Terror surged through him like wildfire. Vernon was really going to kill him this time. It was Aunt Petunia’s best china too! He had been so tired, and it had slipped from his hands as he washed it. His fingers were numb with pain from the boiling water he was forced to wash the dishes in barehanded, and the brittle porcelain had slipped from his grasp. He’d heard the crash as it fell against the sink edge and shattered, and he knew he was in for it.

His Uncle was across the room in an instant. God he could move fast even when he was dead drunk. A fist came at his face, then another, and he’d fallen to the floor, blood pouring from a split lip.

“You will be more careful!” he screamed. He grabbed Harry by the hair and threw him hard into the wall. The boy slumped to the floor and scrambled backwards into the living room, his eyes wide with terror. Vernon lumbered after him. Harry could smell the whiskey on the man’s breath even from feet away. He reached for Harry again and the boy struggled to his feet and bolted for the front door. Slamming against it, he frantically fumbled with the lock, but a meaty hand grabbed him by the neck and pulled him backwards. Harry stumbled and his Uncle lost his grip sending the boy to the floor again. Vernon reached down and clasped both hands around Harry’s neck and pulled, lifting him to his feet. His grip tightened and Harry clawed at the hands in panic, his legs kicking spasmodically. He tried to scream but no air could escape. Suddenly he was falling, and he hit the floor with a dull thud. He looked up to see his Uncle’s drunken, sweaty face, with a smile etched ear to ear, his belt raised above his head.

A scream caught in Harry’s throat as he bolted upright. Instantly his hands rushed to his mouth to stop his cries from escaping. If he woke Uncle Vernon again he’d get the belt for sure.

Beads of sweat formed on his brow, and his eyes burned with tears as they adjusted to the light, and suddenly he realized where he was.

Memories of the previous day came flooding back to him in an instant. The train station, Snape taking him to Privet Drive, returning to Hogwarts, Snape’s quarters, and….wait, what was he doing on Snape’s couch? Oh that’s right, he remembered, the bastard had drugged him with a sleeping potion. Pulling his hands away from his face, Harry glared hatefully through his tears at what he thought was Snape’s bedroom door.

He quickly slipped off the couch and walked shakily across the room to the lamp. He turned it on with a soft click. Spying his glasses on the coffee table he put them on after rubbing the sleep and tears from his eyes.

He looked up at the clock. 3:19a.m.

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He could feel it standing up in all directions as it usually was after he woke up. He stared across the room at three doors, one leading to Snape’s bedroom, one to a bathroom, and the other to what was likely some medieval torture chamber. He wondered which one was the bathroom, realizing he needed to use the facilities. Snape hadn’t exactly given him the grand tour.

“I could always guess.” Harry thought to himself. “It would serve the prat right if I peed in his potions lab.” Seriously though, he really was going to have an accident if he didn’t get to a toilet soon.

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer, for at that moment the middle door opened and Snape stepped out. He was wearing a dark navy dressing gown with matching slippers.

He looked at Harry accusingly, his obsidian eyes flashing.

Harry felt his chest tighten. Snape even managed to look sinister wearing pajamas. He gulped. Had Snape heard him scream? He was positive he’d managed to cover his mouth in time. He’d learned to suppress his terrified cries many years ago. Uncle Vernon did not like to be woken up, and he was sure Snape didn’t either.

“Mr. Potter, I expect you have an excellent reason for waking me at this hour with such a commotion?”

Oh yeah, he sounded mad.

Harry’s breathing quickened slightly. He was torn. Play innocent and insist nothing happened, or apologize profusely and hope for the best? Snape would probably enjoy giving him a good thrashing for disturbing him. He glanced down the dark hallway at the front door. Maybe he should just make a run for it?

“Um, I just needed to use the bathroom, Sir, and, um… I tripped on the table when I went to turn on the light.” he said, opting for innocence over admission. He really didn’t want to deal with a punishment this early in the morning.

Snape’s glare softened ever so slightly. He pointed to the door further down the hall. His head lowered, Harry walked down to the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Snape stared at the spot where Harry had stood moments before. It was plain to see the boy was upset about something, and he highly doubted it was about crashing into the coffee table, which he was sure was a lie. The boy’s face was flushed, his eyes red rimmed and the collar of his shirt had been damp with sweat. Snape had heard him scream, he was certain of it. He’d witnessed enough pained cries in his lifetime to know a scream when he heard one. The boy obviously had a nightmare, and he’d looked absolutely panicked at the thought of Snape finding out, hence the fabrication.

Snape sighed. He had learned more about Harry Potter in the last few hours than he ever wanted to, and none of it was encouraging. He was hiding something; he could see it in those green eyes. The boy had a desperate air about him. Obviously his Aunt and Uncle were less than stellar guardians. Perhaps they were the reason for Harry’s steady decline over the last few weeks?

He’d never met the Dursleys, but what kind of people would abandon a twelve year old boy for weeks without as much as an explanation? And wasn’t it strange that a trusted neighbour would have no idea Harry even existed? There was obviously much more to Harry’s home life than anyone realized.

Snape grimaced as he caught himself worrying about the boy. Honestly, anyone would have thought he was under the Imperius curse the way he was carrying on. The idea of feeling concern for Potter was laughable, but there it was, that little tendril of worry snaking its way into Snape’s mind.

Hearing a door open, Snape turned his head towards the boy who was slowly walking back into the living room. He stopped when he noticed Snape’s eyes on him.

“Get a few more hours sleep, Mr. Potter. I will not have you dawdling tomorrow due to exhaustion. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “We’re going somewhere, Sir?” he asked timidly.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Mr. Potter, this was discussed last evening in the Headmaster’s office.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Snape cut him off. “And yes, I am aware you were in acute pain yesterday,” Harry pursed his lips. “But surely you heard at least some of the conversation, given that it was about you?” Snape finished.

“I remember you calling me impertinent.” Harry muttered under his breath..

“No wonder you came with me so willingly.” Snape mused, ignoring the boy’s remark

Harry did not like where this conversation was going at all. He pulled his bottom lip inward and chewed it nervously, the act earning a frown from his Professor.

“Mr. Potter, tomorrow you will be accompanying me to a small island off the coast of England; Farne Island to be precise, just south of Berwick-upon-Tweed. My ancestral manor has stood there for over three hundred years. We will reside there for the remainder of the summer.”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock. He dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back shaking his head in disbelief, a gasp catching in his throat. Go with Snape? To a secluded island no less; and for the entire summer? No, no, no, there had to be a mistake! Had Dumbledore been drinking last night? The old man sometimes acted like he’d been sipping at something. He was going to march right into the Headmaster’s office and demand…well demand something! This was ridiculous! Didn’t the Headmaster know how much Snape hated him? The rest of the school sure did.

Fear churned inside him like a raging river. His heart began to pound and beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. He felt like his chest was being squeezed in a vice.

“No!” Harry suddenly shouted. “You’re bloody mental if you think I’m going anywhere with you!”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going to some stupid island with you!” Harry continued, his voice reaching a frenzied pitch. “I won’t go and you can’t make me and I’ll tell Dumbledore you tricked me and gave me a sleeping potion and he’ll fire you and….and….and I won’t go! You can’t make me!

Snape folded his arms across his chest and gave the rambling youth his fiercest glare. Truth be told he was a little shocked at Harry’s outburst. Only minutes ago the boy was terrified at the thought of disturbing him, and now here he was, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“I’ll tell!” Harry hollered, tears stinging his eyes. “I’ll tell Dumbledore you’re horrible to me! Everyone knows you hate me! And I don’t care if you hex me or curse me or lock me in the cupboard with nothing to eat and breaking your stupid cup and hit me with the belt and I won’t go with you! I won’t! and….and…”

Suddenly he froze. It took Snape a few seconds to realize that the boy couldn’t catch his breath. Panicked, Harry’s hands flew to his throat, his face turning crimson.

“Blast it, Potter, calm yourself!” Suddenly Snape was far too close to him, grabbing Harry’s shoulders and kneeling down so his face was level with the boy’s.

Harry stumbled backwards against the coffee table, his breaths coming in short, sharp pants. He was on the brink of hyperventilating. Snape remained kneeling as Harry stared at him with a mixture of desperation and fear, shaking his head.

“Potter.” Snape said softly, making no move to stand lest he intimidate the boy. “Potter, listen to me. There is no need for such dramatics.” Harry’s head stopped shaking, and Snape let out a breath of relief. The boy was coherent at least. “That’s better.” Snape continued calmly. “Now, you are to stop this ridiculous behaviour immediately. I want you to take deep breaths and let them out slowly.”

It seemed like it took forever to calm Harry to the point where he could breathe somewhat normally again. Then he realized that his Professor had been kneeling in front of him the entire time, his dark eyes never breaking contact with Harry’s as he whispered instructions to slowly breathe in and out.

Harry blushed, realizing he must have looked a right nutter going off at his Professor like that. But summer with Snape? Most people would’ve dropped dead at hearing that. And oh, Merlin he’d yelled, no, he’d screamed at the man. He was lucky the Professor didn’t kill him right there and then.

But Snape hadn’t killed him. Actually, Snape hadn’t even yelled at him. It was almost like, well, like he cared.

Harry’s eyes narrowed faintly. But that wasn’t true was it? Snape didn’t care at all. He didn’t care if Harry wanted to go with him or not, and come to think of it, wasn’t there a point last night in Dumbledore’s office where Snape had roared at the headmaster about being forced to spend time with him? That’s the Snape Harry knew, the Snape he hated.

Snape didn’t give a damn about him.

“There.” Snape scolded gently, seeing Harry had calmed, and was now studying him intently, his forehead drawn into a slight scowl. “There’s no need for further theatrics, understand?”

Harry’s glower dissipated, and he gave a small nod of contrition.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” he replied, his voice barely audible.

Snape slowly stood up, but made no move to get closer to the boy. He noticed Harry shiver, whether it was from cold or nerves he wasn’t sure. He pulled his wand from his pocket and in an instant the smoldering coals in the hearth flared into dancing flames.

“Potter.” Snape said quietly, and the boy’s head jerked up to look him square in the chest, still too embarrassed to make eye contact. “I think it would be best if you returned to the couch to rest.” Obediently, the boy skirted the table and sat down. “Would you like a potion to help you sleep?” Snape asked, and Harry’s shoulders tensed visibly. “I could prepare you a Dreamless Sleep potion.” Snape said quickly, noticing Harry flinch. “Your dreams would be suppressed, allowing you a more peaceful night’s rest.”

Harry shook his head hurriedly.

“No. No thank you, Professor.”

“Very well. If you require assistance during the night, you may knock on my door.” Snape replied. As he reached his bedroom door, he pulled it open and turned to look back at Harry. “I will not be displeased should you wake me.” He added.

Harry nodded, and Snape entered his room, pushing the door closed behind him. Harry waited a few moments before he got up and turned off the lamp.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and Harry stood in front of it for a while, losing himself in the flames, happy for a few moments where he could just focus on the flickering strands of fire and not think about Uncle Vernon, or Professor Snape, or what lay ahead this summer.

It was a while before Harry reluctantly tore his eyes away from the blaze and sat back down on the couch. He leaned into the spongy cushions, rubbing at his eyes, yawning. He really was exhausted, but if he closed his eyes he knew the nightmares would return, and he’d already woken the Professor up once tonight, and while Snape hadn’t been as angry as Uncle Vernon would be, he had still been irritated. Waking him twice would just be asking for it.

Fending off another yawn, he stood up and walked over to Snape’s bookcase. He scanned the shelves, finding a thick book entitled ‘A Pox on Thee - Epidemic Curses and Their Role in Muggle History.’

He pulled it down and settled into the reading chair, which thankfully was hard as a rock, perfect for keeping him awake, and the fire was still giving off plenty of light to read by.

An hour later he was engrossed in chapter six; so engrossed that he didn’t notice the click of the door, nor the tiny creak as it opened ever so slightly. He didn’t notice the shadowy form of Professor Snape, who looked most displeased at seeing the boy still awake before slowly retreating back into his room.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Snape rubbed his temples as he paced alongside his bed.

Well tonight had been interesting to say the least. He could now add panic attacks to the list of things wrong with Potter.

He recalled the boy’s rambling accusations. As much as Snape might be tempted, he’d never threatened any student with forcible confinement, and he’d certainly never struck any of them, though he’d always suspected Longbottom couldn’t be any worse after a good cuff to the head.

Potter was obviously an incoherent idiot during times of distress.

And now the insolent brat was out there reading instead of sleeping like he’d been told.

On any other day he would go out there and give the boy a good verbal thrashing for disobeying his instructions. Hell, if it were any other day Snape would be sitting contentedly in his chair sipping a glass of 1787 Chateau Lafite and not giving a damn what the Golden Boy was up to.

But here he was with the emotionally unstable pre-teen in his living room.

With a heavy sigh he climbed into bed, but suddenly he froze, his eyes wide as the terrible truth dawned on him.

Lock me in the cupboard…

Nothing to eat…

Hit me with the belt…

These weren’t the idle accusations of an irate child, these were declarations.

Confessions.

In amidst the madness and emotion and clamor, Harry Potter had told him exactly what was wrong, and in the heat of the moment, too busy being condescending to listen; Snape had ignored him.

Severus groaned quietly, raking his hands through his hair. He glanced at the clock. It was far too late to do anything about it now. He would speak to the boy in the morning, when both their heads were clear.

He settled into bed and lay staring at the ceiling, his mind racing.

And in the next room, Harry Potter bowed his head over the musty pages and wept.