Snape’s words hung like blood-drenched daggers in the air: “How many more people that you care about are going to have to die before you learn?” They were the exact same words that Lily had thrown at him after he’d become a Death Eater. It was those words that had made him turn spy for the Order of the Phoenix.

Snape turned to look at Potter. The boy’s expression was a study in regret and agony. Snape was sure that if he’d had a mirror, Potter’s tormented expression would have matched his own.

Snape scrubbed at this face with both hands. “This is getting us nowhere,” he growled. Taking a deep breath, he met the teen’s tortured eyes. “Listen, Potter. I know that you have no reason to trust adults. But you need to trust someone. Someone who has more life experience than you. Someone who can help you think through things. Someone who can reign in your impulsive nature.”

Potter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The glow of the fire caught his face and Snape saw that the boy’s skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. That was odd considering that the evening air was breezy and cool, not damp and sticky.

“And who do you suggest?” Potter asked sarcastically, diverting Snape’s attention.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment before opening then again. “As long as you are here, I am your only option. When you are with the Weasleys, Mr. or Mrs. Weasley would be an appropriate choice. And when you are Hogwarts, most any teacher will do.”

Eventually, Potter nodded. “When can I have my wand back?”

Snape snorted. “We haven’t even discussed your punishment and you are asking for your wand?”

Potter stiffened at the rebuff.

“You can have your wand back when you’ve shown me that you are both trustworthy, and that you are able to trust an adult. In other words, I want you to speak to an adult before you act upon any of your hare-brained schemes. Is that understood?”

At Potter’s stiff nod, Snape continued. “As for your punishment, I admit I’m finding it difficult to select something suitable. You have no privileges as of yet that I can remove and your wand is already in my possession.” Snape raised an eyebrow at the boy who was watching him with attentive dread. “Thus, for starters, you will write an 18 inch essay on the foolishness of your actions and all of the things that could have gone wrong with your little stunt today. After you’ve analysed your impulsive behaviour, you will detail how you will handle the situation the next time you are struck by such a reckless urge, for surely it will happen again.”

Potter relaxed visibly in his chair.

“Furthermore,” Snape said, waiting to catch Potter’s eye before he continued, “considering the nature of your offence, you will hand over your Firebolt to me.”

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “You can’t take my Firebolt!”

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

“But...”

“Were you planning on using it this evening, Potter? Another escape attempt perhaps?”

“No,” Potter said, wiping sweat from his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it again. He looked sullen and agitated.

“Spit it out, Potter. Trust, remember?”

Potter brooded for a moment before he uttered one word: “Sirius.”

Snape wanted to growl in irritation. “What in Merlin’s name does your Godfather have to do with this?”

“He gave it to me, as a gift,” Harry uttered. “In my third year.”

Snape shook his head in disgust. “Leave it to Sirius Black to give a thirteen year old the fastest and most dangerous broom on the market.”

Potter began to protest, but Snape raised a hand to silence him. “Prove to me that you are trustworthy, Potter, and I’ll return both your wand and your precious broom.” Snape toed a wayward log back into the fire with his boot, causing sparks to shoot into the air. “Give me reason to doubt you, however, and you won’t be seeing either of them until school starts in September.”

 

---

 

It was only 9 pm but Harry felt both feverish and exhausted. He considered changing into pyjamas, but instead, lay face down on his bed, breathing heavily. He knew he should go to Snape. He knew Snape would be livid if he waited. But Harry’s pride stung at the thought of admitting weakness to anyone, let alone his de facto guardian. Closing his eyes, he willed sleep to come. If he wasn’t better by morning, he’d ask Snape for an antibiotic potion.

Harry woke up disoriented and confused. He was shivering and soaked in sweat. His back felt like it was on fire, and his mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton. When he tried to sit up, the room spun and nausea careened through him. As he hung his head between his knees and tried to breathe through his nose, apprehension skittered through him. This wasn’t going to be able to wait until morning.

When the nausea passed, he tried to get to his feet, but the world whirled around him and his legs threatened to buckle. Instead, he crawled on his hands and knees toward the door, feeling utterly ridiculous. He stopped periodically to catch his breath as his heart raced in protest. He realized then that Snape was going to be livid no matter what. Trust, Snape had said. And once again, Harry had been reckless.

Cursing himself, he made it across the landing, where he collapsed against the wall beside Snape’s closed door, breathing heavily. The moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows down the narrow hallway from the single window at the end. Just then, the clock on the wall chimed once, twice, three times.

“Snape,” he called, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. “Snape!” he tried again, but his mouth was bone dry and trying to talk made him feel like he was choking. He swung his arm out, instead, pounding on Snape’s door with the side of his fist. A mixture of relief and trepidation swept through him when he heard the man’s footfalls approaching.

As the door beside him swung open, Harry saw the hem of a dark robe and slipper clad feet. A gravelly voice sounded from far above: “What is it, Potter?”

“Sick,” Harry croaked, and in the next instant, Snape was kneeling in front him, tipping his chin up to look into his eyes, putting the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” Snape murmured.

“I think it’s my back,” Harry forced out. “Infection.”

Snape scowled. Harry tried not to think of how angry Snape would be at him for not letting Snape look at his back sooner. Harry closed his eyes. It was too late now to worry about that. He just needed some antibiotics and he’d be fine. He’d been through this before.

“Let’s get you back to bed where I can take a look at it.”

Harry didn’t move.

“What is it, Potter?” Snape asked with impatience.

“You’re going to be really mad.”

“Why is that?”

“I should have told you sooner.”

Harry heard Snape hiss in frustration.

“Move, Potter, now. We can discuss your lack of faith in adults later.”

 

---

 

Snape didn’t bother trying to get Potter to undress after he’d gotten the boy to lie down on the bed. With a wave of Snape’s wand, the teen was naked, save for his skivvies. Potter made only a faint protest, which was a testament to how ill he was.

One look at Potter’s back had Snape’s blood boiling anew. The Dursleys would definitely pay for this. He’d see to it that they experienced every sliver of pain that Potter had ever been subjected to and more. Unclenching his hands, Snape studied the new lash marks overlaying the older scars. Then he traced the crisscrossed ribbons of fresh wounds with his wand, murmuring basic cleaning and healing charms as he went. He would have to debride the infected wounds to get them to heal properly, and that would be painful. The infection had to have been brewing in the boy’s body for some time to have gotten to this point. Snape was amazed that Potter had held up as well as and for as long as he had. He was going to have to have another talk with the boy after the infection was under control.

Snape poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the desk. Then he helped the boy to sit up and handed it to him. Potter drank deeply, emptying the cup in one long gulp.

“You should have told me sooner, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry said, his voice raspy.

Snape took the empty glass from Potter’s shaky grasp. “Go ahead and rest. I’ll be right back.” Snape left the room to gather the necessary supplies: disinfecting soap and warm water, gauze, bandages, warm compresses, his silver knife, ointments, and a variety of potions. When he returned, he pushed the water pitcher aside and arranged his tools within easy reach on the desk. Then he instructed the insufferable teen to roll onto his stomach.

“This is going to hurt, Potter.”

“Because I didn’t tell you sooner?” Potter asked, his words muffled against the pillow.

“No, because you let the infection progress this far,” Snape clarified, charming the compresses to heat up.

Potter whimpered as Snape laid the hot compresses on the infected wounds. Leaving them in place to do their job, Snape lit a candle and picked up the silver blade. He ran it through the flame several times to sterilize it.

“Take a deep breath, Potter, and hold it.” With a precision born of chopping innumerable potions ingredients, Snape used the hot blade to slice open the pus-filled abscesses. Potter keened in agony through gritted teeth, his whole body fighting against the need to pull away from the excruciating pain.

“Be still,” Snape commanded, using a gauze pad to soak up the thick yellow discharge.

Potter bit the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut.

“The worst part is almost over,” Snape murmured. He worked quickly to drain the abscesses and clean the wounds. Then he packed them with a gauze that was impregnated with various healing and anti-scaring ointments and charms. When he was finished, he helped Potter sit up. The teen’s face was ashen and streaked with sweat and unbidden tears. His limbs trembled.

Snape handed Potter a cool washcloth, which Potter used to wipe his face, and then handed the boy another glass of water.

“Thanks,” Harry uttered.

When Potter was finished, Snape instructed: “I need you to put your hands on your head.”

Potter set the washcloth and glass aside and did as he was told.

“Next time,” Snape said, as he wrapped long strips of cloth around the boy’s torso, “I suggest you come to me before the infection sets in.”

Potter made a non-committal sound in his throat that Snape took for assent.

When Snape had finished securing the gauze in place, he took Potter’s wrists in his hands and lowered them down to the bed, checking Potter’s pulse inconspicuously before letting go.

Potter looked both startled and childishly vulnerable at Snape’s unexpected gesture.

Snape ignored the bewildering feelings of protectiveness that flared inside him at Potter’s vulnerability and promptly motioned toward the desk. “There’s a fever reducing potion, pain reliever, and antibiotic tincture.” Annoyed by the sudden gruffness in his voice, Snape cleared his throat. With his customary scowl firmly back in place, he said sharply: “Drink them in that order, then get some rest.”

Potter downed the bitter tasting potions as Snape rummaged in the wardrobe for a button-down pyjama top and matching bottoms which he handed to the boy.

“Thanks,” Potter repeated. He slipped on the bottoms first, and then winced as he slid his arms into the sleeves, before flopping back onto his stomach, exhausted. Snape watched as the boy struggled to find a comfortable position.

“Try your side,” Snape suggested.

Potter rolled onto his side, his back to Snape. Silently, Snape cast a muscle relaxing charm on the stubborn teen, and observed the boy visibly relax.

“The pain reliever potion will get stronger over time. It should help you sleep. I’ll need to change the gauze in three hours, though, so don’t get too comfortable.”

Potter murmured something indecipherable and reached for the covers. Snape retrieved them from the bottom of the bed and tugged them up. As he made to hand them to Potter, he realized that the troublesome child had already fallen asleep. Sighing, he settled the sheets and blankets over the boy, careful to leave a cushion of space around the boy’s inflamed back. He wondered for the hundredth time what on early Lily had been thinking to name him of all people guardian of her son.