The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the harsh lighting that drilled into his eyes, forcing him to squeeze them shut against the burning.

The second thing he noticed was that although his body ached, he did not hurt nearly as much as he normally did upon awakening in an unfamiliar place with little memory of how he’d gotten there.

The third thing he noticed was that he was lying on a surface that was far softer than anything he had slept on in recent memory.

The fourth thing he noticed when he opened his eyes again was that there was a presence, a human presence, hovering nearby.

He sat bolt upright and let out an involuntary gasp at the sharp pain that shot across his abdomen. His breaths grew short and panicked when he tried to turn his head and found that he could not.

“Lie back on the bed, Potter.”

Harry froze, and his lungs seemed to freeze in response. He tried to draw in a breath and choked, gasping for air, his hands clutching uselessly at his throat.

He felt hands close over his wrists, and at that, he jerked himself backwards and screamed.

That helped him get his breath back, if nothing else. He opened his eyes wide and stared into the face of the man leaning over him, who held Harry’s wrists in a vice-like grip. The man was very pale, with dark, lank hair that hung to his shoulders, and a long, hooked nose. His eyes, however, were the most disconcerting. They seemed to stare straight through Harry’s eyes and into his very soul.

Harry tried to yank his wrists free, but the grip only tightened, and he struggled more frantically, albeit well-aware of the futility of his efforts to free himself from a man much larger than himself.

“Mr. Potter, be still.”

The voice was not loud, but that only made the dark tone seem more sinister.

Harry stilled, his heart thumping so heavily it was painful. He pulled weakly against the man’s grip.

“If I release you, will you remain put?”

Harry tried to nod and found that the movement, too, was obstructed.

The man glanced at his neck.

“I have temporarily put a localized bind on that area to prevent further damage to your spine.”

Harry could not prevent a slight widening of his eyes.

What the bloody hell happened? Who is this man?

“Potter,” the man’s sharp tone cut into his frenzied thoughts. “I have questions, and I expect immediate answers.”

Harry continued to stare. The man frowned back for a moment, then spoke.

“Are you aware, Potter, that a good many people have been searching for you for nearly five years?”

Harry didn’t speak.

“Well?” the man snapped.

Harry stared, feeling a growing sense of alarm as the man’s gaze grew steadily more incensed.

“You will respond this instant,” the man said icily, “or you will not like the consequences.”

Harry just lay there, very still, gradually pulling his awareness away from the situation and into his head. It almost worked, when his shoulders were grabbed and held in a tight, almost painful grip. Without realizing it, he was sitting upright again, reaching for his dagger, which was, alarmingly, not in his pocket. He had no pocket, because these were not his jeans.

Just kill me now.

Oddly, the man released his shoulders. Something had changed in his expression. He no longer appeared angry, and he was studying Harry very intently.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

The boy was sitting across from him at the dining table, as still and silent as he had been at every meal he had attended for the past two weeks. He had made an adequate recovery, though he was still painfully thin. And silent. Utterly silent.

It had not taken Severus long to realize that the boy was incapable of speaking, and that the cause was not at all physical. His vocal chords certainly functioned, which had become increasingly clear when Severus had been awoken on the second night of the boy’s stay…

**

Severus had not been sleeping long when he jerked awake to the sound of agonized screaming. He jumped out of bed, wand held out, and rushed to find the boy thrashing violently in his bed, blankets twisted around him, and his screams growing more hoarse and painful-sounding by the moment.

Severus grabbed the boy’s shoulders, which stiffened in his grasp, and the boy’s eyes flew open. Those vivid green eyes all but burned holes into Severus’ chest as they gradually regained awareness, and their haunted quality did not lessen. Those eyes alone, too big for the boy’s gaunt face, and too bright for his pale skin, held untold horrors that Severus could not begin to decipher.

Not when the boy would not speak

**

Not much had changed since then, Severus reflected as he stirred his coffee. Although, he could say with reasonable certainty that the boy responded to Severus waking him from his further nightmares with slightly less obvious fear.

He supposed it was an encouraging sign that the boy, on some level, had realized that Severus had no intention of harming him in those moments.

Nonetheless, it was rather demoralizing to watch the boy refuse to initiate any form of communication. He was certain the boy was not unintelligent; Severus could see the sharp gleam in his eyes beneath the wariness, the way the boy’s eyes scanned his surrounding, and how the boy had lurked at the doorway of the library.

The boy had darted away impossibly quickly when he’d spotted Severus standing nearby, before Severus could extend the offer to actually peruse the books inside. 

 ____________________________________________________________________________

     

Harry couldn’t sleep. Well, he had been sleeping before, but had woken up as usual. Although, thankfully, his nightmare hadn’t been of the variety that produced screams, it had been of the sort where Harry lay frozen and silent in horror, unable to move or even breathe.

Well, he could move now, and he was not going to lie there staring at the ceiling any longer.

He swung his feet out of bed and shoved them into the slippers that Snape had, for some reason, provided, and he grabbed his tattered sweatshirt from where he had hung it on the bedpost. He crept silently across the hallway and down the stairs, taking care to avoid the ones that creaked.

Harry had seen a radio on the bookshelf in the sitting room, peeking out from behind a stack of books and parchment on one of the lower shelves. If it worked properly, perhaps he could find some music, any music, to drown out the deafening silence that had leaked from his dream into his current reality.

After fiddling with the radio a bit, Harry was gratified to find that it was indeed functional, and, setting the volume at its lowest level, he flipped through the stations until he found one playing a familiar tune. Relaxing minutely, he raised the volume a notch and sat cross-legged on the floor with his hands wrapped around the small, slightly old-fashioned radio.

Hello, darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again…

His breaths slowed in time with the music, and for the first time in a long while, he felt peaceful.

And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains, within the sound of silence…

A feeling that didn’t last long.

He heard the floor creak and jumped up, almost dropping the radio in his panic. Snape was standing in the doorway, because of course he would be.

Harry backed towards the wall, still clutching the radio, which continued to emit the song that he had found so comforting.

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light, that split the night, and touched the sound of silence…

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter.”

Harry paused, pressing the radio into his chest so that it hurt, the edge of it digging into his ribcage.

“You needn’t sneak about in the night to make use of the radio, if it is something you enjoy,” Snape said evenly.

People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening...

Harry narrowed his eyes in confusion.

Does he mean that I shouldn’t leave my room at night, or is he giving me permission to use it?

All the while, the song progressed, undisturbed, its soft, haunting tune producing a strange ache in Harry’s chest.

Fools, said I, you do not know, silence like a cancer grows. Hear my words that I might teach you, take my arms that I might reach you...

“Have a seat, Potter,” Snape said after a pause, pointing at the sofa. Harry glanced towards it, then back at the man.

“Go on.”

Harry obeyed, against his better judgement, watching warily as the man moved to sit beside him.  He stiffened when the man reach towards him, but Snape only adjusted the volume, allowing the strains be heard more clearly.

But my words, like silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence…

The man said nothing more, and they both sat together in silence.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

 

There had been a time before the fog, and the silence. There had been a time when Harry had always been armed with some sharp remark or observation to serve up.  A time when his brain had never stopped moving. A time when he had been able to expel magic at his will.

He wasn’t sure what had caused that change. But his brain often froze up at the most inopportune moments, clouding his thoughts and instincts until it was too late. Even his vision seemed to fade in and out of focus.

That was what had led him here. He hadn’t reacted quickly enough and had managed to get himself beaten half to death, subsequently awakening in the home of the strange man. Of Snape. Who was confusing. Who had seemed to hate Harry, until he didn’t. Who had clearly wanted to hurt Harry, until he pulled his hands away.

This man made Harry want to speak. But, just as it had been for ages, when he opened his mouth and formed the words, he could not bring himself to say them.

He had become so utterly pathetic.

Well, at least my reflexes are as sharp as ever, he reflected sardonically, tightening his jaw at the way his hand trembled ever so slightly as he gripped a fork in his hand. He often felt as though he had aged prematurely.

Am I fifteen or seventy?

As if to emphasize the point, his arm gave an unexpected jerk, and his elbow bumped against his water glass, knocking it to the floor. Purposefully sealing his mind against the thought of how angry Snape must be, Harry reached for the broken pieces in the faint hope that the cup was somehow salvageable. But in doing so, a sharp shard sliced across his palm.

“Potter!”

Startled, Harry dropped the glass and shot up straight in his chair. Snape was staring at him, his dark eyes turbulent, yet unreadable. But he did not seem angry. Nonetheless, Harry jumped when Snape rose abruptly.

“Come with me, Potter.”

Harry froze in alarm.

“Today, Potter,” Snape said irritably.

Harry clenched his shaking fists, feeling the squelch of blood more than he felt the pain of the gash in his palm.

The man sighed.

“I need to heal your hand, Potter,” he said evenly.

Harry calmed slightly, though he kept a wary eye on the man as he rose and followed him hesitantly to the sitting room.

He sat gingerly on the couch and Snape pulled up a chair to sit across from him. Harry scooted back into the couch cushion, hardening his gaze so he could meet the man’s eyes.

“Your hand, Potter.”

Harry lifted his injured hand and, achingly slowly, extended his arm towards Snape, watching as blood dripped from his palm onto the polished wooden floor.

Snape then gripped Harry’s wrist, extending his arm more fully. Harry winced in anticipation, and was rewarded with the sharp, familiar pain of his elbow being wrenched out of place.

Snape looked startled, or rather, a faint expression crossed his face which Harry concluded indicated as much, and he loosened his grip on Harry’s wrist.

“Does this happen often, Potter?” Snape asked in a low tone, catching his gaze.

Harry glanced at his injured arm, obliging the man with a slight nod.

I’m literally breaking into pieces. Just like that glass I knocked over.

Without warning, Harry burst into peals of laughter. He curled in on himself slightly, only Snape’s firm grip preventing Harry from instinctively pulling his arm against his torso.

Harry’s laughter slowly ebbed away, and he caught his breath. Snape was staring at him incredulously, though Harry noticed that the man had somehow sealed the wound in his palm during his bout of hysterics.

“Are you possessed of any semblance of sanity?” Snape said in a dry tone. Harry arched an eyebrow at the man, and shook his head.

The man actually smirked at that.

“Well then, I suppose this is the point at which I extend to you a formal invitation to join the official society of like individuals,” Snape said wryly.

Harry stared, and a faint grin rose unbidden across his face.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

     

“What has happened to this child?” Poppy muttered sharply, glancing toward the boy.

 It had taken nearly an hour of explanations and veiled threats to persuade the boy to attend the hospital wing at Hogwarts, and yet another fifteen minutes to coax him onto a bed and convince him to remove his shirt.

Severus had been prepared to issue yet more threats when the boy point-blank refused to unclothe himself further, but something in Harry’s face has given him pause.

The boy’s normally wary, tense features had hardened into something that Severus knew he could grow to fear, given the chance. His pupils had dilated, breaths grown short and harsh, and the boy had growled. He had looked dangerous, almost feral, and the air around them had grown noticeably colder. The boy had risen from his hunched position on the bed, a magic-induced breeze ruffling through his dark hair ominously. He had then raised his fists, and Severus slowly reached for his wand, loathe to use it against the boy, yet reasonably convinced that the boy was capable of utter destruction in this moment.

But then, the breeze had stopped, the temperature had returned to normal, and the boy had slumped back into the bed, gasping for breath. He’d then looked up at Severus, his face haggard, and shaken his head once.

Poppy had judged that, at this point, her magical scans would have to suffice. The boy had cooperated upon that concession, allowing her to perform her scans without much fight.

The results were worrisome, to say the least.

Indeed, what had happened to the boy? Severus could not begin to guess, because the boy would not speak. He had long since determined that Legilimency would be out of the question, even if the boy’s physical and mental state weren’t compromised.

“Well, at the very least,” Poppy continued in a low tone. “You were correct to assume that his mutism has no physical cause.”

Severus inclined his head, unsurprised.

“I expect that he will eventually speak, although I cannot say what might induce it.”

Poppy then straightened, plastering a pleasant expression on her face that Severus knew would not fool the boy for a moment.

“Harry,” she said briskly, “I believe my scans might clear some things up for you, and hopefully we will see a marked improvement sooner rather than later.”

The boy raised his eyebrows.

“You have been experiencing problems with your vision, correct?”

The boy squinted at her, then nodded faintly.

“You are quite near-sighted, Harry, and you have quite a severe case of astigmatism on top of that.”

The boy’s eyes widened in understanding. His mouth opened slightly, but he then pressed his lips together quickly.

“What I suspect,” Poppy continued, “is that you experienced vision problems as a young child, which eventually seemed to clear itself up until relatively recently. Am I correct in assuming so?”

The boy nodded sharply, looking more focused than Severus had seen him do thus far.

“Your magic has been compensating for your vision, as it often does in cases such as this.”

The boy wrinkled his forehead, a million unspoken thoughts flashing through his eyes. Thoughts that Severus would not hear him say aloud.

“It has ceased to work efficiently,” Poppy went on, “because your eyes have developed a dependence on your magic to function, draining you of increasingly more magical reserves. This had likely resulted in blurred and double vision, difficulty focusing, headaches, and dizziness.”

The boy wore a startlingly open expression of dread, tempered with a hint of faint hope.

“This can be corrected,” Poppy said soothingly, and the boy relaxed minutely. “You will be fitted with corrective lenses, and, with time, your magic will cease to compensate for your poor vision.”

The boy swallowed, bunching the bed sheets in his fists.

“You are quite fortunate that we caught this now; had this issue been neglected for even two years more, the damage would have likely been irreversible.”

The boy closed his eyes, for all the world looking like an old man trapped in the body of a scrawny adolescent.

“That is not all, however,” she continued, unable to entirely mask the disturbed lilt in her tone.

The boy stared at her again, his bright green gaze appearing particularly arresting to Severus, in this moment.

 “Your right kidney is entirely useless, your left functioning at sixty percent of normal capacity. Your liver is failing, and you experienced untreated appendicitis several years ago that resulted in a ruptured appendix.”

Both Severus and the boy gaped at her.

How could that possibly be?

Severus was utterly thrown. By all rights, the boy should have died a long time ago, in such a condition.

“A large portion of your magical and physical energy has been dedicated to keeping you alive, Harry,” Poppy said softly, drawing slightly closer to the boy. “It is clear to me that you are incredibly magically powerful to have remained alive this long.”

The boy stared at her, questions burning in his eyes, and Poppy instinctively seemed to hear the unvoiced words.

“This is the cause of your physical weakness, exhaustion, cognitive impairment, and deteriorated magical ability.”

The boy drew in a wheezing breath. Poppy made an aborted arm motion, as though she’d intended to reach for the boy but then thought better of it.

“We will solve this, Harry,” she said intently, sitting carefully on the foot of his bed

By Merlin, they would, if Severus had to overturn the entire countryside in doing so.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

 

Harry’s eyes were burning.

Not for the usual reasons, though. Within two days of his visit to Madame Pomfrey, where she’d set him on a regiment of potions to correct his vision and organ damage, the changes had been evident.

His vision had begun to clear, although at first, he had just noticed a decrease in the dizziness he’d grown accustomed to. Then, the blurring grew less frequent, and, to his pleasure, he found that he could focus upon the pages of a book without the words fading into smudges and his head stabbing with the effort it took to focus.

Now he could read as much as he pleased, and the burning of his eyes were only due to the fact that he’d been reading so quickly, for so long, and forgetting to blink.

He stuck his fingers beneath the lenses of his new glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

He could actually read again.

And what he’d come to refer to as the fog – when his mind seemed to freeze up and fade into a greyish haze, sapping from him the drive to act, think, or even move, had been occurring far less frequently.

Suddenly, every sound seemed louder, every sight more colorful, and every sensation more vivid. He could scarcely move his eyes rapidly enough to absorb it all.

Not that every development was so pleasant.

As Snape did not hesitate to remind him, the regiment of potions he was taking was experimental, and there was no clear way of knowing precisely what the outcome would be, nor the exact side effects.

Not that Harry needed to be informed of them. As the potions he took daily encouraged his magic to recede from his organs and function as normal, his body began to take on the burden of his healing.

Some of the potions he took functioned to lessen the pain and weakness, but he certainly felt it. He felt perpetually nauseated, a sensation that Pomfrey had predicted and assured him would eventually pass. It made mealtimes uncomfortable, as he could barely stomach the food he was given, but Snape refused to compromise on this. He would not allow Harry to leave the table until he consumed what Snape considered a respectable quantity, snapping, when Harry tried to refuse, that “you are underfed enough as it is, and the potions I have expended a significant amount of time and effort into will be rendered useless if you refuse to eat, you senseless child.”

No one is forcing him to make the damn potions...

Harry rolled his eyes, this time at his own idiocy instead of Snape’s overbearingness. He was feeling more alive than he had in years. What was a bit of pain and nausea in comparison?

Oh, and the fact that I can barely make it up the stairs on my own...

Harry scowled.

Yes, it would likely pass, but it was pretty bloody inconvenient to have to rely on Snape to prevent him from crashing down the stairs and undoing all the work it had taken to heal him.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear...

Snape had chosen that moment to walk into the library, and Harry most certainly did not flinch at the noise of his entrance.

“Dinner, Potter.”

Harry sighed internally, simultaneously irritated at the man and disgusted with himself.

How could I consider food to be an inconvenience? That’s completely irrational. I may actually be certifiably insane.

Harry closed his book and stood, pushing down on the armrests for support.

He scowled again, avoiding the man’s gaze as he gingerly made his way to the door. He did not want to see in Snape’s eyes what he was certain would be there.

Pity, as well as contempt at Harry’s weakness.

That’s what I am, isn’t it? Weak. I was too weak to stand up to the Dursleys, too weak to defend myself, too weak to stop the nightmares…

And he was too weak to even speak. He really wished he could, now. He wanted so much to just hear the sound of his voice, to know that he was able to speak, to make his mark upon the space he inhabited.

It was strange that he had run so far from the people that had locked him away, only to trap himself in a far more restrictive prison than they could ever have devised.

But he couldn’t speak, he just couldn’t.

And he hated himself for it.

As if to validate his point, Harry stumbled, nearly falling to the ground as a sharp pain laced through his abdomen. Snape caught him before he fell, pulling him up by his armpits and holding him upright as the pain slowly ebbed away.

This was standard practice, these days.

Doesn’t make it any better…

Harry flushed darkly and tensed his shoulders, attempting unsuccessfully to yank himself out of Snape’s grip.

“Enough with this idiocy,” Snape growled, tugging him into a more secure grip. Harry tried to pull away again, but Snape then turned him around by the shoulders to glower at him. Harry glared back.

“You are recovering from multiple organ failure, you idiotic child,” the man snapped.

Yeah, I know that, thanks, Harry thought mutinously. And I’m not a child.

He scowled back at Snape, who looked as though he wanted to say more, but then he straightened, pulling Harry along towards the kitchen and pushing him down onto a chair. His motions were far from rough, but there was a certain terseness to them, all the same.

Harry stared at his plate. And continued to do so for a good few moments as Snape settled into his own meal. He could feel the man’s eyes boring into the top of his head.

“Must you comport yourself as a petulant child?” Snape finally snapped after several uncomfortable moments.

Harry’s mouth twisted a bit, but he held himself still, his face down.

“Look at me,” the man said, the volume of his tone rising dangerously.

Harry looked up this time, feeling oddly reckless despite knowing what would undoubtedly happen if he continued to irritate the man.

“Well?” Snape said acidly.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

What?

“Why will you not speak?”

Harry felt the fight draining out of him rapidly at that, although he made a valiant effort to mask it, forming the sneering expression he had often worn in the past, when he knew he had been beaten but refused to give his attacker the satisfaction of seeing his pain or fear.

Snape’s expression grew even more fearsome in response, his lips thinning. He leaned forward, palms flat on the table.

“I am trying to help you, damnit,” he hissed. “But you will not eat, you will not communicate your needs, and I cannot help you if you do not allow me to!” His voice had risen to a near-shout.

Harry held his position despite his every instinct that urged him to flee.

“I know you are capable, so why do you refuse?”

Harry felt searing anger rise in his chest, a curious feeling, one that he had not felt so intensely in quite a long time. He was on his feet more quickly than his mind could process, and he swung his arm out wildly, knocking most of the table’s contents to the floor with a deafening crash.

Through slightly hazy vision, Harry could see Snape moving toward him, face white with fury. But, instead of retreating, he charged towards the man, his fists flying and landing at every surface he could reach.

Harry didn’t know where he was anymore, who he was, or who the target of his fury was. His rage, which he had never known existed, had risen to the forefront of his being and burst forth from his chest. There was nothing he could do to restrain it. He could feel the energy, the magic, which had seemed to have long forsaken him, rushing out of him explosively.

It was only the familiar, shooting pain in his abdomen, courtesy of his healing organs, that pulled him sharply back to reality. As sensation returned to him, he found himself in a half-lying, half-seated position on the floor of the kitchen, his arms pinned tightly to his sides. And his back was resting against a warm surface.

He opened his eyes, drawing in a breath that turned into a choking gasp. He breathed more slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, just as Jade had once told him...

The grip on his arms shifted, loosening very slightly, although not enough to him give him the chance to pull away. Harry did try straightening up a bit, and in response, Snape did release his grip in order to shift over and face him.

The man looked distinctly disheveled; the sleeves of his robes were torn, Harry could see drying streaks of blood on his forehead and swelling on his lower jaw, and the room itself appeared as though a bomb had erupted.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

If only he could say the words

 ____________________________________________________________________________

 

The boy had the unnerving ability to manipulate his facial features to appear as though he were utterly unconcerned.

Severus might have been fooled, were he not a master of such skills himself. To his eyes, the boy was clearly terrified and confused, though doing a commendable job of hiding those feelings.

Harry had fallen asleep on the couch not long after his outburst had subsided. Severus had covered the boy with a blanket and set up his bed in his office, not wanting to frighten the boy should he awaken to find Severus nearby, though loath to leave the boy unattended after all that had occurred.

Severus had managed to exit his office this morning quietly enough not to alert the boy of his movements, and he was hovering near the doorway, watching him.

Harry was upright on the couch, blanket around his shoulders, and the radio on his lap. It was emitting a soft, faint tune that Severus could not quite make out.

The boy was also clearly in a state of hopeless dread, as though he was certain of a coming calamity and powerless to halt it.

He is frightened of me, or what I might do.

There was no use waiting any longer. Severus cleared his throat, and, as expected, the boy stiffened, drawing in a shallow breath. Severus entered the room and sat directly across from the boy, and, although Harry’s face remained stony, his body tightened so much that it trembled faintly with the tension.

Severus studied the boy, deliberately remaining silent in the hopes that, perhaps, the boy might be provoked into communicating somehow.

How arrogant am I to believe that he will speak now, for me, if his mutism has been in effect for far longer than I’ve known him?

The boy was not going to speak, so there was no use prolonging it. It was only cruel.

“I have no intention of punishing you,” Severus finally said, eyeing the boy carefully. The boy’s blank expression shifted into one of open disbelief.

“You doubt my word?” Severus inquired in an even tone.

The boy’s mouth twisted, the cynical mistrust evident upon his face.

“What possible benefit would there be to penalizing you for last night’s occurrence?”

He asked the question knowing full well that the boy would not answer. Harry was displaying his response quite evidently in his utterly baffled expression, in any case.

It wasn’t hard to infer what confused the boy so.

“Do you believe that punishments are set by figures of authority as a form of revenge against their charges, perhaps?”

The boy actually let out a sound at that comment; a strangled sort of laugh that was entirely devoid of mirth.

Apparently so.

Severus could feel his own icy rage growing as the boy’s reaction confirmed much of what he’d suspected. Of what he was fairly certain the boy had experienced, and had been subjected to. At the very least, he’d been in the care of people who had led him to believe that pain and punishment were synonymous, and that individuals of greater power and stature than he would not hesitate to use his weakness against him.

Whether it had been the boy’s erstwhile muggle guardians who had done so, or if other, unknown individuals were the culprits, he did not know. Or perhaps it had been both, considering that the muggles had died five years ago and he could not begin to infer where the boy had been since that time.

Either way, I am far out of my depth with this child. This boy, who is hardly a child, and seems as though he had lived through several lifetimes.

Severus could only hope that his next few steps would be the right ones, no matter that he felt utterly bereft of direction in helping the boy that sat before him.

Severus refocused upon the boy, who was still staring at him, green eyes hostile, and biting his lips so hard he was cutting into the skin.

“Whatever your understanding of punishment may or may not be,” Severus began, his tone deliberately severe, “it will not be occurring in any form.”

The boy appeared even more disturbed by that, if possible. His reaction was such that Severus may as well have stated the opposite.

Perhaps… he does not believe my words, and only wishes for me to proceed with what he fully anticipates.

Severus prayed to whatever deities existed that his next movement was the correct action to take. He reached out and gripped the boy’s upper arms firmly, frowning internally at the way his hands so easily wrapped around their circumference.

Surprisingly, Harry did not flinch. His face cleared of all expression once more, and his eyes grew frightfully empty, somewhat reminiscent of the vacant gazes Severus had seen in victims of the Dementor’s Kiss.

Severus clenched his jaw, and he tightened his grip and shook the boy firmly, with the precarious level of force it took to gain his attention and avoid exacerbating his healing injuries and illnesses.

Harry’s eyes widened, life rushing back into them, along with the terror Severus had been expecting. He recoiled backwards and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling desperately against the grip that Severus would not relinquish.

“Harry, look at me.”

The boy’s struggles grew more frantic, so much so that he was certainly causing himself pain.

“Look at me. Now!” Severus barked.

The boy’s eyes flew open, the terror in his eyes slicing through Severus in a way that felt almost physical.

“Calm yourself, and listen to me,” he said harshly

The boy’s struggles ceased, and were replaced by faint trembling and occasional twitches. Severus move more closely to the boy so that their knees nearly touched.

“Look at my hands, Harry.”

For a moment, the boy looked blank, but he then obeyed with a furrow of his brow, glancing down at where Severus gripped his upper arms.

“Now look back at me,” Severus said softly.

Harry looked back up at him.

“My hands are touching your arms, Harry, and that is all they are doing. My hands are not moving from that spot.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he stared at Snape as though he had just made a little-known, yet monumental revelation.

“My hands are not harming you, Harry, nor will they ever.” Severus’ tone was harsh in his effort to be understood.

Severus studied the boy carefully, loosening his grip slightly. The boy was staring at him, white-faced, and his breaths emerged in short, rapid bursts.

Harry’s face contorted, then, as though he might cry, and he let out a faint half-gasp, half-moan that cut Severus to the core, the older man’s chest constricting in a way that he had not felt in many years, having shut himself off from such sensations years ago.

Severus could wonder later at the ability of this boy to break down his stalwart emotional defenses like so much tissue paper. What mattered now was Harry, who so clearly had lived a life devoid of any semblance of love, or positive, caring physical contact. He was starved for it, yet could not accept nor understand it, and he cringed away in terror from that which he needed so desperately. Severus released the boy then, who slumped back into the couch and wrapped his arms around his torso, looking so very young and desperately afraid.

“I will not hurt you, Harry,” Severus said slowly. “And you will understand. I will make sure of it.”

Severus leaned down to grab the radio that had fallen to the floor at some point during their interaction, and handed it to the boy. After a moment’s hesitation, Harry took it, turning up the volume and twisting the dial until he found was he was looking for.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

     

Harry was abruptly awoken from the images his dreaming mind had chosen to grace him with on this night.

He drew in a panicked breath and opened his eyes to meet familiar, dark eyes. Snape’s hands were gripping his shoulders, as per usual when he woke the man with his shouts. He held Snape’s gaze as his breathing gradually slowed, finding the tunnel-like quality of the man’s eyes oddly soothing.

Harry inhaled slowly, peering downward towards his lap.

The man released his shoulders abruptly. Harry felt a hollow sort of chill in the absence of his grip. When Snape shifted as though to back out of the room, Harry’s hand, seemingly of its own accord, shot forward to grab the sleeve of the man’s black dressing gown.

Harry couldn’t hold back the embarrassed flush, but he did not, could not, pull his hand away. There was a pause, and Harry then felt Snape carefully wrap Harry’s fingers within his own. Harry slowly lifted his head, terrified, yet feeling an overwhelming sense of desperation.

The man’s expression was softer than Harry had ever seen it. The gaze was compassionate, for all Harry knew of that word.

He gave a full-bodied shudder, his breath hitching faintly. He closed his eyes against the man’s piercing gaze, but opened them again when he heard the rustling of the man’s sleeve as he slowly extended his other hand.

Harry watched, frozen, as the man, very slowly, reached towards Harry and cupped the back of Harry’s head in his palm.

Then, with gentle, yet firm pressure, he pulled Harry’s head toward him, resting Harry’s forehead again his shoulder.

Harry couldn’t help but gasp, unable to fight the instinct that had him jerking back.

“Hush,” the man whispered, his hand warm against Harry’s head, his other gently squeezing his fingers.

Harry did.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

     

Harry stepped outside into the early morning sunlight, glancing over his shoulder furtively. Snape had never said he couldn’t go outside, but then, Harry had not realized until he’d awoken this morning that he had not set foot on the grounds surrounding Snape’s house since his arrival.

He was only now feeling the desperate urge to simply breathe in the fresh air. He kicked off his slippers by the doorway and stepped barefoot on to the lawn, dewy grass poking at his soles. He walked slowly, overwhelmed by the vividness of… everything. He could hear the birds chirping, he could even detect the disparity in the pitches of the sounds. The owl’s hoot low and melodious, the high, thin trill of another. Nature truly was a form of music, if less structured and wilder than that which humans produced.

Most wonderfully, however, Harry could see the pink-golden glow of the sunrise in perfect clarity.

Harry gazed towards the skyline, entranced. He’d forgotten than anything could look like this. He strode towards a tree that appeared suitable for climbing, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he scampered up the branches for a better view.

It had been a long time since Harry had been off the ground. The experience did not hold quite the same level of intrigue that it had when he’d been younger, but it felt peaceful, nonetheless.

He wasn’t quite sure what prompted him to reach for his dagger and carve his initials into the tree trunk. But as he formed the letters, he felt an odd lightness in his chest.

H.J.P. Harry James Potter.

My name is Harry Potter, and I am alive.

He was no longer the ghost of a boy who had haunted the city streets, invisible and immaterial to the masses that passed him by. Until he had grown so distant from his own self, engulfed in the fog that had overtaken his mind and vision, that nothing mattered much anymore. He simply existed, day after day, vaguely hoping than the next time he closed his eyes to rest would be the last.

He was real, and he had magic. He could make his mark on the world, now, and it would start with this rough carving of his name.

He could have remained up there for hours, if not for the tell-tale crushing of the dried leaves on the ground, indicating the arrival of Snape.

Harry clenched his jaw.

No, I’m not going to be afraid anymore.

Harry swiveled around so he was facing the direction where Snape stood on the ground below him.

The man was looking up at him, but he did not appear angry. Harry looked back cautiously, his anger deflating a bit.

“Come down for breakfast, Harry,” the man said calmly.

Harry hesitated, then dropped from the tree and landed neatly on his feet, knees slightly bent.

Snape let out a sharp breath.

“Potter,” he snapped.

Harry stared back defiantly. The man said nothing, however, and simply closed his eyes for a moment. He then took Harry’s shoulder, ignoring the tell-tale flinch, and led him swiftly to the house.

Harry felt rather stupid at the rate of his heartbeat as they entered the kitchen and took their seats.

Why am I still afraid? He didn’t hurt me even when I attacked him.

Harry let out a breath and filled his plate, relishing in his recently returned appetite. He glanced up vaguely towards the back of the newspaper that Snape was reading.

Rumors of occasional sightings of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named persist, despite the Minister’s assurances that…

Harry went pale.

***

“Harry Potter, or shall I say, the Boy-Who-Lived, we meet again,” a cold, hissing voice had uttered, the sound emerging from a small bundle in the mouse-like man’s arms.

“It seems you, too, have been graced with a moniker, although He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named evokes a certain level of… reverence that yours does not. Pity, that. You do have the makings of quite the fearsome wizard…”

He’d been fourteen at the time, and the mouse-like man that he’d noticed lurking nearby over the previous several days had appeared out of nowhere, grabbing his arm.

He then experienced the unsettling sensation of being sucked through a very narrow tube, and he opened his eyes to find himself in a graveyard standing before a tombstone that read the name Tom Riddle.

His memories of the following incidents had grown vague.

Bone of the father, unknowingly given…

His mind cringed away from the image his memory stirred up. The stench of rotted corpses, the strangely preserved skeleton…

Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed…

 A dismembered limb, a piercing shriek of agony…

Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken…

He hadn’t screamed when the man cut his arm. He watched through empty eyes as his blood dribble sluggishly into the vial.

When the man had reached for the bundle and made to dump it into the cauldron, a dizzying rush of energy had rushed from Harry’s hands, which shot forward reflexively. The contents of the bundle had exploded into dust, leaving no trace of what had existed but a scream that had grown ever fainter until it faded entirely.

The mouse-like man had laid upon the ground, eyes vacant, blank, dead.

***

“Harry?”

A hand on Harry’s arm pulled him back to reality, where he was met with a concerned, dark gaze.

Harry bit his lip, clenching his fists to stop the shaking.

“What is it?”

Harry drew in a breath, then opened his mouth, willing his voice to sound the words he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. He shifted in his seat, forcing back a frustrated growl.

 “What happened, Harry?” Snape asked again, urgently, though clearly not expecting an answer. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, and, again, unsuccessfully attempted to speak. Nothing for it, though.

Nothing at all.

 ____________________________________________________________________________

     

Harry awoke with a scream, the volume and intensity of it painful to his own ears. And Snape was in his room, holding his wrists, his gaze fierce. Harry stared into his eyes, and he felt an odd tug, of an almost physical sort, at his mind. He reared back frantically, and the pressure eased. But then he met the man’s eyes again and focused intently, pushing forward the memory, willing the man to understand, to see…

***

And Severus did see. He witnessed in full detail the events that had taken place in the graveyard, which explained a great deal, from the tingling he’d felt in his Mark, the whispers of sightings, and, perhaps, in part, what haunted the boy so.

But then he saw more.

He saw the boy, and a blade, and a shock of blood.

A light-haired man being thrown headfirst against a wall lined with decorative flowers.

The cramped interior of a darkened cupboard…

A large, red-faced man, snarling… A sickening snap of bones…

A streetlamp flickering out, and then another, and a vague glimpse of a tall, thin figure…

A drawing, a sketch of a face consumed by flames…

Haunted, blue-grey eyes that looked oddly familiar…

And Harry shoved him out, gasping for breath, hands over his face. When the boy lowered his hands and looked up, Severus felt a cowardly urge to avoid his gaze, certain he would be met with fear and loathing.

He was wrong.

Harry looked shocked and unsettled, certainly, but there was an odd gleam of hope that Severus could not fully comprehend.

“Harry,” Severus whispered harshly against the painful dryness in his throat. The boy reached out and grabbed his wrists, the grip so tight that Severus’ arms ached.

Severus did not move nor blink as the boy’s gaze pierced him. He kept his breaths short and shallow, caught in a rare moment when he truly did not know what to do. Then, the boy opened his mouth and breathed out a word so faint that Severus could scarcely make it out.

“Stay.”

Severus gently dislodged the boy’s grip on his arms and conjured a chair beside the bed. He sat down, and reached forward to lay a hand atop the boy’s head.

Gradually, Harry relaxed and his breathing steadied. Severus did not move his hand, in part not to frighten the boy, loath to give him any cause, however brief, to fear the contact he so desperately needed. The other part was, simply, because Severus did not want to let go