The next morning, Harry opened his eyes to the darkness of a warm cocoon of duvet. He lay motionless for a few moments, enjoying the lazy, flimsy feeling of waking up slowly, instead of being woken in an abrupt panic by fists beating on his cupboard door. He tugged the covers down from his face and gave himself another few seconds of leisure before rolling over to the edge of the bed, sliding his legs over the side, and dropping to the hardwood floor.

He stretched lazily, thankful for another good night’s sleep. That Dreamless Sleep stuff really is amazing, he thought happily, a tiny smile creeping across his face. He was starting to feel almost normal again, though the strange, nervous feeling was still lying like a heavy brick in his stomach, making him feel edgy and hollow. He wondered if it were even possible to feel normal anymore. He’d lived with such tremendous pain and suffering as far back as he could remember, and he’d always felt jumpy and weary, even around his friends. Maybe it was just as Uncle Vernon had said. Maybe he was a freak. Maybe he didn’t deserve happiness. He’d been told that for so long, it was so hard to believe anything else.

He absentmindedly rubbed at his stomach with one hand while running the other through his hair, which was straying wildly as usual. His stomach growled as if in reaction to the small, warm hand gently brushing against the cramping abdomen. He’d had hunger pains worse than this before. Much worse. The dreadful panicky sensation in his belly made it so hard to eat, and though Snape had shown himself to be slightly above his usual monstrous self, Harry still felt a desperate twinge of fear every time the Professor set those sinister, onyx eyes upon him.

“So stupid,” Harry breathed, hating that he felt so encompassed by fear that he couldn’t even manage to eat a meal. It was different at the Dursley’s; they barely let him eat enough to survive. Here, Harry could eat as much as he wanted. In fact, he was fairly sure that if he asked Della for a three course turkey dinner with all the trimmings, she’d be beside herself with happiness. He wanted to eat, he really did, but it was so hard when he felt so afraid all the time.

Damn the Dursley's, he thought angrily, balling his hands into fists. Damn them for hating me! Tears prickled at his eyes, and he rubbed his fists at his lids crossly, hating the fear, hating the panic, and most of all, hating the feeling inside that told him that he’d never be free of the people who despised him so much, that they would be thrilled to pieces if he died.

Sniffling, he turned towards the bathroom, his eyes coming to rest on the chair still next to his bed; the chair Snape had sat in last night. Harry drew in a sharp breath, his face heating in embarrassment as he remembered the Professor, his hand resting on Harry’s wrist, repeating over and over that he wouldn’t harm him. Snape must have thought he was acting like an idiot.

Trying to forget how silly he’d acted, Harry padded into the bathroom, his feet making little tapping sounds on the hardwood floor. He doused his head under cold water, shivering as the frigid water splashed his neck and slid down his pajama shirt. His shirt. It really was his, wasn’t it? Snape hadn’t said anything about Harry borrowing the pajamas. Maybe he would let Harry keep them? He picked up the hand towel and dried his face and hair. He stared at himself in the mirror, trying to flatten down a particularly disobedient section of hair. Harry leaned closer to the mirror, studying his face as he had back in Snape’s quarters at Hogwarts. Only a few days ago his eyes had been a pale, dull olive, proof of his lack of self-nurturing over the past weeks. But now in the muted irises, there gleamed a hint of emerald. He gave a hesitant half-smile, brushing his fingertips over his face, the tiniest hint of colour glowing from his cheeks. He really did feel different, much better than the night Snape had found him sitting alone in the train station.

Snape had been so beastly then. So angry and scathing. But last night, last night Harry had seen a side of the Professor he’d never thought possible, and he’d made Harry feel…well he couldn’t place it really, but he’d felt it for just a second, and it was soft and warm, and it had been so very long since he’d felt it, he almost doubted it existed.

He pulled back from the mirror and hung the towel back on its hook. The Professor hadn’t hit him. The Professor hadn’t starved him, or locked him away. Even if Snape had been a horrible git for the last two years, he’d never really hurt Harry, not like the Dursley’s had.

A tiny wiggle of something, a happy, hopeful something, he really couldn’t tell what it was exactly, but the sensation started in his chest and made him feel tingly and silly all at once, though it soon faded as the familiar nasty feeling grew up from his belly and ate away any pleasantness. It was too hard to feel happy. It was too hard to feel anything good anymore.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Harry appeared a few minutes later at the kitchen door, seeing Snape was already sitting at the table sipping a mug of coffee. A plate littered with crumbs sat pushed to the side indicating the man had already eaten. He was reading the Daily Prophet again, a scowl twisting his forehead as he read another…what was the word he’d used? Ah that’s right, another deplorable article.

Taking a deep breath, Harry walked slowly through the kitchen and sat down opposite the Professor. Della was nowhere in sight, and it didn’t look like Snape had saved him anything. Not that it matters, Harry thought. He had no real appetite anyway.

Just then, the Professor waved a hand towards the oven. The door slowly opened and a large plate of French toast and sliced honeydew melon floated across the room and settled with a clink in front of Harry. Snape hadn’t even taken his eyes off his paper.

Harry looked up, not sure if the man was mad at him or not. He opened his mouth to thank him for the food, but Snape spoke first.

“I trust you slept well?”

Harry gulped and glanced up. Thankfully the Professor wasn’t staring at him, his obsidian eyes still glued to the Prophet.

“Yes, Sir, thank you,” he replied.

He picked up a slice of melon and took a small bite, his stomach doing flip-flops as he waited for Snape to cut into him and make some snide remark about Harry acting like a baby last night. But Snape remained silent, the rustling of pages the only sound in the quiet kitchen.

Harry sat barely moving, save for slowly bringing a small piece of melon to his lips, nibbling at the soft fruit, trying to play out the act of eating as long as possible. His stomach lurched, and Harry took a quiet, deep breath, praying that Snape wouldn’t see his discomfort. Ignoring the melon for now, he passed another minute by ripping the corner off a piece of toast and chewing it slowly. He had no doubt the French toast was delectable, and if he were at Hogwarts, he’d probably be racing Ron to see who could finish their plate first, smothering the velvety bread in gobs of syrup. But here in Snape’s kitchen, trapped by miles of sea and sky, it felt like eating an old sponge. He swallowed with great effort, and it was all he could do not to heave it back up. Unable to finish another mouthful, Harry stood slowly and collected his plate, setting it on the counter. He turned back to the Professor.

“Um, I suppose I’ll go outside, Sir,” he said cautiously. “If it’s alright with you?”

“This isn’t a prison, Potter,” came the icy reply from behind the paper. Harry’s face fell. Snape must really be mad, he thought anxiously.

“Right,” he replied, his voice almost a whisper.

He turned and walked slowly out into the hall and had just placed his hand on the thick, brass handle, when he heard Snape’s low voice from behind him.

“Don’t forget this, Potter.”

Harry turned around to see the Professor holding the cloak he’d worn the day before. He glanced up at the Professor, their eyes meeting for a moment before Harry dropped his gaze to the cloak. The Professor didn’t extend his hand, so Harry took a few tentative steps towards him, reaching out slowly, his fingers diving into the heavy fabric.

Slowly, Snape moved his other hand and placed it over Harry’s small fist. Harry stifled a tremble at the contact, his jaw clenching as he forced himself not to pull away.

“Do not go too far, Potter,” Snape said casually, feeling the tiny shudder through the cloth. “I believe poor weather is approaching.”

Nodding mutely, Harry tore his eyes from Snape’s hand, which felt heavy and warm over his own, and lifted his head, his worried stare meeting the Professor’s intent look.

“Potter.” Snape started, letting out a heavy breath. “Tonight, we…” He paused and gave Harry a pensive frown before speaking again. “Manage to be back at an acceptable time, will you?” He finished briskly.

Harry nodded again, furrowing his own brow, knowing that something had just happened, that there was something else the Professor had wanted to say, but didn’t. He pulled his hand out from under Snape’s palm, clutching the cloak to his chest as he turned and pulled open the front door. He closed it gently behind him and threw the cloak around his shoulders. He trudged down the steps, wondering what Snape had in store for him that night, his mind racing with scenarios. Had the Dreamless Sleep potion run out? Maybe the Professor didn’t want him here anymore? Maybe the Dursley’s were back early, and Snape was sending him home? His stomach clenched violently with each imagined theory, and bile rose in his throat as his thoughts drifted to being back with Uncle Vernon. No, the neighbor had said they wouldn’t be back for weeks. They weren’t back, they couldn’t’ be back!

Slowing to a stop, he bent over and placed his hands on his knees, desperately trying to breathe through the horrible churning waves of nausea. He felt his stomach lurch violently again, and before he knew it, he’d fallen to his hands and knees. He pressed his palms against the cool, dewy grass, eyes closed in a painful wince as he vomited his meager breakfast onto the ground. He gagged on the acid taste of bile, but his stomach felt slightly better after emptying itself, and he pushed himself back onto his rear and drew the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. He closed his eyes, grateful for the sudden, cool breeze against his face.

Hearing a dull thud, he jerked his head up, his eyes widening in horror as the tall, dark figure of the Professor headed down the stairs, his head turned directly towards Harry.

A shudder rocked him as Snape grew closer, and in an instant, his fears of being sent back home swept him up, and he leapt to his feet, hearing Snape yell his name and ignoring it, praying that another swell of queasiness wouldn’t send him sprawling to the ground. He ran as fast and as far as he could, his frantic breaths turning to faint gasping cries as his sprint slowed to a stumbling jog; fatigue setting in, his heart beating madly from exhaustion as much as panic.

If he’d waited just a moment more before bolting, he would have seen Snape’s eyes fraught with worry, his forehead creased with concern at seeing the boy bent over the grass throwing up. If he’d waited just a moment, he would have felt the Professor’s cool hand against his forehead, then his arm wrapping around Harry’s shoulders as he helped him to his feet, allowing the boy to lean against him as he led him back into the manor. If he’d waited for just that moment, Severus would have helped him slowly down the hall to his bedroom and laid him on the bed, calling for Della to provide a cool cloth for the boy’s forehead.

Snape stood a few feet from where Harry had just been, lips set in a grim line as he watched Harry disappear into the trees. Della had noticed it first, emitting a squeal so loud that Severus had near dropped his coffee in alarm as he headed out of the kitchen. He’d turned to see Della standing at the window, her face ashen as she watched Harry crouched on the lawn in agony. He’d swiftly made his way out the door and down the stairs, seeing the boy’s face grow even more pallid at seeing him. He’d opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, Harry had scrambled to his feet and dashed into the trees.

“Potter! Come back at once!”

Severus sighed, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose between his slender fingers; an act of irritation he’d performed countless times, but never more often than in the last few days. He turned abruptly and hurried up the stairs, stopping only for the briefest of seconds at hearing thunder in the distance, turning his face towards the darkening sky and scowling before heading into the manor.

“Stupid, stupid boy,” he muttered, making his way to the fireplace. “Stupid, idiotic, ridiculous…” he paused, bringing his fingertips to his temples and massaging gently. He sighed in resignation. “terrified, abused, untrusting little boy,” he finished softly.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Harry looked dolefully out across the water. Thick, dark clouds were racing swiftly across the sky towards the mainland, the strong breeze blowing his hair and racing through him, causing his body to shake violently. He rubbed at his icy cold arms. The cloak wasn’t really helping much against the savage wind.

A thick fog had settled amid the trees, blanketing the ground in an ethereal white mist. He’d walked forever, weaving amongst the vegetation, wandering aimlessly, trying not to think about how hungry he was, or how ill he felt, or how angry Snape probably was.

Snape couldn’t send him back to the Dursley’s, he just couldn’t! The Professor had told Harry that he’d be staying here for the entire summer, but Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were his legal guardians, and as far as Harry knew, Dumbledore couldn’t do anything about that.

His lower lip quivered and he chewed it fiercely, refusing to think about how furious Uncle Vernon would be when he saw him. He was going to get one hell of a beating, he knew that much.

His thoughts drifted to the first time Uncle Vernon had beat him. He’d been five, and it was Dudley’s birthday. Harry was pressed up against his cupboard door in rapture, listening to the delightful sounds of a living room filled with neighbourhood boys and girls, muffled giggles from mouths filled with cake. The smell of fresh-from-the-oven sausage rolls drifted through the vent, and Harry opened his mouth and inhaled deeply. If he closed his eyes really tight and thought hard, he could almost taste the flaky pastry and the warm, juicy beef as he breathed in the scent. The party had gone on for hours, and Harry had spent every single moment with his face against the door, hoping that maybe his Uncle would let him out to join the excitement. He ran his fingers over the door latch, knowing that the padlock on the other side was tightly locked. Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to let him out. Freaks weren’t allowed to go to parties. Freaks weren’t allowed anything other than scraps and water, and freaks certainly weren’t allowed cake.

It wasn’t until later that night when he was finally allowed out from the confines of the cupboard. He emerged wincing at the glare of the hall light, and he stumbled, his knees hitting the floor as dizziness overtook him. He would have given anything to have something to eat, but food had to be earned, and Harry hadn’t been very good at earning food that week.

“Get that living room cleaned up, and the kitchen!” his Uncle snarled. “And mind you don’t get your filth on any of Dudley’s new toys.”

He’d started on the living room first, careful not to touch anything with his hands. He used the discarded wrapping paper to cover his little hands, and lifted each of Dudley’s toys onto the coffee table, stacking them neatly according to height. He stood staring longingly at a shiny red race car with a little metal man behind the wheel. Looking over one shoulder, then over the next and seeing no one, he reached out a thin arm and pressed a single finger against the sparkling metal car. He ran his finger across the hood, gently brushing over the little man’s blue hat and down the side to the polished headlights. Harry couldn’t imagine anything more prefect in the entire world.

“Oi! What’re you doing wif my pwesents?!”

Harry’s arm shot back to his side as his spun around to face his chubby cousin.

“I wasn’t. I didn’t-“

“Mummy! Harry’s bweaking my toys!” Dudley screamed, running towards Harry at top speed. Harry, with an agility his overweight cousin could never hope to have, sidestepped, sending the boy crashing against the coffee table, the stacked toys clattering to the floor. Righting himself, Dudley turned and threw a fierce glare at Harry. He looked down at his toys in anger, then, giving Harry another wrathful stare, he brought his foot down on the little red car, crushing the metal together, sending little flakes of red paint into the carpet. The little man fell helplessly to the floor, his tiny blue hat rolling across the carpet and landing at Harry’s feet.

“Mummy!” Dudley screamed again.

“Mummy’s here my darling!” Called Aunt Petunia as she all but flew down the stairs and into the living room.

“Mummy, Harry’s bweaking my fings!”

“Why you little monster!” Petunia shrieked at a shocked Harry, gathering Dudley in her arms and pulling him into her lap as she fell onto the couch. She stared hatefully at Harry, who was still shaking his head.

“Aunty, I didn’t –”

“Precious angel, Daddy will take care of it,” Petunia cooed at a now crying Dudley, though Harry was fairly sure that to be considered crying you had to have tears and Dudley was shedding none. He could hear Uncle Vernon thundering down the stairs now, and he came into view with a very red face indeed. Harry turned and instinctively took a few steps back, stumbling over the shattered little car. It was all happening so fast! If they would just let him explain!

Vernon took one look at the scattered toys and then looked over at Dudley, who by now was in the midst of a very phony crying fit. He fixed a deadly gaze on Harry.

“Uncle Vernon, I didn’t –“ Harry started in a desperate voice, but his Uncle lunged forward, bringing a heavy hand down across the boy’s face. Harry fell to his knees, his face on fire, tears stinging at his eyes.

“I’ll teach you some manners, boy!” Vernon hissed. His thick fingers moved to his belt buckle, and Harry’s eyes grew wide as his Uncle slid the thick, leather belt from the loops around his dress pants. He fell backwards, scrambling back until his head crashed against the side of the television stand.

“I didn’t!” he cried, his throat feeling impossibly narrow. It was hard to take a breath but he managed a shaky inhalation as his Uncle loomed over him, reaching down and grabbing Harry by the collar. He dragged the tiny form back to the middle of the room and forced him onto his knees.

Harry was beside himself now, crushed by the unfairness of it all, sobbing uncontrollably at how little power he had against his family.

Suddenly a sharp wave of pain flared across his back. He fell forward, his hands tangling in the shaggy pile. He took in a sharp breath, not able to help the cry of pain and fright that escaped his lips. He looked up to see Uncle Vernon raising his belt above his head.

“You nasty, no good, waste of time, little bastard!” The belt fell again, the slashing pain sending the terrified boy into hysterics. “Do you understand me, you little freak? That’s all you are!” Vernon bellowed, raising the belt again. Petrified and sobbing in pain, Harry desperately tried to crawl away, but his Uncle grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and held him steady as the belt came down again and again.

It felt like forever before it was over. Harry lay sobbing, his face pressed into the rough, cream carpet, his chest burning with exhaustion, his throat raw. He’d screamed until his voice gave out, and then he’d begged in a strangled, coarse rasp for his Uncle to stop. It wasn’t until Uncle Vernon told him to take his punishment quietly like a freak should, that Harry crushed his mouth against his arm, biting into the flesh to keep from crying out as the belt lay into his skin, leaving his back a lattice of fiery welts.

Then Uncle Vernon had thrown him into his cupboard, and Harry lay in silence, shaking in fear and pain on his little cot bed, his eyes wide in the darkness, expecting his Uncle to throw open the door at any moment and beat him again. He lay gasping, flinching with each aching breath, and after a long time the light in the hall went out and Aunt Petunia’s light footsteps sounded above him, and he knew everyone had gone to bed.

Slowly, he opened his fist, wincing as his cramped fingers uncurled. In his palm, so tightly held that it left an indent in his skin, was the tiny little blue hat. He held it to his cheek, rubbing the smooth, warm metal against his skin, and in the darkness, utterly alone and abandoned, he closed his eyes and cried himself to sleep.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

The feel of freezing rain against his face shocked Harry from his memory. Gasping at the sudden intense cold, he whirled around and took a few running steps forward, trying to remember which way he’d come. The mist swirled wildly as the rain became a heavy curtain of water. The low clouds were rushing along the treetops, and combined with the fog, created a thick, murky veil. Harry jerked to a stop, trying in vain to shield his eyes from the onslaught of water. His skin was numb from cold as the freezing rain pelted him without mercy, soaking him completely. Picking a direction, he walked hesitantly, unable to even see the tree trunks until he was almost walking into them. A clap of thunder boomed above him, and Harry crouched in fear, the noise ringing in his ears. That had been awfully close. The storm had come up so quickly!

The thunder crashed again. The storm sounded as if it were only feet above his head, and Harry bolted, half running half stumbling as he fled wildly through the trees.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

“Ernie!” Severus called through the rain at his friend. He caught a glimpse of the tiny man dressed in a mac and sou’wester. He bent down, putting his hand on the small shoulder. “He has been gone for almost an hour!” Snape shouted, his voice almost swept away in the raging winds.

Ernie nodded and pointed behind him.

“My brother!” he yelled, his tiny voice barely making it to Snape’s ears.

Severus looked up to see the outline of the tall man almost hidden in the fog. He stood and grasped his hand as he came towards him.

“Craig! Good to see you again, though I wish it were under different circumstances!” The man nodded grimly and grasped Snape by the arm.

“We will find him, Severus!” He yelled.

The three men made their way back towards the manor. Severus stopped as they reached the stairs.

“Ernie!” Severus shouted, bending down again to the tiny man’s height. “My laboratory! You know what we require! Della will assist you!”

Ernie nodded and patted the side of Severus’ head before struggling up the stairs, the howling wind almost bowling him over several times before he reached the door. He waved his arms and the door slowly opened. After seeing Ernie disappear safely inside, Severus turned to Craig.

“I shall take the south end, you, the north!” He shouted.

It really was an amazing storm, the likes of which he’d not seen in a dozen years at least. Trust blasted Potter to lose himself during such a powerful squall, he thought, as he set off towards the south end of the island, his rain hat flapping madly in the furious gale.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Harry cried out as his foot slipped out from under him. He lurched forward, trying to keep his balance in the thick mud. He’d been walking for what seemed hours with no idea which direction the manor was in. His fingers were numb, and he’d lost most of the feeling in his feet ages ago. He stumbled weakly over a fallen log, which looked awfully like the same log he’d passed about twenty times now. His head pounded as waves of nausea hit him. He fell to his knees taking in great breaths, his lungs seizing as the icy wind flew into his body. His vision swam, and Harry instinctively batted at his eyes, sending his glasses to the ground. Squinting as water poured into his eyes, he slapped his hands to the muddy ground in search of the lost spectacles, but overcome with weakness, his arms gave out and he slumped face down into the mud. With what little strength he had left, he rolled onto his back and let the freezing rain wash the sludge from his face, each droplet feeling like a bludger hitting his skin. He raised his arms to his face, desperately trying to shield himself, but every shred of energy had left him, and his arms fell limply to his sides.

He lay unable to move, any strength within him eradicated by extreme cold and exhaustion. His head lolled to the side, rain running down his face. He suddenly felt so very tired. He’d just close his eyes for a moment, wait until the rain let up, then he’d get up and try to find his way back to the manor. His chest felt heavy, so heavy that even taking a breath was arduous. Yes, he’d just lay here a while and wait for the storm to pass.

Just lay here.

Just for a little while.

Warmth started to spread through him, like he’d been dipped in a lovely hot bath. He smiled weakly, enjoying the sensation after being cold for so long. He heard his name in the distance. Why would someone be calling for him? It was probably the Professor, yelling at him to get out of bed. But Harry was warm and cozy, and he had no intention of getting up just yet. He was going to lie here in the soft, warm blankets and ignore him. To heck with Snape.

There was his name again, called out from far away, so faint he almost wasn’t sure if he heard it at all.

“Go ‘way.” he murmured. Snape sure could be annoying, waking him up when he was so nice and sleepy. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep. He was so tired.

So very tired.

“Harry?!”

Craig caught sight of the boy through the trees, almost completely covered in mud, lying dangerously still. He ran towards the body, falling to his knees and gingerly feeling Harry’s neck for a pulse. He knelt motionless, his fingers pressed to the boy’s throat as he desperately tried to feel a pulse while the storm raged around them.

He felt nothing.

Gathering the boy to his chest, Craig rose to his feet and with a quickness only bestowed to those in the most formidable of situations, he ran through the trees towards the house, Harry Potter lying limp in his arms.