Harry was frustrated.

He’d read through every book he could find that might possibly contain information about his defeat of Voldemort in attempt to discover how it could have been feasible. However, all that any of the books offered were variants of pretty much the same thing.

At the height of his powers, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (pathetic, they can’t even write his real name?) had been intent on hunting down and murdering the Potters for reasons unknown. The Potters, who were well-respected, powerful wizards deeply involved in the uprising against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, (seriously, that hyphenation is such a mouthful, a complete waste of ink) were not easy targets; they were known to have successfully evaded Him and many of his followers, known as Death Eaters, (Death Eaters? Yum. Can I have seconds?) on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named eventually tracked down the Potters, and on the thirty-first of October, 1981, He proceeded to kill them. Upon the deaths of James and Lily Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attempted to murder their son, Harry James Potter, who was three months past the age of one year. For unexplained and unprecedented reasons, the attempted Killing Curse failed to kill the child, and, instead, rebounded upon He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, thereby vanquishing Him. The child was left with naught but a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, where the curse had made contact. This incident marked the end of the eleven year civil war among the British wizarding citizens.

That was it. None of the books explained how Harry had survived; none of them even offered any possible explanations or hypotheses. Nor did the books provided information on what exactly had happened to Voldemort.

There’s something missing here, Harry thought. I can’t tell what it is that’s missing, I just know it’s something important. Guess it makes sense that the information isn’t accessible, because if it was, it wouldn’t be important.

Harry skimmed yet another book half-heartedly, not at all expecting to discover any new information.

Thus, the book read, October thirty-first, 1981, marked the end of the war, pronouncing Harry James Potter as the Boy-Who-Lived. Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-

Wait, there’s more? Harry read on, eagerly.

Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter was placed into the temporary custody of Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, renowned defeater of Grindelwald (1945), and the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1956 - present). He was said to have placed the Boy-Who-Lived with his muggle relations, his last remaining family. The precise location is unknown.

Harry read the passage. Then read it again. And again. He felt an odd ringing in his ears.

 It was Dumbledore. Dumbledore had dumped him at the Dursleys and left him there. Dumbledore was the reason for everything; the reason he’d suffered, the reason he had nothing, the reason he couldn’t sleep through the night without wanting to end it all.

Dumbledore had left him there, and had only shown up when the Dursleys had died. And then he’d proceeded to dump him in the home of yet another person who didn’t want him.

A terrifying realization slowly began to dawn on Harry.

I’m being used.

This is no mistake on Dumbledore’s part, he’s doing this deliberately. This is a plot. He’s trying to mold me, to turn me into something by putting me through all this. He wants me not to have anyone, to hurt, to suffer, so that I’ll run into his arms when he “rescues” me, and do whatever he wants.

It’s all because of him. Everything. All of it.

A fury such that Harry had never felt ripped through him. He felt it in his chest, his lungs, his very heart. He had never felt such anger, such all-encompassing fury that possessed a life of its own.

The anger expanded within him, and his body could no longer contain it. It burst out of him in a terrific surge of furious magic.

The room seemed to explode before him. The windows shattered, and countless, tiny shards of glass scattered across the room. Hundreds of books flew off their shelves, landing in every corner of the room, piled haphazardly. The bookshelves themselves, every last one, crashed to the floor with a deafening thud, the entire room shuddering. The chairs and tables overturned, ink splattering everywhere.

Harry stood amidst the wreckage, unharmed, staring impassively through glazed eyes. The raging anger had left him with the magic, leaving him quite numb, and more exhausted than he’d ever been. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, unmoving.

“Potter!”

Harry sensed Snape’s voiced rather than heard it. He turned slowly to meet Snape’s livid gaze.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Snape was standing in the doorway, positively frothing at the mouth.

Harry did not even try to respond. What could he say? He didn’t think he’d be able to speak; he could not even muster up the energy to be afraid of what he knew was sure to come.

There was a brief moment of silence, where Snape appeared to be awaiting his reply. Harry continued to say nothing, staring at a point on the wall behind Snape.

Suddenly, Snape moved. He was striding towards Harry, much too quickly, and before Harry could react, he was grabbed by the upper arms and hoisted into the air.

Harry dangled for a moment before his exhausted and overwrought brain caught up with his senses.

No no no no no no. He’s going to kill me. This is it. Can’t move. Can’t get away. Running makes things worse at this point, don’t try. Go! Leave, go somewhere else, get out of here. Now!

And Harry did.

His consciousness retreated to a place in the deepest recesses of his mind, where he was safe, where nothing could hurt him.

He vaguely sensed that Snape was yelling at him, but all he heard was a faint buzzing in his ears. He felt, detachedly, a pressure on his upper arms, where Snape was gripping him tightly, shaking him forcefully.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered here, where he was alone, free, far from any threat.

Harry came back to himself abruptly as he was dropped to the ground quite suddenly. He looked up and saw Snape staring at him with a frozen expression on his face that Harry could not place. He didn’t try.

Harry moved his arms, and flinched slightly as he felt a shooting pain in his right shoulder.

Oh, a dislocation. That can be dealt with.

Harry gritted his teeth, then shoved his shoulder back into place in one forceful movement.

Snape was still staring at him, even more strangely this time, and much more intensely.

Harry’s well-honed instincts, and finally, the fear, began to pervade his senses.

Why am I still here? Get the hell out of here, you idiot, this is your chance, before he really hurts you.

Harry bolted.

Severus stood, overcome by an emotion akin to shock, staring at the spot the boy had just vacated. He could tell, by the distant pounding of the stairs, that the boy had not attempted to run away, he’d just retreated to his bedroom.

What did I just do?

He had, in a startling fit of rage, manhandled the boy roughly enough to dislocate his shoulder, and he’d likely left bruises on the boy’s arms as well.

Severus had never, in any sense of the word, liked children, but he’d never laid a finger on any one of them, let alone done them physical harm

Until now.

When he’d rushed into the library in response to his alarms, he’d seen red.

This home was the one place where Severus had been free of everyone. Free of his father, free of the Dark Lord, and free of his childhood tormentors.

He’d painstakingly rebuilt his life around this home, and that could never be taken from him.

But then, he’d entered the library to find it in a severe state of disarray, the damaged caused by none other than the spawn of James Potter. James Potter had come back to torment him, to wreak havoc upon his life, to destroy all that he held dear. And Potter had simply stood there, refusing to explain, staring at him insolently.

And Severus had utterly lost his composure, and proceeded to manhandle the child.

And a child he was, Severus had realized in the midst of his rage. The child had hung like a ragdoll in Severus’ unforgiving hands as he was roughly shaken, slight weight barely registering, his scrawny arms trapped within Severus’ painfully tight grip.

Severus had been too blinded by rage to process the boy’s initial reaction, but by the time he’d come to his senses, the child had looked… blank, lost, as though he’d all but vacated his body.

He’d then, in the shock of realizing his actions, abruptly dropped the boy, and he had been horrified to hear a popping sound. He’d just dislocated the boy’s shoulder.

He’d hurt a child. Not James Potter reincarnated, not a person of equal stature and strength, but a child, and a small, underfed one at that.

And then, the boy had promptly shoved his shoulder back into place with an air of practiced ease, as though it was something he did every day.

A lifetime of Occlumency training, years of serving the Dark Lord, months of spying, and I could not control my emotions in regards to a child.

Severus was seriously questioning the view he’d held of himself all these years. He’d sworn to himself, after growing up with a violent father, and upon witnessing the Dark Lord and Death Eaters alike torture children without a thought, that he would never harm a child. While children were irritating, dense, and immature, they were defenseless in the face of a fully-grown adult. And Severus was well acquainted with the feeling of powerlessness.

Yet he’d abandoned all his principles in a moment of uncontrollable rage and utter idiocy. No matter what the child had done, Severus’ actions were indefensible.

He waved his wand jerkily, restoring the bookshelves, restacking the books, repairing the windows.

Another wave of self-recrimination engulfed him. He’d hurt a child in response to a deed that was so easily reversed? If the child had destroyed his entire home beyond repair, then perhaps, somehow, his actions, if not excusable, could have been explained.

But no. Within five minutes, the mess had been entirely sorted out.

It was time that he seriously rethought his views of and actions towards the child residing in his home, the son of James Potter or not. He would have to speak with the boy, difficult though it might be.

Best to wait until morning, Severus thought. It is already quite late, and the boy will undoubtedly be disinclined toward my presence, just now.

Severus knew that he was simply putting off the moment when he’d have to explain his actions to the boy, but then, there was some logic to his rationalization. They’d both be well-served by a good night’s sleep. Then, come morning, he’d attempt to set things right with the boy.

Upon clearing up the mess of his failed potion, and ascertaining that the boy was indeed in his bedroom, Severus settled into bed. However, sleep evaded him as unwanted memories pervaded his mind. Recollections of his childhood, of his time in the Dark Lord’s service, of the tortured screams of young children… all with a backdrop of emerald green, of Lily’s eyes… the child’s eyes…

His thoughts were shattered by a scream.

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, a scream tearing at his throat.

This nightmare had been a particularly vicious one, no doubt prompted by that night’s earlier events. That explained why he had screamed aloud, as he hadn’t done so in years. Uncle Vernon had hated being woken, and, later, on the streets, any noise would have given away his location.

You’re ok, you’re ok, they can’t get you, just a dream, not real- No! It is real. He’s gonna come back and finish the job, you probably woke him up.

Harry immediately jumped out of his bed, backing toward the wall. He’d heard footsteps, and they were growing steadily louder as they neared his bedroom.

He’s coming. He’s gonna hurt me. Bad.

Harry watched as the door opened slowly, scarcely breathing, his heart beating like a drum. His breathing suddenly quickened, and he drew his arms around himself protectively as Snape walked in. He reached into his pocket, finding it distressingly empty. Cursing his exhaustion-worn instincts, he realized he’d neglected to retrieve his dagger from under his pillow. He trembled.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter, I have no intention of harming you,” said Snape, standing by the doorway.

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, but did not relax his stance.

I suppose you’re here to invite me to tea.

Snape spoke again, in the same odd tone, lacking its usual venom.

“I heard a scream.”

Snape paused a moment.

“A nightmare?”

Harry didn’t answer, but Snape appeared to interpret his silence as an affirmative answer.

“I’m sorry for waking you.” Harry whispered.

Actually, Harry wasn’t sorry at all, but Uncle Vernon had liked apologies; they had often tended to lessen the severity of what was to come.

“You did not wake me, Mr. Potter, but, had you done so, I would not be inclined toward harboring anger toward your person; you could hardly have prevented it.”

Harry felt his fear lessen slightly, replaced by a sense of irritation. Snape’s moods shifted at the drop of a hat; one minute, he looked about ready to strangle Harry to death, the next, he was asking about Harry’s nightmare. The vacillation was seriously unnerving.

The irritation, the exhaustion, and the fact that Harry’s inhibitions tended to lessen when woken from a nightmare loosened his tongue.

“Didn’t stop you before.”

Snape raised his eyebrows at that.

“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Potter?”

Harry paused for a moment.

“In the library.”

Snape looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Mr. Potter.”

Now beyond the point of caring, Harry elaborated.

“I was angry. When I get angry, things happen.”

Harry held his breath; he was certain that Snape’s wrath would now be unleashed. Perhaps that had been Harry’s intention, to provoke Snape into just getting on with it, instead of playing this unsettling guessing game.

He was surprised, therefore, to see Snape sigh, and close his eyes for a moment.

“Mr. Potter, I… wish to apologize, now even more so upon your recent revelation.”

He wishes to what? Apologize? Since when do adults apologize? Since when does anybody apologize?

Snape took a step forward, and Harry took a step back. Snape held out his palms.

“I will not hurt you again, Mr. Potter. I will not touch you without your agreement. I merely wish to explain, and for you to listen.”

Harry said nothing, at a complete loss of how to respond. He just waited, arms clutched around himself, back against the wall.

Snape, still standing near the doorway, spoke.

“Mr. Potter, had you, knowingly and willingly, destroyed my entire house, my earlier actions toward you would have been entirely inappropriate. Even more so, considering that you had not purposefully caused the damage, and that it was easily reversible.”

Huh? Since when does intention matter? Adults beat up kids to vent anger and show them who’s in charge. And he didn’t even hurt me that badly.

Snape seemed to notice his confusion, though Harry could not understand how, as he was sure he’d kept his face blank.

“I understand, Mr. Potter, than I’ve provided you with little reason to trust my word. However, I will say that you can be assured that I will not harm you again. Perhaps a time will come that you will believe me.”

Harry couldn’t even mask his expression at this point; he simply stared at Snape, eyebrows at his hairline.

There is no way he just said that. Impossible. This is part of the plot. He’ll try to gain my trust, then somehow, something will be accomplished, and Dumbledore will be happy.

“I don’t believe you.” Harry said flatly.

Snape just exhaled slightly.

“I do not expect you to. I simply wish to convey that it will not happen again. Eventually, you will come to see that I do not lie.”

Snape said that in an intense tone; he was watching Harry carefully, searchingly.

Harry stared back, studying Snape’s face in search of any indication that he was lying. Harry was sure Snape was, but he was usually able to judge a person’s sincerity by their tone or expression, a skill he’d developed out of necessity.

However, he could not detect anything in Snape’s expression. Nothing. Not even a twitch, a blink, or a movement.

Odd. Either he’s a better liar than I’ve ever come across, or he’s not lying. I’ll go with the exceptionally good liar theory.

There was a long moment of silence, as Harry and Snape simply stared at each other. Eventually, Snape broke the silence.

“It appears that you are not going to ask, but you may likely wonder why I had done what I did if I claim to be loath to harm you.” Snape paused.

I don’t wonder why you would want to hurt me, I wonder why you wouldn’t.

Snape spoke again, in a somewhat halting tone of voice.

“I admit that I had been harboring unwarranted negative feelings toward you, based on erroneous assumptions. It has become clear to me, upon the day’s events, that I was wrong in doing so. As such, my earlier actions will not, in any form, occur again.”

Did he just explain himself to me? Why would he have even needed a reason to hurt me in the first place? I am way too tired for this.

Snape seemed to be awaiting a response, so Harry looked at Snape and nodded his head.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape studied him again. Harry wished he would leave; the man was entirely too confusing.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. “I will leave it at that. If you should experience any difficulty in awakening later this morning, I will not be averse to postponing breakfast.”

Snape finally left.

Harry exhaled slowly and relaxed, climbing back into bed.

How weird was that?

Severus returned to bed, his mind racing. While he thought he’d gotten his point across well enough, the child’s reactions were… odd.

He is clearly terrified of me.

Severus felt a stab of guilt in his chest. He’d terrified the boy to the point of driving him to nightmares?

There is something more here. The boy seemed entirely too surprised at my apology, and his protective instincts are quite well-developed. Not to mention his generally odd behaviors. The boy’s fear clearly stems from a deeper place. I do have my suspicions.

Snape felt another jolt when he realized that he’d neglected to tend to the child’s injuries.

Somehow, when it comes to this child, I seem to abandon all rational thought. That must change.

Severus was determined to do right by the boy. And he had not been a spy for nothing; he would discover what it was that plagued the child.