Harry put his hand in front of his mouth, trying to quiet the harsh coughs. The four year old knew that if his relatives heard him, he’d be in trouble. They wouldn’t take too kindly to being woken up in the middle of the night because their freaky nephew was sick. Harry wasn’t allowed to be sick. Uncle Vernon once told him that if he didn’t earn his keep he was going out on the street, and good riddance to bad rubbish.

Another harsh cough racked the small frame, leaving Harry gasping for breath. His chest hurt so bad…

He heard a muffled noise outside his cupboard and saw light coming in through the cracks. Oh no, Harry thought miserably, Aunt and Uncle heard me. Harry retreated to the furthest edge of his cupboard, knowing his beefy uncle couldn’t reach him back there. It would buy him a few seconds to try to beg his uncle not to throw him out. When it came to Harry’s punishments, Vernon never threatened, he promised.

“Please Uncle, I’m sorry I woke you up,” Harry cried as the door to his cupboard opened, light spilling in and temporarily blinding him.

“Hush child. I’m not your Uncle; thank Merlin for that,” an unfamiliar voice said. This voice was silky and soft, and whoever was speaking didn’t seem to be mad at him. A novel concept.

Harry blinked as he looked up into the bright light, and saw an unfamiliar man standing outside his cupboard door. The man was tall, with black hair that reached down to his shoulders. He was rather pale, which made his black eyes more pronounced. He was dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans, with a long black coat wrapped around his thin frame.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, before dissolving into another coughing fit. The man knelt and reached into the cupboard, pulling Harry out to sit beside him. He rubbed Harry’s back soothingly while the boy coughed, saying nothing but comforting him nonetheless.

“That is unimportant right now,” the man said, pulling a black stick from his coat pocket and pointing it at Harry. He shivered as his skin tingled, before he noticed the man frowning. “Bronchitis, bordering on pneumonia, with a 39.5 degree fever? Merlin child, what have your relatives done to you?”

“Um, Dudley locked me outside after we came home the other day and Aunt Petunia didn’t let me  in until morning because she said I deserved to be outside if I was too lazy to come inside with everyone else,” Harry recounted, his green eyes fever-bright and worried. “I didn’t do it on purpose sir, but Dudley pushed me.”

“It’s alright child, I believe you,” Severus replied, keeping his soothing tone, even while he was plotting the demise of those despicable muggles. He sighed, shifting position so he was sitting with his back against the wall opposite Harry’s cupboard and pulling Harry into his lap. The boy was much too thin, skin and bone with not an ounce of fat or muscle. He could count every vertebra of the boy’s spine and each of his ribs. He summoned several potions, to reduce the fever and fight congestion. As he caught them, Harry apparently regained confidence enough to ask questions.

“Are you my daddy?” Harry asked. The man was so nice, holding him and not yelling like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always did.

Severus didn’t answer, heart clenching at the pitiful sight of the boy in his arms. This is no time to go soft Snape, he reproved himself before turning back to Harry. “Harry,  I need you to drink these. This is special medicine, and it will make you feel better soon, but it doesn’t taste pleasant.”

Severus put the vial against the boy’s lips and was pleased when Harry drank without hesitation. He made a face at the taste, but obediently swallowed the Fever Reducer and Decongestant Draft. Severus transfigured one of the empty vials into a goblet and filled it with water to wash away the taste.

“You were very good Harry,” he praised as Harry sipped the water slowly.

“Thank you daddy,” Harry murmured, warmth filling him as the decongestant removed the fluid from his lungs and the fever reducer did its job. Harry snuggled closer to his savior. He has to be my daddy, Harry thought as he fell asleep in Severus’s arms, because only my daddy would care this much about me. Parents love their kids, even if they’re spoiled like Dudley. My daddy doesn’t care if I’m a freak.

Harry didn’t realize that he had spoken aloud, and Severus looked at the small child slowly falling asleep in his arms. He shook his head sadly. If only I was your father child. I never would have believed that I would ever wish James Potter’s son was my own, but this would be much easier if the boy was mine. I could take him away from here.

Severus shook his head sadly. The night that Harry’s parents were killed and he was left with the Dursleys, Severus protested Albus’s placement of the boy. He insisted Harry would be safer elsewhere, but the old coot was insistent. So Severus followed Albus when he placed Harry on the Dursleys’ doorstep, hidden from the Headmaster and his assistants. As soon as the three left, he approached the slumbering babe and cast a spell that would let him know if Harry was sick or injured. He promised Lily that he would keep her son safe, and he intended to keep that promise.

This was the third time his charm had alerted him that all was not well with the boy. The first had been when his cousin had shoved him down the steps, one year ago. The boy ended up with two cracked ribs and a broken wrist. Severus had healed him swiftly before Obliviating all knowledge of that night from his mind. The second time was when the boy was badly burned, three months ago, when he had burnt his hand cooking breakfast. The process was repeated, healing the boy and Obliviating the knowledge from his mind.

And now the process will be repeated once again, Severus thought grimly as he carefully put the sleeping child back into the cupboard. He wished he could leave something; food, a blanket, a soft toy for him to hold, something to help the child, but that was against the rules. No one could know he was a spy, and so Severus pointed his ebony wand at Harry once more, erasing all knowledge of that night from Harry’s mind.

~

13 years later

Seventeen year old Harry Potter stumbled back from the pensieve, nearly falling. He caught himself on the edge of the desk, mind spinning. His eyes went from the small stone bowl to the empty vial in his hand. It was one of many he had found, packed carefully in a box with his name on it. Inside the box were several vials of silvery memories and a note. The note had been short, and was written in the same small, spidery script that the vials were labeled in. He knew that handwriting. It belonged to the man whose memories he had just viewed, a man who had given his life for a boy he’d pretended to hate.

Dear Harry,

I sincerely hope that you read this carefully. I can understand if you are angry with me, even if you ever forgive me for killing Albus. I have treated you badly, and you do not know how sorry I am for that. This is not some latent remorse, nor is this an attempt at redemption before I die. Know now that I never meant any of the cruel things I did or said to you. I had a part to play, and it was imperative, for your safety, that I play that part. If I would have acted the way I wished, then I would have signed both of our death warrants. As I write this, you are somewhere hunting for something which Albus feels I do not need to know about. I do not know if there will be time for me to explain everything before the end of the war, or if I will be alive after it, so I am writing this to tell you something I have said many times before, each time I erased your memory. I am sorry, so very sorry, that I could not remove you from those horrible people. In this box are vials containing my memories. They are all of the times I have healed you, before Hogwarts and after you came here, and I have had to Obliviate the knowledge from your mind. I wanted you to know that you were never truly alone, even when you most believed it. I know this is too little, too late, but it is the best I can offer.

Yours,

Severus Snape

He hadn’t believed the note, but after viewing the memories…well, he was hard-pressed not to believe. As he went through each of the vials, he recalled things from each time, things long forgotten. He healed me, always. I thought he was my dad, because he acted like it. When Harry pulled out of the last memory, it was late at night. He was alone in the Headmistress’s office, as she was away on holiday, like the rest of the teachers and students. Harry was the only one there, and he had only come to reminisce. It was a message from the Bloody Baron that prompted Harry to go to Snape’s private quarters, where he found the box waiting for him. He took it up to the Headmistress’s office to view the memories, as Dumbledore’s pensieve still resided there.

Turning, Harry looked at the portrait behind the desk. Dumbledore’s portrait had moved to the other wall when the new headmaster had died. Now, his focus was on that portrait, the portrait of a tall, pale man with black eyes and black hair. The man in the portrait had his eyes closed, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or simply ignoring him.

“Professor?”

The black eyes slowly opened, and Severus regarded him warily. “Yes Potter?”

Harry met the black eyes squarely, seeing the concern he was remembering. “Thank you.” It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough in his opinion, but he couldn’t say anything else. Later on, after he had time to process everything, then would come the lengthy discussion.

Snape seemed to realize this. “You’re welcome Potter.”