Shards of broken glass rained down around his boot-clad feet: the remnants of his last brandy sniffer. The set of four crystal goblets had been a gift from Albus Dumbledore. How much time had he wasted for that man? Doing his biding, doing everything he was asked, keeping Potter alive, and for what? Snape grabbed the half-full bottle of brandy and lobbed it at the fireplace. The fire roared to life in a grand conflagration, one that almost equaled Snape’s anger, as more bits of glass tinkled to the floor. As he turned in search of something else to destroy, his left arm burned red hot. For an instant, he thought his sleeve had caught fire; then he realized it was actually something much worse.

Snape took a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling the scent of charred wood and burning alcohol, and tried to clear his mind. He needed to be clear-headed when he arrived at the unexpected gathering. He had a little more time to take his leave than the rest of the Death Eaters as Voldemort would expect him to check in with Dumbledore before leaving. That bought him ten minutes at most.

Measuring his breathing, he made his way to the bathroom, disrobing as he went. He turned on the taps and splashed cold water on his face. Anger in the presence of the Dark Lord was dangerous if not downright fatal; strong emotion weakened one’s Occlumency shields. Quickly, Snape pulled his undershirt over his head and set it aside. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a braided piece of leather which he used to pull his inky black hair into a cue at the base of his neck. He stood for a moment, shirtless in front of the mirror, and began his ritualized preparations for the meeting. Fingering the brass key that he wore on a long chain around his neck, normally hidden beneath layers of clothing, he murmured: “Tonight I lay my soul at your feet, and pray someday again we’ll meet, but if tonight it’s not meant to be, I pray that you’ll keep watch over me.”

Snape grimaced at his pinched appearance in the mirror before turning away, shutting off the light as he went. A wave of his wand and a few muttered incantations opened the wardrobe beside the bathroom where he kept his Death Eater robes and mask. He dressed with practiced motions, each step in the ritual important to the mindset he needed to maintain. Tonight, the last step would be the hardest; he didn’t want his mentor’s absolution for whatever he might be asked to do. Nor did he want the man’s empathy. But when could Severus Snape ever have what he wanted?

He tossed a bit of floo powder into the fireplace and, instead of stepping into Albus’s private rooms as he would normally have done—to receive the man’s blessing as well as his pardon—he merely peered out from the embers. The Headmaster looked up at the disturbance, surprise etched on his lined face. “Severus, my boy…”

“Don’t,” Snape said. “I’ve been summoned.”

Dumbledore began to rise from his chair. “I’ll wait up…”

“No,” Snape contradicted. “I will see Poppy if I have need of assistance.” And with that, Snape pulled out of the fire, ignoring the stricken look on the Headmaster’s face.

Snape apparated on the outskirts of the circle. Cheers and jeers rang through the air as the acrid smell of charred flesh and the tang of blood assaulted his senses. His fellow Death Eaters were clearly in the midst of torturing their latest victim or victims, and from the looks of it, he’d soon be invited to take part. Dumbledore’s words reverberated through his mind as he made his way forward: How many men and women have you watched die? To which Snape had replied: Lately, only those whom I could not save.

The Dark Lord stood with a look on his face that Snape had rarely seen: one of elated satisfaction. Clearly, he was enjoying the proceedings. Snape stepped into the opening in the circle and bowed low.

The Dark Lord inclined his head toward Snape. “Nice of you to join us, Severus. Tonight is a glorious night, my sly servant.”

“My Lord?” Snape inquired.

“Have you not noticed our guest of honor?”

Severus looked towards the altar at the center of the circle. Amycus Carrow was blocking Snape’s view as he used a myriad of curses to inflict maximum damage on the poor soul. Likely a Muggle, Snape thought, considering Carrow’s interest. Beside him, Bellatrix Lestrange bounced up and down on the balls of her feet with undisguised anticipation.

The Dark Lord trained his gaze on her and smiled. “You may go next, my pet.” The deranged woman giggled with girlish glee. “And then you may have a turn, Severusss,” Voldemort hissed.

“It would be an honor and a privilege, my Lord,” Snape responded, standing still under the Dark Lord’s scrutiny as he perused Snape’s mind. Snape let Voldemort see the mundane events of his day, his pride and favor for his Syltherin students—especially the children of Death Eaters—his disdain for the students of other houses—especially the Muggleborns—and his demurring to Dumbledore’s wishes. He was, after all, nothing but a servant to other men’s desires.

Bellatrix stirred beside him, striding forward and shouldering Amycus out of the way. Together, they blocked Snape’s view of the victim, though he could see the quarry’s feet kicking rhythmically. Snape guessed that the poor sod was having a seizure. Bellatrix’s words accusing Amycus of being selfish and leaving nothing for her echoed back to him. Finally, Amycus stepped aside, his eyes meeting Snape’s. The short dark man’s smile put Snape on full alert. Snape watched as Amycus directed his gaze to a pale, thin figure hovering on the edge of the circle. A new Death Eater, Snape guessed. Snape felt his blood run cold as he recognized Draco Malfoy standing across the circle, staring defiantly at him. Dread coursed through Snape’s veins. What have you done, Draco?

Bellatrix stepped aside, laughing maniacally. On the hastily constructed altar, now stained with bodily fluids, lay a teenage boy, messy black hair matted with blood, broken glasses askew. His skin was deathly pale and marked by a fine sheen of sweat. Snape’s pulse kicked with equal parts recognition and apprehension.

“So the boy… the boy must die?” asked Snape.

“And Voldemort himself must to do it, Severus. That is essential.”

“I thought… all these years… that we were protecting him for her. For Lily.”

“We have protected him because it has been essential to teach him, to raise him, to let him try his strength,” said Dumbledore.

“You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?”

Potter’s body writhed and spasmed in pain. The only thing that kept the boy on the edge of consciousness was the continual stream of Enervates that Bellatrix shot at him to maximize his suffering as she tortured him. “A gift for you, Severus,” she sang, leering at Snape for a moment before she slashed her wand viciously over the boy’s trembling form: “Sectumsempra!”

Using her wand like a knife, Bellatrix slashed a large X across Potter’s chest, extending diagonally from his shoulders to his groin in both directions. Potter’s body convulsed as blood spurted wildly from the deep gashes. Bellatrix danced with glee but Voldemort had begun to frown.

“I said you could play with my prize,” hissed Voldemort, “not kill it. I think you may have gone too far, Bellatrix.” Bellatrix stopped dancing, her lips drawing into a pout. Snape thought she was still far too drunk with sadistic pleasure to realize the danger she was in. Slowly, she stepped back and rejoined the circle.

“Severusss,” Voldemort hissed, shifting his red eyes to Snape, “I need the boy alive. Have your fun with him but be quick about it.”

“Yes, master,” Snape demurred.

“Then,” Voldemort exclaimed, his gaze encompassing all of his followers, “I shall delight in the death of Harry Potter at my hands.” Voldemort raised his skeletal arms into the air. “Tonight, the world shall be mine!”

Snape blocked out the Dark Lord’s voice and stepped forward, his eyes locked with Potter’s dazed and unseeing ones. The boy’s breathing was shallow and labored, his body covered in blood.

“I have spied for you and lied for you, put myself in mortal danger for you. Everything was supposed to be to keep Lily Evan’s son safe. Now you tell me you have been raising him like a pig for slaughter—”

In that moment, staring down at Potter who was dying a hideously slow and painful death, Snape did not know which of the wizards he called master was worse: The Dark Lord—who made no excuses about his intention to kill the Boy Who Lived and wreak death and destruction on the Wizarding World, or Albus Dumbledore—who led his followers down a false path of redemption only to use their weaknesses and blind faith against them in the end.

Snape raised his wand and Potter’s gaze connected in recognition for just a moment. In that instant, Snape saw not the flicker of misplaced hope followed by betrayal he had expected. Instead he saw defiance. Potter would fight until the bitter end for a cause that he neither signed up for, nor was ever given a choice about. Voldemort didn’t give people choices, and neither did Dumbledore. As Snape looked into Potter’s green eyes, he realized something else. Lily had given him a choice once before, and she was giving him a choice now.

The brass key fell to the ground unnoticed as Snape lay the dying teenager on the dust-covered floor. With a wave of his wand, he lit the oil lamps that lined the walls. Beyond noticing that they were in the dining room, he didn’t spare a glance for his surroundings. Potter was covered in blood and vomit and every other kind of human excretion. His face and hands were swollen, burned, and chalky. His chest heaved oddly and his limbs twitched. Potter was choking on his own blood; drowning in his own secretions. Snape’s hands trembled. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain calm and prioritize under pressure, but even he didn’t know where to begin with Potter’s extensive list of injuries. He needed his potions and he needed assistance. In the next instant, the boy’s body shuddered and went limp. “Lily, help me,” he implored.

Clear the airways. Stop the bleeding. Stabilize the patient. The commands echoed in his mind and Snape obeyed them without question. Whether they were from years of training alongside Madam Pomfrey or from beyond the grave, he didn’t know or care. He flicked his wand to remove the teenager’s clothing, quickly cataloging the damage that lay before him. Then, with a series of wand strokes and incantations, he cleared Potter’s lungs of fluid, mended the fractured ribs to stabilize the chest cavity, and sealed the puncture in Potter’s left lung. As the boy’s lungs inflated properly, his labored breathing eased a little.

Next, Snape turned his attention to the alarming amounts of blood seeping from Potter’s wounds. The X that Bellatrix had carved into him was by far the worst. It took Snape nearly ten minutes of incanting and wand work to mend the deep gashes. With no time to waste on perfection, he knew the boy would be terribly scarred, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. Potter’s blood pressure was dangerously low from loss of blood and his body temperature was dropping. Snape did a quick diagnostic scan and grimaced at the results. On top of everything else, the boy was in shock.

“I’m fighting a losing battle,” Snape hissed to himself as he repositioned the boy on his side. Leaning towards him, Snape growled: “Potter, listen to me. I am going back to Hogwarts to get some supplies. I will return in ten minutes time—ten minutes. Use that damnable Gryffindor stubbornness of yours and stay alive. I will not have you dying in my absence. Do you hear me?”

Snape wanted to shake the boy for good measure but refrained. Instead, he cast a warming charm on him, grabbed the invisibility cloak he’d found stuffed in Potter’s back pocket, and apparated beneath it to the back gates of Hogwarts.

Snape landed easily on his feet on the cold, hard ground and stood perfectly still. He had feared that the Dark Lord, realizing his duplicity, might have sent Death Eaters to stake out Hogwarts in case of his return. There were none, at least not at these gates. With a speed that belied his age, Snape ran to the back entrance of the castle, the one nearest the dungeons, and let himself in. It had to be sometime after midnight, and he wondered if Dumbledore knew that Draco Malfoy had managed to kidnap Potter from right under the Headmaster’s nose. With as much curfew-breaking and sneaking around as those two did, he wasn’t sure anyone would have noticed yet.

Inside his quarters, he grabbed his emergency potions kit and all of the bottles of blood replenishing, pain relieving, and pepper-up potion that he had on hand. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he called out: “Dobby!”

With a loud crack, an oddly dressed house elf appeared. “Professor Snape called Dobby, sir,” the elf squeaked, a stack of knit hats of every color perched precariously atop his head.

“Dobby,” Snape said, watching the elf’s every move, “you are a free elf, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you are loyal to Albus Dumbledore? And this school?”

“Yes, sir,” Dobby replied, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his small feet.

“And you know Harry Potter?”

“Oh yes,” Dobby replied, “Harry Potter is a great and kind Wizard, sir. Harry Potter…”

Snape waved his hand in an impatient gesture. “Dobby,” Snape interrupted, “if you could only be loyal to one Wizard and you had to choose between Professor Dumbledore and Harry Potter, who would it be?”

Dobby raised his great orb like eyes to Snape and said, very clearly, “Headmaster Dumbledore is a great Wizard, sir, it is true. But Harry Potter set me free. If it is one allegiance I must choose, then I choose Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape squatted down so that he was eye to eye with the elf. “If Potter’s life depended on it, would you disobey a direct order from Dumbledore?”

Dobby’s eyes grew wider if that were possible. Gravely he answered, “Yes, Professor Snape. Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape cleared his throat. “Harry Potter is lying near death as we speak. I don’t know if I can save him. But I do know that I need your help if I am to try. Do I have your word that you will be loyal to Harry Potter beyond all else?”

Dobby stood very still. Snape had never seen the elf look so serious or determined. “Dobby pledges his eternal allegiance to Harry Potter, sir. You has Dobby’s word, sir.”

“I may need you to do things that are questionable at best, Dobby. I’ll likely need you to lie to the Headmaster to stay in the good graces of this Castle, and to steal potions and other supplies to keep Potter alive. Can you do that?”

“Dobby will do whatever is necessary to save Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape nodded his approval and stood. Ten seconds later, Dobby apparated Snape and himself directly from Snape’s quarters to the outskirts of Aberdeen. Snape had only a second to marvel at the often overlooked wonders of elf magic before he apparated himself and Dobby inside the Fidelius charmed cottage on the outskirts of Aberdeen.

The second they landed, Dobby crooned loudly. “Oh, Harry Potter, sir. What has they done to you? What has they done to Harry Potter?”

Potter lay in a huddled mass of burnt and bruised flesh, his breathing little more than a faint rasping echo. Blood had seeped into the wooden floorboards all around him, obliterating the dust that had been there before.

Dobby moaned and wrapped his arms around himself, swaying alarmingly.

“Pull yourself together,” Snape snapped. “We have very little time.”

Dobby straightened and looked at Snape, true fear in his eyes.

“Take these,” Snape said, thrusting the emergency potions kit at Dobby as well as the other satchel of potions he’d hurriedly packed. “Pay close attention and do exactly as I say.”

“Yes sir,” Dobby whispered.

Snape knelt beside Potter and directed Dobby to administer a glucose solution, blood replenishing potion, and an antimicrobial concoction while Snape set about cleaning and healing the open wounds. Once he had stopped the bleeding, Snape focused on the various broken bones that needed to be treated. Potter’s left ankle, wrist, and clavicle were easily mended. His right femur, however, was a bit trickier as splintered bone shards had severed an artery in the leg, leaving a large hematoma in its wake. More disturbing, though, were the multiple cracked vertebrae that defined Potter’s spine. Snape could only wonder at how Potter had survived the excruciating torture. Taking a deep breath, Snape glanced up to see the same horrified realization reflected in Dobby’s orb-like eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Snape bent to the task at hand, thankful for Dobby’s silence. Dobby, Snape reflected, was an able assistant, eager to help yet not chatty, and both accurate and observant—two attributes Snape valued greatly. Snape turned his attention to the badly charred flesh on Potter’s hands, arms, face, and neck. The skin was a mushy puddle of goo, oozing clear fluid. Snape uttered several charms to irrigate, debride, and medicate the wounds. Then he put a bubble charm on the affected areas to keep the newly healed surfaces from becoming exposed to anything that might cause infection.

Fingers crossed, Snape ran another diagnostic scan. Potter’s liver was enlarged, his pancreas and lungs badly bruised. His kidneys were failing, and there was moderate to heavy internal bleeding as well as fluid retention. On the other hand, his broken bones had mended successfully and his lungs and heart were still operating, even if not to the extent that Snape would have hoped. Signaling for Dobby to administer a few more potions, Snape called upon every shred of knowledge he’d ever learned about the healing arts.

Twenty minutes later, when Snape had done everything he could, he leaned back on his haunches to survey the outcome. Potter still looked swollen, bruised, and broken. In fact, to an outsider, he’d be unrecognizable. His skin was waxen, his charred lips tinged with blue. His labored breathing continued to slow, as did his heart rate and blood pressure. His body temperature refused to stabilize. His limbs twitched and his feet and hands had begun to curl in on themselves.

Snape swore and turned away. After a few moments, he turned his gaze to the mangled body before him and, without looking up, said quietly, “Thank you, Dobby, for your assistance. I do not believe I will be needing your services any longer.”

Snape conjured a blanket and covered Potter with it. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Lily. I did all I could.”

Snape startled when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Harry Potter saved my life, sir. Dobby will not let Harry Potter die.”

Snape watched as the elf pulled back the blanket and held his small hands, palms down, about two inches above Harry’s scarred chest. Speaking in a language that Snape had never heard before, the elf moved his knobby hands in a figure-eight motion, completely entranced in the rare ritual he was performing. Snape imagined few Wizards were ever gifted with the sight of an elf performing this kind of magic. Snape had only ever heard rumors that such a thing even existing.

As the elf continued, a white light emanated from his palms. At one point, Potter’s body shuddered and trembled, but Dobby proceeded as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later, Dobby paused and looked up at Snape.

“I have stopped the internal bleeding and stabilized his organs, sir. But only a Wizard can truly save him.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow in question.

“Harry Potter has suffered irreversible trauma to his magical core,” Dobby continued. “Only a Wizard can resurrect and rebuild the magical life force of another Wizard.”

Snape stilled as the implications of what Dobby was proposing raced through his mind. He had done a lot for the ungrateful son of James Potter. Was he truly willing to go this far? Sighing, he clenched his jaw with decision. He’d chosen his course when he’d apparated them both here. Swallowing against his instincts of self-preservation, Snape nodded once.

Moments later, Dobby positioned Snape opposite him over Potter’s body and directed him to place his left hand on the boy’s forehead and his right hand low down on the boy’s abdomen. Then the elf began the odd chanting combined with figure-eight hand movements, first over Potter, and then over Severus’s hands. Fascinated, Snape stared as he both watched and felt his life force drain into the boy. The white light that had once came only from Dobby’s hands now came from his own hands as well. Again the boy convulsed, but this time when the boy stopped trembling, Snape saw a pink flush creep slowly outward from the boy’s navel. The color spread, seeping across every plane of the boy’s body in a steadily growing radius. Snape inhaled sharply in surprise as the X that Bellatrix had carved into the boy’s flesh began to lighten, and then vanish completely. The pink tinge continued to spread, and Snape gazed in awe as the burned flesh regrew—pink and supple and healthy—with no trace of scarring. He glanced up at Dobby only to find the elf still consumed by the ancient elf magic, performing a healing ritual that any Wizard would give his or her wand to be able to perform.

Snape swayed slightly as a feeling of light-headedness came over him. He forced himself to stay present, to give Potter what he needed to survive. Unconsciously, he flexed his fingers against the boy’s skin, which had warmed with the suffusing color, and felt almost hot against his sweaty palms. Now a rosy pink, Snape could clearly see a pulse beating strong in the boy’s neck. As he watched, Potter’s eyelids fluttered, though they did not open.

As Dobby’s movements slowed, Snape was finding it harder and harder to stay upright. Exhaustion swamped every cell of his body and his limbs felt unbearably heavy. “Dobby,” Snape murmured, holding onto to consciousness as a drowning man holds onto a raft, “when you are finished, can you go to Hogwarts and get Mr. Potter and myself some clothes, food, books, and anything else you think we might need?”

At Dobby’s acquiescence, Snape swayed alarmingly, halted from falling over only by a thought that threatened to undermine their combined efforts to keep Potter alive. “Say nothing to anyone,” Snape uttered, “especially Dumbledore.”

At that, Snape collapsed in a heap beside Potter. Thoughts of sleeping on a comfortable mattress evaporated as his trembling limbs melted into the hard, blood-stained floor. Snape was covered in sweat and blood and thought he likely smelled as bad as Potter, whose breathing had finally evened out.

As Snape lay there, contemplating all that had happened that evening, a golden glint caught his eye. It took all of his concentration and effort to reach out and grasp the brass key that had saved both of their souls this evening—Lily’s key—their port key to safety and the house key to this cottage. He scanned the room briefly; he’d been here only once before, 20 years earlier, when he had been made secret-keeper to this cottage. Lily had purchased it using her grandmother’s name before she’d married James Potter. Just in case she ever needed a safe place, she had said. If only she had used it when Voldemort was hunting her. Snape sighed and closed his eyes. Thoughts and images swirled in his head, as if his mind were a Pensieve and someone was stirring the contents. He frowned with consternation as he fought in vain to catch them—all but one.

Yawning, he murmured: “Tonight I lay our souls at your feet, and pray someday again we’ll meet, but if tonight it’s not meant to be, I pray you’ll keep watch over your son and me.”

 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?” 

“Potter, stop that racket at once!” Snape shouted, stomping towards Harry’s room.

Harry paused in his perusal of 101 Ways to Curse Your Neighbor, a rather amusing comic book that Dobby had found for him, and glanced up. Snape stood in the doorway panting and looking rather demented. His hair stood up at odd angles and his eyes were both bleary and blazing.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“What on earth is making that noise?” Snape demanded.

“What noise?” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Don’t mock me!” Snape yelled, putting both hands to his ears and cursing in pain. “That abominable pounding noise!”

At Snape’s raised voice, Dobby hurried into the room.

“Dobby!” Snape snapped, spinning around on his heel. “Where is that booming sound coming from?”

Dobby cocked his head and studied Snape. “Dobby doesn’t hear no booming sound, Professor Snape, sir.”

Harry set his book on his bed and sat up straighter, studying the haggard wizard before him.

Snape looked coldly at both of them and swept out of the room. Harry heard the door of the master bedroom slam shut. He exchanged a worried glance with Dobby.

After a few beats of silence, Dobby spoke. “Harry Potter, sir, I have letters for you. From your friends, sir.”

“Ron and Hermione?” Harry asked, excitement strumming through his veins. Snape had finally given him permission to write letters to his two best friends only—which the potions master had insisted upon reading before Harry gave them to Dobby to leave under Ron and Hermione’s pillows, where they could reply in kind. While his friends would likely guess a house elf was the one couriering the letters, they’d not know which house elf, though Harry was secretly sure they’d guess correctly. Harry hadn’t been able to write much beyond telling them that he was safe and bored and that he missed them and asking them to send news about themselves and Hogwarts. He also cautioned that he’d likely not be able to answer any of their questions and that all of his mail was being read.

Ron had sent him a letter telling him that the school was in an uproar over his disappearance and that Snape was missing too. Dumbledore had been tight-lipped about the whole situation and the rumor mill was quite active in asserting one or both of their deaths or defections to the dark side. Ron had also sent his latest copy of Quidditch Monthly, which had a picture of Victor Krum on the cover. Hermione had written about what he was missing in all of his classes and offered to send him a copy of her notes so he could keep up during his absence. She reiterated that she and Ron wouldn’t tell a soul that they’d heard from him and made him promise to write again soon to assure them that he was okay. She also enclosed some Hogwarts stationary and a new quill.

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters back to his friends and perusing Quidditch Monthly. 

Snape collapsed into one of the wicker chairs in the sitting area of the master bedroom, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. The pounding in his skull beat like a drum: boom—boom—boom. It felt like walls of sound pressing in on him, suffocating him, threatening to crush him to death. It was the worst headache he’d even had, threatening every moment to drive him insane. In desperation, he pawed through his various potion vials, looking for something, anything, to dull his senses, if not the unrelenting sound.

 “Professor?” Harry called as he knocked lightly on the closed door of the master bedroom. Harry hadn’t seen Snape since he claimed to be hearing noises the morning before. Snape had taken all of his meals in his room since then. Harry hadn’t wanted to bother the wizard the night before about reading the letters he’d written to Ron and Hermione so he could send them, and he wasn’t sure he should now, but he was anxious to keep in touch with his friends.

“Professor?” Harry repeated, knocking more loudly. Still there was no answer. Harry paused. Perhaps the potions master was sleeping. He decided to try again later.

Harry knocked three more times over the next six hours, with no response. Dobby was at Hogwarts, or else Harry would have asked him to check on Snape. As it was, he was the only one here and he was starting to get worried. He knocked one more time, and then slowly opened the door, peering inside.

There was a single lamp lit in the corner of the room which cast an orange glow over the small sitting area where Snape had previously answered Harry’s questions. A few books and magazines lay scattered on the floor, as well as an assortment of half-empty potions bottles. Three trays of food lay untouched as well.

His concern growing, Harry stepped further into the room, his gaze landing on the bed where Snape lay motionless, his eyes open but apparently unaware. His face was creased with pain. More potion bottles lay sprawled on the nightstand and on the rug near the bed.

“Professor? Are you alright?”

Snape’s eyes flicked to Harry’s and Harry took an unconscious step back at the rage he saw there.

“Get out,” Snape ground out, moving nothing but his lips.

 “But Professor…” Harry began, the letters in his hand forgotten in light of Snape’s condition.

“Get. Out. Now. Potter.” Snape’s lips were curled back and he looked like a rabid animal.

Harry backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what was wrong with Snape, but something clearly was, and from the looks of it, potions weren’t helping.

Harry sat at the dining table alone and poked at his breakfast. The cottage was deathly quiet. Dobby had made him eggs and ham before he’d left for Hogwarts that morning, and Snape was nowhere in sight. Harry wondered if Snape had slept off whatever had been ailing him, but as Snape was usually an early riser, Harry doubted it.

When lunch rolled around and there was still no sign of Snape, Harry started to fidget. He’d read and reread the letters for Ron and Hermione enough to commit them to memory, and couldn’t maintain his interest in any of the other reading materials he had. Grabbing a jacket, he ventured outside, walking around the charmed limits of the property. It was a cold, grey, windy day with nary a bird in sight. Still it was good to get out of the cottage. He wished, not for the first time, that he had his broom. What he wouldn’t give to go flying, much less play a game of Quidditch with Ron and Ginny.

By late afternoon, and cold from the biting wind, Harry made his way inside to find Dobby had returned from the Castle. Hearing Dobby’s voice coming from the master bedroom, Harry sidled up to the open door. All of the potion vials and papers that had been scattered around the room the night before were now neatly stacked and ordered, though Harry was sure that Dobby, and not Snape, had been the one to clean up the mess.

Snape lay atop the bedclothes with his back to the open door. He was dressed all in black and curled up on his side in the fetal position. The concerned look on Dobby’s face as he stood before Snape had Harry stepping into the room. Harry startled at the sight before him. Snape’s whole body was rigidly curled in on itself, as if in the throes of some horrible agony. His black hair lay lank over his too pale skin, his face clenched in a permanent grimace. Most disturbing of all, though, was the unflinchingly vacant expression in his obsidian eyes.

“Professor,” Harry breathed. There was no response. Turning his attention to the elf, Harry asked: “What’s wrong with him?”

“The potions are not working, Harry Potter, sir. The noise lives inside his head. It is taking over his mind.”

“But how?” Harry asked. “And why?”

“Dobby knows not, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has not seen such things before.”

Harry stared at Snape. The wizard almost looked like he’d been petrified. Harry remembered feeling just as helpless when he visited Hermione in the hospital wing in their second year. At least Hermione has not been in pain, though.

“Think,” Harry muttered to himself. What could be causing the relentless sound in Snape’s head? If it was some dark spell, who could have cast it? Snape had not left the premises, and no one had come to visit, outside of Dobby. And dark magic could not be cast at a distance, unless…

“Dobby,” Harry said, “Could Voldemort be doing this to him?”

Dobby’s eyes widened in fear.

“But no,” Harry recanted. “Professor Snape is a master Occlumens. Voldemort has never been able to break through his defenses in person. There’s no reason to think he could do so now, over such a distance and when…” But Harry stopped at the horrified look on Dobby’s expressive face.

“Dobby, what is it?” Harry asked.

Dobby’s gnarled hands trembled and his voice shook as he said: “Harry Potter, sir, Professor Snape… he…” Dobby swallowed and looked down at his feet. “Professor Snape’s magic is depleted, Harry Potter, sir.” In a much smaller voice, Dobby added, “He doesn’t even have enough magic to summon a newspaper from a few feet away.”

“What?!?” Harry exclaimed. “Why not? What happened?”

Dobby fidgeted nervously, before speaking again. Looking up at Harry, his bright orb-like eyes glistening in the orange glow of the room, he said, “When Professor Snape rescued you from the Dark Lord and his followers, you was dying, sir. Professor Snape did all he could to save you, but he is not being able to save Harry Potter, sir.” The elf gulped and squeaked, “You was too badly injured.”

“But I’m here now,” Harry said. “I’m not dead.”

Dobby nodded solemnly. “Professor Snape thanked me for helping him and bade me farewell, but Dobby is not letting Harry Potter die, sir. Elves have access to ancient magic, Harry Potter, sir, and I is calling upon this ancient magic to heal you, sir. But even I is not able to save Harry Potter, sir,” the elf squeaked, his face a picture of misery.

Harry felt a tingle of apprehension dance up his spine. “But then why am I still here?”

“Professor Snape,” Dobby said simply. “Your magical core was destroyed by the damage you suffered, sir. Professor Snape is giving you his magic, sir, so Harry Potter can live.”

Harry stood there, stunned. Snape had saved his life before, but never quite so literally, and never at dire risk to himself. “But then,” Harry asked, swallowing against the fear building inside of him, “is he a Muggle now? Or a Squib?” That thought was horrifying, and Harry would not wish that fate on any wizard, especially one as strong and proud as Severus Snape.

Dobby shook his head. “Professor Snape is still a wizard, Harry Potter, sir. But it is taking time for his magical core to regenerate. This is why Professor Snape is having headaches, sir. But this…” Dobby said, gesturing toward Snape’s rigid and unresponsive form on the bed and shaking his head, “this is something Dobby is not seeing before, Harry Potter, sir.”

“If Snape saved me from Voldemort,” Harry reasoned, “then surely Voldemort would wish to make him suffer. And if he can’t shield his mind…” Harry shuddered at the thought, remembering just how persuasive and overpowering Voldemort in one’s mind could be.

Dobby’s features were marred in concentration as he followed Harry’s every word.

Harry awoke to the feeling of heavy, tingling limbs and a slight headache. He hadn’t felt this bad or this tired since he’d been tortured by the Death Eaters. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting at the light. He was in his single bed in what Snape called ‘The Sick Room,’ and Snape himself were lying on the other bed, his legs under the covers, a book propped open in his lap. They were both back in night shirts, Harry realized dimly.

As if Snape felt Harry’s gaze, he glanced over. Seeing that Harry was awake, he set down his book and scowled. “Potter, that was an idiotic, irresponsible, and foolish thing to do. Just what in Merlin’s name were you thinking?”

Harry studied the wizard across from him. He’d become accustomed to the man’s biting remarks, sarcastic wit, and frequent put-downs, but as he scrutinized the potions master, understanding dawned. Dobby must have told him that Harry had done for Snape what Snape had done for Harry: sacrificed his magic to save the other. Harry broke into a smile. “You’re welcome, sir.”

Snape looked as if he’d just sucked on a lemon.

Harry burst out laughing, but only for a moment. “Oh, my head,” he gasped, grasping the offending appendage as his headache roared to life.

Snape sighed theatrically and Harry thought he heard the words “idiotic Gryffindor.”

“Take this,” Snape’s voice called from the bed across the room.

Harry peered through his fringe to find a headache potion floating across the room to him. He looked over to see Snape holding his wand. Harry realized that this was the first time he’d seen Snape perform magic in all their time at the cottage.

“And I’ll thank you to remember that we are even now, Potter, and you needn’t mention this little incident again.”

Harry downed the potion and smiled at Snape’s frown before rolling over and going back to sleep.

“Checkmate.”

“You win, again,” Harry groaned. Playing Wizard’s Chess with Snape was akin to wrestling a dragon; Harry didn’t stand a chance. If Snape was trying to prove that his mind was superior to Harry’s with regard to logical thinking and thorough strategizing, he’d proven his point several times over.

 “You are nearly as good at Chess as you were at Occlumency,” Snape remarked.

“Don’t remind me,” Harry said around a yawn as he picked up the chess pieces and put them away. The fact that Snape had conceded to play chess at all was a mark of the level of boredom they’d reached being confined to the small cottage together, day after day, with nothing to do. “I think I’ll turn in early,” Harry said.

“Headache?” Snape inquired.

“Not exactly,” Harry replied, rubbing absently as his scar, “just... tired.” Harry didn’t know how to describe how he felt. There was a throbbing pressure in his head, though it wasn’t a headache, and it didn’t exactly hurt. It just felt odd. Harry stretched his limbs as he got up from the table. “Well, goodnight, sir. See you at breakfast.”

At Snape’s nod, Harry retired to the room with the two single beds. He changed into a nightshirt and blew out the candle on the nightstand. It had been almost two weeks since Harry had transferred enough magic to Snape to enable the potions master to shield his mind against Voldemort. Harry knew Voldemort must be exceedingly angry about not being able to exact revenge on Snape and was surprised he hadn’t felt Voldemort’s anger through their connection. Relieved as he was for the reprieve, he couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t worried about what was to come. Surely the Dark Lord wouldn’t give up so easily, not when it involved the loss of himself at the hands of one of his most trusted followers.

“Nooooo, please! Please!”The words were followed by a high pitched scream that rent the cool, damp air.

“Where is Harry Potter?” The cruel voice demanded. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” the girl cried. “Please, I don’t know!”

“Crucio!”

The young witch’s long brown hair flew in all directions as she was flung against the wall of the dungeon, her head banging against the concrete with a sickening thud. Her screams echoed in the small space, blood dripping from her nose and mouth. Her pupils, which were dilated with terror, reflected the red eyes of the evil wizard torturing her.

“This is your last chance, Mudblood,” the dark wizard crooned, holding his wand deftly in his long, pale fingers, his thin lips pursed with impatience.

The witch shifted her gaze from Voldemort to the pale, blond wizard who stood in the corner watching the proceedings with a hungry sort of desperation. “Please, Draco...” she begged.

Draco Malfoy turned his cool grey eyes to her and smiled as he raised his wand and pointed it at her chest. “I don’t think so, Granger.”

At that second, Harry felt himself slip inside the Dark Lord’s mind. He was overcome with rage at the defiant, insolent, stupid Mudblood cowering before him, begging the Malfoy boy for mercy. As if he could help her now. As if anyone could. Raising his wand, he shouted, “Avada—”

“NOOOO!”

“Noooo!” Harry screamed as he bolted awake, sweat pouring from his skin, his scar on fire. He jumped out of bed just as his door banged open.

Snape stood ready to fight, wand outstretched, surveying the room for the threat. “What is it, Potter?”

“Hermione Granger,” Harry croaked around the ache in his throat. “Voldemort was torturing her to find my whereabouts. Draco Malfoy was there too. Malfoy must have kidnapped her and brought her to him, like he did me.” Harry paused for breath, his heart beating wildly.

“Potter,” Snape drawled, lowering his wand, “are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

“It wasn’t a dream!” Harry shouted. “It was the same as with Ron’s dad. I was there. I saw it. I felt his anger. And then... and then I...” Harry trailed off, unable to admit that he had been the one to cast the killing curse. He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Hermione...” Harry moaned, slumping back onto his bed, his head in his hands.

Harry glanced up briefly to see Snape standing rigid in a shaft of moonlight, head tilted slightly to one side, seeming to consider his options. When he spoke, his voice held no indecision: “Dobby!”

A loud pop rent the silence and a small house elf with colourful knit hats balanced atop pointy ears appeared. “Professor Snape called Dobby, sir?”

“Yes, Dobby, could you please return to Hogwarts and check to make sure Miss Hermione Granger is safely asleep in her bed?”

“Of course, Professor Snape, sir, Dobby would be happy to check on Miss Granger, sir.”

“Check on Mr. Weasley as well, will you? And then return here immediately with a report.”

The elf nodded and popped out of sight.

After a moment, Harry raised his head to look up at Snape. He swallowed against the constriction that had not dissipated. “If Voldemort...”

“Potter,” Snape interrupted, “there is no use continuing this conversation until we know if what you saw was real.”

 Harry bit back the retort he wanted to make. Of course it was real! He’d seen it, he’d been there! If Snape had been where Harry’d just been, he wouldn’t be second guessing...

A loud pop startled Harry out of his thoughts.

“Dobby is happy to report that Miss Granger and Miss Weasley, as well as Mr. Weasley, are all sleeping peacefully in their beds in Gryffindor tower.”

“Thank you, Dobby. You may go now.”

Harry felt stunned. “But I saw...”

“What you saw, Potter, was what the Dark Lord wanted you to see.”

Harry felt confused and outraged. He was sure what he’d seen had been real. He knew Dobby wouldn’t lie to him, but yet he could not reconcile what the elf had said with what he’d just witnessed.

Snape sighed. “This is yet another thing Dumbledore failed to tell you.”

“What didn’t he tell me?” Harry asked.

Snape waved his wand in the air; the numbers 03:10:07 shimmered before them. “It is far too late, or rather early, to discuss this now,” Snape said, pushing to his feet. “We shall discuss this in the morning. Now get some sleep.”

“Easy for you to say,” Harry mumbled.

Snape rolled his eyes and waved his wand wordlessly. In the next instant, a glass vial filled with a gleaming violet potion floated into the room and into Snape’s open palm. He uncorked it and handed it to Harry.

“Dreamless sleep?” Harry asked.

“Indeed,” Snape drawled.

Harry downed it in one gulp, grateful for the oblivion he knew would follow. Then he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. ‘Hermione is safe at Hogwarts; ALL of my friends are safe at Hogwarts,’ he chanted to himself, over and over, as he waited for the potion to take effect. In the distance, he heard the click of a door closing as Snape retired to the master bedroom. Harry wondered briefly what new and disturbing revelations Snape had in store for him.

“Dumbledore knew this would happen.”

Harry paused with a fork full of scrambled eggs and ham half-way to his mouth. He had joined Snape at the breakfast table nearly ten minutes earlier, but Snape had done nothing more than nod at Harry’s morning greeting while he continued pursuing the day-old copy of the Daily Prophet that Dobby brought him each morning. “Knew what would happen?” Harry asked.

Snape shook out the newspaper and laid it flat on the table, spreading his fingers wide as he placed them over the moving pictures. “He knew that the Dark Lord was capable of invading your mind and implanting false visions.”

Harry set down his fork, his appetite vanishing. “He knew?”

“Indeed.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?” Harry demanded.

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Does anyone know why Dumbledore does what he does?”

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut. Snape had picked up the Daily Prophet again, clearly dismissing him. Fuming, Harry pushed his plate away and made to get up from the table.

“Stop pouting, Potter. You aren’t the only one he kept secrets from.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that it doesn’t matter why Dumbledore did what he did. What matters is what is to be done now that we know.”

Harry hesitated a moment, then finally sat back down. “Okay, I’m listening.”

Snape snorted but said nothing.

Harry picked up his spoon and started spinning it on end, seeing how long he could make it balance. He felt a shiver run through him as a thought crossed his mind. “If he can invade my mind and make me see things that didn’t really happen, what else can he do?”

“Meaning?” Snape said, his attention drawn.

“Can he make me do things?” The thought was so abhorrent, Harry had to force himself to continue. “Can he control me?”

Snape’s sharp obsidian eyes bore into him as he spoke, leaving Harry feeling even more vulnerable and exposed. “The link the Dark Lord has forged with you is on an emotional level. He seeks to control you via your weaknesses—by using those you care about against you. I do not believe that he can control your actions directly.”

“In other words, he’s trying to drive me mad.”

“No, Potter,” Snape replied. “I believe he intends to use your impulsive nature and your Gryffindor loyalty to his advantage. I suspect he thinks that he can get you to come out of hiding if you believe he is torturing those you care about.”

“He’s probably right,” Harry muttered. “I mean, if I didn’t know that everyone was okay…” Harry trailed off, lifting his finger from the tip of the spoon and letting if fall with a loud clang.

“Your friends are safe at Hogwarts.”

Harry scoffed. “Like I was?” he challenged.

“Without your rule-breaking influence, Potter, I am quite confident that Miss Granger will be able to keep Mr. Weasley safely ensconced in Gryffindor tower after curfew, don’t you agree?”

As much as Harry wanted to deny it, he could not. Their escapades around the castle under the invisibility cloak were generally his idea. Instead, he took a deep breath. “So how do I keep him from invading my mind?” Harry asked. “You know I’m pants at Occlumency.”

Snape snorted. “I have another idea, but it will take some time. For now, focus on clearing your mind before you sleep and do your best not to be an open book to the Dark Lord.”

Harry lay in bed that evening, images of the vision from the night before relentlessly tormenting him. Was Voldemort able to do more than just make him see things? Was he somehow able to imprint those images in Harry’s mind so that he could not forget them? Harry shuddered at the thought. The memory of Voldemort torturing Hermione had been so real.

He sighed, trying his best to clear his mind as Snape had said. Snape, who had vanished into the master bedroom and not come out the rest of the day. When Dobby arrived with dinner, Harry had asked if Snape was alright and had been assured that the potions master was doing what he did best—brewing. Harry hadn’t dared interrupt him. Instead, he’d wandered the small cottage, thinking about his mother, touching all of the knick-knacks and trying to imagine what they might have meant to her. Maybe Snape knew. Harry could not imagine his mother being best friends with Snape of all people. It defied reason. Maybe Snape was different when he was younger. Who knew?

Harry flopped over onto his other side and saw a tiny spider crawling up the wall. He felt the cloying, trapped feeling of the walls closing in on him and promptly flipped back over to assure himself he was not trapped in the cupboard beneath the stairs on Privet Drive. There had been spiders there too, too many of them. Taking deep breaths, he focused on the room at large, the empty bed across from him, the closed door. After a few moments of internal struggle, he got up and opened the bedroom door a crack—just enough to assure himself that he wasn’t locked in. Shaking his head, he crawled back into bed.

“Why am I so edgy?” he wondered aloud. But it didn’t take a genius to figure that out, he knew. Just closing his eyes brought back images of Hermione’s bloodied and battered body. Who would Voldemort torture him with tonight? And why hadn’t he had the foresight at breakfast to ask Snape for more dreamless sleep potion? Fidgeting restlessly, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on counting sheep, but that reminded him of the Burrow. He switched to dragons, only to be reminded of Hagrid. He pounded his fist into his pillow with frustration as the clock in the hall chimed twelve midnight.

It was almost one in the morning by the time Severus had finished brewing the potion. He was sweaty, hungry, and exhausted. His head ached from concentrating so hard, and his arms and legs were stiff from standing and stirring all day. But the hard part was over. He’d managed to take a potion that normally took two weeks to brew and another two weeks to ferment and successfully concoct it in a little over fourteen hours. In four days time, it would be ready to use. How much damage could the Dark Lord inflict in ninety-six hours?

Snape heard the first screams as he was shutting off the taps in the shower. Quickly, he toweled himself off and threw on a robe. He found Potter writhing, wrapped tightly in his sheets, begging someone to stop.

“Potter,” he said curtly. “Potter! Wake up!”

The boy howled in pain and rage, oblivious to the potion masters presence.

“Potter!” Snape shouted. Still nothing.

Grinding his teeth, Snape was just about to reach out and shake the boy when another idea occurred to him. Gathering his still wet hair into his hands, Snape pulled it into a column and twisted it over the boy.

“Oi!” Potter shouted, bolting upright in an instant “What was that for?”

“Your incessant screaming,” Snape drawled.

“Next time trying calling my name,” Potter muttered indignantly, using the blankets to mop the water from his face and chest.

Snape studied the teen a moment longer. He was relieved to see that whatever dreams had been haunting the boy hadn’t seemed to leave a mark. “Next time try clearing your mind before you go to sleep,” Snape retorted. He almost smiled at the offended expression on Potter’s face.

The rest of the night did not pass in peace as Snape had hoped. Nor the next. Snape had finally taken to using the other bed in Potter’s room and sleeping—if that’s what you could call the miniscule intervals of rest he got between Potter’s screaming fits. The Dark Lord was invading Potter’s mind at 90 minute intervals. While the invasions only lasted 5 to 10 minutes, they were designed for maximum impact—shorts testaments of horror designed to break Potter down, bit by bit. And although Snape had taken to napping during the day to keep up his strength, Potter refused.

“You have to rest,” Snape said on the afternoon of the third day.

“No,” Potter said stubbornly. “He can’t attack me while I’m awake.”

‘Actually, he can,’ Snape mused, but refrained from saying so aloud. So far, the Dark Lord had limited his attacks to the night time hours, though Snape suspected that would soon change. He knew better than anyone that the Dark Lord took little for granted, especially when it came to The Boy Who Lived. Surely He Who Must Not Be Named had a grander scheme in mind; likely he was just preparing for some grand finale. Snape shuddered. He couldn’t let the deranged lunatic get that far. While he and Dobby had managed to save the boy physically after Draco had delivered Potter to the Dark Lord, Snape doubted anyone could repair the psychic damage that Potter was being subjected to if it wasn’t stopped soon. Witches and wizards suffered from post traumatic stress syndrome to an even greater degree than Muggles due to the fact that their magical cores enhanced the sensitivity of the psyche to both positive and negative stimuli. Potter wouldn’t be the first wizard to go mad, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Snape narrowed his eyes and exhaled through his mouth. “The Dark Lord has not seen fit to attack you during daylight hours. I demand that you try and sleep. Dobby or I will be here to pull you out of a vision if needed.”

Potter ran his hands through his hair, looking thoroughly defeated. “I can’t watch it again, I just can’t.”

“One more day, Potter. Tomorrow the mind strengthening potion will be ready.” Snape vehemently hoped it would work. Nothing else he’d given Potter so far had made any difference, though he had tried everything he could think of including dreamless sleep, mind numbing potions, and even a detachment draught. If only Potter could occlude, but there was no way Snape would be able to teach the boy in Potter’s current mental state.

Potter shook his head, denying the refuge Snape was offering.

“Lie down on the couch, now, before I put you in a full body bind and levitate you there.”

Haunted, betrayed eyes stared up out of a hollow face.

“Potter,” Snape warned.

“Fine,” Potter muttered. “On your head be it.”

Snape rolled his eyes as he reached for the coverlet on the back of the sofa and threw it over the boy. Then he retired to the adjacent arm chair to read a book.

Snape drifted in and out sleep with the boy, awakening every time Potter so much as twitched a muscle. The calm before the storm, Snape thought wearily. Setting down his book, he pushed himself to his feet and went to prepare lunch.

By mid-afternoon, Potter was up and pacing the cottage. Snape had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at the boy to sit still. He could feel the waves of tension radiating from the teen. Didn’t the idiot child know that worry and waiting didn’t help anything? Snape had forced himself long ago to learn to relax in the few precious moments such a reprieve granted. But Potter was still young; too young to have gained the self-discipline for such an exercise.

“Potter,” Snape said, finally out of patience. “Why don’t you write your little friends a letter.”

“Can’t,” Potter said. “Can’t focus. Can’t concentrate.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Can’t be still.”

“I can see that,” Snape said. “Why don’t you go walk outside then. Get some fresh air. Just stay within the wards.”

Without protest, Potter left through the front door. Snape watched the boy circle the cottage a few times, and was pleased to see Potter finally take a seat on a stone bench beside the garden and start pulling up weeds. Spring was coming soon and Snape had half a mind to start an herb or vegetable garden to give them both something to do with their time.

Potter came back inside to help with dinner, but his hands were shaking so badly, Snape had to shoe him away for fear the boy would slice off a finger while trying to chop vegetables. Potter had tried to set the table, but only succeeding in shattering a plate and dropping all of the silverware on the floor. It took all of Snape’s will power not to comment on Potter’s clumsiness. Instead, he gritted his teeth and said, “Sit, Potter. Focus. Clear your mind. Practice until dinner is ready.”

Snape watched as the boy slumped into a chair, elbows on the table, chin on his fists. Snape could see the lines of stress and worry and exhaustion that marred the features of Lily’s only son. He wished, not for the first time, that the Dark Lord had never existed. How different their lives would have been.

A whistling from the stove brought both of them out of their reverie. Snape pulled the boiling water from the stove and served them both a cup of tea, knowing Potter wouldn’t be able to manage without burning himself. Then he ladled out helpings of a hearty beef and barley stew.

“Eat,” Snape commanded. “Starving yourself will help no one.”

Potter grunted.

Snape watched as the boy forced himself to finish the stew, bit by bit. Snape pushed over a glass of milk and a piece of bread as well.

“I think I’ll get started on those letters now, if you don’t mind, sir,” Harry said.

“Go.” Normally Snape would have insisted that Potter clean up the dinner dishes, but Potter was walking a fine line as it was, and they both knew it.

“Sorry about not helping,” Potter muttered. “I’ll make breakfast tomorrow.”

Snape gave him a sardonic look. They both knew it was an empty promise. Tonight would be full of night terrors—hopefully the last of them.

Severus found Potter draped over the ink blotter on his desk, quill still in hand, a puddle of drool beside his flaccid face. Sighing, Snape pulled back the covers to the boy’s bed, levitated the sleeping teen onto the sheets, pulled off his shoes, and threw a quilt over him. Grumbling to himself, Snape swiped the letters Potter had been writing.

Dear Hermione,

I miss you. I wish you were here. I need to know that you are safe. They keep telling me you are but… I keep seeing Voldemort hurting you, torturing you. I hear your screams and I can see your blood, taste it, smell it. I want to gag when I think of it. I can’t stop thinking about it though. It’s not just you of course. It’s Ron and Ginny and Luna, Remus and Tonks, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Anyone I’ve ever cared about. Every time I close my eyes, I sense him there, waiting for me. He’s waiting for me to join him.

I’m scared he’s taking over my mind. I’m scared I’m losing it. The things he shows me, the things he does… It’s not just the visions. He pulls me inside—inside of them, inside of him. Suddenly I’m not me anymore, I’m him. I feel his rage and hatred, and then they are my feelings too. When I’m inside him, I want to kill. That night when he tried to kill you, I wanted to kill you too, Hermione. He made me want that. I’m so sorry. Merlin, I hate myself.

They keep telling me you are all safe at Hogwarts. Are you? Are you really? Malfoy got me away, what’s to say he won’t steal you away too? How do I know the truth? The visions are so real.

Please tell me you are alive. I don’t think I could bear it if you were killed because of me. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. How am I supposed to stand up to him when I can’t even separate dreams from reality?

Snape growled as he read the letter, the black letters smeared in places where tears had littered the parchment. There was no way Potter would have ever sent it, Snape knew, but the letter showed clearly how fragile the teen’s state of mind had become. If only Snape had started on the potion sooner.

Snape crumpled the unfinished missive in his fist and threw it on the desk as he thought about what to do. Although it was only 8pm, he decided to prepare for bed, knowing that if tonight was anything like the last two—and he had no reason to suspect otherwise—he’d need all the sleep he could get before the invasions began. He lit a candle and settled in with a book, waiting for the long night to begin. He didn’t have to wait long.

The first disturbance came at 9pm, then 9:20, then 9:40. They continued in 20 minute intervals, mere blips on the screen—a cry here or a moan there, a limb flung akimbo—not the full out night terrors that had been plaguing the boy. Still, Snape could see that Potter could not rest easily. Nor could he. This was not the Dark Lord’s normal mode of operation. Snape checked his watch as an ominous feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Were these little episodes leading up to something more? As 11pm drew nearer and the episodes grew closer together—from 20 minutes to 15 to 10—Snape’s sense of foreboding grew.

“Potter,” he called across the darkness. He hesitated to wake the sleep deprived teen, but if the Dark Lord had him trapped in some horrific nightmare, Snape had to break Potter free before irreparable damage was done. “Potter, wake up.”

 Snape slipped out of bed and walked over to where Potter lay sleeping. Except the boy wasn’t sleeping. Potter’s sightless eyes stared at the ceiling as small tremors ran through his body, his face a rigid mask of terror.

“Potter!” Snape shouted. “Wake up! Now!” Snape shook the boy’s shoulder, hard. “Snap out of it this instant!”

 Color stained the boy’s pale cheeks as his accusing gaze swiveled to Snape’s. “You lied,” Potter breathed, pushing himself out of bed, his green eyes shards of hatred. “You lied to me!”

“Potter, what are you talking about?”

“They are all dead! All of them! Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Remus and Tonks.” Potter buried his head in his hands as a shudder ran through his body. “He killed them! Because of me!” Potter’s head shot up, and without warning, the teen shoved Snape hard in the chest, causing Snape to stumble backward.

“Potter!” Snape shouted, recovering his balance as Potter rushed from the room. Snape followed on his heels.

“Don’t lie!” Harry shouted, covering his ears with his hands as he ran for the front door of the cottage. “Stop lying to me. They are dead. All dead. Because of me. All dead.”

“Potter, stop this nonsense at once!” Snape shouted, locking the front door with his wand just as the boy reached it.

Potter grabbed at the handle and shook it, trying desperately to get free. “Let me go! Let me out of here. Damn you, let me go!”

Snape gritted his teeth as he watched the teen’s grasp on reality slip, a combination of sleep deprivation and trauma coalescing into a writhing, paranoid mess.

Potter pounded on the door with his fists. “He killed them. Every one. Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Remus…”

Potter rounded on Snape. “I saw what he did to them. He made me watch. I watched them die. I wanted them to die. I was him and I wanted them to die. I cast the final curse.”

Potter was shaking badly as Snape crossed the room to where he stood.

“I killed them,” Potter said. “All of them.”

“Potter!” Snape hissed.

“My friends. I killed them.”

“You did not…”

“They died because of me,” Potter moaned, lost in visions of torture that Snape could envision only too well.

Snape grabbed Potter by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” he said, shaking the boy to get his attention. Potter continued to moan, locked within the walls of his personal hell.

“Look at me, Potter.” Snape commanded. When the boys gaze reluctantly met his, Snape whispered “Legillimens.”

Images rushed at him: blood and gore, screams for mercy, Ronald Weasley begging for his life, Miss Granger being tortured for information she didn’t have, Miss Weasley being raped by masked death eaters, Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks under the Imperius Curse being forced to torture and kill each other against their will.

“That’s enough,” Snape said, pulling out of the boy’s mind. “None of this is real,” Snape asserted.

Potter shook his head in denial, no longer able to meet Snape’s gaze.

“Dammit, Potter, we’ve been through this,” Snape said, shaking the boy again. “It’s. Not. Real.”

Potter stood mute, unwilling to believe.

Clenching his teeth in frustration, Snape made a decision. As he had that very first night, he said the only word that had any chance of saving not the boy’s life this time, but his sanity: “Dobby!”

In an instant there was a pop. Before Dobby could even announce his presence, Snape snapped: “Bring Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger here as soon as they can be removed from the school without notice. Tell them nothing. Mr. Potter will be granted five minutes to confirm that they are indeed alive and well.”

“Yes, sir,” Dobby said, and with another pop, he was gone.

Snape shifted his gaze to the troubled teen. “Five minutes, Potter.”

Potter was looking at Snape as if he’d never seen the man before. The smallest flicker of hope lit his bleak eyes.

“Get yourself cleaned up, your friends will be here shortly.”

As Potter made his way toward the restroom, Snape added: “Say nothing of consequence. I will be watching unseen.”

At Potter’s nod, Snape let out his breath. One way or another, this had to end, right here and right now. 

In a flash of gold and red, Hermione and Ron popped into being at the same moment as everything around Harry faded to white. Harry was too overwhelmed at the sight of his two best friends to pay much mind to the odd, opaque mist that swirled around their feet and clung to the walls and ceiling.

“Harry!” Hermione screeched, throwing her arms around him in a tight embrace. When she finally let go, her face flushed, Ron shook Harry’s hand and pulled him into a one-armed hug, slapping him firmly on the back.

“Glad to see you’re still in one piece, mate,” Ron said.

Harry grinned, his heart racing at the sight of the two of them. “You too,” Harry said, relief strumming through his veins. His hands twitched at his sides. He longed to reach out and touch his friends, hold onto them, assure himself that they were real and this wasn’t some elaborate trick.

“What is this place?” Hermione asked, shivering slightly as she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron echoed. “What’s with the fog?”

Harry was about to say something about Snape when Dobby, seeming to sense his intentions, spoke up.

“You is not supposed to be knowing where Harry Potter is,” Dobby squeaked. “You is only seeing fog so you is not knowing.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grateful for Dobby’s quick thinking.

Hermione nodded in comprehension, before shifting her attention to Harry. Studying him critically, she said, “you look… healthy.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment,” Harry teased.

“Well, I mean…” Hermione stammered.

“What she means, mate,” Ron interrupted, “is that you aren’t dead, which is what we half-expected.”

You and me both, Harry thought.

“So you can’t tell us anything?” Ron asked, looking around and trying to peer through the mist.

“No, just that I’m safe.”

“Is there anyone else here?” Hermione asked.

Harry looked to the corner where he suspected Snape stood, concealed, but he could see nothing through the opaque mist.

“Dobby is here,” the house elf volunteered.

The three looked down at Dobby, who was quickly becoming lost in the fog. Soon only the tips of his ears would be visible.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “Dobby is here with me. He brings me food.”

“Of course he does,” Hermione pronounced. “Thank you for taking good care of Harry, Dobby.”

Dobby preened with pleasure.

“Yeah,” piped in Ron. “He needs someone to feed him.”

“Ron,” Hermione chided, but good naturedly. “We are so glad you’re okay,” Hermione said. “We were really worried.”

“I was worried about you, too,” Harry said, his words encompassing both Ron and Hermione. “How have things been at Hogwarts?”

“Really strange, actually,” Hermione responded.

“Yeah, people keep disappearing. First you and Snape, and then Amarilis Blu from Hufflepuff…”

“That was only because her mother died, Ron,” Hermione interjected.

“…and then,” Ron continued, as if Hermione had not corrected him, “just yesterday, Malfoy vanished.”

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued. “Did anyone else go missing with him?”

“Not that we know of,” said Ron as Hermione shook her head.

Thinking he should provide some cover, he said, “Has anyone heard from Snape?”

“Nope,” Ron said, scuffing his shoe on the floor. “But if you ask me, I think he’s joined sides with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Ron,” Hermione hissed, “we don’t know that he did.”

“No, and we don’t know that he didn’t,” Ron shot back. “Well, I can’t say anyone misses the git. And potions class is a lot more tolerable now that he’s gone. Even Neville has managed to brew a couple of acceptable potions.”

Harry cringed at the insult, knowing Snape could hear every word. He looked to Hermione, only to notice her watching him sharply.

“Harry,” she said, as if just figuring something out. “Why are we here?” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Not that we aren’t happy to see you, we are. It’s just that…”

“Yeah,” Ron voiced. “Hermione’s right. You need our help with something, don’t you? That’s why you brought us here.”

Harry surveyed Ron and Hermione, who both looked eager to be of assistance. “Well, not exactly…” he stammered.

Harry looked to Dobby, whose orb-like eyes now seemed to be floating almost eerily on the cloud of rising mist.

“Dobby must take Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger back to Hogwarts now,” Dobby said in his high pitched voice, holding out his a hand to each of them.

“Take care of yourself, Harry,” Hermione said, embracing him tightly once more.

“You too,” Harry said, inhaling the scent of Hermione’s hair. It reminded him of Hogwarts, of nights studying in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, of being “home.”

“Yeah,” echoed Ron, “It’s right boring without you,” he said, slapping Harry on the back before giving him a brief hug. “No offense, Hermione,” he added.

“None taken,” she said, rolling her eyes as she reached for Dobby’s hand. “Bye Harry, we miss you, take care of yourself,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, what she said,” Ron added, reaching to take Dobby’s hand.

“You too,” Harry said with a nod. “And be careful…” he added urgently, but it was too late. The pop of disapparition rang through the air, marking their departure.

The second they were gone, the mist vanished, revealing a sour looking Snape standing, arms crossed, in the corner. “Satisfied now, Potter?”

Harry stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak for the unexpected tightness in his throat and the emptiness in this heart. While seeing his friends had proven that they were alive and well, it also made him realize how much he’d miss them and how lonely he was. He made his way to the couch and sank down into it, his head in his hands, feeling equal parts relieved and conflicted.

A pop of apparition heralded Dobby’s return. “Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are back in their beds, sir,” Dobby reported.

“And they will not speak of this to anyone?” Snape inquired.

“No,” Harry answered, even though he knew the question had been directed at Dobby. “They can be trusted.”

Harry saw the look of doubt that crossed Snape’s face but disregarded it. He knew his friends would never betray him.

“No, Professor Snape, sir,” Dobby echoed. “They understand Harry Potter is in danger, sir, and they assured me they would not speak of it to anyone, sir.”

“Very well. Thank you, Dobby. Your services are much appreciated.”

Dobby bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet, clearly delirious with happiness at the praise.

“Potter, off to bed,” Snape commanded.

Harry pushed himself to his feet, walked the few short steps to his room, and collapsed on his bed. He was asleep before he even had time to think about clearing his mind.

As Snape mused over the wisdom of letting Potter’s little friends visit, Dobby set about tidying up the small cottage.

“Professor, sir,” Dobby intoned, “Dobby is needing to tell you something, sir.”

Snape paused, raising an eyebrow at the elf.

“Young master Malfoy, sir,” Dobby said, swallowing loudly, “before he disappeared, sir,” Dobby paused, fairly quivering with fear at what he was about to divulge about his previous masters.

“Yes?” Snape prompted.                          

“He… he has been saying things, Professor, bad things.” Dobby wrung his hands nervously, forging onward in a rush. “He is saying that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows where Harry Potter and The Spy is. He is saying he is coming for you, sir.”

Just then, a shriek of terror reverberated through the cottage.

“Potter, wake up. Wake up!” Snape shouted, shaking the boy’s shoulder. Potter had carelessly fallen asleep on top of his covers, not even bothering to change into night clothes. Snape looked on in disapproval as Potter thrashed wildly on the bed, caught in the talons of some terrible vision.

“Potter!” Snape yelled.

Potter’s eyes snapped open, and in the next instant, Snape found himself stumbling backward, unable to breath, as alarmingly strong fingers closed tightly around his neck. Choking, Snape tried to pry the fingers from his neck as his eyes focused on the crazed, deranged teenager in front of him. More alarming than the unexpectedness of Potter’s attack was the unnerving familiarity of the red glint that gleamed behind the dull green eyes. Snape glanced to the lightening shaped scar on Potter’s forehead and felt revulsion pulse through him; the scar was alive, pulsing and writhing as if a live snake were trapped beneath the skin.

There was a loud bang, and Potter fell to the bed.

Snape gasped for air and backed away, massaging his abraded skin as he alternately coughed and inhaled deep lungfuls of air, his pulse beating frantically as blood rushed eagerly to his brain. He swallowed once, twice, relieved that his trachea had not been crushed in the attack. He was sure there’d be heavy bruising by morning. Looking across the room at Potter, he saw the boy lying motionless on the bed, bound by some form of elf magic. Potter’s red, hate-filled eyes were trained on Snape, a promise of vengeance in their depths.

“Professor,” Dobby implored, touching Snape’s elbow and glancing toward the door with his orblike eyes.

Snape shook his head to clear it. He forced himself to look away from the boy before following Dobby into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.

“Harry Potter is not himself, sir,” Dobby said, wrapping his arms around himself in a protective gesture. ”Dobby sees evil in Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not seeing the real Harry Potter, sir.”

“I know,” Snape replied, his voice raspy as he continued to cough and rub at his pained neck. He cleared his throat and tried again. “It appears that the Dark Lord has invaded his mind. Clearly, the Dark Lord wants to use him as a weapon.” Snape forced out, clearing his throat once again. He began to pace as he thought aloud. “If you had not been here, Dobby, the Dark Lord might have succeeded.” Snape shuddered to think what the Dark Lord might have made the boy do next.

Snape paused near a shelf of knick-knacks, picking up a sea shell and fighting the urge to crush it in his fist. Instead, he set it back down and continued pacing. He had not stolen Potter from the Dark Lord’s clutches just to have the madman destroy him from a distance.

“Dammit,” Snape cursed, anger welling within him. “The mind strengthening potion will not be ready until tomorrow evening. And the boy is unable to do Occlumency.” Snape slammed his hand against the door frame in frustration. “His chances of resisting the Dark Lord are non-existent.”

“Professor Snape is a master occlumens,” Dobby commented.

“For all the good it does. The boy cannot learn. Not on the best of days, and certainly not in the state he’s in now,” Snape lamented.

“Harry Potter doesn’t need to learn, sir, only you is required.”

“What?” Snape snapped, turning to stare incredulously at the house elf. “Speak sense!”

“Your magic saved Harry Potter, sir. And Harry Potter’s magic saved you. You two is linked together, sir. You is able to occlude for him.”

Snape raised an eyebrow in surprise. Aside from not liking the idea of being linked to anyone, much less the spawn of James Potter, Dobby did raise an interesting, if distasteful, idea. “And how do you propose I occlude for him? In case you have failed to notice, Potter is currently being possessed by the Dark Lord, who has every intension of exacting my demise.”

“Dobby is knowing the way, sir. Dobby is telling you what you needs to do, sir.”

Still cursing, Snape pushed the door to Potter’s room open, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. Potter’s vengeful gaze followed Snape across the small room until Snape was behind Potter and out of the boy’s line of sight. Dobby’s magic still held Potter firmly in place.

With a scowl on his face, Snape waited for Dobby’s nod. When it came, Snape propped Potter up from behind, forcing the teen into a sitting position. Grunting in annoyance, he slid in behind the boy, resting his back against the wall while letting Potter’s rigid body lean back against his broad chest. Snape fought the urge to push the boy away. Never in a million years did he think he’d find himself in such an intolerable position. Exhaling loudly, he crossed Potter’s arms across the teen’s chest and then gripped the boys wrists while positioning his heels over Potter’s shins, effectively caging the teen from behind. At Snape’s nod of readiness, Dobby released the body bind.

For a moment, Potter was still; then he exploded like a caged lion. Snape gritted his teeth and held on tight, struggling to restrain Potter’s arching and flailing body and keep the boy from escaping his grasp. Snape pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting to gain entrance into Potter’s mind. It seemed that the link between Snape and Potter required physical contact, as it had that first night when Snape had transferred his magic to Harry, and also when Harry had given some of that magic back. Dobby insisted that the more physical contact between the two of them, the quicker Snape would be able to get inside of Potter’s mind and occlude for the both of them.

Snape gritted his teeth as Potter continued to struggle and Snape fought to find a way in. For a boy who could not occlude, his shields were relatively strong. Snape suspected the Dark Lord had more to do with that than Potter, though. Snape felt like he was trying to break through a stone fortress. Finally, he found a crack in the foundation and wheedled his way inside. As soon as he was in, Potter’s struggles increased. It was as if the Dark Lord could sense the unwelcome intrusion.

Snape found himself standing in a large, dimly lit space, with concrete floors and walls, empty of furniture. ‘Potter,’ Snape called out into the open space, walking deeper in. ‘Potter, where are you?’

A slight movement in the corner caught his eye. He strode toward it and squatted down in front of a young boy, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest.

‘You are Harry Potter, are you not?’

The young boy nodded and wiped his nose on the arm of his dirty flannel shirt, which was at least three sizes too large for him. He sniffed and tried to blink back the tears that coursed down his grimy face.

‘How old are you?’

‘Four.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘No.’

Just then, a door materialized to the right of them, startling both of them.

Snape paused a moment, studying it. Then he looked back at the young boy. ‘Can you take me through that door?’

The boy shuddered and huddled in on himself, shaking his head. ‘There are bad people in there.’

‘That’s why I’m here,’ Snape said, hoping his voice sounded comforting to the child, but doubted that it did. ‘I am here to help you leave this place, go someplace better, nicer. Someplace safe.’

The Potter-child didn’t looked convinced. ‘There is no place safe,’ he muttered. ‘Never was, ‘cept maybe before mum and dad died.’

‘Well, there is now,’ Snape said confidently as he got to his feet. He held out his hand out to the boy and waited. Finally, the boy took it and Snape pulled him up. As soon as the child was standing, he dropped Snape’s hand. Resolutely, he walked to the door but then hesitated.

‘Come on,’ Snape encouraged, ‘we’ll open the door together. On the count of three, then. One, two, three.’

Young Harry had never been so afraid in all his life. He knew, without a doubt, that whatever was behind that door was out to get him. On the other hand, he knew that the evil force would come for him eventually anyway. One way or the other, he was going to have to face it. Better to do it now while he had someone with him who just might be able to fight the bad things behind the door for once.

As soon as the door opened, several things happened at once. Snape felt the Dark Lord’s presence, pervasive and evil, as well as heard his echoes of rage. The young Potter disappeared, while the real Potter in his arms went completely limp. Snape braced for a mental, rather than physical, attack, knowing that the Dark Lord had released Potter in favor of going after Snape directly. And although Snape was ready, he couldn’t do this alone.

‘Potter, get your arse out here. I need your help.’

Teenage Potter appeared and stood next to Snape. Black mist swirled at their feet, rising ominously into the air around them. And while they could not see the Dark Lord, they could clearly sense his menace.

‘Well, well, well. Imagine finding you here, Severussss, my slippery friend, or should I say, my newest enemy,’ the high-pitch voice cackled.

‘Potter, don’t listen to him. Focus on me, stay with me.’

Potter shuffled in closer to Snape, as if seeking his protection.

‘You thought you could save the boy, Severusss? How noble of you. Now you will both pay.’

‘Potter! What did you do to drive the Dark Lord out of your mind at the Ministry?’

‘I… I’m not sure…’

‘Think, Potter! What went through your head?’

‘You two pathetic do-gooders think you can fight me? ME? The most powerful wizard that ever lived?’

‘Ignore him, Potter! Concentrate!’

Memories began to swirl around them, Potter’s memories, of that day in the ministry. Snape watched as Potter ran through the Hall of Prophesies looking for Black, instead finding only a glowing orb inscribed with his name. The scene changed to a dimly lit circular chamber surrounded by doors, some with glowing red ‘X’s on them.

‘Potter, focus on the end!’ Snape bellowed, trying to ignore the closing-in feeling of the Dark Lord’s wrath pressing in on them.

Images spun out around them. Potter and his friends racing through various rooms, fighting off curses. The veil on the dais. The ensuing battle. The members of the Order arriving. Potter and Black fighting together. Bellatrix’s curse. Potter running after her. The arrival of the Dark Lord and Dumbledore.

‘You are weak!’ Voldemort shouted. ‘Your pathetic attempts at…’

‘That’s it, Potter, fight him now like you did then.’

‘You will not win! You will never win against me…’

“Potter! What did you do when he invaded your mind? What did you see?”

The memories faded away; there was nothing but mist to take their place. Clearly Potter was struggling to remember.

‘Think, Potter! Remember!’

‘You will lose!’ the Dark Lord taunted.

And there it was, a golden mist, populated by faces: Miss Granger and the youngest Weasley laughing by a fire; Molly Weasley saying “Here you go, Harry, dear,” while holding out a steaming bowl of soup; Sirius patting Potter on the shoulder, a proud smile on his weathered face; Hagrid and Fang bounding forward in welcome; the Weasley twins shooting off firecrackers in the Great Hall; Luna Lovegood skipping down the corridor—one shoe pink the other orange; the whimsical faces of Lily Evans—here Snape’s heart contracted in pain—and James Potter with their arms around each other, smiling happily for the camera; and much to Snape’s surprise, his very own face shimmering into being and saying, “I’ll thank you to remember that we are even now, Potter.”

‘Nooooooo!’ Voldemort’s voice echoed in an anguished lament.

Then, everything shattered in a dazzling display of white light. Pressure waves rippled out around them, the world tilted on its axis, and Snape found himself being ejected from Potter’s mind along with everything else. 

Snape came to his senses, sweating and breathing heavily, holding tightly onto a freezing cold and trembling teenager. Snape eased his grip, but didn’t let go, just in case the Dark Lord made a counter attack.

“Okay, Potter?”

When Potter only continued to shake and didn’t respond, Snape snapped, “Answer me.”

“I… yeah… I guess so,” Potter said through chattering teeth.

Snape fought the urge to let go of the teen, instead holding on more tightly. He didn’t relish the boy leaning against him, nor holding his wrists like he was a toddler crossing the street, yet there was nothing for it at the moment.

“You can let go now, sir,” Potter said, his back stiffening in realization of his surroundings.

“If I thought that were wise, I would,” Snape replied, pulling the icy teen against him more firmly. He knew Potter’s body temperature was low from the mental attack; adding his own body heat would be the fastest way to return Potter’s temperature to normal. “First, though, we need to strengthen your Occlumency shields to prevent another attack.”

“How?” Potter asked.

Snape thought he caught the slightest hitch in the boy’s voice, but chose to ignore it. “I am going to re-enter your mind. You needn’t fight me. Later, I will teach you how so that you can do it on your own. For now, though, it will be faster for me to build the shields and for you to concentrate on maintaining them.”

“Ok,” Potter said tremulously, still shivering with cold and clearly skeptical of the success of this venture in light of their former failed Occlumency lessons.

As they talked, Dobby gathered blankets from the other bed and placed them over the teen. “Harry Potter has returned,” Dobby crooned triumphantly, beaming at both of them.

“Indeed,” Snape murmured.

Potter looked confused, but said only, “Thanks for the blankets, Dobby.”  

Dobby looked deliriously happy to be complimented so.

“Let’s get started then, shall we?” Snape intoned with impatience, though he, too, was grateful for the elf’s assistance.

Snape spent the next hour in Potter’s head, turning away from Potter’s memories and emotions—which he had no desire to see or experience—and concentrating instead on building and reinforcing walls to block out invasions. By the time Snape was finished, they were both beyond exhausted.

Snape contemplated the wisdom of returning to the bed in the master suite, unsure if Potter would be able to maintain his defenses while asleep. Likely a better solution would be to sleep in the other single bed in the room, readily available if Potter needed him. As he shifted Potter’s weight so as to slip out from behind him, the incorrigible boy slid down his chest, coming to rest with his head on Snape’s thigh. Potter nestled into him, murmuring in his sleep.

“Insufferable child,” Snape groused, sliding Potter off of him as he extracted himself from the bed. He grabbed the blankets that Dobby had used to cover Potter and threw them back onto the other bed. Sighing, he pulled out his wand and levitated the teen, freeing the covers from underneath the boy. Settling Potter back on the mattress, he quickly transfigured the boys jeans and T-shirt into a night shirt and sleep pants before covering Potter up. Then, Snape retired to the small bed on the other side of the room, his body and mind aching from their recent struggles.

Snape awoke to the first rays of sunlight, his back pressed firmly against someone else’s. He groaned inwardly as realization dawned. It had been too much to hope that Potter would have been able to fight off the Dark Lord in his compromised mental and physical state. Less than an hour after Snape had fallen asleep the night before, he woke to the sound of Potter’keening in distress, a sure sign of the Dark Lord trying to invade the boy’s mind. Realizing that neither of them would get any rest if Snape didn’t do something, Snape had relented, enlarging Potter’s bed and enlisting the least offensive means of maintaining physical contact between them in an effort to shield Potter’s mind along with his own. Now, the insufferable Gryffindor was snoring softly, marking the first restful sleep the teen had had in days.

Catching a glimmer of something on the nightstand, Snape looked over to see a jar of bruise salve, a glass of water with a full pitcher beside it, and three potions: pain reliever, muscle relaxant, and an anti-inflammatory potion. Snape shifted to the edge of the bed, sitting up and shaking his head in amazement. If he and Potter made it out of this alive, he resolved to hire Dobby as his personal assistant. If the elf was even half as useful in a potions laboratory, and Snape suspected he would be, the amount of work they could accomplish would defy reason.

Snape moved to the edge of the bed and sat up. Every muscle he had ached in protest from holding down the struggling teen the night before. His neck and throat felt swollen, each dry swallow a painful reminder. He cleared his throat once, twice, and forced himself to endure the pain. Sighing in resignation, he reached for the anti-inflammatory potion, uncorking and sniffing it before draining it in one long and agonizing gulp. It tasted of mangosteen and chamomile, with a hint of cinnamon. He drank the pain reliever potion next, forcing down the bitter taste of willow bark, and saving the muscle relaxant for last. As he drained the last vial, Potter stirred, stretching languidly. Snape pushed himself to his feet in time to see Potter open his bloodshot eyes.

Snape kept his expression blank as he observed Potter taking in the sight of his potions professor standing beside the enlarged bed; unshaven, disheveled, and still in night clothes. Snape guessed that he had the same dark circles under his eyes that Potter had.

Their gazes met and Potter opened his mouth to say something, closed it, opened it once more, and then shut it again. The teen’s eyes were a palette or confusion, guilt, and could it be… gratitude?

Dismissing the thought, Snape said: “Breakfast will be in twenty minutes, Potter.” He turned on his heel and left the room without waiting for the boy’s response. His first priority was a hot shower; eggs, bacon, and the Dark Lord could bloody well wait.

“About last night, sir,” Harry began, pushing his scrambled eggs around on his plate and not daring to meet Snape’s gaze. “I can’t remember all of it, sir, but I’m pretty sure you helped me get Voldemort out of my head.” Harry didn’t want to address the fact that Snape had slept in the same bed as himself, nor that for the first time in a long time, Harry had actually felt safe.

Daring a glance up, Harry caught a glimpse of Snape’s expression. The normally stoic man appeared amused for a moment before his impassive mask slid back into place. As Harry stared, his gaze drifted downward, catching the dark splotches of black and violet that painted the man’s neck.

“Sir,” Harry exclaimed, “your neck! What happened?” An icy feeling of dread settled into the pit of Harry’s stomach as brief snatches of memory chased each other through his foggy brain. Reaching up to touch his own neck, Harry murmured, “I didn’t…I couldn’t have… Please tell me that wasn’t my fault.”

Harry stared, frozen, at Snape’s appraising look. “Let us just say that I would not be disappointed if we refrained from repeating the events of last night. Now, eat your food before it gets cold.”

The rest of the day passed in uneasy silence as Harry paced the tiny cottage, waiting for the mind strengthening potion to be ready. Although he had slept soundly for part of the previous night, he still felt exhausted. Another day he would likely have taken a nap, but he didn’t dare chance leaving his mind unprotected now. He knew that it was highly unlikely that Voldemort had given up on destroying himself or Snape. And trying to guess what the maniac’s next move might be was enough to drive anyone around the bend.

Snape, meanwhile, had settled himself in a chair and was attempting to read a book. Every time Harry walked by, Snape scowled. Harry guessed it was taking all of the man’s effort not to snap at him to just be still. Harry couldn’t fathom how Snape managed it; how he could remain so calm and unperturbed beneath the ever-nearing black cloud of impending doom.

When Snape finally spoke, his voice was harsh with suppressed annoyance. “Potter,” he nearly spat, “you are enough to drive Merlin to take up with a Muggle.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said automatically.

Snape seemed to consider something for a second before calling: “Dobby!”

The house elf appeared, a wet dish towel in one hand, a pot in another. “Professor Snape called Dobby, sir.”

“Yes. Please bring us one of the school brooms.”

“Yes, Professor Snape, sir. Right away, sir.”

Harry’s heart leapt as he stared at Snape in amazement. “I can fly?” he whispered in awe.

“If you cannot be still, then you will at least stop bothering me and attempt to burn off some of that infernal energy you seem to be cursed with.”

Harry gazed at Snape, dumbfounded, as Dobby popped noisily back into being. He was carrying one of the school brooms, which was easily twice as tall as he was. Harry reached for it, his hand sliding lovingly along the smooth, cool wood of the handle. “Thank you,” he breathed, his gratitude encompassing both his potions master as well as the house elf.

“I assume that I needn’t remind you to stay within the wards?” Snape asked, an eyebrow raised in emphasis.

“No, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I promise to stay within the wards at all times.”

Snape nodded once, dismissing both Harry and Dobby, before returning to his book.

Harry, amazed at his good fortune, made a bee-line for the door before Snape could change his mind. He mounted the broom and kicked off into the air, leaning forward over the handle to gain speed. Harry flew hard and fast, the chill wind whipping his hair so fiercely that it lashed his cheeks raw. He swooped, dove, and rolled, pushing himself to the limits as he fought to exercise the demons of fear and worry from his mind. He pulled the broom into an upward arc, racing toward the limits of the wards, challenging both them and himself. A moment before he would have soared through them, he executed a sharp turn, jerking the broom back as he skidded along the perimeter, before heading for the far side of the property.

Snape had vowed to let the teen work off his pent-up energy, but watching Potter fly was becoming an exercise in self control. Snape gritted his teeth, fighting against the urge to stalk outside and throttle the boy for risking life and limb on a damn broom. Did the child have a death wish? Images of Potter Sr. on a broom flashed through his mind, and had he not seen the look of fierce determination mixed with exhilaration on Potter’s face, Snape would have sworn the child was intentionally showing off or impress someone. Instead, he recognized the daring behavior as what it was—a way to face one’s fears by pushing the limits. That didn’t make it any easier to watch though. Tapping his wand against his palm, he was just about ready to cast an Impedamenta jinx on the broom to slow the infuriating child down when it happened.

Exhaustion was edging its way into Harry’s consciousness as he flew, reminding him that he didn’t have the stamina he once had. Injury, stress, and lack of sleep had taken a toll on his body. Harry decided to make one last lap around the perimeter before calling it quits. He leaned forward, pushing hard into the wind, gaining speed and arching upward. He imagined the snitch, dancing in front of him, racing tauntingly around the pitch. He chased after it, gaining on it, before it suddenly sped toward the ground. Harry grasped his broom hard, fighting against the trembling in his hands and feet, and dove. He felt the cool air rush against his chapped face, blowing his robes out behind him. His focus zeroed in on the pursuit, winning his only goal. Just as he reached the point of no return, he jerked his broom up, away from the earth, planning for a smooth glide into a graceful landing. In an instant of blinding clarify, however, he realized that he wasn’t on his Firebolt, he was on a school broom—a broom that didn’t have near the agility and range of motion that his Firebolt did.

Realization seeped its way in like the first rays of dawn. And with it came the pain; excruciating and unbearable. Harry cried out, unable to suppress his screams. He glanced around, his vision hazy, and saw people in black robes gathered around him in a circle—Death Eaters. His gut clenched and nausea welled inside of him. His eyes shifted to where Voldemort stood as a new figured stepped into an opening in the circle and bowed low.

“Nice of you to join us, Severussss.”

Harry felt a jolt rocket through him.

“Have you not noticed our guest of honor?”

The newly arrived Death Eater—Snape, Harry now knew—looked towards him. Snape’s face displayed neither recognition nor regret, and Harry wondered how many times he’d witnessed—and participated in—similar scenes.

Voldemort turned his gaze to the woman on Snape’s left, Bellatrix Lestrange Harry realized with a start. “You may go next, my pet,” he said to Bellatrix, who giggled with maniacal anticipation. “And then you may have a turn, Severusss.”

“It would be an honor and a privilege, my Lord.” Snape’s voice. Harry felt the planes of reality shifting beneath him, the taste of blood and betrayal bitter on his tongue.

Suddenly Bellatrix stepped forward, a sick, twisted smile on her face. As she raised her wand, Harry felt his body bow and flex beyond its limits, bones and cartilage snapping as easily as brittle sticks, tortured screams issuing from his mouth until everything faded to black. But Bellatrix would not let oblivion claim him. Again and again she enervated him, reversing the blackness that kept trying to swallow him. Finally, the mad woman turned to Snape.

“A gift for you, Severus,” she sang, and then she slashed her wand viciously across Harry’s chest. “Sectumsempra!”

Harry shrieked in agony as Bellatrix carved his chest and abdomen, laying open his flesh. His body convulsed of its own accord as blood spurted wildly from the deep gashes.

In the background, he heard Voldemort’s distinctive hiss: “Severusss, have your fun with him.”

“Yes, master,” Snape responded.

Harry, delirious with pain and keening involuntarily, watched as Snape raised his wand and brought it down brutally. Harry felt his body arch wildly once again as he screamed. The scream seemed to go on and on, echoing without end. The edges of his vision were fading once more, but through the mist Voldemort’s pale face came into view, his slit-like nostrils flared.

“This, Harry Potter, this is who you have chosen as your savior?”

Harry, still swamped with pain and choking on his own blood, could not answer.

“This,” Voldemort said, pulling Snape into Harry’s line of view, “is who you have put your trust in?”

Harry tried to shake his head, denying all that Voldemort was implying, pushing back at the idea that Snape was a willing participant in all that had happened. Pain was clouding out even Voldemort now, and blood gurgled in his throat, depriving him of oxygen. Just as everything began to fade, he felt his airways clear, and with it, his vision, though the pain had not lessened.

The scene changed. Voldemort and Snape now stood facing each other, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s presence as he lay moaning mere feet away. They were no longer in a grassy field, but instead in an empty room with dingy white walls, a rickety old table and chairs leaning haphazardly against the far wall.

“Our plan, Severussss, is it ready?”

“Yes, master,” Snape said, his voice filled with relish. “I have the Potter boy. I have done as you asked; I have gained his trust. He will do what I say without question.”

“You will bring him to me then? Tonight?”

“Yes, master. I am ready to deliver him to you now if you wish.”

The look of eager anticipation and excitement that lit the Dark Lord’s mutilated face had Harry retching and vomiting uncontrollably. Blood and bile spewed from his mouth, along with one word: NO.

Harry’s new reality spun violently around him, the events of the past days and weeks turning sinister in this new light. Snape had not been on his side, as he had led Harry to believe. Lies, all lies!

Harry clenched his eyes shut, willing the pain to take him, kill him, release him from the hell that was his life, from the betrayal that was his destiny.

“You haven’t asked the most important question, Potter… Why? Why did I save you?” Snape’s voice echoed mercilessly in Harry’s head, the conversation they’d had that evening not so long ago coming back to him now.

“I wasn’t saving you, Potter, I was saving myself.”

Harry hadn’t understood at the time; but he understood now. He gritted his teeth against the welling nausea, but it was no use. He vomited again, cursing Snape to the ends of the earth as unconsciousness finally, mercifully, claimed him.

Potter had hit the ground hard and fast, the broom snapping beneath him in an echo of the boy’s bones. Snape’s heart was fit to burst from his chest as he raced out of the cottage, cursing six ways to seven.

Pulling out his wand, he ran a quick diagnostic scan: copiously bleeding gash to the forehead, mild to moderate concussion, hairline fracture of the cheekbone, three loose teeth, two cracked vertebrae—one of which was in the boy’s neck, a fractured collarbone, bruised ribs, broken left humerus and wrist, and a ruptured meniscus on the left side.

“Of all the stupid, idiotic, imbecilic things to do…” Snape muttered as he waved his wand over Potter to paralyze him before attempting to fix anything. It was never safe with head and neck injuries to move someone any more than was strictly necessary before they were healed.

With a wave of his wand, Snape cleaned and mended the deep gash on Potter’s forehead to stop the bleeding. Then studied the teen’s broken and twisted limbs, contemplating how best to set the various bones. Deciding to start with Potter’s wrist, he picked it up in one hand, only to feel an odd shutter run through the fingers. Looking up, he saw vomit spilling from Potter’s partially open mouth. More disturbing were the bulging eyes.

“Anapneo!” Snape shouted, before quickly vanishing the remaining vomit. He cursed himself for not thinking of this sooner. Head injuries could cause vomiting, and with the paralysis spell he’d put on Potter, the boy was a risk of choking on his own effluence. He put a quick monitoring spell on Potter’s airway, chastising himself for forgetting basic Wizarding first aid, and got back to work on the broken bones. He moved his wand in practiced motions, fixing the breaks and ruptures in the extremities first. He needed to calm down and focus before he worked on the upper body. Head and neck injuries could be tricky, even in wizards.

Finally, having healed all of the boy’s other injuries as best he could, Snape took a deep breath and concentrated on the delicate vertebral bones and tissues, carefully stabilizing and righting the two fractured vertebrae. He’d give an anti-inflammatory potion for the head injury to prevent brain swelling when he got the boy inside. Between the vertebrae and the concussion, not to mention the stiffness he’d experience in his newly mended arm and knee, Potter would have to lie still for a couple of days. Snape was satisfied, though, that the bane of his existence would indeed recover.

Sitting back on his haunches, Snape surveyed the reckless teen. Bits of splintered wood and twigs littered the grass around the boy, as well as a familiar bit twisted black metal and clear plastic. Cursing, Snape pocketing the item, and then waved his wand in a wide arc, banishing the remnants of the school broom from his sight. If Potter never rode a broom again, it would be too soon.

Shaking his head, Snape stood up. He had just levitated the boy when Potter began to vomit again. Turning the teen over in mid-air, Snape let the vomit spew onto the ground before doing the airway cleansing charm just to be safe. He’d have to give Potter a stomach calming draught as well, not to mention the various other potion’s the teen would need. Chastising himself for trusting Potter with a broom, Snape conducted Potter’s paralyzed and bloodied form back into the cottage.

Harry felt like he was floating. His senses seemed dull and slow. He had the urge to stretch, but his limbs didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He debated fighting the sensation, but was too tired and quickly slipped back into a restless sleep.

The next time he neared consciousness, he still had that muzzy feeling, but he forced his eyes open. Along with the late afternoon light, other sensations came flooding back to him, including a throbbing pulse that ricocheted through his head. He moaned softly, willing the pain to recede. His mouth was dry and the metallic tang of iron hung on his tongue; blood replenishing potion, he realized. He fought the urge to wretch and reduced his eyelids to slits to let in the smallest possible amount of light. Glancing around the room, he tried to remember where he was.

His vision was blurry, but he recognized the blues and greens of the bedroom in what had once been his mother’s cottage. With that memory came the image of Snape. And with the image of Snape came a burning, aching desire to destroy the man who had betrayed him so fully. The man who had convinced Harry that he was on Harry’s side, with the intention of handing him over to Lord Voldemort in the end.

Anger coursing through his veins, Harry made to swing his legs over the bed, determined to leave the confines of the cottage, even if he had to duel Snape in the process. The effort had his heart beating fast and his breath quickening, even before he realized, in utter confusion, that he could not move. He fought the sensation in vain, suddenly feeling more trapped than ever.

“Calm yourself, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes jerked to where a dark figure stood in the door, arms folded over his chest in a self-satisfied gesture. “You will need to be immobilized for at least 48 hours. Your little stunt on that broom cost you several broken bones and a concussion.”

Potter stared at the man. Forty-eight hours? How convenient, he thought bitterly. Plenty of time to ‘deliver him to the Dark Lord.’ He’d be damned if he’d let them take him so easily.

The blurred, dark figure approached and Harry fought to free his hand so he could pull his wand from his robes and curse the double-crossing traitor. He fought the full body bind in vain, leaving his nerves feeling as if they were on fire.

Snape continued to come closer, reaching his left hand into an inner pocket of his robes as he did so. “Fighting the spell is useless, Potter.”

Harry felt panic crawling up his spine at Snape’s ominous tone. He didn’t want it to end like this; him a helpless observer of his fate. As Snape pulled his hand from his pocket, Harry shouted: “NO!”

Snape paused, looking at him quizzically. Then he held the object in his hand two inches from Harry’s face. “See these? You didn’t look much better.”

Heart beating a painful tattoo in his chest, his breath coming out in pained gasps, Harry had to practically cross his eyes as he focused on the twisted black metal frames and spider-webbed lenses of his eye glasses.

Snape took the glasses back, touched his wand to them, and murmured “Reparo.” Sliding the frames onto Harry’s face, he said: “Now be still so you can heal.”

Snape left the room, leaving Harry stunned and shaky. Images of Snape colluding with Voldemort danced in his mind, mixed with images of himself flying around the pitch—no, the cottage’s perimeter—on a broom. A school broom? He wrinkled his brow, frustration swamping him as he tried to sort out truth from fiction. His memory felt fuzzy and his head ached as he faded into unconsciousness once again.

“You need to drink these,” a deep voice echoed from the doorway.

Harry’s eyes focused on Snape. He must drifted off for a bit, though he still had his glasses on. Studying the man before him warily, Harry noticed that Snape was wearing his customary black robes over black slacks and a white oxford shirt. He looked the same as he had since they’d arrived at the cottage.  

His wits sharpening, Harry blurted out the question that had been burning in his mind since he’d realized where he was. “Why did you save me?”

Snape stopped mid-way into the room, scrutinizing Harry as if he’d grown a second head. “We’ve had this discussion already.”

“Remind me then,” Harry said, his voice stiff with mistrust.

Snape set the tray of potions on the nightstand before considering Harry. Harry held his gaze and waited.

“I wasn’t saving you, per se; I was saving myself.”

“But what does that mean?” Harry insisted.

“It means that I had debts to repay. And that I was tired of catering to madmen’s wishes.”

“Are you calling Dumbledore a ‘madman’?” Harry breathed incredulously.

“Do you have a better name for a man who would let an unqualified, underage wizard fight the Dark Lord on his own? Not once, not twice, but three times?”

Harry studied the tall, pale wizard before him, the hooked nose, the black eyes, the greasy hair. “But why save me?” Harry asked, searching the man’s face for the lie. “Why not just save yourself?”

“As I’ve already said, Potter, I had debts to repay.”

“To who?” Harry persisted.

“To whom,” Snape corrected. Fiddling with the potions on the tray, Snape added, “To your mother, for one. Now drink this.”

Harry felt his whole body being tipped up at a 45-degree angle. As he opened his mouth to ask what his mother had to do with anything, he felt a cool liquid being poured down his gullet. He coughed and spluttered but managed to swallow most of it. Clearing his throat, he rasped out: “Some warning next time might be nice.” Snape merely rolled his eyes before returning Harry to a supine position and leaving the room.

The afternoon sun had long since faded, replaced by a full moon and the wavering shadows of candlelight from the wall sconces. Harry felt restless. He couldn’t reconcile the Snape reading in the single bed across the room with the knowledge that this man might also be a traitor, waiting venomously to strike at any moment. Steeling his nerve, Harry asked: “Are you going anywhere tonight?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t think Snape had heard him, or perhaps he was ignoring him. Finally, Harry heard Snape set down his book and pad across the floor to stand beside Harry’s bed.

“Have I ever left this cottage since we’ve arrived?”

“Not that I know of,” Harry answered with a challenge in his voice, meeting the man’s steely gaze with one of his own.

“Not that you know of,” Snape echoed, repeating Harry’s words in a way that made them sound like something only an idiot would say.

Harry tried to shrug, but his body was still held captive by the paralysis spell. If Snape was telling the truth, it was so that his body had time to heal. If not, Snape was merely holding him captive.

Snape pulled out his wand, and Harry would have flinched if he could have. Lighting the tip, Snape used it to test Harry’s pupils for dilation.

Catching the guilty look on Harry’s face, Snape abruptly asked: “What aren’t you telling me?”

Harry felt his cheeks redden. He was trapped and helpless, and entirely at this man’s mercy.

“Potter…” Snape said, his voice sounding both stern and irritated.

Harry shifted his gaze. “Nothing.”

“You have never been a good liar, Potter. And if your expression didn’t give you away, the sheen of sweat on your forehead and your increased heart and respiration rates would have betrayed you.”

Betrayed. The word echoed in Harry’s mind. The anger boiling just beneath the surface erupted. Fury and accusation colored Harry’s words as he snapped: “You’re still working for Voldemort, aren’t you?”

“What?!?” Snape hissed, shock and anger marring his angular features.

Harry studied Snape’s expression for any indication that the man was lying.

“You are as impossible as your father. How many times do I have to save your life for you to see reason?”

His anger cresting, Harry countered, “Why not just let me die then? Why heal me just so you can turn me over to Voldemort?”

Snape stared at Harry, his face a mask of disbelief. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought.”

Snape pocketed his wand and turned to walk away, when Harry shouted: “I saw you! You were talking to Voldemort. You said… you said…” Harry suddenly found it hard to breath. Black spots swam before his eyes. What if he was wrong? What if he wasn’t? “You said you would bring me to him tonight,” Harry whispered.

Snape stared, stunned, at the boy who lived, even after the colossal head-first dive into the ground outside the cottage. Had the crash addled his brains? Could any of the potions be giving him strange dreams? Unless…

“Potter, look at me.” In a moment, Snape was in Potter’s mind, pushing through extraneous images, searching, searching… and there it was. A replay of what had happened in the circle the night the boy was captured and tortured, and then a scene where he and Voldemort were discussing a ‘plan’.

Sighing deeply, he pulled out of Potter’s head. “I see,” he said. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “You have seen into the Dark Lord’s mind before, Potter. You’ve seen him speak with his Death Eaters. He is an impatient master. Had I truly been working for him, had I been ready to turn you over to him this moment, do you really think he’d have had me wait until tonight? After you’ve eluded him so many times?

“Furthermore, ” Snape added with an odd twist of his mouth, “have you ever heard me speak so… enthusiastically… before?” Snape’s lip curled in distaste. “I beg at no man’s heels, Potter, I assure you. Only weak men like Wormtail stoop to such antics.”

 Still breathing heavy, Potter considered him. Snape could practically see the cogs turning in the boy’s head.

“If I was only interested in your death at the Dark Lord’s hands, I would not have brought you here in the first place.”

“Maybe you changed your mind,” Potter challenged.

Snape laughed without mirth. Reaching beneath his robes, he pulled out the brass key that he wore on a long chain around his neck. “Your mother gave me this key. She bade me promise that I would do all in my power to keep herself, and her loved ones, safe. I failed her once. I will not fail her again.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

“Is the mind strengthening potion ready?” Potter asked.

“It is,” Snape replied. “However, thanks to your little stunt earlier this afternoon, it is not safe for you to consume at present.”

“What?” Potter asked incredulously. What little color the teen had drained from his cheeks.

“You have a concussion, Potter. That means that you run the risk of your brain swelling. I have no idea how the mind strengthening potion might interact with your injuries, and I have no wish to find out. Therefore, you will have to wait to drink the potion.”

“For now long?”

Snape could practically see the boy’s thoughts swirling through his head, running the gamut from fear to anger to mistrust. “As long as I deem necessary,” Snape announced.

Potter looked mutinous.

“You don’t trust me? You think I’ve betrayed you? Well I have, but not in the way you suspect. Since I am sure the Dark Lord will bring this up sooner or later, perhaps it is better that I give you fuel to feed your fire of hatred against me. At least then we will be on even ground.”

Snape traced the contours of the key that lay beneath his robes. Potter wasn’t the only one who would never forgive him for what he’d done that night. Turning away from the boy, he said in a hollow voice: “It was I who gave the Dark Lord the prophesy.”

Harry was reeling from what Snape had told him. Snape had been the Death Eater who’d been caught eavesdropping at the Hogshead. Snape had set Voldemort on Harry’s family’s trail. If Snape had not delivered the blasted prophesy to Voldemort, his parents would still be alive. He’d have grown up with a mom and a dad. He wouldn’t have had a stupid scar on his forehead and that mad man wouldn’t be trying to force his way into his mind every chance he got.

Harry clenched his teeth and growled with impotence. He wanted to smash something. Snape’s smug, aristocratic face came to mind as a perfectly good target. How typical of Snape to tell him this when he was in a full body bind and could do nothing about it.

Harry cursed loudly, half hoping Snape would hear him. It had infuriated him when, after he’d recovered from the shock of what Snape had told him, that Snape had not even so much as flinched at the rude names and insults that Harry had thrown at him. A little voice inside of Harry’s head suggested that perhaps Snape had already said all of those things to himself, but Harry shoved that unworthy thought aside. No punishment would be enough for what Snape had done. His parents were dead. Snape had cost Harry his family.

“Get. Away. From. Me.”

“Potter, don’t be stupid. You are in no condition to fight the Dark Lord in the state you are in. When he attacks next, and I assure you he will, you will not be able to defend yourself.”

At Potter’s look of loathing, Snape said neutrally, “Hate me all you want, Potter. The sooner we defeat the Dark Lord, the sooner we can be shod of each other.”

“We?”

“Yes, we. Neither of us can defeat him alone. And until we do, we are stuck here together.”

By the time night fell, Potter was not speaking to him. At least Snape had managed to distract the boy. Instead of the constant fear that had loomed over the teen for his friends’ safety, Potter was now entirely focused on his hatred of Snape the Betrayer. It was ironic, really. No matter what Snape did, he’d never be absolved of the sins of his misspent youth.

Against his better judgment, Snape settled into bed in the master suite. He knew they were in for a rough night, what with Potter already keyed up emotionally and in a compromised state of health. In his absence, he’d requested that Dobby spend the night and monitor Potter for signs of a mental attack. Dobby, always eager to be of assistance, had readily agreed. 

And so it was that Dobby was shaking him awake at half past midnight.

“Professor Snape must wake, sir. It is Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape groaned inwardly, fighting the urge to pull a pillow over his head. Instead, he got quickly to his feet and strode into the smaller bedroom. Potter’s face was constricted in agony, his cheeks wet with tears. The body bind curse kept the boy from moving, but it was clear that something was disturbing his sleep.

Sitting beside the boy on the single bed, Snape grasped Potter’s hand and used the physical connection to gain entry into the teen’s mind. What he saw made his heart nearly stop.

Lily, beautiful Lily, cradling a black-haired child to her chest, and running through her home in Godric’s Hollow.

Snape felt his blood run cold as he realized what was happening.

Run, Lily! RUN! Snape urged.

Snape watched, helplessly, as Lily barricaded herself and her son in the nursery. Lily looked frantically around the room, searching for something, anything, to protect the two of them.

Grab your wand, Lily. Apparate away. You can’t stay here. He’ll kill you!

Voldemort’s cold harsh laughter echoed from the hallway.

Hurry, Snape begged. Lily, hurry…

The door blasted inward and Voldemort stood, his pale face etched with triumph, his wand pointed at the pair of them.

Snape’s glance darted between the woman he loved and the evil wizard who had taken her from him. No! Not Lily…

Lily shrieked and dropped young Harry into the crib. She turned swiftly, her arms splayed, shielding the child with her body. “Not Harry! Please, no, not Harry,” she begged.

Please, not Lily…

 “Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside, now!”

 “Please, not Harry – I’ll do anything…”

Please, not Lily – I’ll do anything…

There was a flash of green light, and Lily collapsed to the ground, her mouth open in a plea to save her son, her once beautiful green eyes now still and empty.

Harry watched in horror as images of his father’s and mother’s murders played repeatedly in his mind. He knew that Voldemort had placed this vision in his head but he had no means of stopping it. The sight of James and Lily Potter dying over and over was eating away at his already fragile hold on sanity.

At some point, he was vaguely aware that another presence had joined him. But the sight of his mother—her red hair curling lovingly around her oval-shaped face, her expressive green eyes, her nose, which was also his, and her perfectly shaped lips, begging Voldemort to spare her son’s life—was all consuming.

“Run, Lily, run!”

Harry startled at the new yet familiar voice. He turned to see Severus Snape standing in the room, his face panic-stricken, his voice urgent and alarmed. Harry turned back to his mother, but clearly she couldn’t hear Snape’s words.

Echoes of Voldemort’s laughter reached his ears, along with more of Snape’s frantic pleas. Harry knew what was coming, yet he still couldn’t help but hope that Snape’s entreaties might somehow enable his mother to escape with him in time.

“Lily, hurry!”

And then Voldemort was in the room and Harry was drawn back to his mother’s panic-filled eyes and terrified voice. “Not Harry. Please, no, not Harry.”

“Not Lily,” Snape’s desperate plea echoed, “Please, not Lily.”

Two quick flashes of green and it was over; his mother was dead and his small, marked body lay unconscious in the crib. Harry looked away, tears streaming down his face. How many more times would he have to witness this?

And then, instead of the silence that lay like death itself over the scene until Voldemort deemed it time to hit the replay button, a horrible keening sound echoed through the nursery. Harry turned back to find Snape cradling his mother’s body, howling in pain. Harry watched, stunned. Had Snape really been there that night? Hiding unseen somehow, perhaps under an invisibility cloak? Or was this just an illusion?

A few moments later, a glowing white image of his mother emerged from her lifeless body. Her face was even more beautiful than Harry remembered. And though he couldn’t understand how it could be so, her presence suffused the room with peace and love and forgiveness.

“Severus...”

Snape jerked at the sound of the voice and looked up, his keening growing even louder at the sight of her specter. Harry could not remember hearing his mother’s voice outside of her pleas to Voldemort but knew instinctively that this was it had sounded like. It calmed his shattered nerves like the sweet melody of phoenix song.

“Lily,” Snape beseeched, “please, don’t leave me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for this to happen—any of this,” Snape pleaded, waving one arm in a wide arc, the other still protectively encircling Lily’s corporal form. “Please, believe me. I would never… never…”

Lily’s understanding smile illuminated the room, sheltering them both, accusing neither. “I know, Severus. And I forgive you.” Lily’s apparition wavered, as if she was fighting against the bonds that were pulling her spirit onward. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything, Lily, anything at all,” Snape sobbed, looking more wretched than Harry would have ever dreamed possible.

In the background, the baby boy started to stir in the crib, his tiny fists going automatically to the wound on his forehead while his face scrunched up in pain.

“Promise me you’ll keep Harry safe. Promise me, Sev.”

Severus’ words came out hoarse and pained, barely audible against the backdrop of little Harry’s cries: “I promise.”

As Lily’s spirit faded away, Harry realized that he could no longer distinguish between Snape’s anguished lament and the wailings of his younger self.

Harry lay on the edge of consciousness, hovering in the land between slumber and alertness, still feeling the calming effects of his mother’s spirit. Finally forcing himself to open his eyes, he found the ravaged, tear-stained countenance of Severus Snape mere feet away from him. As soon as they made eye contact, Snape turned away.

“You loved her,” Harry realized aloud.

Snape dropped his head into his hands. Muffled by the older man’s shuddering breaths, Harry barely heard Snape whisper, “More than anything.”

 “I want to destroy him.”

Snape looked up, startled, from the book he’d been reading. Potter had been sleeping on and off all day, still healing from his concussion. Snape bit his tongue to keep from commenting on the fact that Potter was once again speaking to him. Instead, he inclined his head as a sign that he was listening.

“I don’t want him hurting anyone else I care about,” Potter said, his eyes blazing with determination. “We need to make a plan. And can you release me from this body bind already? I promise to lay still.”

Snape flicked his wand to release the boy and Potter sighed in relief, eagerly flexing his limbs.

“A plan,” Snape replied evenly. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?”

“Well, since he keeps breaking into my mind, I thought we could try to use it against him. You know, turn the tables on him. Torment him instead of the other way ‘round.”

“And how exactly do you intend to do this?” Snape inquired, his tone full of his customary disdain.

“I don’t know, but more than once he’s planted visions in my mind. He made me see things. Awful things. Things that made me feel like if I had to watch them one more second I’d go insane.” Snape watched as Potter’s hands fisted and his feet twitched. “If I could concentrate on the things that he can’t stand—like I did at the Ministry—then maybe…”

“Maybe what, Potter?”

“At the Ministry, I was able to drive him out of my mind by thinking about my friends. It worked here too. But I don’t want to drive him out of my mind, I want to trap him in the visions like he trapped me. I want to keep him there until he breaks.”

Potter turned his head toward Snape, his gaze intense. “You know him better than I. I’ll need your help to make this work.”

Snape snorted. “You’ll need a lot more than my help, Potter.”

“Together we could…” Potter began.

“It’s suicide, Potter,” Snape interrupted. “He has more experience with mind control than any witch or wizard alive. What you are suggesting is tantamount to torture, albeit of an altogether unheard of kind. How much experience do you have with willingly torturing someone, Potter?”

Potter looked dumbstruck at Snape’s vehement reaction.

“It takes a truly dark soul to engage in that kind of behavior. You must not only feel that the other person deserves it, but you must relish in their pain. You must commit your soul to darkness to willingly damage another’s.”

Potter opened his mouth to speak, but Snape continued. “Furthermore, the reason the Dark Lord is able to perform such heinous acts is because he is incapable of empathy; a quality that you have in spades.”

Potter looked mutinous.

“In any case, we have a much larger problem,” Snape stated. “Were we to attempt such a thing—to fight the Dark Lord with love as Dumbledore likes to say—we would need to be of the Light. Neither you nor I can claim such purity,” Snape spat, the words feeling like acid on his tongue. 

At that moment, Dobby hobbled into the room, carrying a tray of milk, tea, biscuits, and healing potions. “Your afternoon dose, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Thanks, Dobby,” Potter said, affection for the elf as clear in his voice as it was on his face. He quickly downed the potions on the tray, grimaced, and chased them down with a biscuit and milk. Then he turned his attention back to Snape. “What do you mean we aren’t of the Light?”

Snape could practically see the cogs of the infuriating child’s mind grinding in search of a way to cleanse himself of any impurities. “Both you and I carry the mark of dark magic,” Snape said, involuntary flexing the muscles in his arm where the Dark Mark had been burned into his flesh. Potter, damn him, caught the slight movement. It took the teen only a moment to make the further connection to himself.

“My scar,” he breathed.

Snape merely raised an eyebrow in affirmation.

“But then…” Harry said, considering, “if someone who was pure were to join us…”

“Absolutely not,” Snape snapped. “We will not be bringing anyone else into this.”

“But we already have,” Potter murmured, his eyes drifting along with his thoughts.

“You can’t possibly mean…”

“Why not?” Harry challenged, his eyes alight with renewed purpose. “We already know we can trust him,” Harry said, his gaze lingering on the now vacant doorway. “And they have powers that we do not. You said so yourself.”

Snape scowled at the boy’s eager expression. Refusing to acknowledge Potter might actually have a passable idea, he quipped: “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes.”

As Snape left the room, he ran various scenarios through his mind, weighing each one carefully in turn. Potter didn’t know it, but the boy may have stumbled onto the proverbial pot of wizard’s gold, for not only would the Dark Lord never see this coming, he’d likely underestimate the challenge of it as well. If they could use the Dark Lord’s weaknesses and short sightedness against the mad man, they just might have a chance after all.

Harry tried not to flinch as he was assaulted by the bright, pinprick light of Snape’s wand shining into his eyes.

“Equal and reactive,” Snape said with a nod.

Next Harry felt the familiar tingle of the diagnostic spell as it assessed his injuries or, hopefully, lack thereof.

Snape’s disgruntled sigh caught Harry’s attention. “What does it say?” Harry asked.

“According to this,” Snape reported, “you are completely healed.”

“So I can have the mind strengthening potion now?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Perhaps,” Snape said. “First you need to prove that you can stand on your own two feet without becoming light-headed.”

Harry quickly sat up, thrilled to be allowed to get out of bed.

“Not so fast,” Snape snarled. “You’ve wasted enough of my time. I do not wish to patch you up again should you fall.”

 Harry bit back a grin. He felt fine. More than fine. He hadn’t appreciated his body’s ability to move freely until it had been taken away from him. Obediently, least Snape curse him for insubordination, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and slowly stood, testing his weight on his legs and feet. Harry took a few steps around the room, clasped his hands behind his back, glanced at Snape and said cheekily, “All better.”

“Hmm,” Snape grumbled. “Sit and eat your dinner,” Snape said, motioning to the tray of broth, buttered bread, and milk he’d brought into the room. “Next time I’ll leave a few broken bones just to keep you in bed a bit longer.”

Harry had just taken a bite of the bread. “You wouldn’t,” he said around a mouth full of food.

“Would you like to test that theory?”

Harry forced himself to swallow before quickly shaking his head. Then he picked up his glass of milk and took a long, deep swallow. Dipping his bread into the broth and making a show of eating, he murmured, “Sir, about my earlier idea…”

Snape raised a hand in warning. “First things first. We need to test the mind strengthening potion. If that goes well, and if a myriad of other things line up, then and only then will I entertain the possibility of listening to your outlandish notions.”

Harry was about to protest when he realized that Snape had not dismissed him outright. The impossible man must have found some merit to his plan after all. Feeling remarkably content for having thought of something that Snape had not, Harry finished his meal in silence, his plan further solidifying in his mind. 

“What happens now?”

“We wait,” Snape replied, glancing at the window to check the position of the moon in the sky. It was nearing its apex.

“Will he be able to tell that I’ve taken it?”

“The Dark Lord will know that something has changed,” Snape conceded as he stoppered the remainder of the mind strengthening potion and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Although I doubt that he will be able to determine the cause of your increased mental resistance.”

“Does that matter?” Harry asked.

Snape settled onto the other single bed in the room, dimming the candles with a wave of his hand. “He will try different methods of attack to test your defenses. In this way, we will learn what we must prepare for and where his weak points are.”

Snape watched as Harry slid beneath the covers, a look of fierce determination on his face.

“Try to sleep, Potter, ” Snape instructed. “It is going to be a long night.”

Harry awoke in a daze as something—no someone—tried to break into his sleep-weary mind. Images and sounds pushed at the edges of his consciousness, attempting to invade his dreams. Something held them off, though, forestalling the inevitable. As he awoke more, he realized that the potion was doing its job; it was holding Voldemort off.

“Professor,” Harry mumbled, vaguely wondering if he’d spoken aloud or not.

“I am here,” a gravelly voice returned.

Harry realized that strong fingers were wrapped around his forearm, the pressure reassuring. Harry relaxed, relieved in the knowledge that he would not have to face Voldemort alone.

“I think it’s working,” Harry managed to get out. “I feel him trying to put thoughts in my mind but they can’t quite get in.”

“That is only partly the potion,” Snape replied. “I am helping to stave off the images to see what other means of attack the Dark Lord will employ.”

Exhausted, Harry felt himself slipping back toward sleep. When Snape did not object, Harry let go, reassured that between Snape and the potion, he was safe.

“Sir,” Harry said as he absently stirred the porridge in his bowl, “About my plan…”

When Snape looked up at him but said nothing, Harry took a breath and continued. “I think we should attack tonight. I think that the longer we wait, the longer he’ll have to prepare a counter attack.”

Snape set down his spoon, steam curling above his half-finished porridge. “You have been taking the potion for less than a week, Potter.”

“But the potion is working,” Harry countered. “And Voldemort knows something has changed. I don’t want him to get a leg up on us.”

“Your impulsiveness and impudence will serve only to get us killed,” Snape scoffed.

Harry bristled at being thus dismissed. Snape raised a hand to forestall further arguments.

 “While the element of surprise will play a role in our success, Potter, we have no chance of defeating the Dark Lord if we are not fully prepared. Like a game of chess, we need to make sure we know which pawns can be sacrificed, and which pieces must be guarded at all cost. We need to think carefully through each and every move. And we need to able to take another path at a moment’s notice should it become necessary.”

Defiance at Snape’s words built inside of Harry, but just as quickly, he felt it slip away. Biting his lower lip, he murmured: “I don’t know how much longer I can fight him.”

“What do you mean?”

“The potion helps but…”

Snape leaned forward, his expression intense. “But what, Potter?”

Harry paused, meeting Snape’s brooding eyes. “Every night it seems to work a little less than the night before...”

Snape pushed to his feet, his hands pressing on the table as he towered over Harry, a vein throbbing in his temple. Harry resisted the urge to push back from the table to put some distance between them.

“And you are first telling me this now?” Snape bellowed.

Harry flinched. “I didn’t think…”

“You never think!” Snape accused. “You assume. Has no one ever told you what happens when you assume? You make an ass out of you and of me.”

Harry grimaced. He knew Snape wouldn’t take his confession well, but he’d hoped that they could battle Voldemort before the potion became too weak. Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Snape had already stalked angrily from the room, curses echoing behind him. Harry guessed that Snape was going to work more on the potion, which meant more days of experimenting and testing the potion before Snape would even consider attacking Voldemort. Harry signed in defeat, rubbing his aching temples as he considered another long day cooped up in the small cottage with little to do.

“I will not lie to you, elf. This could kill you.”

Harry winced at Snape’s words. Dobby’s eyes were wide as saucers, fear reflecting in their depths. Although what Snape said was true, Harry thought the man could have found a way to say it that was less intimidating. The last thing they needed to do was scare Dobby any more than he already was.

“What Snape is trying to say, Dobby,” Harry interjected, meeting Snape’s gaze with a challenge, “is that this could be dangerous. But we have been working really hard to minimize the risks. We will be doing all of the work. We only need your light to counter our darkness in our fight against Volde—” Dobby squeaked at the name, covering his eyes with his gnarled fingers. “Against he-who-must-not-be-named,” Harry finished lamely.

“I is wanting to help, sirs,” Dobby said, his voice quavering as he peered through his fingers. “But I is not knowing how.”

“We will teach you,” Harry said.

“We will do more than teach you,” Snape said, the derision in his voice aimed at Harry. “We will allow you full access to our minds so that you may understand what we are thinking and doing. We will also shield you from the Dark Lord. If all goes as planned, he will never know you are there at all.”

Harry glanced at Snape, wondering how likely it was that Voldemort would not discover Dobby’s presence.

“If you are willing, Dobby, we will begin practicing tonight,” Snape continued. “When Potter goes to sleep, I will take you into his mind. I will explain to you what is needed. Then, you can make your decision.” 

Dobby’s orb-like eyes glimmered in the dim light of the room. “Harry Potter saved Dobby’s life. And Professor Snape is always treating Dobby kindly.” The little elf seemed to stand up straighter, his shoulders squaring. “Dobby will do whatever he can, sirs, to help Harry Potter and Professor Snape.”

“Are you ready?” Harry asked, his voice quivering with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Dobby bobbed his oddly shaped head, his ears twitching only slightly.

Harry glanced over at Snape, who looked as impassive as ever. Git, Harry thought. Then, leaning towards Dobby, he whispered. “It’s okay to be nervous. I am.”

“Enough with the pep talk,” Snape said, cutting across Harry’s words. “Let us begin.”

Harry glanced at the three of them, sitting together on the floor in a circle, Dobby’s back against the wall, Harry’s against his single bed, and Snape’s against the other single bed. Due to Dobby’s smaller size, it wasn’t quite a perfect circle as Harry and Snape had had to scoot forward so that their knees could all touch. Snape had explained the importance of maintained physical contact, and had positioned them all so that even if they lost consciousness, the wall or the beds would support them, keeping them from breaking contact.

Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and reached out with both of his hands. His right hand bumped against the elf’s small, warm palm. Harry wrapped his fingers around the elf’s, feeling the short, stubby digits tremble slightly. Harry felt the fingers of his left hand being encapsulated by longer, cooler ones. Part of him wanted to pull away from Snape’s grip; the other part of him wanted to find confidence and reassurance in it.

He felt an icy cold tingling sensation as Snape placed a binding charm on their interlocked hands. Snape cast several other charms as well, charms meant to protect them and keep them safe from anything that Voldemort might throw at them over the mind link. Harry fervently hoped that Snape knew what he was doing.

When Snape pronounced that he was finished, Harry felt panic rise within him. Would the mind strengthening potion really work? Was his plan as feeble as Snape claimed it to be? Did they really have a chance of defeating the Dark Lord? Was this all just a crazy suicide mission in which he, Harry, was going take two more beings he cared about down with him?

“Calm yourself,” Snape instructed, tightening his grip on Harry’s sweaty fingers. “Your anxiety will get you nowhere.”

Harry took a deep breath, and tried to empty his mind. Snape was right, and worrying about it would do nothing but give Voldemort the advantage. Willing his heart rate to slow, he focused instead on the knees that were securely positioned against his own, of the palms that beat, warm and reassuring, in his own. If nothing else, he wasn’t alone in this. Dobby had his back, so to speak, and Snape, if nothing else, was true to his word.

Although they had been huddled together in their circle for nearly three-quarters of an hour waiting for the Dark Lord to attack, when the time came, Harry was both calmer and more frightened than he’d anticipated. The linking and protection ceremony that Snape had performed allowed them all to feel, if not always hear, each others’ foremost thoughts and emotions. So when a cloud of darkness started pressing on Harry from all sides, Harry felt not only his own response, but Dobby’s fear and Snape’s steadfastness. Harry settled in to wait. This part was both hard and easy in that he was not supposed to do anything at all, just let it happen. Let the Dark Lord think that he’d successfully taken over Harry’s fragile mind. Let the Dark Lord believe he had won. That way, when the counter attack came, Voldemort would be caught off guard. Or, at least, they hoped he would be.

In the recesses of Harry’s mind, he could feel Snape’s presence beside him, dark and menacing, even though Snape was on the side of the light now. Beneath Voldemort’s shadow, all that was tainted by him radiated evil. Only a pure spirit like Dobby could shine in this darkness, and Snape was successfully shielding Dobby’s presence from the Dark Lord.

“Ah, Harry, so nice to see you again.” The voice was cool and slick like oil, making Harry feel like he would wretch from its putrid presence.

“Have you no words for me, Harry? Aren’t you happy to see me? Weren’t you waiting for me?”

Harry felt himself waiver. Had Voldemort caught on to their plan? But at a strong nudge from Snape, Harry regained his footing.

“As a matter of fact,” Harry said, his voice growing stronger even as he fought the urge to gag, “I have been waiting for you. I was hoping you would come.”

Harry felt the weight of darkness on his chest recede a little, as if the Dark Lord had backed off some. “Were you, my boy? Have you decided to join me after all? To see your skills and talents put to use?”

“Hardly,” Harry coughed out. “I’ve come to see if you’re ready to join the Light.”

Red eyes suddenly glowed brightly through the dark, cloying mist. Harry felt a shiver which he was sure had come from Dobby.

“Me? Join you?” Voldemort cackled. “What can a boy like you possibly offer me, the greatest dark wizard of all time?”

Harry swallowed hard against the bile rising in this throat. He’d had a script to follow, one that Snape had specifically laid out for him and made him memorize, but in the face of Voldemort, it had evaporated as quickly as a drop of dew under a scorching desert sun.

“You were young once,” Harry wagered. “Surely you remember…”

“Remember what?” Voldemort spat. “Remember the weak mother who couldn’t bother staying alive long enough to do more than give birth to me? Or the worthless, vile Muggle father who abandoned his pregnant wife and wouldn’t admit to his own seed?”

The red eyes glowed ominously in the dark, getting closer, and Harry felt as if a storm was brewing. Every instinct in him told him to run and hide, but there was no place to go.

“Or perhaps I should remember the pathetic Muggle orphanage that allowed me floor space. Should I remember those wretched Muggle children who played with their useless Muggle toys while waiting for mummy and daddy to come back for them? Or the mistresses there who claimed to give us nutritious food, needed discipline, and a roof over our heads?”

Harry felt Snape’s nudge, and cleared his throat, hoping for something, anything, to come to his mind.

“Your mother didn’t willingly leave you,” Harry stated, thinking to himself: And neither did mine. “She died to give you a chance in life.” Harry felt Dobby’s hand shaking in his. “She gave you a chance to do something good, and instead you...”

Voldemort’s laugh was loud and distorted. “Something good?” he mimicked in a childlike voice. “Only children worry about ‘good things’. Adults know that the only thing worth worrying about is power. And you, Harry, have no power. You are a weak, pathetic child, just like those Muggles in the orphanage.”

“You may have more power than me,” Harry conceded, “but I have something you’ll never have. I have people who care about me. Friends that care about me.” Harry focused hard on Hermione and Ron, Ginny and Fred and George, the members of the DA, his Quidditch team.

“Friends?” Voldemort chided, as shards of ice swirled through the darkness, popping the images in Harry’s mind like bubbles. “Friends that betrayed you?” Voldemort pressed, throwing up images of Ginny kissing Dean, of Ron walking away from him during the Triwizard Tournament, of Hermione laughing at him, of the DA turning their back on him, of his Quidditch team blaming him for their losses. “Friends are a liability, Potter, a weakness. I have no such weakness.”

“You have no humanity,” Harry spat. He felt the ice daggers closing in on him, making it difficult for him to breathe. Snape was nudging him, but his mind was clouding over. Fight it, he heard Snape’s voice rumble, and for a moment, Harry feared that Voldemort had heard it too.

Suddenly, the image of Harry’s mother danced in front of his eyes. Harry was forced to watch as Voldemort replayed the part where Lily begged for Harry’s life. Harry wrapped his arms around his stomach, straining to breathe.

The high pitched tone of Voldemort’s voice sounded like a voice over. “Love is a liability, a weakness, a disease. It makes people do stupid things. It made you come here tonight thinking you could convert me to the Light.”

Harry coughed, hard, and pushed back the pressing darkness compressing his lungs. “I didn’t think I could convert you,” Harry forced out. “I just wanted to give you a choice before I ended this. Ended you.”

“End me?” Voldemort echoed with derision. “You, end me?”

“Yes,” Harry said, digging deep for a sense of confidence he didn’t feel. “This ends. Tonight. Just you and me. Here. Tonight.”

Voldemort’s red glowing eyes disappeared but Voldemort’s cackling laughter still echoed around all around him.

Harry felt himself being thrown to the ground.

“I am a part of you, Harry. Didn’t you know? The only way you can end me is to end yourself as well.”

“What will be, will be,” Harry replied, channeling Snape’s last words to him.

“What about all your little friends, Harry? Don’t you care about them anymore? What will your death do to them?”

Harry slammed the door on those fears and feelings, willing the Dark Lord not to know just how much that had haunted him. Not seeing Ron or Hermione or Ginny again. Knowing how much they’d grieve for him, as he would for them.

“Love is eternal,” he countered.

“Love,” Voldemort spat. “Not even your own blood could love a little freak like you, could they?” Voldemort threw up pictures of the Dursleys, images Harry had long since forgotten. Like the time that Vernon had caught Harry looking at Dudley’s new bike in the garage and had beaten him so badly that Harry had wet his pants. Or the time that Harry had burned Dudley’s breakfast, and Petunia had instructed Dudley to put the hot frying pan on Harry’s bare back to teach him a lesson, searing his skin until Harry had passed out from the pain. On and on the images played; little Harry crying for his mummy in his cupboard, Dudley’s gang chasing him, Vernon wholloping him, Petunia degrading him.

Harry felt the heat creep up his cheeks, embarrassment coloring his vision. He felt soothing pinpricks of heat on his ankles, and thought that it might have been Dobby’s way of giving support. It took all of his effort to push the visions away.

“You call that love?” Voldemort sneered. “That is what you fight for?”

And then Harry was walking in the woods with Dudley. The night air was cool and brisk, the moon waning. Harry stayed a step behind, never quite trusting his cousin, as they took the shortcut between Magnolia Crescent and Privet Drive. They were nearing the clearing. There was the big oak tree. Harry’s steps faltered and his mind reeled.

“No!” Harry shouted, suddenly realizing what Voldemort was doing. Frantically, he tried to pull away from Snape’s and Dobby’s grasp. He felt Snape’s grip tighten in response, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care.

“No?” Voldemort coaxed.

“No, not that,” Harry breathed, his voice an echo of the horror he felt. Snape was nudging him insistently now, but Harry ignored him.

And then the images were there, flashing. Harry, being jumped from behind, his wand being kicked away. Dudley’s gang surrounding him. Their malicious laughter. Their even more malicious intent. Harry being pushed to the ground and being there, spread eagle. Harry’s clothes being torn from his body as he shouted and fought to get away. And then the sound of one of the boy’s unzipping his pants.*

“STOP IT!” Harry yelled, desperately trying to extricate himself from Snape and Dobby’s grips. “Stop!”

Humiliation was like a hundred ton weight on Harry’s chest. He felt his fingers tearing free from Dobby’s as he struggled, determined not to let them see what Dudley’s gang had done to him. They’d already seen more than he’d ever wanted anyone to, but this, this was just too much. And then, finally, he was letting go, falling free of the shackles that were Dobby, freeing himself from Snape, and from the memory that was his ultimate humiliation.

“Stop.”

Harry stilled instantly. That one word in that one voice commanded his instant attention. Snape’s voice. He felt Dobby’s grasp reassert itself. Snape’s grasp, which had never wavered, was as firm as ever.

Though Harry’s agonized screams from the night Dudley’s gang had jumped him still echoed around him, the actual images had disappeared. Harry hung his head. Voldemort had done exactly what Snape said he would; Voldemort had broken his resolve. Harry glanced over to see Snape standing beside him, tall and regal in all of his buttoned-up glory. He wanted to tell Snape he was sorry, but at that moment, Voldemort chose to show himself fully, his snake like features glinting ominously through the mist.

“So,” Voldemort crooned, “you are here to protect little Harry, are you?”

Snape stared impassively at his former master, saying nothing.

“How touching. Perhaps it’s time to tell little Harry here about all of your nasty secrets. Let’s see what he thinks of you then, Severussss.”

Harry felt Snape brace himself. Harry lifted his head and squared his shoulders too. If Snape could be there for him, then he could be there for Snape too.

The first scene to materialize was the one of the night Harry had been abducted and tortured by the circle of Death Eaters. Although the sight was not new—Voldemort had even used it before against him in a vision after Harry’s broom accident—the stench of his own blood and urine and vomit was. He leaned sideways and vomited, unable to stop himself. Voldemort hooted with laughter at this display of perceived weakness.

“If this is how your hero treats you,” Voldemort said, waving his hand to fast forward the vision to where Snape cursed Harry, “it’s no wonder you are here with me now.”

Harry wiped his mouth with his sleeve and coughed, trying to regain his composure. Using all his might, he pushed Voldemort’s vision away, replacing it with one of his own: Snape, in an uncharacteristic act of kindness, obtaining a school broom for him and and allowing him to fly around the cottage’s perimeter. It was a simple thing, really, but it showed a side of Snape that had been new to Harry and the vision grounded him. He stood up straighter and dug his heels in, ready to fight.

 Voldemort scoffed, discarding Harry’s vision with a dismissive gesture. “I wonder, Harry, if you know just how many Muggles and Mudbloods your Potions Masters has killed.”

“On your orders,” Harry snapped.

“Mmm, on my orders indeed,” Voldemort purred. Then he turned his attention to Snape. “You were a good servant, were you not, Severusss…”

Harry mentally nudged Snape as Snape had done to him. He wondered if Snape found it reassuring or simply annoying.

“Such a good a servant, in fact, that you brought me the very information that led me right to Harry’s parents.” Glancing back at Harry, Voldemort chided, “Did your esteemed Professor tell you that he is the reason I killed your mummy and daddy, dear Harry?”

Harry gritted his teeth and gave Snape’s hand a squeeze. “He told me that, yes. He overheard the Prophesy and relayed it to you.” Harry felt momentarily vindicated at the look of surprise on Voldemort’s pale features. Perhaps emboldened by this, Harry added, “He would never have spied for you if he’d have known that it would have led you to my mum.”

Snape stiffened and Harry wondered if he’d said too much.

“Ah yes. Lily,” Voldemort taunted. “Dear, precious Lily.”

Harry felt Snape’s whole demeanor tense. This, he knew, was Snape’s Achilles heel. He squeezed Snape’s hand harder, silently imploring him to stay strong.

“I wonder,” Voldemort pondered, relishing each word as if it were a particularly tasty morsel. “Has Severus told you about Heaven?”

Harry felt Snape jerk and wondered if Voldemort had cursed him. Looking over, he saw that Snape had paled visibly and his whole body had gone rigid.   

Voldemort’s smile stretched across pointed, yellow teeth. “Ah, Severusss… I see you haven’t told to the boy everything, now have you?” Delighted to be teasing out a weakness in Severus after all, Voldemort continued. “You weren’t your mum’s first child, Harry. Your mum had a child before you… with Severus.”

Harry shook his head in denial. His mum and Severus? A child? It couldn’t be. Through his shock, Harry could still hear Severus’s whispered words.

“You can’t… you couldn’t… no one knew…”

Voldemort’s sneered in triumph. “I looked into her mind before I killed her. Pathetic Mudblood, whining about not being able to lose another child.” Images of a green-eyed, black-haired infant flashed across the mist in front of them, its tiny fists clutching a toy snake.

“No,” Severus breathed.

Harry was stunned. Severus was shaking beside him, but all Harry could see was the image of Snape and his mum smiling and cooing over this black-haired child in a wooden bassinet; a girl, his half-sister.

“They called it Heaven. Short for ‘Henrietta Evan’, I believe. Henrietta Evan Snape,” Voldemort spat, relishing pain he was clearly causing Snape. Turning to Harry, he said, “How quaint, don’t you think, Harry?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “Was Heaven your idea, Severusss? A pet name for a dirty blood pet child?”

Snape bellowed in pain and rage. Harry was reminded of the pained howls he’d heard from the man as Snape had held Lily’s body after Voldemort had killed her. The noises Snape was making now, though, made that shrieks of pain from that memory sound feeble.

Voldemort’s next words made Harry jump. “It was still a baby when it died, wasn’t it. Six months old, maybe? Lily couldn’t stand the sight of you after Heaven died, could she?”

 “Severus, NO,” Harry shouted. Snape was pulling his hand out of Harry’s, likely trying to curse or strangle the Dark Lord, or both. “WAIT!”

Harry jumped in front of Severus, positioning himself between his Potion’s master and the Dark Lord, his eyes blazing with renewed purpose. Behind him, Snape struggled against the bonds that were Harry and Dobby.

“You may have killed my first family,” Harry said, staring directly into Voldemort’s glowing red eyes, “but I have a new family now. And. You. Will. Not. Hurt. Them.” Concentrating hard, Harry filled the graying mist around them with images of his family and friends, of him and Snape playing chess in the small cottage, of Hermione’s passionate embrace and Ron’s more subdued one, of Molly Weasley’s kisses good-bye, of Arthur Weasley’s handshakes and pats on the back, of Dobby and him playing exploding snap (this vision earned an even louder sigh of disgust from Voldemort), of lunches and dinners shared across scarred wooden tables, of sad year-end good-byes and joyous welcome-backs.

“Pathetic,” Voldemort sneered. “Love is nothing. Power, on the other hand, is EVERYTHING.”

And with that, Voldemort raised his arms, screaming in a high pitch voice that would have had Harry covering his ears if a burning, stabbing pain hadn’t stole his breath away and prostrated him on the ground. His head was bursting. Pain like he’d never felt before was exploding outward from his scar, tearing every fiber of him to shreds. Tortured screams echoed in his ears; his, he knew, but Snape’s too. Snape. He tried to hold onto that thought. The only way they’d get out of this alive was if he could reconnect with Snape. But the pain. Even the worst Crucio in the world couldn’t compare to this. His vision narrowed to the point of a pin, the sounds of screams around him crashing against him like jumbo waves, and then everything faded to black. A part of him welcomed the oblivion that unconsciousness promised, but another part of him knew that if he let go, he’d be dead. And if he died, they’d all die.

Chocking for breath he managed one last plea before he slipped headlong into the abyss: Dobby, help.

If Harry had been conscious and thinking straight, he would have noticed that the dark, ominous mist surrounding them had lightened considerably. In fact, it had gone from a harsh, smoky gray to a light river-washed stone-gray. And with it, a source of bright white light shone from an oddly-shaped lump of clay, with two points that stood above the rest, quivering rhythmically.

“Dobby will not let you kill Harry Potter and Professor Snape.”

Voldemort’s shrieking paused and he lowered his arms, looking momentarily confused at the white, glowing shape. Tilting his head, Voldemort puzzled out what he was looking at, ignoring the being’s words entirely. “House elf,” he finally spat dismissively. “Clean this filth up,” he demanded, pointing at the prone figures of Harry and Snape who had stopped writhing, and now lay, bloodied and barely breathing, on the ground at Dobby’s feet. “Remove them from my sight.”

 “Dobby is a free elf. Dobby doesn’t take orders from bad wizards. And you is a bad, bad wizard.” Dobby’s arms and legs trembled and his ears twitched, but his voice remained steady.

Voldemort looked as if Dobby had slapped him across the face. Likely Voldemort had never been defied by any mortal before, much less a house elf. Voldemort raised a hand to curse Dobby, but just as he did so, a glowing white globe shimmered; an elf-made protection shield encapsulating not only the elf, but Harry and Snape as well. As Voldemort’s eyes blazed, Dobby fought the instinct to grab his friends and run. He knew that if he did that, He-who-must-not-be-named would continue to torment them all.

Instead, he reached down and took the cold hands of Harry and Snape. “Wake up,” he instructed while sending ancient waves of healing magic toward both of them.

Slowly, Snape and Harry stumbled to their knees and finally to their feet. They leaned against each other, groggy and disoriented. Harry reached for Snape’s hand to complete the circle.

Voldemort looked on with a knowing smile, dismissing their futile display of unity as naïve and pitiful.

“You has destroyed enough lives,” Dobby proclaimed. “You is not destroying anymore.”

“Is that so?” Voldemort quipped, raising his arms again and shrieking. But this time, nothing happened. Voldemort called upon the elements, throwing shards of ice at the trio. He smothered them with evil mist. He crushed them shameful visions. He attacked them with lies and deceit. He cursed and threatened and poisoned and fought, until his energy began to falter. And still, nothing happened.

“Love has a power all its own,” Dobby said softly. “Love can destroy. But love can also create. Love can forgive. Love can protect. Love can save.”

And under Dobby’s quiet urgings, the three of them, hands held tight, channeled all of their will into the bubble of elfin magic that Dobby had created to protect them. The power built and pulsed, pushing out against the dark, driving it back to the edges. With one final, determined push, it burst, shattering into a million shards, driving light-filled wedges into the Dark Lord’s soul.

The screech that came from the destruction of Voldemort’s soul was deafening. Dobby stood in awe, taking in the clean white mist surrounding him; the absence of dark magic was a balm to his soul. Voldemort was no more. As Dobby clapped his hands together in pride and glee, he turned to share his happiness with his two friends. Horror struck him as he realized that not only was Voldemort gone, but Harry and Snape were too. Suddenly terrified, and with a feeling of foreboding weighing down his every move, Dobby scrambled to the surface, clawing and scratching his way out of Harry’s mind.

Harry and Snape lay sprawled on the floor of the smallest bedroom, ashen and not moving. Snape’s left forearm was flayed open to the bone, looking like a bomb had exploded where his Dark Mark had been. Harry’s head was cracked open like a pumpkin hit with a severing charm after Halloween.

Dobby swayed on his feet, bright lights popping in his peripheral vision. “Oh no,” he cried. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Harry moaned softly, his head pounding as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He heard someone else groan as well, and opened his eyes a crack. Snape was in the sick bed across the room, cursing as he cradled his left arm, which was wrapped in crisp, white bandages. Dobby was hovering over him.

“I know what that potion is, elf. I brewed it!”

“It is the only other choice, Professor Snape, sir. You is having to drink it, sir.”

“That potion causes as much harm as good,” Snape countered.

“Professor needs to heal,” Dobby pleaded. “I can gets you the other potion, sir…”

“No,” Snape stated firmly. “Give me the damn vial.”

Cursing under his breath, Snape swallowed its contents in one long gulp before slamming the it back down. Then he began to shake violently. His arms and legs shot out, going rigid and pulsing uncontrollably while Snape keened in pain. Harry levered himself up onto one elbow, concerned. Was Snape having a seizure? Should he try and help? A moment later, the fit seemed to have passed. Wide-eyed, Harry was still looking at Snape when the man himself rolled over, panting, and snapped, “What are you looking at?”

It took Harry a moment to get his wits about him. Seeing that Snape seemed to have recovered, Harry decided against asking what he had just witnessed. Instead, he made a sweeping gesture to indicate the state he was in, and said, “What happened?” His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen, making it difficult to form coherent words.

“Dobby nearly killed us trying to save our lives,” Snape retorted. Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he added, “As such, I’ve offered him a paid position as a Potion’s assistant in my lab.” Downing a glass of water, he added, “For some unfathomable reason, he accepted.”

Harry smiled as Dobby preened at the veiled compliment.

“And Volde—” Harry began, but corrected himself when Dobby’s shuddered at the name. “He-who-not-be-named. Is he…?”

“Finished, yes,” Snape confirmed.

“Is he dead-dead?” Harry asked.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Is there any other kind?”

Harry fell back on his pillow, feeling as if a great burden had been lifted off his chest. He had the urge to ask if Snape was absolutely positively sure, but knew Snape would bite his head off if he did. Turning onto his back, he moaned involuntarily, bringing his hands to his temples, and fighting a wave of nausea. The throbbing pressure in his cranium had reached a crescendo. “Oh my head…”

Dobby rushed to his side. “Harry Potter needs to drink this, sir. It is Professor Snape’s strongest pain potion, sir.” Leaning over to shield Harry from Snape’s view, Dobby whispered, “Professor Snape refuses to drink it, sir, because it is almost gone and he wants yous to have it, sir.”

In too much agony to argue, Harry downed the potion as quickly as he could, then lay back and waited for the nausea to subside and the pain to dissipate.

“Dobby will make you and the Professor dinner,” Dobby informed them. Harry watched through lidded eyes as the elf left the room.

When he was feeling a little better, he turned onto his side and squinted at Snape. Trying again, he asked, “So what happened? The last thing I remember is…”

Harry thought, sorting through his memories with some difficulty. Heaven. Oh Merlin, Henrietta Evan, Heaven, Snape. He saw the tiny baby girl in his mind: Snape’s shiny black hair with his mother’s soft curls. Her cupid-bow face with his mother’s pert nose and green eyes—his eyes—and Snape’s dour lips, pointed chin, and high forehead. He wondered how the baby had died. He wanted to ask, wanted to know more about his mother and his baby half-sister, and Snape too even, but knew better than to ask. He sincerely hoped that Snape would tell him about them someday. Redirecting his thoughts, he focused on what had happened after that shocking revelation. “The last thing I remember is projecting my happiest memories.”

“Those were your happiest memories?” Snape asked.

“Yeah, well. They’re not much, but they’re all I’ve got.”

Snape said nothing for a long time. When he spoke, it was in a detached, monotone voice. “The Dark Lord cursed us, you through your scar and me through my Dark Mark. Dobby stepped in to save us. We were both very weak by then, and if Dobby hadn’t made himself known when he did…” Snape trailed off, and then added: “That elf has the courage of ten wizards.”

Continuing, Snape said, “As expected, the Dark Lord underestimated Dobby’s powers. Dobby created an impenetrable sphere to protect us, and then used it against the Dark Lord to weaken him. When the protective orb finally shattered, it destroyed the Dark Lord.” Snape paused to clear his throat. “It also destroyed everything else that was connected to the Dark Lord.”

Harry looked towards Snape’s bandaged left arm and then raised his hand to his bandaged head. “Hence, the headache.”

“No,” Snape stated. “Dobby healed us, physically. The headaches,” Snape rubbed his own head subconsciously, “are from an imbalance of magic.”

“Oh,” Harry responded, not sure what to think. “How do we fix that?”

Snape sighed, loudly. Resigned, he replied: “Dobby.”

Harry, his head an aching, throbbing mess, and Snape, who looked to be in no better condition, sat on the dining room floor.

“Yous needs to be closer,” Dobby insisted, “till your knees is touching.”

Harry scooted forward, bumping his bony knees against Snape’s knobby ones.

“Watch it, Potter,” Snape snarled.

Harry gritted his teeth. This wasn’t his idea, after all, and he was sure he felt as bad as, if not worse, than Snape did. After all, he’d had his whole head cracked open; Snape had only suffered a wound on one arm. Still, he listened to each of Dobby’s instructions, noting that Snape was doing the same. He found it somewhat ironic that this was the very spot that Snape and Dobby had healed him when Snape had first brought him to his mum’s cottage. He wondered if that was significant.

“Potter, pay attention,” Snape snapped.

Harry shook himself from his reverie, apologized to Dobby, and asked the elf to repeat what he had said. Harry soon found himself with both palms outstretched, almost touching Snape’s but not quite, and leaning his forehead toward Snape’s. They both cursed when their forehead’s bumped, and tried to stay still and to lean equally into each other, as Dobby had advised. Harry thought that they must look like some absurd pyramid.

Trying to sit perfectly still, Harry willed away the nausea that threatened to break the connection that Dobby was trying to establish between he and Snape. Harry was sweaty and felt dizzy, the room threatening to spin beneath him. When Dobby spoke, though, a few words that Harry could not understand, his stomach settled and peace spread through him. Harry felt the pain slipping away as Dobby placed an elfin palm on the top of each of their heads. Suddenly, Harry could feel the magic within him shifting and realigning. It swirled in his gut and up to his head, saturating his undernourished tissues. He felt as if his magic was being reborn.

“Wow,” he breathed.

Dobby continued to chant, and as he did so, white light arced from Harry’s palm to Snape’s, and vice-versa. Harry watched in amazement as the light danced back and forth. Was Dobby creating a connection between them? Or just solidifying an existing one? Were they giving each other magic? Or was their magic simply being returned to each owner after the previous exchanges that had been made, first to save Harry’s life, and then to save Snape’s? As the energy pulsed between them, rejuvenating Harry and washing away any hint that he’d ever been cursed by dark magic, he realized that it really didn’t matter. He was just happy to be alive and breathing. The Dark Lord was gone. His followers were likely gone as well. He could come out of hiding. He could return to Hogwarts. He could see his friends again. He could be free. Once and for all, he could truly be free.

Without meaning to, without even thinking about it, he lifted his forehead from Snape’s and let his fingers fall forward, lacing them tightly with the older man’s as their palms came together. He raised his eyes to Snape, full of wonder at the miracle that life and freedom were. And there, for just a moment, he saw a reflection of what he was feeling in Snape’s eyes as well; that same hope of a life all one’s own, a life not beholden to any master, good or evil. Then Dobby stopped chanting and the moment was broken. Snape’s face became guarded once again, and Harry dropped both his hands and his eyes.

“How does you feel?” Dobby asked. The elf’s voice was labored and he looked a bit drained, but his eyes shone with pride and devotion.

“As always, Dobby, your work is exceptional,” Snape said, getting to his feet and pocketing the wand which had been laying across his lap.

“Yeah, thanks, Dobby,” Harry said, getting up as well. “You’re a life saver.” Stretching, Harry added, “I feel great!”

Dobby looked ready to topple over from happiness.

“I don’t even have a headache anymore,” Harry said, reaching up to touch his forehead. He paused, and then rubbed the smooth skin where his scar used to be. “It’s gone,” he murmured in surprise. “My scar, it’s gone!” He looked up to see Snape watching him curiously.

“Is yours gone too?” Harry asked.

Snape grimaced. “Yes,” he said, and then left the room.

Harry looked at Dobby, whose eyes had clouded over a bit with sadness.

“Some scars is harder to part with than others, sir.”

“You mean he likes being marked as a Death Eater?”

“No, Harry Potter, sir. I thinks he thought it was his punishment, sir. A reminder of his failings, sir.”

“Dumbledore says that everyone deserves a second chance,” Harry mused.

“Dumbledore is a foolish old man with foolish ideals,” Snape called from the living room. Although his words might have been harsh, his voice held more folly than disdain.

Harry smiled and gave a very surprised Dobby a high five. Then he said, “So, Dobby, how does it feel to be Hogwarts’s newest Potions apprentice?”

“Assistant,” Snape corrected from the other room.

“Are you sure about that?” Harry called back.

When there was only a grunt in response, Dobby meekly reached out to give Harry a high five back, smiling as widely as Harry had ever seen him.

<1 year later / 1 year post-Voldemort>

As Harry walked up the beaten path, he reminisced about the year that had passed since he, Snape, and Dobby had defeated Voldemort. After fully recuperating at his mum’s cottage, as well as giving the Wizarding World time to settle into a Voldemort-free existence, Snape and Harry had returned to Hogwarts. School had been on break for the summer holiday, but all of the teachers had returned to greet them and celebrate their success. Upon Harry’s insistence, a sheepish Dobby had made his way up from the kitchens to accept everyone’s praises as well. Dumbledore himself had escorted the three of them to the Ministry and had overseen their interviews in front of the entire Wizengamot. Harry’s had been the easiest, with him receiving a standing ovation and an Order of Merlin First Class almost immediately. Snape’s case had been more challenging, what with his history as a Death Eater and only Dumbledore as a witness to his redemption. It took Snape showing everyone that he now lacked the Dark Mark—as well as the knowledge that anyone carrying the Dark Mark had died when Voldemort did—that had finally persuaded the remaining members who were most reticent to forgive Snape for past crimes committed in the Dark Lord’s service. That left Dobby. The house elf’s interview had lasted the longest, and it took all of Dumbledore’s, his, and Snape’s persuasive skills to ensure that Dobby became the first non-human creature to be awarded an Order of Merlin First Class. Exhausted, they had all returned to the castle, triumphant in their Order of Merlins and in their welcome back to the Wizarding World. The only disappointment had come the next morning when, at breakfast with Dumbledore, Harry had learned that Snape had already departed the school. Shortly thereafter, Dobby had joined the potions master. It had taken Harry nearly a year to track down Snape’s whereabouts, and as he continued up the path, he wondered just what the reclusive wizard’s welcome would be like. No one had seen Snape since his interview at the Ministry. Dumbledore had requested that Harry respect the man’s privacy, and Harry had done so,  but today was the one year anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat, and while the remainder of the Wizarding World had gathered together to celebrate, Harry had been preoccupied with thoughts of the man and the elf who, together, had saved his life.

As Harry approached the unassuming stone cottage, he took in the flowers and herbs growing out of crooked wooden window boxes as well as haphazardly along the cobblestone path. Their disarray was offset by a maze of neat garden plots along the side of the abode, filled with a variety of plants which Harry assumed to be potions ingredients. He smiled at the thought of Snape and Dobby working together to grow and harvest the many different varieties. As a soft wind fluttered through the trees that dotted the property, Harry could smell the sweet scent of flower blossoms floating on the air. He felt at peace here, and was not the least surprised that Snape had chosen a location so far out in the country. With no neighbors in sight, and no media knocking at his door at all hours of the day and night as they had with Harry, Harry could definitely see the appeal of having a country home to escape to.

With a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, he knocked at the plain wooden door and waited. Surely Snape had already been alerted to his presence. Snape would have had wards galore surrounding his property. That thought brought another one quickly on its heels: if Snape had not wanted Harry to be able to find this place, he wouldn’t have been able to. Thus, Snape must have keyed his wards to accept Harry. As Harry pondered the significance of this, the cottage door swung open.

“Harry Potter, sir!” a shrill voice squealed. Harry looked down to see the owner of the voice and nearly keeled over in shock.

“Dobby?” Harry asked.

Smiling widely, Dobby nodded. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir.”

“Wow,” Harry breathed. “You look so…”

“Refined?” a sharp voice intoned from the background, its owner unseen.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. Harry shook the house elf’s hand heartily and smiled. “You look great, Dobby, really you do.”

Dobby beamed at the complement, spinning around in a circle to show off his wardrobe. He was dressed in a long, black frock coat with small black buttons from neck to navel, and long tails that nearly touched the ground. Beneath that he wore what looked like black pantaloons, and he even had shiny black shoes on his feet. Harry realized that he’d never seen an elf wear shoes before.

“Dobby is still wearing the socks Harry Potter gave him, sir,” Dobby said, extending each leg in turn to show Harry one bright orange sock with black stripes and one lime green sock with red polka dots.

“That’s great, Dobby,” Harry said, stepping into the cottage.

Harry barely had a chance to look around as he followed Dobby toward what he would soon realize was the kitchen. What he did notice was that the cottage was full of light and color, with windows letting in the afternoon sun, their rays dancing off of books and parchment, and sea shells? Harry was so busy trying to wrap his mind around that fact, and how different this place was from how he’d expected the bat of the dungeons to live, that he nearly tripped when he saw the potions master himself.

“Snape,” he breathed in surprise, looking the man up and down.

“Potter,” Snape said, raising his eyes only a moment from the cauldron brochure he was perusing.

“You look…” Harry stammered, taking in the man’s tanned, healthy complexion and casual yet respect-worthy attire. The Snape he had known had been sallow-skinned with greasy hair and a lined, work-weary face. This man looked 20 years younger, and dare he say it, relaxed and… content? Harry shook his head, wondering if this unexpected image of his potions master would change. When it didn’t, he cleared his throat and said instead: “It’s good to see you. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”

Snape merely nodded, not looking up from his catalog.

“How are things going?” Harry inquired, feeling a bit awkward. He had felt the urge to spend at least part of this day with the two friends who had kept him sane and helped him to defeat the evilest wizard of all time. But now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“Professor Snape is training Dobby in potions, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said, beaming with pride. “Professor Snape is a good and patient teacher. He is showing Dobby how to choose all of the ingredients and how to use them properly. He is even allowing Dobby to package the potions and send them by owl to fill the orders, sir.”

Harry grinned. “I am sure you are doing a very good job, Dobby.”

Snape ruffled the paper in his hands. “It is remarkable what one can teach someone who wants to learn,” Snape said, meeting Harry’s gaze with a pointed look.

“I suppose it is,” Harry conceded. “Will you return to Hogwarts to teach next year, sir?” Dumbledore had announced that Snape was taking a well-deserved break during Harry’s seventh year. Harry wondered if Snape’s decision not to teach had had anything to do with the fact that Harry would have been in his class.

Snape laid the brochure on the table and laced his fingers together, studying Harry with a calculating expression. “That remains to be seen,” Snape replied. “And you, Potter, what will you do now that you have graduated?”

Harry had been asking himself that very question. “That remains to be seen,” he echoed, producing a bottle of Ogden’s Finest Firewhiskey and three glass goblets from a knapsack he’d been carrying with him. “Care to drink to our indecision?” he asked.

Snape rolled his obsidian eyes, but reached for one of the glasses nonetheless. “I am not indecisive,” he countered. “I am merely considering my options.”

“Me too,” Harry said as he popped the top on the whiskey and poured whiskey into Snape’s goblet. He poured some for Dobby, who looked astonished at being included, and then filled his own glass as well. “Here’s to the future,” he said, raising his cup. Dobby squeaked and Snape grunted, but after a loud clink, they all took a swig of the fiery liquid. Harry had to pound a coughing Dobby on the back after whiskey nearly caused the elf to choke, but once they’d settled in, it didn’t take long to finish off the whole bottle.

<4 years later / 5 years post-Voldemort>

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby chimed, relief evident on his face.

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry said, shedding his rain-sodden cloak and stepping out of his shoes once inside the door. “I was delayed at the Burrow.” Harry followed the eager house elf into the kitchen where Snape was seated, a copy of the Daily Prophet spread out before him.

“Anything interesting?” Harry asked.

“There never is,” Snape muttered, closing the paper and setting it aside as he accepted the bottle of Ogden’s Finest Firewhiskey that Harry handed him. Expertly uncorking it, Snape poured the amber liquid into the three crystal goblets already arranged on the table.

As had become their custom, Harry raised his goblet to clink with the others. Harry normally started off the toasts, but looked to Dobby this night instead. Dobby, feeling the weight of Harry’s expectation, looked startled. When Snape’s gaze joined Harry’s, Dobby squeaked “To another year of potions learning with Master Snape, sir, and another year of good health for Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow at Harry, but when Harry looked away, Snape spoke, “To one year in my illustrious career at Hogwarts without any dunderheads for students.”

Hands trembling, Harry choked back a nervous laugh at Snape’s sardonic words. Steadying himself, he pronounced: “To my soon-to-be bride, Ginny Weasley.”

Dobby squealed with delight, while Snape looked faintly amused. Together, the three of them sipped their drinks, contemplating the year to come.

<2 years later / 7 years post-Voldemort>

“To another dreaded year with the idiots who call themselves my students,” Snape grumbled.

“To Master Snape, sir,” Dobby intoned, “and to my friend Harry Potter, sir, and his Ginny.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry chimed in: “To my unborn child, who is due to be born next month.”

Snape choked on his drink. “The child of rule-breaker Potter and his hellfire wife? Merlin help us all.”

Harry beamed with excitement and winked at Dobby, taking a long swig of his whiskey before topping off all of their goblets in celebration.

<1 year later / 8 years post-Voldemort>

“To the newest member of my growing family who arrived a fortnight ago,” Harry said, raising his goblet, “Albus Severus Potter.”

Snape froze, his own cup half-way to his mouth, his expression comically confused. “You named him WHAT?” Snape spluttered, banging his crystal goblet down on the table.

Dobby rushed to Snape’s side, mopping up the spilled liquid with a tea towel.

“Albus Severus,” Harry repeated calmly, bowing his head to hide his smile. Risking a look at his former potions masters, Harry added, “A fine name, don’t you agree?”

<1.5 years later / 9.5 years post-Voldemort>

Harry knocked vigorously on the wooden door before rubbing his hands together, as much from the cold as nerves. The wind blew icy and brisk, ruffling his cloak and whipping the freshly fallen snow into his face. He was taking a chance that Snape would even be here over the Christmas holiday. It was out of character for Harry to visit any time other than their unspoken annual tradition each spring to mark the Mad Man’s death.

Harry had just raised his hand to knock again when Snape opened the door.

“What has happened?” Snape inquired, a look of concern momentarily fleeting across his normally unreadable features.

Harry hesitated. Why he felt compelled to share his news with Snape was beyond him, yet the impulse was there, undeniable and unrelenting.

“May I come in?” Harry asked.

Snape quirked an eyebrow and stepped aside, motioning Harry toward the kitchen, which was their usual meeting place.

As Harry strode past, he noticed numerous potions awards newly framed and hanging in the hallway.

“Dobby,” Snape allowed, his voice tinged with exasperation.

Harry nodded knowingly. Those two were made for each other. “Where is Dobby?” Harry asked.

“He is brewing. Shall I fetch him?”

“Please,” Harry said. Dobby was wise beyond measure and made a good buffer when it came to Snape’s irascible nature and abrupt mood swings.

With shaky hands, Harry fetched the crystal goblets from the cabinet and poured three tall glasses of their usual poison: Ogden’s Finest Firewhiskey. Then he sat down and waited.

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby cried. “It is good to see you, sir!”

“And you,” Harry said, relaxing at the elf’s presence while taking in his appearance. Dobby looked more and more like Snape each time Harry saw him if that were possible. Dressed in forbidding clothing like his adopted master, Dobby’s bright, mismatched socks were the only reminder of his more humble beginnings. “How are you, Dobby?”

“Dobby is very good, sir. Master Snape is teaching Dobby much, sir. Dobby is brewing his own potions now, sir.”

“That’s great, Dobby,” Harry said, returning Dobby’s proud smile.

Harry glanced up in time to see the potions master himself enter the room. His dark robes swung around him like a second skin, his expression as he took in the glasses of firewhiskey grim. He looked less at ease than he did when Harry visited in the summer. Harry guessed that the strain of Hogwarts’ students added extra lines to the man’s face.

“What brings you here, Potter?” Snape inquired.

“Two things, actually,” Harry hedged. He fumbled with the stem of his goblet, trying to pluck up his courage. “I wanted to ask you about your… ” Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “About your daughter. Henrietta.” Henrietta Evan, Heaven. His half-sister.  

Snape paled, the muscles of his face contorting into something very unwelcoming, and his shoulders bunching as if readying for a fight.

“I’m sorry,” Harry quickly interjected. “I didn’t mean to spring this on you like this, but…”

“But what?” Snape snapped, anger clear in his tone.

“Ginny… we… we had a daughter. Three months ago. And she…” Harry paused, and bit his lip. Tension hung in the air as thick as molasses.

An interminable silence passed before Snape barked with impatience. “She what?”

Unable to say the words, Harry pulled a photograph from his pocket, and with a look of regret, slid it across the table to Snape.

As his gaze alighted on the moving photograph, Snape felt as if someone had just sucker punched him in the gut, hard. “Heaven,” he breathed. He glanced quickly at Potter to see if this was some kind of sick joke, but the look on Potter’s face assured him it was not.

His hands trembling and his throat swelling shut, he studied the baby girl in the photo. His baby girl. “No,” he whispered. “It’s not possible.” But she looked identical. She had the same bright green eyes—Lily’s eyes—the same black hair. She even had that one tight springy curl at her left temple, the one that no matter how many times he had pulled the silky strands through his fingers to straighten it, it had always sprung right back to its original shape. Her cheeks were rosy and her cupid’s bow lips were pursed in a way that reminded Snape of an impending storm. She might bellow at some perceived injustice, or she might burst into laughter if he could just distract her long enough to forget. He would tickle the soft skin on the bottom of her feet, or blow raspberries on her tummy. He remembered how her whole face would change, reflecting delight instead of insolence. How she’d reach for him and touch his stubbly cheek, giggling for all the world to see. How Lily would sidle up next to them, lean her shoulder against his, and stroke Heaven’s baby fine hair first, and then his own thicker, raven hair before kissing them both on the cheek in turn before returning to whatever she had been doing. He ran his index finger longingly along the babe’s cheek, his heart aching in a way he thought he’d never have to suffer again.

Abruptly Snape pushed up from the table, leaving a nervous Potter and a stunned Dobby behind as he paced over to the sink. Bracing himself against the cool porcelain, he stared blankly out into the back gardens, the bleak and forlorn landscape mirroring the desolation of his soul.

Feeling ill at ease, Harry exchanged a worried glance with Dobby.

“We named her Lily,” Harry offered, hoping his words might lend some comfort. “Lily Luna Potter.”

Harry watched as Snape nodded once, his back still turned, but otherwise remained rigid.

“Would you like to meet her?” Harry asked tentatively. He heard a stifled sob and knew that that was the wrong thing to say. He felt like he should go the man, offer some comfort, but Snape was not a man that accepted such things from others.

“Why did you come here tonight, Potter? Why tell me this?” Snape rasped.

Harry felt the whip of accusation in Snape’s words. Why had he felt the need to tell Snape? To bring up the man’s most painful past? “Honestly,” Harry whispered, “I’m not sure. It feels like a sign. Ever since she was born, I had this feeling that you were supposed to be a part of her life. Even though I named Al after you, I didn’t have the same feeling with him.” Harry paused, considering his next words. “And then, as she grew, I just knew. I tried to ignore it, but as each day passed, I knew she looked more and more like Heaven. This photo sealed it,” he said, a lump forming in his own throat. When Ginny had brought the photos home, newly developed, that one had slipped from the stack and onto the floor. When he’d picked it up, he’d gasped. There, before his eyes, was the identical image to the one he’d seen projected from Snape’s mind the night that Voldemort had tortured them both with their memories—it was the image of his mother and Snape’s daughter Heaven, now his daughter Lily. He had no idea what that meant, but it had led to a decision neither he nor Ginny had ever anticipated making. 

“There’s more,” Harry croaked. “Ginny and I, we… we want you to be her godfather.”

Snape felt his carefully constructed world splinter into a million jagged-edged pieces. Try as he might to pick up the fragments and shove them back into place, he couldn’t. Potter had seen to that. Flexing his shoulders and trying to regain control of his trembling limbs, Snape turned back to the boy-turned-man who’d invaded his otherwise peaceful holiday break. “Leave.”

Potter looked stunned. “What?”

“Leave!” Snape demanded, his gaze hard and his voice fierce. In a quieter tone, he added, “Come back tomorrow. Bring the child.”

Snape watched as Harry looked to Dobby, surprise tinged with a shadow of triumph spilling across his features.

<1 day later / 9.5 years post-Voldemort>

A different man opened the door to Harry and his young daughter. Gone was the haughty, harsh, self-assured potions master. In his place was a man who looked as nervous and scared as a new father. With Dobby bobbing by his side, not a choking-hazard-of-a-button to be seen between the two of them, Snape ushered Harry and the warmly bundled baby into the sitting room. Surprised not to be in the kitchen, Harry took in his surroundings. A fire burned in the grate, giving the toasty room a soothing, homey feel. Harry unwrapped the sleeping child and looked to Snape.

“Can you hold her a minute? I’d like to get out of my cloak.”

Snape looked apprehensive but nodded. As Harry handed his third child over to Snape, he realized that unlike himself, who held his children every day, Snape hadn’t held a baby in over 20 years. At first awkward and stiff, Harry breathed a sigh of relief as Snape seemed to remember his time as a father and settled into a more relaxed position, baby Lily cradled in the older man’s arms, secure against his chest.

Harry slipped out of his now too warm cloak and shed his jumper as well. Lily started to fuss, and Harry stepped forward to relieve Snape of the crying child, but as he did so, a strange sound filled the air. Harry froze, unable to believe his ears. Was Snape singing? An eerie, but undeniably beautiful, Irish ballad drifted toward him. As his formerly fierce potions master rocked Lily, he seemed to be remembering a distant time when it was his own daughter he comforted and rocked back to sleep.

Harry shared an amazed glance with Dobby, who looked equally taken aback. Finally, Harry sank into a chair, shock still washing over him. He leaned his head back and listened to the melody, his eyes growing as heavy as his daughter’s in the overly warm room, the crackling of the fire and glowing embers as relaxing as the Burrow after an evening of good food, wine, and company.

When Harry next opened his eyes, it was Snape who had his head back, eyes closed. Only a soft hum came from the man now while Lily slept on, her fingers in her mouth.

“Heaven did that too,” Snape murmured.

The sound of Snape’s baritone voice made Harry jump. “Did what?”

“Sucked her middle and ring fingers while she slept. Always those two,” he reminisced. “And when she woke up, she’d try and stick those same two fingers into her mother’s or my mouth,” Snape said, a sigh of longing in his voice.

Harry’s own mouth dropped open. “Lily does that too.”

“I know,” Snape said. “She woke up briefly while you were asleep.”

Harry bit his lip, trying to pluck up the courage to ask what was on his mind. Softly, he said, “What happened to Heaven?”

After a long pause, Snape said, his voice equally soft, “We never knew. She passed away in her sleep when she was 9 months old. The Muggle doctors called it ‘cot death’. We didn’t dare take her to St. Mungo’s for an autopsy for fear of being discovered. Your mother and I had married in secret.” A fondly reminiscent look passed over Snape’s features at his next words: “Heaven was a surprise.” Snape paused and took a deep breath. “Your mother never forgave herself.”

Harry swallowed, knowing full well that Snape never forgave himself either. Harry doubted he himself would react any differently if the same thing happened to one of his children. The self-recriminations and if only’s would be endless.

Harry glanced at Dobby, whose orblike eyes were filled with tears. Harry had to clear his own throat before speaking. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Professor.” He knew his words would do little to fill the void, but perhaps his daughter could mend some of the damage.

Snape shook his head once, as if to ward off the sad memories. Opening his eyes to meet Harry’s, he said. “The answer to your question is yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I would be honored to be her godfather,” Snape said, looking down at the baby girl sleeping in his arms Your mother always believed in signs. I used to think it was her superstitious Muggle upbringing.”

“Remus told me she believed in second chances, too,” Harry said.

Snape made a non-committal sound at Harry’s pronouncement, as if not quite willing to go that far. Then he closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and continued to hum softly while rocking the sleeping child.

Harry looked at Dobby, a tentative smile etched on his face. Dobby, bless him, gave Harry a thumb’s up sign, which Harry returned with dawning hope.

<The End>