Harry gasped, pain shooting through every inch of his body. He’d been here before, in this place of crushing agony, but this time was different. This time he knew internal damage had been done. This time, he wasn’t sure he’d live through it.

He grasped his wand, unsure of how the Order members communicated with their patronuses but knowing that he needed to try. He closed his eyes and concentrated on Ron and Hermione, their smiling faces, on being back at Hogwarts, on winning the Quidditch Cup. “Expecto Patronum,” he whispered, and to his relief, the shimmering stag burst forth in an explosion of light.

“Message,” he wheezed, watching it fervently, “for Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts.” He coughed once and winced in pain, lights flickering before his eyes. “From Harry Potter, Number Four Privet Drive, Surrey…” The brilliant stag pawed at the ground, as if impatient for him to finish. “Send help.” Harry tried with all his might to stay conscious. He wasn’t sure if the last word he uttered made it from his mind to his mouth before the darkness claimed him.

---

Severus Snape blew in from the Castle grounds. He had spent the evening in the forbidden forest collecting various ingredients for some of the rarer and more precious potions he brewed. It was unusual for him to be at the castle in the summer; he typically spent his breaks at his abode in Spinner’s End. However, Albus Dumbledore was traveling abroad on Wizengamot business and had asked Snape to watch over Hogwarts in his absence. Snape snickered. What could possibly go wrong with no students on site?

Exhausted and looking forward to a relaxing evening in front of his fireplace with a glass of brandy and the latest Potion Masters’ Digest, he made his way through the entrance hall and was just approaching the stairway to the dungeons when it happened.

A flash of light, and then a stag, prancing in front of him, blocking his way.

“What is it then?” he demanded.

“Message for Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts,” the stag said in a whisper of a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

Snape nodded. “Yes, go ahead then. I’m taking messages for the headmaster.”

“From Harry Potter, Number Four Privet Drive, Surrey…”

Snape rolled his eyes. Was there no escape from the meddlesome brat?

“Send help.”

Snape frowned. Why was the boy whispering?

“Hurr…” It was barely a breath.

“Repeat that last bit,” Snape ordered.

“Send help.” The stag pawed at the ground. “Hurry.”

Snape hesitated. If this was some sort of game Potter was playing, some ploy to get attention, he’d wring the boy’s neck. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He was not Albus Dumbledore, blinded by the love of all things Harry Potter. The only thing that had him walking quickly in the direction of the castle gates was the sure knowledge that if something was actually wrong with the boy, which Snape very much doubted, Dumbledore would never forgive him for delaying.

---

Snape Apparated just shy of Privet Drive, making his way purposefully up the street. The cookie cutter houses were all the same design, save the color of their paint. He found number four soon enough. He made his way up the front walk and rang the bell. “Potter,” he grumbled, “if you are faking it, you are going to become intimately acquainted with the wrath of Severus Snape.”

An overly pudgy boy answered the door and looked up at Snape, eyes wide with apprehension. Snape supposed his long black robes did nothing to allay the boy’s fears. Smiling coldly, he was just about to open his mouth when a very rotund man, clearly the boy’s father, stepped into the hallway. In the background, a scratchy female voice sounded, “Vernon, who is it?”

Without being invited, Snape stepped inside and shut the door behind himself.

The portly man, clearly ‘Vernon’, quickly piped up. “I demand you leave this house at once!”

Snape merely arched an eyebrow and leaned against the now-closed door, arms crossed. The woman whose voice he’d heard made a sound of distress upon seeing him.

“Petunia,” he said in a cold voice, sweeping her with his gaze. She looked nothing like Lily. He had often wondered if she’d been adopted.

“You!” she breathed. “What do you want?”

“I received a distress call from this address,” Snape murmured. He expected to see blank stares on their faces. He expected to hear some drivel about Potter pulling a prank. Instead, dead silence fell. The boy shuffled his feet and looked at the floor, Petunia twittered about “that brat,” but the man—he stared directly into Snape’s eyes.

“I told you to leave,” Vernon said, taking a menacing step towards Snape, fists balled.

It was easy, really. Too easy. Muggles had no defenses whatsoever. He knew the man hated wizards, and perhaps he was just protecting the sanctity of his home, but somehow Snape didn’t think so. Something in his eyes told Snape that Vernon was hiding something.

It was like falling into a dank, musty well. The Muggle’s mind was soft and squishy, not at all trained and disciplined like a wizard’s. Snape pushed aside the mundane thoughts of work—drills and drill bits? How unoriginal— and looked for Potter. He found him in an instant, there in the man’s mind. And what he saw turned his blood to ice.

He had his wand out even before he was fully out of Vernon’s mind. “Out of my way!” he bellowed, shouldering his way through the people blocking the hallway. He vaguely heard the protests behind him, but didn’t stop to respond. He knew where the boy’s room was because he’d seen it in Vernon’s mind. His heart racing, he took the stairs two at a time. Any exhaustion he’d felt earlier in the night was gone, replaced by adrenaline at what he might find.

He took a right at the top of the stairs and plowed through the obese boy’s room. There was a second door, locked with a padlock. Every instinct screamed that Potter was locked inside. A quick flick of his wrist and the door flew open, banging against the inner wall.

Snape stilled, wand outstretched, scanning the room. Moonlight filtered in through the barred window. The stench of blood and vomit filled his nostrils, along with the sickly sweet scent of urine. Potter lay in a heap on the floor, his arm outstretched, fingers relaxed, his wand a useless piece of wood mere inches away.

Snape howled in rage. Potter wasn’t moving, wasn’t breathing. He was cold to the touch, his skin a dusky blue. Snape’s own heart pumped strong and loud as he sought desperately for the boy’s pulse. Nothing, dammit. Nothing! He placed a warming charm on the boy and rolled him onto his back to do chest compressions. He had to get Potter’s tissues oxygenated. The healer’s would be better at this, but he was afraid it would be too late, that it was already too late.

He placed his hands on Potter’s chest and pushed down, only to feel the sickening sloshing of broken ribs sliding around in the mess that was Potter’s chest cavity. A strange sounding whoosh of air made Snape realize that at least one of the boy’s lungs was punctured.

He looked up to see the Dursley’s gathered in the doorway.

“If he dies,” Snape snarled, “I will kill you myself, Vernon Dursley.”

With that, he wrapped Potter in his arms and Apparated them both to St. Mungo’s.

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.

Two months into the term, Ron and Harry were both struggling with their school work load. Hermione was the only 6th year who truly seemed to have a grasp on it. To make matters worse, Harry had a pounding headache and couldn’t manage to concentrate on the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay that was due the next day. While Ron muttered curses about Snape, their new DADA teacher, under his breath, Harry couldn’t help but think that while Snape was still irritable and exacting, he singled Harry out less overall. Perhaps that was because Harry was halfway decent in DADA, but he didn’t think so. It was as if the events of the summer had instilled a sort of truce between them. Harry wasn’t sure the war was over by any means, but at least they weren’t engaged in daily combat.

“I’m going to bed,” Harry murmured, rubbing his temples for a moment before stuffing his work back into his bag.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, looking up from her parchment which was covered in ancient runes. “You look awful.”

“Headache,” Harry muttered.

“Night,” Ron called after him, his quill in his teeth as he contemplated defenses against the Imperius curse.

Harry nodded and regretted the action immediately. He felt nauseous and bit back on the rise of bile in his throat. He hurried to his bed, not bothering to undress, and lay atop the covers, willing the feeling of upheaval in his body to abate. He concentrated instead on his breathing, in and out, slowly, counting to fifteen with each breath, ignoring the fine sheen of sweat than hung to his clammy skin.

“There is a spy among my ranks,” the voice rasped. He looked around at his most loyal followers, perhaps fifteen in all, kneeling about him in a circle, their heads bowed in reverence, their Death Eater’s masks hidden beneath their hoods.

Harry moaned in his sleep, fighting the visions dancing in his head.

“I intend to find out who it is,” his own voice whispered. He could feel the anticipation quicken in his blood, his slit-like nostrils flaring. “Tonight.”

The bonds that held Harry in this mad man’s mind, as well as his headache, grew stronger.

“Severus has prepared Veritaserum for us this evening. I will pass it around, and you will drink,” Harry’s voice hissed. “Then we will see who of you shall live and who of you shall die.”

Harry struggled hard against the connection that held him under, but it was no use.

“Not you, Severus, I have a special potion for you, one I obtained from the Ministry.” Harry could feel the pleasure of triumph dancing through his veins.

His name echoed in the distance, calling to him, but try as he might, he could not reach the surface. The cruel voice in his head, his voice, was merciless, meting out justice as he saw fit, until only the tortured echoes of one remained.

“You will die for your treachery,” he sang, casting curses at his foe and encouraging his followers to do the same. “Did you really think you could play Lord Voldemort for a fool?” The death eater on the ground screamed in pain, over and over, his body convulsing wildly like a fish out of water.

Harry writhed in agony, thrashing against the images in his mind.

“Crucio!”

“Harry, wake up!”

Hands grabbed at him, shaking him. Harry awoke abruptly, as if thrown from his nemesis’s mind. Shaking and sweating, his head about to explode, he vomited over the side of his bed. He laid back trembling, his heart racing, images of torture shattering his mind.

“Harry?” Ron asked reluctantly. “Was it… like my dad? When you saw him being attacked I mean?” Ron was standing over him, as was Neville, Dean, and Seamus.

Harry nodded, trying to force back another bout of nausea. Seamus had already spelled the last episode away. Harry felt too weak and shaky to move though he knew he had to. “Headmaster,” he breathed. “Take me, now.”

Ron and Neville helped him off the bed, down the dormitory stairs, through the deserted common room, and into the hall. By then Harry had a bit better control of himself, though his head still felt like it was going to split open from the white hot pain radiating from his scar.

“What is it?” Ron asked. “Or rather, who?” When Harry didn’t respond, Ron whispered, “Is it a member of the Order?”

Harry nodded, and then regretted that action. His vision swam and his stomach roiled. He had to stop for a moment before he could go on.

“Sugar quills,” he murmured when they arrived at the gargoyles guarding the headmaster’s office. He was never so thankful for the revolving staircase as he was then, leaning against the railing with his eyes closed as it delivered him to the top. He had a feeling the Dumbledore would be waiting for him.

“What is it, my boy?” the headmaster asked as Ron and Neville deposited Harry into a chair in front of Dumbledore’s desk. As it was 2am, the headmaster was wearing blue night robes with an amusing pink Muggle housecoat over the top.

“It’s Snape, sir,” Harry breathed, hanging his head between his knees to avoid throwing up again, “Professor Snape.”

Harry heard the headmaster dismiss Ron and Neville, and waited until they were gone before he continued.

“Voldemort knows he’s a spy,” Harry rasped. “He made him take a potion. Veritaserum, I think. But not the same one the others were taking.” Harry looked up to see Dumbledore gripping the edge of his desk, his face set in lines of concern.

“Are you sure it was a different potion?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes,” Harry said, unsure of why this was important, but sensing that it was. “Voldemort said that Snape brewed Veritaserum and had Snape pass it around for everyone to drink. But when it was Snape’s turn to drink, Voldemort said he had a special potion just for him.”

“I see,” Dumbledore said gravely.

“Professor,” Harry implored, “when they found out Snape was the spy, they… they…” Harry swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

“Tortured him,” Dumbledore finished.

Harry nodded.

“When you were inside of Voldemort’s head, was Professor Snape still alive?”

Harry blinked, trying to forget the details of that horrible scene. “I… yes… but… I don’t know how much longer he could live like that…” Harry could still hear the screams of agony, see the blood, the labored breathing; he wanted to howl at the injustice of it all.

The headmaster moved quickly around his office, touching various objects and setting them in motion, whispering incantations over others. Harry wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he guessed that the man was somehow alerting the Order.

“Is there anything you can do? Can you save him?” Harry asked, a sense of desperation settling over him. He couldn’t imagine how this could end well.

Sensing Dumbledore’s pause, Harry looked up to see the older man’s eyes bright with feeling. “Severus is the only one who can save himself now, I’m afraid.”

Harry put his head in his hands. When he’d first awoken, he’d briefly considered not telling anyone; after all, Snape had treated Harry with undeserved cruelty since his arrival at Hogwarts six years earlier. The hatred that Harry had felt toward Snape for causing Sirius’s death with his cruel bating had tamped down to lingering bitterness after the summer’s events; Snape had saved his life after all. And surely the torture Snape had been subjected to was retribution enough for the double agent’s sins.

Harry took a deep breath, trying to slow the rapid beating of his heart, and slumped back in his chair. If he’d learned anything from watching the events of tonight’s revelry, it was that Snape was indeed Dumbledore’s man, as much as he himself was. Snape had risked everything for the elderly wizard who now had his head in his fireplace, speaking to someone, making preparations for what Harry could only guess.

As Harry drifting towards sleep, he felt the pull of the bond once more. Too exhausted to fight it, he felt himself sink into the dark pit of Voldemort’s mind. His body stiffened as the scene shimmered before him.

“Let this be a lesson to you all,” he hissed, spit flying from his flattened lips, “You spy, you die!” Harry raised his arm, an unfamiliar wand pointing towards the unmoving man on the ground. The man’s mask lay askew, his robes torn, his body pale and unmoving, “AVADA…”

“NO!” Harry screamed.

Harry sat bolt upright, the killing curse still echoing in his mind. Dumbledore had turned to him, a look of shock on his face, a question hovering on his lips.

Just then there was a loud pop and a man, nearly unrecognizable and moaning in pain, appeared on the floor two feet from Harry’s chair.

“Severus,” Dumbledore cried, falling to his knees beside his comrade.

“Potter,” Snape rasped, his chest heaving with exertion, “not safe,” he forced out, “at Hogwarts.”

“Harry’s not safe at Hogwarts?” Dumbledore echoed.

But Snape had turned his head to the side and vomited. Blood and bile spewed from his mouth as his body convulsed. As Harry watched in horror, the potion master’s eyes rolled back into his head and he passed out.

“Harry, floo Madam Pomfrey to come to my office at once!”

Harry nodded, but didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He sat stunned, watching as Dumbledore waved his wand over Snape’s many bleeding gashes, cleaning and healing as he went. In some distant part of his mind, Harry wondered if he was going into shock.

“Now, Harry!” Dumbledore barked.

Harry jumped, the headmaster’s tone of voice snapping him out of his stupor. He rushed to the fireplace to call the mediwitch.

As Harry turned back to the wizard bleeding on the headmaster’s floor, he caught a spark of gold amidst the deep red stains. As if being drawn to the snitch, he reached out for the glowing yellow locket, its broken chain lying loosely across the potion master’s palm. Harry realized that this was the object that had likely saved Snape’s life.

A moment later, Madam Pomfrey stumbled into Dumbledore’s office from the fireplace.

“Oh, good heavens, Albus! Was it He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore breathed, despair clear in his voice. “I’ve healed what wounds I can, but I’m afraid he’s very badly injured.”

Madam Pomfrey ran her wand over Snape’s still body in a diagnostic spell.

Harry heard mutters of “broken bones” and “crushed cartilage,” “internal bleeding” and “organ damage.” He’d never seen the headmaster look so grim. Harry closed his eyes at the implications, not opening them again until Madam Pomfrey spoke.

“He really should be taken to St. Mungo’s, Albus.”

“I know,” Dumbledore sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “but he wouldn’t be safe there.”

Harry looked between the mediwitch and the headmaster as some sort of silent communication occurred.

“Very well,” Madam Pomfrey said, rising to her feet and conjuring a stretcher. “We need to get him to the hospital wing right away. I’ll call Healer Barnaby to assist.”

“Is it safe to move him?” Harry asked.

As if recalling his presence, Dumbledore turned to him. “Harry, you may return to your dormitory. Surely you are exhausted.”

“No,” Harry said, a bit too loudly. “I mean, I’d like to stay, if it’s okay, Professor.” After all, Snape had stayed the night with Harry when Harry had been beaten to within an inch of his life.

Dumbledore gave him a long look and then nodded as Madam Pomfrey levitated Snape onto the stretcher. Dumbledore cast a disillusionment charm over the potion master’s body and the three of them rushed alongside the stretcher, through the deserted corridors, and to the hospital wing.

Members of the Order arrived as Madam Pomfrey and Healer Barnaby worked hurriedly over Snape in the hospital wing. Professor McGonagall had stepped in to help, handing over medical supplies and potions as requested. Arthur and Molly Weasley bustled in, looking alarmed. Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin were right behind them. A few minutes later, Alastor Moody stomped in, his magical eye spinning madly in its socket as it took in the details of his surroundings.

“Potter,” Moody growled, drawing everyone’s attention to the dark corner in which the boy stood.

“Harry,” Lupin called. “Are you all right?”

Harry nodded, unable to find his voice.

“Harry here brought me the news,” Dumbledore said quietly. “That is how I was able to alert the Order so quickly.”

The Order members present stared at Harry in a way that made him feel contaminated. He knew, without it being said, that they knew that he was in Voldemort’s mind, seen through the evil wizard’s very eyes. He felt his anger flaring; if he’d have learned Occulumency like they’d wanted him to, he’d have never been able to alert Dumbledore to the danger that Snape was in.

As if to draw attention away from Harry, Arthur Weasley cleared his throat. “How did Severus manage to get back to Hogwarts?” he asked.

“Emergency portkey,” Dumbledore murmured. “He kept it with him always, just in case.”

Harry’s fingers tightened around the golden locket with the broken chain that was now in his pocket.

Kinsley Shacklebolt strode into the hospital wing then, exuding both power and elegance as he moved. “How is he, then?” Kinsley asked, taking off his burgundy cloak and hanging it over his arm.

Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore exchanged a pointed glance.

“It’s too soon to tell,” Dumbledore replied.

Harry looked to where Snape laid, still deathly pale and barely breathing. Those obsidian eyes which had held so much hatred were closed against the world. Cuts and bruises made a grotesque patchwork across his face, chest, and arms. And that was just what Harry could see. The internal damage, which he’d heard the healer and the mediwitch discuss, was much more worrisome, not to mention dangerous.

“…isn’t safe for either of them to remain here,” Dumbledore was saying.

Harry looked up, vaguely realizing that he’d heard Dumbledore mention his name. The Order members were grouped in a tight circle, a couple of feet away from Snape’s bed. Harry edged closer.

“Not Potter either?” Moody growled.

“Severus brought with him a warning,” Dumbledore replied.

“What sort of warning?” McGonagall asked.

“He was in no condition to give me more information,” Dumbledore responded.

“There are children of Death Eaters here at Hogwarts,” Moody said. “Likely they’ll be under direct orders to kidnap Potter. Not to mention what they’d do if they discover that Snape is still alive.”

Harry’s attention drifted from the conversation again as he watched Madam Pomfrey dribbling blood replenishing potion into the Snape’s mouth. The healer, meanwhile, was waving his wand in an intricate pattern over Snape’s abdomen, uttering what Harry presumed to be a healing spell.

“If he wakes up,” McGonagall said, sniffing loudly.

“If he’s sane,” Moody added in his gruff voice.

Harry startled. The gut-wrenching vision of Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom, Neville’s parents, who’d lost their minds after being subjected to the Cruciatus curse too many times, flashed across his consciousness.

“He’ll need around-the-clock care,” Madam Pomfrey called from her post at the head of Snape’s bed.

“I can help,” Nymphadora Tonks volunteered.

“Me too,” Harry said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Harry?” Arthur Weasley inquired.

“I mean,” Harry said, swallowing audibly, “I know we haven’t gotten along these past years, but he’s saved my life countless times, and I… well… you said it wasn’t safe for either of us to stay here, so I might as well…”

“No one expects you to, dear,” Molly Weasley said sympathetically.

Dumbledore raised his hand and silence fell. “Perhaps Harry has a point. Let us first decide, though, where they will be safe.”

“Order Headquarters,” Lupin suggested, and heads nodded.

“That would be the obvious choice,” Dumbledore replied, looking pointedly at Harry.

“Albus,” Madam Pomfrey called, “it would be really helpful if Mr. Potter could tell us which spells were cast against Severus.”

Harry stiffened as everyone’s gaze turned towards him. He looked away and tried to concentrate. So many curses and insults had been hurled at Snape that he struggled to separate out specific spells from all of the chaos. He felt Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder, leading him away from the fray.

“Harry,” he said softly, “I know you must be very tired, but anything specific you could remember would be very helpful.”

Harry cleared his throat. “I know they cast the Cruciatus curse, many times, and some others I didn’t recognize,” Harry rubbed his scar against the pain, trying to remember caused him. “The Death Eaters were all yelling things at the same time…”

“I know, Harry,” Dumbledore said gently. “Would you mind very much if I removed the memory from your mind and looked at in the Penseive? We might be able to pick it apart and isolate which spells were used.”

Harry nodded.

“Just think about what you saw,” Dumbledore said as he extracted a long, golden thread from Harry’s left temple.

---

“What’s up, mate?” Ron asked, using his fists to rub the sleep from his eyes. Suddenly, Ron sat up straighter in his bed, pushing his red and gold curtains fully out of the way. “Why are you packing your trunk?”

“I have to go,” Harry said.

“Go? Where?” Ron asked. “What’s going on?”

“Voldemort discovered Professor Snape was a spy. That’s who I saw being tortured last night.”

“So why do you have to go?” Ron asked again, swinging his pajama-clad legs onto the floor.

“Snape said it wasn’t safe for me to remain at school. Moody reckons the kids of the Death Eaters will come after me here now that Snape is out of the picture.”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said. “Where will you go?”

“Order Headquarters, I guess,” Harry said, smashing the rest of his belongings into his trunk with more force than was necessary. He slammed the lid and sat on top of it, his hands between his knees.

“Uhhh…” Ron muttered.

“I can’t believe I have to leave,” Harry bit out. “It’s bad enough I have to go mid-term and miss Quidditch and be stuck there with Snape, but…”

“With Snape?” Ron said.

“Order Headquarters is Sirius’s house,” Harry continued.

Ron’s mouth curved into an “oh.” No words came out.

“It’s just going to be really hard being there with Sirius gone…” Harry put his head in his hands. Sirius’s death was still a fresh, raw wound. He took a deep breath, trying to get a hold of his emotions. Too much had happened in too short a time. He had gotten his friends injured and his godfather killed in the Department of Mysteries, and when Uncle Vernon had learned of Sirius’s death, he no longer feared the wizard’s retribution. The beating that followed had nearly killed Harry, and would have, if Snape and not arrived. And now Snape’s double agent status had been discovered, and Snape had nearly been killed as well. Harry’s head spun.

“How long?” Ron breathed.

“How long what?” Harry snapped.

“How long will you have to be gone?”

“Oh,” Harry sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know.” Harry shrunk his trunk into the size of a Muggle candy bar and put it in the pocket of his robes. He didn’t look back as he walked out of the dormitory, Ron following behind him.

“Harry,” Hermione called as Harry emerged. “I’ve just heard.” She put a hand on Harry’s arm when he reached the bottom of the stairs “We’ll come visit every weekend, won’t we Ron?”

Ron looked surprised, but then smiled broadly and nodded.

“And Professor McGonagall said that I should send copies of my notes every day for you to study and that I can tutor you as needed.”

Harry nodded and looked away, not wanting his friends to see the overwhelming emotions that were crashing in around him. He hadn’t gotten more than two hours of sleep the night before and the importance of what had happened and what would happen next weighed heavily on him. He didn’t want to have to say good-bye to his friends on top of everything else.

“Maybe Dumbledore will let us come with you,” Ron said, clearly excited by the idea.

“Yeah, right,” Harry said. “You aren’t the ones in danger.”

“We could be,” Ron said thoughtfully. “Someone might think they can get to you through us…”

“Ron,” Hermione scolded, “he’s got enough to worry about without you putting ideas in his head.”

“I was just saying…” Ron retorted.

“Thanks,” Harry put in quickly, trying to diffuse the ever-present bickering between his two best friends, “but I’ll need you here. To keep me apprised of what’s going on.”

Ron looked slightly mollified by the thought of being useful.

“Harry,” Hermione asked tentatively. She looked around the common room to make sure no one could overhear them. “How is Professor Snape?”

Harry grimaced. “Not good.”

“Will he live?” Hermione asked, a tremor in her voice.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He didn’t want to admit that even if their former potion’s master did live, he might not be whole. “He can’t stay here either, or go to St. Mungo’s. Moody said that someone would try to finish what Voldemort started.”

“So where will they send him?” Hermione asked.

“He’ll be staying at Headquarters too, I guess. Madam Pomfrey said he’ll require twenty-four hour care.”

“Blimey, he must be a mess,” Ron commented.

Hermione nodded in agreement.

“Well, at least he won’t be able to give us a hard time for awhile,” Ron said cheerfully.

“Ron!” Hermione scolded.

“What?” Ron said.

Harry turned away as his friends began to argue. He looked out over the deserted common room, memorizing its comfortable burgundy couches and chairs, its scarred wooden tables, the fireplace that Sirius had spoken to him from. Sirius.

“Harry, what is it?” Hermione asked, touching his shoulder in concern.

“Is it your scar?” Ron asked, looking startled.

Harry realized he must have made a sound of distress, though he couldn’t recall. “Nothing,” he muttered, “I’m just really tired.”

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Hermione asked.

“Not much,” Harry replied. “Listen, I’m going to go check on Professor Snape before I grab some breakfast.” Harry glanced toward the clock. It was 6:30am; they were the only ones in Gryffindor who were awake. “Dumbledore said he’d meet me at 7.”

“We’ll go with you, Harry,” Hermione said. “Just let me throw on my robes.”

“Me too,” Ron said, absently fingering the buttons of his flannel pajamas.

Madam Pomfrey looked up as Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered the hospital wing. “No visitors,” she said promptly, stepping out from the curtains to shoe them away.

“How is he doing?” Harry asked. When Madam Pomfrey hesitated, Harry added, “I was here last night.”

“So you were, Mr. Potter, but your friends…”

“Already know,” Harry interrupted.

“Professor McGonagall told me this morning,” Hermione added. “She asked me to help with Professor Snape’s…”

Both Harry and Ron looked sharply at Hermione, who promptly shut her mouth and flushed a bright red.

“With Harry’s homework,” she corrected. She clasped her hands together and looked expectantly at Madam Pomfrey.

“Oh, alright then,” Madam Pomfrey said, stepping aside. “Just for a minute.” She returned to her patient’s bed and fluffed his pillow.

As the trio approached Snape’s bed, which was shielded by floor-length white curtains, he felt his anxiety increase. How much had the healer and the mediwitch been able to do in the time that had passed? He inhaled sharply at the sight before him: Snape was covered to his waist, his arms bandaged at his side. A think violet paste coated his chest and neck, making the bruises and gashes there shimmer as the healing paste did its job. His face was nearly black from bruising, his eyes swollen shut, his lips split. Most startling, though, was his now-bald head, where a jagged gash ran from his left temple all the way to behind his right ear. Harry was not surprised when Hermione gasped and quickly covered her mouth. Ron looked green and put his hand on Hermione’s arm, whether to steady himself or to comfort her, Harry wasn’t sure.

“How is he?” Harry asked again. Looking at the badly damaged man before him, it sounded like a stupid question.

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. “He’s out of immediate danger,” she said, “but he’ll have a long road of recovery ahead of him.”

“Harry,” an ethereal voice echoed. “I think you’ve dropped this.”

Harry turned to see Luna Lovegood standing beside him, his candy-bar sized trunk in her outstretched hand. The Great Hall had been empty when he, Hermione, and Ron had arrived for breakfast, save for a couple of second year Hufflepuffs in a far corner.

Harry smiled. “Thanks, Luna.”

“Where are you going, Harry?” Luna asked.

“What makes you think he’s going anywhere?” Ron interrupted. Hermione nudged him.

“Well,” Luna said, “the only time I ever shrink my trunk that small is when I don’t want anyone to know I’m leaving.”

“Umm…” Harry uttered.

“Dumbledore has a special job for him,” Hermione volunteered.

“Ooohhh,” said Luna. “Will it be exciting?”

Harry thought about that. Helping to take care of Snape and doing homework alone in the Black manor with the memory of Sirius hanging over him and Mrs. Black yelling obscenities might be something that some would find exciting. “No, I think it will be kind of lonely actually.”

“Oh I understand,” Luna said, staring at him with those protuberant eyes. “Well, maybe Hermione can charm our DA coins to allow us to send messages back and forth. Then you won’t have to feel so alone.”

Harry stared at Luna and a slow smile spread across his face. He would miss her.

“That’s a wonderful idea, Luna!” Hermione said. “I’ll get to work on that right away.”

McGonagall swept up the long row in her tartan robes. “Are you ready, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry said, getting up from his bench. On impulse, he hugged Luna and whispered, “Thanks for everything,” in her ear. Then he hugged Ron and Hermione and followed McGonagall out of the Great Hall.

---

“I believe you took something from Professor Snape last night,” Dumbledore pronounced after Harry and Professor McGonagall had entered his office.

When Harry looked blank, Dumbledore added, “The locket?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, reaching into his pocket for it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take it, it just sort of…”

Dumbledore raised his hand to silence him. “Not to worry,” he said, “I just thought we should reinstate its original purpose. You have figured out what it is for, I presume?”

“A portkey to your office,” answered Harry.

“Precisely,” Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. “Only this time, I will make it a portkey to the hospital wing. Should Professor Snape’s condition unexpectedly worsen, I will expect you to use it at once. Its use will immediately alert Madam Pomfrey and myself.”

Harry nodded, watching the lines of worry deepen on his headmaster’s face.

“I will place it around Professor Snape’s neck before he is transported. If you should need to use it, clasp the locket in one hand while holding tightly onto Professor Snape’s arm in the other and say “Hogwarts Hospital Wing.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Don’t thank me, Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, “I imagine that leaving Hogwarts is the last thing you would wish. However, it is my responsibility to keep you safe above all else.”

“I understand,” said Harry, though he fervently wished as Dumbledore handed him the pewter tin of floo powder that he did not have to leave. Hogwarts was his home. The look in Dumbledore’s eyes told Harry that the headmaster knew what Harry was thinking.

“I will arrange for your friends to visit you on weekends,” Dumbledore said. “It seems only fair.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, shifting uneasily. “Sir? Do you think that I might… well… that I could help with stuff while I’m at Grimmauld Place? Like Order business? I mean, I’m almost of age and I’ll be right there…”

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder, “you’ve done quite enough already. And I dare say that the most help you could give to the Order right now would be to take care of Professor Snape.”

“Right,” Harry said, studying his shoes. He did not want the headmaster to see his disappointment.

“And by the way, you won’t be returning to Grimmauld Place,” Dumbledore added.

“I won’t?” Harry asked, looking up.

Dumbledore removed his half-moon glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, his blue eyes filled with sadness. “I rather thought you might find it difficult being there, what with the memories of your Godfather so fresh…”

Harry swallowed against the tightness in his throat, thankful that the headmaster realized just how difficult this all was for Harry.