at him.

"Yeah, I'm great. Thanks for asking."

Silence greeted his sullen words, and he chanced a look up. Snape was frowning -- big surprise there -- but didn't seem to be angry, just . . . concerned?

"Really," Harry said, trying to move it along. "I'm okay now."

"Today's episode was much shorter than yesterday."

"Oh yeah?" Harry didn't really want to know, but he was a little curious. Morbidly, one might say. "How long then?"

Snape regarded him coolly. "Yesterday, almost half an hour before you recalled where you were. Today, only fifteen minutes."

"Well, good. By the time classes start again, I'll only be crazy for a minute or two every day."

"You're not crazy," Snape said, and his frown deepened.

"Coulda fooled me." Harry took a long swig of water, which helped alleviate the burning in his throat. "Look, could we not talk about this anymore?"

"Of course." Snape's lips curled in his ever-ready sneer. "But you will finish explaining to me why you did not wish to be sorted into my House."

Harry took an experimental breath. He just had to remember that Draco was not his father. Okay, he could do that. He let the breath out and stared into his half empty glass. "I met . . . Draco when I was getting fitted for my first robes, and he was a lot like my cousin, Dudley, going on about how he'd get a broom at school if he pestered his parents enough, even if the rules said he couldn't, and then he was making fun of Hagrid, who, like I told you before . . ." His throat closed and he couldn't continue.

"Bought you your first present. I remember."

"Er, yeah." Harry shook his head and stuffed the memory away. "So, Ma -- Draco was certain he was going to be sorted into Slytherin, where all good non-Muggle-raised Wizards should go, since 'the other sort' didn't even deserve to go to Hogwarts. And after he said a couple other nasty things, I decided I didn't want to be there at all if there was any way I could help it. So I let the hat put me where it wanted, so long as it wasn't your House. I didn't need to be hated at a new school, too."

"I see." Snape had returned to his own seat, Harry saw, when he looked up again, and had his hands laced together on the table top. "I assume you have realized by now that not all 'bad' wizards come from Slytherin."

"Well, yeah. Like Pettigrew."

"Yes." Something had changed in Snape's eyes, and Harry couldn't put a name to it. "Likewise, not all Slytherins are going to go bad."

"I know that." He didn't bother to add the 'now,' as he was sure Snape heard it anyway.

"Mm." Snape leaned forward and held Harry's gaze until he had to look away, then just as suddenly, leaned back in his chair. "I think you should have let the hat put you where it wanted to."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"For one thing," Snape drawled, "we might have avoided much of the . . . unpleasantness between us. As your Head of House, I would have been personally responsible for your welfare."

Harry snorted a laugh. "As it was you took on a lot. You saved me from Quirrell during my first Quidditch match, and from Remus when he turned into a werewolf. And from . . . you know."

Snape nodded. "Still, had you been in Slytherin, I might have been better able to temper my--"

"Hatred? Disgust? Or your mind-bogglingly, all-consuming loathing of everything Potter, coupled with the desire to see my head brining in your lab?"

"Indeed." Snape's lip twitched again.

Lifting his own eyebrows, Harry gave him as much of a cheeky smile as he could muster. "Yeah, that would've been nice."

Aug. 9

Fuck this. I am not going to write in this bloody book anymore. Not one more word. Fuck you, Snape!

Harry slammed the book closed again.

"Problem?" Snape asked, and Harry almost threw the journal at him.

"No. Why?"

Snape raised one eyebrow.

Harry hated when he did that. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Snape to say something. Two could play at his stupid mind games, after all. But Snape remained silent, and Harry hated that, too. He glared at the professor, whose expression didn't change. Finally, Harry shoved the book across the writing desk. "I'm not doing that anymore."

"Ah."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's an acknowledgement of your statement." Snape's other brow rose. "I did not realize such miniscule words gave you trouble."

"Just shut it!"

"A tad more decorum would suit you, Potter."

"Yeah, well, stuff your decorum. I'm not writing in that bloody book anymore."

"So you've said."

"And what're you gonna do about it?"

Snape's expression didn't change, but he stood, and managed to look more threatening, just the same. "Nothing. Writing is purely voluntary. Of course, not writing, means not flying . . ."

Harry gritted his teeth, wanting to clobber Snape or make him yell or something. He hated not knowing what to expect from this man, and hated him for that confusion. "I hate you, you know that?"

The professor cocked his head a little to the side, and peered at him as if examining a particularly foul turd. "I am not unaware of your feelings, Potter."

"Yeah, well," Harry replied, feeling oddly disconcerted. But why? He really did hate Snape, didn't he? The man kept him locked up down here, and wouldn't let him go flying, and made him talk about things he didn't want to talk about and made him eat when he wasn't hungry, and yet didn't yell or hit him or anything . . . "Just thought you should know."

"And now I do. Would you like to do your homework then, or read more on meditation techniques?"

"Neither! I don't want to do any of it!" He snatched up the journal and hurled it at the fireplace. Snape just watched it smack into the mantel and did nothing to stop him. "And how 'bout you stop being so . . . so goddamn understanding, okay? Why can't you yell at me or punch me or call me a fucking retarded freak or a spoiled arse or something? You're treating me like I'm damaged, and I'm not!"

Snape's dark eyes were hooded as he met Harry's gaze. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I have no intention of calling you a 'fucking retarded freak'," he said, his mouth twisting over the words. "And I do not hit children."

"I have never been a child!" Harry screamed, his vision narrowed to a red haze. "Get that through your skull! I've been a punching bag, a scapegoat, a house elf and the fucking Chosen One, but I have never been a child! So punch me, why don't you? You want to, right? You'd love to thrash me, admit it!"

Snape shook his head, even as he took a step closer to Harry, where he stood, fists clenched so hard his nails were digging into his palms. Snape took another step.

Harry was breathing hard, and gritting his teeth so tightly they creaked in his mouth. He couldn't take this, not from Snape. Snape was supposed to hate him, forever and ever. "Hit me!" He lifted his chin, giving Snape the perfect target. "Come on. Do it!"

"I'm not going to hit you, Harry."

"Fuck you!" Harry lurched toward the man, more angry than he had ever been. "You don't get to call me that, you great greasy git! You're meant to hate me, remember? I'm the spoiled rotten arrogant son of the one who humiliated you, remember? I'm nothing but trouble, and no one will ever care about me, 'cause I'm a dirty little freak, and I'll only get myself killed, good riddance, with my stupid, arrogant, fucked up--"

"Stop, Harry," Snape said, and his voice was kind, too kind, and Harry swung a fist at him.

"SHUT UP!"

Snape caught his wrist in one of his hands, and drew it to the side, where he couldn't punch anymore.

"LET ME GO!" He swung the other fist.

"Stop, now, Harry," Snape said, catching the other wrist and wrestling it to Harry's side.

Harry pulled and yanked on his arm, but Snape was too strong. "I hate you, I hate you! LET ME GO!"

"I can't do that, Harry."

"Stop calling me that!" Harry twisted in his arms and tried to kick him, but Snape turned him round and wrapped his arms, like bands, around his chest and held him close. "Leggo! I hate you! Please, let me go!"

"I will not hit you, Harry, no matter what you do." His voice sounded right next to Harry's ear, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt, and his chest, and he just wanted to lay down and die. Instead, he struggled harder. But Snape just tightened his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him from getting away. Stupid sod.

"Just leave me alone."

"I'm not going to do that, either."

"I hate you."

"I know."

---

From the kitchen, Severus watched Harry, who was hunched over on the couch, head pressed to his hands. The yelling had stopped, thank Merlin, and the foul language, but Harry had yet to look at him in the two hours since his last fit.

Two hours of this self flagellation was quite long enough.

Severus hovered the tea set out to the sitting room and sent a cup floating toward the boy. When Harry did not look up, even when the cup bumped gently against his forehead, Severus cleared his throat. Still not lifting his head, Harry put up a hand to grasp the thin handle of the cup and drew it down to his lap. Meanwhile, Severus took his own seat in his favorite chair and waited for Harry to adulterate his tea.

This time, though, he added nothing. Severus did not comment, but took a sip of his own cup. Once the boy had followed suit, and they were, for all intents and purposes, well into their ritual, Severus said, "Whose punching bag were you?"

"No one's," came the sullen reply. Harry still had not shown his face.

"You brought it up, Potter. And may I remind you that lying is not allowed, here."

"Whatever."

Severus watched for another few minutes. He could push the boy back into rage easily enough, but that wouldn't really get them anywhere today. He took another sip and pondered. Then, "Do you want to return to classes in September?"

"'Course I do."

"Then you must overcome this appalling tendency to fly into a rage at slightest provocation. Do you think your friends will appreciate your vitriol as much as I?"

A shrug, then a sigh, then a, "No. I guess not."

"Indeed. So, until I am satisfied that you will come to no harm, nor bring it to others, I'm afraid we are stuck here, with you answering my questions and obeying all our rules. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not sure it is. Enjoining me to strike you is not conducive to keeping yourself out of harm. You are not allowed to hurt yourself, nor are you to beg me to do so. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

An automatic response, that. Probably trained in him by his caring relatives, Severus thought with a sneer. But maybe it was the truth this time. "Be sure that you do. Now, who used you as a punching bag?"

Another sigh, and the boy's shoulders twitched in an almost-shrug, but he said, "Dudley."

"In his 'Harry Hunting' games?"

Harry winced. "Yes, sir. Or when his friends wanted a laugh. Or if he caught me talking to anyone at school or answering a question right for a teacher, or walking too slow, or just anytime he felt like it." He rubbed a hand across his face and finally looked over at Severus. "I got used to it."

"Did no one stop his . . . attentions while you were at school at least?"

Harry gave him an incredulous look. "Why would they? It's not like I mattered. And he was usually careful not to hit me when there were teachers around."

"And you told no one?"

With a snorted laugh, Harry shook his head. "Right. They'd believe me, sure." He scratched at his scar for a moment then shrugged, looking away. "All right, fine. I tried to tell a teacher once, that Dudley and his friends had beaten me up in the boys' lavatory. Miss Killdare. She gave me ice for my eye. But then Aunt Petunia came screaming down to the school and called me a horrible little liar who was always doing nasty things to her wonderful Duddy-dipkins, and that I should be punished for making up such stories. She said any bruises I had were self-inflicted, and any tales I told should be ignored from then on. When I got home, I got the belt from my uncle and the cupboard for a week."

He hitched up one shoulder. "I'm not stupid. I learned."

Severus took another sip of tea to cover his unease. "How old were you?"

"Seven. Maybe six. It's hard to remember."

"And how often did this sort of thing happen?"

"What? Dudley beating me up? All the time. Every day at primary, he found something to hit me for. He even beat up other kids if they started to be nice to me." Harry shrugged again, one of the most forlorn gestures Severus had ever seen. "After a while, I didn't care."

"Indeed?" He leaned forward a little, and noted that Harry tensed in response, even though he was ostensibly looking away from Severus. "You didn't mind not having friends?"

Another shrug. Severus raised an eyebrow, and Harry relented. "Okay, I minded. There wasn't anything I could do about it, though, and I learned to do without, like I told you."

"And how often did you 'get the belt'?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, and his chin came up, but once more he acquiesced. "When I deserved it, sir."

"That's not an answer."

"It is." He sighed. "I don't know. Couple times? Uncle Vernon was more into shaking sense into me. Aunt Petunia just like to slap." He pulled an almost rueful smile and rubbed at the side of his head as if he could still feel a lump there. "Unless we were in the kitchen and she had a frying pan handy. I learned to duck."

Severus stared at him. "You seem to have accepted as given many conditions in your childhood that most people would find unacceptable."

"Yeah, well, I'm a freak."

"Words your relatives used."

"So?"

"Is it possible they were mistaken?"

Harry laughed, but mirthlessly. "Right. You're gonna tell me--"

"I am going to tell you this once, Potter, and I never want to hear that you've spoken of this subject again, so listen well. There is nothing wrong with you."

"Yeah, right." He had a passable sneer, it was true.

"And it wasn't your fault."

"What the hell do you know?"

"I know enough." Severus looked deep into the green eyes that had beheld so much horror, in such a short span of years, and he did not flinch. "I know what violence to a child can do. I know what it's like to feel unwanted, uncared for. Unloved. And I tell you this, Harry, it was not your fault."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. "I know that."

"No. I don't think you do, yet." Severus sighed. "But I hope you will one day."

"Fine, whatever."

"I think I shall excise that word from your vocabulary."

"What, 'fine'?"

"That, too. You are obviously not fine, and so to continue to use such a hideously inappropriate word is insulting."

"To linguists?"

Severus smirked. "Exactly. So, we'll make a list of words that are of no use to our discussions." He conjured a roll of parchment and a never-out quill. Who knew how many words they might need to add?

Harry gaped at him. "You're serious?"

"Never moreso. Now, we've agreed that 'fine' shall go the way of all meat--"

"We never did! You decided to go all linguisty on me."

"Well, someone had to."

With a huff of breath, Harry muttered something about Hermione and word-police, but Severus ignored it. "Okay. You can't say 'arrogant' anymore, then."

Severus added it to the list. "Neither of us can. Also, no 'whatever,' 'freak,' or," he shuddered, "'dunno.' Despicable word, that."

"Oh, I dunno," Harry said with a smirk of his own -- he would have done Slytherin proud, at least on the surface. "I kinda like it."

"And 'kinda,'" Severus intoned, scribbling madly. "Perhaps, to be safe, we should just avoid all faux 'compound' words that end with 'a'."

Aug. 10

Whatever, Snape! Ha, didn't think I'd do it, did you? But I'm fine, fine, fine, fine, fine, FINE, FINE, FINE!

Hopes he reads that. Telling me I can't use "fine" or "whatever," or whatever his faux-caringness problem is today. It was his idea that it only took one vote to "blacklist" a word. He should've thought that one out a bit more before using it to keep me from saying "git" or "bat," ‘cause now he can't say "detention," either. Ha! Although he was obviously getting carried away when he said I couldn't use "no way," or "leave me alone," so my next choice of words was "the." Choke on that, ye Greasy Git!

He didn't have to tear up the list though.

The "Official List" he says, is the one posted on one of the kitchen cabinets. It's shorter than the one we worked on at first, but I got a few choice words in there, too. Still not supposed to use "fine" though. What am I supposed to tell him, then? I can't describe the awful . . . ache inside, the way it's hard for me to think, sometimes, or catch my breath, because a memory hits me and I can't see beyond it . . . until I get it under the stone. Then, everything's, well, fine.

I catch him watching me, sometimes, and it's weird, ‘cause I know he's trying to Legilimize me, or maybe just trying to make me talk, but he doesn't say anything, and it makes me really uncomfortable, ‘cause he's supposed to be the one who yells and insults me and instead he's the one who, right now, is telling me I'm worth something, and that nothing that happened, with the Dursleys at least, was my fault.

I know that's not true, no matter what I told him. I was bad, and I was punished. Dudley almost got killed a year ago because of me, and I blew up Aunt Marge, and ruined business deals for Uncle Vernon, and never did chores to Aunt Petunia's specifications Sure, they were more than your average kid had to do, but then, they took me in when they didn't have to. I was lucky to have a home, even if they didn't want me there.

Of course, when I look over what I just wrote, and think of Hedwig, who never, never deserved what he did to her, and I think about how they left me to starve to death or die of infection, I think maybe Snape is right and I rationalize what happened to me too much. "Sure they hurt me, but they had a right to." Blah. What if it was Ron's parents who hurt him like that? Would I feel the same? Or even someone like Colin Creevy, who's folks are Muggles? Would I think he deserved to be beaten and starved and locked away in a cupboard because he did accidental magic in front of them?

No. I wouldn't.

But I can't think about that anymore, ‘cause if I do, I'll get all depressed and shit, because there isn't anything I can do about the fact that they hated me, and nothing I did was every going to make them love me.

There, I said it. Happy now, Snape?

Sighing, Harry closed the journal which had miraculously reappeared on the writing desk this morning. Well, not so miraculous, he supposed, since all Snape had to do was pick it up off the floor and put it back on the desk. But still. He was almost . . . glad of it, really. He was still pretty sure that Snape was not covertly reading what he wrote, but one couldn't be too careful. He'd gotten a bit carried away, to be honest, with this last entry. He hadn't meant to write all that personal stuff. But it was easier than talking to the professor. Mostly.

Snape looked up at him at last, and Harry was half way to his feet even before Snape said, "Flying, I assume?"

"Yes, sir," he said, with all the enthusiasm he could muster. "Please."

"Very well." Snape marked the page in his book - he read as much as Hermione, honestly! - and rose to get their brooms.

For the next hour, Harry was at peace.

Afterwards, he was surprised that Snape did not bring out tea, which had become their custom after flying. He imagined that Snape found him easier to deal with when he was in a good mood from being outside. This time, though, Snape brought out a wide, covered bowl and set it on the table between them.

The pensieve.

Harry swallowed hard, looking at the seemingly innocuous stone bowl. It was the same one he'd gone into last year, and seen the memory that Snape had hidden from him. He glanced up through his fringe at the Professor, who stared back at him. There was no hatred in his gaze, but Harry still shuddered, remembering. It was the only time he'd been truly afraid of Snape and his legendary temper. And it was his biggest regret of their . . . relationship, whatever it was.

"Professor . . .?"

Snape nodded, his eyes still boring into him.

"I'm really sorry. I mean it."

Snape sighed. "I know, Potter. You said so before. And I . . . accept your apology. Now, let us proceed."

"What . . ." Harry bit his lip. He could admit to himself he was nervous about practicing Occlumency with Snape. It had always hurt the last time, like being hit by a bludger in the head, over and over. And the lessons made his scar ache, too, and he did not want to think about anything connected with his scar, ever. No matter that he'd woken from screaming nightmares again last night, trying to claw his forehead off. "What are we going to do?"

"You are going to place some of your . . . potentially problematic memories in the pensieve before we do anything else."

"Potentially . . . Oh." He could feel the blood drain from his face. He would have to think about the memories he wanted to remove, think about them in all their horrific glory. "I don't know if I can do that."

"I will be right here with you," Snape said, in the calm and somehow gentle voice he used when he thought Harry was about to bolt or throw something. That he was usually right did nothing to calm Harry's fears.

"Yeah, but-"

"'Yeah' is blacklisted."

That earned a brief smile. "Yes, sir," Harry started again. "I know you will . . ." and for a moment, he had to pause and let that sink in. Snape would be with him. And he knew that. He didn't have to face the memories alone. The greasy git of a potions master, who'd hated him for as long as he could remember, was going to stand by him through this. The idea was overwhelming, as he came to truly appreciate it for the first time. He drew a deep breath and peered at Snape, brows furrowed.

Snape stared back, his arms crossed over his chest, and lifted one eyebrow.

Harry laughed suddenly. "You are so gonna have to teach me how to do that."

"'Gonna,' Mister Potter?"

"Sorry. Going to. Teach me, that is. How to do the one eyebrow thing."

"And why would I do that?" Snape asked with a sneer. "It benefits me nothing to have young, cheeky imitators running about."

Harry sniggered under his breath. "Maybe I'll trade you."

"I can't imagine you have any personal habits I wish to emulate."

"Ha. Very ha. I meant maybe I have something else you'd want to trade for." He shrugged, casually. "Or maybe not."

"This discussion is unnecessarily off topic," Snape snapped. He held out a length of dark wood that looked shiny and new. "Now. Take this wand and put it to your temple."

"Your wand?"

"Indeed."

"Won't it . . . I mean, I thought doing stuff like this could mess you up if you didn't use your own wand."

Snape huffed in annoyance. "Only if, as I believe a certain ex-professor learned to his discomfort, the wand in question is malfunctioning. Any wizard can use any wand, Potter. Of course, if you use a wand more attuned to your personal magical core, the results are rather better as a result." He held out his new wand again. "Take it."

With a trembling hand, Harry did, and the warmth that spread through his fingers and then up his arm was like a balm. It had been too long since he held a wand, any wand, and he hadn't realized how much he missed it until now. He let the warmth permeate his being, let it settle in his chest until all he could feel was peace. Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he blinked them away, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute, till he got his bearings.

Finally feeling centered and in control again, he opened his eyes.

"All right, Potter?"

"You . . . you can call me Harry. If you want."

Something glinted in the professor's eyes, but was gone almost immediately. "Very well . . . Harry. Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes, sir.

A longer pause this time, and the professor was stalk still as he said, "This is likely to be difficult for you, and I would not like to be the cause of your distress. Thus, I ask you, may I put a hand on your arm, to steady you whilst you do this?"

Harry bit his lip again, hard enough to taste blood. Snape was asking. Not telling. He quickly nodded before he lost his nerve.

Snape stepped around to his side of the table, and put a hand on his shoulder. Managing, barely, not to flinch, Harry took another deep breath. "That's it," Snape said. "Try and relax. It'll be easier that way. Now, put the wand to your temple and concentrate on one memory you wish to remove." His fingers tightened on Harry's shoulder as Harry lifted the wand. The wand trembled and he had a sudden jolt of . . . something. Revelation?

What if he just Obliviated himself?

Wouldn't that be the best thing to do, all around? He wouldn't be able to remember any of it, the manor, Voldemort's pale white hands, Lucius' cold whispers . . . he would be at peace, truly. He wouldn't hurt any more. Hand shaking even more, he gathered his courage, and the word was on the tip of his tongue when Snape suddenly grabbed his wrist.

"What are you doing?" Snape snarled, and yanked the wand away from his head.

"What I should have done days ago," Harry told him, and wrenched his hand free of the potion master's grip. He still had the wand; that was something.

"Idiot child! Do you even know how to perform the spell? Do you want to wipe your entire mind clean away?"

"I don't care! What does it matter, anyway?"

Snape glared at him, eyes like dark fire. "If you truly do not care, then it matters not a whit. Go ahead. Curse yourself to oblivion. Abandon your life, your friends, and the entirety of the Wizarding world. Become a squib, go back to your Muggle life, or make a new one from a blank slate, if you really do not care."

A primal sound formed in Harry's throat, and he gave vent to the anguished cry and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He did care, he cared too damn much. It had always been his problem. Could he erase all memory of Hermione and Ron, the first and best friends he'd ever had? Could he obliterate Hagrid, or Remus, or . . . or Sirius? No, it was impossible. He wanted them, memories of them, but he could not deal with the others.

"You do it for me then!" he cried and shoved the wand at Snape. "You know the spell, you could remove just . . . just those couple weeks."

Snape made no move to take the wand. "Harry . . . it's no good. You can obliterate those memories, yes, but it won't take away the feelings associated with them. You won't know why you don't want anyone to touch you, nor why the idea of physical intimacy makes you shaky and sick. Also, you won't be able to erase the memories from anyone else who has knowledge of what happened, and who might remind you, wittingly or otherwise."

"What? You wouldn't . . ." Harry was suddenly very cold. And nauseous. And thought he might actually faint. "You mean Malfoy."

In a very quiet voice, Snape said, "I was not thinking specifically of Draco, but yes, that is what I meant. I cannot imagine that the Dark Lord, nor Lucius, will keep your . . . treatment at their hands a secret."

"Oh, god, oh, god. I'm gonna hurl . . ." and before he'd made it more than two steps to the bathroom, he did so, spewing the little bit of lunch he'd had all over the nice rugs in front of the fireplace. From his knees, he heaved and heaved until there was nothing left, and then he heaved some more until there was naught but sour spittle in his mouth and the taste of salt from tears.

---

From his knees, Severus banished the foulness with a wave of his wand, and considered conjuring a bucket. But the boy was nearly done now, just shivering and hugging his arms to himself. To make sure he did not collapse, Severus put a hand on his back, and though Harry twitched like a skittish colt, he did not fling himself away as he had previously.

Severus would have counted that as progress if the mere idea that other students might know what had transpired at Topsham had not sent Harry into this awful spiral. Had the boy not considered it at all? The very idea was absurd. And yet . . . perhaps he was just too focused on making a recovery that he had not given the future much thought?

It was possible, though he doubted it. Harry seemed to give an inordinate amount of consideration to the future, at least insofar as fighting the Dark Lord was concerned, and he usually thought little of the past. Perhaps that is where the problem lay, this time, in his inability to push this event away as he had so many others.

It would bear thinking on. In the meantime . . . he summoned a glass of water and held it out. "Harry. Take the glass and drink. It will help you feel better. Your throat, anyway."

Blindly, Harry reached for the glass, and his hands shook as he brought it to his mouth. As the boy sipped, Severus was unsure what else to do, and ended up rubbing small circles on the boy's back to soothe him. It seemed to work, as the boy relaxed a little, and some color returned to his cheeks as his shivering abated.

"S-sorry, sir," he said in a thick voice, when half his water was gone.

"Don't be. Let's get you off the floor, though, shall we?"

"You're not gonna refer to me in first person plural now, are you?" Harry muttered. "Like a nursemaid?"

Severus snorted softly. "Impertinent brat. I'll only do so, if we don't get up very soon. My knees are not as young as yours. And that's points off, for your use of a blacklisted word. Again."

"What, ‘nursemaid'?"

With only a growl in response, Severus hauled himself to his feet, and offered a hand down to Harry. After a brief, almost non-existent hesitation, Harry took his hand and stood. He still looked pale and his hand was clammy, but he was clearly over this particular episode.

It was equally clear that the necessity for Occlumency had risen dramatically. "Come sit at the table," Severus said, and waved Harry into the seat he'd occupied until a few minutes ago. Once more, he gave Harry the wand and put his hand on Harry's shoulder. The boy had the determined gleam in his eyes that Severus far preferred to his passivity, no matter that he would rail about it once classes started again. "Hold it to your temple, and focus. When you have the memory completely in your grasp, draw it away from you with the wand. Be careful, and deliberate, so the strand does not break."

Harry nodded, then closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The wand was pressed into the flesh just above his ear, but his hand was steadier now, Severus was glad to see. He also knew when the boy had accessed one of the "troublesome" memories, as his face creased in pain and his eyes screwed shut.

Severus squeezed his shoulder, letting him know he was not alone. "Begin to draw it away now, Harry," he encouraged, and the boy's hand moved very slightly. The edge of a memory appeared, a slick silver strand that grew longer and longer as the wand eased away from his head. "Slowly, that's it." Harry's breaths came in harsh pants, his whole body trembling, but his wand hand was still steady. "Easy, easy," Severus told him, and then the strand came free, and Severus directed him toward the pensieve.

The memory arched and wriggled like a thing alive before falling into the stone bowl, and Harry sagged back on his chair. Sweat coated his face.

Severus handed him the water. "Drink that, and then we'll try another one." When Harry gave him a brief glare, he amended, "All right. You'll try another memory, and I'll offer moral support."

The boy's lips quirked in one of his rare, sardonic smiles, one that almost reached his eyes. "You have morals?"

"Cheeky brat," Severus growled, but he was pleased.

Aug. 13

I hate journals and I’m not going to write in them anymore. And he can look over at me all he wants and raise his eyebrow and not even teach me how to do it, and I don’t care.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. . . .

“Harry.”

Harry didn’t look up but kept writing the same three words over and over again, scribbling madly.

“Harry, look at me, please.”

It was the please that did it. Snape never said “please” to him. His quill stopped moving and he looked up at the professor, who was standing back a pace or two, not looming like he sometimes did.

“What are you doing?”

Harry tried the one-eyebrow thing, but only managed to get both of them to vanish under his fringe. “Writing in my journal,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Which it should be.

“You’ve been doing so for almost three hours. And after you tore up yesterday’s writing, I wanted to make sure . . .”

“That I’m okay? I’m fine.” Harry sneered. “Go ahead, take points.”

“Shall I make tea?”

“No.” He turned back to his journal. Now, where was he? Oh, yeah . . . I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t—

“Harry, I would like you to put your quill down.”

Harry gripped it tighter. “You wanted me to write, so I’m writing!”

“I suggested you write as a way to express yourself without shouting or wanting to hit things. But I don’t know if it’s doing you any good right at this moment.”

“It’s doing me a lot of good,” Harry growled, quill still scratching madly in the book, “and if you don’t let me be, I’ll tear out the rest of it and burn it, too!”

He felt the professor move before he heard him, and before he could do more than yelp, Snape snatched his journal and Accio’d the quill away. Harry reached for the ink pot, but it wouldn’t come off the desk, no matter how much he pried at it. “Oh, that’s not fair!”

“My apologies for not wishing to see your primitive artwork adorning my walls.” Snape’s voice had taken on that snippy, annoyed tone that Harry had grown to hate, especially over the last three days.

“You’re not sorry!”

“No, I’m not.”

Harry glared at him. “What do you care what I write, anyway?”

Snape’s face remained impassive, and Harry wanted to hit it. Hit him. Hard. He barely had a check on his temper, and had spent a good portion of the last couple days in his room, banished there for “acting like a three-year-old.” Ha! Fat lot Snape knew. If he’d threatened violence or had a “temper tantrum” when he was really three, he’d have been knocked flat. Sent to his room was nothing.

Besides, now he had his summer homework done, and had even read ahead in several classes. He’d passed all his OWLs except for Divination and History of Magic, and had received Os in Defense, Transfigurations, and, surprisingly, Potions, with Es in everything else. Snape had been . . . kind enough to loan him texts for the coming year, since he hadn’t been able to stomach the idea of going to Diagon Alley to buy anything yet.

“Since you have not been able to put your journal to use for the last three days—”

“I did so! I wrote yesterday—”

“And promptly removed all traces of that writing, yes?”

So what, if he’d torn it out, and torn it up, and then burned it to ashes in the fireplace. “So?”

“So, you will now be required to tell me what was on those pages.”

“What? No! You said I didn’t have to share that with you.” Harry was on his feet now, and if he could break things in half simply by glaring at them, Snape would be in pieces. “I can’t believe you’re going back on your word!”

Snape crossed his arms over his chest and his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t yell, which was . . . amazing actually. “I told you I would not read your journal. And I will not. However . . . Harry, we have barely more than two weeks before classes are due to begin again, and you’ve not even been able to step into the Great Hall yet, with just the other professors.”

Harry mirrored Snape’s stance, though his shoulders hitched up a fraction. He didn’t what that had to do with anything, but he still bristled. “You said I didn’t have to, till I was ready.”

“I did,” Snape agreed.

“And . . . and I’m not ready.”

“I know you feel you aren’t, but if you’re going to go back to classes on time, you will need to get used to being around other people besides me, and in a less controlled environment. And the first step in doing that is to trust me with what has been bothering you the last couple days.”

Harry was trembling by the time Snape finished, and his hands were sweaty. He balled them into fists. “No, I don’t care!”

“Don’t care about what?”

“Going back to class. I don’t need stupid Charms and Magical Creatures and all that rot. I can . . . I can just go to the library and read on my own. How about that?”

Snape shook his head, and Harry’s fists were clenched so tight he wasn’t sure he could uncurl them again. “I’m sorry, Harry. You’ll need to be enrolled in regular classes, or at the very least, have a tutor who can take you through the curriculum, in order to do your NEWTs.”

“What if I don’t care about NEWTs?”

Snape considered him for a moment, expression barely changing beyond a slight cant to his head. “What do you care about?”

There it was, the moment to tell him, and admit that he’d become a monster. It almost felt good to be able to get it off his chest. “Killing them. Making them suffer like they did to me.” He paused. “But mostly, killing them.”

Snape nodded, once, as if he’d expected no more and no less from the stupid, arrogant Gryffindor who’d annoyed him for five years already. But Harry wasn’t going to take back the words, no matter how it made him look. They were the truth, and he was sick of lies.

He held the potion master’s gaze for a long time, and was surprised that Snape didn’t try Legilimency on him. But he didn’t, and they stared at each other and nobody shouted.

Finally Snape said, “Sit down. I’ll make the tea.”

Harry could have screamed. But he didn’t.

---

Several hours later, they were still at the dining table. Snape had made four pots of tea, in total, and Harry felt like he was floating in it. He’d used the loo a couple times already, and each time, while washing up he stuck his head under the tap and ran cold water over it.

He felt hot and a little sick, with shame and embarrassment, and it was the only way he could stay cool enough to continue their “conversation.” Though their talk wasn’t really a conversation, he thought. Snape asked questions, like he always did, and Harry had to answer them.

He hated it.

But he’d still told Snape about the nightmares he’d been having, the ones with Lucius Malfoy in them, and the laughter than made his skin crawl, and how now Draco was in them, and Avery, and in the worst ones, the dream added in Ron and the twins, and even Sirius, and all of them knew, and were mocking him and hurting him, and he was running, but he couldn’t get away, and he always woke screaming.

And he told Snape about the nights when his scar erupted in agony like he was under the Cruciatus again, and Snape nodded and said they were going to work on Occlumency again in the morning, now that he had most of the worst memories in the pensieve and had finished reading that book.

Then Harry asked how many times they’d hit him with Crucio that last night at the manor.

Snape looked at him, surprised, and equivocated for a while, but Harry just stared back at him and said, “Madam Pomfrey must’ve told you.”

Taking a sip of his tea before answering, Snape studied him over the rim of the cup, and Harry did his best not to fidget. “One wonders why you ask.”

Biting his tongue (literally) to keep from saying, ‘It’s none of one’s business,’ Harry held the man’s gaze, knowing he was being measured. “I want to know exactly how much I owe them for.”

Snape sighed and put down his cup. “Vengeance is a dark road, Harry.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You realize it was for vengeance’s sake that Tom Riddle became the Dark Lord, yes? Revenge on the Muggles who disowned him, such as his father, on those who hurt him or neglected him in the orphanage where he grew up, and revenge on the ones who currently stand in the way of his thirst for power.”

“I . . .” Harry hadn’t really known, but it made sense. At the moment, though, he didn’t care. That wasn’t going to be him. “I just want to know. Will you tell me?”

Snape pressed his lips together in a thin line and stared at him some more. Then he sighed again. His voice was curiously flat as he said, “According to Madam Pomfrey, in the twenty-four hours preceding our rescue, you were hit forty-three times by Cruciatus, twelve by Diffindo, four by Engorgio, fourteen times by Ennervate, eleven times by Episky, seven by Flagrate, once by Furnunculus—”

“All right, all right! Stop! Please.” Harry was feeling sick. He didn’t even remember most of that. When had they covered him with boils? And how come Snape remembered down to the specific number of each?

“There is more, if you want a true reckoning.”

“Maybe . . .” Harry squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed the sudden image of the Engorgio Curse, particularly, away. He gritted his teeth to keep from vomiting. He’d done too much of that this week. “Maybe later.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“Yes!”

“Very well.” Snape paused, long enough for Harry to get his breath back; probably timed it perfectly, the git. “Tell me, then, how you came by that interesting scar on the back of your right hand.”

Harry groaned and laid his head on his arms, on the table top. “I don’t want to talk anymore about the ways Harry Potter’s been stupid.”

“Oh, see, now you have piqued my curiosity. Do go on.”

Harry glared at him through half-lidded eyes. “I couldn’t keep my big mouth shut.”

“Fascinating.” He squinted at Harry’s hand. “It does read, ‘I must not tell lies,’ doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, um, sorry. I mean, yes, sir.” Harry rubbed the thumb of his left hand over the words and remembered how angry he’d been last year, and bitter, when everyone was avoiding him, including Dumbledore, who set up horrible, nasty Occlumency lessons with the person who he’d least wanted in his mind, ever.

With a sigh, he admitted, “It was Umbridge. Detentions. I kept getting them because I was damned well not going to sit there and listen to her tell everyone that Vold—er, sorry, that What’s-His-Name wasn’t back, and that I was making the whole thing up because I was a nasty little liar. Not after Cedric. I couldn’t let her do that to him.”

“But you could let her carve words in your hand?” Snape actually looked surprised, and a bit appalled, and Harry was taken aback.

He shrugged. “It was a quill that did it. I wrote, and it used my blood as ink, from cuts it made in my hand. Then it would heal up, and I’d have to write the line again.”

“Over and over?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you never told anyone? You do realize that Blood Quills are considered Dark Arts.”

“I figured that. And I tried to tell Professor McGonagall, but she just told me to keep my mouth shut and my head down.” He rocked his head on his arms so his face was hidden. “Well, we both know how bloody well that worked.”

“You . . . you told McGonagall? And she didn’t stop it?”

No question now, the Potions Master was spooked. Weird, after all Harry had told him, that this would set him off. “No.” He shrugged, peeking at the man through the fringe of his messy hair. “Why would she? It was my own dumb fault that I kept getting the detentions.”

“Because such items are highly illegal, that’s why! And because you’re one of her precious Gryffindors, not to mention the bloody Chosen One! She should have protected you.”

Harry laughed mirthlessly. “Okay. Sure.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed down to mere slits. “Explain.”

Sitting up straighter, Harry picked at the skin on his thumb along the jagged nail he’d taken to biting and avoided Snape’s eyes. “It’s just that a lot of ‘shoulds’ get tossed right out the window when it’s anything to do with all that Boy Who Lived rubbish.”

“Such as . . .”

Harry huffed a breath. “Such as, Dumbledore should have told me earlier about the prophecy. Or, rather than ignoring me last year, he should have said that Old Snake Face,” he ignored Snape’s tea snortage, “was like to be messing about in my mind and I should be doubly wary of any visions. And both him and McGonagall should have listened when I asked them over and over if I could stay here, summers, because I really, really didn’t like it with the Dursleys. And I shouldn’t have had to face the full Wizengamot for defending myself against Dementors while on summer hols. And I shouldn’t have been forced to play in the TriWizard Tournament, especially when at least Dumbledore knew the Goblet had been tampered with somehow, for my name to get into it in the first place. McGonagall should’ve listened when I told her the Sorcerer’s Stone was in trouble, and that Dumbledore shouldn’t leave the school unattended, so I wouldn’t have had to get past Fluffy and all the rest of it. . . .” He paused and played with his teacup for a minute. “You know, for example.”

Snape was silent, and for a long time, the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Harry had gotten used to the sound, and the warmth of the fire, and was glad that Snape let them keep it going, even though they didn’t really need it here in the summer. It wasn’t hot in the dungeons, by any means, but it wasn’t actually chilly enough for a fire, either.

A sudden pop came from the logs as several of them settled, and sparks rose to float in the air. Harry’s gaze was drawn to them, and he startled slightly when Snape finally spoke.

“I owe you an apology again, it seems.”

Harry frowned. “How do you figure?”

Snape’s dark eyes watched him thoughtfully, and it made Harry nervous. “I was so concerned with making sure you survived your various encounters from year to year, I had no idea that you were being undermined so continuously and thoroughly by my colleagues. If I had, I assure you, I would have stepped in far sooner.”

“What do you mean, far sooner? Far sooner than what?”

“Than now. Harry, I’m going to petition the Ministry to give me custody of you, until you come of age.”

Aug. 13, continued

He has got to be kidding me. . . .

---

Flashback.

"Than now. Harry, I'm going to petition the Ministry to give me custody of you, until you come of age."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"In no way. You obviously require the proper guidance any young man does, and more. Your . . . guardians have failed you in the past. I will not do so."

"Really." Harry folded his arms over his chest. He'd just turned sixteen - while he was at Topsham, actually, not that he'd realized it until a couple days ago - and that would mean a whole year of being Snape's ward. He shuddered at the very idea. "And what makes you think I want a guardian at all? Or even better, that I want you?" Snape raised an eyebrow, which just chewed Harry's cheese. "Quit that!

Snape's voice was silky smooth as he quirked his eyebrow higher. "We could make a trade."

"Oh, yeah, like I'm gonna let you be my guardian so you can teach me eyebrow tricks? Do you think I'm stupid? Wait, don't answer that."

"Points, Mr. Potter, for use of two blacklisted words." Harry scowled, even as Snape added, "And no, I don't think you're stupid. Just . . . ill prepared."

"Ill prepared for what?" he asked, deciding to ignore the almost compliment and go for sating his curiosity instead.

"For life."

Harry snorted a laugh. "Probably just as well, considering."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I'm not likely to live past the ripe old age of . . . well, however old I am the next time me and What's His Name meet." If he was flip about Voldemort's name, he didn't have to think about the monster very closely, which was better all around.

"I have no intention of seeing you sent to the grave by that encounter. I will prepare you for that, as well."

"Uh huh. Have you heard the prophecy?"

"Parts of it," Snape admitted, but he looked very uncomfortable.

Harry leaned across the table. This was new. "Really? Did Dumbledore tell you?"

"Not exactly."

"Well then?"

Snape sighed and folded his hands together on the table. He looked Harry in the eyes and Harry saw sadness and a touch of apprehension? there. "I want there to be no lies between us. I will tell you something now that will upset you, I have no doubt. But I would rather we speak about it now, than you learn the truth from someone else. I am not proud of what I did, and I . . . I truly regret what resulted from . . . Well." He looked away for a long moment, and Harry held his breath.

"I overheard Sybil's prophecy. When it was first made. But only the first part, which was why the Dark Lord was so anxious to hear the rest."

Oh my god.

"You . . . YOU told him? You're the one who gave him the prophecy?" Harry voice had almost reached screeching proportions.

"Harry, I-"

"SHUT UP! You dare talk to me about protecting me and being my guardian, and you're the one who got my parents killed?!" Harry was trembling in rage, and he heard the rattling of potion bottles and bookcases all around him as he got angrier and angrier . . .

Snape's face hardened. "It was not only I, if you'll remember. Peter Pettigrew had a fair amount to do with it, as well."

"But there wouldn't have been any secret for him to protect, if you hadn't told!"

"That's not exactly true. I admit, the Dark Lord might not have known as quickly if I had not been in the Hog's Head that day, but I imagine he would have heard it from Peter's mouth, soon enough."

"You imagine! Oh, that's a relief!"

"Potter!" Snape glared at him. "I was wrong. I admit it. The words I spoke to the Dark Lord about a prophecy I'd heard only a line or two from resulted in the death of my best friend. Don't you think I am sorry for that?"

"I don't know what you're sorry for any more. You said . . ." Angry tears came to Harry's eyes and he scrubbed at them before they could fall. "You said you want to protect me, but what happened at . . . at the manor . . . I . . . no one . . ." He gulped a breath, but it wouldn't go down right and stuck in his throat. His ears were buzzing oddly, and his face felt hot. Someone touched his hand, and he jerked it back. "Can't . . ." he gasped, still unable to get air.

"Breathe, Harry," a soft voice said, and he knew, in the abstract, that it was Snape, but he didn't care. "Come on. One breath. In. Out."

Harry wheezed a half-gasp and struggled for more. His head felt light, like he was floating. "Help . . ."

The hand took his again. This time he gripped the slender fingers and held on tight, trying desperately to breathe. "Harry, I'm here, all right? Squeeze my hand. Take a breath for me, you can do it."

On his chest lay a bag of bricks, pressing down and collapsing his lungs. So heavy. Too heavy. Snape hadn't protected him. No one had, not at Topsham. Not from Voldemort. Tears ran down his cheeks, and suddenly he was gazing into dark worried eyes. "Let me in, Harry," Snape said. "I can help."

Despite his doubts, Harry jerked a nod, and the next moment, a whispered "Legilimens," let Snape into his mind.

---

A swirl of images flash past Severus as he wades through Potter's mind, looking for a way to calm him. . . . . Harry can't see, but slashes as from an invisible whip lay open the skin on his bare chest, spraying warm blood across his hands and arms. Though he was writhing from Cruciatus already, he was trying to resist it by biting his lip, or the inside of his cheek. Both are in shreds. But the blood is too much - is the spell ripping him apart at last? - and he screams. In the dark haze of his blind agony, he realizes the feel of magic in the room has changed. Snape is awake! He can't . . . he can't know. It's not his fault! Snape must never know how much Harry is hurt, must never think it's his fault, so Harry quietens his cries and holds the ripping, tearing pain inside, as tight as he can, but he can't breathe anymore. . . .

"No!" Severus yells and pushes the memory away, only to be caught by the next . . . His odious cousin sits on his chest and punches him over and over in the face, so blood fills his mouth and nose. Three other boys hold Harry's arms down, or sit on his legs, and one of them has a handful of spiders he plans to cram down Harry's throat.

Severus has to go deeper. . . . A door slams on a little boy, leaving him in darkness with the thick, suffocating smell of spilt chemicals, of bleach and ammonia mixed together. The boy's eyes burn and he pounds on the tiny slanted door of his cupboard, pleading in a voice hoarse with coughing to please be let out. Once he is reduced to scratching at the door, his hands are bloody and he can no longer see. . . .

Shoving through the door, Severus emerges into the open air of a hallway, and then, outside at last, to a memory of sunshine on a clear autumn day. Warm puffs of air mist in front of the boy's mouth and he sucks them back in, blows them out again, laughing at the sound and sight of his own breath.

This is one of the only happy memories Severus has seen or even heard of from Potter's childhood, and he will use it to get the boy to relax and breathe. Using soft tones, and a gentle hand, he stands beside the boy and breathes with him, smiling down at a Harry perhaps seven or eight years old, laughing along at their antics, and encouraging the memory. He lets it take over the whole of the boy's mind. Breathe. In. Out. Draw the mist in . . . breathe it out.

---

It took a long time. For the span of a heartbeat or two, after he left Harry's mind, Severus was sure it had been too long, that the boy had suffered oxygen deprivation and was dead, or worse. The rational part of his brain reminded him that was impossible, that the moment Harry passed out, his panic attack would have ended and his body would have regained control of his breathing. But fear has never been rational.

After laying Harry on the couch, then dosing him with a calming draught for good measure, Severus sat by Harry's feet, and observed his face. His forehead was wrinkled in worry lines and tension even while he was sleeping. His mouth was pinched around the edges, as if he were constantly in pain.

As they had talked about several times in these rooms, life just wasn't fair.

He now knew enough about Harry's life to understand that he was not, nor had he ever been the primped up, spoiled, arrogant prick that James had been. In fact, Harry often - maybe even usually - put others' concerns above his own. Not keeping quiet in Umbridge's class for Cedric's sake. Or running to slay a basilisk because a Weasley was in danger. Even when he whinged about the unfairness of life, it was usually on behalf of others, and not himself.

Even, Severus sighed to himself, even trying to hide his pain at what was happening to him at Topsham, because he didn't want his professor to be upset.

Merlin, what a mess the two of them were.

Suddenly he realized he was looking at green eyes, watching him. The boy was breathing normally, and didn't seem to be in any pain, although the wrinkles in his forehead were still present.

"How do you feel?" Severus asked, and could have smacked himself for asking such an inane thing.

But Harry merely shrugged a little and looked away, toward the fire in the hearth.

"Tea?" When Harry shook his head sharply, Severus said, "Water then?" and received a faint, "Yes, sir, please," in reply. After he'd summoned a glass of water for the boy and let him drink, Severus set his expression to his more usual blank one. "I would like us to have that conversation again, Harry," he said. "This time, with both of us remaining present."

"Don'wanna."

Severus gave him a mock glare. "I do believe that's a triple point score."

"Maybe two," Harry allowed, with the thinnest of smiles. But Severus would take what he could get.

"Mm. Still, what we want is not always possible."

"I'm tired, Professor," Harry said.

"I know." He paused. Then, "Lily was one of my only friends in Hogwarts. I mean true friends, not just an acquaintance or one of a cohort. We knew each other before we even went to school." He smirked at Harry's surprise. "You had no way of knowing, of course, but we lived not far from each other when we were children. And yes, we were friends, and got along well at Hogwarts, too, the first couple of years, even after I was sorted into Slytherin and she into Gryffindor, even when she spent time with the Marauders," he sneered. "And even when they bullied me and pranked me and all that. I gave as good as I got, and they toned down a bit after the Shrieking Shack incident, though not much. Mostly just stopped doing it where others could see."

He could see that Harry was wrapped up in the tale, as he was himself, remembering his first few days at Hogwarts. He'd quickly realized that, as a half blood, he was never really going to fit into Slytherin, but would always be on the sidelines, watching, so he spent time with Lily, exploring the grounds, sharing excitement about their classes, and enjoying her company.

"It changed, for us, when . . . when I called her that horrid name." He held Harry's gaze until the boy nodded, once, and continued, "She thought I was too far gone to the Dark, I think, if I could say such a thing to her, and I couldn't explain to her the vagaries of school yard taunts, and how being rescued by a girl was almost worse than the prank itself But I thought she would . . . I tried to apologize . . ."

Severus broke off and realized he was staring at his hands now, the same hands which were stained from years of mixing potions and poisons, and which had once held Lily's . . . He looked back at Harry, and his voice was thick as he went on, needing to tell him the whole thing. "It was never the same after that. I joined the Death eaters. She married James. But I never once, never once thought anything I told the Dark Lord would hurt her, nor you or your father. That was never my intention."

Harry stared back at him for a long, long time, and Severus almost wished the boy would scream at him again, or throw something. He had never shared any of this with anyone but Albus, and then, only on the day he finally left the Dark Lord for good. But Harry had to know. And he was sick of lies.

Finally, the boy sighed. His green eyes brimmed with tears, and Severus ached for him, for the boy he had been, and the pain he had endured. "I believe you. And . . . and I'll think about your offer." With that, Harry shoved off the couch and went to his room, closing the door quietly behind him. The table where the journal had been was bare.

In truth, it was a better reaction than he had expected.

End Flashback

---

. . . I think he must be crazy. What would he want with a fucked up kid like me anyway? Besides, he still doesn't know the rest of the prophecy. Once he does, he won't want me anyway.

Aug. 14

I can't think anymore. I've been thinking and thinking and going round and round about this . . . clusterfuck of bombs Snape hit me with. He wants to be my guardian. He was friends with my mother. He got her killed.

It's too much.

Closing the book, Harry rested his head on his arms. He was back out in the sitting room, after spending most of last evening in his room, thinking, brooding and occasionally, though he hated to dwell on it, crying. He was really sick of doing that, but it was like his body didn't care what he wanted anymore, and just started producing tears whenever he thought about certain things. Like Sirius, or Voldemort. Or the prophecy.

He didn't want to kill anyone, so it was unlikely he would be the one to survive their next meeting. It was only because of others that he was here, now at all. Only because McGonagall and Tonks had come to get them, and because Snape had helped him escape from the Voldemort inside his mind. He didn't know how he kept surviving things, but he knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going to survive the final battle.

Snape let him sit there, unmoving, for maybe ten minutes before he rose, putting his book down, and went to the kitchen. Harry groaned inwardly. He knew the tea was helpful, giving his hands something to do while they talked, but he was really getting to hate tea . . . now that it was irrevocably intertwined with these talks.

What did Snape want anyway?

"What do you want, anyway?" he asked.

Snape, filling the kettle with water, looked up at him through his greasy hair. "World peace," he said with a sneer.

Harry snorted softly. "Yeah, er, I agree. But that's not what I meant."

"I know." He put the kettle on the hob and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes half way, waiting for the water to boil.

From his seat at the writing desk, Harry watched Snape's face, thinking about how almost completely blank it always was, except for a few tells. When he was amused by something, one corner of his mouth would twitch, as if he had to force himself not to laugh - he wondered for a split second what Snape laughing would look like, but then decided that it would probably herald the end of the world and so wasn't worth thinking about. And when he was listening intently, Snape leaned forward, just a smidge. When he was anxious about something, which didn't happen often, obviously, he laced his fingers together and held them perfectly still, whereas if he was trying to figure something out, he often did the same thing, except his thumbs tapped lightly together.

And of course, when he was angry . . . well, Snape had many faces of rage, actually. He had the sour, "I smell something foul, oh it's you, Potter" look, and the "I'm going to skin you alive and use your still beating heart for my potions" look, and Harry's personal favorite, the "I'm about to kill you and everyone you've ever talked to, so you better run" look.

He also had the cold rage, the one that actually made Harry afraid of him. That one wasn't hard to tell either. His face was completely without expression, everything still and calm, except his eyes, which could freeze over Tahiti with a mere glance.

The tea tray hit the table with a whispered scrape, and Harry automatically reached for his cup and stirred in a bit of cream. He blew over the top of his drink, then lifted his gaze to meet Snape's after a moment. "Will you tell me now?" he asked. "Sir?"

Snape squeezed lemon into his tea and stirred deliberately, as if he were mixing a potion. "I have a number of reasons, Po . . . Harry. Not least is what I told you yesterday. You have been subject to a series of incompetent guardians, which has left you flailing about without purpose, discipline or security. I would take it upon myself to help you discover these."

"But what do you get out of it?" Harry pressed. He refused to think about what he had just been offered, not now anyway.

"I fulfill an oath I took to protect you."

"What?!"

Snape set down his cup and folded his hands around it, holding them very still. "I took an oath, when I first eschewed the Dark Lord, that I would protect you to the best of my ability. I have not yet done so, to my utmost regret. I plan to rectify that oversight."

"Oh." Harry stared into his tea. He should have expected that. Snape didn't want him, just wanted to rectify an oversight. Whatever. "I see."

"And, of course, I want to assist you in preparing--"

"To meet Old Voldie again. I know." Everyone wanted their weapon in top form. Nobody wanted Harry.

"No. I would help with that in any case. The assistance I offer is somewhat more . . . personal. I would like to prepare you for when you one day leave Hogwarts and are on your own. I know you own the Black house now, but how much do you know about running a household? Or balancing your asset reports, or selecting an appropriate wardrobe? If you don't plan to live in that old house, do you know how to find a flat, secure reliable help, or cast household wards?"

Harry had snorted again over the appropriate wardrobe bit, thinking it was ironic for a man who wore nothing but black to suggest that anyone else's choices in clothes might not be up to snuff, and then looked up at him again. "So, you'd be . . ."

"Your guardian, Harry. I would have rules, of course, that I would expect you to abide by, concerning curfew and acceptable past times, for instance."

"Of course," Harry mumbled.

"And I would be the first one other professors would go to, if they thought you were having difficulty in class, or if there was any trouble with . . . other students."

Like Malfoy, Harry thought, and had to fight a sudden bout of nausea. He stayed quiet for a while, thinking some more, then said, "You want to hear the rest?"

Snape's eyes narrowed briefly before he rested his palms flat on the table. "Of the prophecy, I assume?"

Harry nodded.

"Very well. It shouldn't hurt now, as the Dark Lord will no longer be able to pull it from my mind at a meeting."

"Is that why he never told you?"

"That is the reason the Headmaster gave me."

Harry heard what Snape didn't say, that the Headmaster might have been just making up an excuse. Regardless, he told Snape the whole thing, as he'd memorized it, having gone over it in his head so many times he could say it in his sleep. He lay particular emphasis on the line, "Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," and watched Snape's face.

Unfortunately, the only tell showed that the man was getting angry. "The Headmaster told you that?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"The night we came back from the Department of Mysteries."

There was a stunned silence. Then, in an almost whisper, "The night Black was killed."

Harry swallowed down a lump and made himself nod, not trusting himself to speak.

Snape's face was as pale as Sir Nicholas', but the fire in his dark eyes roared to life. "That . . . bastard. He didn't think you'd already been through enough that night?" Gaping at the professor, Harry actually leaned back in his chair as the man gesticulated wildly. "I cannot believe his nerve. Telling a child he has to become-"

"I'm not a child!" Harry interrupted. "And I wanted to know the prophecy. He hid it - my purpose - from me for so long . . . The orb got destroyed in the Department of Mysteries, and I thought it was lost, and then he showed me, with Professor Trelawney and all. He's got it pensieved."

"I know that," Snape snarled. "I just think it completely inappropriate to have dropped this in your lap when you were already grieving for the mutt."

Remembering the mess he'd made of Dumbledore's office, he said, "Well, er, I had a few minutes to vent before he told me."

"Oh?"

"I might have trashed his office. A bit."

Snape made a sound suspiciously like a snort and his eyebrows both climbed toward his hairline.

"I was angry."

"I see."

"At him."

"Obviously."

"I still haven't apologized."

"We will rectify that shortly." Snape paused, and his lip did that twitchy thing. "In the meantime, I believe I've found another word for our lists. Perhaps under the heading, What Not to Call the Headmaster in His Own School if One Is Hoping to Remain Employed."

Nodding a little, though he was surprised, again, at Snape's dry humor, Harry bit his lip. What did Snape think about it all now, he wondered. Did he understand why Harry didn't think very much about life after Hogwarts? Or why he hadn't fought back like he should have, against his Uncle? Or the others . . . After all, when a person knew they were going to die, it changed an awful lot about how they treated life.

"What is it, Harry?"

Jerking his thoughts away from his musings, he decided to just ask. "I've thought about it a lot, the prophecy? And, do you think it really means that I'll have to kill him or be killed?"

For a long moment, Harry thought maybe Snape wouldn't answer, that he would just stare at Harry forever like that, looking faintly nonplussed. But then he said, "Is that what you think?"

Harry nodded again. "And so does Dumbledore. I think. That's why he didn't want to tell me why I'm here earlier, when I was just a kid. He didn't want me to know I'd have to be a murderer, or, you know, die."

Snape sighed and peered at his hands. They gripped each other rather tightly, and his knuckles were bone white. Harry wasn't sure what tell that was. "That's not your purpose, Harry," he said at last.

"Sorry?"

"Killing the Dark Lord, fulfilling the prophecy, all that rot. That is not your purpose."

"Sure it is. It's what I'm still alive for, right? After my Mum and Dad died, I mean. And now, especially, since Wormtail used my blood in the ritual that brought him back. I'm the only one who can kill him."

"That may be, but it is Not. Your. Purpose." Snape gave him a cold, calculating look. "You are fifteen years--"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen years old, and you have your entire life ahead of you." He jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "You will do more with your time than consider the many and possible ways you may bring about the demise of the Dark Lord."

"Like what?"

"Like that abominable game you're so fond of--"

"No, I meant, what many ways? I don't know how I'm going to kill him. I doubt it'll even be possible, when wizards far more powerful than I am can't do it." His voice and his gaze were very steady when he said, "I don't expect to be the one who survives."

Snape's nostrils flared and he pushed back his chair. Looming over Harry, he spoke in a really quiet voice, tinged with an undercurrent of something Harry could not recognize. "I will do my best to make sure that you do. And you will do your best to learn what I have to teach. In the meantime, you will do other things with your life, too. You are not a weapon to be put in a box--"

"Or a cupboard," Harry muttered.

Another nostril flare. Might it be the tell for righteous indignation? "Or a cupboard, and then taken out and pointed at the enemy."

Harry lifted his chin, trying to meet the man's eyes. When he was so close, though, it was hard. He wondered, was this outrage for him? Or for not yet fulfilling his own oath? "And where would you put me, professor?"

Snape seemed to suddenly realize that he was looming, and he stepped away. His blank mask slid into place once more. "You already have a room here, Potter. I assume it would continue to be adequate. While attending classes, you would, of course, be expected to stay in the dorms . . . unless it were not possible for some other reason."

Harry looked away. He had no idea how he was ever going to sleep in the same room as four other boys. Or with anyone else, ever. He couldn't protect himself if he was sleeping. But only Snape knew why he was concerned about it.

Snape was the only one who knew a lot of things about him, in fact. About the cupboard, about Hedwig. The Harry Hunting and the starving and about how he'd broken under torture. And yet, he still stayed, still tried to help. Even when Harry broke his things, and yelled at him, hit him, and called him names. He let Harry vent, and let him cry, and hardly berated him at all anymore.

So what if he was doing it out of duty? Maybe it would be enough that, for once, someone was really looking out for him.

"Okay."

Snape frowned. "Elaborate. What is ‘okay'?"

"I'll do it. I mean, you can be my guardian or whatev--" He smiled, and Snape smirked back. Harry wouldn't have cared, really, if he did lose points just then, but it was the principle of the thing. Someone - Snape of all people - was taking him in, letting him belong to a . . . family of sorts. "You can be my guardian."

Aug. 15, 8:30 am

He's gone to talk to Dumbledore about the guardianship thing. I'm just as glad to miss that conversation, even though it is about me, since I know it would involve a lot of Dumbledore looking at me and asking me questions, and, honestly? I don't think I could handle that from him right now. I don't know if I could look at his office and not want to smash everything again. I wonder if he was able to fix any of it? I wonder why I care.

I think this is the first time I've been alone in Snape's quarters since I got here. He's awfully . . . protective of his privacy. It's gonna be hard for him to have me here, I bet.

Of course, the last couple weeks haven't been a picnic for either one of us.

I wonder if Remus is still here. Will he be the new DADA teacher? That'd be cool. I'd like to see him again. I think. I wonder if he knows about that . . . that night. I hope not. It's gonna be hard enough to be around him without him knowing. . . .

Oh, god. What will he say about Snape being my guardian? Oh, fuck! What will RON say???

---

Severus sat in Dumbledore's office, trading pleasantries with an outward calm that belied his inner raging temper. The man before him had shirked his duty to Harry, and had placed the boy in danger more times than Severus cared to speculate. Whether it was to frighten the boy into learning magic faster, or to test him and his capabilities, or for some other secret nefarious purpose, the end result was that Harry's welfare could no longer be trusted to Albus or Minerva or any of the others.

Thinking about all that Harry had confessed, about the things that should have been done for him -- as they would have for any other child, Severus was sure! -- it was all he could do not to punch the older wizard in the nose. Of course, then he would need to pack his bags -- or simply present himself to Voldemort; the result would be the same.

Rather than do so, he stared into a cup of tea he would never drink, and talked about the weather and how the frequent Death Eater attacks had become -- enough that the Muggle world was starting to catch on to something really strange happening -- and refused to make eye contact with one of the only people he knew who was a more powerful Legilimens than he.

Finally, when he had waited long enough that his temper was perfectly under control, he looked up. "I want to be named as Potter's guardian. And he has agreed to it."

The look on Dumbledore's face was priceless. It only took him a split second though, before he had resumed the grandfatherly veneer he traded on. "How is he coming along under your care?"

Suppressing a growl at the Headmaster's blatant sidestep of the topic at hand, Severus still could not help but grimace. "He is . . . better than I expected, this soon. But we have not addressed a number of issues as yet. I don't believe he'll be ready to begin classes in two weeks."

"No? Well, we must make sure that he is. It wouldn't do at all for his enemies to think anything was amiss."

Oh, no, that wouldn't do at all. Severus averted his eyes so the Headmaster would not pick up on his thoughts. He wondered if Albus knew he was playing right into the role that Harry had him cast in, where he was the grand manipulator and Harry was nothing more than a pawn, a weapon, to be used and discarded. Was Severus the only one who saw Harry as more than that? Albus had wanted Harry shunted off to St. Mungo's after all. Did he just not want to see the truth? To see the result of all his manipulations?

But the Headmaster continued, oblivious. "Do you think it would be helpful to have him more in contact with the rest of the staff? Remus had been asking after him, and Hagrid, too."

Severus frowned. That's all he'd need; Weres and Giants in his quarters. "I don't think he's ready for that, either."

The blue-eyed gaze sharpened. "I notice he has not been outside for several days."

The Old Codger would notice something like that. He wasn't about to tell Albus that the boy had been sulking for several days, when he wasn't throwing things or hollering obscenities or tearing out pages of a perfectly good journal and burning them. "We have an . . . arrangement. If he meets certain goals, he is allowed certain privileges. When he does not meet the goals . . ." Severus spread his hands, as if to say, 'what can I do?'

"Ah." The Headmaster was silent for a long time, as if considering his words very carefully. He even looked over at Fawkes, but the phoenix had no trilling words of wisdom for him today, it seemed. Once his gaze settled back on Severus, he said, "Do you think perhaps Harry has grown overly attached to you?"

"Pardon?"

"He has had little to no contact with anyone aside from yourself since the . . . time of his captivity. And though I have no doubt you have been helpful to him since, I merely wonder if he is becoming dependent on you."

"It's entirely possible, Headmaster." No doubt helpful, indeed. Severus kept a tight grip on his temper. He did not need to lose it now. And yet, he couldn't help glaring at the Headmaster, even as his voice dipped to little more than a whisper. "In fact, I would be very surprised if he were not. I know what happened to him, both in Topsham and in Surrey, and I do not judge him for it. Unlike anyone else, I have dried his tears, and comforted him when he's woken from nightmares, and I have saved him from his own self-rage. He has spilled some of his deepest fears and darkest memories to me, and I alone decried the treatment he received at the hands of those Muggles. Now I have offered him a place of safety and stability, a home, such as he has never been granted before. Why on earth would he not latch on to me?"

He wanted Dumbledore to answer, to make excuses for his own pitiful lacking, in the department of Harry's safety and well being, to protest that he had comforted the child at least once, that he had not always put the good of the Wizarding world ahead of its savior's needs. And then he wanted to throw all that back in the Headmaster's face, and show him what fifteen years of neglect had wrought, in the boy's fragile sense of self-esteem and distrust of any adults, his pervasive belief that he was not worth anyone's love or caring, that he was not allowed to feel joy or peace.

But Dumbledore merely sat behind his desk, looking very old all of a sudden, and all Severus could feel was disgust.

"I assume I have your blessing, then, Albus," Severus said as he rose from his chair and placed his untouched tea on the edge of the desk. "I will file the proper paperwork with Child Welfare at the Ministry today. I would appreciate it if you would mention, when they come to interview you, as I imagine they will, that I am doing this for Harry's sake. We can sugar coat it all they want, or all you want, dress it up in well considered statements about how well I can train the boy for his true purpose, but make no mistake, for once, this is what is good for him."

Dumbledore seemed to pull together at last and Severus sneered, meeting the older man's gaze. This stage of the war was taking a heavy toll on the old man, it was true, but it was no excuse for weakness. Or for giving up. "Of course, Severus. I will do all I can to make sure it goes through."

"Thank you." Severus nodded and left the office. His chest hurt and his steps were heavy as he made his way back to the dungeons. He had wounded the man, his mentor, his oldest friend, the one who had been like a savior to him when all others had turned away. But he would not take back the words he's spoken, for they were the truth, a commodity which had run in short supply of late. And Albus needed to hear that truth at least once.

Back in his quarters, Harry's head came up from his journal as soon as Severus entered the room. He studied Severus' expression for a long moment before pulling his lower lip between his teeth. Severus had become quite adept at reading the boy's moods, especially since Harry could not keep from showing everything in his eyes. Green the color of a Killing Curse, or a perfect Shrinking Solution, and which reminded him so much of Lily, they were a window to this troubled teen's soul. Now they held a glimmer of hope, warring with apprehension and doubt.

"How, er . . . how did it go?"

"Well enough. The Headmaster will not oppose my request, and has promised to aid us however necessary."

"Did you think he would, sir? Oppose it, I mean?"

Severus heaved a sigh. "I had my doubts." He decided not to say anything about the dependence issue, nor how the Headmaster had shown himself to be concerned more with The Chosen One's ability to thwart his enemies than with Harry's recovery from trauma. He knew Harry's dependence was the case, and they would deal with the ramifications of that later. "But I convinced him it was in your best interests."

"You did?" A ghost of a smile crossed the boy's lips. "What did you say?"

"It's not important," Severus said, wearily waving his hand in dismissal, though he gave a significant glance toward the journal. "Now, I have paperwork to fill out and send to the Ministry on our behalf. But I imagine you are ready for some flying time, yes? Would you rather go now, or when I finish the paperwork?"

Harry spent a good minute chewing his lip and going over his options, until Severus was ready to make the decision for him ten times over. But he waited, as patiently as he could -- offering control of small things when possible would help Harry feel more in control of larger things later -- until finally he got an answer. "Paperwork first, sir. Please."

"Very well. I trust you can keep yourself occupied until then."

"Yes, sir. May I borrow one of your books?"

Severus' eyes narrowed. Since he kept truly Dark texts under lock and key, he didn't have many books on display that he would consider out of bounds for an almost sixth year student, but there were a few, and Potter had probably found one of those. "Which one?"

"Oh, ummmm," Harry rose and went to a bookshelf and selected a rather thick tome with a green leather cover, embossed in gold. "This one. It's Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts . I've read it before . . ." He swallowed hard, suddenly, and looked away.

Nonplussed by the sudden change, Severus took a step toward the boy. "Harry?"

"It's just . . . Sirius gave me this book, for Christmas last year. It came in handy with, you know, DA and everything." He sucked in a breath. "I suppose it's gone now."

"Gone . . ."

"Yea -- yes, sir. It was in my trunk, with all my other school stuff." He looked over at Severus, hope giving his eyes an odd gleam. "Maybe it's still at the Dursleys?"

Though he hated doing it, he had to shake his head. "I'm afraid not, Harry. The Death Eaters went on a follow up to your aunt and uncle's home, and took everything they thought belonged to you. Hoping it would be of some use to them, I expect."

"Oh." Harry nodded a little and squared his shoulders, a bleakness settling in his expression that Severus wished he could erase. How many people, in their whole lives, lost everything they owned all at once? He resolved to work on Harry taking a trip to Diagon Alley soon. "Well, okay then," Harry said, and his face was a blank mask. "Can I borrow this one?"

"Have you finished the mind focusing book?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then yes, you may."

"Thank you, sir."

Severus watched him for a few minutes more, while Harry curled himself into a ball on the settee and opened the book to the index before paging through it, and marveled at the boy's resilience. As he'd told Dumbledore, he was frankly amazed Harry had made so much progress from the week of catatonia, and then to the possession Riddle had of his mind. He had barely dissociated at all in the last few days, and only had a couple of panic attacks.

After lunch, they would work on Occlumency, and he would see if Harry really had read -- and more importantly, if he had absorbed -- the book or not.

---

Severus gritted his teeth and shoved at the blank wall inside Harry's head. It was like stone, but impossibly pitted. Above the stone were trivial matters such as what he'd had for breakfast and a concern that he might need more potion supplies before classes commenced, and almost nothing else. Where were the thoughts about flying, or the memories of the discussion from just before lunch? Was he truly Occluding that well that he could direct Severus' prying that much? Was this slab of stone working so perfectly for him? It seemed impossible.

Working along the edges of the gray surface, he distracted Harry's conscious mind by focusing a small, separate part of his Legilimency on seeking memories above that near-blank slate. It worked; Harry was too occupied with that he didn't notice the slyer, slipperier portion of Severus' skill digging at the shadows. The edges of the stone were worn smooth, unlike the rest of the scarred and pitted stone, and it was here that he focused his efforts. He eased his mind through a small fissure near the edge, slower than Harry would notice, more carefully than walking through a field covered with erumpent parts.

Breaking through at last, he had just caught a glimpse of a maelstrom, dark and explosive and churning like the fires of hell under the stone when he was ejected forcibly from Harry's mind.

"No," Harry gasped, bending over at the waist, even as Severus collected his own breath and tried to figure out what the HELL he'd just witnessed. That couldn't be . . . not all the torment and rage and fears hidden like that . . . Impossible.

The boy's eyes were squeezed shut and thin tremors ran through his body. But his voice was clear as he said, "No. You're not allowed in there."

Aug. 15, 6:30 pm

Fuck.

---

Flashback

The boy's eyes were squeezed shut and thin tremors ran through his body. But his voice was clear as he said, "No. You're not allowed in there."

"Oh no you don't," Severus growled. His patience was just about at an end. If he were to reflect on just why his ire had been raised by Potter's words, he would admit that much of it was that he disliked being thwarted. Or even attempts to thwart him. But at the moment, he used the mantra that he was helping the boy to heal.

"Legilimens."

The stone appeared immediately, still as impossibly pitted as before, and Severus recalled an exercise from the book he'd given Potter about this particular way of blocking Legilimency. But if Potter was using it to shield all of his emotions, it was . . . unhealthy. And aggravating. Besides, his worst memories were supposed to be stored in the pensieve now. How bad could it be, really?

With this in mind, Severus attacked.

---

Harry threw everything he had into protecting the layer of stone. Snape was angry, he could feel that, somehow, but he couldn't let it get to him. The stone protected him, kept him upright and breathing and conscious. Without it . . . He just could not let Snape through.

"Get away," he snarled through gritted teeth. "Get away from there."

But Snape wasn't listening, and he assaulted the stone as if with a jackhammer, chopping through the upper level and exposing new cracks and weaknesses.

Harry could sense Snape's determination, but he had abject fear on his side, and it gave him added strength. He reinforced the stone with every breath, creating more and more layers, faster than Snape could dismantle them. But he couldn't see every fissure Snape created, and missed one in his haste.

Snape, however, caught it. In an instant, he was through the one chink in Harry's carefully constructed armor, and in his angered, irritated state, he had no defense against the tide of memory that washed over him. Harry felt him try to retreat, but it was no good now. No good at all. He was trapped there, under the stone.

The carousel spins lazily around, and the Inferi upon the backs of the flying gryffins and dragons mock the forms of children, with their dead flesh, dead eyes, and the Dark Lord, in the guise of his earlier self, Tom Riddle, stands before them and smiles. "You're mine," he whispers. "Forever."

But now they are in the well appointed prison and Nott is sneering at him, and raising his wand. "Coward," Harry calls him, and the world erupts in howling and pain, and the gurgle of blood in his throat is the loudest sound he has ever heard until he is blind and screaming, writhing on the stone floor under their curses.

How long? Hours, perhaps. How long till his mind snaps? There is nothing but the agony of the Cruciatus, but when he stops fighting the curse, he finds he can bear it better. He knows that only when he gives in completely will it cease to mean anything, will he be able to retain his sanity. "Give in," a high cold voice croons to him as if reading his mind. "Everything will be better; you won't have to hurt anymore."

The offer is tempting, but he pushes it away, shaking his head wildly. "Never," he rasps through his teeth, and his voice is rough and dry as a gravestone. He has to breathe through his nose, wheezing breaths full of snot and blood and tears, because his mouth is busy screaming when he can't keep his jaw clamped shut. "I won't."

"Never say never, widdle Harry," sneers the grating voice of Bellatrix, and she casts another cutting curse while the agony of the Cruciatus increases. He drums his heels on the stone floor, back arching impossibly, broken fingers grasping for something, anything to ground him. But he is blind, and alone, and under their complete control.

She laughs as his skin is flayed from his body, laughs at his panic as his hands scramble to hold the pieces of himself together, laughs as someone else grabs a handful of his hair and grips his head tight in their palms, to stop his flailing, and then presses the side of his face to theirs, and his blood smears on this other's smooth skin as they rub against him like a cat. And then a tongue laps at his cheek, licking at his blood and tears with long strokes. Words are whispered into his ear like a lover's, "You taste so good, Harry," and he is sick, suddenly, violently sick, and still the laughter continues . . .

---

With a strength born of desperation, Severus finally escaped the boy's memories, escaped the broken and cracked stone and knelt, panting for breath, on the floor of his sitting room. After some long moments, he was able to discern his surroundings again, and his gaze settled on Harry, who was curled in a ball and rocking silently, eyes squeezed shut.

Fuck.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few long, deep breaths. Well. He'd really screwed the crup this time. What was he thinking, to force these memories to the fore? He had quite probably just undone several weeks worth of work.

Had the stone been the only thing keeping Harry from going into shock? With memories like those -- many of which he had not witnessed first time around -- it was no wonder the boy wanted to hide them away. But it wasn't healthy, and they had to be dealt with. Though he might have wanted to handle them slowly, over time, that was impossible now.

Still on his knees, he inched toward Harry until he was practically, but not quite, touching the boy's drawn-up calves. "Harry," he said softly. "Open your eyes, please."

A tremor went through the boy, but there was no other reaction. Bracing himself and sharpening his tone, he tried a different tack. "Potter, it's time to get up now. No more of this lazing about."

The rocking stilled briefly and the boy's shoulders tightened.

Taking this as a good sign, Severus continued in that vein, "We still have work to do, and it's unconscionable that you're slacking off like this."

Harry's head jerked a nod, and he finally opened his eyes. "M'sorry, Uncle," came a breathless whisper. "Sorry . . ." His hands fumbled at the floor, in an attempt to push himself upright. "Weeds?" he asked. "Or paint the shed? M'sorry, I forget . . ."

Startled, Severus didn't respond at once. What fresh hell was this? Harry's gaze was unfocused when he turned to face him, and Severus rose awkwardly to his feet and reached to pull Harry up, too.

The boy's arm came up to block him, quicker than thought. "Sorry, Uncle Vernon, I . . . I remember. It was weeding, wasn't it? Please, Uncle, I'm sorry . . ."

"Harry," Severus said, trying to keep his voice calm despite his own rising distress. "I am not your uncle."

The confusion on the boy's face would have been humorous, under other circumstances. Now, though, it was very troubling. "Just come over here and sit down," he said, and was gratified when the boy launched himself to his feet, a feeling that was short lived, however, when Harry plopped himself down on the floor in the corner a moment later. Wrapping his arms around his knees, Harry put his forehead down atop them. His whole body was tense, even his fingers as they twined together.

Severus watched him for a few minutes. Harry had replaced one way of forgetting for another, and this one was . . . untenable. For one thing, he refused to be identified, no matter what the delusional capabilities of this wounded child, as the Muggle uncle who had locked him in a cupboard and starved him. Thus . . .

In a few short strides, he was crouched once more in front of the boy. "Harry," he said, using the sharp, commanding tone that seemed to work. "Look at me. It's Professor Snape."

Harry's head came up and the heat of anger lit his eyes. "If you'd just tell me, Uncle, I could do the work. Please, I'll do it right, I swear."

"I am not your uncle," Severus told him again. "You are in my quarters, at Hogwarts, and you have not been at Privet Drive for some time. Listen to me."

"I heard you," Harry insisted. "But I still don't know--"

"I haven't given you a job." Severus took hold of his arms and glared into the boy's eyes.

The reaction was immediate. Harry's face crumpled and he tried to scoot away, but the wall -- and Severus' grip -- prevented him. "No, please! I'll be good, Uncle, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to blow up your sister. Dudley's okay, see? The Dementors didn't get him. Please don't--"

"Potter!" Severus shouted. "You are not at Privet Drive. And I am not your Uncle Vernon! Look at me. Look at me."

"No, no, no," Harry shook his head. His hands batted feebly at Severus', and the trembling in them increased, as if just after a bout of Cruciatus. "Don't touch me, please, please don't. I give up, I swear, all right? I give in, I'm sorry, I'll call you Master. Just please don't . . ." His body went suddenly very still, for a moment that stretched to infinity.

And then he screamed.

Severus let go of him automatically, as if it were his own hands burning, but he did not move from his spot. He quickly summoned a tea towel and pressed it into Harry's hands, needing to first pull them away from the boy's head where he was clawing at his own eyes. Closing the boy's thin fingers around the towel, which Harry immediately began to twist and wrench frantically instead of hurting himself, his voice dropped to a more soothing tone; even his shouting would not be audible over the screaming. "Harry. It's a clear, beautiful day. Sunny. The sun is warm on your face. Can you feel how warm it is? You . . . you're at the ocean, and the sand between your toes is cool from the water. You can see birds wheeling overhead, when you turn your face to the sun. It's beautiful and calm and you are very safe here. . . ."

How long he repeated the words, he could not say, but he continued long after Harry had screamed himself hoarse, past the point where he merely trembled against the wall, with the tattered towel gripped ferociously in his hands.

Severus was sitting back on his heels, still using the soft words, and trying to figure what else he could do when Harry spoke for the first time. "'S'not." His voice was as rough as it had been in the memory, and Severus shuddered.

"It's not what?" he asked tiredly.

"'S'not beautiful. 'S'cold and damp stone and it hurts."

Severus took a long, aching breath. "Tell me what hurts, Harry."

Tears tracked down Harry's face, but he didn't seem to notice them. His eyes were over bright, and Severus could not tell if he was still stuck in a memory or what. "What they're doing. Mm, what they did. Bel . . ." He swallowed. "Bellatrix laughed at me . . ."

"Yes."

"And I heard her, her other curses. There's so much blood . . ." The towel went through a few more contortions and the tears continued to fall. Another swallow, ending almost in a gag, but Harry leaned his head back against the wall, turning it away. "And Lucius . . . he . . ."

"Tell me, Harry. It's all right."

"God, it's so disgusting. I'm so disgusting. How could he . . ." Harry shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, and Severus was almost sure he would need to be prompted again, when he was surprised, again. "He raped me. He liked the blood," Harry whispered. "He thought it . . . that it tasted good, and he raped me."

Severus nodded, then said aloud for Harry's benefit. "Yes, he did. I'm sorry."

"I know," Harry admitted. His voice was even quieter, sounding almost lost. "I knew you were there, and I tried . . ."

"You tried to hide your pain from me," Severus finished for him, when it seemed he would not go on. "But you don't have to do that anymore. I'm here for you, and you can let me know when you're hurt, or when you need help." He paused. "Like now."

Harry blinked open his eyes and brought the towel up to clean his face of tears and mucus. He hadn't looked at Severus yet, not really. "I'm sorry. I never meant for you to see that. Those . . . that stuff."

"Don't."

"Huh?"

Severus' rage flared like a living thing, and it was only the knowledge that a true display of his anger would likely frighten the boy more that kept his voice as even as it was. "Don't you apologize for what they did. Ever. Not one damned thing that happened in that place was your fault, and I will not have you feeling that it was."

"What about Nott?"

Severus managed -- just -- not to growl. "Nott reacted poorly to a taunt. He almost killed you, and did maim you. And it was still not your fault. If you hadn't been there in the first place--"

"I would've died in bed." The idea seemed to amuse Harry for some reason, and he pressed a hand to his face as a hard bark of laughter escaped. "Wouldn't that'a been rich?"

Though he didn't quite trust this burst of humor, Severus nodded. "Indeed. All the Dark Lord's hard work in attempting to kill you gone to waste."

Harry laughed again, but tears once more coursed down his cheeks.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Severus said.

With a shake of his head, Harry said anyway, "He was really weird, don't you think?"

"Hm?"

"V-Voldemort. When he kept . . . coming in to chat and all that. I thought he just wanted to make sure I was fit for a true fight, but that wasn't it, was it?"

"No. I don't believe so." A series of expressions crossed Harry's face, and Severus couldn't make heads or tails of a quarter of them. "My belief is that he wanted to convince you, somehow, to join him, join his cause."

"Well . . ." Harry set his jaw and swiped away the last few tears with the back of his hand. "He kinda sucked at that."

"Yes," Severus agreed, not bothering to mention the points taken for "kinda" and went on, "Ever since he returned to his body he's been more . . ."

"Crazy?"

He gave Harry a brief smile. "Crazy, yes, but I was thinking specifically that since his return he has a tendency to latch on to one idea to the exclusion of all else, until something happens to derail him. And then he picks up the new idea and runs with that one for a while. So, he thought he could turn you, but when we thwarted him, betrayed him in a way, he threw that idea out with the bathwater and determined to break you instead."

"Which he could actually do."

"Do you think so?" Severus asked.

"Break me?" Harry turned to him at last, brow furrowed over eyes red from crying. "Duh."

"No," Severus told him, and realized this was probably the most important conversation that they were going to have this whole summer. And he also realized what he was about to say was the absolute truth, and that they both needed to believe it. "You are not broken. Wounded, yes. Damaged and in pain, absolutely. But none of it is irreparable. You are still here." He pointed a finger at Harry's chest, above his heart. And then at his head. "And here. You still have a sense of humor, however twisted, and can laugh, and you can still enjoy flying on that blasted broom of yours. You read for pleasure, and look forward to seeing your friends again. You eat -- not enough, by my reckoning, but you do so -- and have managed to keep yourself showered and dressed every day. So hope is not lost."

Harry's eyes held so much fear, mingled with hope, that it was all Severus could do not to gather him close and hold him to make the pain go away. But he knew the boy would not thank him for that.

"Yes, your recovery will continue to be hard. Yes, you have far yet to go. But make no mistake, you will get there, Harry. I promise you that."

With a jerky nod, Harry murmured, "Okay."

"And we'll work on a better shield for your Occlumency than the stone."

"Now that you've gone and broken it into smithereens, you mean."

Severus gave him a sharp look, and was gladdened to see the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He answered in kind. "Just so." He looked around the sitting room and considered. "Let's get out of here. I think we could both use a change of scenery."

"Where?" Harry asked.

"Outside, or maybe have dinner in the Great Hall this evening?" Severus held his breath, almost, waiting.

"Is . . . is Remus still here?"

"I believe so." Overcoming his first impulse, he didn't sneer as he said, "Would you like to see him?"

"I don't . . . I don't know."

"Why don't you get cleaned up a bit and think about it." Severus rose and held out his hand, again, and this time, Harry stared at it for a long time, and then took his hand, accepting the offer of help. Severus could have cheered.

"Okay." Harry started toward his room, but stopped when he got to the door. "Professor?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Thanks."

Severus sighed, and wanted to say his gratitude wasn't necessary, that anyone with a modicum of decency would have done the same, but Harry seemed to put great stock in niceties, and besides, he knew more than most that such common decency often simply wasn't common enough. "You're welcome," he said instead, and waited while Harry pulled himself together. Again.

End Flashback

Aug. 15, 6:30 pm, continued . . .

Fuck.

That really sucked, big time. I'm scared and I'm tired and I hate pretty much everything, especially me. But the Professor . . . he never left me alone. I think . . . I think I can really trust him.

I hope Remus is around.

Aug.15, 6:30 pm, continued

I haven't seen Remus since the day I almost killed Snape, when we were flying, and before that, not since just after I got Sirius killed. Will he even want to see me? What if he hates me? I wouldn't blame him, not really. He and Sirius were really close.

But Snape said he was asking after me. So maybe it'll be okay. He didn't seem too mad when we talked in the infirmary. Well, Snape is waiting, so I better go . . .

Harry quickly washed his face and peered at himself in the mirror. God, he looked awful. Just the thing to go and talk to Remus and make him all worried. He splashed more cold water on his face and deliberately kept his eyes open to let the water cool them, too. Then he went out to join Snape in the sitting room.

"Are you sure you're ready?" Snape asked.

"Yea- er, I mean, yes, sir." He hitched a shoulder up. "It'll be okay."

Snape gave a grunt of acknowledgement, and Harry didn't bother to ask what he meant by that, merely followed the man out of his quarters and towards the stairs leading from the dungeon.

"Sir, when do you suppose we'll know?" he asked.

Snape looked at him. "Know what?"

"If the Ministry has approved you as my guardian?"

With a small sigh, Snape held up his hands. "I'm not sure, Harry. They will undoubtedly send someone to question your . . . and my sanity with regard to this plan," Harry snorted a laugh as Snape continued, "and they may want some proof that I have nothing nefarious in mind for you."

Harry gave him a sidelong glance. "Well, I'll be sure and not mention the times you've threatened to use me for potions."

Snape's lips twisted in the familiar almost-smile, and Harry was glad to have seen it.

As they neared the second floor, Harry realized they were heading towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office. He glanced at Snape again, to find the Potions Master watching him. "Is Lupin . . .?"

"It's Professor Lupin," Snape said with a trace of his sneer. "Again."

"Oh, wow. That's great!" He stopped and gave Snape a worried look. "I mean . . ."

Snape's face grew more stony. "Don't for a minute try and make me think you're less than thrilled to have that wolf here," he growled. "Not for my sake."

Harry bit his lip, not sure what to say. He knew Snape wanted the DADA position, everyone said so. . . . although he'd never heard it from Snape himself. Steeling himself for the inevitable explosion, he ventured, "Well, don't you want to teach Defense?"

Shaking his head minutely, Snape's expression softened, just a little. "I see all my efforts at rumor mongering did not go to waste."

"Huh?"

"Succinct as always, Potter. And points off for illegal use of a blacklisted word. In answer to your . . . ill-phrased and nearly unintelligible question, I have never had the desire to teach Defense. I did, however, need for certain people to think that's what I wanted, and to believe that only Dumbledore's mistrust kept me from the position."

Harry turned that information over in his mind. It made sense, in a way. "And now you don't have to pretend anymore," he said quietly.

"Indeed." Snape pushed them along to the door, which was open a crack, and waited while Harry knocked.

A voice called, "Come in!"

Snape started to turn away, when Harry caught at his sleeve. The Professor glared down at his hand, and Harry hastily removed it, but only after whispering, "Please stay."

Dark brows drew down over darker eyes, and Snape studied him for a long few moments, while Harry tried not to look away. Finally, he said, "Very well," and jutted his chin toward the door so Harry would open it.

Remus was most of the way to the door already, obviously wondering why someone had knocked and then not entered, and he broke into a grin as they came in. "Harry! Good to see you!"

"You, too, Professor." Harry backed up a step when Remus came close enough that it looked like he might want to give him a hug, and looked him over a bit. Remus looked worn and tired, more so than usual, and his hair had more gray in it than even a week ago, he was almost sure.

Without remarking on Harry's aversion to a tactile greeting, he backed off; Harry was very grateful. "I see you heard," he said with a glance at Snape, who was leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed over his chest.

Harry smiled. "Well, that and you being in this office."

"Ah, yes. Quite a clue, that." Remus turned and gestured to the seats by his desk, where he had talked with Harry last time he'd been a professor here, about Quidditch, and how to fight Dementors, and sometimes, about Harry's Mum and Dad. "Come and sit down and I'll make tea."

Harry sat, but with a look at Snape said, "No tea, thanks," and could've sworn Snape's lips twitched again.

"No? Well, maybe just some biscuits? I could have the House-elves send them up."

"That'd be great, Professor, thanks."

"Harry, you can still call me Remus, at least until classes start."

With a smile, Harry said, "Okay, thanks."

A few minutes later, a House-elf had delivered a tray of ginger biscuits, and some shortbreads, with or without chocolate. Harry selected a chocolate one and nibbled at the edge as Remus said, "Severus, won't you join us?"

With the air of someone pressed into a duty they loathe, Snape bent his head the merest bit in acknowledgement and sat down nearby. He held up a hand when Remus offered him the tray. Thinking about it, Harry could not remember ever seeing Snape indulge in sweets. He wondered, if, as his guardian, Snape would not allow Harry to have any, either. He'd have to ask, later. In the meantime, he would eat all the biscuits he wanted.

"How have you been, Harry? I asked Dumbledore a few times if I could see you, and he said you were well, but . . ."

"I'm doing okay, Remus." He bit his lip and flicked a glance at Snape. "Like I told you before, Professor Snape's been helping me."

Remus leaned forward. "With what, Harry? Please, I want to understand. You can tell me anything."

Not this, Harry thought. Never this. "It's um . . . I can't really talk about it."

"You were hurt when you were captured, weren't you? What did they do to you?"

"I . . . I can't . . ."

"Lupin. Leave him alone." Snape's voice, cold and cutting, saved Harry from his floundering, though Harry's chest was already tight and his face hot. "He'll tell you about it when he wants to, or never if he doesn't."

Remus sat back in his chair, startled. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Harry. I won't push. I was just very worried."

"'S'okay, Remus." Harry swallowed, grateful for Snape's intervention, but wishing now he hadn't eaten the biscuit, as now his mouth was very dry. "Really, I'm doing better."

"Good, that's good."

"Er, it'll be great to have you back as a professor. You were the best we've had at Defense."

Remus gave him a rueful smile. "That's damning with faint praise, I do believe."

Harry relaxed a little. "Well, maybe. But you're the only one who didn't want to kill me."

"Though I still could have." Remus sat forward again, looking very serious. "I will be taking my potions like clockwork."

"See that you do, Lupin," Snape said, still coldly. "I will not have you putting the boy in danger again."

"I know, I know . . ." He gave Snape a shrewd look. "You're taking his protection a little personally, aren't you, Severus?"

Snape scowled. "Only as personally as I should."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That, Wolf, is none of your business."

Remus' eyes narrowed. "What's going on here . . . Harry?"

Snape merely gave Harry a raised-eyebrow look, as if letting him know that it was his decision whether to tell Remus of their new standing. Harry sighed. Better to get it out in the open now. "Professor Snape's going to be my guardian. At least, he's put in the paperwork for it."

It took a few minutes for Remus to recover. Until then, his mouth gaped open and his gaze warbled back and forth between him and Snape. Finally he said, "What?"

"Your erudition does you credit," Snape sneered. "Though, perhaps your hearing should be checked."

"Harry . . ."

"I'm telling you the truth, Remus. He offered to be my guardian, till I'm of age, and I said it was okay." Please don't make a scene, Remus, Harry begged in his thoughts, even as he realized that Sirius would have been shrieking right about now. But them if he were here, Harry would have been staying with him. How would Sirius have dealt with Harry right out of that manor? These last few weeks . . . ? The idea made him shiver.

Remus stared at Snape now. "Severus?"

"I assure you, Potter is not lying." He looked Harry over with his sardonic gaze, and curved one half of his mouth up as if to say, "This time," but he didn't say the words, which Harry found oddly reassuring.

"But why?"

"Because up till now, his guardians have been woefully incompetent when it comes to protecting him, in either mind or body, from Muggles, Dark Lords and their minions, or even various Defense teachers who can be classified as ‘other.'" Snape gave Remus one of his most condescending smiles. "And I believe I can do better."

"So this is one-upmanship is it? Still trying to outdo Sirius?"

"I do not consider seeing to Harry's welfare to be a competition, Lupin. I can imagine, however, that the dog might have needed--"

"Please!" Harry cried, stopping the tirade. "Please, sir, don't argue about it. Remus, I want Professor Snape as my guardian, okay? Honest. I trust him, and . . ."

"And you don't trust me," Remus said softly. "I'm sorry, Harry, for whatever I did to--"

"You didn't do anything!" Harry yelled.

"And that's the crux of it, I'm sure." Remus' golden eyes closed, and he put his head in his hands. "I don't know if you were listening, that day in the infirmary, when you brought Professor Snape in, and I couldn't see you, but I admitted that I never checked on you with those Muggles. I wasn't there for you when it mattered. After James and Lily died . . . I just wasn't myself." He looked up at last. "And I am deeply sorry for that."

"It wasn't your fault." Harry reached a shaking hand out to touch Remus' knee, and Remus covered it with his own hand. "It was just . . . a bunch of things went wrong. But it's no one's fault. And now the Dursleys are gone, so I wouldn't have to go back there anyway."

"Thank you, Harry." Remus still looked sad, but he didn't try to hold on when Harry pulled his hand back. "Oh! I almost forgot." He jumped up and went to his desk, where he opened one of the drawers. "I went to check their house, right after we heard you were caught, to see if I could find anything that might help us find you." He pulled a bundle of cloth and a book out and came back toward Harry, holding them out. "Most of the house was empty, but I found these in what I assume was your room, under the bed."

Oh, god. His Invisibility Cloak. And the album of his parents that Hagrid had put together for him, and that he'd added to over the years, with pictures of himself, and Ron and Hermione, many taken by Colin Creevy. His hands were shaking again as he took the two items from Remus. "Thank you," he breathed. "I thought these were gone . . ."

"The Death Eaters searched the house," Snape explained, sounding much less cross than he had a minute ago. "You must have been there right before them."

"Maybe," Remus said, even as Harry flipped through the first couple pages of the album, while draping the cloak over his legs. "But they were hidden pretty well. At least, the album was, tucked down in a secret compartment in the floor."

Not really thinking, Harry said, "Yeah, I bet you found part of an old plum cake there, too. Sorry, it was prob'ly hard as rock."

"In fact I did." Remus paused. "Why did you have a petrified plum cake under your bed?"

"It was all that was left of Mrs. Weasley's care package." He traced his fingers over a picture of his Mum and Dad together, this one taken at their wedding, he thought. They looked so happy. Smiling back at them as they waved, something loosened in his chest. He hadn't realized how very much he missed this album until he got it back in his hands.

"Care package?"

"Mm-hm. ‘Cause Ron told her, I guess, they don't . . . didn't feed me real well over the summers. You know. So she'd send me meat pies and cakes and stuff, and if I was careful, it'd get me through. I didn't get anything this year, though, with the bars again and all." He looked up then, saw both men staring back. "What?"

"I was under the impression, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his face complete blank and his words quite clipped, "that the abominable tendency of those Muggles to maltreat you ended when you started at Hogwarts."

"I'm putting ‘Mr. Potter' back on the list," Harry murmured.

"This is no joking matter," Snape snarled.

Harry set his jaw. "Maybe, but I don't like it when you call me that. You're always angry when you call me that. Besides, I never said they treated me better."

Snape glowered at him. "You said, about the cupboard . . ."

"Yeah, so I got Dudley's second bedroom. Nothing else changed." He gave Snape a sneer of his own. "You think they wanted to reward my freakiness? Especially after Moody tore my uncle a new one, at the train station, in front of everyone? No way. I knew I was in for it. I mean, the first time the bars went on the window was summer after first year, and that was just for dropping a pudding. Sometimes they shoved a tin of soup to me through a fucking cat flap in the door. You know, when they remembered. Ron and the twins broke me out. This year . . . the bars were up before I even got there. They must've been glad to be able to leave me behind though; didn't even need to get tinned soup."

Harry turned his glare on Remus. "Oh, and you can say thanks, by the way, to the Order for making a scene with him and promising to check if they didn't hear from me every three days. I can't tell you how happy that made him. But I still think it was a sight longer than three days before the bloody Death Eaters found me."

"Harry, I--"

"Save it, okay?" Harry pushed up from the chair. "I don't need to hear any more excuses." He looked at Snape. "I'm going back to your quarters, if that's all right." When Snape nodded wordlessly, Harry fled.

Aug.15, 8:30 pm

Um, well. That could have gone better.

---

Well. That could have gone better, Severus thought.

Lupin stared at the door Harry had escaped through, his face almost a caricature of anguish, and Severus suppressed the urge to go and catch Harry and make him come back and apologize. First of all, there would be time for that later if warranted, and second, he had to admit he was glad Harry felt comfortable enough to lash out like that against someone besides himself.

Not that the boy didn't have cause, either.

Oh, he'd talked to Dumbledore, of course, and heard the excuses for why no one had gone to check on Harry after he'd gone back to the Muggles. The Dementors and the Death Eaters had been attacking with more frequency and temerity, even assaulting Muggles towns in broad daylight. The Ministry and the Order had had their hands full. But if what Harry said was true - and he had no reason to think the boy was lying - then Moody and Lupin at least had promised to keep a tight watch on him, and to make sure he contacted them every three days.

Severus wasn't sure how long the Muggles had been gone before he and the other Death Eaters had realized the wards were down and then gone to collect Harry. But he'd abducted Harry a good three weeks after the end of term. A damn sight longer than three days, indeed.

As he watched Lupin trying to collect himself, Severus tried to do so as well. Harry, he realized, had every right to be furious, and Severus was more than willing to vent some of that fury on the boy's behalf.

"Who was there?" Severus asked him. His voice was extra-deadly soft, and he was gratified to see Lupin flinch before looking over at him, frowning in confusion. "At King's Cross," Severus clarified. "Who made a scene with the Dursleys?"

"Ah, well Moody, I think, made the deepest impression. But I was there, and Tonks, as well as Molly and Arthur." Lupin sighed. "We didn't think it would go worse for him, Severus. We were honestly trying to help. He'd just lost S-Sirius, and I knew it would be hard for him enough this summer without--"

Lupin cut himself off and Snape bared his teeth in a snarl. "You already knew what they were doing to him?"

"Well, not completely. He's never really said."

Severus glared at the wolf. When given enough prompting, and enough time, Harry had said plenty about the care he'd had at the hands of his relatives. Not that he'd ever been given that time or attention.

"But," Lupin continued, "when we, that is, the Advance Guard, went to get him last summer, he was locked in his room. The Muggles were gone, then, too. He seemed . . . startled to see us, but I thought he was just on edge because of what happened in the graveyard and to Cedric."

"The locks were on the outside of his door," Severus said in his quiet voice.

"Yes, how did--"

"And yet you found little suspicious about that circumstance?"

"I wasn't really thinking about it at the time."

"No. I imagine not." Severus closed his eyes and took a long breath. He had also not thought much about that fact, not until later. But then, he'd been busy trying to save the boy from Bellatrix at the time.

"Later, though, when I considered it further, I talked about it with Sirius. He was furious, of course, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. He wanted Harry to stay with him, if he was expelled for underage use of magic, and I think Harry would have. We spent Christmas there, obviously, and Sirius was trying to get Dumbledore to agree to let Harry stay with him during the whole summer, when he . . ." Lupin sighed and spread his hands. "Regardless, we were only trying to help. It was obvious Harry wasn't happy there, and we didn't want the Muggles to take advantage of his grief."

"And yet, none of you checked on him."

Lupin's face went into his hands. "No," the word was muffled. "You don't know how sorry I am."

"I don't care how sorry you are." Severus paused, reined in his temper again. "The only one you need to apologize to is Harry."

"I will, when he gives me a chance. Will you talk to him?"

"So you don't have to face him? I think not."

Lupin nodded wearily. They were quiet for a long time before he said, "He looks better than he did a week ago. Less pale and shaky, at least. And you both seem to be getting along."

Severus sneered. "If that's the best you can do at oblique snooping into the guardianship issue, then frankly I worry at your skills in subterfuge in your dealings with the werewolves."

"My apologies, Severus, for attempting to be circumspect with you." Lupin sought out his gaze at last. "So, then. How did you manage it with Harry? It's obvious he respects you." He left off the "now" but they both heard it anyway.

"It's amazing what a measure of honesty and consistency can do," Severus said dryly.

"Is that all?"

"All?" Severus was stunned.

"Well . . ."

Taking a moment to clear his mind before he attacked a werewolf in his own office, Severus folded his hands together to keep them from forming fists. And he left his wand in his sleeve, to prevent any . . . accidents. "You would realize," he said in the softest tone he'd ever used, "if you spent any time at all with the boy, that consistency and honesty are two things explicitly lacking from his dealings with any figures of authority. He has been lied to and given widely varying expectations for the entirety of his life. For the last two weeks, I have laid down very clear rules for him, which he has, for the most part, followed. There have been consequences when he has not, ones that were laid out for him as well. It is this that he responds to, and this which I offer him as his guardian."

Lupin, eyes wide, leant forward in his seat, his amber gaze piercing. "Is that all you care for him?"

"What kind of idiocy do you want me to spout?" Severus snapped. "I am not maudlin enough for declarations of love, as well you know."

"I didn't ask if you loved him, just if you cared about him."

"Of course! He's the Chosen One, isn't he?" His other feelings were well hidden as a matter of course. Those whose lives and well-being mattered little could not be used against you by your enemies.

"Ah. So, you're just keeping Dumbledore's Weapon safe and biddable."

"If you choose to think so."

"Right. So, you'll make him your ward for a year, but what has Harry ever wanted more than a family? Surely you know that. Will you give him a family, Severus, and make him your son?"

Severus felt his face drain of blood and he stood so fast his chair tipped over. "You dare . . . You impertinent . . ." He couldn't think of anything horrible enough to say, and that in itself shocked him into movement. He had a handful of the wolf's robes before he knew what he was doing. His face was so close to Lupin's he could feel his own harsh breaths ricochet off the other man's skin. "Don't you play the stalwart card with me," he spat. "We both know how carelessly you abandoned him after his parents died. If you ever want to have a place in his life, I suggest you swallow that damnable Marauder pride and prepare to grovel on your belly for his forgiveness."

He thrust Lupin away from him and stalked from the office to take a walk around the grounds and clear his head. Harry did not need to see him in such a state.

---

More than an hour later, when he was sufficiently in control of himself, Severus returned to his quarters. He expected to find Harry sulking in his room and was pleasantly surprised to find the boy on the couch, reading the book on defensive spells he'd borrowed. Harry looked up when he came in, and immediately started chewing on his lower lip.

"Have you eaten?"

Harry looked puzzled by the question, but then said, "Not since lunch, sir. How much trouble am I in?"

Ah, the reason for the confusion. He'd expected the dressing down first thing. "First you will have dinner, then we discuss your behavior."

Looking marginally relieved, Harry said, "I could make something . . ."

"Just call the House-elves. It's already late."

"Yes, sir. Anything for you?"

Severus was about to shake his head, then changed his mind. "Toast would not go amiss. And some fruit, perhaps."

In a few minutes, several platters were arranged on the dining table, one each of toast, fruit and small sweet cakes. Severus lifted his eyebrows at the third platter, and Harry gave him an almost cheeky smile. "Well, I don't know what your rule will be about sweets, so I figured I'd get ‘em all in before you could forbid them."

"And you don't think I could forbid them now?" Severus managed to say this in a dry enough tone he thought Harry might not catch the humor.

Alas, the Brat's smile only widened. "I think if you were gon . . . going to, I mean, you would have already. But you might have different rules once you're my guardian."

That he was right only made Severus' tone drier. "Indeed. However, I do not believe sweets are an appropriate main course for dinner. And one of our rules does explicitly state you will eat consistently and appropriately, does it not?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, his face falling slightly. "But I'll have fruit, too. First, I mean."

"See that you do."

They were quiet over the meal, and Harry had both sliced apples and orange sections as well as toast before he selected one of the small cakes, picking at the icing along the edge. "Do you like sweets, sir?" he asked when he had removed all the icing and was beginning to maul the cake's interior.

"Why?"

"Well, I can't remember ever seeing you eat any cakes or biscuits or anything, so I was wondering."

Severus pursed his lips, and wiped the last of the toast crumbs from his fingers with a napkin. "No, I do not generally care for sweets," he said at length, "to the Headmaster's utter frustration." He suppressed a smile as the boy laughed. "Although, there is one confection I admit enjoying."

"What?"

"Strawberry ice cream."

"Really?"

"Do you suggest I am prevaricating?"

"Uh, no. I just . . ." Harry grinned. "Well, you know, ice cream. Oh, hey! We should go to Florean Fortescue's when we go get my books for the new term."

Severus gave an exaggerated sigh. "Perhaps," he allowed.

"When can we get my books? And wand?"

"Soon. Perhaps on the weekend."

"That's what, two days?"

Severus inclined his head, and noted that Harry was done eating. If left to pick at the food for a while longer, he would, but he wouldn't actually consume any more. "Get this cleared away," he told the boy now. "And then join me in the sitting room."

Harry nodded with a "Yes, sir," but it was almost fifteen minutes before he reappeared and sank onto the settee with a sigh.

"What took so long?"

With a look of hurt confusion, the boy said, "Was it long? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to dawdle."

"How long does it take to summon a House-elf?" His tone was a bit sharp, but his patience had worn quite thin today.

"I . . . er . . . House elf?"

Sudden comprehension made Severus bite back a curse aimed at himself. "You cleaned up the dishes yourself, then?"

Harry nodded, that lower lip firmly in his teeth and worry in his eyes. "Yes, sir."

"I extend my apologies, Harry. I had not meant for you to clean up the mess on your own, but I can see how my words might have been misinterpreted." He inclined his head slightly. "And no, it wasn't long, for the work you did."

"Thank you, sir." The expression of relief on Harry's face made Severus feel even worse, but he knew they had more unpleasantness to get through before they settled down for the night.

"I assume you are expecting me to berate you for what you said to Professor Lupin this evening," he said, jumping right in.

Harry tensed. "Er . . . yes, sir."

"Good. I live to foil your expectations." He savored the confusion on the boy's face for a moment before continuing, "The words themselves I find no fault with. The manner of their delivery, however, left much to be desired."

"I'm sorry, sir. I know I shouldn't have yelled."

"No, you shouldn't have yelled. Respect for your elders, and especially for those with special authority, such as professors, should be employed at all times." He allowed a small twitch of his lips, and said, "Just remember, when you use a respectful tone and form of address, the content of your invective is more often heeded."

Harry's brow was still furrowed as he went over what had just been said, and Severus could almost see when the light went on in his mind. "I . . . okay. I understand."

"I'm sure you do." He waited for Harry to look at him before saying, "I imagine Lupin will be around in the next day or two, to offer you his own apology."

"Really? Why?"

Managing - just - not to roll his eyes, he said, "Even though your delivery lacked a certain level of courtesy, the message was received nonetheless. Lupin wishes to unburden his guilt."

Harry opened his mouth several times and then closed it without saying anything. Just as well, as Severus was not sure he would be able to defend the wolf more than he had already tonight.

"But do not think that your lack of respect towards the wolf is beneath my notice," Severus reminded him and watched appreciatively as the boy's expression turned wary. "I have allowed some leeway with regard to your outbursts here, in deference to your particular circumstances, that I will not tolerate outside of these rooms. I trust you understand my meaning?"

Ears and neck reddening, Harry murmured, "Yes, sir."

"Very well." Severus glanced at the clock. "Early to bed then, tonight. Use the extra hour to clear your mind, using the breathing technique from the book. Not the stone. Any questions, on that or other topics?"

"No, sir." Harry rose and headed to his room, and paused at the door. "Good night," he offered.

"Good night, Harry," Severus replied, then considered again the debacle from earlier in the day and the likelihood of the boy having nightmares as a result. He quickly Accio'd a potion from his room which he handed to Harry. He knew Harry recognized it; he'd taken it often enough. "I suggest you take this when you're ready to go to sleep."

Some residual tension drained from Harry's body, and he smiled a little. "Thank you, sir."

Severus waved a hand at him and closed his eyes as the boy quietly shut his door. Only two weeks before classes started up. The true test would be the trip to Diagon Alley. If Harry managed that without having a panic attack or flashback, Severus would be more inclined to think he would enter classes on time. As it stood now, though . . . he just didn't know.

Aug.17, 9:30 am

Yesterday I didn't write. Didn't feel like it. So Snape says, "No flying then," and that was okay, because I didn't feel like that either. But then he goes, "Quit moping," and then he got angry when I yelled at him that I wasn't moping and that he should just leave me the fuck alone and who asked him anyway?!

So, um, I got pretty well acquainted with the inside of my room yesterday, is what I'm saying.

And Remus didn't come by.

---

Harry finished writing and tucked the journal into his bedside table, then grabbed the hat he was supposed to wear today and went out into the sitting room. Snape was sitting in his chair near the fireplace, paging through the Daily Prophet.

"You actually read that rag?"

Snape looked up. "Know thy self and know thine enemy," he said, making it sound like a quote.

"What's that from?"

"Sun Tzu."

"Who?"

He rose and put the paper down. "Sun Tzu. A Chinese General, and well known Wizard who waxed philosophic about war."

"Oh."

"Succinct as always, Mr. Potter. Have you frittered away enough of the morning? Or are you finally ready to get our visit to Diagon Alley underway?"

Harry gave him a half smile. "I'm ready. But, well, I'm going as a long-haired, hat-wearing, glasses-less, soon-to-be-sixth-year, but what's your disguise going to be? A boil on the left cheek of-"

Snape's hand shot up, and Harry jumped back a step as the potions master pointed at him with one long finger. "Finish that question at your peril," he warned.

Harry gulped, thinking he had, perhaps, gone too far. But he really wasn't sure where too far was and so had to test things out from time to time. "Er, that's all right. I was done."

"Yes. I imagine you are." Turning to his desk, he took out a small vial of a sludgy looking liquid and shook it gently. "Besides, that was to be my Halloween costume."

As Harry gaped at him, wondering if Snape was serious - it was so hard to tell, sometimes - Snape uncorked the vial and took a swallow.

Polyjuice, it had to be. Harry watched, fascinated, as Snape transformed before his eyes. His black hair turned brown and shortened just a smidge, his eyes took on a softer, warmer hue, his face filled out, and he shrank about three inches.

Lupin.

Feeling something catch in his throat, Harry stared at him. "You're gonna . . . going to want to get some different robes, Professor. Remus doesn't wear black."

Remus - Snape rolled his eyes and went to his room, coming out a few moments later dressed just like Remus had been a couple days ago. "Let's go," he said with Remus' voice, and stepped toward his fireplace. "Floo to the Headmaster's quarters first, and we'll go from there to Diagon Alley. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'm not three, you know."

Remu - Snape drew a short, sharp breath. The glare he leveled at Harry just didn't have the same weight as it usually did, coming from those amber eyes. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it into the fire, saying "Dumbledore's Office," quite clearly.

It took Harry a minute to compose himself; he still felt awfully guilty for the way he'd yelled at Remus the other day, even though Snape had said -several times now - that he'd been right to vent some of his real feelings, and he was right to feel let down by those he trusted. He had not realized he would be going shopping with Remus, though . . . even if it wasn't really him, it was going to be hard.

Finally, figuring he'd used up his quota of Snape's patience already today, he grabbed a handful of powder and went through to Dumbledore's Office. Stumbling out of the Floo, like he always did, Harry was caught by two strong hands that righted him before he hit the ground.

Still a bit disoriented, he panicked and pulled away, wrenching his arm out of the steadying grasp and scrambling back till he hit a chair. "Don't!"

"Potter. Harry, it's all right."

"Please, don't, Rem-" He shook his head as the white dots dancing in his eyes receded and he remembered who he was really with. God, was he ever going to be all right again? "I mean, sorry, sir."

Snape looked at him, Remus' arms crossed over Remus' chest. The office was empty aside from the two of them, and Harry was just as glad he didn't have to face Dumbledore today. He hadn't actually been here since the night he'd trashed this room . . . and looking around, it seemed like most of the fragile, breakable, priceless items had been repaired and were back where they'd been two months ago. He wasn't sure how he felt about that - surely there should be some proof remaining of his destructive anger that night.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Potter?" Snape-Remus asked, frowning.

"Course I am." Harry took a slow breath and nodded. "But you've got to quit calling me that, especially now. Remus doesn't call me Potter. Oh, er, what will you be calling me?"

Snape smiled sharply. With Remus' face it looked like gas. "Today your name is Nicholas. I will go through first. Do try not to flail about too much on the other end, mm? The idea is to not draw attention to ourselves."

"Sorry, sir."

Without another word, Remus-Snape Floo'd through to Diagon Alley, and Harry followed right after him, this time making sure of the pronunciation, so he wouldn't end up in Knockturn Alley instead. The last thing he'd need would be a side trip to Borgin and Burkes. But he guessed he got it right this time, as he came out in the Leaky Cauldron. Once again, though, had to rely on Snape to catch his fall.

"You can fly upside down and backwards on a broom, but can't Floo without falling on your face?" Remus-Snape murmured, setting him back on his feet.

"I haven't had much practice," Harry retorted. He brushed at the soot on his robes - the ones he'd had sized from Snape's own wardrobe. If nothing else, he would be overjoyed to have his own clothes again.

"If I remember correctly, you caught a thrown Remembrall the first time you were on a broom. From over a hundred feet away. McGonagall, for one, was much impressed."

"Yeah, well, that was different."

"Enlighten me," Remus-Snape said as they left the Leaky Cauldron and made their way up the street to Ollivander's. They'd determined that what Harry needed most of all right now was a wand, and if they had to leave the Alley early for some reason, he had to be sure and get a wand first. A short argument had ensued when Harry pointed out he needed to go to Gringott's first, in order to have money to buy a wand, and Snape said that as Harry's guardian, it would be his responsibility to provide for Harry, up to and including galleons for wand, clothes and books. Harry had pointed out that Snape was not his guardian, not yet, and Snape finished the bout with a "Timing on that score matters little to me, Mr. Potter. But we will not be taking the time out of our schedule for Gringott's."

Now Harry shrugged, tugging the soft-brimmed hat a little lower over his forehead. "I was angry and it was Neville's, that his Gran had sent him, and M-m-malfoy was being a prat."

Remus-Snape sent him a quick look, but didn't say anything about Harry's stumble over the name, for which he was grateful. If he could just get through this day without freaking out, he knew he'd be ready for class. He was worried, though, because he hadn't even spoken to Hermione and Ron this summer, and he didn't know what they knew about where he had been, or what had happened, and he couldn't even imagine that conversation.

The Alley was more crowded than the Cauldron had been, but no one paid them any attention, and they were able to weave through the shoppers easily enough. Ollivander's was at the far end of the Alley, and they had to bloody well pass Gringott's to get there, but Harry didn't roll his eyes or sigh or anything as they continued on without stopping. Not much, anyway.

Inside the dingy storefront at last, Harry stepped up to the counter, careful to not push his hair away from his face, where some of it had fallen. Even so, Mr. Ollivander's large moon-like eyes traveled over him rather closely before he glanced at Remus-Snape. "Ahh, Remus Lupin. Oak, wasn't it? Sixteen inches, reasonably springy, dragon heartstring core."

Snape-Remus smiled and nodded.

Then those odd eyes were on Harry again and Harry tried not to squirm. "Needing a new wand, are you?"

"Yes, sir. Mine was, er, broken."

"Ah, I sold you that wand, didn't I?"

"Er, maybe. It was oak. I think-"

Ollivander smiled a smile that stretched his whole face out. "Mr. Potter, do you think we could dispense with the subterfuge? That would be holly, eleven inches, supple, with a single phoenix tail feather, correct?"

"Um, yeah." Harry's face flushed, and Snape moved slightly closer to him. "But I don't have it anymore and need a new one."

"Of course. Let's see . . . Oh, try this one. Mahogany, 9 ½ inches and with a unicorn tail hair." He proffered the box to Harry, who took the wand out and swished it, but nothing happened. "No? All right then, how about . . ."

It took thirteen wands this time to find one that worked well for Harry. This time around, the wand was yew, 11 inches, with a sliver of basilisk fang at its core. Harry almost hated to touch the thing when Ollivander described it, but the wand warmed in his hand when he finally picked it up, and felt . . . right. Red and gold sparks flew out of the end as soon as he had his fingers wrapped around it.

"Yew. Interesting," Ollivander said, with that same creepy tone he'd used the last time Harry had gotten a wand from him. "Symbolic of death and resurrection," he added. "I don't make many of these. Haven't sold one for many, many years."

Harry got a heavy feeling in his chest, and he wanted to stop the wandmaker before he said any more, but was helpless to do so. Still, he knew he could have said the words that next came out of the elderly man's mouth, at the exact same time.

"He Who Must Not Be Named has a wand of yew."

Of course he did. There were yew in the churchyard where Cedric had died. And in the forbidden forest where Hagrid kept the herd of thestrals. Death surrounded them.

"And resurrection, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said, and Harry realized he'd said the last aloud. The man's smile turned a bit wry. "Rather like a phoenix, in a way. Always rebirth, after death. Don't forget, there are two sides."

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he almost twisted away before he remembered. Snape. When the hand squeezed his shoulder, almost gently, Harry realized he was trembling and tried to stop, slowing his breathing and focusing on the here, on the now.

Remus' voice said, "Very well. How much?" He paid without releasing Harry's shoulder, and then steered him back into the street. Harry used the contact to keep himself steady. . . . steadier.

Once outside, Remus-Snape peered into his eyes. Harry had seen concern in Remus' eyes before, so this wasn't terribly off-putting. It was hard to remember, with that look in the amber eyes, that this was really Snape. "Has this been enough? We can do the rest by owl."

"No, it's all right." Harry nodded. "I'm all right."

Remus-Snape pursed his lips, and after another moment, nodded. After he gave one last squeeze, Snape let his shoulder go, and walked beside him as they retraced their steps. As they passed Gringott's on the way to Madam Malkin's, Harry said quietly, "I'll pay you back."

Remus-Snape glared at him. "You'll do no such thing."

"I have plenty of money--"

"Which I do not care about in the slightest."

Harry wanted so badly to ask what Snape did care about, but was almost sure the answer would be something like "duty" or "safety" or "winning the war against evil," and he didn't want to hear any of those, so he hurried his steps instead and pushed his way into the clothier's without looking back.

The squat, smiling witch came up to him immediately. "Hogwarts robes, dear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Harry said. "Mine are . . . too small." He just wished. He'd probably only grown a few inches in five whole years.

"Of course, of course. Well, over here, dear, up on the stool and I'll get you measured."

"He'll also need everyday clothing," came Remus' voice, with a touch of humor in it as Harry shot him a look. Remus' smirk wasn't quite as potent as Snape's but it raised Harry's ire all the same. "Shirts, trousers, socks, vests, the lot. A winter cloak, boots and two pairs of shoes. Gloves, hat, jumpers . . ."

It would cost a bloody fortune. Harry's glare intensified, and so did Snape's Remus-smirk. There was no need to get all of this now, and Snape knew it. But Harry would see him paid back, every knut.

"Excellent, excellent," Madam Malkin said. She took her measuring tape from a deep pocket in her robes, then set it into motion over Harry's whole body as she collected clothing for him into a large pile. Once everything was in order, she shrunk the clothing, and Snape put it in his pocket.

Exhausted, Harry left the store needing to sit down.

Snape gestured to the café sitting area across the street, at Florean Fortescue's. "Ice cream?"

Harry had to smile. "Strawberry?"

"Indeed."

At the ice cream shop, Harry was able to scrunch down in his seat and watch pedestrians, keeping his eye on anyone who came near. He knew he was being a bit paranoid, but the last thing he wanted was to have some one sneak up on him and attack him -- if it was a Death Eater -- or fling themselves on him -- if it was Hermione or Mrs. Weasley. Neither held any appeal, but now that he had his wand, he'd be hard pressed to say which would be worse.

Snape, as he'd said, seemed to really enjoy his ice cream, and on Remus' face, the resulting smile didn't look so forced. Harry had chocolate, with whipped cream, but he only ate a few bites before pushing the rest away. His head was pounding and he felt hot and cold, both at once. The Alley was too noisy and there were too many people around for him to keep an eye on them all.

"I believe," Snape said, wiping his mouth with a paper serviette, before getting to his feet, "that we shall head back to the castle now."

"No, it's okay. We haven't gotten my books yet."

"We can easily procure those by owl. Come along now, Nicholas."

"I'm all right," Harry insisted.

"You. Are. Not." Remus-Snape loomed over him. "You are in danger of over extending yourself, and we will cease this excursion before that happens. Do not force me to drag you to the Leaky Cauldron by the ear like an errant child."

He wouldn't, Harry thought. But, looking into the unaccustomed scowl on Remus' face and measuring his words, Harry knew he would. He wiped his own mouth and sidled out of his seat, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets. Snape-Remus shook his head slightly and walked them back to the Floo point.

Harry and Snape stood in front of the stone fireplace, waiting while a middle-aged witch and her two young children went through.

Snape leaned closer to Harry and said, "There's a password, to get back through to the Headmaster's office. It--" but the rest of his words were drowned in a gust of green flame that billowed up as a tall man stepped out of the fireplace, swathed in black, from boots to cloak, except for the cloak's silver clasp, and the silver snake head on the cane in his hand.

Harry fell back, scrambling madly to get out of the way, a low keening sound coming from his throat as Lucius Malfoy stood regally before him.

Aug.17, 9:30 am

no further entry for this date

---

Harry fell back, scrambling madly to get out of the way, a low keening sound coming from his throat as Lucius Malfoy stood regally before him.

Severus caught the boy before he crashed into and upset a table full of pub goers, and then shoved Harry behind him, hoping by all the gods that he wouldn't do anything stupid. Harry's breaths were mere harsh pants though, and there was no way in hell Lucius had not noticed. Taking a split second to actually think, Severus smiled genially at the elder Malfoy - on Remus, who Malfoy knew by sight, he was sure it would appear as if he were baring his teeth - and gestured for him to pass them to go into the Alley.

But Lucius was not to be dissuaded. He peered over Severus' shoulder briefly, then turned an oddly amused stare on Severus himself. "Remus Lupin," he said in his smooth, cultured voice. "How good to see you again."

Since Severus knew that the last time Lucius had seen Remus was in the Department of Mysteries where Lucius had been apprehended by Ministry personnel and sent to Azkaban, he just smiled a bit tighter and said, "Oh, I very much doubt that."

The boy, behind him, seemed to have come to a halt in his desperate flailing about, and had grabbed a portion of Severus' robe instead. His breaths were quieter, but whether that was from lack of oxygen or true calm, he couldn't really tell.

"Say," Lucius continued, taking one step forward and putting himself nose to nose with Severus. The scent of his expensive cologne was cloying, so close, and, since in Remus' nose, the sense of smell was particularly sharp, Severus was actually nauseated and found himself taking more shallow breaths. Lucius' lips curved in a cold, predatory smile that made Severus want to bite his throat out, even if he was only a Polyjuiced Werewolf. "Is that Harry Potter lurking behind you? Why, I haven't seen him for ages . . . not with clothes on, at least."

With a snarl worthy of a Were, Severus had his wand aimed at Malfoy's heart before the man finished his taunt.

To his utter surprise, so did Harry.

The area around them cleared in a heartbeat. Wizards - especially of this particular caliber and affiliation - drawing wands in a small space was nothing anyone sane wanted to interfere with.

Severus could hear the boy's teeth grinding together, and wasn't sure exactly how the words managed to come out of his mouth, and yet . . . "I'll kill you where you stand, Malfoy, so help me."

Lucius had not moved, still, but the edge of his lip lifted in a sneer. "I'd like to see you try. My lovely sister-in-law, you remember her? She has told me some unforgivably amusing tales of your failures in that arena."

Harry's arm was shaking, and his new wand's tip juddered up and down like a snitch in a gale. "Oh, I think I'm properly motivated this time."

Lucius clapped his hand to his chest, just over his heart. "Ah, you wound me, Harry. And here I thought we'd gotten along so well. Or is it just another's touch you crave? I don't believe my Lord's quite gotten over the lovely sound of your screams."

This had gone quite far enough, Severus decided, and grabbed Harry's arm, at the same as the boy screamed, "You filthy piece of shit!" followed by, "Avada-"

Before he finished the damning words, Severus had Apparated them away.

---

Harry's feet had barely touched ground when he fell to hands and knees and started retching. Chocolate ice cream and toast with marmalade from breakfast, and then pink liquid and chunks of yellow, and acid that stung his throat and brought tears to his eyes. Still coughing and choking on bile, he completely lost any semblance of calm when his arms were grabbed and he was hauled to his feet again. But whoever it was let go of his arms again, real quick in favor of shoving him forward toward a wide white door with a brass knocker in the middle of it.

"Come on, now, Potter," said a calm voice that sounded an awful lot like Remus, but couldn't be, because Remus was angry at him and wasn't here, besides . . . wherever here was. They were on a brick-walled porch of sorts, with broad white columns, covered in ivy, supporting the roof from the four corners. A set of wide stone steps led down to a gravel drive. What the hell? Harry was dizzy and disoriented, and he wondered why for a second longer . . .

And then he remembered.

Dragging a sleeve across his eyes and then his mouth, Harry staggered another step towards the door. Remus-Snape had his wand aimed at the door and gestured sharply for him to come closer, so he did. With a quick look over his shoulder, Rem . . . Snape jabbed his wand at the knocker and muttered something under his breath. The door's lock clicked, and Snape pushed the door open, then half dragged Harry inside after him.

They were in a cool, dark room with high ceilings and hexagonal windows of cut, colored glass near the very top, filtering in small bands of sunlight in shades of green, yellow, blue and red. The entryway was paneled in some kind of dark, reddish wood that smelt faintly of cedar.

The door slammed closed behind them, and Snape-Remus waved his wand a few more times. The air around them glowed with a yellow haze that faded slowly as Snape let his hand drop with a gusty sigh.

And then his head came up and he glared at Harry. Stalking towards him, Remus-Snape growled, "You stupid child! What the hell do you think you were doing?!"

Harry backed away, keeping his own wand up to defend himself. "I . . . I didn't think-"

"That's right! You didn't think at all! The Killing Curse? Are you completely mad?"

Harry bristled. "He deserved to die!"

"Of course he did, you idiot, that's not the point! What do you suppose would have happened if you'd finished that little incantation, hm? Would the Ministry have just let you off because Malfoy deserved it? Perhaps told the Wizarding world that Harry bloody Potter can cast an Unforgivable in front of a dozen witnesses, and that it's bloody well fine, because according to this same Mr. Potter, the dead man was a particularly loathsome fellow?"

"No, I-"

"I don't want to hear it. Just . . ." Remus-Snape put a hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, head ducked slightly as if his neck hurt, and the gesture was so Snape that Harry was jolted when Remus' voice said, "Just stay put and do as you're told for a bloody second. Stay right here. I need a moment . . ." With that, he strode away, through a doorway in the far wall, leaving Harry alone.

Again.

That's when the shaking started.

---

In the basement of the Prince ancestral home, Severus leant against the door of his potions lab and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a grip on his temper before he faced Harry again. In the instant of deciding where to Apparate, he'd concentrated on here, where he had not set foot in several years, instead of going directly to Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, they'd still have to get through the gate, and if Lucius had followed them . . . Well. It had been much faster to ram through the outer door and then reinforce the wards here than it would have been to race to the castle with a distraught and murderous teenager on his hands.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN!

With each repetition, Severus slammed the back of his head on the solid oak door, as if could possibly knock some sense into his head. Remus' head. Whatever.

The exercise proved futile.

Except that it gave him a headache.

And very likely a concussion.

Stupid, stupid, stupid child! Of all the harebrained, idiotic, self-destructive, nonsensical ways to get himself caught up in a legal and ethical nightmare! Not to mention the many and varied ways Harry would have been emotionally fucked up for life, if he'd actually managed to work up the requisite desire to cast the damned spell. Severus knew Harry didn't have it him to be a killer; he'd spent enough time in the boy's head to understand that. For Merlin's sake, the boy barely believed he deserved better than the Muggles who'd made a cock up of his childhood. And most days, Severus was fairly sure Harry believed he did deserve every second of the misery they'd put him through.

How he expected to live with himself if he took another's life, even if it was Malfoy . . .

Severus' mind snapped immediately to the prophecy Dumbledore had seen fit to share with Harry on the night the last of his real family died. Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives.

Fuck.

Was this what truly troubled Harry about that damned prophecy? That he would have to kill or be killed, and that Harry knew he wouldn't be the one who could kill?

He suddenly understood Harry's reluctance to discuss anything to do with life after school, or after Voldemort's demise, or even after this next term, as if the boy knew he were living on borrowed time. And, he could, only at this moment, completely understand Harry's frantic attempt to cast the Unforgivable on Malfoy, for that is what it really was, after all. However asinine, Harry had made the attempt to show himself that he could do it. In Harry's mind, Severus now realized, if he couldn't kill, he was no more than a walking corpse.

Fuck, indeed.

A second later, and the sudden end of the Polyjuice's duration hit him with the force of a Stunner. He had to use the wall for support to keep from falling as he resumed his own shape. Hands narrowed and fingers lengthened, his nose grew sharply in profile and his hair darkened appreciably until he was finally himself. Yet, still with a headache.

Ach, hell. Severus Accio'd a pain potion from his stores and gulped it down to treat the blooming pain behind his eyes before he headed back upstairs. How could he have been so blind?

---

An eternity passed as, dizzy and breathless, Harry sat on the cold, marbled floor of the entryway and stared at his hands. They held a wand, yew, eleven inches, springy, with a basilisk fang core. Yew like His. He stared at his hands, small, narrow, agile. Good for snitch catching. And stared at the wand he'd tried to kill with, the wand in these hands.

With a lurch, his stomach dropped and the world narrowed to . . .

. . . glass the color of blood leaving trails across the stained, dark floor . . .

. . . and now the dark was all around him, and Malfoy's hot breath was in his ear and hands grabbed his hips hard enough to bruise . . .

. . . and his hands tilted the yew wand toward him, aimed the killing blow at his own eye . . .

. . . and the smell of sweat and blood and semen and the sweet sting of cologne filled his nose and mouth and made him retch over and over . . .

. . . and the fang's poison hurtled through his veins, burning his blood, and he had to let it out, let it all out . . .

. . . and Bellatrix and Voldemort laughed and laughed and laughed . . .

"Potter!" someone yelled and grabbed his shoulder and shook, hard.

The world jerked back into focus, and he peered into Snape's face. The man didn't let go of his shoulders, but said, "Breathe, Harry. Slowly now. In. Out. In. Out. Good. Keep going, in. Out . . ."

Harry clung to Snape's arms and shook his head, trembling so hard he could hardly feel his fingers anymore, could barely manage to hold on. He had to tell, had to let him know. The world was doomed and it was all his fault.

"What is it, Harry?" Snape asked. His voice, so calm and full of understanding, was all it took in the end; it was his undoing.

Harry broke into sobs, wrenching, chest heaving, horrible, choking sobs as he clutched at Snape's robes and refused to let go. "I can't do it, Professor. I tried and I can't, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry . . ."

"I know," Snape said, and tugged him against his chest, put arms around him and spoke soft, nonsense words that would never mean anything. Not to him, never to him.

Because he didn't know, not yet. And Harry had to tell him. "You have to know, Professor. You have to tell them, please. I can't kill him. I can't, I'm sorry. Please, tell them I'm sorry. You'll do that, won't you? Dumbledore should know."

"Shhh, Harry. It's all right. I know."

Snape's robes grew wet with the volume of Harry's tears, but he couldn't stop, knew he was going to weep until he was dry, and then it would all be gone. It would all be over.

"I know," Snape said again. "But I swear to you, you are not alone in this."

Harry shook his head in the darkness of damp wool robes. Snape was wrong, so very, very wrong. He whispered, "I'm alone every time. I always face him alone."

He barely noticed when the arms tightened around him, and only cared that someone finally knew.

Aug.18

Snape loaned me some paper so I could write. I won't let him take flying time away from me, just 'cause I don't have my journal here. I should've taken it with me when we went out to Diagon Alley. I should have just not gone to Diagon Alley at all, or I should have agreed to go back to Hogwarts right after I'd got my wand, and then we wouldn't have . . . . . . .

--- Okay, I'm back. That was, um . . . awkward. If this ink is smeared, Snape told me that for posterity's sake, to make sure that I write it wasn't his fault, as he wasn't the one dripping tears all over it. I know he was just trying to make me laugh, though. It's been a . . . rough couple of days. Yesterday afternoon, after I finished slobbering snot all over Remus' robes, and Snape changed into his own clothes, he said we could stay here for the rest of the weekend. He let Dumbledore know where we were, I guess, but he said we could both use a change of scenery. He's right, I guess. I was . . . pretty upset yesterday . . . and today. My nightmares last night were . . . bad.

Snape says it's okay I'm upset, that I have good reason to be, although the words he used were more like: "Any dimwit can see that with the varied pressures you've been under of late, your response to such stimuli presented at our point of egress would be over-reactive, blah, blah, blah."

I think he was being serious, then. I'm not sure, though. He may have been making a joke. It's hard to tell, sometimes with him. Part of me wonders if he's figured out that I figured out his tells, and he's swapping them all around so I can never get a handle on him . . . and the other part of me wonders if I'm just expecting him to do certain things, and rather than accept that he's done something different, I pretend he's not using the right tell.

He was serious, though, when he told me that the Ministry is sending someone from Child Welfare to come and talk to us tomorrow. I don't want to talk to anyone else. And I like the quiet here, at this old manor, and the garden out back that's full of lilacs and flowering bushes of some kind, and the soft hum of insects, and I almost don't want to go back to Hogwarts at all. But like Snape says, that's simply not an option, at least for him, not this close to term. If I'm not ready for classes, though, he says I'll be able to stay with him in the dungeon rooms, and we can work out some kind of tutoring thing to keep me up with classes until I can return to a regular schedule.

I just don't know yet, if I'll be ready.

---

Monday morning, Harry woke in the bedroom Snape had given him in the old Prince Manor and stared up at the ceiling for a while before rising. The bedroom was done in light blue and cream, soothing colors, and a warm breeze through the open window nearest the bed riffled the sheer curtain drapes and flowed over Harry's body like a balm. He wondered if they would come to this house for holidays, when . . . if he was Snape's ward, and if he could have this bedroom then, too. He liked it, even more than the one in the dungeons at school, because, well . . . dungeons.

Finally, though, he couldn't excuse still lying abed, and got up to take a shower and dress in some of his new clothes. Though he hated to admit it, he was glad Snape had insisted on buying all those clothes, as he wasn't sure he wanted to go back to Diagon Alley anytime soon. Or anytime ever, as long as Lucius Malfoy was alive. A sick feeling rose in his gut, threatening to make him hurl, and he swallowed convulsively several times until his stomach settled a bit.

Then he dressed in a nice pair of trousers and a collared shirt, as well as new shoes, so he'd look decent for the Child Welfare people. The Ministry officials were going to meet them at Hogwarts, Snape said, just after lunch, but they had to go back a little earlier, so they could make sure his quarters were neat and picked up and "prettified" for their guest.

He wondered if Snape was as nervous about the interview as he was.

Forty-five minutes later, he met Snape in the small, less formal dining room near the kitchen, where they ate breakfast. Though he hadn't realized it until yesterday, the manor had a House-elf here named Turner, a wizened, rather short - even for a House-elf - fellow with huge blue-gray eyes. Turner rarely spoke, perhaps because he'd been alone in this house for years as far as Harry could tell. Or perhaps because he just didn't like talking to humans.

Turner had set out a hearty breakfast of hot cereal, toast, rashers and soft boiled eggs, plus tea and juice. Despite this, Snape drank coffee, but Harry, glad for the fact that tea this time did not mean "talking," drank two cups, sweetened with extra sugar. Snape raised an eyebrow over his excess, but didn't tell him to stop.

Afterwards, they used the Floo in the Prince Manor "drawing room" to go back to Dumbledore's Office. This time, the Headmaster was there.

Harry, having stumbled out of the Floo, to be caught and righted again by Snape, stared at his shoes, and then at the wall, to avoid the man's gaze.

Seemed like he wasn't going to get away with much of that, though, as the silence in the room was interrupted after only a minute or two by Dumbledore's quiet voice. "It's good to see you, Harry."

Was it really? he wondered. Or was Dumbledore just making small talk? Snape cleared his throat suddenly, and Harry realized he was being rude. He glanced at the Headmaster, still not meeting his eyes -- like Dumbledore had refused to do with him all last year, though for a different reason -- and said, "You, too, sir."

"I hope we'll see you in the Great Hall for meals, soon," Dumbledore said.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. I . . ."

"He will when he's comfortable," Snape said with some asperity, and Harry was glad for the assistance.

"I understand, my dear Severus." Dumbledore paused for a long moment, and Harry chanced a look at his face, finding the Headmaster's narrowed eyes peering at him as if through a Muggle microscope. He flushed and looked away, almost hearing the censure - in kindly tones, of course - for his actions over the weekend. "Perhaps just a private chat, then, here in my office. This evening, say?"

Snape didn't answer right away, and then, quietly, said, "Harry?"

Swallowing heavily, Harry managed a nod. He was going to have to deal with it sooner or later. He wondered if almost casting an Unforgivable carried as much of a sentence as actually completing the spell. "All right."

"Good, good." Dumbledore clapped his hands together as if he were truly pleased, and in the next few minutes, they were ushered out of the office and were back down to the dungeons.

Harry wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed and burrow under the covers for a year or two, but Snape wouldn't let him, reminding him of their rules. For a brief and shining moment, Harry wanted to tell him to stuff his rules, but the moment passed, and Harry straightened his books and put away his new clothes and picked up his room a bit. The Hogwarts House-elves did most of the regular cleaning, but Snape expected Harry to keep his room neat on his own.

Soon it was lunch time, and Harry only picked at the sandwiches and raw vegetables, long enough that Snape reminded him again of the rules about eating. Harry glared at him, but ate a half sandwich and a handful of celery sticks before pushing the plate away.

"What're you going to tell them?" Harry asked, while Snape finished eating.

"The truth. I suggest you do the same."

The truth. What a laugh. Would anyone even believe him? Anyone besides Snape?

The dishes had barely vanished via House-elf magic when there was a knock at the door to Snape's quarters. Harry's stomach did flip-flops during the eternity it took for Snape to get to the door and answer it. He rose from their little table where they'd been eating and moved to stand next to the settee where he could watch the Officials come in. He hadn't been this nervous since moments before he faced the Hungarian Horntail . . .

And then he just had to laugh. There were only a couple of people he could ascribe that much fear to, and neither of them was a Ministry Official.

He was still chuckling as Snape brought the slightly dumpy looking woman, gray haired and wrinkle faced and dressed in dark blue robes, into the sitting area and introduced him.

Snape's eyebrow was lifting double time as he waited for Harry's snickering to die down, and then said, "Madam Phineas, this is Harry Potter. Harry, Madam Phineas from the Ministry of Child Welfare."

"How do you do, Mr. Potter?" the woman said and held out her hand.

"Fine, thanks," he said and shook her head, noting that for an old lady, she had a good grip. "But call me Harry, please."

"Very well." She didn't offer her own first name, but Harry didn't really care.

"May I offer you tea?" Snape asked, sounding for all the world like a normal, conscientious host, instead of a dour Potions Master and ex-Death Eater.

"Thank you, Mr. Snape," she said and sat where Snape directed her.

"It's Professor," Harry told her.

"Sorry?"

"It's Professor Snape. Not Mister."

"I see. My apologies, Professor."

"Quite all right," Snape said, giving Harry an odd look, which Harry returned, with interest. Then Snape called up a House-elf and ordered tea, instead of making it himself, and Harry relaxed a little, deciding the lack of ritual meant nothing to taxing would be discussed.

He realized after an hour that he had been very, very wrong.

That first hour was Madam Phineas asking Harry all about the Dursleys and how they'd treated him, and he'd answered the first few questions with, "But they're not even around anymore, so what does it matter?"

He'd been advised by both Snape and Madam Phineas that it did matter, for the official records of the transfer of guardianship, and so he had to talk again about the cupboard and the lack of consistent food, the occasional smacking around, the games of Harry Hunting, the cat flap and all of it. He looked down at his hands the whole time, and was glad, for once, that he had told most of this to Snape before, so he wouldn't have to worry what the man thought of him and his inability to stick up for himself with a bunch of stupid Muggles.

And Snape, for his part, remained silent, which was also a boon.

"So, you were ‘rescued' by three of the Weasley boys the summer after your first year at Hogwarts?" Madam Phineas asked. She'd been making notes in a folder the whole time, and now seemed to be just asking for clarifications.

"Yeah . . . I mean, yes, ma'am. They used their Dad's Ford Anglia to help pull the bars off the window, and then we flew to the Burrow. I stayed there the rest of the summer." It was, bar none, the best summer he'd ever had.

"Mm-hm." She paged through her paperwork for a few moments, then looked back at Harry, holding up a thin piece of parchment. "I have a letter written by Arthur and Molly Weasley, sent to Child Welfare in August of that year, protesting your placement with your aunt and uncle."

"Really?" Harry leaned forward to see the letter, but Madam Phineas put it back in her folder. He'd always wondered why they'd never said anything about that summer breakout to him, or to Dumbledore, always just figuring they didn't care if he was locked up, so long as he was safe.

The woman's lip twitched. "Really. There is, however, an attachment from the Headmaster of Hogwarts, stating that for reasons of utmost security, you were required to remain at 4 Privet Drive."

Harry sat back. "Oh."

"It's why we never conducted home interviews with you previously," she said softly, looking him in the eye. "You were down on the list for inspections, as are most Wizarding children who are raised by Muggles, whether Muggleborn or adopted. Muggles don't often have the resources to deal with magical children."

"You're telling me," Harry muttered.

Madam Phineas smiled wryly. "No, I don't imagine I need to, do I? At any rate, such measures were waived in your case, which is highly unusual, but then, the way things are . . . with You Know Who . . . Well." She turned a couple more pages in her folder before she looked at him again. "This summer has been a bit of a trial, hasn't it?"

He shrugged one shoulder, looking at his hands again.

"The Muggles left you alone, I see . . ." She scribbled something and then her voice sharpened. "I have a report from the Headmaster about an abduction . . ." she started, and stared at him, waiting.

Harry bit his lip and didn't answer, except to shrug again, and eventually she went on. "And that for the last several weeks, you've been living with Professor Snape."

That was easier to answer. "Yes, ma'am."

"How is that going?"

"Fine."

"Harry. I'm going to need a little more detail than that." She glanced at Snape and said, "Would you be more comfortable talking with me alone?"

Harry looked over at Snape, then, whose face was completely void of tells, but who then tilted his head to the side just a bit, as if to encourage him to make a decision of his own. He thought about trying to describe his relationship to Snape, and the last few weeks with him, in front of him, and had to wipe suddenly sweating palms on his trousers. "Um, okay."

Without a word, Snape rose and went through the door into his private potions lab. Harry watched him go, not sure whether he'd hurt the man's feelings . . . and then had to suppress another mad bout of laughing at the very idea.

"All right, then," Madam Phineas said, "tell me a little more about how you and the Professor are getting along."

"I . . . well, he's been really good. About everything. Even when I get angry and break his stuff."

"Do you ‘break his stuff' often?"

"Not anymore." Harry shrugged. "It's mostly just yelling now. Not like I'm yelling all the time," he added quickly. "But sometimes . . . it's really . . ."

"It's been a difficult time for you," she said softly.

"Yeah." He shook his head. "And Professor Snape's been real helpful. He makes me talk stuff out and gave me a journal and we have rules and stuff that I have to follow so I can go flying and all."

"What made you agree to the idea of him becoming your guardian?"

"Well, he said . . ." Harry swallowed and made himself meet the woman's eyes. They were a soft, light brown, almost like Remus' when he wasn't wolfing out, and they regarded him seriously. "He said he would protect me, and . . . and . . ."

"And?" she prompted.

"And that I wasn't just good for one thing, defeating V- Voldemort, you know? That I had a right to a life aside from that." He didn't tell her about how he knew he wasn't going to survive that fight; it was enough that Snape knew. "I think . . . I think he just wants me to be safe, but also, you know . . . happy." And he realized, in that moment, that it was true, though Snape hadn't said it in so many words. "No one else has offered me that. I'm just a weapon to them. Or a burden."

"I see," she said, and scribbled a few things down, before she closed her folder. "I'll just talk with the Professor for a few minutes and then get going. We should have a decision to you by the end of the day."

"That soon?"

She smiled. "Well, you are a bit of a special case. I also have a recommendation from Headmaster Dumbledore, written in favor of Professor Snape's request."

"Oh. Good."

Madam Phineas stood up, and Harry rose with her, then went to knock on the door to the lab. It was opened so fast Harry figured Snape hadn't been actually working on any potions, but was just biding his time until it was his turn in the hot seat.

"Madam Phineas has some questions for you, sir," Harry told him.

Snape nodded and came out to the sitting room.

"Do you want me to leave?" Harry asked.

"That will not be necessary," Snape said and sat down when Madam Phineas did, and she reopened her folder.

She spent the next few minutes verifying information Snape had put in his application, and then asked similar questions to her last few for Harry.

As for how they were getting along, Snape said, "Harry is going through a rough period, and I have made accommodations for his attendant needs. I will not tolerate self-harming behaviors nor attempts at isolation, as neither are conducive to his recovery. He is also required to get adequate amounts of sleep and nutrition."

"Yes," Madam Phineas said, "but how are you getting along?"

Snape peered at Harry so long he felt like a bug about to be ground to powder, but he was honestly interested in the answer. Finally, Snape said, "Our interactions are satisfactory."

Harry thought that might be the biggest compliment he had ever received from Snape, and grinned, even while Madam Phineas' brows dipped down. Then the corner of Snape's lips twitched, and the woman's frown smoothed as she offered an almost Dumbledore-like smile, and Harry knew that everything was going to be okay.

Aug.19

I have to go meet with Dumbledore in a few minutes. I really, really don't want to. What am I going to say to him? "Oh, hey, Headmaster, thanks a bunch for sending me back to the effing Dursleys, again even though I begged you a million times not to, and told you how much I hated it there. And for keeping an eye out for me, your little Prophecy Boy, so I'd be sure and whack Voldie for ya. Not that I'm bitter . . ."

Yeah. That'd go over like a lead balloon.

But maybe he just wants to let me know he's kept me out of Azkaban as a bloody favor, like he did for Snape. . . . Hm. I wonder if I could be a spy, instead of a killer? The mortality rate would be about the same, I bet.

---

"Can I go flying?" Harry asked. "I wrote."

"Don't you have a meeting in less than ten minutes?"

Harry sighed. "Maybe."

Snape looked at him, dark eyes unreadable. His tells were . . . untellable. "Harry. I was there when you decided on the time. If you don't want to meet with the Headmaster, then tell him so."

"Really?"

"No. You had the chance to beg off earlier. Now it would just be rude."

"All right! Fine!" He bit his lip. "Are you going with me?"

"I believe I will sit this one out." Snape stared him down for another minute. "I trust you will control your temper in the Headmaster's office."

Feeling mulish, Harry debated ignoring the reminder of his last loss of temper in that office, or flat out refusing to agree to mind his temper at all. But Snape was right, and he wouldn't get anywhere with Dumbledore if he threw another tantrum, no matter how satisfying it might feel in the moment. Still . . . "You do?"

"Yes."

Harry offered him a brief smile. "Thanks."

Snape waved the issue away, then glanced at the clock. "I suggest you get a move on."

"Yes, sir." Harry managed not to sigh again, but only barely.

"Do you wish an escort?"

For a second, Harry wanted to say yes . . . but he was going to have to get used to not having Snape there every moment to guard him, and make sure he didn't get waylaid by anyone. Besides, who was he going to run into here? Better to have a dry run at being by himself before all the students arrived. "No, but thanks. I'll be okay."

"Very well." Snape bent his head back over the potions journal he was reading. He didn't look up as Harry stood there, but cleared his throat after a minute. "Your procrastinating will only delay the inevitable, and will grate on my nerves. Now go."

"Yes, sir." Harry slipped out of Snape's quarters and headed for the Headmaster's Office. The school was very quiet, even seeming to be free of ghosts for the moment. The corridors were dimly lit, and everything shone with high polish. Filch must have been busy the last month or so. Harry realized, after he'd finally climbed to the second floor, that he was dragging his feet, so he picked up his pace. He didn't want to be rude, but - if he wanted to be perfectly honest - he was really, really nervous about this meeting.

Once he stood in front of the gargoyles, he paused, gathering what courage he could, then moved forward slightly and said, "I have an appointment with the Headmaster."

The gargoyles leaped aside and the wall behind them opened up, showing him the spiral staircase. Harry stepped onto it as it started to turn, matching the turning of his stomach. Then he was standing in front of the oak door with the brass knocker, but before he could put knuckles to wood, he heard Dumbledore's voice call, "Come in, Harry."

Harry hated when he did that.

But he drew a deep breath and opened the door anyway, then slipped inside. The first thing he saw was Fawkes, looking very plumage-y, full-colored and cheerful, with a broad wing-spread that flapped several times as Harry closed the door behind him. The second thing he noticed was movement out of the corner of his eye, which resolved into Remus when he turned to look.

Feeling his face redden, Harry looked down swiftly. He heard Remus get up and move toward him and forced himself not to shrink back.

"Harry?"

"I thought this was a private chat," Harry muttered.

"My apologies, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Professor Lupin was just leaving."

"Oh."

Remus had come closer, and still, Harry couldn't bring himself to look at the man he'd yelled at a few days earlier. He could see the tips of Remus' shoes, poking out from beneath his teaching robes, and he stared at them, thinking about how scuffed the toes were, and how Remus always seemed to get the raw end of the deal. He was a werewolf, after all, made one when he was only five years old. If anyone knew what a life of being hated and discriminated against was, he did. And then, to have all of his best mates at school dead, except the one who had betrayed them . . . well, Remus deserved much more than Harry's vicious anger. Much more than a stupid, tantrum-having almost-godson.

"Harry," Remus said softly. "I-"

"Sorry, Remus," Harry burst in, bringing his head up at last. Remus' eyes were soft brown and warm and not at all angry, and Harry swallowed hard. "I'm really sorry. Please, I didn't mean those things. I was just angry, and I lose my temper a lot, but I shouldn't've . . ."

"Shhh, cub." He reached out to touch Harry, but dropped his hand instead when Harry leaned away from him. "It's all right. I'm not angry with you. I understand, all right? You were right to be furious with us. With me. I let you down. I hope you can forgive me."

Harry bit his lip and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Remus gave him a small smile. "Thank you."

With a little shrug, Harry looked away, not really wanting to prolong this anymore.

"We'll have more time to talk later, all right, Harry?"

"Okay, Remus. But I'm not . . . I'm not . . ."

"I won't ask you to speak of anything you don't want to, all right?" He gave a soft laugh. "Professor Snape was quite clear on that issue. But I wouldn't push anyway. I'm sorry I did before, Harry. You know I'm just worried about you, right?"

"Yeah." Harry sighed and his gaze flicked to Remus' face, which was open and kind, like always. "But I'm doing better, like I said."

"I believe you." He smiled again, a little wider. "But you're here for a meeting, and I'm taking your time up with the Headmaster. I'll see you later."

"See you," Harry said, watching as Remus left, and the door closed, leaving him and Dumbledore alone.

"Everything all right, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry sighed again and went to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the Headmaster's cluttered desk. "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles, and Harry felt himself almost squirming under that knowing look.

Then, despite his promise to Snape, he felt his temper getting the better of him. "Is this going to be another of those talks where you tell me my greatest strength is my ability to feel pain? Because I really don't think I could take it right now, no offense."

The silence went on a long time, but this time, Harry refused to look away. Amazingly, Dumbledore backed off first, turning to Fawkes and rubbing the phoenix's chest with his index finger briefly, before settling his gaze on Harry again. Then his blue eyes drew Harry's gaze and held it in a firm grip. For a heartbeat, Harry felt a light pull at his mind, before he shoved a block of stone in front of his thoughts. The pull vanished, and Harry barely kept from glaring at Dumbledore's attempt to Legilimize him.

Dumbledore spoke without referencing what he had just done, his gaze just as sharp. "I believe I told you at that time that I had made many mistakes regarding you," he said. "And how, because I had grown to care for you a great deal, I was not as forthright with information as I might have otherwise been." His voice was calm, and not cold, but without even a trace of remorse, unlike how it had been in June.

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I want you to know, Harry, that since I am human, I will continue to make errors, though I hope to keep them from being catastrophic."

"Me, too," Harry muttered. Sirius' death was about as much catastrophe as he could deal with, ever.

Dumbledore smiled wryly. "I learned many lessons from the mistakes I made with Tom Riddle, and I would hope not to repeat any of them with you."

"But you did!" Harry said, stung. "You sent him back to his orphanage, even when he begged to stay here over summers. Just like you sent me back to the Dursleys."

"I do regret that."

"Do you? I think it's just real easy to say so, now, when you can't send me back again."

"Harry, I never wished for any harm to come to you-"

"No? Then why didn't you tell me about . . ." Harry stopped. He wasn't going to go into a tirade over all the sleights, real and imagined, he could lay at Dumbledore's feet. He was too goddamned tired for it. "Never mind," he finished lamely. "I'm sorry. For yelling." He paused. "And for wreaking your stuff before."

Dumbledore nodded. "I understand. You were very upset that night. With good reason."

"Yeah. Well, I'm still sorry." There, now Snape would have one less thing to pester him about.

The Headmaster watched him silently for a few minutes. "How are you doing with that, Harry?"

"With Sirius being dead you mean?" Harry asked harshly.

At Dumbledore's nod, Harry grated out, "How do you think? I miss him so much I can't even think about him without wanting to scream my head off or smash stuff or both. And the worst part is it's my fault he's dead. I know you said it wasn't, and so does Snape. But it's the same as Cedric, and my parents and everyone he's killed since taking my blood in the graveyard. If not for me, they'd all still be alive! SO HOW DO YOU FUCKING THINK??"

Harry was panting hard, sucking in breaths when he could catch them, and glaring at Dumbledore, who gazed serenely back at him. That calm, untouchable gaze just stoked his fury to greater heights. He couldn't take it anymore, just could not take it.

In that moment, he wanted to make the Headmaster hurt as much as Harry did right now. He wanted him to see what he'd been through at the manor, cursed and blinded and raped, wanted him to know the awful things his aunt and uncle had said to him day after day, to hear his screams through the nightmares he had lived with for years, while Voldemort's tortures flowed like fire in his veins, to feel the beatings Dudley had dealt him, and to know what it meant to be starved and unwanted and made to feel like a freak, every day of his life for ten long, unforgivable years.

So, in the next moment, instead of turning away or walking away, or even having another screaming fit in this office, Harry Showed him. He dredged up every memory he could and pressed all of them into a tight, narrow, razor sharp ribbon. Using every ounce of magical energy he possessed, he flung the spear of memory toward Dumbledore, through the connection the Headmaster had tried to use earlier with his own Legilimency.

The piercing blade sliced right into the Headmaster's mind. Quicker than thought, Dumbledore's whole body went rigid, his face frozen in a mask of pain and fear and torment. Only his eyes moved, blue orbs flicking in terror at images that, up till now, only Harry had seen all of, only Harry had lived through, felt and experienced. At the same time, Harry saw it all again, with him, remembered every minute of torture, every harsh word, every bruise and cut and curse, and it was only the continued connection between them that kept him from screaming and screaming and screaming. . . .

But now . . . now Dumbledore could understand his pain.

Time passed. A breeze touched Harry's back, from the door slamming open behind him, and a sweep of black robes suddenly blocked the Headmaster from view.

Snape. His every sharp gesture and movement showed his fear and, yes, his complete and utter wrath. He grabbed hold of the Headmaster's chin and forced the man to look away from Harry and into his own eyes, shredding their mind connection.

Harry staggered and grabbed at a chair to keep from falling. At some point, he must have stood up, but he didn't remember doing so. He could barely breathe, his chest hurt like he'd been running for hours, and his throat felt raw like he'd been screaming almost as long. His head was in agony, like an army of trolls was marching on his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his hands into the sockets and clenched his jaw against the pain.

It was just starting to lessen when someone grabbed his arm and wrenched him around. He looked up into the dark fire of Snape's eyes, too exhausted to do more than loll his head against the man's black robes. Snape was angry, more so than Harry had ever seen him, even after the Pensieve Incident. But Harry could not work up enough energy to care.

"What the HELL do you think you were doing?! You stupid, stupid child! You could have killed him! Killed yourself!"

Still panting for breath, Harry shook his head, but it took too much effort, so he stopped. He couldn't form words, couldn't push Snape away, couldn't stand without support . . . and he just wanted to lie down, maybe forever.

"Sit," Snape snarled and pushed him into a chair. He crashed into it, glad to be sitting again, and hung his head close to his chest. Snape's voice continued, like so much buzzing in his ears, and he could barely focus, but the man's face was so close he could feel spittle hit his cheeks. "I would not have thought it possible, but I was wrong. You do not seem able to have even one conversation with another human being and not completely disintegrate! Do you even realize what you've done? It took me fifteen minutes just to get him to respond to his own name!"

Harry shook his head again. Too tired. He was too tired for this.

A flash in the fireplace of the office heralded the delivery of something, and Snape stomped away to collect the tight scroll, sealed with blue wax. Harry took the opportunity to rest his head on his arms, even as Snape broke the seal. He did not lift his head or open his eyes when Snape gave a grunt of satisfaction.

"The Ministry has seen fit to grant my request, Mr. Potter. You are now my ward. I do believe the first order of business will be to fully address this horrific display of your lack of judgment. Please come with me."

Aug.19

No further entries for this date.

---

"The Ministry has seen fit to grant my request, Mr. Potter. You are now my ward. I do believe the first order of business will be to fully address this horrific display of your lack of judgment. Please come with me."

Dark Arts. The boy had used Dark Arts against the Headmaster. Severus had felt the coiling, swirling dark energy when he reached the gargoyles at the bottom of the stairwell, and it had pulsed all around him like the heartbeat of a demon. Then, inside the office . . . the boy's hoarse screams, Albus' white face, both of their cheeks streaked with bloody tears, gazes locked in some nightmarish trance . . . And the dark, ugly pulse of the boy's magic, filling the room.

Severus glared at Potter now, lounging in that chair and making no effort at rising, and wanted to shake him until his head fell off. What had the idiot been thinking? If Fawkes had not found Severus and refused to get out of his face until he was running toward this office - the Floo had been blocked, apparently, until Potter's magic was halted - it was likely both of them would be dead.

"Get up, Mr. Potter!" Severus shouted, having done quite enough molly-coddling for one day. "Do not make me come over there and-"

Potter's head lolled back and his skin, already pasty from little exposure to the sun these last few weeks, looked gray and lifeless. Then he slid bonelessly from the chair.

Damn!

Severus launched himself toward the boy and grabbed him before he could hit the floor. "Stupid, idiot child; stupid idiot thing to do," he muttered as he felt for the boy's pulse and checked his breathing. Both were weak and thready, and Severus cursed again as he shouldered his burden and prepared to leave. His quarters had better stocks than here, now that he had treated Albus. "I've never met such a remarkably stubborn, stupid child, amazing powers, but with no brain to speak of. . . ."

Stepping up to the fireplace, Severus glanced at the faux bookcase that hid a staircase to the upper floor of this tower. Minerva was with the Headmaster now . . . in his bedchamber, and had promised to alert him if his condition changed at all. As far as he could tell, Albus was just sleeping soundly now. Unlike when Severus had first broken the curse Potter had him under. He shifted the dead weight of the boy on his shoulder, grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it down, calling out his quarters, as well as the password.

Once in the sitting room, Severus laid the boy out on the settee, Accio'd various potions he thought he might need, and set about treating Potter for shock. Potter's skin was cool and clammy, so he needed warming, and Severus did a few other diagnostics, as well - which he realized he should have done earlier, instead of just yelling at the boy, but that couldn't be helped now.

Potter's eyes were open, still, but glassy and barely responsive to light. Within a half hour, though, with Pepper-Up, a Wit-Sharpening Potion and a half dose of the Draught of Peace in his system, among other things, he looked much better.

From several steps behind the couch, Severus watched him as he came to his senses, the owlish eye blinking, the tight lines of tension that appeared on his forehead, and he waited.

"Sir?" The boy's voice was ragged, as if he had been screaming . . . which he had, of course, for who knows how long before Severus managed to break the boy's spell. The sound itself was likely to give him nightmares. What the hell had he been doing?

"Sir? Professor, are you there?"

Severus was still wrestling with his frayed temper when, after another minute, Potter's eyes filled with tears. Rather than let them fall, though, the boy struck viciously at his own face, clawing at his eyes and cheeks with his fingernails, drawing blood almost immediately. The sight jarred him forward, too much a reminder of what he'd found in Albus' office, and he grabbed the boy's wrists and held them away from both their faces. "Potter, stop it. Potter . . . Harry! Stop this instant!"

Potter shriveled into a ball, drawing knees up to his chest, his wrists still captured. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god . . ."

"Potter. Harry. Cease this caterwauling immediately. Quiet down, now. I need to know what happened." He squeezed the boy's wrists tight, then clapped their four hands together, a sharp motion and sound, designed to startle.

It worked; the boy looked at him at last. His eyes were wide and still slightly dilated, and his teeth were chattering in his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ."

"Harry, stop." Severus sighed, more of his rage draining away, and shook his head, avoiding the gouged marks on Potter's cheeks as non-critical for the moment. He nodded toward the other half dose of the Draught of Peace sitting on the table, then, when he got an answering nod, slowly released one of the boy's hands and picked up the potion. He gave the bottle to the boy immediately, and waited until he'd swallowed it down. Watching for any sudden movements, Severus said, "Now. You can be sorry all you want, but right now I need to know what you did, specifically, so I can help the Headmaster."

"He's . . . I didn't . . . He's not dead, is he?"

"No. But he is wounded. What. Did. You. Do?"

Potter shook his head, as if confused, then leaned back against the settee, obviously calmer thanks to the potion. "I showed him."

Severus frowned. "Showed him what?"

"All of it. He said he understood, but how could he if he didn't know? So I showed him." Potter drew a hitching breath. "God, it hurt."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Severus gave in to the need to rub his forehead with his fingers. It hurt. Well, that much was obvious. He turned back to the boy. "How did you show him?"

"With my mind."

Severus' frown deepened. "What spell did you use?"

"I didn't. Jus' gathered it all together and pushed it." Potter waved one hand tiredly, eyes drifting closed. "Wanted him to know all of what happened, to feel it all, hear everything. . . . Said my pain 'swhat makes me human, and I'd had enough pain. . . Figured I'd share."

A sick feeling churned in Severus' gut. Albus had said that? How . . . callous. And after the weekend, and Lucius' taunts . . .

He should have been there. Albus had specifically asked for time to speak to Harry alone, and Severus couldn't put off their meeting any longer without raising the Headmaster's ire . . . but he should have insisted on being present, especially given the boy's "chat" with Lupin last week. It was obvious Harry was too . . . fragile was not the right word, but . . . volatile, to handle the stress of dealing with anyone other than Severus right now. That fact was troubling on its own, but when mixed with Dark Magic, and what had he done?

"Harry," he said sharply, bringing the boy out of his stupor. Green eyes blinked heavily, and he snapped his fingers near them, making them track the movement. "Harry, did you use Legilimency? On Professor Dumbledore."

"Nah," the boy said, breathily. "He did that."

"Explain." Feeling sick, Severus leaned forward, into the boy's face. "The Headmaster used Legilimency on you?"

"Tried. I pushed the stone up."

Which Albus may not have recognized as a defense, if he was not doing a deep search. He might have . . . "Harry, listen to me! How did you show Dumbledore your . . . thoughts? Did you use his Legilimency?"

A tired nod, and, "Mm-hm. Was still up. His magic, his, he wanted 'em, so he could have them, my memories, all of 'em."

Oh, Merlin. "All of them, Harry?"

Another nod.

Oh, Albus . . . Be careful what you wish for; you taught me that. All of this boy's memories, all his pain, all at once. No wonder the old man had been terrorized and almost catatonic with fear and shame when he had finally come around. Severus leaned back and closed his eyes as the boy's breaths deepened. He ran through a half dozen breathing exercises to bring himself back to full calm, and considered what he could do, with the -- perhaps irreparably -- scarred and scared Harry Potter.

---

In the Headmaster's private quarters, on the third level up from his office, was a bedroom bedecked in the colors of all the Houses, much like Albus' wardrobe. In a padded chair drawn up to a wide bed with bright curtains, Minerva McGonagall sat vigil on a man she had known for almost her entire life, as a student, as a colleague, and as a friend, and wondered what the hell had happened to him. And for that matter, what had happened to Harry?

Severus Snape, who she had the utmost faith in as both a friend to Albus and a protector to Harry Potter, had been utterly frantic earlier tonight . . . and Severus just did not do frantic. He also did not do well with repeated attempts to cajole answers from him, especially if he did not, apparently, have them to hand. He had never snapped at her quite as nastily as he had tonight, even in jest, and so she had let him leave her alone here, with her promise that she would watch over Albus for any changes, and alert him immediately.

She wished Poppy were here. Poppy would know what to do . . . or could keep her company at any rate, while she stared dumbly down at the drawn and pale face of a man she had come to respect and even love, over the course of her sixty-plus years. But the Medi-witch was still on holiday, due back only two days before the start of school.

Drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders -- more for comfort than to ward off any chill, as Albus' chambers were temperate, year round -- she leaned back in her chair and watched the Headmaster through half-lidded eyes. Something had happened, between him and Harry, this evening that she suspected was an outgrowth of Harry's experiences earlier in the summer. She had heard little about him since she and Nymphadora Tonks had burst into that manor in Topsham . . . but she would remember the smell -- the taste! -- of that place forever. It was burned into her cat form's senses, as was the memory of that poor boy, naked and bloody at the feet of his torturers before Severus had lunged at him with what had to be a portkey, and sent him away. She knew Severus was taking care of him, and wondered what could have happened between them that would cause this reaction from one of the strongest minds she knew.

Resigned to not getting answers tonight, however, she settled in with a book her sister had sent her, a Muggle mystery tale about a crime solving cat. Albus roused several times over the next twenty-four hours, but never more than to accept a few sips of tea or lemonade and then fall back to sleep.

Not until early the following evening did he say anything, and then only, "Ari?"

Minerva moved forward, into his line of vision. His eyes were still fearful, and searching, for this Ari? Albus had a sister named Ariana, she knew, but little more than that, and the girl had died long, long ago. "No, Albus, it's Minerva. Would you care for more tea?"

Finally, his gaze focused, and he saw her. A sigh escaped his lips. "Minny."

She smiled thinly at the nickname she had eschewed before she even graduated from Hogwarts. "Minerva, Albus. Yes?"

His lips moved for a moment without forming words, then, ". . . my boy?"

"Do you mean Severus? He's in his quarters, I'll--" She trailed off as he shook his head.

"Harry." The name was but a breath, and he winced as he said it.

"He is with Severus, I believe." She pursed her lips. "Will you explain to me what happened between the two of you? Severus was in quite a state when he found you."

"Tell . . . me."

"Tell you what, Albus? I do not know how Harry is. But I imagine Severus would have told me if there was anything to worry about. I was," ordered, "--asked to remain with you. I would appreciate some answers. Now, if you please."

But Albus had drifted back to sleep, and did not rouse again until the following morning. In the meantime, Severus had come to check on him, but stayed less than five minutes, and was as close mouthed as before, except to say Harry had been sleeping almost the whole time, as well.

When Albus did wake again, his coloring was much better, and his eyes were brighter. She plied him with food and drink and news about Harry's sleeping, then made him talk to her, refusing to be put off any longer.

He was sitting up in bed now, and finished off a muffin with jam before obliging her. "I met with Harry," he said quietly. There was a softness to his voice now, something she had not heard in many years.

"Yes, I gathered."

"I pushed him to talk to me, to tell me how he was dealing with Sirius' death."

"Oh, Albus, you didn't! Hasn't he been through enough this summer?"

Albus nodded tiredly. "As he saw fit to remind me. And about a great many other things."

"What do you mean?"

"Harry . . . has had a horrid time of it. The last few years, yes, but even well before he came to Hogwarts." He closed his eyes as a shudder ran through him. This sign of weakness in the Headmaster scared Minerva more than anything else the last couple days. "I failed him so completely. I never knew . . . I never realized how much they . . ." He shook his head and looked Minerva in the eyes. "I have no idea how he has survived."

Minerva's eyes narrowed. "What did he do to you?"

"Nothing I did not earn, Minerva, many times over. I put him there. I never checked, never asked, just assumed that blood would be enough . . ."

"The Muggles." Her mouth formed a thin line. "I told you they were the worst sort."

He sighed, leaning his head back. "I should have listened."

"Mm," she agreed. "Tell me."

With a nod, and tears in his eyes, Albus spent the next two hours doing just that, until she was weeping as well, and cursing the day Sybil Trelawney had breathed her first.

At the end, when both of them were sane again, and lost in their own thoughts, Albus said, "I believe I will refrain from pressuring Severus into making Harry more visible, until he thinks the boy is ready for it . . ."

Minerva nodded, her heart heavy with the knowledge that there were some things that magic just could not fix. "I believe that would be wise."

Aug. 24

It's been a shitty couple of days. I almost killed the Headmaster, and myself, and did knock both of us unconscious for like two days straight, Snape spent the first five minutes of him being my guardian screaming at me - at least I think so; it's hard to remember for sure - and I've had a headache that no potions have been able to get rid of yet. I'm also black and blue and sore all over from being hexed a bajillion times.

Oh, and have I mentioned the complete fucked-upedness of nearly killing Professor Dumbledore? Well, if not, I guess Snape has brought it up enough for the both of us. He's been, um . . . in a mood. Not sure what kind, actually. One minute he looks like he wants to filet my brains and serve them for tea, and the next he's telling me I'll be okay, that everything will be just fine, and if I ever scare him like that again, he'll filet my brains and serve them for tea.

So, um . . . yeah.

He also said he's going to teach me more positive - or at least less homi- and suicidal - ways to manage my anger. In furtherance of that, we now spend two hours every day dueling, right after breakfast. We started this new routine yesterday, as it was the first day I was on my feet more than I was in bed. We used the Room of Requirement, like I did with the DA, so the space was perfect. And hey, I've even learnt some new hexes!

Mostly, though, I've learnt that being a Death eater and a spy for almost twenty years enables one to learn far more curses than even a better than average student of Defense can possibly counter. Hence the black and blueness of me. And I've been learning that when I get really angry, I put a lot more power into my hexes, but I have a far harder time with shields.

But today Snape said I did good. . . . well, what he actually said was, "Adequate wand work, Mr. Potter. (And I swear, I'll get him to quit calling me that if I have to dose his tea with a Narro Proprie Potion.) Though, if you do not desire to spend the rest of your foreshortened life as a lesson to others of the folly of letting your guard down, then you will erect the Tutela Gravis shield in its entirety, not just to the front of you. Like so . . ."

But it almost felt like a compliment. From Snape!

I'm still not sure what to call him, if anything different from usual, now that he's my guardian. He doesn't actany different than he did last week, really, so maybe it's all just the same between us. Still, he's the first person who's had the care of me since I was a baby that's actually gone through channels and asked to take care of me. Almost like he actually wants me. So, that's a good thing, right?

And mostly he doesn't threaten to make mince pie out of me anymore, not over what happened with the Headmaster, at least. He does, however, think it would behoove me to apologize to the man in person, even after I already sent a note on my own.

He's probably right, but I . . . I don't think I can face him right now. Maybe . . . next year some time, instead.

Oh . . . . Fuck. School starts a week from tomorrow.

---

"Do you have all your assignments done for the start of term?" Snape asked, after wiping his mouth, a quick dab at each corner, then placing the serviette, folded lengthwise, next to his plate.

Watching him instead of eating his own dinner, Harry nodded. "For weeks now."

"I will look over your work tonight. Retrieve it immediately after we're finished here. I will return it to you for corrections by tomorrow evening."

Harry pulled a face, but made sure he didn't whine when he said, "Do you really have to?"

Snape stared at him, lifting an eyebrow. "Yes, I really do."

"Why? Is it a guardian thing?"

"Have you never had anyone go over your work before?"

Now it was Harry's turn to lift an eyebrow, except he had to raise them both. He was going to learn that trick; he was! "What do you think?" Snape sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as if pained, and Harry relented. "Actually, Hermione sometimes went over my work, but only when I asked her to. Or sometimes gave her bribes."

"I see. Well, now that I am responsible for you, I shall make certain your homework is of a quality to reflect your changed circumstances."

Harry sighed. He supposed it was a small price to pay for an actual protective-y guardian. "Okay, fine. Potions, too?"

Snape actually smiled, but there was more a predatory air about it than any actual humor. "I am actually quite looking forward to seeing that work."

"Yeah, I'll bet." Harry poked a little more at the chicken in some kind of red sauce on his plate, and swished it around in the mashed potatoes to form a pulpy pink mass, before giving it up and putting his fork down. "May I be excused?"

Inclining his head, Snape said, "You may. But re-"

"Retrieve my homework, yeah, I got that."

"Points off for repeated use of a restricted word. Impudence will get you nowhere, Mr. Potter."

Harry stood and crossed his arms over his chest, not even bothering to point out that there was nothing Snape was actually taking points off of. They'd never really decided. He'd have to think about that some. Maybe they could use it for hedging against chores or something. He assumed he'd have chores, now that he was an actual ward and everything. But first . . . "Look, could you please not call me that? Even if it's just when we're here, okay? Every time you do, it makes me feel like you're only seeing my father. And I know he was an arse to you, and I feel bad about it, but I'm really not him, you know?"

Gaze sharp, Snape leaned back in his chair and crossed his own arms, looking rather more casual than Harry felt. Harry's face warmed, like he was the one who should be backing down, but he wasn't going to, not this time. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Snape nodded, once. "I shall endeavor to avoid that particular epithet in the future."

"Which one will you use instead?"

With a snort, and a lip twitch, Snape said, "I imagine the replacement will be spectacularly appropriate, whatever I decide."

"Yeah . . . or you could, I don't know, just call me ‘Harry.'"

Snape shook his head. "Too mundane."

"Right. Is this another way you have of foiling my expectations?"

"Indeed." Snape drank the last swallow of the white wine he had been served, in contrast to Harry's pumpkin juice, and gave him an almost patient look. "Your summer work?"

"Oh. Right." Harry went to fetch it all, wishing he'd been neater with his essays, especially the one for Potions. He handed them to Snape and stepped away, as if the whole thing might go up in flames.

"Thank you, Harry," Snape said, and Harry goggled at him. A ‘thank you' and his first name? In the same sentence? They must be having a snowball fight in the seventh layer of hell about now.

"You . . . you're welcome."

Snape topped off the weirdness with an actual smile, and Harry was sure he was about to participate - unwillingly, unwittingly, and all other kinds of -ingly's - in the very final, end of the world, apocalypse.

Instead, he took a new book from Snape's shelves - he'd already reread the copy of the one Sirius had given him for Christmas, and taken notes from it on some decent counter curses for the dueling thing - and settled down to read in front of the fire. It was nice, like this. Almost . . . actually, kind of a lot like a real home.

---

Putting aside Harry's summer work, Severus watched him reading on the settee for a moment before rising and retrieving something from his study. He was surprised by how quickly the boy had acquiesced to having his old, dour professor go over his work, and was grateful they hadn't needed to argue about it. There had been more than enough raised voices the last couple days as it was . . . thankfully fewer now that he'd started giving Harry the chance to hex him as much as he wanted for two hours a day. . . . if he could get past the shields and blocks, obviously.

Yesterday, when Harry was sweaty and out of breath and very nearly smiling after their workout, Severus realized they should have started dueling weeks ago. Of course, Harry had just gotten his new wand, but still . . . It was just disconcerting, really, how much calmer he seemed this evening.

How much calmer they both were.

Severus had to admit, he had not been particularly easy to get along with the last few days, but he'd had good reason, dammit! His mentor and near-father-like figure had been almost killed by the boy he had just signed papers for, to make his ward. He'd been righteously angry! And frightened utterly witless. For both of them. For all Albus seemed to be doing well now, Severus had not been sure he would even recover at all. And Harry . . .

Merlin, the boy's nightmares and flash backs, his self-blame and sobbing apologies . . . Severus had been beside himself with worry, and then abashed at exactly how worried he had been. This boy was his ward, now, certainly . . . but he had felt actual pain in his heart these last few days, quietening the boy's terrors, calming him and talking him through the latest crisis. It had been so long since he felt such an ache, for anyone. And then, when he thought the worst was over, there had been Harry's description of what actually happened between the two Wizards, drawn out at last, like poison from a wound.

In the end, Severus just didn't have it in him to blame the boy for what had happened. Albus was a meddler, and he did push too hard, and Harry was not in an appropriate place, emotionally, to deal with either of those things. It was no surprise he'd blown up. As well, Albus didn't seem fazed by the idea that Harry's magic had taken a Darker turn. He'd just nodded, a little sadly, truth be told, and said, "With all he's been through, it's a miracle his magic is as Light as it is."

But now it was Severus' responsibility to see it didn't happen again.

He stepped in front of Harry and waited until the boy looked up. "Here," Severus said and handed over a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"What's this?"

"A package."

Harry smirked - had he learned that from Severus? Heaven forefend! - and took the oblong package. "I gathered."

"I took the liberty of ordering this for you," Severus said quietly. He knew Harry would turn his nose up at what he perceived as charity, and further, was unused to gifts of any kind, so he added, "You may consider it a . . . welcoming gift, as my ward, if you like."

Harry frowned, brows drawing down in a V. "But I didn't get you anything."

"I am not the one becoming a ward." Severus paused, then, "Just open it, Harry."

As he expected, the use of the boy's name wore down his reluctance to accept the present and he did as he was told. The moment he had it unwrapped, his mouth formed an O. He gripped the book hard, staring at the burnished, leather cover of Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts, a copy of the book Harry had received from the Mutt last Christmas. "You . . . you got this for me?"

"I don't know anyone else named Harry," Severus said drolly, starting to feel uncomfortable. "I merely thought you might enjoy a replacement, as yours is . . . no longer available."

"I do . . . I just . . ." His gaze rose from the book, and those green eyes - Lily's eyes - had a look of such lost confusion that Severus was taken momentarily aback, pulled into memories of more than two decades ago.

Then, realizing how his words might have been construed, he lifted his hands, palm forward, as if to ward off the boy's ire or any other untoward displays. "Rest assured, it's just a book I knew you enjoyed. I have no intention of making myself into a replacement for your Mutt. I know it's not even possible to be . . . whatever he was to you."

"Godfather."

"Well, yes," Severus agreed with some pique. Really, why had he even brought the subject of that foul man up? It wasn't as though he could even think about him without an attendant inchoate rage.

"But he didn't . . ." Harry shook his head.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't ever fight for me. Not like you did."

Severus frowned. "Of course he did."

"No." Harry swallowed and stared at the book again, one index finger tracing the embossed lettering on the cover slowly. "I mean, he fought for Peter, to get his hands on Peter, but not for me, not really. And he never once tried to contact me, that whole year when we all thought he was evil, or tell who he was or that he was there. If he knew Scabbers was Peter, and that Ron had him, why didn't tell me?"

With a sigh, Severus sat on the edge of the chair across from Harry, and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know," he said quietly. Oh, Merlin, reduced to defending that bête noire! How much lower could he fall? "But I do know that he was fighting the Ministry, through Lupin, to have his rights as your godfather reinstated this summer. I doubt that . . . Before the events last month, with the Dursleys leaving, I doubt it would have happened anyway, since the Headmaster was so sure the blood wards were strong enough to keep the Dark Lord out, but you need to know that he cared about you, Harry."

The boy's breath hitched in his throat, and Severus prepared himself to Accio a set of handkerchiefs. But Harry surprised him by just nodding and saying, "All right. Thank you."

Severus was willing to call that one a win.

A few minutes passed in companionable silence, then, "Can we go flying, sir?"

The Firebolt was another gift from the Mutt, Severus remembered. He wondered, did Harry want to go flying because he wanted to fly, or because he wanted to get all maudlin over his Dogfather? Then he realized, it didn't really matter which, and the boy needed a distraction regardless. They hadn't flown for several days now, for one thing. Besides, he was not in a competition with the bedamned Mutt for Harry's loyalty or affection! Not even a little, tiny bit.

"Go on, get your broom."

Harry answering smile could have lit up the room. But that it lightened Severus' mood was almost as good.

Aug. 26

Wow, any preconceived notions I had that he would go easier on my work because now he's my guardian just went flying out the window. Last night before dinner, he gave me back my summer work with a horrible sneer, and all my essays were covered in red ink, in that messy scrawl of his. And, I guess I shouldn't have expected him to say, "Excellent job there, Harry. Keep up the good work . . ." But wow. I'd forgotten how horrible he can get.

Part of the problem, I think, was that I wasn't in the best mind set when I was doing my summer work. He crossed out huge sections of my Transfiguration essay, for one thing, where I'd basically written the same sentence (about Charms!) seven or eight times in a row. So I guess it's a good thing he went over it all. I can't imagine what McGonagall would have had to say about the work if he hadn't.

At least now I have something productive to do with my time for the next couple days.

And so . . . I may have been a bit angry during our dueling time this morning. I couldn't block for shit, but I certainly threw a mean Furnunculus. I hope he has a potion for that.

---

"How are your essays coming along?"

Looking up from the travesty of a Transfiguration essay, trying to figure out if he could salvage anything from it at all, Harry turned to Snape, who was reading in his chair near the fireplace. Harry had tried to work by the fire, too, but his gaze kept wandering to the flames and an hour would go by between words he read or wrote, so Snape had made him come over to the writing desk instead.

"I don't know."

"No? Which one are you working on?"

"Transfiguration."

"Mm." Snape put a marker in his book and rose from his seat. "I seem to recall that one being a bit . . ."

"Horrifying?"

"I was going to say a bit of a challenge to get through. But yes, it could be classified as such."

"Thanks." Snape lifted an eyebrow, and Harry's face heated. "Sorry."

Snape waved away the apology, but he came to stand over Harry, next to the desk. "What seems to be giving you trouble?"

Harry shrugged, but when Snape kept staring at him, he said, "I'm having a hard time focusing."

"Any particular reason?"

"I . . ." With a sigh, Harry decided he might as well say what was on his mind, otherwise Snape would haunt him for hours. Days. "I'm kind of nervous about school starting again."

"Mm-hm. What about it makes you nervous?"

"I'm not used to other people yet . . . all those people . . ."

"Have you spoken to your Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley yet? I assume they would be willing to run interference for you."

"No . . . I haven't heard from them. Not since the end of school. Do you . . . do you think they don't want to be friends with me anymore?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Why would you think that?"

"'Cause they usually write. I mean, I didn't hear from them after first year, 'cause Dobby was stopping my letters, but all the other times, they have. I just thought . . . I mean, do you think they know?"

For a moment, Snape was quiet, as if deciding something, and then he shook his head. "As I have told you, the only ones who are aware of what happened at Topsham are myself, Madam Pomfrey and, to a lesser extent, the Headmaster."

"To a greater extent, now." Like he'd told Snape, he had pushed all of his memories of Topsham through that weird link to Dumbledore. The Headmaster probably knew more about what had occurred there than anyone else.

"Well, yes."

"So why haven't they written?"

Snape's mouth twisted, like he tasted something sour. "I cannot speak for Miss Granger, but as you know, Mr. Weasley's parents are members of the Order, and so they know you were captured, at least. When we escaped, the Headmaster asked that no one 'bother' you with correspondence. It did not occur to me before, but I imagine that request has been ongoing."

"Dumbledore is holding my mail?" Harry hated the squawk like sound that had come from his mouth, but really! It was his mail!

"Only until such time as he determined you were up to receiving it. I'll see him about that, shall I?"

Somewhat mollified, Harry said, "Yes, please. Thank you, sir."

"What other concerns do you have about classes?"

Harry's hands formed into fists, and he put them into his lap, instead of leaving them on the desk. "You know . . . what we talked about before. With . . . with the kids who've got . . ." He swallowed hard, unable to continue for a moment, but he was a Gryffindor, right? With Gryffindor courage. So he pushed the words out before he could think about them too much. "The students with Death Eater parents. They'll know," he said harshly. "And they'll never let me forget it, especially . . . especially Malfoy."

Snape was quiet for a long time, though his gaze never left Harry's face. It was like he was searching for something, or waiting for Harry to say more. But Harry didn't have anything more to say. Finally, Snape ran a hand over his face and sighed. "It will be a challenge for you," he said softly.

"Was 'challenge' on your word-a-day calendar or something?"

"What?"

"Sorry," Harry said. "Muggle thing." He forced his hands to relax, and pushed his essay away, deliberately looking away from Snape's penetrating gaze. "How'm I going to face them?"

"The same way you have faced everything, I presume . . ." He paused, then drew another chair closer to the desk, and sat down. His voice was faintly chiding when he continued, "Although with a tad less violence, I hope. Those children are not responsible for the sins of their parents."

"No . . . but if they revel in my pain, am I allowed to cause them some?"

Snape's breath came out in a soft exclamation. Harry couldn't tell if it was a laugh or not; he hadn't meant to be funny. "Do you really want to?"

He did, especially if they mocked him and humiliated him to the whole school, but . . . but it was only a gut thing, and he knew he wouldn't really try and hurt them, not unless his life was in danger. He just wasn't cut out for the revenge thing. He'd learned that with what happened in Diagon Alley, and with Dumbledore. He could do it, he supposed, but he would feel really, really bad about it later. He put his head in his hands and rested both on the desk. "No, not really."

Snape's hand came down on his shoulder, lightly, and Harry flinched, but not as bad as he would have a few weeks ago. "I'm glad to hear that. You will get through this, Harry. I swear it."

"Thanks." This time, there was no sarcasm coloring his tone. Harry closed his eyes for a minute, and Snape left his hand on his shoulder; it was warm and . . . comforting. "What do I call you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Harry peered at him through the fringe of hair covering his eyes. "Now that you're my Guardian. Do I still just call you Professor, or what?"

"In class, certainly, you should continue to call me Professor, as well around other students and faculty. As for when we're here . . . a modicum of leniency can be extended."

"In English?"

A tiny twitch of the lip was followed by, "You may call me Severus."

Harry grinned. "Not Sev?"

"Certainly not!"

Snape's horrified look was so complete that Harry had to laugh. "Sorry!" he said when Snape scowled even more. "But you looked . . ." Helplessly, he laughed again, and shrugged. "It was funny."

"I assure you, there is nothing amusing about that appellation."

"Uh huh."

"You are cheeky."

"Yes, sir. Will you help me with my homework?"

"I will look it over for you when you have completed it. Again. If you have specific questions, I will endeavor to assist you in finding the answers."

Harry sighed. "Fine. Can I have my letters from Hermione and Ron?"

"When you have finished your work."

"Don't you think I'd be more motivated to do well on it and not rush through, if I had them first, and was . . . less stressed out?"

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. "I shall allow you one letter from each, my little Slytherin. And then you will finish your essays."

"I hope that was meant to be a compliment," Harry said.

The one eyebrow went up. "Indeed."

---

Aug. 1st

Dear Harry,

I don't have much time, as my parents are waiting in the courtyard downstairs, but I wanted to let you know that the book I sent to you on your birthday should have included the index, which I am enclosing now. It's a supplemental, and I'm sorry I didn't include it to begin with. I assume that's why you sent it back?

Hope you had a great birthday! I'll see you when I get back from Greece, all right?

Love, Hermione

---

Hey Harry,

I hope you're okay. Mum and Dad have been worried, and at the same time telling us all not to be. It's mental, you know? Ginny says hi, and that she's sent you her own letter, but you might not have gotten it. We haven't seen Hedwig all summer. Is she okay, mate? Your birthday presents came back without being delivered, but when I asked Mum why, she said you were probably someplace unplottable.

Hope you can come to the Burrow before school starts. Hermione's going to be here from mid-August. We could do shopping together if you're up for it. Have you gotten your OWLS yet? I haven't. Not sure I want to, actually.

Have you see the latest on the Cannons? Unbelievable, huh? I am going to go to a game this year if it kills me.

Write back soon,

Ron

Harry put down the two letters Snape let him have, and tried not to think about Hedwig, or the birthday he'd missed, or any of it. His chest felt like someone was sitting on it, and he swallowed a couple more times before folding the letters carefully and putting them to the side. Then, as he'd promised, he picked up his quill and started in on his school work again.

A couple hours later, his eyes were too tired to make out his own scratches on the parchment, never mind Snape's corrections. He cleaned up his work and capped the ink bottle, then went to the sitting area and flopped into the settee with a sigh.

"Lupin asked if you were willing to meet with him again."

Harry's head came up and he stared at Snape. "He did?"

Snape did not look up from his book, but nodded, his dark hair a curtain that almost covered his face. "He seemed to think you worked out some of your issues the other day, and thought you might be interested in seeing him for tea or some such nonsense."

"Um, yeah, I guess. I . . . that would be all right."

"Then you may meet with him after dinner."

"Thank you, sir."

Snape nodded again and turned the page of his book. "How is your work coming along?"

"Fine." When Snape cleared his throat, he added quickly, "Better than before. I think I understand the Charms material now."

"A distinct advantage when you write out your essays."

Harry snickered softly. "Is it dinner now?"

Snape glanced at him then. "Are you actually hungry?"

"Yea . . . yes, sir. I think I actually am."

"Alert the presses!"

"Ha, very ha. So . . . food?"

Snape chuckled -- he seemed to be doing a bit more of that lately, and Harry wondered about it. Maybe he was more relaxed now that Harry was his ward? Or maybe because he didn't have to spy for Voldemort anymore? -- and rose to call up the House-elves. In minutes, they were at the dining table with shepherd's pie and hot buttered bread and pumpkin juice. Harry ate two servings of everything.

"Do you want me to walk you to Lupin's quarters?" Snape asked as they finished. "Assuming you still wish to grace him with your presence."

"Um . . . No. I think I'll be all right."

Snape held his gaze for a few moments, and then nodded. "Remember your breathing exercises, and the counting one, too, if your temper gets the better of you, all right? And come home early if you need to."

Harry smiled at Snape . . . Severus. It was possibly the first time he had ever been invited to think of this place as his home. "Okay, thanks."

"And be back before 11."

"Yes, sir."

"And don't forget--"

"To write? I'll only be a couple hours, Severus. I'll be fine."

"Hmmph. Go on then, go see your Werewolf."

With a frown at Snape's turn of humor, Harry watched him leave the room, then shrugged and headed for the door, and from there, up to the third floor and Remus' quarters.

Remus answered the door quickly when Harry knocked. His expression went from surprised to pleased in an instant, and Harry was glad he had come. "Harry! Good to see you. Come in, come in."

"Thanks, Remus." He sidled through the door, and looked around at the sitting room, so different from Snape's, with windows looking out at the Quidditch pitch, oddly bright ambient light, and throw pillows, of all things, on the wide couch. The room was done in cream and brown and gray, sort of like Remus himself.

"Have a seat, Harry. Would you care for tea?"

"No, thanks. I just had dinner. Maybe some cocoa?"

"That I can do." He summoned a House-elf and soon they had a pot of chocolate and small dainty cups. Remus poured out one serving and handed it to Harry, settling himself in an overstuffed chair next to the couch. "Severus tells me you've been sparring with him."

"Verbally? Or do you mean our dueling."

Remus laughed. "Well, I meant the dueling, but . . . have you been getting on all right?"

"Yeah, he's been great, honest."

"Good. I . . ." He shook his head. "Tell me about the dueling. Have you learned anything you might try with your Defense club?"

"Er, well . . . I'm not sure I'm going to run that this year."

"Whyever not? I heard it was a huge success."

"But . . . we only had it because Umbridge was a git."

"Have to agree with you there, cub, about the git part, anyway." He grinned and added, "Though you never heard me say it. I think you should continue the club, though. From what I can tell, the fifth years in the DA scored far higher than any who weren't, on their Defense OWLs, and even the seventh years did better on their NEWTs. As your Defense teacher, I could act as your sponsor, if you like."

Harry's mouth went dry. He wasn't sure he was up to attending class, never mind leading one, like he had done. He wasn't sure if he had that kind of courage anymore.

Remus' voice was softer as he continued, "Just think about it, Harry. You don't have to decide anything now."

"All right." Harry took a sip of chocolate, amazed -- as he was every time he had some -- that it made him feel better. "But yeah, I have learnt some new ones. Like Geminivisio. And Plures Proeliator."

With a nod, Remus said, "Both are good for confusing your enemies. Have you learned the counter . . . "

After a couple hours of visiting, with Remus giving him a few pointers for his essay, along with a tactic or three for his dueling and more hot chocolate than he could possibly metabolize before bedtime, Harry made his way back to the dungeons just before 11. He felt better than he had in a long time, almost like . . . almost like normal. Not scared or angry or like he wanted to curl up in a ball and die.

Maybe he could do this. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

He opened the door to the dungeon quarters and called out softly, "Hi, I'm home."

Tuesday, Aug. 27, 8:15am

Oh god, I can't get him to wake up. Why won't he wake up!? . . . .

---

Flashback:

When Harry left to go see the Wolf, Severus called Dumbledore, ostensibly to inquire about the rest of Harry's mail, but in truth because he was interested in seeing how the Headmaster was doing. He had not seen much of Albus the last few days, while he had been taking care of Harry in the aftermath of their "visit," indeed had only checked on him once a day or so, and never for very long. But Harry seemed to be doing well - he had surprised Severus, in fact, with his willingness to go see Lupin - and Severus thought he could get a visit of his own in with the Headmaster. He knew Minerva would have advised him if Albus took a turn for the worse, so he hadn't really been worried about the old man. Not really.

But for this visit, he insisted, Dumbledore had to come down to his quarters, in case Harry had to return early after a fit of temper. He had to be available for the boy if he was needed. Being needed -- even if only possibly -- was a new feeling for him, and he didn't want to screw it up.

The Headmaster was all too happy to comply, and Floo'd down, dressed in one of his silly, garish robes and a floppy wizard's hat, both in the same colors. The robe, however, was purple with golden snidgets flapping around, and the hat was gold with purple . . . dinosaurs? Severus didn't ask, just served tea with biscuits.

"You seem in an expansive mood this evening," Albus said as Severus offered him milk for his tea, which the man waved away. His mood seemed muted, as it had since the encounter with Harry, but Severus could not be too upset over the more serious turn his mentor had taken.

"Harry is doing well," he said and allowed a small smile for the progress the boy had made over the last month. "His temper has calmed some, helped, I think, by our sparring as an outlet for his aggression. He's even becoming more adept at Occlumency, though I would never have believed it possible if asked a year ago. Tonight he's visiting with Lupin." He paused, took a sip of tea. "It's only a couple days yet, but I hope he'll be able to attend classes on time."

"That is good news." The Headmaster sighed. "I am glad for the boy's recovery. And he deserves a chance to finish school."

He deserves a chance . . . Severus' gave him a sharp look. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Alas, we have a . . . hitch."

"A hitch? What kind of hitch?"

"A Lucius Malfoy sort of hitch."

The breath froze in Severus' lungs. "What has he done?"

"He has brought charges against Harry, for underage use of magic and threatening the life of a wizard with an Unforgivable."

"Albus, what he did to Harry was Unforgivable!"

"I know, Severus. Yelling at me won't change Lucius Malfoy's mind." The Headmaster's eyes were tired, his head almost bowed. Severus had never seen him so worn down. "And it isn't fair, and it isn't right, but since when have fair and right ever meant anything in Harry's life?"

"But," Severus sputtered, "but he didn't actually cast the spell! How can they charge him with use of magic?"

"Lucius has claimed another incident for that charge. The spells Harry cast to try and protect himself from his kidnappers."

Severus shut his eyes. "Against Bellatrix, Nott and me."

"Yes."

"Merlin, it never stops, does it?"

"Tom Riddle will do anything in his power to destroy Harry," Albus said wearily. "Even work within the constraints of our own laws."

Severus shook his head. "But it was self-defense! They can't charge him for that!"

"A year ago, they did just that, if you'll remember."

"But Fudge is an idiot! And the Dementors were sent by Umbridge, weren't they? Harry was exonerated. Isn't Scrimgeour supposed to be better than that?"

"He's a politician, Severus. And newly elected."

"But Lucius is supposed to be in Azkaban! How can he bring charges when he himself is . . ." He stopped. Shook his head. "He's somehow gotten his own conviction overturned, hasn't he?" he asked tonelessly.

"He has." Albus sighed and took a small sip of tea. His fingers traced the patterns on the cup, and he did not meet Severus' eyes.

Severus watched him carefully, his expression closed and carefully blank. "No."

Albus closed his eyes. "You have to understand--"

"What I understand is that you are expecting me to turn my ward over to a cock up of a court, where he can be tried and sentenced by those who wish him dead or worse. And I will not have it."

"I . . ." Albus let out another sigh. "I did not expect you to, no."

"Good. Then we understand each other. Don't we." It was not a question, and Albus did him the courtesy of not replying. Still, Severus glared at him, and his tone was icy as he said, "I don't know how you could even consider doing what they wanted. What is wrong with you?"

"It's . . . complicated."

"Uncomplicate it for me."

"The Order is coming under fire from the Ministry--"

"Again. That is nothing new."

"Severus, please, you asked for an explanation."

Severus gave a tight nod and waved his hand, wondering what could have brought Albus to this lunacy, after all that had happened between him and Harry . . . or perhaps that was it. Perhaps he feared for himself, or his own power and was willing to sacrifice Harry -- again! -- to make sure his position on the side of Light was assured. No. Severus did not want to believe that, and yet . . . this was the same man who wanted to send Harry to St. Mungo's when he'd first come back from Topsham. He was fully capable of anything. And he was afraid, Severus knew, of Harry and the power he had shown last week, which had brought both of them low.

"As I said, the Order is coming under fire. If we do not have access to Ministry information, our ability to respond to crises is very limited. Lucius has brought up these charges, which are patently false, and which he seems to think he can ramrod through court. If he can be brought down, with Harry's testimony, and yours, as his guardian and witness to both incidents, then not only will Lucius lose face, but Scrimgeour as well."

Severus shook his head. "No, Albus. The Dark Lord has his spies everywhere, as you well know, including the Ministry. What they want is for Harry and I to appear anywhere outside the protective walls of Hogwarts, where both of us can be captured or killed." For all of it, he would hope to be simply killed, but he knew the Dark Lord was more likely to have ordered their capture, so he could continue where he'd left off in Topsham.

"You would have every protection--"

"Not good enough! Harry will remain at Hogwarts indefinitely, if he has to, or until Scrimgeour is replaced and the Dark Lord is dead. I will not turn him over to those monsters!"

The blue eyes held zero twinkle, had not since Albus' "conversation" with Harry, and this time, he did not even try to hold Severus' gaze. His exhaustion was apparently complete, and Severus hoped that his capacity for callousness with regards to Harry's well being was exhausted, too.

"You're right, Severus, of course. Harry needs to remain safe."

Severus nodded, and reached forward to the teapot to pour another cup, when pain shot through his left forearm like it had been suddenly set ablaze. He dropped the cup, watching as if time had dilated, as it rolled under the table in front of him. He clutched at his arm with his right hand. Teeth clenched against the burn of his Dark Mark, which grew hotter and hotter with each passing moment, he drew a hissed breath. The skin beneath his hand started to smoke from the heat, and he actually felt it rippling under his fingers. Yanking up the sleeve of his shirt, he grasped at the Mark again, as the snake on his forearm writhed in his flesh.

"Severus?"

Through panting breaths, he said, "He's . . . calling . . . Very . . . focused."

In fact, his connection to the Dark Lord had not hurt like this in ages. Years? Perhaps not ever. It was if He was focused completely on one goal, that of causing Severus pain through the Mark. When they had first escaped Topsham, the Dark Lord had sent a few pulses Severus' way, enough to show he was angry, enough for Severus to need pain potions or Dreamless Sleep to keep from clawing his skin off, until the call ceased. But this! This was agony.

He was always Occluded, which usually staved off the worst effects of any pain on his mind and left him able to make decisions. But this time, he could not clear his mind enough to think. It burned! Ai, Merlin! His skin was blistering, and the snake slithered through the meat of his arm. His stomach churned, nausea making the tea rise again, and he could not hold back as he spewed it across the table.

His senses narrowed to exclude everything but the Mark: the smell of his charring flesh, the feel of the serpent's wriggling, the excruciating torment of his burning muscle and skin. And the whine of something in his ears . . .

And then, a sudden coolness, against all that fire, as if his whole body had been doused in ice water. The shock brought a scream to his lips, and the edges of his vision went black. He swayed in his seat, needing to vomit again, needing to summon . . . something? For pain?

The sound of his harsh, rasping breaths was louder than thought, and then, "Severus, can you hear me?"

The voice was hollow, as if from a long tunnel, and he tried to respond. "Ungh."

"Good, good. I have a potion for you, my boy. For pain. Drink this." A vial touched his lips, and he sniffed at it, trying to remember why he would need to do so, but he just could not concentrate. "It's all right, Severus. Please, drink it; it will make the pain go away."

The please caught his attention and tugged at his memory. It meant something, "please," but the pain kept him from understanding. He drank the potion. Like the plaintive, hollow voice promised, the pain went away, even as he felt into blackness.

---

Harry shut the door behind him and moved toward the sitting room. "Severus? I'm home," he called again. But there was still no answer. Odd. Though, maybe Snape was working in his lab. He certainly was abed yet; he tended to keep awful late hours, and besides, he'd have wanted to make sure Harry was back from visiting Remus on time. Wouldn't he?

A strange odor hung in the air, almost like burnt meat. Then he saw the teacup under the table, and the spill on the soft rug, and the second cup sitting almost full near the pot. What the hell? He bent over to retrieve the cup and frowned when a jolt went through his fingers, making him drop it again.

A glimpse of movement in the corner of his eye made him stand up again, and turn toward the short corridor which led to their bedrooms. His mouth dropped open as Dumbledore moved toward him, closing the door to Snape's room.

"What are you . . . where's Severus?"

"Harry . . ." The Headmaster's voice was gentle sounding, but he didn't meet Harry's eyes. "He's resting. There's been a--"

"What happened?!" He'd only been gone a couple hours. What happened to him, and how could it happen here?

Dumbledore shook his head, looking tired. "Voldemort tortured him through the Dark Mark. He sent something more than his usual calling card. It ate away his skin like acid or fire--"

Harry shoved past him, down the hallway and pushed open the door to Severus' room. His guardian lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, but undoubtedly alive. His left arm was bandaged from fingertips to elbow, and the right hand was likewise swathed in gauze. The room smelt of antiseptic. "What happened to his hand?" he whispered, not wanting to disturb the man's sleep, though he could hear the panic in his voice.

"He was gripping the Dark Mark with it. His palm and fingers blistered, but there was no permanent nerve damage."

"And his arm? Will he be all right, or is that permanently damaged?"

"I'm not sure, Harry. I did all I could to prevent that."

Oh, God. He seemed to be resting all right now, and there wasn't anything more Harry could do for him in any case. He didn't know any Healing magic. But the whole thing was odd, and he felt strangely disconnected, almost like shock. Okay, think. He just had to think. "Have you given him a Nerve Regenerator?"

"Yes, of course," Dumbledore said, faintly chiding. "I'm nearly as competent as Madam Pomfrey in the business of tending wounds."

"Sorry," Harry said. "Is he going to be all right?"

"It's too soon to tell. Once he wakes, we'll have a better idea of whether the damage can be healed completely."

Harry nodded. Was Voldemort trying to kill Snape through the Mark? If so, why hadn't he done so before? Why tonight? And if he wasn't, why had it been so bad this time? Harry knew that Snape had been hurt through the Mark a few times since they'd escaped from that horrid manor, now that Voldemort knew the truth about Snape's spying. It usually happened at night, and put Snape in a grouchy mood, but the man was generally able to handle it. So why had this time been different?

"What changed?" he murmured.

"Hmm?"

Harry startled, having forgotten that Dumbledore was still there. "I was just wondering why he attacked like this now. I wondered what changed."

"A very good question, Harry. Why don't you let Severus rest for now, and we can try to figure that out over some tea."

Shaking his head, Harry said, "No, it's all right. I want to be here, when he wakes up."

"That may be a while yet," Dumbledore said. "I had to give him some fairly strong pain relief potions."

"How long then, do you think?"

"I should say he will sleep until morning. Hopefully longer than that, as it will give his arm a good chance to heal."

Something was . . . off in the Headmaster's voice, but Harry wasn't sure what it was. Whatever it was sent a chill up his spine. "Still, I think I'll just keep an eye on him. He might wake early, and then I can help him test out his arm and stuff."

"As you will, Harry." He patted Harry on the back, making Harry jump half a foot. He knew Dumbledore wouldn't hurt him, but he still didn't like being touched unexpectedly, and never from behind. "My apologies, Harry. I will return to my quarters, but you may Floo me if you require anything. The potions you might need to give him are on the table there."

"Thanks," Harry said, distracted already. "I'll call if I need you."

Dumbledore nodded and left the room, and Harry waited until he heard the green rush of fire from the Floo in the sitting room before he traced the Headmaster's steps. He was not surprised to find the teacups and tea pot gone, as well as the spill on the rug. What the hell was going on?

He went back to Snape's room, and watched the man sleep for a little while, at least until Snape started thrashing in his bed and moaning, as if he were having nightmares. Harry tried to wake him, but could not, only succeeding in getting him out of the nightmare state so he was sleeping, not easily, for there was lots of movement behind his eyelids, but heavily at least.

Something weird was going on with the Headmaster, and Harry didn't like it, nor the implications. He was almost positive there was something more wrong with Snape than Dumbledore was letting on. And this sleep Snape was under didn't seem to be doing him any good. Harry didn't dare unwrap the bandaged arm to make sure he had actually been hurt that way -- not really wanting to see such damaged flesh -- but as the night wore on, he wondered again why and how Voldemort had attacked like this.

By morning, he'd decided the only way he was going to find out was by waking Snape. And then, no matter what he tried, he couldn't.

End Flashback

Tuesday, Aug. 27

No further entries for this date.

---

Sometime mid-afternoon on the day after he had poisoned Severus and then doused him with a Coma Draught, Albus Dumbledore called Remus Lupin into his office.

The Werewolf was agitated, and not just because he knew Harry was upset over his fallen guardian, but also because the 28th was the full moon, and he was already feeling the effects. His eyes were shadowed, and the lines around them were deeper than usual. Tremors made his hands shake and he clasped them together in his lap.

"Tea, Remus?" Albus asked him, ever the congenial host.

"No," Remus said, his voice hoarse with the impending change. "No, thank you."

"It's a special blend, a favorite of mine. It will help soothe your nerves."

Remus ran one of those shaking hands through his hair. "Has Severus woken?"

"Not yet." And he would not, not until after Albus had taken Harry to the Ministry at the earliest. He poured some tea for himself, and then poured a second cup, and pushed it across the desk toward Lupin. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I'm not so sure. Harry has tried everything to wake him."

"I imagine he has. But it's just as well nothing has worked. Severus was in a great deal of pain, and his arm was hideously damaged. He needs time to heal. I'm sure when he wakes, he will be perfectly fine." And he would not have the distraction of his ward to keep him from following orders.

Remus nodded reluctantly, and reached for the tea. Albus smiled tightly, his mouth hidden by his own cup. It was so easy, he thought mildly. Too easy. The calming draught, laced with scurvy grass to slow the mind and confound the memory, would allow Albus to better manipulate anyone who drank it. And most of the imbeciles he worked with here had.

The last few days had been absolutely fascinating, as he watched from behind the old Headmaster's eyes, as the servants of the light scurried about. Albus' mind had been ridiculously easy to penetrate - far easier than he could ever have imagined - and this level of control, this possession, was far more useful than Imperious. For one thing, it was nearly undetectable, so long as the one in possession exercised a modicum of caution and did nothing wildly out of character in front of witnesses. And for another, there was no way for the Headmaster to fight him, now that he was in.

It was beautiful, really. Too bad he could not have done this years ago. It was only chance, he realized, that he had tried to infiltrate the Headmaster's defenses when the man's control over his own mind was already weakened by someone else's magic. He'd spent some time attempting to see whose, exactly, but many of the wily old man's memories were hazy or locked beyond his reach. Still, if blocking some memories was the only way Dumbledore had of protecting himself now, this was going to a rocky ride for him.

His only wish was that he had made better inroads into Harry Potter's mind when he had the chance. Their brief contact soon after the brat had escaped his clutches again, had not been enough for him to gain any true control, and now he knew that Severus had been bolstering his Occlumency, too. But soon enough, he would have Potter at his mercy once more.

"I will need your assistance, regarding Severus," Albus told the Werewolf. "Madam Pomfrey is due back tomorrow, but a rather urgent matter has come up before the Wizengamot, and I must be in attendance."

"What about Harry? He's been staying with Severus, taking care of him."

"I'm afraid Harry must accompany me."

Lupin frowned. "To the Ministry? Do you think that's wise, Albus?"

"Wise or not, it is what must be done. His testimony is required in a matter involving Lucius Malfoy."

Frown deepening, Lupin said, "Does this have anything to do with what happened when he was kidnapped?"

"Not directly, no." He folded his hands around his cup of tea and stared Lupin down. "How much do you know about what happened in Diagon Alley ten days ago?"

"Not much. Severus asked if he could use my hair to Polyjuice as me, so no one would know he was with Harry. I know they ran into some trouble, but neither has told me how much."

"They ran into Lucius Malfoy," Albus told him. "And Harry attempted to cast the Killing Curse."

"No!"

"Yes. It was rather shocking to the witnesses of the attack, to be sure." Albus smiled ruefully. "Just as well the spell was not completed. Severus - in your body - Apparated them away."

Lupin looked a little sick. Albus could understand his sentiment; he had been quite sure the boy didn't have it in him to kill anyone. In fact, he was counting on it. But now . . . now he'd just have to make sure Potter didn't have a chance like that again.

"I . . . I can't believe it."

Almost sneering - though he caught himself in time - Albus said, "I'm sure it's quite a shock. I don't think anyone realized the depths to which Harry is willing to sink for the cause."

"He's been through so much," Lupin whispered, hands covering his face.

"Yes, of course," Albus murmured. "Thus, I need you to keep an eye on Severus while I take Harry to the Ministry. I'm sure they'll try all sorts of things against him, so it's best if I am there to protect him."

Lupin looked up at last, his eyes haunted. "But, the moon-"

"Will be full tomorrow, yes. But we should have returned well before nightfall. Besides, like I said, Madam Pomfrey will be back tomorrow, and she can care for Severus then." And if, for some reason, a werewolf was stuck in Snape's rooms with no means of egress, that was another problem dealt with.

"I . . . all right." The werewolf sounded defeated. "When will you leave?"

"Immediately. I asked Harry to stop by here at three. Perhaps you can Floo to Severus' quarters and send him up?"

Lupin dragged himself to his feet, obviously still reeling from the news Albus had given him about his Golden Boy. "Yes, of course," he murmured, and went to the Floo. Albus gave him the password and he left. Less than ten minutes later, Harry arrived, falling out of the Floo like an ungainly colt, all knees and elbows.

Taking another sip of his tea, Albus averted his gaze as Harry climbed to his feet. There was no knowing how good the boy was at Legilimency, or if he even had the skill at all, thus the measure was precautionary, as it would not do for Potter to realize he wasn't dealing with a fully cognizant Headmaster.

That would not do at all.

---

"Harry, dear boy," the Headmaster said.

Glancing up at Dumbledore, Harry brushed soot off his clothes. He really, really hated traveling by Floo. And he had not wanted to leave Severus alone - well, not alone, but nearly - when he was doing so poorly. What was so important he had to leave now? He took a seat across from the Headmaster. "Good afternoon, Professor."

"Did Professor Lupin tell you why I needed to see you?"

"No, sir. Just that he would take care of Severus while we were gone. Where are we going?"

"To the Ministry. A matter has come up involving Lucius Malfoy, and your testimony is needed."

The bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach. "Malfoy, but . . ." He shook his head. "Is this because of the Killing Curse?"

"No, no." Dumbledore poured out a cup of tea without even asking if he wanted any, and pushed it across the desk towards him. Harry ignored it. "I'm afraid one of your friends has run afoul of Mr. Malfoy. It seems he has accused young Mister Weasley of sending him a hexagram."

"What!? Ron wouldn't do that!"

"Of course not, Harry. Still, Mr. Malfoy is an influential member of society, and his charges must have some basis in truth, if the Wizengamot is willing to hear them."

Harry shook his head again. Maybe the twins had done something? But why would they try to get Ron into trouble like that? They wouldn't have. And Ron certainly wasn't that stupid. "No, it doesn't make any sense."

"Sense or no, your testimony is required, Harry. Without it, I'm afraid Mr. Weasley might not come out of this very well.

"I don't understand," Harry said. And he didn't. How would what he said make any difference at all?

Dumbledore frowned, but still did not meet Harry's gaze; it was like fifth year all over again. Harry had hated it then, the feeling like he was being ignored, and he hated it now. It didn't matter that Dumbledore had had a good reason for not meeting his eyes before, he still felt slighted. Did the Headmaster think Voldemort was seeing through his eyes again? As far as Harry knew, that couldn't happen again, now that he was Occluding all the time. But maybe Dumbledore didn't know that.

Realizing his thoughts were wandering, Harry focused again on what the Headmaster was saying.

"Apparently, Mr. Malfoy believes Ron mentioned his plans in a letter to you. He requested you bring any correspondence you have received from Ron, as well."

"But I haven't even read it! Severus still has my letters. He only let me read one."

The Headmaster shook his head and reached for something in one of his desk drawers. Holding up a packet of envelopes, he said, "I retrieved the letters from Severus last night, before he was attacked through the Mark. But you will need to verify their authenticity."

Harry felt like he might be sick. The whole thing was ludicrous, of course. Ron would never be so stupid as to send a hexagram, whatever the hell that was, and even if he was that stupid, why on earth would he brag about it in a letter? But since when had anything Malfoy did make any sense, except in the most sick, twisted way imaginable? Just the idea of seeing him again, and his smirking smile, his knowing look and his sick innuendos, made Harry want to scream.

He clenched his hands into fists so tight his nails cut half moons of blood into his palms.

"Are you ready to go?" The Headmaster sounded so calm, so completely at ease, that Harry wanted to punch him in the face. Wanted to send another stream of memory at him, the same one racing through Harry's mind right now. Wanted to see him flinch.

But none of that would help Ron.

Swallowing down his fear, Harry nodded. "I . . . okay. Floo?"

Nodding, Dumbledore rose and gestured for Harry to precede him to the fireplace.

"I . . . don't you think it would be better if you went through first?" Harry grimaced at the shakiness in his voice, but plowed on regardless. "If Malfoy's there, he might . . . I mean . . . I would rather you were there first. In case he tries anything."

"Of course, Harry." Dumbledore laid a hand on his shoulder, and it was all Harry could do not to leap away from him. "Don't worry. No one will hurt you. There's no need to be afraid."

Harry looked away. He wasn't just afraid; he was terrified. But it wasn't like Dumbledore to say such a thing to him. For one thing, he rarely said things that he knew weren't true. And he knew Lucius would hurt Harry, if he were given a chance.

But maybe, after their "talk" last week, Dumbledore was more anxious about Harry's frayed nerves than usual. Maybe he wanted to be the comforting type now, a role Harry had decided a long time ago was never going to happen, not for him. He knew Dumbledore just wanted him as a weapon to fight Voldemort. That was his own role, and he had pretty much accepted that, despite what he told Severus. And for Dumbledore to now get all mushy on him . . . well, that just wasn't on.

Still, it wasn't like he wanted to argue about it either, and if Dumbledore wanted to be "caring" and all, then Harry would use it. "I'd feel much better if you'd go first, sir," he said.

"Very well. But come through immediately afterwards. It's very important, for Weasley especially."

"Yes, sir. Of course."

In seconds, the Headmaster had called out, "Ministry Inquisitor's Office" and gone through the Floo, with the packet of Ron's letters to him gripped in his hand. Harry stared at the fireplace, and took a handful of Floo powder with a shaking hand. He wasn't sure what lay on the other side of this ride, but he would be willing to bet it wasn't just about Ron.

Holding his breath, he stepped into the fireplace, threw the powder down, and called out the destination.

When he tumbled from the fireplace into the little office, and pried his stinging eyes open, the first thing he saw was Lucius Malfoy, with his wand pointed at Harry's head. Right beside him, wand steady and wearing a grim smile, was Albus Dumbledore, doing the very same thing.

Tuesday, Aug. 27

No further entries for this date.

---

Previously:

When he tumbled from the fireplace into the little office, and pried his stinging eyes open, the first thing he saw was Lucius Malfoy, with his wand pointed at Harry's head. Right beside him, wand steady and wearing a grim smile, was Albus Dumbledore, doing the very same thing.

Startled and gaping at the two men, Harry had several thoughts all at once. The first was, Oh, crap. Then, How do I keep getting into these situations? And then, finally, What the hell is up with Dumbledore?

Before any of these had time to be more than thoughts, however, Harry had his wand up and shouted, "Expelliarmus!" To his surprise, since he thought the Headmaster was far more powerful than that, Dumbledore's wand went flying out of his hand, and he even stumbled back a few steps. In the next second, his elation turned to horror when a bolt of red light slammed into his side from a Stupefy. All he saw as darkness overtook him was Malfoy's leering face.

---

Everything was so cold. And dark. And his left arm was one huge bundle of nerves, trapped in ice so cold it burned. For the longest time, he could not form coherent thought beyond, "Hurts," and he knew, somehow, that even that thought was not making it to his conscious mind. Finally, though, he was able to put the pain into another place, as he had done for many, many years of his service to the Dark Lord, a place far enough away that he could think again. When he did, his first thought was, Harry . . . where is Harry?

He swam toward consciousness, knowing -- without understanding why -- that he had to wake up. That Harry needed him, that he was in trouble.

When has Harry not been in trouble? a little voice inside him asked.

Good point.

And yet . . . he had come to realize over the last month of keeping company with the boy, that much of the trouble Harry engaged in was not of his own making. Not really. Their talks had done much to disabuse him of any notions on that account. No, trouble seemed to find him with preternatural ease. As it had now.

He had to protect the boy, his ward. He had to protect Harry, as he had sworn to do. With this thought foremost in his mind, he forced his consciousness closer and closer to the surface. It was like swimming through mud, through quicksand, though all kinds of other materials that were clingy and viscous and hard to move through.

Sound penetrated his mind first. One sound. A voice. Lupin's voice. Severus scowled, and not just because of the constant throb of the Mark in his left arm.

"I hate to do it, but really, Severus, it's for your safety . . . if you were awake, you could tell me where you keep the potion. But it's too close to the--"

"What are you babbling about?" he rasped, his voice like sandpaper.

"Oh! You're awake."

"Obviously." He struggled to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. He brought his right arm up -- since his left seemed good for nothing just now -- to rub at his eyes, clearing out the detritus and forcing them to open. Everything was blurred and it all undulated oddly, giving the impression of looking through water. He squinted. Ah, better.

"I mean, it's good to see you awake. Can you tell me where you keep your Wolfsbane Potion?"

"Where's Harry?"

"What?"

"Which part of the interrogative did you not understand?"

"I understood, but really, Severus, it's far more important that you tell me where you keep the potion. I've been battling the change for going on an hour now, and was just about to transform a cage out of your settee in the sitting room--"

Oh, for Merlin's sake! "Why don't you just leave!"

Lupin sounded a bit panicked, actually. "I would, but there seem to be Wards placed on your door, and on your Floo, to prevent me from going."

Something akin to terror rose in Severus' chest like a wave. His voice came out as a whisper, because he couldn't make it louder. "You're trapped in here."

"Yes."

"With me."

"I've said--"

"And you're about to change into a slavering beast."

"Yes. Unless you--"

"The potion is in my laboratory," and when Lupin rose to go, he added, "But it's Warded, you fool." As if he would leave that space unguarded, especially with a trouble prone teenager around. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and tried to get up. His left arm was so much dead weight, and for some reason, his legs did not want to cooperate. Well, he'd dealt with that before. Willpower, force, and the imperative motive of not being eaten made them work for him. He shuffled toward the door.

Lupin followed, at a distance of not nearly far enough.

"In front of me," Severus growled. "Get in front of me."

The Werewolf obeyed with alacrity, and Severus staggered after him.

"Wand," he demanded, as they made their way down the hall. Lupin turned and pressed his new wand into his hand. The Were's hands were clenched into fists, and the strain of not changing was evident in the cast of his face, in the muscles of his neck. "How close?"

"Close enough," Lupin growled. "The full moon isn't really until early morning, about five hours from now. But it's . . . it's close."

Severus touched his wand to the door to his lab, muttered the password under his breath, and went inside. It was the work of only a minute to secure the potion for Lupin, and Severus reflected that it was a good thing he had made this batch earlier in the month.

He brought the bottle out to Lupin and put it down on the dining table, making Lupin take it up from there instead of letting him come close enough to take it from his hand. He wasn't paranoid, though, not of Werewolves. Not at all. "So the date . . ."

Lupin swallowed down the potion. "It's the 27th, but just before midnight of the 28th."

"I was out for . . ."

"A bit more than twenty-four hours."

Right. What the hell had happened to him? No, that was a question for another time. "Now," Severus said, leaning against the wall, but not because he was still too weak to stand on his own, not at all. "Tell me where Harry is."

"Didn't Dumbledore tell you?"

Severus snarled, "If he had, I'm sure I would not be asking you now. Answer the damn question!"

The shaking had increased in Lupin's hands, and his eyes had turned gold. The change was upon him, and Severus was just standing there! What if the potion was ineffective this close to the change? He forced himself to remain calm, even as he started to edge along the wall, wand held up in case Lupin should try to charge him. He was just being cautious. He wasn't actually frightened, of course not.

But the words that came out of Lupin's mouth next were actually frightening, and the cold he had battled all the way to consciousness threatened to overcome him. "He said he had to take Harry to the Ministry of Magic. Because of the Unforgivable Harry cast."

"Almost cast," Severus whispered, barely even noticing as Lupin completed the change before his eyes, face elongating, teeth growing sharp and deadly, legs and arms twisting into that animal shape Severus so detested. The Wolf could have attacked him right then and he wouldn't have defended himself, but Lupin merely paced back and forth for a moment before settling on the rug in front of the fire like nothing more than a big, mangy dog.

Dumbledore had taken Harry.

After the discussion they had had, twenty-four hours ago, apparently, when it was decided that Harry would never present himself to the Wizengamot, the old man had taken Harry anyway. A sudden realization hit Severus like a bludger to the stomach. Dumbledore had done something to his arm. Dumbledore, not the Dark Lord.

Was the Dark Mark even affected? Or had that all been in his mind? He remembered tea, suddenly, and the cup falling to roll under the table . . .

Hand trembling, Severus grasped at the edge of bandage on his left arm, and unwrapped the first couple layers. Sweat broke out on his brow, and not just because he was afraid of what damage he might find. No, worst would be if . . . the bandage came off, revealing skin that was whole, intact, and otherwise not harmed by fire or acid. The Dark Mark shone black on his pale skin, and he felt faint with relief . . . and then enraged, fury so sudden that he could hear his heart thudding in his chest and blood raging in his ears.

Dumbledore had taken Harry.

The bandage fell from his fingers as he raced to the Floo. It was Warded, as Lupin had claimed. But it was his Floo, and in moments, he had the Ward disabled, and had come out in the Headmasters Office. Dumbledore had taken Harry to the Ministry. But where? The place was huge, with catacombs and multiple levels, and he could search for hours without finding the boy. Perhaps he should start on the levels where trials were held, where his own had been held, years and years ago. Where Harry's had been, a year ago.

But then, he thought, was there even really a trial?

Or was that another lie?

Waving his wand in several specific arcs in front of Dumbledore's Floo, Severus learned the last destination to which someone had Floo'd. Had it been Harry? Had he even been under his own power when he left? Had he already been turned over to those maniacs? Or worse, turned over to the Dark Lord? Bile rose in his throat at his failure. He had promised Harry he would take care of him, keep him safe, and then this . . . betrayal.

Taking a deep breath, Severus shook his head and forced all thoughts like that from his mind. They would not help now. He stepped back into the Floo, with a handful of powder and his wand both held tight in his right hand. Even if his left arm was not damaged, it still would not move for him.

"Ministry Inquisitor's Office!" he called out and threw the powder down.

---

He was so cold, shivering on the . . . floor? And his whole body ached like he'd been hit by a hundred bludgers. Multiple times of coming to consciousness in situations which were less than optimal had taught him not to make big movements or otherwise alert others to the fact that he was awake. This way, it was possible he could learn something about his situation before anyone tried to hurt him again.

Thus, Harry laid still for a few moments, listening for any odd noises that could give him clues as to where he was, or with whom. And he tried to remember what had brought him to this position -- on his back, seemingly Petrified, or tied? -- on the floor of some stone room. When he did remember, it was all he could do not to scream.

But screaming would get him nowhere. Screaming would not help. Screaming would, in fact, be a very bad thing to do. He knew that, really he did, and so did his pounding head, and the roiling in his stomach, and the tight band of fear that circled his chest. But still, it was a near thing.

But lying silently, he was able to get a better sense of who was with him. Though he could not see the other person, he could hear them breathing. Was it Malfoy? Oh, god! No! NO! He fought to get his fear under control. No. It was not Malfoy. The magical signature was all wrong . . . Hmm. It had been a while since he'd even thought about magical signatures. It had been since that night at the manor, in fact -- and in desperation, he pushed the memory of that place away, as hard as he could -- when he had locked into memory the feel of Malfoy's signature, and Bellatrix's, and Voldemort's, so he would know them later . . .

And with a suddenness that made him reel, he realized it was Voldemort's he felt right now. In the next moment, however, he recognized that there was something wrong. The signature was not really Voldemort's, not entirely, or perhaps not just Voldemort's. The sense he got from the magic was as if more than one signature occupied the same space. Was that even possible? And, if so, who was the other one?

Eyes still closed, Harry made his breaths continue to come evenly spaced, forced himself to stay still, even trapped in a room with the most evil creature ever, a man who had raped and tortured him, and instead of curling into a ball and dying like he really wanted, he felt along the edges of the signature, of the wizard who was no more than five yards away, trying to make sense of it.

One of the first things he realized was that the two parts of the signature were not working together. Rather, the part that was not Voldemort was struggling against the part that was. Not terribly effectively, but Harry could feel the battle as if it were going on in a physical space nearby. Perhaps it was someone who Voldemort had possessed, like he had possessed Harry the night Sirius died. Perhaps it was someone who would help Harry, if he could get Voldemort out of him.

Of course, it might be that it was Voldemort himself, and that the other signature was someone trying to take the Dark Wizard over. That seemed less likely, though. Who would want to possess Voldemort?

Besides, the first option made Harry think of Dumbledore, and how oddly he had been acting, and he hoped beyond hope, that he was right.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Harry cracked open one eye to see. Sitting at a chair in front of the Floo that the two of them had come through earlier, was Dumbledore. He looked very, very tired, Harry noted, and the hand holding his wand was white-knuckled with tension. Harry's own wand was nowhere in sight.

Suddenly, the Floo crackled to life, but instead of anyone coming through, a head appeared. Through his half-opened eyes, Harry was at just the right angle to see Malfoy's face, wreathed in flame, and he fought to keep his breath from exploding from his throat. God, he hated that man, with every breath, with every thought.

"Well, Lucius?" Dumbledore said.

"The cell is ready, my Lord," Malfoy said. "Thoroughly Warded, as you requested. He will not escape you this time."

"Excellent. Has there been any word from the school?"

Malfoy laughed. "None, my Lord. You were correct. None of them suspect a thing. And apparently the Wards have held the Werewolf in with the traitor, or we would have heard of his escape."

"Indeed." Dumbledore-who-was-not-Dumbledore shifted in his chair, and waved his wand lazily. "Come through and retrieve the boy in fifteen minutes, Lucius. I will return to Hogwarts first, to collect a few odds and ends from my collection."

"Yes, my Lord, of course."

"Oh, and Lucius?"

"Yes, my Lord?"

"Do keep your hands off the boy until I have used him first, will you?"

Malfoy's mouth formed a knowing smile that made Harry want to sick up. "Of course, my Lord." He vanished a moment later, and the man who was not Dumbledore started to rise from his chair.

Now or never, thought Harry, and he gathered all the power he could, all of the hate for Voldemort and Lucius and his worry over the Headmaster and Severus, trapped with Lupin in the midst of the change into one enormous bundle. The moment Voldemort-in-Dumbledore's-body turned to look at his captive, Harry met his gaze and smiled. Before the wizard could do more than lift his wand, Harry unleashed a sharp stream of memory and power meant to slice right through the bonds holding Voldemort in the Headmaster's mind.

Wednesday, Aug. 28, just after midnight

No entries for this date.

---

Previously:

The moment Voldemort-in-Dumbledore's-body turned to look at his captive, Harry met his gaze and smiled. Before the wizard could do more than lift his wand, Harry unleashed a sharp stream of memory and power meant to slice right through the bonds holding Voldemort in the Headmaster's mind.

This was nothing like the first time Harry had used such a weapon. Then, he had used it to only cause harm. His intent had been to hurt Dumbledore and show him what his decisions and machinations had cost Harry. This time, his goal was much smaller, and yet, far more important. He had to separate the two Wizards occupying the same mind. And he had to make sure that Dumbledore was the one who gained control in the end.

His feelings fed into his power, making him stronger. Hate and anger, anguish over all that had befallen him, and those he cared for and loved, all of these gave him more power than he had ever felt before, and he reveled in the wash of pure energy that suffused his being. But it wasn't enough. He needed more.

Recalling what Dumbledore had told him after the fiasco in the Ministry of Magic, Harry focused his feelings for Severus, who seemed to really, honestly care about him, and Sirius, who he would always love, forever, and his friends, Hermione and Ron, who still wrote to him and worried about him even when he did not reciprocate. He focused these feelings of love and caring into a precise, razor edged tool, and sliced into the mind of the Wizard in front of him.

Voldemort could not stand love. He had no idea at all of how to deal with it. Dumbledore, however, knew love. He had admitted to caring for Harry beyond that of an ordinary student, and though Harry wasn't sure he believed it, with all that had happened to him, he knew Dumbledore could handle the emotion. Dumbledore would survive it.

Harry fed love through the connection he still shared with the Headmaster, forged in Dumbledore's office the night Harry shared his memories. His love of flying, his love for Hedwig and anguish over her death at Vernon's hand, his love for his friends, and Hagrid and Remus who wanted nothing more than to see Harry better and at peace, and at last, his love for his new guardian, who gave so much of himself that Harry might recover from all the misery his life had dealt him.

And Harry would get better, he knew that now. He would not let Voldemort, or even Lucius or Bellatrix, make him live in fear. He would not cower before them. He would survive.

Love, and hope.

Through the link between himself and the Headmaster, Harry felt something rip, something give way, and with a howl borne of years of frustration and fury, Voldemort fled.

In front of him, Dumbledore collapsed.

Panting for breath, Harry sank to the hard, stone floor. At some, he had broken the Body Bind and risen from where he'd been trussed, but now his legs were too weak now to support him. He watched the Headmaster for a long moment, unable to tear his eyes away. Voldemort no longer had him under his power, but he would return unless Harry protected Dumbledore's mind. That's what had happened before, he realized. He'd left the Headmaster's mind too open, too raw, and the Headmaster had not been able to fend off the most powerful Legilimens in the world.

Perhaps he could, however, with Harry's help.

But Harry did not have much time. Lucius was due back . . . soon, Harry imagined, not having any idea how much time had passed since the firecall. A cursory protection then, for now, and more later . . . if there was a later.

No, he shouldn't think thoughts like that. He couldn't. He had to hold on to hope, hold on to the love he knew he had the capacity for, and that others claimed to have for him. This would be easier, he knew, if he could touch the Headmaster, so he scooted over to his body, pushing himself with legs that were still too weak to stand on. His hands were trembling, too, but that was not important.

At the Headmaster's side, Harry pried the wand from the man's fingers, and pressed it to Dumbledore's temple, while he rested his hand on the man's head. Not entirely sure of what he was doing, Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and felt along their connection. He focused everything through the wand. "Protego," he murmured. He conjured the image of what this protection would mean in his mind -- some kind of golden bubble around Dumbledore's head, impenetrable and safe -- and concentrated on pressing it into being. Cracking his eyes open, he caught a brief glimpse of a light gold aura around the Headmaster, before it faded, falling back into the man's long hair and beard.

Finished, Harry slumped over, exhausted.

Wearily, with every muscle in his body screaming in protest, he eased himself backwards until his spine hit the wall next to the Headmaster. At least he would have that as a support. He had been hoping Dumbledore would be able to help him against Lucius, as he wasn't sure he could face the man without help. Alone. Like always.

But it was not to be. No sooner had he found the wall at his back than the green flame of the fireplace flared bright, and the lean, hungry-eyed form of Lucius Malfoy stepped through.

The man's expression changed immediately from one of anticipation to one of fury as he took in the scene: Harry sitting next to the body of the one he had recently called "My Lord." Harry holding a wand, and aiming it at Malfoy. Harry smiling as if he knew something that Malfoy did not.

"What is the meaning of this?" Malfoy's voice was clipped and cold and betrayed no hint of anxiety.

The very calmness of Malfoy's tone just choked Harry's cheese. How dare he be all serene like that, when Harry wanted to rage and shriek and tear down walls at the mere sight of him! "What's it look like?" he snapped. "To me, it looks like maybe your precious Voldemort is taking a nap."

"Do not dare to say his name, you impudent whelp."

"Or what? You'll fuck me again?" Harry glared at him, keeping the wand he had taken from Voldemort leveled at the bastard, though it was an effort, when what he really wanted was to throw something in the horrible man's face. "I'd like to see you try."

Malfoy smiled his hated smile. "Oh, I very much look forward to it, Harry Potter."

The sound of his name coming from those monstrous lips fanned a bright white fury inside Harry's chest. He felt hot all over, trembling with rage of an intensity he had never experienced before. All his thoughts had crystallized, however, as if he was seeing everything for the first time, like the sky had cleared and brightened after a heavy storm.

He knew exactly what he had to do.

First, he had to form the connection. "Go to hell, Malfoy," he said quietly, and then, "Legilimens."

In the instant where Malfoy's confusion should have given way to attack, Harry broke the man's mind wide open, crashed over his pitiful protective walls like seawater over a castle made of sand. He took in the sights and sounds and memories and discarded them one by one, hurling them into the abyss of obscurity. There were too many memories of viciousness and heartless violence, of furious, maddened savagery, hardly balanced by scenes of domestic tranquility and politic gentility. Harry disposed of those, too, searching deeper, wanting more.

At last, he found it, at the core of the Wizard's being. A pulse of light and sound from which everything else flowed. He would destroy that pulsing light, and destroy Lucius Malfoy from the inside.

Another word now, a whisper, reverently spoken. "Diffindo."

The bright hub of Malfoy's being rent in two, and Harry could hear screaming, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he had to destroy this man, to make sure he could not hurt anyone again. Could not hurt Harry again.

"Diffindo." Another cut, another scream. Sweat streamed down Harry's face and into his eyes, and made his hand around the wand slippery, but he held on tight, and whispered the word again. "Diffindo." No scream this time, but a grunt of pain, and the constant flow of memory abated, leaving his mind reeling with the loss.

Harry wanted to say the word again, wanted to hurt him more, more than words, more than thought, more than magic could possibly let him, and the first syllable was on his lips, when a sudden pressure on his hand, and a hand on his cheek, cupping his face, make him pause.

"Stop now, Harry." The words meant little to him, but the face that apeared in front of him, blocking his view of Malfoy, made him gasp a short breath. Dark eyes and a pale face framed with dark hair. The thin lips moved again, saying, "He can't hurt you any more. Stop now, Harry, before you kill him."

No, the voice was right. Snape was right. He did not want to kill Malfoy. He didn't want to kill anyone. He heard hard, rasping breaths, and was sure they were coming from his own mouth. His tongue seemed overlarge and drier than dirt, and he could not form the words he wanted anymore. Instead, he nodded once, sharply, and let his concentration lapse. He let Malfoy go.

Harry sagged bonelessly, and Snape gathered him in his arms, hugging him close. "Good, Harry. Well done," Snape whispered into his hair. "I thought I'd lost you," he said, but the words were far away now, and meant other things. "You . . . after Albus. I can't believe he . . ." His words were choked, and his head shook, side to side, and Harry wanted to tell him about Dumbledore, about how he hadn't meant to do those things, but Voldemort had made him, but all he could do was close his eyes as exhaustion rolled over him and pulled in deep into blackness.

---

Severus took Harry home.

The Werewolf was still lying on the rug in front of the fire, but Severus merely stepped over him, carrying Harry in his one good arm, and attempting to support him with the other nearly useless one. The feeling was starting to come back, so Severus knew the numbness must be a side effect of the potion or poison Albus had dosed him with, and one that would wear off eventually.

For now, though, as he attempted to maneuver Harry through various Floos and down to his bedroom, it was a damned inconvenience.

But he did not care even a little, beyond that, if it meant Harry was safe again.

Harry had taken on Dumbledore and Lucius both, and had prevailed. And now he was safe again.

Severus could never have imagined the scene he had come upon when he had stepped from the Floo. It was like something from a nightmare, with Dumbledore in a crumpled heap on the floor, and Lucius by the Floo, with blood streaming from his eyes and nose and ears, his pitiful gasps the best he could do after screaming himself hoarse. And Harry . . . Harry with Dumbledore's wand in a wavering hand, head lolled back against the wall, his face screwed up in pain, and weeping as he reduced Malfoy to a mere shell.

He knew the boy was at his limit, and knew, too, after what had happened in Diagon Alley, that Harry would never have forgiven himself if he had killed Malfoy, no matter how much he might want to in the moment. So he had broken the spell Harry was casting, or at least, given him the chance to break it himself, even as he marveled at the power the boy possessed.

Before leaving the Ministry, Severus had put both Dumbledore and Lucius in Full Body Binds, and checked to make sure the outer door was well secured. It was Warded for privacy and against intruders already, which was good. Severus wanted no one to stumble across these two accidentally, especially while they were alone. His first priority was getting Harry the hell out of there, and he had scooped the boy up -- he was still too light by half -- and gone back to the Floo.

Now, in Harry's bedroom, he tucked the boy into bed and made quick work of changing him into nightclothes with a swish of his wand. Harry's face was so pale, but for the violent red of the lightning bolt scar. He stared down at the boy for several long minutes, wondering again at Harry's resilience. Once more, he had faced his enemies, alone and with little more than his own will, and he had come away victorious.

The boy really was quite amazing.

Severus rolled his eyes at his own maudlin hyperbole, but he brushed a strand of the boy's perpetually messy hair away from his closed eyes, even so, and wished him sleep free of dreams. In fact . . . he summoned a vial of Dreamless Sleep and fed it to the near-unconscious boy, knowing that he would need it more tonight than usual.

Besides, this way, Severus could return to the Ministry and deal with the two men waiting there so patiently for him. It was a confrontation he both dreaded and looked forward to, and he knew he needed to have a better idea of what happened before Harry woke.

"Sleep well, Harry," he sighed, and Warded the boy's door against Werewolves before he retraced his steps to the Ministry.

Thursday, Aug. 29

No entries for this date.

---

Severus had been sitting by Harry's bedside for almost a day and a half before the boy opened his eyes again, mid morning on the 29th. He supposed the long rest was inevitable, what with the amount of drain on his magical core Harry had managed, but long about hour thirty after the boy's utter collapse in the Ministry of Magic, Severus started to honestly worry. Then he chided himself for worrying; Harry had proved himself capable of recovering from far worse, hadn't he?

Rumor had it, in fact, that the boy had fought and killed a basilisk, for pity's sake. In his second year. When he was only twelve years old. Surely, after such escapades as that, he would be perfectly fine merely tearing into the minds of two full-grown, powerful Wizards and reducing one of them to a Squib. . . .

Still, he was very glad when Harry opened his eyes, and even more so when he asked for water, even if his voice was hesitant and breathy. Severus hadn't known, until then, if Harry had suffered any permanent brain damage from the massive amounts of magic with which he had accosted Dumbledore and Malfoy.

As he summoned a goblet, and filled it quickly with a water spell, he said softly, "How do you feel?"

Once he had drunk his fill, instead of answering, Harry irritated Severus by once more proving how little he thought of his own life, and focusing on others instead. "Dumble . . . dore. Is . . . he . . . okay?"

Severus closed his eyes briefly. "He will be. He regained consciousness soon after we got back from the Ministry and is recovering, just as you are. But I expect he'll be up and around before the Welcoming Feast. I . . ." He drew a deep breath and plunged on, knowing that he had to get out what he needed to say, though the practice of apologizing did not come easily to him. "I did not realize he was not himself. I foolishly put you in danger, and I am very sorry."

Thin brows drew down over the bright green eyes, turning the boy's expression to one of confusion. "Not . . . your fault."

Severus grimaced. "If not mine, then whose? I fancy myself one who reads other people well, and yet I could not discern that one of my oldest friends was possessed by a maniac?" When Severus had gone back to the Ministry, he'd found the Headmaster wrapped inside a bubble of sorts, complete protection against offensive, controlling magic. It was something Harry had done, he was pretty sure, and it was well constructed.

Still, even with the bubble, it had still taken him no more than twenty minutes, with the judicious use of non-offensive Legilimency, to discern the origin of the man's recent odd behavior. Severus had berated himself since then for not attempting to figure out that oddness before being poisoned.

"Only . . . after . . . I hurt . . . him." Harry tried to push himself upright, but Severus gently - but firmly - prevented him from doing so. Scowling, even as he leaned back again, Harry added, "I weakened . . . his mind. He . . . couldn't fight him."

Considering that revelation, Severus nodded slowly. Another mere half hour's careful searching through Albus' mind had uncovered memories of what the man had been up to for the last week, but not why the Dark Lord had been able to access his mind in the first place. He should have recognized the possibility of Albus' walls being weakened by the earlier attack. He should have taken steps to mitigate the damage. "Be that as it may, I still left you to face him, as well as Lucius."

"You were poisoned," Harry said harshly, putting enough energy into the last word that it left him panting for breath. "How . . . the . . . hell . . . would-"

Severus held up his hand, to make Harry stop speaking before he ran out of breath entirely. "I know, I know. But I'm not always rational about you, if you'll recall."

That got him an unexpected smile. Or a ghost of one, at least. Then, when he got his wind back, Harry whispered, "And Lucius?"

"He will not trouble you again, you can count on that."

"Did I-"

"He's alive." Though Severus would have gladly killed him. He counted it as a personal moral victory that he had not taken advantage of the fact that the despicable man had been bound and helpless, in a sense almost begging to be disposed of. But he'd known that Harry would never believe it had not been his fault if Lucius died that night, and so he refrained. The self-restraint required to do nothing more to him had been nothing short of miraculous.

He went on, "But he is a Squib now. His magic is gone for good. His family has foresworn him, as has the Dark Lord. He is penniless, powerless, and no better than a homeless Muggle." Severus smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile. Lucius had many powerful enemies, most of whom would not show the restraint that Severus had, not by a long shot. The erstwhile paterfamilias of the Malfoy family would not survive the week. If he was lucky. "A fitting end for him, I do believe."

Harry closed his eyes and nodded, drawing a slow breath. "That's good."

"Yes," Severus agreed. "Yes, it is. You did very well, Harry."

"I almost . . . killed him." Harry swallowed and opened his eyes. "I wanted to."

"I know." Severus offered him the goblet, and Harry drank a little more. "But you didn't. Even though you wanted to. He would not have done you the same turn."

Another swallow, more convulsive than the last, and Harry turned his head away, but not before Severus caught the flash of anguish in his eyes. "They were . . . going to use . . . me again, . . . they said." The words were no more than a whisper, but with such a vicious undertone that Severus' breath was caught in his throat, just hearing it. "Had a . . . special cell . . . prepared. . . . And Lucius . . ." He swallowed and gritted his teeth, then, "He was . . . so vile."

Severus nodded. "I'm sorry," he offered again, knowing it was not likely to help at all, but feeling like he had to, all the same.

"Don't," Harry said, looking back at him. Grim determination sparked in his eyes. "It's not. Your. Fault."

After drawing a slow breath of his own, Severus murmured, "All right."

Harry nodded sharply, and it was obvious he considered the matter closed. Severus knew it would come up again, as Harry dealt with this latest trauma, at least. But for now, he could let it go.

"What would you like for breakfast?" Severus asked him.

"Not real . . . hungry."

"Not eating is not an option, I'm afraid." Severus smiled. "For one thing, you have a good deal of weight still to put on."

Something seemed to occur to Harry then, and he sucked in a breath. "Ron. How's Ron?"

Severus frowned, and then he remembered some of what he had read in Albus' mind while figuring out what Harry had done. It was to Severus' eternal shame that he had not detected the depth of the man's machinations. He swore he would not let such a thing happen again. "The Headmaster, when he was . . . not himself, told us many things that were lies, Harry. That Ron was in trouble with the Ministry was one of them. That you were in trouble with the Ministry was another."

"I . . . what?"

"Ah, see, apparently that was a special hell he devised just for me, and for Lupin. That Lucius had filed charges against you for nearly using an Unforgivable on him in Diagon Alley, and for defending yourself when you were kidnapped from Privet Drive."

"Oh, god."

"Indeed." Severus rose, and stretched out his back. He had transfigured the straight backed chair to a more comfortable one when he'd realized he might be in for a good wait, but he was still not used to sitting still for so long. "But, as I said, you are not actually in any danger, and neither is your red-headed friend."

Harry's breath left him in what sounded almost like a sob. "I thought . . . I thought . . ."

"I know," Severus said softly. "But it's all right now. You're safe here."

"Till next time . . . he gets in."

Unfortunately, Severus could not claim there would be no next time. They both knew it would be a lie. Instead he said, "We will train even harder, once school starts, and you will learn all you can so you'll be prepared for that eventuality. And I will protect you, the best I can."

"I . . ." Harry looked up at him, with that same determined look, and nodded. "Thanks."

Severus gave him a small nod in return. "Now, what would you like to eat?"

With a put-upon sigh, Harry acquiesced. "Toast?"

"And?"

"Juice."

"And?"

"No more and."

Severus smirked. "You're leaving an awful lot up to my discretion," he said by way of warning, before he left the room briefly, so he could order up the toast and juice, as well as bacon, eggs, pancakes, a grapefruit half and a bowl of sliced fruit.

Harry eyed the tray Severus returned with, and rolled his eyes. "What part of . . . not hungry didn't . . . you understand?"

"The part where I said it didn't matter." He set the tray over Harry's legs, and gestured to the utensils as an invitation for Harry to start eating. "You used an incredible amount of magic the other night, and your body is trying to replenish your magical core. It will do so by feeding off any food you put in your stomach, or from your muscles and organs if your stomach is empty. They will break down into their component parts, causing you quite a bit of agony in the process. Is that clear enough for you?"

Wide-eyed now, as was Severus' intent, Harry swallowed hard enough to be heard and reached for a slice of apple.

"Good. After you're done, you can finish your summer homework."

With a barely suppressed sigh, Harry nodded, his mouth full of apple, even as he reached for the marmalade covered toast.

Severus settled into the chair again, this time with a book, but keeping an eye on the boy even so. Despite his protests, Harry was making short work of the tray, which Severus had known he would. There was no way Harry's body would not require refueling on a fairly drastic scale after what he'd done the other night. He was frankly amazed that Harry could claim to not be hungry, actually.

"Sir?" Harry said, less than ten minutes later, when he had finished the last of his bacon and was wiping his mouth with a cloth serviette. "Um, Severus?"

Severus lowered his book and raised an eyebrow.

Harry smiled a little, then bit his lip and said, "Um, did you give all my letters, from Ron and Hermione, to Dumbledore?"

"I did not. They are still in my desk, for when you finish your summer work."

"So, er . . . that was another lie then?"

"I imagine so." Severus sighed. "The Headmaster is rather upset about what he put all of us through the other night. Particularly what he put you through."

"But it wasn't his fault. He had Voldemort in his head!"

"I realize that, Harry. And so does he, but it doesn't change the fact that he is sorry."

Harry looked like he might protest some more, but then just shrugged a little, and said, "I'd like to start on my work now, if that's okay."

"Of course." Severus rose, banished the dirty dishes from the tray, and summoned Harry's books and the parchment he used for his essays, as well as ink and several quills. The tray itself he transfigured into a small, padded writing surface for Harry's lap.

"You're not gonna let me out of bed, are you."

"Not today," Severus said, and smirked. "Magical core, remember. Devouring you from the inside."

"Got it. Thanks for the visual."

"You're welcome. Do you require anything else before you begin?"

"No. Thank you, sir."

"Very well. I'll be in my lab." He placed a small, glowing yellow cube on the table beside Harry's bed. "Tap this twice with your wand if you need anything. Anything, you understand? It will summon me from anywhere in the castle."

Harry nodded. "Okay. Thanks." He was already opening up one of his textbooks as Severus left the room.

---

They ate dinner together in Harry's room. Severus had to admit to himself that he was perhaps being a tad overprotective at this point. But he could live with that. And it made him feel a little bit better . . . not as much of an abject failure as a guardian, at any rate.

Harry's appetite had not diminished from the ravenous stage. He ate everything on the tray sent up from the kitchens, including the serving of liver and onions, which while chock full of important nutrients, was nothing Severus ever enjoyed smelling, and he could not imagine how the boy could actually both eat it and keep it down. Then again, Harry had taken enough foul tasting potions in his tenure as a student that his taste buds were probably all but ruined for real cuisine.

After they ate, Severus graciously handed over the boy's letters from the other two thirds of the Golden Trio, while he looked over Harry's essays. They were much improved, he noted, and forbore to make any notations on them unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. Even the potions essay was better than many of Harry's previous efforts, and he would have to give it an E, at least, once the work was turned in to him in earnest. He didn't say so, of course. No reason to make the boy cocky, after all.

In his bed, Harry raced through his stack of letters, occasionally smiling, once even laughing outright, but mostly his expression was grim. Almost worried.

When he had finished with the last one, and Severus was poring over Harry's Transfiguration essay - immensely improved, though it could hardly not be, given its predecessor - Harry shuffled the letters together, lower lip firmly ensconced between his teeth.

"What is it?" Severus asked with a negligent air, as if it was something he expected Harry to answer easily.

"Huh? Oh . . ."

"If you say, ‘nothing,' I might have to mock you for being utterly absurd."

"Like that'd be different," Harry replied, but it was an almost automatic response, with no heat in it. Severus waited, patiently, until Harry said, "I don't . . . They're going to be here in a couple of days, and I don't . . . I mean, how am I going to tell them about this summer? Hermione's letters are . . . more and more worried sounding, like she knows something real bad happened, but doesn't want to come right out and ask me. What am I gonna tell them?"

"What do you want to tell them?"

"Nothing! I want to pretend nothing happened at all. But . . . if I don't tell, they'll find out from . . . someone else. And I don't want that either."

By ‘someone else,' Severus knew Harry meant the children of various Death Eaters, such as Theodore Nott, Crabbe, Jr., and Greg Goyle. Undoubtedly, each of those students would know far more of what transpired in Topsham than any of Harry's friends, whose parents would have protected their sensibilities - and Harry's privacy - and told them nothing. It was a tricky situation. A lesser person would have fled the field altogether, and not even considered speaking to his friends about what occurred over the summer. But Harry had courage in spades. Oftimes, Severus reminded himself, detrimentally so.

"Do you want my advice?"

Harry nodded jerkily. "Yes. Please." The nervous cast to his features eased, as if he had not been sure Severus would offer any actual assistance, but let him flounder instead. Severus was reminded sharply that Harry had received very little actual help in his young life, and for him to ask for it at all was a giant step forward for him. And perhaps Severus could help him in another way, too.

"Very well. I think you have had quite enough pressure on you this summer as it is, and thus should not be required to relive the horrors you've been through for the benefit of sating the curiosity of others. I believe your friends will understand that, if they are any sort of friends at all." Severus drew a deep breath and steeled himself, not knowing what kind of reaction he was going to get for his next suggestion. "If you do not want them to find out what happened from . . . other sources, perhaps you will allow me to speak to them instead. In general terms only, of course. Thus they will not be unduly surprised, and neither will they constantly accost you for more information."

Harry's mouth had dropped open. It seemed to take him a few moments to bring himself from gobsmacked to incredulous. "You . . . you'd do that? Talk to them? Talk to Ron?"

"I would," Severus said simply. "I have said, several times, I believe, that as your guardian, it is my duty to see to your well being. I believe letting me handle this would be in your best interests."

"I . . . I don't know." Harry sucked in a deep breath. "Can I . . . can I think about it?"

At least he hadn't rejected the idea outright. Severus made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if Harry's consideration of accepting Severus' aid wasn't of great moment. "Of course."

"Thanks, I . . . er, I mean . . . Thanks."

"Certainly, Harry." Severus gave him another small smile. He rose and banished the writing desk, and moved Harry's letters to the bedside table. "It's late enough now that you would do well with some sleep. Tomorrow, if you eat a hearty breakfast, I will allow you up to stretch your legs."

"And maybe go Flying? I did a lot of writing today, even if it wasn't in my journal."

Severus raised his eyebrows. "I think not." At Harry's pleading look, he amended to, "Maybe. Briefly. In the afternoon. If you eat a big lunch, too, and don't fall down when you get out of bed."

"I . . . okay." Harry eased down in the bed and tugged the blankets up to his chin as he rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest.

Severus wondered briefly if Harry would ever not sleep like he was going to be attacked in the middle of the night. Probably not. He Nox'd the light and started out the door. "Good night."

"G'night, Sev'rus. And thanks," Harry said, sounding sincere, especially when he added, "for everything. Really. I . . . I've never had anyone looking out for me before. It . . . I don't know. It feels nice."

"You're welcome," Severus said, glad the darkness would hide his expression. It would not do for his ward to think him a soft touch. "Sleep well, Harry."

A great yawn came from the bed as Severus eased the door most of the way closed, leaving it open just enough that he would hear if Harry experienced distress during the night. "Mm-hm. You, too, sir."

Severus shook his head as retreated from the door. How was it that the boy had become so bloody important to him, in such a short space of time? The fear that had gripped him when he'd thought Dumbledore had taken Harry away was unlike any he'd felt since . . . since Lily's life had been in danger. And that was the crux of the matter, wasn't it? Harry was yet another casualty of Severus' own reckless youth, and now that he was given a chance to make up for it, he would do everything he could to protect the boy.

Even as he rationalized the whole thing in his mind, he knew that excuse wasn't completely valid. In truth, he cared for Harry as a person in and of himself, not just because he was Lily's son, or because Severus had had a hand in making Harry's childhood a miserable one, however inadvertently. And every day as he observed the boy's strength of heart, and his amazing capacity for love and for forgiveness, his sense of humor and of fair play, he felt his respect for Harry grow. He wanted to see the boy smile, wanted to see him happy and free from the constraints of this abominable war.

Some day, probably some day soon, he going to have to admit that he was glad Harry was his ward, and not because of duty or because he had sworn a Wizard's oath to protect him, but because he liked the boy.

Ai, Merlin. Wasn't that just a kick in the teeth.

I feel better today than yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. Yesterday, though, I got to go flying, sort of. Sort of, because I was only on the bloody broom for five minutes before all the blood rushed to my head or something, and I almost fell off. This time, Snape saved me from falling to my death.

He's kind of always doing that.

Remus, much to Snape's disgust, came to visit after dinner last night, now that the danger of the full moon is over. He was real apologetic about almost eating Severus, and about sending me to Dumbledore the other night, saying his wolf senses should have told him something was wrong with the Headmaster. But I told him -- nicely, too -- to just shut up already, that he was no more at fault about it than me or Snape is. And I even said it without getting all angry or upset or feeling stupid.

That's progress, right?

He asked again about the DA, if I wanted to get it going again, and I'm still not sure about that. It'd be good to have all the older kids, especially, all trained up to fight in the war . . . but it's so damned depressing, when I think of it that way. I'd still like to think we can just have school to learn stuff we'll need for our own betterment, not because there's a lunatic out there who will try and kill us before any of us have a chance to grow up or marry or have kids of our own. Not that I'll ever have a chance like that, anyway, but for all the others, I think they should have a chance to live, first.

So, Hermione and Ron are supposed to be coming here this afternoon, skipping the Hogwarts Express experience to be here a day early and talk to Snape about . . . things.

I asked him . . . or, rather, I agreed to his request to do that for me. I think . . . I think he's right, that I'm not really up for discussing this summer with anyone, not even them. I just hope Ron isn't a total prat with Snape, especially when he tells them about being made my guardian. I know Hermione won't be. I mean, she's got a real level head on her, but Ron... Well, let's just say that he inherited the famous Weasley temper in spades. Though I don't know any other members of the Weasley clan who actually have that temper, so maybe it's a sixth child thing . . .

Anyway, when I agreed to his suggestion, Snape asked if I wanted to be present for The Talk, and I said I didn't know. I mean, I don't want to hear all that stuff, even, and I don't want my friends looking at me like I'm some sort of fre... Oops, I said I wouldn't use that word about myself anymore. Good thing Snape doesn't read this . . . you don't, right?

But anyway, I don't want their pity or anything stupid like that. I couldn't take it. Not from them. But maybe if they get the story, they can leave it alone, or, or chew on it, or process it or whatever it is people do with information like that, during their own time, and then, when I see them again, they can act like normal around me.

I just hope I can act like normal around them.

---

Harry felt almost back to normal on Saturday. Seemed his magical core wasn't going to devour him from the inside after all. He smirked. He'd have to ask Hermione if that junk was true, or if Snape had been making it up, just so Harry would eat more.

Though he felt loads better, he hadn't been outside Snape's rooms since the disaster at the Ministry, except for the few minutes of flying he and Snape had done yesterday, and Snape had been with him the whole time. He just wasn't . . . up for that. He was too worried about meeting people in the hallways, especially the Headmaster. Oh, sure, he knew in his head that Dumbledore hadn't been in control, when he had captured Harry and planned to put him in some special cell where he could use him and stuff, but that was his head. In his gut . . . well, in his gut, he was still unwilling to actually see Dumbledore again. Not for a while, anyway.

He still had no idea how he was going to go back to classes on Monday.

---

"You need to eat more."

Harry glared at Snape and deliberately poked his fork at another string bean without eating it. "Yeah, 'cause you harping on it is doing wonders for my appetite."

"I don't understand you."

"Is this revelation time?"

Snape scowled. "I would think, given your . . . upbringing," his mouth curled in distaste over the word, "that you would eat as much as possible, whenever you had the chance."

"I guess you'd be wrong then." Harry sighed, and relented, a bit. It wasn't Snape's fault, after all. "My stomach is small, you know. Chronic starvation will do that. I can't eat as much as you want me to. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to. The idea of stuffing all that food in, frankly makes me a bit ill."

Snape got that hooded-eye look he only got when he was thinking of swearing, but had determined not to, for some reason. Not that Harry had heard him swearing often, but it was a look often followed by nastiness of one sort or another, so Harry helpfully supplied the reasoning on his own.

"What makes me ill, Mister Po--" Harry's glare was so fierce and so quick that Snape actually amended to, "What makes me ill, Harry, is that I have wasted perfectly good breath and syllables on trying to convince you to eat this summer, when you could have said this weeks ago."

Harry gave him a little smile and shrug. "Yeah, but then you would have felt bad. See, I was helping."

Snape rolled his eyes with a sigh. "If you're done, why don't you do something constructive with your time and practice shielding spells."

"Fine," Harry said with an answering sigh of his own. "I'll be in my room. Can you . . . I mean, when they get here, will you . . ." Harry bit his lip and pushed on, "Can I just see them afterwards? I don't . . . I mean. . ."

Snape finally took pity on him and nodded. "Don't worry, Harry. I'll talk to them, and then you can see them afterwards. But only if you want."

"I . . . thank you, sir. I really appreciate it."

Snape waved a hand at the thanks, like he usually did, like it was no big deal, what he was doing, that it was something he would do for anyone. Harry actually really appreciated that, too. He smiled a little more as he got up from the table. "Do you want me to take care of the dishes?"

"No. I'll do it," Snape said. "Go on and practice."

"Yes, sir." Harry retreated to his room, and shields and curses, and other things he could understand.

---

Severus sipped at his tea and waited for the arrival of Harry's friends. He could honestly say he had no idea how this "talk" would go, but he was glad that Harry was letting him take care of it for him. Harry, as he'd said the other night, was not used to anyone taking care of him. Severus planned to change that.

For one thing, there was this talk. For another, he knew Harry was worried about classes -- how could he not be? -- and he had an idea of how that could be mitigated, at least until Harry got used to having other people around him all the time. But he would need to talk to Albus, and though the Headmaster was doing better than he had been, he was still not completely recovered from what the Dark Lord had done to him. Nor from what Harry had needed to do, to bring his back to himself.

Regardless, all he needed for this other idea was Albus' permission, and he thought the Headmaster would not stint at all in anything he could do for Harry Potter at this point, considering how much pain he had been -- both directly and indirectly -- responsible for in the boy's life.

The Floo flared green, and Severus put down his tea. Unsurprisingly, it was Miss Granger who first appeared, stumbling ungracefully from the fireplace onto Severus' rug. The girl was staying at the Weasleys' just now, so the youngest of their sons should be popping through any moment.

Before Mr. Weasley made an appearance, though, Granger straightened up and gave Severus a cool look. "Good afternoon, Professor."

Severus covered a smirk with a scowl. "Miss Granger. You are tracking soot through my rooms."

The girl jumped a half foot, all pretense of coolness gone, and brushed frantically at her robes. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Please," Severus said, to stop her from whatever she had been going to go on about. "Have a seat. Would you care for tea?"

She gaped at him for a moment, probably amazed that the Bat from the Dungeons had any manners whatsoever, and was just seating herself on the settee as Weasley came through the Floo. The red head was scowling, his face already flushed, and before he had even heard anything Severus has to say. That did not bode well.

"Mr. Weasley," Severus said preemptively, "I was just offering your traveling companion a bit of refreshment. Would you care for tea?"

"I, er, well . . ."

"Eloquent as always, Mr. Weasley."

The flush deepened, and Severus scolded himself. He was supposed to try and keep this civil, wasn't he? For Harry's sake?

"Where's Harry?" Weasley demanded, putting his chin up, as if to show he was not intimidated by his greasy Potions professor. "What have you done with him?"

"Harry is in his room," Severus said calmly, not rising to the bait. "He asked me . . . or rather, I suggested it might be better for me to speak to you, before you see him."

Weasley strode forward one pace, his face less than a foot from Severus' and at the same height. One thing could be said for the Weasley clan; they grew them tall. "Why? What did you do to him?"

Severus' temper was fraying, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from setting this child down in his proper place. "I did nothing to him, Weasley! Nothing but attempt to rescue him from being kidnapped, and from being possessed by the Dark Lord, and try and help him back on his feet so he can return to gallivanting all over the school like the rest of you Gryffindor fools. Now sit down and have some tea!"

Weasley sat.

Granger was still staring at Severus like he had sprouted wings, or horns. "Harry was kidnapped?"

Severus nodded, then spent a moment ordering up tea and cakes from the kitchen for his guests. Once he regained his own seat, he sighed. "He was. His aunt and uncle abandoned their home in the second week of July, by my best reckoning, and the wards based in blood that surrounded the house and were supposed to protect him fell. The Dark Lord took advantage of the situation and sent several of his most loyal to collect Mr. Potter."

"You called him Harry . . . before," Miss Granger said softly, taking up the newly arrived teapot and pouring herself a cup.

"I did." Severus sighed. They were doing this all out of order. He had to take control before it got further away from him. "Let me proceed at my own pace, Miss Granger."

"Of course, Professor." She didn't even sound sarcastic, and Severus lifted an eyebrow. Of course, Weasley was glaring enough for both of them. And he had not taken any tea.

"Harry was kidnapped, as I said. His confinement was . . . horrible." That should cover a multitude of sins, Severus thought. But the Granger girl was about to ask a question, so he added, "Let me assure you, he was tortured in cruel and nasty ways, and did nearly not survive, but I do not believe he wants me to relate the baneful details, or even the minutiae of his stay. Suffice to say, he spent several weeks in the Dark Lord's custody, and much of the rest of his summer had been spent attempting to overcome what happened there."

"Why can't he tell us himself?" Weasley put in, apparently devoted to making this whole thing as difficult as possible.

"He has suffered enough!" Severus bellowed. Then his voice dropped to a near-whisper -- thankfully he had put the silencing charm up on Harry's door well before this started -- as he continued, "And I will not allow you to make him relive that tragedy with your infernal questions."

Granger's eyes were wide, but she sipped at her tea without raising objection. Weasley on the other hand . . . "What do you care?" the red head snarled. "You hate him. You've never cared if he was suffering before. You preferred it!"

Ah, yes. The crux of the problem. His many years of willful disregard of the evidence he saw before him in favor of his own preconceived notions, his callous treatment of a student without true provocation -- nothing but his own anger at and unwillingness to forgive James Potter and his cohort -- and the utter antipathy that grew in him for the boy over the course of five years.

And so.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. "I am aware of that, Mr. Weasley. I . . . regret my earlier treatment of Mr. Potter."

"You regret it. You. Regret. It. Well, that's rich. I guess everything's dandy now, is it?"

"No, Mr. Weasley, everything is not dandy, as you so colloquially put it. Harry and I have been speaking--"

"And where do you get off calling him Harry anyway? You've been a total git to him for five years, and you think you're all mates now? You don't just get to call him Harry because of a chat or two, or decide when he can talk to his friends or--"

Severus interrupted the boy by launching himself to his feet. If he wasn't needing to quell his urge to hex the brat, he might have admired the way Weasley stood up for Harry, even in the face of a hated professor -- even though he knew Weasley was not going to be in his Advanced class, thank Merlin -- but he was becoming more irritated by the moment, and so, to nip any further annoyances in the bud, he loomed over the boy and snapped out, "Harry is my ward. I am his guardian, and I will address him as I see fit in our home!"

That shut the boy up most satisfactorily.

The silence, however, was broken by Miss Granger's teacup hitting the floor.

Saturday, Aug. 31, afternoon

I can't tell what's going on out there. I'm pretty sure Ron and ‘Mione got here all right, ‘cause I felt the Floo . . . don't ask me how (as if a silly journal could) but I felt the . . . magic of it, like a whoosh of feeling in my gut. It's been like that since . . . since I was blind, I think, actually, feeling magic. Like I could feel signatures, and even tell one person's magical signature from another, now I can tell if magic is being used in the area, and sometimes, even what kind. It's weird.

So anyway, I felt the Floo, twice, about twenty minutes ago now. But it's been so quiet, it's like there's no one actually there.

I sure hope Snape didn't kill them.

---

Previously:

"Harry is my ward. I am his guardian, and I will address him as I see fit in our home!"

The silence was broken by Miss Granger's teacup hitting the floor.

Hermione stared at Professor Snape for a long moment before she scrambled to get the teacup off the floor. She looked around for something to wipe up the mess before deciding to heck with it, drew her wand, and banished the spill with a cleaning spell. Technically it was still school hols, and she shouldn't be using magic yet, but she knew that it was almost impossible for the Ministry to detect underage magic at Hogwarts.

Covering up her tea-spilling gaff, and to take the Professor's glare off poor Ron - who still looked like a fish, honestly - Hermione cleared her throat. In her most respectful tone, she said, "When you say ‘ward', Professor, do you mean-"

Professor Snape interrupted, "That I applied for guardianship of Harry, and it was approved by the Ministry of Child Welfare, and he will now live with me - except when school is in session - until he is of age. . . . Yes." He pinched his nose again, obviously under some strain, and closed his eyes briefly.

Ron, meanwhile, had turned rather green, and was staring at his shoes. Just as well, really, as Ron in a temper was not terribly conducive to getting to the bottom of things.

"And Harry agreed to this, Professor?" she asked, still very polite, not wanting him to feel he was under attack. She knew this was one of the best ways to get details out of reluctant informants.

A tic pulsed along the Professor's jaw line, but at least he sat back down, and lifted his gaze to meet hers. She could see nothing even approaching deceit in his dark eyes. "Yes. I would hardly have done it without his permission."

Hermione nodded. "May I ask why?"

The Professor pursed his lips, and Hermione would almost have sworn he was trying not to smirk. "Why did Harry agree? Or why did I offer in the first place?"

Hermione did smile. "I would be glad to hear about both, if you would not mind sharing."

He hesitated, and Hermione didn't know if he would answer after all, but he had offered. After a fashion. Whilst waiting, she poured Ron a cup of tea, and then another for herself, if for no other reason than to give her hands something to do other than wring together. Ron nodded his thanks, seemingly thrown off by the direction the conversation had taken. She took a sip and nodded appreciatively. Though it was nothing like her Mum's tea, the blend was nothing to sneeze at either.

Finally, the Professor said, "I can only tell you my own reasons. And I do so with the understanding that this . . . that Harry wants both of you to understand what the summer was like for him, but does not want to be inundated with your questions. He has . . . It was . . ." He shook his head and gave a huff of annoyance. "Let me start back a bit further, and I will try and explain. Harry's relatives, as I am sure you are aware, were never . . . kind to him." He peered at Hermione as if trying to get a sense of what she knew.

"Harry never spoke of them much," she admitted. "At least not to me. He did say they didn't like him. That they didn't like magic." She looked at Ron, who was obviously trying to rally, and had something to say. "Ron?"

He nodded, his face still pale, and his voice was hoarse as he said, "He always asked Dumbledore, er, Professor Dumbledore if he could stay here summers, you know? And Mum sent him care packages, too, ‘cause they never fed him right. He told me once it was the only way he got through the hols, but I thought . . . I thought he meant he just liked her pasties." He swallowed hard and looked at his hands. "Second year, me and the twins broke him out; they'd put bars on his window and locked him in his room." Ron hitched one shoulder up, seemed to work up his courage, and looked at the Professor again. "Were they worse this year? We didn't get any letters from Harry at all, and some of ours even got returned."

Professor Snape regarded Ron for a long moment, his expression utterly blank. "If by worse, you mean more than just starving him or locking him up, then yes. When he was . . . abducted from their house, he had been abandoned by his family. I do not know for how long exactly, days at least, and he was near death from lack of food and water. But he had . . ." He took a slow breath and looked away, and his eyes were hidden by the curtain of his dark, greasy hair. It seemed he did not want to go on.

"Yes, Professor?" Hermione said quietly. "He had what?"

The man's hard gaze found hers again, and she barely kept herself from flinching at the sudden rage in them. "His uncle," he spat the word, though he continued so softly, Hermione almost had to lean forward to hear, "killed Harry's owl. Hedwig. Apparently kicked it to death, after beating Harry unconscious."

Hermione felt her jaw fall open, and could not for the life of her get it to close. Hedwig meant the world to Harry, everyone knew that. And for that, that vicious man to kill her . . . and beat Harry? No wonder he didn't want to talk about his family with anyone. No wonder he was hiding away from his friends. And then he'd gone from frying pan to fire, hadn't he, when the Death Eaters kidnapped him. How much could he be expected to take?

For his part, Ron blanched once more, and moaned softly, "Ohh, bloody hell. Poor Harry."

"Indeed," the Professor said in an awful, sarcastic drawl and looked away again. His thin, pale hands were clasped together in his lap, but his knuckles were bone white, as if he could only keep his hands still by gripping them tight. Hermione watched him closely, trying to get a better feel for what had happened to her friend. She was glad when he continued, "Thus was Harry rescued by Death Eaters. The Dark Lord decided, for some reason, that he wanted Harry whole and strong. Perhaps to turn him, perhaps to make a bigger mockery of his execution, I do not know, and conjecture on that madman's motives is moot at this point. Regardless, he ordered Harry to be healed and fattened up before seeing him again. I . . . I tried to help the boy, but there was only so much I could do without raising suspicion. When I did too much," he said with a sharp wave of his hand, "I became a captive as well." Professor Snape sighed and closed his eyes again, as if recalling something painful.

He maintained his stiff posture, not looking at her or Ron, and his voice was strained as he continued, "Still, I formed a plan for escape. Harry had been cursed horribly by one of those assigned to guard him, and his eyes were damaged in the process. I had an idea for a potion that might aid his recovery, but I could do naught where we were. And Harry was . . . he was not doing well. So I attempted to run, with him. Alas . . . my plan failed. We were captured again, and this time, the Dark Lord tried to break him."

Hermione's stomach plummeted, and she did not want to ask, but she had to, if she would be any help to Harry at all. "And did he?" she whispered, leaning forward. "Did he break Harry?"

The Professor nodded, one sharp jerk of his head, and Hermione could not hold back her tears anymore. It was too awful: Hedwig, his uncle, kidnap, and torture . . . She did not try to wipe her tears away, but let them flow. She would not hide her sorrow on Harry's behalf from this man, not when he looked like he had swallowed poison himself. Instead she said, "Will you tell us?"

Professor Snape shook his head swiftly, but then . . . "I will not give you details, as I said earlier. You neither need them nor deserve them. But you should know this, before you hear from anyone else . . . and Harry has given permission for me to tell you. When we were captured the second time, while I was still unconscious, they started torturing him. He was hit with so many curses, I could not count them all even after I woke. I have only Madam Pomfrey's record of his injuries as any proof of what happened. He still managed to hang on through all of that," the Professor said, and Hermione imagined she heard a note of something odd - pride? - in his voice, "and rallied again when he realized I was conscious at last, though I've no idea how he knew, as he was still blind . . ."

He shook his head and waved his hand again, as if aggravated with himself, or his inability to get through his telling. "He knew I had woken, and tried to be brave, for me." Hermione heard the pride for certain that time, and perhaps a bit of awe mixed in for good measure, but then the Professor clenched his jaw, his hands clutched at the arms of his chair so hard she thought he might break it, and the tic on his jaw line jumped madly.

His next words came out in a rush, though each one was bitten off as if it caused him actual pain. "But then they raped him. Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord raped him, with Bellatrix Lestrange as their mad audience, and he broke."

Already in tears, Hermione stared in shock, the breath slammed out of her, before she sobbed aloud. "Oh, my God, Harry!" She wrapped her arms around her middle, to try and hold on to some semblance of . . . of rationality. She was supposed to be rational, for god's sake, but all she wanted to do was scream and hit something, something hard, if she could, and then kill Lucius Malfoy and Voldemort herself, strangle them with her bare hands! Not rational at all. They had raped him??! "Oh, my God," she sobbed again. "Oh, Harry . . ." Harry, who had never done anything to these people, to anyone! Who had only tried to be good and kind and . . . how could they!?! Why couldn't they just leave him alone???

She hardly felt it when Ron wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, but she let him anyway, and it wasn't till he held her so close that she realized she was shivering. Crying and shaking and getting Ron's shirt all wet with tears and her runny nose. Oh, Harry . . .

"Shh, ‘Mione," Ron whispered, rocking her, and she wondered when he had gotten to be so comforting. She let him comfort her, and wondered how they were ever going to comfort Harry. Who was there, for him? Who had ever been there for him? Not his relatives, if they were the type to lock him up and beat him and starve him, and not even her and Ron! No matter how much they wanted to, they had never gotten past the walls Harry built around himself, and no wonder! If he never had anyone to trust, anyone to help him, was it any wonder he could not even trust those who said they were his friends?

Ron patted her back softly. "It'll be all right, ‘Mione, you'll see. He's safe now." Ron raised his voice just a little. "He's safe now, yeah?"

"As much as he can be, Mr. Weasley," Professor Snape said, tonelessly. "He had a . . . run in with Mr. Malfoy a few days ago in another attempt to kidnap him-"

"Oh, my God!" cried Hermione. If she had to hear about one more thing happening to Harry, she was going to never stop crying. She was going to break, right along with him.

"-At which point, Harry rendered the man a squib," the Professor finished, as if he had not been interrupted.

"A . . . what? A squib?" Ron sat up straighter, and Hermione followed suit, wiping fruitlessly at her eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, a squib. Pushed far enough, Harry employed some kind of Legilimency against him - I am still attempting to discover just what exactly he did - and destroyed Lucius Malfoy's magical core. He will never use magic again." Professor Snape smiled cruelly. "He has also been disowned by his family, and is currently being hunted by both Ministry and the Dark Lord. So, Harry is safer than he was a week ago, at least."

Hermione nodded, taking out a handkerchief to blow her nose in, while they were all quiet for a few minutes.

Then Ron said, "So, when did you ask him to be your ward?"

The tic was gone, but the Professor still looked too still, as if he wanted to be pacing, or gesticulating wildly. "Several weeks ago. Once we returned from the manor where we had been held, Harry needed . . . someone to help him deal with what happened. As the only witness to most of the horrors he had undergone, I volunteered. I encouraged him to talk, about that experience, or any others that weighed on him. As I learned more of what his relatives were like, as well as the kinds of things he has been through at school, I determined that he had never had anyone who looked out solely for his best interests. I told him I would do so, and he consented."

Ron nodded tightly, then sighed. "As long as he's all right here . . ."

"I am," came a voice from the short hallway leading away from the sitting room. Harry followed his voice into the room, looking more pale and skinnier than Hermione had ever seen him. The scar on his forehead was red and inflamed, and he held his body tightly coiled, as if he would flee at the first sign of trouble, which was the only reason Hermione didn't jump up and hug him to death on the spot. But his eyes were bright, not fearful, and when he looked at Professor Snape, it was with gratitude and respect, something she had never seen from Harry before, for this particular man. Then he smiled over at Ron and her. "Thanks for coming, guys."

The Professor stood, and it was obvious in his softening expression, and in the seconds it took for him to look his ward up and down and nod briefly, that he cared for Harry, for his well-being, for his emotional state, and certainly for his health. "You are ready to join us then?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Professor Snape waved his hand negligently, which for some reason made Harry smile again. "Do you require my presence further?"

Harry's smile deepened. "No, sir. S'okay. You can escape now."

"Cheeky," Professor Snape muttered, but there was an almost fondness in his tone, which continued as he added, "You may invite your . . . friends to stay for dinner, if you like."

"Thanks. I might just do."

"Very well. I shall be in my lab."

Harry mouthed the last three words along with him, and the Professor merely rolled his eyes at Harry before he left the room. Ron gaped at his retreating back, as if he could not figure out how Harry had gotten away with something like that with Snape of all people. But Harry returned the stare with a small smile and sank down in the chair the Professor had vacated.

"So, how're you guys doing? I, um, didn't get any mail over the summer till just the other night, so I haven't had a good chance to ask before."

It was Hermione's turn to stare. Did Harry think they were just going to leave it at that? That they could get all this dumped on them and then just pretend it wasn't sitting there like a huge purple hippogriff in middle of the sitting room? She opened her mouth to start her inquisition, and got a sharp elbow in the side for her troubles.

Shooting a glare at Ron - how dare he? - she rubbed her side, but when he shook his head with a return glare, her brain engaged fully, and she merely said, "Oops. Sorry." Hadn't Professor Snape just said that what Harry wanted most of all was not to talk about his summer and the horrors he had gone through? How could she have forgotten that already? She would probably have to stop herself again in the future, she knew, from asking questions - or rely on Ron's help again - but she absolutely had to follow Harry's wishes in this.

So she swallowed down her curiosity, and the words of comfort she wanted so badly to give Harry, when he so obviously wanted them to just pretend everything was fine. "I told you about my OWLS, did you get that letter?" she asked, and when Harry nodded, she continued, "Well, my Mum was very excited, and said that as a treat, we could visit America at Christmas break."

"Oh, you should see Disney's Mouse and the Grand Canyon, and I've heard Wideway is a smash, and Niagra Waterfalls and-"

"I doubt she's planning to Apparate all over the place," Harry told Ron, laughing.

Hermione smirked. "Oh, right. With my parents?"

"Yeah, see? So her trip'll probably be a bit trimmed down from that. Those places are really far apart."

"But it's all one country," Ron protested.

"A really big one, though," Hermione said. "Huge really. Almost the same size as all of Europe."

"Wicked," Ron breathed, eyes wide. "But you'll go to Disney's Mouse, right?"

"And pick up some Mouse ears, just for you," Hermione promised, noting Harry's half-smile, and how he seemed a bit more at ease than just a few minutes ago, now that they weren't pushing him for details on his summer. Though Professor Snape seemed to think he was doing . . . better, if not entirely well, Hermione knew it must be hard for him. How much harder, to think your friends would be awful to you, too?

"How did you do on your OWLS, Harry?" she asked, hoping that wasn't too much of a personal question.

"Pretty good," he said, ducking his head a little shyly, in a way she found utterly charming. "I'll be with you in Potions, at least."

"Oh! That's brilliant! I've already drawn up a study schedule-"

"Big surprise there," Ron intoned, but Hermione ignored him and happily started telling Harry all about it, even as the dark-haired boy shook his head in silent commiseration with Ron. Things were as back to normal as they could get.

Sunday, Sep.1

The rest of the students should be arriving in a few hours, but I'm not going to the Welcoming Feast. It'd be nice to see the newest first years, and make bets with Ron on who'll get sorted where, but that would also mean being surrounded by people and asked a bunch of questions I don't want to answer (like, "How was your summer?") and having to look across the hall at Malfoy and his cronies and try not to scream at them all.

So I told Snape I would give it a miss, and he said he had assumed that would be the case, but he was required to attend, and he asked if I would be all right alone. I told him yeah, sure, ‘cause nothing's likely to come after me in his, I mean our rooms, unless it's Dumbledore. He got all quiet then, and I did, too, and then I said I was sorry, even though I wasn't really, and he nodded, like he understood what I meant.

Ron and I went flying yesterday after we visited for a while. Hermione came along to watch our backs, so Snape wouldn't have to, even though he offered. Even though the offer made Ron look a bit green. I know Ron's still probably in shock about everything, and I know he'll blow up at me at some point, and wonder what the hell I'm thinking to be living with Snape, but if that argument can wait a few more days, it'd be cool.

After supper last night, we all went to visit Remus (although now he's Professor Lupin again, or will be in a couple hours), so Snape could get some last minute potions stuff done for class. Remus didn't seem to need the extra time to get ready - although he's not had a messed up teenager to deal with all summer, like Snape has, so he hasn't fallen behind like Snape. We stayed until almost 11, which I guess is my official curfew, though the last hour or so I fidgeted so much that Remus asked me a couple times what was wrong. I said, "nothing," but I couldn't help but remember the last time I visited Remus, and then came home to find Snape had been poisoned.

This time, Snape was fine. He even sneered at me when I rushed in, calling for him and asking how he was. He hasn't sneered in so long, it was good to see.

This morning he told me he has a meeting with Dumbledore about something that might help me with attending classes. I'd already suggested last week - and only half joking - that I might use my Dad's cloak, and just sit in the back row all quiet like, so no one would know I was there. He said he had an idea that might be a bit easier on my nerves, but he would have to wait till Dumbledore approved it.

I hope it works, whatever it is. I don't want to fall behind in my classes, but I'm really not ready to deal with Malfoy and them. . . . especially after what happened last week at the Ministry.

---

"Ready to test it out?" Snape asked.

Harry was on the settee, Transfiguration textbook perched on his lap. He had hoped to get a better grasp of the concepts they were due to cover in the first couple weeks of class, but the reading was slow going. He had just gotten his own set of Sixth Year textbooks by Owl order a couple days ago - he'd used some old ones of Snape's before then - and had decided to go through them all to prepare as best he could for class. The question of whether he could actually make himself attend class was still up in the air.

Or maybe not. "Yeah, all right."

Snape lifted an eyebrow in his general direction, and Harry grinned. "Sorry. Yes, sir. I would be most pleased to test out this wondrous system you've designed."

"Excellent," Snape drawled. "Now, each of your professors will be given a specific incantation to say when your class begins, which will release the spell from stasis, until they repeat the incantation at the end of class. When the spell is active, you will be able to see into the classroom, but only the professor will be able to see you or hear you . . . and only if they are looking precisely at the place where the spell is set. Clear so far?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir."

Snape nodded. "All right. I will go to my classroom, and release the spell from stasis. You will sit there," he said, pointing at the table where they ate many of their meals, "as that is where the spell is aimed in our quarters. Questions?"

"No, sir."

"Good." Snape left, and Harry moved to the table, taking his Transfiguration textbook with him. Less than ten minutes later, he heard his name called, and he looked up. In the center of a misty sort of bubble which hovered a few feet in front of him, he could see Snape quite clearly at the front of his classroom. "Obviously you can hear me," the professor said. "Are you able to see me as well?"

"Yeah, it's great," Harry said. He wondered how fine tuned the spell was. "Can I hear you even when you aren't staring at me?"

"You should be able to, though it will not work in the reverse," Snape said, even as he turned to his board and started writing the steps for a simple Shrinking Solution. "Does it work?"

"Perfectly." Snape didn't turn around or say anything else, and Harry recalled that the professors wouldn't be able to hear Harry unless they were looking right at him, so he waited till Snape finished writing and had turned back around before repeating, "Works perfectly."

Snape smirked. "I thought it might."

"You thought right."

"I'm putting the spell back in stasis now," Snape said. "But I have a few more things I need to set up for the dunderheads who will grace my presence tomorrow. Will you be all right for a few hours?"

"Yes, sir. I'm fine."

"I doubt I will return before the Feast. Make sure you have dinner. I don't want to hear otherwise from the House Elves."

Harry gave him an odd look. Would Snape really ask the House Elves if he ate? Weird. But Snape was obviously waiting for his response, so he said, "I will. Don't worry."

Snape's response was merely a raised eyebrow, as if to say, he could not do anything except worry. For Harry, it was a weird feeling altogether, to have someone - an adult, specifically - worried about him, worried that he wasn't eating enough or getting enough sleep, or that he wasn't comfortable around other people. A weird feeling, but kind of nice, too.

"After the Feast, I will need to meet with my Slytherins, Harry. I hope to be back before midnight, but you should not expect me before then."

"No rest for the wicked, eh?"

A glint of humor showed in Snape's eyes. "Indeed." With a wave of his wand, and a few murmured syllables, the bubble disappeared and he was gone.

Harry puttered around for a bit, making sure - for about the tenth time - that he had everything he needed for his classes, down to quills and ink, since he'd had to get so much new after the Death Eaters took all his stuff. Of all his school things, and possessions, the only thing he really missed was the Marauders Map. It would have been very helpful . . . for avoiding people.

Oh, he knew he couldn't avoid people forever, and he felt a right idiot about it even now. But Snape had said - in one of their recent Tea Chats - that he didn't need to worry about such things. When he was ready, he would want to be in the company of others, and before then, he was allowed to be alone - or with a few select others - for as long as he needed. It was still very soon after the mess at Topsham, Snape said, and Harry was recovering more quickly than anyone could have hoped.

That had made him feel a bit better about hiding himself away. Especially when Hermione had echoed the professor's words last night, saying she was surprised he was dealing so well with everything that had happened. He hadn't wanted to talk about it at all, but Hermione said that was okay, too, and had not tried to hug him either, for which he was grateful.

For the next few hours after the test, Harry read, then ordered up dinner from the House Elves as he'd been told, then read some more. He would have liked to get in another ride on his Firebolt, but knew that Ron and Hermione were spending some . . . quality time together before the Feast, and afterwards, they would be too busy with Prefect duties. He didn't expect to see them tonight, or even tomorrow, probably.

Thus, the knock on the outer door around 7pm was rather startling.

Frowning, Harry put his book down, with a place marker in it, and rose to answer the door, wondering who it could be. Everyone should be at the Welcoming Feast now. He drew his wand, taking some comfort from the warm feel of it in his hand, and then opened the door.

Draco Malfoy stood on the other side.

A cold rage swept through Harry, and his hand came up, to point his wand at the other boy's chest, without him even consciously thinking about it.

Draco didn't move, and his hands were empty, but it still took everything Harry had to keep his wand hand steady. "Potter," Draco said. He didn't even sneer as he said it.

Harry's teeth were clenched, and he had to loosen his jaw before he could speak. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

For the first time ever, in Harry's experience, Draco Malfoy looked . . . uncertain. But even as Malfoy opened his mouth and then closed it twice, as if searching for words, his cool gray gaze held steady. "To see you. To talk."

"I don't have anything to say to you," Harry growled. "Nothing!"

Draco nodded slightly. "I know, but-"

"If you know, why don't you get out of here?" Harry's hand started to shake, and he wished he could blame it on after effects of the Cruciatus, but that was weeks ago. He gripped his wand tighter, held it higher, so it pointed at Malfoy's face, but Malfoy didn't flinch. "Did you come to gloat? To laugh at me like your Auntie Bella? Or maybe you want to see what I looked like after your father's lovely tortures?"

If possible, Malfoy paled further, his almost white skin turning a sickly gray. "No." He swallowed hard enough Harry could see his Adam's apple bob. "No, I didn't. You made my father a Squib."

Harry lifted his chin. "Yeah, I did." He wasn't sorry either, not really, but he didn't think he needed to say that.

Malfoy nodded, and set his own jaw. "Well I just wanted to tell you that he . . . he deserved it. No one," he paused and took a slow breath. "No one should have happen what they did to you, all right? It makes me sick just thinking about it. He deserved to lose his magic."

Feeling like he'd been sucker punched, Harry stared at Malfoy. What the hell? Was he serious? It seemed so, but Harry was so confused he wouldn't be able to tell at this point. He had expected gloating. He expected laughter and jeers, like Bellatrix had done. He had not expected this.

"Will you be at classes tomorrow?"

Harry shook his head, still reeling.

"Right." Malfoy gave him a tight nod. "Well, I'll see you around." He turned and started back down the hall.

Watching him walk away, Harry's mind spun with all the implications of what Malfoy had just said. Did his acceptance of his father being a Squib mean anything more than that? Was he equally as angry - or sickened - by what Voldemort had done? Would he turn away from all that now? Or was it just his own father's actions that horrified him? In a split second, Harry decided he didn't really care about all that, at least not now.

"Malfoy," he called before the blond disappeared around the corner. When the other boy stopped and turned to look at him, Harry kept his face carefully blank of any emotion, matching Malfoy's expression, actually. He stared at the young Slytherin for a long moment.

Draco was not his father.

No more than Harry was James.

Snape had been able to get over his prejudice towards Harry, though it had taken something awful like the events at Topsham to make that happen. Was there any reason Harry should treat Malfoy like his father, if Draco was honestly making a break from the man? He couldn't imagine ever being friends with Malfoy -- there was too much history between them -- but the least Harry could do was not tar him with the brush he used on Death Eaters. If Malfoy was sincere - and he certainly seemed to be - then Harry owed him the benefit of the doubt.

Down the hall, Draco lifted an eyebrow impatiently, in a display so Snapish that Harry was immediately irrationally jealous. Maybe Eyebrow Moves was a special lesson they taught in Slytherin. Shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts, he said, "Thanks . . . Draco. I'll, uh, I'll see you around."

The other boy's eyes widened, but then he gave an almost smile and nodded before he continued on his way.

---

Harry went to bed before Snape got home, though he tossed and turned without sleeping until he heard the outer door open and close quietly. A softly cast Tempus showed the time as 12:45am. Harry slipped out of bed, donned a bathrobe and pair of slippers, and padded out into the sitting room.

Snape was removing his heavy teaching robes, and hanging them on a coat rack by the door. He glanced over his shoulder as Harry entered the room. "Can't sleep?"

Harry shook his head.

"Do you want some tea?"

"No thanks," Harry said quietly as he curled into a corner of the settee. He wanted to keep this as casual as possible. "How was dinner?"

"As exciting as ever," Snape told him and sat down in the chair closest to the fire. "As you might have guessed."

"Is the Forbidden Forest still forbidden?"

Snape snorted softly. "It is, and amazingly, all Weasley Wizarding products are still banned."

Harry screwed up his face into his best bitterly disappointed look. "Aww, that rots!"

"Indeed." Snape passed a hand over his face. He looked very tired, and Harry was immediately sorry that he was keeping the man up. "Was there anything particular you wanted to discuss?"

Harry bit his lip, and almost said no, but he figured Snape would want to know about Malfoy. "Draco Malfoy stopped by, during dinner."

Snape went very still. "Did he."

With a nod, Harry said, "He wanted to tell me he thinks his father got what he deserved. Being made a Squib, that is."

"I see."

"Do you? ‘Cause I sure don't. He kind of freaked me out."

"I imagine." Snape rubbed at his face again. "Did he say anything else?"

"What, like about wanting to join the side of right and good and forswearing the Dark Lord forever?" Harry smiled a bit at Snape's glower. "No. But he did say he was sickened by what his father did to me."

Snape nodded slowly. "Well, that's something," he said in a soft tone, his gaze on his hands, which were pressed together in front of his chest.

"Did he act weird at dinner?" Harry asked.

"Nothing unusual, which, given the circumstances of the last week or so, is unusual in itself."

"Yeah." Harry stood. "Sorry for keeping you up, but I just figured you'd want to know."

"Thank you, Harry. We'll keep a close eye on him, regardless." Snape made no move to stand. His dark gaze was sharp, and pinned Harry before he could move away. "Are you ready for tomorrow?"

"Sure. Quills, parchment, books, potion stuff. I'm good to go."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Harry held the man's gaze for another few moments. Was he ready? His concentration was still shot half the time, although sparring and dueling each day helped - and Snape said they'd still be doing that, though perhaps not for as long, or not on the same set schedule, due to classes. And he still had horrific nightmares, unless he took Dreamless Sleep, which he did only sparingly, so as not to become addicted. But he was doing far better now than he had been a few weeks ago, and he hadn't hexed Draco into oblivion, had he? That had to count for something.

Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. I think I am."

Snape, still holding his gaze, nodded slightly. "Yes. I believe you are, too."

Harry smiled at him. "And it's all your fault."

With a tiny smile, Snape said, "Go to bed, brat. You have potions first thing in the morning. I'll not have you snoring in my class."

"But you won't even hear me!"

"But I'll know."

"You kind of always do, don't you."

"Of course," Snape said, and pushed himself out of the chair.

"No ego problem there." Harry grinned as he headed to his bedroom. "But seriously. Thanks. For everything, I mean."

"Bed. Now." The words were sharp, but Harry heard the tone beneath them, one that was caring, and almost fond. And then, as he was shutting his bedroom door, he heard, "Sleep well, Harry."

And so he did.