“Where are we?” The question had been on his mind since he’d been conscious enough to ask it, but something told him this was a touchy topic.

“Hogwarts,” Snape answered.

Harry gazed out the window at the mountains in the distance, the sun peeking out at intervals to grace the landscape with splashes of color. “I’ve never seen this view from Hogwarts before.”

Snape didn’t deign to answer.

Pushing his luck, Harry asked “Where do those stairs lead?”

“Nowhere you are allowed to go. Be sure of that, Potter.”

Although the answer was not unexpected, it still rankled. “Am I a prisoner here?” Harry asked.

“Of course not. You can return to your aunt and uncle’s home anytime you wish.”

Harry paled. “So I am a prisoner then.”

Snape scoffed. “You are as much a prisoner as I am.”

Harry pulled the patchwork blanket closer. “At least it’s a nice prison,” he mumbled.

 Harry awoke to the feeling of late afternoon sunlight warming his face and shoulders. Opening his eyes slowly, he saw his glasses floating above him and snatched them out of the air. Slipping them on, he realized where he was. Or rather, that he was in the same place he’d been a couple of hours ago. He stretched cautiously, wary of the slightest twinge of pain and relieved to find there was none. Looking over, he saw Snape watching him closely. Harry sat up.

“How did I get here?”

Snape shifted uncomfortably. “I brought you here.”

“Who got me from the Dursleys’?” Harry asked, leaning forward to pick up the sandwich that had suddenly appeared on the coffee table before him. “I don’t think I left on my own…”

“No, you did not.”

Snape’s less than complete answer made Harry realize his error. He should be careful not to ask more than one question at a time, lest he not receive the answer he was looking for. Taking a chance he asked, “What prompted you to come to the Dursley’s anyway?”

“Who said I did?” Snape asked, feigning interest in the sandwich that sat on a plate in his lap. Harry noticed that Snape had not touched his food.

“I thought… I mean, I remember… Or at least I think I remember…”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Your voice,” Harry concluded. “I remember your voice. You said…” Harry tried to remember something concrete. “You called me Harry,” he said aloud, before he could think better of it. He looked at Snape in surprise, and met the same expression on his Professor’s face. Harry blushed and turned away.

Snape cleared his throat. “Your mother asked me to check on you.”

“What?” Harry shouted, practically dropping his sandwich. “My mother? But how…”

Harry watched as Snape glanced longingly out the window, or perhaps it was at one of the paintings, Harry couldn’t be sure. Then, as if remembering where he was, Snape set his plate heavily down on the coffee table, as if resigned to his fate. “I was visiting your mother’s grave when I heard her voice. She told me that you were in danger.”

Harry’s head was spinning. What to say to that? But this was Snape after all. “And you believed her?” he finally asked, hearing the incredulity in his own voice and wishing he could take it back. But Snape just sighed.

“No, Potter, I did not.”

“But you came anyway,” Harry recovered. “Why?”

“Because she asked me to. Because it seemed important to her.”

Harry swallowed, hard. He wanted to know what Snape knew about his mother, but there was something else he wanted more.

“Can you take me there?”

“Take you where, Potter?”

“To her grave. I’ve never been.” Harry looked away, trying to hide the familiar sense of longing that crept over him at the thought of home and family, something he’d never had the chance to experience, at least as far back as he could remember.

He felt Snape’s indecision as clearly as if the man had spoken it aloud. “I suppose it could be arranged,” Snape replied. “When it is safe. And you’ll have to go under your invisibility cloak.”

Harry smiled, his first real smile in weeks.

 Snape paced his study, unsure of what to do with the boy that had taken over his refuge. He could have kicked Potter out, made a different space for the boy in the dungeons, across from his library perhaps, but somehow, he could not. He knew, more than he wished to admit, what living like a second class citizen did to a person, not to mention a vulnerable, abused child. He knew he would have given anything as a youth to live in a space like the one Harry was currently residing in. That had been why he’d designed it in the first place.

He had started the incantations and charms to establish the refuge shortly after he’d been appointed Potions professor at Hogwarts. What had began as a small room off of his study had evolved into a large living area, complete with a kitchenette, bathroom, living room, and other spares rooms, along with a staircase that descended from his study down to the greatly expanded sanctuary. It had taken him nearly eight years to complete. The magic was complex, and although the Headmaster’s permission was easy enough to obtain, convincing the castle itself to cooperate and grant such use of itself was another matter entirely. He’d had to earn Hogwarts’ trust. When he finally had, though, she’d provided for his every whim, even permitting him the mountain view Lily had always dreamed of. Lily. She was his other motivation for designing the space, though that hurt too much to think about at the moment, even if having Potter’s green eyes looking up at him was a constant reminder of her.

Snape strode purposefully across his study and down the stairs to his former refuge. He found Potter fast asleep on the couch, an empty glass vial on the coffee table beside him. Relieved to find that the boy had actually listened for once and taken the dreamless sleep potion Snape had left for him earlier that evening, Snape slipped off Potter’s glasses and set them on the coffee table. He placed a hover charm on them so that when Potter was near to awakening, they’d float six inches above him, easily accessible to the nearly blind boy.

Carefully, Snape removed the black silk robe from Potter’s languid form. It had been a gift from Albus Dumbledore, specially charmed to relieve pain from the injuries that Snape inevitably received at the hands of the Dark Lord. He rolled Potter onto his stomach, exposing the raised red ribbons of flesh on the boy’s back.

With too many years of personal experience, Snape unscrewed the lid of the scar salve he’d brought with him and dipped his fingers into the shimmering flesh-colored goo. Gently but thoroughly, he traced each gash with the salve, covering it completely, knowing that as long as he was diligent, these wounds would not scar. The same could not be said for the older marks, unfortunately, though the salve would still lighten the existing scars.

Sighing, Snape replaced the lid on the salve container and set it aside. He charmed the black silk robe back onto the boy and covered him with the patchwork quilt that had been handmade by his Muggle grandmother. Grandmother Prince had never understood him when he was a boy, but she had tried her best to love him all the same. Looking down at the son of Lily and James Potter, Snape suddenly wondered if anyone other than his biological parents had ever tried to love the boy who lay sleeping on his couch. At least Snape had had his mother to act as a buffer against his father’s rage; it didn’t look like Potter even had that at the home of his relatives. Snape flexed his hands into fists at the thought, quickly releasing his bunched muscles at the spasm of pain in his left forearm. There wasn’t much time left that pain reminded him, and he was woefully behind in his duties for the Dark Lord. Getting to his feet, he crossed the room, sparing a brief glance for the portrait of the woman, before heading back to his private potion’s lab.

 Harry awoke the next morning to the sound of a pop. Startled, he opened his eyes to see a blurry Dobby standing before him.

“Dobby,” Harry said, slipping on the spectacles that hovered above him. He’d have to learn that charm.

“Dobby has brought Harry Potter breakfast, sir,” Dobby said, presenting Harry with a large array of breakfast foods on a platter.

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harry said. He stretched languorously, and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He still felt twinges of discomfort, but they were nothing compared to the day before.

“Would you like to eat here or at the table, Harry Potter, sir?”

Harry looked around, recognizing the now familiar room. For the first time, he noticed the purple flowers that bloomed at the base of the mountain, blowing lazily in a strong breeze. The window view was framed by the picture of the flowers on one side, and that of the woman—who paused just then to push her hair out of her face—on the other side. Deciding he liked his current view, he said: “Here is fine, Dobby.”

Dobby nodded, setting down the breakfast tray on the coffee table. Then, with a snap of his fingers, a stack of books, parchment, and quills appeared beside the breakfast tray. “Dobby brought Harry Potter his schoolwork too. Professor Snape says Harry Potter should work on his summer assignments today.”

Harry grimaced. Leave it to Snape to insist Harry do homework two weeks into the summer break.

Harry finished eating his breakfast, and looked around for his trunk. He found it perched behind the couch, another patchwork quilt and an extra down feather pillow stacked atop it. Setting the spare blanket and pillow aside, he rummaged through the trunk and pulled out boxers, jeans, socks, and a t-shirt. He laid a set of school robes over the couch in case he needed them for later. Then he headed for the shower.

He was just brushing his teeth when he heard the familiar tread on the stairs. He stepped out of the bathroom, his clean hair wet and spiky, his glasses fogged, as Professor Snape reached the bottom of the staircase.

Snape frowned at him. “Why is your shirt inside out?”

“Good morning to you too, Professor,” Harry muttered, stepping further into the room.

Snape’s eyes flashed. “Drop the attitude, Potter, and answer my question.”

Harry shrugged and looked away.

“If you are well enough to give me cheek, Potter, then you are well enough to make yourself useful.”

“Excuse me?” Harry asked, disconcerted by the condescending tone. The wizard had seemed almost human the day before. Now, he looked as foreboding as ever, though perhaps a bit rougher around the edges.

“I was merely inquiring as to if you were still in need of coddling.”

Harry flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “I didn’t ask you to…”

“Spare me the melodrama, Potter,” Snape snapped, absently rubbing his left sleeve. “I simply asked…”

“No, you didn’t ask. You never ask. You assume, or you accuse, but you never ask,” Harry retorted, wondering why he was suddenly feeling so defensive.

Harry saw a muscle twitch in Snape’s jaw as the man’s eyes hardened. “The world does not revolve around you, Harry Potter. There are more important issues at stake than your overinflated ego.”

“My overinfla…” Harry spluttered. “I don’t have an overinflated ego! I haven’t got an ego at all!”

Snape’s laugh was chilling. “Everyone has an ego, Potter. Your father…”

“Don’t talk about my father!”

“Your father,” Snape continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “did whatever it took to get what he wanted. He was a selfish, cruel bully who…”

“My father was a great man!” Harry yelled, his hands balling into fists.

“And how would you know, Potter?” Snape sneered. “You can’t even remember him.”

Harry gaped. Of all of the things Snape had ever said to him, that was a particularly low blow. Harry froze, stunned, as Snape’s cold eyes swept over him. Before Harry could respond, the man had turned on his heel and stomped up the stairs.

“Stupid git,” Harry uttered after he was gone, throwing one of the pillows on the sofa against the nearest wall as hard as he could. He looked at the red cube and considered doing the same. He’d have to touch the damn thing first, though, and alerting Snape was the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he took pleasure in imaging it smashing into a hundred tiny pieces, jewel bright red shards littering the hardwood floors like drops of blood. Snape’s blood.