Harry woke up slowly the next morning, gradually becoming aware that his surroundings differed from his usual bed. On the one hand, he could hear Ron’s snores, which made him think he was in the Tower, but on the other hand, his bed felt different, and there were no curtains blocking out the pale sunlight of the near-dawn hour. He turned his head and found his guardian sleeping in the bed beside him, and for a moment he couldn’t understand where he was or why. He felt safe – after all, his professor was right there with him – but he couldn’t imagine where they were.

He felt tired, even though he had just woken up. Nothing hurt, but he felt exhausted, as if he had been playing Quidditch for hours and hours the day before.

Quidditch.

Bludgers.

Stone pumpkins.

And then Harry remembered everything, and he couldn’t restrain a whimper of distress.

Snape was having a well-deserved sleep. With all his work with the Marauders and school and his snakes and Harry, he had been more than usually busy. As much as he had shouted at the Healer forcing the sleeping potion down his throat, he had had to admit to himself that it had been much too long since he had managed to have a good night’s sleep. What’s more, the potion would be the only way to prevent his slumber from being disturbed by nightmares.

He had been grading papers during his free period when every (newly upgraded) ward in the castle suddenly went off, and Snape knew all too well that the only thing that could cause that level of response was the Dark Lord Himself. Somehow, someway, Voldemort had risen, right there at Hogwarts. And Snape had known, with a dread certainty that made his heart freeze in his chest, that He was after Harry.

The screaming portraits of former medi-witches and –wizards, frantically babbling about monsters attacking students in the Infirmary, had simply provided the final proof. He had run faster than he had thought humanly possible, heading for the Infirmary, only to find Dumbledore moving even faster still.

Who would have thought that under those ridiculous-looking, headache-inducing fluorescent robes the old coot wore running shoes?

Every professor in the castle, it seemed, had been summoned by wards or portraits or both, and a solid phalanx of faculty had burst into the Infirmary together. Poor little Flitwick had realized that with this much adrenaline in the air, Hagrid would never even notice trampling him, and the small professor had cleverly used a flying charm to keep himself out from underfoot as well as to provide air cover, if needed.

Snape had never before – even during the war – seen Dumbledore looking so dangerous, and McGonagall’s expression should have been enough to banish any number of Dark Lords foolish enough to cross her path. He had noted Sprout and Sinistra’s absence and assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that they were safeguarding the students, but then they were through the doors and Snape only had eyes for Harry.

His frantic gaze swept the Infirmary, noting the broken furniture, the youngest Weasley wavering on his feet with his face a mask of blood, and Granger, bushy hair flying every which way as she spun, wand up, to face them. His horrified stare fell on the gory corpse only long enough to register that it was an adult’s and therefore of no immediate interest to him. Then – thank Merlin – he had spotted Harry.

The boy was standing unnaturally still and quiet, and was staring at the headless body with a disturbingly blank expression, but he was there, upright, breathing, with all his limbs. No blood was visible – unlike Weasley – and he was moving of his own volition.

Snape felt a wave of almost unbearable relief wash over him, so strong that he felt his knees nearly buckle, but it was immediately followed by a flood of rage so powerful that he actually moved forward to grab the boy and shake the living daylights out of him. How dare that child cause him to feel such panic?

But before he could push past the Headmaster – who was, oddly, still poised as if for battle – his Dark Mark flared to life. Snape gasped aloud as the half-forgotten agony of the brand blazed anew, his other hand surging to clutch his burning forearm. How could this be? The only thing that could awaken his Mark was –

“Potter!” Oh, no. No no no no no no. He wasn’t ready. His plans were only half-laid. Not yet. The monster couldn’t be back yet. It was too soon. Harry was still just a little boy. He wasn’t ready to face a deathless Dark Lord. No no no. Not yet, dear Merlin, please not yet!

But Snape would know that voice anywhere, that breathy, hate-filled, power-laden voice. And he listened, numb with terror, as it threatened the only thing that mattered in his life. As it threatened an eleven year old with an eternity of pain and he could do nothing but grip his forearm and struggle to breathe.

Happily, incredibly, unbelievably, the eleven year old was made of sterner stuff. Harry yelled a word that Snape would definitely have to speak with him about, then chucked a bedpan through Voldemort’s insubstantial form.

That broke Snape’s stasis, and he brought his wand up just as Albus roared at Voldemort, the power of his magic rippling through the room. Snape joined in with the other faculty in attempting to subdue the shade – even Hagrid fired a crossbow bolt at it – but to no one’s great surprise, the Dark Lord, or what was left of Him, managed to escape.

And then that redheaded nitwit had babbled something and Snape had rushed over to see Harry. It was an unfamiliar Harry, looking much older than his age, who had first looked up at him, but then something in the boy’s eyes had shifted and Harry had suddenly recognized him. Just in time to pass out.

Snape never again wanted to remember that horrible moment, before Minerva assured him that Harry was indeed breathing, when he was certain that Voldemort had managed one last Avada Kedavra before leaving.

That was probably why he had been so uncharacteristically… agitated... when the healers had arrived. It wasn’t as if he really cared about the brat, it was simply that, linked to him as he was by two Unbreakable Vows, he naturally wanted to ensure that the little fiend received the best possible care. It had nothing to do with more sentimental notions, regardless of what Dumbledore or McGonagall might have intimated. It was just that this was, after all, The Boy Who Lived, and he wasn’t about to allow some brand new, wet-behind-the-ears, healer in training to practice on the child.

Perhaps he had been a trifle sharp with the Chief Healer when the man finally deigned to arrive (Snape was unimpressed with the Healer’s claim of being delayed by a multi-victim accident involving the Knight Bus), but that certainly did not give the man the right to dose him with Dreamless Sleep, nor to accuse him (publicly, no less!) of being an overprotective parent. Snape huffed at the memory. Some nerve! As if he were guilty of coddling the brat! Obviously, despite his many degrees, the Chief Healer was too thick to realize that Potter was a special child and required exceptional treatment. After all, it’s not as if anyone understood why the brat had survived a Killing Curse – obviously there was something special about his physiology and extra tests would naturally be required to ensure that he was truly unharmed.

It had been around that point, as he was volubly pointing out the Chief Healer’s incompetence in not re-casting his diagnostic spells, that the man had forced the potion down his throat. Snape had had only enough time to give Albus a look of reproach for deflecting the Dark Curse he’d sent at the Healer before the potion rendered him unconscious.

And now it was obviously morning and the potion had finally worn off. He lay quietly for a moment, reveling in the quiet and wondering if he could possibly permit himself to drift off again. Then he heard a whimper of distress that he instinctively identified as Harry’s and his eyes flew open.

“Potter,” he whispered, cognizant of being in the Infirmary and remembering how battered the Weasley boy had looked – to say nothing of Poppy. “What is it?”

Harry looked over at his professor, his eyes filled with tears. He wasn’t even sure what was wrong, exactly. It just all felt awful. The horrible head growing out of Quirrell’s skull. The fight and how Ron had been covered in blood. The disgusting threats Voldemort had made against Hermione. The Dark Lord’s casual, offhand instruction to Quirrell to kill him. The sudden realization of what his parents’ last moments must have been like. The awful knowledge that Voldemort was truly back and determined to kill him. The sickening noise that the transfigured pumpkin had made as it crushed Quirrell’s skull like an eggshell. The guilt over nearly getting his friends killed with his stupid “Case of the Mysterious Turban”. Or the fact that he felt absolutely no guilt for actually killing another human being. Was he no better than Voldemort?

Snape scowled at the brat’s inability to express himself. Was the child one or eleven? He had asked Potter a simple question, and the boy appeared incapable of doing anything but quivering his lip at him. Obviously he was going to have to take control of the situation. “Come here,” he ordered firmly, folding back his blankets. He could hardly keep hissing over at the next bed, and if Harry chose to ignore him, what recourse would he have? The obvious course of action was to bring the boy to him. After all, why should he go to the boy? He was the adult. Let the boy be the one to get out of his nice warm bed.

Harry didn’t wait for a second invitation. He scooted out of his bed and over into his professor’s before the man could reconsider. He snuggled against his professor who was, for once, not dressed in his usual black. Like Harry, Snape was in standard hospital pyjamas, though his had a little Slytherin crest on the chest.

Harry hugged his professor hard, laying his head on the man’s chest and letting the sound of his heartbeat calm him. He felt a powerful rush of love as Snape’s arms encircled his shoulders and held him close.

Snape kept a firm hold on the little creature. He wasn’t about to let Harry take off and hide like a frightened animal. Better to hold him tightly until he realized that struggling to escape was useless. It had nothing whatever to do with reassuring the brat or being all sentimental. It was merely that Snape had no intention of having to traipse all over the castle looking for wherever a traumatized first year might hole up or, like last time, having to drag him out from underneath the hospital bed.

“Really, Potter,” Snape scolded, once the brat had stopped trembling. “I don’t expect you to be articulate, but simple answers should not be beyond you. Are you in pain?”

“No, sir,” Harry answered obediently. He was so lucky! His professor took such good care of him.

“Are you frightened?”

Harry squirmed. “A little,” he admitted.

Snape sighed. It was unfortunate that the boy had to learn at such an early age about the threat Voldemort posed to him, but there was no way around it. No use sugar coating the truth. “It is true that the Dark Lord is a powerful adversary, Potter,” he finally said, choosing his words with care. “But he is gone for now and you saw with your own eyes that he is in a weak and incorporeal state. You need not fear for your safety here and now.”

“ ‘S not that,” Harry said, twisting to look up at his professor with surprise. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”

“And so I will,” Snape agreed, doing his best to ignore the warm feeling of pride that the boy’s foolish comment had triggered. “But then what are you frightened of?”

“Me,” Harry admitted. “I think I’m gonna grow up to be like Him.”

Snape could hear the upper case letter. “Like the Dark Lord? Why on earth would you think that?”

“ ‘Cause I’m a murderer, just like him,” Harry whispered, burying his face into Snape’s chest. “I killed him! Well, Quirrell anyway.”

“Potter!” Snape’s voice was trembling with fury, and Harry looked up in dread. Would his professor kick him out now that he knew what Harry had done? “I recognize you are a Gryffindor, but kindly do not be any more moronic than you can help! Surely even you can recognize the fallacious nature of the moral equivalency argument?”

Harry just blinked at him, mouth open. Snape sighed again. Gryffindors, Severus. Remember what Gryffindors are like. “Potter, don’t you understand the difference between killing and murder?”

“Ummm….” Harry screwed up his face in thought. “In murder you mean to make ‘em dead, but in killing, you don’t necessarily mean it. Like if you accidentally hit someone with a car?”

“A Muggle example but one that is reasonable,” Snape allowed.

“But I meant to kill him, Pr’fessor,” Harry argued unhappily. “I wanted him to die. An’ I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“Idiot.” Snape scowled. What does McGonagall teach them in that House? “Of course you wanted him dead, Potter. Quirrell was a willing stooge of the Dark Lord. I assume he was trying to harm you and your friends?” At Harry’s nod, he continued, “Then you can imagine my reaction if you hadn’t tried to kill him. What did I tell you about defending yourself?”

“Th-that I should,” Harry acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean I had to kill him.”

“Potter, you are an 11 year old child. You were battling a fully grown wizard who was not only a DADA instructor in his own right but also had some sort of link with the most powerful Dark Lord in the last half-century. In a situation like that, you do not seek to wound or capture. You kill before you are killed.”

“B-but that’s murder,” Harry sniffled.

Snape sat up and tugged the boy until Harry was sitting up, face to face with him. “Potter, this is important, so mind me well. That is not murder. Murder is the deliberate killing of an innocent who means you no harm. You did not murder anyone, though you did in fact kill." Harry's lip started to quiver again, and Snape glared. "Potter. You have no reason to be upset. Now listen closely. There is a Muggle saying that I expect you to remember: ‘If someone is coming to kill you, rise early and kill him first.’” Harry blinked in surprise, his lip stilling. “Now, what does it mean?”

“It – it means that if you know someone is trying to hurt you, then you should get out of bed and get him before he gets you?”

“Exactly. It means that if you know that someone intends to do you grievous harm, you have an obligation to protect yourself. You are not to sit in bed and cower and moan and hope that something happens to dissuade him. You are not to wait to see if he has a last minute change of heart because the odds are excellent that he won't. You are to rise and take action before the other person can harm you.” Snape gave him a very stern look. “This does not mean that if you think someone might hurt you, you then have permission to harm him. It does mean that if you have evidence that someone is actively trying to kill you, you should remove that threat before you – or others – can be harmed.”

Harry sniffled. “But if I want to kill Him like He wants to kill me, doesn’t that make me as bad as Him?”

“There is no moral equivalence between the two actions, Potter.” At the boy’s blank look, Snape rephrased. “It’s not at all the same thing. The Dark Lord is seeking to kill a child for his own purpose and pleasure. He murdered your parents on the off chance that you might one day fulfil a prophecy. He tortures and kills people because of who their parents were or what beliefs they hold. He is a despicable and evil creature who enjoys creating pain and terror in others. You are seeking to kill him to protect yourself and others from the very real threat of the Dark Lord’s violence. There is nothing equal about your motivation.

“Voldemort used to go to Muggle villages just to kill people. He sought to hurt as many people as possible. He targeted men, women, and children indiscriminately. He made no distinction between Auror and civilian. He wanted a high body count and when attacked, he would use Muggles as shields. It is never acceptable to deliberately kill people who mean you no harm and who are innocently going about their daily business.”

“Aurors, by contrast, may kill in the line of duty, yet they do it to protect civilians. In the war, they did not deliberately target the children of Death Eaters, while the Dark Lord and his followers attacked many families just as he did yours. It is ridiculous to say that any death is a tragedy or that all deaths are morally equivalent. There are people who, by their own actions, deserve to die, and killing someone in order to protect yourself or the innocent, is not murder.”

Harry took a deep breath. His professor’s words made sense. Maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be a Dark Lord after all. “So you’re not mad at me?” he asked cautiously.

“For killing Quirrell? Of course not.” Snape gave the boy a menacing glower. “What do you expect I will do to you if you ever fail to protect yourself as vigorously as you did yesterday?”

Harry’s lips quirked into a smile. He just loved it when his professor got all fierce and protective. “You’ll whack me.”

“Precisely.”

“So… if I hadn’t killed Professor Quirrell, you would have spanked me?” Harry asked mischievously.

“Quite.”

“Then do I get a chocolate frog for defendin’ myself properly?”

“No chocolate frogs before breakfast,” Snape said severely.

Harry pouted for a moment, then brightened. “Okay. I’ll ask you again after breakfast.”

“Hmmmm.” Snape began looking around.

“What is it, Pr’fessor?” Harry asked curiously.

“I am looking for my wand.”

“Oh.” Harry looked too, wanting to help. “What d’you want it for, Pr’fessor?”

“I believe I need to introduce you to a mouth-soaping spell,” Snape replied calmly.

Harry’s eyes widened in horror. “What! But why? What’d I say?”

“Do you not recall what you said to the Dark Lord, just before you threw a bedpan at him?”

Harry colored. “Oh.” He cast a sidelong glance at his guardian, trying to decide how lenient the man might be. Though the saturnine countenance was not encouraging, he decided to try arguing anyway. “But, Pr’fessor, it was Voldevont! It shouldn’t be so bad to swear at Him. It’s not like I said it in class or anything,” he pleaded.

“If I ever catch you using such language outside the Dark Lord’s presence –“ Snape began.

“You won’t!” Harry promised swiftly.

“Oh, very well,” Snape allowed grudgingly. Harry sagged against him in relief. Whew! Lucky for him his guardian was so nice! He snuggled closer and closed his eyes. He felt safe and loved and – for the first time – proud of himself. Leave it to his guardian to reassure him that he wasn’t an awful freaky murderer. Harry felt the tension ease out of his muscles and the fatigue creep back in.

Snape regarded the child with alarm. Surely the brat could not be planning to fall asleep on him. He was not a pillow for Potters! “Potter, get up this instant and return to your own bed if you wish to go back to sleep.”

“No,” Harry mumbled, already half-dozing.

Why, that disobedient little brat! Obviously he needed a reminder of what awaited such intransigent behavior. Snape lifted his hand from where it was resting against the boy’s back and smacked him on the bum. “Potter! Go to your own bed!”

Harry just burrowed closer and let out a sigh of contentment. It was so nice of Professor Snape to tease him like that. Of course the gentle pat on the rear made it clear that he was only kidding. Harry tightened his grip around his professor. How could he imagine he was anything like Lord Volauvent? His guardian loved him, and that was proof that Harry wasn’t some awful, evil creature.

Harry drifted off to sleep, secure in the certain knowledge that he was a good person who had done a needful, if unpleasant, task. His guardian’s approval confirmed it – there was no need for further worry or angst. Professor Snape had said it, and it was so.

Well. This was quite nauseating. Obviously with his hand’s range of motion limited by the duvet, his swats made no impression on the brat. He could remove his hand from beneath the covers, but then the intervening blankets would provide padding for the little wretch’s backside, and he’d be no further along. He could levitate the boy – But wait. Perhaps he was overlooking something. Why was the child so somnolent? Surely at his age, the brat should be bouncing out of bed and demanding food, not trying to sleep until noon like some lazy teenager.

Snape huffed. He knew it. He’d been right all along. Obviously the boy was more affected by the events of the previous day than that idiot of a Healer had detected. Well, it was obviously a good thing after all that he’d fallen asleep where he had. He would need to monitor Potter’s sleep to be certain he didn’t develop any complications along the way. He would begin by monitoring the boy’s respirations. In… and out. In… and out. In… and out. It certainly seemed very regular. Quite soothing, really. In… and out. In… and out. Very relaxing, in fact. In… and out. In… and out. In… and…

Twenty minutes later, the medi-witch from St Mungo’s and the Hogwarts headmaster regarding the sleeping pair with amusement. Harry’s head lay against Snape’s chest, and the Potion Master’s arms encircled the boy protectively. “My wards told me that two of the patients had awakened, Professor, which is why I summoned you, but I see that my call was premature. Perhaps in another hour or so we can awaken all of them, but I’d prefer they get as much sleep as possible.”

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore agreed, taking a camera from his voluminous robes. “But let me just take a few snapshots before I go. I’m sure Professor Snape will enjoy seeing them, as will the rest of the staff room.”