Severus Snape wove his way through the gravestones behind the small church as he’d done every 30th of June for the last twelve years: offering apologies, seeking absolution. This day was neither her birthday or death day, but the anniversary of the day they had met so many years ago.

The three flowers he carried were the same ones he’d given her each year on this day while she was alive—whether she’d wanted them or not. Now, he laid them carefully on her grave: yellow for friendship, white for devotion, and pink for youth. Three lilies for his one and only Lily.

Sighing deeply, Snape settled himself atop the gravestone next to hers, turning his back on his childhood nemesis. It was disrespectful and petty, but he didn’t care. Lily was his, always had been. Closing his eyes, he felt the sadness settle over him like a heavy, wet cloak. Would he ever stop missing her?

As the early morning wind shifted, he smelled vanilla and cinnamon. Inhaling more deeply, he picked up a touch of citrus as well: Lily’s scent. Eyes flashing open, he searched the graveyard for her, his heart pounding in his chest. Images of her danced in the mist of his memories: her chestnut hair glinting red in the sun, green eyes shining, face aglow with happiness and laughter. He felt the familiar lump in his throat and closed his eyes once more. Lily, his Lily.

“Severus.”

The voice echoed in his head and heart, soul-sweet music.

“Lily,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He heard her sigh and could feel her presence to the depth of his bones.

“Please forgive me,” Snape said. He knew he was talking to himself, but he didn’t care. Lily’s scent still lingered in the air around him, both warming and refreshing. He would take whatever illusion of her he could get.

“I need your help,” her voice implored. “Please, Sev.”

Snape clutched the gravestone he sat on. This wasn’t real, wasn’t possible. And yet, it was her voice, her scent… “Anything,” he croaked. “Anything for you, Lily.”

“Harry is in danger. I need you to go to him.”

“Harry? In danger? Surely not,” Snape scoffed, keeping his eyes shut tight so as not to ruin the illusion. “He’s with your relatives. Petunia and her husband and their son.”

“I know.”

He heard the profound sadness in her voice.

“Lily, I’m sure he’s fine. You’ve no need to worry.”

“No, Sev, he is not fine. The things I’ve seen…”

Snape stiffened and felt his face flush. “What have you seen?” Granted, he had not treated the boy well, but the Potter brat was arrogant and insufferable, just like his father.

“He’s my son too, Sev. And he has more than just my eyes; he has my blood, my soul; my courage, and my compassion.”

Snape shifted uncomfortably. “You sound like Dumbledore,” he muttered.

He could imagine Lily lifting an eyebrow at him in challenge. “Maybe you should listen to him. But that’s neither here nor there. The Dursley’s have gone out for the day and left Harry home alone. I need you to check on him. Please, Sev, for me?”

Her voice licked at his nerves, sending shivers up his spine. “I… alright… if it will make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Sev, you’re the best.”

A smile. He could sense it in her voice. He smiled too, and felt the whisper of a kiss on his cheek. He touched the place reverently, feeling the trace of moisture there. Shaking his head in wonder, he got up. “Only for you, Lily, only for you.”

 “Wotcher, Snape.”

“Tonks,” he acknowledged, turning his head toward the source of the voice.

Slipping out from beneath the invisibility cloak, Tonks asked: “What brings you to Privet Drive?” Idly, she twirled a strand of spiky hot pink hair between thumb and forefinger.

“Just checking in on our charge,” he answered, ignoring the curious glance she shot his direction.

Snape took a step forward but stopped “Do me a favor?” It was more of a command than a request. “Send the Ministry an owl stating that any magic performed within the next 15 minutes was done so by a fully qualified wizard and not the underage one in residence.”

At Tonks’ surprised and slightly concerned look, Snape waved a conciliatory hand. “Not to worry, I have no plans to harm your precious Potter. But I believe the door will be locked?”

Looking reassured, Tonks nodded. “Say hi to him for me, will you?” And with that, she was off, presumably to find an owl.

Snape shook his head. The last thing he needed right now was either Ministry interference or knowledge of his visit.

From the looks of it, Lily had been right; no one was home. No one except Harry Potter. Why hadn’t the boy gone with his family? Was he too good for his Muggle relatives? Or was it yet another ploy for attention? He huffed in disgust. If the boy only knew what some children had to suffer…

The front door was indeed locked, as he expected. Snape stepped around back to find the garden door conveniently open. He entered through the pristine kitchen, admiring the neatness of the Muggles. His childhood home had never been so clean. The tidiness continued as he wended his way through the hallway, which was adorned by pictures of a happy family: mother, father, and son. Harry’s absence in the pictures niggled at the back of his mind but he pushed the thought away; surely it was Harry who’d refused to be seen in their company, not the other way around. A brief glance into the orderly living room confirmed what the absence of lights had suggested—no one in residence.

Snape made his way up the stairs, ears attuned for the sounds of Wizard Rock or the scratching of a quill. Curiously, he heard nothing. He stepped onto the landing. No light shown from under a closed door. Perhaps Tonks had neglected to tell him the boy had gone out.

He came first to the master suite. The room, which was done in the tasteless colors of mustard yellow and pale green, was an affront to his senses. A large bed dominated the center, crowded by a large, wooden chest of drawers on one side and an overstuffed chintz chair on the other. Turning, he went back to the hall and opened the next door—a linen closet—and the next—a bathroom, before coming to the room at the end of the hall. This room was not tidy like the rest, but a cacophony of toys and electronics, the walls papered with obnoxious posters, the floor littered with comic books and discarded clothing. He frowned. There were no other rooms on this level, and he hadn’t seen any bedrooms on the first floor. He was just about to leave the child’s room when the sound of coughing stopped him in his tracks. He heard it again and looked toward the source of the noise.

There, behind a door covered in a poster of a cartoon character making a rude gesture, was where the sound had come from. He’d assumed the door led to a closet. A sick feeling settled in the pit of his stomach but he ignored it. This was not his childhood; surely Harry Potter was not locked in a closet, beaten and bleeding, like he had been. Shaking his head, he kicked a Nintendo game system out of the way and reached for the door, intending to thrust it open. It wobbled on its hinges but did not budge. Looking more closely, he found the door secured by multiple locks—all on the outside. A wave of dizziness assaulted him. Lily’s voice echoed in his head: “Harry is in danger.”

“Potter?” he whispered.

A quick Alohamora and the locks fell away. Bursting through the door, he found himself in the middle of a small utility room. He stopped cold, a wave of déjà vu washing over him: the bare gray walls, the scuffed and scorched floor boards, the single light bulb hanging naked from the ceiling, the empty owl cage on top of the battered dresser… He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, before his eyes were drawn to the window. He shuddered; even he hadn’t had bars on his window.

A cough from behind had him spinning around, wand at the ready. Against the same wall as the door that he’d just entered, a bare mattress lay, sans box spring or frame. As he stared at the specter before him, ghostly pale and much too thin, the sharp tang of copper wafted up to him.

“Potter?” he asked, incredulous.

The only response Snape got was a low moan that made the hairs on his arms and neck stand on end.

Potter lay face-down on the blood-stained mattress, threadbare boxers his only attire. His back was covered in lash marks, some still oozing blood, others covered in a dried black crust. Assuring himself that the boy’s grossly protruding ribcage still rose and fell with the sure signs of breathing, Snape quickly scanned the rest of the boy’s body. The raised ribbons of scarred flesh on Potter’s legs, torso, and arms made him quiver with rage—rage for the boy that lay before him now, rage for the boy he himself had once been. No child should have to suffer this, and the scars before him were proof that this was not the first time that Potter had been whipped.

Snape knelt down, his senses freshly assaulted by the scent of blood mixed with sweat. Potter coughed again, and the rasping, gurgling breath that followed made Snape cringe. Pneumonia? A punctured lung? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he had to get Potter out of here before his relatives caused more injury to him. The little boy inside of Snape cried: Why not me? Why didn’t anyone save me from my relatives? Snape promptly squashed the feelings of injustice and trained his mind on the task at hand.

“Potter, this will sting a bit,” Snape said. “Much less than Muggle methods, though,” he murmured to himself more than Potter. Casting a cleaning spell, he went over each gash individually, eliciting a series of sharp pitched cries from the boy. Another time and place, Snape might have taken pleasure in Potter’s discomfort, but not now. Potter moved restlessly beneath Snape’s ministrations, trying to escape the waves of pain.

“Be still. I’ll be finished in a minute.” Snape cast two more cleaning spells, one on a minor cut, the other on a deep laceration. “There,” he said. “Now, just let me heal these so they stay closed, and we’ll get you out of here.”

Glassy green eyes opened and squinted up at him.

“Accio Potter’s glasses,” Snape hissed. He caught them in mid-air and slid them onto Harry’s face.

“Snape?” Harry rasped.

“That’s Professor Snape to you, Potter.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. “Damn fever dreams.”

“What did you say?” Snape asked, but he was already reaching out to touch the boy’s forehead and judge for himself. Hot, too hot.

“I said that I must be dreaming,” Harry repeated, his eyes sliding shut again.

“And why is that, Mr. Potter?” Snape inquired, turning his attention back to the cuts on the boy’s back and expertly healing each of them before vanishing any remnants of blood that remained. A few ointments and these new wounds wouldn’t even scar.

“Because Snape—Professor Snape,” Harry corrected and then coughed, “would sooner hex me than heal me.”

Snape searched for nearly ten minutes before finding Harry’s trunk locked in the small cupboard beneath the stairs. As he pulled it out, he noticed something else. Scrawled along one wall in a child’s handwriting he read “Harry’s Room.” Looking closer, he saw other scribbles, some in crayon, some in pencil. They wouldn’t really have kept him locked up in here, would they? The small voice in his head echoed: They kept you locked up in someplace similar. Why not Harry? Snape shuddered, and pulled himself and the trunk quickly out of the confining space.

Rummaging haphazardly through Harry’s trunk, he found what he was looking for. Setting it aside, he shrunk the rest of Harry’s belongings to fit in his pocket and headed upstairs to retrieve the boy in question.

Snape cringed as he entered the small room once more. “Potter?”

No response.

“Potter,” Snape said more forcefully.

Nothing.

He knelt down beside the mattress on the floor. “Harry,” Snape said softly, the name tasting both foreign and bitter on his tongue.

Harry stirred slightly and moaned.

“Can you walk?”

Harry rolled over in an attempt to sit up, then clutched his midsection with both arms, groaning loudly. He curled into a ball on his side, his eyes screwed tight shut. Sweat glistened on his skin.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Snape sighed. Reaching inside his robes, he pulled out a vial of violet liquid. “It’s not much,” Snape said, “but it’s the best I’ve got on me.” Leaning forward, he tipped the contents into Harry’s mouth and waited for the boy to swallow. After covering him with the invisibility cloak that Snape had pilfered from Potter’s trunk, Snape reached one arm under the boy’s knees and the other beneath his shoulders, lifting him off the blood stained mattress. “This might hurt a bit,” Snape murmured, “but there’s nothing for it.”

Potter had indeed cried out in pain upon being picked up, and continued to whimper with Snape’s every step, but that was not what had disconcerted Snape so much. No, it was the way that the nearly unconscious boy had snuggled against Snape’s chest, seeking what—Solace? Comfort? Protection? Snape wasn’t sure. He only knew that if Harry Potter was awake, he’d never take such liberties with Severus Snape. Nor would Snape have allowed it, if not for the precarious condition of the Boy Who Lived.

Snape carefully carried Potter down the stairs, concealed under the cloak. Hoping that Tonks had sufficiently secured the perimeter, he strode across the backyard, crossed the boundary of Lily’s blood protection at a run, and Apparated to just outside of Hogwarts. Although Harry weighed much less than a 14-year-old should, for the moment Snape was grateful: It wasn’t easy to carry dead weight across a distance, and he wouldn’t be able to levitate Potter until they got inside the relative safety of the castle’s gates. He only hoped that Madam Pomfrey was still in residence when they arrived.

 Harry felt like he was floating. He heard voices, vague utterances, echoing around him. One was female, the other two were male. They sounded familiar, but try as he might to grasp what they were saying, the words seemed to swirl in circles around him, just out of reach. Only snatches of conversation registered in his mind before promptly fading away.

“Why is he here?”

“Most likely the uncle…”

“And right after Cedric’s death too…”

“Malnourished, nearly starved…”

“After all he’s been through…”

“Dreamless sleep, it was all I had on me…”

“Should have recognized the signs…”

“Internal bleeding, ruptured spleen…”

“Why didn’t he tell anyone…”

“Fever, possible pneumonia…”

“Should have known…”

“So many scars…”

“What should we do about his relatives?”

“Azkaban would be too good for them…”

“I’ve failed him yet again…”

“How much longer, Poppy?”

“Weeks to heal…”

“Safer here, in my quarters…”

“Are you sure?”

Fatigue pulled him back under, blotting out the noises around him. No dreams disturbed him, only the hazy foreboding of something being wrong. It was too bright, too open. He was not being suffocated by the heat of still, close air. And yet…

A wave of nausea brought him to the surface with such force that he rolled off the cushioned surface he was lying on and onto the floor, landing unsteadily on hands and knees. He reached out vaguely with a shaking hand. “Bathroom,” he croaked, his eyes squeezed shut against the light that threatened to make his head explode and the stabbing pain in his chest.

Strong hands lifted him up and guided him forward. He stumbled along beside the man, who was speaking, but all Harry could focus on was the overwhelming need to vomit. Try as he might to hold it back, he wretched, falling to his knees on a cold, hard floor and spewing forth a foul mixture that burned his throat. He heard it hit water and was amazed that he’d made it to the toilet.

He’d hoped that vomiting once would be enough, but he wasn’t spared the disgrace. Wave after wave of nausea hit him, emptying his stomach of bile and turning into excruciating dry heaves. His head hammered mercilessly as sweat beaded on his skin. His stomach felt like it was being sliced and diced into pieces from the inside out. He felt something cool against his lips, and pushed it away, dry heaves winning the battle for control. As soon as the most recent bout had passed, he felt it again, quickly heeding the single word command: “Drink.”

The liquid slid down his throat, and though he thought he might throw it back up, he did not. The potion calmed the waves of nausea, leaving the pounding in his head and the pain in his chest to take center stage. Overcome, he sunk numbly to the floor. A voice echoed above him, frustrated, then cajoling, but finally, mercifully, it stopped. Harry felt himself floating back to the soft cushioned place where, just before he fell restlessly back to sleep, he felt the soothing relief of a wet cloth wiping the sweat from his brow.

 Harry awoke to the sound of a scream, realizing too late that it was his own. He felt as if knives were being driven into his midsection. Wrapping his arms around his middle, he thrashed against the torment, tears unwillingly being squeezed from his eyes. “Make it stop, make it stop,” he cried.

Once again he felt something cool against his lips.

“Drink this,” the voice commanded, waiting for him to swallow. “And this.”

Harry obeyed; anything to stop the excruciating pain.

He heard the murmurs of a woman’s voice.

“The vomiting must have caused his newly repaired spleen to re-rupture. You should have called me immediately,” she scolded. “If he gets worse, let me know right away.”

Sometime later, when he finally opened his eyes, he found his glasses floating in midair in front of him. Slipping them on, he found himself looking into the obsidian orbs of his most hated professor, sitting in a chair across from him and watching him closely. Harry blinked, and blinked again. “Still stuck in a fever dream,” he muttered. “Strangest damn thing.”

“Watch your language, Potter,” the voice drawled.

Startled, Harry’s eyes focused on the apparition.

“And, unfortunately for both of us, you are not dreaming, Mr. Potter.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably, wincing at the movement.

“Are you still in pain?”

Harry looked at his professor. Where was he? Why was Snape here? And why would Snape care if he, Harry Potter, was in pain?

“A little,” Harry admitted. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Snape rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “insufferable Gryffindors.” Handing Harry a vial of glimmering yellow liquid, he said, “Drink it.”

Harry did as he was told. The stinging sensation in his chest and the pounding in his head abated somewhat. “Thank you,” Harry said. At the nod Snape gave him, he felt even more unsettled. “Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”

“Quite,” Snape replied, and got up from his chair. “If you are feeling better, I have some work to do. If you have need of me,” Snape said, setting a small red cube on the table, “hold this in the palm of your hand. I have one just like it, and it will glow, signaling that you require attention.”

Harry coughed, earning himself a strange look from Snape. Wasn’t Snape always accusing him of constantly seeking attention? Harry looked away. He wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of calling him no matter what the circumstance.

“Keep it with you at all times, Potter,” Snape said and left the room.

As soon as Snape was gone, Harry surveyed his surroundings. He was in a very large room, longer than it was wide, with windows on three of the four sides. It was airy and bright, the furniture sparse but practical. There was a desk near a bank of windows, giving the person seated there a fantastic view of the fields and mountains outside. At the moment, the sky was overcast and a strong wind rattled the panes. On the other side of the room, there was a small kitchenette with a set of cabinets, a sink, a small refrigerator, and a small stove. A table and two chairs perched by a nearby window. To the right of the kitchen was the bathroom he had used earlier. There were three other doors off the back of the room, but they were closed. On the other side of the room was a fireplace with an ornate marble hearth. He was in the center of the room, on a soft sofa. A coffee table hovered before him, one of its legs missing. A loveseat rested off to one side, and two chintz chairs sat opposite him, including the one Professor Snape had vacated moments ago. A large area rug tied the small grouping of furniture together. Behind him, a staircase lead to a balcony, though he could not see what was up above.

Only two paintings hung on the wall. One was a cluster of pink, white, and yellow flowers—lilies he thought—the petals of which rippled languidly in an unseen breeze. The other was of a woman standing on an ocean beach. She wore a white and yellow sundress accented with pink ribbons. Her long chestnut hair glinted red in the sunlight, flowing over her freckled shoulders and down her suntanned back. Her face was in profile, shaded by the angle of the sun and framed by windblown curls. She was gazing at her feet, laughing in delight as she dug her toes into the wet sand while waves lapped at her ankles. The painting was mesmerizing. He couldn’t seem to draw his gaze away from it.

Suddenly, a loud crack reverberated in the air. His hand reached automatically for his wand.

“Dobby!” he exclaimed as the house elf appeared two feet from him. “You scared me half to death!”

“Dobby is most sorry, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said, his eyes wide, his ears a quiver. “Dobby will punish himself most thoroughly for scaring Harry Potter, sir.”

“No!” Harry yelled, reaching for Dobby before crumpling over in pain. “No, Dobby, please, don’t,” he rasped. “Not on my account.”

Dobby hesitated. “Harry Potter does not look well, sir.”

“I’m fine, Dobby, really,” Harry said, trying to make his voice even and convincing. He forced himself to sit upright. “It’s nice to see you.”

Dobby beamed. “Dobby came to see if Harry Potter is hungry, sir.”

Harry considered this. If his calculations were right, he had not eaten in three days. Still unsure of his stomach, though, he thought it prudent to be cautious. “I am, Dobby, but perhaps just something light? Like soup and bread?”

“Oh, yes, Harry Potter. Dobby will bring you soup and bread right away, sir.” With a crack, Dobby was gone.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He pushed back the patchwork quilt, and rubbed the black silk robe someone had placed on him. The silk ran like water between his fingers and felt cool against the welts on his back. He tried to settle himself more comfortable onto the couch but it was no use. The pain was getting worse, not better. He knew Snape must have given him a pain draught, two if he could count. Why was it not helping? He looked at the red cube on the table. He would not give Snape the satisfaction of using it. He did wonder, though, if Madam Pomfrey or anyone else would come to check on him. He had no idea where he was and he didn’t imagine that Snape’s reluctant tolerance towards him would last much longer.

 “He can’t go back there, they nearly killed him!”

“I am aware of the circumstances, Severus,” the older wizard replied, studying Snape with his keen blue eyes. “And yet we find ourselves in an untenable situation. The blood wards remain in effect. No other place is as safe.”

“And if he dies at their hands, all the blood wards in the world will not matter,” Snape countered.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and studied his protégé. Snape stood rigid beneath the headmaster’s shrewd assessment.

“Why the change of heart, Severus? Why the sudden concern for the child’s welfare?”

“It is a matter of common decency, nothing more. No child deserves to be beaten and starved and left to his own devices.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Not even you, Severus?”

Snape waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “We weren’t talking about my childhood. What’s in the past is best left in the past.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore replied. “Did you not ever wish that someone had found out about your situation before it was too late?”

“Of course I did,” Snape replied.

“To rescue you?”

“Yes, but what difference…”

“And now you’ve rescued young Harry, who was arguably in your same situation, wishing for the same things.”

“I highly doubt Mr. Potter wished to be rescued by me,” Snape said, his hands balling into fists.

“Maybe not, but you understand him. You understand what he’s going through.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant…” Snape began.

“It’s very relevant, my boy,” Dumbledore said, getting up from behind his desk and walking towards Severus. “Who better to help him recover from his ordeal? To help him get his feet back under him?”

Snape gaped. “You’ve got to be joking, old man. Harry Potter as my charge?” Snape laughed bitterly. “He’d agree to that just as soon as I would. In other words, never.”

“Ah, but you’ve already agreed, Severus, whether you realize it or not. And if you took a chance on Harry, told him about your past…”

“Never,” Snape said, blanching. “You wouldn’t dare…”

“It was merely a suggestion,” Dumbledore allowed. “As I was saying, unless we can find a suitable place for Mr. Potter, he’ll have to return to his relatives.”

“No,” Snape said, gritting his teeth. “Headmaster, you can not allow that. Certainly the Weasley’s would take him in.”

“Certainly they would,” agreed Dumbledore. “But we both know that he could not be adequately protected there, not to mention the risk to the Weasley family.”

“Then here, at Hogwarts.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Dumbledore said, skewering the potions master with that blue gaze. “But he could not be allowed to stay in Gryffindor tower alone. Nor is the castle entirely safe. He’d have to be kept someplace safe, someplace the Ministry could not reach him.”

“No,” Snape said, crossing his arms. “Don’t even go there.”

“No place is safer than your quarters, Severus. I wouldn’t ask this of you if there were any alternatives.”

“No,” Snape repeated.

“He seems to have settled in quite nicely,” Dumbledore prodded.

“The placement was done strictly out of necessity. It was only meant to be temporary,” Snape argued. Seeing the headmaster’s knowing grin, Snape leaned forward, grasping the arms of his chair for support. “He doesn’t even know where he is! We’d kill each other within a week…”

“Ah, you underestimate your charms, my dear boy.”

“And you overestimate yours,” Snape retorted. “The answer is still no.”

Dumbledore stepped back behind his desk and sank down into his chair. “Very well,” he sighed, pulling a piece of parchment toward him. He began to write, very slowly. “I’m so sorry, Harry,” he murmured to himself, “Please forgive me.”

Snape stiffened. “What are you writing?”

“The orders for him to return to his aunt and uncle. With a strict written warning from me regarding their treatment of him, of course.”

Outraged, Snape stood, his hands balled into fists. “This is blackmail! Outright blackmail!” He paced the office, agitation clear in every line of his body. “Haven’t I done everything you’ve ever asked of me? Every crazy, hair-brained scheme you’ve ever invented?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard, looking amused.

“And now you ask this of me. This, of all things. To watch over the Potter brat. To heal his wounds,” Snape spat.

“It’s what Lily would have wanted,” Dumbledore murmured.

Snape turned so quickly that even the headmaster flinched. “Don’t. Ever. Use. That. Against. Me. I’ve paid my dues.”

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Dumbledore conceded: “That you have, my boy, that you have. Nonetheless, there is still the question of Mr. Potter’s summer residence. And if all goes well, it will only be until his birthday…”

Harry lay on the couch, taking shallow breaths. The pain was like a monster trying to claw its way out of his chest. He adjusted his spectacles and stared at the smiling woman in the painting, trying to focus on her pleasure instead of his pain. A few moments later, a rhythmic banging had him looking towards the balcony. Something, or more likely someone, was up there, making one hell of a racket. And from the curses he could overhear, that someone was likely very angry. He shuddered. He felt safe here, and yet… Visions of Uncle Vernon’s purple face coming at him made him pale. No, he wouldn’t think about that now. Wherever he was, he was definitely not at the Dursleys’.

Presently, that someone was coming down the stairs, towards him. He couldn’t have run even if he wanted to. Not Uncle Vernon, he reminded himself as he closed his eyes and tried to calm both his breathing and his racing heart. He felt anxious and sweaty and his leg itched.

“Don’t even bother trying to pretend you are asleep, Potter. I’m not an idiot.”

Harry swallowed and opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said. “You seemed upset and I thought it best not to bother you.”  

“A wise choice overall,” Snape sneered, “but unfortunately not a very apt one at the moment. I do not tolerate lying, Potter.”

Harry watched the man warily, but did not reply. The effort to steady his breathing cost him.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes,” Harry responded. “Dobby brought me some soup and bread.”

Snape nodded. “Is there anything else that you require at the moment?”

Harry paused. He wanted to tell someone that he was in pain, so much pain, but he knew Snape would only think he was trying to get attention. “Nothing, sir.”

Snape looked towards the red cube, and Harry glanced at it as well. “You know how to reach me.”

Harry nodded, waiting impatiently for Snape to leave. He wanted to suffer in peace. He also had to pee in a bad way. But he’d be damned if he’d ask Snape for help with that. Once he was sure Snape was gone, he slid his feet to the ground, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Why did his insides still feel like someone was slicing and dicing them? Getting into a sitting position was even more excruciating. Once he’d regained his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, he looked towards the bathroom. At a distance of nearly ten feet, he highly doubted he’d be able to walk there.

Gazing around to ensure that he was alone, he slid to his hands and knees on the floor, crawling slowly to the bathroom, pausing occasionally to scratch his itchy leg. Each movement jarred him. He couldn’t help the cries that escaped from between his clenched teeth. But if he didn’t get to the bathroom soon, he’d wet himself.

His vision wavered as he neared the open doorway, blackness pressing in around him from the pain. He was almost there. And not a moment too soon—his bladder was ready to burst. The cool, white tiles shimmered before him like a mirage in the desert. He slid his hand forward, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood.

“POTTER!”

Harry froze, and to his horror, felt his bladder release in a wave of sweet relief. He tried to stop the flow but couldn’t. He groaned in both pain and mortification, collapsing to the floor in the growing puddle of his own urine. “Just kill me now,” he muttered, as the clicking steps of boots came rapidly nearer.

“Potter, what are you doing..?”

As the professor’s voice trailed off, Harry knew he’d just realized that Harry had wet himself. Harry braced himself for Snape’s cruel comments on his incompetence, or rather, his incontinence.

“Potter, look at me.”

Harry moaned. He could feel the heat of embarrassment color his cheeks. So, Harry thought, Snape wants to shame me to my face. Lovely. Harry looked up to find Snape squatting down in front of him.

“Why didn’t you call me if you needed assistance?”

“I am not my father,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Snape looked at him like he was losing his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“I am not the attention seeking egomaniac you’ve always accused me of being.”

Snape sat back on his haunches and took a deep breath. “No,” he agreed, “I think that you are not.”

Harry felt dumbfounded. “But you’ve always said…”

Snape waved away Harry’s comment. “Never mind that now. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Snape cast a cleansing spell at Harry and then at the floor around him.

Harry’s cheeks flamed. Though he was now dry, he felt like an infant who needed to have his diaper changed. To add insult to injury, Snape picked him up like a baby and carried him back to the sofa. Harry wanted to protest that he could walk, but the fact of the matter was that he could not. 

Snape sat on the coffee table in front of Harry, his elbows on his knees, studying Harry. Harry felt more humiliated than ever. Unable to bear the man’s intense gaze, Harry turned his head away.

“Where is the pain?” Snape asked.

Harry shut his eyes. “Everywhere. Mostly in my chest, but it’s spreading.”

“Do you have trouble breathing?”

Harry nodded, and then regretted the small movement as a cry of pain escaped his compressed lips.

“Does it hurt when you cough?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed.

“Hey!” Harry protested as he felt the silk robe disappear. He resisted the urge to cup his hands over his privates; he was, after all, still wearing his boxers. Then he felt Snape’s hand clasp his left thigh, just above the knee. Taking a look, Harry saw that the lower part of his left leg was swollen to twice its normal size.

“How long has your leg been like this?” Snape asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, squirming under Snape’s intense gaze. “It felt itchy, but I didn’t know it was swollen.”

Snape frowned. “Don’t move, Potter.”

Harry almost laughed. As if he could.

 “Mr. Potter, must you insist upon testing my medical training at every visit to this school?” Madam Pomfrey asked as she placed her wand back inside of her sleeve. “Do you have any idea how dangerous your condition was?” Not waiting for his answer, she turned on Snape. “And you, Severus,” she said, crossing her arms, “I expected better of you. He could have died! I told you he should be in the infirmary, but Dumbledore thought he’d be better off here. Here of all places!”

Dumbledore. The named echoed in Harry’s mind. So Dumbledore knew he was here. Harry looked over to Snape for confirmation, but Snape was standing stock still, pale as a ghost, not making eye contact with anyone.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “Pulminary embolism. Who’d have guessed? Well, Mr. Potter, I assume that if you are having any other problems, you’ll let us know?”

“He damn well better,” Snape growled, looking menacingly at Harry.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, deciding it more important to address the angry potions master first. “Yes, ma’am,” he finished, sparing a glance for Madam Promfrey.

“Well, then, Severus, I’ll leave you to your charge.” She threw floo powder into the fire, green flames licking the hearth. “You’d better not disappoint me again, Severus.”

Harry watched as Snape paced back and forth across the room. Harry guessed he was trying to get control of his temper. Or he was annoyed at having to play babysitter.

“Sir?” Harry ventured.

Snape stopped to look at him.

“I should have told you…”

“Damn right you should have told me,” Snape shot back. Then, taking a deep breath, Snape added, “And I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

Harry shrugged. “You had worked to do.”

“And as Madam Pomfrey informed me, and rightfully so, you could have died.” Snape took a seat in one of the chairs. Looking away, he murmured, “I don’t need another death on my conscience.”

“Excuse me?” Harry said.

Snape waved a hand in dismissal, but Harry didn’t miss the look he spared at the painting of the woman.

“Who is she?” Harry asked softly.

“Who is who?” Snape snapped.

“The woman in the painting.”

“It’s a painting, Potter, how should I know?”

“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.  

“Ah, Harry,” Dumbledore called as he descended the stairs. “So nice to see you looking well. You were a bit peaky yesterday.”

Harry turned from the violent thunderstorm that had begun shortly after Snape had stormed out earlier that morning. He was heartened by the sudden appearance of the headmaster. Since his argument with Snape that morning, he had not seen anyone all day and he had been feeling particularly anxious. 

“Tea, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, conjuring up two light blue china cups.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, accepting the cup and feeling its warmth on his fingers, its fragrant aroma calming his nerves.

“How have you been holding up?” Dumbledore asked, surveying Harry discreetly over his own mug of tea.

“Alright,” Harry said, looking away. “Dobby brought me my summer homework first thing this morning and I’ve been thinking about my essay for transfiguration.”

“Have you then?” Dumbledore replied. “Considering transforming into an owl and flying away?”

Harry smiled. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted. “But I don’t think I’d make a very good post owl.”

“It is a challenging endeavor, I must say. The weather they have to contend with…” Dumbledore said, gesturing to the storm outside.

Just then, a particularly strong bolt of lightening struck right beyond the pane, making Harry jump and causing him to slosh warm tea over his hands and shirt.

Dumbledore chuckled. “It must have been a rough morning.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, dabbing at the tea on his shirt.

Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the spilled tea vanished.

“Thanks,” Harry said, taking a sip of his drink.

“Care to tell me what you and Professor Snape argued about?”

Harry paused mid-sip. “How did you know we argued?”

Dumbledore motioned beyond the windows. Winds lashed the tall grasses, as rain battered the mountain. The dark skies boomed with thunder, lightening slashing out wherever it could reach. “Weather, Harry, is an interesting phenomenon. Especially when it’s charmed to reflect the mood of its master.”

As Harry was about to question that statement, Dumbledore continued.

“You know, Harry,” Dumbledore said, stepping away from the windows and taking a seat on one of the winged-back chairs, “I’ve never seen these rooms before. They are quite impressive, I must say.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore. “You haven’t? Snape said we were in Hogwarts…”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore corrected, indicating that Harry should take a seat as well, “And indeed they are inside of Hogwarts. Did Professor Snape tell you where exactly?”

“No,” Harry said.

“Ah,” Dumbledore replied, rubbing his chin. “I thought not. Well, you see, a dear friend and colleague of mine built these rooms as an escape. A sanctuary you might say. He, and he alone, has ever set foot in them, though of course I knew that they existed. But I daresay I’d never been invited here. Before now that is.”

Just then, there was a whooshing sound in the grate and Snape stormed into the room. “If you are done with your temper tantrum, Potter, I could use your help preparing some potions.”

Harry stiffened. He was about to make a snide remark about Snape’s view of his potion making skills when he caught Dumbledore’s eyes and the slight shake of his head. Biting his tongue, Harry stood. Dumbledore rose as well.

“Severus,” Dumbledore greeted.

Snape nodded in return, his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for Harry.

“Well, Harry, it was a pleasure having tea with you,” Dumbledore said as he vanished both of their mugs. “I will be gone for a couple of days. Please do not hesitate to ask Professor Snape if you need anything.” Dumbledore stared pointedly at both of them in turn. “And do try to recall our conversation, won’t you Harry?” Dumbledore added as he walked towards the stairs.

Harry nodded, not sure exactly what the headmaster was referring to. Snape looked suspicious. As the wind and rain beat against the window panes, Harry grabbed his school robes from the sofa and pulled them over his head. For a moment, he forget his anger at the potions master, instead feeling a vague sense of anticipation at being allowed to see what lay at the top of the staircase.

Snape’s back was rigid as Harry followed him up the stairs and into a dark room. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a black leather couch and armchair sat opposite a fireplace, a golden canister of what Harry presumed to be floo powder resting atop the mantelpiece. A desk sat off to one side, potions books and journals scattered across the surface. Harry froze, rooted to the spot.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked coolly, turning back to look at Potter.

“This is your study,” Harry breathed, struck by the realization.

Snape merely arched an eyebrow, then turned on his heel and continued forward.

Regaining his composure, Harry followed, looking around the room with interest. This must be Snape’s quarters, Harry thought. Snape lives here. Harry wasn’t sure why he found the thought as intriguing as he did disturbing, but it was likely due to the perception that Snape was a very private man and Harry never dreamed he’d see the inside of the wizard’s chambers.

Snape proceeded through a set of double doors. Harry was startled to realize they lead into the potions classroom. He wondered if that was truly the layout of the castle, or if Snape had charmed an entrance from his quarters to the dungeons.

Snape grimaced, flicking his left arm as if a mosquito were biting it. With a wave of Snape’s wand, two cauldrons appeared, side by side. Harry swallowed.

“Today, Potter, you’ll be brewing a calming draught.”

Another flick of Snape’s wand and the ingredient list and directions appeared on the blackboard.

“This is a third year potion. Surely you can manage it without assistance?”

Harry did not think Snape was actually expecting him to answer. Instead he looked toward the board, cataloging the ingredients he would need while conspicuously observing Snape from the corner of his eye. Snape was bent over his own cauldron, his greasy lanks of hair perilously close to the flames as he added ingredients to the now simmering concoction. Harry wondered what Snape was brewing, though he didn’t dare ask. As Harry watched, he was startled to see that the man’s hands trembled slightly. Harry had never seen Snape’s movements anything less than sure. Harry quickly went to gather his ingredients, feeling more off balance than ever.

He laid out the six ingredients before him, carefully putting them in the order in which he would add them. He did not remember making this potion his third year, though he guessed that Snape was right. As Harry prepared his workspace, he was acutely aware of the way the potions master ignored him. Instead of this offering him a modicum of peace to brew in, it made Harry nervous. He could tell that the professor was on edge. Was it because he, Harry, had invaded the man’s space? For he could no longer deny that the rooms in which he was staying were indeed Snape’s. It was no secret that Snape hated Harry—the feeling was mutual—so why was Harry not only staying in his quarters, but his sanctuary as Dumbledore had said? Harry shook his head, trying to focus on his potion.

He set the flames to low, distracted by the way Snape muttered under his breath. Harry wasn’t sure if they were incantations or curses, but he guessed the words were a bit of both. Pushing his glasses up further on the bridge of his nose, Harry poured in the base of daisy water and added two drops of dittany, watching as the tiny amber beads swirled feverishly in the base. Next, he added a measure of slippery elm and essence of rosewood. He stirred clockwise three times, and turned down the flames, waiting for the potion to turn a sky blue color. He jumped when Snape’s concoction sputtered and spit, but Snape did not seem to notice. Snape had his eyes closed, and though his lips moved, the wizard did not speak aloud. It was eerie to watch. When Snape paused, Harry quickly returned to his own potion, afraid to be caught observing his potions master so openly.

Harry looked stupidly at his potion, which was sliding rapidly from sky blue to deep blue. Realizing that his window of opportunity was closing, he grabbed for the heliotrope and tipped it over his cauldron.

“No!”

Harry felt the crystal vial he held go flying. It shattered against the stone wall of the dungeons, glass shards tinkling against the flagstones.

Mutinous, Harry looked up, ready to curse Snape for ruining his potion. Instead, he looked into the murderous eyes of his potions master and his mouth went dry.

“Just what did you think you were doing, Potter?” Snape demanded, dark eyes flashing.

“I was making my potion as you asked,” Harry retorted through gritted teeth.

“Were you?” Snape breathed. “Care to explain why you were adding heliotrope to a calming draught?”

“That’s the instructions you gave me,” Harry said. He glared at Snape, daring him to deny it.

“And here I thought I was dealing with someone lacking ability in potions. Now I find out the Boy Who Lived is not only incompetent, he can’t read,” Snape challenged.

“I can read just fine.”

“Really?” Snape hissed. “Then read me what it says on the board, starting with the ingredients.” Snape crossed his arms and waited.

“Daisy water, dittany, slippery elm, essence of rosewood, heliotrope, and willow bark.”

Snape snorted. “You are a waste of my time, Potter.”

Harry stared at Snape. “You are the one who insisted that I come here. I did what you asked. And you…”

“Did what I asked?” Snape said in a dangerous voice. “Look again at the fifth ingredient, Potter.”

Harry looked, seething with anger. He didn’t want to be here, much less listen to Snape’s insults. “Helio…” Harry squinted and felt his stomach drop.

“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Glaring at Snape, Harry spat out: “Hellebore.”

Snape waved his wand and vanished Harry’s cauldron, replacing it with a scroll of parchment, quill, and ink. “You will write me an 18 inch essay detailing the difference between hellebore and heliotrope, their properties, and the potions each is used in. Furthermore, you will detail the deleterious effects of switching those two ingredients in potion making. And I expect it by first thing tomorrow morning. Is that clear, Potter?”

Harry stared daggers at his professor. “I didn’t ask to come here. I didn’t ask to help with your stupid potions. I didn’t…”

“Do you think I care what you want?” Snape seethed, leaning over the bench towards Harry. “If it weren’t for Dumbledore’s orders…”

“You wouldn’t be wasting your time with me,” Harry finished. “I know.” Harry grabbed the parchment, quill, and ink, and stormed out of the dungeon. “Don’t worry,” Harry threw over his shoulder, “I’ll save you the hassle.”

“Potter!” Snape called, but Harry kept walking. Behind him, he heard Snape’s potion make a loud popping sound, Snape’s curse echoing in response. Harry reached the fireplace in the study and grabbed a handful of floo powder. As he stepped into the green flames, he vaguely heard Snape yelling “Potter, get back here right now!”

 Harry stepped out of the large fireplace, yanked off his school robes, and threw them across the nearest armchair, sinking into the couch beside it. He propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. Inciting Snape was a bad idea all the way around. What had he been thinking?

Harry jumped to his feet and began to pace. The Gryffindor common room was cold and eerily quiet. He’d never been in it before when school was out of session. Even during winter break, a few students stayed behind and the house elves kept a fire going at all times. Now the large room was cold and empty. The gray sky outside was as foreboding as the silence that surrounded him. He felt a chill echo down his spine and shivered.

His nerves jangling, he contemplated what to do next. He highly doubted he could floo back to Snape’s heavily warded quarters, not that he wanted to. And he’d been explicitly warned not to wander the halls of Hogwarts alone. To be more precise, he’d been told not to leave the sanctuary of Snape’s rooms at all.

He took a deep breath, chastising himself for his impulsiveness. Suddenly, he was dropped into complete darkness, a high pitch laugh echoing around him, an icy coldness closing in on him. Struggling desperately for something to hold onto, Harry reached for the red cube Snape had instructed him to keep with him at all times. Harry’s fingers closed around emptiness as he felt the air being sucked from his lungs.

 Snape swore loudly as he banished another failed attempt at the potion the Dark Lord had demanded and made his way back to his study. He knew it was mere days before he was called; the dark mark on his arm told him that. It had been burning for a week, reminding Snape of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. And here he was, chasing after idiot Potter, another potion ruined. He wanted to strangle the boy for his insolence.

“Potter, you have two seconds to show your face or I will hex you into next week,” Snape boomed. He stood with his hands on his hips, waiting. When Potter did not show, his ire went up a notch. Determined to wring the boy’s neck, he stomped down the stairs to his refuge, expecting to find Potter sitting on the couch having a good laugh. Potter was no where in sight, but a red glint beneath the painting of the woman caught his eye. Walking over to where the painting hung, he picked up the red cube and shook his head, slipping it into his pocket beside the one he carried with him. Never had he been cursed with protecting such an irresponsible, irksome brat.

He checked his private quarters, knowing that they were warded and alarmed and that he’d have known if Potter had invaded them. Yet where could the boy have gone? Staring around his study once more, he noticed the parchment, quill, and ink lying on the hearthstones. Looking more closely, he saw the sparkling green dust that had settled on the paper’s smooth surface. Cursing loudly, Snape grabbed a handful of floo powder and dove in after the wretched Gryffindor.  

 “Potter, I’m going to…” Snape spoke as he stumbled out of the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room , the most likely place for the boy to have gone. The scene before him made the words die in his throat.

A body lay in the distance, arms outstretched, eyes open and staring.

Snape felt the blood drain from his face. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, stealing his nerves. When he walked toward the dead boy, it was with purpose. He barely felt the chilly mist that hung in the air around him.

“Riddikulus,” Snape whispered, pointing his wand at the specter of Cedric Diggory.

As the apparition vanished, he turned to the other boy, curled up on the floor in the fetal position, head buried in his hands. He squatted down beside him. “Potter,” he whispered. “Harry. Look at me.”

“Make it stop,” the boy moaned, “Please make it stop.”

“Harry,” Snape murmured again, “It was just a boggart. It’s gone now.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry lamented. “It never goes away. I hear her, all the time…”

“Hear who?” Snape asked, sitting back on his haunches.

Harry fisted his hands into his unruly locks of hair. “My mother. Begging Voldemort. For my life.”

“You hear Lily?” Snape gasped, a shudder going through him.

“Yes!” Harry cried. “When the Dementors are near.”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to remain calm. “There are no Dementors here, Potter. It was just a boggart. Now, let’s get you back where you belong.” Snape unwound the boy’s fingers from his hair and helped him to his feet. Potter wobbled precariously and Snape was forced to put an arm around the trembling boy to keep him upright. “Potter, you’ll be the death of me yet,” he muttered as they made their way to the fireplace.

Snape flooed them both directly to his refuge; he was the only one who could access it. Glancing briefly at the picture of the woman as he entered the room, he led Potter to the couch. The boy crumpled onto it, his trainer-clad feet on the floor, his head between his knees, hands once again fisting in his hair.

“Potter,” Snape said, standing over the boy and feeling at a complete loss. He was used to the teenager who was quick to temper, reckless, eager to disobey orders. Not the one who trembled at the slightest sound or movement. That was Neville Longbottom, not Harry Potter.

The image of Diggory’s body, coupled with thought of Lily’s screams, was enough to disconcert Snape, much less Potter who had lived through it. Snape quashed the urge to reach out and rest a hand on Potter’s shoulder; it was not in his nature to offer physical comfort. “I’ll be right back, Potter,” Snape said as he headed for the potions storeroom.

He returned two minutes later to find Potter sitting in the exact same position, hands still wrapped tightly in his raven hair. Sighing, Snape untangled Potter’s fingers once more and tipped his chin up. The boy’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, his lips tightly compressed.

“Drink this, Potter,” Snape said, pressing a vial to the boy’s lips. “It will make you feel better.”

When Potter didn’t respond, Snape took the boy’s fingers and wrapped them around the crystal vial, enclosing both the vial and the boy’s hand in his own. Then he guided Potter to drink the potion, which, thankfully, the teenager did. Snape watched as Potter shuddered, his eyes coming back into focus. Potter took one look at Snape, groaned, and fell back on the couch, an arm thrown over his face, his cheeks flaming.

“Just kill me now,” Potter muttered, reminiscent of the first night he arrived.

“You do seem to have a death wish, Potter,” Snape replied, “But tonight is not your lucky night.”

Potter grimaced but said nothing.

“Before you lose yourself to a night of dreamless sleep, there are a couple of things we need to take care of.”

Potter groaned.

“You will need to be vertical for this discussion, Potter,” Snape informed him.

 Harry sat up and stole a glance at Snape through the unruly black locks that hung over his eyes. He expected to see a livid, unforgiving wizard on the verge of chastising Harry for his stupidity. Instead what he saw was even more daunting. Professor Snape looked a cross between contemplative and shaken.

“Now,” Snape said, sticking his hand into his pocket.

Harry flinched, waiting for Snape to pull out a wand and hex him.

“Care to tell me why you did not keep one of these with you at all times as I instructed?” Opening his palm, Snape let the two dice-size red cubes clatter across the coffee table between them. They came to a stop and glistened eerily, blood red reflections dancing across their polished surfaces.

Temporarily distracted by the sight of the identical objects, Harry asked, “Are they the same?” At Snape’s sardonic expression, he clarified, “I mean, yours isn’t any different than mine? You could use yours to alert me if you were in trouble?”

“Theoretically,” Snape answered dryly. Skewering Potter with a stern look, he said, “Now answer my question.”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. He glanced out the windows. The clouds were gray and stormy, the wind lashing at the grass and trees. “I don’t have a good answer,” Harry said, not meeting the penetrating gaze of his potions master.

“You don’t have a good answer?” Snape parroted, his voice pitched high with disbelief.

Harry didn’t have to look up at Snape’s face to know he’d find an incredulous expression there. Famous Harry Potter admits he doesn’t have a good reason for breaking the rules. “I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans.

When no speech was forthcoming, Harry glanced up to see Snape looking at him quizzically.

“It won’t happen again,” Harry added, quickly grabbing one of the blood red cubes and stuffing it his pocket. It was oddly warm, and its weight was reassuring.

“Good,” Snape said.

Harry watched from the corner of his eyes as Snape picked up the remaining cube and returned it to the pocket of his robes.

“And I have your word, Potter, that you won’t wander off again, regardless of whatever idiotic notions cross that feeble mind of yours?”

Harry nodded, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from saying something that would only irritate the potions master further.

“Now, take off your shirt,” Snape demanded.

Harry stilled, his eyes going wide. “My shirt?” Harry asked, his voice slightly above a whisper. There was only one reason he’d ever been told to remove his shirt.

“Yes, that abominable piece of fabric that you insist upon wearing inside out.”

“What for?” Harry breathed. Images of Uncle Vernon’s purple face looming over him, spittle flying from his mouth, his nostrils flaring, his belt slapping against the open palm of his hand…

Harry heard Snape heave a deep sigh, laced with impatience. “The wounds on your back still require tending to. Unless you are proud of your scars, Potter, and would like to display them for your fans…”

“No,” Harry choked out. “No scars. No fans.” Harry removed his school robe, breathing deeply as he did so to try and calm his racing heart. Snape was not Uncle Vernon.

“That’s good to hear,” Snape murmured, pulling out a white jar from an inside pocket of his robe.

 Snape watched as Potter pulled off his shirt and balled it up, throwing it to far end of the couch.

“On your stomach, Potter,” Snape directed, unscrewing the lid and wondering what it was about that T-shirt that bothered the boy so much. Snape shook his head and returned his attention to the boy’s back. Meticulously, he worked the cream into Potter’s pale skin, watching the scars glow faintly before fading to a lighter shade of pink. Another week of treatment and they should be nearly invisible.

“Accio Cruciatus Cloak,” Snape murmured, deftly catching the black silk fabric and handing it to Harry. He watched as Harry sat up and slipped on the robe, fingering the cool, soothing material. Snape nodded in satisfaction; the cloak truly was one of Dumbledore’s more useful strokes of genius.

Snape stood, picking up the crumpled T-shirt and shaking it out. A picture of the Triwizard Cup glimmered back at him, a souvenir for the champions. Harry had looked startled when Snape had grabbed the shirt, but then looked away. Snape shook his head.

“Why did you wear this T-shirt, Potter?” Snape asked. “Clearly it upsets you.”

“It was the only thing that was clean,” Harry mumbled.

Snape awoke in the middle of the night with the weary sense that something was amiss. Indeed, a sphere on the shelf next to his bed was emitting a pink light and whirring softly. Had it been a true invasion, one with dark intent, the sphere would have alarmed shrilly. He sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He hadn’t thought to disable the wards when he’d deposited Potter in his refuge. Considering the day Potter had had, he wasn’t surprised the boy was awake. The dreamless sleep potion might prevent nightmares, but it didn’t guarantee a restful night’s sleep.

Pulling a robe over his nightshirt, Snape made his way across his quarters to the stairs that lead to where Potter was. He didn’t stop to question his actions as to why he was bothering to check on his charge. The haunting image of Diggory still played in his mind. He’d seen death too many times for it to have much impact on him, but surely Potter was not as numb to its effects.

Snape’s eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight of the refuge as he padded down the stairs. To his surprise, he found Potter standing before the painting of the woman, hand outstretched, one finger caressing the canvas.

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

Snape paused midway on the staircase. The boy certainly had acute hearing, though from what Snape had gathered of the boy’s upbringing, and what he knew of his own, any forewarning of an attack was valuable information. He cleared his throat before answering in a sleep-graveled voice, “What makes you think that?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Harry replied, shrugging. “And she kept looking at me, as if trying to tell me something.” Dropping his hand from the painting, he said, “It’s her eyes. They’re my eyes.”

Yes they are, Snape thought as he watched the boy continue to study the painting.

“And there’s something else,” Harry added, cocking his head to one side. “I can’t quite remember, but it’s so familiar to me. When I stand here,” he said, gesturing to the spot where he was, “It’s…it’s as if she’s here with me. I can almost hear her singing to me…”

Snape grasped the hand railing, hard. Potter wasn’t even talking to him anymore, he was voicing his thoughts aloud. But Snape had often felt it too, Lily’s presence.

“And I smell something good and warm and spicy, like cinnamon and sugar, when I stand here.” He shifted his stance unconsciously, scenting the air. “Maybe a touch of vanilla or cloves. And something citrusy, like lemons, or oranges…”

Snape stared at Potter in shocked amazement. Surely Potter couldn’t remember what Lily had smelled like; after all, he had been just a baby when she died.

Harry heaved a deep sigh. “It’s my fault she’s dead,” he said, turning his back on the painting and walking over to the arrangement of furniture in the center of the room. He flopped into the chair next to the couch. “They’re all dead because of me. My mum, my dad, Cedric…”

Snape continued to stand where he was, rooted to the spot. Who was this teenager sitting on his favorite chair,  speaking like someone much older than his almost 15 years? Where was the woe-is-me attitude? Where was the pampered boy he’d assumed had been a replica of James Potter? Who was this shadow of a child with the haunted green eyes who’d seen too much?

“Potter,” Snape growled, finally descending the rest of the stairs into the enchanted room. “Enough self-pity. It is beyond egotistical to believe you are responsible for the Dark Lord’s whims.” Snape raised an eyebrow, waiting for the boy’s response. Potter shrugged and raised his eyes, meeting Snape’s gaze for the first time that evening. 

“You knew my mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Obviously,” Snape replied.

“How?”

“How what, Potter?”

“How did you know her? How did you meet?” Harry’s gaze hardened with determination. “What was she like?”

Snape turned away from the boy’s intense gaze and walked over to the kitchenette. With a wave of his wand, he lit the small stove. He took down a chipped blue china tea pot from a hook over the sink and filled it with warm water.

“I met your mother when we were children,” Snape said, adding two tea bags to the kettle. “We lived in the same neighborhood.” Snape set the kettle atop the low flames to simmer. Then he opened the cabinets, sorting methodically through their contents. Taking down a crystal jar of sugar, he said, “I was the one who told her she was a witch.”

“Bet that went over well,” Harry commented with a laugh.

Snape almost smiled. “Indeed,” he replied. “She thought I was insulting her.” Snape found two matching tea cups and set them on a tray along with the jar of sugar. “In any case, we became friends.” He pulled out a tin of dried chamomile leaves and added them to the bottom of the tea cups. “We were inseparable over the summers.”

Silence met this statement and Snape was perversely satisfied to see the amount of discomfort this gave Potter. It was clear that the boy could not imagine his mother being friends with someone the likes of Severus Snape.

“What was she like?” he asked again.

Snape glanced at the picture on the wall. The familiar intense wave of longing hit him as he watched her push her shimmering curls from her face. She was so beautiful. He looked away and cleared his throat. “She was an amazing witch,” he whispered.

Snape pulled the whistling tea pot from the stove and poured the steaming liquid into the two chipped mugs, watching the charmed leaves dissolve into the light amber tea. Setting aside the tea pot, he lifted the tray, and walked toward Potter. In the next instant, pain shot viciously up his arm, causing him to stumble. Tea sloshed ominously over the rims of the cups. The Dark Lord had run out of patience.

Harry sipped the mug of tea that Snape had left for him. He’d watched as Snape had added some extra herbs, presumably to help Harry sleep, he realized, as he became more tired with each sip. He had hoped that Snape would say more about Lily, but it seemed that Harry’s relentless pursuit of the subject had only managed to infuriate the older wizard. Snape had nearly dropped the tray of tea when Harry asked what his mother was like, and when Snape had recovered, his face was pale and set in grim lines. He’d set a mug on the table in front of Harry, rather harder than was necessary, and instructed Harry to drink it. Then, Snape had hurried up the stairs, rubbing his arm as he went. He hadn’t even taken his own tea cup with him. It sat on the tray on the other end of the coffee table, chipped and a bit lopsided. Harry titled his head to make it appear straight in his field of vision. As exhaustion lapped at the edges of his consciousness, Harry wondered why Snape was so reluctant to discuss Lily Evans Potter. Shrugging, he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t notice how the shadows outside the window had darkened and become more menacing, or that an eerie stillness had settled over the landscape.