Snape awoke with a start, his heart racing, his neck sore from falling asleep in a chair. Harry Potter lay in the hospital bed before him; battered and bruised. The boy had been a mess when he’d found him, covered in blood and slipping in and out of consciousness. He had been wheezing for breath and delirious with pain—but he was still alive. The healers had mended his various broken bones and punctured lung, and seen to his many cuts and bruises but lingering traces still marred the boy’s too pale skin.

Snape checked his watch. The dreamless sleep potion would be wearing off soon. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, waiting.

Wake up, Potter.

I can’t.

Yes, you can.

I don’t want to.

Why not?

It hurts too much.

Oh, stop being such a baby, Potter. Wake Up!

No.

Damn you, boy, you’re wasting my time.

So leave.

I can’t.

Why not?

Don’t ask such foolish questions.

Snape’s head fell forward and he jerked awake, the sun bright in his eyes. He rubbed them irritably, only to find the boy watching him. The dislike and distrust in the boy’s expression made him sigh inwardly.

“Where’s Professor Dumbledore?” he asked accusingly.

“Some gratitude, Potter, would not go amiss,” Snape said.

“For what?” Harry asked tersely, trying to sit up in bed, but giving up when the pain swamped him.

“I took your message,” Snape replied.

“But I sent it to Professor Dumbledore…”

“Who is out of the country and asked me to act in his stead,” Snape said.

Harry seemed to struggle with this concept. “You came and got me?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Because Dumbledore would have had my head if I refused, Snape thought to himself. Instead, he replied, “It is my job to ensure the safety of Hogwarts students.”

“Right,” Harry muttered.

Harry swayed on the spot and Snape edged forward on his chair, ready to help if needed. He sensed that Potter would not welcome Snape's solicitude. And he couldn’t really blame him. Theirs was not a relationship anyone would deem friendly. And yet, after what Snape had witnessed this evening, things had changed for him. Dumbledore’s constant admonitions that Potter was not his father and that Snape and Harry had more in common than Snape was ever willing to admit hit closer to home than he was comfortable admitting.

“You can go now,” Harry snapped.

“Excuse me?” Snape asked, drawn from his thoughts. Was that wounded pride he was hearing?

“I mean,” Harry said, his eyes flashing with anger, “you did your job. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. I’m sure you thought my message was a poorly veiled attempt at getting attention. Sir.”

Snape schooled his features, not allowing Potter to see that he’d nailed the mark on that one. “As you wish,” Snape murmured, getting up from the chair and stalked from the hospital room. Things may have changed for Snape, but clearly nothing had changed for Potter.

It was another week before Harry was released from St. Mungo’s. Dumbledore had arrived the evening after Snape had retrieved him from the Dursleys. What followed could only be described as uncomfortable; clearly Harry wasn’t the only one to blame himself for all the ills in the world that could not be changed.

As Harry rearranged his trunk for his trip to the Burrow, where he would be spending the rest of the summer, he reflected on all that had happened. He was free of Privet Drive and Dumbledore, profusely apologetic, had promised him that he would never have to see his Muggle relatives again. Harry had felt an immense pressure lifting from his chest at that knowledge. What stuck with him more than anything, though, was Professor Snape.

Harry had been both mortified and livid that Snape, of all people, had been the one to receive his patronus. Why not McGonagall, or Flitwick, or even Hooch? Anyone but Snape. But Snape it had been. And from what Dumbledore had said, Snape had been in a rage after realizing what had happened to Harry, threatening the Dursleys within an inch of their lives, and making good on that threat when he went back to collect Harry’s meager belongings. And Snape had sat with him that first night, though surely he hadn’t been required to; the healers were plenty capable of monitoring him. More confusing, though, was the odd, closed look that Snape had had on his face; not the sneer that he usually reserved for the “Potter brat.” Harry didn’t know what to make of his potion master’s more subdued demeanor. He shrugged his shoulders, thankful the simple action didn’t hurt any longer, and hoisted up his trunk as he headed to meet the headmaster for his welcome trip to the Burrow.