Harry shivered violently against Severus’ chest as a sharp wind skittered across his exposed skin. He felt strange all over, sort of…delicate, thin, like he was made of glass and might shatter at any moment. It was as if the rain had washed away every ounce of strength from his body and left him a frail shell. He slowly straightened his fingers, releasing Snape’s drenched robe, wincing at the jagged ache that blossomed in each knuckle as he unclenched his hands.

He allowed his arms to fall limply at his sides, pain flaring across his shoulders, the stiff muscles twitching as they loosened under his wet skin. He took in a sharp breath as his body slowly enveloped in agony as each muscle rebelled at his movements, and he felt Snape’s hands slowly glide from his back, one moving to rub Harry’s upper arm, the other slipping up to rest on the back of his neck, the fingers gently massaging at the dull pain there. Harry stiffened at the touch, the memories of repeated beatings all too fresh after his accidental projection of memories into the Professor’s mind. He tensed, and Snape’s fingers slowed, but instead of moving his hand away, the man returned to the soothing movements, kneading at the protesting muscles.

Somewhere in the distance chimed the call of a lone bird, its lyrical warble gliding on the breeze as rays of sunlight began slipping through the curtain of dark clouds. Harry closed his eyes, the lilting chirps reminding him of waking up at Hogwarts on a spring morning, warm, safe, and happy. It felt like a hundred years ago now. He clenched his eyes as tightly as he could, until the blackness slowly became dappled with spots of bright light. Turning so his forehead rested against Snape’s chest, he focused his thoughts. If he tried hard, he could almost imagine it was someone else holding him, his Father perhaps, offering comfort after a bad dream or maybe Quiddich loss. He took in a shuddering breath, tension slowly easing away at the Professor’s gentle touch. If he really tried, if he really believed, it was almost calming.

The cold really was biting now despite most of the clouds having drifted westward. Snape was probably as chilled as he was, and it was hardly fair to keep the man standing out here in wet robes. It was almost as if he had spoken the words aloud, for seconds later he felt the Professor’s hand leave his arm, the soft spoken words reverberating through him as a drying spell was uttered, and suddenly his garments were not only bone dry, but warm too as a second spell, this one a heating charm, was placed upon them.

Harry tried not to sniffle as he reached up to wipe away the tears he could feel cooling on his cheek. As he lifted his hand, his knuckles grazed against the thick fabric of Snape’s robe, and he flattened his hand, letting his palm rest on the slowly rising chest of the Potions Master. The warm scent of embers and…Harry inhaled gently…. yes, ginger. Which was it again? Fluxweed? Knotgrass? Dismissing the question almost as soon as it arose, Harry swept his fingertips across his cheek before letting the hand drift slowly to his side.

He yawned, overtaken suddenly by fatigue. The last two days had been a blur of aimless wanderings around the island followed by bleary nights of fractured sleep. It was no wonder it had caught up to him now that he was allowing himself to feel. He pulled back slightly from the Professor, head lowered as he ran his hand through his hair, and as he did so, Snape’s hand left its spot at his neck and met him half way, his fingers carding through Harry’s hair, gently merging with Harry’s small hand, taking it in his larger one and drawing it down between them. Harry stood silently, almost hypnotized by the rhythm of Snape’s thumb, which was gently stroking the back of his hand.

Neither of them had spoken since the rain had ceased, and Harry wondered who would break the silence first. Should he apologize? Shame quickly crept into him as he recalled his behaviour. What kind of apology was appropriate for attacking a Professor with a blunt instrument? Not to mention the screaming, the hitting, the….oh God, he’d hit him. Cheeks colouring, Harry swallowed nervously, wincing at the slice of pain in his throat, which was still raw from the rabid screams he’d let fly into Snape’s chest. He felt the man’s hand leave his upper arm, and suddenly he felt the gentle touch under his chin as the Professor tilted his head up. Emerald met onyx, and for a moment, Harry tensed, afraid of what emotion he would see swirling in Snape’s eyes. The Professor studied him for a moment, eyes soft and filled with concern.

“Harry,” he said quietly, as if speaking much louder than a whisper might scare the boy like a frightened deer. He squeezed Harry’s hand gently. “Perhaps we should –” His words were cut short as Harry’s grimaced, an involuntary gasp of pain shuddering through the boy as he pulled his hand from Snape’s grasp and clutched it to his chest. Snape’s eyes darkened with worry as he reached out and took Harry’s wrist. He turned the small hand over, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the damaged palm. Jagged, inflamed wounds crisscrossed the sensitive skin, and Severus pulled Harry’s other hand to him, finding the same injuries present there too. “Come.” Severus said seriously, taking Harry by the shoulder and gently guiding him across the wet lawn. He slowed his steps to walk beside the boy, his hand slipping from the taut shoulder, down the too thin upper arm, resting just above Harry’s elbow, the most comforting gesture he could perform as he ushered the young man into the manor.

Harry’s heart tightened a little at his Professor’s tone, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air laced down his spine as Snape’s fingers took hold of his arm. The grip wasn’t rough, quite the opposite really, but he couldn’t help the sharp tendrils of fear that stabbed at his insides, and he did his best not to flinch.

Snape led him up the steps and into the foyer. As they started up the stairs to the second floor, Harry turned his bead towards a faint chirp coming from behind him. Della stared back at him, her face half obscured by the kitchen door, and her thin lips parted, tiny, bright teeth glinting in the shadows, wearing an awkward smile. Harry felt his eyes moisten yet again. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world to be cared for, and the almost dead spark within him stirred as he half smiled back, stumbling on the stairs as he did so, forgetting to watch his step, his attention on the sweet natured Della.

Instinctively he threw his hands down, taking the weight of the fall on his injured palms, the sharp edge of the step pushing hard against his wounds, causing a cry of pain to leave his lips before he had the presence of mind to stifle it.

The weight of the boy falling pulled Severus’ fingers free of the slender arm. He stooped down to help Harry to his feet, but not before throwing a sharp glare down the stairs. Della shrieked and the door banged closed as she retreated back into the kitchen.

“Ridiculous over-emotional little…” Snape’s frustrated tone trailed off as he turned his eyes towards Harry, who was pulling himself to his feet, casting a worried look towards his professor as he stood upright.

“Harry?” Severus questioned, reaching out to asses the possible further damage to the boy’s palms.

“I’m sorry.” Harry mumbled automatically, pulling his hands to his chest, almost nestling them under his chin as he looked guardedly at the Professor.

“For what?” Snape asked, completely confused as to what Harry was apologizing for, but then again, Harry had never required a valid reason to express guilt, it was expected at every turn by his heinous relatives.

“I…I am too emotional.” Harry said quickly, his voice soft and even as he recited the apology, breaking the eye contact and positioning his damp-eyed stare at the ground. “I was ridiculous, and I’m sorry I threw things at you and I’m sorry I yelled and I’m sorry that I…that I….” he broke off, unable to finish the final statement for the lump in his throat. The tears were really stinging now, and he blinked furiously, not wanting to cry for the second time that day. There he was being over-emotional again. The Professor was right.

“Harry.” Snape said carefully. “My statement was not directed at you. Perhaps you are not quite aware of Della’s affections. She talks of nothing else and I do believe you occupy her thoughts more often than her duties, which for a House Elf is quite unheard of. In short,” he said, his voice taking on a more serious tone as he reached out and lifted Harry’s chin with a gentle hand. “she adores you.” He studied the emerald eyes before him as Harry took in his words, grateful that the boy didn’t look away. Far too often Harry withdrew, refusing to allow the intimacy and openness of eye contact, something he was likely punished for his entire life, for how dare he show equal footing to the Dursleys, and how dare he be given the respect and dignity that meeting one’s eyes would afford him.

Harry nodded against Severus’ warm hand, feeling quite foolish. His stomach twisted in on itself as he unconsciously seized his bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it quickly at the Professor’s raised brow. He let out a quiet breath, knowing that even a sigh would bring further questions upon him.

“Would you prefer Della tend to your hands?” the Professor asked, eyebrows slightly raised as he awaited a response. Harry clenched his jaw and managed to shake his head a little against the man’s light grip. He watched as Snape’s eyes softened, his brow now forming the gentle folds of a frown. “In light of recent events it is natural for you to have suspicion in regards to my behaviour.” Snape continued. “There is nothing more important to me at this moment than restoring that trust. I want you to know that.”

Harry nodded mutely, grateful when the Professor released his chin and motioned him up the remainder of the stairs and guided him into his room. “Have a seat on the bed.” Snape directed.

“Okay.” Harry replied hesitantly as the Professor headed towards the en-suite. He climbed up onto Snape’s bed and pulled his hands to him, studying each palm, wincing as he manipulated the torn flesh. The cuts had barely hurt when they were outside, but now they were stinging something fierce. They weren’t deep, but the rough wood had torn dozens of tiny, jagged slits across the skin, and they throbbed sharply as Harry fully opened each hand.

He looked up as the Professor returned. As he neared, Harry caught a glimpse of the small, clear jar in the man’s hands, a gentle orange glow radiating through the frosted glass, and slowly his hands drifted behind his back where he held them in fearful defiance.

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked, his voice warbling a little more than he would have liked. After all, he wasn’t a baby, getting cuts cleaned out hurt, especially when his aunt had tried to do it. Harry shifted noticeably as he remembered the dozens of times Aunt Petunia had held him fast as she poured alcohol over his many scrapes and gashes, threats of cutting off his whole hand to save her the time and effort sending a young Harry into tear-filled promises of staying still as he stifled his cries as best he could.

Severus paused as Harry slipped his hands behind his back, face attempting a stoic expression as he questioned his Professors intentions, but only moments later his body stiffened, betraying his efforts, and from the shudder that rippled through the small frame, Severus guessed another abuse was being recalled.

“For your wounds.” Snape said calmly, making his way towards the bed. He pulled a chair from against his desk and slid it in front of Harry, then sat and held the jar up slightly. “A healing salve combined with a numbing agent.” he announced, slipping off the lid. Harry didn’t move, and Severus held out his free hand, silently requesting Harry’s compliance as he had that day in the bathroom, asking for trust, refusing to simply take as every adult had done, but asking, waiting, being worthy of trust instead of asserting authority. Too many had already robbed this boy of his simple liberties.

“May I?” Snape asked, his voice taking on the now easy tone of compassion. He inclined his head towards Harry’s hand, and Harry nodded slowly, allowing the Professor to carefully bring the hand to rest on his knee, palm up. The Professor tipped the jar, allowing a generous dollop of pumpkin coloured cream to fall into Harry’s palm, his fingers gently smoothing the ointment around the narrow cuts, then, with remarkable tenderness, stroked his fingertips across the damaged skin, the salve coating the raw flesh, soaking into the wounds.

Harry lifted his eyes to the man’s face, which was half hidden by a raven veil of hair. His face was frozen in concentration save for the slow furrowing of his brow as he worked. Harry’s stomach tightened as he forced himself to look at the Professor’s face, the same face that had sneered at him before slamming him to the floor, the same face that twisted into that sickening smile, face wet with half dribbled booze and sweat as he tried to wring the life out of him, the same face that had…

Severus glanced up from his careful work as he felt the shudder ripple though the small hand in his grasp. The sudden tension flowing though the boy was obvious.

“I shall call Della.” he stated softly, lifting his head. Harry ducked his head as Severus’ rose to meet his eyes. He felt his cheeks warm in shame as he shook his head.

“No.” Harry replied meekly, forcing himself to meet his Professor’s worried look. “I mean…I…its weird, looking at you, but I know it wasn’t you who…” he trailed off, not wanting to talk about what Craig had done. Snape still didn’t know, and he wasn’t ready to tell yet. “He just looked so much like you.” he finished, his voice almost a whisper.

“Exactly like me.” Severus countered softly, returning to his task and allowing Harry to continue at his discretion. He wasn’t going to push the boy for information, not yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus noticed Harry opened his mouth as if to speak, and he forced himself to continue tying the thin strips of bandage around the small hand instead of looking up. The boy seemed to be able to speak more freely when eyes were not upon him. A few moments passed, Severus silently willing the child to speak, to face the feelings that must have been confusing him, frightening him, but he heard nothing but a barely audible sigh, then silence.

He finished bandaged the hands with a gentleness that once would have been impossible for the nasty potions professor and watched as Harry slowly pulled back his wrapped hands to study the frayed dressings. How long had it been now? It felt like a lifetime had passed since the day he’d ridiculed the boy at King’s Cross, standing over him with folded arms, classic Snape sneer aimed at the meek little boy whose only transgression was being in the man’s path. Severus’ heart clenched as he recalled the panicked voice, the look of horror as Harry realized who was standing over him, and he, a grown man and teacher had done nothing but launch into a verbal attack against a frightened child for whom escape was impossible.

How many days? Or was it weeks? How long had it taken for his feelings for Harry to launch from hateful contempt to a feeling of deep affection, of love, though it was a cautious love. Harry had spent his life being harmed by those who were supposed to love him, supposed to care for him, and Severus was going to make damn sure the boy had no reason to mistrust his words when he said them.

And Severus would say them.

He quickly shook off the reverie and made his way to the en-suite where he returned the unused bandages and salve to a meticulously kept cupboard.

Harry glanced up at the gentle rattle coming from the tiny bathroom. He smoothed down the ragged edge of the tied off bandage he’d been picking at and looked over at the window. He hadn’t realized it had been so late in the afternoon. The sun had dipped almost out of sight now, leaving a brilliant fiery glow that settled outside like a canopy of flames.

“Harry?”

He looked up to see the Professor had returned, and he slipped off the man’s bed where he stood awkwardly, waiting.

“I think perhaps a meal is in order.” Snape said. “You’ve barely eaten in two days. I take it you are hungry?”

Harry nodded. He was famished actually; the gnawing in his stomach had been his constant companion the last few days, but of course that was nothing strange to him.

They ate in the dining room and Harry was grateful for the vegetable soup Della ladled into his bowl with a loving squeak. Afterwards he followed Snape back upstairs where the man had led him down the hall to Harry’s bedroom.

“Shower and dress for bed.” Snape instructed. “I will return shortly.”

Harry watched the Professor head back down the hall, the dark robes fading into the shadows. Harry shivered. He hated that hall, how dimly lit it was, the shadows slipping over each other like black snakes in the water, impossible to tell their movements from the Professor’s as he sunk into the blackness. He closed the door against the writhing dark and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly before opening his eyes again. He shook his head, trying to ignore the panic welling inside him and quickly gathered his nightshirt. He headed into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, glad to be out of the bedroom, the place where…

No!

He looked around the room, glistening taps and tile glittering under the lights. The mirror where he’d assessed his bruised face. The cold tiles where he’d awoken in a heap. The sink where he’d vomited after he’d been choked. Throwing up the bile and blood and fear and….

No!

Swallowing hard, Harry set his shirt beside the basin and turned on the shower, waiting until the steady stream of water had heated to his liking before stripping down. He let out a hiss as he stepped under the cascade of hot water. He washed slowly, savoring the near burning heat of the shower, letting it soak into his body, every strand of hair, every pore. It felt good to be clean. He turned leisurely, like a roast chicken on a spit, the strands of water almost stinging him as they fired out of the shower head.

He allowed himself the delicious respite for a few minutes before taking up the washcloth and soap. Ten minutes later, having taken several more opportunities to languish in the almost scalding spray, he emerged pink-skinned and damp, the old tee-shirt serving as his nightwear. He glanced over at the bed, his stomach rolling. He closed his eyes, desperately trying to fight off the emotion, lower lip trembling between his teeth as he bit down hard, focusing on that pain rather than let the fear consume him. He took several deep breaths, the voice in his head fraught with false confidence as he repeated over and over.

It wasn’t him

It wasn’t him

It wasn’t him

“Harry?”

00000000000000000000000

Severus stopped in his tracks as he caught sight of Harry across his room, head slightly bent, brow set in a rigid frown, eyes tightly shut.

“Harry?”

The boy’s head had shot up as if the words had carried pain, taking a jerky step back, eyes slightly wide as he stared at his Professor. Severus noticed one hand had shot forward, palm out in a shielding gesture. His heart felt weak at the sight. Forcing impassiveness, Severus walked slowly into the room.

“I thought some Dreamless Sleep might be in order.” he announced, slowly withdrawing a vial from his robes. Taking the chair from against the wall, he set it several feet from the bed, allowing Harry to see there was no danger of his advancing. “That is, if you elect to take it.” Snape finished, settling into the chair. It was all about choices; giving Harry the control he had been denied. As a prisoner within these walls, he had suffered for days, helpless, powerless. Allowing him to decide whether or not to take the potion was one way to return a little of that power, giving the boy some of the control that had been so fiercely forced from him.

With a small nod, Harry left his station across the room and made his way to the bed. He regarded it for a moment, his mouth twisting as if tasting something sour, an action not un-noticed by his Professor. He slowly reached out and pulled back the covers, his hand shaking a little as he slid into bed, the sheets cool against his legs. He let the heavy blankets fall and slid back against the headboard, propping himself up with his pillow.

“Here.” Snape said gently, lifting himself off the chair to reach out and hand Harry the glimmering pink vial before returning to his seat. Harry whispered his thanks, but made no move to consume the potion. Snape studied the child as Harry focused on the vial between his fingers, picking at the tiny cork stopper. How many questions Snape had, how many details there were to be told, and how much there was still unknown about Harry’s time with Craig.

“Is it difficult for you to be in this room?” Snape asked. “If you prefer, I could have Della make up another of the guest rooms for you.”

Damn it was hard being stoic.

“No, thank you, Sir, I’m….I’m fine.” Harry replied, his own attempt at stoicism failing miserably. Snape took the opportunity. He had drawn the boy’s secrets from him once with his gentle, almost unperceivable guidance. He could do it again. He needed to do it again. The sooner Harry discussed what had happened, the sooner he could deal with it.

“Do not cause yourself distress out of a wish to be polite, Harry. It is no trouble to move your belongings to another room.”

“No.” Harry said quickly, glancing over at the Professor. “I’m…I’m not distressed….I’m….I mean it’s just that this….this is where…..I mean...”

“This is where…” Snape repeated softly, echoing Harry’s hesitant words.

“This is where…” Harry replied, unknowingly accepting the encouragement. “Where Craig….came…..and…”

“And hit you.” Snape finished, his voice even and composed even as his body trembled with fury.

Harry stared at him for a moment before casting his gaze to the vial in his hands. He turned it over and over, tracking a sliver of a glittering substance that slipped against the glass, disappeared into the liquid, and then surfaced again. He nodded slowly.

Snape inhaled, nostrils flaring. “And the images you showed me earlier…” he paused as Harry’s head shot up, worried eyes meeting his own. “They were an accurate account of what happened? I am not angry about that, Harry.” he added, not knowing if that was a concern of the boy’s, but wanting it unequivocally stated regardless.

“I’m….” Harry started, and Severus knew it was the beginning of an apology. An instruction hammered into him since birth. Be sorry. Be sorry for everything. Be sorry for existing. Be sorry for living, for breathing, for being.

Abandoning the attrition, Harry looked back at the vial, but the glittering piece of something that had held his attention was gone. He took a shallow breath. His chest hurt.

“Yes.” he whispered, closing his eyes against the admission. He could hear the rush of air as Snape exhaled heavily.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him.

Quickly, Harry lifted the vial to his lips and tilted his head back. The thick potion flowed over his tongue, but he didn’t notice the taste. He swallowed and sat staring at the vial, thin tendrils of pink liquid slowly sliding down the inside of the glass, pooling at the bottom. There was the sliver.

Suddenly Snape’s hand came into view. Harry stiffened as the hand settled over his own, warm and heavy, like the feeling that was slowly washing over him from the Dreamless Sleep. He looked over and saw the Professor on bended knee at the side of the bed, his face soft and a little weary. Harry’s breathing slowed and he blinked heavily, his eyes still locked with the Professor’s. Snape’s eyes were midnight black, but not harsh, not sharp. His face was gentle, delicate lines worn into soft skin. He wasn’t the evil git anymore, not the bat of the dungeons. He looked like he could be someone’s Father.

He blinked again, his eyes staying shut for a few moments before opening them again, tears gathering on his lower lids. Snape looked like he would be a nice Father. He would probably teach his son all about potions and maybe take him flying on his broom out in the meadow or go for long walks around the island. They’d go searching for herbs amongst the trees, in the dark places, but he wouldn’t be afraid with Snape there. They’d come home late, the sun setting behind them, casting long shadows on the grass as they headed home for supper, Snape’s arms slung over his son’s shoulder as they discussed herbs, or school, or told jokes.

He felt a tear slip down his cheek, but his hand was too heavy to lift, so he left it alone. It was getting harder and harder to open his eyes now. He felt a thumb brush against his cheek, wiping the moisture away. He must have been able to lift his hand after all. Yes, Snape would make a good Father. He didn’t hit. He’d kept his promise. It hadn’t been him. It wasn’t him.

The pillow was against his cheek now, but he couldn’t remember lying down. He couldn’t open his eyes anymore. He was warm and comfortable, and the tears were gone. Why had he been crying anyway? He felt a soft hand pressed against his forehead, then smooth down his hair. It must have been his Father, he thought groggily. His Father would tuck him in like that, touch his hair like that. The Dursley’s never did, so it must be him.

“G’night Dad.” he whispered, speech slurred. He had to make sure he said goodnight to him. He couldn’t remember the last time his Father put him to bed. It was Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia for as long as he could remember. Why hadn’t his Father ever put him to bed? It didn’t matter anyway, he was here now. It was ok now.

Snape froze as Harry’s words met his ears.

“Harry, it’s not….” He stopped, unable to finish his sentence, unwilling perhaps. The boy was practically unconscious already, not in a state of mind to be saying anything he would recall later. It was useless to try to explain anything to him now. He stood and noxxed the lights before returning to the chair. There really was no need to remain in the room. There was no chance the boy would wake, but for some reason it felt un-natural to leave. Snape leaned forward and rested his chin on steepled fingers. The Dreamless Sleep was only a stopgap. He would have to entice Harry to recount Craig’s abuse at some point, but that would be impossible if Harry was still terrified of Snape’s image.

Severus sighed and rubbed at his eyes as he leaned against the back of the chair. They would pick it up tomorrow, both strengthened after a good night’s sleep. Resting one leg atop the knee of the other, Severus closed his eyes, and in the silent darkness, a small smile spread across his lips.

It had felt good to be a Father. Even just for a second. Even though it wasn’t real. The smile faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. He wouldn’t allow himself this luxury. Harry had to come first, and Severus’ own wants and emotions, second. Harry wasn’t his son, and Severus was surprised to find just how much it hurt even to think that. Perhaps that was the reason he hadn’t corrected the boy. Maybe that’s what hurt him so much now, sitting in the darkness. He wasn’t Harry’s Father. He wasn’t.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t him.