It was bad enough that Severus Snape found himself at the beck and call of the headmaster throughout his summer break, but was it too much to ask that he get a measly four weeks to himself – Potter-free? Dumbledore’s moments were always inopportune, yet somehow he seemed to make Severus feel as though he were being uncooperative. It didn’t matter that, in his first week of the school holidays, Dumbledore had sauntered through the floo at Spinner’s End, disrupting Severus’ breakfast, and requested a complete restock of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing due to an error at the local apothecary.

“We will need to find a new potions supplier,” Professor Dumbledore had said, “but until then I am counting on you. I know I am, once again, expecting too much from you, Severus, but it is only because I trust you to do right by our students.”

Two weeks – two whole weeks – it took for Severus to complete the headmaster’s list of potions and salves, and by the end of it, he’d needed to keep a few back to tend to his blistered and calloused hands.

Not a day later, the floo lit up before Severus even had a chance to sip his afternoon tea, and it was left to get cold as he found himself searching his library for information on troll repellents. His next week and a half carried on the same – just as he would sit down with a good book, or be nodding off in his chair, or even as he shed his robes in anticipation of a nice, relaxing soak in the bath, Dumbledore would appear, all smiles and lemon drops. 

He should have expected it really. In a way, he was lucky to be left alone until after lunch. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon and Severus was sat at his desk in his library updating his lesson plans. School started back in just over a week and the summer had been a great one for new potion discoveries. With the permission of Dumbledore, Severus could now teach the sixth years how to brew a successful skin grafting potion – something he was sure Poppy would make use of considering the ineptitude of many of his students. Harry Potter immediately came to mind and Severus sneered to himself. The boy had managed an Outstanding in Potions, though Severus couldn’t for the life of him understand how.

Knowing Potter, the entire class will be in need of the potion by the end of the lesson, he thought snidely.

Even the mental image of the boy left a nasty taste in his mouth. Just as he let out a small growl to himself, the floo flashed and Severus didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

“Afternoon, my boy! How are things?” Dumbledore strode forward, glancing first to Severus and then to the work on his desk.

“Since you invaded my home yesterday, you mean? Nothing has changed, Headmaster.”

“Oh, come now, Severus. The wizarding world doesn’t stop when the students go home. Tasks still need to be done and I am an old man now,” he said, eyes twinkling.

Severus dropped his quill and motioned for the man to sit opposite him in his armchair.

“I assume there is something you need, Headmaster,” Severus said shortly, leaning back in his seat. Dumbledore mirrored his position making himself comfortable. A silence hung in the air as Dumbledore smiled, seemingly mulling over his words in his head. Severus exhaled heavily. “Honestly, Albus!” he snapped impatiently, “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I can have another five minutes of uninterrupted peace.”

“It seems that, however I phrase it, you will not look favourably on what I have to say.” Dumbledore tilted his head, as if weighing up the situation. “Your old acquaintance, Bellatrix Lestrange, as well as many other known Deatheaters...I have word that they have escaped from Azkaban.” Severus shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The Prophet will likely run the story tomorrow, but my sources at Azkaban tell me that I am the first to know. I believe...I believe that Harry may be in danger. He has been reckless this summer, leaving the house alone for hours at a time. I believe his mind is still fraught with the death of his Godfather.”

“That was months ago, Headmaster, and they barely knew one another. If the boy wants to mope, let him mope. Playing the sympathy card as usual, and as usual you are falling for it again!”

“Severus! Five years have passed and yet you still cannot see the boy for who he truly is.”

“Who is to say that you are seeing the true Harry Potter?” Severus quipped. “Forgive me, Headmaster, but sometimes I think that I am the only impartial professor at that school!”

“Stubborn as you may be, think on this: what is more likely, that you are allowing yourself to be blinded by an old grudge, or that the entire Hogwarts faculty, bar you, has been duped by a fifteen year old boy?”

Rendered speechless, all Severus could muster was a half-hearted glare, the merest hint of James Potter setting his teeth on edge.

“Worry not, Severus. When you realise you are wrong about Harry, he will not hold a grudge; that boy has a capacity to forgive like no other.” Ignoring the daggers being sent his way, Dumbledore sat forward in his chair and continued. “Your feelings for Harry aside, I need you to do one last summer task for me. The wards at Privet Drive have been fluctuating for some time. This summer has been the worst, and although I have had no word from Mrs Figg of any ill-doing at the Dursley household, I cannot risk it. Were the wards to fall suddenly, I cannot guarantee that we would be the first to get to Harry – especially if You-Know-Who is watching. Severus, I need you to –”

“No. Not on your life.” Severus stood abruptly.

Undaunted, Dumbledore remained seated. “You cannot refuse what you do not yet know, Severus!” Dumbledore chuckled lightly.

“You want me to fetch the brat! And I’m saying no.” Marching to the floo, Severus waved his hand wildly towards it. “Now you may leave me in peace!”

“I’m afraid I am not asking. In your frenzied fits of rage whenever this boy’s name comes into conversation, you seem to forget that the future of the wizarding world depends on him. How well do you think he would fair in the hands of Voldemort right now?” Severus grimaced at the name of his old master. “He is a strong boy, Severus, but he is not yet ready. Until then, we must keep him safe. You, Severus, you vowed to keep him safe.”

Dumbledore watched as Severus waged war with his own mind – the clenching and unclenching of the jaw, the tensing of muscles and the look frustration behind the man’s eyes that only a person well-trained in the behaviour of Severus Snape could recognise.

“You will fetch him and bring him here –” Dumbledore stood and held his hand up to stop Severus from protesting, “– and then you will fire-call me in my office. Say nothing of Harry’s whereabouts as I will be in a meeting with members of the ministry this evening and it will be best to keep this to ourselves, but I will make my excuses and come straight away.”

Through gritted teeth, Severus exhaled irritably and muttered a low, “Yes, Headmaster.” Oh yes, he would retrieve the boy, but he would certainly not be happy about it.

*

Harry could see Privet Drive from the swing in the park. He knew it was dangerous being outside all day, but since Uncle Vernon’s punishments came whether he had done his chores or not, he figured he could just keep out of his family’s way during the day. There were some things he couldn’t get away from, though, no matter how hard he tried. Any hope Harry had of forgetting what had happened at the Ministry was stolen by Dudley’s taunting.

“What kind o’ name is Sirius anyway?” he’d said. “Yer bit on the side, eh? Always knew you were a bit funny.” And inside, Harry was angry, he really was, but it was like he didn’t have the energy to expel it. All he knew was that whilst he was outside, he wasn’t getting hit or threatened. He could outrun Dudley now, so Dudley and Piers had quickly got bored of Harry Hunting. He spent most of his time over at Piers’ house anyway and Aunt Petunia, regrettably for Harry, was spending the evening catching up with one of the neighbours – at least he could normally trust her to rein in Uncle Vernon’s temper. The downside was that he had to go home sometime and although he knew to expect some kind of punishment, the fear was that he never knew what it would be.

In the midst of his and Uncle Vernon’s last clash, Harry was expecting to be winded by his uncle’s meaty fist, he was expecting the kicks every time he fell down, but this time Vernon’s hands found places on his body that were Harry’s and Harry’s alone. Turning away and hunching over after a sharp blow to the side, Harry felt Vernon’s body behind him. He could feel the warmth of his uncle’s breath behind his ear as a rough hand curled around his torso and immediately headed for his groin. Getting his breath back, Harry tried to tear himself away but Vernon tightened his grip and Harry yelped.

“Yes, boy,” his uncle snarled in his ear, “since nothing else seems to faze you, perhaps I should resort to a different sort of punishment.” When Vernon let go, Harry instinctively turned to face him, but no sooner had he turned around, a knee connected sharply with his groin and he fell gracelessly to the ground with a thud.

Thankfully, the punishment had ended there, as a warning – a threat and nothing more. But as time went by, all Harry could think about was that rough, sickening hand, and his uncle’s words as they turned over and over in his head. What sort of different punishment did he mean?

Clutching the chains of the swing, Harry held on like he never wanted to leave. But he knew he had to go home soon. What he didn’t know was what would happen then.

*

If the heavy clunking of his shoes was anything to go by, Severus Snape was in a fearsome mood. After the headmaster had left, he’d waited an hour to collect the boy in the hope that his temper would settle. Alas, it did not. As he trudged down Privet Drive in search of number four, each step was laden with a number of curse words that he muttered darkly under his breath.

After this dreadful task, he thought, Headmaster be damned, I will have my last week of peace and quiet.

Standing on the driveway, Severus gritted his teeth and took a mildly calming breath before storming to the front door and swiftly rapping on it with his knuckles. Seconds went by and there was no answer, but Severus could hear something. There were no voices that he could pick out, but something had certainly moved. He knocked again, louder this time, tapping his foot impatiently on the ground. Shaking his head, he looked around seeing that the street was, indeed, empty and he pulled out his wand.

“Alohomora.”

The lock clicked and he pushed at the door, not even hesitating as he entered, wand in hand. Stalking into the hallway, he was alerted by a sudden groaning that stopped as soon as it started. As he moved towards the kitchen door, the sound of movement, of laboured breathing, of pain, got louder. With a push, the door swung open to reveal Vernon Dursley, grey-faced, gripping his arm and writhing desperately on the kitchen floor.

Like a switch, Severus forgot most of his frustration and rushed towards Vernon’s body. It was then that, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Harry Potter. The boy, clear as day, was stood in the corner of the kitchen, just watching. Even a wizard could tell that this man was having a heart-attack, and the boy just looked on doing nothing. “Potter!” No answer. The boy just stood there. “Have you called anybody, Potter?” Severus snapped louder. The boy didn’t even react. “Merlin!” he growled, his anger growing again. In seconds, Severus had used the muggle telephone, called for an ambulance, and awkwardly told Vernon Dursley that help was coming – all the while, glaring harshly at Harry, who was ignoring it all.

As the ambulance approached, siren whirring in the distance, Severus saw that as his time to leave. “Potter, grab your things,” he snapped in Harry’s direction. When the boy didn’t move, he strode over to him, grabbing his arm and flinging him towards the kitchen door. Harry started. “Your things! Get. Them,” Severus growled darkly, “now.” Stumbling awkwardly out of the room, Severus sneered as he watched the boy first drag some belongings out of the cupboard under the stairs and then scramble up to his room. For a second, he thought he heard the boy retching upstairs and he assumed the full blow of his uncle’s heart-attack had just hit him.   

Serves him right for being so hopeless.

Seconds later, the boy had made it down the stairs, looking somewhat worse for wear – though he’d be getting no sympathy for it – and Severus, leaving no room for words or protestations, immediately shrunk Harry’s things, grabbed his arm and they both disapparated just as the ambulance arrived.

*

“Prince Potter can’t pick up a muggle phone? Is that beneath him?” Severus was red in the face as he shouted. He sat the boy on a wooden stool in the kitchen – the only room he would allow the boy to see. There were comfy chairs at the kitchen table, but no, Severus thought, he doesn’t deserve to be comfortable! Severus was livid. Had the boy no morals, no decency? That family had taken him in and yet all he could do was watch as his own uncle faced death. Had the boy not been responsible for enough of late? Not to mention he had thrown up on Severus’ shoes as they arrived.

The boy had said nothing since arriving. He sat on the stool, watching Severus’ feet intently but answering none of his questions. And that look on his face...Severus couldn’t work it out – and that frustrated him even more.

“Your own uncle and you stand there ready to watch him die, Potter! What were you thinking? I know you have the rest of the wizarding world under your thumb, boy, but I know your kind. Just like your father. Did you freeze? Is that it? Pathetic, stalling in the face of danger! How are you going to defeat the Dark Lord?” Severus paced the floor in front of Harry. “If that man had died, it would have been on your sorry head! Even a first year knows when to call an ambulance!”

“I know.”

Severus stopped his pacing. The boy’s voice, heard for the first time that day, was devoid of any emotion. Severus shook his head.   

 “No, Potter! I don’t think you do. When were you going to pick up the phone? When he’d passed out on the floor? How about when he’d stopped breathing? Look at me, Mr Potter, I am asking you a question!”

Harry looked up, but the eye contact didn’t last. 

“Or perhaps you didn’t stall,” Severus continued, his voice taking on a lower tone. “Perhaps you knew exactly what you were doing, allowing your uncle to suffer like that. You are a depraved boy aren’t you?” Harry twisted in his seat and Severus watched as his words seemed to undo him. “It wasn’t enough to watch that God-mutt of yours drown in the veil? It seems that despite the Headmaster’s constant attempts to get me to believe you are pure of heart, I was right all along – unappreciative, spoilt, ungrateful, vile excuse for a man –”

“Severus?”

With a start, Severus whipped his head around to see Dumbledore standing in the room. In the midst of his rage, he hadn’t even noticed the floo.

“The wards have fallen at Privet Drive. You did not fire-call me as we had discussed.” Dumbledore chanced a glance at Harry who was now hanging his head, looking at his feet. “Severus, what is going on?”

“I will tell you what’s going on, Headmaster! Upon entering number four Privet Drive, I found a man on the floor having a heart-attack, and this boy,” he strode over to Harry and tugged at his t-shirt, “expected saviour of the wizarding world, doing nothing, watching his own uncle keel over.”

As Severus let go of Harry’s shirt, Dumbledore walked tentatively over to the boy. In a soft voice he asked, “Is this true, Harry?” For a moment nothing happened, and then slowly Harry nodded. Were Dumbledore’s eyes not solely on the boy, were the situation not so intense, they’d have missed it. Noting Harry’s unusual disposition, Dumbledore frowned. With a sigh, he left the room, motioning for Severus to follow. For a second, Severus thought of not going, worried that the boy would go running off in his house somewhere, but Dumbledore’s gaze was beckoning.    

Moving into the living room, they spoke in hushed tones. “Severus, Harry has been through so much. His reaction is not surprising considering the situations he has faced of recent.”

“He is not a fragile little boy, Headmaster. He knew what he was doing and he made no effort to help his uncle. He couldn’t have been further away from him in the room!” Severus huffed.

“It must be grief...he isn’t himself.” Dumbledore searched Severus’ eyes, imploring him to see reason. Harry was struggling, that much Dumbledore knew. “I know Harry. He would not leave an innocent person to suffer.”

“I beg to differ, I was there!”

“Think on my words, Severus. Please.”

“Why are we even arguing, Headmaster.” Severus threw his hands into the air. “I have seen the brat’s depravity with my own two eyes, but it’s nothing to do with me. Consider your task completed, you may take him now.”

“Ah, Severus, there’s something else I would like to discuss with you. Hogwarts is empty, Harry cannot stay there and the Weasleys are away. Since he is already here –”

“No, Headmaster, absolutely not!” Severus’ voice rose and echoed throughout the house.

*

Harry felt sick with himself. Things happened so quickly, but Snape was right, he did know what he was doing. That made him feel even worse. What kind of human being could watch somebody hurt like that and do nothing about it? Hanging his head in shame, he could barely muster the energy to nod when Dumbledore asked him to confirm how much of a monster he was. He’d barely noticed when Dumbledore and Snape had left the room, but it became apparent when Snape’s deep, bellowing voice carried through the walls.   

“No, Headmaster, absolutely not! You have already foisted him on me for long enough!”

Dumbledore’s voice was too soft; Harry couldn’t make out anything he was saying, but Snape was coming through loud and clear.

“I have not had a break! All summer I have been your errand boy, you must let me have this last week.”

Another unintelligible mumble.

“You do have other options; you just have to put your trust in somebody else for a change! I will not do it. It is bad enough having that insolent little brat in my classes, let alone in my home!”

Harry’s ears perked up. Dumbledore was trying to move him from a hell-hole to a pit of despair! But he did not want to go back to the Dursleys. He knew he should be more worried about being in the same house as Snape, but anywhere was better than Privet Drive. He just wished that, for once, he could stay with people who wanted him around.

“Send him somewhere else! Find his Aunt and move them to a safe-house!”

Harry felt his heart speed up. No, not back with them, please not back with them!

“Severus, stop this!” Harry froze as Dumbledore’s voice, usually calm in the face of disorder, carried through the walls just as well as Snape’s had. “It is merely one week! You made a vow! Soon this war will be over and you will have as much time to yourself as you wish, but for now, Harry must be kept safe. Do you understand?” Dumbledore’s voice left no room for argument. Snape’s reply, if there was one, was not audible.

*

Severus was expecting some sort of commotion when Dumbledore explained to the brat that he’d have to stay with his Potions Master. To his surprise, Potter seemed almost relieved. There were no tantrums, no harsh words, no sarcastic retorts in his direction, and it irked him that the boy appeared to be completely unaffected by the news. When Dumbledore left, he gave Severus a warning look. And now the kitchen was tense with silence as Harry sat on the stool not daring to move and Severus tried to think of what to do next.

“Your things are in the study. You will sleep on the couch; I do not have a spare bed, so Prince Potter will just have to make do,” he sneered. “This is my house, everything in it is mine. You do not touch anything, you do not go into any room where the door is closed and you do not wander.” Severus marched into the hallway and lifted the lid off a small chest. Pulling out a scratchy, worn blanket, he marched back into the room where the boy had scarcely moved and threw the blanket into his lap. “Come,” he ordered, and once again he was surprised that the boy didn’t even put up a fuss.

*

The study was a small, sorry affair, cluttered and dusty as though Snape never went in there, but it was better than anywhere in the Dursley household. At least the sofa didn’t have springs in all the wrong places like his old mattress did.

“The bathroom is upstairs, but other than that, you are to stay in here, is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry said quietly.

“You will be called by my house-elf for meals, but I expect you to stay out of my way. If you are late for a meal, you will not eat.” With that, Snape turned on his heels and swept out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Settling himself on the couch, Harry took a shaky breath and took a moment to take in all that had happened in the last few hours, but the thought of it all made him feel ill at ease. For now, he was glad to be away from it all. At least Snape would leave him alone. He didn’t want to go back to Aunt Petunia, let alone his uncle. If that meant staying on the right side of Snape, he would grin and bear it.

As he curled up on the sofa, his stomach rumbled. He didn’t know if he’d be getting a meal tonight, but he’d felt worse. Trying to make himself comfortable, his mind kept working against him. If Sirius knew that you were staying with Snape, it said, he’d be so disappointed. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and told himself to think about nothing. Nothing hurt nobody.

That night, a house-elf called Tibble called him down for dinner. He followed reluctantly, driven mainly by hunger, certainly not by his craving for human company. As it happened, Snape didn’t show. Harry ate as much as he could stomach and retreated back to his room. Only when he had shut the study door did he hear Snape’s heavy footsteps. He had obviously waited until Harry had finished before eating his own meal. At least Tibble had treated him like a proper human being.

The next day, Harry had woken from a fitful sleep to the sound of Snape walking around the house. He had intended to stay in the study until called for breakfast, but his bladder felt ready to burst. When he could hold it no longer, he flung the study door open and rushed upstairs to the bathroom to relieve himself. In an attempt to make it back to his room, however, he ran directly into the man he was avoiding.

“Potter! You do not run in this house, do I make myself clear?” Snape looked down at him, a hot breath coming from his nose.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry said.

“You may treat your home and your family with as much disrespect as you like, boy, but here you will do as I say. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir, I’m sorry.” Harry just wanted Snape to lower his voice – that or he wanted to get back to the study. For a second too long, the man reminded him terribly of his uncle. Snape, for a moment, looked confused at Harry’s own odd expression, but he didn’t stay around long enough for Harry to work out why.

Breakfast was quiet. Tibble watched him eat, but Snape, once again, was nowhere to be seen. Lunch was much of the same and Harry was beginning to hate spending time alone. In the study he was alone, at meals he was alone and all he could think about was the reason he’d ended up with Snape and all the commotion leading up to it. Just thinking about being back there made his stomach churn, but there was nothing else to occupy his mind. By dinner Harry found himself too sick to eat. 

As he lay on the couch that night, twisting himself to find a comfortable spot, he found himself hoping, just for one mad moment, that he would bump into Snape again. At least then he could quietly seethe about the man’s insults – anything to stop his mind from circling the events he’d rather put behind him. He couldn’t even talk to Tibble because the house-elf would never come when he called – he wondered if Snape had anything to do with that.

*

That night, Severus was more irritable than usual. He had barely slept the night before, largely down to having the presence of another in his house overnight – that had not happened for years, and now he found it quite disconcerting. He forced his dinner down after he’d heard the boy retreat back to the study, and then took himself to his bedroom. Though his bed looked tempting, his mind was running rings around any thoughts of sleep. Lying on his bed, he closed his eyes in the hope he would eventually drift off, but an hour later, he was still wide awake staring at the ceiling, his mind thinking only of Potter most likely sleeping like a baby downstairs. It bothered him something rotten.

Angrily getting out of bed, he stomped to the bathroom, undid the medicine cabinet and fetched an old vial of Sleeping Draught. It had been a while since he’d needed one of these. Uncorking the vial, he tipped it back into his mouth and swallowed the lot in one mouthful. Just one step towards the bathroom door, however, and his head was swimming. Before he could think, his stomach clenched and his legs fell from under him. Sprawled on the bathroom floor, his eyes caught a glimpse of the label on the Sleeping Draught vial.

Madam Moore’s Apothecary, he read before passing out completely.

*

Sleep had evaded Harry. He had managed to doze off just after midnight, but something startled him out of a nightmare and he retched over the side of the couch. Despite the mess he’d made, he thanked Merlin for whatever woke him up. He scrabbled around for his wand and muttered a quick Scourgify, cleaning the floor and himself. He thought about going back to sleep, but the taste of bile lingered horribly in his mouth and he needed to get rid of it. In his t-shirt and boxers, he tiptoed out of the study and quietly ascended the stairs, avoiding the creaky floorboards. Creeping past Snape’s room, he quickened the pace to the bathroom but stopped short when he saw the light was on. The door was ajar but he couldn’t see in enough to know if Snape was in there. Standing still and listening, Harry heard shuffling. Gently pushing the door open, he was shocked to see the convulsing form of Snape laying on the cold floor, frothing at the mouth, his face positively ashen.     

Harry immediately jumped to his aid, kneeling by his body and trying to still his shoulders. Seeing the empty potion vial on the floor, he realised Snape must have taken it before he fell ill. Watching the man suffering made Harry’s stomach flip – the situation reminded him so much of before. Steeling his nerves, this time, Harry decided, he would not be the person he was then – Snape may have been the thorn in his side since he started Hogwarts, but the man was not like Uncle Vernon. He was not, and Harry found himself panicking at the sight of this man looking so sick and vulnerable on the floor – this man who was usually a pillar of stoicism and strength.

Scrambling to his feet, he forced open the medicine cabinet over the sink and rifled messily through its contents.

Sleeping Draught, no. Skele-Gro, no. Swelling solution, calming draught, pepperup potion...no, no, no!

He slammed the door closed and moved to the cupboard under the sink. It was filled with little drawers, and as Harry searched through them he was not surprised that he didn’t know what half of it was. When he reached the bottom drawer, however, he let out a bated breath as his eyes spied one thing he could easily name – a bezoar. For once he was thankful for Hermione’s incessant need to share her knowledge with everyone.

Falling to the floor, he gritted his teeth and dropped the bezoar into Snape’s mouth, massaging the man’s throat to encourage him to swallow. Within seconds, to Harry’s relief, the convulsing had stopped, but the man was still unconscious. He didn’t know what to do, but he knew he needed to make sure Snape was okay. Running downstairs to the floo, Harry grabbed a handful of floo powder and tossed it in the fire, ready to fire-call Dumbledore, but the flames fizzled out. He tried again, but the fireplace practically spat the powder back at him. Snape had locked the floo.

With no floo and Hedwig staying in the Owlery at Hogwarts, Harry was at a loss. He could have sent a patronus charm, but Snape’s house was in the middle of a muggle town – what if somebody saw? With no way to contact Dumbledore, Harry felt the panic swell from his head to the pit of his stomach. He was going to have to take care of Snape himself.

It took all of his strength to half carry, half drag Snape’s limp body to his bedroom. Getting him into bed was even more of a challenge as Harry had to contend with his own physical ailments courtesy of his uncle. With a groan, he managed to roll the man onto the bed and pull the sheets over him. It was only when Snape was lying there, quietly breathing, that Harry took stock of the room. It was green, but not Slytherin green, it was lighter like peppermint. The sheets were dark and the curtains were near-opaque, but the rest of the room was surprisingly bright with the lights on.

Not as dark as you like us all the think, eh Snape? Harry thought.

Looking back at Snape, he only then noticed the slight trembling of the man’s limbs. He had a fever, but that’s all Harry knew. He certainly didn’t know exactly what was wrong with him. Yes, the bezoar seemed to alleviate the symptoms, but if he was having a reaction to the potion he drank, Harry had no idea what he needed to do to make the man better. Giving Snape a fever reducer seemed like the best bet, but what if the fever reducer reacted badly with whatever was in that potion vial in the bathroom?

Harry took a deep breath and ran to the bathroom. He grabbed the potion vial off the floor and took that and a damp flannel back to Snape’s room. After placing the flannel on the man’s forehead, Harry read the Sleeping Draught vial, trying to work out what could have caused Snape to react so badly. Noticing no change in Snape’s condition Harry made a quick dash for the library, picking out a pile of potions books and a couple of healer encyclopaedias and then set them out on Snape’s bedroom floor, looking for anything that might help. Without hesitation he opened the first book: Potions: Boil, Bubble and Brew. Jumping straight to the glossary, he found each of the Sleeping Draught ingredients in the hope that one might be listed with serious side-effects like Snape’s, but there was nothing.

The next book, How Not To Brew: Interactions and Nasty Effects, had information on everything he could dream of knowing, all except Sleeping Draught. Harry assumed that, judging by the state of the book, Sleeping Draught had not been discovered when it was written.

As he moved from book to book, everything he saw was much the same as the last book and his frustration was growing tenfold. The only thing keeping him going was the man in the bed and the fact that he finally had something else occupying his brain. He read throughout the night and eventually fell into an uncomfortable sleep in the quilted chair at Snape’s bedside.  He only awoke when a sound from the bed startled him. As he walked towards the bed, he took a quick step back when he noticed Snape’s wild open eyes.

“Sorry,” he was saying in shallow breaths. And when he saw Harry, his head flopped to the side so that their gazes were locked on each other. The usual deep black orbs were glazed. “L...Lily?” he rasped and Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the man. “Sorry. So..sorry. Lily.” Snape’s words were quiet but clear and Harry’s mind did a dizzying spin at the very sound of this man, Severus Snape, hater of Harry Potter, saying his mother’s name so desperately. “Lily,” he said again, and this time a weak arm came from under the covers in a feeble attempt at making a connection. Harry stepped back and looked away. The man’s arm fell limp once more, his eyes closed and his head lolled back into his pillow again as he passed out.

Harry sank slowly back into the chair. Snape knew his mother; he must have done. But it could have been any old Lily, couldn’t it?

Just because Snape says my mother’s name...it doesn’t have to be her. Someone would have told me. There’s more than one Lily in the wizarding world. Yes, someone would have told me...

But why would he reach out to me like that?

As he sat in the chair, thinking of his mother, of her red hair and her emerald eyes, he didn’t know what to believe anymore. He shook his head and swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, blinking away the sadness and opting instead for picking up another book. He scanned the contents of Healing Potions: The Wizard’s Way and sat up straight when he saw an entire section on Sleeping Draught. The page was split into paragraphs: ingredients, brewing, intended outcomes, allergic reactions, mild side-effects, serious side-effects and industrial errors. He skimmed the first few parts and jumped to allergic reactions, but Snape’s symptoms didn’t fit. Nor did any of the side-effects, mild or serious, describe what Snape was experiencing. There was, however, an entire page on industrial errors. It appeared that, when brewed in bulk, the quantities could sometimes vary and the potion would have to be recalled. Harry read on intently.

“The most common of errors when bulk-brewing a Sleeping Draught is a build up of flobberworm mucus residue causing the batch to contain more than the maximum quantity, resulting in the patient receiving an overdose of flobberworm mucus in their potion. The patient will experience sudden-onset stomach cramping, weakened muscles and convulsions.”

Beneath this section, the image of a man convulsing on the floor stared back at Harry. It could easily have been Snape that very night. This is it. He read on. 

“If the healer remains uncertain, a sample of the potion may be required. When the ratio of flobberworm mucus to lavender is too high, the potion will emit a pink hue rather than its usual purple colour. If this is the case, a flobberworm mucus overdose is likely.”

Reaching for the old vial, Harry ran to the bathroom and tipped it vertically over the sink. Slowly a droplet descended down the tube and mere seconds later, Harry found himself watching a small globule of pink liquid oozing down the white basin toward the plughole. That was his proof; the potion was defective. He walked back into Snape’s room and checked the man’s pulse. It was high, but not racing, though his body was still clammy. Picking up the book, Harry continued reading. 

“In the event of a flobberworm mucus overdose, stabilise the patient with a bezoar or krackenstone,” Harry internally praised himself for his own quick thinking, “administer a dose of Fever Reducer every four to six hours until the fever breaks to aid in a speedy recovery.”

Dropping his head and thanking Merlin for letting him find the right book, Harry didn’t waste any time. After a rushed search around the house, Harry returned to Snape’s bedside with four vials of Fever Reducer. These, by the looks of the handwritten labels, were Snape’s own brews and they looked to be made recently, unlike the vial of Sleeping Draught. Harry could only hope that they were safe to use.

He uncorked the first vial of Fever Reducer and, with a firm hand holding Snape’s head still, he tipped the vial into the man’s mouth. Snape choked but Harry held him down and desperately pleaded with him to, “Just swallow it”. And Snape did. The rest of the day was much the same; Snape barely moved – there were no more repeat episodes of his fevered mutterings – and Harry spent his time making his meals and sorting the books in Snape’s library. He had no idea where Tibble had gone, but he could only assume that the house-elf only made an appearance when summoned by Snape. By the evening, it was time for Snape’s second dose of Fever Reducer and this time Snape didn’t choke; the potion slipped down easily and Harry sat in the quilted chair just listening to the sound of Snape’s breathing. He had done all he could around the house, trying to keep his mind from returning to the days before, but now he had nothing to do but sit and think. Staring at Snape’s shivering form, Harry felt sad. Despite all of their arguing and all of the snide comments that came his way, he desperately wanted Snape to wake up, he wanted the man to open his eyes and become a tangible presence in the house again. He wanted proof that he could save a life worth saving – proof that he wasn’t depraved like Snape had said. Maybe the man would change his mind now and take it all back. But maybe he wouldn’t.

*

It was midnight again when Harry awoke stiffly on Snape’s chair. Stretching his limbs, he ambled sleepily towards the light switch and turned it on. Snape had barely moved positions, but he was no longer trembling. Harry rubbed his eyes and walked swiftly to the bed, immediately noticing the sheen of sweat across the man’s face. Grabbing the flannel, Harry wiped Snape’s brow and the man groaned lightly in his sleep. Something in Harry’s heart unclenched as he watched Snape’s face relax for the first time in days. A sense of relief washed over him. Harry ambled back to the chair, curled up and closed his eyes in the hope that he was right: the man’s fever was breaking; he would be awake by morning. 

He had never known a Sleeping Draught to make him feel like a Hippogriff had stood on his head, but as he awoke he felt like he had taken a beating. His head was heavy, his throat felt claggy and his eyes felt jammed together – if he hadn’t known better, he would think it was a very bad hangover. Ungluing his eyes, he ran a hand down his sweaty face and stared for a moment at the ceiling. He couldn’t even remember putting himself to bed.

Closing his eyes against the headache nesting in the back of his brain, he growled lowly to himself as the image of Harry Potter moved fleetingly through his mind.

Bloody Potter.

He could not deal with that brat when his entire body felt like a lead weight. He hoped that the boy would do his usual trick and hole himself up in the study all day. Bleary-eyed, Severus tossed the covers off of himself and slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With a loud groan he pushed himself up onto his feet.

“Professor!”

Already unsteady on his feet, Snape stumbled, surprised by the outburst. Snape watched, confused, as the boy rushed towards him, grabbing his arm to steady him.  

“Take your hands off me!” he snapped. “How dare you come into my private bedroom!”

“You’ve been sick, Sir,” the boy said, taking a step back. “I found you on the bathroom floor.”

That explains why I don’t remember going to bed...of course, the Sleeping Draught, it was from that silly woman’s apothecary.

“And it didn’t enter your thoughtless little mind to fetch Professor Dumbledore?”

“You locked the floo,” Harry snapped back, “Sir.”

Standing in silence for a moment, Severus suddenly became aware of how dishevelled he looked, standing crookedly at his bedside in his tousled silk pyjamas. If he weren’t already flushed, he would have been red with embarrassment. And Severus Snape hated feeling humiliated, especially in his own house.

“I am clearly able to take care of myself now. Your presence is no longer required,” Severus said coldly, looking at anything but the boy in front of him.

Harry huffed in disbelief. “I have just spent the best part of two days looking after you! I had to be healer to you, find out what in Merlin’s name had happened to you...I had to watch you convulsing on the bathroom floor having some sort of fit and I couldn’t even contact anybody!”

“Yes, well, judging on past events, I am surprised the thought of calling for help even entered your brain, Potter,” Severus quipped, feeling distinctly proud of himself.

“You’re unbelievable, Snape.” Harry shook his head and ran an almost frantic hand through his hair. “I could have saved your life!”

Severus smirked. “And you think that is your redemption? Pathetic.” Yes, his humiliation was fast being replaced by a stream of scolding remarks. “One is not automatically forgiven for one transgression by suddenly finding his moral decency, Mr Potter. You should not have to find your morals to begin with – in any honourable human being, they are first nature,” he sneered, looking down at the boy with as much menace as he could fathom in his weakened state.

He was expecting a teenage tantrum or even a drawn wand, but the boy seemed to be struggling with something. Severus noticed as the boy breathed heavily through his nose that he was also biting down hard on his lip as if trying to hold something in. He didn’t look angry; he looked as though he’d just been struck – like his emotions were tumbling around inside of him and he wasn’t sure which would escape first. As Severus straightened himself up, the boy opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not a second later, the boy was gone and Severus’ room was his own again.

Who does he think he is, invading my room...invading my house? Arrogant waste of space.

Severus took out his wand, banished his sweat-soaked sheets and muttered a quick cleaning spell over himself, not trusting his legs to keep him upright in the shower. He could just imagine it, not satisfied with the humiliation of being picked up off the bathroom floor by The Boy Who Lived, he would have to suffer the embarrassment of being found, naked, by the boy when his legs gave out.  

*

Back in the study, Harry sat on the couch with his head in his hands. Was Snape right; was he a terrible human being? What right did he have to decide his uncle should suffer like that? Pulling at his hair, Harry finally let his emotions overwhelm him. As painful, wracking sobs almost penetrated through his chest, he cried for the first time since summer began. In a way, he was surprised he had lasted so long.

The next two days were much like the first, except this time Harry was too consumed by his own misery to drag himself from the couch. He made it to one meal a day and spent the rest of his time drowning in his own unhappy thoughts. He thought about the unfairness of everything, about his own suffering, about Snape’s words and how he was seen so differently in the eyes of Dumbledore. Who was he? What was he? One question drifted in and out of his mind as he sat, alone, in the study:

Does watching a monster suffer make me a monster too?

He truly didn’t know.

*

By the weekend, Severus felt back to his old self again – apart from one niggling feeling that kept hammering away in the back of his mind. Potter had made himself scarce – Severus expected no less – and the one time they had bumped into one another, no words were exchanged. Even his usual condescending sneer didn’t get any rise out of the boy. Either his intimidation techniques were in need of a tune-up, or the boy just didn’t care anymore. As Severus sat down to lunch on Saturday afternoon, his thoughts were drawn to the unusual events of the last week, to the study, and to the invisible presence residing in it.

And there was that niggling feeling again.

What was it? Something akin to regret? No, of course not, he thought fervently, but in reality it was impossible to deny this emotion. Severus Snape already had his fair share of regrets, he knew exactly what it felt like, the ways it manifested itself. It was like guilt, except it ebbed and flowed. One minute it he would be drinking his tea and the next he would be angrily tipping it down the sink. Why should he regret what he’d said to Potter? It was certainly nothing he hadn’t heard before.

So what if the brat wants to wallow in his own misery. He’ll be getting no sympathy from me.

From nowhere, another part of his brain piped up – the little angel on his shoulder, his conscience.

He did save your life, Severus. Potter or not, if you had been left on that bathroom floor, you would be dead.

Severus squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Yes, perhaps he did owe it to the boy that he was still alive, but the brat certainly didn’t need to know that.  

I will not be one to stroke Potter’s ego like the rest of them. After the countless times I have saved his sorry hide, I do not owe him anything.

Though his thoughts were harsh and unrelenting, he wasn’t sure if he truly believed them. But no, he would not dwell on it; on Monday Dumbledore would retrieve the boy and take him directly to Hogwarts to await his fan club. Potter would soon perk up around his insufferable friends, and the boy would be out of his hair...

...until lessons began. Severus decided to forget that for now.

*

Early Monday morning, Harry sullenly opened his eyes in the study. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes again and his neck ached from the sleeping upright all night. Today he would go back to Hogwarts for his sixth year. And today Harry realised that his last week of summer, despite all of Snape’s tormenting, was a far cry from the disturbing experience it could have been. For that he was thankful. But still Harry moped. Despite the physical punishments he’d escaped, he’d been thrown into mental turmoil instead. The worst part was knowing he’d soon have to see his friends – they could always tell when something was wrong, but he was too ashamed of himself to tell them what he’d done. Or rather, what he didn’t do. 

Harry jumped as Tibble suddenly appeared beside him.

“Master Severus is wanting Mr Potter ready in an hour,” Tibble says, “Master Severus says Mr Potter must leave Master’s study tidy or Master Severus will be mad.” In a click of his fingers, Tibble was gone before Harry even had a chance to say yes. Thankfully he had barely bothered to unpack, so packing was not a problem. By the time he’d tidied the couch and cleaned up the room, it was almost time to leave.

As Harry emerged from the study, he walked tentatively into the kitchen where Snape was sitting with a cup of tea. For a moment, silence hung between them.

“Professor Dumbledore will be here any moment,” Snape said emotionlessly before taking another sip of his tea.

Harry wrung his hands in front of him. He was not thankful for Snape’s attitude, or his terrible temper, but he appreciated one thing.

“Thank you, Sir,” he said awkwardly, “for letting me stay.”

Snape didn’t even look up from his tea. “I assure you, Potter, the pleasure was all yours.”

“I know, Professor,” Harry said quietly. “I’m sorry for spoiling your holiday.”

Snape snorted. “I’m sure you are.”

Harry looked at his shoes. He should have known Snape would twist everything, he always did. Snape seemed surprised not to get a reaction. It was a tense moment before he spoke again.

“This new respectful Potter, this act, it does not fool me.” He put down his tea.

“I’m not trying to fool anybody,” Harry said, “I’m just –”

“Tell me,” Severus interrupted, “how tempted were you to watch me suffer as you did your own uncle?” he said in a voice all too casual for the situation.

“I would never watch someone suffer for no reason,” Harry said, choked by his own words.  

“Even your lies rival those of your father.”

“I’m not lying, I –”

“Silence! I don’t want to hear it, Potter. Get your things,” Severus said coldly before tipping the rest of his tea down the sink and sweeping fiercely from the room.

As Harry stood there, tired and defeated, his thoughts shifted to a book he had read in Snape’s library. Memories. Harry could think of no other way. After gathering his things together he ran to the bathroom in the search of an empty vial. As he stood there in front of the mirror, he thought about what he was about to do. Snape would see one of his most private memories; he would see why Harry did what he did. Only then would Harry know what kind of person he was. Severus Snape was a cruel man, but somehow he knew he would tell him the truth. Thinking back to the book, Harry took his wand from his back pocket and pointed the tip at his temple. He was nowhere near advanced enough to remove the memory completely – mores the pity – but the book had told him how to replicate a memory to show it to somebody else. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply. He would need to bring the memory to the forefront of his mind – a task he was not looking forward to. He thought back to that day, to the heart-attack...before the heart-attack...he swallowed uncomfortably. As the scene played out in his head, Harry found himself biting down hard, trying not to make a sound. He could feel the wetness behind his eyes, but he willed himself to stay collected. The memory ended the moment he and Snape disapparated.

Slowly opening his eyes, he looked up to see a small ribbon of blue detached itself from his temple and hang from his wand like a cobweb in the breeze. Taking the empty vial, he dangled the memory inside, quickly corking the bottle before it could escape. He looked in the mirror once more. His face was ashen.

Harry collected his trunk from his room and wheeled it slowly into the kitchen. As he walked, feeling like he was walking to his doom, he did his best to convince himself that he was doing the right thing – that this was his last option. Perhaps he knew that by giving Snape this memory, the man would have leverage over him – Snape would no longer be worried that Harry would divulge the details of his humiliating flobberworm mucus overdose. But perhaps Harry wasn’t thinking straight at all. He just wanted somebody to tell him he was a good person – somebody impartial and unbiased. He needed it.

Snape was standing by the floo when he walked in the room; the man couldn’t wait to get rid of him.  

“Professor?” Harry said, parking his trunk in the middle of the floor. The man barely turned his head, his face as sour as ever. Harry removed the vial from his pocket. He didn’t know what to say, so he just held it out in his hand. Snape looked, but also said nothing. As time ticked on, Snape made no move to take the vial. Harry’s face, he was sure, was anxious by now, but the man didn’t care. Harry let out a warm breath from his nose and shook his head, feeling desperate and furious at the same time. Turning on his heels, Harry marched across the room and, after looking pointedly at Snape, placed the vial in the middle of the kitchen table. And almost as if on cue, the floo lit up in a blaze of green and out stepped Dumbledore, dusting off his robes.

“Ah, Severus! Ready and waiting for me I see. And Harry, my boy, good to see you.” Dumbledore strode over to Harry and spoke in a low voice. “I trust Severus has not made your stay too unbearable?”

“No, Sir,” Harry said and Dumbledore smiled down at him. Harry couldn’t gauge whether or not the man thought he was lying. With a quiet incantation, Dumbledore shrunk Harry’s trunk and placed it in his pocket before walking swiftly back to the floo. 

 “Thank you for your help, Severus. I trust I will see you tonight at the welcoming feast?”

“Of course, Headmaster,” Snape replied.

Dumbledore simply inclined his head. “Come, Harry,” he said jovially, “we will floo to my office!” Harry watched as Dumbledore took a pinch of floo powder and disappeared in the flames. Snape wasn’t looking at Harry when he walked into the fire place. Taking one last glance at the memory on the kitchen table, Harry gulped uneasily.

“I’m not a monster, Professor. I’m not like him.” Even as he said them, Harry felt unsure of his own words. Before Snape could retort, Harry had picked up the floo powder and vanished completely, the memory on the table the only sign that he had been there at all.

*

The boy didn’t need to tell Severus what was in the vial; he knew what it was as he watched the memory float inside the glass. Severus sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed his forehead. What kind of memory would Potter have wanted him to see? And who was “him”? Severus harrumphed. He had but a few hours to pack his belongings ready for the new school year and he certainly did not need this hanging over his head. With a growl, he picked up the vial and stuffed it in his pocket. He would deal with it later. Even if he did want to watch it, he reasoned, he would need to use Dumbledore’s Pensieve. It would have to wait.    

Severus packed his belongings, but found himself distracted by the tiny vial in his pocket. His own curiosity was infuriating him.

Potter’s not even here and yet he’s still managing to ruin my last few hours of freedom.

By the time Severus’ cases were stacked by the floo, he realised he had less than an hour before the feast. He couldn’t help but blame that on Potter and his mysterious memory vial. He must have dwelled for some time on the vials contents, considering it had somehow taken him almost seven hours to pack. As he shrunk down his cases and stood in the fireplace, Severus took one last look at his home. He would not see it again until Christmas.

*

The welcoming feast was underway and the professors were chatting cordially about their summers. McGonagall had tried to engage Severus in conversation, but to no avail. His mind was on other things as he agitatedly picked at his food.

“Something the matter, Severus?” Dumbledore asked from his left.

“Nothing of importance,” Severus replied distractedly. His eyes moved from his plate and slowly scanned the Gryffindor table. He could just see a shock of black hair that could only belong to one Potter, but his face was obscured by the Weasley boy. Setting his plate aside, Severus turned abruptly towards Dumbledore and said in hushed tones, “I am conducting an Occlumency experiment tonight. I...was hoping it might be possible to make use of your Pensieve, Headmaster.”

“Can it not wait, my boy? Surely you can give yourself one evening of freedom before the hard work begins?”

Severus knew that freedom wasn’t possible with this silly memory business hovering curiously over his head.

“I’m afraid not, Albus,” Severus said, voice quieter this time, “In fact, I am eager to finish this experiment before classes begin. I am sure you understand.”

“Very well, Severus. I am at a meeting with the Ministry this evening; it may go on into the night. You may make use of my office then.”

“Much appreciated, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore returned to eating his food and Severus sat back listening to the bustle of the Great Hall and waiting for the feast to be over.

When Severus went back to his quarters, he took the vial out of his pocket and studied it. Holding it in his hand, he paced the floor. Dumbledore would be leaving soon and Severus was eager to get to the Pensieve. He couldn’t help but wondered what the vial contained. Had the boy done something even worse than the things Severus already knew? Was it a confession? Was the memory that of his own illness? Was the boy trying to redeem himself once more by offering back the humiliating experience? Hell, was he trying to get Severus to see what he’d done to save his life? If that was the case, the boy was more egotistical than he thought! Prince Potter needed to be praised for his actions, was that it? He felt hard-done-by because he hadn’t got a thank you? Well where was Severus’ thank you for all the times he’d put his own life at risk for the boy? Severus looked again to the vial in his hand. It was time. Severus tore out of the room, a man with an agenda, all the while growing angrier and angrier at his own inability to rein in his curiosity. This anger quickly morphed into loathing...loathing for one Harry James Potter.

Severus ascended the stairs to Dumbledore’s office and was pleased to find it empty. The headmaster had even left the Pensieve out, ready for Severus to use. He locked and warded the door behind him. Settling himself in front of the Pensieve, Severus eagerly uncorked the vial. With a smirk, he poured the contents into the bowl. Whatever the boy had done, it must have been bad if he was more willing to show him than Dumbledore, Severus reasoned.   

With a sneer, he plunged his face into the Pensieve.

*

It was almost dark by the time Harry left the park. He immediately slowed his pace at the sight of Uncle Vernon’s car in the driveway. The man would do worse than have his guts for garters. Bracing himself, it took all his strength to drag his feet up the driveway. The house was quiet as he entered; no sign of his uncle anywhere. With a deep breath, Harry went to the kitchen to start on dinner for his uncle. At least if he got one of his chores done Vernon might lay off a bit. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.

The fridge was full of food and Harry longed to just grab it all and pig out.

“Boy!” Harry jumped at the sound of his uncle’s voice reverberating on the landing. Footsteps thundered down the stairs and Harry barely had time to shut the fridge door before Vernon had stormed into the kitchen. “I see nothing is done again. Waste of space!” Vernon marched out of the kitchen and for a second Harry’s racing heart almost stopped beating in the hope that he wouldn’t come back.

The rattling of keys.

The click of a lock.

Uncle Vernon had locked the front door.

Not a second later, Vernon’s burst back into the kitchen and with his meaty hand grabbed Harry by the t-shirt and violently pushed him backwards into the worktop. Harry winced at the pain in his back. Still holding and twisting Harry’s shirt, Vernon leant in close, his breath hot on Harry’s face. His body moved until there was barely a hair’s width between them. Harry’s stomach roiled as he stared, wide-eyed, at his uncle’s menacing smile.

“I warned you, boy,” Vernon growled. A hand suddenly found its way to Harry’s groin and he instinctively tried to shuffle backwards.

“No! Get your hands away from – stop!” Harry pleaded, but Vernon kept him pushed against the side.

“You earned this, you little freak!” And Vernon was swatting at Harry’s frantic hands, pinning them down. “It takes a more...hands-on approach to control your kind.” And Vernon’s hands were scrabbling at Harry’s belt, pulling it, pushing it, undoing the buckle and loosening the strap.

Harry’s hands were now squashed behind him as Uncle Vernon forced all of his weight onto the boy to keep him still.

“Please, please...please,” Harry begged and his eyes began to glisten with despair. Tears of frustration, fear and shame filled his eyes as he struggled...and he struggled so hard! The man kept going, groping and breathing in a heavy, breathy way that made Harry want to gag. Vernon’s hand brushed the skin of Harry’s torso and he shuddered violently under the touch. And then Vernon’s wandering hand yanked roughly at Harry’s jeans, pulling them loose enough for his hand to venture downwards. Harry heard his words jumbling together, a chorus of no and please and stop. His voice was thick and his hands were numb. His breaths were coming in pained gasps. But the man’s hand kept touching and groping, and he kept smiling that sick, disgusting smile that made Harry’s stomach do flips.

And then the hand was gone. Vernon backed up, hunched over like a sick dog. Harry stood, paralysed in the corner, watching as his uncle’s face turned from red, to purple, to grey. As the man’s legs collapsed from under him, his eyes stared straight back into Harry’s, and to his shock, those eyes were not pleading with him, they were full of hatred and resentment. And Harry watched as Vernon curled into himself, clutching his chest, clutching his arm, pain radiating from him.

Numbness washed over Harry as his uncle lay sprawled on the kitchen floor. Did he want him dead? No, truly he didn’t. Did he want him to suffer? Harry didn’t know, his head was so confused. Why should he want to help this man, a man that had violated him so mercilessly, a man that could have done so much more had the fates not intervened? But standing there, frozen and numb, just watching his uncle suffer – it made him sick with himself, ashamed and yet nothing could make his body move and help the man.

He’ll never touch me again, Harry’s head whispered, never again. That thought made him sicker still.

*

As the memory unfolded, Severus felt like a piece of him had been stripped away, replaced by something new, something deeply distressing. He watched intently as his own body came into view.

“Potter!” he’d shouted when he’d seen the boy just standing idly in the corner. But no, he hadn’t seen the boy at all, had he? Had he been looking, he’d have seen a pale, dishevelled boy, hiding in the corner. He’d have noticed the boy’s eyes, not cold, but wild and unseeing.

Dumbledore was right; he had been blinded by hate. He was finally seeing Harry Potter for the first time. How could he not see it? How could this image of Potter that he had conjured in his mind long before they met, the Potter he once thought he knew, be so wrong...be so different from this boy, Harry, that stood, back to the kitchen counter, wronged so much by his own family?

Severus watched himself as he scolded the boy and took him coldly by the arm. Seconds later, they had disapparated and the memory was over. As Snape emerged from the Pensieve, he stumbled to the floor. He had made the boy’s last week a misery. Harry had escaped the Dursleys only to be set upon by Severus himself. 

“I called him depraved,” Severus whispered aloud. “I said he had no morals.”

He thought back to the last thing the child had said to him.

“I’m not a monster, Professor. I’m not like him.”

His words sounded so uncertain and Severus knew that was his fault.

“You’re not a monster, child,” Severus said to the room, if anything, I am the monster here. Severus felt sick, but he wasn’t sure what made him feel worse, the thought of the torture the boy had been through at the hands of his own uncle, or the thought his own appalling behaviour.

*

Harry sat in the common room with his friends, happy to hear about their summers, if only to take the attention away from his own. He held up a smile as Hermione recounted her trip to Egypt with her family and he mustered a laugh when Ron explained how he’d bought him some Kendal Mint Cake from his trip to the Lake District, but he’d accidentally eaten it on the way home. But deep in the back of Harry’s mind, he didn’t feel he deserved to laugh, or smile, or have such kind, accepting friends. Maybe they were as blind as Dumbledore; they couldn’t see passed the hero to the twisted teenage boy that he was.

Ron and Hermione were laughing again, but Harry had stopped listening, instead his eyes were transfixed on the dark figure standing in the Gryffindor portrait hole. And he wasn’t the only one who had noticed the man. The common room quickly grew silent. Ron’s laughter faded and his face turned to a scowl.

“He hasn’t been here long enough to do anything wrong!”

“Ronald!” Hermione scolded, pulling Ron back into his seat.

“Mr Potter, a word,” Snape said tightly, and Harry knew this was it. The man must have watched the memory. Would he tell everybody? Would he show Dumbledore? Would the Prophet reveal his shame to everyone? So many questions ran through Harry’s head as he followed Snape into the corridor. The portrait closed behind him. Snape looked awkward. This was the first time Harry had ever seen the man look so uncomfortable. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“Please follow me,” Snape said, and although he didn’t give Harry a chance to refuse, the man had never said please before, not to him. As they strode through the castle, Harry was very aware that Snape seemed to be finding it impossible to look at him. His heart sank to his feet. The further they walked, the more Harry managed to convince himself that Snape still thought he was morally bankrupt – that, somehow, the memory had only served as proof of this.

As they descended into the dungeons, Harry felt his skin tingle with goose bumps. Through twists and turns, they eventually made it to a door, and only when it opened did Harry realise exactly where he was.

“Mr Potter, these are my private quarters. Since you have already visited my home, I see no reason to sacrifice my own comfort by having this conversation in the cold of my office. Come in,” he said, but Harry was too busy trying to gauge the situation. “I said come in!” Severus snapped, but immediately regretted it, hard as it was to break the habit of a lifetime.

Harry quickly crossed the threshold as Snape paced the room. “Take a seat,” Snape said and Harry slid into the nearest chair by the coffee table. The man continued pacing until Harry drew him from his reverie with an anxious, “Sir?”

*

“Sir?” The boy’s voice was soft but troubled. He only then realised he was pacing.

Severus stopped and for the first time that evening he took a long hard look at the boy in front of him. Where was the insolence, the arrogance? He could not see it anymore. Part of him wished to see it all again so that his entire vision of Harry Potter was not in ruins – so that Potter himself was not in ruins. Severus walked to the coffee table and sank down into the chair opposite the boy.

“I have seen the memory,” he said bluntly. His words hung in the air for what seemed like minutes. “I have been wrong about you, Mr Potter,” Severus sighed, “very wrong.”

Harry looked up as if stunned by his words.

“I regret...I regret many of the things I have said to you this past week. You are ashamed of the way you acted when faced with your uncle’s suffering. You think you are a monster, Mr Potter, but you are far from it. I can say with brutal honesty that, were I in your position, I would have done more than simply watch that animal’s suffering...I may even have added to it. Your restraint...it astounds me.” Severus swallowed thickly, waiting for a response.   

“I’m not a monster?” the boy finally said, his voice thick with emotion.

Severus shook his head. “You are not a monster.”

“I’m not a monster,” Harry said again, more assuredly this time.

“He is the monster, Potter, that man. You are an incredibly resilient human being. And I am sorry that it has taken me so long to see that.”

As Severus’ words sunk in, Harry’s face crumpled and he hung his head to hide his teary eyes. “I’m not a monster,” he whispered and Severus could do nothing but look on as the boy struggled to keep it together. When Harry looked up again, Severus was shocked to see that, somehow amidst the tears, there was anger in those eyes.

“You know,” Harry said as he wiped his eyes angrily on his sleeve, “I thought...I thought I was a bad person.” Emotion oozed from his words and Severus’ guilt swelled in his chest. “I thought that was why these things kept happening to me...that I was being punished for being such a...for being so...”

Severus sighed sadly. “Potter,” he said stiffly but there was no malice in the word, “I truly am sorry. I am not one to sugar coat the truth...nobody deserves what you have been through. I have been a fool.” Severus’ words were strained. It had been so long since he had been so squarely wrong about something, but it ripped a hole in his pride to admit to it.

The boy just sat there, hunched forward, expression indecipherable. Severus watched as Harry tried to compose himself, taking deep breaths and flattening down his wayward hair. As the boy scrubbed at his eyes and sat up straight, Severus was amazed at his resilience. Without a word, Severus conjured some tea, a special concoction of his own that seemed very fitting for the current situation. He poured the tea and pushed a cup in Harry’s direction. The boy appeared sceptical.

“I assure you it is not poison, Mr Potter, though it is laced with a Calming Draught – my own brew, I assure you,” he said with a half-hearted smirk. He was pleased to see the boy pick up the tea and take a drink. They sat there in silence for a long while, welcoming the effects of the tea.

“I meant it,” Harry said cryptically. Severus put down his tea.

“You meant what?”

“When I said thank you for letting me stay, I meant it.”

Severus could only nod. “Potter...” he wavered. A stony expression masked his face. “Your uncle...has he always been...abusive?”

Harry looked down at his knees. “Not like that,” he replied and Severus understood.

“Why didn’t you tell someone? Somebody could have helped.”

“Until I’m of age the wards at Privet Drive are what keep me safe,” Harry said. “Until the Burrow is made safer, I can’t stay there. Then where would I have ended up? I might have been left with you,” Harry laughed sadly, but Severus couldn’t bring himself to do the same. “Besides, the last thing this war needs is a story in the Prophet about how The Boy Who Lived can’t even fend off a muggle.”

“He will not get away with it –”

“No, Sir, just...please, leave it. I don’t want anyone else to know,” Harry said quietly.

“He should be locked up, you understand that?” Severus’ brow knitted together. Harry looked away. “It will be dealt with –”

“No, please Professor!”

“Let me finish, Mr Potter. It will be dealt with...discreetly, if that is how you feel.” Harry’s body physically relaxed. “But you must understand Professor Dumbledore must be informed; you cannot possibly go back there.”  

“He doesn’t need to know anything,” Harry said forcefully.

“And what about next year? Without a reason he will send you back.”

“He can’t. I’ll be of age and I’ll be stronger by then. Mrs Weasley has offered to take me in. The Burrow will have to be warded – if Professor Dumbledore really cares about my happiness, he’ll help me.”

Severus shifted in his seat. “He will help, even if he needs to be guided in the right direction.” With as much sincerity as he could muster, Severus made a vow. “Your uncle, he will get his comeuppance. I will see to it.” There was no uncertainty in his eyes, no question in his voice. He would make that man pay for the terror he’d made the boy feel in his own home.  

Harry’s voice drew Severus from his thoughts. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you helping me?” Harry asked wearily.

Severus frowned. “Because you are deserving of my help. I have wronged you, Mr Potter, like so many people have. You deserve better. I cannot right the wrongs of the past; I can only endeavour to make amends...if you should allow me to do so.”  

The boy looked into his eyes as if searching for any signs that Severus was lying to him, winding him up, having him on. But there was nothing. He had no reason to say no. With a slow incline of the head, the boy accepted his help.

“A capacity to forgive like no other,” Severus said softly mostly to himself as he remembered Dumbledore’s words.

Harry let out a long breath. “It’s late, Professor. My friends will think you’ve used me in a potion or something,” he joked, trying to lighten the mood. Severus scoffed in amusement and the boy seemed surprised that he hadn’t bitten back at him.

“You’re right, but before you go...” Severus got up and began rifling through one of the drawers in his sideboard. As he shut the drawer, he held in his hand a picture of himself and Lily Evans as children, him lying under a tree and Lily skipping around it. The sun shone brighter that day than Severus had ever seen it shine. He looked at the picture whenever he needed reminding of the reason he was sacrificing himself so much in the war. He thought that perhaps somebody else needed it more than him.

He said nothing as he crossed the room and held the picture out to the boy. Harry took it, watching as the girl’s hair flowed behind her as she skipped.

“You did know her?” Harry questioned, though he knew the answer already.

“I did.”

Harry brushed a finger down the side of his mother’s face as she played. “Nobody talks about her much,” he said distractedly, “I know so many stories about my dad, but nothing about mum.”

Severus watched as the boy looked longingly at his mother and he felt a twinge of guilt that he had known Lily so well and her own son had known her so little.    

“She was a wonderful woman,” Severus said wistfully. “Perhaps, if you would like to hear more about her, you could come by one evening.”

“And you’ll tell me about her? That would be...I would like to, if it’s not a bother,” Harry rambled, the hint of a smile forming on his face. 

“Mr Potter, you are welcome to visit my quarters any time if you feel the need to...if you require...an ear.”

“What should I tell my friends? I can tell them I have detention, but they’ll want to know why...” Harry mused.

“I’m sure I can think of a reason,” Severus quipped, rolling his eyes.

“Thank you, Sir,” Harry said with a genuine smile.

“You had best be getting back. Your friends will be roaming the halls soon and I’d hate to have to take house-points already for being out after curfew.” Severus smirked darkly.

Harry got up to leave and said a small “goodbye”, but as he reached the door, he paused. Turning back, he caught the Potions Master’s gaze and they shared a moment, both realising how this one evening had drastically altered their relationship. Severus only wished it hadn’t taken such a terrible event to change his opinion of the boy.

“Thank you,” Harry gulped, “for turning up when you did that day...if he’d have died, it would have been on my conscience forever. I’m not sure I could have lived with that.” And in the next instant, Harry was gone, leaving Severus to think on the day’s events.

His thoughts quickly turned to plans of retribution. Vernon Dursley would rue the day he laid a finger on a wizard. Until then, he could only try his damndest to atone for his mistakes.

You’ve done all you can...for now.  

As he retired to his bedroom, finally finding the time to unpack, his mind jumped suddenly to his earlier run-in with the Weasley boy’s cheek in the Gryffindor common room. He would have to remember to give the boy a lesson on respect. A detention scrubbing cauldrons ought to do it, he thought. He was still Severus Snape, after all.