Off-key humming filled the air as Snape felt his head being jostled by a pillow being fluffed beneath it.

 “Stop that at once,” Snape growled.

The humming faltered and then stopped, as did the pillow fluffing.

Snape opened his eyes, only to squint against the bright sunlight and moan against the pain pounding through his temples. His mouth was bone dry and his body ached everywhere. Pushing himself up on his freshly fluffed pillows, he reached for the water on the bedside table and drained first one glass and then another.

“Dobby,” Snape muttered to the elf hovering nearby, “can you fetch me some headache potion from my kit?”

“Right away, sir.”

Snape surveyed the room through narrowed eyes. He was in one of two single beds; Potter was in the other. Potter’s face should have been swollen and bruised, yet the ancient elf magic Dobby had performed had healed the boy completely. The blood, snot, and saliva had all been washed away too. Looking down, Severus realized that he, too, was clean, and wearing one of his flannel nightshirts. Dobby had certainly been busy.

“Here is the potion you requested, Professor Snape, sir.”

Snape downed the vial in one long gulp. “Thank you,” he said, setting the empty vial on the end table. “And thank you for cleaning up Potter and myself.”

Dobby preened with pleasure at the compliment.

Snape lay back in his bed, an arm thrown over his eyes to block the sunlight. “What time is it?”

“It is two in the afternoon, sir. And the day is Thursday.”

“Thursday!” Snape exclaimed, flinging his arm off his face and sitting up. He cursed loudly as his head throbbed mercilessly. He’d been unconscious for two and a half days. He swung his legs to the floor. “Potter needs potions, he…”

 “Professor Snape, sir,” Dobby said, laying a calming hand on the wizard’s shoulder, “Dobby has been taking care of Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has been giving Harry Potter blood replenishing potion every four hours, sir.”

Snape stilled. “How did you know to do that?”

“You said so, sir, when you told me to give him the first dose. You said he’d need it every four hours, sir.”

“So I did,” Snape muttered, amazed that the elf had paid such close attention to his murmurings. “Have you given him anything else?”

“Dobby has been doing everything you instructed, sir,” Dobby said with pride. Raising a gnarled hand, Dobby counted on his knobby fingers: “Blood replenishing potion—once every four hours, diuretic potion—once every eight hours with a two-hour offset from the blood replenishing potion, nutrient potion—three times a day, essence of peppermint mixed with chamomile—inhaled every third hour to ease his breathing, dittany every three hours to reduce scarring—” Dobby’s brow furrowed as he continued counting on his other hand, “pain relieving potion whenever he seems uncomfortable—though not more often than every two hours and not more than six times in a day—and dreamless sleep every six hours to keep him sedated while his magic regenerates.” The elf took a deep breath and locked his gaze with Snape’s.

“I said all of that?”

“You did, sir. You talked to yourself while you were healing Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is a good listener.”

“You are a remarkable elf,” Snape replied with awe. Then he slipped back into bed and settled himself against the pillows. “You have done well, Dobby. Very well.”

Dobby beamed with pride. “Dobby is going to make sure that Harry Potter gets well, sir.” More shyly, Dobby added, “And you too, Professor Snape, sir.”

“Me?” Snape said, peering out from beneath his arm, though his headache was beginning to fade.

“You saved Harry Potter too, sir. You brought him here and you healed him. You is worth saving too, Professor Snape, sir.”

Snape scoffed and covered his eyes again. His body was still exhausted but his mind was awake. By now everyone would know that Harry Potter was missing. What they thought of his own absence was anyone’s guess. Would Dumbledore think he’d been captured? And what of Draco Malfoy? Had he gone back to Hogwarts?

Sitting up, Snape addressed the elf. “Dobby, I need to send a message to Dumbledore. Could you get me…”

“Right here, sir,” said Dobby, sliding a writing desk filled with parchment and ink onto the professor’s lap.

“I didn’t know elves could read minds,” Snape uttered.

Dobby’s ears wiggled as he bowed. “Dobby takes care of the wizards that take care of Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape arched an eyebrow at Dobby before reaching into the desk for parchment and quill.

Potter is alive and safe. For now.

We are protected by a Fidelius charm of which I am secret keeper. When Potter is able, I will do what you did not have the courage nor decency to do. I will tell him the truth. I will give him a choice. Lily would not have wanted her only son to be used and manipulated as you have done to me.

Do not try to contact us. We will make contact if and when it is necessary.

“Harry Potter, sir, Dobby has brought you some broth.”

Harry stirred as a tray of food was set on the nightstand. He tried to push himself upright in bed but failed. He felt weak and shaky, and each of his limbs seemed to weigh more than Hagrid.

“Dobby?” Harry asked, his voice felt thick with disuse. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Dobby, where am I?”

Dobby frowned. “You are in a safe house, Harry Potter.”

“What do you mean, ‘safe house’?”

“This house is under the Fidelius charm, Harry Potter. Only the secret keeper can reveal its location.”

“Who else is here?” Harry asked. His brain felt tired and fuzzy.

“Professor Snape, sir.”

“Professor Snape!” Harry exclaimed, suddenly more alert. He looked around, as if the man might jump out and attack him. Instead, he saw only two single beds—the one he was in and another across that room with its blankets and pillows in a disheveled heap, a couple of white dressers, matching bedside tables with lamps, and two wooden chairs.

“Yes, sir. Professor Snape is the secret keeper, sir.”

Taking in more of his surroundings, Harry discovered that the floor was covered with a foam green shag carpet and the walls were stripped in light blue and white, with matching curtains on the window. A long, narrow shelf went around the walls and was lined with sea shells and sea glass. Sand dollars and star fish were painted in a border along the ceiling.

“How long have I been here?” Harry asked, looking back at Dobby.

 “A little over two weeks, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Two weeks!” Harry exclaimed. “But why… how…”

“Professor Snape brought you here, sir,” Dobby replied. The elf moved one of the chairs next to Harry’s bed and sat in it before offering Harry a spoon of broth.

Harry’s mind was reeling. Had he been asleep for two weeks? What was Snape on about? Why had he brought him here? The last Harry remembered was being tortured amidst a circle of Death Eaters. Was Snape keeping him prisoner? Was Lord Voldemort going to be coming for him?

“Harry Potter needs to eat, sir,” Dobby said, still holding out the spoon.

“I’m not hungry,” Harry said.

“You is needing to regain your strength.”

Harry took the proffered broth and swallowed. “Dobby, why am I here?”

Dobby frowned. “It is not for Dobby to say, Harry Potter, sir.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, rolling onto his side.

“Professor Snape says Dobby is not to tell. Professor Snape says he is telling you when you is ready, Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape awoke to the sensation of being watched. He opened his eyes to see Potter sitting up sideways in his bed and staring at him, wand drawn and pointing directly at Snape’s chest. Potter’s hand was trembling and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his face.

“Potter, lay back down before you fall you over.”

“Give me one good reason not to curse you, Snape,” Harry said, his eyes flashing, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Snape raised one eyebrow. He must have fallen asleep in the rickety wooden chair he’d drawn up beside Potter’s bed. He was sprawled across it, his arms folded over his chest, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. As he sat up, his muscles protested. His wand lay across his lap, but he did not reach for it.

 “Potter,” Snape snapped, “use that feeble brain of yours. If I’d had any ill intent toward you, do you think I would have left your wand within arm’s reach?”

Potter hesitated before slowly lowering his weapon. Snape could practically see the unspoken questions and accusations swirling through the boy’s mind.

“Now lay down you foolish child,” Snape commanded, sitting forward on his chair and reaching for the potion on the night stand. “I am here to give you your next dose of medicine.”

Potter’s face was ashen and his breathing was labored. He watched Snape warily but did as he was told, not out of compliance, Snape knew, but because he was still much too weak to put up a fight.

Snape cupped the back of Potter’s head and tilted it forward with one hand, while holding the potion to the teen’s lips with the other. “Drink it, Potter.”

Potter pursed his lips and gazed defiantly at Snape.

“It’s not poison, you idiot. Have you not noticed you’re still alive when you most definitely should not be? Now drink the damn potion, unless you wish to die a most painful and prolonged death.”

Potter eyed the bottle warily. “What is it?”

Through gritted teeth, Snape said: “It is a combination of blood replenishing potion, pain reliever, dreamless sleep, and a nutrient potion. And if you ask me any more foolish questions I will curse you.”

Potter grimaced as he swallowed the vile tasting concoction. In moments, he’d slipped back into unconsciousness. Snape marked the time and dose of Potter’s potion on the chart that Dobby had made to track the boy’s medications. Of all of the decisions that Snape had made, enlisting Dobby’s help was by far one of the wisest.

“Dobby.”

Snape sat on the edge of the single bed, his head in his hands.

“Professor Snape, sir?” Dobby asked, turning his attention away from Potter, who was fast asleep.

Snape spoke through gritted teeth. “Can you mix a draft of three-quarters headache potion, one-quarter pain reliever, an ounce of powdered ginger root, and a pinch of slippery elm for me, please?”

“Right away, sir,” Dobby said.       

“And can you close those damnable window blinds. My head is killing me.”

“Of course, sir,” Dobby said, quickly closing the blinds before hurrying out of the room.

Snape scowled. His headaches had been getting worse. Dobby had warned him that healing Potter would make him prone to headaches and tiring easily. Indeed he’d slept for two days straight after that night and had been sleeping nearly 12 to 16 hours a day since then. He lay back on the bed and curled on his side to wait for the potion. It was his latest attempt at something to keep the pain and nausea at bay. The others hadn’t been all that effective. He closed his eyes while he massaged his temples, hoping all the while that this one might relieve the misery.

Snape glanced up as a flash of white moved in his peripheral vision. He marked his place in the book he was reading with a finger and leaned forward in his bed.

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I need to use the loo,” Potter replied, already swaying drunkenly as he sat on the edge of his bed, his face paling.

Sighing before snapping his book shut, Snape threw his legs over the side of his own single bed and got to his feet. “Idiot,” he muttered as he quickly crossed the distance between his bed and Potter’s. He pushed the boy’s head between his knees. “Your head will stop spinning in a moment.”

Snape watched as Potter recovered his wits. The boy rubbed his sweaty palms on his sleep trousers and looked up at Snape through that abominable fringe of messy black hair. His eyes were glassy.

Sighing impatiently, Snape reached for Potter’s elbow. “Let’s go then.”

“I don’t need your help,” Potter protested, pulling his arm out of Snape’s grasp. “I can do it myself.”

“Oh really?” Snape replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched, amused, as Harry got unsteadily to his feet, took one tottering step forward, and then collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“What were you saying, Potter?” Snape said, looking down at him from above. The boy was sweating freely now, and trembling as well.

Something that sounded a lot like “go to hell” slipped from the boys lips.

Snape rolled his eyes and hoisted Potter to his feet. “Let’s get this over with,” Snape said, half supporting, half dragging Potter to the toilet.

By the time he got the boy back in bed, he felt as drained as Potter looked.

As Snape settled back onto his own bed and resumed reading, he nearly missed Potter’s utterance before the boy drifted back to sleep: “Thanks, Professor.”

“Can I have some milk?” Potter asked one evening over dinner.

“May I have some milk, please,” Snape corrected as he handed over the glass jug.

Potter grunted in response.

Snape rolled his eyes. It had been nearly three weeks before Potter was awake more than he was asleep. He was finally starting to eat again, albeit only light soups and bread, but at least he showed signs of an appetite. The swelling in his face and limbs had finally receded, and he was one again recognizable as the insufferable, proud Gryffindor that he was.

They’d worked their way up to taking two meals a day in the dining room: lunch and dinner. Potter took breakfast in his room whenever he woke up. As he was still recovering, Snape did not protest this arrangement. As it was, he tended to only see Potter at mealtimes. Snape had finally moved into the master bedroom where he could keep the shades lowered to block out the painfully bright sunlight. Sharing a room with Potter had been necessary while the boy’s health was in immediate danger, but now that he was able to eat, use the loo on his own, and manage his own potions, Snape was free to rest and recuperate in peace.

Still plagued by daily headaches, Snape hadn’t countenanced much company or conversation. Aside from being an ever present annoyance, they also shortened his temper. Even Dobby steered clear of him until after the headache potion had taken effect each evening around 5 pm. If taken any more often than once a day, the potion became toxic.

Dobby had managed to get some books and games from Hogwarts and Snape often found Potter in the sitting room in the evenings, either persuading Dobby to play a game of exploding snap or perusing his well worn copy of Quidditch Through The Ages. It had taken nearly three days, and some reassuring words from Dobby Snape suspected, but the irksome teen had finally stopped suspecting that Snape was going to curse him or summon the Dark Lord at every turn. And once the boy had succumbed to this reality, he started asking questions, questions that Snape had so far refused to answer. Instead, he returned to the master bedroom, where he could peruse his back issues of Potions Masters Digest in peace.

Later that night, there was a tentative knock on his door. Snape frowned; it was nearly 9 pm. Potter should be in bed by now. “Enter,” Snape said, setting the journal he was reviewing aside.

“Sir, may I have a word?” Potter asked, standing in the doorway and looking uncertain.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “If you must.”

“I was wondering, sir…” Potter paused, still hesitating in the doorway. “How is your headache this evening?”

“You came to inquire about my health?” Snape snapped, suddenly annoyed.

“No, I, er…”

“Spit it out, Potter, it’s late.”

The boy shuffled his feet. “I was hoping you might answer some of my questions tonight.”

“Were you?” Snape asked sardonically.

“I want to know why we are here. And where we are,” Potter stood up straighter as he picked up steam. “I want to know why you’ve forbidden me to use my wand. Or contact my friends. I want to know what happened that night I was captured. And how we escaped. And I want to know why you won’t tell me anything!”

Snape considered the boy. His hair was combed and his color was good. His bruises had all but faded. His body was straight and solid. His hands had balled into fists. His cheeks were pink with indignation. And his eyes glittered, not with pain or confusion, but with the familiar light of determination and his trademark defiance. He was ready to fight for answers.

Snape sighed. “Sit down, Potter, and ask your questions.”

Harry froze, surprised. He’d been so sure he’d be rebuffed yet again. Tentatively, he took a step forward and sat, perched on the edge of a chair opposite Snape in the little sitting area of the master bedroom. He waited for Snape to tell him he’d been joking and that Harry should leave at once. Instead, the older wizard placed a bookmark in the book he’d been reading and closed it. Then he poured two glasses of water and handed one to Harry. “What do you want to know first, Potter?”

Harry thought a moment. There was so much he wanted to know, and aside from not knowing where to begin, he wasn’t sure how long Snape would tolerate his inquisitiveness. “Why are you finally willing to tell me now?” Harry blurted out, and then cursed himself. Of all the stupid things to ask. At Snape’s raised eyebrow, Harry quickly added, “sir.”

Snape cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. “I was waiting for you to be able to stay awake long enough to process the information I gave you. I did not wish to waste my time answering the same questions over and over.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but then shut it again. Snape sat in his chair, arms crossed, watching Harry with impatience. Harry noticed that, for once, his hair was not greasy as it usually was, but clean and shiny. Shaking his head to clear that thought, Harry asked, “Where are we?”

“We are in a small cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen. In Scotland.”

Harry digested that information. “So this is your cottage?” Harry asked, looking carefully around him.

Snape heaved a deep sigh. “No, it is not.” Harry saw Snape grimace, as if he dreaded Harry’s next question.

“Then who’s…”

Snape looked away before answering. “It was your mother’s, Lily Evans.”

“My mum’s?” Harry said, dumbfounded. “But how… why… You knew her?”

“You’re mother and I were… friends,” Snape said, smirking at Harry’s gobsmacked expression. “At about the time the Dark Lord started killing Muggleborns, your great-great-grandmother passed away. Your mother purchased this cottage under a false name, and together her and I made it unplottable and added Muggle and wizard repelling spells and put it under the Fidelius charm.”

“Then why didn’t she hide here, with my father and me?”

Harry saw an expression of pain flitter across Snape’s normally stoic face before he quickly masked it. “Because James didn’t trust me,” Snape said.

“But why…” Harry paused mid-sentence when Snape raised his hand.

“This conversation is unrelated to our current circumstances. Suffice it to say this was your mother’s cottage, and let us move on.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, resisting the urge to question Snape more about his parents. He knew, though, that after this conversation, he’d wander the rooms of the cottage, study his mother’s choice in furniture and paint colors, touch all the knick-knacks. “Er… okay, so we came here because it was a safe place then?”

Snape nodded.

“Does anyone know we are here?”

“Only Dobby, myself, and you,” Snape said, leaning forward. “And it must remain that way,” Snape insisted, his eyes boring into Harry’s to stress the importance of that point.

Harry swallowed. “Not even Dumbledore?”

“Professor Dumbledore knows only that we are alive and in hiding.”

Harry thought it odd that Snape had not confided in Dumbledore. He wondered if something had happened, but from the dangerous look in Snape’s eyes, he didn’t dare ask. “Okay,” he said again, collecting his thoughts. “So, why can’t I use magic?"

Snape quirked an eyebrow and looked at him as if he’d gone daft. “Have you forgotten that you are underage, Potter?”

“No, but then why can’t you use magic?”

Snape shifted in his chair and merely said, “Next question.”

“But you said…”

“I said you could ask your questions. I did not say I would answer them. Now either ask your next question, or go to bed.”

Harry ran his hands through his hair and conceded. “What happened the night I was captured?”

“I should be asking you that,” Snape said.

Harry shifted nervously in his chair. Looking at his hands, he said, “I was… checking on something, in the… in the Room of Requirement.” He’d been planning to retrieve the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book, actually. He looked up to see if Snape knew what he was referring to. At Snape’s nod, Harry returned to studying his fingernails. “I entered the room, never expecting that someone else might already be in there. The next thing I knew, I’d been hit by a body bind curse and Draco Malfoy was stuffing me inside some old cabinet. He crawled in after me and shut the door, and we ended up in a shop in Knockturn Alley. I think it was Bourgin and Burkes. Anyway, he called his cronies and they apparated me away to some field. Then one of them went to get Voldemort.” He cleared his throat against the lump that had suddenly formed there. He didn’t think he could speak about what had happened next. When he finally looked up, Snape’s face was impassive though watchful.

“I arrived just before Bellatrix Lestrange started cursing you,” Snape said.

Potter shuddered at the memory. In a quiet voice, he said, “You cursed me too.”

“I was walking a fine line, Potter. I had one chance to get you out of there alive. I could not afford for anyone to doubt my intentions.”

Harry nodded, feeling the lump swell in his throat again. He’d spent hours in the body bind, waiting for the Dark Lord to arrive, being tortured by his followers, and finally, waiting to die. He hadn’t seen any way of getting out alive. They hadn’t taken his wand; they hadn’t needed to. And then Snape’s face had come into his line of vision, and Harry knew beyond a doubt what he’d always suspected: Snape was a Death Eater; Dumbledore had been duped.

“You haven’t asked the most important question, Potter.”

Harry jerked. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he’d temporarily forgotten where he was. “What’s that?” Harry asked hoarsely.

Harry held Snape’s intense gaze before Snape spoke. In his rough, melodic voice, Snape uttered only a single word: “Why?”