When Harry awoke, he was startled to find the sun already high in the sky. Checking the clock on the desk, he found it was nearly 11:30am. He jumped up in surprise, only to cringe in pain from his back. At least his hand had completely healed. He used it to scratch at the dressings that had started to itch. He tried to recall what had happened after Snape had originally treated the infected wounds. He grimaced at the knowledge that Snape had seen his back, but there was nothing he could do about it now. Instead he tried to remember when he had had his dressings changed last. It had been around 3 am when he’d originally went to Snape’s room. The next dressing change was supposed to be at 6 am, but he had no recollection of waking up that early. He did remember Snape coming in sometime when the sun was up, probably around 9 am. Snape had been brisk and efficient, waking Harry only long enough to do what needed to be done, having him drink some potions, and then leaving him to rest.

Harry shook his head. He didn’t know what to make of Snape. The wizard had done more for him than any other adult in his life—providing him with basic necessities and tending to his injuries. Yet his manner was not nurturing like Mrs. Weasley, nor solicitous like Dumbledore, nor even childishly eager and curious like Mr. Weasley. Instead, Snape was detached, though not indifferent. It was as if he kept everyone at arm’s length. Just like you, a voice whispered inside his head.

Harry pondered that. Was Snape really as distrustful and leery of getting hurt as he himself was? Had Snape experienced pain and loss like Harry had? Harry knew Snape’s childhood was more like his own than not, and that he had lost a mother and brother, but beyond that, he knew next to nothing about the wizard. He supposed Snape had reason enough to be bitter and vindictive given what the man had been through. Vaguely Harry wondered if his own future held the same bleak fate.

“Potter?” a voice said through the door, accompanied by a light knock.

“I’m up,” said Harry, getting to his feet.

“Lunch will be in 20 minutes. Get cleaned up and come eat and then I’ll redress your back.”

Lunch was a relatively silent affair. Harry munched on his grill cheese sandwich, and even ate the pickle, which he wasn’t overly fond of. Snape seemed more interested in the Daily Prophet than conversing with Harry, so Harry spent his lunch memorizing the layout and decor of the small but tidy kitchen. There was nothing much of interest, with its whitewashed cabinets, narrow countertops, and two small windows—one which overlooked the back herb garden which was severely overgrown and badly in need of weeding. Longingly, he studied the skies beyond; there was still no sign of Hedwig.

“Finished?” Snape inquired.

Harry pulled his attention back to the present. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s take a look at your back then.”

“Ok,” Harry said, averting his gaze. He knew it needed to be done, but that didn’t make the experience any more pleasant. He wasn’t worried about the pain as much as the shame of having Snape view his scar-riddled back in broad daylight.

“Off with your shirt, then,” Snape said, as he cleared the table of lunch things to make room for his healer’s kit. “And sit backwards so I can get a better look.”

Obediently, Harry pulled his shirt over his head and turned away from Snape to straddle the chair, linking his hands atop its curved back. It was actually easier this way, Harry decided. He could stare at the bland kitchen cabinets instead of seeing the expression on the potion master’s face. As he sat there waiting, a violent shiver racked his body. A moment later, Harry heard Snape mutter something under his breath and felt a wave of warmth blanket his skin. Harry relaxed a little, wishing he knew even a quarter of the spells that Snape did.

Gathering his courage, Harry took a deep breath. “Sir?”

“Yes?”

Harry braced himself as Snape began to remove the dressings, but there was no pain. Finally he let his shoulders sag. “About your question...”

Harry felt Snape’s fingers still for just a moment. Harry closed his eyes and waited for a snide remark or biting comment. Instead, Snape began his administrations again, and Harry knew that Snape was giving him space to voice his thoughts.

“I was feeling trapped. I know it was immature, but I felt like I’d lost everything and I didn’t have control over anything in my life. Sirius was dead and my friends were hurt...” Whispering, he added, “and all because of me.” Harry bit his lip. This was harder to talk about then he thought it would be, but he knew Snape would never trust him if he didn’t give the wizard a straight answer about why he’d run off.

“Just before I left Hogwarts for summer break, Dumbledore told me about the prophesy. And then he just abandoned me at the Dursley’s without another word.” Harry sucked in a sharp breath as Snape applied the gauze pads to his still raw wounds.

Acclimating to the painful sensation, Harry continued. “My relatives, in turn, dropped me off here—without any warning. And I ...” Harry hesitated and laid his head on his clasped hands, trying to sort out his thoughts and ignore the pain in his back. “I didn’t know whose side you were on, but I didn’t think it was mine. I didn’t want to stay with another person who hated me and resented my very existence.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Snape’s fingers had disappeared from Harry’s back and Harry wondered what the wizard was thinking, but didn’t dare look over his shoulder. Then he felt Snape’s cool hands slide around his chest, applying the cotton strips he used to hold the medicated gauze pads in place.

“That is... understandable,” Snape replied as his fingers deftly guided the strips to encircle Harry’s torso.

“It is?” Harry asked, surprised that his words hadn’t made Snape lose his temper.

“Given the circumstances and your age, your perceptions were not out of line with what I would have expected.”

The comment about his age chafed, but Harry wisely kept his mouth shut. He felt like he should say something else, but he didn’t know what.

Harry sank against his forearms and listened to Snape’s low voice as the potions master murmured incantations in what sounded like Latin. With each new spell, the pressure and heat of the lashes on Harry’s back lessened, giving him immediate relief. Harry was nearly in a trance when Snape spoke to him again.

“You do know that the prophesy is just that, don’t you?”

Harry sat up a bit straighter and looked over his shoulder. “What do you mean?” he asked, realizing that Snape was finished and turning around completely in his chair to face the man.

 Snape stood, his arms crossed over his chest, a look of irritation on his face. “A prophesy is a prediction. Nothing more. The Hall of Prophesies is filled with predictions. Less than 10% of those ever come true, and some percentage is bound to come to fruition based solely on chance.”

“But Dumbledore said...”

“Albus Dumbledore has an agenda, Potter,” Snape said, sounding impatient as he handed Harry his shirt. “Dumbledore is fighting a war. He will use any and every tool available to him—including you.”

“But Voldemort killed my parents!” Harry exclaimed, feeling a prickle of sweat break out on his skin as his temper rose.

“Indeed. But it is neither your job nor your responsibility to avenge their murders, regardless of what the Headmaster would like you to believe.”

“Are you saying you don’t want Voldemort killed?”

“I am saying,” Snape replied, “that you are not personally obligated to do the killing. There are many more qualified and capable Witches and Wizards engaged in this war. You are an underage, unqualified wizard who...”

“Doesn’t stand a chance?” Harry challenged, feeling the slow burn of anger building in his gut.

Snape ran his hands through his hair, a gesture Harry now understood to be one of exasperation. “Do you have a death wish, Potter?”

“No, I...”

“You have a choice, that is all I am saying. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.” Snape met Potter’s eyes. “You said to me a moment ago that you felt that you didn’t have control over anything in your life, correct?”

“Yes, but...”

“You do have control, Potter, you need only exercise it. Do not let Albus Dumbledore, or anyone else for that matter, dictate your destiny. It is your choice.” Snape gazed hard at Potter, his expression harsh. “Do not forget that.”