Harry could scarcely believe that he’d been living with Snape for nearly three weeks and nothing terrible had happened.

Snape had continued to assist Harry with clearing his mind after that first night, but eventually, he’d been able to do it himself. Although the nightmares had by no means abated, they had lessened to a degree.

Snape continued to subtly probe Harry for answers about his relatives, and Harry had politely avoided the questions every time. Snape hadn’t let up, however, and it put Harry increasingly on edge. Even so, Harry found, against his better judgment, that he didn’t really mind Snape when he wasn’t asking questions.

Snape had begun to allow Harry regular access to the lab with supervision, which Harry definitely appreciated. He was picking up brewing skills at a steady pace, and Snape, sometimes, seemed almost pleased with his progress. All in all, Snape was being decent, and Harry could not think of any ulterior motive he might have to do so.

Maybe this is how people are supposed to act, Harry thought, his legs swinging from the tree branch he was perched upon. Snape had instructed Harry to get some fresh air before joining him in the lab because he’d had ‘little interest in reassembling his laboratory upon its demolition by hyperactive children’. Harry had all but snorted at that. As if he had ever been ‘hyperactive’. He’d obeyed, though.

He’s acting like… I don’t know. He’s not being mean, it’s like he doesn’t mind my being here.

That thought somehow bothered Harry. Was this how normal people lived? Three meals a day, nothing to worry about except keeping their things clean, with an adult who didn't-

Just stop. What’s the use? Don’t get used to this; after first year he won’t take me back, or Dumbledore will send me somewhere else when he realizes that Snape’s alright.

The thought of Dumbledore brought back a wave of fury; an echo of the rush of emotion he’d felt in the library that day. Harry shoved it away forcefully.

Just get used to the fact that nothing will ever be easy. This can’t last. Either Snape will blow up eventually, or you’ll get kicked out.

Harry kicked the branch, hard.

Damn Dumbledore, damn him for leaving me with… them.

He needed to stop thinking about this. Now. He hadn’t survived this long by dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. As a distraction, Harry wrapped his legs around the tree branch and allowed himself to dangle upside down, his torso swaying slightly. The rush of blood to his brain seemed to shove the unwanted thoughts out of the way, sweeping them away as a rushing stream might. He hung there for a while, ignoring the pounding of his head.

“Potter!”

Harry started violently, his legs losing their grip on the branch. He began to slip backwards, and just managed to grab hold of the branch with his hands. Panting slightly from his near-fall, he pulled himself back onto the branch into a sitting position, and he looked down to see the intimidating figure of Snape, who was glaring irately up at him.

Guess I spoke too soon. He’s angry now. Why, though?

 “What was the meaning of that idiotic display?” Snape snapped furiously.

Harry felt his breathing quicken.

What did I do wrong? Does he think I would break the branch or something?

“I require an answer, Potter, or do you deem it too much trouble?” Snape bit out.

What do I say? What does he want?

“I felt like it, sir,” Harry said in a clipped tone, pushing back his fear. Snape couldn’t get to him up here, anyway.

“You Felt. Like it,” Snape hissed. There was a short pause.

“Get down. Now.”

No! no no no. This is it. I dunno why he’s mad, but he’ll give it to me now. I’m not letting this happen again.

“No,” Harry said, in what he hoped was a steady tone. Snape's face grew darker.

“Did you just tell me no, Potter?”

Is that a rhetorical question?

“If you do not come down immediately, you will most certainly regret it.”

Harry didn’t move.

I won’t like the consequences whether I go down or not. At least I’m out of range, here.

Harry then saw Snape draw his wand.

Oh, god. He doesn’t need me in close range, with that.

Harry felt the fear build up rapidly, and with it, his magic. Reflexively, he shot out his palms, releasing a surge of magic that threw Snape backwards a good ten feet. Harry immediately jumped down from his branch, landing painfully on his ankle in his haste. He was pretty sure he felt a bone snap, but, at the moment, it didn’t matter.

Harry sprinted away from Snape as quickly as he could, the adrenaline masking the pain in his ankle. He ran until he hit the mist.

Damn. Effing. Wards.

In his frustration, he pounded at the barrier with his fists, and he was shoved abruptly backwards by an unseen force. Without pausing, Harry turned to the side and simply ran along the mist instead, until the exhaustion and pain began to catch up with him.

His ankle now throbbing abominably, he slowed to a stop and dropped to the ground. Harry sat there, injured left ankle splayed out in front of him, his arms wrapped around his right knee.

When he finds me, I’m dead! Dead dead dead dead- Stop the stupid shaking. Stop being scared. Stop being weak.

All too soon, as Harry knew would happen, a shadow descended over him. He raised his head with an almost agonizing slowness, his eye's stopping somewhere around Snape's torso.

Brace yourself. Don’t give him any satisfaction.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathed. Apologies usually helped, didn’t they? Snape closed his eyes, inhaling, then looked down at Harry.

“Stand up, Mr. Potter.”

Harry attempted to stand, trying to lay as little weight on his left foot as possible. Being as exhausted as he was, however, he swayed, inadvertently landing pressure on his injured ankle. He crumpled back to the ground with a barely concealed gasp.

Harry tried not to show his pain, but he couldn’t help biting down on his lower lip, letting out an almost inaudible groan.

“You have injured yourself,” Snape said in an inscrutable tone of voice, stating more than asking.

Harry didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say?

Snape abruptly leaned down towards Harry, who stiffened, his fists clenching in expectation of what he knew was sure to come. But, instead, Snape wrapped one arm around Harry’s upper back, and the other beneath his knees, lifting him up as though he was a toddler. Snape began walking towards the house, Harry struggling in his grip.

“Remain still, Potter, or I will immobilize you,” Snape growled.

Harry immediate froze. He had no doubt that Snape would follow through on his threat.

He’s… carrying me. Why on earth would he do that?

Snape entered the house and walked to the sitting room, depositing Harry carefully on the couch. He looked Harry in the eye.

“I will tend to your injury, Mr. Potter, and you will not fight me on this.”

Harry nodded; he was exhausted, and he couldn’t run if he tried. Harry watched as Snape carefully stretched out Harry’s left leg across his lap, waving his wand over the injured ankle.

“It appears that your ankle is broken in quite a few places, undoubtedly aggravated by your foolhardy flight.” His black eyes bored into Harry, a severe expression on his face. Harry deliberately avoided his eyes. Snape pointed his wand at Harry’s foot, removing his shoe and sock. Harry looked with detached interest at his ankle, which appeared reddened and swollen, resting at an unnatural angle.

“I will perform a charm that will set the bones,” Snape said in a businesslike manner. “You may experience an odd sensation.”

Is that a euphemism for intense agony?

Snape waved his wand, and Harry felt his bones shift back into place. Surprisingly, it didn’t quite hurt, but felt strange and uncomfortable, and he suppressed a shudder. The sensation ended, leaving his ankle aching somewhat. Snape flicked his wand again, wrapping Harry’s ankle and foot in bandages. Snape then conjured a footstool, setting Harry’s foot down.

The job done, Snape focused his gaze on Harry, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, unsure of what else to say. Snape had just healed his injury, as though Harry had not just thrown him ten feet across the ground.

“For what, precisely, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked curtly. Was this Snape’s idea of a game? What kind of question was that?

Better play along.

“For using magic on you, sir.”

Snape just shook his head, forehead slightly creased.

“No, Mr. Potter, it is clear that you simply reacted out of fear, as I drew my wand and did not warn you. For that, I apologize. I was simply planning on levitating you to the ground, but I should not have attempted so in the manner that I did. That is not why I am displeased.”

He’s apologizing? What in the name of…

“For running, sir?” Running away is always bad, makes the punishment worse.

Snape just shook his head again, looking exasperated.

“Mr. Potter, while you most certainly should not have run on an injured ankle, it is clear that that too, was simply a fear response. When the situation dictates so, it is a useful attribute to react both quickly and through pain. While it is important that you know that I do not pose such danger, I cannot blame you for believing so.”

What the bloody…? So what the hell is he mad about?

Snape looked profoundly irritated.

“I will spell it out for you, Potter, as is seems you require me to do so,” he said dryly. “The reason for my displeasure was your reckless behavior in the tree.”

That’s what he’s mad about?

“Why, sir?” he had to ask.

Snape looked as though he was trying valiantly to alleviate his frustration.

“Mr. Potter, had you fallen from the ridiculous position you saw fit to assume, you might have broken your neck,” Snape hissed, leaning forward slightly.

Harry leaned back, a bit unnerved. Snape was angry because he, Harry, could have been hurt?

“Why would that matter to you, sir?”

Snape looked ready to throw something. “For the love of…” he muttered. He let out another frustrated sigh.

“Mr. Potter,” began Snape, speaking slowly and intensely. “It has become increasingly apparent to me that there has not been an adult in your life who has seen fit to ensure your welfare.”

I guess not… Should there have been?

“That has changed. I am currently responsible for your welfare, Mr. Potter, and under my care, you will not behave in a manner that puts yourself at risk.”

Okay…

Snape seemed to be waiting for something.

“Er… I won’t do it again?” Harry tried.

Snape just looked tired, now.

“You most certainly will not. If you do attempt such a foolhardy stunt again, you will not like the consequences.”

Okay. So if I do something that might cause me harm, he’ll hit me? Where’s the logic in that?

Of course, Snape recognized Harry’s confusion for what it was.

“I will reiterate, Mr. Potter, that I will not ever raise a hand or wand to you with intent to cause you harm,” Snape said in an low, intense tone, looking at Harry intently.

So what kind of consequence does he have in mind? What else is there, if he won’t hit me? Grounding is only in the movies.

“As it is, I will overlook today’s idiotic behavior. You will keep as little weight on that ankle as possible, and it should be properly healed by the morning. Do not go outside; I will escort you to the library if you wish.”

Harry nodded cautiously, allowing Snape to pull him up carefully and help him to the library. Harry felt a bit ridiculous; it wasn’t as though he’d never walked off an injury before. He couldn’t even count the amount of broken bones he’d had in his lifetime. He thought it was all entirely unnecessary, but he allowed Snape to assist him, for fear of angering him further.

Later, at dinner, to where Snape had, thankfully, allowed Harry to walk unassisted, Harry was praying to whatever higher power might exist for Snape not to question him.

No such luck.

“For exactly how long have you been consciously utilizing magic, Mr. Potter?”

That’s not such a bad question. Nothing about the Dursleys, at least. But how does he know I did it on purpose? I thought he'd assume it was accidental.

“Consciously, sir?”

Snape gave Harry a discerning look. “Mr. Potter, episodes of accidental magic do not occur in the direct manner in which you did; generally, it is quite difficult to detect the source.”

Darn it. Really? Well, I can’t lie my way out of this, he’ll know in a second.

“A few years, sir,” Harry answered carefully.

Snape raised his eyebrows.

“At exactly what age did you begin to gain control?” Snape asked.

Harry paused, thinking. It was hard to say. He’d noticed a pattern of odd things happening around him when he’d been really young, like four or five, and by the time he was six, he’d realized that those odd things were the reason the Dursleys hated him. Eventually, he’d come to the conclusion that if the Dursleys were going to hate him for it, he would give them good reason to, and he began to fight for control of his powers.

 Oh, right, he wants an answer.

“I would say at around seven or eight, sir,” Harry answered. Snape was looking at him oddly.

What?

“Is that a problem, sir?”

“Not at all, Mr. Potter. It is simply quite unusual for one as young as that to gain control of their magic.”

Well, I’d gathered it wasn’t the norm, from the books, but Snape understates everything, so it must be a lot rarer than I thought.

“What prompted you to attempt to gain control, Mr. Potter?”

Oh god, back to this.

Harry shrugged.

“A verbal answer, Potter,” Snape said sharply.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Snape looked highly skeptical, but, thankfully, said no more.

A few days later, Harry had just joined Snape in the lab, and he was skimming through the ingredients for the potion he’d been instructed to brew.

A standard size 3 brass cauldron is required… the book instructed. Harry glanced around. Most of the cauldrons he could see were pewter, and the only brass cauldron was a size two.

“Sir,” Harry called out tentatively. “This potion requires a size three brass cauldron, I don’t...”

“I believe there are spares in the storage closet,” Snape responded without looking up, pointing towards the stairs.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry walked towards the stairs, and opened a small door beneath them.

He froze.

The cupboard under the stairs.

Suddenly, Harry was no longer in Snape’s potions lab…

He was in the dark room, curled up on the bed, trembling all over. He felt simultaneously hot and cold. His breaths were coming in short gasps, and it seemed as though the room was engulfed in a thick fog. He watched through vacant eyes as money exchanged hands, words were spoken, and Uncle Vernon escorted the man with the pale hair and dark eyes out of the room.

Uncle Vernon then returned, entirely too soon, yanking Harry up by the scruff of his neck. Harry didn’t fight; he allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and down the hall.

He distantly heard Uncle Vernon yelling at him to do something; perhaps tend to the garden, clean the bathroom, wash the floors… Harry didn’t respond. He stared, unseeing, into the distance, the scene in the dark room playing in his mind, over and over again.

He felt himself being shaken. He looked up at Uncle Vernon, and thought he caught a strange expression cross his eyes fleetingly. Something akin to… guilt? The look on Uncle Vernon’s face was then rapidly replaced by a sneer of disgust. He shoved Harry into his cupboard, tossing a bottle of water in behind him.

Harry collapsed onto his flimsy mattress, and he curled up into a tight ball, biting down hard on his fist. He felt a wave of sickness crash over him, and he turned his head to the side and vomited. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gulped down some water.

As he lay there, alone in the dark cupboard, beside a pool of his own sick, his entire body shivering, he felt the first beginnings of emptiness, when he realized that what had happened in the dark room was the closest thing to love he would ever receive.

And if that was love, he wanted no part in it.

Harry was eight and a half.

Harry felt something cold splash suddenly on his face. He jumped, then looked around. He wasn’t in his cupboard, he was in Snape’s potions lab, and the man was standing in front of him, looking at him with an expression Harry couldn’t read. Snape drew slightly closer to him, and Harry immediately backed away. Snape stopped, and stepped a few paces backwards.

Harry glanced at the open door of the cupboard, then back at the room, and then at Snape.

I’m not there. I’m at Snape’s house. That doesn’t happen here.

Harry was still trembling violently, but the terror was ebbing away, slowly. He stared at the cauldrons piled in the cupboard, in attempt to ensure that it hadn’t been real.

“Mr. Potter, are you quite all right?” Snape asked him, in an unusually hesitant voice. Harry nodded jerkily, without looking at him.

“Perhaps you would like to sit down?” he asked. Harry nodded again, and, without touching Harry, Snape led him to the side room, transfiguring the wooden chair into a softer, padded seat. Harry sank into it, hunching in on himself.

What just happened? It was like I was really there…

“A calming drought, perhaps, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head quickly. No, he did not need to be drugged. Snape nodded once, and remained blessedly silent for the next few moments.

“Mr. Potter, might I ask what brought that on?” Snape then asked in a low voice. Harry was quiet for a moment. Had it been a flashback? That had never happened before, though, admittedly, the last time Harry had been in the vicinity of a cupboard like that, he’d actually been shoved into it.

“I don’t know, sir,” was all Harry could think to respond. Snape looked skeptical. “Are you quite sure you do not, Mr. Potter?”

Please, can’t he give me a break? I can’t.

“I can’t say, sir.”

Let it go. Please.

“Very well, Mr. Potter.”

Thank you thank you thank you.

They both remained in silence; Harry, seated rigidly on the chair, Snape standing, facing him, a few feet away.

Eventually, Snape spoke.

“Would you prefer to remain here, or would you like to continue with your potion?”

Yes. A distraction.

“I’d like to continue, sir.”

Snape inclined his head, gesturing for Harry to follow him out of the room. Snape walked over the cupboard, retrieving the required cauldron.

Why didn’t he just summon it?

At Harry’s questioning look, Snape said, “Anti-summoning spells, Mr. Potter. Such a restriction is necessary in a potions lab.”

Makes sense. If something was knocked over…

Snape set up Harry’s cauldron for him, and Harry began to brew. It was oddly calming, and Harry felt the vivid images of his flashback begin to fade. He noticed Snape intermittently glancing at him, and then at the cupboard, and back again.

I can’t prevent him from guessing.

Harry woke up suddenly, gasping for breath.

More effing nightmares. Stupid Occlumency didn’t work.

He wanted to tear his hair out, throw something, rip something apart, anything to distract himself from the memories. He settled for, once again, hitting the back of his head against the headboard, over and over again, hard.

Suddenly, he felt the impact buffered by a relatively soft surface. He flitted his eyes to the side. Snape had come in without Harry noticing, and he’d caught Harry’s head in his hand, preventing him from hitting it again. Harry stared at Snape, but didn’t move. Snape looked back, his gaze oddly… softer than usual. He didn’t move his hand.

The touch felt unfamiliar, but strangely… good. It didn’t hurt. They both remained in that position for a few moments, the back of Harry’s head resting in Snape’s large, calloused hand. Inexplicably, Harry’s breathing steadied, and his heart rate slowed to a calm, even pace.

Harry thought he felt Snape’s fingers card through his hair gently before he let go.