“It’s such an honour!” the blonde man with the dashing smile had exclaimed as he ushered Harry inside his office. “Last time we had such a good time, didn’t we?” He guides Harry over to a chair and eases him down in it, his dainty hands lingering just slightly too long on Harry’s tense shoulders. “To have you visit me like this…ah, dear Harry. Such an honour,” he repeats. Harry wants to protest and say that the man accosted him in the corridor and more or less dragged him here.

There is something about the man that makes Harry very uncomfortable. That makes him want to curl up in a ball or assume a defensive, protective stance.

“Here,” he says. “Have some tea!” A small, delicate cup is placed in front of him on the table. The man is watching him so expectantly and intently that Harry has no choice but to accept the drink. “Cream? Sugar? Honey?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, thanks,” he says quietly and takes a small sip. The blonde man beams. Harry forces himself to swallow the bitter brew. It tastes funny, he thinks, strangely bitter and sweet at the same time and somehow…smooth. He takes another sip then sets the cup back down on the table. His head starts to pound slightly. “It’s my favourite,” the man says. “Chamomile.”

“It’s nice.” Harry feels hot and rubs his forehead. His hands shake, he notices, and he clenches them in tight fists.

“Are you all right, Harry?” there is a note of concern and expectation in the man’s prideful voice. “You look a bit flushed.”

Harry swallows with difficulty; his throat is constricted and tongue thick and swollen and dry. “I’m fine,” he mumbles and brings a shaking hand to his forehead again.

The man leans over the table and presses the cup of tea into Harry’s hand. “Here, have some more. Perhaps it’ll make you feel better.”

Harry doubts it but accepts the cup nonetheless and takes a few mouthfuls. He hopes it will make his mouth feel less dry. It doesn’t help. Moments after he’s swallowed the bitter brew he begins to feel cold and his vision blurs. With a horrified cry he flies up and knocks the table over. “You—!” He sways unsteadily and the room spins around him

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” the man murmurs and stands as well. He walks over to Harry and stands unbearably close. He places warm and intruding hands on Harry’s shoulders and after awhile one of them slides down his back. “Are you feeling all right?”

Harry’s tongue is glued stuck in his mouth and he can only manage a jerky shake of his head and even that miniscule motion threatens a vast blackness to swarm his vision. It does, and Harry crumples to the ground, the blonde man’s hands on him all the way and guiding him down.

“Yes, yes,” the man says and his voice suddenly heavy and breathy. The hands leave his shoulders. He strokes Harry’s chest. “Don’t worry, dear Harry, I will take care of you. Oh, my, but you look so flushed, here—” Harry squeezes his eyes shut as he feels his robe being unbuttoned and then removed. His tie shortly follows. He bites his lips and turns his head away as he feels those hands – those despicable hands – undoing button after button on his shirt. The man breathes heavily, murmuring words under his breath, and shifts closer. “So beautiful,” he hums, “beautiful, beautiful. Do you see what you bring me to do? What you force me to do, dear Harry? If only you had looked as normal as your classmates… But oh, no, you had to be so stunning and lovely…this is your fault,” he says a bit louder, just as he places a hand on Harry’s chest and begins to stroke and rub. “All your fault, pretty little Harry.”

Harry wants to cry. He wants to scream and curse and hurt The Man, but he can’t move. His limbs won’t obey him and yet they force him to feel everything The Man does to him. Feel every slide of skin against his, hear every breathless moan and pant and all the words of how this is all Harry’s fault and how he is to blame and that The Man can’t help himself because Harry does this, wilfully, to him. Harry wants to vomit when he first feels that sickening, hard thing rub against his hip.

“Ah, oh,” The Man pants. “So good, you naughty boy. Here—” and he grabs Harry’s lifeless hand and brings it down somewhere. The tears finally start to fall, then — the bitter tears of shame and repulsion.

//

It is barely an hour later and Harry walks unsteadily across the school. He has detention. Detention, detention, detention detention. He repeats the mantra in his head over and over and over because if he concentrates on his detention with Snape then he can’t think about That.

The door is open when he finally stumbles inside the dank classroom and only because he is still repeating his mantra he doesn’t really notice that Snape is already there, sitting by his desk and watching him with his dark, cold eyes.

Harry is pale, deathly so, and the only colour on his face are the twin splotches of unnatural red on his cheeks. His eyes are wide and don’t appear to take note of the surroundings. The boy is trembling and shaking and there is a tint of purple to his otherwise pale lips.

The boy is not wearing his glasses and only because he is not Severus sees how dilated his pupils are, how the black threatens to swallow the green entirely. Severus stands quietly. The boy still shows no signs that he notices. In fact, he continues his catatonic gait across the classroom until he is directly in front of the desk. Harry stops, then, and gazes with his empty, soulless eyes straight through the Professor without appearing to see him.

Severus walks around the desk. He leans back against it and he is essentially still in front of the boy who still fails to notice him. “Potter,” Severus demands and Harry blinks.

Snape? Harry looks around in confusion then up at Snape and he wonders how he got here. Had he really managed to cross the school, walk all the way from The Man— Harry’s eyes widen, if possible, and then he throws up all over the Potions Master’s shiny boots.

“Potter!” a dark voice exclaims but Harry barely hears it. All he knows is the cramping of his stomach, the painful cramping and convulsing. Out, out, out, out out out! His meagre lunch and the tea and the drug and that, all of it, out! He doesn’t notice how arms and gentle hands hold him, wraps around his chest and turns him around. He doesn’t notice the hand rubbing his back, or the monotonous voice muttering something about ill students and how they shouldn’t roam and that blasted Minerva for not seeing what’s in front of her nose.

When Harry finally stops being sick an eternity of pain later the sobs begins to wrack his thin frame. “What now, Potter?” Severus sighs.

Harry shakes his head. “Bath! Wash! Off, off, off off!” he croaks and blubbers. He begins rubbing his hands up and down his arms as he hugs himself in a defensive gesture. His breathing is almost too rapid now, and his tears and sobs are not diminishing.

“Potter—” Severus turns the wailing boy around. After a short moment of consideration, he plucks the Potter boy up — rather easily; the boy is almost weightless — under his arms. Harry’s arms fall to his sides, the only sign he shows that he is aware of what Severus is doing to him. Movements jerky and unpractised, Severus manages to bring the boy up, a skinny leg on either side of him and a dark head hidden in the crook of his neck. “Dear God, Potter, what is the matter? Even you are not this troublesome on a normal basis.”

Harry stiffens. There is a hand on his back, rubbing up and down. The gesture is meant to be soothing but Harry can’t make the connection. He mutters, “sick!” and then he is throwing up again, somehow standing on the ground and there is an arm around his chest and a hand on his shoulder.

//

“What…is the matter with him?”

Madame Pomfrey frowns. “There is no indication of a bacteria or a virus, Severus. His blood is clean, but if it was something he ate—”

“By now it is well out of his system, yes, I know.”

There is a rank reminder of why, exactly, that is down in his classroom, and although cleaned with a Scourgify, his boots still feel…dirty.

“However, the brat did spend thirty minutes either projecting vomit across my classroom or bawling his eyes out.” Madame Pomfrey merely glares at him. “You will keep him over night?”

“Of course!” she bustles and Severus takes his leave.

There is a matter that has been bothering him since before Potter made a spectacle of himself. The purple discoloration around his lips. The faint blueness of his eyelids that only became apparent after Severus had managed to transport them to the Infirmary. The trembling. The dilated pupils. The words: bath and wash and off.

He Scourgifies most of the sick away and only samples some of the first puddle. It has been many years since he started working as a Professor at Hogwarts and as he carries the title of Potions Master it is his job to analyse blood, vomit or other bodily fluids when a student falls mysteriously ill and there is no immediate or apparent cause.

Severus expects peanuts or seafood. He expects an allergic reaction or perhaps food poisoning. He does not, after spending several hours breaking down components and separating matters, expect to find the traces of a prohibited potion. A prohibited potion that is well out of the range for any student currently enrolled at the school to successfully brew. Then his heart freezes and plummets down to his stomach and a dreadful, horrible, sinking feeling fills him. In the past, the potion was common enough and used freely and openly – mostly by richer, older purebloods trying to snare younger, beautiful witches.

The potion strips the drinker of its defences. The potion makes the drinker little more than a lifeless doll. The potion is almost like the Stunning Spell, but worse since the drinker doesn’t actually freeze in motion, but is instead warm and relaxed and wholly flexible. The perpetrator would be able to claim innocence; the victim never refused.

He doesn’t remember walking to the fireplace. He doesn’t remember grabbing a fistful of Floo Powder and tossing it into the fire. He does remember shouting, “Poppy!” and waiting for several minutes.

Madame Pomfrey appears in her office, wrapped in a dressing gown. Her alarmed expression changes to irritation as she sees that it is not a student requiring help, but rather a Professor that ought to learn decent manners. “It is three in the morning—!” the stern witch shouts back at him.

Severus glares. “Examine Potter for possible assault.” Poppy looks absolutely stricken. “I have found traces of a potion with strong sedative properties.”

“But there were no traces of foreign substances in his blood.”

Severus grimaces. “The Potion of Aisyeoc leaves no trace. It is favoured because it does not. I believe Muggles call potions of this variety ‘date-rape drugs’.”

//

“There were faint marks behind his ears.”

Severus tenses. “Finger marks?”

Poppy nods. “Could be. It was all I found. That and a slight bruising of Potter’s throat.”

//

Madame Pomfrey looks at him and says, very clearly, “I’m sorry, Severus.” The Infirmary appears to be empty, and Severus frowns. “Potter is in the closet.” She nods at the crooked door in the corner that leads to a tiny potions supply room, holding only the most basic and necessary ingredients in case of an emergency.

“What happened?”

“The boy panicked,” is all she says. “This isn’t my area anymore, Severus. I can heal and mend what’s broken; what’s tangibly broken. Physically, he’s as healthy as he ever is.”

The stab of ice in his stomach is back.

//

“Potter.”

No response.

“Potter.” Severus puts more force in his voice.

After a short while, the door creaks open and Potter warily peaks out. His eyes widen and he blinks. “Professor Snape?” he says, confused and disbelieving. His eyes widen further. “I’m at Hogwarts, aren’t I?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Severus sneers.

“I thought I was back with the Dursleys…” Potter says weakly and trails off.

Severus narrows his eyes, then he sits down on the floor and leans his back against the wall next to the door. “Do you often spend time in supply closets?”

“Didn’t feel safe,” Potter mutters. “Never feel safe there. Only in m’cupboard, ‘cause I’m the only one that fits there.”

“How so?”

“Uncle Vernon’s too big and Dudley too and Aunt Petunia’d never go near it ‘cause it’s dirty and I’m in there.” Potter shifts and the door opens a smidgen more. Severus can see dark hair peaking out, now, as opposed to the eye he’d seen before. “I’m really at Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Potter,” Severus says as patiently as he can.

“Oh…” A small hand attached to a skinny arm darts out. It latches on to Severus’ wrist and clamps on tightly. “Sir?”

“Yes, Potter?”

“I’m sorry I was sick all over your classroom.”

Severus sighs. “That’s quite all right, Potter. We are wizards, after all.” He falls silent. Potter shifts again and his grip tightens. “Will you come out?”

“Is it safe?” Potter whispers.

“Only Madame Pomfrey and I are currently about. Is that safe, Potter?” There is another silence, then Potter pokes his head out completely and looks around. He has one hand clamped down tight around Severus’ wrist while the other has an equally tight grip of the door. “Well?”

Potter nods jerkily. “Yeah.” He crawls out and sits himself close to Severus, practically pressed up to his side. “This is safe.” But he doesn’t relinquish his hold and his eyes remain a fraction too wide. The boy brings his skinny legs to his chest.

“Where is it not safe, then?”

“The Dursleys,” Potter promptly responds. He bites his lip and hesitates. “And…there,” he whispers. “It’s not safe in…that place.”

Severus blinks slowly. “ ‘That place’? ”

“It’s not safe there!”

“Why?”

Potter begins to hyperventilate. With practiced ease Severus reaches inside his robe and grabs the Calming Draught he knows is there. He uncorks the phial and wordlessly holds it to Potter’s lips. Potter wrenches his head away.

“Come now, Potter. It will help you breathe.” Potter tenses and begins to whine. “I promise it will not bereft you of your control.” Because that is exactly what the potion someone had slipped Potter earlier had done. Taken from him the control of his body. “We brewed this potion in class. The Calming Draught.” Severus holds the small glass container out and Potter snatches it immediately. He turns his back to Severus and Severus can see Potter’s bony spine jutting out, even though Potter is wearing a pair of pyjamas.

An empty phial rolls away and Potter cows back into Severus’ side.

“It tasted funny.”

Severus raises an eyebrow. “The potion?”

Potter shakes his head. “The tea. It tasted funny.”

Severus glares and scowls, but his voice remains even and controlled. “What flavour did it have, then? The tea?”

“Chamomile.” Potter presses closer and small arms circle his own arm, the one closest to Potter. “It tasted funny,” he repeats.

“Can you tell me why?”

Potter whines, then he hides his face against Severus’ arm. “Strange. Bitter and sweet and not like chamomile.” Potter tenses. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

Severus nods and schools his expression into something blank and unthreatening. “Very well,” he murmurs. “I believe Madame Pomfrey has cleared you for classes.” Potter stills and tenses further. “You object?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Very well,” Severus drawls. “Shall we stand?”

For a moment Potter curls in closer. “Okay, sir.”

//

Harry spends the day in a melancholic, catatonic daze. He recognises his friends but he doesn’t hear them. He recognises McGonagall and Flitwick but he doesn’t hear their lectures either and both of them leave him alone. They probably know he spent the night in the Infirmary; the teachers tend to know, always. All in all he figures that the day, while just one out of many, could have gone much worse.

He could’ve run and hid in a cupboard or cried or been sick every time someone bumped into him or slapped him on the back. He could’ve thought, but he didn’t and Harry feels rather proud of that. That he managed to block all thoughts of that out, that he managed to make them disappear as if they never existed and as if nothing had ever happened yesterday afternoon.

And then The Blonde Man opens the door to the classroom: the last class of the day he and the rest of his classmates are waiting for. Suddenly, everything is quiet and all Harry can see is The Man and his hands and mouth and that and then the sound comes rushing back, roaring in his ears and Harry bolts. His face is drained from blood and he is panting hard and loud, and he doesn’t know where he is running, only that he has to get away. Fast and now and away.

Snape, Snape and safe, those are the only words that matter to Harry as he dashes through the school. Snape, Snape, Snape and safe, safe, safe safe safe!

//

Students are sitting still, mostly, as they listen to the lecture the Professor is giving. Even in the most dreaded of classes taught by the most feared Professor the occasional fidget, cough or muffled sneeze is expected. When the door slams open fourteen of the fifteen students jump in their seats and the lone one who doesn’t manages instead to fall off his chair.

Professor Snape whirls around and fixes his darkest glare and most menacing scowl on the unwelcome and unwanted intruder. But the doorway is empty and the door is already swinging shut. He only just barely sees the boy – the boy that crashes at breakneck speed into his middle. The boy almost threatens to fell him to the ground.

The students gape.

Severus scowls and glares at them instead.

The boy clings tighter, his small body tense as a cord and trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“Get out,” Severus hisses and the students rush out of the dank classroom, whispering amongst themselves and shooting curious glances at the dark-haired boy clinging so desperately to the dour Potions Master.

“Who did you see, Potter?”

Harry presses closer and shakes his head. Severus sighs but doesn’t push him further.

It almost has to be that the boy saw the perpetrator — or something that reminded him so strongly and forcefully that he lost his grip of the present. It could be a relapse from this morning, of course, as well or simply another reaction of what ever it was that had taken place yesterday. For all their suspicions and theories, the suspicions and theories have never actually been facts or absolute truths. Until the boy speaks up they will never be.

“Why—”

“Safe,” Harry says instantly. “Safe here, with you.”

“It wasn’t safe where you were before?”

Harry shakes his head. “That,” he hisses. “Dangerous. Filthy.”

Severus tries placing a hand on Potter’s head, but Harry’s flinches. “What are you afraid will happen if I touch your head?”

“That,” Harry repeats. A split heartbeat later he wrenches away from Severus, eyes wide and disbelieving and face oh, so pale. “No!” he shouts. “I won’t! I won’t! Never—” Severus frowns and steps after the boy. “—don’t touch me! I’ll, I’ll scream!”

“Potter—” Harry flinches. “Harry. I promise I will never make you do…that.”

“Ever?” Harry asks, distrustfully.

Severus glares. “Absolutely never. It is a vile, sick thing to do—” Harry barrels into him, head pressed into Severus’ chest, “—to a child.”

“…I couldn’t move,” Harry whispers, voice faint and quaking. “I…I couldn’t move…”

Severus clears his throat. “The potion—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Harry steps away, then, and rubs his fists over his eyes. “There…I couldn’t— I panicked, sir, that’s all. It won’t happen—”

“Are you a fool, Potter?” Severus asks snidely, lips twisted in a sneer. Harry blinks. “You are a fool if you believe this will be the first, and last, time you find yourself rushing down here, into a cupboard, to the Infirmary or wherever you deem to be safe. This ‘person’—” Harry shakes his head and slaps his hands over his ears. Severus rolls his eyes. “They are at Hogwarts, yes? Seeing,” and he borrows Harry’s word, “That was the cause for your sudden need of safety. It is only logical to assume that is still at Hogwarts.” Severus’ eyes darken and he lowers his voice to that silky, menacing drawl that has so many students trembling. “Logic dictates it is either a student or a Professor.”

Harry’s eyes are so wide it is a wonder that they are still in their sockets. “I-I-I can’t,” he stutters. He shakes his head violently. “It never happened!” he bursts angrily.

//

“Severus, my boy?”

Severus rubs his forehead with a faintly shaking hand. “Over here, Albus,” he calls.

The soft steps of the elderly Headmaster approaches. “Severus—” Albus stops. Severus looks up, face blank and eyes unreadable; Harry Potter is lying, fast asleep and clutching fistfuls of black robe, across his lap. “What happened?” Albus breathes.

Severus raises an eyebrow. “I take it no one told you of how hell froze over early yesterday evening?” he says dryly.

“You weren’t in your classroom and you office was deserted.”

“I did not realise it was a cause for concern.”

Albus shakes his head. “Oh, no, it wasn’t.” He sits down in the armchair adjacent to the sofa. “Mr Weasley and Miss Granger accosted Minerva just after their last class.”

“Which class?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts.” Albus looks seriously at him over the brim of his glasses. “They told Minerva that Harry turned and ran the minute the door to the classroom opened and that he still hadn’t returned. This was just after dinner.”

Dinner? Had it really been that long? “I did not realise.”

“Quite all right, my boy. Quite all right. Harry spent the night in the Infirmary, correct?” Severus nods curtly. “Why?”

“He…vomited all over my classroom.”

Albus looks surprised. “And Poppy released him?”

“Physically, he is as healthy as he ever was,” Severus quotes the MediWitch.

Albus looks up sharply. “Physically?” he says.

“There was…an incident,” Severus says carefully. “Someone slipped him a powerful sedative potion, the Potion of Aisyeoc, to be precise.” Severus gazes steadily at Albus. “I trust you see the—”

“Harry was raped?” the Headmaster whispers quietly.

Severus looks away. Down. At Harry, who is somehow still snoozing peacefully. “There were no signs of… Poppy only found evidence that would suggest an oral assault. It is unclear what happened.”

Albus shifts closer and places a hand on Severus arm. “Do you know who?”

“No.” But there was something or someone in the hallway when the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts’ classroom opened that shocked Harry into running. A student. A motion. Or…the teacher. “Potter tries his hardest to ignore anything ever happened.”

//

The clothes are too big. Harry bites his lip, sitting on Professor Snape’s couch in just his pants and with only a fluffy quilt to cover him. Snape has laid out clothes for him to wear. New, fresh clothes. Harry pulls the white shirt closer and holds it up. Obviously Snape’s own shirt. He slips it on though, pulls it over his head as he doesn’t need to unbutton it and then reaches for the black trousers. He slips them on, too — he’s used to wearing Dudley’s clothes and at least Snape’s skinny. But he’s bloody tall, though, and Harry has to fold the hems up several times.

“Would you like breakfast?”

Harry looks up and over to the doorway where Snape is standing. “Yes, please,” he answers. Harry rolls his sleeves up as well and then reaches for the thick jumper (black, of course) and pulls that on as well. It almost reaches his knees, but it is so warm and soft and comfortable that he doesn’t care. “Thanks for the clothes, sir!” he calls after Snape as the man leaves the room.

Snape grunts.

Harry sucks on his bottom lip and looks indecisively around. He slept on the couch, occupied the man’s quarters. Imposed himself— Harry shakes his head to stop that line of thought. Instead, he folds the quilt neatly and places the pillow on top of it at the centre of the sofa – to show gratitude. The clothes he wore yesterday have mysteriously disappeared but Harry reckons the House Elves have them. Harry rolls the sleeves of the jumper up as well and only then notices the silver and green badge on his chest. For a moment Harry is stunned, but he can’t help but laugh softly.

“It has been many years since I last wore jumpers, Potter.”

“It’s all right, sir. Just thinking that Ron’d kill me.”

“Indeed. Breakfast is here.”

//

“You didn’t eat yesterday,” Severus says after Harry has finished a large breakfast. Harry tenses.

“I didn’t feel hungry.”

“Why?”

Harry shrugs. “Because.”

Severus eyes Harry speculatively. “Did you know, Potter, that the food served in the Great Hall cannot be…tampered with?” Harry just shrugs again and reaches for his goblet. It’s empty and Harry frowns.

“Is there more pumpkin juice, sir?”

“Just tap it with your wand.” Severus stares steadily at the boy as he finishes another goblet of the juice. “How tall are you?”

Harry shrugs. “A bit shorter than Hermione?”

Severus frowns. He places his elbows on the table and folds his fingers and then rests his head on them. Harry is correct, he realises: the Granger girl is slightly taller, barely noticeable. The Weasley boy towers over both of them. Harry’s father— Severus scowls and cuts himself off. Instead he finds himself asking, “Do you make a habit of skipping meals?”

Harry adamantly shakes his head. “I just wasn’t hungry yesterday! I always eat as much I as can! It’s not my fault I’m short!”

Severus raises an eyebrow, mildly surprised by the outburst. “Oh? Who’s fault is it then, Potter? Surely, if you refuse to—”

“Well,” Harry snaps, “When people refuse to give me—” Harry’s eyes widen comically and his mouth shuts with an audible ‘click’ as teeth collide. His face reddens and he looks away. “I meant…I meant that sometimes there just isn’t enough food—”

“Albus tells me your relatives are quite well off,” Severus says silkily. “Potter.” Harry stubbornly looks away. “Potter—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it!” Harry looks back at his Professor and glares. “Okay? Dumbledore says it doesn’t matter and my relatives never liked me, okay, so just leave it!” Harry stands up. “Thanks for breakfast, sir,” he says and then he turns around and runs from the room.

//

“Oh, dear boy…here…” and The Blonde Man reaches out and places his hand on Harry’s left shoulder. Harry is fiercely shaking his head and a keening noise escapes his throat. “Are you hurt, sweet?”

“N-n-no!” Harry stutters and tries to wrench away. The Man comes closer, and now he doesn’t just have a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but the other hand is also rubbing Harry’s arm up and down. Slowly. Leisurely. “Go away!”

The Man tuts and shakes his head. He steps closer. Harry is trapped in a corner. “I saw how you looked at me, yesterday, dear Harry.” The Man cups Harry’s jaw and tilts his head up. Then he leans down and presses his lips against Harry’s — Harry’s tense and unresponsive lips. Harry wrenches his head away and gags. The Man looks almost amused. “Such an act you put on, little Harry.”

Harry glares and wriggles “I wasn’t—!” A finger is placed over Harry’s lips.

The Man shakes his head. “Playing coy and silently begging me to come find you once again, precious.”

Harry shakes his head and tries to wrench away again. The Man doesn’t allow it: he grasps Harry’s jaw and tilts the boy’s head up. “Such lips,” The Man breathes.

“Get off!” Harry cries. “Get away from me, you slime—” The Man slaps him and Harry falls into a shocked silence. A handprint slowly blossoms on Harry’s cheek.

“None of that nonsense, now, young boy.” There is a hard glint in The Man’s eyes. He grabs Harry by the hair and Harry — finally — screams,

“NO!” Harry claws and kicks and lashes out with everything he has got. “NOOO! Get off! GET OFF!” There is a flash of light and a loud bang.

Harry turns on his heel and runs away. He doesn’t see Professor McGonagall rushing around the corner at the end of the corridor, and he doesn’t hear her shouts.

//

“Mr Potter—” But Harry shakes his head and backs further inside the supply closet.

“Snape,” he whispers, voice cracked. “Please. Just need Snape.”

The MediWitch sighs. “Why is that? Why him?”

“Safe.” Harry licks his lips and chances a quick glance. Madame Pomfrey is still standing there, hands on her hips and a stern frown on her face. She looks like she always does, Harry thinks, and he is slightly calmed by that. But she isn’t Snape and therefore she isn’t Safe and Harry doesn’t dare come out. “Please,” he whispers again.

“I called him, Potter, but I don’t know when he will be here. Would you please come out? It can’t be comfortable.”

“Safe,” is all Harry says.

“Madame,” a dark, silky voice drawls from somewhere behind Pomfrey. Harry sits up a bit straighter and Pomfrey turns around. “To what emergency was I summoned here for? Your Infirmary appears curiously empty.”

Harry swallows, hard, and then he crawls out of the cupboard, between Madame Pomfrey’s legs and throws himself at Snape. “I ran,” Harry says frantically to Snape’s neck. Severus is holding him at an awkward angle over his chest with Harry’s legs on either side of him, almost like when Harry began crying the day before yesterday in the dungeons. “I ran and ran and ran and then I got lost, so I hid. I hid here and it was almost safe.”

Severus can’t help but think that Harry is too old to be carried like this: like a small child, but he says nothing of it as Poppy’s expression is far more relieved now than it had been in the Floo Call five minutes ago. He struggles for a few moments in an effort to get a secure hold of the boy. His arms slide around Harry’s back and Harry sighs softly and clutches his hands in the dark fabric of Severus’ robes. Severus clears his throat. “What did you run from, Potter?”

“That,” Harry hisses. "That tried to…tried to…but I kicked and then there was a boom and I ran! I’m a fast runner; I always escape. Dudley never catches me.”

“Dudley?”

“M’cousin. He’s fat, so he doesn’t like to run and I almost always escape.”

Just then, the doors to the Infirmary slams open and Professor McGonagall and the Headmaster walks in, levitating the passed out form of the current Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher after them.

Harry’s breath hitches and Severus’ head shots up, eyes sharp and lips twisting into a hideous scowl. “No, no, no, no, no, no no no…” Harry shakes his head rapidly, and then Severus’ hand is on his head, fingers tangled with black hair and he gently presses Harry’s face towards his shoulder, away from The Blonde Man. “Away, away—”

“I promise you, Harry,” Severus says stiffly, face contorted with rage, “that he cannot possibly hurt you ever again.”

“Not safe, Snape. Need to—” Severus turns around and walks them to Poppy’s office. Harry loops his arms around Severus neck and snuggles closer. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “Safer, Snape …”