“Honestly Ron, if you can’t be bothered to send me even one owl this summer, I’ll have lost all faith in you completely.” Hermione said haughtily.

Ron rolled his eyes at his friend then gave her an imploring gaze from across the carriage.

“Come on ‘Mione, you know I’m terrible at writing, and nothing exciting ever happens during the summer. What am I going to send you a bloody owl about anyway; what my Mum’s making for tea?”

Hermione sighed dramatically.

“Oh I don’t know Ron, what about ‘Hello’ for starters, then perhaps a ‘How are you?’”

Harry couldn’t help the brief smile that crossed his face at Hermione’s indignation. It was fleeting, tugging at the corners of his mouth for only a moment before his face reverted to its former melancholy state. His eyes never left the window, not really seeing the beauty of the landscape as the Hogwarts Express drew him farther and farther from the safety of the school. He was lost in a jumble of emotions and memories, only half listening to his friend’s banter.

The last weeks of school were always the hardest for Harry. The tight knot in his stomach made it almost impossible to eat, and anything he did manage to get down felt like a heavy lead weight in his gut, making him feel nauseas. Nightmares plagued his sleep to the point where he’d done everything in his power to stay awake, and he’d taken to pacing circles in the common room all night just to keep from sleeping.

His friends noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, the pallor that crept into his face, his increasing tenseness and inability to concentrate. They both knew the horror that awaited Harry this summer, though he had sworn them both to secrecy, and a Wizard’s oath at that, something they begrudgingly agreed to, but only after Harry’s solemn pleas.

His teachers had noticed the changes in him too, it was hard not to. McGonagall was insufferable, making such a huge deal about the school term coming to a close and how wonderful it would be for the students to see their families. Harry wished he was an expert at Transfiguration so he could turn the professor into a houseplant or a jug of pumpkin juice, just something without a mouth would’ve been fine, anything to stop the woman from prattling on.

She’d even asked Harry to stay behind after class. He’d been panic stricken at first, imagining being dragged to Dumbledore’s office and probed for information until he cracked under the pressure. But it wasn’t like that at all. She’d come at him with some foolishness about being there for Harry if he needed her, and that if he ever wanted to talk that McGonagall was there to listen.

Harry had played along and told his teacher that she was sad to be leaving his friends and something about it being so unfortunate that he wouldn’t get to see them this summer, and McGonagall had bought it hook line and sinker; patting Harry on the shoulder, not noticing him flinch.

She’d left him alone after that.

“You never give Harry a hard time about sending owls.” Ron mumbled, breaking the silence and folding his arms across his chest in a huff. Hermione shot him a heated look.

“You know why Harry can’t send owls out.” she hissed.

Ron’s shoulders slumped as the gravity of his friend’s situation came back to him.

“Aw sorry mate, I didn’t mean it like that.” he said to Harry, who was still staring out the window at the countryside, lost in the sound of the train as it raced down the track.

With every passing second it brought him closer to King’s Cross Station; closer to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia and ridiculously overweight Dudley. Closer to missing meals, being punished for no reason, and closer to being the furthest away from his real home, Hogwarts, as he could possibly be.

Hearing his name, he turned towards the conversation.

“Huh?” he asked, eyebrows raised. Ron looked over at Hermione, who placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking about the summer, aren’t you?” It was more of a statement than a question. Harry offered her a small smile.

“It won’t be that bad, Hermione.” he said softly, trying to sound encouraging, but he just ended up sounding rather pitiful. Ron leaned in then, and gave Harry a light slap on the knee.

“I’ll send Errol.” he said brightly. “You can write back through him.” Then Ron frowned. “’Cept he’s not really good with directions.” he said thoughtfully. “And he’s pretty much blind, and bloody stupid at that. And he can’t really fly more than twenty feet without smashing into something” He looked up and gave Harry a weak smile of his own. He shrugged, not really knowing what to say next.

Harry chuckled at his friend’s clumsy attempt to cheer him up. Leave it to Ron to say something completely stupid and at the same time totally truthful. Harry knew he’d be getting no owls this summer, and he’d be sending none out. Not if Uncle Vernon had anything to say about it.

The summer would be as it had always been. He’d get his impossibly long list of chores as always, and he’d spend the day trying against all odds to finish them. Then Dudley would come along and try to ruin whatever job Harry was trying to get finished. Then, if by some miracle Harry actually did get all his tasks done, Uncle Vernon would accuse him of using his “freakish witchcraft” and stuff him in the cupboard. If he was lucky, Uncle Vernon wouldn’t take the belt to him.

But then again, Harry Potter wasn’t exactly the luckiest person alive.

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The train lurched slightly as it came to rest at Platform 9 ¾. Harry begrudgingly pulled his bag down from the rack and picked up Hedwig’s cage. He followed his friends down the hallway when suddenly Hermione came to an abrupt stop, causing Ron to stumble into her, and in turn Harry into Ron.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron said loudly, righting himself.

“Look!” exclaimed Hermione, ignoring Ron’s outburst. She pointed out to the platform. “Look its Snape! He must have come in on the train. I didn’t think teachers took the express. I wonder where on earth he’s going!”

Harry ducked his head to look out the window. Sure enough there was Professor Snape stalking away from the train into the crowd. Merlin, couldn’t the man even walk normally? He wore his usual black attire of course, though he was without a cape. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Snape even owned anything that wasn’t black. He imagined Snape relaxing in the dungeons wearing magenta trousers and a canary yellow shirt.

Actually, it would have to be green being a Slytherin and all, and Harry almost burst into giggles at the mental image of Snape gravely stirring a cauldron wearing bright green trousers and a festive lime coloured shirt.

Ron rolled his eyes.

“Who cares!” he exclaimed. “He could be going to McDoogals for a Big Mac and chips for all I care. Its summer hols, ‘Mione, who cares what dodgy old Snape is doing.”

Hermione threw him a cursed glance and continued her stride down the passage way.

Harry stifled a giggle.

“It’s called McDonald’s, Ron.” he said, smiling, and Ron waved a dismissive hand as he followed Hermione down the corridor.

He was going to miss his friend’s mock fights. He even decided he’d miss Hermione’s constant nagging, though she referred to it as ‘persistent encouragement’.

They stepped down onto the platform where Mrs. Weasley was already waiting; waving frantically each time she spotted one of her children spilling off the train.

“Ron dear!” she called, and Harry stifled another giggle as Ron moaned beside him. Harry watched as Mrs. Weasley enveloped her son in a hug. His heart clenched a little, wishing one day he might be received in such a caring fashion by his family. When Harry had arrived home last year, Aunt Petunia had given him a dirty look accompanied by a “hrmph” noise. She’d ignored him the rest of the evening and sent him to his cupboard without supper.

Suddenly Harry was pulled from his reverie by Mrs. Weasley throwing her arms around him and squeezing him so tight he emitted a little squeak.

“How are you Harry dear?” she asked, letting go of the boy and smoothing down his hair. Harry offered her his brightest smile, trying to ignore the nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want Mrs. Weasley to worry.

“I’m great, thank you Ma’am.”

Mrs. Weasley clucked happily.

“Such a lovely boy. Such a lovely, polite boy.” she grinned, patting Harry’s cheek gently. Behind her Ron rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Do have a lovely summer Harry.” Mrs. Weasley said kindly, and Harry knew she meant it. She really did want him to have a lovely summer. The nervous feeling turned to a nervous sad feeling as he watched Ron’s Mother bustling about getting her children in order. He wished he was going home with her. He really did.

“It’ll be over before you know it.” Ron had whispered to him before giving him a pat on the arm, then following his family off and around the corner.

Harry turned to Hermione who was standing a few feet away with her parents. Sighing, he picked up Hedwig’s cage and brought his face up to the bars.

“Be good, girl.” he said softly. “I’ll see you at the end of the summer.” Hedwig gave him a playful nip through the bars, and hooted softly. He slowly handed the cage to Hermione, who gave him a hopeful smile.

“I’ll take good care of her, Harry.” she said, giving him a hug almost as tight as Mrs. Weasley had. Before letting him go she whispered in his ear. “I’m sorry Harry. If there was any way…” but she broke off, a sob catching in her throat. Harry tightened his grip around his friend.

“I know.” he whispered back. “I know.”

They released each other, and Harry stood watching as Hermione’s parents led her through the swarming crowd. Hermione looked back three times, catching his eyes each time and giving a supportive smile or a little wave.

Then she was gone.

Harry stood alone on the platform, people rushing past him to catch their trains. None of them noticing the thin little boy with disheveled hair and clothes two sizes too big.

Dejected, he pulled his trunk to a bench close to the car park. If Uncle Vernon had to search for him there’d be hell to pay. He sat down and leaned his elbows on top of the trunk, propping his head in his hands.

And so he waited.

Hours passed.

Five of them actually.

A woman walked past, her eyes shifting to him for a moment. Her steps slowed slightly and Harry smiled cheerfully at her, praying she didn’t stop. She was the fourth person to give him such a wary look, and it was starting to grate on his nerves. So what if he was sitting alone? He was waiting for his ride for goodness sakes. They were acting like he was two, not twelve.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably on the hard bench. The clock hanging above the ticket counter read 3:16pm. Uncle Vernon had been late last year too, though, he remembered. He frowned as he recalled his Uncle’s words when he had shown up four hours late the year before.

“If you thought I was going to get up early and drive all the way into London just to pick up the likes of you, you’ve got another thing coming, boy. You’re damn lucky I came at all! If I had my way, you’d be spending your summer at a work camp!”

Harry sighed and shifted again. His left leg had gone to sleep, so he stood and shook it a little to get the blood flowing. He wiggled his toes as the pins-and-needles sensation crept up his calf.

His stomach growled and he wished he’d bought something from the train. He’d been too depressed to eat much at breakfast, even though he knew it would be his last decent meal for the next few months. He couldn’t even buy a bag of crisps at the station kiosk as he had no muggle money on him. He had a galleon in his trunk, not that it would help him much.

He looked back over at the clock, then at the ticket desk. Suddenly an idea struck him. He jogged the few yards to the ticket window. The man behind the counter looked down at him “Where to?” he asked.

“Oh, no, nowhere, I’m sorry.” Harry stammered, then as politely as he could, asked “May I please borrow your phone book?” The man responded with a little murmur of consent and pulled the phone book off the shelf next to him. He slid it across the counter to the boy. Harry thanked him and pulled the heavy book to the side. After a quick look back at his trunk to make sure it was safe, he began flipping though the pages, soon stopping at the G’s. He drew his finger down the page, whispering each name as he reached it.

“Grady…Grallow…Grange…ah, Granger!” Harry frowned. There had to be over 60 Grangers listed! Exasperated, Harry let his head fall against the page. He had no idea what area Hermione lived in. That was the problem with owl post he thought dejectedly. No addresses, just a verbal command to your owl and off they went. He lifted his head and slammed the book closed with a dull thud. He returned it to the man in the ticket booth and walked slowly back to his seat.

He sat back down on the bench and ran his hands through his hair. Leaning back, he slouched so his legs dangled, and began to kick idly at his trunk.

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Harry glanced over at the clock for what seemed the hundredth time. 8:24pm and still no sign of Uncle Vernon. What if he didn’t get the owl? He thought to himself. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if the owl delivering the letter was shooed away, or worse. His Uncle had hated owls with a passion ever since the flock of them had delivered his first letter from Hogwarts two years ago. Actually Uncle Vernon was about as fond of owls as he was of magic, and of Harry. In fact, if Uncle Vernon could erase three things from existence, it would likely be owls, magic, and Harry. Though likely not in that order, Harry mused. It would probably go Harry, then magic, then…

“Mr. Potter!”

The familiar sharp tone snapped Harry out of his thoughts, cutting through him like a hot knife through a flobberworm. He froze, cringing, unwilling to look up. Damn, damn, damn! Of all the people to find him like this, it had to be Snape.

“Mr. Potter. Though I am regrettably used to your atrocious manners, kindly attempt to show at least some decorum, and look at me when I am addressing you.”

Slowly, Harry’s eyes trailed across the floor, coming to rest on Snape’s shoes. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he dragged his eyes upwards until he met the man’s stern glare. He groaned inwardly. Oh this was just fabulous. How on earth was he going to explain sitting alone at this time of night?

“Um…” he started, not really knowing if he should tell Snape the truth or not. He could just imagine the look of amusement on his Professor’s face at the idea that Harry’s relatives couldn’t even be bothered to pick him up. He’d likely tell all his little Slytherins too, the nasty bastard.

“Um...” he repeated; his cheeks reddening as Snape rolled his eyes.

“Articulate indeed.” the man sneered. “Pray tell, why are you sitting without supervision at this hour of the evening?” Snape’s lip curled into a snarl. “Let me guess, your relative’s are driving the limousine up to the front door? Too good to drag your case a few yards are you Potter? But I imagine the Golden Boy expects his luggage to be carried for him, yes?” Snape folded his arms across his chest, smirking.

Harry exhaled noisily, trying not to let his Professor see the anger welling up in him. He had learned long ago that to show your emotions only made you more of a target, more open to being hurt. Uncle Vernon had made sure of that.

There was no way around it now. Snape was standing there like a vulture hovering over a carcass. He was going to have to tell the man the truth. He couldn’t sit here all night and he had no idea how to get to Surrey, or back to Hogwarts.

“I don’t think they’re coming.” he said softly.

“Speak up, Potter.” came the gruff reply. “You are speaking to a teacher, not whispering sweet nothings to one of your simpering fans.”

Harry angrily balled his hands into fists behind his back. Why did Snape have to be such a prat?

“I don’t think they’re coming, Sir.” he said a little more forcefully before breaking eye contact with his teacher and looking to the floor in embarrassment.

Snape sighed. It was the same sigh he used when Neville botched yet another potion or Hermione frantically waved her hand in answer to a question. It was Snape’s non-verbal way of saying you were a complete idiot, and that putting up with you was akin to torture. Harry knew that sigh well, having heard it numerous times during Potions class.

“Move, Potter.”

Harry looked up in confusion. “Sir?”

There was another sigh. “I said move, Mr. Potter. Surely you’re familiar with the English language? Or are you as abominable at English as you are at potion making?” the Professor said callously. “Collect your luggage and come with me. I’m taking you home.” And with that he began to stride away from Harry, who sat looking at his teacher with surprise.

“Go with you?” Harry muttered under his breath, his brow furrowing into a scowl. “I’d rather go with a Dementor.” But he scrambled to his feet anyway, and clutching the handle on his trunk, he began dragging it after Snape, who was already halfway across the terminal and heading into the men’s toilets.

Harry watched his teacher enter the facilities, and slowed to a stop. What was this, a bathroom break? Do vampires even use the bathroom? Harry snickered softly, and the apprehension he was feeling dissipated a little, but only for a moment. Going home to his relatives was bad enough, but being taken there by Snape was next to intolerable.

He turned and looked back towards the front door of the terminal just in case Uncle Vernon had arrived. He wasn’t sure if he’d be relieved or not to see his Uncle standing there. Harry pursed his lips in thought. What would be more hideous, spending the summer with Uncle Vernon or Professor Snape he wondered? Uncle Vernon would take the belt to him and make him work like a field mule, but Snape…hmm what would Snape do? Harry imagined being chained in a dark dungeon surrounded by bubbling cauldrons and being spoon fed revolting potions. He hadn’t a clue what Snape did with his summers, and he didn’t want to find out.

“Mr. Potter!” Harry whirled around to see his Professor standing in the bathroom doorway. “Are you completely unable to follow simple instructions? he snapped. “I said come with me. I did not say dawdle outside like an idiot!”

Harry didn’t move. “Into the bathroom, Sir?” he asked. There was no way he was going into a secluded area with Snape. He wasn’t the smartest person in the world, but he wasn’t that stupid.

Glaring, Snape took a few steps towards the boy, leaned into him and grabbed his arm so hard that Harry gave a little gasp. “Mr. Potter, my patience is fading rapidly.” Snape hissed, his voice a deadly whisper. “If you do not obey me this instant, you will be very sorry indeed.” His arm moved to take the handle of Harry’s trunk. At the sight of a hand moving toward him, Harry couldn’t help but flinch violently, pulling his arm out of the man’s grip and taking a jerky step back.

Harry’s eyes widened as he realized what had just happened. His eyes met the Professors and for a moment the two simply stared at each other, one in horror and the other in confusion. A second later Harry’s eyes were on the floor, his face crimson with embarrassment.

“Sorry.” Harry said his voice almost inaudible.

Snape regarded the boy for a moment before tipping the trunk onto its wheels. He looked back at Harry before he spoke in a voice that was slightly less cutting than before.

“Come.”

He pulled the trunk into the bathroom with Harry following behind. Harry’s nose wrinkled at the smell of bathroom salts and chemicals. Only one of the florescent lights in the ceiling was working, and it was flickering madly in the dimly lit room. It looked like something out of a horror movie.

Glancing at the door, Snape pulled his wand from within his robes and waved it at Harry’s trunk, muttering a spell. The trunk shuddered a little and then began to shrink down to the size of a matchbox. He reached down and picked it up, then along with his wand, deposited it back into the folds of his robes. Harry watched with interest, having never seen the spell performed before, though Hermione had brought a book on shrinking spells to the common room one day and insisted that they practice it. They managed to mutilate several innocent pairs of shoes before Hermione sheepishly returned the tome to the library.

Snape extended his hand to Harry who eyed it warily, making no move to take it.

“Mr. Potter, we are about to apparate to your home. You will need to be in bodily contact with me in order to make the journey possible.” Harry noticed he hadn’t spoken with his usual icy tone. He hadn’t believed it were possible, but Snape could almost sound like a normal human being when he wasn’t busy being a complete ass.

Slowly he reached out and took the Professor’s hand. He cringed slightly when Snape pulled him roughly to his side and draped his arm around Harry’s back. If there was one position Harry would never have thought himself in, this was it, being embraced by the man he hated most in the world. Actually, he didn’t hate him the absolute most; that honor went to his Uncle, but Snape was pretty close behind.

“Close your eyes.” the Professor warned. “The trip will be…unsettling.” Harry obeyed and suddenly there was a rushing sound in his ears and a horrible tugging feeling in his stomach. A terrible floating sensation struck him and he felt like he was falling, wind whipping his hair against his face, and he panicked, grabbing at Snape’s arm frantically.

Then as quickly as it began, it was over, and Harry found himself slamming to the ground on his knees, the wind knocked out of him. He bent his head to the grass and inhaled the earthy scent as he drew in a ragged breath, his fingers burrowing into the soft green blades. His stomach tightened and he begged himself not to throw up.

He could see Snape’s black shoes out of the corner of his eye, but the man made no move to assist him. After a few moments Harry shakily pushed himself to his feet. He took a deep breath and released it, glancing over at the Professor, who was staring at him in disapproval.

“Finished?” Snape asked snidely, and Harry gave a small nod, ignoring the sarcasm in the man’s voice. So much for Snape being human.

He looked around at the familiar homes that dotted Privet Drive. They had apparated into the dark alley a few houses down from the Dursley’s home. Harry didn’t think of it as his home. He knew better than that.

“Which one is it, Potter?” and Harry pointed to number four. As they walked toward the house Harry frowned. Why was it so dark? Not a single light was on, not even the porch light which Aunty Petunia never turned off as a security measure. Maybe they had gone to pick him up after all Harry thought, panicking. Oh God, there would be hell to pay if they arrived at the train station to discover he was missing. Then they’d come home and find him here and he’d have to explain how he arrived, and Uncle Vernon would go absolutely mental if he found out Harry had returned home by magical means.

Professor Snape glanced over at Harry, noticing the sudden change. The boy’s breathing had quickened and he fidgeted with his hands manically, lacing and unlacing his fingers, looking over his shoulder at the road as if expecting Voldemort himself to appear out of the darkness. He could feel the fear coming off the boy in waves. His brow knit slightly, what on earth was the idiot boy so scared of?

Turning back to the door he knocked loudly several times. Expecting no answer, and getting just that, he stepped over to the living room window and peered through the glass, but he could see nothing through the thick curtains.

Just then a man’s voice called out. “Oi! What are you up to?”

Harry jumped nervously and Snape stepped away from the window, turning towards the voice. The Dursley’s neighbor stood on his front porch wearing a yellow dressing gown. He looked at the pair suspiciously.

“I am delivering the Dursley’s nephew.” Snape stated, and the man looked over at Harry.

“You’ll be waiting a while then,” he replied. “They’ve gone on ‘oliday. Won’t be back for six weeks.”

Snape looked over at Harry who gave a confused shrug.

“I’m watching their place while they’re gone,” the man continued. “and they didn’t’ tell me about no nephew.”

“He resides in their home.” Snape retorted, growing annoyed. “They were expecting his return from school.”

The man shook his head. “I’ve lived ‘ere for 16 years, mate, and I’ve never seen no one else but Vernon, his missus, and their lad. Now you move on before I call the coppers!”

Snape bristled in anger at being referred to in such a slang term. Mate indeed! It was all he could do not to withdraw his wand and hex the man into next week. Instead, he turned swiftly and strode across the grass and down the sidewalk.

Harry followed, his head lowered in humiliation. He didn’t care that the Dursley’s had left. In fact, he was happier than he’d been in ages, knowing for the first time in years he wasn’t going to be locked up like an animal, half starved, and beaten mercilessly. It was Snape knowing that made him feel so ashamed.

He could just imagine the Professor gathering his Slytherins around the common room, telling them all how Harry’s relatives had ditched him for the summer while they relaxed in…..where had they gone anyway? Probably Disneyland Harry thought bitterly. Dudley was always going on about the place, and every time a travel advertisement came on TV he would whine about wanting to go and Aunt Petunia would call him her ‘little Dudders’ and tell him that they weren’t able to take a filthy little freak on vacation, and it was Harry’s fault they couldn’t’ go anywhere. Then Dudley would get his little friends together and Harry would end up bloody and beaten in the back yard.

It didn’t matter what it was. It was always Harry’s fault.

Harry didn’t realize he was lagging so far behind. Snape had already reached the alleyway, and had turned to watch the boy walk slowly after him. He studied him for a moment, and he caught a glimpse of his face. He looked so hopeless.

Snape thought back to the incident at the train station when Harry had pulled away from him so fearfully. It was obvious by his reaction that he’d been hit before. Over the years the man had seen many a Slytherin exhibit the same signs of abuse, though he never thought in a million lifetimes that Dumbledore’s Golden Boy would be a victim of mistreatment.

The boy stopped a few feet from him, his eyes meeting his teachers momentarily as the Professor reached to pull the boy against him once again.

Snape hadn’t been oblivious to Harry’s recent change in behaviour. He’d seen the boy in the Great Hall, pushing his food around his plate, staring at his uneaten fare with shoulders hunched in defeat. He’d noticed his absences from meals altogether, and his inability to concentrate in class. He looked like walking death, with pale skin and hollow eyes. He knew the signs of sleep deprivation, and Harry Potter was a classic illustration.

Normally he wouldn’t have given a second thought to the Boy Who Lived. His blind hatred of the boy’s Father was so strong that feeling anything other than contempt for James Potter’s son was next to impossible. He had been sure that McGonagall was dealing with whatever childish drama was playing out in the world of Gryffindor, but after what he had witnessed only minutes before, he wasn’t so sure.

He felt Harry’s small frame stiffen under his touch as he slipped his arm around the boy’s shoulders.

He would return with the boy to Hogwarts, and speak to Albus. Though it was highly irregular to allow a student to remain at the school during holidays without parental consent, it was unlikely that Harry’s family would have any objections, given the fact that they had all but abandoned him.

Snape muttered the apparition spell and with a small pop the two were gone.

Though Harry was prepared for the landing this time, he still found himself staring at the pebbled ground on his hands and knees gasping for breath. He looked up to see Hogwarts castle nestled majestically amid the countryside, the moonlight painting it in a regal silvery hue.

He gave himself a moment to catch his breath when suddenly Snape reached down and took him by the arm, pulling him gently to his feet.

Harry tried to meet the man’s eyes, but he was still quite humiliated by their trip to Little Whinging.

“Thank you, Sir” he said softly, his eyes on the man’s chest.

“Let’s go Potter.” Snape replied, and started off towards the castle. Harry followed, stumbling every now and then over loose rocks as they made their way up to the front door of the castle.

Every so often Snape glanced down at the child as he tried to keep up with the Professor’s long strides. He noticed Harry rubbing at his temple, most likely a headache from apparating. He’d give the boy a potion once he’d spoken to the Headmaster.

Their footsteps echoed in the Great Hall as the pair made their way across the room and up the stairs, coming to a halt at the Headmaster’s door. The gargoyle statue looked at them with steely eyes as it waited for the password. Snape snorted. “Jellybabies” he snarled, completely unimpressed with Dumbledore’s choice of code this month.

Harry managed a small smile at Snape’s annoyance before grimacing and rubbing at his temples yet again. The headache had started to build after they arrived at Privet Drive, and was slowly blossoming into an intense migraine. It felt like sharp blades were scraping out the inside of his skull.

He hoped the meeting with the Headmaster went quickly so he could go back to his room and deal with his pain alone. It was getting harder to block it out, and his vision was starting to blur from the extreme throbbing. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on looking past the pain as he followed Professor Snape up the winding staircase to Dumbledore’s office.

When they reached the top the Headmaster’s door was already open. They walked inside to see the old wizard levitating a large trunk across the room. He opened the lid and placed several stacks of papers inside before closing the lid and shrinking the trunk down to matchbook size. He looked up and smiled.

“Severus, Harry, how lovely to see you!” he exclaimed, not seeming to be at all concerned to see Harry returned to the school on the first day of holidays. “Lemon drop?” he asked, motioning to the crystal bowl on his desk which was almost overflowing with tiny yellow sweets.

Professor Snape ignored his offer, and Harry smiled faintly and shook his head.

“No thank you Sir.” he replied, his voice weak. Dumbledore’s eyes clouded over with concern.

“Harry, are you ill?” he asked, glancing at Snape for his answer, as the man had obviously brought Harry to him for a reason. Perhaps this was it.

Harry balked at the Headmaster’s change in tone and he shook his head a little more forcefully than he would have liked. His head felt like it was going to come off his neck. He forced a bright smile at the older wizard.

“I’m fine, Sir.” he insisted. “Just a bit tired after my trip.”

“Which is why we are here, Headmaster.” Snape interjected, seeing Harry’s obvious distress. Something was definitely wrong with the boy.

Harry was grateful for Snape’s interruption, though it felt completely un-natural to feel appreciation towards someone he hated so much, and who in turn hated him. He’d noticed since they left Privet Drive however; that Snape had been noticeably more kind, which worried Harry more than anything. The only thing creepier than a mean Snape, was a kind Snape.

He fell into the chair behind him and closed his eyes. He rubbed at them with his fists then ran a hand through his hair. There was a dull thumping inside his head, and the whooshing of his heartbeat in his ears almost drowned out the two wizards who seemed to be embroiled in intense conversation. He opened his eyes to see Dumbledore smiling, waving an arm around the office whilst a furious Snape slammed both hands down on the desk, sending lemon drops cascading onto the floor.

“This is ridiculous!” Snape growled. “Professor, I have much work to do this summer. I cannot be expected to play babysitter to Potter. I have important potions to brew, many of which cannot be left unattended. I will not squander any more of my time with an impertinent Gryffindor!” he finished, almost shouting now.

Harry frowned. There was the Snape he remembered. Rotten to the core. He was going to get it now, yelling at the Headmaster like that, and Harry perked up in anticipation of Snape’s comeuppance. But Professor Dumbledore only smiled, his eyes twinkling merrily. He really could pass for a doddering old fool when he wanted to, Harry thought.

“My dear Severus,” he said calmly, waving his hand and sending the spilled sweets into the waste basket. “The castle will be completely empty, and the wards we will have in place will prevent him from moving even from room to room.” He glanced over at Harry, still smiling. “Now, I am sure Harry will be on his best behaviour, won’t you Harry?”

Harry nodded mutely. He’d missed much of the conversation due to focusing on his headache, and he wasn’t quite clear on what was going on. He was staying in the castle then? He’d be quite happy to remain in the Gryffindor bedroom for the summer. It sure beat a cupboard, and the house elves could bring him whatever he needed. A nice peaceful summer all by himself? It actually sounded quite lovely, well, minus the nightmares and his current pounding headache, but he’d gotten through worse on his own.

Suddenly Snape grabbed his arm and jerked Harry out of the chair. Harry turned around and gave the Headmaster a smile and a nod before Snape dragged him out the door and down the stairs.

He pulled out of Snape’s grip as they burst out into the hallway. The Professor didn’t even look at him as he continued down the hall at a clipped pace. Harry could see the man clenching and unclenching his fists. Whatever he and Dumbledore had spoken about, Snape was livid because of it.

Harry suddenly stopped. Where on earth were they going anyway? This wasn’t the way to the Gryffindor tower.

“Sir?” he called hesitantly. He flinched as his raised voice caused waves of pain through his head. “Sir, my trunk?” Snape stopped abruptly and spun around, his eyes boring into the boy.

“Um, I can take it up to my room, Sir.” he offered. He didn’t want to say anything to piss Snape off anymore than he already was. After years of dealing with Uncle Vernon, Harry was well practiced in handling someone who wanted to hurt him.

Snape’s eyes narrowed and he took a few steps towards Harry, who instinctively took a few steps back, his eyes widening in fear.

“Mr. Potter, were you not listening to anything that went on in Professor Dumbledore’s office?” Snape asked; his fury evident in his tone. Harry didn’t answer, but shook his head slightly. He’d been too busy trying to keep his head from exploding from the pain.

Snape paused. Harry didn’t look so good. In fact, he looked like he was going to pass out any moment. His eyes were glassy and his breaths came in short, rapid gasps. His face glistened with sweat. Then he remembered; he was going to get Harry a headache potion. The pain the boy was surely feeling must be almost blinding now. Snape cursed under his breath, earning a shudder from the boy.

“Mr. Potter.” Snape said softly. “You will accompany me to my quarters where I will give you a pain potion. The headache you are undoubtedly battling is an after effect of your first apparation.” He paused before he spoke again because his next words were ones he didn’t say very often. “I am…regretful for not having tended to it sooner.”

Harry nodded slowly. If he hadn’t been in such colossal pain he would have been shocked at Snape’s attempt at kindness. He followed Snape as he began to wind down the corridors into the depths of the castle, finally stopping at the door to Snape’s quarters.

The Professor muttered a password and pushed open the heavy stone door, and Harry found himself standing in a dark hallway.

“This way, Mr. Potter.”

Snape’s living room was different than Harry imagined, but of course Harry had imagined chains and torture devices lining the walls, not dark wooden bookcases filled with tomes. There was a fireplace, which Snape lit with a flick of his wand as he walked into another room, presumably to get Harry’s potion. A beautiful mahogany coffee table sat in front of a worn but comfortable looking brown couch, which, to Harry’s surprise, had a forest green and cream coloured knitted afghan thrown over it. He never saw Snape as an afghan kind of person. It must have been a gift from one of the Slytherins.

Two tall antique lamps flanked the couch, their shades intricately decorated in warm golden brown beadwork, and a very old straight-backed reading chair sat close to one of the bookshelves. A woven oriental rug covered the floor, its colours complimenting the rest of the décor. Harry raised his eyebrows as he looked around the room. It felt bizarre to think it, but Snape sure could decorate.

Just then the Professor returned holding a vial of blue liquid. He handed it to Harry who looked a little nervous at the idea of taking a potion made by the man.

“Perhaps you should sit down?” Snape asked, motioning to the couch, and Harry obeyed, sinking into the cushions warily. He sat staring at the vial for a moment, then deciding the pain in his head outweighed the risk of drinking Snape’s potion; he tilted his head back and downed the contents of the vial in one gulp. He grimaced at the foul taste before handing the vial back to the Professor. Almost instantly the pain in his head began to recede.

Almost a minute went by before Harry realized that the Professor was standing staring at him oddly. Snape lifted the vial and looked at it in the light as if to make sure it was empty. He looked back at Harry, who was now starting to feel very anxious at his teacher’s strange behaviour. Snape sighed.

“Mr. Potter, kindly do not fight the effect of the potion.”

Harry frowned. What on earth was Snape going on about?

“Um, it did work, Professor.” he said, confused. His head really did feel loads better.

Snape’s brow furrowed as he continued to stare at the boy. He glanced at the wall clock above the mantle, then back to Harry again, then at the empty vial, then again at the clock, and then back to Harry, who by now was almost beside himself with apprehension. Harry stared at Snape with fear in his eyes. He could see the man’s foot tapping impatiently. What the hell was he waiting for?

Suddenly fatigue hit Harry like a brick wall. His eyelids drooped and he slumped sideways into the soft couch cushions. His body felt as if it were made of lead. He didn’t even have the presence of mind to panic.

“Ah” Snape said matter-of-factly. “There we go.”

Harry barely felt Snape remove his glasses then pull the afghan off the back of the couch and drape it over his prone body. His vision swam as he watched Snape cross the room and disappear through a door.

He didn’t even have the strength to scowl as he fell into a deep sleep.

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.

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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.

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.”

As they neared the manor, Harry got a sense of how magnificent the place was. There were two stories, with one more, undoubtedly, underground. It wouldn’t be a Snape family home without a dungeon, Harry thought. Almost the entire building was composed of gray stone, and in the overcast afternoon, it looked quite cold and harsh. The roof of the first floor was flat, and the second, smaller floor was perched on top, though it wasn’t really small per say, as Harry counted at least four huge rooms on the side facing him, their windows surrounded by olive green shutters.

Snape led him up one of two wide stone staircases that met up together behind a centre fountain. Tall, grey stone columns sheltered in ivy lined the walk to the front door. Snape placed his palm against the door and whispered a string of Latin words.

“Ego reverto. Patefacio enim tui erus.”

The huge doors gave off a brief golden glow, and letting go of Harry’s arm, the Professor pushed open the heavy oak door and motioned the boy into the foyer. Inside, as if expecting them, stood a house elf wearing a light pink pillow case, her willowy ears bobbing against her leathery russet skin as she hopped from one foot to the other. She stared up at Harry with large dusky blue eyes and wrung her hands together anxiously, before tilting her head and looking at the Professor in anticipation.

“Della, this is Mr. Potter. He will be joining me for the remainder of the summer. Have the corner room made up immediately.”

The elf emitted a little squeak and nodded quickly, and then with a barely audible pop, she was gone.

Snape led Harry around the corner into a large sitting room. It was much like his school quarters, Harry noticed, decorated in warm auburns accented with cream and rich bronze, with a large woven rug on the hardwood floor and a roaring fire in the hearth. Multiple candelabras lit the room, their soft glow giving the area an ethereal appearance. It was quite beautiful really, definitely not the sort of room Harry would have expected, but it seemed he was finding out that the Professor was not quite the man he expected, either. He sank wearily onto the couch, which was one of two in the room, the same kind that sat in the Professor’s quarters back at Hogwarts. Harry leaned back against a comfy throw cushion and stared into the fireplace. His eyes began to droop as fingers of flame flicked around the fireplace, as if trying to catch a wildly floating ember.

Harry pondered the last twenty four hours. So far he’d been abandoned, drugged, dragged half way across the country, and almost tossed off a cliff. Add to that a hot and cold running Snape, who one minute seemed almost like he had a heart, then the next acted like he wanted to rip Harry to pieces. The alarm and confusion of the last day made for one absolutely spent young man.

Harry wasn’t the only one deep in thought. Severus stood in the doorway as he waited for Della to return from arranging the spare room. He glanced over at Harry, who looked so small and thin against the large settee. He looked exhausted, his eyes heavy lidded as he stared into the fire. There would be no need for a sleeping potion at this rate. He watched as Harry’s head started to fall slowly to his chest. Suddenly the boy twitched sharply, opening his eyes wide and taking a deep breath. He was trying to stay awake, no doubt an ongoing ritual by the looks of the worn out child. Severus narrowed his eyes as he brooded over the incident at the cliff after they’d appeared in the meadow.

At first he’d thought the boy was terrified at being so close to the cliff’s edge, and Severus had told the silly child to move before he ended up dashed against the rocks. It was then he’d noticed the boy’s clenched fists, white knuckled with pressure, his chest heaving with uncontrolled breaths. He’d gone to him then and seen Harry’s glazed, unfocused eyes, his lips moving soundlessly, his face contorted in fear. It hadn’t been an aversion to heights. It hadn’t even been a panic attack. Severus stroked his chin thoughtfully. Potter had been through some sort of abuse. Even if the boy hadn’t all but hysterically blurted it out the night before, the fact that the child tensed at every touch and flinched at a raised hand was silent testimony to repeated brutality. The attack he’d witnessed earlier may have been some sort of flashback brought on by stress. Merlin knew the boy was one big ball of it.

A small popping sound alerted Severus to Della’s arrival, and he abandoned his thoughts of Potter’s issues for the moment.

“Mister Potter’s room is being ready, Master Snape,” the house elf said with a low bow, the tips of her lengthy ears gently dusting the floor.

“We will need a light lunch. Mr. Potter will be eating in his room,” Snape replied, dismissing the gangly elf to the kitchen. “Mr. Potter, accompany me if you please?”

He watched as the boy slowly drew himself to his feet and crossed the room. He followed the Professor out into the hall and up the staircase on the other side of the foyer. The shadowy hallway was barely illuminated by a few flickering candles, and Harry noticed several portraits hanging on the walls. They neared a painting of a particularly miserable looking man whose head moved to follow Harry as he grew closer. Harry slowed slightly before realizing the man’s eyes were only empty sockets, and he backed up against the opposite wall, his back scraping against the rock as he side stepped past the painting. He took a few quick steps to catch up to the Professor, who had come to a stop further down the hall.

“This,” Snape said, “is my private potions lab. This door leads to a passage between the floors of the house which ends in a room under the manor.”

Harry nodded, yup, he was right. Snape without a cold, murky dungeon was like Professor Dumbledore without his lemon drops. You just couldn’t have one without the other. Leaning closer to the wall, he could barely make out the edges of a door cut into the stone.

“Mr. Potter, I shall say this only once, and I expect you to take it to heart.”

He waited for Harry’s eyes to meet his before he spoke again in a slow and dangerously chilling voice.

“If I ever catch you past this door without my express permission, I will not be held responsible for my actions towards you.”

He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in.

“Do I make myself abundantly clear?”

Harry nodded quickly.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied, wondering instantly what was so special that it had to be hidden away behind a secret door in an underground chamber. Maybe top secret potions were being brewed, or maybe someone or something was down there! Some hideous experiment perhaps, like that movie Harry had listened to once as he lay locked away under the stairs while Dudley sat on his fat behind in the sitting room and munched on crisps. There was a man, a scientist, and he created a horrible monster and there was a lot of screaming, and Dudley had giggled like an idiot every time someone got killed by the thing. Maybe Snape had some sort of monst….

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry’s head whipped around to see that the Professor had already started off towards the end of the corridor. He took one last wondering look at the mysterious door, and followed.

“This is my room,” Snape said, gesturing at a closed door as they passed. “Though not as guarded as my potions lab, I assure you, Potter, that you will not be fond of the consequences should I find you within it. And this,” he finished, stopping at the last door at the end of the hall, “is your room during your stay.” He stepped back, allowing Harry to push open the door himself.

Harry’s eyes widened as he entered the bedroom. It was huge, at least triple the size of any bedroom at the Dursley’s. A massive king sized bed stood against one wall, a small table on either side, and on the other wall, a row of windows looked out over the front of the house. In the far corner was a door that led to a bathroom, and in the other corner stood a chair and a reading lamp.

“Wow,” Harry exclaimed under his breath.

“I take it this is to your satisfaction?” Snape asked, amused at the boy’s awe.

“Oh, yeah!” He replied, a hint of excitement in his voice. “I mean, yes, thank you, Sir.”

The exhilaration drained from him in an instant. He’d forgotten himself there for a moment. It was so easy to forget when Uncle Vernon wasn’t keeping him in line. For a second, his eyes met Snape’s as he tried to gage if the man was angry at him for his disrespect. Disrespect was not tolerated by Uncle Vernon. Disrespect meant a beating and the cupboard. Actually, pretty much everything meant a beating and the cupboard. Offenses included looking at Dudley, touching something that belonged to Dudley, not finishing a chore, breathing too loud, being alive, that sort of thing. He didn’t see the familiar flash of anger in Professor Snape’s eyes though. He broke eye contact and stared down at the floor. There was something in Snape’s eyes he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it made his throat tight and a funny sharp feeling start in his chest.

“Your things, Potter,” Snape demanded, holding out his hand.

Harry reached into his pocket and handed over the tiny trunk, which Snape spelled back to its normal size.

“Get changed. You’re having lunch, then you’re heading to bed for some much needed sleep.”

Harry froze in mid reach. Sleep. The word was like a bad omen.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied, forcing himself to keep from shaking as he lifted the trunk lid.

“I will return momentarily,” Snape said, as he walked out of the room, leaving the anxious boy rummaging though his belongings.

He pulled out one of his Dudley hand-me-downs, a rumpled and ripped tee shirt that served as his night wear. It was far too large to wear as a normal shirt since it hung down almost to his knees. He changed quickly, folding his clothes and stacking them to one side in his trunk. Not really knowing what to do next, he sat on the edge of his bed, nervously lacing and unlacing his fingers repeatedly. The horrid nervous feeling from yesterday was back, and it gnawed at his stomach like a frightened animal.

All of a sudden he felt the need to run. It was one of those fight or flight responses, like when Uncle Vernon was coming at him with his hand raised with that murderous look on his face, and Harry’s mind was screaming at him to get out-get out, and knew he could probably make it to the front door and out into the street before him. But every time, he stood there like an idiot, his chest a tight knot of fear, knowing exactly what was coming, and being so intensely afraid of it, so damn terrified that he would have given anything for his legs to obey him and carry him out of that house and down the street and across town and the country and the ocean and the earth. Then afterwards, lying in the cupboard, his body on fire with pain, barely able to breathe through the agony, he’d swear to whatever God was up there that next time, next time he was going to run.

He made the same promise the next time.

And the time after that.

After all those years, he never did manage to keep it.

But now, in Snape’s home of all places, where it wasn’t as easy as tearing out into the street and away, he was actually considering making a break for it. His left leg twitched as if to egg him on and Harry eyed the open door, his tongue sweeping across his lips nervously. Snape could be out there, just down the hall, or down the stairs, or coming out of his mysterious lab. No, it was better to wait. After all, he’d only just arrived and had no idea how big the island was, or if anyone else was here, or how he’d get away. He’d bide his time, explore the place, and then he’d make a plan.

Suddenly a pop sounded from out in the hallway, and Della came into view holding a tray. She nervously poked her nut brown head around the door and scanned the room.

“Um, Professor Snape isn’t here,” Harry offered.

Della didn’t reply, but gave a little squeak and trotted over to the bed, placing the tray on the bedside table.

“Your lunch, Mister Potter,” Della said in a high pitched voice.

She gave a low bow, then lifted her head and looked at Harry expectantly.

“Uh, Della right? Thank you,” Harry said, not sure what the little creature was wanting.

The house elf’s eyes suddenly became impossibly wide. She stood upright, emitted several very anxious sounding squeals and looked nervously at the bedroom door before disappearing with another pop. Harry sighed. She sure was a bizarre little thing. He glanced over at the tray she’d left him. A bowl of vegetable soup with small chunks of what he assumed was beef, a small salad, and a large glass of milk. He leaned over and sniffed at the soup, his stomach growling in protest at the thought of food. Harry frowned. He didn’t trust Snape’s soup as far as he could toss it. It was probably spiked with some sort of potion. Glancing at the door, Harry quickly scooped up the tray and hurried into the bathroom. He flipped up the lid of the toilet and poured the milk and soup into the bowl. He flushed, then all but ran back to the bed and set the tray back where it had been before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t flush the salad, but he’d make up something.

Seconds later, Snape returned holding a vial of pink fluid. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the same vial being produced for him the night before, the one that forced him into sleep, into his nightmares. He caught Snape’s eye, and the man opened his mouth to speak, but paused as a look of disgust came over his face.

“What on earth are you wearing, Potter?”

Harry looked down at himself, humiliated. It wasn’t his fault he had to wear this tattered old shirt to bed. He was lucky the Dursleys gave him any clothes at all.

“I don’t have any pajamas, Sir,” he said quietly, his cheeks reddening.

“That much is clear,” Snape said disdainfully. “I will remedy that tomorrow. I see you have eaten.”

“Uh, yes, Sir. It was good, thank you,” Harry said quickly, forgetting he was going to make something up about the salad. Oh, crap. “Oh, uh, I didn’t eat the salad. I’m sorry, Sir. Um…I didn’t like the dressing.”

He snuck a quick look at the salad, praying it even had dressing on it, he couldn’t actually remember. He hid a sigh of relief as he noticed the leaves glistening with balsamic vinegar, which ironically, was his favourite.

“It looks as if we will have to work on your dietary choices,” Snape replied. “For now,” he said, extending his hand with the potion, “You will take this.”

Harry stared at the vial, making no move to accept it. He felt his hands begin to tremble and he stuffed them under his rear, sitting on them. Snape sighed, noticing the boy’s fear.

“Mr. Potter, there is no need for apprehension. This is a simple Dreamless Sleep potion. It will allow you to sleep without…interruption.”

Harry cringed inwardly. Dammit, so Snape did know he’d had a nightmare last night. He’d have to be more careful from now on.

Snape’s arm hung in the air, the magenta liquid lapping at the rim of the vial between his fingers. Harry didn’t move, but Snape noticed the change in the boy's breathing as he tried desperately to fight off the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, his eyes fixated on the little glass container.

Time for a different approach Snape thought to himself. He knelt down in front of the boy.

“Potter, look at me.” he said gently. Harry dragged his eyes off the vial and met Snape’s concerned gaze. “Potter, there’s nothing to fear. It isn’t going to hurt you. You desperately need to sleep.” Harry shook his head fearfully.

“Don’t make me take it,” he whispered, his voice wavering. He was obviously near tears. “Please don’t make me take it.”

Snape was taken aback by the sheer desperation in the boy’s voice. The boy was absolutely petrified to sleep. He had to assure the boy that his dreams would be held at bay. If he could convince him of that, there was a chance.

“Pot…Harry. Harry, you won’t dream, I promise you won’t. The potion doesn’t allow a dream state. I give you my word, there’s no possible way you can dream after taking this potion.” Snape extended his hand again.

“No, no, no!” Harry cried frantically, scrambling backwards across the bed and sliding clumsily to the floor so the bed was between him and Snape, him and the vial. His mind was a jumble of emotions. Why couldn’t he control himself? He was able to do it with Uncle Vernon in front of him. He wouldn’t dare tell Uncle Vernon no. He could take a beating without making a sound, but with Snape, it was different. For some reason he couldn’t keep the emotions buried.

The Professor sighed as Harry escaped across the bed. He lowered his head and rubbed at his temple for a moment before standing. Right, he thought. Kindness isn’t working. What does the boy respond to? When is he the most compliant? Who would…ahhh, yes, got it.

“Mr. Potter!” he barked. “I have had enough of your absurdity. Come here this instant! I assure you, the consequences will be dire should you refuse me!”

He watched as Harry flinched at his words. He felt guilt nagging in the pit of his stomach, but sure enough, the boy walked slowly around the bed like a condemned man, and stood before Snape, breathing heavily.

“Now.” he snapped, holding out the vial. “You will consume this potion immediately or I will put you in a body bind and force it down your throat myself!”

Slowly, Harry’s small hand reached out, and with quivering fingers, plucked the glass vial from Snape’s grasp. He watched as the boy pulled his bottom lip into his teeth as he seemed to do when he was nervous. Snape slowly extended his arm and placed his thumb on the boy’s chin, pulling the lip from between the child’s teeth.

“Drink,” he commanded.

With agonizing slowness, Harry brought the vial to his lips. He shuddered before tipping back his head and emptying the contents into his mouth.

“Swallow,” Snape instructed, and Harry complied, his eyes brimming with tears as he handed the empty vial back to the Professor.

“Good boy,” Snape said softly. He pulled back the bedspread and taking Harry’s arm, led him to the side of the bed and helped him in. He pulled the covers up to the boy’s chest and sighed.

“Harry. I…I apologize for this. You must believe me when I say that I am doing this for your own good. I promise you, you will not dream.”

The boy’s bottom lip quivered slightly, and Snape noticed his jaw stiffen in an effort to stop it. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling as he tried to fight against the fatigue that was slowly washing over him. He took a deep shuddering breath and clenched his fists into the sheets as he slowly succumbed to the effects of the elixir. After a few moments his eyes closed and his head lolled to one side, his breathing steady.

Snape took a deep breath of his own and exhaled slowly. He reached down and straightened the covers over the boy.

“I do not know what haunts you child, but it will not haunt you tonight,” he whispered.

He walked back to the door and with a wave of his hand, extinguished the lights. Another motion and the heavy curtains slid along their tracks, covering the windows and plunging the room into complete darkness.

He closed the door with a soft click and walked back down the hall. Della would have lunch waiting for him, and after the events of the day, he prayed to Merlin that it was accompanied by a very large glass of wine.

Severus stood in the courtyard, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air, sipping at his third cup of coffee of the morning. He’d risen early as usual. There were a myriad of potions he was brewing in the laboratory, most of them needing very strict and precise stirring and adding of ingredients. It was 5am when he’d left his room, and he couldn’t help but open the door of Harry’s bedroom just a crack, to make sure he wasn’t doing anything completely idiotic, like trying to escape through the window. The boy had been a tangled mess of sheets and shirt with one arm looking uncomfortably twisted under his head. With cat-like stealth, Severus had crossed the room and gently maneuvered him onto his stomach, releasing the trapped arm and allowing the boy to stretch freely across the bed. He’d pulled the sheets and duvet out from under Harry’s legs and spread them over his prone body. Then whispering a spell, he summoned the boy’s toothbrush and comb, and placed them next to the bathroom sink, not so the boy would be able to find them with ease, mind you, but because he didn’t need an unkempt child in his home. He’d slipped past the sleeping figure and out the door, hearing Harry murmur something from the confines of the warm blankets as the Professor shut his door softly.

It wasn’t as if he’d done it out of kindness. He just didn’t need the boy griping about a stiff neck the next morning. It’s not like I read the brat a bedtime story or some such ridiculousness, he thought to himself. Besides, he wasn’t going to go against years of ingrained behavior and start liking the child. It was more an act of obligation to the Headmaster that he even allowed Harry in his home to begin with. If it hadn’t been for Dumbledore leaving Hogwarts for the summer, the boy would be safely tucked away in the castle stuffing himself with cookies, or whatever delicacy the house elves were cajoled into bringing him.

Just then, a prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck. Feeling eyes upon him, Snape spun around, glaring, his eyes instinctively traveling to the top corner window where Harry was standing, staring at him. At seeing him, the boy’s face contorted strangely, and he stepped back out of view.

“What on earth is that boy up to?” He muttered under his breath, and turning on his heel, he ascended the stairs in long strides.

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Harry gave a long, leisurely stretch and pressed his face into the soft pillow, yawning. He turned his head slightly and cracked his neck before rolling onto his back and stretching again. He felt deliciously warm, and sleepy, still half trapped in slumber. It would be so hard to get up now, feeling so lovely, but there was breakfast to make, then dishes to do, and soon Aunt Petunia would be rapping on the cupboard door and shrieking at him to get the coffee on.

Harry rolled back onto his stomach and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of, what was that anyway, Lavender? He breathed in again, nuzzling the soft sheets, his eyes closed in partial sleep. No, it was rose, the delicate, sweet smell of roses, like the ones in the yard that Harry tended to diligently every day. He yawned again. His mind felt fuzzy and groggy. Beautiful flowers, roses. He’d need to weed them today, and the topiary would need trimming again. Uncle Vernon always picked a different animal each year, and Harry would be out under the blazing sun, snipping and shaping the leaves. Snip snip snape snip.

Snape?

Oh, crap, Snape!

Giving a startled cry, Harry threw the covers off and scuttled backwards up the bed, slamming his back against the headboard, wincing. Fully awake now and eyes wide, he scanned frantically for the Professor. Seeing no one in the room, which was only dimly lit by the sun against the curtains, Harry cautiously slipped off the bed and hurried to the window. Grabbing one edge of the heavy material, he dragged one curtain open, cringing as the bright sun met his eyes. He stood for a moment, his hand shielding his face as he stared out across the front lawn of the estate. He could see the edge of the cliff in the distance, and the area where they’d landed on the island the day before.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry padded into the bathroom where he found his toothbrush and comb already set out, probably by Della, he thought, though he hoped the little elf hadn’t been poking around in his room as he slept. That was just plain creepy. He used the toilet, then brushed his teeth and hair and headed back out to his trunk, which he rummaged through to find the least offensive clothes he could. Snape had already made a comment about his lack of pajamas; no doubt he’d have something scathing to say about Harry’s regular attire as well. He changed in the bathroom, not wanting to strip in front of the bare window, thank you very much, then pulled the heavy duvet up on his bed as best he could, smoothing it out and placing the pillow at the top.

Not really sure what to do next, Harry wandered back over to the window and stood in the sun, letting the warm rays heat his face. He closed his eyes dreamily and gave a little half smile. It really was amazing how much better he felt after a good night’s sleep. It had been weeks since he really felt rested. He opened his eyes slowly, quite content to stand there basking in the sunbeams, when he noticed Snape outside standing at the base of the stairs staring out across the meadow. He was sipping from a mug, probably coffee, Harry thought, watching the fine tendrils of steam floating from the cup and up around Snape’s head.

He remembered the night before when Snape had threatened him in that low, lethal voice, warning him what would happen if he didn’t obey his instructions. Harry shuddered; it was just like Uncle Vernon used to do when Harry was little, before he understood the importance of compliance rather than disobedience, before he realized that trying to fight back just made things so much worse. He was so stupid last night! He’d gotten Snape so mad that he’d yelled, threatened to put Harry in a body bind if he didn’t comply. He didn’t mean to make the Professor angry; he’d just panicked. It was the same old story though, just a different house and a different person. If you got someone mad enough, they’d hurt you sooner or later.

But Snape hadn’t lied about the potion, and he did remember the man apologizing after he’d helped Harry into bed. He ran a hand through his damp hair, sending it into a disheveled mess, when suddenly Snape turned and stared up towards the manor. They locked eyes for a moment and Harry gasped, taking a few steps back away from the window and out of view. He stood for a moment, feeling rather stupid for his reaction, and then took a few tentative steps towards the glass.

Snape was gone.

Harry felt his heart constrict in fear. Nothing good ever came from an adult coming to his room. With Uncle Vernon, it meant getting the stuffing beaten out of him, and Aunt Petunia would screech and slap and call him an ungrateful little freak. With Snape, well, with Snape, it seemed to mean getting sedated, though he’d take sleeping over a beating any day of the week.

The sound of footsteps echoed from down the dark hall, and Harry turned towards the closed door, half expecting a riled Snape to burst through, robes billowing, face twisted in anger. The handle turned slowly, and Harry watched as the door opened gradually to reveal the Professor, looking mild for once, still holding his mug. He raised his eyebrows at the boy, as if surprised to see him looking so shaken.

“Sleep well?” Snape asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “The way you acted last night, one would have thought you were facing a firing squad instead of a good night’s sleep.”

He watched as Harry’s cheeks flushed slightly. At least the boy had the good sense to realize he’d over-reacted, but still, Severus wondered what the source of his fear was. After Harry’s unintentional admission he at least had an idea of the treatment the child had faced. The terror coming from the boy last night had been palpable, definitely not forged emotion. It was high time for some answers.

“Yes, Sir,” came Harry’s quiet reply.

Snape pointed to the bed.

“Sit please, Harry,” he instructed; his voice lacked any disdain now.

He watched Harry’s shoulders tense predictably. Slowly, the boy shuffled to the bedside and sat down, his eyes on the floor.

“You are not in trouble,” Snape declared, hoping it would calm the boy somewhat. He pulled the reading chair closer to the bed, opposite Harry, and sat down.

For a few moments, they both sat in silence. Snape could hear the boy’s breathing quicken from a few feet away.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” the Professor said bluntly.

Harry’s head shot up, his face taut with apprehension. He opened his mouth to reply, but Snape held up a hand, silencing him.

“I am not interested in dishonesty, Potter. If you think for one second I can’t judge when you’re lying, let me tell you, you’re as easy to read as a one-word book.”

Harry sat with his mouth half open, staring at the Professor with a mixture of shock and fear. He slowly brought his lips together, chewing the bottom one anxiously as his eyes fell to his lap. Snape sighed.

“Must you do that?” he chided, reaching out and tapping the boy’s chin with his fingers until Harry released the indented lip.

Harry remained quiet, slowly wringing his hands, crushing his fingers against each other, his brow knitted in thought. He couldn’t tell Professor Snape about his nightmares, he wouldn’t! Tears welled in his eyes and he fought the urge to cry. Dammit, there he went again, allowing the emotions to break through. Snape was right, he was easy to read. For some reason, whenever the Professor was around, it became so much harder to bear the pain. It was getting more and more difficult to push it back down when it tried to erupt. He so desperately wanted to let it out, to scream and cry and tear the world to pieces, ripping at it with his bare hands, gnashing at it with his teeth, biting and hating, spilling out the fear and loneliness and soul wrenching pain. He was pathetic, a stupid, useless little bastard who didn’t deserve love, or friends, or family. That’s what Uncle Vernon told him every time he threw him hard into the cupboard after a whipping. No good, waste of time, better off dead, little…

Snape leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at Harry with piercing eyes, not quite believing what he was seeing. The boy was falling apart in front of him. His face was flushed and tears wobbled precariously on his lower lids. The wringing of his hands had gradually built up to a frenzy, and his breaths came in rapid gasps. It was the same attack he’d had yesterday at the cliff, but this time Severus knew precisely what was causing it.

“The nightmares,” Severus said, so softly that Harry almost didn’t hear the words. The man leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he brought his face within inches of the boy’s. “They’re dreadful, aren’t they?”

It was a statement, not a question. He was declaring it, showing the boy he had some understanding of the horrors he fought in the darkness. Severus already knew the answer, and he wasn’t surprised when after a few moments of quiet torment, Harry’s head nodded ever so slightly. It was a tiny gesture on the child’s part, but Severus knew how painful it was for him to take the step of admitting he suffered at all. Most children of abuse swore up and down that the cruelty never took place, fearful of repercussion and swayed by terrible guilt and shame. In that moment, Harry had made the decision to allow the tiniest shred of trust to breach his carefully built walls, and a grueling decision it was. Severus slowly placed his hand on the mass of writhing fingers in the boy’s lap. Slowly, the small hands stopped their struggle and gradually untwined, allowing a brief moment of long desired comfort before pulling away to be wrapped around the boy’s torso.

Severus let out a heavy breath and rose from his chair.

“Come down to the kitchen. Della is keeping a plate warm for you.”

There was no need to ask the child anything else right now. Harry had started down an emotional rocky road in acknowledging his nightmares. For now, Severus would step back, and allow the boy to come to the realization that he hadn’t been spurned. All else that hounded him would be revealed in time.

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The kitchen was thick with the smell of apple cake baking in the oven. Harry took in a deep breath, inhaling the delightful aroma, and offered Della a hesitant smile. The elf was a bustle of gangly arms and whisks and spatulas as she poured treacle into a large glass pudding basin and covered it with heaping spoonfuls of batter.

“Really,” Snape said disdainfully. “Thirty-seven years of service and not once have you ever made me steamed treacle sponge pudding.” Della’s whirling arms came to a halt as she turned to look at her master.

“Master Snape, in thirty-seven years, has not been asking for treacle sponge,” she squeaked.

Snape’s eyebrows shot up as Della turned back to the counter and began frantically juicing a large lemon. Harry couldn’t stop the tiny smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Snape waved a dismissive hand, and then pointed Harry towards the kitchen table. A large plate of ham and eggs, toast, and a small dish of halved strawberries sat waiting. Harry took his seat, and slowly managed to eat a small portion of everything except the berries which he finished.

“You eat too little,” Snape growled as Della stopped cracking eggs long enough to clear away the plates with a wave of her hand. Harry shrugged weakly. He hadn’t eaten well in weeks. It went hand in hand with not sleeping well.

The Professor walked out into the hall and returned a moment later holding a heavy cloak.

“Here.” he said, handing the rumpled material to Harry. “I assume you’d like to get some fresh air, maybe explore the island a little?”

Harry tried not to look too surprised as he stood up and pulled the cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp at his throat.

“Really, Potter,” Snape snorted, amused at the boy’s astonished face. “You look as if you expected me to keep you locked in a dungeon all summer.” Harry forced a weak chuckle.

“I didn’t think that, Sir.”

Snape raised his eyebrows and gave the boy a questioning look. “Remember, Potter, a one-word book,” he said crisply. Harry’s cheeks glowed with a rosy hue.

“Oh, well, maybe I did think that, just a little,” he replied, his voice fading to a mere whisper by the end of his sentence.

Snape snorted again.

“Don’t get too close to the edge, Potter. I don’t need a corpse to explain at the start of term.” And with that, he turned and strode out of the kitchen, his robes billowing dramatically, leaving Harry and Della staring after him.

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It was nearing dusk. Harry stood shading his eyes as he watched the sun paint the waves a brilliant crimson as it set in the distance. He took a deep breath of the cool sea breeze and headed back towards the estate. He’d walked the entire circumference of the island, returning to the manor half way through for a lunch of sandwiches and pumpkin juice, which he ate alone, sitting on the front steps as he nibbled the crusts off, leaving the rest. The Professor had left him by himself the entire day, allowing him to roam the property at his leisure. Harry’s stomach flip-flopped between excitement and apprehension as he scoured the perimeter, searching for a break in the cliffs where the island might slope down to a beach, but he found none, and after hours of walking, he’d ended up back at the house where he’d started, all hope of escaping the isle dashed. No wonder that Snape had let him wander the island unaccompanied. He knew Harry wasn’t going anywhere.

Dejected, Harry walked up the stairs and in the front door. Della was bustling in the kitchen, and Harry heard her random yelps over the clattering of cookware. Harry had always thought house elves made the food appear magically, but the Professor had told him that Della preferred the old fashioned Muggle way of cooking, and had done so since her arrival.

Noticing the boy standing awkwardly in the doorway, Della made several peeping sounds before bowing low to the ground, a measuring cup in her hand.

“Master Snape is saying young Sir must eat, and then young Sir is to bathe and be staying in his room.”

“Oh.” Harry replied, frowning. “Um, where is Professor Snape?”

“He is being in his laboratory. He is not being disturbed, and wishes young Sir to eat, and then to bathe and then to stay in his room,” the little tan elf repeated.

She waved her hand and a plate soared gracefully from the counter top to the table. She eyed Harry wearily, looking very relieved indeed when the boy sat down and took up his knife and fork. Harry ate slowly, barely tasting the Veal Parmesan and mint boiled potatoes as he sat thinking about the Professor.

Would the man provide him another vial of potion tonight? Maybe last night was his way of trying to get Harry to admit he was having nightmares. Maybe it was just a trick, and Snape would taunt him, withholding a second dose in order to make Harry beg. Uncle Vernon liked to do that, too. He would place a large plate of the Dursley’s dinner at the door of the cupboard, and the tantalizing scent of roast lamb or grilled chicken stuffed with cheese would waft through the vent, driving the already starving boy into a desperate fit of raw emotion, sobbing and pleading for a mouthful of food, terrified that one more night without sustenance would be his last. Then his Uncle would pry open the cupboard and drag Harry through the kitchen and out to the back yard where he would turn the plate onto the grass, the entire family laughing as the boy frantically scrabbled for handfuls of meat and vegetables on the filthy ground. Then Vernon would grab him by the neck and yank him roughly back to the cupboard and hurl him into the darkness, his laughter still audible from the dinner table as Harry licked the last of the muddy cuisine off his fingers.

Harry pushed his plate away, suddenly feeling queasy. He shook his head sharply as if trying to pull himself from the memory. Professor Snape wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t torture Harry by denying the potion, surely. He’d been almost nice this morning, consoling even. He’d even touched Harry’s hand, and in that brief contact, Harry had felt something radiating from the Professor, like concern, or compassion, but not quite as powerful as that. It was almost like the man was trying not to care, but couldn’t help himself.

Closing his eyes tightly, Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself against another wave of nausea. He opened his eyes and the room swam for a second. Della turned towards the table and gave a shrill trumpet at seeing Harry’s dinner barely touched. Her eyes glistened with tears and her long ears drooped past her shoulders as she stared at Harry, a damp tea towel clutched in her hands.

“Little Master is not liking Della’s cooking?” She asked, her voice wavering.

“Oh, no, Della, it’s very good,” Harry lied, having not even tasted the few bites he’d taken. “I’m just not very hungry. I’m not feeling that great and -”

“Oh! Little Master is becoming unwell!” Della cried, her ears now pointing straight up in alarm. She grabbed Harry’s wrist and tugged him towards the stairs. “Little Master is to be going straight to his room! Straight to his room indeed and be lying down!”

“No….I….it’'s not that bad, really!” Harry replied, praying the distraught elf’s cries wouldn’t alert the Professor.

He stumbled as he collided with the first stair, and lurched up the first few steps. “Ok, I’m going, I’m going!”

He held up his hands in defeat, hoping Della would allow him to continue quietly to his room instead of shrieking in alarm at his side all the way down the hall. Thankfully, she stood at the bottom of the staircase, hopping from one foot to the other as she watched Harry ascend to the second floor.

He quickly tiptoed down the hall and into his room. He pulled the curtains and went to his trunk for his night shirt.

Sitting on the closed lid of the trunk was a folded pair of black pajamas which looked far too large for the small boy. Frowning, Harry unfolded the shirt and pants, marveling at their softness. A small piece of paper fell to the floor. He picked it up and scanned the neatly printed words.

Nefer Hotep Fine Egyptian Cotton Pajamas

Self sizing

Serving venerated Wizards since 1885

Shrugging, he bundled up the pajamas and headed into the bathroom. He took a quick shower and toweled off, then, giving the night clothes a quizzical look, Harry quickly changed, absolutely swimming in the enormous garments as he waded back out into the bedroom. He stood motionless, waiting for….well, not really knowing what on earth he was waiting for, but assuming that whatever they were supposed to be doing, they weren’t doing it.

“Stupid things are broken.” he muttered.

Then suddenly the shirt began to move, shrinking around his arms and torso. The pants were next, the luxurious material rapidly reducing in size until it fit him perfectly.

“Wow.” he said under his breath, clearly taken aback by his first experience with a pair of magical pajamas.

“Wow, indeed.”

Harry jumped nervously, the Professor’s presence catching him completely off guard. He whirled around, eyes wide as he came face to face with Professor Snape, who was leaning casually against the door frame, an amused expression on his face.

“Oh! Oh, um…I….um...” Harry stammered.

Snape frowned. The boy was obviously flustered at seeing him. He shouldn’t have snuck up on him like that, but he’d arrived just as the boy was exiting the bathroom, and decided he’d wait a moment to catch Harry’s reaction to the pajamas he’d left.

“Inarticulate to the core,” he said silkily as he entered the room. Then, noticing the child’s cheeks colour at the insult, he added, “I apologize for startling you, Potter.”

“It’s alright, Sir,” Harry replied, trying to sound blasé. There was no reason to get Snape’s back up. After all, the man held the anti-dream potion Harry so desperately wanted.

“Della tells me you are unwell,” Snape stated, coming towards the boy much too fast for Harry’s liking. The man raised his hand briskly, and Harry took a few jerky steps backwards, flinching uncontrollably. The Professor stopped immediately, his hand falling quickly to his side.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry gasped, taking a few more unstable steps back, only stopping when his back came up against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion, half expecting the familiar feeling of a palm colliding with his cheek. Uncle Vernon always hit him for getting sick, and he closed his eyes out of habit, waiting for the blow.

When it didn’t come, Harry opened his eyes cautiously. Snape stood several feet away, a deep frown knitting his brow.

“Harry,” the Professor started.

“I’m sorry, Sir! I didn’t mean to!” the boy exclaimed. “It’s just you came so fast and then I thought that -“

“That I was going to strike you,” Snape finished.

“No! I mean…I mean yes, for a moment, but I know you wouldn’t, Professor, honestly I do,” Harry said beseechingly, only half meaning what he said.

“Harry,” Snape replied, forcing his voice to reflect a calm he was not feeling. “I was attempting to check your temperature. Della informed me that you were feeling ill. I came to ascertain your condition.”

The colour drained out of Harry’s face. The man was just trying to check his bloody temperature! He’d acted like a complete idiot when all the Professor was trying to do was feel his bloody forehead!

“Professor, I’m –“

“Sorry, I know,” Snape cut in. He took several steps towards Harry and slowly this time, raised his hand and pressed the back of it to the boy’s cheek. “You’re warm,” he said, moving his hand to the other cheek. “Though, with all your carrying on, I can’t tell if it’s from fever or from over exertion,” he finished sharply. “Now, get into bed.”

Feeling incredibly foolish, Harry climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chest, though he’d have rather have pulled them right over his head; he felt so stupid.

“Della!” Snape called, and within seconds the little elf was standing at his side. “Bring me a Dreamless Sleep potion, and a fever reducing elixir.”

With a pop, Della was gone, only to return again almost instantly, this time holding two vials. She handed them to the Professor, and gave Harry an anxious look before disappearing again.

Pulling the chair over to the bedside, Snape sat down and looked at Harry thoughtfully.

“Potter, I will tell you this now, not because there is danger of it occurring, but because you seem to need assurance.” His look turned into one of concern. “I will not hit you,” he said softly.

Harry gave a small nod.

“I know.”

“I will not hit you.” Snape repeated. There was sadness in his eyes now. He knew Harry was lying, the boy didn’t know at all. In fact, all he had likely ever known were fists raised in anger against him. He shifted his chair closer to the edge of the bed, and slowly, keeping his eyes locked with the boy’s, he reached out and put his hand on the child’s wrist.

“Harry, listen to me. I want you to understand. I will not hit you.”

“I know.” The words were barely whispered, and Harry’s eyes were glassy with tears as he stared up at the Professor.

“I will not hit you,” Snape said gently. He would repeat it a hundred times if he had to, a hundred thousand more times if only it would mean that the boy would finally understand that not every hand raised was a hand raised in anger and violence.

Harry only nodded now, unable to speak for worry of his buried fear and pain cascading out of him like a waterfall. Snape was telling him in no uncertain terms that he would never hurt him, and Harry pleaded with his brain to believe it. The worry of being thrashed by Snape had consumed him, and here was the Professor, his words ringing in Harry’s ears.

I will not hurt you.

He wanted to believe it so badly.

“For your fever,” Snape said, offering him a vial of thick yellow fluid, and Harry took it without question, not that he could have voiced any objections, his throat was so tight with emotion.

“And the Dreamless Sleep,” he continued, handing the boy the second vial and watching him drink it eagerly. The nightmares would be discussed soon, once Harry’s trust had developed further.

Severus watched the movement of the child’s chest slow as his breathing regulated; the familiar slump of his head indicating sleep had claimed him.

He sat in the darkness, listening to the slow steady breaths, wondering how many nights those breaths had turned to screams of anguish, wondering how dreadful the abuse must have been to engender such primal fear in a child.

It was hours later when he was finally able to stand and make his way across the room to the door, and he couldn’t help but wonder at what point in the evening he decided to care so much about Harry Potter.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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“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.

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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.

Craig effortlessly kicked open the heavy oak door, leaning into the slab as he pushed it open wide, and carried Harry into the foyer.

He called out his brother’s name, and Ernie appeared at the top of the stairs, his face an expression of alarm as he saw the boy in Craig’s arms, head slouching lifelessly over Craig’s forearm, his muddy limbs dangling, dripping mud.

Ernie’s tiny legs were almost unable to keep his body upright as he fled down the stairs and towards the front door, the furious winds driving rain into the foyer. He withdrew his wand and threw his hand to the sky, shouting in panic the words that would send a voluminous jet of red sparks out into the sky where they exploded in a fiery ball amid the dark clouds. He hoped to Merlin that Severus would see the signal through the storm.

Craig was already heading up the stairs when Ernie, throwing himself with full force up each step, shouted to his brother to take Harry down the hall to the first open door. Craig entered Snape’s bedroom, seeing Della, her eyes for once not wide with fright, but narrowed in determination as she guided the man towards the bed and helped him lay the unresponsive child down.

“Ernie,” Craig wheezed, gasping for breath after his mad dash across the island. “Ernie, I don’t know if he’s breathing.”

He drew his forearm across his brow, his wet sleeve doing nothing to soak the droplets of water streaming from his sodden hair.

“There was so much rain; I couldn’t tell if there was a pulse. I couldn’t feel anything.”

“Help me with this,” Ernie said, his tiny hands motioning towards a footstool in the corner.

Craig quickly crossed the room and carried the stool to the side of the bed where Ernie climbed atop it, vials in hand as he assessed the unconscious boy in front of him. He pressed his fingers to Harry’s neck, and the room fell quiet, save for the rain pelting against the window, as Ernie stood as still as stone, hopeful to feel the delicate throb under his fingertips.

The seconds felt like hours, but after a moment, Ernie let out a relieved breath as he felt Harry’s thready pulse.

Quickly, he grasped his wand and waved it above Harry’s head and torso, frowning at the diagnostic spell’s revelation.

“Ernie?” Craig asked anxiously, seeing his brother’s vexed look.

“He’s alright,” Ernie replied, flashing a hesitant smile. “Help me here, will you?”

He uncorked a vial and motioned to Craig to lift Harry’s head. He carefully poured the thin, blue liquid into the side of the boy’s mouth, nodding gratefully as Harry swallowed automatically in his unconscious state. Ernie handed the empty vial to Della, who was standing wringing her hands in quiet panic. The second vial, filled with a thick, brown concoction, was slowly administered in small dollops. Ernie again held out his hand to Della, who took the vial and pressed a warm, wet cloth into his small palm.

The sound of the front door slamming shut alerted the three to Snape’s presence in the manor, and it was only seconds later that he flew into his room, pulling his drenched cloak from his shoulders and throwing it to the floor, his face fraught with apprehension.

“How – “ he started, throwing an inquiring look at Ernie.

“He’s fine, Severus,” the tiny man cut in as the Professor swept across the floor to Harry’s side. “He’s very cold, very wet, and utterly exhausted, but he’s fine.”

He handed Severus the cloth, and stepped down from the stool to allow the man access to his charge. He glanced between the two men, then walked over to Della and patted her arm gently.

“Della, how about a round of hot drinks, hmm? We’ll come down to the kitchen in a while.”

Della looked towards Snape, awaiting an approving nod before disappearing. Ernie turned to Craig, who was standing at the end of the bed watching the Professor gently wipe mud from Harry’s face.

“Craig, why don’t you go and get a nice, hot coffee into you?” Ernie said encouragingly, giving his brother a telling look.

Craig nodded, knowing his brother and Snape had issues to discuss that didn’t involve him. He put a comforting hand on Snape’s shoulder, earning a small, appreciative nod from the man, and headed out into the hall, closing the bedroom door softly behind him.

“Of all the ridiculous things...” Snape murmured as he set the dirty cloth down on the bedside table.

“Severus,” Ernie said gently, coming up beside his friend and stepping up onto the stool once more. “Severus, I performed the routine diagnostic charms.” He paused, not sure how to phrase his findings.

Snape nodded. He withdrew his wand and cast a cleansing charm on Harry, then on the bed linens. He reached over and pulled the covers up over the unconscious boy and turned towards Ernie, who was staring at him with a concerned look.

Snape frowned. “What is it?” He asked, knowing such a fretful stare from his friend was cause for alarm.

“Severus...the results were very troubling. It showed a history of massive soft tissue damage. There was evidence of multiple broken ribs, fractured fingers, and a poorly healed broken wrist.”

Snape nodded slowly. “I believe he has been mistreated in the past by his relatives,” he replied, anger welling inside him as his suspicions about Harry’s abuse were confirmed.

“Not only that, Severus.” Ernie continued. “There’s evidence of past Catabolysis. He’s anemic, and his glycogen levels are barely registering.” He paused again, allowing his friend to absorb the information. Snape knew the ramifications of his findings as well as he did.

“He has not been eating.” Snape said softly, realizing the effect Harry’s emotional state was having on the boy’s health. He turned his gaze to Harry and sighed. “I was not aware his nervous condition was causing such behaviour. The boy has a…difficult time discussing his past, something I will remedy when he awakens.”

“Well that won’t be for a while. I administered a sleeping potion along with the internal warming draught,” Ernie replied, not noticing Snape’s head jerk towards him, a pinched look on his face. “The poor boy needs a good, long rest.”

Snape brought his hands together and steepled his digits, resting his furrowed brow against the tips of his index fingers. He grimaced, knowing that the boy had been forced into a nightmare filled sleep from which he could not escape.

“Ernie,” he said somberly. “Forgive my lack of etiquette, but Della will provide you and Craig with anything you need. I must remain with Mr. Potter. I trust you can find your way out.”

“Of course, Severus,” Ernie replied, placing a hand on his friend’s arm. “After thirty years of friendship, I think I can excuse you for not walking me to the door.”

He smiled warmly and gave Snape’s arm an affectionate squeeze before stepping down to the floor and making his way towards the door. He opened it and turned back towards the Professor.

“You know, Severus, it’s good to see you worrying about something other than lacewing flies and sopophorus beans for a change.”

Snape looked up to see Ernie’s mischievous grin. He narrowed his eyes and forced back a sardonic smile.

“Get off my island, dwarf,” he drawled, sending Ernie into his characteristic fit of high pitched giggles. Ernie pulled the door closed, his shrill laughter fading as he headed downstairs.

Snape turned back to Harry, his eyes narrowing in earnest now. How was it that the boy had been in his presence for four days and had eaten so little? Diagnostic charms did not lie. The boy was starving. He rubbed his chin in thought. It was the prior evidence of a Catabolic state in the child that concerned him the most. The condition was only seen in severe cases of starvation, where the body began to break down muscle tissue in a last ditch effort to keep the heart and nervous system alive. How on earth could Harry’s family have denied him food to the point where his body literally began to consume itself? No wonder the boy had begun to fall apart as the end of term neared. The terror of knowing that starvation and brutality awaited him at home must have been almost impossible to bear, and now Severus had further information about the physical abuse the boy had suffered. Severe soft tissue damage was indicative of harsh and multiple beatings. Obviously some so violent that they caused broken bones.

He shook his head, unable to comprehend the cruelty and aggression the boy must have faced in his short lifetime.

Snape suddenly realized he was still completely saturated from being out in the storm. Ernie’s revelation had been so disconcerting that he’d not even felt the cold, but he shivered now, wrapped in his icy, wet garments.

Giving Harry a troubled look, he went to his bureau and gathered a change of clothes. He dressed in the en-suite, glad to be warm once more. He pulled a chair over to the bed and fell into it, exhausted not only physically from an afternoon scouring the island, but mentally from discovering proof of Harry’s maltreatment.

Della appeared, handing him a large mug of coffee and informing him that both Ernie and Craig had departed. Severus sipped the sweetened beverage, grateful that the little elf with her uncanny knack of knowing what her master needed before he asked for it, would keep him well supplied with coffee for the rest of the night.

The drone of rain on the window calmed him somewhat as he sat staring at the boy, lying so quiet and still in Severus’ large bed, and he wondered how long he would have to wait before the nightmares took hold.

He had a dreadful suspicion he would not have to wait long.

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It was barely an hour later when Severus, who was deeply immersed in proofreading his lecture on the use of Acromantula venom in potions, heard the quiet rustling of Harry’s hand shuffling under the heavy blankets. Lowering his parchment, Snape sat for a moment, his onyx eyes narrowing in anticipation as the subtle scuffling of limbs slowly became more aggressive.

He rose, and carefully set his parchment and quill on the bedside table as Harry’s small frame stiffened, his forehead clenched in a fearful grimace, taking in several quick breaths, then exhaling heavily, a barely audible moan escaping his lips before he lapsed back into silence, his body still but for the steady rising and falling of his chest.

Snape let out the breath he’d been holding, feeling his shoulders settle as the moment of tension passed. If this was the extent of the boy’s reaction to his nightmares tonight, he would welcome the coming hours.

Della appeared in the doorway just then, preferring to enter quietly from the hall so as not to interfere with any aid her master could be administering. She padded across the room and handed Snape a fresh mug of coffee, which he took gratefully, granting the elf a few moments of bliss at his whispered thanks.

“Della is following your instructions and staying away while you are tending to little master, Sir,” she whispered, her large eyes staring up at him as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other nervously.

“I see that,” Snape replied in a hushed voice, pressing his lips to the rim and taking a sip of coffee. “Thank you, Della.”

The little elf clasped her hands together and held them to her chest, smiling briefly before her face took on its usual, forlorn expression.

“Is little master to be waking soon?”

Severus looked down at the house elf, his dark eyes flashing with annoyance.

“No, and Harry can thank that pea-sized little twit for filling him with sleeping draught!” he snapped in a harsh whisper. Della flinched and let out a muted squeak before tiptoeing towards Snape, taking her master by the hand and patting it gently as she always did when he was upset.

“Master Snape, Sir, maybe you are giving little master a potion for waking?”

“No, there is nothing that can be given to counter a sleeping draught without causing an increased heart rate,” he replied. “In his fragile state, it would be foolhardy to attempt it. We must simply wait.” He sat back down in the chair and let out a frustrated sigh. “This is ludicrous,” he said softly. “He is wounded far more deeply than I have the ability to aid.”

“Little master is scared,” Della whimpered. “Little master is in darkness.” She cocked her head and said quietly. “Like Master was.”

Snape froze, glaring down at the little elf.

“We are nothing alike,” he hissed angrily, causing the creature to take several steps back in fear, her pillowcase garb fluttering around her bony knees. “My associations were by my own choice,” he finished.

Della timidly made her way towards the irate man. She took his hand again and looked imploringly up at him.

“Darkness is darkness, Master.”

Severus looked down into Della’s large eyes. She was right. His own pain led him to devote himself to the dark cause, not solely out of willingness, but out of the belief that there was no one else in which he could place his faith, and when faced with the decision to trust or to retreat into darkness, he had chosen the latter. With all that he had faced, what was stopping Harry from following the same path should it present itself?

“When did you become so impertinent?” he growled. He paused, then in a softer voice, whispered “And so insightful?”

The little russet coloured elf gazed back at him in adoration, her tiny fingers stroking the back of his hand, the gesture meaning so much more to Severus than just an act of comfort. The little creature may have been a servant, but after so many years, she had also become a friend, able to see through her master’s harsh exterior like no one else.

Severus sighed. In order for him to achieve Harry’s trust, he would first need to understand the source of the child’s fears. If Harry was emotionally unable or unwilling to articulate it, Severus would have to acquire the information himself.

“Leave us,” he whispered.

“I am being here if you are needing me, Master,” Della squeaked faintly, bowing low and disappearing with a soft pop.

Severus stood, and removed his wand from his robes. He moved closer to the sleeping child, and reluctantly reached out, pressing the tip of his wand to Harry’s temple.

He took a steadying breath, unable to think of a single way he was going to explain this to the boy as he closed his eyes and focused his mind on the word he did not even have to speak in order to slip inside Harry’s mind.

Legilimens.

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Severus Snape had witnessed many atrocities in his lifetime. In his service to the Dark Lord, he had been privy to some of the most deplorable acts imaginable, but the horror of Harry’s childhood stirred repulsion within the man that paled in comparison to the abhorrence he felt for any act committed by Voldemort.

As he explored the layers of Harry’s mind, he was met by wave after wave of shocking imagery, each act of violence towards the boy more unspeakable than the last. He could only stand helpless, observing a five year old Harry experiencing his first beating by his vile Uncle, his stomach churning as the boy bit into his own flesh in order to prevent his cries of pain as the belt was flung with so little mercy against his back.

Sickened, Severus continued his exploration through the heartbreaking memories. He looked on powerlessly as he watched the starving boy locked in a cramped cupboard, his stomach churning in agony as his Uncle taunted him through the vent with a plate of food. Countless beatings, heavy fists brought down in anger against Harry’s frail form, words of hatred spat by his Aunt and cousin. Weeks of isolation, tears cried in desperation at the withholding of food and innumerable incidences of savage beatings, each time the child left to lay alone in fear and anguish as his family continued their daily routine, paying no heed to the battered youngster hidden within the confines of the dark cupboard.

The scenes played out for what felt like a thousand lifetimes, though it was only close to an hour before Severus pulled himself from Harry’s subconscious. Weak from disbelief, he staggered to the en-suite and ran a sink full of cold water, splashing the frigid water to his face as if it could wash away the depravity he had witnessed. All trace of composure vanished as he returned to Harry’s side, studying the pale features of a face that had seen more injury and neglect than any child should ever be forced to endure.

He fell once more into the chair, reaching out to rest his fingers against the boy’s wrist, checking his pulse. He said nothing, his voice lost to the deafening sound of his heart still beating fitfully against his chest in outrage.

The child’s skin was cool to the touch and his fingers lay curled against his palm. Severus gently unfurled the digits and slipped his palm against the boy’s, his own strong fingers curling gently around Harry’s hand. For some reason, it did not feel unnatural. The act of providing reassurance to others was not something he felt comfortable with, but to his surprise, the action of offering solace to this particular child did not feel put on, in fact, it came effortlessly.

Suddenly, without so much as a whimper of warning, Harry drew in a deep breath and let out a piercing, feral scream, his back arching, arms thrown out to guard against an invisible foe. Taken aback by the abrupt display, Severus’ hands encompassed Harry’s small, clenched fists, holding them to the boy’s chest as he tried to keep him against the mattress.

“Harry!” He called, his voice firm with determination. “Harry, it’s alright, there’s nothing to harm you here. You’re safe.”

“Nooo!” came the terrified cry, too deeply immersed in nightmare to have any awareness of the Professor. “No…I’m sorry…I’m sorry! Please!”

The words were slurred as Harry’s head thrashed violently back and forth against the pillow, his face twisted in fear, tears leaking from his tightly scrunched eyes. A quickly drawn breath caught in his throat as he fought against Snape’s restraining hold, and his cries turned from fear to desperation as he begged in a half sobbing whisper.

“Nuh…no…please I…please...”

Then a final plea, his voice broken, sounding so utterly frail and despairing as he whispered his last please before falling limply against the mattress, soaked with sweat, his limbs jerking sporadically, chest heaving.

Snape wiped his own perspiring brow and pulled the discarded blankets back up over Harry’s body. He sank back into the chair, his eyes clouded over in grim anticipation of the next nightmare.

For the next twelve hours, Severus stayed at Harry’s bedside. Between states of frenzy, the boy would remain in a fitful sleep, sometimes with periods of complete calm, though the rare tranquil moments were generally followed by an event much like the first attack. First would come the frantic jostling of limbs, arms flailing, shielding against whatever horror the boy was experiencing at the hands of his Uncle, and the breathless, pathetic murmurs for help, begging for lenience. Then, finally, Harry would fall into acceptance, weakly begging through barely moving lips for the cruelty to end, no longer bothering to fight against the blows.

Severus would take the boy’s hands in his, sometimes murmuring words of reassurance, sometimes remaining silent, but each time cursing his well meaning friend, who, through an act of compassion, had unwittingly sent Harry into torment.

Then finally, as the first tendrils of sun scuttled up onto the horizon, Harry’s eyes flickered open. He reached towards his face, nuzzling a crooked finger into the corner of each eye and rubbing firmly at the crusts of sleep there. He felt drained, completely eaten up inside. Last night had been the worst ever. Usually he would awaken from a nightmare soon after it began, but this time he’d stayed asleep, reliving past horrors over and over without the release of bolting upright in bed, panting hard as he realized he was safe at Hogwarts, and then spending the remainder of the night pacing the floor in an effort to stay awake.

But this wasn’t his room, and this certainly wasn’t Hogwarts, because as far as he remembered, his room there didn’t come furnished with a lightly snoring Potion's Professor out cold in a chair beside the bed. Harry furrowed his brow as he recalled his mad dash for freedom across the island, and then being lost in the storm. There was little he could remember after that. They had found him; that much was obvious, he thought, as he carefully and quietly sat upright. He was wearing his black pajamas, and he blushed at the thought of Snape changing him. He hoped the man at least had the courtesy to use a charm that did it instantly.

Barely making a sound, he slid out from under the covers and crawled down to the foot of the bed, keeping his eyes glued on Snape, who made little movement save for a few twitches of his hooked nose. Harry noticed the man was still dressed. He must have spent the night at his side, he thought, and the barely there feeling of happiness again bloomed inside his chest for a split second, eliciting a half smile from the boy as he nimbly slid to the floor.

He had almost made it to the door when he heard the chair shift behind him, and he froze in place, too worried and embarrassed to turn back and see whatever unpleasant emotion would be glinting in the Professor’s eyes.

“Mr. Potter.”

The drawl was unmistakably sharp, and Harry flinched instinctively, his bottom lip retreating to his mouth to be fretfully chewed as he turned to face Snape.

The man was standing now, his rumpled robes unable to attain their usual intimidating billow as he stared at Harry with eyes that seemed to see into his very soul.

He looked tired.

Harry raised his eyebrows, daring to look, Severus noticed, as innocent as possible, as Snape extended his index finger, and very slowly beckoned the boy to him.

“Sit,” he said crisply, pointing to the bed, and Harry slowly made his way back across the room and clambered up onto the soft mattress, sitting cross legged, staring at the shirt buttons that snaked up to the man’s throat.

“Harry,” Snape started, causing the boy to look up at hearing mention of his first name before staring into his lap, trying to avoid eye contact.

Severus took a deep breath as he returned to his chair, exhaling arduously as he searched for a place to begin in the wreckage that was Harry’s situation. He might as well start with an admission, he thought, knowing that the sooner the boy knew what had happened, the sooner he would be free to allow the pain and hurt that lived so deep inside him, to be released.

He reached out, and with a slow, deliberate movement, set a few fingers on the underside of the boy’s chin, lifting the head until his onyx eyes met Harry’s wary, green orbs.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, moving the hand from under Harry’s chin and resting it lightly against the warm forehead. He noticed the boy’s hands flex quickly at the touch before being clasped together and shifted to Harry’s lap where his fingers tangled themselves together nervously.

“Fine, Sir,” Was the barely whispered response, and Snape pulled his hand from the boy’s forehead and rested it on top of Harry’s writing hands, calming the franticly twisting digits.

“Harry –“

“I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry blurted out, interrupting the Professor. He continued, ignoring the man’s raised eyebrows. “I’m sorry I ran off. Please don’t…please don’t…” he lapsed into silence, though his quick, nervous breaths were loud enough to send Snape’s raised eyebrows even higher in concern.

Severus moved his other hand to Harry’s own, grabbing the boy’s hands and holding them firmly.

“Please don’t what?” He asked, pausing to allow the child a few moments to collect himself, and Harry took a deep breath, staring back at the Professor with a look in his eyes that Severus, without any hyperbole, could only describe as pure terror. It took several moments more before the tiny, soft voice formed the heartbreaking plea.

“Please don’t send me back.”

Severus’ face collapsed into a confused look.

“Harry, I never said anything about sending you away.”

“I know, but…but you said that last night we….there was something, but you didn’t finish it, and you were looking at me like…like…and I thought maybe –“

“Harry,” Snape cut in, tugging on the boy’s hands gently in order to interrupt his wild train of thought. “I have no intention of sending you home.” He took a deep breath. “Especially since I am aware of their treatment of you,” he finished softly, eyeing Harry carefully to see his reaction.

The boy’s hands, which had been trembling against Severus’ palms, froze instantly, and he felt the fingers crumple into fists as Harry registered what the man had just said. They stared at each other in silence, Harry’s eyes widening in disbelief before flickering towards the door. Severus caught the motion instantly.

“Harry,” he said quickly, his voice a little harder now to convey his seriousness. “Harry, you are not running this time. This needs to be discussed.”

He felt Harry’s hands trying to pull out of his grip, and he tightened his hold on the boy, forcing him to stay seated.

“Harry, listen to me. I saw what happened. I saw what your Uncle did to you.”

“No,” came Harry’s frantic reply. “There’s nothing…I don’t know what…” He gulped, trying to force down a mouthful of air so he could speak. “Nothing happened!”

“Harry, there is no need for denial. I used an ability known as Legilimancy. It allows me to see inside your mind, to see your memories.” He shifted the chair closer to the bed until his knees pressed up against the side of the mattress. Harry sat mere inches from him, his shoulders rigid with panic as he struggled against the Professor’s strong hold.

“No! You didn’t see! There’s nothing to see!” Harry shouted, shaking his head frantically, his eyes glistening.

“Yes, Harry,” Snape said gently. “I did see. I saw him starving you. I saw him beating you, and locking you away. There is no need to hide from it anymore.”

“No,” Harry whispered desperately, knowing that no matter how many times he repeated the word, that the Professor was telling the truth. The man wouldn’t lie, not about this, and Harry’s heart clenched fearfully as the full force of the situation hit him.

Snape knew everything.

The Professor opened his mouth to speak again, but a popping noise interrupted him, and his head whirled towards the sound as Della appeared across the room holding a steaming mug of coffee. She took a step forward, then paused, her wide eyes unblinking as she realized she had walked in at a very inopportune moment.

Harry took the opportunity to pull his hands free from the Professor and slip off the bed, quickly making his way across the room before the man had a chance to reclaim his hold on him. Della eyed him keenly, a smile appearing on her face, her ears darting up in happiness at seeing the boy up and about. She turned her smile towards her master, but it quickly faded as his stern gaze fixed upon her, a silent reprimand at her intrusion, and her ears drooped, coming to rest on her shoulders as Harry skirted around the little elf and pulled the bedroom door open.

“Harry,” Snape called, careful not to inject his annoyance at Della into his voice.

“I need to get dressed,” Harry replied, knowing how lame his excuse was, but caring little at this point. He would have said he was going skydiving if he thought it would convince Snape to let him leave.

Severus let out a sigh, and nodded.

“Alright, but we are not finished our discussion,” he stated.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry said quickly, and all but ran out the door and down the hall. Snape heard the rapid footsteps on the hardwood floor, then the slamming of a door as Harry fled into his room.

He sighed, glaring towards Della, who offered him a hesitant smile as she slowly backed out of the room, coffee sloshing onto the floor from the cup held in her trembling hands.

Severus rose to his feet, standing alone now in his bedroom. He walked to the door and stared down the hall at Harry’s closed door, then in the other direction, seeing a flash of pink as Della hurtled down the stairs.

He rolled his eyes.

“Wonderful,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“Absolutely, bloody wonderful.”

Severus swept down the hallway towards Harry’s door. He slowed to a stop half way, certain Harry would hear him coming, and nothing meant trouble to a young boy more than the sound of heavy footsteps approaching his room, especially this boy, who was used to such footsteps being the prequel to a beating.

He continued down the hall, making an effort to tread softly, and as he neared the door, he could hear the soft, trembling voice of the boy murmuring faintly, then the sound of a trunk slamming shut.

He knocked, and there was a long stretch of silence before Severus finally turned the handle, the door swinging open to reveal an empty room.

The sound of running water caught his ears, and he glanced at the bathroom door, which was shut, steam seeping out into the bedroom, and he walked over to the door and knocked loudly.

“Potter?” He called, his hand moving to the handle, realizing the boy had locked him out as the warm knob refused to yield under his grip.

“I’m just having a shower, Sir!” Came the hesitant reply, though Severus could recognize the signs of a stall tactic anywhere, having been at the receiving end of countless student's attempts to delay inevitable punishments.

Sighing in resignation, Snape walked over to the chair, which was still sitting close to the bed, and sat down, satisfied to allow the boy a few moments before the emotional upheaval which was sure to occur once he admitted to the horrendous treatment at the hands of his family. He sat quietly, absentmindedly rolling a tiny shred of white lint across his knee, the dark fabric rippling under his fingers. He shifted his eyes to the bathroom door, wondering how frantic the child inside must be. Severus knew all too well the deafening roar of a panicked heartbeat, innards twisting in anxiety; the dull, cavernous feeling inside one’s belly at the anticipation of what was to come. Those feelings had plagued him in his youth, as well as during his service to Voldemort, though in his entire life he had never felt the sensation that leached into him as he waded through Harry’s mind. It was like drowning. Suffocating in hatred.

He rubbed a pair of slender fingers against his left temple and closed his eyes. In less than a week, his view of Harry Potter had gone from utter contempt, to shock and sympathy. Whether he was capable of complete compassion towards the boy remained to be seen, however. A brief touch of a hand or an arm hesitantly draped over a shoulder were hardly enough of a gesture to warrant complete trust, and yet admitting the torture he had suffered under his relatives would take more trust than Harry had likely ever known, and certainly more trust than a snarky git of a potion's professor had earned in four days. He checked his watch. Almost twenty minutes had passed since he entered Harry’s room, and the drone of the shower seemed as steady as ever. Stall tactic or not, the boy had spent quite enough time wallowing. Severus stood slowly, watching the scrap of tiny white fluff fall leisurely to the floor.

It was time.

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Harry sat in the corner of the bathroom, his back pressed tightly against the wall, as if crushing himself completely against the cool tile would make him less visible. The room was thick with steam from the shower, which had been running at full force for a while now, though Harry had not even moved from his spot since retreating to it after the Professor had knocked on his door.

His stomach felt vile. The predictable queasiness that came from being so utterly afraid was churning, lurching in his gut. The Professor was going to be so angry at him. First, for running away and secondly, for finding out the horrible secrets he’d been keeping about the Durlseys.

He rubbed his eyes with his fists, taking a deep breath, trying to force back the tears that threatened to escape. It was so stupid to cry, he told himself, crushing a fist against the floor, hoping the pain of his knuckles roughly pressed against the hard tile would distract him from the twisting grief in his gut. He winced as several joints cracked under the weight, and he focused on the pain, lifting his fist off the floor and pounding it back down against the tiles, each time recoiling as pain flashed across his hand. He wouldn’t let himself cry, he wouldn’t be weak. He would take it like a freak should; silent, without tears, without protest.

A few minutes later, the pain in his hand almost blinding, he let his head fall back against the wall, pulling his hands into his lap and breathing heavily. Though a crude way to deal with his overwhelming emotions, it had worked. He didn’t feel like crying anymore. In fact, other than the intense aching that arched from his fingers to his wrist, he didn’t feel much of anything.

He sat unmoving, his breaths labored in the heavy, wet air of the steamy room, knowing that sooner or later the Professor was going to come through the door and force him to continue the discussion from earlier. Why on earth was Snape torturing him with this? Why couldn’t he just go back to hating him, back to ignoring him, back to not giving a damn? Things were so much easier when no one cared, and as desperate as he was to escape the horror of the Dursley’s, he knew no one could help him. Uncle Vernon had been sure to tell him what would happen if Harry ever spoke to anyone of what happened within the confines of Number Four, Privet Drive, and he’d listed in chilling detail the punishments that would await the boy upon his eventual arrival back home.

But, as frantic as he’d felt when Snape had confronted him, he was even more terrified of admitting it out loud. It wasn’t like when he told Ron and Hermione. He knew they wouldn’t tell anyone his secrets; they’d promised, even though Harry had a sneaking suspicion that if he’d really told them the whole truth, Hermione would have run straight to the nearest teacher. It was so much more horrible that the Professor knew, because adults didn’t make promises about keeping secrets like Harry’s.

The sound of Snape’s voice startled him, and seconds later, the bathroom door opened and the Professor came into view, wand drawn from a muttered Alohamora, barely visible through the steam as he stared at the curtain around the claw-footed tub. He turned and pushed the door fully open, returning his wand to his robes, the vapor beginning to dissipate as the cool currents swept into the sweltering bathroom.

“Potter!” He called over the hammering of water against the bone coloured porcelain. “Potter, you’ve been in there long enough.”

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, as the last of the haze finally petered out, he caught sight of the boy pushed into the corner of the room, his knees pulled to his chest, a hand held gingerly in front of him. He frowned as Harry clambered to his feet, noticing the caution with which he rose, using his elbow to steady himself against the slippery tile wall. Severus’ eyes moved to the boy’s left hand, which looked a fierce shade of red, with a dull, blue, bruising evident across the meat of his fingers.

Forcing indifference, Severus pulled back the shower curtain and turned off the tap. He walked to the sink and filled the basin with cold water before turning back to Harry and extending a hand. He locked eyes with the boy, the fear and misery evident in that pale face, causing Severus to narrow his own eyes in resolve, all the more determined to purge the suffering from the child like poison from a wound. They stood for what felt like an eternity, Severus never lowering his arm, his fingers twitching faintly, ready to gently take the boy’s injured hand as soon as it was offered, knowing how hard it was for Harry to allow the gesture of attention, and finally the warm flesh brushed against his fingertips, and his slender fingers curled around the boy’s wrist. He slowly drew Harry to his side and immersed the swelling hand into the water.

Harry hissed in pain as his hand dipped into the frigid liquid, but after a moment, the ache began to recede, and he allowed himself to relax slightly. Snape pulled Harry’s hand from the water and laid it on the hand towel, pressing the cloth against the trembling fingers.

“Do not move from this spot,” he said, inflicting enough severity into his voice to be sure the boy wouldn’t think of disobeying him.

Harry nodded, his eyes cast to the floor as the Professor left the bathroom, returning a minute later holding a small jar, which he opened, dabbing two fingers into the stark white ointment and spreading it across the back of Harry’s fingers and palm with a tenderness that surprised them both.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology was scarcely a whisper, barely even breathed, and Severus paused momentarily before his own equally hushed reply was given.

“I know.”

He finished the application of the salve, noticing the bruising and swelling were already quite diminished, and taking Harry’s upper arm, he led the boy out of the bathroom, and steered him towards the bed before taking his seat again in the chair, watching as Harry’s forlorn stare once again fell to his hands, which took their usual place, clenched in the boy’s lap.

“This ends now,” he said softly, seeing the tension flood into the boy’s shoulders, the tendons in his neck tightening, hands flinching uncontrollably as anxiety washed over him.

Harry held back a sob, biting down so hard on his bottom lip he felt as if he’d sink his teeth right through the flesh. His body shook as he forced the emotion back down. Snape knew everything, every beating, every slap, every unkind word. All he had to do was to get Harry to admit it, and he’d go straight to the Headmaster, and Dumbledore would go right to the authorities, and they’d go straight to Uncle Vernon. A tiny, pitiful moan escaped from deep within his chest, and he swallowed hard, noticing the Professor’s eyes narrow at the sound, and Harry ran the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling the jagged dryness of his lips and realizing how thirsty he was.

“Where would you like to begin?” Came the Professor’s calm voice, and Harry crushed his hands together even tighter, pressing against the still tender knuckles, squeezing the fingers together painfully. He had to feel something other than fear, and pain was easily accessible.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he lifted his head and said the only thing he could think of to save himself.

“Nothing happened,” he said defiantly, his voice sounding much more controlled than he felt.

“Harry,” Snape warned in a firm tone, reaching out to rescue the boy’s injured hand, but Harry was up off the bed in a flash, and Severus stood just as quickly, taking several swift steps back to place himself between Harry and the bedroom door. The boy stopped, all colour draining from his face as he stood trapped, his hands clenching and unclenching as he stared at the Professor desperately.

“Why can’t you just leave it alone?” Harry pleaded, eliciting a grim look from the Professor. “Why can’t you just pretend you didn’t see?

Snape took in the heartbreaking gaze. This child couldn’t even comprehend someone caring enough to help him. For so long he’d been told he was nothing, less than human, a waste. How little the boy thought of himself now, and how little he valued his own worth.

“I can’t leave it alone, Harry. You know I can’t,” he replied.

“I’ll lie,” Harry spluttered, his mind a whirl, frantic now for anything that would persuade the Professor to drop the issue. “If you tell anyone, I’ll say you made it up!”

“Legilimency does not lie,” Snape replied. “Do you honest –”

“And what are you doing using that on me?” Harry cut in, his voice rising not only in decibel, but in tone, as his chest tightened fearfully. It was hard to breathe, hard to think. “It’s none of your business what’s in here!” He cried, reaching up and pressing two trembling fingers against his brow, cringing at the headache that was blooming behind his skull. He slipped the hand to this throat, rubbing hard at the flesh that seemed to be constricting, crushing his ability to inhale.

Severus sighed. He was getting nowhere. At each turn, he was met with opposition as years of careful suppression kept the boy from admitting any harm against him. He had admitted the nightmares, however, and Snape recalled the tiny scrap of trust Harry had allowed him that night. What the Professor was asking him to admit now was a thousand times more arduous a task than simply acknowledging nightmares. He was asking him to confess a lifetime of abuse. It was impractical to expect no resistance.

“Harry, surely you must know why I’m doing this?” He asked. “Is it so hard to believe that someone would care about you enough to take you away from that kind of treatment?”

“You don’t care about me,” Harry replied, his voice warbling with trepidation. He was trying so hard to be angry over the invasion of his mind. Anger was easier to control than fear. Anger could turn the tide of the discussion away from his abuse, towards the Professor, towards anything other than what he had witnessed inside Harry’s mind.

“If you cared, you’d let me go right now! You’ve got no right to –”

“Enough., Snape announced, desperately trying not to snarl the word at the boy. “I am trying, Pot…Harry. I am quite aware of your unease regarding this discussion, and I daresay someone with fewer tendencies towards exasperation would do better in this situation than I; however, your attempts to delay this conversation are at an end, do you understand?”

“I need to leave,” Harry said suddenly, taking another step towards the man, and the Professor moved backwards until he was against the door, his eyes locked with Harry’s.

“No,” Severus said gently, seeing the boy’s thin frame shudder in panic as his breathing quickened, barely able to stand the confinement that his teacher had forced upon him.

“Let me out!” Harry shouted, trying to sound outraged, but the fear had crept into his voice again making him sound flustered and frantic.

“I will let you out,” Snape said carefully, his piercing gaze holding Harry’s attention., “if you can give me one reason why your family would want you back.”

Harry froze, the fear in his eyes replaced by curiosity as he took in the Professor’s statement.

“Just one reason,” Snape continued. “One plausible reason why I should allow you to return. If you can tell me, I’ll let you out of here and never speak about it again.”

The room fell into silence.

“I…..they…” Harry’s voice faltered, his mind racing as he searched for a single thing the Dursley’s had done to him in his life that didn’t involve violence or hatred.

“They want me…..they –“

“Nice try,” Snape cut in, his voice growing louder, seeing Harry flinch and feeling sickened by it, but knowing this had to be done. It was just like the first night at the manor, the night he’d forced the boy to take the Dreamless Sleep potion. It was cruel to use the boy’s forced complacency against him, but Harry had to admit the abuse. “If you mean they want you to starve and neglect, then yes, you are correct, but hardly a valid reason to return to their presence, if you ask me. Try again,” he snapped.

“They’re my family,” Harry replied. He was near tears now, face gleaming with perspiration “The blood protection, it keeps me safe from –“

“From you uncle’s thrashings?” Snape barked. “From the daily slaps and verbal attacks that I saw heaped on you? Protection from Voldemort can be bestowed in more ways than just blood protection, Potter. If you think you’ll live to see an appropriate age at which you can defeat the Dark Lord by living with those revolting people, you are sadly mistaken!”

“Stop it,” Harry whispered, his voice as small and pitiful as Snape had ever heard. He was close, Severus could feel it.

“Come on, Potter, an hour ago you were begging me not to send you home, and now, all of a sudden, you’re threatening to lie in order to return to their care. Obviously there’s something I’m missing. Clearly there are a dozen reasons why you’d be wanted there. Pick one!”

“Stop, please.” The plea was hardly a whisper, the words barely even able to be spoken as the boy’s breath hitched in his throat. He was breaking.

“How about your uncle?” Snape continued, scathingly. “I can certainly see why you’d want to return to his loving arms. Or your aunt, perhaps? What a divine woman she seemed. Or maybe that obese cousin of yours? He appeared to be a jolly little fellow. I can’t imagine how you can bear to be apart from their love, Potter, so with all the charming family members at your disposal, how about we pack your things right now and I’ll return you to your delightful home myself!” He roared.

“No!” Harry shouted.

“Why?” The Professor yelled back, his heart beating violently in his chest.

“Because they hate me!” Harry screamed.

The words were hurled at Severus, primitive and raw, laced with grief, and the boy’s face fell into his hands, choking on a sob, swallowing hard against the overwhelming urge to cry.

Severus closed his eyes, relief washing over him at hearing the admission. For the first time, Harry had given reason to the horror he had endured. All that was left now was for the boy to release the grief and shame he’d been holding onto for so many years.

The emotion of love was foreign to Severus, but maybe, somewhere in the depths of his soul, underneath the corruption and darkness, he could remember what it was like to love and to be loved. Just maybe he could dredge enough of it from so far inside that he’d long forgotten the sensation, and convey to the boy that he was capable of trusting.

He took a step closer to the distressed child and for the first time, Harry didn’t shrink back, though his head shot up at seeing the man inch towards him. His eyes locked with the Professors, wild with unleashed emotion.

“Harry, I know the pain seems too much to bear. I know the desperation feels like it can swallow you whole; that it will overwhelm you. Trust me, I know.”

“I didn’t want to say it,” Harry said roughly, his voice stumbling over a held back sob. “I hate you for making me say it.”

“I know.”

Harry’s lower lip quivered as he dropped his eyes to the floor, tears slipping down his flushed cheeks.

“This can all end, Harry, this madness you’ve been living in. You’ve spent the last few days hiding, and I apologize for not seeing it sooner, but it can end, it will end. You’re so close,” Severus said quietly. “There’s just one more thing you need to do.”

He paused, wishing he could reach out and lift the boy’s head so he could witness the sincerity with which he spoke the next words.

“Trust me, Harry.”

He took another small step, closing the distance between them, thankful that Harry didn’t make his usual retreat.

“I will not let you go,” he whispered in a voice so quiet he doubted Harry even heard it, but suddenly the boy’s eyes flickered, and he slowly lifted his head, allowing his emerald eyes to meet Snape’s dark stare.

Agonizing seconds passed as they simply stared at each other, the potion's master silently begging Harry to give in. Time seemed to stop, the child’s slender frame quivering in anguish, the tears coming freely now, his breaths turning to choppy gasps for air.

Slowly, Severus raised his arms, and with a whimper, Harry fell into them, wrapping his own around the man’s waist, burying his face into the cool cloth of Snape’s robes. He felt Severus’ strong arms curl around him, pulling him into a hug, and finally, without the fear of reprisal, or pain, Harry closed his eyes and allowed the release he’d needed for so long. Great heaving sobs wracked his body as the misery and anguish of twelve years of cruelty flooded out of him in one colossal landslide of emotion; and amid the tears, he heard the Professor’s voice thanking him over and over.

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It was a lifetime later when Harry finally pulled back from his position against Severus’ chest, eyes glistening and red from crying. He had cried forever, gripping the Professor’s robes like a lifeline as he sobbed with fervor into the blackness of Snape’s shirt.

“You won’t let them take me?” He sniffled, unable to see the man’s reaction through his tears.

His head fell against the broad chest once again, and he felt Snape’s hand land on his back, the other resting on the back of his head, fingers tangled in the messy crop of hair.

“I will never allow that,” came the firm reply.

He stood for as long as the boy needed to, and it was a short time later, after standing in the quiet, listening as Harry’s shuddering pants relaxed into the silence, when Harry allowed his hands to fall from the Professor’s robes. He rubbed at his eyes, taking a few weary steps back and wiping his palms across his face before letting out a heavy breath.

“Come,” Severus instructed in his usual no-nonsense tone as he replaced his hand on the boy’s back. “A real shower this time, please.”

Harry nodded weakly and walked into the bathroom to change, though Snape noticed his shoulders did not slump as usual, though it may well have been a coincidence.

There was a light knock at the door, and at hearing no response from her master, Della’s nut brown head appeared. She slipped into the room and glanced at Snape, who was staring thoughtfully at the closed bathroom door. She took a few meek steps forward and tugged gently on the hem of the Professor’s robe.

“Misters Russer and Russer are being contacting you, Master,” she squeaked as Snape’s tired eyes looked down at her. “They are being wondering how little master is, Sir.”

Snape paused.

“Ask them for dinner,” he instructed, knowing that the last thing Harry needed was a quiet evening to dwell on the past. Revelations would come in time, when the boy was ready. Della nodded quickly, padding towards the open door, looking back over her shoulder quickly before pulling it closed behind her.

Snape waited patiently for Harry to return from the bathroom, and it was within an acceptable period this time when the door creaked open and Harry stepped out, flushed and damp haired. He hesitated a moment, offering the Professor a nervous half smile, and Severus reached out a hand, gently tugging to boy to him and allowing Harry to once more lean against his chest in quiet relief. He would not permit the child to think that comfort was only offered upon the admission of secrets or as a reward for compliance. Reassurance would be given whenever Harry needed or wanted it, and not used as a bribe, nor withheld as punishment.

“Harry,” he said carefully, smoothing the boy’s disorderly hair.

“Yes, Sir?” Harry whispered against the darkness. His head was swimming painfully, and his face felt strange, overly warm and sensitive from crying. He forced himself to stop from trembling, though he was sure the Professor could feel it anyway, and nervously lifted a small hand to his cheek and pressed against the man’s soft robe. He felt the soft, rhythmic beating of Snape’s heart.

Yes. This was real.

It seemed so abnormal, allowing the small measure of contentment in a lifetime that lacked any solace at all. Harry closed his eyes as tightly as he could, hoping to God this wasn’t a dream. His heart didn’t clench so tightly now, and tolerating the close contact was less difficult than before, though his body still felt wired and edgy.

He felt the Professor take him by the shoulders, forcing him to take a step backwards where he could better see his face.

“Ernie and Craig will be our dinner guests,” he said, and Harry nodded, remembering the remarkably happy man from their encounter in town. “It was Craig, Ernie’s brother, who found you yesterday.”

Harry’s cheeks took on an even more flushed appearance that had little to do with the heat from the bathroom.

“You owe him your gratitude,” Snape finished, seeing the boy’s embarrassment. Harry nodded mutely.

“Also,” the Professor paused, and Harry’s eyes flashed with worry as Snape stared down at him with a concerned look. “There will be no Dreamless Sleep tonight.”

He felt Harry’s shoulders stiffen immediately, and he tightened his grip on the boy.

“But why?” Harry gasped, shrugging the Professors hands off his shoulders and taking a jerky step back. “What did I do?” He pleaded, eyes brimming with tears. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry!”

Severus sighed. Harry’s reaction was typical for one so horrible tortured by refusal of care and attention, heaping every imaginable guilt upon himself until little room for self-forgiveness remained.

“Harry, this is not a punishment,” he declared, stepping forward and taking the distraught boy by the arm, allowing the thin limb to slide across his palm until Harry’s hand slipped into his own. He wrapped his slender fingers around the small hand and pulled Harry gently towards him before returning his hands to the quivering shoulders.

“Listen to me,” he instructed, though Harry’s head remained bowed, and Severus moved his hand under the boy’s chin and with little force, tilted Harry’s head until the glistening eyes met with his own. “This is not a punishment,” Snape repeated, quickly moving the hand and placing a single finger against the boy’s lips before Harry could respond with another series of pleas. “Hush,” he said firmly before clamping the hand back on Harry’s shoulder and continuing with his explanation. “Dreamless Sleep should not be given on more than two consecutive occasions, and never more than twice a week. You have already been given the draught twice within the last five days, thus it would be hazardous for you to consume any more.”

“But….couldn’t I just have it once more?” Harry asked in a small, fearful tone. “Just once?”

“No,” Snape affirmed, shaking his head. “Side effects are numerous and unpleasant,” he replied, being sure to use heavy emphasis on the last description.

“But I –“

“I will not leave you alone,” Severus declared softly, silencing the boy with his interruption and feeling a shudder ripple through Harry’s body. “I will stay with you, Harry. We will see the night through together.” He gently drew the trembling boy to his chest, dropping his hands so they rested against the boy’s back as he repeated the promise he’d made earlier.

“I will not let you go.”

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Dinner was a light affair. Della served a chicken and vegetable dish, and Severus stole multiple glances at Harry throughout the course of the evening, noticing the boy still ate little, but daring to suppose that what he did consume was more than he’d been able to over the past few days. He frowned as Harry pushed his carrots around his plate, reaching out and nudging the boy on the arm, earning a pleading look, which he ignored before turning back to a conversation with Craig about his new position at the Ministry of Magic. Harry had sighed, though he made a concerted effort to nibble at one of the orange slivers before pushing his plate away in earnest.

After eating, they retired to the sitting room, where Ernie held Harry’s rapt attention with the chronicles of his and Snape’s time at Hogwarts.

“Then there was the time we all had to take a Cornish Pixie overnight,” Ernie giggled, casting a cheeky grin at Snape, who was glaring at him now. Harry sat upright, a small smile of anticipation on his face as the little man continued.

“We were supposed to observe the ritual the horrid little things have. On the eve of each full moon, at the stroke of midnight, they shed their hides, which is the main ingredient in a skin softening potion. We were asked to collect the hides for the next day’s class.”

Harry nodded, his eyes shining excitedly. He heard the Professor let out a barely audible sigh next to him.

“It was the first time a student ever brought their pixie back in a catatonic state!” Ernie exclaimed, his voice warbling to an even higher decibel as he burst into giggles yet again, slapping his knee as his tiny body shook in hysterics.

“It was not catatonic!” Severus retorted, bringing his mug to his lips. “It was merely the victim of severe fatigue,” he finished coolly, taking a long drink of coffee.

“Fatigue?” Ernie squeaked. “We heard from a student, who had been in the infirmary at the time, that Madame Pomfrey used six pepper up potions to get the poor thing to regain consciousness!” He leaned towards Harry, his voice dropping to a mysterious whisper.

“Students speculated for months about what Severus did to it. We never did find out.”

Snape snorted from behind his coffee cup, and Harry’s eyes grew wide as he turned his stare to the Professor.

“Ernie is far too prone to embellishment when it comes to accounts of our youth,” he stated, giving his friend a sharp look.

“In short,” he continued, staring down at Harry, who was now looking close to laughter, “the dwarf lies.”

Severus felt a slight satisfaction at seeing Harry break into a brief, awkward smile. It was fleeting, barely the ghost of a grin, but it was genuine.

At least the boy is starting to allow himself to feel happiness, he thought.

“Hey!” Craig said suddenly from across the room. “What about that story you used to tell me, Ernie, the one about you and Severus sneaking into Professor Dumbledore’s office and turning his lemon drops into – ”

“I do believe it is time for Harry to prepare himself for bed,” Snape interrupted, narrowing his eyes at Craig before reaching out and tapping Harry on the arm. “Say goodnight to our guests, Potter, and thank them for their amusing fairy-tales.”

The look that crossed Harry’s face clearly expressed his disappointment at being denied another anecdote, though Severus guessed it was more from his reluctance to face the night rather than miss out on conversation, but Harry stood obediently and thanked Ernie and Craig before being ushered out of the room and upstairs by Della.

Ernie slipped to the floor and accio’d his cloak.

“Thank you for dinner, Severus.” He smiled as he slipped the tiny cape around his shoulders. “And thank you for not hexing me for that pixie story,” he finished, breaking into giggles. He reached out and swatted at Snape’s hand, which was reaching for his wand in mock threat.

“What did you do to it anyway?” Craig asked as he lifted his heavy jacket from the coat rack.

Snape smirked wickedly.

“I could demonstrate for you,” he replied in a perilous voice, turning his eyes from Craig to Ernie. “On your brother.”

Craig chuckled, smiling broadly at his tiny brother, who had broken into laughter. Really, Ernie seemed to be in a state of amusement almost constantly.

“Oh, Severus,” Ernie managed to shriek between giggles. “Threats like that make me glad I’m a more powerful wizard than you.”

Snape rolled his eyes as he led the two men over to the fireplace.

“How is your dissertation coming along, Severus?” Ernie asked as he stepped up onto the hearth.

“Completed, of course.” Snape replied briskly. “Though due to recent events, I am unsure if I shall be available for the convention.”

“What?” Ernie shrieked, clearly shocked. “Severus, this is the first time the discussion of Acromantula has been permitted by the Ministry. What on earth is so importa –” He stopped abruptly as he saw the change in Severus’ eyes that clearly answered his question.

“You want to stay with Harry, don’t you?” Ernie asked, smiling.

“I would prefer to, yes,” Snape replied, ignoring the overly maudlin grin his friend was giving him. “He is fragile, emotionally. The child suffers from nightmares. It would be unwise to leave him overnight until he is calmer.”

“Well, I could stay,” Craig broke in, looking at Severus keenly. “He seems like a nice kid, and I wouldn’t mind hanging out with him for a few days.”

Snape nodded.

“If, within a suitable amount of time, the boy is able to remain overnight unattended, I may accept the offer,” he replied, and Craig nodded.

“Splendid!” Ernie cried, slapping Snape on the knee. “I do hope you can attend, Severus. Otherwise, I’d have to give your speech, and then I’d end up on the cover of Potion's Monthly, and I’d hate to see you sink into depression over that!” Snape rolled his eyes again as Ernie chuckled and took Craig’s hand.

“Take your delusional brother home,” Snape ordered Craig in a severe tone, and after saying their goodbyes, he stood back and watched the men disappear in a cloud of smoke.

Della popped into the living room and bowed, her forehead making a soft thudding sound as it knocked against the floor. She lifted her head and frowned, rubbing at her leathery brow as the Professor again rolled his eyes.

“Little master is in the shower,” she reported.

“How did he seem?” Snape asked, knowing that the boy had done his best to hide his anxiety throughout the evening, though he was sure Harry did enjoy Ernie’s stories, and Severus was content to bear the brunt of his friend’s humiliating yarns if it brought the child a few hours of pleasure.

Della cocked her head, her ears drooping.

“Little master is not looking forward to being sleeping,” she said quietly, twisting her fingers together as she peered into her master’s eyes.

“No, I would think not,” he murmured, not having a single idea how he was going to get Harry through the night without the potion.

Suddenly, Della’s seemingly insignificant report on the boy’s whereabouts dawned on him.

“He’s in the shower?” He asked.

Della’s head bobbed in affirmation.

“Little master was asking for Della to leave, because little master is needing to shower,” she replied.

“Blast!” Severus exclaimed, startling Della so fiercely that she threw her hands up in alarm. “Della, to his room, immediately,” he barked as he began a swift pace across the living room. Della was gone in an instant and Snape continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time, meeting Della in the hall, her eyes wide as she came scampering out of Harry’s bedroom.

“Little master is not being in his room!” she cried. “Little master’s shower is being running, but no little master inside!”

Severus strode past the little elf, pushing Harry’s bedroom door open with a bang, his eyes darting to the windows, which were closed. The boy didn’t go gallivanting out onto the roof then, he thought, relieved that Harry had enough sense not to try another escape.

Pursing his lips in annoyance, he walked quickly out into the hallway, intending to search every room on the top floor, but after a few brisk steps he slowed to a stop, lowering his head to rub at the deep furrow between his eyes as he realized exactly where Harry had gone.

He raised his head and pulled his wand from within his robes.

“Lumos.”

There, a few feet down the hall, almost unnoticeable in the low light, was the heavy stone door of the potions lab sitting slightly ajar.

Growing up, Harry knew there was a great difference in the way he had been treated compared to Dudley. Every time he was beaten, locked away, and starved, there was Dudley, pampered, loved, and spoiled, and Harry had realized very early on that the Dursley’s would never care about him. It would have been easy to distrust everyone after years of abuse, but Harry, in his eternal innocence and faith, had clung to the idea of someone, he wasn’t sure who or where, but someone would care about him one day, and that thought had kept him sane, and through countless beatings he had recited those words to himself as the belt came slicing through the air towards him: It won’t always be like this.

Harry steadied himself against the cool stone wall as he lost his footing for the umpteenth time since pulling open the heavy door in the hall and slipping into the darkness, and he mentally scolded himself for losing himself in thoughts of his past.

He hadn’t allowed himself the opportunity to think about what he was about to do. He focused on navigating his way down beneath the bowels of the manor instead, refusing to let his mind focus on the absurdity of his mission, because if he let himself think, he might just turn back, and deliverance lay within the mysterious laboratory, the tiny vial of pink potion that he needed so badly.

The air was cool, almost icy, and heavy with the scent of herbs as a light breeze gusted up from the depths, and a sharp shard of stone sliced into Harry’s palm, and he gasped, pulling his hand to his chest, bracing himself with the other and he sat down carefully on the tiny platform of rock. He could barely make out the dark patch in the gloom, spreading across his pale skin, and he pushed his hand against his knee, hissing in pain, sending a ghostly cloud out into the quiet blackness as the wound pressed closed against the cloth.

Cringing, he leaned forward and rested his head on the back of his injured hand.

“So stupid,” he breathed, trying to control the guilt that was welling up inside him. He had lied to Della, and he had come to care about the good natured little elf as she doted on him and yipped quietly whenever he gave her a smile or a word of thanks, but it was the thought of disobeying Snape that made his stomach clench. Ever since he had arrived at the manor, the Professor had startled him with a kindness Harry had thought was impossible for the man to possess, but beneath the callused exterior lay a powerful gentleness of spirit, a spirit which had sworn to keep Harry safe, protected.

He had promised.

Harry raised his head and looked back up the dark stairwell. He pulled himself to his feet, gazing into the darkness, wondering if Della had realized he was gone yet, wondering if he still had time to get back to his room.

He sighed. He had only relied on the Dreamless Sleep for a few days, but already he was craving it, yearning for the shelter and protection it afforded him against his nightmares. He hated to go back to not sleeping. It felt so good to wake up rested, without the residue of his uncle’s beatings fresh in his mind, and even if Snape had promised to stay with him, the nightmares would still come.

Damn! There he was, thinking about it again, and Harry shook his head quickly and took in a deep breath, forcing the air out into the shadows, and with it, any thoughts of turning back.

It was a remarkably long descent, the stairwell almost impossibly narrow in many areas, and any attempt at swiftness was hindered by the thin, marred, stone steps that jutted out not nearly enough for Harry’s small feet to gain adequate hold, and he wondered how on earth the Professor managed to make each trip unharmed, though he likely used some sort of spell to arrive at the bottom safely.

It took several minutes before Harry appeared, brow gleaming from his struggle with the dangerous stairway as he emerged into the dimly lit room.

He stood in awe of the sight before him. The room was huge, at least twice the size of his large bedroom upstairs. Clustered in the corner stood twelve large, black cauldrons, so vast in size that each came up at least to his waist, all filled with bubbling liquids of different colours and textures, each simmering atop a small blazing fire. Several of them contained long spoons, magically stirring at different speeds and directions, and Harry watched wide eyed as one of the spoons slowly pulled from a thick, blue potion, shaking slightly to allow the excess fluid to drip back into the cauldron before floating across the room and coming to rest on a small wooden table in the corner.

Shelves lined the back wall, home to what seemed like hundreds of vials, a veritable rainbow of different coloured potions splayed against the gloomy stone, the light from the fires creating a kaleidoscope of gently shimmering tints across the floor. Harry stood dumbfounded, amazed that such a dark, bleak place could create such beauty, and he found his thoughts drifting to the Professor. He had thought the man was like this dungeon, cheerless, without heart, and Snape had shown Harry his true colours, and they were nothing like Harry had thought.

Somewhere in the manor, likely livid with rage, was perhaps the only person in the world who had really made him feel safe, and Harry couldn’t help but bow his head in shame as he stood amid the gently flickering firelight, awash in the splendor of magentas, indigos, and fresh greens, and his eyes fell on a row of potions, a series of pink filled vials alone on a low shelf.

Dreamless Sleep.

Carefully stepping around the cauldrons, he scanned the rest of the shelves, seeing nothing that resembled the vivid rose colour of the familiar potion. He carefully picked up a tiny phial and with trembling fingers, pulled the little cork stopper from the glass mouth. Maybe he would just take a tiny sip, just enough to tone down his nightmares, perhaps make them less dreadful, then he’d quickly make his way back to his room, and Snape would never be the wiser.

Harry shuddered. As guilty as he felt about his rule breaking, he felt just as frantic at the thought of reliving the nightmares. Mind awhirl with indecision, he lifted the vial to his mouth, then, before the glass touched his lips, he quickly re-corked it, staring at the fragile container hopelessly as he hastily thrust it back onto the shelf. He took several steps back, making it almost to the bottom of the stairs before hurrying back and grabbing the potion, pulling the stopper and lifting the vial to his lips in one swift movement.

Suddenly there was a dull scrape of stone against stone, and Harry froze, his eyes moving to the dark stairwell, and moments later, the sound of heavy footsteps slowly made their way closer. Harry jerkily took a few steps towards the cauldrons; then, fear overtaking him, he dashed down a thin hallway and through the first door he saw, finding himself in a tiny storage room lined with wide shelves, stocked with boxes of all sizes. Pushing the wooden door closed gently, Harry stood quiet and still, a single magic candle hovering aglow near the ceiling.

“Mister Potter, if you have any idea what’s good for you, you’ll present yourself immediately!” Snape called in a sharp and very dangerous voice.

A breath caught in Harry’s throat, and he cringed, pressing his lips together. After a moment of silence, he slowly opened his eyes, forcing himself to let the captured breath free as he stared at the door. Oh crap, he was back to Mister Potter now. Snape was going to kill him, and not in the dramatic, figure of speech kind of a way, but in the head-on-a-spike and body-in-a-ditch kind of way. Maybe he should just show himself, try to explain, and maybe the Professor would understand. He reached out towards the door, his fingers brushing against the icy handle.

“Very well, Potter, you have been warned.”

Oh God, he was too late now. Snape would never let him explain. They never let him explain! His breathing accelerated, the tiny vial almost burning his fingers as he gripped it tightly, his hands trembling. His heart thundered in his ears, and Harry slowly removed one hand from the vial and pressed it against his chest as if he could muffle the sound which he was almost certain Snape would be able to hear from the next room.

The sound of boxes scraping against the stone floor cause another instinctive wince as Snape continued his search, methodically moving each crate of ingredients or box of heirlooms, hunting the boy like a python slinking after a tiny rabbit, leisurely stalking it’s prey, waiting for the right time to strike and sink sharp fangs into warm flesh. A bead of sweat trickled down Harry’s forehead and into his eye, though he dared not move to wipe it away, and he closed his eyes tightly, dropping his head to his chest.

A dull thud echoed from the next room, along with the clattering sound of several items hitting the stone floor. A hushed string of obscenities caught Harry’s ear as Snape began noisily tossing the fallen items back into the box, and Harry seized the opportunity, crouching down and shuffling backwards as quietly and as carefully as he could, his hair brushing against the top of the shelf above him as he buried himself amid the boxes at the back of the storage room. It wasn’t until he felt the cold stone wall against the small of his back that he stopped, feeling claustrophobic in the tiny space as memories of the cupboard under the stairs flooded back to him. He took a deep breath and held it, listening to the Professor moving around out in the laboratory, and he let the breath out slowly, willing himself to stay calm.

Minutes felt like hours as the sounds of jostling boxes resonated through the laboratory. Harry barely dared to breathe, though the entire situation was utterly ridiculous really. Snape would find him. It was just a matter of time. Eventually he’d search the storeroom and find Harry hiding in the corner, and then the yelling would start, and the punishment would come, and Harry shuddered again, remembering the man’s stern words the day he had paused outside the door and uttered his deadly warning.

“If I ever catch you past this door without my express permission, I will not be held responsible for my actions towards you.”

Harry was worriedly imagining exactly what actions the Professor would take, when he was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden stabbing pain in his arm. Jerking his head up, he yelped as his head slammed into the heavy wooden shelf above him, and his eyes focused on the source of the pain, which to his horror, were Snape’s pale fingers wrapped around his forearm, digging into the tendons in the soft underside of his wrist. He felt himself being pulled out from the dark and roughly jerked to his feet, Snape’s hand latching onto Harry’s chin and forcing his head up to meet the Professor’s livid glare while the other hand clutched a handful of the boy’s shirt. A terrified groan caught in Harry’s throat, his hand frantically pushing against Snape’s unyielding hold, and he abandoned the vial, hearing the crash of glass as it smashed onto the cement floor as he used both hands now in an attempt to pry the man’s fingers from his jaw.

“Stop this at once!” Snape roared, only inches from the frightened boy’s face.

Almost instantly Harry’s frantic flailing ceased, his hands falling limply to his sides, body trembling in fear, eyes tightly closed in anticipation of a hand driven across his cheek in anger. He could feel the hot breath on his skin, and it felt like hours passed before the warm puffs of air evened out as Snape’s fury dissipated. Harry felt his shirt slacken against his stomach as the Professor released the handful of material, his hand withdrawing from Harry’s jaw leaving a series of wide, red marks on his flesh. Harry opened his eyes slowly, backing up against a stack of boxes behind him, eyeing his teacher guardedly as the man stared back at him with eyes dark with fury, nostrils flaring as he breathed through the urge to throttle the boy where he stood. Willing the desire to pass, Severus slowly crouched down and studied the small pool of pink liquid.

“Had you consumed this,” he said, his voice disturbingly composed as he looked up to meet Harry’s tense gaze. “you would have died within seconds.” Harry’s eyes widened slightly, his eyes moving to the spilled potion, then back to the Professor.

“What was it?” he whispered hoarsely, barely able to keep from stammering. Adrenaline was coursing through him, and a hand flinched spasmodically before he stuffed it into his pocket.

“Acromantula venom,” Snape replied, his voice crisp with anger. “A poison so potent that your nervous system would have begun shutting down the moment the first drop touched your tongue.”

He watched as the colour drained from Harry’s face as the boy realized how close he had come to accidentally killing himself. His eyes shifted to the ball of fist in Harry’s pocket, the tremor evident through the thick fabric. He watched as the trembling slowly spread throughout the boy’s rigid frame until the child stood quivering, his breaths choppy as he stared unblinking at the deadly spill at his feet.

Severus took in a deep breath and slowly reached out a hand, brushing it against Harry’s, eliciting a rather violent flinch as the boy instinctively recoiled from the touch.

“Honestly, Potter.”

“I’m –“

“Stop,” Snape interjected in a severe tone. “It is too late for apologies. You willfully disobeyed my explicit instructions.” He stood slowly, the rage still burning under the surface, bristling against his skin, and it was all he could do to refrain from launching into a stern lecture complete with humiliating insults and scathing remarks about Harry’s intelligence, and he pressed his lips together, knowing that the cruelty he so readily distributed at school would do little here.

He noticed Harry’s stance, rigid, nervous, his hands trembling in obvious anticipation of an attack, and he forced his features to soften, bringing his hand down against the slender shoulder, attempting to convey his passive intentions to the boy through his touch. As furious as he had been moments earlier, he had some realization of the desperate determination that had caused such a willful deception on Harry’s part.

Harry opened his mouth, no doubt to whisper another distressed apology, and Snape gave the shoulder a stern squeeze.

“Do not apologize,” Severus said quickly, the frustration still evident in his voice. “You’d apologize for breathing if you thought it offended me. Your life of contrition leads me to wonder if you even know what an authentic apology is,” he snapped, moving his hand to Harry’s back and pressing it hard against the boy’s shirt, which he noticed was damp with sweat, before guiding him forcefully towards the stairway. Harry allowed the direction, head down, eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He felt absolutely pathetic, so conquered by the fear of his dreams that he ignored the Professor’s strict rule, which was deadly enough in itself, then in a display of sheer stupidity, stole an anonymous potion which would have killed him stone dead in seconds. He sniffled, feeling like a child being led to his room for a spanking by an angry Father, and his chest took on the all too familiar tightness, crushing his chest, his breaths rapid and shallow as Snape gave him a light shove towards the stairs.

“Return to your room. Immediately. I am not finished with you.”

Harry nodded, the bile creeping up his throat, and he swallowed firmly, feeling not so much afraid, but more remorseful at disappointing the man who’d been the only source of real comfort to him since as far back as he could remember.

Slowly, as if his legs were lead weights, Harry began up the long slope of stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, his mind racing at the thoughts of a punishment that would surely be doled out, and he rubbed at the sweat that had beaded on his brow, sick with anticipation, his stomach lurching painfully.

Oh God, not this again, he groaned inwardly, moving a hand to his stomach and rubbing firmly under his shirt, the clammy flesh cool against his fingers as he leaned forward, his other hand outstretched to lean on a higher step as he took a ravenous gulp of air, his eyes crushed shut as waves of nausea slammed against him. He heard Snape’s voice calling to him, saying something, it may have been Harry’s name, but he couldn’t hear for the rushing, thundering noise in his ears and he shook his head carefully, quickly, trying to shake the horrific feeling and failing. Taking another deep breath, he forced his eyes open and took the next step, a hand on each side of the stairwell now, the deep cold of the stone wall almost painful against his skin as he made his way up the stairs.

Severus watched him go, his eyes focused on Harry’s hand, trembling and stark against the dim rock wall, his shoulders rigid with the anxiety Snape knew was mercilessly attacking him. The Professor took out his wand and began a decontamination charm to remove all traces of the spilled venom, allowing himself a few moments of reflection before dealing with the boy.

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Harry sat quietly on the edge of his bed fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting the material into a rumpled ball before pulling it flat and coiling it up again. He was trying desperately not to cry, and his eyes burned, a steady, dull pain rippling across his brow, and he rubbed at it fiercely, not hearing the Professor’s soft steps in the hall, nor the sigh he released at seeing Harry’s agitation and obvious pain as he walked across the room.

With a slow realization, Harry lifted his head, wincing as the throbbing ache cascaded around his skull, reverberating, beating against the bone, and his eyes met with the Professor’s, the man’s lips set in a grim, brooding line as he stared at Harry in silence.

Harry took a breath, opening his mouth to say the automatic sorry that never worked with Uncle Vernon. He closed his mouth suddenly, knowing Snape had forbidden an apology, and wondering why he ever tried to apologize to his uncle. No matter how many times he said the word, screamed it, begged it, it never made a difference. The beating always came, as harsh and as seemingly impossible to endure as each one before it. So he stayed silent, desperately wanting to tear his eyes from the Professor’s heated gaze.

It was Snape that broke the eye contact, sitting down in the chair next to Harry’s bed, resting his brow against steepled fingers and sighing.

“It seems,” Snape began, speaking slowly as if he was picking his words delicately, and with much forethought, “that anger is not an option here.” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes once more. “What were you thinking?” he asked incredulously, his mind still drenched in disbelief at the boy’s behaviour. He still felt slightly sick at how close Harry had come to death.

“I just wanted the potion,” Harry blurted, not caring that tears were running down his cheeks now. He had to make Snape see. He had to make him understand that he didn’t mean to disobey him; he didn’t mean to disappoint him. “I know you said I’m not to have it, and…and I didn’t want to, but I didn’t want the night –” He paused, bringing his hand to his brow, swiping at the pain drilling inside his head, rubbing fervently against the damp skin as Snape looked at him with a deep frown. “I couldn’t help it, and I know you don’t believe me but I am sorry, and not because I was bad, but because I ruined it all, and you…and I didn’t….” Harry looked at Snape desperately, knowing he made little sense, but hoping the man understood him anyway as he met the Professor’s disconcerted stare.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head slightly, as if he were trying to make sense of Harry’s emotional ramblings before holding the boy’s gaze once more, and Harry ducked his head, staring down into his lap as he awaited what would surely be a verbal thrashing.

“Harry, when I explained to you earlier why it was being withheld, I –” he reached out and gently lifted the boy’s chin to meet the tear filled eyes. “I was not exaggerating. There are reasons, critical reasons, why I must disallow it.” Snape paused before releasing Harry’s chin, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “And even after an explanation from myself, you still chose to disregard my warning,” he finished, unable to hold back a menacing glower any longer.

He watched as Harry bowed his head, pressing the heel of each palm against his eyes and releasing a shuddering breath before rubbing at his pinched brow with his fingertips.

“I just didn’t want them,” he said in a quivering voice, head up now, facing the Professor.

“The nightmares,” Snape stated softly, and Harry flushed, visibly embarrassed at what he surely perceived as a weakness on his part, and he nodded, shamefully lowering his eyes, focusing on the trail of dark buttons on the man’s waistcoat as the uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

“You realize,” Snape said carefully, wanting to avoid upsetting Harry further with his words. “that I have seen them.”

A nod. It was all Harry was capable of at the moment, and his fingers wrestled in agitation in his lap before he brought them to his eyes where they rubbed at the escaping tears.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Snape continued, “with regards to staying with you during the night. It is not my intention to allow you to remain alone. Therefore, I believe it is in both our best interests to disregard your…lapse in judgment. Now,” he said gently, unfolding his arms and slipping his hands to his knees, indicating that the reprimand was over, “I will return in a few minutes. I expect you changed and in bed by that time, understood?”

Harry managed a silent nod before the Professor rose and strode down the hall. Harry watched him leave, still feeling the pangs of anxiety in his gut, his throat tight and dry. He found himself yawning against the back of his hand, and he slipped off the bed and padded into the bathroom where he changed, brushed his teeth, and splashed some cold water against his reddened face, washing away the tears that he’d shed at the Professor’s scolding.

He clambered up onto the bed and slid beneath the covers, sitting upright against his pillow which he propped up against the headboard. He felt drained, empty, and incredibly ashamed, but even after all he’d done the Professor was still going to stay with him. He yawned again and stared down the long, dim hallway, waiting for Snape to return, watching the flickering of the candles that lined the hall, the light bouncing off the walls, sparkling, dancing, blurring into the grey stone as Harry’s eyes closed, gradually inching shut, and then there was nothingness, quiet, warm, sleepy nothingness.

Severus returned fifteen minutes later, a small vial of pain relieving potion in one hand, a novel in the other, and discovered Harry slumped against his pillow, tilted awkwardly in a half sitting position. He found it surprising that the boy had fallen asleep at all, especially after the emotion of the evening and his significant reluctance to face his nightmares. He sighed and set the vial and book down on the bedside table, and then gently eased Harry down the bed until he was lying flat, though almost instantly the boy rolled to his side, curling in on himself, hands clenching the soft pillow; face slightly pinched in unease, even in sleep. Severus stood a moment, watching the steady cadence of breaths before retiring to the hard chair and opening the thick, leather bound tome.

He was barely through the second chapter when Harry emitting a terrified, panicked cry, throwing his arms out, gripping handfuls of sheet, knuckles white and quivering from the forceful grip, and his eyes flew open, wide, searching, settling on the familiar face of the Professor, narrowing slightly in confusion before welling with tears once again as the realization hit him.

He was safe here.

Snape was here.

Harry pushed himself into a sitting position and took in a deep, shuddering breath, glancing over at Snape, who was sitting still as stone, his eyes narrowed as he studied the boy solemnly.

“Tell me,” Snape said softly, and Harry shook his head slightly, before the Professor repeated his request.

“Harry, I wish for you to tell me. By sharing it with me, you share the burden, and I –” Snape paused before leaning forward and placing a hand on Harry’s knee, “I would like to assist you in ridding yourself of this fear.”

Harry regarded Snape for what seemed forever, mind awhirl with fragmented nightmare, fighting the uncertain decision to trust, then finally, in a shaky voice, recounted the events of the dream, knowing the man had witnessed much of what he described already. Severus sat quietly, listening to the trembling tones of the boy as he gave account of the nightmare, nodding soberly, his hand still resting comfortingly on the cocked leg, and he gave a gentle squeeze of reassurance as Harry stumbled over a particularly cruel memory, the boy’s voice trailing off, unable to finish the description of the beating he had endured.

“I promised you, Harry. I promise you will be safe here.”

Harry looked up at the Professor, whose eyes were fraught with determined, unyielding confidence, and Harry mustered every once of trust, unfathomable as it felt to allow the vulnerability as he stared at Snape’s hand.

“I…I never really had anyone hug me before,” he said softly, as if he didn’t really want the Professor to hear him. “Not like that.”

“Not like what?” Snape asked, his eyes narrowing incredulously at the idea of Harry never having felt the security and comfort of being held with genuine affection.

“Like before, when I…when I….told,” Harry replied, his voice a near whisper, “and no one’s ever….I mean, they never held…”

He took a quick breath, rubbing at his eyes fiercely before continuing. “It felt safe, like you weren’t going to hurt me. I was never allowed….I didn’t know that’s what it felt like.” The last few words were barely audible, and Harry pulled his arms around himself even tighter, closing his eyes out of sheer habit, waiting for the rejection that always came from his family, not that he would ever accuse them of something as abnormal as caring about him, and he felt Snape withdraw his hand.

Harry let out a breath before forcing himself to look up at the Professor, who was staring at him with an expression of angry disbelief, which quickly changed to a gentler look of understanding as he locked eyes with the boy, realizing that Harry was telling him, in his fearful twelve year old manner, that Snape no longer scared him, that Harry trusted him.

“Harry,” he started carefully, seeing the wild emotion in the boy’s eyes. “It may not always have been so, but please believe me when I say I do care about you, and not out of pity or duty,” he added, wanting the child to believe without a shadow of doubt that he was worth caring about even if he had not been horribly abused, “but out of genuine affection.. You are worthy of kindness and compassion. I would not say it if it were not true. Also,” he continued, his voice laced with a calm seriousness that caused Harry to raise his eyebrows in sudden alarm. “you have not ruined anything.” he finished, giving the boy an incisive look.

Harry’s face relaxed into a look of relief, and he paused thoughtfully for a moment before opening his mouth to speak, but closing it almost as quickly, looking repentant as he pulled the blanket back up over his legs.

“What is it?” Snape asked, knowing the reluctance with which Harry asked for anything, after years of punishment for any request, no matter how small. He would teach the boy to allow himself to feel worthy of the fulfillment of any basic need if it killed him.

“Nothing,” Harry replied, voice wavering in a failed attempt to sound nonchalant.

“Harry, whatever it is, you may tell me,” Snape said, catching the quick clasping of the boy’s hands that were testament to Harry’s sudden anxiety.

What Harry wanted to say was, in his mind, utterly preposterous. What he wanted to say, was the feeling that wrapped around him like a warm blanket when Snape had held him, had been nice, so nice, in fact that his heart begged for it now. Harry scowled at the floor. How stupid to feel so needy. How silly it was to crave touch all of a sudden after being so intensely afraid of it for so many years. But there it was, deep in his chest, the aching, yearning feeling spreading slowly across his middle, scurrying across his skin, every inch of him shivering as the need for contact engulfed him. Finally someone had cared for him, finally he had felt honest compassion. It was as if he’d been trapped under water his entire life and for a brief moment had been gifted with a gulp of air and was now thrashing just below the surface, desperate to break through the water and finally breathe. He rubbed a hand briskly across the opposite forearm as if to calm the sensation, as if it were possible to sweep the feeling from his skin, and he glanced up at Snape, who was eyeing him very curiously now, a frown tugging at his brow.

“If there is something you require, there is no reason you may not ask for it,” Snape said gently.

He could see the turmoil within the boy effortlessly. He was fidgeting, hands tousled together, one hand breaking away to rub awkwardly at his arm before retreating to his lap. While most thought of the eyes as being the window to one’s soul, for Harry it seemed to be his hands that gave witness to the emotions buried within, and the Professor reached out slowly, pressing his palm against the boy’s hands, ceasing their clamoring as Harry looked at him with glistening eyes. There was obviously something Harry wanted to say, something he needed to say, but the boy’s fear was flagrant, the anxiety flooding off him almost tangible, as if Severus could reach out and take a handful of fear and squeeze it between his fingers.

“Harry, you –”

“I can’t,” Harry whispered, his eyes falling to Snape’s hand, still resting in his lap, warm and firm against his own. “I can’t.” He pulled his hands out from under Snape’s palm, wrapping them around his middle, clinging to himself, and in that act of self-soothing, Severus understood exactly what the boy needed, and his heart clenched at the thought of Harry being so afraid to ask for something as simple as comfort.

Suddenly Harry felt the mattress dip down beside him, and he lifted his eyes to see the Professor sitting beside him, looking down at him with those onyx eyes, eyes that seemed so cruel and sinister to Harry only a few days before, but now they held compassion and concern. He ducked his head, feeling the man lean in and drape an arm around him, and he jumped a little, anxious and relieved and beside himself with fear all at once, and his body stiffened for a moment before he felt Snape start to pull away, obviously thinking the boy wasn’t ready for the contact. Harry gasped unconsciously, causing the man to halt his retreat, the Professor’s brow knitting briefly in puzzlement before relaxing into his usual impassiveness as he pulled Harry gently against his chest, his arms around the boy’s trembling frame.

And the Professor held him, silently, without judgment, offering what Severus never thought he could offer, and Harry thinking he could never be worthy enough to receive, and in the darkness, comforted by the first person ever to be allowed such trust; Harry fell into a deep slumber, liberated, naturally free from nightmares for the first time.

The sound of a sharp, coarse, caw woke Harry from his sleep. The culprit, a silken black raven, wobbled precariously on the window overhang, glossy wings beating against the glass before letting out another throaty squawk, talons scoring deep ruts in the sill as it threw itself into the bright morning sky.

Sitting up, Harry stared in puzzlement at the curtains, wondering why on earth they were open, when he heard Snape’s cool brogue from the door.

“Good, you’re up.”

Harry glanced at the bedside table, the clock informing him of the time, and he wrinkled his nose at the display.

“Only seven.” he mumbled, earning raised eyebrows from the Professor.

“Only?” Snape drawled. “Potter the day is half wasted by six. You’re lucky I didn’t have you down in my laboratory slicing bat eyes hours ago.” He moved towards the window and slid the latch from its hook before hoisting the heavy pane upwards; allowing the crisp air to billow into the room. He turned to Harry, who had retreated back under the covers, and shot the boy a distasteful look.

“Up, Potter.”

“But I never get up this early at Hogwarts, and even when we have class I -” Harry paused, a bemused frown contorting his brow as he stared up at the Professor. Severus smirked. He could see the wheels turning within the boy. Any moment now he would realize and…

“Down…down in your laboratory?” Harry asked, softly, slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d misunderstood Snape’s words.

“Yes, Potter, down in my laboratory. However, I can hardly be expected to make the offer to a slugabed now can I?” Snape replied, forcing his face to retain its typical aloofness, though it was all he could do to hold back a chuckle at seeing Harry’s reaction. The boy threw off his covers and made a mad dash for the bathroom before skidding to a halt, racing back to his trunk, rummaging, grabbing a handful of clothes, and running back to the bathroom, slamming the door shut in his enthusiasm. The door opened almost instantly, and Harry’s flushed face appeared, managing an eager sorry before carefully and quietly closing the door.

Severus snorted, shaking his head at Harry’s excitement, an amused smile on his face which he quickly forced back to his usual emotionless veneer as Harry emerged from the bathroom minutes later, hair damp, droplets of water clinging to his neck.

“I’m ready, Sir.”

“Right, down for breakfast first.” Snape instructed, turning on his heel and striding across the room, leaving Harry standing looking rather disappointed at the thought of delaying an actual approved visit to the illicit lab. Snape, having realized the Harry wasn’t following, turned and aimed a trademark glare at the boy.

“Potter, if you even think I’m allowing you to forgo the morning meal you are even emptier headed than Longbottom. The day I –” Severus paused, remorse nibbling at his consciousness as he watched Harry’s face, crestfallen, rejected, as accepting of the affront as he was to his uncle’s beatings, and Severus’ own expression altered, regret shading his features as he walked slowly back to the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I apologize.” he said solemnly, pausing momentarily before adding, as a way of explanation. “I forget myself. It will not happen again.”

Harry looked up at Snape with an almost startled look, which at once brightened as he awarded the man a pardoning smile.

“S’alright, Professor.” he replied meekly, a little uncomfortable at Snape’s declaration, never having had an adult apologize to him before. Well, unless he counted Uncle Vernon telling him he was sorry Harry had ever been born, which he didn’t.

Severus nodded, not yet in possession of adequate amiability to return the grin. Instead, he retained his gentle hold on the boy’s shoulder, and they walked side by side across the room before Snape allowed Harry to precede him, the hand still there, the display of affection not lost on Harry as he walked down the dusky hallway, the smile still on his face.

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After breakfast, which was eaten far too hastily by Harry according to the Professors admonishments, the two returned to the pock-marked stone door, Harry practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as Snape pulled the heavy slab open, a scented gust of wind their greeting.

“Smells like mint.” Harry said, smiling. “Mint and ginger and…” he inhaled deeply and looked up at Snape. “and fire.” he finished.

“I work with dozens of ingredients, Potter.” Snape replied. “I find it interesting you would identify with the two main bouquets of Polyjuice Potion.”

“I did?” Harry responded quickly, eyes wide as he stared up at the potions master. He felt the blood rush from his face, and Snape’s eyebrows rose in obvious recognition of the boy’s sudden pallor.

“Yes,” Snape replied. “Fluxweed and Knotgrass are exceedingly similar to those two aromas.”

Harry feigned a cough and swiped at his brow before replying with an innocent sounding oh, which led to the narrowing of eyes on Severus’ part before he shook his head slightly, dismissing the strange behaviour…for now, and he reached into his robes, withdrawing his wand and placing it against a pearl white stone just inside the doorway. There was a low, growling sound, and suddenly the wall seemed to melt into a sheer veil, a shimmering, ethereal barrier that glowed with a gentle white light. Harry stood astounded as the Professor took him by the wrist and led him through the glistening curtain, and upon emerging, he found himself staring at the collection of cauldrons in the corner of the lab. Mouth agape in astonishment, he looked around in disbelief before frowning

“I walked down!” he exclaimed heatedly. “I walked down those horrible stairs, and I almost fell a bunch of times, and I cut my hand!”

“An effective deterrent is it not?” Snape replied, smirking, forgetting for a moment the seriousness of the night prior, and it swept back to him like an icy blast of water. He narrowed his eyes again, nailing Harry with his most significant of stares.

“There is death down here, Potter. Never forget how close you came to casualty. I expect nothing but your inestimable conformity within this lab, am I clear?”

“I…Sir?” Harry blushed, looking up at the Professor hopelessly, brow skewed in puzzlement.

“I mean,” replied Snape. “Do as you are told.”

“Oh, yes, Sir.” Harry affirmed, nodding quickly.

Snape set Harry up at a low wooden bench, blemished from many hours of careful slicing, and the boy fumbled with the heavy apron the man had provided him, awkwardly attempting to knot the thick strings at his back before he felt the Professor’s slender fingers plucking the ties from his grasp and tightly fastening them into a strong bow. Snape then placed a small knife in front of Harry, along with a bowl filled with small, grey, spongy objects.

“What are these?” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “They look like rotten walnuts.”

“Frog brains.” Snape replied, setting an empty bowl next to the full one. “You’ll need to slice them thinly, lengthways, not width, and for Merlins sake, try not to injure yourself.

The two worked in silence, save for the crackling of the cauldron fires and gentle whispering of turning pages. Harry worked diligently, slicing bowl after bowl of slimy ingredients while Snape moved back and forth between potion book and cauldron, adding the freshly shredded ingredients, checking uniformity of colour and texture, and muttering enchanting spells to keep several spoons gently stirring their concoctions.

There were many times when Harry glanced over at the man, who was seemingly gliding across the room with his robes billowing around his feet, and smiled softly, remembering the comfort he had offered the night before, and being so grateful that Snape hadn’t said anything about it, for though it was exactly what he had needed at the time, there was a small shame about it now, a humiliation at being so accepting of the comfort, of needing it, of feeling worthy of it.

He had awoken early, warm and well rested under the thick blanket, and he’d stretched, suddenly becoming aware of the object in his hand, and he’d wrapped his fingers around it, feeling its softness before pushing away the clovers, revealing Snape’s hand, limp in sleep, long, slender fingers splayed against Harry’s palm. His eyes had trailed down the pale wrist, over the crumpled, black sleeve, coming to rest on the face of his Professor who was sleeping sitting on the floor, leaned against the bedside table, head lolled, managing to look a little menacing, and strangely dignified, even in the ungainly pose.

At first, Harry succumbed to the total fear of the Professor’s reaction once he woke, but after a moment he realized the man could have simply returned to his own room whenever he pleased, but instead held true to his promise, staying with Harry through the night. He’d smiled at the realization, then, when the Professor’s hand began to shift, he’d closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep as Snape came too, and he’d eyed Harry before slowly withdrawing his hand, though he seemed to remain seated, as Harry didn’t recall hearing the man rise. Then Harry unwittingly fell asleep, waking to the raven’s cry several hours later.

A small pop pulled Harry from his thoughts, and there stood Della, bowing low and announcing lunch was served, waiting for her master’s dismissal before turning towards Harry, tilting her small head to one side as she regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes.

Harry slipped off his stool and walked over to the petite creature, cheeks flushing as he noticed her carriage. There was no bouncing, no animated squeaks; and her ears hung perfectly still, the tips trembling slightly as she righted her head to stare at the boy squarely.

“Della.” Harry started, fumbling with his stained fingers. He met the elf’s dusky blue eyes, and his own welled up in shame. “I’m really sorry, Della, that…that I lied to you.” he said, voice cracking with regret. “I really like you and you’re nice to me and you made me pudding and…and I hope you can forgive me.” Harry rushed, bowing his head, willing himself not to cry, and he saw Della’s tiny hands come into view, and she grasped one of his own, her stick-thin fingers gently stroking the back of his hand while the other tapped him on the arm, asking for his attention. He lifted his head a little, meeting her gaze, seeing the brightness of her smile, the slow, methodical stroking on his hand almost mesmerizing, and he suddenly felt a flood of happiness surge through him, and he couldn’t help but return Della’s beaming grin. She released her hold, and Harry felt the elation slowly seep out of him, like squeezing a wet dishcloth, leaving him feeling at ease, happy, and forgiven.

Giving the startled boy a wink, Della was gone, leaving Harry staring at the empty spot in front of him, mouth slightly agape.

“Neat.” he whispered, fingering the bank of his hand, still feeling Della’s cool fingertips against his skin.

“Enough of this ridiculous banality.” Snape huffed, rapping a spoon against the thick pewter cauldron. Harry turned quickly towards the sound, smiling at the obvious distaste the man had for displays of affection, but knowing that the Professor was not without his sensitive side, though it seemed Snape preferred to keep such displays private, even from Della.

After a barked instruction from the Professor, Harry cleared his work station as Snape murmured a few more spells towards the cauldrons, then, after a seemingly approving nod in Harry’s direction, the man pressed his wand against a pearled stone, and the vaporous doorway appeared again, leading them back to the second floor hall.

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Harry let out a hushed oh as a strong breeze attempted to make off with his napkin. He reached out and secured the large square of fabric before it left the table and stuffed it into his lap. It was warm out, but not overly so, and the wind had just picked up a little as the two wizards ate outside at a small, wrought iron table. Lunch was served by a doting Della, who had now forgiven any and all transgressions, and served Harry his cucumber sandwiches with a squeak and a gentle pat on the hand.

Conversation had been sparse, with Harry slightly anxious of any talk of his nightmares, and Snape well aware of the boy’s unease, for as casually as Harry attempted to act, his hands again revealed his fretfulness as he drummed his fingers between bites.

Severus had turned the discussion towards school, and when Harry had asked about the upcoming conference, the Professor was all too happy to accommodate the seemingly endless questions the boy had about his dissertation, though Severus was fully conscious of the fact that this was Harry’s way of keeping the topic of conversation away from himself. As far as they had come in the last few days, there was much the boy still needed to release.

“So you’re not even allowed to talk about it?” Harry asked, voice warbling around a mouthful of half chewed bread.

Severus narrowed his eyes in Harry’s direction before picking up the boy’s glass of milk and offering it to him with a commanding stare.

“It is not forbidden outright.” Snape replied as Harry sheepishly took a gulp of the white liquid. “It is, however, prohibited from being taught within an environment such as Hogwarts.” Severus’ eyes fell on the remaining half of Harry’s sandwich, giving the boy an approving nod as Harry carefully claimed the thick slices of bread and took a small bite this time, wary of the Professor’s wordless reprimands as he bit into a crisp slice of cucumber.

“But it’s just venom, isn’t it?” Harry asked after swallowing his mouthful. “We’ve learned about all sorts of poisons at school.”

“It isn’t as simple as that.” Snape explained. “Acramantula venom works unlike any toxin known in the wizarding world. There are those of us who have studied its chemical and biological properties for more years than I care to reveal, and it is only now that we are starting to understand its abilities. Within seconds it attacks the very structure of one’s DNA. The nucleotides it strikes are literally the source of energy for all living things, and within moments, every cell in your body ceases to function.” Snape paused, realizing that Harry was looking at him with a rather disturbing expression, his fingers digging into the soft bread of his sandwich with alarming force as he listened to the deadly effects of a poison that only the day before he had been on the verge of drinking.

Harry swallowed the gummy chunk of bread with much effort, and carefully returned the remainder of the meal to his plate.

“I’m not very hungry.” he murmured as he averted his eyes from the Professors, whose eyebrows were raised in concern at Harry’s sudden change of appetite.

“Harry, if there’s something bother –”

“So the conference is the first time anyone’s been allowed to talk about all the research then?” Harry said quickly, slipping off his chair and draining his glass of milk in a few gulps.

“Harry talking abo –”

“That must be a big deal for you.” the boy continued, placing the glass on the table and taking a few steps back with as much indifference as he could pretend to possess. Severus sighed, then rose and folded his napkin, placing it under his empty plate before joining Harry, who was now wandering towards the south end of the island.

“It is.” he replied as he approached the boy, slowing his strides to match Harry’s, who looked up at him quizzically.

“A big deal.” Snape reminded him, and Harry nodded.

“It is in fact,” Severus continued “an extreme honour to be chosen to present our findings. Ernie and I have collaborated for many years in anticipation of this very event.”

“Oh.” Harry said quietly. He walked onwards a few paces before realizing that the Professor had come to a stop, and he turned slowly to meet the man’s eyes, though he could only hold his gaze for a moment before staring intently down at the rustling grass.

Severus took a few steps towards the young wizard and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“There are still four days left before I would be required to leave.” he said softly. “If by that time I feel you still require my presence, I would not be opposed to remaining here.” He slowly moved his hand from Harry’s slender shoulder and pulled the boy’s lip from between his teeth where it was being held anxiously. He placed a few fingers underneath Harry’s chin and tilted his face upwards until he met the green eyes. “There are more important things than speeches, Harry.”

Harry managed a weak nod, his face flushing in shame at the thought of Snape missing such an important event due to his childishness. The man released him, and Harry turned quickly to look out towards the ocean, the breeze pulling at his hair, drying his moist eyes, and he felt the strong hand on his back, turning him towards to manor, and once again he allowed the gentle guidance, feeling small and silly, yet somewhat comforted by the action.

They were met at the front door by Della, who was wearing a small, white apron which was quite stained with what looked to be chocolate, and Severus couldn’t help but wonder if the little elf was cooking up another pudding for the boy. It was ridiculous in the extreme to fill a child with sweets, and he couldn’t help but glare in disapproval, causing Della to pause momentarily and wring her hands before speaking in a wary voice.

“Mister Russer is being asking if he is able to speak with Master this evening.” she squeaked as she wiped her hands against her torso, leaving a series of tiny, brown, prints. “Mister Russer is saying there is much for being prepared for Master’s trip.”

Severus made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, though he nodded at Della, quietly permitting Ernie’s visit. Della gave Harry a bright smile, and Snape watched as Harry followed the elf into the kitchen. Severus sighed. There was so much he needed to discuss with the boy, and even though trust had developed between them, it was still painfully obvious that Harry had a long way to go.

He took a deep breath and walked towards the stairs. He would need to prepare his work for Ernie to review that evening, as and he ascended the stairs, he couldn’t help but smile at the animated, excited chatter that suddenly emanated from the kitchen.

It must have been chocolate after all.

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When Ernie arrived some hours later, Severus was rather surprised to see two figures rather than the expected one, appear in the dusty fireplace.

“Ernie.” he said pleasantly, throwing the man an inquiring look, though the little man replied with a quiet smile rather than an explanation.

“And Craig.” Severus continued, offering his hand in welcome. “Good to see you again. Don’t tell me your brother is so lackluster a host that he feels it necessary to drag you along to every appointment?”

Craig responded with a laugh, and motioned towards Harry, who was in the corner of the living room, sitting cross-legged in a large armchair, quietly reading a book.

“Ernie said I should come with him; hang out with Harry while you two go over your speeches.” Craig replied, and Severus’ eyes darkened as he turned towards Ernie who was frantically shaking his head at his brother, freezing instantly as he noticed Snape’s eyes upon him.

“How incredibly thoughtful of you.” Snape said slowly, his voice lethal as he stared down at his friend. “What an extremely considerate action, Ernie, to be so concerned regarding Mr. Potter’s lack of companionship this evening.”

“Craig!” Ernie whispered loudly, waving his hand towards Harry. “Go and visit, hmm?” As Craig departed, Ernie reached out and took Snape’s hand, pulling gently.

“What is this?” Severus snapped, waving the other hand towards Craig as the small man led him to the other end of the living room.

“Shhh!” came the hushed reply, tiny hands waving frantically to indicate the desire for silence.

Snape sent a dark look spiraling towards Ernie, who gave an innocent shrug, his saffron eye gleaming as he regarded his friend, head slightly cocked to one side impishly.

“Oh Severus,” he whispered, grinning. “You watch; they’ll get on famously! Harry’s twelve, and Craig acts like he’s twelve. They’ll be best friends before the night is out, you’ll see.” Ernie clasped his hands together wistfully before breaking into giggles. He reached out and tugged on Snape’s sleeve, earning another infamous glower, and nodded towards the dinner table. “Let’s get to work, shall we? You have a speech to give in a few days!”

“I was under the impression you had come here to go over the final copy of our oration.” Severus said sardonically, as he reached the table. He pulled out a chair for Ernie, and waited for the tiny man to clamber up before seating himself. “And here I find you scheming, a celebrated talent for Dwarves I’m sure, however unsolicited as it may be in this case.”

Ernie’s smile faded, and the look of seriousness that swept over his face caught Severus slightly off guard.

“Severus.” Ernie started, running a hand through his bright white hair, sending it too and fro. The indigo sparkles in his eye darkened as he continued. “This symposium is a once in a lifetime opportunity for you, for us. Now,” he said quickly, his hands up in defense as Snape opened his mouth to retort. “I know the boy is special to you, but there’s nothing wrong with leaving him for a few days, is there? Though I paint him somewhat differently, Craig is a fine lad, and he’d take good care of Harry. I’m not saying you have to make any decisions right now, but I think if you just trust me, you’ll find Harry’s just fine to spend a few days here without you.”

Severus caught the angry comeback in his throat as Ernie continued his explanation. Perhaps he was being slightly overprotective. As long as Harry was emotionally stable enough to endure a night alone, surely two nights would be unproblematic, and there was still plenty of time to secure the boy’s comfort. He nodded towards his friend, appalled that he was so readily agreeing with, and allowing Ernie’s ruse. He searched himself, seeking out any feelings that might betray him, that might encourage him to leave Harry for Severus’ own gain rather than Harry’s best interest, but he was certain his desire to attend the convention in no way overshadowed his wish to help the boy.

“Honestly.” he snorted. “Bringing Craig along in the hopes he and Hary will bond, just so you don’t have to give the speech alone. How utterly asinine.” he finished; a hint of a smirk on his face.

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“Whatcha reading?” Craig asked, sitting down on the couch across from Harry, who looked up in surprise.

“Oh, um….hi” Harry replied, pausing for a moment before smiling in recognition. He held up the book and Craig leaned forward to read the worn, gold embossed lettering.

“Stick in the mud. A beginner’s guild to wand care.” Craig said under his breath as he read the title. “Hell.” he said, grinning playfully. “Sounds like a thrilling read.”

Harry broke into a smile, even managing a nervous laugh as he rested the book in his lap.

“Professor Snape gave it to me to read.” he explained quickly, not wanting Craig to think he was so incredibly boring as to read a wand care manual. “He’s got a library upstairs, but I haven’t seen it yet.”

“Oh I’ve seen it.” Craig replied. “I can show it to you, c’mon.”

“But…well shouldn’t we ask first?” Harry said nervously as Craig rose and began walking towards the door to the foyer. He shifted the book off his lap as he stood, and let it fall gently onto the chair, then, throwing a glance across the room at the Professor, who was busy shaking his head at an exasperated looking Ernie, he quickly followed Craig out of the room.

“Um...I’m not sure I’m allowed in there.” Harry warned as he climbed the stairs after the young man.

Craig stopped, his hand on the banister, and turned to look back at the boy.

“Did he say you couldn’t go in it?” he asked.

“Well, no.” Harry replied, his brow creasing in thought. “But I didn’t even know about it until he gave me that book today.”

“If he didn’t say you couldn’t go in, then you can go in.” Craig finished, smiling mischievously before continuing up the staircase.

Harry watched him go, not sure if he was making too big a deal out of the situation. It was true that Snape hadn’t told him not to go into the library, but he hadn’t even mentioned it before that afternoon, and if Harry was allowed inside, surely the Professor would have revealed its presence days ago, but then again they’d been busy, and Harry hadn’t exactly –”

“Kid!”

Losing his train of thought, Harry snapped his head up to see Craig’s face over edge of the floor above him.

“While we’re young, huh?”

Harry gave a dubious frown and ascended the staircase slowly, turning back cautiously once more, half expecting to see the dark robes billowing into the foyer, Snape’s icy voice demanding explanation, but there was nothing, and Harry found himself drawn up to the closed door where Craig stood with a hand on one hip, looking at Harry in amusement.

Remaining silent, but bowing his head self consciously, Harry followed as Craig turned and pushed open the huge door.

The library was modest in size, quite a bit smaller than Harry’s bedroom, though the collection of books was impressive. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and even the space above the door held a shelf, books spread from end to end, resting against two stone bookends. Several lush chairs, sheathed in dark chestnut covers sat in one corner near the window, and a matching couch rested in the other. Harry walked slowly towards a shelf, feeling reverent in the quiet room, though it wasn’t nearly as grand as the library at Hogwarts, though this space was still splendid in its own way, small, unimposing, almost quaint with its comfortable furniture, and, Harry noticed, a small end table holding a vase of gaily coloured wildflowers. It was testament to the hidden side of the Professor that such luxuries even existed. Such soft, gentle comfort for a man who seemed all harsh corners and prickles.

Cocking his head to the side, Harry perused a shelf of books, reading the lopsided texts one by one, eyes widening at one or two more sadistic titles before coming to the end of the row. Leaning closer to read a particularly minuscule title, Harry caught sight of a small, dark book wedged between the end of the shelf and the wall, barely visible unless you were nearly upon it. Grasping the corner, he worked the tiny tome up and down, finally freeing it from the space. The book was small, only slightly larger than his hand, but a little wider. It was thin, badly abraded by its time lodged between the rough wood, and Harry ran his hand over the marred lettering, hardly even able to read the ground down text, but after a moment of study, he whispered the book’s title.

Curses of the Damned

Licking his lips with as much trepidation as excitement, he opened the cover, his eyes narrowing at the tiny script. The first page contained a brief warning, and Harry skimmed it before turning past the index to the first spell.

Immunda Cruor – The spell of blood pollution. Circa 1452 by Olian Kedavra (see pg: 8 – Avada Kedavra) When used in conjunction with the incantation and wand movements illustrated below, the victim’s blood becomes toxic, causing a prolonged and excruciating death due to blood poisoning and bodily rejection. There is no known counter to this curse.

“Whatcha got?” Craig called from across the room.

“Oh…uh…” stammered Harry, quickly closing the book and tucking it into his back pocket. “Um…more wand care stuff.” he finished, attempting a casual laugh at Craig’s look of aversion.

“What did you find?” Harry asked, taking a few steps towards Craig and letting out a cautious breath, taking in another, hoping it would calm him. He didn’t know much about this man, but he was fairly certain if he knew about the dangerous little book, he sure wouldn’t allow Harry to read it. Harry’s heart beat heavily in his chest as he gave Craig a forced smile.

“This is Snape’s potion section.” Craig replied, waving his hand towards a large division of books. “Do you know how long he and my brother have been working on this damn venom thing?” he paused and waited for Harry to shake his head in response. “Seven years!” Craig exclaimed, earning raised eyebrows from the young wizard. “Do you know how much research they’ve done, how many discoveries they’ve made about this stuff? Good God, they’re pretty much the world authorities on it now.” he finished, nodding his head, his mouth set in a rigid line as he stared at Harry, who had taken to fidgeting, running his index finger across the scab on his palm repeatedly as he stared back.

“It sure would be a pity if Severus had to miss this conference.” Craig lamented as he pulled a thick book from the shelf and flipped to a random page. “All that work.” he continued, seemingly talking to himself, though Harry knew exactly to whom the words were being directed. He fell into the soft chair, wincing as the book in his pocket jarred against his lower spine, and he shifted himself slightly, not wanting to reach back and adjust the sharp corner lest Craig notice him.

“Um, well, I think Professor Snape should go.” Harry said urgently, unwilling to be blamed by Craig or his brother for Snape’s reluctance to leave him. “I’ll tell him that he should go, ok?” he finished, trying not to let his voice incline to a desperate pitch as he stared at Craig, who responded with a surprised look.

“Hey, kid, don’t worry ok? Its fine, no one’s going to give you grief about it.” He paused, a look of alarm blooming across his face. “Is that what you thought? Oh hell, kid, I’m sorry.” Abandoning the book, Craig sat down in the chair opposite Harry. “I just don’t want to see Severus lose out of a once in a lifetime experience, ya know?”

Harry swallowed and nodded, suddenly all too aware of just how much work Snape was willing to throw away, and for what? For him? He sighed, guilt washing over him. Here he was making things difficult for the Professor, just like he’d made life difficult for the Dursleys. They’d had to make adjustments too. Making sure no one saw him, keeping him fed and clothed, making sure he – Harry’s brow fell into a frown – no, he hadn’t deserved what the Dursley’s did to him. They’d been horrible to him because they were horrible people, not because he’d made them, like Uncle Vernon had always said. But they’d never have treated Dudley that way, and it had only been different when he came along, hadn’t it? Maybe Harry had been a lot of trouble, just like he was being now, for Snape. Maybe the Professor would end up –

He was suddenly aware of his name being called, and he flinched instinctively, pulling himself out of his thoughts and turning towards the voice, his heart stopping cold as he saw the Professor standing in the doorway, his face wrought with concern as he repeated Harry’s name.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, his face heating in embarrassment. “Oh, I…” his eyes fell on Ernie, who had poked his head from behind Snape’s robes, and was now giving Harry a very peculiar look as he pushed through the doorway, glancing at Craig for an instant before reaching up and tugging his friend’s robe. Severus looked down and nodded before reaching out and silently asking for Harry’s co-operation. Harry eyed the extended hand, then locked eyes with the Professor, a quiet desperation emanating from the emerald orbs as his own hand moved to be clasped in Snape’s strong grip, though after a moment the force of his fingers around Harry’s wrist subsided as he led the boy out of the room. Ernie and Craig followed, sharing a private look of concern as they slowed to a stop in the hall.

“Ernie, we are in agreement in regards to the status of our address, are we not?” Snape asked crisply. Ernie nodded hastily, his head bobbing furiously in agreement. This was no time for comedic retorts.

“Then our work here is done. I shall be in contact with you regarding my attendance.” the Professor finished, his voice laced with ire as he nodded briskly at his friend, a command not lost on the tiny man as he led Craig back down the stairs where Della was waiting, her own stance stiff and severe as she escorted the two towards the fireplace.

Harry watched the scene with an anxious interest, not sure what exactly had transpired, though he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and await his own instructions by the Professor, who was standing silent at his side. Moments later however, the man’s stature softened as he turned towards the boy.

“Are you alright?” Snape asked, eyes still darkened in anger, though Harry could hear the trepidation in his voice.

“Yes, thank you, Sir.” Harry replied, keeping his reply as short and respectful as possible. He felt the grip around his wrist lessen, then fall away as Snape moved the hand to Harry’s shoulder, where it rested gently.

“Harry, I am not angry with you.” Severus explained, feeling the boy’s shoulders deflate in relief, and he immediately felt remorse at his behavior, bursting into the library like that and scaring the boy half to death with his conduct. “Ernie made a rather worrisome comment regarding his brother’s possible manipulation of you regarding my attending the conference.” Severus continued, gently maneuvering Harry down the hallway towards his room. “I was concerned when I discovered you and he had left the room. I simply wanted to make sure you were not being coerced in any way. Did Craig say anything to you that you felt uncomfortable with?”

Harry, who during the slow walk down the hall had been customarily quiet, stopped at his bedroom door, and Severus could see the conflict washing over his face before he answered.

“No, Sir. Craig didn’t say anything to me about the convention. I’m mean, we did talk about the meeting.” he said quickly, seeing the dubious look the Professor was giving him. “But I just asked him some questions, that’s all. We didn’t talk about you going or not going. Just regular stuff. Oh, and your potions books, that’s all, I swear!” he finished, his voice growing more panicked by the end of his explanation.

“Harry, calm yourself, this is not an interrogation.” Severus said gently. If Harry’s reaction to being questioned was any indication, Craig had done a damn sight more than talk about potions books, though he wasn’t surprised to hear Harry’s defending statements. The boy was so used to maltreatment and retribution, that refusal to divulge any abuses towards him was second nature.

“Alright.” Severus replied, giving the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Prepare for bed. I will return shortly.”

Half an hour later the professor returned, book in hand, settling down in the chair next to the bed as Harry sat propped against his pillow, nervously tapping the tip of one thumb against the knuckle of the other, though at Snape’s appearance he stuffed his hands under his rear, unwilling to let the man see his unease. During his thirty minutes of alone time he had worked out a simple yet effective plan. All he had to do was make Snape believe he was over his nightmares. At first it had seemed impossible, as the nightmares plagued him constantly during sleep, except for last night, and Harry had smiled at the memory of being held by the Professor, not having felt safe and cared for since as far back as he could remember. But Snape wasn’t going to hold him every night, and there was no way he would attend the conference if he had to soothe Harry to sleep like a baby each night. No, there had to be a different way.

It had come to him in the shower as he was massaging shampoo into his hair. He had been thinking of Ron, whose morning ritual of showering while belting out Muggle show tunes had led the pair to invest some serious study time in learning a silencing charm for the redhead. It had taken hours of repeating the spell along with some very complex wand movements, but finally Ron’s exasperated swearing faded, and his excited but entirely silent chatter declared the enchantment a success.

Unable to keep smiling from the excitement, Harry had rinsed, dried, and dressed, all but running for his wand and giving a few practice incantations before he was sure the charm was sound, then he placed his wand on the bedside table, gasping as he noticed the dark edge of the book he’d found in the library peeking out from beneath the mattress where he’d hidden it. He’d given it a good push, leaping into bed only moments before hearing the Professor’s heavy footsteps in the hall, heart beating wildly as he tried to look calm resting against his pillow.

“How are you feeling?” Snape asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

“Fine, Sir.”

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, acting obtuse came as naturally to Harry as potions did to Neville Longbottom.

“I do believe you know what I mean, Harry.” Snape pushed, allowing dash of firmness to his tone. “If there is something you wish to tell me, I hope by now you are comfortable in doing so.” He watched the boy’s reaction, noticing Harry was trying exceedingly hard not to show any outward signs of angst, even managing to refrain from the standard attention to his bottom lip, which was usually the first casualty of Harry’s fretfulness.

“I apologize if I seem a distant man when it comes to emotional affairs.” Snape said softly. “Here during the summers when I am alone, or at Hogwarts, where I am...despised, you can imagine there is little requirement for me to offer solace, especially to a child.” Snape shook his head as Harry gave him an inquiring look. “Slytherins do not hug.” he said, answering the unasked question, and Harry replied with a brief, sad, nod, knowing all too well the feeling of being hated, desperate for a kind word or touch.

“I’m sorry.” Harry whispered, and Severus watched as the boy reached out of his own accord, slowly at first, unsure and trembling, and placed his hand on Severus’ own. It was a tiny gesture, though colossal in its importance, because for the very first time, though hounded by uncertainty, Harry had reached out to someone, sought comfort, initiated touch, and it was him. Nasty, unlovable, Severus Snape.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” Severus replied, still in awe at the leap of faith the boy had just made.

“I do.” Harry whispered, looking at the Professor tearfully. “Because I wasn’t nice to you, and I could have been, and I know what it’s like….and…and -”

“And I didn’t make it easy for you to like me.” Snape cut in. “I suppose I too am not comfortable in allowing others to become close to me.” He turned his hand over, allowing Harry’s palm to press against his, and in unison, both wizards tightened their grasp on the other. “It seems there are things we both need to work on.”

It was almost two hours later, when a soft snoring could be heard coming from the Professor, that Harry opened his eyes. Pretending to be asleep was easy. It was the same as pretending to pass out during one of his uncle’s beatings, and Harry felt a churning in his stomach at the thought of his uncle only stopping an attack when he thought Harry had been beaten into unconsciousness.

Slowly, eyes locked on Snape’s shadowy form, Harry reached behind himself, his hand coming to rest on his wand, his fingers falling around it, pulling it to his chest, and in a barely audible voice, Harry whispered the silencing charm before gently placing the wand back on the table. He lay back down, facing away from Snape; unable to look at the man for guilt, but this had to be done. He would make sure the Professor attended his conference. It was the only thing he could do to repay the him for all he had done, and a few hours later, when Harry awoke, his screams heard only by his own ears, he wiped his damp brow and couldn’t help but don a weary smile as he glanced at a sleeping Snape, secure in the knowledge that even though his life had known mostly hatred, he still knew the meaning of kindness.

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The next few days felt like months to Harry. It was harder than he’d anticipated, keeping up the careful deception, feigning restfulness and a calm demeanor, all the while being filled with desperation that the plan work as he’d hoped. It was a constant struggle to push down the fear and anxiety that lay just beneath the surface, and though it had been second nature for him at the Dursley’s, faking out Snape, someone who actually seemed to care about him somewhat, was an entirely different affair.

He had done his best to become what he felt Snape wanted of him. Each night they would engage in conversation, Harry ensuring to use a few well placed sighs or looks of unease as the Professor asked him about the Dursleys, and Harry would lay against his pillow, a frown twisting his brow as he recounted some of the abuses he had suffered, though he revealed only the least ruthless beatings, still unsure as to what Snape had seen in his mind when performing Legilimens.

The charm had worked perfectly too, keeping his repeated wakings a secret, his screams of anguish looking quite disturbing as he flailed in complete silence, waking startled in a heavy sweat, his cries of suffering unheard by the sleeping Professor. When morning came, Harry would feign sleep again, waiting until he heard Snape rise and leave the room, then allow himself to fall into slumber for an hour or two before the man came to wake him.

Snape seemed completely unaware, continuing as Harry’s nightly companion with increasingly less concern than the night prior, and it gave Harry a small measure of hope, even a sense of pride that as skilled as Snape was at reading him, he was still blinded by Harry’s new ability to hide his emotions. Though rewarded by Snape’s indifference, there was still the niggling shame that came from deceiving the Professor, and Harry did his best to dismiss the feeling of disgrace, comforting himself with the promise of Snape being all the better for it. The most painful reminders of his deceit came when the man would take his hand, catching Harry’s eyes and giving him a piercing look of concern, honest worry creasing his brown as Harry spoke of his past neglect, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears and admit everything, especially when Snape would greet him in the morning and lead him down to breakfast with a warm hand on his shoulder. The last morning had been the worst, for as they reached the foyer, the Professor had pulled Harry close to him in a brief one-armed hug before continuing into the kitchen. Harry stood alone in the foyer, breathing heavily as shame washed over him, tears stinging his eyes, his desire to revel in Snape’s comfort almost overwhelming, though within moments he had forced back the emotion, a feat almost impossible after the display of affection, and followed the man into the kitchen.

Harry found himself barely able to conceal his worry as he sat before his plate of bacon and eggs. The conference was tomorrow, and still there had been nothing from Snape about his attending. Harry went over everything in his mind as he chewed weakly at a piece of bacon. He was sure Snape didn’t know about the charm, or there would have been hell to pay, and the man had said nothing that would infer his knowledge of Harry’s deceit. Then what was it? What was keeping the Professor from the conference? Harry frowned, deep in thought, his brow furrowed with such intensity that he reached up and rubbed at the aching muscles of his forehead.

Della scuttled by the table, giving Harry’s plate an anxious look before coming to a stop next to Snape’s chair. She looked very anxious, more anxious than usual, Harry noted

“Mister Russer is being very worried!” Della shrilled. “Mister Russer is being very worried indeed! Mister Russer is being in contact on every hour asking for Master’s decision!”

Snape looked slightly amused, a smug, satisfactory sneer on his face as Della regarded him with a look that was as close to a glare as she dared to show her master. The little elf took a few steps closer to the table, reaching out and placing her delicate hand on her masters.

“Perhaps Master can be speaking to Mister Russer soon?” she asked timidly, patting Snape’s hand. “If Master is speaking to Mister Russer, Della is being having more time to make Master treacle sponge, yes?” he finished hopefully, eyes wide, nodding in encouragement at the offer of pudding.

Harry watched as the Professor gave Della a wry look, promising her he would indeed speak with his friend at the earliest possible time, earning another pat on the hand and an admiring smile from the creature before she departed.

Snape picked up his fork, continuing his breakfast as if the intrusion hadn’t occurred; unaware of the look of worry on Harry’s face as he sat unmoving across the table. It was obvious the man wasn’t going to give him any answers without provocation.

“Della sure seemed upset.” Harry started, attempting to steer the Professor into giving him some kind of answer about what his plans were.

“Della is in a constant state of vexation.” Snape replied, reaching for the paper. “If she were to remain calm for more than a few minutes, it is I who would be worried.”

Harry waited a few moments before speaking again.

“Uh, I guess Ernie is probably waiting for an answer, huh.” he said carefully, ducking his head and reaching again for his glass, though through his fringe he could see the Professor was perusing the first page of the paper.

“Ernie will wait.” Snape replied, almost despondently. “He may not like it, but he will wait.” he finished, a smiling playing at the corners of his mouth as he jabbed his fork into a thick slice of bacon.

Harry let out a heavy breath. This conversation was going nowhere. Snape had to go to the conference. There was no way Harry was going to let the Professor ruin his life over him. He wouldn’t!

“You should go!” Harry blurted suddenly, almost gasping at his outburst. His plan was to gently guide the conversation towards the subject, not yelp it out while Snape was mid-mouthful. “Uh, I mean to the conference.” he finished, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible but feeling incredibly stupid now. Snape was looking at him in surprise, perhaps even a hint of amusement in his features, and Harry took the opportunity to prompt the man a little more. “It’s tomorrow right? You should probably get ready. Um, pack or something?” he said encouragingly.

“I do not believe that is something you need to concern yourself with.” Severus replied, looking back to the Daily Prophet. His indifference was slightly forced as gazed at the day’s headlines. There had been a change in Harry the last few days, though he couldn’t pin-point it exactly, and that alone concerned him. The boy seemed more willing to discuss the horrors of his past, even answering questions as to the level of neglect and violence over his lifetime, though Severus had a suspicion that the most appalling of abuses were still carefully guarded. Though he had been quite thorough during his use of Legilimens, the ability did not allow infinite admission to one’s mind. Only the thoughts at the forefront of consciousness were accessible during that particular intrusion, though with continued prying it was possible to reveal the very core of one’s psyche. It was very plausible that Harry had suffered so deeply that points of utter shock and horror remained hidden, even to Harry himself.

His nervous habits had greatly lessened in frequency, though the panicky tousling of hands and fretful shudders were still noticed on occasion, and of course the nightmares had abated, which was welcomed, though it seemed too abrupt for Severus’ liking. It was almost as if the boy had flipped a switch, turning off all emotion, a skill he likely honed out of necessity at the hands of his relatives. Lowering the paper, Severus watched Harry eat ridiculously small mouthfuls of egg, they boy’s eyes trained a few inches ahead of his plate, as if the tabletop held some incredibly appealing feature

Harry sat in silence, his throat constricting with the familiar tightness of worry, though he wasn’t exactly sure what he had to be concerned about. He had heard the edge in the Professor’s voice, and Harry winced, instantly assuming the anger was meant for him. It was undoubtedly a natural reaction for Snape, for anyone faced with the possibility of missing a pivotal and life changing event due to something as ludicrous as babysitting. Harry shifted in his chair, feeling the weight of the Professor’s stare, and he cleared his throat, keeping his own eyes locked firmly on his breakfast as he stabbed the tines of his fork into a rubbery slice of egg.

“Harry.” Snape replied, sighing as the boy gouged at his breakfast repeatedly, an obvious sign of anxiety, though he had done remarkably well the last few days in terms of showing any worry. “Harry.” he repeated, a little more forcefully this time, and he wasn’t surprised to see the shoulders tense ever so slightly at the raised voice, though the boy did look up, his eyebrows raised, attempting indifference as he stared at his teacher, finally allowing the egg to rest peacefully.

“I will decide on my attendance at the conference only when I am confident in your ability to remain unattended.” Snape replied.

“But I haven’t had any nightmares for days.” Harry said quickly, his voice wavering, and he forced himself to remain calm. He wasn’t going to fail now, not when he was so close. “I’m much better now.” Harry went on, lifting a splayed hand and counting on each finger as he listed his recent achievements. “No nightmares, I’m eating, I feel better…I...” He stared at the remaining two fingers, then back at Severus, who regarded him silently. “Umm. Oh! I…I talk to you about…things.” he finished slowly, his voice distinctly hushed as he spoke the last word.

Severus sat impassively as he listened to Harry list his accomplishments of the few days. The boy sat silently too now, holding up the last remaining finger, unable to think of any further successes, and his eyes took on an awful hopelessness, the same look that had plagued him so often in the past, a look Severus was working diligently to wipe from the boy’s existence.

“I do believe you have also made considerable effort to curb your anxiety, and to allow yourself to trust more freely, have you not?” Severus offered, and Harry’s face relaxed into a smile, his last finger curling inward to his palm to join the others.

“See?” Harry stated, nodding at the Professor, who was looking thoughtful, almost as if on the verge of making his decision. Thinking quickly, Harry resorted to his last ditch attempt to influence the man. “Sir?” he started, waiting for Snape’s eyes to meet his before continuing. “I’d feel really horrible if you didn’t go because of me. I promise I’m fine, and I know you want to go, and I’d feel loads better if you went. Please, Sir, I know I’ll just feel so guilty about it every time I see you if you don’t, and I can stay here with Craig, and I’ll be fine, I really, really promise.”

Severus’ mouth set in a grim line at Harry’s last few words, quite taken aback by the desperation with which the boy spoke, almost begging him, pleading with him to attend the seminar. He sighed. As simple as Harry’s problems seemed from the outside, there was so much complexity to his suffering that Severus had almost thought himself unable to take on the task of helping the boy. But so much progress had been made, though Harry’s behaviour over the last few days seemed to dull the excitement of his past evolution. Perhaps by attending the conference Harry would feel less a burden. Severus knew all too well that it had been ingrained into the child that he was a liability, an affliction on his family, a curse. Surely he would feel relief at no longer feeling an encumbrance to his host. He would likely see it as an honor that Severus would feel he had made progress enough to leave him.

Harry meshed his fingers together under the table, unable any longer to refrain from allowing his nerves to get the better of him. Obviously the supplicating had some effect on the Professor, and Harry wondered if he should throw a few more please in there just to be safe, or if that would be overdoing it. He’d seen his aunt pleading with Dudley countless times, and he’d done his best to get the entire scene right, from the beseeching, wide eyes, to the mournful tone, but not too grief-stricken, or Snape would think he was having a breakdown. Harry waited, barely daring to breathe as he stared at Snape with the perfect mixture of hopefulness and despair, and for a moment, Harry felt a wave of guild engulf him at the deception, but he ignored it, knowing he was doing this for Snape’s own good, whether the man liked it or not.

“If you are completely sure.” Snape said slowly, speaking each word with extreme enunciation, as if he wanted Harry to understand exactly what he was agreeing to.

Severus watched as his words caught Harry’s ears, the boy’s face lighting up in response.

“Yes, Sir!” came the excited reply, and Severus felt his heart beat heavily in his chest at seeing the boy so obviously excited, though he wished he didn’t look so relieved as well, as if he were scared Severus might think him unworthy of leaving. He smiled as Harry stood quickly, his chair clattering backwards behind him in his exuberance, and the child’s face fell as he bent down to set the fallen chair upright.

Severus rose and stepped around the table, coming to a stop at Harry, who was on bended knee, wrestling with the ridiculously heavy oak chair. He knelt down and took Harry’s arm, the boy turning to him in surprise, which was quickly replaced with a worried look as Severus took both of Harry’s hands and rose, pulling the boy to his feet before he reached down and effortlessly raised the chair onto it’s legs and pushed it against the table.

Harry smiled meekly as the man took his hands again, running his thumbs across the tops of the boy’s small hands, feeling each knuckle under the pale skin.

“When I am gone,” Snape said gently. “I expect you to eat, understood?”

Harry nodded spiritedly.

“I will, Sir, I promise.”

Severus let Harry’s hands fall to his side, and slowly, so as not to startle him, brought a hand up to cup the boy’s cheek, silently regarding the boy’s features, so like his Father’s, but with the wild jade eyes of his Mother, and Severus smiled, too fond of the boy now to think unfavourably of his likeness to James.

Harry returned the smile, face alight with a grin seen far too sparsely in his time at the manor, and the boy threw his arms around him, nestling his head against the Professor’s chest as Severus gently carded his fingers though the child’s hair. Severus tightened his hold around Harry’s frame, still too slender, still far too malnourished for a boy his age, but trembling this time from giddiness rather than terror. Severus gently patted the boy’s back, feeling far too enamored with the sensation of being hugged than he would ever admit, and Harry leaned back slightly and met his teacher’s eyes.

“You should pack, Sir.” he said, the elation still clear in his voice.

Severus nodded.

“Come.” he said gently, releasing Harry, but still keeping one arm around the boy, enjoying the almost tangible emotion of the moment. He called for Della, who promptly appeared, nodding at her instruction to contact Ernie before disappearing, leaving Harry and Severus to walk slowly up the stairs, reveling in each others presence, the warmth and comfort of the contact desired by one as much as the other as they made their way into the Professor’s room to pack.

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The next morning came quickly. Snape had insisted on spending the last night with Harry, sitting in his usual spot in the chair, though Harry had himself maintained that he no longer needed to be watched over. The Professor had rewarded Harry’s obstinacy with a trademark glower, which this time elicited a smile from the boy rather than a startled apology. The nightmares still came, and Harry awoke with the usual chaos, the feeling of choking on his own blood still terrifyingly fresh in his mind as he sobbed into his pillow, damp with sweat, trembling for hours afterward, though thankfully it had subsided before the Professor woke.

Craig arrived shortly after breakfast, greeting Harry with a mischievous smile that caused Severus to take the man aside for almost half an hour in private conversation. When they returned, Craig looked decidedly more solemn, reserved, nodding at Snape’s continued instructions regarding bedtimes, emergency contact, and repeated stressing of the point that extreme caution was to be observed at all times, especially since Della would be departing also, her extraordinary and unique magical abilities making her the only safe choice for keeping the venom secure during the conference.

Finally, after another lecture for both Harry and Craig on various points, Snape found himself standing in the living room, Della at his side, suitcase clutched in her slender hands.

“You are to listen to Craig.” Snape lectured. “This morning I erected extra wards around the manor and the island. There will be no sightseeing, do I make myself clear? Craig has the password, “Snape continued as Harry nodded at each stipulation. “and he has been instructed that trips off the island are strictly forbidden.”

“I have left something for you to amuse yourself with.” Snape said; the faint wisp of a smile crossing his lips as he stepped up onto the hearth and scooped a small amount of powder into his palm. “I have left it on your bed. Mind you don’t break anything. I believe Craig’s medical skills are somewhat non-existent.” he drawled, giving the man wry smile. Craig responded to the gentle insult with a chuckle, turning to Harry, whose face carried a quizzical air as he contemplated the Professor’s words. Just then, Severus reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, and he resisted the urge to reach down and hug the young man, still far too ill at ease to show such affection in Craig’s presence. “Harry.” he said softly, giving the shoulder a gentle squeeze. He paused for a moment, taking in Harry’s affectionate stare, realizing there was so much more to how he felt about the boy than he gave credence to. “Enjoy yourself.” he said, and before Harry could respond, Severus had released the grains of powder from his grip and he and Della were gone.

“Right!” Craig exclaimed, turning towards Harry and smiling broadly. “Everyone old and boring is gone. Time for some unrestricted fun I’d say.”

“Just a minute.” Harry replied, starting across the room to the foyer. “I’ll be right back!” he called, pointing towards the staircase. “I just have to check something!”

He took the stairs two at a time, and dashed down the hall with an excitement he never thought possible, and pushed open the door of his room. He paused, eyes wide as he gazed at his bed. He took a few hesitant steps, unsure if what he was seeing was real, and he reached out his hand, his fingers gently running across the length of it, the cool, smooth wood feeling very much alive under his touch. There was a small tag attached, and Harry whispered the name in awe.

“Nimbus Velox”

The broom was beautifully crafted, and brand new. It must have been, as Nimbus had only announced the new line of racing brooms last month, and the Velox wasn’t even available in stores yet. Breathing heavily, Harry’s eye caught the flash of two tiny initials, carved into the wood and set with gold filigree.

H.P

For the next few moments, Harry could do nothing but simply stare, his thoughts tumbling over themselves in wonder and exhilaration. Slowly, as if handling a newborn baby, Harry lifted the broom to his chest and pressed it against him, his arms gently cradling the sturdy shaft, the stiff bristles tickling his bare wrists as he held the broom in tender adoration. The smile came slowly at first, eyes moist, breaths hitching as held back chuckles spilled out of him, and then the grin widened, almost impossible for his face to contain the width of it, and joy of it, and he laughed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, almost dancing with the broom, embracing it, allowing the feeling of utter happiness to wrap around him in a thick blanket of indescribable bliss, and in that moment, Harry finally understood.

This is what the feeling was deep in his chest, the tiny shred of something that he had felt when Snape had been so caring towards him after he had arrived at the manor. This is what had been buried for so long, an emotion not felt since infancy, an emotion drawn from him by the Professor.

He finally understood what it was, and Harry closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling, finally able to put a name to it, finally able to remember it, letting it wash over him, and the tears kept coming, tears of joy at finally knowing what had been locked away for so long he had almost forgotten it.

Really. Truly. Finally.

He felt loved.

Harry came down the stairs slowly, so slowly in fact that to anyone watching it may have looked as if the boy had received some unfortunate news. One hand held the new broom to his chest; head bowed, each foot solidly planted on the stair before attempting the next step, the other hand clutching the handrail, only allowing his grip to lessen once his footing was sound.

He stepped into the living room, feeling giddy, silly, and sad all at once. He couldn’t help but feel the sadness, sad that the Professor had gone, and Harry so desperately wanted to thank him, to throw his arms around him and feel the mans strong arms holding him, perhaps a hand brushing against his hair, smoothing the unruly strands, knowing they would never co-operate but doing it anyway for no reason other than to offer the gentle touch of comfort. In that moment Harry wanted Snape back more than anything, which seemed awfully unfair considering he’d spent the last four days in agony in order to get the man to leave.

“New broom?” Craig asked, and Harry’s head jerked up at the voice. In his awe over the gift he’d completely forgotten about Craig. He must have looked a right nutter, standing in the middle of the living room cradling a broom like someone who’d gone soft in the head.

“Yeah.” Harry replied, smiling as Craig came over and admired it.

“Good Lord, a Velox?” Craig exclaimed. “Ernie’s been harping on about getting one of these since they announced them!” He glanced back at Harry, who was looking at him with his brow raised. “Ernie thinks he’s great at Quiddich.” Craig explained. “He used to be, but since the eye thing, well he’s not exactly a top-notch seeker anymore with just one.” Craig laughed as he continued. “Little bugger doesn’t let that stop him though. You should see him go, like a wild man he is. Never catches anything though. No depth perception.” he said, tapping at the corner of his eye. “I don’t think you can even buy these yet.” he said, running his index finger across the carved initials. He looked again at Harry and smirked. “Snape must really like you, kid. I’ve never seen him give anything like this to anyone, not even Ernie, and he’s his best friend.”

Harry slowly let the broom fall away from his chest, holding it slightly away from him as he admired it. Craig was right, Snape did like him, he liked him a lot, and the warm, silly feeling blossomed in his chest, and Harry giggled without trying, without meaning to, and loving the feeling that made him.

“Yeah, I guess he does.” he whispered.

“Well come on then, let’s go test it out!” Craig exclaimed, grabbing Harry’s arm and leading him out the front door and down the stone steps, almost pulling the boy along in his excitement. “Well, go on.” he urged, gesturing at Harry and then into the air. “Let’s see it.”

At the encouragement, Harry took only seconds to mount his broom, taking off with such an immense speed that his hands were literally ripped from the handle, and he found himself tumbling backwards into the grass, his broom landing almost thirty feet away.

Craig, who was in absolute hysterics, reached down and took Harry’s hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Oh hell, kid.” he spluttered amid the laughter. “That was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Harry dusted off his behind before running over to this broom, terrified at the thought of finding it broken. He lifted it gingerly, searching for any cracks or scratches, relieved at finding the broom still in pristine condition, and he let out the breath he’d been holding as Craig, who was still chuckling, came up behind him.

“Ok.” Craig announced, clapping his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s try that again. This time without falling on your ass, ok?” Harry couldn’t help but smile. It never occurred to him to be irritated at the teasing, probably because Dudley had mocked him constantly at home, and if Harry had showed any form of anger, Uncle Vernon would have “knocked him down a peg,” as he put it.

Straddling the broom again, feeling a little tense now from thinking of his family, Harry clasped his hands around the handle as tightly as possible.

“Now, try to start out a little–” Craig started, but instantly the broom launched forward and Harry was gone. “slower.” Craig finished as he watched the broom soar into the sky, its speed almost unimaginable.

High above, Harry pulled up the broom with all his strength, coming to a jerky halt above the manor.

“Wow!” he exclaimed, panting heavily. The broom had taken his breath away in more ways than one, and he inhaled deeply, his hands shaking around the broom’s thick handle, and he forced himself to relent a little, his fingers aching from the death grip he had on it. The wind pulled at his hair as Harry surveyed the island. It really was much smaller than it felt from the ground, though it was not a small piece of land by any means.

Calmer now, Harry tried moving the broom forward as slowly as he could, delighted when it obeyed, inching across the sky. He pushed a little harder, guiding it across the meadow, over a waving Craig, and back to the house, all the while pushing the broom a little faster. Once comfortable, Harry tried a turn, then another, each one more sharp than the next, then a slight incline, falling into a full downward spiral, faster and faster, plummeting towards the ground before pulling up and dashing into the sky, still spiraling, then coming out of the corkscrew maneuver and straightening out, urging the broom towards speeds he’d never thought possible.

He flew for what seemed hours, time meaning nothing to him as he looped and spun across the sky, in total control of the broom now, fearing nothing, completely confident in his abilities as he tore across the skyline. As he came about for another series of dives, he noticed Craig gesturing wildly, and he turned his broom, gliding gently to the ground where Craig was standing with an anxious look on his face.

“Jesus, kid, you’re giving me a heart attack!” Craig called.

Harry slowly drifted down, hovering with his feet brushing against the ground.

I’m sorry.” he said, genuinely apologetic that his display had startled his new friend.

“Hey, no worries, right?” Craig replied, giving the boy a nervous smile as he lowered himself to the ground. Harry slipped off his broom and joined him on the grass, letting the increasingly swift wind cool him. “I just don’t need Severus breathing down my neck if you fall off that thing. Remember,” he continued, his voice taking on the Professor’s unmistakable tone. “my medical skills are somewhat non-existent.” he drawled. Harry giggled.

“Oh I’m careful.” he grinned, knowing his flying abilities far surpassed the novice maneuvers he had just performed. “And anyway, you could just use Wingardium Leviosa, right?”

Harry was surprised to see Craig break into laughter at his statement, and he stared at the man in complete confusion until, through deep breaths and giggles, Craig responded.

“Not bloody likely.”

Harry was silent, baffled by Craig’s words. Would he really not save Harry if something terrible were to happen? Surely Snape wouldn’t have left him with someone who wouldn’t even use a simple spell to save his life! Tentatively, giving the man another chance at redemption, hoping this was just some bizarre prank on Craig’s part, Harry asked in a hushed voice.

“Did you forget your wand?”

Craig, who at Harry’s words ceased all signs of mirth, stared back at the boy, now with his own perplexed look.

“Kid, I don’t have a wand. I can’t do magic.”

Harry paused, then spoke sadly.

“Oh, you’re a squib.” he stated softly, not sure if the word would be taken as an insult or not.

“No.” Craig replied, looking at Harry as if he were a little dim. “I mean I can’t do magic. Not now, not ever.”

“Wait…you mean…you’re not a wizard?” Harry asked, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if he were repeating a terrible secret.

Craig smiled broadly and shook his head.

“Nope.” he replied nonchalantly, as if being a wizard was not such a big deal. He paused, and a look of disbelief washed over his face. “You mean Severus didn’t tell you?” he asked. Harry shook his head. “Well, hell,” Craig continued, running a hand through his hair. “no wonder you were confused.” He broke into a grin. “Come on, I’m getting cold. Let’s get inside.” Harry rose and matched his steps with Craig’s as they made their way across the meadow towards the manor. A rather cool wind had come up, and Harry’s eyes scanned the skyline, concern sneaking into his mind over the idea of another storm like the one he’d gotten lost in.

“So you’re not a wizard,” Harry started at they neared the front steps. “but Ernie is. Are your parents both magical?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Craig replied. “I’m adopted. Ernie’s parents both went to Hogwarts, but my Mum and Dad could have been Muggles for all I know. They kept those sorts of things secret back then.”

“I didn’t know witches and wizards were allowed to adopt Muggles.” Harry said, stopping as Craig pulled open the heavy front door. They stepped into the foyer and Harry slipped off his cloak, hanging it on the hook near the kitchen door.

“I guess they were back then.” Craig shrugged, making his way into the kitchen and opening the fridge. Harry followed, clambering onto the kitchen table and resting his feet on the chair, an act he would never have done had Snape been around.

“So you didn’t get to go to Hogwarts or anything?” Harry exclaimed, his voice taking on a sympathetic tone. He remembered his life before he’d found out he was a wizard. It was so exciting to find out he was something special, well it had been, until Uncle Vernon had started trying to beat the freakiness out of him. He could take the beatings he’d received before, but once he’d arrived back from Hogwarts they’d gotten so much worse. Being a wizard made his relatives hate him all the more, and he frowned, hoping Craig didn’t see the shudder that went through him at the recollection. He wondered if the Professor had seen that memory too.

“Kid? Hey!” Craig’s voice pulled him from the horrible thoughts of his family, and his head shot up in surprise.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, was just thinking.” he said hastily, hoping he hadn’t looked too stupid sitting there ignoring the man.

“Jesus, doesn’t Severus have anything good to eat in this place?” Craig grumbled, pulling out a handful of fresh carrots and waving them at an amused Harry. “Freaking carrots? You know, kid, I sure feel sorry for you being trapped here with Snape. The guy’s got no idea how to have fun.”

Harry grinned, unable to really refute the statement, but out of loyalty to the Professor, he remained silent.

“Della made pudding the other day.” he said suddenly, recalling the delicious dessert with its rich, warm treacle sauce. He slid off the table and darted to a series of low cupboards on the other side of the kitchen. “She must have gotten the ingredients from somewhere.” He opened each wooden door and reached inside, frowning as his search revealed nothing but packages of rice, whole wheat pasta, and assorted other lackluster ingredients. He sighed and pushed the cupboard door closed, turning back towards Craig, who was looking at him expectantly, and shook his head.

“Damn.” Craig whispered, tossing the carrots back into the fridge. “Oh. Oh! Wait, I just got the best idea.” he exclaimed, grinning. “Come on!”

Harry followed Craig into the living room where the excited man took a handful of floo power and stepped onto the hearth.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Harry asked worriedly as Craig reached out his hand. “We’re not supposed to leave the island, remember?”

Craig snorted. “Like anyone’s gonna find out.” he said, laughing at the concerned look on Harry’s face. “Come on, kid. Snape’ll suck all the fun out of you this summer if you let him. Do something fun for yourself for once, huh?”

“But you’re not a wizard!” Harry exclaimed, nodding towards the fireplace. “You can’t activate the floo.”

Craig grinned wickedly as he reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand, tugging him up onto the hearth. Grasping the boy’s wrist, he poured the gently shimmering dust into Harry’s small, upturned palm.

“You’re right, I can’t.” Craig said deviously. “But you can.” He looked down at Harry, who was looking back at him, his face a mixture of alarm and exhilaration. Harry’s eyes flickered to his hand and the small mound of powder, and he smiled uncertainly, watching the tiny granules slip off his palm and down to the hearth.

“I….I supposed we won’t be gone for very long, right?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Craig said reassuringly. “Twenty minutes there and back. Just enough time to pick up a few goodies.” He slipped his arm across Harry’s shoulders, not noticing the tremor. “Come on. Snape’s never gonna find out. I could really go for some hot fudge right about now. Couldn’t you?”

Harry nodded eagerly.

“Where to?” he asked, all trace of concern gone now. They would only be gone twenty minutes, and Professor Snape was half a world away at his lecture. Craig was right, how on earth was anybody going to find out?

“It’s called Russer Port.” Craig replied, as he pulled his arm from Harry’s shoulder and grasped the boy’s free hand. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, hoping in the back of his mind that he wouldn’t have some kind of horrible flashback like the last time he’d traveled like this. He lifted his arm, and with a forceful motion he hurled the handful of power into the hearth.

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“Watch it kid, you’re getting marshmallow on the couch!”

“Oh, damn!” Harry breathed, grabbing a serviette off the coffee table and wiping madly at the thick, white dollop that was spreading into the sofa. Then, seemingly satisfied with the job, he tossed the serviette back onto the table where it landed amidst a jumble of open bags of crisps, half eaten packets of sweets, and various other junk foods.

“How do you like it?” Craig asked, nodding towards the bowl of ice cream cradled in Harry’s lap.

“It’s brilliant!” Harry replied, smiling as he took another heaping spoonful of the rich vanilla ice cream which he’d smothered in melted fudge and gooey marshmallow topping. “You were right, melted marshmallow is the most brilliant thing ever!”

Craig laughed as he scooped out the last of his own sundae and slid the empty bowl onto the coffee table.

“Could you imagine Severus doing this?” he snorted, picking up a large bag of crisps and pulling out a handful. “Sitting in his living room eating sweets and crisps, chatting over ice cream instead of coffee?”

Harry almost choked on a mouthful of ice cream. His eyes widened and he swallowed hard before breaking into laughter at the thought of Professor Snape huddled over a large bowl of ice cream, a copy of the Daily Prophet in one hand and a spoon laden with hot fudge in the other, and he clutched his bowl carefully, not wanting to slop the entire thing onto the couch as he giggled. He didn’t know any good cleaning charms yet. He looked over at Craig, who gave the boy a broad smile before offering Harry an open package of crisps.

“So, if you’re not a wizard, how come you work at the Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, taking the bag, abandoning the ice cream for now in favour of a handful of the spicy cheese flavoured crisps.

“Ernie got me the job.” Craig replied, his voice taking on a pensive tone. “I always wanted to go to Hogwarts, ya know? It sounded like so much fun. Ernie was always coming home on holiday talking about all these new spells he’d learned, and what was I doing? Learning boring old math and social studies, that’s what.” He paused, and for a moment Harry wasn’t sure the man was going to continue. He popped a few crisps into his mouth and waited. “Anyway, I always wanted to be a part of it, cause it seemed so damn exciting.” Craig continued, shrugging. “I guess you could say I was jealous, I mean can you imagine? I was the only Muggle in a magical family. It wasn’t like they could exclude me from their world, so Ernie taught me potions, but I never really could get into it. I helped him for a few years, you know, mashing eyes and stuff, but I wanted to do my own thing, so, last year Ernie got me a job in the Muggle division of the Ministry. It’s cool I guess, I help agents going undercover with silly stuff, like Muggle money, clothing, things like that.” Craig tossed a few sweets into his mouth and chewed silently for a moment before turning back to Harry. “Bloody idiots they are sometimes.” he said, smirking. “They’d be wearing their underwear over their trousers if I told them to.”

Harry broke into giggles, and Craig followed suit, and soon the pair were roaring with laughter as Craig recounted some of the wild pranks he’d pulled on unsuspecting Ministry agents.

It was hours later, quite some time after the nine o’clock bedtime Snape expected of Harry, when the two abandoned the mess of the table and took the stairs to the second floor.

“You gonna be ok?” Craig asked as he stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Oh yeah.” Harry replied, stifling a yawn. “I’m so tired. I don’t think I’ll have any problems sleeping.”

“Sounds good.” Craig smiled. He reached out and smacked Harry lightly on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, kid.”

Harry watched as Craig entered the Professor’s room and closed the door behind him before he walked sleepily down the hall to his own room. Too tired for a shower, he slipped into his pajamas and brushed his teeth before collapsing on top of the bed, exhausted. He really was so very tired, but in a great way. He’d had so much fun with Craig that he’d forgotten to be worried about nightmares. Yawning again, Harry slid under the covers and pushed his face into the cool pillow. He smiled against the fabric, loving the feeling of being happy and content. It had been so long since he’d felt this way. He felt it with Snape, and now with Craig. It was as if everything was going right for once, as if finally all those prayers had been answered, and the feeling was absolutely magnificent. He never wanted to lose it.

Not ever.

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The nightmares woke him only once that night, but it was a horrendous, unbearable dream. Uncle Vernon was mad, about what Harry had no idea. He couldn’t quite make out what it was because Vernon was screaming so loudly and with such rage, that his words were getting all mashed together.

Harry had just come in from the back yard, dripping with sweat after a hard afternoon’s work in the garden, his skin red and stinging from fresh sunburn.

“You little bastard!”

The bellow caught Harry off guard, not because of the words, he’d been called that particular name hundreds of times. No, it was the fact that it was Uncle Vernon screaming at him, and it wasn’t time for Uncle Vernon to be home yet. Usually it was Aunt Petunia who would screech at him, telling him to hurry up and get his chores done or else Vernon would lay into him when he got home, though even after completing his huge list of jobs for the day, Uncle Vernon had no problems punishing Harry regardless.

Harry froze. Uncle Vernon, home early, and screaming at him. Nothing good could come of this situation, and for an instant it all felt terribly wrong, more wrong than usual, and very, very terrifying.

Suddenly Uncle Vernon’s chubby face appeared at the back door.

“Get in here, boy!” he hissed, face red, gleaming with sweat. Slowly, hands already shaking, Harry obeyed, eyes wide, like an animal on the highway caught in the headlights of a huge truck barreling towards them.

He hadn’t even made it into the kitchen before his uncle grabbed him fiercely around the neck, his thick fingers digging into his flesh. Arms instinctively flailing to his throat, Harry kicked wildly, desperately trying to free himself from his uncle’s hold.

“Bastard!” Vernon repeated, screaming the words mere inches from Harry’s face before throwing him to the floor, then bending down swiftly and pulling the boy to his feet. “It’s your fault!” The punch was fast, before Harry even had time to register the fist coming towards him, and he fell limply to the floor, blood spilling from a split lip. Dizzy with fear, Harry moved his hands to his face, a flimsy defense from Vernon’s meaty fists, but it was all he had against the monster. He was punched several more times before he felt the hands again, this time grabbing him around the wrists and dragging him down the hallway towards his cupboard. Harry almost smiled in relief. This hadn’t been such a terrible beating after all. He’d spend the rest of the day in solitude of course, and likely without any food, but he’d be ignored for the most part.

A frantic jolt went through him as Vernon dragged him past the little door, still screaming profanities, and Harry’s legs jerked under him, as he tried desperately to pull himself to his feet as he was pulled violently towards the stairwell. At Harry’s struggling, Vernon paused to backhand the boy across the face, sending Harry crashing against the wall, blood spattering across the gay wallpaper, and it un-nerved Harry all the more when his next thoughts were if Aunt Petunia would be angry that he’d bloodied the stairwell, and not whether he’d make it through this alive.

Unable to keep himself upright, his head swimming with pain, Harry lurched up the stairs, his legs gaining hold for only a second before being yanked up and into the hall. Uncle Vernon was wild with rage, and Harry was still in the dark as to what he had done to cause such extreme fury in the man.

“Unle Vurn...” Harry whispered, unable to speak over his swollen tongue, mouth coated with blood, face numb from the repeated strikes. He felt cool tile beneath him, and he realized that Vernon had taken him into the bathroom. Suddenly there was a cracking sound, and Harry flinched wildly, awaiting the pain, but there was nothing. Moments later, the hands around his neck again and he was being lifted, face down, and the toilet came into view. Harry recoiled, every ounce of strength he had suddenly burst out of him. He struggled ferociously emitting a terrifying screech, a high pitched, jagged, scream forcing its way from his lungs as his head was plunged into the toilet bowl. The frigid water caused him to gasp involuntarily, and at once his mouth was filled with water, choking him, and his arms whirled madly, floundering, grabbing at anything in a desperate fight for breath as Vernon screamed at him over and over. Finally, when the fire in his lungs was near torturous in its intensity, Harry’s head was lifted from the bowl, and with one swift movement he was thrown against the bathtub, his head slamming into the porcelain with a sickening crack, and his vision swam. He lay panting, coughing, bleeding as he fell to the floor, not even possessing the strength to lift his head as he vomited onto the lavender tiles, blood and bile collecting in his mouth, and he managed to turn his head to avoid choking as he threw up again.

Vernon stood in the doorway, wiping the string of spittle from his chin as he stared down at his nephew in disgust.

“Clean this mess up.” he barked, slamming the bathroom door, and Harry heard the heavy footsteps in the hall, and the muted voice of his uncle casually calling out to Aunt Petunia asking what was for dinner.

He awoke from the nightmare in hysterics, screaming, crying, and frantic.

“Sir?” he croaked, looking at the empty chair next to his bed, and his heart twisted at seeing it empty before he remembered that Snape was gone and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Feeling terribly alone, Harry sobbed uncontrollably into his pillow, clutching the corners in his small fists, wishing that he would feel the Professor's heavy hand on his back rubbing gentle circles, or pulling him up by the shoulder and drawing him into an embrace, comforting him, speaking in that low, soft tone, the one he used when he knew Harry was upset.

After a while the tears subsided, and Harry laid shuddering, emitting little hiccoughs of distress as he slid out of bed, grabbing his wand and releasing the silencing charm with a swish and a whisper.

He walked over to the curtains and pulled them aside a little, staring out into the gardens. He felt so closed in when he woke up from a nightmare, like he was trapped in his cupboard. Looking out the window at the wide expansive grounds seemed to help. It let him know he wasn’t confined in the tiny space he had come to fear so much.

After a few minutes his breathing slowed to normal. He glanced over at his bed and his stomach clenched at the thought of sleeping. The clock on the bedside table read 3:41am. He figured he’d gotten almost three hours sleep. Not bad considering the last few days he’d functioned on less than that.

Yawning, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and went into the bathroom where he ran a sink of cold water. He dunked his head, gasping at how frigid it was against his heated skin. He grabbed a towel from beside the sink and dried off his face and hair.

Feeling almost refreshed, he wandered back into the bedroom, once again drawn to the window like a moth to a flame. He pulled his trunk over and sat down on it, folding his arms and resting them on the windowsill.

Yawning again, he rested his chin on his arms and stared out into the night sky, waiting for the sunrise.

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The next day passed quickly, something Harry was grateful for, having missed the Professor more than he thought, especially after last night, and his stomach flip flopped in anticipation. Craig made breakfast, a terrible mistake that was supposed to be French toast, and Harry poked at it with his fork, trying to figure out a way to get around eating it, thankful that Craig swept his plate away, shrugging as Harry burst into giggles at the botched meal. Harry took over then, and soon the pair was enjoying French toast, this time without the blackened edges and soggy middle.

After breakfast Craig strolled out into the brilliant sunlight, Harry following on his broom, and after a few hidden glances, Craig begged for a ride on the precious Velox, a wish Harry was all too eager to grant. Feeling quite important, Harry instructed his friend to keep a tight hold around his waist as he set off into the sky, laughing as the man’s hands dug into his torso in fright as he maneuvered the broom through a series of twists and turns.

Lunch was an assortment of leftover crisps and sweets, followed by the remaining ice cream, and Harry couldn’t help but remind Craig that this was hardly the kind of nutrition Snape had been referring to when he’d made Harry promise to eat, and Craig had replied with a scoff, reminding him that what Snape didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him.

The rest of the afternoon was a hurried mix of hiding evidence of the banned junk food and of having visited the mainland, and it was almost dusk when Harry leisurely glided in circles around Craig as he wandered the perimeter of the island. They discussed anything and everything, laughing till near tears at some of Craig’s dirty jokes, though only after Harry swore not to reveal any of the filthy tales to the Professor.

Harry turned in early, finding himself more tired than usual after all the activity of the day, though he was especially nervous about sleeping after the nightmare that had caused him such terror the night before. Craig must have noticed his anxiety, asking him multiple times that evening if Harry was ok, and that he looked a bit worried, and Harry had shrugged and shaken his head, insisting he was fine, though he was sure the Professor had at least told the man something about his past. He’d planned to stay up as long as he could in his room, and the little twinge of excitement at knowing Snape was only a few hours away from returning made the darkness easier to bear, and at some point Harry had slumped over his Transfiguration textbook and was now sprawled across his bed in a deep sleep.

He was woken from his slumber by a frantic Craig gripping his shoulder, shaking him roughly. Still clinging to sleep, Harry focused on Craig’s face, blinking heavily as his eyes accustomed themselves to the intense radiance of the bedside lamp.

“Was gonon?” he managed groggily, rubbing at his eyes with a loose fist.

“I’ve been contacted by the Ministry.” Craig explained, a hint of worry in his voice, and Harry realized the man was holding his bag, with his jacket slung over his forearm.

“You’re leaving?” Harry asked, confusion replacing the bleariness as he pulled himself upright.

“Yeah, there's been some problems, something about my team needing an immediate infiltration.” Craig said quickly, hoisting the slipping jacket back up onto his bent arm. “I gotta go, but Snape’ll be back in like four hours. You’ll be ok for four hours, right?”

Harry nodded, a pang of sorrow piercing his chest at the thought of Craig leaving. The last two days had been fantastic, a whirl of laughter and utter silliness, emotions much more fitting a twelve year old than the habitual dread he had existed in, and though things were better now, Snape wasn’t exactly what one would call fun.

As if in response to Harry’s thoughts, Craig crouched down and offered the boy a bright smile.

“I had a really good time the last few days, kid. You know, for a wizard,” he paused and gave Harry a wink. “you’re not half bad. Now don’t do anything stupid, like burn the place down.” Craig said with a smirk. “You don’t wanna get in trouble. I’ll leave Severus a note downstairs, ok?”

Harry nodded and broke out into a smile as Craig stood and walked quickly to the door. He slowed, stopped, and stood for a moment, unmoving, and Harry narrowed his eyes a touch as Craig turned back to him, his mouth open as if to speak, and they stared at each other for a moment before Craig finally spoke in a hushed tone.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s ok, really.” replied Harry, touched that the man would feel so remorseful about leaving him unexpectedly, and he smiled, a genuine, proud smile at his importance to another person, and he looked back at Craig expectantly.

“Maybe, when you’re done, and if you want to….well maybe you could come visit again before I have to go back to school.”

Craig nodded briskly before turning away from the boy. Then, on what seemed a second thought, he turned back and gave Harry a small smile.

“Sure thing, kid.”

With that, he turned and walked hurriedly down the hall, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he disappeared into the darkness.

Harry sighed heavily before reclining back onto his pillow and staring up at the ceiling. He would never get back to sleep now, a habit from his nights of restlessness and endless pacing to stave off sleep, though he did try, lying quietly with his eyes closed for what seemed forever before turning the bedside lamp back on.

Suddenly the house felt very lonely, very empty, and very frightening to a young boy with an active imagination, and every creak and groan of the ancient building did nothing to soothe Harry’s nerves as he conjured up images of dark wizards stealing across the meadow towards the manor, wands at the ready. He reached over and grabbed his wand, his fingers closing around the thin length of Holly, his eyes glued to the curtains as he slipped off the bed and slowly made his way towards the window. He stood motionless, unable to even raise his hand, rapid breaths hitching in his throat, and in an instant all he wanted was Snape, because Snape would lay that heavy hand on his shoulder and tell him he was being silly and dramatic, and at the same time that no one would harm Harry while he was around, and he’d mean it, promise it, fight for it, and Harry would believe it like he believed in sunlight.

But Snape wasn’t here. Craig was gone, and so was Della, and four hours hadn’t seemed very long at first, but now…

Forcing himself to infuse with courage befitting a Gryfindor, albeit a terrified one, Harry snatched the curtain and pulled it aside, revealing a very empty front lawn, splashed with silvery moonlight, trees gently swaying in the cool summer breeze.

Not an evil wizard in sight.

Harry let out a weak, relieved chuckle and let the curtain fall back against the large pane of glass. He turned to survey his room, his eyes coming to rest on his battered trunk. He could always pass the time by reading one of his textbooks, he thought. Hopefully it would keep his attention enough that he wouldn’t jump at every tiny noise.

Just then, a dull thud sounded from deep within the manor. Harry froze, and time seemed to stop as he stood listening, wondering if his mind was playing tricks on him, when the thud sounded again, louder this time, more distinct.

Quickly, Harry ran to his bed and clicked off the lamp, standing still in the darkness as the shattering of glass echoed down the hall.

Oh God.

Wired with fear, Harry moved without a sound towards his bedroom door. He bent down and lined his eye up with the keyhole, staring down the shadowy corridor, the soft, scarce candlelight hampering his vision even further as he tried to discern any movement in the hall.

The silence was literally deafening, and Harry finally understood the oxymoron as he crouched at the door, barely allowing himself to breathe as he strained to pick up any sound, his body tingling as every nerve labored under the strain of such intense fear. He hadn’t felt like this since last summer, when Uncle Vernon doled out a beating Harry thought would be the death of him, every pore struggling, straining against overwhelming terror.

It was then, staring into shadows of the hall, the merging of silhouette and candlelight making it almost impossible to make out any form, that the narrow keyhole went black. Gasping, Harry had but a second for his mind to make sense of it before the door flew open, sending him sprawling backwards, the force enough to knock him the several feet to his bed where his head met the wooden frame with a nauseating crack.

His vision shaken, blurry from the blow, Harry threw up a hand in defense, realizing that he no longer held his wand, his fingers intuitively curling around nothingness as a dark figure stood silent, unmoving, looming as Harry fought to gain control, and after a few moments the figure swam into view and the image cleared.

Staring down at him, with that familiar glower, eyes narrowed spitefully, lip curled in a wicked sneer, was Snape.

“Oh my God!” Harry shouted; blind terror and surging adrenaline rejecting any attempt at calm as he hurled the words at the Professor. If his limbs would have obeyed him, he’d have stood and punched the Professor right in the face.

Snape’s cruel smirk widened as he took in the frightened child, but he made no move to assist.

“You scared the hell out of me.” Harry said breathlessly, reaching tentatively behind his head and gently touching the sharp painful spot there. He drew his hand back, not surprised to see his fingertips stained with blood, and he winced at the sight.

“I’m bleeding!” he declared hotly, lifting his hand to show the crimson stained fingers.

As soon as he met the man’s eyes, time slowed. The look of offence on Harry’s face melted into one of utter horror as he immediately realized that the look on Snape’s face was identical to the one plastered across Uncle Vernon’s just before he…

Oh God.

With lightening speed, Harry managed to bolt halfway to the bathroom before Snape’s fingers dug into the tender flesh of his upper arm, and Harry yelped in pain as he was pulled back towards the Professor, whose eyes were blazing with a sickening excitement. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath as he was pulled towards the man; too stunned even to fight back as Snape drew him closer.

Harry didn’t need to guess what was coming, and he closed his eyes as Snape’s hand came down full force across his face, sending him to the floor in a heap. Pushing himself up on his hands, he tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

He managed to desperately blurt out the word Professor before he was jerked violently to his feet, the hand coming down again hard against the same cheek, pain spreading like fire across his skin, and Harry could do little but allow a mouthful of blood to trickle over his swelling lips as he lay panting on the hardwood, burgundy streaks smeared across the floorboards, blood and saliva pooling beneath his head.

The beating continued, Snape dragging a stumbling Harry to his feet again and again, barely giving the boy time to cry out a desolate plea before bringing a fist down against the frail body.

Then, as abruptly as the attack had begun, it was over. Harry heard Snape’s heavy footsteps cross the room, the door slamming behind him, and the light metal click of a key in the lock before Snape’s own bedroom door slammed shut moments later.

Forcing action through the nearly unbearable pain, Harry uncurled laboriously, cringing as every muscle, every bone, every hair screamed excruciatingly at the movement. He felt tears prickle at his eyes as he dragged himself towards the bed, and it took only seconds before his vision distorted as the tears spilled down his cheeks, his face hot, swollen, numb, and he knew it was just a matter of time before the deadened nerves reawakened and the real agony began.

Spotting his wand under the bed, he reached out a shaking arm and drew the precious rod to his chest, then with choking sobs; Harry crawled slowly to the corner furthest from the door. He slumped against the wall, exhausted, shaken beyond comprehension, and he lifted a weak hand to wipe the blood and tears from his face with his sleeve, wincing as his gentle touch caused waves of pain through his head. Trembling, he raised his wand and pointed it at the door, his jerky breaths and weeping echoing in the silence.

It was a few hours later, when the sun began to seep through the trees and splash against the closed curtains, that he heard the familiar grating sound of the heavy stone dungeon door being pulled open, and then being pushed closed, and he knew that Snape was heading down to his laboratory.

It was only then that he lowered his wand.

Harry uncurled slowly, every part of him aching, his face feeling distended and raw as he looked wide-eyed around the room. He cringed as he pulled his arm towards him, the muscles stiff and twitching from hours of tightly gripping his wand, his arm never wavering as he held it high, wand trained on the door, waiting.

Wincing, he pulled himself to his feet, one hand splayed against the wall, steadying himself as a wave of disorientation hit him, and it took almost a minute for the disturbing sensation to fade.

He took a few hesitant steps, his wand still held tightly, and he reached out towards the curtain, pulling the heavy drapes aside, wincing as sunlight tumbled into the room. He turned back towards the door, his eyes falling to the spot just inside the entrance, a mess of dried blood, the yellowish residue of dried sputum a gruesome reminder of what had transpired, and Harry’s eyes welled with tears.

What did I do? Why would he…did something go wrong at the conference…I thought he…did I do something wrong…why would… why would he do that?

Harry lowered his face into his hands, his thoughts jumbled and disjointed, unable to fathom what he had done to deserve Snape’s wrath, and he gasped, not just from the pain, but from the swollen flesh that pressed against his palms. Pulling himself away from the door, he walked sluggishly into the bathroom, pain shooting up his legs with each step, and stopped in front of the mirror, setting his wand to the side.

Another gasp left his lips as he took in his reflection. His face was mottled with bruises, and the left side, the side Snape had struck him the most, was blackened, with a purplish blue border edging into his scalp and jaw line. He looked like he’d fallen off cliff, though he had looked worse before he thought, as he leaned in closer, poking at the split lip tentatively, noticing it was relatively pain free compared to the rest of his face. Oh yes, he’d looked a lot worse thanks to Uncle Vernon, but while those beatings had been brutal, almost inhuman in their savagery, the one he had endured last night was almost unbearable, because it had been dealt by someone who he thought truly cared about him, maybe someone that one day, maybe, might have loved him.

Another wave of dizziness caught him off guard, and his hands flew to the countertop, clutching the slick marble as he leaned forward, breathing heavily. After the feeling had passed, Harry took a few steps towards the door, peeking out into his room. Everything was quiet save for the soft warble of birds singing outside, and the whispering of windblown leaves.

Harry stood there, leaning against the door frame, feeling ethereal in his existence, like he was in some sort of other reality, perhaps a dream, only much more frightening. He bowed his head, eyes narrowed in thought, though the pain was so dense that he had to relax his face into impassiveness due to it.

Snape had hit him.

Snape had hit him.

A whimper caught in his throat. Only last week the Professor was in this very room, repeating his promise that he would never hit Harry, and Harry had believed him, well not at first, but he had after a while. Snape had been so nice to him, so caring, and he’d acted like - Harry winced – like he really cared about him. He’d comforted him, hugged him, and he’d said Harry wasn’t a burden, that he wasn’t a nuisance to his family, or to Snape.

Harry shook his head softly.

What had he done? Why on earth would Snape do something like this to him? He’d trusted the Professor, really trusted him. He had been the only adult in the entire world who seemed to really care about him. It had taken so much effort to allow himself to trust, to believe Snape wasn’t going to harm him. Every time Harry flinched, every time the fear of touch consumed him and he retreated back into himself, every time he cried or screamed or pulled away, there was Snape. The man had never given up on him, never letting Harry take the blame for the horrible things he had been through at the hands of his aunt and uncle, never letting him fall into despair. Harry grimaced. He must have done something to make the man change so drastically.

Then it hit him in a flash of wild panic, his heart beating riotously in his chest.

The Professor must have known he’d left the island! That was one of the rules, no sightseeing, trips off the island strictly were forbidden. The Professor said he put up wards, and they must have alerted him when he and Craig had gone into town. Harry’s bottom lip quivered. He broke the rules. He did deserve this! That had to be it. It had to be his fault. The alternative was that Snape had this all planned, that he’d brought him out here in the middle of nowhere to a deserted island knowing full well what he was going to do. Harry shook his head. No, that was stupid. Snape had cared about him, he did, and Harry had ruined it. Suddenly feeling sick, Harry slumped to the floor panting, grief and guilt assaulting him.

It was his behaviour that caused the beating, just like at home, just like Uncle Vernon had always said. It was his fault, not the Professor’s. It was his.

It was always his.

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Lunchtime came and went, and the muted rumbles from Harry stomach increased as the afternoon wore on. After he’d dressed, he wet a hand towel from the bathroom and went to work, mopping up the stale blood and froth from the floor on his hands and knees. It had taken some time to find all the droplets, as some had even spattered across the far wall, but finally he stood with a groan and returned the towel to the sink, the water running red even after a dozen rinses.

He made his bed next, ignoring the pain in his head that kept him on the verge of tears. The menial tasks somehow helped him feel better. The monotony of it, the predictability and control, it helped calm him. For as little control as he had over his world, these simple things were his solace. He pulled up the rumpled sheets, smoothed the duvet and straightened the pillow, then looked around the room, his eyes falling to his trunk. He still hadn’t transferred his clothes into the mahogany bureau, and he spent the next hour carefully folding each item of clothing and placing it neatly into the drawers. He didn’t own much really, a few pairs of too big pants and a handful of shirts, most stained and ugly from Dudley’s misuse. The pajamas were last, and Harry slowly let the shadowy fabric slip over his palm, feeling sleek against his skin as he laid the shirt out on the floor, the patches of blood shining on the black silk. Harry fingered the seam at the shoulder, which was rapidly coming apart, the delicate stitching unraveling at his very touch. They were ruined. The first gift the Professor had given him, and he’d wrecked them. Folding the shirt and pants carefully, Harry opened the bottom drawer, which he’d left empty, and placed the pajamas at the very back. Hopefully the Professor wouldn’t notice they were gone.

In the bottom of his trunk, shimmering like a pool of silvery water, lay his invisibility cloak. He’d almost forgotten he had it. Heart beating faster at the thought of possible escape, he quickly picked up the cloak and balled up the fabric as best he could, stuffing it under a pair of large jeans, smoothing out the denim so nothing looked out of place. He would find a use for the cloak soon, once the Professor had gone to sleep.

His room clean, Harry stood at the window fighting back tears, going over the beating in his head, shuddering as he recalled each blow, the wild look in Snape’s eyes, and anger, the excitement, almost as if he’d enjoyed it. Harry dabbed at his wet eyes with his fingertips. How could he have been so stupid? He should never have left the island, he should have listened. Why couldn’t he just listen? At least Craig got away in time he thought, wondering what Snape would have done to his friend if he hadn’t been called back to the Ministry.

The sound of the laboratory door grating open sent shudders through him, and Harry instinctively took a few steps back, his back coming up against the wall, and he winced at the hard contact against his bruises. Minutes passed, Harry frozen in place, eyes wide with fright, wanting to move, wanting to run, and his mind took him back to Uncle Vernon coming at him from across the room, fists clenched, that horrible smile on his face, and Harry wanted to run then too, screaming inside at his legs to obey as he stood motionless, only able to tremble in terror as the man came towards him.

He heard footsteps, and then the tinny sound of a key in a lock, and the door slowly creaked open to reveal the Professor, his black robes hanging limply, hair disheveled, the arms of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked around the room, as if inspecting it, his eyes coming to rest on Harry, and he looked him up and down before onyx met the terrified emerald.

As their eyes met, Harry reached back, one hand coming to rest frantically on the window frame, his fingers latching onto the wood as if it were anchoring him, the other hand outstretched, palm outwards, a gesture of deterrence against the man opposite him.

“S...Sir.” he stammered, his throat feeling narrow as he took in a distraught breath. “Sir, I’m really sorry I left the island. I’m sorry I disobeyed you.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and after a moment of silence he took a step towards the boy, who immediately recoiled, all colour draining from his face, the bruises seeming even darker against the pale skin.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry cried desperately, seeing the man step towards him. “I’m sorry, please, Professor, please, I really am!”

The Professor stopped in mid-step, eyes suddenly wide, as if Harry’s pleas had shocked him. He turned abruptly and swept out of the room, locking the door behind him, and Harry heard the heavy steps echoing down the hallway before stillness once again overtook the room.

It took a while for his legs to finally obey him, and breathing heavily, Harry walked back into the bathroom, running a sink of cold water and bathing his swollen cheek and lip, enjoying the cool relief against his beaten skin. He splashed the water against his face, wondering how long Snape was going to punish him, wondering if there was something, anything he could do to get the man to forgive him.

He never heard the door open, or the soft click as it was closed again.

He never heard the footsteps across the hardwood floor.

By the time the bitter smell of alcohol was apparent, by the time his head shot up in alarm at the scent, it was too late. The Professor was in the doorway, belt in hand, chin wet with dribbled whiskey, and Harry didn’t even have time to beg the man for forgiveness before the belt came down.

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He awoke on the bathroom floor, the feeling of fire coursing across his back. He opened his eyes, surprised they weren’t swollen shut as the white tiles came into view. There was no blood beneath him, no tell tale signs of a harsh beating. It was just the belt then Harry thought to himself as he pulled his aching legs under him and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the counter top for support. He gasped at the pain as he stood, the welts screaming as his shirt brushed over them. It had been so long since he’d gotten a whipping, but he sure remembered the pain. He was grateful the Professor hadn’t hit him in the face though. He didn’t think he could take that again, and he glanced at himself in the mirror, the bruising almost indistinguishable from the day before, and Harry knew it would likely take weeks to fade. The bad ones always did.

He gingerly reached down and took hold of the hem of his shirt, wincing as he lifted his arms and pulled the shirt over his head, whimpering as the cotton raked over the welts. He abandoned the shirt on the floor and stood with his back to the mirror, turning his head to assess the damage. The marks were angry and red, swollen ridges crisscrossing his back, and he could see where the belt had licked around his side and onto his torso, and he gently touched his finger to a welt that had snaked around to his stomach. All things considered, it wasn’t too bad. Uncle Vernon had done worse, much worse. He rested his hand on his stomach, unconsciously rubbing his aching abdomen, the hunger pains very apparent now, and he wondered if Snape was going to feed him. He’d gone without food for days before. It was a horrible punishment, probably worse than getting beaten, because at least after his uncle beat him he was usually allowed something to eat once he woke up. Well, some of the time anyway.

Sighing, Harry walked over to his bed, noticing the room was much darker now. Maybe it was past dinnertime, or maybe he’d slept through the night. He never knew what time it was when Uncle Vernon beat him and locked him in his cupboard, the vent tightly closed, allowing not a hint of light into the tiny space. He hated the way the days gelled together, never knowing how many days had passed as he was left to suffer in the eternal dark. Carefully lying face down on the cool sheets, he sighed. It felt so good to rest. Maybe he’d just sleep a little, a long yawn escaping past his still thick lip. Maybe when he woke, the Professor wouldn’t be so angry at him. Maybe then he’d let Harry apologize, then maybe things could go back to the way they were, and Snape would hold him, and tell him he was sorry, and that he’d never hit him again. Harry felt his eyelids drooping, and he focused on the door, the shining knob blurring as his eyes finally fell closed and he slept.

And the nightmares came.

He dreamed of the Professor, and it was deep into the night when his screams echoed down the hall.

And in the depths of the laboratory, Snape lifted his head at the sound, and took another long sip of his drink.

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Harry had barely fallen back asleep when the sound of his door creaking open pulled him back to wakefulness. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked towards the door, wincing as a flood of light met his eyes. There stood Professor Snape looking quite disheveled, holding a glass of amber liquid. The other hand gripped the door frame as if to steady him.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his chest rising and falling with force as panic swelled within him

Snape weaved across the floor to Harry’s bedside in such a manner that Harry knew the glass of alcohol he was holding was not his first of the evening. He set his glass down on the night table with a heavy clink, and stood staring at the boy.

By now Harry had pushed himself up to sitting, a concerned look on his face.

Without a word, Snape reached down and cupped Harry’s cheek just as he did when he was standing at the hearth before he left. His palm was gentle and warm against the bruises, and he ran his thumb over the battered flesh, across the scabbed lip, and for a moment, Harry thought the man’s tirade was over, and he couldn’t help but lean into the touch, but the hand shifted, almost jolted, and the fingers trailed down his jaw to his neck.

Harry’s chest tightened with fear as he reached up to bat the man’s hand away.

“What are you do-” Before he could finish, Snape’s hand was at his throat, grabbing the boy tightly, his slender fingers encompassing Harry’s neck as he squeezed.

Terror hit him like a ton of bricks. Legs kicking hysterically, Harry clawed in frenzied panic at the hands at his throat. In desperation he tried to scream, but Snape only tightened his grip, crushing Harry’s windpipe and turning his cries into hoarse guttural moans.

Snape’s other hand grabbed a handful of his hair and wrenched the boy down onto his back. In an instant he was on top of Harry, straddling him, his hand still at the boy’s throat. Harry’s thrashing became less hysterical as the lack of oxygen began to eat at his consciousness. Slowly, darkness crept in from all sides of his field of vision, and Harry’s arms slumped to his sides where they were quickly pinned under Snape’s knees.

Then, mercifully, the hand at his throat relented, and he felt the wild burning in his chest as air began to fill his lungs. The relief was short lived however as both hands now found his delicate windpipe, applying pressure steadily until the blackness again ebbed into view.

Harry laid trapped, dazed from shock, crushed under a man who outweighed him by over a hundred pounds. His breaths coming in short sharp bursts, desperate for air, clawing at the man’s bare arms, leaving trails of seeping crimson across his flesh. He felt the pressure around his neck lessen, and he gulped in a few mouthfuls of air before the assault began again. He could smell the liquor on his breath and recoiled as Snape’s face came into view, impassive, almost studying the look of terror etched on the boy’s face.

Harry retched, heaving at the smell of single malt and sweat. He shook his head wildly trying to fend off the grip that kept crushing and releasing.

“Please…” Harry begged, barely able to manage more than a pained whisper. “Please don’t do this.” But the torture persisted, as Snape was unaware of Harry’s pleas, or simply chose to ignore them as he continued the periodic choking; panting heavily as he clawed at Harry’s reddened neck with drunken roughness.

Alive with fright, Harry writhed under his teacher, desperately trying to free himself from the nightmare he was enduring, but the weight of Snape’s body crushing his hips barely allowed him to move. He managed to free one arm, and he brought it up and slammed his fist against Snape’s head as hard as he could, but in his weakened state, half overcome with fear and lack of air, his blows did little against his attacker, who was numbed by alcohol.

Harry’s mouth contorted in a silent scream, tears spilling from his eyes. The squeezing continued, the grip tightening until near unconsciousness ensued, then the fingers would pull away, only to return seconds later after Harry managed a few ragged breaths, crushing the very life out of him, and Harry started to wish Snape would just get it over with. There was nowhere to run, nothing that could free him from this horror. He was completely powerless; completely alone.

Then it was over.

Snape drunkenly climbed off the boy and slowly reached down to pick up his discarded glass. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, stumbling slightly, then righted himself and walked slowly towards the door. As he entered the hall, he reached out a hand and pushed Harry’s door closed with a slam.

He didn’t even bother to lock it.

Harry lay frozen for what felt like hours, silently willing himself to move. The sound of his heart beating was almost thunderous in his ears, and it wasn’t until the thudding had slowed considerably that he was able to control himself again.

“Get up get up get up!” his mind screamed.

With a strangled cry he leapt off the bed, running to the door and turning the lock. It wouldn’t keep the Professor out, but something in Harry urged him to bolt the door, as useless as it was against a simple Alohamora.

His breathing still labored, Harry backed slowly away from the door, half expecting the drunken man to burst through any moment.

Suddenly the crack of light under the door dimmed as the hall light was extinguished. A breath caught in Harry’s throat and he stood motionless in the dark silence, waiting. He heard the soft click as Snape’s bedroom door closed, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He trembled violently as he made his way to the bathroom. His body was weak from exertion and panic, and adrenalin pulsed through him making his movements shaky. His legs spasmed so erratically that he almost lost control, and would have fallen to the floor had he not seized the wall for support.

Barely able to stand, Harry flicked on the bathroom light and stood in front of the mirror, his hands clutching the basin’s edge for dear life, nausea rushing over him in waves. He stared wide eyed at his reflection, the tell-tale signs of strangulation standing out as dark red blotches on his throat. Harry became lost in the image before him as his thoughts raced. He shuddered, still feeling the hand around his neck, each finger wringing the life from him. Instinctively he rubbed his throat, wincing at the tender flesh. He felt the man’s sweat clinging to his body, and every pore felt infected by the pungent stench. The acrid odor of his saliva filled his nostrils. He felt polluted, repulsed.

His stomach clenched violently and he dropped his head and vomited into the basin. He retched over and over until nothing but bile came from him, bile that smelled like Snape had smelled, and he heaved repeatedly until his throat burned and his legs buckled and he fell in a heap on the bathroom floor, his head in his hands, his body trembling.

A cry escaped him, and he gasped for air, gulping in great mouthfuls of oxygen, and finally Harry broke, his muffled sobs echoing off the tiles as his body shook in torment.

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He awoke some time later to the cool tile against his cheek. He pulled himself to his feet with great effort, groaning as every muscle in his body protested after hours on the hard flooring. He ran some cold water in the sink and rinsed his mouth, spitting several times until the bitter taste of vomit was less distinct. Turning to the shower he ran the water until it was as hot as he could stand. Shivering in the coolness of the bathroom, he removed his clothes and stepped inside the tub, pulling the curtain around.

He took a sharp breath as the scalding water hit his body. He lathered his washcloth and began to scrub every inch of himself, washing away the putrescence that clung to him. He scrubbed under his fingernails, behind his ears, even the soles of his feet were scoured as he desperately tried to erase every remnant of his experience.

It was a long time before he finally came close to feeling clean.

When he was finished he stepped out into the steamy bathroom, toweled off, and brushed his teeth with equal fervor as he had showered.

His towel wrapped around his waist, Harry poked his head around the bathroom door, half expecting Snape to be waiting for him. The room was empty; illuminated by the silver tones of the brilliant full moon as it peeked through a gap in the curtain. Harry moved hastily to the chest of drawers and dressed as quickly as possible.

He noticed his wand on the dresser and froze. For a moment all he could do was stare at it. If he had only kept his wand closer! Dammit, why couldn’t he have left it on the bedside table like he’d been doing? Maybe he could have gotten to it before Snape…before he….no, he didn’t want to think about it. He wouldn’t think about it!

He let out a shuddering breath as he pocketed his wand and crept over to the bedroom door. He pressed his ear against the cool wood and listened. Minutes passed. If Snape was lurking around out there Harry sure couldn’t hear him.

His fingers moved to the lock and turned it slowly, the click of it unlatching was almost inaudible, though it sounded like an echoing clack to Harry. Grasping the handle, he turned it gingerly. He gave a light tug, but the heavy oak door wouldn’t move. Pulling a little harder, Harry was met with the same denial; the door simply wouldn’t budge. He checked the lock again, nope, no problem there. He glanced around the perimeter of the door finding nothing to hinder its release. With all his strength he pulled on the handle, his muscles quivering with exertion, but the door would not yield. He stood panting for a moment, and then gave the door a pleading look, as if it would make a difference. Snape had locked him in, obviously.

Harry didn’t even bother pulling out his wand. Whatever spells Snape used, Harry would hardly be a match for them.

He pondered for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, the same display that earned him countless reprimands from the Professor, and he scanned the room, his eyes coming to rest on the window. From where he stood he could see the gardens awash with moonlight, the trees eerie in the stillness.

Then an idea hit him like lightening.

The rooftop wasn’t too far down was it? Only three or four feet at most. If he could just…oh Merlin he was sure he could!

Running to the dresser he grabbed his invisibility cloak from the drawer where he had hidden it, and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Then he dropped to his knees by the bed, and reached under. His hand came to rest on the cool wooden handle of his broom and he pulled it to him. Clutching it to his chest, he made his way to the window and slowly unhooked the window latch. There was plenty of room out on the roof, and it was indeed only about a 4 foot drop onto the tiles. Harry remembered the rambling rose ascending a wooden trellis near the back door. He was certain he could make his way around and climb down.

Snape had warned the grounds were warded, but the wards mustn't have been barriers, otherwise he and Craig wouldn’t have been able to get into town. By the time Snape would be alerted, Harry would be on his broom and away, and the man was hopefully sleeping off what Harry prayed would be one hell of a hangover, surely in no state to follow with any swiftness. Harry could fly fast enough, especially now that he had the Velox. He’d keep close to the mainland and fly above the water. No one would even see him if he went high enough. Anyway, it was pitch black outside and would be for a few more hours if the moon was any indication. He’d keep flying until ….well he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

As quietly as he could, Harry pushed open the window, flinching as it creaked slightly. He climbed carefully up to the sill, kneeling at the window’s edge. He steadied himself with a hand on each side of the frame and launched himself through the window.

He was completely unprepared for what happened next.

With an earsplitting thwack his head bounced off the invisible ward. He flew backwards into the room and landed square on his back, the wind knocked out of him. It was a few seconds before he could catch his breath and painfully roll into his knees. He stared up at the open window, his mouth open in astonishment.

“He warded my window?” he whispered, then, almost shouting, his voice still ragged. “He warded my fucking window!” Fury and panic swelled within him. In that instant he didn’t care if Snape heard him. He would tear Snape limb from limb! He felt like a caged animal clawing for freedom in desperate terror. Salvation was so close!

He leapt to his feet, and without thought, Harry grabbed his broom and lifted it high above his head. With all his strength he brought it down against the window. Tears streamed down his face as the broom rose again and again, bristles flying every which way until it was only a long stick in his hands, then soon after it splintered, shards of wood raining down upon the hysterical boy. He assaulted the ward until his broom was little more than fragments in his hands, and he collapsed, his knees hitting the hard floor, the crumbled timber falling through his fingers. Sobbing, he gathered handfuls of what was once his beloved gift, pulling his clenched fists to his chest as if hold on to its former power.

He looked through his tears at the window, which of course was unharmed. He rubbed his closed fists against his face, smearing wet wood dust across his cheeks.

“You bastard” he choked, “You horrible bastard.” The next words out of his mouth shocked him, not because of their connotation, but because when he whispered them his tone resonated with such chilling hostility that the words could have been spewed by Voldemort himself.

“I hate you.”

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Time passed and the shadows crept across the room, following the shreds of moonlight as Harry sat and stared at nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

Holding the wall for support, Harry finally stood on still shaky legs and walked slowly over to his bed. He sat down near the end and eyed the bedcovers. The sheets were rumpled, half exposing the mattress from Harry’s writhing.

Harry shuddered as the scent of Snape caught his nostrils. The aroma of herbs, spiced and delicate, laden with mint and ginger root, with a hint of long burnt embers under a cooling cauldron, and Harry remembered a time when that fragrance once comforted him, but now it was a foul stench that unsettled his stomach, and he fought the urge to vomit. He stood and violently ripped the sheets from the bed, throwing them in a heap across the room.

Tears bit at his eyes as he sat on the now bare mattress, and he lowered his head into his hands. Just then he felt a sharp jolt against his leg. He bent forward, his eyes resting on a small dark shape jutting out from under the mattress. The book! His hand on the corner of it, he pulled the little tome from its hiding place, then slid to the floor, glancing back at the door as he made his way into the bathroom, pushing the door almost closed, allowing a few inches clearance in order to keep an eye out should Snape decide to return.

He flipped through each page, glancing from words to door and back again, scanning each curse, looking for something, anything he could use to gain his freedom. Most of the dark spells required the adding of potions to the victim’s system, others worked only during the full moon, or during certain times of year, such as the Viscus Gelidus curse, which turned one’s heart to pure ice, but only in the throes of a winter storm. Shaking his head in resignation, Harry made his way back through the book, re-reading to make sure he wasn’t missing anything vital, when he noticed two pages stuck together. He pried a thumbnail between the pages, separating them cleanly, and scanned the curses carefully, his eyes coming to rest on page eight.

Avada Kedavra – Circa 1412 by Olian Kedavra

Also known as the Killing Curse. Named for its creator, this curse is considered the most unfathomable of the Unforgivables. The simple wand movement and incantation are but a small component of the spell. The contributing factor to the success of the curse is the awareness and tenure of pure hatred for the victim. Only when such abhorrence resides within the caster, will the curse find its mark.

Harry stopped reading and stole a look at the door before he re-read the incantation and wand instructions. It seemed easy enough. All he had to do was point his wand at Snape, say the spell’s name, and the rest would take care of itself. His heart pounded deep within his chest as he tiptoed over and tucked the book back beneath the mattress. Hatred, he had plenty of that, didn’t he? After what the Professor had done to him, he had every right to hate the man, but did he hate him enough to kill him?

Grabbing his invisibility cloak, he tossed the velvety folds around him and pushed his wand into his pocket. As quietly as he could, he stole across the room, crouching down against the wall, behind the door. Once Snape came in, he would make a break for the living room. He’d floo to Russer Port and run for the train. He couldn’t trust Ernie, he couldn’t trust anyone. The only person who would possibly help him was Craig, and he was off with his Ministry team.

Harry crouched down, his head pounding, every inch of his body quivering as he huddled in the darkness, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, and he took a deep breath, only letting it out once the tears had receded. He heard the gentle patter of rain against the window.

And he waited.

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Minutes felt like hours, and slowly, the light outside the curtains changed as delicate tendrils of early morning light reached into the room and scattered the silvery hues of moonlight. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, his body shaking in time to the beats it was so strong a palpitation.

Snape would come soon.

As if in recognition of his thoughts, there was the sudden brisk clack of shoes on the hardwood, and Harry clenched his eyes shut as the echoing came closer and closer. The key jingled in the lock, and the door slowly swung open. The silence was unbearable, and Harry pinched his lips together to quell his frightened, stammering breaths as Snape moved into the room.

Harry didn’t dare look at the man’s face as he passed him, his robes brushing up against the invisibility cloak, Snape’s dark boot only inches away as the Professor surveyed the room.

Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Harry kept his eyes on the man’s legs, forcing back the panic that was screaming inside his head to run run run dammit! Snape stopped, shuffled towards the bed, then towards the bedroom, and only when the Professor pushed open the bathroom door did Harry allow himself to rise, his hands shaking violently now as he crept out the door and into the hall. He tiptoed for a few more steps, then moved at a more swift pace, glancing behind him to make sure Snape hadn’t come out of the room. He had only seconds before the Professor realized he was gone, and Harry held his breath as he reached the end of the hall, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared, a whimper catching in his throat as the sound of rapid, heavy steps reached his ears.

Snape was coming.

Abandoning any hope of stealth, Harry bolted down the stairwell, skidding to a halt in the foyer, his speed almost causing him to go headlong into the wall. Panic rose within him casting aside his pain, fatigue, and weakened state as he righted himself and ran into the living room, cloak askew, his legs, head and one shoulder visible now, but it didn’t register, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fireplace, and he almost burst into tears as he rounded the corner, the dusty hearth now in sight. He almost flew across the living room, his palms slapping against the tiles as he came to a stop. Panting, his eyes flew to the little pot of powder on the mantle. All he needed was handful-

It was gone.

Frenzied, Harry ran his hands along the mantle, searching for the floo powder, knocking aside photos, a vase of flowers, and various other curios, his hands scrabbling chaotically along the shelf.

“Oh please please please” he begged in a pained whisper.

Suddenly the door to the foyer flew open, slamming against the wall. Harry’s head shot up as Snape stood looming in the doorway, eyes wild and wide, fists clenched at his sides.

Harry didn’t even think. He ran.

He sprinted into the kitchen, the flash of black robes dangerously close behind him as he cut across the room, the kitchen eerily silent save for the clatter of footsteps. He heard a clunk as Snape lost his footing and steadied himself against the table, giving Harry time to run into the foyer and pull open the front door, stepping out into the overcast morning, wincing at the brightness of it, stumbling, a terrified cry piercing the solitude as he felt Snape’s hand brush against his shoulder. He dropped to the ground, pushing off with all fours, hurtling down the slick stairs, leaving the Professor with a handful of shimmering invisibility cloak which he tossed aside, taking up the chase once more with alarming speed.

Harry dashed into the wood, dodging fallen logs and fierce bracken that grabbed at his clothes. He pushed through the undergrowth, hearing Snape follow his trail, the loud rustling of foliage testament to how close the man was behind him.

He ran until his heart felt like a wild animal thrashing in his chest, beating against his breastbone in reckless abandon, his lungs aflame, hot sweat mingled with the freezing, rain. Realizing he no longer heard the telltale signs of being followed he took a quick look behind him, shocked to see nothing but a light fog swirling around the thick vegetation, trees ominously still in the light rain. Desperate to rest, Harry ducked behind a large tree, his back pressed against the cool, damp wood as he strained to hear any movement that would indicate the Professor was still in pursuit.

He heard nothing.

Allowing a moment of respite, Harry all but fell to his knees, the mud squelching beneath him as he leaned forwards, palms on his thighs, breathing deeply, enjoying the cool raindrops on his exposed neck.

The crack of a breaking stick shocked him into standing, and his eyes darted from tree to tree, taking a few steps out into the middle of the grotto, spinning in place, his breaths shallow and rapid, and his hand fell to his back pocket where he slowly withdrew his wand. Still turning in place, he waited for another sound, another warning sign, planning to run as soon as another heavy step gave forewarning to Snape’s location. He raised his wand a little higher, the gentle rain slapping against the leaves the only sound in the little grove.

Suddenly he was struck from behind, the blow sending him careening into the brush, adrenaline coursing through him as he landed on his outstretched hands, quickly flipping himself over onto his rear, pushing himself to his feet in an instant as Snape came towards him, hair sodden, the wet strands plastered across his face as he took another step towards the terrified boy.

“Stay back!” Harry screamed, lifting his wand, the whites of his eyes almost gleaming against his blackened face which was masked by mud and bruises. “Stay back!” he shrieked again, and the Professor came to a stop as Harry backed away slowly, wand aimed at the man’s chest. He took a few more steps, his foot coming down on a hidden rock, and he stumbled, almost falling to the ground, and for a split second his wand was lowered, and Snape came at him across the soggy grass and mud.

“Stop!” Harry screamed, steadying himself and raising his wand again, and again the Professor obeyed, his obsidian eyes boring into the boy, a stare so sharp Harry could almost feel the pain of it. He looked down at Snape’s hands, still tightly fisted at his sides, and suddenly it came to him, and his eyes locked with Snape’s.

“No wand.” Harry whispered breathlessly.

Face contorting in anger, Snape started towards Harry once more, ignoring the raised wand, ignoring the shouted warnings as Harry stumbled backwards.

“No!” Harry begged, voice broken. “Avada….Avada…” he choked, wand slicing through the air, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Snape was coming closer and closer, only feet away now. “Avada Ke…” Snape’s arm extended, reaching for the wand. It had to be now. He had to do it now!

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry’s mind couldn’t focus on what happened next. The force from the explosion of light sent him flying into the bracken. He raised his head, unable to find the strength to push himself to his hands and knees, and his vision swam as he desperately tried to focus his eyes, the strain too much for him, the tears and mud and swollen flesh only allowing him a distorted image of the scene before him. Snape lay writhing in the clearing, moaning, hands at his face, body undulating in agony. After a moment, he became still, arms over his head as if protecting from an attack as glimmering spell residue, like glitter falling from the sky, settled around him.

Harry lowered his head to the ground, darkness washing over him as he fell into unconsciousness, and with his last shred of awareness he realized he had done it, he had cast the spell. He had killed him.

Professor Snape was dead.

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The rain had stopped by the time he awoke. He steadied himself against a tree as he rose, a hand hastily brought up to pinch at his brow as vertigo hit him, and he swayed a moment, both hands on the trunk for support, waiting for the feeling to pass. He took a few deep breaths, the crisp morning air stinging his lungs, and he coughed, spitting out a tiny, damp leaf that had lodged on his tongue while he was out cold.

He turned, looking around him, and his eyes fell to the body across the clearing, and he paused a moment, waiting for the rising and falling of the chest before the corners of his mouth twitched with a ghost of a smile.

Feeling stronger now, he shrugged off his robes, leaving them to fall to the ground as he stepped over the scattering of rocks and fallen branches. He crouched down, gathering the boy’s body in his arms, shifting the weight of him against his chest before he started through the trees towards the manor.

He stumbled out from the trees into the meadow, the manor very close now. His arms ached, and he hoisted Harry a little higher up on his chest, trying to alleviate the strain on his forearms as he trudged towards the house.

Suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway. It raised a hand in welcome, and the hand paused in mid-air for a moment before the figure started hurriedly down the front steps, bolting to a full run as it crossed the meadow.

“What the hell happened?” Snape cried as he reached the man. He took in Harry’s condition, instantly pulling his wand from his robes and murmuring a diagnostic spell.

“He went out yesterday.” Craig replied, allowing Snape access to the limp boy in his arms. He quickened his pace, his voice rough with emotion as Snape guided him up the stairs. “He went flying.” he explained, his words falling over one another as his voice took on a panicked tone. “He never came back. I searched all night. I couldn’t…I didn’t know where…and I found him just now. He must have fallen.”

“Here.” Snape said quickly, taking Craig’s arm, helping him into the foyer and navigate the stairwell, guiding him down the hall to his bedroom. He pushed open the door and helped Craig lay Harry down on the bed.

Immediately Severus went to work. He called Della’s name, and the little elf appeared in the room instantly, her ears darting straight up in alarm as she took in the sight of Harry, bruised and bloody, laying on her master’s bed. Severus barked his orders for a variety of potions and materials, and Della vanished, leaving the distraught man to loosen Harry’s collar and smooth down the boy’s hair with a tender hand.

“Is he ok?” Craig asked from across the room.

“He will be.” Severus replied in a hushed voice, lightly running his fingers over the ghastly bruise on Harry’s face and shaking his head softly at the injury. The damage was incredible, the soft tissue trauma to the boy’s face indicative of severe blunt force trauma. He must have fallen from quite the height, and Severus’ stomach felt queasy. It was his gift that caused this, his foolish decision to put such a dangerous racing broom in the hands of a child. What had he been thinking?

Della appeared, arms filled with potion bottles and bandages, which she carefully handed to her master as he picked the vials one by one.

“Get Poppy.” Severus whispered, and again Della was gone in an instant.

Craig watched as Snape tended to Harry, so dedicated to his task of repairing the damage the boy had sustained. He watched the man administer several potions, setting the empty vials on the bedside table. Without a sound he moved to Severus’ en-suite and ran a sink of warm water, using the face cloth on the rack to wipe away the thick spatter of mud that dappled his face. Glancing towards the door, Craig fished a vial from his pants pocket, pouring the liquid into the sink, the concentrated aroma of mint and ginger filling his nostrils as he rinsed the phial clean and dried it against his shirt. Wetting the face cloth again and wringing it to a dampened state, he stepped back into the bedroom where Snape was leaning over the still unconscious Harry.

“Here.” Craig said softly, offering the moist cloth. Snape took it without a word, only nodding to acknowledge the gesture before tenderly pressing the warm cloth to Harry’s grubby brow. Stepping behind Severus, Craig reached out and gently set his vial down with the others, clearing his throat so as to mask the clinking sound of the glass against the tabletop.

He stepped back, watching Severus work, listening to the soft murmurs, words of comfort unheard by the boy on the bed, and unseen, Craig’s mouth again twitched with a glimmer of a smile.

Nothing but darkness and pain surrounded him. He felt light, like he was floating. His limbs wouldn’t obey his instructions and his eyelids refused to open. He managed to turn his head, and a faint moan escaped his throat as pain splintered across his body.

Where am I?

The last thing he remembered was running through the trees, the wet, slapping sound of his feet against the thick mud as he ran and ran and…no, wait, that wasn’t right. His brow twitched and furrowed as he tried to remember. He had stopped, and the Professor had caught up with him, knocked him down. Harry had grabbed his wand and….something…he’d used a spell. There had been a flash of light….Snape had fallen and it was raining and….oh God….he hadn’t moved, he wasn’t moving, he cast the killing curse, and Snape was dead! He was dead!

But now there was darkness. Thick, almost suffocating blackness. Pain coming in waves each more intense than the next. Again Harry tried to move, tried to reach up and brush away the pain from his head. He felt so weak, so drained. Maybe the spell had hurt him too? The agony was so intense, crushing him, grinding him into the ground.

Maybe this is what dying felt like.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his wrist. Stiffening in fear, Harry tried to pull away, but the hand held fast, restraining him. Gripped by terror, his throat constricted, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. He tried to open his eyes but they refused. Everything felt so heavy, like he was made of rock.

He felt an arm snake around him, pulling him into a more upright position.

“No…” he managed to whisper, his throat tight and dry. He felt something cold and hard at his mouth and his head lolled as he tried to turn away. The sensation returned, but this time, a cool liquid lapped at his lips. Water? God, he was so thirsty. He opened his mouth slightly, tasting the offering, testing it with the tip of his tongue, the cool, blandness of it. Yes, it was water, and he allowed it to flow into his mouth bit by bit, his parched throat aching with each swallow.

There was a voice now. A far away sounding voice, muffled, as if they were talking through a pile of blankets, and Harry strained to listen as the voice continued, the high pitched drone confirming it was a female, and Harry’s heart leapt at the sound.

Madame Pomfrey! Hogwarts! They found me!

Maybe Professor McGonagall was there too and the Headmaster. He tried to speak, tried to call out, begging his limbs to obey so he could raise his arm and feel a reassuring hand in his. It was all he needed. He just needed to know he was safe.

Another glass was pressed to his mouth. More water? With a great deal of effort he parted his lips, but this time there was no water, but a foul tasting liquid, thick and bitter as it slid over his tongue. A potion? Harry jerked as if electrocuted. No! No potions! Potions made by Snape, potions to hurt him, to torture him. No!

Adrenaline surged through his veins as panic washed over him. With a newfound strength he turned his head and lifted his hands to his face, desperately trying to protect himself. His movements were slow and clumsy as he tried to cover his head, and from nowhere, hands came to subdue him, and it took all his strength to fight against them.

“Please…don’t….no” he begged, his voice little more than a strained, whisper, his words contorted as he choked on the viscous fluid, gurgling, sputtering, gasping for air.

A body pressed against his side, and a hand touched the back of his head, steadying it. Harry instinctively recoiled from the touch. The arm that was around him, pulled him towards the body. Harry fought weakly, pushing with all his might, but after only a few moments of feeble struggling, the last of his power gave out. He couldn’t fight anymore. Weakness engulfed him and he slumped against the form. He felt tears prickling his eyes, and he tried to blink them away, but his lids still refused to move. He felt the warm tears slip down his cheeks, and defeat overtook him.

A sob escaped his throat and he swallowed hard, trying to suppress the emotions. Feeling just made everything so much worse. He’d already made the mistake of allowing himself to feel. He’d let Snape make him feel safe once.

But not now.

Not ever.

He felt the hand to the back of his neck, and he was slowly laid back against several pillows, his body stiffening again as he was positioned, his shoulders tensing, half expecting the hands at his throat, the tendons in his neck straining in anticipation. His head fell to one side, his cheek brushing up against soft robes as he took a ragged breath.

Harry froze.

This wasn’t Madame Pomfrey. It wasn’t McGonagall, or Dumbledore. Hell, he would have been ecstatic if it had been Filtch.

But it was none of them.

In that short breath he had caught a familiar scent. Mint, the subtle aroma of Gypsywort and wild ginger, and the faint, woody smell of a fireplace.

Oh, God, it couldn’t be. No. No, he was dead!

Frantic, his breathing quickened. His arms were heavy as lead but he tried to move them anyway, but all he could manage was a weak twitching of his fingers. A hand covered his and a soft rumbling reverberated through his body as a voice sounded in his ears, and he thought he heard someone calling his name. Another glass was at his lips now, but Harry had lost all ability to function. His head swam with confusion and fear. There was a pause, and then he felt slender fingers between his lips, opening his mouth gently to receive the fluid. The liquid flowed into his mouth, and the fingers moved to his throat, softly stroking to stimulate the reflex to swallow, and Harry did, unable even to grimace at the taste.

How could Snape be alive? Maybe he’d only been stunned? Maybe he’d called for help and Madame Pomfrey had taken them both back to the infirmary? Harry’s mind whirled with uncertainty. No, he had killed Snape, hadn’t he? But how was…maybe the spell had failed…maybe he hadn’t done it right? It was Snape holding him, he was certain of that, but…but….how?

Within moments the pain that had been lashing at him began to recede. Another vial met his lips, and the fingers again gently opened his mouth. They helped him swallow three more foul tasting concoctions before his head was allowed to rest against the Potion Master’s chest.

His breathing came easier now, though his throat still burned, pleading for the relief of cool water.

Snape was speaking again, and the gentle rumbling from his chest reverberated through Harry’s head. He could barely make out the voice. Everything sounded contorted and unintelligible, like he was underwater. Testing his strength, he slowly pulled his arm to his chest. He gingerly flexed his fingers and flinched as pain shot up each finger and radiated across his palm. He gasped at the sensation, sending tendrils of agony through his head.

Suddenly the pillows were being removed from behind him, and he was laid down against a soft mattress.

Snape’s body moved away from him and was replaced by a blanket. Harry tried to call out for help, but in his weakness he only whimpered softly. A hand was instantly in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He would have given anything to know where he was. There must be someone else there with them. If only he could open his eyes, or speak! He had to tell them!

Oh, God, no! Please, please! Someone help me!

Suddenly he was so very tired, and he realized he’d been given a sleeping potion. It had been days since he’d really slept, but regardless, he desperately tried to fight the elixir. Exhaustion overtook him, and the last thing he felt as he was dragged into sleep was a gentle hand in his.

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Severus crouched on bended knee at Harry’s bedside and drew a hand across his brow. He ran the hand through his hair and looked up at Poppy, who had settled into the room’s only chair, a look of relief on her face.

“He’s just fine, Severus.” she said comfortingly as she reached out and patted the man’s shoulder.

“Epidural hematoma?” Severus snapped. “Cerebral contusion? Intracranial hemorrhage? Compartment syndrome?” He paused and looked up at the Mediwitch, eyes blazing. “Which one of those injuries would you grade as just fine, because even with my limited knowledge, I seem to remember them being classified as extremely dangerous.”

Poppy slowly withdrew her hand, her eyes narrowing defensively as she sat upright in indignation at the scathing retort.

“Poppy.” Severus breathed. “Forgive me, please. I…I am….”

The Mediwitch’s face relaxed into a sympathetic smile as her colleague offered her his hand, which she took lovingly.

“Worried.” she said, finishing the man’s sentence for him, perfectly able to articulate what Snape could not. “You’re worried about Harry.” She rose, and Snape stood with her, their hands still intertwined. “You can admit it.” she continued, her eyes sparkling. “With all the talk of Harry at the conference, it’s easy to see you have affection for the boy.”

Severus’ eyes widened at the revelation, aghast that he was so transparent in his fondness for a child he thought so little of only weeks before. He quickly pulled his hand from Poppy’s grasp, causing the woman to smile broadly.

“Don’t worry, Severus,” she tittered. “I won’t let anyone know that you have a heart. Your secret will be safe with me. Confidentially is my forte you know.”

“Honestly.” Severus replied, trying to sound disgusted, but he couldn’t help the scant smile that erupted across his face, gone in an instant, but there long enough to confirm to the Mediwitch that she was right in her assumptions.

Poppy closed her fingers around the worn handle of her medical bag and lifted the heavy case from the floor.

“Do call, dear, if you need me further, though I suspect you’ll have little to worry about from here on in.”

Severus nodded, his eyes moving to the door as Della stepped into view, a large cup of coffee in her hands.

“Della, see Ms. Pomfrey to the floo, and Poppy…” he paused, as if trying to determine the most ardent way to thank the woman who had saved Harry. “Thank you, Poppy.” he said earnestly, lacking the composure at that time to speak with any eloquence. His mind was elsewhere.

Della handed the cup to her master with a low bow, then turned and bowed equally low to the Mediwitch before leading the woman out into the hall.

Severus turned his attention back to the sleeping boy, and he found himself again in the position of standing over the unconscious child as he assessed his injuries, running his wand over the frail body. The bruises were fading already, thanks to the heavy application of one of his strongest healing salves, and the inter-cranial pressure was normal, though it had come dangerously close to damaging the brain tissue before Poppy had arrived.

He returned his wand to his robes and lowered himself into the chair. He felt a fleeting sense of déjà vu sitting there again, watching Harry sleep, more than likely trapped in nightmares. How could he not suffer from them after this experience? Severus’ heart clenched for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day as he imagined Harry losing control of his broom, heart beating wildly as he fought desperately to control it, the panic of feeling nothingness under him as he fell, the ground rushing towards him. He stood abruptly, causing the chair to clatter backwards against the hardwood floor, and Harry flinched, obviously conscious of the noise, and Severus reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s, which trembled at the touch.

Taking in a deep breath, jaw set in determination, Severus stalked out of the room. He would find Craig and he would find out what happened to his child, and he would-

He halted suddenly. His child? What on earth was he thinking? He didn’t think of Harry as his child.

Of course he didn’t.

Shaking his head, he continued his stride down the hallway. He was being emotional, far too sentimental in his apprehension over Harry’s condition, that’s all. He liked the boy, yes, and it was true that he felt certain warmth towards him, but nothing more than that, and his robes billowed behind him as he descended the stairs in search of answers.

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“Craig?”

The man looked up from the couch, his face shaded with worry as Snape approached.

“How’s Harry?” he asked, standing to meet the Professor, who promptly motioned for him to sit, and he lowered himself back onto the couch as Snape took a seat in the chair opposite him.

“Stable.” Severus replied, his eyes narrowing in recollection of the frantic healing he and Poppy had performed. “He is out of the woods as they say, however I’m sure his status will warrant further concern upon waking.”

Craig nodded silently, then dropped his eyes to his hands as he wrung them together in his lap, and Severus recalled the same anxious performance from Harry more times than he could count. Craig looked up at him, eyes glassy with tears as he whispered in a grievous tone.

“Severus…I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?” Severus asked, leaning forward in his chair. “You said he went flying. What was his emotional state? Was he feeling out of sorts? Had he been eat-”

“No.” Craig cut in, his voice strained as he shook his head. “I mean yes, yes he went flying, but he was fine, he was happy, he didn’t say anything about not feeling well. I…I don’t know…I…he just…and I said it was ok, and he was gone for so long and I went to look for him and…” He stopped, visibly upset now, and Severus placed his hand on the man’s knee.

“Craig, I’m not blaming you. I’m sure you did what you thought was best at the time. I’m simply attempting to gauge Harry’s state when he went flying. Had he been sleeping without incident?”

“I think so. I mean he looked tired, but I dunno.” Craig replied, seemingly calmer now at the Professor’s reassurance. “Those spells you put up, the thing that was supposed to warn me if he had a nightmare?”

“Wards.” Snape replied.

“Yeah.” Craig said, nodding. “They never went off or anything.”

“How about after my departure?” Severus asked.

“Well, he was…I mean… he missed you.” Craig said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure of his next words. “After you left, and he found the broom, I think he...” he paused, the recess almost unbearable to Severus, and Craig cringed at the piercing look the wizard shot him. “I think he’d been crying.” Craig stated softly, dropping his eyes for a moment before meeting Snape’s gaze once again, seeing the guilt flood across the wizard’s face. “But he was fine after that.” Craig continued. “We went out and he rode the broom for a while and that was it, ya know? No problems.”

“And his reaction when you explained my being delayed?” Severus asked hesitantly, half wanting to hear the boy had been unaffected, knowing his feelings of guilt would be bolstered by hearing the boy had been too eager for his return.

“He was pretty disappointed.” Craig replied. “I told him just what your message said, that someone got sick and couldn’t give their speech, and that the Minister asked you to step in. I told him you’d only be gone two more days, and that’s…” Craig’s face fell, and Severus gave him an inquiring look. “That’s when he went flying.” Craig finished softly.

Severus held a crooked finger to his lips, head bowed, deep in thought, and when he did speak, he had to force himself to address the young man without the blatant accusing tone he would generally use when asking such a question.

“The bruises,” he said starkly. “on Harry’s neck. What do you know of them?” He watched as Craig’s face tightened a fraction, the movement so insignificant it would not have been detected, other than by one accustomed to reading the faces of dishonest students. Severus took in a short breath at the possible revelation.

“Oh.” Craig said meekly. He coughed nervously, his eyes darting around the room before meeting Snape’s now heated gaze. “Well we were just playing.” he stated, offering the Professor a hopeful look. Craig sighed in resignation. “Look I’m sorry, Harry was upset because you had to stay longer at the conference. There was nothing to do inside, and, well I just started being silly, ya know? I threw a cushion at him, so he threw one back, and before you know it we’re bashing at each other with pillows and being guys and wrestling around. I guess it just got a bit too rough. You should see the bruises he gave me.” Craig finished, rubbing at the top of his arm. “The little guy’s pretty strong when he gets going.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed.

“You mean to tell me the bruises around Harry’s neck were the result of innocent horseplay?” he said incredulously.

“Alright.” Craig sighed. “Guys get stupid, ok? It just got out of hand and Harry was laughing the whole time. I was just trying to take his mind off you not coming back, and once we got back from town, he was happy and not even thinking about –”

“From where?” Snape asked, eyebrows raised, anger seeping into him at Craig’s sheepish look, and Severus’ body stiffened, his eyes glinting in annoyance, and a look of horror swept over Craig’s face at the change.

“Look, I’m real sorry.” Craig said quickly, shifting back a little against the couch in alarm. “Harry was upset about you being gone and he was really begging me to take him to the mainland. I thought a little trip might cheer him up, ya know? We were gone all of twenty minutes, nothing happened; we got some snacks, we came home, the kid was fine. I thought it would be alright. I’m sorry!” he finished, beseechingly.

Severus shook his head, hand raised in conciliation. It was obvious that Craig’s treatment of Harry had been less than thoughtful, and though he doubted there was any real maliciousness on the young man’s part, there was a seed of doubt planted in Snape’s mind about the accuracy of Craig’s recollection of the events over the last few days. He shook his head softly, now more than ever aware of how his actions had indirectly caused Harry’s condition.

“There is no need for contrition.” he said gently. “Though I daresay it was not the most appropriate outing, especially after my instructions.” He paused and placed both hands on his knees, pushing himself to stand, and Craig did the same. “It seems I was in error to attend the conference.” Snape declared, his voice tinged with regret. “I should not have left him as I did.”

“With a Muggle.” Craig said softly, his eyes downcast, and Severus immediately clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“No.” he affirmed intently, and Craig’s eyes rose to meet the Professors. “I left Harry with a capable young man, a friend, one who no doubt gave that child more enjoyment than a decorous Potions Professor could have. It was my own selfishness that caused Harry’s injuries.” Snape shook his head solemnly. “I was too caught up in my work to see he was not ready for my departure, and I am glad you were here for him when I was not.”

Craig smiled weakly, and Severus gave his shoulder a light squeeze before dropping his hand to his side. “I will have Della escort you home.”

Craig watched as the Professor departed, waiting until the man was out of sight before letting out a breath of relief. A moment later there was Della, offering her hand, leading him up onto the hearth, and in a blink of an eye, Craig was gone, and upstairs, Severus sat across from Harry’s bed, his head turned towards the window, staring out towards the mainland, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he waited for the child to awaken.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Smack

“You filthy freak! You’re nothing but a worthless little bastard! You deserve everything I give you!”

The belt rose again and came down hard on the boy’s back. Blood began to seep from a rip in his shirt.

Smack

Harry crawled across his room, desperately reaching for the crack in the floor where his wand was hidden. If he could just reach it. Just a little more…

Down came the belt again, the buckle making a sharp, wet, slapping sound as it spattered blood across the wall. His arms gave out from under him as the belt came down again and again, and he slipped into darkness.

Then came the hands.

They were everywhere, coming out of the darkness to assault his flesh. He slapped frantically at them, trying to push them back into the shadows, but they kept coming, and coming.

“Mr. Potter, you can’t fight me.” The low silky voice was at his ear, and he swatted at the sound, his hands finding nothing but emptiness.

“You can’t stop me, Harry.”

It was at his other ear now, and the frightened boy jumped in panic, scrambling backwards up the bed until his back hit the wall with a thud.

“Harry.”

The whisper echoed in the empty darkness, reverberating until his name was a million murmurs all at once, repeating, echoing off the walls and filling the room. Suddenly, Snape stepped out of the shadows.

“I can’t wait to tell my Slytherins about you.” He breathed, his voice barely distinguishable amid the continued whispers. “I’ll tell them all about you, Harry.” he murmured, his hand reaching out to stroke Harry’s cheek as he looked at him in adoraration. “Such a trusting boy.”

Suddenly his hands were at Harry’s throat and squeezing and squeezing and…

Bolting upright in bed sent flashes of pain through Harry’s body. His hands came to his throat as he desperately tried to pry invisible fingers from his neck. His screams came easier now, and he could hear his frantic, strained shrieks echoing off the walls.

Suddenly, strong hands were on his wrists, pulling his hands away from his throat. His cries turned to pitiful pleas as he fought off his attacker.

“No, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” His voice cut out as his already parched throat constricted with fear.

A strong arm wrapped around him and pulled him close. Harry fought against the touch, his frailty all too apparent as he was unable to pull away. He finally found the presence of mind to open his eyes, the intense light of the room causing him to wince, and he snapped his eyes closed again, opening them for a brief second, barely able to lift his eyelids from the fatigue. He caught sight of a blurred, black-robed figure before his eyes shut in defiance.

Slowly, his mind cleared and the recollection of his last moments of consciousness returned to him. He needed to think, to find out where he was and who else was there. He balled his hands into fists, crushing his fingers into his palms so hard that he thought they might snap under the pressure. Gently, the Professor guided him back so he was lying down, and then felt the familiar cool glass against his lips. Shaking, he called on all the courage he could muster and allowed Snape to guide the liquid into his mouth. He gagged on the thickness of it, and Snape’s fingers rested delicately on his throat, stroking softly to encourage him to swallow. Harry flinched at the touch.

“Good boy.” Snape said quietly.

He’d said the words so softly that Harry almost doubted he’d heard it, but again came the voice, a deep, silky whisper, just like in the dream

“A few more now. Come on.”

Harry tried to open his eyes but found it impossible. There was a deep throbbing radiating through his head and his head felt aflame with searing heat.

More horrid potions were poured into his mouth, and the Professor helped him swallow each one, not that Harry had a choice, he was so weak. Each gulp played havoc on his wounded throat and he grimaced accordingly. Fingers pressed gently at each side of his throat, probing at the glands in his neck, and Harry flinched violently at the touch. The hands retreated, and then were back, the pads of Snape’s fingers barely pressing at the skin this time as he continued his examination. Harry tried not to wince at the pain, but his face deceived him, and he felt the bed shift as the Professor moved. There was nothing for a moment, and then Harry felt the shock of a cool cloth on his forehead, and a hand tenderly brushing the errant strands of hair from his brow.

Harry tried to lie quietly, but with each stroke to his brow he cowered instinctively, waiting for the hands to latch into his neck and crush the life out of him, his whole body tensing with each touch.

With much effort, he dragged his eyes open, expecting the bright light to assault his eyes, but the room was dimly lit, and everything swam for a moment as his vision adjusted.

Immediately Severus was over him, brow contorted with worry, and he reached out a hand to touch the boy’s face, alarmed when Harry shrank back, hissing in pain as his bruised back pressed firmly against the mattress. He wasn’t expecting such fear from the child, especially now that Harry could see him.

“Shhh.” he soothed. “Harry, it’s all right. It’s Professor Snape.” He watched in shock as his words did nothing to settle the youngster, almost flinching himself as Harry’s body trembled uncontrollably, his breaths choppy. What on earth was causing such a response? He again ran his wand the length of Harry’s slender frame, the diagnostic spell showing nothing in the way of relapsing injuries, and Severus narrowed his eyes at Harry’s heart rate and blood pressure, which were increasing in severity by the second.

“Harry.” he said gently, attempting to convey as much tenderness as he could with his words. “Harry please, calm yourself. It’s all over, there’s nothing to fear. You’re home and you’re safe.”

“Over?” whispered Harry, his voice sounding ragged and strained, and Severus reached for the glass of water on the side table, carefully supporting the boy’s head and allowing him to sip at the cool liquid.

“Yes, it’s over.” Snape replied assuredly, letting Harry’s head return to the soft pillow. He placed the glass on the table and turned back to Harry, surprised to see the child’s eyes glistening with tears.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, concerned, but Harry only looked at him with a terrible, quiet, desperation, and Severus’ stomach dropped as Harry spoke.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Please, I’m sorry.”

“Child.” Severus murmured, taking Harry’s hand, which immediately clenched to a fist in his palm. “It is I who should be apologizing. You have done nothing wrong.”

Harry nodded weakly, thankful that the ordeal was over. Perhaps there would be no more beatings, for a while at least. He would do his best not to anger the Professor. Regardless of what Snape said, Harry knew it was his fault, and he’d be better from now on. He wouldn’t give the man another reason to beat him. He didn’t understand what Snape wanted from him yet, but he knew enough to know he had to be good, had to do as he was told, had to fear him, just like Uncle Vernon. He thought he could hate the Professor, but the fact that the killing curse had failed told him that there was no way he could hate Snape for what he’d done. Harry had deserved it, just like his uncle had always said.

He stifled a yawn, wincing at the pain cascading across his head, and Snape released his hand, which was still fisted tightly, and Harry pulled it close, clutching the hem of the blanket with white knuckled force as the Professor returned to the chair. So the man was staying then. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. There was no way to cast the silencing spell, not with Snape here, and he had no clue where his wand was. The nightmares would come, and Snape would hear his cries, and then he’d find out Harry had lied about not having them, and then…and then…

Whimpering, Harry shuffled under the heavy duvet, desperately trying to sit up. Severus was at his side at once, his hands on each of Harry’s shoulders, trying to guide the panicking boy back to a level position.

“Harry, please-” Severus began, his voice laced with concern as well as bewilderment. What was going on? The boy was terrified!

“My room.” Harry whispered, close to tears at the thought of being beaten again. If he was in his room, perhaps Snape wouldn’t hear his screams at night. “I have to sleep in my room. Please…I’m sorry, I’m…I need to…please, Sir.” He wrestled against Snape’s gentle hold, grabbing at the mattress trying to pull himself up, and he gasped at the agony that spread throughout his body, his back, head, everything, everywhere.

Completely undone at Harry’s behaviour, Snape released the slender shoulders and moved his hands to the boy’s wrists, pulling gently to allow Harry to sit up. Harry gingerly slid from the bed to the floor, his knees buckling under him as his bare feet made contact with the wood, and Severus’s hand flew around Harry’s waist, lifting him to stand on now steady legs.

Ignoring the pain, Harry walked slowly across the room, the effort with which he took each step evident on his face, and his brow gleamed with perspiration at the struggle as he made his way across the room and out into the hall.

Severus walked behind him, utterly lost as to how to explain Harry’s reaction, and a little fearful to disallow the boy’s wishes. He watched as Harry continued down the hall, the contusions on his neck and upper back visible above the line of his shirt, the mottled red and purple smudges a reminder of the pain the child must have been in, but still he walked, shuffling towards his room in determination.

Harry entered the room, pausing a moment, taking a step back, almost into Severus, who watched him with astonished interest. The mattress was bare, and the crumpled sheets lay in a pile across the shadowy room. Harry moved to the bed and climbed up onto the mattress, easing himself down slowly into his stomach, shaking as he felt strong hands on his torso assisting him. He lay shivering, as much from pain as from fear, and he clenched his eyes shut, praying the Professor would just leave him in peace. He heard the man speak his name, and he slowly opened his eyes to see Snape crouched down at the side of the bed, staring at him, his dark eyes searching Harry’s face for emotion, but Harry refused to show anything, his face blank.

“Harry.” Snape repeated. “You can’t sleep on a bare mattress. I’ll make your bed quickly, then you can rest.” he said, his eyes glancing at the pile of sheets on the floor.

Harry jerked at the man’s words. No! Not the sheets that were ripe with the scent of Snape, the scent of pain and fear. He had almost died on those sheets, choking and screaming and dying. No!

Harry’s breathing quickened, his body heaving with frenzied inhalations.

“Nooo.” he managed to cry, tears biting at his eyes, and he felt the warm wetness on his cheek as they spilled onto his face.

Severus’ concern leapt into overdrive. Something was wrong, very wrong. This was not the reaction of an injured boy, not just physically injured at least. Harry’s emotional problems had returned full force, and Severus realized in one jolting moment that everything Harry had accomplished since his arrival on the island had been undone. The boy was a mess, shaking, breathing erratically, eyes wide and unseeing as he lay shuddering on the bed.

Quickly, Severus rose and pulled his wand from his robes, conjuring a heavy blanket, which he draped over the trembling child. He cast a warming spell then crouched back down so he was in sight of the boy.

“Harry.” he whispered, afraid to use any more forceful form of speech. He waited until Harry’s eyes darted to his and remained before speaking again. “Harry I’m going to leave the room. I want you to know that you’re safe here. No harm will come to you, do you understand?” There was no response. “I will return once you have had time to rest.” Severus finished softly, his heart breaking at the sight of the boy so fearful of him once again, the same boy who had hugged him of his own free will just days before, now staring at him with eyes like a trapped animal.

Severus sighed and dropped his head, staring at the floor, feeling completely lost as to how to handle Harry’s situation. His eyes fell on a collection of short wires under the end of the bed, and he reached out, picking a few up and studying them in the low light. It was like straw, crisp, broken bristles that…

Bristles?

Giving Harry a quick glance, Snape slowly rose and walked into the center of the room. He withdrew his wand from his robes and whispered the lumos spell, a gentle, white light surrounding him at the whispered word.

Surveying the room, Severus walked slowly past the windows, eyes to the floor, searching for…well, not even sure what his suspicion was at that point. Another abandoned bristle caught his eye, and he added it to the collection as he continued his slow, deliberate pace across the room, coming to a stop at Harry’s trunk. Another crushed length of straw, this time accompanied by a sharp shard of wood, and Severus’ heart raced as he knelt down and carefully opened the lid of the trunk.

His eyes widened at the sight. Hundreds of shredded broom bristles lay inside on a bed of crushed wood. The Professor gingerly reached inside, his hand reaching into the shattered chips of broom handle, his fingers plucking a larger shard of wood from the wreckage. He held his wand to it, his breath catching in his throat at the golden HP shimmering in the light. Unable to even form a coherent thought, he returned the chunk of wood and closed the trunk lid.

He stood and gathered the discarded sheets before walking to the door. He turned, watching the charmed blanket rising and falling jerkily from the boy’s stammering breaths. He closed the door softly, and stood in the hall. Della’s small body appeared at the other end, her head tilting to one side in befuddlement at seeing her master’s room empty.

Severus made his way towards the little elf, anger welling inside him, his suspicions of Craig now confirmed, his rage almost overwhelming. In a blink Della was at his side, and he stopped abruptly, dropping the sheets into her open arms. Without a word he stalked past her, pulling open the laboratory door with such force that several stones were crushed, the dusty fragments of rock crumbling to the floor as the door slammed against the wall. Withdrawing his wand, he stabbed it against the pale stone, nostrils flaring, wand gripped so tightly he could almost feel the very core if it against his skin.

Something had happened over the last four days, something both Craig and Harry were keeping from him, one out of fear, the other out of deception, and Severus Snape was going to find out exactly what the hell it was.

Harry awoke with a scream, his face pushed into his pillow, the dense padding pressed against his tongue. He pushed himself up on his hands, tugging his legs under him so he was kneeling. Panting, he looked around fretfully, hoping that he’d been able to stop his cries in time. His face felt flushed and he bushed his fingertips across his pillow, feeling the dampness of his sweat soaking the cotton case. He wiped his sleeve across his face, forgetting for a moment the horrible bruising he had suffered, and he stopped suddenly, cringing, waiting for the pain. When he felt nothing, he tentatively touched his cheek, noticing the once bloated skin now felt almost normal. Sliding his legs out from under him, he edged off the bed and carefully rested both feet on the floor, not wanting to buckle under his own weight like he did earlier, but his legs felt strong, and he stood with ease. He padded into the bathroom and turned on the light, almost gasping as he turned to the mirror, and assessed his face.

The bruising was almost gone with only a pale yellowy green smudge as proof than any damage even existed. He ran a finger across the remaining discolouration, pushing gently, then more firmly against his cheek, happy to find that the pain was almost gone as well. The bruises from his neck had almost faded too, though he didn’t test the level of pain there. He couldn’t bring himself to put a hand to his throat, even his own, and the idea of it sent a shiver through him, and he ran one hand down the opposite arm, smoothing the goosebumps that had appeared at the thought.

His eyes were glassy, the wetness on his pillow very likely tears as well as perspiration. He was pale, his face drawn and weary, and he remembered looking in the mirror before he came to the manor, standing in Snape’s bathroom staring at himself, and he had to admit, as bad as he’d look then, he looked an awful lot worse now.

There was a light knock at the bedroom door and Harry’s head spun towards the sound, and there was a moment of silence before he heard it creak open. Without thinking, Harry reached out and pushed the bathroom door closed with a loud click, pushing the little button in the centre of the handle until it snapped into place, locking it.

He heard footsteps, and he backed away, not really knowing what to do. He’d shut himself in a bathroom, hardly a safe place to be cornered by an angry Professor, and his eyes fell to the toilet, his stomach lurching at the thought of Snape repeating his uncle’s act of abuse. He’d probably seen that in Harry’s memories too.

He gasped as the door handle rattled noisily, and it only took a moment before he heard the Professor’s voice, a muffled Alohamora, and the handle rattled again, this time giving way. The door swung open, and there stood Snape wearing black slacks and a black button-down shirt with long sleeves. He looked less menacing without his robes, but was still a fearsome sight, and Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry indeed as he lowered his eyes to the floor.

Severus took in the scene before him. Harry stood against the wall in the bathroom refusing to make eye contact, his hands at his chest clutching each other as if a lifeline.

“Harry.” he said gently. “I’ve brought you something to eat.”

“Yes, Sir.” the boy replied, not taking his eyes off the floor. Severus pressed his lips together, unwavering in his desire not to frighten the boy any further.

“If you are feeling up to it, perhaps you would like to come out and try some soup.” Severus coaxed. “Della prepared something special for you I believe.”

Harry nodded mutely, but lifted his head, his eyes meeting the Professor’s for a brief moment, and in that instant, Severus caught the emotion in the boy’s eyes, wretched and heartbreaking, eyes that held fear and the anxiety of mistrust, and it was all he could do not to gasp out loud as Harry slowly left his position against the wall and walked towards him. He backed out of the bathroom, giving Harry plenty of room to exit, positioning himself at the door. Harry walked slowly out of the bathroom, not wishing to get too close to the Professor, so he stood on the other side of the bed, the huge mattress acting as a barrier between him and the man who had betrayed him.

The two stood in awkward silence, and Harry reached a thin arm up to rub gently at his left cheek. The bruising had been the most severe there, most likely from the Professor’s savage backhands, and Harry couldn’t help but shudder at the recollection of the heavy hand against his face. It seemed everything, every touch, every object brought back a memory of the past few days.

The clinking of cutlery pulled him from his thoughts, and he watched in tentative interest as the Professor tended to a tray on the bedside table. He removed the lid from a small crockery pot, the tendrils of steam rising up into the man’s face, and the pungent aroma of stewed meat and spiced lentils filled the stale air of the bedroom.

“Soup.” Snape announced, turning to Harry.

Harry’s stomach lurched painfully. He hadn’t been given food in several days, not that it mattered. He’d gone without food much longer than that. It wasn’t the waiting that made it so hard, it was the way his stomach cramped afterwards, his belly so desperate for food that the introduction of solids was met with searing spasms as his stomach began the almost forgotten act of digestion. Even though it had only been a few days, his body obviously remembered the past starvation, and he moved his hand to his abdomen, the warm palm slipping under his shirt, rubbing at his stomach as if it were possible to soothe the ache away.

But it wasn’t.

“Harry.” Snape said gently. “Harry come and eat something, please.”

Slowly, body ridged and tensed, Harry skirted the bed, one hand still against his stomach, the other on the bed, fingers lightly grazing the bare mattress as he made his way around to the Professor. He stopped just shy of the man, eyes downcast, hands together now, fidgeting nervously at his chest, fingers entwined. Waiting.

Severus took a few steps back from the bed and nonchalantly made his way over to the window where he began a drawn out task of pulling back the heavy curtains. The grey morning light poured into the room, the glass speckled with droplets from the erratic rains that had grazed the island most of the morning. He glanced back at Harry, relived to see the boy taking up the spoon and peering into the steaming bowl.

He had to find out what had happened to his chi…no, not his child. Snape narrowed his eyes in annoyance. Why on earth did that thought keep cropping up in his mind? Of course, he had resigned himself to the fact that he did care about Harry, and yes, it was true that finding Harry in such a condition upon his arrival at the manor did stir something within him. A certain protective spirit perhaps, but nothing he wouldn’t feel for one of his Slytherins.

It had been a thought he had repeated many times the night before, pacing the floor of his laboratory as he pictured the trunk in Harry’s room, the debris of a broom that had obviously not carried the young man into the air as Craig had declared. Seeing Harry’s pale face marred by such horrific bruises, the raggedness of each breath, the faint pulse that threatened to halt more than a few times while he and Poppy had worked. There was a feeling in his chest, something that writhed and agonized deep inside him as he watched Harry lay in such a state, and it wasn’t until he was pacing the cold, stone floor in the bowels of the manor that he admitted the emotion.

He had been scared. Terrified actually. Terrified that the injuries were too severe. Terrified that Harry would be taken from this world.

Taken from him.

It had taken the better part of an hour for Severus to allow the whisper of a thought be affirmed, even to himself, alone in the depths. He sat motionless at his desk, hunched over in thought, cloaked in the multihued illumination of the laboratory as he went over what he had found in Harry’s room, over the boy’s behaviour.

Why on earth would Craig lie about Harry’s injuries? Perhaps Craig had involved the two in a dangerous activity and made up the falsehood to avoid persecution. But in the end, after hours of fruitless assumptions he was still no closer to the truth. Not even a ghost of an idea had formed.

The creaking of the door caused him to abandon his reverie, and Severus turned towards the entrance, his eyes settling on Harry for a brief moment, seeing the boy’s shoulders tense, the spoonful of soup returned to the bowl as he too turned towards to door.

“Hey, kid.” Craig whispered as he entered the room, offering the boy a bright smile. “You’re looking better.”

“Indeed he is.” Snape said loudly, forcing an impartial expression on his face as he walked across the room, stopping a few feet from Harry, who was staring at Craig with a gaze that Severus could only interpret as hopeful.

Craig paused, his eyes shifting a little, an almost inaudible gasp of surprise leaving his lips at hearing the Professor’s voice. He squared his shoulders and turned towards Snape.

“Good to see you again, Severus.” Craig replied, voice wavering ever so slightly before directing another smile at Harry.

“And to what do we owe the immense pleasure of your company?” Snape asked, desperately trying to keep the sarcastic drawl from tainting his words. He was still nowhere near solving the mystery of the past few days, and as suspect as the young man was, perhaps there was more information Severus could garner from him. After years of clandestine activity, one thing he had learned was that sooner or later lies had their way of exposing themselves.

“I came for a visit.” Craig explained, licking his lips quickly. “I’ve been worried.” Snape eyes darkened as he watched Craig give a brief tug at his earlobe before stuffing both hands into his pockets. Whatever reason this man had come to visit Harry, it wasn’t due to concern.

“How kind of you.” Snape replied. “But Harry is just about to partake in some lunch, and as I’m sure you can imagine after an event such as this it would do little for his health to avoid a meal.

“Oh, yeah, of course not.” Craig agreed, turning to nod at Harry. “You know, I’d be happy to stay here with him if you wanted to go and get things done, Severus. I bet you have lots to catch up on.”

Severus’ nostrils flared in annoyance, though his face kept its impassive air as he turned towards Harry.

“I believe I will remain with Harry.” he said calmly. “There is nothing to be done that cannot be achieved by Della, however I do thank you for your concern.”

He watched as Harry swallowed noticeably before pulling his stare from Craig and setting his eyes on the top button of Snape’s shirt.

“If it’s alright with you, Sir, I wouldn’t mind Craig staying please, if that’s ok.” His voice was soft, so naive, as if he were a small child instead of a young man of twelve, and it pained Severus to think that the boy had never been given a chance to grow and find himself, but instead locked away in solitude.

It was only because of the emotion of those thoughts that Severus nodded slowly, his eyes still glued to Craig, who shifted uncomfortably before smiling tentatively at the wizard.

“Very well.” Snape said carefully, not wishing to promote the ire he was feeling into his voice. “You may enjoy Mr. Russer’s company whilst you eat lunch. I will return in twenty minutes. Should you need me,” he finished, resting his hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder. “you need only call.”

Harry nodded, even managing to meet the Professor’s eyes for a moment before watching the man exit the room.

As the door closed, Craig held up a hand, silencing Harry’s questions as he waited for Snape’s footsteps to echo into silence as he made his way down the hall. When he was sure no presence of the man remained, he turned quickly to the confused Harry.

“I heard what happened, kid.” Craig said gently, taking a step back to sit on the edge of the bed. He motioned for Harry to join him. “I wanted to come and tell you…well, I wanted to say that I’m…that I’m sorry.”

Harry swallowed awkwardly as he pushed himself up onto the bed next to his friend.

“It’s alright.” he replied, the honesty of his tone catching Craig off guard. “It wasn’t your fault or anything.”

“Oh, shit.” Craig swore, his head falling to his hands before looking back at Harry. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m sorry that I took you off the island, and I’m sorry that I left you alone with…” Craig sighed and raked his fingers through his hair before continuing. “Severus told me that he punished you for leaving.” Harry nodded weakly, not wanting to think about the two days he’d suffered at the Professor’s hands. “I told him it was my fault,” Craig continued. “but he said you should have known better. Look, I had no idea he’d freak out like that. I mean, yeah, he can be a jerk sometimes, but I never thought he’d take it out on a kid.”

“It’s ok.” Harry said reassuringly, not wanting his friend to feel guilty about his punishment. “You didn’t know he’d get so mad about it. It was my fault. I disobeyed…” his voice trailed off as he desperately tried to muster up the words to explain that he’d deserved what had happened, but it was too hard to think about it. Too hard to think that he’d blown it, that he’d caused the Professor to get that angry. Too hard to admit he’d done something wrong…again.

“But it’s over now.” Craig stated softly, turning to head to look at the boy.

“I think it’s over.” Harry responded, the anxiety obvious in his tone. “I hope its over.” he whispered, turning to look at Craig, and for a moment he saw a flash of something in the man’s eyes, but it was gone before Harry could even begin to asses what it was.

“Listen, kid.” Craig started, glancing at the door quickly, as if he expected it to burst open any moment. “What would you think if I said I could get you out of here? What if I could get you someplace safe, someplace where you wouldn’t have to worry about Severus hurting you?”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Do you think he’d,” he swallowed hard. “punish me again?”

“I dunno.” Craig said worriedly. “I mean, I never thought he’s hurt a kid, you know? He can be a right jerk and all, but Jesus, did you see the bruises he left on you, and for something as simple as breaking some stupid rule?”

Harry’s brow furrowed in thought, and after a moment he shook his head briskly.

“No, no I just have to be better.” Harry replied. “I just have to be good, that’s all. I screwed up!” he exclaimed as an exasperated Craig stood and faced him. “You don’t understand! He was nice before I messed it up, he really was!” He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as Craig motioned frantically at him to lower his voice.

“And what about next time?” Craig asked, returning to the spot next to the boy. “What about the next time you accidentally break a rule? What happens if the rules change, or if he decides you’ve done something wrong and you didn’t know it? What about the next time, Harry?”

“I…I…” Harry stammered, words escaping him now, his thoughts too jumbled, too anxious to form any coherency. What if he did mess up again? Leaving the island, well it had been Craig’s idea really, but he’d gone along with it. He hadn’t thought much about it at the time. That’s how it was with him. He never intentionally broke a rule, it always just seemed to happen without him realizing it, and he’d tried so hard to be good for the Professor, and…..and….but he’d ruined everything just like he always did, just like Uncle Vernon told him for years and years. Harry shuddered. He didn’t think he could stand it if the Professor punished him again.

“Where…” he whispered. “I mean…how would you –”

“I know a place.” Craig replied quickly. “There’s a friend of mine, a guy who would keep you safe. He’s a wizard, a really powerful one. He’d never let Snape hurt you. You can stay there till school starts.”

“But my things, and –”

We’ll get your things once you’re safe.” Craig assured. “This guy knows a lot of people. He’ll make sure you get everything you need.”

A heavy silence hung in the room. Harry looked over at the window. The rain had started and since stopped during their conversation, and he watched the rivulets of rainwater slide down the glass, the trees that dotted the meadow distorted through the splashed pane.

“Will you be there?” Harry asked quietly, turning back to the young man.

“I’ll be with you.” Craig nodded, letting his hand slowly fall to Harry’s and he took the boy’s hand and squeezed it. “I won’t let him hurt you, kid. You’re my friend and I’m yours, and I take care of my friends, ok? I really think we should get you out of here before he hurts you again.” It was Craig’s turn to pause then, and when he spoke his voice was strained, as if he were holding back some immense sensation. “I don’t want you to live like this, kid.” he said, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m scared. I’m scared he’s going to hurt you again and next time he might go too far.”

Harry’s bottom lip trembled as he watched emotion flood Craig’s face. This man really cared about him, the way the Professor did before, back when he was worried about Harry, back when he cared if something bad happened to him, like the night he almost drank the venom. How he wished for that feeling again, the nurturing of someone who really cared about him.

Harry nodded nervously, his own eyes tearing now, and he rubbed at his face with the back of his sleeve as Craig took his hand and helped him down from the bed.

“Let’s go.” Craig whispered, tugging Harry towards the door.

“But the Professor!” Harry replied, his voice hushed.

“Shhh, just follow me.” Craig murmured, carefully opening the door with as little noise as possible.

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest as they left the room, his hand must have been trembling, as Craig gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go and moving to the boy’s back, gently guiding him down the hall.

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m here.” Craig whispered.

They neared the stairs, both of them stepping softly as they passed Snape’s bedroom. Harry’s foot had only just touched the top stair when the laboratory door scraped open behind them. Harry flinched violently, pushing backwards against Craig as he took a panicked step back. He felt Craig’s hand on his wrist pulling his arm up to his head and placing Harry’s hand on the boy’s brow. Craig bowed his head to Harry’s ear.

“Keep it there.”

“Harry?” Harry shuddered again at Snape’s voice, allowing Craig to turn him around, the figure of the Professor foreboding, making his way towards them with hurried steps. “Harry?” he repeated, his voice laced with concern, and Harry’s heard clenched at the memory of the man being so worried about him when he had arrived at the manor.

“He had a headache suddenly come up.” Craig explained. “I thought we’d better come and find you. I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

Snape crouched down and studied Harry’s pinched face, the boy’s small hand was pressed to his forehead, and Severus gingerly reached out and took Harry’s wrist, pulling the quivering hand from the damp brow and allowing it to fall to the boy’s side. He lay the back of his own hand in its place, his eyes narrowing at the clammy heat radiating from the child.

“I’d better return you to your room.” he advised, reaching to take Harry by the shoulder. Harry flinched wildly, his body turning towards Craig, who reached down, his hands resting against Harry’s back protectively.

“Maybe I’d better take him?” Craig offered, earning a terse nod from the Professor.

Severus watched as Craig led Harry down the hall, one hand gently brushed against the boy’s upper arm, the other held Harry’s hand, his palm upwards and flat, allowing Harry’s small hand to lay against his. Severus narrowed his eyes, a cool, unsettling feeling growing in his stomach as he watched the two walk slowly back to the bedroom. Confusion was weighing heavily upon him, and he pressed a finger to the space between his eyes, rubbing at the deep furrow of flesh there as he frowned in consternation. There was something Harry was hiding, something too painful to put into words, to even think about. This was more powerful than the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his uncle and aunt. The wild eyes, the clamoring, frantic behaviour he had witnessed spoke volumes about the boy’s suffering, but for some reason he showed none of these signs with Craig, the very person who had been his guardian. In fact, he seemed to show little in the way of anxiety around the young man at all. Severus sighed. Whatever had transpired in those four days forced Harry to adopt a terrible, raw fear, but only towards him, and the feeling in his stomach grew colder until it was a painful, frigid ball in his gut, aching, twisting, and hollow.

Something had happened to Harry.

Something terrible.

But perhaps the something wasn’t as important as the someone. Severus snapped his head up and stared after the pair. No one else had been on the island during his absence, he was absolutely certain of that. He had checked and rechecked the wards before he left. There was no way anyone could have crossed them without his knowledge. He had briefly considered the idea of another presence on the island, but after as assessment of the wards by both himself and Della, the notion was disregarded.

He watched as Harry and Craig reached the end of the hall, and Harry stopped, hesitating a moment before Craig reached out, his hand at the back of Harry’s neck as he whispered something in the boy’s ear, and Severus noticed the stiffening of Harry’s body, his small fists crumpling into fists, and he shook his head as if he were shaking away an errant strand of hair. The neck had been bruised quite badly, and Severus recalled the thorough application of healing salve to the area, though not as much as the damage to his face had required. That had been an absolute mess. If he had fallen from the broom as Craig had assumed, it must have been from a great height, certainly high enough to cause such devastation to the tissues, but the majority of the damage was to Harry’s back and face. If Harry had fallen, the bruising suggested he had landed on his back, but how on earth did the boy’s face get so damaged? Even if the landing had caused him to recoil into his front, surely there would have been bruising to the chest and legs as well, not only the face. There was simply no way a fall of that magnitude would have caused such injury to the face while leaving the remainder of the body’s front unscathed.

Severus watched as the two reached the bedroom door. Craig’s hand dropped to his side, then he reached out and pushed the door open, waiting for Harry to take a few, shaky steps into the room. Craig paused, glancing back towards Severus before speaking briefly to the boy before shutting the door.

Severus waited for the smiling Craig to approach him before drawing himself up to full height, imposing as much of his intimidating form towards the man as possible. Craig faltered a little, his steps slowing ever so briefly before continuing towards the Professor, his smile a little more forced now as he came to a halt.

There was an eerie silence as the two men stared at each other. Snape’s unyielding gaze boring into Craig like a needle, and the younger man shifted his feet in unease, quite put out by the Professor’s trademark glare.

“Uh, you know Harry’s a real good kid.” Craig stated finally, nodding in his discomfort.

Severus nodded slowly before responding.

“It seems,” he said almost leisurely, in the voice he used to make a wayward student’s blood run cold, “that Harry’s broom was not returned after his…accident. I daresay you were far too consumed with concern at his condition to think of bringing it with you. Would that be a correct assumption?”

Craig licked his lips, his smile fading as Snape finished his sentence, and he nodded in affirmation.

“Yeah.” he replied far too softly before clearing his throat and repeating himself in a louder tone. “Yeah. I guess I was pretty freaked out.”

“And were you freaked out enough to recall where exactly you found him?” Snape drawled, folding his arms across his chest. This was generally the point where the student broke down in tears.

“Uh…um, yeah, I mean I think I know where –”

“You think?” Snape cut in, eyebrows raised.

“Well….yeah I mean…yeah I remember when it was, sure.” Craig replied, his awkward stammer causing Severus to feel a crude satisfaction at the effect he was having on the man. Craig turned his back to Severus and pointed a finger diagonally across the hall. “It was that way.” he stated. “Sort of…I guess west. Yeah, it was west, in a little circle of trees.” He turned back to the wizard and swallowed hard before smiling awkwardly. “That’s nice of you, um, to get his broom back. I’m sure he’d really like that. I mean…if you can find it.”

Severus’ eyes gleamed as he allowed his arms to fall to his sides.

“I am certain Harry will feel nothing but the most ardent gratitude at its return.” He replied stonily. “And now, I must ask that you allow Harry to rest. I will have Della see you home.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure I saw Della in the kitchen.” Craig said quickly, taking a few steps past Severus, towards the stairs. “I’ll ask her to activate the floo for me. You, uh, I’ll let you start on finding Harry’s broom.”

Severus nodded as Craig took a few more brisk steps towards the stairwell. He’d managed to stir quite the anxiety in the young man, and he forced back the smile that threatened to erupt, content to simply glare as Craig skittered down the stairs and into the foyer. He heard the kitchen door open noisily, and the squeak of alarm as Della was caught by surprise, likely in the middle of baking another ridiculously large cake for Harry, even though he was in no state to eat the one she’d prepared last night, or that morning.

Making his way down the stairs, he collected his cloak from a hook near the door and swept it around his shoulders. Pushing open the front door, he glanced at the sky before making his way down the stairs. He headed westward towards the trees, gait brisk and steady, each stride taken with great purpose as he set out in search of answers.

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It was a good fifteen minutes before he came across the clearing. The area was slathered in thick mud, half dried now, though the recent rains had begun to melt away the deep footprints that dotted the sludge. There had certainly been some activity here. One could almost follow the event simply from the state of the ground. The smaller prints, obviously Harry’s, circled one of the larger trees and then worked their way across the clearing, growing deeper and longer with each haphazard step, finally ending in a low, wide trench, about the size of Harry himself, Severus noted. The larger footprints, Craig’s he assumed, kept a good distance from Harry’s, though at one point they crossed the clearing towards where Harry had stood, then doubled back, leading Severus to another large indentation in the thick mud. He stood in the center of the clearing, the rustling of leaves upon the air, the fresh scent of rain and damp moss filling his nostrils as he surveyed the chaotic dance that had taken place on this very ground only a few days before.

“Della!”

The name was spoken loudly, but by no means shouted. It echoed off the trees, danced from limb to skeletal limb, resounding around the clearing and back to Severus’ ears just as the pop sounded next to him. He looked down at the delicate little creature.

“Della I want you to go to my laboratory and perform a thorough inventory of every vial in my possession.”

Della nodded mutely, not even a peep emanating from the tiny elf as she stared at her master.

“Should you find an absent vial, anything gone astray, even a potion on an incorrect shelf, you are to report to me immediately, do you understand”

Della nodded again, her eyes wide at the dire tone of her instructions. At a nod from Snape, she was gone.

Perhaps there was a potion involved, he mused. Perhaps Harry had entered the laboratory and misplaced or broken something. A small transgression to be sure, but to a boy for which the very act of breathing lead to a severe beating, it was possible he had overreacted to the thought of punishment. Perhaps he had run again, as he had during the storm.

“Grasping at straws.” Severus muttered as he took a few tentative steps through the mud, which was growing increasingly soggy and thinned with each minute. The rain had lessened since his departure, and now a soft haze of drizzle blanketed the island. He swore under his breath as he stumbled, catching hold of a nearby tree and righting himself. He looked in disgust at the culprit, a twisted root jutting up through the mud where…

Severus’ eyes narrowed. He slowly bent down and plucked the offending object from the muck, pulling the corner of his cloak around to wipe the mud from…from the wand? Severus stared at the wand in confusion, then realization as he recognized the wood; the smooth holly now twisted and charred, the faint glimpse of phoenix feather, the magical core melted against the disfigured rod. Snape’s heart raced at the sight of it. He had seen this type of mutilation in a wand before, but never outside the confines of Voldemort’s hideaways. A shiver stabbed up the length of his spine as he stood, flashbacks of the horrors he had witnessed during Death Eater gatherings assaulted his consciousness, and he wrapped his free hand around a tree branch for support, the damp moss soft under his palm.

What had happened here? What had caused Harry to perform such an act? Severus gently placed Harry’s wand into his pocket, suddenly aware of the wetness seeping into his shoes, and he made his way across the muddy clearing towards the grass.

Just then there was a loud pop behind him. He turned to see Della, several empty vials in her trembling hands.

“Master!” Della exclaimed, thrusting the vials into Snape’s waiting hands. “Della is finding only these out of sorts, Sir. Della is checking everything as you asked, and finding missing potions.”

“Good.” Severus replied, studying the fragile vials carefully. He held them up to the light one by one, finding no sign of residue within the little glass containers. He shook his head. “I cannot discern…Della, if you please.” He handed one of the vials back to Della, who clasped her long, thin fingers around the glass and held it tightly. She closed her eyes, and a gentle white light slowly seeped from her hands and swirled around the vial. She opened her eyes and stared back at the Professor.

“Della is seeing, Sir. Della is knowing what was in the vials.”

“And?” Snape urged.

“Della is seeing Polyjuice, Sir.”

Severus felt weak. Suddenly it all made sense. The fear Harry showed for him, the bond he had with Craig, the reason the boy gravitated to young man, the untamed terror he had of Severus. The bruises, and now the wand.

There had been no fall.

There had only been Craig.

He had been right when he had determined that there had been no one else on the island. Craig had been there the entire time. Craig had hurt Harry, only Harry didn’t know it.

The bastard had hurt Harry using Polyjuice to disguise himself!

That’s why Harry feared him. Craig had beaten the poor boy within an inch of his life, all the while looking exactly like…

His sudden epiphany was cut short as Della’s voice cut through the tumultuous sound of his heart beating furiously in his ears.

“Master, is young Mr. Russer being staying for dinner, Sir?”

Severus’ blood ran cold as he stared back at the oblivious elf.

“Young Mr. Russer…” he whispered, his breath catching in his throat, his chest tightening, caving in on itself, smothering him as he turned towards the manor where through the clamor of wet branches the stately old home was barely visible in the distance.

Rage and worry flooded into him, the heat of such wild fury almost burning his skin as he broke into a run. He tore across the lawn and up the stone steps, his cape fluttering violently behind him. He pulled the door open and headed across the foyer to the living room door, Harry’s disfigured wand now held tightly in his hand as he burst into the living room.

There, standing on the hearth, was Craig, one hand intertwined with Harry’s, the other releasing a handful of floo powder into Harry’s upturned palm. Harry jumped at Snape’s intrusion, almost spilling the dust as his head jerked up, eyes wide. Craig’s eyes flashed at the Professor, and he wove his arm around Harry’s shoulder, pulling him close.

“Harry!” Severus called, voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Harry, stop!”

There was no reply, the boy only able to stare, the fear evident on his face as he shrank back against the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” Severus asked slowly, his eyes trailing from Harry’s, across to Craig.

“It’s ok, kid.” Craig said softly, almost in a whisper.

“Harry.” Severus breathed, his eyes locking with the boy’s. He took another small, slow, step towards the fireplace. “Oh, Merlin, Harry I’m so sorry.”

“Harry. Do it.” Craig urged again, this time his voice slightly louder, and he jostled the boy’s hand with his own in an attempt to shake his attention from the Professor.

“Harry, while I was at the conference, I was delayed, did you know that?” Snape asked, his voice steady, composed, his fear and anger well hidden within serenity as he maintained eye contact, slowly making his way across the room. Harry’s brow furrowed slightly at the man’s words. “I was asked to remain an additional two days.” Severus continued, half way across the room now. He just had to keep Harry’s attention for a little longer. “How long did Craig stay with you, Harry? One day? Two? When did he pretend to leave, Harry?”

Severus watched as Harry blinked several times, his mouth open, breathing heavily. His head was slightly cocked to one side, his frown deeper now. He was listening! If only he could get through to the child, but who knew what that monster had done to him in four days. The possibilities were horrendously endless. The abuse had been horrific, he knew that, but perhaps there was something left of the child, some part of him that recalled Severus’ kindness. He had to reach that shred of Harry, that tiny piece of little boy who still knew the Professor cared for him.

“I have allowed you to endure the agony of the last days alone, Harry. I was ignorant of your abuse and I apologize.” he continued. “Madame Pomfrey and I were working so frantically. It never occurred to me, that is, until this afternoon, and I saw your bruises. And this...” Snape continued, holding up the gnarled wand, and Harry’s eyes flickered to it for a moment, taking in the bent, twisted rod before staring back at the Professor. “It was not difficult to determine the spell that caused such a deformation.”

“He’s trying to trick you.” Craig said urgently, pulling Harry’s hand from the boy’s side, the dark grains of power trickling from the small, closed fist. “Say it.” he growled.

Harry shook his head faintly, lips twitching with unspoken words, and he broke eye contact with Snape and looked up at Craig.

“If you stay here, he’ll hurt you again.” Craig whispered.

“Harry. Harry look at me!” Severus barked, his voice taking on the unmistakable severity of the heartless Hogwarts Professor, and Harry couldn’t help but obey, the inability to refuse engrained in him since birth.

“Harry!” Craig said loudly, his voice frantic now as he gripped Harry’s hand.

“The curse, Harry.” Severus said softly, abandoning the ruthless tone now that he had the child’s attention. “You tried the Avada Kevadra didn’t you? Harry’s brow creased in confusion, his jade eyes sparkling with sudden emotion.

“I….I tried…” Harry said faintly, hopelessly lost in a sea of bewilderment and fear as he tried desperately to unclench his fist. He could feel Craig’s hand against his own, hear the panicked pleas to let the powder fall and speak the words that would take them to safety, but he was caught in that stare, the Professor’s hypnotizing gaze, the eyes so dark they threatened to swallow him whole, and his own eyes widened as he tried to pull himself from the grip of those dark orbs. Craig was all but yelling at him now, and Snape’s voice grew louder too, the two men caught in a desperate fight for his concentration, but it was so hard to focus!

“There is a reason is did not work as you thought it would.” Severus continued, his voice breaking, the emotion of the moment, of the realization of what had happened to this boy and the suffering he had endured. “It was not me, Harry. The spell failed because the person you thought you were forcing the curse into, was not there. I was not there Harry. Understand me, I beg of you. It was Craig, Harry. All the time it was Craig. He’s the one that hurt you.”

“He’s lying!” Craig shouted, his hand on Harry’s shoulder, his fingers digging into the flesh. “Say it, Harry!” Harry flinched, gulping at the pain flaring across his shoulder. He closed his eyes against the Professor’s mesmerizing stare and took a deep breath.

“I’m not lying, Harry.” Severus continued, his voice maintaining its barely calm tone. “There were vials of Polyjuice potion missing from my stores. I can prove all of this to you if you just step down from there.”

“He’s trying to confuse you.” Craig urged, his arm snaking across the boy’s chest, pulling him close. “Once he gets you alone what do you think he’s going to do to you? Remember Harry, his rules, his punishment. He’ll kill you for sure next time. Remember what it felt like, kid.” Craig said, bowing his head so he could whisper the words into Harry’s ear. “Remember how much it hurt. Remember how much you wanted it to end and it didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes flickered open. His breathing was no longer labored and choppy. He stared at the Professor, his eyes hollow, emotionless, the tiny part of the boy that Severus had hoped to reach was gone as Harry released the handful of floo powder into the hearth and stated their destination in a stilted voice.

Severus stood helplessly as the two disappeared, the quickly fading cloud of smoke gently dissipating into the cool air.

Swiftly, he leaped onto the hearth and scooped up his own handful of powder, throwing the fistful of dust into the fireplace.

“Russer port!”

There was nothing, not even a spark of smoke. An inhibiting spell had already been placed on the Russer fireplace, and Severus’ heart dropped at the thought of the only person who could have performed such an enchantment.

Ernie.

Calling for Della, he quickly relayed his instructions to the distraught creature before bracing himself for the intense magic required to break the charm that was refusing to allow him to follow Harry. Drawing in a deep breath, he focused his mind on the complex spell.

He would find his child. Yes his child. For as much as he had tried to remove the thought from his mind, for as much as he had rejected it, ignored it, fought against the very notion of it, at this moment he allowed it to flood into him in a torrent. The feeling washed into him, overflowed him. It inundated his senses, his heart, his rage, his misery, his very being.

He loved this child. He loved Harry, and as Merlin as his witness he was going to get him back.

Harry stumbled as his feet hit the small hearth of Russer Port. He felt Craig’s fingers curl around his upper arm, hoisting him to his feet before he could hit the floor. Panicked, Harry whirled around to face the fireplace, panting, wide eyes, expecting to see the face of the Professor coming through the floo at him. He took a jerky step back, but Craig held him tight and pulled him close.

“Kid, it’s ok, he can’t get through.” Craig whispered. “There’s a spell on the fireplace, he can’t get in. You’re safe.” Harry looked up at his friend. Craig had pulled him into a one armed hug, and for a moment Harry allowed himself to rest against Craig’s form, grateful to feel a gentle hand on his back, but the comfort lasted only a second as Craig straightened and released Harry from the partial embrace. A little embarrassed, Harry glanced up and offered Craig tense smile before looking around the sparse room. The first time he’d come through here he’d felt rather ill, especially after a long train ride with the Professor. He’d felt so scared and alone then, a great emptiness gnawing at him. It was funny how similar he felt now.

“You took long enough.” barked a voice, and Harry jumped at the harshness of the brogue, the malice of it. It made his skin crawl, and he rolled his shoulders as if shedding a dirty cloak from his back.

“Yeah, well, something came up.” Craig replied as he stepped down from the hearth. Harry followed, throwing a covert glance at the stranger. He was a wizard, tall, thinly built and dressed in silvery blue robes. Harry stared at the beautiful material, the way it shimmered in the light, the cobalt hue melting into the silver like warmed ice. They were quite a bit more elegant than anything the Professor wore, sporting a shiny silver clasp at each cuff. His wand was set around his waist in a black leather holster, its silver accents gleaming in the light. He stood erect, unmoving, staring down his nose as Craig walked across the room and poked his head through a doorway on the opposite wall.

“Where’s Ernie?” Craig asked, turning back and throwing the man a questioning look.

“Taken care of.” came the casual reply. Craig raised his eyebrows before stalking towards the man.

“If he’s hurt –” he started as he strode across the room.

“Your brother is fine.” the man interjected, staring back with an equally challenging glare as Craig came to a halt. The two stood silently for a moment before Craig took a step back and adjusted his collar, glancing at Harry and clearing his throat before turning back towards the wizard.

“As long as he is.” he whispered sternly.

“We’re wasting time.” said the stranger, turning his eyes on Harry. Harry shifted uncomfortably, peering over at Craig, who this time made no attempt to calm him with a reassuring smile. His stomach felt strange and hollow, and he realized the nervous feeling he’d felt the day Snape took him in was back, but this time it all felt much worse, much more frightening. He reached up and rubbed gently at his temple. A headache had started at the back of his head, and the throbbing was making its way around the side of his skull, a delicate twinge of pain dancing behind his eye.

Craig noticed Harry’s uneasy gaze and made his way over to the boy, nodding to the other man as he passed him.

“Hey.” he said in a low voice, and Harry responded with a weak smile. He was absolutely worn out, and almost as if proof were needed, he yawned into his palm before pulling his hand away and making a face, residue from the floo powder coating his lips. He rubbed vigorously at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt as Craig chuckled.

“Kid, this is Mister Toran, he’s a friend of mine who works with me at the ministry. When I told him what Snape did to you, he wanted to help. He’s the one who spelled the fireplace so Snape couldn’t follow you.”

Harry reddened at the thought of this unpleasant man knowing the intricate details of his abuse, but the man didn’t seem to care, his face remaining as impassive as…as the Professor’s always did. The tone with which Craig had spoken the word friend was not lost on Harry, as if the word had never been uttered by either man when describing the other, but he nodded, looking quickly again at the stern looking wizard before nodding again at Craig. He trusted his friend, and no matter how unusual this all felt, he was the only person Harry could count on, the only person who hadn’t hurt him.

He was all Harry had.

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The walk to the train station had been anything but leisurely. Both men walked far too fast, Harry’s smaller steps no match for their broad strides, and Harry stumbled a number of times over the wet, uneven cobblestones, much to Mr. Toran’s annoyance, and the man snapped several times at Craig to hurry him up.

“Where is Ernie?” Harry asked as he stood with Craig waiting for the train to board. He swiped at a raindrop that was trickling down his nose. Craig looked over at Mr. Toran, who was making his way across the crowded platform towards them.

“Oh, you know, he’s off brewing something I’m sure.” Craig replied quickly, his eyes never leaving the figure as it swept across the station platform. He threw a quick smile at the boy and clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing to worry about.” he said brightly as Mr. Toran joined them and handed Craig two tickets.

“Private car.” Mr. Toran said briskly, slapping the tickets against Craig’s outstretched palm. “Muggle money for lunch and a taxi, and,” he reached into a pocket within his robes and pulled out a small folded envelope which he added to the pile in Craig’s hand. “and further instructions.” he finished.

“Right.” Craig said, stuffing the papers into his jacket pocket.

Without so much as a nod or other acknowledgement, Mr. Toran turned and walked quickly into the crowd.

“He’s not coming with us?” Harry questioned, a part of him hoping the dour wizard was gone for good.

“Nope, it’s just me and you from here on out, kid.” Craig smiled and motioned towards the train. “Come on, let’s get on this thing. We don’t want to get left behind.”

Harry watched the as the town of Sunderland hazed into nothingness, the rhythm of the ScotRail soothing him a little as the train pursued the tracks across the countryside towards London. He still felt a ravaging fear, his stomach a tight knot of nerves as he looked over at Craig, who was reading a Muggle newspaper he’d picked up at the station. Harry felt a strange sensation of déjà vu, as it was such a short time ago that he’d sat like this, heading towards the mysterious town of Sunderland, the Professor sitting opposite him reading his hated newspaper, complaining about every article he encountered. He remembered his arrival at the island, the way Snape had put his arm across Harry’s shoulder and led him towards the beautiful old manor. Harry blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears come. How unfair everything was! Why did he have to screw everything up? Why couldn’t he just be normal, not the kind of person that inspired such hatred in others? His lower lip quivered, and Harry quickly clamped down on it with his teeth, crushing the flesh until he gasped involuntarily at the pain, refusing to feel the sadness, refusing to feel the hurt of his broken trust.

The knot in his stomach tightened, and he turned his head back to the window and tried to focus on something else, but the fear consumed him, just as it did when Uncle Vernon came home drunk, just as it did when the Professor…Harry took in a deep breath and stood quickly. Craig looked up suddenly, frowning as he saw Harry’s pale, drawn face.

“You ok, kid?” he asked, standing and reaching to steady the boy, who looked more than a little shaky.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Harry managed to whisper, and at Craig’s quick nod he left the car and made his way down the thin hall to the facilities. He pushed open the door and stumbled into the stall, barely falling to his knees before vomiting into the toilet, hands gripping the edges of the bowl, white knuckled and trembling as he threw up, tears stinging his eyes, sobs catching in his throat as he retched.

When it was over, he slid to the floor breathing heavily, trying to reject the overwhelming emotions that assaulted him. Pulling his knees to his chest, he laid his head on his folded arms, enjoying the cool, soft cotton against his face, trying to take deep breaths. He didn’t want to cry. He wouldn’t cry, he thought firmly, narrowing his eyes in resolve. He’d made that mistake once with his uncle, and he’d promised never to let himself feel anything again, and then Snape had drawn the emotions from him and he’d been able to let go of the numbness, to slowly break down the walls he’d built to protect himself. He closed his eyes as tightly as he could, the blackness melting into a shifting sea of colour as he pressed his face against his arm. How stupid he was, he thought, bitterness creeping in to replace the grief with self-reproach. How naïve could he get? Why couldn’t he see these things coming? Why did he always have to get blindsided? Why did he allow himself to trust so freely?

“Never again.” Harry whispered, lifting his head and swiping at his eyes with his sleeve. He stood quickly, exciting the stall and washing his hands in the small basin. He splashed his face with cool water, taking several gulps from his cupped hands before dabbing his face dry with a handful of paper towels. He examined himself in the mirror. His eyes were puffy, face red and blotchy. Too bad he didn’t know any of the good concealing charms yet.

Sighing, he walked back into the hall, staring down at the door of their private compartment. He waited a few minutes for his face to return to a more acceptable state before returning to the car where a concerned Craig was waiting, looking at the door expectantly as Harry came into view.

“You feeling alright?” Craig asked, motioning for Harry to sit.

“Yeah.” Harry replied weakly. “I just haven’t eaten anything today. I guess I felt kinda light headed for a moment. I’m fine now.” Craig gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Well with all you’ve been through in the last few days, I’m not surprised you feel like crap.” He reached over and patted Harry on the knee. “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll be safe soon. It’ll all be over once we get back to London. Snape’ll never be able to hurt you again.”

Harry smiled gratefully, but then a puzzled look settled over his face.

“What about when I have to go home?” he asked. “And what about school? I have to go back at the end of the summer.”

Craig held up a silencing hand and shook his head.

“Nothing to worry about.” he replied. “It’s all taken care of, don’t worry. Hey!’ he exclaimed as Harry opened his mouth for another question. “It’s all gonna be fine, alright? Trust me, kid. I’d never let anything happen to you. You’re my friend and I’m yours, and?” he questioned. Harry managed an exhausted smile.

“You take care of your friends.” he stated softly. Craig smiled.

“Damn right, kid.”

Craig picked up his newspaper and began reading, and Harry returned to staring out the window. He’d wanted to ask Craig how he was going to get his things back from Snape’s home. Harry thought of all his school books, his invisibility cloak, and especially the photos of his parents being held by the Professor. Maybe he’d destroy them out of anger, or revenge. Maybe he’d burn the photos! Harry took in a quick breath. Those pictures were all he had of his Mum and Dad! Harry forced himself to calm down. Craig was right. They’d be in London soon and everything would be ok. Craig was his friend. He’d saved him from the Professor; he’d save his things too. He’d keep him safe.

He’d keep him safe.

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The rest of the trip was spent in near silence, the two chatting only for a few moments as their sandwiches were delivered by a very robust looking woman named Pearl, who exasperated Craig to no end by calling him dearest heart multiple times before departing back to the dining car. Harry had enjoyed a giggle at Craig’s expense, and for a moment, cheerful conversation filled the car as the two ate, though Harry barely finished half of the chicken salad sandwich he’d ordered.

They reached King’s Cross in the late afternoon, and Craig hailed a taxi right away, giving the driver an address in London. The trip into town seemed to take forever, but finally the black cab pulled over in front of a tall, grey, brick building. Harry waited for Craig’s nod before climbing out onto the sidewalk, craning his neck to stare up at the building’s peak, which must have been almost twenty floors up.

“Right.” said Craig, taking Harry by the arm and leading him towards the building’s entrance. “Let’s get a move on.”

Harry frowned at the force with which Craig held him, his fingers pressing against the flesh of Harry’s upper arm, and he could have sworn Craig’s hand was trembling as he guided Harry towards the elevators. Inside, Craig released his arm and pulled an envelope from his pocket, which Harry recognized at the one Mr. Toran had given him earlier that day. He watched as Craig ripped the sealed enveloped open and pulled a slip of paper as well as a key, which he inserted into the keyhole of a small panel below the emergency phone. With a click, the panel swung open, revealing a keypad. Craig glanced at the paper from the envelope, punching in a series of numbers before pushing the panel closed and locking it again.

The elevator doors slowly closed, and the lift began to slowly descend. After half a minute, the elevator came to a halt, however the doors remained closed. There was a sudden jolt, and Harry reached out and took a hold of Craig’s arm to steady himself as the elevator began moving once more, but to Harry’s surprise, they weren’t moving up or down, but backwards.

“What’s going on?” he asked quizzically, anxiety welling within him as the elevator moved slowly along. “Where are we?” Craig didn’t respond, and Harry caught sight of his friend’s reflection in the metal door. He looked determined, eyes narrowed slightly, jaw set as he stared straight ahead.

The elevator came to a slow stop, and the door opened to reveal a long hallway lined with doors. Craig took Harry’s arm again and led him out into the hall. Harry looked around in astonishment as they walked. Everything was accented in deep, rich coppery tones, and flickering candles were spaced every few feet along the walls. Pairs of small, potted trees sat astride each doorway in gleaming copper pots with sparkling gold detailing. A broom bustled past them, sweeping around each pot before moving onto the next, dancing on its bristles as it made its way down the hall.

“Where are we?” Harry asked a little more forcefully, pulling his arm from Craig’s grip and coming to a stop. Craig turned towards him and then glanced back at the door at the end of the hall.

“Kid let’s just go. Come on.” He reached out to take Harry’s arm, but the boy took a step back, looking slightly afraid. Craig sighed. “We’re at the Ministry of Magic, ok?” He lunged forward and reclaimed his hold on Harry’s arm.

“Why are we at the Ministry of Magic?” Harry asked, allowing himself to again be led down the hall, this time at a noticeably quicker pace.

“Because that’s where my friend is.” came the exasperated reply.

Craig stopped at the end of the hall, a large oak door in front of them. He knocked loudly, then reached out and turned the handle, pushing the door open to reveal a very large office.

“Craig, my boy, you’re here!”

Harry turned towards the sound of the voice and saw a short, portly man standing at a large, wooden desk at the other side of the room. The desk was on a raised platform and flanked by two large, ornate looking gargoyle statues with gleaming silver eyes.

“Craig, where are your manners?” the man asked teasingly as he stepped down from the dais and came towards them. He looked awfully familiar, and Harry tried to think of where he’d seen the man before, but his thoughts were interrupted as the man swept towards him, grabbing Harry’s hand.

“Cornelius Fudge.” The man stated as he shook hands briskly. “Harry Potter. It’s marvelous to meet you. A real pleasure indeed. Welcome to the Ministry of Magic.”

So that’s where he’d seen the man before, Harry thought to himself, remembering the animated face on many a copy of the Daily Prophet. He smiled hesitantly, a little in awe of being in the presence of such an important figure. The Minister finally let go of Harry’s hand, which had started to ache a little from the furiousness of the handshake, and beamed at Craig. “And you, Mister Russer. How good to see you again. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you, both of you.” Fudge looked back and forth between the two young men for a moment, then clapped his hands together. “Well.” he exclaimed. “We brought Mister Potter here to assist him, and assist him we shall. Allow me to get a few things in order won’t you? I’ll be but a moment.” The Minister made his way back up to his desk and began rummaging through several stacks of papers.

Harry shifted a little, suddenly aware of the need to relieve himself, when Craig came up next to him.

“Hey, kid. Everything ok?”

“Um, I kinda need to use the bathroom.” Harry whispered, blushing. Craig chuckled and turned Harry towards the door. “Third door on the right.” he whispered in Harry’s ear, and with a nod, Harry quickly walked across the room and out into the hall, gently pulling the door closed behind him with a dull thud.

“Where’s the boy?” Fudge called, glancing quickly around the room in search of the departed Harry.

“Bathroom.” Craig replied, walking up to join the Minister at his desk. He bent down and picked up a strewn paper that had fallen to the floor. He took a moment to skim the contents of the page before handing it back to Fudge. “You think this is going to work?” he asked as the man pulled the page from his hand.

“Of course it’ll work.” replied Fudge, throwing Craig a riled look. “After all he’s gone through, what would keep him from saying yes? That is of course, unless you didn’t do your job.” he finished pointedly.

It was Craig’s turn to look annoyed.

“Of course I did my job.” he exclaimed heatedly. “And it was damn hard too. You have no freaking clue what you asked for, you know that?”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it when you were asked.” Fudge snapped as Craig turned his back and walked towards the center of the room. “You seemed quite adamant as I recall. Anyway, it’s over now. You’ve managed to get Mister Potter here, which means you obviously have him afraid enough of Professor Snape. Not that I would think that difficult.” he scoffed.

“Difficult?” Craig said, his voice growing louder as he repeated himself. “Difficult? You think it was easy what I had to do? You think I had fun beating the crap out of some kid? Jesus, Cornelius, you should have seen him. I had to get stone cold drunk just to –”

“No matter.” said the Minister, waving his hand in dismissal. “You did what you had to do, and of course,” he smiled, his voice laced with venom. “you’ll get exactly what you wanted out of all this. You’ll be the one who provided the wizarding world with its saviour. The great muggle, Craig Russer delivering us from evil.” Fudge drawled as he gathered his papers and walked across the room to another, smaller desk. He arranged the documents on the desk and laid a quill beside them.

“And what are you going to do about Snape?” Craig asked hotly. “He’s not going to just roll over and ignore this. You can bet he’s on his way here right now. He’s not stupid. He’ll figure out where I went.”

“Let him come.” said Fudge, a nasty, knowing smile spreading across his face. “By the time he gets here it will be too late. Harry will be mine and that potions master will have no recourse against me, especially after our little Harry testifies about what Snape did to him. I’ll have that bastard in Azkaban so fast his greasy head will spin.”

“Azkaban?” Craig asked, puzzled. “You never said anything about prison.”

“All you needed to know were your instructions.” Fudge replied. “There was no reason to inform you of my personal plans.”

“Listen.” Craig retorted in a dangerous tone as he took a few steps towards the Minister. “You never said anything about putting Snape in prison. I’ve known Snape a hell of a long time, and even though I took part in your little plan, I never would have touched that kid if I knew you were gonna chuck Snape in Azkaban. Do you know what I had to do to-”

“What you did,” Fudge hissed, glaring at Craig, eyes flashing angrily. “was provide a way for me to get my hands on that boy. I don’t care what the hell you had to do to get him. You chose to be involved in this. You chose to go along with the plan. You knew exactly what you were going to do and you did it, so don’t get all high and mighty with me. You wanted to best your brother and best him you have. Every wizard in the world will know your name after this.”

“I almost killed him.” Craig replied, his voice taking on a distressed tone. “I beat that little boy almost to death, all the while disguised as someone he thought cared about him! How can you-”

“Pull yourself together!” Fudge snapped. “Anyone would think you were forced into it. If you’d just-” Fudge turned his head towards the door in a flash, eyes wide as the office door gently banged closed. Cornelius motioned towards the door, and Craig ran across the room, pulling the door open to the sight of Harry sprinting down the hall.

“Get him!” Fudge yelled, and Craig took off down the hall, his footsteps eerily silent on the plush carpet. He watched as Harry sped towards the elevator and madly pressed the call button, frantically looking over his shoulder as Craig slowed to a walk half way down the hall.

“Someone help me!” Harry screamed, racing to the closest door, banging his fists against the wood. “Please! Someone help!”

“No one’s here, kid!” Craig called as Harry ran to the next door, repeating the wild beating of his fists against the dark oak. Harry ran back to the elevator and pounded at the call button again, heart racing, the button slipping out from under his palm, not slippery with sweat. Then, in a wild panic he pressed his hands against the cold, metal doors in an attempt to force them apart.

“Kid.” Craig said gently, only a few feet away now. “Harry.”

Harry turned to look at his friend. No, not a friend anymore, but a betrayer, a liar. Tears slid down Harry’s cheeks as a sob escaped him.

“Please let me go.” he whimpered.

“I can’t do that, kid.” Craig replied, reaching out for the boy.

“No!” Harry screeched, recoiling in horror as Craig grabbed his shoulder, and suddenly the first night came back to him, the way Snape had grabbed him the night he….but it wasn’t Snape, it had been Craig. It had been Craig all the time, and…Harry fought against his hold as the young man clamped another hand down on his arm and began dragging Harry back down the hall. Harry struggled with all his might, his shoes slipping on the carpet as he tried to force his arm from the vice grip. He could barely see through the tears as he wrestled to no avail against Craig’s hold, his terrified cries echoing down the deserted corridor.

“Let me go.” Harry begged, crying hysterically. “Let me go and I promise I won’t tell anyone, Craig. I swear I won’t! I promise…..I’m sorry…please…please.” His pleas faded into sobs as Craig continued his march back to Fudge’s office.

“Shut up!” Craig whispered harshly as he pulled Harry along. The damn kid was even apologizing! “I said shut up!” he yelled, but by now Harry’s begging was lost in his tears. Craig reached out and pushed open the office door. “Here.” he said to Fudge as he yanked Harry back into the office.

Fudge regarded Harry for a moment before smiling sympathetically at him. He waved a hand at Craig.

“Let the boy go, Craig.” he ordered. “Is this any way to treat a special guest? Look, you’ve frightened him.” With narrowed eyes, Craig released Harry, who took a few jerky steps away from the man, still breathing heavily from his fight in the corridor. “I apologize, Harry.” Fudge continued. “Mister Russer forgets his manners. You must be quite on edge after your recent ordeal. I promise you, no harm will come to you here.

“I want to go back.” Harry rasped, his voice strained from screaming. He reached up and rubbed at his face with his sleeve, his hand shaking violently beneath the soft cotton, the rancid smell of vomit still present from earlier on the train, and his stomach rolled queasily.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Harry.” Fudge replied gently. “You see, Professor Snape has harmed you, and what kind of person would I be if I allowed an important young man such as yourself to return to such a terrible environment, hmm?”

Harry shook his head.

“It wasn’t the Prof-” he started.

“Oh no, no, no.” the Minister said quickly, holding up a hand. “I think you were a bit confused, dear boy. Craig went back to save you from the Professor. Mister Russer was here with us working on an assignment. Professor Snape hurt you, Harry.”

“But…” Harry started. “I heard you say-”

“Then you heard wrong, didn’t you?” Fudge said in a condescending voice. “You’re tired, Harry, tired and confused and scared, but I have a plan to ensure you never feel that way again.”

“I want to leave.” Harry repeated softly, his eyes beginning to well up again. His head ached something fierce. Actually his whole body hurt from his tussle with Craig, and he winced as another flash of pain spiked behind his eyes.

“Listen, Harry.” Fudge said gravely as he placed the paper back on the desk. We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. “What would you prefer, hmm? Because I’m getting a little tired of this game you’re playing. One would think you would be a bit more appreciative toward someone who is trying to help you. ”

Harry stiffened as the Minister reached inside his robes and withdrew his wand.

“You see Harry. In order to protect you from Professor Snape, I’ve come up with a rather ingenious idea. All you have to do is sign a few legal documents, just a few custody issues and you’ll be completely safe from anyone who wants to harm you.”

“Custody?” Harry whispered in disbelief.

“Of course!” Fudge exclaimed, smiling as he continued in a compassionate voice. “I know your relatives haven’t treated you kindly.” the Minister said gently. “I know they caused you great harm, Harry. I also know you were expected to be home this summer. I would hate to think how angry your uncle would be when he returns to find you spent your entire holiday with Professor Snape, a wizard of all things. Your uncle doesn’t care for wizards much, does he, Harry?” Fudge grinned manically as Harry’s face grew pallid, almost as if the mere mention of his uncle was enough to drain the life out of him. “Now I wonder,” the man continued. “with how angry and upset your uncle would certainly be, I wonder what sort of punishment he would carry out.”

Harry’s breaths became shallow and rapid as the meaning of the Minister’s proposal became clear. Sign the papers or his uncle would be informed of his whereabouts for the last few weeks. Uncle Vernon would be angry. No, it would be beyond that, more than that. He’d be absolutely livid. The last time Uncle Vernon had been that angry, Harry hadn’t eaten for almost a week, and the beatings and been so furious that he’d been sure they would be his last. He remembered the drawn out days lying in his sweltering cupboard, his back a bloody mess of cuts from the sharp edge of the belt as it lashed against him, his head on fire, swollen, raw, tortured.

“I’ll make it so easy for you, Harry.” Fudge said gently as he raised his wand. Harry barely had a chance to register what was happening before a strange warmth settled over him, as if someone had wrapped him in a towel fresh from the dryer. The heat settled into his hair first, his scalp tingling slightly as the sensation dripped onto his shoulders and down his back, coating him in a heavy, hot, glaze. His eyelids felt weak, and he started to turn his head, but found he couldn’t move. His heart beating faster, he tried to step backwards, but his legs wouldn’t obey. He felt like he was trapped in a thick pool of warm mud. All over his body it held him fast, restraining him, weighting him down, and he opening his mouth to cry out, but was met with silence as his body ignored all instructions. He fought against the attack, but he was still as stone, his heart racing, throwing itself against his chest like a feral animal as with every ounce of strength he struggled against the invisible bonds.

“I see you have not heard of this particular spell.” The Minister stated, grinning as he walked slowly towards Harry. He looked thoughtful for a moment, his wand trained on the boy as he spoke again. “Oh, of course not. How silly of me. None of your professor’s would teach you about such dark magic at this young of an age. I suppose it was different in my day. Our professor’s were much more lenient, though back then we were expected to know much in the ways of the Dark Arts. The Imperius Curse was far more acceptable back then.” The Minister’s smile faded as he came to a stop in front of the terrified boy, his arm out, wand quivering gently in his hand. “Voldemort made men of us all.” he whispered pensively. “Much too soon.”

Harry stood motionless, sweat beaded on his brow, and a drop of perspiration trickled down his forehead and into his left eye. He couldn’t even wipe it away, his eye watering furiously at the intrusion. His skin prickled with goose bumps as the realization hit him. He was trapped. Trapped with Craig, the man who had beaten him, whipped him, trapped with the man who had orchestrated it all, and the familiar sour taste of bile rose in his throat, his body rigid as his muscles screamed in agony from exertion.

“Mister Potter.” Fudge continued, pulling a red silk handkerchief from his robe pocket. He balled the material in his hand and gently dabbed at Harry’s brow. “It seems it has not been explained to you, the full potential of your existence. You are more important than you realize, to me, to us, to everyone.” He walked around Harry as he spoke, his wand still drawn. “Are you aware of how many witches and wizards we lost to the monster Voldemort?” he asked, his voice growing louder as he circled. “Your own Father and Mother were victims of his madness. How many more would you allow to suffer? How many more must die? Do you not understand who you are, child? You are our savior!” Fudge stood in front of Harry now, his face dewy and flushed, eyes wild, and Harry’s stomach twisted in fear. The urge to vomit was overwhelming, and for a moment he wondered how he would, not being in control of his body. He could barely hear the Minister’s rants for the whooshing of his frantic heartbeat in his ears.

He tried to cry out as Fudge reached out, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“You will save us, Harry. You will fight for us all. For those who came before you, and for those who come after. You will join us, and you will learn the skills you need to defeat the plague of the Dark Lord. Don’t worry.” he said gently, his hand coming up to cup Harry’s cheek. “Your friend will be there.” he said, nodding at Craig. Craig took a few hesitant steps towards Harry.”

“Come on, Kid.” Craig said beseechingly. “Just do what he says and it’ll all be over soon. Just listen to him, ok? It’s for the best.”

Harry suddenly felt himself stir, and for a fleeting, excitable moment he thought he had been freed from the spell, but his legs began to move on their own, walking him across the room to a table where several papers and a quill had been laid out. He read the title of the pages as the Minister came up behind him.

Legal Certificate of Adoption

Waves of panic rose within him, and again he tried again to wrestle free of the spell, his face reddening from the effort, muscles twitching, sweat pouring down his face now as he battled the bonds of the curse.

“Stop!” shouted Fudge said as came quickly around the other side of the table. He slammed his free hand down on the dark wood and screamed the word again. Terrified, Harry forced himself to stop struggling as Fudge stared wildly at him. There was silence as the Minister’s heavy breaths petered out. “There is more than one way to skin a cat.” Fudge spat bitterly. He paused a moment, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Muggles have such revolting ways of putting things.” He flicked his wand at the boy, and Harry watched in horror as one of his hands reached out to secure the paper, the other reaching out of its own volition to pick up the quill. He thought his heart would explode as he pressed the self-inking quill against the paper and proceeded to sign his name, his pleas screaming inside his head so loudly that he almost thought he could hear them out loud.

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he finished his first name. That seemed to be one thing the Minister didn’t have control over. Natural, raw, emotion. That was still Harry’s. That was still unbound and free, and the tears fell onto the document as Harry signed himself away, signed himself over to the Minister, one agonizing letter at a time.

P

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E….

Snape stepped out onto the Russer’s hearth cautiously, wand at the ready even before uttering the destination from his own fireplace. As quiet as a summer breeze he stole across the room, checking the few small rooms of Ernie’s home. Finding the dwelling vacant, he held his wand out in front of him.

“Point me, Harry Potter.”

Slowly, the wand flinched a little to the right, the tip glowing ever so slightly indicating again, as was Severus’ assumption that the boy was far beyond the confines of Sunderland.

“Point me, Craig Russer.” he spat, the name feeling revolting on his tongue, and again, the wand repeated its performance. The two were together, of course. With a heavy tone, one that sounded with hesitation, reluctant to see the repeated tensing of the wand as it pointed away from town.

“Point me…Ernie Russer.”

Slowly, the tip of the wand changed to an azure green, shuddering gently against his palm as it pulled to the left. Severus’ eyes narrowed as he allowed the wand to guide his steps. Across the living room it led him, through the doorway and into Ernie’s private bedchamber. The wand pulled softly, directing the confused Professor to the low bed against the far wall, and then was motionless, almost falling from Severus’ grasp as it ended its escort.

Confused, Snape knelt down and checked under the bed, finding nothing except a small pair of tartan slippers. The bedside table revealed nothing of importance, and Severus rose, brow skewed in puzzlement as he scanned the area. His eyes fell upon a small, brown teddy bear lying against Ernie’s pillow. Bending down, he picked up the little bear and studied it, not recalling Ernie ever owning such an item, or certainly he would have teased him mercilessly about it. A tuft of white fur crowned the little animal’s head, jutting out in all directions, and a single, yellow, button eye stared back at him.

“Hideous little thing.” Severus said quietly, placing the bear back against the pillow.

Suddenly, eyes widening in realization, Severus brandished his wand and glared down at the toy.

“Finite Incantatem”

The little bear shuddered, twisting to and fro before it began to slowly grow larger, the bushy fur falling quietly to the floor, the gleaming button eye twitching madly as the toy transformed.

“Bloody well took you long enough!” spluttered Ernie as returned to his own form, rolling off the bed and glaring up at his friend.

“Harry has been taken.” Severus said tersely, ignoring the pointed look from his friend and striding back into the living room. “It seems Craig has...” Snape paused not entirely sure how to break the news of Craig’s deception.

“Not just Craig.” Ernie said gravely, following close behind. He stopped and looked up as Snape turned to face him. “I could hear everything.” Ernie explained. “I heard…I heard Craig. He’s done something, hasn’t he?” It was more a statement than a question, and Severus nodded solemnly.

“I believe while we attended the conference, Craig transformed himself using a Polyjuice and abused Harry. I do not know the extent of it.” he said quickly, seeing Ernie’s face contort with sudden anger. “I know only that the boy was beaten, nothing more.”

“There was another.” Ernie said quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose, head bowed. “I barely got a good look at him, it happened so fast. He had me as soon as I opened the door. Didn’t even have a chance to…I’m sorry, Severus.” he finished lamely, lifting his head to take in Snape’s understanding gaze.

“I hardly blame you for what’s happened.” Snape assured Ernie as his friend looked around suddenly, patting his pockets.

“Buggers took my wand.” Ernie mumbled, holding a splayed hand out in front of him and whispering a locating spell. He skittered around the room for a moment before pulling his wand from inside a vase of flowers, muttering various uncouth phrases as he wiped the rod dry with his robes. With a determined look, Ernie pocketed his wand and headed to the door, Severus in tow.

“Right.” Ernie said in a tone that chilled even Severus. “Let’s track down that bastard.”

“I have no doubt this mystery fellow and Craig are together with Harry.” Severus said stonily.

“I wasn’t talking about the other guy.” Ernie said heatedly, whispering a tracking spell and starting off down the sidewalk. “I was talking about my brother.”

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“For Merlin’s sake, Severus, slow down!” Ernie panted as the two ran mad dash into the Ministry of Magic. Wizards finishing their evening business in the building stared in curiosity as the pair ran through the main floor to the elevator. Severus pressed his thumb against the elevator call button almost a dozen times before snarling angrily at the small, glowing button as Ernie came to a halt beside him.

“I’m two feet tall you headstrong fool.” Ernie breathed as he bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “You need to let me keep up, man.”

“Perhaps I could carry you.” Severus drawled, his voice laced with wrath as the elevator opened. He grabbed Ernie by the shoulder and pulled him into the car before mashing another button furiously.

Ernie slapped his friend’s hand away and threw him a glare that carried as much if not more intensity than if he had two eyes filled with flashing ire.

“Where is he?” Ernie whispered, looking at his watch for the tenth time since arriving in London.

“He will be here.” replied Severus, his eyes transfixed on the changing numbers as they flickered on the display screen above the door.

“I hope he was right about this.” Ernie said anxiously as the elevator came to a halt. “Because if he wasn’t…”

“Oh I am.” came the familiar voice as the elevator doors lurched open.

“Albus!” Ernie exclaimed, the relief evident in his tone.

With a solemn nod towards each wizard, Dumbledore stepped into the elevator, his cream robes cascading gently around his feet.

“It is unfortunate that we must meet under such circumstances.” Dumbledore said, removing his wand from his robes and flicking it gently at the small, metal door that contained the keypad. It swung open, and at a whispered spell, several of the numbers began to depress. Moments later the elevator shuddered and began its descent, and shortly after, the slow crawl backwards, the doors opening to reveal the lavish hallway.

“There are few who know about Cornelius’ private office.” Albus explained as the trio started off down the hall. Severus slowed as he eyed the scuffed carpet, and his heart tightened at the thought of Harry being forced down this very corridor.

“Wands at the ready, gentlemen.” Albus whispered. “I believe the Minister will be less than pleased at our intrusion.”

Wands drawn, the three approached the great, oak door. Severus lay the tip of his wand against the slab, the voices inside suddenly audible in the hall.

“This will all be over soon.” came the Minister’s voice, labored from the extended application of the curse. “A little more, there you go.”

“On three gentlemen.” Dumbledore whispered, receiving nods from both wizards.

“One……….two……”

“Three.” Severus said quickly, pushing open the officer door, wand turned on the first figure in sight.”

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Harry didn’t understand what was happening at first. He didn’t even feel the quill fall from his hand, or hear the shouts of dismay and anger echoing around the room. He started to topple, unable to bring his arms up to break hit fall, and fell like a marble statue against the corner of the desk, his face coming in contact with the sharp wood, the Imperius curse coming to an end as Fudge’s wand was brandished in a different direction, his concentration broken.

Realizing he could move once more, Harry scrambled away from the noise towards the Minister’s large desk, pulling himself up onto the dais and crawling quickly around the table and slipping underneath. He pushed himself into the corner, knees drawn to his chest, hands shaking uncontrollably, breaths coming in short, painful gasps as he huddled in terror.

The clamor in the room intensified. Shouted spells filled the air, and flashes of light from thrown curses crackled and snapped in showers of sparks.

Then there was silence.

“Harry?”

He ignored the request to show himself. Even after realizing it was Snape, even though he knew it was not the Professor who had harmed him, even though the voice was heavy with concern, the same voice that had promised him that one night that seemed a million nights ago.

I will not hit you

A lump formed in Harry’s throat as his name was repeated, and he swallowed hard, pain racing down his neck and across his chest, and there again, deep inside, the tiny shred of something lay wary and tired, but stirring none the less.

“Harry.”

The voice was much softer now, much closer, filled with hope and relief and panic all at once. Slowly, requiring much more effort than he felt capable of, Harry lifted his head and focused his eyes on the face of the Professor. Snape was crouched in front of him, Fudge’s chair pushed aside, his dark eyes alive with emotion, and the two stared at each other, the raised voices of wizards in the background.

Almost a minute passed, Severus allowing Harry to become accustomed to his presence, making no movement, offering no words of comfort. Though he had little knowledge of exactly what the boy had been through in his absence, all he had to do was look in Harry’s wild, green eyes to glimpse the apprehension and mistrust they held. Severus didn’t have to be told. Everything was right there, staring back at him from under the desk, searching his soul. Severus maintained the eye contact, grateful the boy could even stand to look at him. Could there be any hope for the child? Was he completely lost to the despair of his abuse?

“It wasn’t you.” The words were more breathed than spoken, and Severus shook his head gently.

“No.” he whispered, slowly extending his hand to the boy. “No, it was not.”

“It wasn’t you.” Harry repeated, eyes gleaming in the dim light, making no move to take the Professor’s hand, but not shying away from the attempted contact.

“It was not me.” affirmed Snape, glancing at Harry’s hands which were trembling against his chest. He lifted his outstretched hand slightly, repeating the offer of assistance. Forever seemed to pass in those moments, but finally the small hand slipped forward and hesitantly grazed against the Professor’s outstretched fingers. Snape quickly took Harry’s hand in his, feeling the cool, tremulous flesh against his warm palm, never taking his eyes from the boy’s, and just then there was a moment where he thought Harry might pull away, a tenseness in his grip, and he spoke with as much sincerity in his voice as he could summon as he repeated the promise he had made before the child allowed himself to trust for the first time.

“I will not let you go.”

With a gentle tug, he drew Harry out and to his feet, steadying the boy as he stumbled in his weakened state. He pulled the chair over and let Harry sink into the soft leather. It was all he could do not to embrace the boy, to comfort him, but the panic was still evident in those clenched, trembling hands, and Severus felt his skin crawl at the atrocities those hands had desperately tried to shield from.

“I will take you home.” Severus said quietly. “To my home.” he added quickly, lest Harry think he was being returned to his aunt and uncle. Harry merely nodded weakly, as Snape kept a reassuring hand on his shoulder, the man forcing the contact even at the jolt of fear that rippled through the boy at the touch. He would offer this small comfort at least, a promise that his touch was not to be feared, something he would likely have to prove to the child a thousand times over. Something he would gladly prove a million times over.

Harry flinched as Snape’s hand gently squeezed his shoulder. The touch was warm, tender, a little hesitant, and Harry’s cheeks reddened as he ducked his head. It hadn’t been the Professor who had harmed him, he knew that now, but the memory of those black robes, the scent of herbs and fire mingled with horror and flashes of pain, fear, and suffering. The emotions churned though him. The terrified bewilderment, desperation, the hopelessness, it was all there again, swirling around inside him, waiting to explode, waiting for release. Harry took in a deep breath, cringing at the pain of the sensation, like a thousand butterflies in his stomach, churning, ripping at his gut, clamoring in his throat, smothering him.

Harry clutched the sides of the chair in a vice grip. The Professor shifted beside him, and Harry knew the man was watching, knew he was studying him, and he gulped down the breath, forcing the swarm of emotion back down, deep down, down where no one would ever find them, where they couldn’t escape, not now, not ever. He closed his eyes, concentrating, pushing, forcing it all into the dark until all he could see was the black, but then the black started rippling, undulating, fluttering towards him like a dying bird, billowing black robes coming closer and closer.

With an almost inaudible gasp, he threw his eyes open, wincing at the light, feeling the Professor’s grip tighten ever so slightly as Snape stared down at him. Harry didn’t look up. Instead, he forced himself to look around the room, which was filling with Ministry officials. Both Craig and Fudge had been restrained, but even so, Dumbledore stood with his wand trained on both men.

“How could you?” Ernie shrieked, having climbed up onto a chair in order to confront his brother face to face. “How could you hurt a child? Why would you do such a thing? I’m so ashamed of you right now I could just -”

“Oh to hell with how you feel!” roared Craig, pulling against his restraints. “To hell with the great Ernie Russer! To hell with your goddamn potions and awards and all the other things you’ve rubbed in my face all my life!” Ernie froze, eye wide in shock.

“I’ve never done that!” he replied, his voice warbling with emotion. “I’ve always encouraged you, I tried to help you, I –”

“Bullshit!” Craig hissed, his voice rising to a shout as he continued. “You’ve never wanted me to be great at anything. Mum and Dad always went on about how fantastic you were at this, how amazing you were at that. All my life I’ve had to hear about how wonderful you are, how great of a wizard you were, and all I got was goddamn pity and bullshit and a pat on the goddamn head!”

Ernie looked on, stunned, as Craig continued his tirade.

“Then you get me some shit-for-brains job with a bunch of idiots that can’t tell a fucking telephone from a pony, and all I hear all day is how goddamn wonderful you are, what life saving potion you’re working on, and how lucky I must feel to have been adopted into your family. All I was was the poor little Muggle brother of the famous Ernie Russer. You think you’re so goddamn smart.” Craig spat, his eyes narrowed, pure hatred dripping from each word. “Let me tell you something, brother. I lived in your shadow for long enough. You tried to keep me down your whole life, and finally, when it’s my turn to shine, you hold me back…again.”

Ernie shook his head in disbelief, face pale; hands limp at his sides, tears spilling down his cheek.

“Jealousy?” he asked softly, his voice a mere whisper as he desperately tried to comprehend his brother’s words. “You did this because you were jealous of me? I love you, Craig.” he said piteously, one hand rising to be placed over his heart. “I love you more than you could ever realize. I can’t…I….if you had only…I…” The room was silent as Ernie’s voice broke, his soft weeping echoing off the walls.

“It probably won’t mean much.” Craig suddenly announced, lifting his head and focusing past Ernie, his eyes connecting with Harry’s. “But I’m sorry about what I had to do to you, kid.”

Harry felt the surge of anger from the man next to him. It was almost tangible, and Harry leaned away from the Professor, as if the fury would spill out and slice him to pieces.

“Had to do?” Snape questioned, outrage clearly etched on each word. “How dare you.” he continued releasing his hold on Harry and stepping forward. “How dare you apologize after what you’ve done.”

At Snape’s movement, several ministry officials startled, more than a few wands now making the furious Professor their target as others led Craig and Fudge from the room.

Dumbledore made his way towards Snape, pausing a moment to silently lay a hand on Ernie’s shoulder, waiting for the grateful nod before moving on, giving his own nod to Snape and taking his place at Harry’s side as the Professor stepped down from the dais.

Slowly, Ernie slipped down from the chair. He stood motionless, one hand on the wooden rail for support, brow furrowed in confusion as he turned and looked up at Severus.

“I….”

Severus knelt down, his face somber, obsidian eyes awhirl with pity and rage.

“I….” Ernie squeaked, overcome with emotion as he wrapped his arms around Severus.

“I know.” Snape said gently, pulling back and giving Ernie a sympathetic look before holding him close again. “I’m so sorry, Ernie.”

The little man nodded into the Professor’s shoulder. A long moment passed before Ernie cleared his throat and stepped back, allowed Severus to stand.

“Professor Snape?”

Severus turned to one of the officials and raised his eyebrows in reply.

“I will take care of this, if I may.” Albus said loudly, making his way down to the group. The petite, blonde witch gave the headmaster a guarded look.

“Professor Dumbledore, Sir, with all due respect, I think its best if I –”

“Allow Professor Snape to take his young charge home.” Albus interrupted. “I couldn’t agree with you more, young lady. Consultation would be best left until all involved are feeling up to task. An ideal proposal, I must say.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, carved bird, the greenstone shimmering under the bright office lights as he handed the little avian to Severus, who nodded wordlessly before making his way back up to where Harry was still seated.

“I really must –”

“Now my dear.” Albus cut in, earning an exasperated look from the witch, her face matching her crimson robes as he glared angrily at the headmaster. “I would be in your debt if you would be so kind as to escort my friend and me along with the prisoners. I believe there is much information to be gathered from the gentlemen involved.”

Harry watched as Snape approached him, the jade bird visible between his slender fingers as his other hand reached out to help him to his feet. Ignoring the gesture, Harry pushed himself out of the chair, feeling unsteady almost instantly, his head swam painfully, and his face ached where it had come in contact with the table when he’d fallen earlier. He closed his eyes, and there was the hand, Snape’s hand, fingers wrapping around his upper arm. Harry stiffened, flinching at the feel of those cold digits digging into his flesh, grabbing at his arms, pinning him, forcing him, and then they were at his face and his throat, snatching his breath and his life as he tried to breathe and breathe and breathe….

He wasn’t expecting the port key.

He felt the smoothness of the stone pressed against his hand, and suddenly everything was twisting as if caught in a tornado. Wind whipped at his hair and stung his face. He felt like he was floating, caught in some monstrous uptake of air. His eyes were still clenched shut, throat tight, chest heavy, and the hand was still here, harder now, almost panicked in its strength of grip, and suddenly there was ground beneath him, and his knees buckled, his hands slamming against the floor as the tumultuous journey came to a halt.

He felt the sudden warmth of a crackling fireplace on his cheek, and he cautiously opened his eyes. His fingers were entwined in the tassels of a thick, brown rug, and on the walls, gently shimmering candles sat in crystal sheaths, sending flickering tendrils of light out into the room.

Snape’s room.

Snape’s sitting room.

Harry he scrambled to his feet, his eyes on the door as his mind formulated a route of escape. Then it came to him. He wasn’t supposed to be afraid here. No one was supposed to hurt him here. Snape hadn’t hurt him, yes; he remembered that, he knew that. He didn’t feel relieved really, more just a strange kind of acceptance. All the other feelings were gone, locked away where they couldn’t escape, just like he had spent all his life wanting to escape, but couldn’t. They were all shut away like he had been.

Letting out a heavy breath, Harry looked around the room, his eyes coming to a stop on the Professor, who was standing several feet away, an odd, helpless look in his eyes.

“Harry?”

He blinked as if in answer, staring back at the man expectantly, then he shook his head quickly, like he did when the cobwebs floated down on his face at night in the cupboard.

“Yes, Sir?”

“I apologize for our sudden departure. There was not adequate time to prepare you for travel by port key.”

Harry nodded.

“That’s alright, Sir.” he replied softly.

Severus narrowed his eyes in confusion. He had been expecting a wild, panicked young man upon landing, certainly not the subdued Harry he was seeing. It was as if someone had flipped a switch on the boy’s feelings, not that it would surprise him. With all the child had been through recently he wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to feel anything. It would likely be a horrendous assault.

Just then, Della appeared in the doorway, emitting a high pitched squeal of delight at seeing Harry, her ears erect momentarily, only to fall against her head with a soft slapping sound.

“Little Master!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and giving Harry a wistful look. “Della is being hoping you is to be back soon. Is Little Master being hungry? Della will be making anything you wish!”

Harry shook his head and gave the excited little elf a weak smile.

“No thank you, Della.” he replied. “I’m tired. I think I’d just like to go to bed.” he continued, glancing at the Professor, who gave him an approving nod.

“A fine idea.” Severus acknowledged, giving Della a dismissive look. Harry gave another half hearted smile as he followed Snape across the room to the foyer.

“I believe Della has tidied your room.” Severus explained as the two walked down the narrow hallway. “However there are several other guest rooms available should you prefer.”

Severus slowed to a stop turned to face Harry. The boy’s features were partly obscured by shadow, but in the flickering light Severus could see the impassiveness, the eyes devoid even of apprehension. “I would not blame you if you felt unease at returning to your previous quarters.” he said carefully, seeing no discernable expression with which to gauge Harry’s feelings. “Harry,” he continued, his voice taking on a compassion he never thought he could ever feel for another. “Harry whatever happened in that room, what Craig did…I…I should like to help you come to terms with. If you could just tell-”

“It’s alright, Professor.” Harry replied, his voice steady, methodical. “I know it wasn’t you.”

“But he looked like me, Harry. You thought it was me. I can scarcely imagine what must have gone through your mind thinking it was I who was hurting you.”

“But it wasn’t you!” Harry exclaimed, his voice hard with sudden anger. “It wasn’t you and it’s over now and it doesn’t matter!” He pushed passed Snape and headed towards his bedroom door with purposeful strides. He barely paused as he pushed the door open, the heavy wood hitting the wall as it was flung open, and Severus saw the tensing of the boy’s shoulders, the violent flinch at the crack before the door slammed shut behind him.

Severus stood alone in the hall, his eyes on the closed door. He couldn’t leave Harry like this, not in this state. He would have almost preferred a terrified, sobbing child as opposed to the detached young man he had just witnessed. It simply wasn’t possible for Harry to be this accepting of what had happened, not after the abuse he had suffered in his life. Suddenly it became all too important to learn of Craig’s treatment of the boy, and Severus’ blood ran cold at the thought of the inexpressive behaviour being the result of such severe cruelty.

A gentle tapping sound took his attention, and he turned to see Della standing at the end of the hall, head cocked to one side, one ear swaying softly as she looked at her master in anticipation. She shuffled a few steps further towards him, her bare feet slapping against the warm, wood floor as she made her way up the hall. As she reached him, Severus noted the stark, white object in her hand along with a tiny, pink vial, a small pot of healing balm he realized, and a Dreamless Sleep, taken from his own stores; however he had made no request for either item. Della paused, tentatively holding out the delicate glass jar and vial, eyes hopeful and gleaming, allowing her master to take the containers from her cupped hands.

“Ever insightful.” Severus murmured, allowing a fleeting smile to graze his features as Della’s face brightened into an ecstatic grin.

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Harry stood surveying the room. It seemed so much smaller in this light, with only the bedside lamp illuminating the space. Snape was right, Della had been busy. The room looked as pristine as the first day he’d arrived. The bed was made, with different sheets, Harry noticed, and his trunk sat in the corner. Harry eyed it anxiously. He didn’t want to look inside it, not yet. He stood near the door, hands quivering a little, his heart feeling as if it would explode in his chest, and he clenched his fists a few times, his fingers tingling. He walked slowly over to the bed, brushing his fingers across the duvet, and he noticed his pajamas, the beautiful black pair the Professor had gotten for him sitting folded on his pillow. Breathing deeply, he picked up the shirt and shook it gently, the soft cotton opening in a surge of rich, black folds. There was no tear in the fabric, no sign of the unraveling threads. Della must have repaired it.

He felt a shiver crawl up his spine. He didn’t think he could ever wear the pajamas again, not in this room especially. He carefully folded the shirt, picked up the pants, and took them over to the chest of drawers. He slipped them into one of the empty drawers and turned back to the bed. He’d just sleep in one of his old shirts, he decided.

He eyed the bed warily, his throat tightening at the sight of it. He swore he could feel fingers clutching at him, and he reached up, hand shaking, not even able to touch his own neck, his hand only ceasing its terrible trembling when it again hung at his side. Eyes closed in concentration; he forced back the panic until he didn’t feel afraid, and soon there was no racing of his heart, no tears prickling at his eyes, nothing but emptiness.

“Harry?”

He hadn’t even heard the knock at the door. His head shot up, eyes taking in the dark form of the Professor staring at him from across the room, eyes narrowed in concern.

“I came to see if there is anything you need.” Severus lied. He actually needed to see for himself that the boy was still alright. After being so close to losing him, his protective instincts had gone into overdrive, though he would never have admitted it. His hand dove into his pocket to retrieve the small jar of salve. The nasty contusion on the child’s cheek should be tended to anyway, something Della had noticed over him, even in her brief interaction with the boy.

“Oh.” Harry murmured.

“For your face.” Severus said, holding up the jar, the lilac cream glowing luminously within. Harry looked confused, obviously unaware he’d even been injured, and Severus’ heart clenched, both in anger and empathy. The boy had been wounded so significantly in his lifetime that a mere bruise was not even registered.

He stepped forward, making his way towards Harry, lifting a hand and pointing at the blue swelling on his cheek. “There.” he said, slowing to a stop before he got too close. He studied Harry’s features as he held out the jar, remaining as still as possible as the boy dipped two fingers into the pale purple cream.

“I don’t…” Harry said softly, pausing. He really couldn’t feel any pain, and he certainly didn’t recall hitting his face on anything, but with all that had gone on today, he wasn’t really sure of anything anymore.

“If I may.” Severus asked, waiting for a hesitant nod before taking Harry’s wrist, noticing the bruises there as well as he lifted the barely trembling hand to the boy’s cheek. Harry winced as his fingers pressed against the raised skin. Ouch, ok so he had hurt himself. He gently rubbed the ointment into the area, head down a little to avoid the Professor’s stare. He knew the man would have questions. It was impossible to expect to be left alone after all of this, but he didn’t want to talk about it right now, he just wanted to forget.

“Harry.” Snape started, depositing the glass jar back into his robes. “I realize you have been through a harrowing experience over the last week, but I…” his words trailed off, not knowing how on earth to start the conversation, knowing that the boy would fight him, knowing that whatever had transpired under Craig’s care was something Harry would repress in a desperate attempt to discount the abuse. Harry had lived with such violent mistreatment his entire life, and Severus recalled the horrific scenes he witness during his journey into the boy’s mind.

Suddenly it dawned on him. Perhaps if he offered the boy a safe haven in which to show the events; a calm, protected unconsciousness where Severus could view the memories. It was obvious verbalizing the abuse was on the verge of impossible for Potter, even before his arrival at the beginning of the Summer, but after allowing himself to finally trust, and then have that trust destroyed, it was doubtful he could put words to his emotions. “Harry.” Snape repeated, his voice more confident now as he began this new train of thought. “You have been through extremely traumatic events recently. For that, I…I am deeply sorry.” He watched as Harry’s frame stiffened almost instantly at the mention of the abuse, and it was all he could do not to pull the boy to him as he had soon after his arrival at the manor, feeling the wracking sobs against his chest as the hurt and suffering was released. “It is no doubt painful for you to discuss.” he continued. “Therefore I would like to offer you another option in order for you to communicate what took place here, and at the Ministry.”

Harry’s head slowly lifted, lower lip in its customary position, eyes narrowed, questioning him, the unease blatant in his stare.

“When I performed Legilimency on you previously, you were in an unconscious state. If you are amenable, I could recreate those circumstances and view your memories of the events without your having to repeat the experience yourself. You would –”

“No,” Harry said sharply, voice wavering even while uttering the single word.

“You would be quite safe.” Snape continued, his voice taking on an urgent tone as he fought to sway the boy.

“No.”

“I would not allow any harm to come to you. I would be right beside you the entire –”

“I said no!” Hary exclaimed, shaking his head emphatically. “Please, Professor.” he said imploringly. “I don’t want to see them, I don –”

“You would not relive the memories, Harry, I promise you. You would be oblivious to entire procedure.” Severus assured him as Harry backed away, his hands out in a halting, protective gesture. “I want to help you, child.” he pleaded as Harry shook his head repeatedly at his words, back up against the wall now, the emerald of his eyes shimmering more intensely with each second.

“Please don’t make me.” Harry managed hoarsely. It was so hard to keep the emotions back. Even now the Professor’s presence still drew the feelings from him, even after those two terrifying days when Harry had thought it was the Professor beating him, even though the sight of the man made his heart rend painfully, he still couldn’t forget the long awaited affection in the Professor’s touch. That’s what had made it so overwhelming to trust him, the amazing feeling of comfort and caring. The last four days had been unbearable because of it, those days when he thought he would die due to the pain, those days when he thought his heart would rip from his chest, those days when he believed he would never feel love again, that’s what hurt the most. It wasn’t the bruises or beatings or the belt slashing down, it was the immense fear of thinking the one person who had ever truly cared for him had stopped. Harry blew out a shuddering lungful of air. No, he had to keep it hidden, had to keep it buried.

He couldn’t feel.

He wouldn’t feel.

Snape watched painfully as Harry tried desperately to compose himself, his arms wrapped around his own torso protectively, white-knuckled in his intensity. He clearly couldn’t force the issue. The boy needed reassurance that his wishes would be heard and respected, a simple offering to most, but surely monumentus to a boy who under Craig’s administration likely had the most simple of wishes ignored.

“Alright.” Severus said, sighing softly. “I will not press the issue until your health has improved. I daresay a day or two of quiet rest would do you a world of good. We can revisit the idea when you are feeling up to it, alright?”

Harry nodded gratefully, letting out his own sigh of relief.

Severus reached into his robes and retrieved the vial. “Dreamless Sleep.” he explained. “Though you are clearly exhausted, I felt it best not to take chances. I know nightmares have haunted you in the past. I will leave this with you should you need it.”

Harry nodded again, one hand falling to his side, the other across his body tangling the opposite sleeve between unsteady fingers. He watched as the Professor sat the tiny vial down on the bedside table. He gave Harry one last supportive nod before exiting the room. Harry was suddenly freezing, shivering in the coolness of the room. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but all of a sudden he was absolutely icy. Forgoing pajamas in his frigid state, he slowly approached the bed, pulling back the sheet and duvet guardedly as if expecting something to leap out at him. Slipping off his shoes he quickly crept under the warm covers, ignoring the hollowness of his stomach, forcing the feeling down more quickly this time. He lay with his head on the pillow, eyeing the phial, the shimmering pink liquid sending a gentle surge of colour across the bedside table. He didn’t want the potion; he couldn’t become dependant on it like he had before, so desperate for it that he was willing to do anything for a single sip. He let himself get lost in the glimmering tint, staring until the hue was all he could see, his eyes sinking into the colour, slowly closing again and again until there was just blackness.

He didn’t remember the silencing spell. He didn’t even remember his wand was gone, and when the screams caught in his throat a few hours later, he was grateful that he awoke in time, able to stifle the screams into the pillow before they could be heard by the Professor.

It was nice to be grateful for something at least.

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Severus looked up at the sound of the gentle whooshing emanating from the hearth. He wasn’t expecting company what with Ernie still in London sorting out the mess with his brother, and for a moment his fingers twitched habitually, wanting to reach for his wand.

“Albus.” he said, nodding as the headmaster stepped through the haze of swirling ash.

“Good afternoon, Severus.” The ancient wizard replied, a tired smile at his lips. “My apologies for not notifying you of my visit, but I just escorted Mr. Russer home and I could not think of returning to Hogwarts without checking on Harry. I should dearly like to know how he is doing.”

“That makes two of us.” muttered Severus, placing the book he had been reading down on an end table. “He has barely spoken in two days.” he explained, noticing Dumbledore’s questioning look. “He has done his best to isolate himself from me and has recounted nothing of his treatment by Craig. I felt if I gave him time he might come to me of his own volition, but I fear I may have done him more of an injustice by allowing him time to brood.”

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully.

“Where is Harry now?” he asked. As if in answer, the door leading to the foyer swung open, revealing the young wizard, hair damp and windblown, his face sickly pale in comparison to his rosy cheeks which were reddened by the frigid air. His eyes were heavy lidded with fatigue and under the weary green eyes were tell-tale dark smudges of sleeplessness. His blank expression showed little change at seeing the headmaster.

“Harry!” Dumbledore exclaimed, clapping his hands together in excitement.

“Hello, Sir.” Harry replied politely, his voice so soft the older wizards had to strain to hear it.

“I see you have been enjoying this bout of cool weather.” Albus continued with a gentle smile. “I would be neglectful in my meddling however, if I declined to warn you about the dangers of exposing yourself to such harsh elements without a cloak.”

“Oh.” mumbled Harry, glancing down at his attire. He had forgotten his cloak, not that it mattered. He was grateful for the unseasonal cold snap, actually. The cold winds chilled him right to the core, it gave him something to focus on other than….no; he wasn’t going to think about that. “I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll be more careful.” he replied woodenly. Without waiting for further conversation, Harry turned and walked out of the room leaving his Professor’s staring after him, concern shading both their features.

“He has forgone sleep since his return?” Albus asked.

“He denies it when questioned.” Snape replied. “But the evidence is unmistakable.”

“He does not look well, Severus.”

“I am not blind, Albus.” Severus retorted, followed by a long pause before he mumbled his next words. “My apologies.”

“You are concerned.” Albus said, smiling as he turned and walked back to the fireplace, Severus in tow. “I would not have thought it possible, Severus, but in entrusting Harry to your care I have seen a side of you I thought I would perish before witnessing.” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at the glare he received, however the merriment faded as he continued. “But, it is with earnest that I warn you of what is to come. Harry is weakened, both in heart and in mind. It does him little benefit to avoid his feelings as he has.”

“This is beyond me, Albus.” Snape replied gravely. “It was beyond me weeks ago and it eludes me as to why you consistently believe I can do this boy a service, especially now.”

“Love works wonders, Severus.” Dumbledore said softly, placing a tender hand on his young colleague’s shoulder. “Even on the most impenetrable of hearts. I expect you need young Mr. Potter as much as he needs you.”

“The boy needs stability and permanence of care, not inane philosophy.” Severus replied angrily. “One does not cure the world’s ills with sentiment.”

“Not the world, Severus.” Dumbledore countered. “Just one child.”

Snape gave a customary snort and reached up to the mantle, taking down the heavy pot of floo powder. He poured a generous amount into the headmaster’s palm and gave him a farewell glower as the man swept into nothingness.

“Not the world.” he sneered as he shifted his cloak on his shoulders. He strode across the living room and into the foyer, ascending the stairs with purpose as he headed to Harry’s room.

Severus didn’t have to guess where the young man had gone. It had been the same for the last two days. If Harry wasn’t outside wandering aimlessly around the island, he was in his room, staring out the window, eyes barely registering the view, likely seeing little as he mulled over whatever threadbare emotions he was allowing himself to feel.

Guilt nagged at Snape as he knocked on Harry’s door, not bothering to wait for a spoken invitation, it never came anyway. This is exactly what he had warned that doddering old fool about countless times, his inexperience at dealing with such an emotionally distraught child. Of course he had dealt with Slytherins who had felt the wrath of an angry parent, but nothing like this, and now he had committed another indiscretion, giving the boy time and distance when the exact opposite would have likely settled things days ago. All he had done was made the inevitable more difficult for Harry to tolerate.

Harry barely looked up as Severus entered the room. He had managed to endure the last few days on the most inadequate amount of sleep ever, and he felt some warped sense of pride at having not wakened the Professor with his cries of distress in the night. He didn’t even need the silencing spell now. He had urgently trained his body to awaken after an hour or two of slumber, narrowly missing the REM sleep that fed him the almost intolerable nightmares. He felt constantly dazed, sure, but at least Snape hadn’t tried to get anything out of him, though at the man’s solemn stare, he got the uneasy feeling that was about to change.

“Come.” Snape sad, motioning to the bed. Obediently, albeit slowly, Harry walked over to the bed and settled onto it, cross-legged, hands tangled in his lap as he waited for the older wizard to begin. He steadied himself, trying to prepare for what would surely be an interrogation. His body felt numb from fatigue, his mouth dry and rancid tasting. Even breathing didn’t feel right, as if his lungs were only working at half capacity, and he took in a deep breath as if to test the theory, his chest aching as his lungs expanded. The sudden lightheadedness was startling, and he closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness, steadying himself with trembling hands against the mattress. Unnerved, he stole a glance at the Professor, who was looking at him as if a near faint was exactly what he expected. Returning his hands to his lap, Harry squared his shoulders. He could do this; whatever Snape was planning, he wouldn’t give the man an inch.

“Harry.” Snape said carefully. “First of all I would like to apologize to you.” Harry’s head shot up, completely caught off guard at the Professor’s words. “I apologize for not keeping you safe during your time here.” he continued gravely, his voice taking on an almost sad tone, and worry began to eat at Harry’s thoughts. Snape, sad? “I regret that you found pain in this home instead of stability and contentment, and I apologize for not being more aware of what you require in terms of healing. I…I feel I have failed you in that regard, and for that I am sorry.”

Harry wasn’t sure how to react. Snape was looking at him most sincerely, his face the picture of remorse, and Harry nodded slowly before replying.

“It’s alright, Sir.”

“No.” the Professor said matter-of-factly. “No, Harry, it is not alright, which is why I have come to settle this now. I understand how hard this will be for you, but in time you will come to see that I do this for your benefit only.”

Harry felt as if his heart literally stopped beating. His face drained of what little colour it still had as he stared at Snape in dread.

Severus took in a deep breath, not sure how the boy would react to his next words. “I know only that Craig struck you, and I can only assume the extent of the beatings based on the physical damage I witnessed upon my return from the conference.” He watched as Harry ducked his head, his fingers entwining anxiously as Snape continued. “I realize it is difficult for you to articulate your treatment at Craig’s hands. I assure you that you will feel nothing of what I am about to do.”

Harry’s head shot up, his face taut, eyes flashing accusingly.

“No!” he exclaimed, shuffling backwards at the sight of Snape reaching into his robes. “No, you can’t do that…that thing to me! You said we didn’t have to talk about it. You said I didn’t have to!”

Severus’ expression softened, his hand resting on his wand.

“What I said was that I would allow you some time.” Severus replied. “For the last few days you’ve been robotic. You’ve been through a terrible trauma and you’ve locked it all away. I see the turmoil within you, child, I see the fear and pain churning beneath the surface. I know you’re doing your best to hide it but it’s so clear you are suffering. I cannot allow you to continue like this.”

Harry shook his head, back pressed against the headboard, the top edge of the wood digging into the back of his head as the Professor pulled his sleek wand from his robes and rested it in his lap.

“Don’t. Don’t, please.” Harry begged, eyes on Snape’s wand. “I don’t….I can’t. I’m not ready. You said I didn’t have to until I was ready.”

“I will be with you.” Severus said calmly. “You will feel nothing, Harry, I swear it.”

“You said.” Harry said a little more forcefully this time. How could the man force him into this? It wasn’t at all fair. Why couldn’t he just leave him alone?

“Have you seen yourself lately?” Snape questioned, allowing a hint of reprimand to tinge his words. “If you think I can’t tell you’ve not been sleeping, I assure you, you are severely misguided in that perception. It takes little effort to decipher your emotional state if you recall.”

“Yeah, a one word book, I remember.” Harry replied, slightly annoyed as he slipped off the bed and walked over to the window. He stared out into the haze. The rain was much starting again, and the chill of the day was seeping through the glass causing goose bumps to gather on his bare arms. He felt the tiny bumps under his palm as he rubbed slowly at his forearm, trying to smooth away the cold as one would smooth the wrinkles from a shirt.

“Perhaps….we could start slowly.” Snape said, coming up beside the boy, seeing Harry start slightly at noticing him. “Perhaps you could start by answering a few undemanding yes or no questions. Would that be agreeable?”

Harry gulped noticeably, his eyes still on the murky gloom of the horizon. There was no way he was going to get Snape off his back now. Maybe if he just answered a few questions the man would just go. There couldn’t be anything bad about a few yes and no’s, right? He managed a jerky nod of agreement.

“I would ask, Harry,” Snape said solemnly. “that you answer truthfully. You have nothing to fear from me and nothing to gain from defiance, understood?”

Harry nodded again.

“Are you currently injured in any way that I am not aware of?” Snape asked, and Harry cringed at the obvious infuriation in the man’s voice. If anyone was easy to read, it was the Professor. Maybe he should learn to hide his feelings better instead of projecting them into every single syllable. One word book, huh? Harry mused irritably. He’s a bloody one word book. No, make that two. Pissed, and off.

“No.” Harry answered, and it was true. His face didn’t hurt anymore, and though his chest was still aching slightly, he didn’t really consider that an injury.

“Have you been sleeping at all?”

The next question. A little harder, Harry thought, but answerable. Snape already knew anyway. It’s not like he was revealing anything new.

“Not really.” he replied. Great, now the man was going to insist on sitting with him at night again. He really should think a little more before answering these he thought, but it was so hard to focus when he was so damn tired.

There was a pause then, a long one, long enough to start an uncomfortable feeling swirling in Harry’s stomach, and he knew something was coming, a question he didn’t want to answer, a feeling he didn’t want to feel, and he ceased the slow strokes on his arm, his fingers tightening into the flesh as the Professor stood quietly beside him.

Finally the man spoke; his voice on the verge of a whisper, and Harry could tell that Snape already knew the answer to this question too.

“The nightmares have returned I assume?”

Harry gulped. It didn’t matter that he’d been careful. It didn’t matter that his screams were cut short. Snape knew. He knew because he knew Harry, knew the pain he had suffered at the hands of his uncle, the pain of the nightmares, the pain of the beatings and starvation and hatred and shame, and Harry felt the emotions rising within him, churning, threatening to spill out just as they did that day when he had admitted his family’s loathing of him. He shivered as he recalled the spectacular warmth of being held in real, honest affection, Snape’s arms encompassing him, the whispers of thanks at finally sharing the grief, of allowing Snape to bear it alongside him to ease Harry’s burden. He unclenched his fingers from his arm and pressed his hand hard against his stomach. He couldn’t let them out now; he just couldn’t, no matter how much he wanted the relief of comfort, no matter how desperately he needed the Professor’s strong arms around him, anchoring him, allowing him to finally feel safe, feel wanted, feel loved.

Oh God how he wanted it.

“No.” Harry whispered, closing his eyes hard, breathing hard as he forced the feelings back down. No, he couldn’t trust again. He couldn’t take the chance. It hurt too much. It ripped him apart, tore his world apart. It ravaged him, ate him alive. No way was he going through that again. It would kill him.

“No?” Severus repeated incredulously. His eyes clouded with worry as Harry’s breaths quickened, the boy’s hand slipping from his arm to clutch at his abdomen, eyes clenched shut. The response wasn’t directed at him, he was sure, but rather something internal, something the child was fighting. Something strong. “Harry?” He reached out, his fingers brushing against Harry’s shoulder, his palm barely making contact when Harry recoiled, eyes wide. He took several stumbling steps backwards; eyes locked with Snape’s, those obsidian orbs boring into him.

Severus hadn’t broken his promise; he hadn’t used Legilimency on the boy. Something happened when their eyes met, as if the memories were thrust at him, pushed into his consciousness. They came fast and furious, assaulting Severus’ mind with explosions of emotion, the intensity of which was almost overwhelming. An image flashed of him standing over Harry, a cruel smirk on his face, and he felt the concentrated terror as the image faded as quickly as it came into view. Pictures skittered across his consciousness so quickly he barely had time to register each one before it was replaced by another, each of Snape, arm always raised, eyes glinting with a cruel exhilaration, and each accompanied by the most powerful feeling of fear he had ever witnessed.

It all happened in an instant, less than a second, and as the last image faded he was hit by a final emotion, a yearning, a primitive hunger, a longing, and Severus blinked rapidly, eyes still locked with Harry’s.

There was still hope.

Amid the devastation and fear, there was the smallest glimmer of faith, a shred of anticipation that Snape thought had been eradicated from the boy, torn from him as a storm would tear a fragile leaf from a tree. But he had felt it, it was there, buried beneath a thousand lifetimes of pain, but it was there. Harry wanted to be loved, so desperately he wanted it, but he was so afraid of being hurt, so deathly afraid that he would rather never feel the emotion again than have his trust shattered.

“Harry.” Snape whispered, his voice raw, almost frantic after the onslaught of sensations.

Harry froze, mind awhirl. He had felt the brief penetration of his mind, the unsettling brushing against his memories by another presence, and now the Professor was glaring at him, barely able to say his name. Harry hadn’t meant to do it. He hadn’t meant to show Snape the tempest of chaotic emotions he was trying so hard to keep hidden, but they were frothing so close to the top now, boiling over like a saucepan of milk on a hot stove, and Harry had seen them too, the horrific glances of the beatings by the hand of a transfigured Craig.

He hadn’t meant to show them.

Harry bolted. Urged on by fear he turned and ran across the room, legs barely able to carry him fast enough as he fled down the hall. He slammed against the stair rail, taking the steps three at a time before throwing himself against the door to the foyer, not even knowing why he was running, not even conscious of his mind screaming at him to stop, to go back, so stop running and hiding and…

He burst out of the front door, the heavy rain pelting against his skin, the wind grabbing at his shirt with bitter fingers, his body instantly ice cold as he slowed to a brisk walk down the great stairs, bare feet slapping against the wet stone before squelching into the sopping grass, mud between his toes, drenched now, crying now, exhausted, overcome, lost.

“Harry!” Snape called from behind him. Harry didn’t turn around as he continued his pace towards the trees. Severus followed, closing in on him as he trudged purposefully across the lawn.

“Harry!” he called, certain the boy could hear him now, but his call was ignored.

“What?” Harry screamed suddenly, turning towards the Professor. “What?” he screeched again, arms spread wide, rivulets of rain streaming down his face.

Without waiting for a response, Harry bent down and picked up a good sized tree branch and threw it as hard as he could at the Professor. Severus ducked, the thick wood thudding into the wet grass behind him. He rose, understanding, knowing how much pain was inside this child.

His child.

He stood in silence as Harry took another tree limb, larger this time, and with much effort hurled it towards him. It fell several feet to his left, sending mud spattering across Snape’s robes, but still he didn’t move.

Half sobbing and panting in exertion, Harry stumbled to another branch, the rain and tears clouding his vision as the rough wood scraped his hands. He gathered the log in his arms and turned towards the Professor, tossing the wood with all his might. This time is landed at Snape’s feet, the man not even moving as the heavy log flew towards him.

“What?” Harry screamed, glaring at the Professor who was staring back at him, his face a mix of sadness and understanding.

“What? What?” Harry shouted, turning and wiping his hand across his face. The rain was beating down mercilessly now as he headed for another fallen branch. He lifted it in his hands, his fingers numb from cold, blood from the cuts from sharp splinters running across his palms, the reddened rainwater sliding down the length of wood. He turned to the Professor and lifted the branch above his head, and for a moment Severus thought he might have to defend himself against the distraught boy, but Harry turned again, bringing the branch down against the trunk of one of the smaller trees, smashing at the thin limbs, the cracking of broken wood barely audible over the downpour.

“Why?” Harry cried, slamming the branch against the tree. Again and again he made his attack against the slender trunk, shattered branches hanging awkwardly, chunks of wood falling noiselessly into the grass.

“Why?” Harry shouted into the blanket of rain. He was crying freely now, muscles afire with pain as he tried to lift the heavy branch again, but it fell from his hands landing heavily on the muddy lawn.

Severus took a step forward as Harry whirled around to face him. His eyes were bleary and red as he stared at the Professor.

“Why?” Harry asked weakly as Snape took another slow step towards him. Only a few feet separated them now, and Severus looked down at the boy, Harry staring up at him, his face a heartbreaking expression of hopelessness, his whole body shaking as the adrenalin that had fueled his rampage slowly dissipated.

“I don’t know.” Severus said sadly, shaking his head as he took another step, closing the gap between them, his wet robes flapping in the twisting winds.

“But I didn’t...” Harry sobbed. “I didn’t…and I tried so hard, but…why would he…I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“No, child.” Severus replied gently. “You didn’t do a thing wrong, I promise you that.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” Harry repeated. “I didn’t do…anything!” he sobbed, throwing his fists at Severus’ chest. “I didn’t…I…I did…didn’t do….” The words didn’t make even sense anymore. He sobbed them over and over as he brought his fists down against the Professor, and Serverus stood unwavering, allowing the assault, the attack causing no pain in Harry’s weakened state, and soon after Harry found himself against those beaten robes, falling into them, clutching them for dear life, sobbing against the saturated cloth, screaming against them, and there was the Professor, there was his anchor, the hope he needed, the love he needed, and the arms were there too, heavy on his back, pulling him close, holding him.

He stood there in the storm, tears mixed with rain and anguished cries, Snape’s arms tight around him, never faltering, never for a moment releasing him from their hold, and as the rain slowed so did the tears, the sky as drained as he was as he held on to the only true feeling of love he had ever experienced. Finally, as the glimmering fingers of sun appeared through the parting clouds, so too did the tiny spark of trust within him. He felt it, alive, almost too small to be noticed, but alive, and it gave him the smallest measure of hope as he heard Snape repeat the promise he had whispered a hundred times through the rain.

I will not let you go.

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?”

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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.

“What the hell are you talking about?”  Severus snapped, disbelief shading his features as he scowled across the table.  “How is that even possible?  He spent days torturing a twelve year old child for Merlin’s sake!  Then kidnapped him and delivered him to that bastard, Fudge, and he dares to plead not guilty?”  Snape stood abruptly sending his chair thudding against the wall and slammed his open palms down on the dark wood.  “You give me five minutes alone with that monster, Albus.” He growled.  “If the man wants to claim insanity, I can have it arranged.”

“This is why I asked you to sit down, Severus.”  Albus replied, voice as irritatingly calm as ever.  “You will accomplish little in such a state.”

“Ask Poppy what she saw, the condition of the boy, his injuries.  If you’re foolish enough to believe–”

“I have spoken with Madame Pomfrey.”  Albus countered, standing and leveling a look of warning towards the fuming potions master.  “And like you she shares the same distain for Craig’s argument, but dislike it as we might, the Ministry must accept the plea until the can prove it holds no weight.  I hold no authority over this situation, Severus.”

“You saw Craig’s tirade when he was captured.” Severus thundered.  “The man is a wellspring of hateful revenge.  The Ministry are fools if they think he was mentally unaware of what he was doing for four bloody days!”

Albus sighed.  With head slightly bowed he removed his glasses, rubbing at each eye in turn before replacing the spectacles and blinking rapidly for a moment.  He let out a heavy breath as Snape turned to stalk into the living room.  He followed, reluctant to ruffle the man’s feathers any further with talk of Craig’s plea.  Of course it was ridiculous.  A temporary insanity plea would likely be an abysmal failure, but what it was, was stall tactic.  Muggles were not subject to the same interrogation procedures as the wizarding world, and as such, his assessment could be dragged out for months while suitable psychiatric evaluation was arranged.  He watched as Severus stood with arms tightly folded, staring out the window, jaw furiously clenched.

“How is Harry?”  Albus asked brightly.  “After all, he is the reason for my visit.”

Severus turned and shot a glare at the Headmaster.  How like the old fool to change the course of conversation when Severus was at his most irate.  It was as if the conversation hadn’t happened as Dumbledore peered back at him with a look of unfaltering innocence.  It was no use demanding further discussion regarding Craig.

“He received his last dose of Dreamless Sleep last night.” Severus replied, turning back toward the window.

“Has he spoken much about what happened?”

“A word here and there.”  Snape said stiffly.  “However they are more confirmations than anything.  He offers nothing freely, or of much consequence.”

“The pain is still so fresh, Severus.”  Albus replied.

“No.”  Snape said softly as he watched Harry walk slowly across the meadow, shielding his eyes against the last dregs of sun as he gazed towards the mainland.  “He cannot bring himself to trust fully.  He spent days being abused by someone he thought was me, Albus.”  He turned towards the Headmaster, a strained looked on his face.  “He has tried so hard not to allow my presence to affect him, but often his fear overrides his intentions.”

“Then he wishes to trust you?” 

“I believe so.”  Snape replied.  “The weekend has been spent in relative calm; however, he had the potion to rely on.  He still displayed a few of the mannerisms of distress, though I daresay his emotional state will shift greatly as the day concludes.  I find myself at a disadvantage, blind to the full extent of Craig’s treatment of him, and I have yet to discover a persuasive argument for the use of Legellimency.”

“I see.”  Dumbledore replied, breaking into a knowing smile.  “I am under the assumption then, that you still have not told Harry how you feel about him?”

“And that would help how?”  Severus snarled, annoyed at the Headmaster’s unwillingness to view the situation with the seriousness required.  “What exactly do you suggest?  That instead of attempting to have him deal with his abuse that I simply tell him that I care about him?  I’m sure Harry will be completely cured of all emotional agony upon hearing that from me.  What a ridiculous suggestion, Albus.  With your indifference one would think you had no interest in the boy’s mental state.”

“Oh no, not at all my boy.”  Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling, ignoring the scathing remark.  “I do not suggest you tell Harry that you care about him.”  He turned his head to a banging sound coming from the foyer.  “I suggest,” he continued, lowering his voice as he took a few steps towards the potion master and laid a hand on his shoulder.  “that you tell Harry you love him.”

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That was nice.”  Harry said as he followed Snape over to the writing desk in the corner of the living room.  “That Professor Dumbledore stayed for dinner.” he explained as the man shot him a questioning look.

“Hmm, yes.”  Snape replied, putting little effort into a sincere response.  An evening with an excited Ablus Dumbledore was not exactly on his bucket list, and listening to the old man recount wild stories of James Potter to a rapt Harry did nothing but bring up old memories, though he had found solace in the fact that Harry seemed to thoroughly enjoy the ramblings.  He picked up a rolled parchment from a stack of mail and broke open the seal.  “It’s nearly bedtime.” he continued, glancing at the clock on the mantle.  “You’d best start getting ready.”

“Oh, right.”  Harry said faintly, feeling his chest tighten just a fraction.  This was it then, time to return to the nights of repeated waking and sobbing into his pillow.  He’d had one small accomplishment though.  He’d managed to convince Snape to let him stay in his room.  The Professor had wanted to move him to the guest quarters across from his own room but Harry had refused, insisting that he was perfectly able to stay where he was, and that he felt no distress about being there.

It was a complete lie of course, but he’d told it well.  There was no way Snape wouldn’t hear his screams if he was right across the hall, and even though Harry felt sick to his stomach at the thought of sleeping in the bed where he’d almost been choked to death, it was better than having Snape see his nightmares.

“Well, goodnight, Sir.  See you tomorrow.”  He started across the room but almost stumbled over his own feet when he heard the Professor call after him.

“I will join you shortly.”

“Sir?”  he asked anxiously, turning back to the man as Snape lowered the parchment he had been reading.

“I will join you shortly.” Severus repeated.  “I would hardly leave you to face the night alone after all that has happened, Potter.”  He waved the aged sheet of paper at the boy.  “Off you go, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

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Harry sat on his bed nervously twisting the hem of his nightshirt between his fingers.  How on earth was he going to get through the night with Snape sitting right there?  His wand was gone and there was no way he could cast the silencing spell without it.  He’d even tried in the bathroom, whispering the incantation over and over until the thick steam from the hot shower forced him to quickly bathe and retreat from the muggy room.  He’d contemplated just not sleeping, which would probably work for a few days.  He’d been rather good at waking himself just before entering a dream state, but with the Professor sitting right there it would be impossible.  He gave a savage twist of his shirt.  He felt so cheated!  He’d only had two days of blissful rest, free from nightmares, falling asleep in the fogginess of Dreamless Sleep and awaking to the Professor’s gentle admonishments of being a “shiftless Gryffindor”.

Two days.  That’s all he had gotten.  It seemed so unfair to be allowed only forty eight hours of respite after all he had gone through.  His nerves had been on edge most of the time , knowing that in two short days he would be without the calming support of the potion.  If Snape had known how he felt he didn’t say anything.  On Saturday he kept Harry busy with menial tasks; slicing ingredients in the lab, discussing some of the various potions that sat bubbling in the corner, and helping Della create a lavish cake of which he only let Harry have a tiny slice, citing some likely made up study regarding the dangers of increased caloric intake in young males.  Sunday had been Harry’s favourite though, a long walk around the island to replenish the Professors medicinal herb supplies. 

They’d headed out early that morning.  Snape had shown him the broken hedgerows where he harvested the reddish, creeping Agrimony and shrubbish Catmint.  He demonstrated how to collect the delicate Feverfew leaves and sticky Henbane, making sure to explain the medicinal benefits of each plant as Harry knelt silently next to his Professor, attention fixed on each tiny flower or leaf as Snape spoke.  Heartsease for inflammation, Partidgeberry for nervous exhaustion (he’d given Harry a pointed look then), and the ugly, insect-eating Sundew for asthma and gastic ulcers.  Harry had been so enthralled that he barely noticed the day pass, and his excitement turned to dread as the cool winds blew in and the sun curled its fiery fingers into sunset.  As they returned home, the silence fell between them, broken only by a muttered careful by the Professor as Harry stumbled over an unearthed root.  As they reached the manor, Harry slowed to a stop to watch the fading glow of sunlight against the hazy backdrop of the mainland.  Snape had come up alongside him, and after a few moments patted Harry on the shoulder and instructed him to stop dilly dallying.  As Harry turned, Snape’s hand remained despite the subtle shudder that rippled through the boy, and they’d walked back together, the Professor’s arm snaked across his shoulders, casually discussing the potions he was planning to have Harry assist him with that week, as if walking in the half embrace was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry sighed wistfully and released his shirt to rub at his eyes.  Snape still hadn’t asked him where his pajamas were or why he wasn’t wearing them.  That was the only good thing about the last two days, the Professor hadn’t made him talk about anything or asked him any questions about Craig.  He had asked him again about using the…what was it again, Legemincy?  That thing where he’d go traipsing around in Harry’s memories, opening whatever door he felt like and peering in on any part of Harry’s life he wanted.  He’d promised, like he had before, that Harry wouldn’t have any knowledge of what Snape was seeing, but in Harry’s mind that just made it worse.  Nothing felt more vulnerable than having the Professor inside his head.  It was just too open, too intimate, and the thought of the Professor seeing all those memories made him nauseous.                   

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Severus made his way down the hall towards Harry’s room, questioning himself yet again about the wisdom of allowing the boy to remain in his bedroom.  He’d mentioned the idea of moving him to the larger room directly opposite his own, but Harry had been adamant in his being fine to remain where he was.

Severus slowed to a stop a few feet from Harry’s door, knowing that the shadows would keep him almost invisible.  He watched as the boy fumbled with his shirt, his face drawn, worried, his hands trembling as he fretted at his closed eyes with bent fingers.  Harry had done remarkably well over the last two days, Severus thought, considering how palpable his fear had been only days before.  He’d kept the boy well occupied, making sure to stay close, and finding excuses to lay a gentle hand on the child as often as he could.  It was Severus’ subtle way of reminding Harry that not all touch was to be feared, not all touch hurt, and most importantly, that his touch would never cause him pain. 

Severus felt a fragile sense of pride at his treatment of Harry the last few weeks.  He wasn’t the same man who had offered such clumsy comfort during those first arduous days at the manor.  Now he felt immense confidence in his ability to deal with whatever terrors haunted the boy, and the love he felt for Harry was fiercely embraced rather than rejected. 

He stepped into the room, nodding at Harry as their eyes met, fearful green piercing raven black.  Snape guided his usual chair across to Harry’s bedside and seated himself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, Sir.”

“Harry, if I was not interested in an honest answer I would not have bothered asking the question.”  Snape chided gently.

Harry gulped, his fingers returning to the now fraying hem.  He glanced down at the fabric, brow jutting into a frown before slowly dragging his eyes back to meet the Professors intent stare.

“I…I guess….nervous, Sir.” he admitted in a hushed voice, head bowing again, ashamed of the fear that dwelled within him like a coiled serpent.

“Harry, I – look at me, please.”  Harry tentatively inclined his head.  “I promise you, that whatever this night holds, I will not leave you, understood?”  Harry nodded miserably, unable to hold the man’s gaze any longer.  Snape remained silent for a moment.  “Does it frighten you?  The idea of my being here?” he asked solemnly.

“No!”  Harry exclaimed quickly, head snapping up revealing anxious eyes.  “No, Sir, I’m…I’m sorry!”

Sorry for living.  Sorry for breathing.  Sorry for being. 

Severus held up a silencing hand as Harry’s mouth opened again, likely to continue with another round of apologies.  Censored, the boy’s shoulders fell.

“Harry, there is no need to apologize.  Rest assured I would not think ill of you for feeling apprehensive at my presence.”  Harry looked back at him beseechingly. 

“Honest, Sir, it’s…it’s not so bad now.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, Sir” Harry replied, nodding to add further conviction to his statement.  “It’s just I...oh.”  Clamping his mouth shut, Harry quickly looked away, cheeks dusted pink. 

“Harry.”  Severus said quietly, earning a brief, anxious glance from the boy.  “Harry I would very much appreciate if you would finish your statement.”

“It’s just that…well, when…I mean…”  He looked up hopelessly, silently begging the Professor to let it go, but Severus only returned the imploring gaze with a briskly raised brow.  Harry paused, staring down at his fingers as he picked at the unraveling hem.  “It’s just, sometimes it feels so horrible to be touched.” Harry admitted quietly.  He swallowed as emotion welled in his throat.  “I don’t really like it too much.  It always feels like any second they’re just going wallop me for no reason.” 

Severus bristled at the revelation, sickened and furious all at once that the simple act of being touched could strike such fearful suspicion in a twelve year old.  He opened his mouth to respond when Harry swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and spoke in a frail, uncertain voice.

“Cept when you do.”

Severus felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.  He sat motionless, shocked, almost unable to wrap his mind around the words.  There it was, testimony to the hope he still had for the boy, the hope that he could survive the atrocities of his life and still find it within himself to trust, to allow love.  He reached out and placed his hand over Harry’s, giving it a comforting squeeze.  More than a little undone at Harry’s statement, his mind searched for an insightful or encouraging reply, but he found himself bereft of any appropriate words with which to express himself.

“Thank you.” he managed hoarsely, and after a stabilizing breath, continued in a slightly more stalwart tone.  “Now, I think it’s time you got under the covers.” he instructed, withdrawing his wand and spelling the room into darkness, then, as an afterthought, he waved his wand in the direction of the bathroom, opening the door a crack and setting the light to a dim glow.

Twelve years old or not, sometimes you just needed a nightlight.

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“Potter, stop squirming!”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Severus sighed.

“Harry, it is almost two thirty in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I –” More rustling of blankets.  “I just can’t, Sir.”

The shadowy figure on the bed sat up, the beam of light from the bathroom slipping across his face to reveal the bleary eyed boy.

Severus regarded him for a moment before motioning towards the bed.

“Lay back down.  Close your eyes and try to-”

“I was trying, Sir, I promise.”

“I know you were.  It’s alright.”  Snape replied as Harry reclined back against the mattress.  Severus stood to pull the chair closer to the bed, turning towards the boy, looming over him in the half darkness, his robes sweeping around him.  Instantly Harry’s face drained to stark white, a gasp escaping as one hand braced under him, the other flying to his throat. 

“Harry?”  Snape asked, suddenly concerned.  “What’s wrong?”

Blinking quickly, Harry whispered a soft oh before forcing his hands to his chest.  He stared back at his bewildered Professor who slowly lowered himself to kneeling at Harry’s side.

“What is it, Harry?”  Snape asked softly, studying the boy’s face, who wore a look of shock and embarrassment.

“Nothing.

“Do.  Not.  Lie.”  Snape said carefully, saying each word slowly, methodically, seriously.

There was a long silence as Harry stared back with glistening eyes, lower lip trembling as if on the verge of tears.  “Come, Harry.”  Severus said softly.  “We have some level of trust between us, do we not?”

“Craig.  He…” It was hard to swallow all of a sudden.  Severus reached out and placed his hand on Harry’s arm, squeezing gently.  “Craig came up here.”  Harry continued in a quiet, hollow voice.  “He was drunk…I think…and….I was…”  It was impossible to swallow now.  His tongue was one giant lump of clay, thick and stiff and stifling.  He took a deep breath, trying to stop the flow of tears that were already coming.  “He choked me!”  Harry blurted.  “He was on top of me and….and...”  Deep, ragged breaths.  “He was strangling me and I couldn’t breath and I couldn’t move and….and…and….”  He couldn’t say anymore, couldn’t even find the words, couldn’t find the oxygen.  He squeezed his eyes closed against the Professor’s look of angry alarm.  “It hurt.” he whispered, bringing his hands up and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids.  “I thought he was going to kill me.”

“The bruises on your neck.”  Snape said quietly, returning slowly to his chair, voice labored from the weight of the revelation.  “They were from Craig choking you?”

Harry managed a jerky nod, his eyes still clenched shut.  He pulled up the corner of his pillow up and wiped the cool cotton across his face.  He focused on breathing, his chest so heavy it felt like his blankets were made from sheets of iron.  Seconds passed; minutes maybe.  Time seemed irrelevant as he lay there fending off the tears with shallow breaths, feeling completely exposed, safe, and stupid all at once.  Snape had remained curiously silent, and Harry slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the splash of light across his face.  The Professor was staring at him, customary frown etched into his soft features.  Harry quickly broke the eye contact, uncomfortable under Snape’s rueful gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

He heard the boy’s breath hitch again, and in the low light he saw the barely discernable nod indicating he’d been heard.  Unconvinced, Snape set gentle fingers under the boy’s chin.  Harry looked up at his Professor, face flushed, red rimmed eyes unable to look away this time as Snape held his gaze.  His tongue swept across his lips nervously before retreating, bottom lip following to be pinned anxiously.

Withdrawing his hand, Snape let the silence hang in the air as Harry shifted onto his side.  He wasn’t going to ask the boy to release his tightly held secrets all in one night.  He was much too fragile for that.  He would continue to give Harry the power to reveal what had happened with Craig and Fudge knowing that eventually, the confidence that came from being treated with kindness and respect would allow Harry to trust him completely.  He watched as Harry lay still for a few minutes, blinking rapidly against the continued threat of tears.  It was clear sleep would not come naturally.

Severus cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the slight ache now present in one shoulder.  “On your stomach.” he instructed softly.  “You need to sleep.  Allow me to assist you.”

Harry complied, albeit slowly.  He felt a tendril of fear curl inside his stomach at the request as he turned over, nuzzling his face into his pillow.  He felt drained after the tears, his skin overly sensitive, almost raw, and he shivered as the Professor pulled the blankets down to his lower back.  Snape hadn’t been angry at him.  He hadn’t yelled or asked why Harry didn’t stop what had happened.  He hadn’t peppered him with more questions.  He’d let Harry take the lead and say as much as he felt he could.  Maybe another day, maybe, he could tell him a little more. 

Before he could think of anything else, Snape’s strong hands pressed against his back.  They smoothed down his shirt and then moved to a tense group of muscles at his shoulders.  Harry felt himself flinch under the touch, but the careful movements forced relaxation upon him as the Professor’s hands kneaded his flesh through the fabric, pressing expertly at the tight muscles, encouraging them to loosen.  Snape worked methodically, unyielding, probing at each strained knot with compassionate determination.  Warmth spread across his back as Snape shifted the gentle strokes to the next group of protesting muscles, this time at the back and sides of his neck.  Harry flinched again, the attention to that particular area almost too much to bear, and one leg spasmed instinctively, fingers drawn into a fist at his side.

“Easy.”  Snape breathed, continuing to slowly maneuver his fingers over the trembling muscles of the boy’s neck.  With gentle pressure, he positioned his thumbs against the top of the spine and with a deliberate slowness slid his thumbs up the nape of Harry’s neck and into the hairline, feeling the muscles ease under his touch.  He repeated the strokes several more times before he finally felt the boy let out an effortless breath. 

“It is very late.”  Snape said in a hushed voice.  “You must sleep.  It’s ridiculous of you to be up at such an hour.”

Harry tried to reply, but a haze was forming at the edges of his consciousness and he couldn’t seem to be able to find the right words for a response.  He tried to nod instead, and he managed one, sort of.  His whole body felt slack, heavy, and blissfully relaxed.  The hands shifted again, never stopping their soothing movements, and Harry thought a touch had never felt so gentle, so caring.  It had been so long.

He was asleep within minutes, and Severus continued the comforting massage until he was sure the boy’s back had been properly worked out.  The amount of tension build up was startling, but then again, Harry had survived horrors Severus could not imagine.  He carefully pulled the blankets up to cover the sleeping child.  Shuffling his chair back a few feet, he leaned forward on his knees and stared grimly at the bed, the bed a drunken Craig had strangled Harry nearly to the point of death. 

Severus looked at the clock on the bedside table.  At best he had about ninety minutes before Harry phased into REM sleep, the period where dreams were often at their most vivid, and in Harry’s case, likely the most terrifying.  Sighing, Severus sat back in his chair and waited, silently praying that the nightmares would not be too potent, too monstrous, or that they would pass Harry by completely.

Two hours later he knew his prayers hadn’t been answered.

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Severus hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the room was overly warm and the slightly sweetened Camomile tea Della had brought to him over an hour ago was the perfect companion to the steady pulse of rain tapping gently against the window.

Harry’s whispered pleas woke him.  Throaty and desperate, half formed words cut off by hitched breaths, promises of I’ll be good repeated arduously as the boy’s body stiffened one moment and jerked helplessly the next.  As the nightmare continued his whimpers escalated, baleful sobs wracking his frame as he cowered from his conjured attackers, begging for the abuse to end, and, much to Severus’ dismay, apologizing for it. 

Severus stood at Harry’s bedside murmuring words of comfort, refusing to lay his hands on the sleeping child for fear of adding to his nightmare.  He continued to speak in low tones, repeating the same simplistic phrases over and over in the hopes that the boy might latch on to his voice and settle.

Harry stood motionless as Vernon Dursley crossed the living room towards him.  His eyes narrow, breath labored from the chase, belt in hand.

“Come here, boy.” He snarled, a cruel smile revealing blackened teeth.  Harry could smell the acrid stench of the man’s breath and his stomach rolled queasily as sobs burst out of him like a flood.

“Please, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry!  I’ll be good, I swear!”

The first lash hit him hard across the face, and instantly he tasted blood.  His mouth filled with it, viscous and tangy on his tongue, sliding down his throat like chunks of fetid jelly.  He fell to his knees, mouth open, coughing, choking as blood pooled in his mouth.  He tried to spit it out but it just kept coming and coming, filling his mouth as quickly as he could rid himself of it, a thick, never ending cruor that seemed to come from nowhere.

“Unle Vun!” he spluttered, begging his cackling uncle for help as the river of blood slowly filled his lungs.  The belt slashed through the air again, cutting into his back, the pain screaming across his skin.  Again it fell, and again, a dozen more times until the crimson fluid covered him, blood slowly dribbling from his hair, down his face, into his eyes.  Suddenly there was a cracking sound from behind and Harry twisted around, wiping at his eyes with his blood soaked sleeve.  Professor Snape stood in the hall, black cloak billowing dramatically, wand drawn.

In an instant Uncle Vernon was gone in a flash of green light.  The Professor knelt down beside Harry and took his head in his hands.  Without a word, Snape pulled Harry to his feet and lead him quickly to the front door at a half run.  The two wizards spilled out onto the front lawn where Harry fell to his knees, retching, finally able to breathe.

“Oi!” Harry clambered to his feet and turned towards the voice.  The Dursley’s neighbor was on his porch wearing his faded yellow dressing gown pointing a long, spindly finger at Harry.  “I’ve never seen no one else but Vernon, his missus, and their lad!” he shouted, his black eyes boring into Harry’s.  “Never seen you, you freak!  No one wants you here, freak!  Deserve everything you get and more, freak!”

Harry stumbled backwards against Snape, grabbing at his robes.  He turned to beg the man to apparate them out of there.

“Harry?”

He spun around at the familiar vice calling his name.  There, across the lawn, stood another Professor Snape.  Head swimming with confusion, Harry looked back and forth between the two, identical men, taking a few stumbling steps back until he was between them both.

“Harry.”  Snape said urgently, reaching out a hand.  “Harry, come with me.”

“No, Harry.” the other Snape said gently.  “Come with me, child.”

“Harry, he is not who he seems, now listen to me, take my hand and we’ll go back to Hogwarts where you’ll be safe.”

“He’s lying!  He’s trying to trick you.  Trust me, Harry, take my hand and we’ll return to the manor.”  

Harry’s head spun, pain seemingly splitting his skull as he looked back and forth at the pleading wizards, each one begging him to go to them, to trust them.

“I….I don’t know which one is you!” he cried, tears slipping down his face as he tried desperately to discern which Professor was telling the truth.

“I am!” declared one of the Snapes, striding towards Harry and placing a hand on each shoulder.  Harry shrank back, the smell of whiskey evident on the man’s breath, and he gave a startled cry as the Professor’s fingers dug fiercely into one of the wounds on his arm.  Pushing out of the embrace, he fled towards the other Snape, who opened his arms and pulled Harry against his chest.

“It’s alright now.” came the soothing, silky voice.  “I’m here.”  Flooded with relief, Harry looked up at his rescuer, only to see the man’s eyes narrowed, his mouth drawn into a pernicious sneer.  Clamping down hard on Harry’s shoulder, the Professor raised his hand and brought it down viciously against Harry’s face.  Crumpling to his hands and knees, Harry dug his fingers into the grass as another fist came down against his back, the force of the blow sending him face down into the dirt.  He tried to scream, but all that came from his throat was a breathless moan, barely even audible to his own ears.  Kicking at the man’s legs, he drew on every last ounce of strength in his body and scrambled to his feet.  The Professor roared angrily, his guttural cries turning into high pitched shrieks as Harry turned and ran down Privet Drive.  His lungs burned like wildfire as he reached the end of the street, the screams assaulting his ears, louder and louder until they were almost on top of him, the shrill screeching painfully drilling into his head.  Suddenly he hit a slick patch of ice and his legs gave out, sending him sprawling, his hands scraping against the rough pavement as he fell, and he cried out in pain as chunks of flesh ripped from his palms.  He flipped himself over onto his rear, eyes wide in terror as he took in the sight.  Dozens of black hooded Dementors hovered in front of him, each one shrieking madly, their clarion screams almost too much for Harry’s ears.  A wintery haze had settled around them and Harry shivered despite the heat of adrenaline.  The closest Dementor floated down to him, its hood falling back to reveal the Professor’s face, pale, smudged with blood, sadistic smile etched into his face, hair matted and lank.

“Please, Sir” Harry sputtered, his chest searing painfully with each word, each agonizing exhalation expelling puffs of steam out into the suddenly frigid air.  “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”

One by one, the Dementor’s hoods slipped back, each one with the Professor’s face, each one with the same depraved sneer, eyes glinting dangerously as they slowly began advancing on the injured boy.

Screaming with what little breath he had left, Harry threw his arms up, protecting himself as best he could.  Black robes fluttered around him, the hissing and screeching deafening as dozens of icy hands clamored at his throat.  In the distance, somewhere very, very far away, he could hear someone calling his name.  He tried to focus on it, tried desperately, but soon there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat slowing in his ears as the Demetors slowly crushed the life out of him.

Harry awoke with a strangled cry, bolting upright, tears streaming down his face.  Every gasping breath ended with a whimper of fear as his eyes darted to the Professor’s worry worn face, and Severus’ stomach dropped as Harry flinched at the sight of him.

Slowly Severus took a few tentative steps forward, noticing the small, quaking hand clutch a handful of blanket as he neared.  As the Professor seated himself at the end of the bed, Harry scooted backwards until his back came in contact with the cool headboard.  He took a few jagged breaths, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe away the steady flow to tears.  He heard Snape clear his throat, and at glancing up he realized the man was holding out a black handkerchief.  He plucked the cloth from Snape’s grip with trembling fingers, managing a whisper of thanks before wiping his face.

“Are you able to tell me about it?”  Snape asked gently.

“My…my uncle.”  Harry replied in an uneven voice, refusing to meet the Professor’s eyes.  He pressed the handkerchief to his eyes again, sniffling.

“And…anyone else?” Severus asked tentatively. 

“He was beating me.”  Harry said quietly, seemingly ignoring the second question.  “There was blo-”  A hiccough of emotion. “blood everywhere and I couldn’t breathe.” he continued, voice warbling.

“You must have been very scared.”  Snape said evenly, setting a hand on Harry’s knee, thankful that the boy didn’t pull away.  Harry nodded.  “Was there anyone else in your dream?”  Severus asked again.  He had the distinct feeling Harry was shying away from this particular question, the boy’s continued silence all but confirming his assumptions.  “Harry.” He tapped the boy’s knee until Harry looked up anxiously.  “Harry, who else was there?”

“No one.” Harry said quickly, and a little too desperately for Severus’ liking.  The boy turned his head, and Severus leaned to the side, following Harry’s movement.

“Who, Harry?”

“It doesn’t matter!”  Harry exclaimed, turning back to the man.  The tears had stopped now, and Harry stared at him, unblinking.

“It does matter, child, of course it matters.  It matters because it seems to have affected you quite ardently.  It also matters because I believe that it was me.”

Upon hearing Snape words, Harry burst into fresh tears, raking the damp hanky across his face, his shoulders shaking as he bowed his head and wept pitifully.  Severus took in a sharp breath.  It was as he had suspected.

“What happened?”

“I don’t…nothing.”  Harry barely whispered back.

“Harry, these tears are not over nothing.  You are obviously upset by my presence in your nightmare.  Please, child, trust me enough to let me help you!”  Severus exclaimed, reaching out with both hands and grasping Harry’s smaller ones.  The slender fingers were cold, shivering under his palms.  “Harry.” Snape urged. 

“You…you came and I think you killed Uncle Vernon, and you took me outside and there was…-”

Severus listened as Harry recounted the nightmare, stumbling over the brutal description as if the words themselves caused him physical pain.  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as Harry told him of the two Snapes, both equally ruthless in their treatment of him, and the chase by the Dementors, though for a fraction of a second Severus wondered how on earth the boy even knew what a Dementor was.

By the end, Harry was a sobbing, broken mess in front of him, hollowness eating him up inside, raw grief the only emotion he was capable of as he cried.

Severus shifted up the mattress until he sat mere inches from the boy.  He slowly leaned in and laced his arms around Harry’s shuddering frame.

“It’s alright.” He murmured, carding his fingers though Harry’s damp hair, an act he knew the boy found soothing.  After a few minutes the crying ebbed and Harry sat quietly in Severus’ embrace, the steady rise and fall of Snape’s chest calming him in the silence.  He couldn’t help but let out a yawn.

“How do you feel now?”  Snape asked as he smoothed down the unruly mess of hair.

“Fine.”  Harry replied, wincing at the automatic response.  Of course he wasn’t fine, the Professor knew that.  “I mean, better, Sir.” he said sheepishly.

“It often helps to relate your fears to a willing ear.”  Severus said.  “Perhaps in the future you will find it a less difficult task to do so.  I will always endeavor to make the process as easy as possible for you.”  Severus paused before continuing.  “For example, through the use of Legillimancy.”  he said carefully.  The topic was a source of anxiety for the boy, but perhaps now he had a persuasive argument.  “It would be easier for me to discern what is troubling you.  Your nightmares for instance.  Or Craig.”  He felt Harry stiffen in his arms, then pull away.  “I am only trying to help you.” he said, allowing the boy to lea back and pin him with a reluctant stare.

“Let me in, Harry, please.” Snape pleaded, voice taking on a tone of compassion that lanced into Harry like a spear of emotion.

“I don’t know why you -” Harry started. 

“Because you need to deal with these feelings instead of hiding them away.”  Snape replied, knowing full well the words Harry was about to speak.  The boy had been hidden away his entire life, physically by his family and emotionally by his own hand.  No one had ever cared.  Until now.

“I’m not!”  Harry exclaimed, turning his head to avoid Snape’s concerned look.  Severus quickly reached out and cupped Harry’s cheek with his hand, gently drawing the boy’s eyes back to him. 

“Yes.” he stated earnestly.  “You are.”

“Please.”  Harry breathed, rubbing at his temple where a headache was starting to form.  “I…I can’t do it, Sir, please.  Not yet.  I’m sorry, Sir.  Please…please don’t be angry at me.”  Severus’ heart clenched at the plea, those emerald eyes begging him, red and swollen and wide with suffering.

“There will come a time, Harry, where the thought of trusting me so implicitly will not seem like such an impossible task.” he replied soberly.  “I will never force your hand in this situation, but know this –” he paused to brush away a slowly descending tear from the boy’s cheek.  “I will never, ever be angry at you for being afraid, do you understand?”

Harry nodded, unconsciously leaning into the Professor’s warm palm.

“I also think it might be wise to move you into the spare room in the morning.”  Snape said quietly, eliciting a slow nod from the exhausted boy.  “Now, do you think you could sleep for a few more hours?  I will not leave.” he said firmly at Harry’s worried look.

Harry responded with a helpless shrug as the comforting hand was withdrawn and the Professor returned to his chair.  He reached up and brushed his fingertips across the warm cheek where Snape’s hand had been.

“Why don’t you try, just for a while?”

Nodding, Harry slipped beneath the covers and settled his head against his pillow.  He stared up at the ceiling, face devoid of emotion as he began to count the tiny dots of the speckled pattern above him.  

“This estate was built my Great, Great Grandfather.”  Snape said suddenly, leaning back in his chair.  “At one stage in history this manor was used to create some of the most powerful potions ever devised by the wizarding world.  You might be interested to know that some of the original Snape recipes are still used by a few of Sunderland’s more knowledgeable Apothecaries, and in some cases…”

Harry listened as the Professor recounted the history of Farne Island in his steady, silky voice.   As Snape’s soothing brogue continued, his eyelids felt heavier and heavier, slowly edging closed until the light of the room was completely gone.  Without pausing his story, Severus leaned over and carefully pulled the blankets up to Harry’s shoulders.

Half an hour later, having thoroughly recited almost every detail of the manor, the island, and the surrounding area, Severus’ voice slowly drifted into silence.  He watched the steady rise and fall of the boy’s huddled form, asleep at last, surprised the child even had the courage to face darkness yet again.

He picked up his wand from the bedside table and breathed a spell towards the bathroom door.  It inched open another foot or so, enough to illuminate half of the room.

Thirty seven years old or not, sometimes you just needed a nightlight.

Harry closed his eyes against the soft morning sun as the fresh rays came teeming over the horizon splashing the dull stones of the manor’s exterior with shades of maize and saffron, the dark corners dappled with shadow and light, like old gold.

He took in a deep breath, able almost to taste the freshness of the morning.  The crisp, gentle breeze raked through his hair, the rebellious strands still damp from his attempt at taming it with a wet comb, to no avail of course.  The morning was still, serene, the gaily warbling birds only just now waking, their bright, button eyes blinking at the first plumes of sun as their downy chests heaved into song.

He’d risen early, even before the Professor.  His eyes had fluttered open naturally, limbs rested, mind clear and calm.  It was almost as if the Professor had slipped him some Dreamless Sleep.  He’d owed this blissful waking to the Professor, definitely.  His silent strength, comforting even amidst Harry’s fears, had lifted a weight from him, and Harry wondered how it was that Snape knew so much about him, about everything.  He’d cajoled him into sharing some of his secrets, a few of the withheld memories of his days with Craig, and afterward Harry had felt a little better, just as Snape said.  The process had hurt though, each word a knife on his tongue, his skin felt as if it were crawling from his flesh as he fought to speak of the choking, the nightmare of being attacked, beaten, chased.  The reward had been worth it though, the soothing attention from the Professor reminded him how good it felt to be cared for, and the spark within him burst into flame, luminous and flickering, but fragile.

He’d slipped from the room undetected and made his way downstairs, expecting to find Della working herself into a frenzy in the kitchen, but finding only empty silence.  He helped himself to an apple, the flesh sweet on his tongue as he bit through the coral red skin on his way out the front door.  He’d walked out into the meadow to watch the sunrise, and that was how Della found him a few minutes later as she emerged from behind the manor, a worn leather case in her arms.  She stopped suddenly, head cocked to one side as she registered the figure in the distance, a smile spreading across her weathered face as she tramped towards the boy, bare feet kicking up dew as she went.

“Little Master!” She exclaimed, ears drifting buoyantly in the morning breeze.  Harry spun around, his own face lighting up with a cheerful grin at seeing the beloved house elf.

“Little Master is being up with the crows!” she exclaimed, righting the case in her arms as it threatened to topple to one side.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, eyeing the bag that was being jostled in Della’s slender arms.  “Do you need help with that?” He offered.  Della’s grin faded into a slightly horrified expression.

“No, no, Little Master!” she cried, shaking her head so hard her ears slapped gently around her head.  “I am being here for special reasons, very special indeed.  Little Master cannot help, but…” she cocked her head and gave a thoughtful look for a moment before emitting an elated squeak.  “Little Master can be watching if he likes!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile and the impassioned little beast before him.  Nodding at her offer, he followed Della across the front of the manor, towards a collection of small trees.  As they neared, Harry recognition set in, and his stomach felt suddenly very hollow indeed.  Several shattered tree limbs lay amongst the tall grass, the fragments of wood scattered like snow around the base.  A few feet away lay two larger branches, and Harry’s stomach rolled as he realized he was standing in the exact place where he had attacked the Professor in a state of frenzied panic only days before.

“What are we doing here?” He asked tentatively, unconsciously twisting the hem of his shirt in his fingers.  Della carefully placed the bag on the ground and peered up at him.

“The tree is being needing to be treated,” she said, returning to the haggard little case and twisting the pitted, silver latch.  “All trees here are being very special.  I am being taking care of every twig of them.” 

She carefully removed a large beaker from the bag, the fragile glass protected by a swatch of leather wound tightly around its base and stem.  Harry regarded the tree he had assaulted.  Many of the slender branches had been ripped away, leaving splintered and jagged boughs barely hanging from the trunk.  The remaining limbs were already brittle with death, its bark grey and fallow, leaves devoid of their previous spring bud green, now parched and streaked with ragged slashes of dark bistre.  Harry swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, sinking slowly to his knees, the damp seeping though his jeans as he stared woefully at a surprised Della.  “I’m sorry I killed your tree.”  Della froze, one hand still buried in the leather case, the other steadying the beaker she had set at her feet.  Her russet brow furrowed for a moment before shaking her head gently.

“Little Master is not being killing the tree,” she replied, her voice taking on a tone of surprise.  Her tiny hand steadied the beaker and gently came to rest on Harry’s knee.  “I am being making everything alright, hmm?” She said reassuringly, returning to dig in the case for another beaker, which she set with its twin in the wet grass.  She closed the bag and carefully uncorked both of the glass containers. 

“Tree is only being in darkness,” she explained as she poured a thick, viridian coloured salve into her palm.  Quickly, she smeared the substance into the exposed parts of the tree, coating each damaged area thoroughly before re-corking the beaker.  She picked up the other and crouched down at the base of the tree.  “When tree is hurt, it is being in darkness.  All tree needs is healing, is light.”  She poured a thin, amethyst liquid into the soil and returned both vessels to the case.

“So, I didn’t kill it?”  Harry asked.

“No, Little Master!”  Della exclaimed, smiling broadly.  “Tree is only in darkness.  Tree cannot grow in darkness.  Tree only is being dying if it cannot find light.  You watch, you see, all tree needs is light!” 

Della’s hands settled gently on each side of the tree trunk.  She closed her eyes, and after a few moments, a beautiful white light began to flow from her hands, slowly creeping up the length of the tree and out onto each branch until the entire tree was glowing with a luminous butter yellow light, thick and billowing and beautiful. 

“When you is being filled with darkness,” Della continued, eyes still closed in concentration,  “you can be feeling dead, be looking dead.  You needs to be filled back up with light.” 

Slowly the light faded and Della’s eyes fluttered open.  She turned to Harry and beamed. 

“I am knowing how to heal the trees,” she said, tilting her head to one side.  “Trees trust Della to heal them, see?” 

Della pointed to one of the tree's trembling leaves, which only moments before was parched and dull.  There at the tip, slowly ebbing its way around the edges was a fresh, lively green.  Harry looked in amazement as patches of bark sloughed off to reveal healthy new bark growing beneath. 

“If trees trust, they can heal,”  Della said, for the first time her voice sounding almost serious.  She reached out and patted Harry’s cheek.  “Trees trust Della.  If Little Master is trusting Master Snape, Little Master’s darkness will fade, too.  There is still light being inside of you, I am seeing it!  Master can help find it.  Master Snape knows much about darkness as well as light.”

Harry stared back at the little elf.  Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her face solemn for only a brief second more before bursting into a smile.  She returned the beakers to her carry case and hoisted it into her arms with a squeak of exertion. 

“Come, Little Master,” she chirped happily.  “I am being making you some breakfast!  Toast, and many fruits, and handsome eggs, and juices and…” 

Harry couldn’t help but grin as he watched Della parade across the lawn head high, jovial voice ringing out in the morning air as she recited the menu she had planned.  He didn’t quite know which was more amusing, the fact that she was so excited to make breakfast for him, or that she honestly thought such an abundance of food was suitable for a single meal.

He reached out and grazed his fingers along one of the tree’s broken branches, the willowy limb coming to life under his hand, quivering and crackling as a stubby bud emerged from a potion slathered knot.  Quickly Harry withdrew his hand and watched as life sprang forth from the sapling, it’s bark sloughing away completely from the soft, deer brown bark that lay beneath.  Though the air was quite still now, the little tree swayed gently in a joyful, animated dance, its branches seemingly reaching for the open sky as more and more buds appeared, its leaves flickering as if to show off their new lush, green hue.  It took almost a minute for the transformation, and slowly the tree settled, as perfect and as whole as the rest of the grove as it stood proudly in the thicket.

Harry was in awe.  Never before had he seen witnessed such an amazing event, the beauty of it, the quiet joy of a being renewed, whole and flawless, and right before his eyes.  He felt reverent, honoured.  He leaned forward, his face within inches of the little tree.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, breathlessly quiet in the stillness. 

Suddenly, a gust of wind surged from within the gathering of trees, scattered leaves twisting into the air, dancing upon the current as they swirled about the boy, and Harry felt one of the tree’s slender branches brush against his cheek.  As quickly as it came, the zephyr skipped out across the meadow, the leaves erupting into a burst of greenery as the brisk wind tossed them into the air, then faded.

Harry clambered to his feet and dusted off his damp, dirt stained knees before turning back towards the manor.  He shielded his eyes from the sun as he recalled Della’s words, the sincerity in her voice as he spoke of the darkness, about trusting the Professor, and the light she knew was inside him.  How Harry wished he could find the light Della spoke of, the joy that must be there, buried, hidden, forgotten.  Could the Professor really help him find it like she said?  He had felt better last night, and Snape had been …well he’d just been there and Harry had felt so….so…damn, what was the word?  Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.  It had hurt to tell at first, but afterwards, when Snape was holding him, it felt like a little of the pain had washed out of him with the tears.  The sound of the front door opening cut short his muse, and his eyes fell on the black clad form of Professor Snape.  The man hesitated a moment, eyes scanning the meadow before landing on his target, and he started down the stairs towards Harry.

“I was not expecting you up so early,” he said as he approached, a tinge of worry on his words.  “How did you sleep?”

“Oh, fine, Sir,”  Harry replied.  “I didn’t wake up until this morning.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that.  I trust that you have not eaten?”

Harry shook his head.

“Not yet, Sir.”

“Della is starting preparation on a three course meal in the kitchen.  Won’t you join me for a ridiculously excessive breakfast?”  Snape asked, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.  He offered his hand to the boy, and Harry walked to his side, allowing the hand to fall lightly on his shoulder. 

“What were you doing out here?”  Snape asked as they made their way up the stone steps.   

“Oh, nothing,”  Harry replied, a smile spreading across his face.  He paused and looked up at the Professor, who returned Harry’s happy expression with a gentle smile of his own.  “I was just watching the trees.” 

Snape pulled open the door and Harry felt the strong, warm hand squeeze his shoulder as he walked towards the kitchen, and deep inside, the barely there flame flickered again, the hope rekindled, bursting with renewal like the little dancing tree.  Harry’s hand unconsciously drifted to his chest, as the pleasant feeling grew ever so slightly.  It was still fleeting, still an evanescent emotion, but this time it was different, more powerful than before, and as Harry watched the Professor roll his eyes at Della in mock annoyance of the extravagant breakfast, he felt the comfort of knowing for the first time ever, that the feeling would be back. 

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Harry settled into his chair, a gentle sense of contentment within him.  A large platter swooped slowly down from the kitchen counter laden with fresh, warm waffles, pancakes, and sliced fruits, some so exotic Harry had know idea of their names.

“Merlin,” Snape muttered as yet another plate landed with a clink on the table, this one sporting almost a dozen tiny ramekins each filled to near overflowing with various syrups and spreads, and another, this one the largest of the three, piled with neatly stacked sausages, slices of crisp bacon, and golden brown russet potatoes perfectly cubed.

“Enough!”  Severus snapped angrily, lancing a threatening glare at Della, who was sending yet another plate of food towards the already crowded tabletop.  The clanging of a dropped fork rang out in the silence that followed, and Severus’ head shifted to look across the table.  He watched as, without looking up, Harry’s hand slowly dipped and picked up his dropped fork, tongue sweeping nervously across his lips as his cheeks swarmed with embarrassed crimson. 

“Della,”  Severus said carefully, forcing his voice to soften as his eyes clung to child opposite him.  “Whilst we are grateful for such a thorough breakfast, it seems in your zeal, you have slightly overestimated our hunger.”

Della, who had frozen in fright at her master’s sharp word, nodded quickly, eyes wide and unblinking.  The large serving platter, which was still hovering silently in the middle of the room, slowly retreated towards the little creature, and with a barely heard snap of her fingers it faded nothingness as it came to rest on the counter.

“However,” Severus continued in a louder voice, drawing his gaze to the kitchen door. “I do appreciate your willingness to make sure our guest is well fed.”

For the first time since Snape’s outburst, Harry looked up, fork still clutched tightly in his hand.  The Professor cleared his throat, and moments later a disheveled crop of white hair came into view, and the rest of Ernie’s tiny frame emerged.

“How nice of you to announce your arrival,” Snape drawled, giving Della, who still hadn’t moved a muscle, an exasperated look.  Relaxing, Della offered him a tentative smile before returning to her activities.

“I have the good sense to make myself scarce when one of your moods hits, Severus.” 

Ernie tittered as he entered the kitchen and pulled himself up into an empty chair.  He looked over at Harry and smiled broadly.  Leaning closer to the boy, he waited until Harry did the same, then spoke in a low tone.

“You may not be aware,” he said, his voice hushed, but more than loud enough for Snape to hear, “but the Professor can be quite a pill.” 

Harry snorted uncontrollably and quickly pulled his hand to his mouth to curtain his amusement.  Forcing his face into impassiveness, he glanced quickly at Snape to gauge his reaction.  The Professor wore his customary deadpan expression as he stared back, silently willing the boy to take part in the joke, to allow himself to relax fully and enjoy the moment, and he barely controlled the urge to smile when Harry, with a serious façade of his own raised his eyebrows at Ernie.

“You’re kidding.”

Ernie broke into peals of laughter, his entire body shaking from the fit of giggles.  Severus snorted indignantly as stone faced as ever at the sarcasm.

“Harry.”

Harry paused before locking eyes with his Professor, and Snape took in the boy’s face.  His eyes gleamed with a hint of worry, but his face was relaxed, bright, a shade of the beaten child he had been when he arrived at the manor, and a surge of emotion swept through him.  It was incredible how much the boy meant to him now.  How impossible the feeling of love would have seemed weeks ago, but how natural, how treasured it was now. 

“Eat your breakfast,” he said quietly, his lips twitching into a barely there smile. 

Harry looked back at his Professor, the anxiety coiled in his chest abating as the man’s face softened.  He returned the smile, reveling in the kindness of it, the genuine compassion in those dark eyes.  He sat quietly as the Professor and Ernie chatted back and forth.  Careful to avoid notice, he stole frequent glances at Snape, watching the man’s face as he fell into deep conversation.  It was so strange how he felt about the Professor now.  It seemed like a lifetime ago, he had been sitting at King’s Cross comparing the man to a soul-sucking dementor, but then he’d….yes, he’d cared about Snape, liked him, needed him.  Harry’s eyes narrowed in thought as his fingered the intricate design on his fork’s handle.  Those first few days at the manor had been so fearful, so painful.  He’d felt ripped to pieces, and there’d been something in him, a desperation, the frantic need to have someone care about him, protect him, and Snape had done just that.  Snape had lured the trust out of him, pulled the emotions from him like hauling a kite down from a windy sky.  It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to trust, to let someone care about him, and the relief had been overwhelming.

It had been awful the way he had been so scared of the Professor after his rescue.  The confusion of caring about the man but at the same time being so deathly afraid of him had almost torn him apart.  He let out a heavy breath and stabbed at a half eaten sausage, suddenly feeling a lot less hungry.  He wanted to trust Snape like that again, he honestly did, but it was so hard.  There was no way he could stand to be hurt again, to be abandoned.  He knew how things would turn out.  Eventually the Dursley’s would return from their vacation, and Harry would have to return to the horror hidden on Privet Drive.  Sure, Snape had said he wouldn’t have to go back, but Snape didn’t have any claim to him, not legally.  They were just words, and words didn’t change the fact that the Dursley’s would demand him back and there was nothing anyone could do about it.  Summer wouldn’t last forever.

Sharp, frantic worry sliced through him at the thought of returning to those monsters.  He suddenly felt sick.  He stood slowly, as quietly as possible to avoid questions from Snape, but the Professor was still engrossed in conversation.  As casually as he could, he skirted the kitchen table, even managing a smile at Della as he passed before finding himself in the foyer.  Swallowing the sickening taste of bile and worry, Harry pulled open the heavy door and made his way outside, breathing deeply as the gentle morning wind lapped at his face.  Why did it have to be like this?  Why couldn’t Snape have just been the nasty bastard Harry had always thought he was?  At least that would have been easier to deal with, especially after what Craig had done to him.  If he’d never cared about Snape in the first place, he wouldn’t have to worry about trying to trust him, and it wouldn’t matter if Snape cared about him or not.  What was that phrase Hermione had read him?  The one from the book of poetry her parent’s had given her for her birthday.  She’d practically memorized every single line in the whole book and quoted it for months afterwards.  Something about….I hold it true….something something….when I…I…I sorrow most….better to have loved and lost….than…than never to have loved at all.

“Bull,” Harry whispered against the cooling breeze.  It wasn’t better to love and then lose it.  It was better never to have felt it in the first place.  What kind of idiot would want to go through the pain of losing someone who had loved you?  “Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, my ass,”  Harry said fiercely.  “What utter crap.”

“I highly doubt Tennyson would appreciate such an assessment.”

Harry gasped, almost losing his footing he spun around so fast.  Professor Snape stood at the bottom stair, eyeing Harry curiously.

“You left without saying anything,”  Snape continued, noticing how pale and drawn the boy’s face had become.  “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” Harry replied, falling back on the easy retort.  “I just came out to…to-”

“Quote eighteenth century poetry,” Snape interjected, deciding to spare Harry from the requirement of fabricating an answer.  “There are potions that require my attention down in the laboratory,” he continued, extending his hand towards the boy as he had done when he found him outside earlier.  “Would you care to assist me?”

He watched Harry’s reaction carefully.  A change had come over the child during breakfast.  He’d caught the many glances in his direction, the fumbling of tableware, and the eventual hasty exit, and though it was obvious Harry had tried to downplay whatever was going on, Severus had felt the anxiety radiating from the silent boy, and he’d excused himself to Ernie as soon as possible after Harry’s departure.

Harry glanced at the Professor’s outstretched hand.  How easy it would be to step forward and allow the hand to fall gently to his shoulder, how easy it would be to revel in the comfort the man was offering.  Forcing back the emotions, Harry remained where he was.  It would just be harder in the end if he let himself care about Snape again.  It would be so difficult to walk away at summer’s end, going back to people who hated him.  He couldn’t let himself get close to the Professor, not again.  He watched with hidden sadness as Snape’s hand slowly drifted back to his side.

“Perhaps later,”  Severus said quietly.

Harry watched as Snape walked slowly back inside the manor.  As the door closed with a gentle thud, Harry’s eyes welled with tears.  Breathing heavily, he swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, wiping away the traces of moisture. 

“What am I doing?”  He whispered, turning and slamming his hands down on the stone railing.  “What am I doing?” 

Forcing back the tears, he stared out across the meadow, breathing deeply, his chest tight, throat stinging, the stone cold under his palms.  A gentle wind ran its haphazard fingers through his hair.  Why couldn’t this just be easy?  Why did he have to be so confused about everything?  Why did his mind constantly waver back and forth?  Trust Snape, don’t trust Snape.  Tell Snape everything or keep all the things Craig did to himself.  Let go or hold it in.  Trust or distrust. Stay or run.  Lies or truth.  Hide or reveal.  Harry tightened his grip on the rugged stone, his mind racing. 

He was going to have to make a decision soon, he knew that.

He just didn’t know what that decision would be.

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The day drifted into afternoon.  Harry spent the hours walking around the island with a herbology book took from Snape’s library.  He’d managed to find quite a large number of the herbs mentioned in the first chapter, and it took his mind off things.  Sort of.

He had stumbled across a rather large Dionaea muscipula and was watching intently as a small spider made its way up the stem and across the red lobe.  It was fascinating to witness, though he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty as the lobes snapped shut, encasing the spider to be digested at the plant’s leisure.  Realizing his own desire to eat, he made his way back to the manor and headed into the kitchen, pausing outside in the foyer first, listening at the door in case Snape was already inside.  Hearing nothing, he carefully peered into the kitchen and found it empty.  Helping himself to an apple, he headed into the living room and settled onto the couch.

“Little Master!”  Della exclaimed, her eyes alight with happiness as she caught sight of the boy.  “Della is being busy helping Master Snape.  Can Della make you lunch?” She asked, noticing the apple.  Harry clambered to his feet.

“Oh, well, only if it’s not too much trouble,” he said quickly.  “I mean, if you’re busy with the Professor, its ok.”

“Never, never!”  Della replied, ushering Harry into the kitchen.  “Never too busy for making little master lunch.” 

Harry smiled as Della motioned towards the kitchen table.  He seated himself and watched as the frantic little elf clasped her hands and beamed at him. 

“What is little master wanting?” She asked, cocking her head to one side.  “I can be making crown of lambs or devilled chicken or peppered gammon or beef pie or –”

“How about...” Harry cut in, smiling at Della as she ceased her list of dishes.  “How about just a sandwich?”

“Oh yes!”  Della exclaimed excitedly.  “Della is making scrumptious sandwich!  Della could make eggs salad or chicken or lovely fruity jams or cheeses with lettuce or ham or –”

“Peanut butter?”  Harry said loudly over Della’s loud rambling of sandwich fillings.  There wasn’t much she could do with peanut butter. Crunchy or smooth, that was it, and to Harry’s relief Della turned towards the counter and busied herself preparing the meal.

“Thanks,” Harry said gratefully as Della handed him his plate.

“Della is being here in the kitchen for all the afternoon if you are being needing me,” she replied.  “I am being making special dinner for tonight.”

“What’s special about tonight?”  Harry asked.

“Mister Russer is being returning,” Della explained, summoning a large bowl from a high cupboard. 

“Oh,” Harry replied.  “Yeah, he didn’t really stay long this morning.”

“Mister Russer is being bringing your wand this morning,” Della said brightly.  “Only being a small visit.”  Harry stopped mid bite and stared up at Della.

“My wand?” He asked slowly.  He hadn’t really thought much about where it had ended up, and after all that had gone on, his wands whereabouts had been the last thing on his mind.  He suddenly felt a little guilty.  A wizard’s wand was almost like an extra appendage, the first comrade in times of need, and he’d simply forgotten about his. 

“Della?” he asked, abandoning his lunch and walking over to where the elf was standing staring at him happily, her ears fluttering buoyantly just above her head..  “Do you know if Professor Snape has my wand?”

“Of course!  Master is putting it in his quarters.” 

Suddenly Della’s ears fell against her head as a look of worry came over her weathered face.  “Oh, but little master must be asking Master Snape first, yes?” 

Harry paused.  He hated to lie to Della again, but if it was his wand in Snape’s room, the man sure hadn’t offered to tell him about it.

“Don’t worry, Della,” Harry said, smiling as brightly as he could.  “I’ll go right now.  He’s still down in the lab, right?”

Della nodded and beamed at him as Harry quickly went back into the living room.  He hadn’t technically lied to the sweet little creature, not really.  Sure, he’d let her think he was going right now to ask Snape, but that wasn’t the same as lying.  Not really.

Harry headed out into the foyer and quietly made his way up the stairs and into Snape’s room, carefully listening for any signs the Professor was near.  There, on the bedside table, was a long, thin package, wrapped in parchment and tied with a thick, yellow thread.  His heart beating like a jackhammer in his chest, Harry pulled the loosely tied knot apart and folded away the wrapping.  There, lying against the parchment, was a blackened and disfigured wand.  Gently, Harry picked it up, his fingers curling delicately around the charred wood, the once smooth and supple holly now rough and gnarled against his skin.  His ran his index finger down the remaining phoenix feather core, the burnt plume thick and calloused as it jutted at an awkward angle out of the heavily scared holly.  Harry’s heart clenched painfully.  It was his.  His first wand, the one Hagrid had taken him to buy, and everything had been so exciting and wonderful, the day he found out he was a wizard, the day he found out he was special.  The wand became even more distorted as tears welled in his eyes.  The wand had felt like a friend, one that had stayed by his side always.  It was a friend that helped him when he needed it, except outside of Hogwarts of course.  He had felt so special the day he’d picked it out, so important, so significant, all the things the Dursley’s said he wasn’t, said he’d never be, and at night, after the beatings, with the pain like fire on his skin, he would think of that day and how amazing he felt, how happy, and dream of the day he would feel that happy again.

He suddenly felt a flash of irritation.  Why would Snape not tell him about his wand?  Why would he hide it up here and not say a word about it?  He had the chance earlier and said nothing.  He slid the pad of his thumb down the length of the twisted rod, eyes narrowed as he recalled the chase through the trees, like something out of a horror movie with the heavy rain veiling his pursuer as Harry had stumbled terrified through the mire.  A sharp edge snagged his flesh and the anger stirred again as he slammed his palms down on Snape’s bedside table, the wand resounding with a loud clack.

Suddenly Harry froze, breath hitched in his rapidly constricting throat as he heard the swish of robes behind him.  Instinctively his fingers curled around his wand as he turned to meet dark, angry eyes.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

Each word was said slowly, pointedly, as if each were its own sentence. Snape’s silky voice, very low and dangerous, sent chills slicing up Harry’s spine as the Professor’s obsidian eyes pinned him with a quiet, deadly stare. Harry swallowed the impossibly large lump that had appeared in his throat, his tongue sweeping across his parched lips as the hair at the back of his neck bristled uncomfortably. The anger that had coiled within him moments ago was rapidly abating at the sight of Snape’s un-nerving gaze, and he tried desperately to grasp onto the emotion, to let it bolster his confidence to confront the man, but it slipped away like water down a drain, and Harry was left with nothing but a quickly forming dread.

“I repeat.” Snape said, his tone fatally smooth and even. “What are you doing?”

“I…” Harry started, lips trying to form the words, but his voice petered out leaving him staring mutely back at his Professor. He felt his hand twitch uncontrollably, fingers brushing against his palm for a second before he grasped onto the hem of his shirt.

“Give that to me,” Snape said in a strict tone.

Harry looked down at his wand. He was holding it so tightly his fingers were white, the flesh toned lines across his knuckles standing out against the alabaster skin. This was his wand, his wand, not Snape's. He had no right to take it from him! The anger stirred within him again and he latched onto it, his head jerking upwards to meet the Professor’s eyes.

“No,” Harry said defiantly. His hands were shaking now and his fingers snaked even further around the crumbling rod. He felt a fragment of charred wood shift under his palm. “Why didn’t you tell me you had it?”

“I will not explain myself to you while you are in this state,” Snape replied calmly, his voice losing its severity. “This is not about me; this is about you; you, who were found in my quarters without my permission, handling a wand when you have absolutely no idea in regards to its safety.”

“Why would it be unsafe?” Harry asked heatedly, his whole body suddenly feeling very warm, as if his blood were rushing through him with astounding speed. He could hear his heart beating frantically in his ears. “It’s my wand; it wouldn’t hurt me. You should have told me it was here. You always want me to tell you things but you don’t tell me anything! ”

“Then I’ll tell you!” Snape barked. “You cast an unforgivable, you silly boy! I’ve seen the wands of greater wizards than you turn blighted after a successful killing curse, let alone the failed one you cast. You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself in the process!”

Harry froze, a look of shock spreading across his face. His heated skin prickled uncomfortably and he swallowed against the urge to cry. All traces of bravado evaporated in an instant. He felt the shard of shattered holly shift under his grip, fragmenting from the weight, crumbling, falling apart.

Suddenly the Professor stepped forward and briskly pulled the wand from his fingers, leaving Harry’s hand to fall with a soft slap against his side.

Severus looked down at Harry’s wand and forced himself to let out a slow breath. Ernie had returned it that morning with the confirmation that Avada Kedavra had indeed caused the damage. Severus had assumed as much, but the idea of a child Harry’s age knowing about the curse let alone attempting to cast it, was almost beyond his understanding. It was one of the many things on the mental list Severus had compiled, things he would attempt to gently draw from the boy if only he could regain the tenuous trust they once had. Much of he wanted to know would be too painful for Harry to even think about, and though last night had been somewhat of a breakthrough, Severus was already seeing signs of Harry retreating, fighting the desire to trust, likely out of fear of being hurt again.

Snape closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His display of anger was the last thing the wary boy should witness, and he opened his eyes to see Harry, head bent, shoulders slumped in defeat. Snape sighed.

“Harry,” he started gently. “I did not tell you about your wand because in all honesty, I though you weren’t ready to see it. Harry?” Snape paused, waiting for the boy to look up at him, emerald eyes glistening. “You cast a very powerful and dangerous spell during a time of what I can only imagine must have been terrible fear and desperation. You cast the killing curse, I presume at what you thought was me, which means whatever Craig did to you, it was horrendous enough for you to wish him dead.”

He watched as Harry’s face paled dramatically.

“He…” Harry managed in a rough voice, lowering his head. “It wasn’t that bad. I shouldn’t have cast it. I shouldn’t ha –”

“I saw your injuries, Harry,” Snape said, cutting the boy’s attempt to downplay the situation. “There were times I was afraid I was going to lose you, they were so severe.” Harry’s head shot up. “I do not doubt you had your reasons for attempting the cast such a spell,” Snape continued. “And you are right, I have tried to encourage you to discuss what happened without any reciprocation of the trust I asked you to give me. I have asked so much of you, and yet I have not allowed you the same right. I apologize.”

Severus swallowed, remorse settling in. In a way, it was unlike the abuse Harry’s relatives had forced him to endure, an atmosphere where he was expected to obey without question, without any explanation, without the ability to ask anything of his elders. Haunted, Severus stepped towards Harry and gently placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. There was a long pause, Harry’s chipped breaths the only sound in the chillingly quiet room, when suddenly Snape spoke in a pained voice.

“It’s called 'In Memoriam'”.

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“The poem you quoted earlier,” Snape explained. “I hold it true, whate'er befall. I feel it, when I sorrow most. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Harry,” he continued, his voice now barely above a whisper as he tightened his grip on the slender shoulder. “You will not lose me.”

Harry stared back at the Professor as the tears he had fought to restrain spilled unchecked down his cheeks. So the Professor knew then, not that Harry was surprised. The man always seemed to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and Harry remembered the gentle insult Snape had thrown at him weeks ago about being an open book, but Harry was suspicious that it was only Snape who read him with such little effort.

“But when summer ends –” Harry started, his mind compulsively thinking the worst.

“Harry, I give you my word. I told you weeks ago that I would never allow it and I say it again now. It. Will. Never. Happen.”

“I know!” Harry exclaimed, his trembling voice tainted with worry. “I know what you said, but-”

“But nothing,” Snape replied, almost exasperated at the boy’s inability to believe his words. “Did you really believe that I would allow anyone to return you to those…people after what they’ve done to you? The very thought of it sickens me.”

Severus paused, giving the distraught child time to process his words. “Trust me, Harry, anyone wishing to send you back to those Muggles would have to go through me to do it. Now, will you please stop tormenting yourself with worry and trust me?”

Without awaiting an answer, he gently pulled the boy to him, cupping the back of his head with his free hand as Harry allowed himself to find quiet relief in the Professor’s embrace.

“Child,” Snape whispered in half admonishment as he rested his chin on the head of messy chestnut hair.

Harry reached up and swiped at his damp cheek with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against the black robes, the faded scent of mint and ginger still embedded in the soft fabric. “I just…I just…I get worried about things and I never know what to do and…” he took in a shaky breath. “Every time I think I know what to do, something makes me think I’m doing it wrong,” he finished, voice cracking with emotion.

Suddenly he felt Snape’s hold on him lighten, the strong arm falling from his back and grasping his shoulder. Harry took the cue and stepped back, looking up at the Professor.

“One of the most daunting decisions one can make is in whom they place their trust,” Snape said seriously. “But more important than trusting others, is trusting in yourself. If you believe you are incapable of making decisions regarding your own life, you will forever second guess every choice you ever make, and that is no way to live, Harry.”

Harry nodded. He was already doing that, second guessing himself at every turn. He had trusted Craig and look what that had gotten him. He had trusted Snape too, but….but Snape hadn’t done anything, Harry had only thought he had, but it hadn’t been Snape, it had been Craig. Harry reached up and rubbed at his eyes, still damp with tears.

“Sir?” He asked in a hushed voice. “Why does everything have to be so confusing? Is it always like this? Life, I mean. Is everything this…hard?”

Severus shook his head, his hand tightening on Harry’s shoulder. He stared at the child in front of him, the emerald eyes swirling with jade and worry. A child so torn apart. His child. For too long he had feared the boy’s reaction to his true feelings, and for too long he had second guessed himself, second guessed his own instincts. His words of advice had been aimed at a confused child, but in reality, they also applied to his own anxious musings. Perhaps it was time to heed his own counsel.

“No,” he replied. “You have weathered a particularly difficult life, but I promise you, Harry, not everything is this challenging. You will find things get easier with time. For example,” he continued, drawing in a deep breath, brow furrowing slightly. “I have always found it extremely difficult to allow people to become…close to me. I did not think it was possible for me to care about anyone, to…to love…anyone; however, I find that in the last few weeks I....” Severus cleared his throat, his tongue nervously gliding across his lips, heart racing anxiously.

“Harry,” he said carefully. “I need to tell you that…how I feel…that is…Merlin,” he murmured, unaccustomed to such discountenance. He took a swift breath. “Harry…I-”

“Master Snape, Sir?” Della stood in the doorway, her dusky cobalt eyes brilliant against her copper skin as she peered at the two figures before her. “Mister Russer is arriving and being in the sitting room,” she said brightly, completely oblivious to her interruption.

Severus closed his eyes, anger and dismay flooding into him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a carefully controlled breath.

“We will be down shortly,” he managed in a crisp voice, though it was all he could do not to verbally tear the silly creature limb from limb. Of all the moments to be interrupted. “We will continue this later,” he promised, and Harry nodded. Setting the charred wand down on the crumpled parchment, Severus motioned the boy out into the hall.

After a few feet, Snape stopped at a doorway, an ornately carved frame outlining the old, oak slab.

“Your new room,” Snape announced.

“My new room?” Harry asked, brow raised in confusion.

“Last night,” Severus explained. “I told you that I felt it best that you not sleep in your old room any longer. I take it you do not remember?”

“Oh,” Harry replied quietly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t. Sorry, Sir.”

“Forgive me,” Severus said, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder, surprised and relived to feel the young man lean slightly into his touch. “You were…distracted, exhausted. It is understandable if you have little recollection of what was said.”

He gave the slender shoulder a comforting squeeze as Harry’s cheeks glistened pink with embarrassment. “You’ll find it slightly larger than the previous one,” he continued. “I took the liberty of transferring your things. After Ernie has departed, you will have the chance to look it over. I will make any changes you feel are necessary.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry replied, suddenly distracted by a sparkle on the etched frame. He leaned in to more closely to inspect a small dragon, about half the size of his hand, near the door handle. Affixed on each scale was a shard of iridescent pearl that shone like sunlight on a stream. Its eyes glimmered with tiny flecks of violet, amaranth and jade, and flames, shimmering with crushed garnet, vivid and scarlet, were sculpted at the beast's gaping mouth.

“The Antipodean Opaleye,” Snape said, seeing the boy’s interest. “Widely considered one of the most beautiful of all dragons.”

“It is beautiful,” Harry exclaimed in a hushed voice, in awe of the magnificent carved creature.

So that’s what the Professor had been doing all afternoon? Great, while Snape had spent hours preparing a room in order for him to be more comfortable, he’d spent the day avoiding the man because he'd been too damn scared to let him get too close.

If the door frame was this fantastic, he couldn’t even imagine what the inside looked like. Snape must have really cared about him to make something this beautiful for him, and his stomach swirled with hope and nervousness. It had always been an impossible dream, feeling cared for like this, and somehow, even as the summer seemed to torture him, he managed to cling to that hope amid the constant apprehension. It seemed at every turn, Snape was his anchor.

“I’m glad it is to your liking,” Snape replied, studying Harry’s awed expression. Even in the rare moments when the child seemed to step back from his near constant vexation there was always such exposed sorrow in his eyes, and he found himself wondering if Harry had ever experienced respite from the unrelenting pain and despair of his existence. He pressed his lips into a thin, thoughtful line, unable to conceive the strength of will of the young man beside him. Even in his own turbulent life there had been moments of happiness with which he was able to fortify himself during his darkest hours, and in that moment he vowed to create those moments for Harry, no matter the effort required. He cleared his throat of emotion and announced “We should attend to our guest.”

Harry nodded and followed as Snape made his way down the hall, but before he’d taken more than a few steps, Harry stopped, bottom lip pinned between his teeth as he thought about what the Professor had said to him about placing trust in others, about how frightening it was, and how scared he was when Harry had been hurt.

“Sir?” Harry said suddenly, before he even had time to think. The Professor slowed to a stop and turned, eyebrows raised.

“Were you….I mean, you were really scared?” Harry asked, his voice strained. “When I was...” he paused and Snape remained silent, his obsidian eyes emotionless as he stared back at the boy. Harry’s heart sank instantly. “Never mind, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, shuffling past the Professor, embarrassed that he’d even asked the question. What kind of question was that anyway? Were you scared when I was dying? Harry cringed internally at his stupidity. Of course Snape would say yes. The man wasn’t going to be rude and say –

“Terrified.”

Harry stopped in his tracks. After what seemed an eternity, he slowly turned around. Snape’s features were illuminated by the flickering candle across the hall; his expression solemn, serious, intensely honest. He took a few steps towards Harry until they stood almost toe to toe, his dark robes swirling gently, the hem brushing across the tops of Harry’s shoes.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Snape said, his voice as genuine as his expression. “And I was absolutely terrified.”

Harry felt his chest tighten, as if someone had reached into his body and wrapped their fingers tight around his heart. He gave a small, slow nod, not trusting his ability to manage a verbal reply without bursting into tears. He felt Snape’s hand on the small of his back, gentle pressure forcing his feet to move, and he almost stumbled as he turned and started down the hall, his mouth dry, apprehension partnered with excitement swirling within him, and all of a sudden one of his decisions got a little easier to make.

Soon it would be time.

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“What a lovely meal, Della!” Ernie exclaimed as he pushed his empty plate towards the center of the table. “One of your best creations yet!” The silverware clinked gently as the plate slowly lifted off and drifted into Della’s waiting arms. The smile on her weathered face was wider than Harry had ever seen. Clearly the little elf was not used to such commendation.

“It was merely acceptable,” Snape said coolly, banishing his own plate as Della moved to his side, her spindly arms open to receive his dinnerware. A grieving expression quickly replaced her elation, her ears slapping audibly as they fell in disappointment.

“Don’t listen to him!” Ernie called from across the table, waving a pointed finger at his host. “Severus, you great Grindylow, and here I thought having Harry around had mellowed you.” Ernie turned towards Harry, who was seated next to him and winked mischievously. Snape snorted and rolled his eyes indignantly. He looked at Ernie, then to Harry, whose face was alight with anticipation.

“In retrospect, I suppose one might consider the meal more than palatable,” he drawled, looking down at the distraught house elf. Then, in little more than a whisper, he added, “Exquisite work, Della.”

“You see?” Ernie announced triumphantly, barely able to finish his statement as he erupted into giggles. “Sweet as a newborn Kneazle when it comes down to it.” He ignored the glower shot at him from across the table and tapped Harry’s arm. “Della’s made Severus a treacle sponge for dessert, I believe. Let’s enjoy it in front of a cozy fire in the living room, hmm?” At Harry’s approving nod, Ernie slipped down from his chair and followed Harry into the living room. Severus didn’t follow.

“Treacle sponge?” Snape inquired silkily, his dark gaze narrowing in on Della, who had almost managed to slip into the kitchen un-noticed. She turned, fretful eyes trained on her master as he rose from his seat. “Thirty seven years,” he said slowly, voice dripping with suspicion. “Tell me, Della, to what do I owe this sudden altruism of yours?”

Della emitted a shrill squeak, the plates in her arms clattering as she squirmed nervously.

“I am being…Master Snape, Sir…could I being asking….if Master could…and Little Master is….”

Severus sighed in annoyance. Nothing was more frustrating than a highly strung house elf.

“Out with it,” he demanded sharply.

“I am being hoping,” Della said a little more calmly. “Maybe Master Snape is being asking for Little Master to stay not just for summer, but for all times. Little Master would being happy here, yes? Master Snape would being happy, too.”

Severus let out a heavy breath.

“I had planned on asking just that,” he said gravely. “But he has far to go, Della. There is a long road he must travel before he trusts me enough to answer that question truthfully.”

Della banished the plates she was holding and scratched her head with a thin finger.

“No, Master Snape,” she said solemnly, earning a raised brow from the wizard. “Little Master is being on a shorter road than Master thinks. I am being thinking,” she continued, waving a hand and sending each chair tidily into place. “That Little Master is very much near the end indeed.”

“What are you talking about?” Severus asked, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency. Della was wise beyond her many years and he had come to trust her musings almost as much as he did Albus’. Just then, a half giggled Incendio sounded from the next room along with an appallingly loud crack. Severus turned his head towards the sound as laughter billowed through the half open door.

Seconds later, when Severus turned back to the little elf, there was nothing but the kitchen door swinging aimlessly on its hinges.

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“Oh, Severus!” Ernie exclaimed as the Professor swept into the room. “I was just giving Harry a lesson in fire starting.” He beckoned Harry to lean down to him and ran his small fingers over a smudge of soot on the boy’s cheek, banishing the mess. “Got a wee bit out of hand,” Ernie murmured, forcing back a snicker. Harry couldn’t help but smile as he made his way to the couch. He felt Snape’s eyes on his back, but didn’t turn around, and instead let himself sink into the soft cushions, his eyes on the dancing flames in the hearth. He yawned into his hand.

Harry sat quietly as Ernie and Snape talked. The chatter had been mundane, a recent storm in Berwick-upon-Tweed, the arrival of a new apothecary in Sunderland, a woman who Ernie animatedly described as having breasts till Tuesday, whatever that meant. Harry had looked up from his wand care book as the Professor launched into a scathing lecture about showing some decency in front of the boy as Ernie erupted into high pitched laughter until tears ran from his golden eye, the indigo flecks sparkling as he giggled an apology to Harry.

He was half way through chapter thirteen when he noticed the voices had lowered. He could no longer hear the conversation clearly, and instead of focusing on his book, he tried his best to make out the murmured words of the two men opposite him.

“He has not offered up much more than……I fear…..”

“Do you think…..Severus? Perhaps….”

“I do not……bring himself……I will attempt….”

Suddenly there was silence. Harry continued to stare at the page in his lap until a cleared throat invited his attention, and he looked up to see the Professor and Ernie staring directly at him.

“You’ve been on that same page for the last seven minutes,” Snape said incisively.

“Oh,” Harry replied, his mouth all of a sudden bone dry. He quickly pressed his finger to a random paragraph. “Uh…this part here…um…it’s very interesting and…um...” He stopped his rambling, knowing full well from the look on Snape’s face that there was nothing the Professor believed less in that moment than Harry’s flimsy explanation.

“Well, I’d best be going,” Ernie said abruptly, cutting the quiet tension of the room. He slipped off the couch and tapped his wrist. “I see it’s getting late.”

“Shall I bring the fact that you aren’t wearing a watch to your attention?” Snape asked in a tone which to Harry’s relief was laced with amusement rather than scorn or anger.

“Oh!” Ernie exclaimed in faux surprise. He glanced at Harry, then to Snape, then to his wrist, then back to Harry. “Then I suppose I should head out and pick one up!” He walked briskly over to Harry and patted the boy’s knee. “Take care, Harry. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure. Severus!” He called as he made his way to the fireplace, raising a hand without turning around.

“Ernie,” Snape replied as his tiny friend waved his hand across the fireplace. The flames ceased completely for a moment, allowing Ernie to disappear at a spoken word, and a puff of coal-black smoke rose lightly in the hearth before the flames reappeared and devoured it.

“Don’t say it,” Severus warned, seeing Harry’s mouth open to offer an apology. He watched as the young wizard sank back against the couch, eyes darting to his lap where the torn corner of Stick in the Mud was already succumbing to fretful fingers. Severus ran his hand through his hair, wincing as his ring finger pulled at a tangle. His scalp felt a tad slick, common after hours of potion work, though he usually showered afterwards. Today though he’d gone straight from the rainbow dappled wall of his laboratory to the second master suite that lay almost directly across the hall from his own, where he proceeded to give the long disused room a more auspicious appearance. He’d lost track of exactly who had occupied the quarters back in its day, but their sense of style was sepulchral at best, with coal black walls, the same dusky carpet, and an archaic bathroom lined with sickly beige tiles, a tired looking chamber consisting of a single commode and wash basin.

Though Severus was not without a sense of vogue, he had little knowledge of what would present itself as worthy to a young boy of twelve. Colours in Slytherin quarters were dictated by the school, and Severus refused to think of his childhood, even if it were to recall something as innocuous as room décor. He settled, but not without a strong sense of aversion, to the traditional Gryffendor hues, though he toned the garish red and yellow to a more evolved magenta and gold, only using the two shades as a highlight rather than showering the room with colour.

“I expect you’d like to see your room?” He asked. Harry’s head slowly inclined, curious eyes silently asking the question his nerves wouldn’t allow him to put voice to. “You are not in trouble, Harry,” Severus said, beckoning the boy to stand. “Ernie was merely curious as to how you were doing. He feels…responsible for what happened.”

“But…no…he shouldn’t!” Harry exclaimed, eyes darting to the fireplace where the exuberant little man had been only moments ago.

“No, he shouldn’t,” Severus agreed. “The fault lies with only one person, and that person is –”

“Me,” Harry said quietly. Instantly Severus’ blood ran cold.

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry looked up imploringly at the Professor. He had to come clean.

“I....it was my fault. Craig wouldn’t have needed to stay here if I hadn’t…” Harry paused to take a shuddering breath as Severus began to shake his head in refusal. “Sir, if you knew what I did –”

“Harry, I want you to listen to me,” Snape said, allowing a tinge of authority to graze his voice. He reached out and placed his fingers under the boy’s chin, ensuring Harry couldn’t look away. “There is absolutely no way you are at fault for anything that has happened to you, by your relative’s hands or by Craig’s. I will not have you taking any responsibility for your abuses.”

“But it was my fault,” Harry declared again, eyes glistening. If the Professor knew what he had done, if he only knew about his lies and manipulation, he’d understand.

“Ridiculous,” Snape countered. “No twelve year old boy could do anything to deserve such treatment. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine.”

“You?” Harry asked in a shaky voice, taken aback by Professor’s claim. “But you didn’t do anything!”

“I left,” Snape stated, shaking his head as Harry opened his mouth to begin another dispute. “Had I remained at the manor, there would have been no need for Craig’s presence. I allowed him into my home and you paid the price for my poor judgment.”

“But you don’t understand!” Harry started, desperately fighting the emotional outburst that was threatening to explode within him. He couldn’t let the Professor take the blame for what happened, not after all he’d done for him, not after he’d helped him, not after he’d held him like that in the rain and after the nightmares, letting Harry scream out the pain and confusion and fear. He couldn’t take the blame. He wouldn’t let him!

“I understand perfectly,” Severus said seriously. “Harry, you are not the cause of this atrocity.” He felt Harry’s chin quiver, but he retained his gentle hold on the boy’s delicate jaw as tears spilled from pain filled eyes.

“But I lied!” Harry choked out, ignoring the tears now. They would come anyway, the emotions so raw and deep that there was no way of containing them any longer. “I had nightmares every night,” Harry continued, stumbling over the words as if there were physically painful to say aloud. “I used a silencing charm so you wouldn’t hear my nightmares and I acted happy so you would think I was ok. I made you think I was ok without you. I lied so you would go, so you wouldn’t be disappointed, so you wouldn’t be upset!”

“And who gave you the idea that I would feel such things?” Snape asked, his hand slipping to Harry’s shoulder in order to calm the boy’s frantic shaking, but Harry pulled away, sidestepping out of the Professor’s grip and slipping behind the couch where he stood panting, tears cascading down his face. The room swam uncomfortably.

“Who?” Snape asked again, determined to purge Harry of his guilt, his shame.

“But it was true!” Harry sobbed, shaking his head. “You wanted to go so badly. You’d been working on it for years. It was an honor, you said so!”

“I said it was an honor, yes,” Snape countered, but I said nothing about my desire to attend. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you the opposite. Now, I ask again, who told you I would be disappointed?”

“Craig did!” Harry admitted. “He said that –”

“He lied,” Severus replied in a firm tone. He was done with this. Done with Harry’s lamentable guilt. Done with Craig’s manipulations haunting the boy at every turn. He skirted the couch, ignoring the instinctive step back Harry took as he approached, the small hand clutching the back of the settee at if to steady himself.

“Is this the reason you’ve been pushing me away?” Severus asked gently, reaching out to catch the boy’s chin as he bowed his head.

Harry felt the familiar touch under his jaw, the gentle pressure that caused him to look up and into those obsidian eyes. In that moment he could feel emotion radiating off the Professor like a tangible wave. It was unmistakable, riveting, encompassing, an emotion so gentle and yet so powerful that it sent a shiver up Harry’s spine, and he tightened his grip on the couch as the room tilted. He felt dizzy, drained, and overwhelmingly tired.

“Do not think for one moment that I could feel a shred of anger at you for what happened,” Severus said, his voice fiercely emotional. “I will not have you blaming yourself. I don’t care what you’ve done or you think you’ve done. Merlin, child, do you have any idea how much you mean to me? Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of breathing.

They stared at each other, Harry’s mouth slightly agape, eyes unblinking, and for a moment he thought he’d misheard until the Professor’s silky baritone voice repeated the words Harry thought he’d never hear.

“Harry. I love you.”

He didn’t catch the rest. Snape’s mouth kept moving but Harry couldn’t hear the words anymore. He watched as the Professor continued to speak, shaking his head, his brow furrowing for a moment before raising his eyebrows, a brief, gentle smile, then a pause, his eyes suddenly narrowing in worry as he noticed Harry’s glazed expression.

He didn’t even realize he was falling until Snape caught him. He was scooped up into the Professor’s strong arms and carried across the room. He felt the lilt of each stair, then the short walk down the hall, his eyes open but barely seeing. His head lulled to one side and the smoky scent of Snape’s robes brushed across his face.

“Sir?” He breathed, barely able to keep the dark figure in focus. He squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them, and the blur that was the Professor slowly became clear. The man was looking down at him, his cool palm pressed to Harry’s forehead.

“How are you feeling?” Snape’s voice rumbled as Harry let his eyes fall closed again. The boy’s forehead was too warm, and Severus moved his hand to one flushed cheek then the other, gauging the warmth with the back of his hand, unable to hold back a smile as Harry leaned into his touch, seeking the cool comfort.

“M’ok,” Harry murmured.

“You most certainly are not,” Severus chided softly. “You’ve not had nearly enough sleep, you spent most of the day roaming the island without your cloak, and likely fretting over all these worries you’ve kept to yourself. You’re exhausted.”

Harry made a plaintive sound in the back of his throat. It was meant to be a rebuttal against Snape’s accusation, but since the man wasn’t exactly wrong in his assessment, Harry’s complaint turned to a disgruntled whine instead. He heard the Professor chuckle from above and begrudgingly pulled his eyes open.

“Sir?” He asked weakly, watching as Snape pulled out his wand. He felt the air change against his skin, then the velvety softness of being spelled into pajamas.

“Mmm?” Snape murmured, pulling the thick duvet up to the boy’s chest and pocketing his wand.

“Did you…did you really say…” Harry’s voice trailed off, as much from reluctance to hear he’d misunderstood Snape’s words as from sheer exhaustion.

Severus smoothed an errant lock of hair from the boy’s forehead, carding his fingers through the messy brown mane in an effort to help him relax.

“Yes, Harry,” he said gently as the emerald eyes closed once more. “You were not mistaken. I do love you.”

Severus felt his heart swell as he spoke the words. Finally he was able to give voice to how he felt about the child. Finally he was able to give Harry what he had longed for, and what he too had longed for. He loathed admitting it, but Albus had been right. He did need Harry as much as Harry needed him. They were each so desperate for the love the other had to give, and so afraid to allow themselves to hope for it, to admit how much they wanted it.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “I will be here when you wake.”

Harry managed a weak nod, half asleep already, but through the haze he had heard the Professor’s confirmation, and with a happiness he’d never dared to imagine, he let sleep claim him.

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Severus was under no illusions about Harry’s emotional state. The declaration of love, while a momentous step, was in no way a fix for the secrets still locked inside the boy’s fragile mind. The pain was still there, hidden behind years of carefully built walls, and no three words could tear those walls asunder, no matter how long Harry had yearned to hear them.

But it was a step. A huge one.

Severus stared at the sleeping child, knowing full well that any second the silence could be broken by terrified, heart wrenching screams. It was disturbing in itself that Severus could sit so calmly, waiting for the event as one might wait for a bus, and he bowed his head for a moment, his own fatigue setting in, and he rubbed at the space between his eyes where a headache was forming. The waiting was literally painful.

Suddenly Harry bolted awake with a terrified moan, eyes glassy, rabid, darting around the room as if he were a trapped animal. He launched backwards, instinctively retreating from danger, barely seeing the Professor through the remainder of nightmarish images floating in his field of vision. He slammed up against the headboard, the sharp thwack echoing around the room which was eerily quiet save for his gasping, desperate cries.

“Harry,” Severus said quickly, on his feet in an instant, but making sure not to approach the panic-stricken child. He kept his voice low, level, devoid of the sickening worry that was gripping him at seeing Harry in such a state. “Harry, you’re safe, you’re in your room. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Scrambling as if the treat of attack loomed, Harry pushed himself off the bed, dropping to the floor with a dull thud. Hysteria in full swing now, he forced himself to his feet, legs trembling, shaky, almost unable to support his frame as he took a series of rapid steps back, eyes now glued to the Professor as his back came up hard against the wall. A hand shot out, palm towards Snape as if the small hand might keep him at bay, the other desperately clawing at the wall, as if searching for a secret panel that might spring open and lead him to safety.

“I’m sorry!” Harry cried, voice at a fever pitch, his pupils dilated to almost complete blackness. A sob escaped his lips as tears spilled from his unblinking eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him like a runaway train and he flinched, the hand suspended out in front of him shaking as if an electrified. “I’m sorry! I won’t….I won’t…I won’t….”

“Harry,” Snape pleaded in a near whisper. His heart felt as if it would explode, the mad thudding in his ears almost drowning out the piteous pleas of the terrified boy in front of him. He took a small, slow step in Harry’s direction, the movement causing the boy the flinch violently and skitter further down the wall, almost tripping over his own feet in a frantic effort to put as much distance between the two as possible.

“Harry,” Snape repeated, this time retreating back a few steps. “It’s Professor Snape. You’ve had a nightmare but everything is alright now, there is nothing to harm you, nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe, Harry, do you understand me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry I disobeyed you!” Came the distraught response, and Severus agonized at the frailty of the voice, the sheer desperation of it, and he shook his head gently.

“No, child. You have done nothing wrong. Craig was the one who hurt you, remember? He disguised himself as me but that is over now. Craig is gone, Harry. Do you remember?”

Please remember, child.

A slight shake of the head.

Feverish blinking.

The hand sinking just a little. Painfully slowly.

Harry’s eyes darted to the floor across the room near the door. No blood. The hand that gripped at the wall was slowly drawn to his face, turbulent fingers brushing over his lips, across a wet cheek, pressing against his brow. No swelling. No pain. A soft, wretched moan welled from deep inside him as he finally escaped from the terror of the nightmare. There was awareness now, understanding.

He remembered.

There was the Professor, the real Professor, his Professor, his long strides carrying him across the room towards Harry. The hands went to his shoulders, and Harry was pulled towards dark robes. He fell against the broad chest, the familiar scent of the potions master reassuring him as he cried in fear and relief, his arms hanging limply at his sides, sobbing as one of the Professor’s hands slid to his back and gently swept small circles of comfort. The other pressed lightly against the back of his head, fingers lost amid the mess of chestnut hair, the soothing, barely moving fingers grazing his scalp.

And Snape held him.

He held him until the slender body stopped shaking.

Held him until the tears faded to jerky, involuntary gasps.

“I will not let go until you are ready,” Snape assured him in a barely whispered voice, and he felt Harry nod against his chest.

Severus let out a careful breath. The severity of Harry’s reaction had stunned him. There was such fear, such primitive and instinctual terror. Severus felt an uneasy fear of his own, fear that this was too much for Harry, and that he was not enough. Had the boy not untangled himself from the nightmare on his own…no, he wasn’t going to think about that. A shard of sympathy and guilt stabbed at his chest. How helpless he had felt during the emotion he had witnessed.

His self admonishment was interrupted by Harry slowly drawing both hands to his face and rubbing carefully at his eyes.

Harry took a few steps back, gaze habitually trained on the floor as he watched Snape’s hands fall to his sides. It was funny how two hands could offer so much warmth and comfort. Maybe it was the way the Professor touched him, always seeming to know which quiet movements would soothe, able to inject his aura of calm into Harry’s very core. His touch was incredibly gentle, as if he were handling a fledgling bird instead of a boy.

Suddenly warmth washed over him, and the nervous, blissful feeling was there in his chest. He felt lightheaded for a moment, as if one more emotion might just be the end of him, but this one was joyful. As the feeling blossomed he continued to stare at the Professor’s hands, the potion stained fingers that so many times had taken him carefully by the chin, forcing him to stare into those worried, dark orbs, commanding the honesty and dignity of eye contact. It meant so much, felt so much, and suddenly the appreciation overwhelmed him, his breath hitching in his chest, eyes stinging with tears yet again.

Snape loved him.

And he…

He loved Snape.

He felt it for the Professor, miniscule at first, inching into his countenance so slowly that Harry had barely noticed.

He stood motionless, stunned by his sudden realization.

And in that moment, he made his decision.

It wasn’t just the trust, not just the way the man had so carefully allowed him to experience it. It wasn’t the way he spoke to Harry, gentle, careful, honest, all the things his relatives had refused to be, or the way he let Harry just…just be, just be himself without worry of anger or harm or mockery. It was all of those things, every single tiny moment Snape had let him scream and yell and cry and carry on like a wild thing. It was everything he felt and thought since he’d arrived at the manor, and as Harry felt the man’s hand on his back, wordlessly directing him back to his bed, the words Snape had recited to him flooded into his mind.

Better to have loved and lost.

Was it? Was it better to finally let the walls down, the barriers he’d so carefully tried to erect since Snape found him sitting on that too hard chair at the station? He was terrible at it really. Snape kept breaking through them no matter how hard Harry tried, and no matter how strong he thought he was, Snape was always able to slip through a crack and make Harry question the reasons for hiding in the first place. He sat at the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped at the weight of the Professor beside him, quiet, waiting, allowing Harry time to clear his thoughts, never once demanding anything, forcing anything, but letting things just….just be.

Harry stared straight ahead, brow creased in thought, the occasional shuddering breath reminding him of the nightmare, the fear dissipating, slowly swirling back down into the depths, ready to sink its fang into him again without warning.

He would have given anything for someone to care about him the way the Professor did. His entire life was spent waiting for it, praying for it, begging with all that was in him for just one chance at being loved, and suddenly there it was, staring at him from under that flickering light in that dingy men’s bathroom at Kings Cross, and in that moment, in that scene of shock and disbelief and fear, without knowing it, his prayers had been answered.

Suddenly it didn’t matter about the Dursley’s, it didn’t matter about Craig. It didn’t matter about the seemingly never ending fountain of mistrust, the overwhelming fear of losing someone who actually cared about him, wanted him, loved him.

He had to trust himself, just like Snape said.

Quickly he slipped off the bed and turned towards the Professor. His heart slammed against his chest like a tempest, the fear rising in him again, the storm of pain and uncertainty and desperation clamoring, churning, and over the crashing of emotions he tried to speak, his eyes locked with Snape’s, and emerald met ebony.

Yes, he had made his decision. He trusted in it fully, in himself, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He managed a shaky step forward and held out his hands, relived to feel warm palms slip against his. He focused on the Professor’s face, falling into the darkness of those eyes, losing himself in the swirling black until there was nothing but the coal black irises, comforting him, holding him, and only when he was fully embraced by the welcoming obsidian did he give the only warning he could think of as he felt Snape’s hands tighten anxiously around his own.

“Sir,” he gasped, lips almost unable to form the words. “I...I need to…show you….”

It was just like the day he’d inadvertently shown Snape images from Craig’s abuse, only this time he understood what he was doing, encouraged it, hoped for it. He wasn’t sure how he’d done it then, and he had no idea how to repeat it. He simply…let go. He released everything, memories of Craig, of Fudge, of the Dursley’s, of Hogwarts. Every thought and feeling and remembrance poured out of him in a torrent. He surrendered it to the only person who could possibly understand, the only person who cared enough, loved him enough.

You will not lose me

And Harry held onto that promise as darkness engulfed him. Slowly, like smoke dancing from quenched embers, the images began to form, and it was all he could do not to scream out loud as he began to relive the unimaginable, and somewhere in the unending shadow, he felt Snape’s hands clutching his.

Severus felt his skin crawl at the room darkened, and he fought the almost feral desire to close his eyes against this element of the unknown. He had been in far more frightening situations than this, seen things that would make most men crumble, and yet he had always kept a steady hand. Now, however, the hairs at the back of his neck bristled almost painfully as a murky, grey mist gathered around him. He flexed his fingers as wisps of cold gathered in his palm, finding only emptiness even though he swore he could feel Harry’s small hands clenched around his. The forming haze continued, billowing slowly, almost as if in slow motion, enveloping him, blanketing all surroundings in a thick fog. He forced his breathing to remain steady, tongue sweeping over suddenly nervous lips almost as if expecting an attack.

This was nothing like the first time, when Harry had literally shoved the images at him in a panicked fury of thoughts; the cluttered, raw scenes flickering through Severus’ mind like an antique reel of footage. This was slow, deliberate; the shadows breaking apart with methodical purpose as they gradually formed a scene in front of him.

Severus was in a courtyard, and recognized the worn stone walls instantly as one of the more secluded areas at Hogwarts. He had often escaped to such islands of solitude as a youngster in order to study or lose the trail of idiotic classmates. The skin of his arms gathered into goose bumps as a cold wind slapped at him with sharp palms. He glanced around quickly, unsure as to exactly how or what Harry would reveal.

The low murmur of voices suddenly caught his ears and Severus’ hand instinctively slipped to his side, chilled fingers brushing against his wand. He paused, feeling foolish and vulnerable all at once as he took a few slow steps, his cloak catching on the rough bricks as he peered around the wall. On a low, stone bench sat Harry. To his right, sat the youngest Weasely boy, and next to him, Granger. All three sat heads bent over a large, brown photo album as the Weasley boy…what was his name again? Severus’ brow furrowed. The twins had been a thorn in his side for years with their penchant for ridiculous jokes and tricks, played most often on his Slytherins. The youngest one had been in his potions class last term, and while he had little of his brothers outright displays of idiocy and defiance, he was quietly insolent, sending scathing looks at Severus’ back every time points were taken from Gryffendor.

“Oh, Ron!” the Granger girl giggled, aiming a light slap on the redhead’s shoulder.

Ron. That was it. Trust that annoying girl to give the right answer even in a vision Severus thought, lip curling with disdain as he watched from the safety of the shadows. There was no need to conceal himself of course, but somehow it felt wrong to witness the scene as if he were in a Pensive, to wander about boldly, knowing he was part of nothing more than a mental impression. He would respect Harry’s memories. The boy deserved nothing less.

“Boy, have we got something...” said Fred mischievously.

“To show you,” finished George, grinning as he and his twin slipped around the bench where the three first years were seated.

“What’s this?” Fred asked, prodding at the book open on Ron’s lap.

“Photos from Easter,” Ron retorted, swatting at his older brother’s arm until the hand retreated. He flipped the page, and immediately Hermione let out another giggle at an animated photo which showed the Weasley family seated for Easter dinner, complete with gently waving bunny ears for each member of the family.

“Ron!” She exclaimed, her delicate hand at her mouth as she laughed. “What on earth is this?”

“How did that get in there?” Ron hissed, slamming his open hand over the photo.

“It’s nothing!” He said quickly, returning Hermione’s continued glee with a distressed look.

“Oh, come on,” smiled Fred, prying his younger sibling’s hand off the album.

“You make such a cute widdle wabbit, Wonny,” George said with a satisfied grin as both Hermione and Harry leaned in to better see the photo.

“It’s Mum’s idea,” Ron stated, his face the picture of disgust as he shook his head at the picture. “She does it every year and - lemme go!” He exclaimed, pulling his hand from his brother’s grip and slamming the album closed. “Why don’t you both sod off!”

“Oh we can’t” said Fred

“do that,” continued George as he slipped an old leather bound book into Ron’s lap. “I think you’ll find this...”

“much more enjoyable,” finished Fred as he reached over Ron’s shoulder and flipped open the tome.

The twins raised their heads and glanced about the courtyard. The April air was still quite cool and most of the students were inside.

Harry stared as Ron began the flip through the first few pages of the mysterious book, when suddenly his friend stopped, his fingers tracing a handwritten note at the bottom of the page.

“This is Dad’s writing!” Ron said in confusion as he studied the familiar penmanship. His head shot up, an accusing look directed as his older brother. “Where did you get this?”

“From Dad’s study,” Fred answered.

“Where else?” Finished George, reaching in and flipping a few pages further into the book. “Take a look at that,” he stated triumphantly.

Severus’ eyes narrowed as the pages fell open. He could see nothing of the book from where he was, and he had the sudden feeling that what was about to be revealed was of some importance. Though silence was not required, Severus made his way stealthily across the courtyard, giving the students a wide berth as he positioned himself behind the group.

“At what?” Ron questioned angrily as he gestured toward the open book. The picture took up most of the page, a jet black canvas with a frame of lightly glowing green runes. Fred leaned down until his lips were but an inch from his younger brother’s ear.

“That,” he whispered ominously as the dark photo came alive, and automatically the three friends leaned in, eyes on the murky, swirling shadows that billowed within the magical photograph. Suddenly, a figure burst from the blackness, a large, floating, ghostlike creature draped with a tattered black cloak. The heavy, ripped hood covered its head, and as it reared up to full height, the hood slipped back revealing a gaunt, almost featureless face with nothing but a gaping hole of a mouth. All three children gave a collective gasp. The beast writhed as if in great pain, its two gnarled hands, slate grey and decayed grabbing at the air, fingers a mess of pallid flesh and jagged bone. Its mouth opened and a piercing screech emanated from the creatures rotting maw, a scream so agonizing and raw that even Severus took in a sharp breath at the sound.

“What the hell,” Ron whimpered, his voice on the edge of frantic. “...is that?”

“That’s a Dementor,” George answered, his voice low and sinister. He grinned slyly at his twin.

“A wraith,” Fred continued. “They’re all over Azkaban. They suck out your soul,”

“and feed on your happiness,” said George. “It’s all in there. See? Dad made all kind of notes on them.”

“What are you doing with this?” Ron asked, eyes wide as the Dementor shrieked again. It was all he could do not to slam the book closed.

“Making a fortune,” the twins replied in unison.

“A knut a minute,” George said.

“We’ve already made a sickle,” Fred proclaimed proudly. “But since you’re our little brother...”

“...you get a free peek,” finished George as he reached out and pulled the book from Ron’s lap. “Time’s up!”

Severus drew himself up to full height, ignoring the sudden ill feeling in his gut and cast a furious look at the twins. Had they no idea of the danger that came from bringing such a book into the school? The information contained within it would likely be of a highly sensitive nature, and here were these two halfwits parading it around as if it were a Gryffindor flag. The idiocy!

“Dad’s going to kill you, you know that,” Ron stated.

“No he won’t,” Severus growled in a near whisper. “Because I’m going to.”

The twins shook their heads at Ron’s words.

“He’ll never find out.”

“It’s an old journal.”

“He doesn’t even remember he’s got it.”

“And anyway, we’ll have it back.”

“By Christmas.”

Ron looked back and forth between his brothers in disbelief as they spoke, then cast a look at Harry, who was staring at the book in George’s arms, face pale.

“You alright, mate?” Ron asked, his indignation turning to concern.

“Huh?” Harry pulled his eyes from the book and turned to his friend. Severus watched as the boy forced a smile.

“Oh,” Harry replied. “Yeah, I’m fine. That thing was pretty creepy.”

“It was disgusting!” declared Hermione indignantly, wrinkling her nose. “Who on earth would pay good money to look at something so revolting?”

“First years!” The twins exclaimed together before breaking into laughter.

“Bloody idiots,” Ron muttered as his brothers sauntered away. “It’ll take Mum about three days before she figures out what they’ve done. She always does. She’s right scary that way.”

Harry shivered, the air suddenly feeling more like fall winds rather than almost summer. He wiped his brow, which was slowly beading with sweat, with the sleeve of his shirt, and stood up.

“Want to go back inside?” He asked. “It’s getting a bit cold.”

“I’m fine,” said Hermione, shrugging. “But let’s go in. I’ve got homework to do.”

“Liar,” Ron snorted as he stood. Hermione rose to her feet and gave an aristocratic sniff.

“If you must know, Ronald, I requested an extra credit assignment from Professor McGonagall.”

Harry stood motionless as his two friends made their way back into the corridor, Ron baiting Hermione as best he could about her scholarly obsessions. He brought a trembling hand to his mouth and soaked up the moisture on his upper lip with his sleeve. The Dementor had affected him more than he wanted to let on. His skin crawled uncomfortably as a bead of sweat slid down his back. He could almost taste the suggestion of rot on his tongue and he swallowed, grimacing as if he had a mouth full of swill.

Severus watched silently as the boy gathered himself. Harry took a few deep breaths, eyes darting to the dark places of the gloomy courtyard as the intense, distrusting look Severus had come to know so well settled across his face. It wasn’t until Ron’s face appeared at the doorway that Harry finally made any significant movement.

“Oi! Mail’s coming in, Harry!” The redhead shouted. “Let’s go see what we got!”

Harry’s eyes lowered a moment before glancing back out into the cold afternoon.

“Nothing,” he whispered, the near emotionless tone tearing at Severus heart. “I’ve got nothing.”

Severus reached out, his hand hovering above the boy’s shoulder. He knew comfort was impossible, but attempting to offer it was automatic, instinctive, as if no other natural course of action existed. At that moment, a feeling of emptiness washed over him, sending Severus reeling against the sudden emotion. He shook his head gently as if to regain his bearings, brow knit in concern as an intense sadness gripped him. His hand fell back to his side, and again he felt the brush of Harry’s fingers against his own.

Forcing a look as close to a smile as possible, Harry turned and followed Ron into the school, and Severus looked on as shadows consumed his vision.

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Severus had no idea how long he was wrapped up in Harry’s memories. It was so unlike Legilimency, where he could peruse scenes at his leisure, focusing on what he felt was important. This was so fractured, nothing in order, fluttering randomly through time as Harry’s mind recalled particular events.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there, an aching that Severus contributed to the emotion of witnessing Harry’s innermost thoughts, but as the memories played out in front of him, the feeling swelled, an uncomfortable ball of emotion that clutched at his stomach with splintered fingers. Unconsciously, Severus moved his hand to his stomach, resting the warm palm against the unsettling sensation as he watched Harry’s reaction to finding out Snape had seen the memories of his abuse after using Legilimency. It was then that Severus noticed that Harry was doing the exact same thing, the small hand pressing against his lower torso, brow skewed in physical as well as emotional pain, and Severus suddenly made the connection. He was feeling Harry’s emotions! Not only was Harry showing him past events, but he was projecting his feelings of the moment as well. Almost as soon as he had come to the realization, pain splintered across his body as the room faded to black once more, and another room materialized around him and the sound of sobbing filled his ears. Near doubled over in agony, Severus spun around, his face ashen, breath catching in his throat as a scene that no words could describe came into view.

He was beating Harry.

Savagely, without remorse, without censure, silently, lips set in a grim line as the black clad arm rose again and again against the child cowering before him. Each time the fist came down, pain resonated through Snape’s body, and he sank to his knees, eyes refusing to leave the frail, shuddering frame of the boy he had come to love so ardently. He gasped as an intense wave of fear splashed over him, pulling him even further to the cold floor, drowning him in an ocean of desperation. He felt everything Harry felt, both in body and mind, though the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of terror, panic, and desperate confusion that was running through the child’s mind as he fruitlessly tried to fend of the blows.

The images came faster now, as if Harry were trying to rush through the hideous scenes with as much haste as possible, and Severus wondered how much control the boy had over what was being shown, and if that control extended to allowing Severus to feel the pain and emotion of each encounter.

Finally he had a concrete understanding of how the boy had been feeling since he arrived at the manor, the gnawing, raging panic, the fear of being hurt, of being hated, of every move made towards him, every glance, every word, every….thing. It made Severus ill, those same feelings churning within him, finally grasping the severity of it, understanding the strength of will the boy must have possessed in order to keep it hidden inside himself. It seemed so impossible that he was able to keep it contained for so long; though it was unlikely the child had a choice under his aunt and uncle’s ruthless authority.

Scenes continued to play out before him, and with each setting the clamor of emotion within Severus changed to what Harry was feeling at that time. The intense distrust and fear of Harry’s first night at the manor, uncertainty and guilt planted by a manipulative Craig over Severus’ indecision to attend the conference, and the almost crippling desperation over the abuse carried out by a disguised Craig. That was the hardest for Severus to witness, the multiple beatings, each blow with belt or clenched fist shattering the carefully built trust Harry had for him.

He watched with horror as Harry discovered the book of curses in his library, scolding himself for not keeping better track of such a dangerous piece of literature. At the same time he was relieved beyond compare that the boy had innocently stumbled upon the tome instead of seeking out the deadly spells, and his belief in Harry’s reluctance to cast the unforgivable was proven minutes later, as he felt the desperation as the despicable words were yelled with such terror and pain. He could not only hear, but feel Harry begging him to stay back, Harry’s own mind whirling frantically as his wand lurched in shaking fingers. Please don’t make me. Please please please please please....

Then came the encounter in Fudges office, blind panic as small fists slammed against the elevator door as Craig came closer and closer, and Snape felt the heart wrenching anguish as the child was dragged back to the Minister’s clutches, the frail voice begging, pleading, promising silence, and the most painful to Severus’ ears….apologizing. It seemed all too much for one person to handle, let alone a young boy of twelve.

And just when Severus though he couldn’t take anymore of Harry’s pain, it stopped.

He felt the tide of horrific emotion flow out of him in an instant as his surroundings changed. He was standing in Harry’s room, the two of them seated together on Harry’s bed, the boy’s face damp, eyes red from crying, and Severus recognized the scene as the moments before Harry had taken his hands after the nightmare that evening.

He watched as Harry rose slowly from the bed, eyes narrowed in thought, and Severus felt another emotion seep into him, and he braced himself for another onslaught. But there was no pain, no terror, no wild, aching panic. It was hope, an anxious, fervent yearning laced with forced confidence, quietly desperate. Severus felt the emotion grow within him, fear mixed with the boy’s longing, and Severus’s eyes narrowed in disbelief as he realized what he was feeling, what Harry was feeling.

Harry loved him.

He loved him.

It was a cautious emotion, ready to be hidden away deep inside in an instant, deathly afraid of being misplaced, of being shattered, but ready to take the risk, believing in the goodness of the man in front of him, and Severus’ chest tightened as Harry’s trust in him was revealed.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

“Sir?”

Harry whispered the word again as the Professor’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. His hands were still clasped in Snape's, but neither made any effort to pull away. He felt like he should still hold on to the man, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. The Professor looked a little shaken as he sat at the edge of the bed, not that Harry could blame him after what he’d put him through, and he forced himself to make eye contact, Snape’s dark eyes locking with his own.

“I…,” Severus started.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly, hoping to head off any complaint. “I didn’t mean to make you feel it, Sir, honestly I didn’t.”

“You did nothing wrong,” Snape replied gently, his hands tightening around Harry’s as if to convey the honesty of his words.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry repeated, a tinge of desperation in his voice. “I….” There was a long pause before he managed to ask timidly. “Was is very terrible for you?” He watched as Snape’s face crumpled into disbelief before he stood, releasing Harry from his grip and placing his hands on Harry’s shoulders. The boy had just shown him the very depths of his soul and relived unimaginable pain and abuse, and the child was worried about him.

“It was terrible, yes,” Severus replied. “But do not misunderstand me,” he said quickly as Harry opened his mouth, likely to apologize again. “What is terrible is that you have experienced such things under my care, that I was too blind with arrogance to see your pain, and that I was oblivious to the violations perpetrated against you by Craig. What you have been through these last weeks is nigh unfathomable. I am at a loss, Harry, to understand how in Merlin’s name you endured all you have since arriving here, and yet you still managed to find a reason to lo…,” Severus paused, dropping his gaze. The words he was about to say, he hadn’t meant to say aloud, at least not so soon. He had meant to give the boy time, allow him the freedom of expressing himself at his leisure, not -

“It’s alright, Sir.”

Severus caught Harry’s eyes, free of worry now, almost determined as they stared back at him.

“You can say it,” Harry whispered.

Severus swallowed roughly, suddenly unsure of saying it out loud, but he had felt Harry’s emotions for him correctly, hadn’t he? He thought back to Albus’ words that day at the manor, back when admitting his love for Harry had seemed so alien, so impossible.

Love works wonders, Severus. Even on the most impenetrable of hearts.

The old man had been right. Again.

“And yet,” Severus said softly. “You still managed to find a reason to love me.”

He watched as Harry’s eyes flickered in that moment, as if the words had made physical contact with his body.

“And I love you, Harry,” Severus said fervently, wanting to make sure the boy understood the words, believed them, trusted them.

“I-” Harry started, his breath catching in his throat; and for a moment Severus thought perhaps the boy wasn’t ready to say the words, and that maybe the knowledge that Snape simply knew was enough.

“You need not say it, Harry,” he said, gently pulling the boy to his chest. “There is no need, not now and not ever if you so chose.” He meant what he said. Even if Harry was never able to articulate his emotions verbally, this moment had been enough. He had done so much more than utter those three words to his Professor. He had shown him, allowed him the honor of literally feeling the boy’s love for him, and it had proven Harry’s feelings with far more power and eloquence than words could ever convey. The boy in his arms had so little reason to believe in love, let alone express it, and moments later when the small voice met his ears, Severus marveled again at Harry’s ability to continue to defy the miseries in his life.

“I…I love you too.”

Severus’ heart clenched at the words, words he had not heard since he was a young man, and words the boy in his arms had until now never had the luxury of hearing. He exhaled heavily against the soft, brown hair, the two clinging to each other almost in desperation, neither having the desire to pull away, neither having ever believed this moment could become a reality, the possibility of it too unimaginable, too difficult to even hope for. He felt Harry sniffle against his chest, the boy’s grip on him unfaltering.

I expect you need young Mr. Potter as much as he needs you.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Harry,” Severus replied, feeling a tremor in the arms around his waist. “What is it?” He took a gentle step back, his hands now on Harry’s shoulders, knowing any anxiety would be evident in the boy’s eyes. Harry looked up at him, the emerald orbs glassy with tears, the familiar look of worry etched across his face.

“Do you think…” Harry started uncertainly. “I mean, you said I didn’t have to go home, Sir…..so I was wondering…. I mean, couldn’t I stay here, Sir….with you?”

Not the world, Severus. Just one child.

Severus pulled the boy against him again, the embrace meaning so much more than just a hug, more than just comfort. It was a connection, a promise, one he had uttered so many times to the child, his child. He would not let him go.

“I would not give you up, Harry,” he said in earnest, feeling the thin arms tighten around him in reply. “Not for anything.”

Severus closed his eyes

“Not for the world.”

It had been a week since the night Harry had shown the Professor his memories, since he'd finally found out that Snape loved him and in turn come to the realization that he loved Snape back. He'd awoken the next morning, the memories of the previous night flooding back to him with an almost overwhelming intensity, bringing tears to his eyes, and for one brief, mortifying moment, he thought he'd dreamed it all, a cruel nightmare where he'd simply imagined the Professor had said those words. Barely allowing himself to breathe he'd glanced over to the chair beside his bed half expecting it to be empty, testament to the terrible truth that the entire memory was imagined, but there he was, robes a sea of black waves at his feet as he sat leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin resting against clasped hands as he studied the boy with piercing eyes. Usually Harry would have pulled away from his teacher's stare, the emotion of such a moment refusing to allow him the confidence to maintain eye contact, but this time was different, he had to know if last night had been real, had to know if the man he'd come to care about so much had really said the three words that he'd never heard from anyone in his life, and when the Professor's face softened, the corners of his mouth pulling into a gentle smile, Harry knew, knew the words he'd heard had been true, and the tears of worry receded as he silently replied with a small smile of his own.

The days had been effortless, much simpler than Harry could have imagined. There had been no awkwardness between them, no uncertainty, simply a continuation of the ease they had both fallen into already. Harry found himself more and more at home at the manor, something which both delighted and terrified him, for as much as the Professor reassured him, as often as the man had reiterated to Harry that he would never have to go back to the Dursley's, he couldn't quite shake the feeling that something would come crashing down on him, tearing his world apart yet again.

The nights, however, hadn't changed. He was still plagued by the horrific nightmares, as savage and raw as the first awful dreams he'd had in Snape's care, wild, terrifying, the painful emotions almost too much to bear, Uncle Vernon mixed with whiskey and Craig, the belt attacking him like a wild animal, and the Professor, sneer and all, watching with cold indifference. Harry awoke every night, racing heart ready to explode, fear gripping his chest with its vice-like fingers, tears spilling from his terrified eyes even before he became fully aware of his surroundings.

And Snape would hold him, even when he shrank back in confusion, still half trapped in dream, pushing the man away, half gasped cries of apology still on his lips, begging to be let go, to please please please not hurt him anymore.

Please. No more…

And Snape would hold him; arms like an anchor, whispering barely heard words of comfort, fighting against the struggles, promising relief, begging the boy to wake, that no harm would come to him again, to please please please believe him.

I'm here, child. I'm here…

xoxoxoxoxoxo

A soft breeze brushed through Harry's unruly hair as closed his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun, patterns of red, orange, and black dancing against his closed lids. He yawned, the air both sweet and salty on his tongue, and he opened his eyes, wincing as sunlight splashed across his face as he brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

"Both hands!"

Cocking his head at the familiar voice, Harry let out a gentle sigh and glanced across the meadow, seeing the small figure of the Professor and the even smaller one of Ernie in the distance, staring at him, waiting for him to do as he was instructed. Harry gave a small wave before returning his hand to the warm broom handle. The tiny form of Ernie burst into motion, both hands above his head waving wildly, and Harry chuckled as the dark shape of Snape slapped at Ernie's short arms. It was only a moment later, however, that the Professor's own arm rose, waving briefly before turning back to Ernie and jabbing an angry finger at his small friend.

It was obvious the Professor wasn't pleased. A noticeable change had come over Snape since Ernie had arrived that morning for breakfast. His demeanor turned sour as soon as Ernie stepped from the fireplace, the old, worn broom trailing behind him. Snape had taken one look at it, his eyes narrowing in quiet anger as the tiny wizard loudly declared the gift, thrusting the broom towards an astounded Harry.

Harry glanced down at Snape as he started the broom on a slow drift to the other side of the meadow. He'd really appreciated the fact that Ernie had brought him his old broom, a replacement for the one Harry had…he swallowed, brow skewing just for a moment before pushing the thoughts back into the dark. He wouldn't think about that, and anyway, no one knew that he'd been the one who shattered his poor Nimbus.

Maybe the Professor had been upset that he hadn't been the one to get a new broom, Harry wondered, or maybe he didn't want Harry flying at all, or – the boy gasped as the steely, dark eyes of the Professor locked with his, the man's face stern. Or maybe Snape already knew what he'd done, how he'd beaten the man's gift to smithereens! Harry quickly pulled up, eyes ahead now as he shot forward to circle the manor. What if that was the reason for Snape's mood? What if he knew? What if he knew that his gift had been destroyed, and not just destroyed, but the evidence hidden? Maybe that's why he'd never brought it up. Heart quickening in his chest, he sent the broom higher, faster, unaware of his increase in speed and height as his mind raced with apprehension.

'I cannot for the life of me understand how on – slow down!" Snape called as Harry headed towards the house. He turned furious eyes back to Ernie. "How on earth you came to the conclusion this," he snapped, gesturing to the sky with one hand. "Was an intelligent idea. When I mentioned Harry's broom had been destroyed, I had no idea you'd get it into your ridiculous little head to bring him yours!"

Ernie pulled his black porkpie hat from his head and swatted it at Snape's hip.

"Oh, it's fine," Ernie replied, his smile widening as Harry disappeared behind the manor. "I've had it lying around for years gathering dust. The lad does enjoy flying and what's the harm in letting him have some fun after everything he's been through, hmm? I don't know why you're so on edge today. It's just a little broom ride, and just look at him, Severus. He's having a ball up there!" Ernie exclaimed, waving his hat in excitement as Harry dove towards them, pulling up a few feet from the ground, the tip of his shoes slapping across the long grass of the meadow as he raced through the warm July air.

"Harry!" Snape called after him, injecting as much severity into his tone as he dared.

Harry glanced back, his stomach tightening with that horrible, familiar worry. The annoyance in Snape's voice was unmistakable, and slowly Harry led the worn broom in a wide curve and back towards the wrought iron picnic table where Della was busy setting out platters of food for lunch. He drew to a halt and slid to the ground, stomach still in knots at the sight of the Professor stalking toward him, face pinched in anger, nostrils flaring, and suddenly he was the picture of uncle Vernon. All that was missing was a belt in one hand and about a hundred and fifty pounds.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Harry said quickly, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He hadn't meant his voice to sound so uneasy, but the words tumbled out of him before he even had time to think, so automatic was his apology. Always sorry. Sorry for living, for breathing, for being. He drew a wet tongue across dry lips as Snape reached him, swallowing hard again, trying oh so hard not to look scared.

"Severus!" Ernie chimed, following at top speed. "Severus don't be so hasty!"

"What in Merlin's name do you think you were doing?" Snape hissed.

"I –" Harry started, his explanation cut short as the Professor continued.

"Have you any idea how dangerous this activity could become when you decide horseplay is more important than safety?"

"What's gotten into you, Severus? It was just a dive," Ernie argued, patting Harry's hand as it clung to the stained broom handle, knuckles pale and drawn. "And a wee one at that. Nothing to get your knickers in a knot about."

"I beg your –" Severus glared down at the tiny man, his eyes daggers, unable to even form a rebuttal for such an adage.

"I'm just saying," Ernie continued, cutting off Snape's reply and throwing a wink in Harry's direction. "That there's no need to get upset over a teensy weensy little nosedive. Actually, it was more of a gentle swoop now that I think about it, wasn't it, Harry?" He looked up at the boy, completely ignoring the death gaze being pinned on him by the Professor.

"Well, I –" Harry started.

"There," Ernie declared, turning his smile towards Snape, face the picture of innocence, his golden eye glittering mischievously as he set the felt hat back on his head.

"Do not attempt to diffuse the situation with your dim sense of humor," Severus snapped, his voice rising to a near roar as he continued. "I have no doubt that you find every situation so comical; however you will pray excuse me if I take a more serious view of Harry's safety. It was I who spent hours tending to the boy's horrendous injuries, injuries which nearly led to his death, and injuries I was led to believe he obtained falling off a damn broom!"

The silence that fell over the group was jarring. It seemed to encompass the entire island, and for a moment the surrounding birds ceased their jubilant chirping as Severus' words echoed to the very ends of the cliffs. Even the sound of the waves lashing against the mighty Farne seemed to die down.

Harry stared at the Professor, jade eyes swimming with confusion. What was the Snape talking about? He glanced at Ernie, who was still as stone, the same disconcerted look on his face, brow skewed in similar confusion.

Severus sighed, head bowed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with cool fingers. He would have preferred to keep that information private from both Harry and Ernie, each for different reasons, his decision rooted in his deep affection for both, and in his momentary lapse of control he had revealed information that neither wizard before him need know.

"I…" he started, running his hand through his hair in frustration at his outburst. "I should not have spoken in such a manner. I apologize."

"What did you mean, Sir?" Harry asked hesitantly. "I never fell of my broom. Who told you I…"

Severus cringed internally as the boy's voice trailed off, obviously realizing who could have passed on such deceitful information. He watched as a shimmer of understanding glistened in the boy's eyes before Harry let his gaze drift to the ground.

"Craig," Ernie said quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper as he slipped his hat off again, potion stained fingers slowly picking at the golden feather. He lifted his head, eye wide, gleaming, the slivers of indigo almost black against the golden iris. "That's what he told you, isn't it? He told you Harry was hurt falling off his broom."

"He did," Severus admitted, his contempt for Harry's abuser flaring at the sadness in his friend's voice.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, lifting his head, eyes heavy with fatigue, but so sincere as he spoke. "I didn't know. I won't use the broom again, Sir, it's alright."

"No, Harry. It is no fault of yours that I was misled," Severus countered gently, giving the young man's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The dark smudges of weariness under the boy's eyes pained him. "I know how much you enjoy flying, and I am not about to take that away from you, but-" He paused, taking in the honesty of the boy's face, a boy who had just offered to give up one of the last things that brought him happiness in order to calm Severus' worry. "But perhaps you could humor me with more sedate flights for the time being?" He finished, noting Harry's shoulders relax at his words.

"Well," Ernie announced, looking back and forth between Severus and Harry, unease hanging in the air after the revelation. He let out a heavy breath. "Well," he repeated.

"Would Master being needing anything else?" Della chirped, the red and white checkered tea towel she had clutched in her hands flapping in the breeze as she came to stand beside Ernie.

"Not unless you can break an awkward silence," Ernie muttered, running a small hand through his disheveled hair.

Della stood for a moment, her impossibly large opal eyes glancing between Ernie, then Snape, then Harry, then back to Ernie again. Then, before Severus could give her leave, she slowly put all her weight onto her left foot, her right dangling in the air before doing a bizarre little hop, her right foot down now, the left one up. She repeated the movements again, her long ears slapping against her head in rhythm and she bounced from one foot to the other.

Silence hung in the air as the three wizards stared at the hopping Della.

"What's she doing?" Harry whispered under his breath.

"I have no idea," Severus murmured. He tilted his head slightly, regarding the little creature with disconcerted interest. "It almost looks as if she's-"

"Dancing!" Ernie exclaimed with delight. He clapped his hands together in front of his chest as if in prayer and beamed at the house elf who was hopping to and fro, ears flapping in their own wild waltz as the tan little elf continued her disorderly jig.

"That is enough!" Severus said sternly. Della froze, one foot still in the air as she stared back at her Master. Slowly, both ears fell against her head with a soft plop, her leathery brow wrinkled in worry. "That was –" Severus cleared his throat. "very…interesting, Della, thank you."

"That was wonderful!" Ernie cried, nodding encouragingly at the elf as she slowly lowered her foot to the grass.

"It was really neat, Della" Harry added, smiling, and he was rewarded with a sharp-toothed grin.

"We'll call if you need you, hmm?" Ernie said quickly, patting Della on the arm.

"Yes, Mister Russer, Sir," Della replied, bowing low. She waited for a nod from Snape before disappearing with the customary soft pop.

Severus lanced Ernie with a glower.

"If you ever cause my house elf to repeat…that again," he growled, gesturing to the spot where Della had been moments ago. "I shall have you stuffed and mounted."

"Did you see that?" Ernie yelped, ignoring the threatening glare, his voice at an almost frenzied pitch. "Oh, Sevvie, that was fantastic!"

Severus rolled his eyes as Ernie dissolved into giggles, the tiny man beside himself with laughter as the trio made their way over to the table, the intensity of the previous discussion forgotten. He watched Harry slip into his chair, setting the broom on the grass before handing Ernie a plate, his eyes alight with amusement, and a moment later his own gentle laughter joined Ernie's hysterics. Severus caught the boy's eye, and for a moment he was swept up in the feeling of happiness radiating from the child, his child, and in that moment there was no Craig, no Dursleys, no Fudge; just Harry, alive and joyful and free, and his heart both rejoiced and broke at the sight of it, for nothing delighted him more than seeing the boy happy, nor wounded him as much as knowing such happiness would be eaten up by nightmares.

Harry turned back to Ernie and laughed again, and as Snape walked slowly over to join them, an idea formed at the back of his mind.

xoxoxoxoxoxo

"Professor Dumbledore!" Harry exclaimed, quickly scrambling to his feet, abandoning the game of Wizard's Chess he was losing to Ernie. He smiled as the Headmaster stepped down from the hearth.

"Harry," Dumbledore replied, offering the boy a sedate smile. "You are looking much improved. Forgive my unannounced visit. I have an issue of…some importance I wish to discuss with Professor Snape."

"Sir," Harry said softly, taking a step towards the elderly wizard. The Headmaster sounded….different. "Sir, are you –"

"Headmaster?" Snape said quickly, abandoning his chair. He too had sensed the uncharacteristic urgency in the man's countenance. Scarcely did Dumbledore drop his facade of frustrating inanity.

Albus gave Snape a pointed look, and Severus' eyes narrowed in understanding, nodding briefly before the two made their way towards the kitchen.

"Sir?" came Harry's worried voice, and Albus turned back towards the boy.

"The Professor and I must speak briefly, Harry. But I should dearly like to hear about your day once we are finished." Without waiting for a reply, both men disappeared into the kitchen.

"What is it?" Snape asked as soon as the door had closed.

The aged wizard gave him a foreboding look before dropping into one the kitchen chairs, his weary state not unnoticed by Severus. It seemed the Headmaster's journey had been made in great haste.

"I hope you don't mind, Severus, but I wished to convey the news personally." Dumbledore replied, eliciting a nod. "I received an Owl from Arabella Figg." he continued. "It seems the Dursley's have returned early from their vacation."

Severus felt the blood rush from his face, his hands clenching into fists at the mention of Harry's relatives.

"And?" He asked sharply.

Albus pulled his glasses from his face and rubbed at his eyes with fingers soft and marked with age.

"And," he replied, replacing the half-moon spectacles and looking up at Severus with rare, serious eyes. "They would like to know where their nephew is."

Severus' eyes took on a dangerous glint at the Headmaster's words. Something sparked within him, sending tendrils of electricity through his limbs, unconsciously uncurling his fists as the almost painful bolts shot down to his fingertips.

"Also," the elderly wizard continued. "As there is no official understanding between you and Harry in terms of guardianship, and due to the fact that legally the Dursley's are still Harry's guardians –"

"You would have to kill me first, Albus," Snape barked, nostrils flaring as he slammed his palms down onto the table. "You would have to pry that boy out of my cold, dead arms; because that is the only way those disgusting people will ever take him from me."

Albus' eyes twinkled at the outburst, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Formidable indeed, Severus. I take it that you have finally said the words you thought you could not?"

Severus' eyes narrowed in response.

"I was quite hoping," Albus continued. "that you would have told Harry how you feel by now. After today's events, it seems almost providential."

"What have you done?" Severus asked slowly, voice laced with skepticism, the swelling anger in him dimming to suspicion as the Headmaster chuckled. "I am in no mood for your games, Albus." Snape continued, as Dumbledore held up his hand in interruption.

"Would it surprise you to hear that I have been asked to take on the task of Minister of Magic?" Dumbledore asked. Severus' brow rose abruptly.

"I received word today," Albus continued. "I suppose the idea is not unfathomable. Tell me, Severus, what do you think?"

Snape sighed. How typical of the Headmaster to go off on a tangent completely unrelated to the topic at hand. He regarded the man with steely eyes before answering.

"You are widely regarded as one of Britain's most powerful and influential wizards, and, more importantly, a man of…" Severus paused as if unwilling to say the words. "...great honor and virtue," he said with a sneer. "But your presence is needed at Hogwarts, Albus. Please tell me you–" his words faded as the Headmaster began to shake his head.

"Oh my, no," Albus chuckled. "Hogwarts will always be my primary concern, Severus, but that does not prevent me from accepting an interim position. Quite temporary, you see." The old wizard paused, giving his colleague a significant stare, eyes twinkling.

Realization hit Severus before the Headmaster had even finished speaking.

"And you would have every power as Minister, of course," he added, a disconcerting gleam in his eye as he leaned across the table towards the Headmaster.

"Oh yes, yes," Dumbledore affirmed. "Every power," he repeated quietly.

"Have one of your assistants sent an owl," Severus said suddenly, righting himself and straightening his robes. "They should notify Vernon Dursley that one of your representatives will visit him tomorrow to discuss the return of his nephew."

Albus' eyes shone.

"A representative," he said slowly, his temples creasing as a quiet smile crept across his face. "My dear boy, I had no idea you were interested in working for the Ministry."

Snape snorted, a half sneer, half smile gathering at his lips.

"Hogwarts will always be my primary concern, Albus, but that does not prevent me from accepting an interim position," he replied silkily. "Quite temporary, you see."

Dumbledore rose from his chair and reached out, smiling as the Professor's cool palm met his.

"Well then, Severus," Albus announced, shaking Snape's hand. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic."

xoxoxoxoxoxo

Vernon Dursley peered out the window for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. The small, grey owl was still there, perched atop the Dursley's mailbox.

Vernon narrowed his eyes hatefully at the creature. It had come last night, flapping its wings against the windows of the front room, scaring the life out of poor Dudley. It dropped its envelope at the front door, then had flown straight to the mailbox where it roosted the entire night.

"Ruddy thing," Vernon grunted as he angled his head to get a better view of the street. It was bad enough that the freaks were coming to Little Whinging, let alone inside his home. His home! He shook his head again at the absurdity of it all. How dare they send one of their unnatural kind to discuss his nephew. He grunted again. Harry was his property, and how dare those freaks take the boy from him. He wrung his hands together almost maniacally. Oh, there would be hell to pay when they brought that little bastard got back.

The clock struck twelve, and almost as if on queue, Vernon's stomach rumbled softly. He'd sent Petunia out with Dudley for the day, as he refused to have them around such monstrosities. Unfortunately, that also meant there was no lunch prepared. His stomach rumbled again as he threw the owl another dirty look.

"Where the bloody hell are they?" he blustered.

"Right here."

Vernon let out a guttural, panicked kind of cry as he spun around, almost losing his footing as he stumbled back in surprise.

"Forgive me for not knocking," Snape said, his words hard and as cold as stone.

"What….where's my nephew?" Vernon sputtered, sweat beading at his brow. He dragged his palms across the rear of his trousers, but they still came away clammy.

"Your nephew," Snape replied icily, "has been removed from your custody by the Ministry of Magic." It was all he could do not to rip the man's head from his fat body. "I am here to inform you that he will not be returning. Your guardianship of Harry Potter is herewith terminated."

"Now you listen here," Vernon growled as he wagged a fat, trembling finger in Snape's face. "No one terminates anything without my say so. That boy's mine, you hear me? So you take your ruddy owl, and you get back on your ruddy broomstick or bird, or magic ruddy carpet and you fly yourself back to wherever it is you freaks come from, and you get me my nephew!"

A tidal wave of rage crashed over Severus. In a flash, he was toe to toe with Vernon, hooked nose flaring, eyes lancing Dursley with a deadly stare.

"No," he snarled. "You listen to me, Dursley. I know the monster you are and I know exactly how Harry was treated in this house." He stabbed his finger into Vernon's chest as he spoke, each word spat with near homicidal intensity. "By you."

Snape took a step forward, forcing the terrified looking Vernon to stumble backwards.

"You treated that boy abominably, and if you think for one single moment that the wizarding world would hand him back to the likes of you, you are sorely mistaken."

Snape took another step, and another, until Dursley's back thudded against the wall, shaking a nearby family portrait askew.

"You're lucky I don't rend you limb from limb right now," Severus continued, his voice absolutely fatal. "And if I were not bound by wizarding law, I would end you here and now in the most unimaginably painful way possible."

Snape removed the finger from Vernon's chest and slipped his hand around the hideous, fat neck, the skin slippery with sweat as he tightened his grip around Dursley's windpipe. He ignored the man's hands grabbing at his, his fingers strong as iron as they clutched the warm, wet flesh, pulse racing under his palm. He had never been so infuriated, so filled with rage. He could literally feel the blood rampaging through his veins, surging within him like a rip tide. He had murdered before, yes, performed unspeakable acts of violence, inflicted pain upon pain, but never in all his years had he been so desperate to end a life, so willing to slaughter, and in the seconds that followed he felt himself squeezing and squeezing and realized that even with all his self restraint, this time he might not be able to prevent himself from killing.

The pulse was slowing now, a tell-tale purple shade of asphyxiation leaching into Dursley's face. Severus' jaw ached, clenching his teeth to the point of near shattering. Slowly, he willed himself to release his grip on the greasy neck, allowing Dursley to fall gasping to the floor. Without pause, he reached into his robes and pulled out a handful of folded papers. He thrust them towards Vernon and ground out a single, vicious word of command.

"Sign."

It took less than a minute for Vernon Dursley to sign the forms, his oversized fingers sloppily gripping the slender pen as his shaking hand scribbled his signature the dozen or so times required.

It was then, with the papers safely back within the secret hollows of his robe, that Severus lifted his wand.

"As you have done to that child," he snarled, "So shall it be done to you. From this day forward, whenever you close your eyes, you shall experience every atrocity you heaped upon that boy as if the memory was yours. Every time you sleep, every time you even blink, you will be reminded of what you've done. You will feel every terror, every unimaginable fear, every instance that child thought he would perish under your authority."

Snape whispered a handful of Latin, the words forming a physical presence, each letter glowing with gentle azure as it left the tip of his wand and circled around the fat beast at his feet.

"Ut vos vulnero, sic vadum vos vulnero. Forever sentio suus poena."

Upon completion of the spell, the text slowly sank into the man's skin, leaving an outline of each letter which glowed brightly for a moment before dissipating. Without another word, without trusting himself to remain any longer, Snape turned on his heel and stormed out the front door.

He could have apparated directly from the living room. There was no need to stalk down Privet Drive in full wizard regalia, robe billowing as if possessed, each step timed with an enraged breath, adrenaline sharp in his chest as he strode past Arabella Figg's small cottage. The elderly witch was standing at her front window, watchful eyes upon him. Without slowing, he gave her a brisk nod, and she returned the action with a slow dip of her head, a subtle smile on her face, and Severus couldn't help one of his own as the screams broke out at number four.

Albus Dumbledore stepped down from the cool, grey hearth of Snape Manor. He glanced down at his robes and smoothed his hand over a red, sticky patch, the result of an over-excited Ernie Russer refusing to put down his jam roll before hugging the ancient wizard about the knees. He smiled in recollection of the little man's jubilation as he ran his weathered hand across the deep chestnut hued cloth, glad that the dark colour would hide the mess.

"Albus."

He looked up to see the top half of his potions Professor calling from the kitchen door, and with a nod, he crossed the living room and entered the warm, bright kitchen, enjoying the scents of the early afternoon tea Della had prepared an hour before. He found himself wishing his train hadn't been delayed, as the half-warmed mince pie he'd consumed on the ride had been less than adequate.

"Ridiculous endeavor," Snape tutted as he glanced out the large window that gave view of the meadow. He shifted a little to the left as Dumbledore came up alongside, adjusting his spectacles as he took in the scene before him.

There was Harry, Ernie's broom hovering not quite a foot above the grass, a terrified looking Della straddling the parched wood. Harry's hand was on Della's shoulder, while the little elf's hands were clasped in a death grip around the broom handle, her eyes wide as saucers as Harry again tried to explain the fundamentals of flying. Della's nut brown head shook furiously, ears slapping against her head as Harry lifted the broom higher, waist level to him, but likely a dizzying height to the frightened creature. Harry ran a few steps as a Father might run alongside the bicycle of his child, face determined, a half worried half excited smile lighting his features as he came to a stop, lifting his hands away from the broom, allowing the house elf to glide through the air. A few seconds passed, the broom wobbling precariously, and for a moment Severus thought it would falter, spilling Della onto the grass for what would likely be the fiftieth time that day, but the broom sped on, Della's eyes almost at their capacity for size as she turned in a gentle half circle and headed back towards Harry. She slowed, coming to a stop before the stunned Della stood, pulling her leg over the broom and dropping it into the grass. Severus and Dumbledore stood transfixed as Harry's whoop reached their ears, his hands in the air in celebration, and Della rushed towards him, her hands also raised, leaping into the air in excitement, ears flapping to and fro, sharp teeth gleaming in the sun as her little master fell to his knees and embraced her.

"Well done," Snape whispered, his own smile barely registering before he bristled in realization. He smoothed his already impeccable robes, not daring to catch Dumbledore's look of delight. "It's about time," he said crisply. "He's had that poor creature in tears half the morning."

The headmaster's wizened face beamed as Severus followed him back to the living room and motioned to the armchair: however, before settling into the plush furniture, he pulled a single piece of paper from his robes and handed it to Snape.

Severus took the document, his face tightening as he read the information, eyes scanning the dozen or so rows of potion ingredients, and the single word 'NEG' in black print next to each one. At the bottom, a single red 'POS' stood out.

"This is why I needed to see you." Albus explained. "It seems that remnants of a potion were found in Craig's blood."

"Datura stramonium," Snape said, nodding. "A common enough plant in this area, but I've never heard of it being used in a potion. The idiot likely used it due to its hallucinogenic properties and poisoned himself. Unfortunately it didn't kill him before he..." The words were left in the air as he handed the results back to the Headmaster.

"The toxin produces a complete inability to tell fantasy from reality," Albus said softly.

"I am aware," Snape replied coolly, squaring his shoulders. There was little doubt where the Headmaster was leading the conversation.

"Violent behaviour," Dumbledore continued.

"As well as severe mydriasis and photophobia," the Professor snapped. "Amnesia, hypothermia, none of which Craig Russer suffered from when he was captured," His eyes darkened as he continued. "Is this his latest defense, his latest attempt at prevarication? Slowing the court's proceedings down even further? Is Harry to have no justice, Albus? Is he never to see that man pay for..."

"It seems you are the one who requires justice, Severus," Albus countered.

"You're damn right," Severus spat the words as if they were poison. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy breath. It took more than a few moments to regain his composure as the images of a bruised and bleeding Harry flashed though his mind. "If they are that worried about the Datura, they should administer Physostigmine," he said finally, swallowing the bitterness that crept up his throat.

"They already have, to no affect," Albus replied, his voice taking on the rare tone of solemnity. "They asked me to come to you, Severus. St. Mungo's has reached the end of what magic can tell them. They are no closer to finding out what was done to the boy. If you are so focused on revenge..." Albus paused, rising from the chair to address the potions master face to face. "...then perhaps you should think of Ernie. I daresay he would breathe a little easier knowing his brother was not completely filled with hatred for him."

Snape's face remained impassive as the two wizards stood toe to toe.

"I daresay it would be difficult," Dumbledore continued, his voice falling back to its usual gentle tone. "To show compassion and kindness towards someone who had treated you so abominably. To consider the feelings of one whose behaviour has been so cruel. To forgive."

At that moment the kitchen door swung open, and Harry appeared. His eyes shone, cheeks glowing with colour, hair windblown, face erupting in a smile as he noticed the two men before him.

"I wonder," Albus said quietly as Snape turned his gaze to the boy. "How on earth Harry managed it."

Slowly, Severus turned back towards the Headmaster, obsidian eyes locking with Azure blue as the magnitude of his words hit him like a landslide. He turned back towards Harry, and in that moment the world seemed to slow, the edges of his vision ebbing into darkness until he saw only Harry, only his child, a child who loved him despite his previous cruelty, despite his harsh words and repeated emotional attacks. The very blood in his veins felt sluggish as time stood still, and Snape recalled his venomous words, each one spoken with the single-minded task of bringing embarrassment and pain to the boy in front of him.

And yet…

Harry loved him.

He shook his head as if shaking off the memory, time sweeping back on course. He managed a small smile at Harry before uttering two words to the Headmaster.

"Wait here."

XOXOXOXOX

"You," Severus ground out; angry eyes pinned on his colleague. "Kitchen." He motioned to Harry, whose smile faded the sharp edge to the man's voice. "And you," Severus said carefully, withdrawing any remnant of malice from his tone before he spoke. "Anywhere but the kitchen, please, Harry." He felt the tense muscles in his shoulders ease as Harry nodded, his small smile letting the Professor know that he understood the anger wasn't directed at him. He watched as Harry headed into the foyer and up to his room before leading the Headmaster back into the kitchen.

The box he was carrying wasn't heavy. It was a little larger than a shoe box, black, its lid attached with a pair of dull silver hinges. He'd almost forgotten when he'd hidden it, and it was so well disguised as a box of cauldron stirrers that he'd passed it by twice in his storeroom before finally pulling it down from the top shelf. He set it down on the kitchen table and glared at it.

Opening the dusty lid, Severus narrowed his eyes at the contents. There was little in the way of tangible items, but the dangerous knowledge hidden within was almost impossible to fathom. He reached inside, slender fingers brushing against the soft leather of ancient volumes, their covers marred from use, some with pages almost turned to dust in their antiquity. He didn't need to read the titles; he knew these books by feel, their unique blemishes unmistakable to his touch. He had devoured them when he became a Deatheater, pawing over each page until they were as familiar to him as household words. He pulled a thin book from the bottom of the pile and stared at it. It had no title or elegant bindings and its cover was a thick paper smudged with ink from a careless quill. A pair of initials was handwritten in the bottom left corner.

O.K

"Olian Kedavra," Severus murmured. "You are undoubtedly familiar with his…contributions." He glanced at the Headmaster before opening the book. "There are few who were aware of Kedavra's affinity for potion making," he started, brow furrowed in concentration as he grasped the delicate pages between his fingertips. "While he was sought after for his aptitude in spells, he also devised several devastating potions. It was his theory that great wizards would rely on both spells and potions in order to inflict suffering: however, as time went on, it became generally accepted to chose one or the other. Eventually Kedavra abandoned potions entirely and focused strictly on the creation of incantations due to the fact that most of his elixirs were less enhanced versions of his curses." Snape turned another page before offering the book to the Headmaster. "Except this one."

"Imperceptus Demens," Dumbledore said quietly, reading the jagged handwriting.

"Unperceived insanity," Snape replied. "There was no spell created to equal it. It was never used, its preparation and elements never published. Kedavra kept a personal ledger in which he wrote a handful of his unreleased potions. He made three copies, one of which you hold in your hand. The other is in the possession of an apothecary in Japan, and the other…" he paused as Dumbledore closed the book and looked up at him. "...was in a vault at the Ministry of Magic."

"Cornelius," Albus stated softly as he handed the book back.

"If this potion was given to Craig, it would explain the symptoms you mentioned," Severus continued. "There is no counter to its effects," he added, anticipating the Headmaster's question. "There's no telling when the draught was given, and regardless, it's been far too long for any attempt to be made to reverse it. I can likely determine if in fact it was the Imperceptus Demens if given a sample of Craig's blood, but there would be little I could do for him now." he paused. "Even if I wanted to."

Dumbledore's face flashed with disbelief.

"You would still allow him to suffer, Severus? You would make no attempt to help him, knowing he was acting under the influence of a mind altering potion?"

"Did you not read the description?" Severus replied, eyes flashing with rage. "The elixir works gradually. Its effects take time to appear, and when they do they are fleeting. The object was to slowly debilitate the victim mentally with scattered attacks of delirium culminating in complete psychosis after months, not days. Even if Craig was under its influence, he would have had periods of lucidity, and in those hours when his mind was clear, he would have seen Harry's state and requested assistance, but he did not! He chose silence! Even if he were completely unaware of what he had done, the man had ample opportunity to help Harry and he refused! He beat a twelve year old boy to the point of near death. Potion or not, there is no excuse, Albus, no excuse!"

"Alcohol," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair.

"Alc…what are you talking about?" Snape replied, brow skewing in confusion.

"In the description it states that alcohol accelerates the elixir's performance," the Headmaster said slowly. "To the point where any moments of clarity are shortened considerably, perhaps even forgone completely. You told me Harry said Craig was..."

"Drunk," Severus whispered. His breath left him as he fell into his chair, his fury battling with the sudden realization that Craig may very well be innocent, or at least not as guilty as first believed. The very idea of it repulsed him, his hatred of the man far too imprinted on his psyche to even think of forgiveness. He looked up at the Headmaster, jaw clenched, and he rose, eyes dark as thunder.

"You will allow me to borrow this, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, holding up the small journal. "St. Mungo's will be able to determine if the other ingredients are present in Craig's blood."

"I'm going with you," Severus replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I want to see this behaviour for myself."

"Severus," Dumbledore started, sensing the anger within the young man before him. Severus was a man for whom control and composure were second nature, and yet it was dangerously close to the surface now, easily able to spill out when in the presence of the man who had so savagely beaten Harry. "I will notify you when..."

"I must see him, Albus.!" Severus snapped, snatching the book from the man's hand and slamming it down on the table. "I..." He locked eyes with the Headmaster, and for the briefest of moments he felt a familiar brush against his subconscious before the cooling sensation of calm swept through him. "I need to see him, Albus," he said softly, feeling the gentle presence of the man leave his mind.

"And what of Harry?" Albus inquired, picking up the book and slipping it into his robes. "The day has all but gone, Severus. I doubt we would return before morning. I thought you might have something special planned for tomorrow."

"Ernie will stay with Harry," Snape replied, turning on his heel and heading toward the foyer. "I'll provide him with a vial of Dreamless Sleep. The boy will be fine." He pushed open the door to the foyer and paused. "And Albus, if you ever do that to me again without my express permission, it is you who will need St. Mungos." He continued into the foyer without turning around, robe a dark sail at his back as the door slammed behind him.

"I don't doubt it, my boy," Albus chuckled as he slowly followed. "I don't doubt it."

XOXOXOXOXX

"Oh," Harry said shakily, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth. His heart was already thudding rapidly against his ribcage, evidence of the panic that was threatening to overtake him at hearing Snape's explanation. His left hand twitched, balling into a fist unconsciously, and he forced himself to relax the hand, but his fingers trembled so badly that he crushed them back into a fist, slipping it behind his back to avoid detection. He swallowed, trying to force the hysteria back into the dark, desperately trying to look casual as the three wizards stood staring at him.

Snape seemed to study him for a moment, and Harry stiffened, squaring his shoulders in defiance of the emotion as he pushed the rising frenzy of panic down as deeply as he could. He wouldn't act so stupid about all of this, he wouldn't! It was only one night, and the Professor had brought Ernie with him and…and...

Harry drew in a mouthful of air, the air feeling thick and cloying as he breathed. The last time Snape had left him…

Severus surveyed the boy in front of him. The weak front Harry had put up was steadily fading as the child's distress grew, and as hard as he could tell Harry was trying, his attempt to present a calm facade was failing. He reached out and gently took the boy's chin, releasing the worried lip with his thumb.

"If you prefer, I could contact the Weasleys. I'm sure they would be pleased to have you for the night," Severus offered, feeling the subtle tremble against his fingers. "It would be no trouble, Harry," he finished, knowing that the boy would chose the course of action that provided the least trouble for his elders, regardless of his own personal feelings, and he silently cursed the Dursleys yet again for instilling such a lack of self worth in their nephew.

"No," Harry replied, forcing as much courage into his words as he could, despite the churning apprehension that had risen in his stomach. "No, I…I want to stay here, Sir. I mean, I'd like to stay here, if that's alright." He shifted nervously as the Professor's hand released his chin, his eyes falling to the row of black buttons that crept up the Professor's dark shirt. It was hard to meet Snape's eyes in general, but even more so when emotion was eating at him. The man could always see it in his eyes; see the fear, the pain, the hopelessness. He took a deep breath, cringing at the way it shuddered as he inhaled, and he almost felt the Professor's eyes narrow at the sound. Automatically, he lowered his head, dragging his gaze to the floor, allowing the old habit to comfort him as he stared at the carpet. It was odd how such a tiny action could calm him. Eye contact had been an offense punishable by a whipping at the hands of his uncle, and after years of having the rule beaten into him, it felt so….just….wrong to look someone in the eye, as if it were a sign of complete disrespect instead of the direct opposite. Even now he still felt a tiny, sharp needle of fear whenever he met Snape's eyes, the memories of a hard slap for such impertinence still buried deep within him.

Severus studied Harry's face intently, the child's forced mask of confidence wavering as their eyes met, and for a moment he could see the wealth of anxiety within him before his jade eyes fell to the floor in resignation. Snape exhaled, disappointed, for as much as they cared for each other, and as much as he knew Harry believed that he was loved, the boy was still so haunted by his family's abuse to the point where even looking someone in the eyes for too long caused a painful emotional reaction. Slowly, he took Harry's hands, gently tugging the boy towards him, glad to feel the slender shoulders relax a little as Harry stepped into his arms.

"I will of course provide you with Dreamless Sleep tonight, and Ernie will be of…some entertainment, I'm sure." He ignored the indignant snort from behind him. "Della will no doubt fawn over you and bake you something ridiculously sweet. There is nothing to worry about," he said reassuringly as he felt the slender arms slip around his waist. "If I thought there was even the smallest danger I..."

"I know, Sir," came Harry's muffled reply. He pulled away from the Professor slightly and looked up at him. "And…and you'll be back tomorrow?"

"Yes, mid morning. I have several potions in the laboratory that I must tend to by that time, so you can be assured of our return fairly early."

Harry's stomach twisted. Potions. That's what was bringing the Professor home tomorrow. Vials and cauldrons and his laboratory. He swallowed roughly and stepped back from the embrace. Severus caught the change instantly.

"Harry?" He almost winced at the tone of Snape's voice, the same gentle, anxious tone he used when he knew something was really wrong. Mentally kicking himself for letting his guard down, Harry plastered a smile on his face and looked up at his Professor. It wasn't Snape's fault he didn't know what tomorrow was. The man had potions to brew, of course. His work was much more important than…than…

"Yeah. I…have a safe trip, Sir," Harry said quickly, seeing the look of concern that had clouded the Professor's features. "I'll be fine with Ernie. We'll have a great time." He forced a smile at the tiny wizard as he took a few steps backward towards the stairs. "Goodbye, Headmaster," he continued, the back of his shoes hitting the bottom stair with a gentle thud. He blinked a few times, desperately willing the tears not to show themselves. "Ernie, I'm going to get my broom, ok? I think I'll go flying for a little bit before dinner, maybe take Della up or just fly around for a while and..." He fell silent, realizing the words were tumbling out of him far too quickly. Honestly, why didn't he just hang a sign around his neck that said 'emotional basket case'?

"Right," Ernie replied, throwing a look of concern at Severus. The three wizards watched as Harry turned and almost fled up the stairs, only breaking the silence at the sound of Harry's door shutting behind him.

Severus sighed. Harry was obviously distraught at the idea of him leaving, and he internally berated himself for his decision. Was it not only a few weeks ago that Harry lay alone in the manor, wounded and terrified? Was it not Severus' decision to leave him vulnerable that allowed such abuse to occur?

"Severus?" Ernie's small voice brought him from his thoughts. "I'll go up to him. You ..." he swallowed his own emotion. "You need to see Craig. You need to find out if he…" his words faded and he rubbed at his eye with the back of his hand. "I'll go up to him," he repeated. He turned and started up the stairwell as Dumbledore and Snape headed into the living room.

"Ernie."

Ernie halted his climb and turned towards the doorway. There Severus stood, silent seconds passing between them as the two friends simply stared at each other. No words were needed, and Ernie gave a small nod before Snape turned and let the door close behind him.

XOXOXOXOX

Snape cast a quick tempus, exhaling an angry blast of air through his nose at the time.

"Something wrong, Severus?"

"I would be more comfortable with a less antique method of travel," Snape replied. "Not to mention the journey is entirely too slow for my liking. How you've managed this trip multiple times in the last days is beyond me."

"Unlike you, my dear boy, I am quite capable of sitting quietly for prolonged periods without vexation," Dumbledore said cheerily, a hint of what Snape could only describe as a smirk gathering at the old man's lips. "There was talk several years ago of having an apparition point in Middlesbrough for use to the general public, but nothing came of it."

Severus made a resentful noise in the back of his throat and turned toward the window, the countryside barely visible as it scattered past, handfuls of shadow forming the outlines of trees clamoring in the amassing storm.

"Oh dear," The Headmaster proclaimed as a flash of lightening slipped through the sky, lighting the train car for an instant. "I do hope it doesn't rain. It never does one good to have it rain on their birthday. It's quite depressing, wouldn't you say?"

"And to whose birthday would you be referring?" Severus asked, allowing himself to be drawn into the Headmaster's small talk. "Or have I the pleasure of wishing you many happy returns? What is this for you, Albus, one hundred and fifty, sixty perhaps?"

"Dear me, no," Albus chuckled. "I shall remind you in a few weeks to celebrate my birthday, Severus, and I'll have you know that I am still a sprightly one hundred and twelve. Not quite ready to be put out to pasture yet. I was referring to Mr. Potter."

Severus' blood ran cold, as if he were sharing the train car with a dementor rather than the aged wizard before him. He slowly turned his head from the window, his obsidian eyes narrowing as he set his incredulous look upon the Headmaster.

"Potter?"

"Potter," Albus confirmed, his brow slowly raising as he took in the potion master's slightly terrified look. "Are you telling me, Severus, that you were not aware that today is the thirtieth of July?"

Severus closed his eyes slowly, his features tightening as he pulled the pieces of Harry's earlier behaviour together. He felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. No wonder Harry had been so upset at the idea of being left tonight. The boy had absolutely no ego, so announcing the event to his Professor would have been inconceivable, even if he hadn't lacked the courage to do so. Honestly, the child could be half dead and still not ask for help, and the hair on the back of Severus' neck bristled as he remembered Harry had spend most of his life in just that state.

"I daresay Harry will understand," Albus said comfortingly. "With all that has happened recently with..."

"He shouldn't have to understand," Severus barked. "All that boy has done for the last twelve years is try to understand, understand why his family treated him abominably, understand why he was left alone in the first place, and right at this moment, he's probably sitting in his room still alone trying to understand why someone who is supposed to love him has left him on the eve of the first birthday he has likely spent not lying bloody and broken in a damned cupboard! For Merlin's sake, Albus, all he knows is that I have to be home tomorrow in order to deal with my bloody potions!"

By the time he was finished his tirade he was shaking, either from rage at himself for his idiocy, or concern over Harry's current state, he couldn't tell. Albus sat opposite him with that damned tranquil look on his face and had the audacity to smile. Severus shot him a filthy look, which seemed to only intensify the Headmaster's look of amusement. If he dared laugh…

"Severus," Albus said affectionately, reaching forward and placing his palm on Snape's trembling hands. "My dear boy, I assure you that Harry will celebrate his birthday tomorrow, with you, and with as much happiness as if you had both planned it together. He is very forgiving."

"Too forgiving," Severus murmured.

"Perhaps, but I believe we can salvage this situation," Albus continued. "There is still some time before we reach London. I'm sure we can come up with a plan before we reach St. Mungos."

Severus allowed himself to relax slightly as the Headmaster began laying out his ideas for Harry's birthday, the tightly wound serpent of guilt slowly uncoiling itself from the pit of his stomach. How could he have been so blind as to forget something so important, and what must Harry be thinking? He let out a heavy breath, nodding in agreement as Albus suggested a particularly good idea, and as the raindrops began to slap against the window of the train, Severus hoped that Harry's capacity for forgiveness would extend one more day.

XOXOXOXOX

"Here we are," Dumbledore said quietly as they reached a nursing station. He nodded at a young nurse who smiled and nodded in return before heading into a nearby office. She emerged moments later with a gentleman, his white coat indicating he was a healer. His thinning, silver hair was cropped short, and deep lines of age creased his features.

"Minister Dumbledore!" The man exclaimed, a playful glint in his eyes as he smiled broadly.

"Anders," the Headmaster chuckled. "May I introduce my colleague, Professor Severus Snape."

"Professor Snape," the man said seriously, shaking Severus' outstretched hand. "I'm so glad you were able to come. I take it Albus has filled you in on the situation?"

Severus nodded.

"I take it you have something important to tell me?" Anders continued, shifting his eyes back to Dumbledore. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here so late."

"To find you burning the midnight oil as well, my friend," Albus replied. "You are correct, Severus has some information that may prove enlightening."

"I have a list," Severus said stiffly, nodding at Dumbledore, who withdrew the journal from his robes. Albus turned to the appropriate page and handed the book to the healer. "Have Mr. Russer's blood checked for those ingredients immediately," he finished.

"I can have the results within ten minutes," Anders replied, scanning the page with interest. "Imperceptus Demens? I've never heard of this before."

"There are few that have," Severus murmured. He watched as Anders called over the nurse and handed her the book, relaying instructions to have Craig's blood tested. She nodded and walked quickly down the hall.

"You may wait in my office if you like," Anders suggested, motioning to the room behind him.

"With your permission, Professor Snape would like to observe Mr. Russer," said the Headmaster. "Being familiar with the elixir in question, I think it would help him to see the behaviour for himself." Anders nodded.

"Of course, Albus. I see no problem with that. You know where his room is," he replied, nodding towards the large window at the end of the hall.

"And how is he faring since my last visit?" Dumbledore asked, and Severus sneered at the hopefulness in his colleague's voice. The elderly healer's face reflected a sudden sadness as he sighed.

"Worse, Albus. Much worse. Professor Snape, if it is this elixir of yours, what exactly is the prescribed treatment?"

"Nothing," Severus said coldly. "There is no treatment you could provide that would make any difference to his mental state. His mind will become more and more detached and confused until there is nothing left of reality. In time his brain will lose the ability to provide function to the rest of his body. Then he will die." Anders' face fell in disappointment.

"And how long will this take, do you think? Your best guess?" He asked.

"Not soon enough," Severus growled before turning and stalking down the hall, leaving the healer lost for words at his response.

XOXOXOXOXO

Severus stopped at the window, his eyes falling to a huddled figure in the corner of the room, which was empty save for a basic cot. Craig's head was in his hands as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His hair was unkempt, jutting up at odd angles. He was thinner than the last time Snape had seen him, the white hospital gown hanging from his angular frame, and in the silence Severus could hear the man's quiet murmurs, the same words repeated over and over in a desperately hollow tone.

Sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…sorry…

"Not quite what you expected is it?"

Severus ignored the question as the Headmaster came up beside him.

"It is all he says," Albus continued. "Occasionally he speaks Harry's name."

"I sincerely doubt the man has any conscience in him," Severus said coldly. "Consuming that potion eliminated any entitlement he has to remorse."

"You assume he took it willingly," Albus countered. "You refuse to consider the idea that it was given to him without his knowledge? Mr. Russer's own demons led him down this path, but I have no doubt that Cornelius held his hand along the way." Dumbledore paused a moment, thoughtful eyes drifting to the wizard beside him. "While I have little desire to see Craig deemed blameless, I find myself unable to feel the same aggravation towards him as I once did. In a way, he is much like you, Severus."

Snape shot him an incredulous look, nostrils flared in anger as the Headmaster held up a placating hand.

"Before you reply, I ask you to recall the choices you made as a young man and where they led you," Albus said gently.

"Do not give sanction to that monster's actions." Snape spat. "I find it unfathomable that you of all people would forgive such a..."

"I do not forgive it, Severus," Dumbledore replied, his voice taking on a terseness rarely heard in his usually jovial brogue. He allowed his authority to hang in the silence for a moment before continuing. "I merely have an intimate understanding of what happens to an angry young man when he is offered the power to remedy his situation." He placed a hand on Snape's shoulder, eyes softening. "As do you."

Severus angrily shrugged off the Headmaster and turned back to the sparse, white room that housed Craig. How he hated it when Albus offered proof of point when he was so damned angry. His own weaknesses had led him down the road of darkness. Craig diverted towards a scheming Minister, and Severus had walked straight into the arms of the Dark Lord. How many innocents had he watched beaten, slaughtered? How many Mothers, Fathers, how many families had he destroyed at Voldemort's direction? He dipped his head a little, half in thought, half in admission of Dumbledore's argument. As Della had once told him, darkness is darkness, and Craig had descended into the same shadows Severus once had. They had both walked their miles shrouded in the same hate, the same anger. Severus let out a heavy breath, and over in the corner, the hunched figure finally noticed them.

"Harry?" Craig tilted his head and stared at Severus inquisitively, as a dog might observe a new toy in the hand of its master. He repeated the name, his voice a little more animated this time, eyes wide, hands twitching in enthusiasm, a little splutter of half laughter crossing his lips as he rose to his feet. "Harry?"

Severus regarded the young man with confusion as Craig crept across the room as if he were trying to avoid notice, making his way to the thick glass separating him from the two wizards. By the time he reached his destination, a look of worry had replaced his previous excited demeanor.

"How did you get here?" Craig asked in a loud whisper, his eyes darting around the room before looking back at Severus. "How did you get away! I'm so sorry, kid," he continued, pressing his palm against the glass. "I tried to get you outta there, I swear I did. You believe me, right? I look after my friends, remember? I'd never leave you with that monster if I had a choice!"

Severus grew uneasy as Craig surveyed him, the partition slick with sweat from the man's palm, his fingers sliding across the glass in front of Severus' face. "Oh, God," Craig groaned. "What did he do? Harry, those bruises! How could Severus do that to you?" The young man's voice grew louder and more agitation by the second as he stood mere inches from the Professor's face, eyes wide, mouth agape in horror, eyes welling with tears.

"Anders was correct," Albus said quietly. "Much worse."

Severus' brow knitted, a rare feeling of uneasiness growing as Craig's bent fingers scrabbled against the glass in a desperate attempt to touch him. It was moments later, however, when the extent of the young man's mental state was shown.

"You!" Craig snarled, his eyes lancing the Headmaster with a wild stare. "You little bastard!" With lightening speed, Craig threw his body up against the thick glass in front of Dumbledore. He slammed his fists into the barrier, mouth twisted in hatred, spittle dappling the glass as he glared ravenously at the wizard in front of him. "Fuck!….I'll kill you, you filthy little fuck!" he screamed, hammering his fists repeatedly against the glass. "You're gonna fucking die, you hear me? I'm gonna rip your fucking head off! C'mere!" Craig took a few steps back and threw himself against the glass, his head making contact with the surface, blood instantly forming at the site, a thin trail of crimson quickly trailing down his face. "Fuuuck!" Craig screamed again as he hurtled himself towards Dumbledore, another resounding crack echoing off the walls, blood spattering again, and Severus instinctively took a step back. Albus however, remained where he was, still as stone, eyes locked with Craig's rabid orbs as the man screeched at him.

"Harry," Craig said suddenly, his voice a more level tone now as he brought his bloody face closer. "Harry, come on, it's ok. I was just kidding, alright? I just need you to come with me for a bit, just for a little while, ok?" Craig's hands pressed against the glass, a slippery squeak under his palms, blood smearing, spreading like red watercolour over a clear canvas.

"Kid!" Craig whispered harshly. "Come on, just come with me. It'll be fine. I just need you to..." He blinked rapidly, eyes narrowing. "Just come on, Harry! Don't be stupid, ok? Just come talk to him!" He slammed his palms with a loud, wet slap, and Severus' eyes traced the frame of the large window as it shook. "Just fucking come with me!" Craig ordered menacingly.

slap

"Harry! God dammit!"

slap

Snape's eyes traced the circumference of the window as it shook violently with each attack, half expecting it to give way under the weight of the young man's crazed onslaught.

slap

"Harry!" Craig screamed. "You fucking…come with me! Come with me!" Palms fell into fists and he pounded against the window, aiming for Dumbledore, the wizard's face still the picture of calm. "Don't you fucking do this, Harry! I swear to God I'll rip you to fucking pieces! Don't you fu –" His rant was cut short when the door opened and four male nurses quickly entered the room.

Craig's head snapped around, his face lighting up as they approached.

"Cornelius! Look! Look who I brought!" He reached out to one of the nurses, then turned back to glance at Dumbledore again. "See? See who it is? Look!" He said excitedly, hand trembling as he pointed at the Headmaster. "It's Harry!" He exclaimed, panting with exertion. He looked back at the nurse expectantly. "I brought him, just like you said." Craig paused as the nurses took hold of his arms. "You're going to make me a wizard now, right? He asked. "I brought Harry. You're going to make me…..Cornelius, you're going to make me a wizard, right? What…what are you doing?" He asked as the nurses pinned his arms behind his back. He struggled vainly against their hold. "No!" He screeched as they began walking him towards the door. "No, you said you would! You…what are you doing?" He lifted his head towards one of the men. "Severus, I'm sorry! You believe me, don't you? I didn't mean to hurt him, Severus, I didn't want to, I…Severus? You'll tell Harry I'm sorry, right? Tell him I didn't mean it? I'm going to be a wizard, Severus, I'm going to….where are you taking me?" Craig head whipped around wildly, eyes darting to each of the strong nurses who held tightly against his increasing struggles. "No! No, I'm going to be a wizard! I'm sorry, kid, I'm really sorry. You fucking let me go! Let me go! You fucking…get off me! Fuck! You…ugh…no!"

The desperate screams continued until the nurses had dragged Craig from the room. The two wizards stood in the ensuing silence, and it was quite some time before Severus dared to break it.

"Albus…" He started, voice barely a whisper. He cleared his throat before speaking again, his words stronger now having composed himself.

"We should go," he announced, his voice devoid of the harshness of his now dissipated anger.

Albus nodded.

"I think you have the right idea, my boy," the old man replied as he placed a hand on Snape's shoulder. "I believe there is some paperwork I need to sign, and of course we have a few guests to collect, don't we? Tell me, my boy, who would you prefer to call on first?"

Severus rolled his eyes and gave a customary snort as he walked back out into the hall. There was a change in him, a lightness, a contentment he would have thought impossible after this particular outing. He had arrived with such venom in him, a steadfast determination to see Craig suffer for what he had done, and now he felt…empty, but not in a hollow sense, but as if every trace of resentment and obsession had been obliterated from his thoughts.

Perhaps, he thought as the two wizards made their way to the apparition point, perhaps this is what it felt like to forgive.

XOXOXOXOX

Harry slowly pulled open the front door, the warm breeze of the July night wafting over his shoulders, the scent of clover sweet in the night air. Closing the door with a soft click, he made his way down the stairs, the bright moonlight illuminating his form as he walked out onto the grass, the blades cool under his feet. He stood, bathed in the silver wash of moon, listening to the crashing of waves against the distant rocks. It really was quite peaceful, the tranquility lost to him until now, but it wasn't until now, he thought, that he had peace of mind to really enjoy it.

He'd waited until Ernie was asleep before he snuck out. It had only taken fifteen minutes before the gentle snores mixed with random giggles began emanating from behind the guest room door.

He closed his eyes against the stab of pain in his heart. It was too much to expect, really, that Snape would know. After all, it wasn't like he was Harry's Father or anything, and up until the start of summer Snape hadn't cared a stuff about him. It was silly to expect the man would know about something as insignificant as this.

But it still hurt.

Sighing, Harry sat down in the grass and stared out over the meadow, the symphony of gently rustling leaves calming him somewhat. He leaned back on his hands, running his fingers through the grass, slipping as one hand raked across bare earth. He looked back to see one hand in a patch of dirt, and he pulled it to him, brushing the soil from his palm. He turned over, pulling his knees up under him, and leaned over the little plot of bare land. With his index finger, he slowly scraped a picture of a cake in the dirt, the cool, dry soil collecting under his nail as he scored thirteen thin candles at the top. He regarded the crude drawing for a moment, his mind taking him back to that night in the lighthouse where he'd etched the same pretend cake in the dust. Heart aching, he slowly leaned down and blew at the candles, scattering the soil into nothingness.

"Harry birthday, Harry." he whispered, ignoring the tears that gathered on his lower lids. He blinked them away, exhaling a shaky breath as he slipped back to a sitting position. He sat cross-legged, staring up at the night sky, starting his thirteenth year in the same fashion as the dozen before. Empty, disappointed, and as the moon slunk behind a passing cloud, in darkness.