Harry awoke the next morning curled uncomfortably against the arm of the chair. He sat up quickly, as if he didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep. He looked up at the clock. 7:12am. Well, he’d managed almost three hours of sleep without the terrible nightmares clawing their way into his mind. That should keep him going for the rest of the day, he thought.

He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they’d been coated in gravel, and let out a yawn. The book he’d been reading was still lodged in his lap, and he carefully closed it and returned it to its place on the shelf.

Treading softly, he made his way down the hall and entered the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and turned to look in the mirror.

He’d not stopped in the last few weeks to really evaluate himself, and after seeing his reflection right now, he wished he hadn’t. His face was pale, like he hadn’t been outside in months. His eyes looked abnormally large against his pale skin, and the bright emerald of his irises had faded to a dusky olive hue. He looked sick.

He stared at himself for what seemed hours, studying every line and edge of his face intently, as if he’d never seen himself before. He brought his hand up and touched his temple softly. He traced the gauntness of his cheeks, the hard ridge of his nose, the soft lines scattered across his brow. Frowning, he brought his face closer to the mirror, narrowing his eyes.

“Who are you?” He whispered softly, searching for a hint of reason in his cheerless eyes. The question made perfect sense to him. Who was he really? Harry Potter, son of a murdered Father and Mother? The Golden Boy, pride of the wizarding world? The Dursley’s freak, their slave, their punching bag?

His bottom lip began to quiver, and he trapped it between his teeth. His eyes glistened with tears, and one escaped, slipping slowly down his cheek. He made no effort to wipe it away.

He would have given anything just to be Harry Potter. Not a saviour or an abomination, but just a regular boy with hopes and dreams that didn’t include making it through the night without screaming himself hoarse. He would always be an orphan though. Nothing could change that.

Sniffling, he wrapped his arms around his torso, hugging himself gently. He’d never felt the warmth and comfort of a real one. Sure, Hermione and Ron were always hugging him…well, ok, maybe just Hermione, but Ron sure could give an emotionally heartfelt clap on the shoulder. Hugging his friends was different. They didn’t love him like a parent would. Even when Mrs. Weasley hugged him at the train station, it wasn’t real. She liked him just fine, but she didn’t love him. Not like a Mother would.

Actually, Harry couldn’t think of a single person in the world who really, honestly loved him.

“Probably never will,” he whispered; his voice desperately hollow.

Suddenly there was a loud knock at the bathroom door.

“Mr. Potter! Remove yourself from my lavatory immediately!”

Harry jumped nervously.

“Just a second!” He called back, quickly turning on the tap and filling his cupped hands with cold water. He splashed his face several times, hoping it would mask the fact that he’d been crying, and patted himself dry with the closest towel.

When he opened the door, he was met with Snape’s fierce glare.

“Mr. Potter, your manners are absolutely appalling. You’ve been in there for twenty-seven minutes without the slightest regard for my needs. And,” he continued, pushing past the boy and ripping the towel violently from its rail, “you have used my towel without permission!”

He placed a hand on Harry’s chest and pushed him backwards out into the hall. Turning back to the bathroom, he looked down at the damp towel he was holding and sighed in disgust. He turned briskly and hurled the towel at Harry, which landed squarely on the boy’s head.

“A vast improvement, I daresay,” the Professor snapped before slamming the door.

Harry stood motionless for a moment, and then slowly pulled the towel off his face, revealing a shocked expression. He heard the shower running, and steam began seeping into the hall from under the door.

“You,” he stated at the door “are not a morning person.”

“I heard that, Mr. Potter!”

With a gasp, Harry scuttled down the hall to the living room. He folded the towel neatly and set it on the coffee table. Had he really been in there for that long? He’d been so lost in himself that he hadn’t realized how much time had past. He scowled, angry at himself for spending so much time moping.

“Idiot!” He whispered to himself harshly.

It was bad enough that he’d snapped last night, acting completely insane and screeching at Snape, but he’d even broken down and cried after he was sure Snape was asleep. He didn’t even know why. He never cried at the Dursley’s, even when his Uncle hit him so hard that the skin on his back broke open under the weight of the belt buckle. Crying meant more punishment. Crying meant Uncle Vernon looming over him, his lips twisted into a cruel grin, his meaty fingers digging into Harry’s flesh as he dragged him to his cupboard to be left there for days.

But Snape, who after Harry’s display last night, should have cursed him into little pieces or at the very least, kicked him out of his quarters.

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He’d almost seemed concerned, not that Harry had ever seen Snape looking concerned about anyone but his stupid Slytherins.

He sighed and flopped back onto the couch. Why couldn’t anything just be easy for him?

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It was almost an hour later when Harry stood showered and ready in Snape’s living room. Breakfast had been eaten in awkward silence with the Professor stealing quick glances at Harry in between bites of scrambled eggs and sausage. He had watched the boy eat a few mouthfuls of food before pushing his plate away.

Severus had planned to speak to Harry that morning, but after his tirade over the boy’s excessive time in the bathroom, he thought it more prudent to wait until they arrived at the island. Harry had been right, he wasn’t a morning person. It was obvious that Harry was uncomfortable around him, something the potions master would have been proud of had he not discovered the boy’s abuse. The persecution of students was his forte, but harassing a child who had been neglected, that was off limits, even to Snape. No, he had to earn the child’s trust first, then, with a gentle encouragement most wouldn’t think was possible of the harsh Professor, he would draw the boy’s secrets from him.

“Have you all your things together?” Snape asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry replied, patting his robe pocket where his shrunken trunk was now residing.

“Good. Now move, Potter, we have a schedule to keep. Our train leaves Kings Cross in exactly 27 minutes, and Merlin help you if you make us late.” He pushed Harry’s shoulder gently, nudging him towards the front door.

“Um, aren’t we apparating, Sir?” Harry asked, coming to a stop and turning back towards the Professor.

“Only to the train station, Potter, move.”

Harry took a few more steps, and reached out for the door handle.

“Are we apparating from the train station?” Harry asked, his hand hovering over the door handle as he looked back at his teacher.

His first experience with the spell had been absolutely ghastly. He chewed his bottom lip as he remembered the horrible pain in his head after returning from Privet Drive.

“We are not,” the Professor snapped, and Harry stood motionless for a moment. “Mr. Potter,” Snape continued in a low, dangerous voice. “If you do not open that door immediately, I will find a very painful way of making you.”

Harry’s eyes grew wide as he turned back to fumble with the knob. Sweat coated his hands and the handle slipped easily out of his grasp.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” he whispered frantically, finally turning the cool, brass handle and stepping quickly out into the corridor. Snape followed, looking deadly. He pointed Harry in the right direction, and they made their way through the castle.

“How long will we be on the train, Sir?” Harry asked as their footsteps echoed though the Great Hall.

“Approximately four hours.”

“And where are we heading, Sir?”

“Sunderland,” was Snape’s frustrated reply. “And yes,” he said quickly, seeing Harry’s mouth open for another question. “We will be apparating from that location. As it stands, we are not able to apparate directly into the town.”

Harry grimaced as he stumbled over a displaced rock.

“But can’t you just pop wherever you want?” he asked, looking over at the Professor.

Snape came to an abrupt halt. He bowed his head for a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He let out an exasperated sigh before turning back to the boy.

“Mr. Potter, apparition is a delicate ability. One does not simply pop all over the place like some kind of circus performer.”

“Oh,” Harry replied sheepishly.

“Apparation has its limits,” Snape continued. “And any witch or wizard with half a brain,” he paused and gave Harry a piercing look, “will have their homes and places of business secured with anti-apparition wards. This also applies to large areas, such as?” He left the question hanging as he raised his eyebrows at the boy.

“Hogwarts?” Harry replied tentatively.

“Correct. Sunderland is home to countless Apothecaries, most of whom specialize in volatile concoctions and exceedingly rare herbs. The entire area is heavily warded. Consequently, direct apparition into its core is impossible.”

Snape paused before reaching out and placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder. He felt the boy tense immediately as the Professor pulled him gently to his side. “Your second trip should be considerably more comfortable,” he said soothingly. “Do not be concerned.”

Harry nodded, staring at the ground, self-conscious that his anxiousness was so apparent. The funny thing was that ordinarily Snape would have taken advantage of his fretful state. He’d done it so many times before, singling Harry out in class, his cutting remarks garnering snickers from the Slytherins.

But today was no ordinary day.

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The train rumbled down the track at an impressive pace. Harry’s eyes were glued to the window taking in the delights of the North Yorkshire countryside. He’d been quite embarrassed to learn that Snape had paid almost two hundred pounds for the two first-class train tickets. He’d told the Professor that once they returned to Diagon Alley at the start of next term, that he’d stop at Gringotts and repay him the money, but Snape had dismissed him, muttering something about Harry being ridiculous, and that it was worth any amount of money to travel in a private compartment away from those insipid Muggles. He was even more stunned when Professor Snape pulled a five pound note from his pocket and insisted Harry pick a few things from the concession stand.

I don’t need a half staved infant nagging at me about needing a snack on the train, he’d barked when Harry had resisted taking the money.

Harry drew his eyes away from the window for a moment and snuck a look at his Professor, who was reading the copy of the Daily Prophet he’d brought with him. Snape’s brow was drawn into a small frown as he found a particularly loathsome article by Rita Skeeter about Harry considering an adoption offer by the Ministry.

“How on earth this woman remains employed is beyond my comprehension,” he mumbled.

“Sir?”

“None of your concern, Potter,” Snape replied sharply. “I am merely appalled by nonsense from this deplorable publication.”

“Ahh,” Harry said softly, wondering why the Professor read the Daily Prophet at all if he thought it was so terrible. He watched as the man folded the paper in half and laid it beside him; then he clasped his hands in his lap and looked out the window.

“We are currently passing through the outskirts of Murton,” Snape said. “Sunderland lies a short distance north. When we arrive, Potter, it is imperative that you remain close to me at all times, no dilly dallying, do you understand?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

The train station at Sunderland was abuzz with activity and Harry had a hard time keeping up with his Professor. At one point the crowds were so thick that Snape reached out and took Harry’s shoulder, pulling him near and steering him through the crowds and out of the station. It was almost a block later when Harry realized Snape’s hand was still there, a little more casually now though, guiding the boy through a maze of side streets barely wide enough for two people.

Snape stopped him at a large oak door with curious markings etched into the wood. He rapped his knuckles three times, then paused for a moment before knocking again, this time twice, then another pause before knocking three more times. Some time passed before the door slowly creaked open and a man appeared. He couldn’t have been any taller than Professor Flitwick. Harry was taken aback by his appearance. His eye, and there was only one, was a brilliant gold colour flecked with indigo. Where the other eye should have been was a mass of scar tissue that trailed down his neck and under the heavy navy robe he wore. A wild crop of white hair bulged from underneath a black felt Porkpie hat adorned with a golden Pheasant feather.

“Severus!” the man exclaimed. “Oh my, Sevvie! It’s wonderful to see you again!”

It was all Harry could do not to burst into giggles. Pulling his bottom lip into his teeth, he clamped down hard, forcing down the laughter that threatened to erupt. Sevvie? Oh this was fantastic. Suddenly the four hour train ride with Snape had been worth it.

“Steady, Potter,” Snape murmured, tightening his fingers into the flesh of the boy’s upper arm. Harry winced, and Snape released his grip and stepped past him to kneel down into the open arms of the tiny little man.

“And who is this strapping young lad?” the man asked, releasing Snape from their embrace.

“This is Mr. Harry Potter,” Snape answered, straightening up. “Mr. Potter, this is Mr. Ernie Russer, the second finest potions master in all of England.” The little man let out a hearty laugh.

“Listen to that, will you!” He squeaked at Harry. “Second finest? Why, the only reason he’s considered the best is because I let him cheat off me during potions OWLS!”

A smile spread across Harry’s face as he bent down and shook the man’s tiny hand.

“Enough of your mendacity,” Snape replied in mock annoyance. Mr. Potter and I require a safe place from which to apparate. Assuming that your intelligence is not as diminutive as your frame, I trust you have made arrangements?”

Ernie broke into laughter once more. He took Snape by the hand and let him to the fireplace.

“Yes, I’ve made arrangements, you over-sized dungeon dweller. And it’ll set you down practically at your front door,” he replied between giggles. “It’s a spell of my own making.” he continued. “Sort of a cross between apparition and floo travel. Incredibly hard to track!” he finished proudly. He motioned to Harry. “Come my boy, stand together. Yes, that’s it, nice and close.”

Harry stepped up onto the hearth and took his place next to the Professor. Snape reached down and took the boy’s hand, feeling Harry’s body tense at his touch.

“Close your eyes and do not let go,” he instructed, and Harry nodded mutely.

“Ernie,” Snape said, nodding at his tiny friend.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks, Severus,” Ernie replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dazzling silver powder. “Procul domus!” He shouted, throwing the handful of powder towards the fireplace.

Harry closed his eyes tightly. Suddenly he felt dreadfully off kilter, as if he were standing on a very high precipice in a windstorm. He fought to keep his balance, and he felt Snape’s hand tighten around his own in reassurance. There was a loud crack, and Harry felt the Professor lurch against him as they came to a hasty stop. Opening his eyes, he found himself standing only inches away from the edge of a steep cliff, its sheer face leading down into dark waters. It must have been at least one hundred feet to the bottom.

Harry’s stomach rolled queasily as he watched the choppy waves frothing against the rocks below. He remembered back to when he was about five years-old and the Dursley’s had taken Dudley to the seaside. Harry had begged and begged to go along, having only seen the ocean on the television, stealing glimpses of the golden sands and azure water on the screen as he shuffled back and forth in the kitchen cleaning up after supper. For some reason, he didn’t remember anymore, he had been allowed to go. Oh the excitement of his first trip to the seaside! The feel of the soft warm sand between his toes was blissful, and the brightness of the sun against his closed eyes, so desperate for light after months of confinement in the cupboard. It had been heavenly.

Uncle Vernon had parked at the overlook, a cliff that jutted out over the water where local shutterbugs gathered in the evenings to take pictures of the sunsets before wandering down the slope to the beach. It was a moderate drop, perhaps twenty feet or so, and a line of foot-high poles linked together with thin chain ran around the edge for safety. It was just about dusk, and Harry had been standing at the back of the car, loading in Aunt Petunia’s picnic basket when he heard the car start. He had only half pulled down the trunk door when the car lurched backwards, slamming into the boy. His tennis shoes scrambled for traction on the sandy gravel, and he fell to his knees, the harsh stones cutting into his flesh.

The car lurched again, and this time it forced Harry’s thin body off the edge of the cliff, his hands grabbing wildly at the back of the car. As he fell, his thin fingers wrapped around the ball hitch, and he hung on for dear life, feet slapping helplessly against the cliff face as he desperately tried to find a foothold.

He heard the sound of the car door opening, then slamming shut, and Uncle Vernon’s face appeared around the side of the car. He stood and stared at Harry for a moment, his face without any expression. He locked eyes with the boy.

“Help me,” Harry whispered, his voice cracking with terror. His fingers were losing their tenuous grip on the ball hitch and his legs kicked less wildly now as the muscles cramped up from exertion.

Uncle Vernon didn’t move. He just stared, and for a moment, Harry thought he was going to wait until he fell, then get back in the car and drive away.

“Please!” Harry pleaded, and his Uncle had gotten an angry look on his face which then relaxed into a smile.

“Please what?” He said.

“Please, Sir,” Harry replied, his arms losing strength. Slowly, one by one, his fingers began to slip from the metal ball.

“Alright Petunia, dear, pull it forward!” His Uncle had called to the front of the car, and the vehicle shot forward, dragging Harry’s bare legs over the rough cement. He lay panting, his hands cradled to his chest as he nursed his painful fingers. Uncle Vernon had grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pulled him to his feet, thick trickles of blood running from the wounds on his legs.

“The next time you think of asking to come with us somewhere,” his Uncle had said threateningly, “Think again.”

“Mr. Potter! Potter? Harry?” Snape’s voice sounded a million miles away, cutting through Harry’s reverie and pulling him back to reality. The touch of Snape’s hand on his back made him jump, and the hand was removed, only to fall lightly on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said faintly, wiping his sweating hands against the front of his shirt. He turned and looked at the Professor and gave a weak smile. “It’s a long way down,” he finished lamely.

Snape frowned. When they’d landed, he’d inadvertently nudged the boy dangerously close to the cliff’s edge. By the time he’d righted himself, Harry was staring down at the waves breathing heavily, his fists clenched. He had been unreachable for the better part of a minute, and Snape had been mere seconds away from getting the unresponsive boy back to town for medical attention.

“Potter, we’d best get you inside,” Snape ordered cautiously. His hand moved from Harry’s shoulder down to his upper arm. He turned the unsteady boy towards the manor, and began to walk slowly alongside him across the meadow.

“I really am fine, Sir,” Harry objected, feeling ridiculous at having the Professor leading him across the field like he was an invalid.

“You are not fine, Potter. You are tired and weak and you are going directly to bed for a good night’s sleep,” Snape retorted, noticing Harry shudder when he mentioned sleep. He would give the boy a Dreamless Sleep potion, he decided.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to worry you,” Harry said apologetically.

“I wasn’t worried, Potter.”

“Worried enough to call me Harry,” he replied softly.

Snape slowed to a stop. Harry took in a quick breath as he wondered if Snape would slap him for being impertinent like his Aunt always did. But Snape just looked at him wordlessly for a few seconds before continuing alongside the boy towards the manor.

“I suppose I did,” he admitted, and Harry felt a tiny smile play across his lips.

“I suppose,” Snape continued, his hand moving again, this time to drape across the boy’s shoulders. “there’s a first time for everything.”