"Hello?" Harry called as he stumbled from the floo and almost fell flat on his face. Will I ever learn how to do that properly? Straightening himself he called again, "Anyone home?"

The floo flared once more behind him, and Remus emerged, looking around at the quiet house. "Where is Severus?"

"He must still be doing errands," Harry said with a shrug, trying to sound casual. But his gut refused to settle – something seemed off.

"Well, that's alright," Remus said with a smile. "I'll just stay until he gets back then, shall I?"

"Sure…" Harry replied, grateful for both the company and the distraction.

Remus retrieved the marble-sized bags from one pocket and the shrunken paper sacks from Diagon Ally from the other, and with a flick of his wand returned them to normal size. "Why don't we get these put away in the meantime," he said.

Their arms full, they headed up the stairs together, and Remus looked just as curious to see the rest of the house as Harry had felt that first night. But as Harry opened the door to his borrowed bedroom, the first thing his eyes landed on was his trunk sitting haphazardly at the end of the bed.

"My stuff is here!" he exclaimed in astonishment, dropping his bags on the floor and bending down to open the lid. With relief he saw that all his things were intact, his wand tucked snugly into a corner, which he immediately pocketed. "That's strange… Professor Snape didn't tell me he was going to the Dursley's to get it..." That feeling of unease returned, swirling in his gut like the early stages of a winter storm.

"He probably didn't want you to worry," Remus responded with a smile, obviously trying to mollify Harry. "How about we go back downstairs for a game of Wizard's chess while we wait?"

But three hours later Remus looked decidedly worried, although he was trying to hide that fact from Harry. After being by trounced by Remus a handful of times, Harry had admitted defeat; there was no way he could concentrate properly with that restless feeling churning in his gut.

Harry sat at the small coffee table, getting a jump start on the essay Snape had assigned regarding The Art of War by Sun Tzu. Remus had chosen an interesting looking book in Snape's collection and settled on the sofa to read it, but Harry kept catching a worried expression cross his features, and he didn't seem to be getting very far along. In fact, he appeared to be on the same page for quite some time, staring unseeingly down at the page before him with a troubled expression.

Finally, their gazes locked and they silently acknowledged each other's concern. "I'm sure he's fine, Harry," Remus said quietly, and Harry didn't know if he was trying to convince Harry or himself. "How about some dinner?"

"I think there are some leftovers from last night," Harry offered dully, not really in the mood to eat.

But at that moment a crack! sounded in the front hall, followed shortly by a heavy thud. Harry and Remus were on their feet instantly, and Harry gasped as he rounded the corner.

Snape was on his knees, looking haggard with an unsettling, vacant look on his face.

"He knows."

Lupin froze, eyes going wide.

Helping Snape to his feet, Harry immediately knew that his professor would need the potions for his ribs once again; although he didn't gasp – didn't even acknowledge the pain, really – he seemed to be favoring that side when he walked.

He needs to REST! Harry thought with sudden anxiety. He's never going to get better like this. But even more worrisome than the awkward movements was the fact that Harry could clearly feel the tremors racking the man's body.

"Where were you?" He asked Snape, that cold storm in his gut starting to rage like an icy blizzard. "What happened?"

"The Dark Lord called us to order."

Strangely, it wasn't the thought of Voldemort that sent a bolt of panic through him, but the deadened, empty voice with which Snape continued to respond.

Harry helped his professor onto the sofa, and Snape's gaze stared blankly ahead of him. His hands hung limply in his lap, but his fingers continued to twitch every few seconds.

Harry was at a complete loss. He had never seen the man like this before. Normally a man of action, Snape had always had a plan, always moved forward in the face of an emergency. Even before, when they couldn't stand one another, Snape had always been one that seemed to instinctively know what needed to be done, and would never stop until it was finished. Never once had he seen the blank expression that was currently on the man's face. It terrified Harry more than Voldemort ever could.

"He knows you are no longer with your relatives," Snape croaked in a strangely distant voice, his devoid gaze continuing to stare straight ahead at nothing. Harry looked worriedly up at Remus, and was not comforted by the fact that Remus seemed to be just as worried by Snape's behavior as Harry.

Do something! He wanted to scream at Remus, but what was there to be done?

"I'll be right back," Harry murmured after a moment, racking his brain as he ran quickly through the kitchen and downstairs to the lab.

Think, Harry, think! There's got to be SOMETHING that can help him!

Rushing to the potions, he snatched up the three that Snape needed once more for his rib. Then, trying desperately to recall anything that Madam Pomfrey had ever given him in the hospital wing during his many stays, he grabbed a pain potion and a double dosage of nerve potion – both things that Harry remembered taking after the night in the graveyard when Voldemort had returned to his body and tortured him. Judging by the tremors in Snape's hands, his professor was obviously suffering the effects of the Cruciatus curse. As he headed back toward the stairs, he turned almost as an afterthought and grabbed a Pepper-Up potion for good measure. Hopefully that would get some animation back into his professor's lifeless eyes.

As Harry came up the stairs and into the sitting room, he overheard Remus talking in low, urgent tones, answered by a lifeless-sounding Snape.

"— the Order. They have to be notified immediately."

"And the girl, Parvarti Patil. The headmaster must be informed." Snape's voice had the far away, misty quality that Professor Trelawney took on when she was trying to sound mystical. But in Snape's dulcet tones it only made him sound zombie-like.

"The headmaster is away," Remus murmured. "I don't know if anyone has a way of reaching him. I will get word to McGonagall."

Harry hurried to Snape's side, shoving the potions into his limp hands. Snape watched him approach but didn't seem to register the potions, for they all slipped from his fingers.

"Professor," Harry said in a firm voice, once again pushing the vials into his hands. "Professor, take these." Snape seemed to shake himself ever so slightly, perhaps realizing for the first time where he was. Harry winced as the small glass vials clanked together in his professor's twitching fingers before he raised each one to his lips.

Remus spoke then. "I will go to Grimmauld Place and get back to you as soon as we know anything." He looked at Harry and gave him a tense smile. "Don't worry. You have a lot of people watching out for you."

"I know," Harry responded. But it's not me I'm worried about…

And with one last worried glance at Snape, Remus flooed away.

Harry stared at his professor for a long, silent moment. The tremors seemed to have stopped, at least. And he's not holding his side anymore. But still Snape was staring off at nothing, his eyes devoid of any emotion. I think it's time to call Madam Pomfrey, Harry thought, not knowing what else to do. Snape hated to ask for help, and Harry couldn't remember a single time that Snape had asked for the Medi-Witch for anything, even when he'd been injured. But Harry was completely out of his depth as to how to help his professor, and he was starting to get seriously concerned.

Noticing a glimmer at the man's feet as he rose to floo-call Madam Pomfrey, Harry reached down and picked up the Pepper-Up potion.

"Sir," he said, slipping it urgently into Snape's hand. "Take this, ok? I'll be right back."

.:HP::SS:HP::SS:.

Snape's gaze was fuzzy, unfocused, drifting in and out of clarity. He couldn't tell what all the hazy shapes beyond his vision were, nor could he bring himself to care. In fact, he couldn't seem to feel much of anything.

He was aware, however, that there were feelings dancing at the edge of his consciousness. But every movement seemed to cause a ripple that made them impossible to focus on, like trying to capture dust motes dancing in a bright beam of sunlight.

Screaming…

Whips…

Cigarette smoke…

Hands in the night…

His conscious reacted swiftly, shoving the whispered awareness forcibly away, and he continued to drift in the semi-conscious oblivion.

It was empty here. Barren. Safe.

"Sir," someone said urgently from far away. "Take this, ok?" They slipped something small and hard into his lifeless fingers. "I'll be right back."

His fingers whispered over the smooth, cold surface. A potion bottle. Why would he need this?As soon as the question occurred to him, he felt the stirrings of… something. But the feeling was not quite right, as if it were another's. As though he were standing over a hospital bed staring down at someone else's suffering.

Still… If someone was hurting – even if it wasn't him – and this potion could help them, he should take it. He slowly brought the bottle to his lips and drank.

Within moments the thoughts hovering at the edges of his awareness began to focus with painful, concentrated clarity. His conscious was a sudden inferno, his mind exploding with sound. His thoughts became a firestorm of tormented guilt.

Parvarti Patil screaming in agony as the unseen whip lashed repeatedly across her back-

Parvarti pleading and crying as she was forcibly dragged from the hall by Dolohov-

His father's hands lighting the cigarette before reaching toward him—

The sudden knowledge of exactly who, and what, he was crashed over him, knocking the wind from his lungs. An agonized cry tore from deep in his throat as fingers from both hands ran feverishly through his hair, grasping and pulling desperately at his scalp, trying to release the pain that was trapped in his brain like an acidic, flesh-eating parasite.

Breathing harshly and eyes wild, Snape's distraught gaze landed on Harry. The boy stared back at him, startled and perhaps even a little afraid. He was crouched on the floor in front of the fire as if he'd been about to floo call someone.

"Sir…" Harry murmured pleadingly, eyes wide, "I think you should let me call Madam Pomfrey. You- You've been- I don't know what to do for you."

Don't do this! He heard Parvarti wailing as she was dragged from the drawing room.

Severus, you know what to do for me. His father…

"Harry," Snape croaked, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and barely keeping himself in control. "You need to leave…"

"What?" The boy said in surprise. "N-No, you're not yourself. Something's wrong. I'm not—"

"LEAVE!" Snape bellowed menacingly as he sprang toward him, only barely keeping himself from harming the boy. In his rage, a part of him wanted to leap at Harry and tear him to pieces for witnessing his breakdown.

Potter jumped to his feet, backing quickly away in fear. But the little idiot still wasn't leaving. Snape was aware that he was precariously close to losing it – the Occlumency shields he relied on long-since shattered by the memories that the day had evoked – and he didn't want to accidentally hurt the boy. It was like wrestling a snarling werewolf inside him that wanted to attack, and Snape was only just holding it back.

Rage bubbled up from deep inside as Harry simply stood there staring at him, until his hands shook with the strain of containing it and red started creeping into his vision.

"I told you to GO, Potter!" Snape whipped out his wand and Harry sprinted from the room as if his life depended on it.

Snape was panting with effort as he desperately tried to piece together his Occulmency shields and regain control. He paced like an enraged bear in front of the fireplace. But horrible visions of the Patil girl screaming as she was being whipped continued to scourge his mind. Suddenly the vision warped and transformed into him as a boy, his father drawing blood as he stood over him with his belt and brought it down repeatedly against his bony back and shoulders.

Snape snatched an ornate crystal bookend off the shelf in front of him and hurled it into the fireplace, and the glass exploded with a resounding crash. But it did no good. Instead it was like the glass had shattered inside his skull, for he could almost feel the shards and fragments slicing, cutting, carving away at his insides.

Striding across the hall, he pushed the door to his study open with such force that it crashed into the wall behind it and bounced back at him. Snatching the decanter of firewhiskey and the matching glass off the bookshelf, he poured himself a double shot and tossed it back, trying desperately to numb his roiling emotions and regain a semblance of control.

It did nothing. He poured himself another. And another.

By his fifth his vision was starting to blur once more. But the panic, rage, and fear still held his mind prisoner. He poured another in desperation. His ninth saw the bottom of the bottle, and he stumbled to sit heavily in his chair behind the desk. The room was spinning, but a scream from Parvarti burst within his memory as he closed his eyes to lay his head on his arms.

He refilled the bottle with his wand and kept drinking.

By the time the second bottle was empty, he had drunk himself into a restless sleep with his head on an arm flung out in front of him. Snape was so oblivious to the world that he didn't move when Harry crept into the room and shook out the thick quilt folded neatly in the corner. The boy seemed afraid to approach him. He moved slowly and cautiously to his side, ready to bolt at any movement, before draping the blanket over his sleeping form.

Pulling his wand and keeping his eyes securely on Snape, Harry backed away until his legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he fell into it. He watched over his professor's prone form for long hours before the emotion of the evening finally wore him down, and he slept.

. . . . .

His mother had been asleep for some time, having disappeared into their bedroom down the hall after yet another screaming match. He'd heard the yells all the way upstairs, and had clearly perceived the slam of his parents' bedroom door not long after. He'd immediately turned off his light and feigned sleep, as it was always on nights like these that his father crept into his room like a thief in the night.

A thief of his son's purity and innocence.

The squeak alerted him, and he knew instantly that it was his bedroom door. He'd always woken to that small sound in the night as if it were a gun shot.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Severus silently prayed that his father would turn around and leave him be. Sometimes he simply stood, staring silently down at his son for long minutes, before turning around and disappearinginto the shadows. His back to the man, Severus focused on keeping his breathing deep and even, but it was difficult to keep from trembling since he could feel his father's eyes boring holes through the back of his skull.

He did not hear his father approach, and could not prevent himself from jerking violently when he felt the man's breath on his ear as he whispered, "I know you're not sleeping." His father's arms fell heavily around him, trapping Severus, ensnaring him in the hated web of vile degradation and excruciating pain. Ten-year-old Severus fought valiantly that night, but was no match for the strength in his father's arms that a decade of working in the mill had earned him.

Tears ran freely from his eyes as his father flipped him forcefully onto his stomach, holding him down as he confined him within those brutal, hated arms.

"It's time to put those lessons to good use."

Snape awoke fighting desperately against the arms around him, the horror of the dream still as real as the terror that currently gripped him. The tears streamed down his face for long, agonizing moments, blinding him as he untangled and finally freed his limbs from what was tightly enfolding his body.

A quilt… he thought as the panic still coursed through his veins, making his body tremble and his heart race. Nothing but a blanket.

But the harrowing terror of the dream refused to leave him. A cold sweat broke over his body, and his tearful trembling only worsened his rattled nerves. The dream had felt so real, his father's arms as brutal and inhuman as they had been up until the moment of his death. His voice still echoed within Snape's skull, the feeling of his whispered breath against his skin bringing him close to the point of retching.

Snape was desperate to regain control from his Occlumency shields, which until this day he'd never been completely without. Not since the beginning when Dumbledore had taught him the skill when he'd switched allegiances.

Snape almost dropped his wand as he pulled it out with shaking fingers. Yanking his sleeve up above his elbow, he quickly slashed his forearm once and hissed in pain, but the obligatory relief that his cutting had produced in the past refused to come. A second slash, and still his body quaked with fearful anxiety as his father prowled within the shadows of his mind. It was only after a third savage slice that caused an ark of blood to spray across his desk that he finally started to feel a semblance of the calm he so desperately sought.

Snape's arm hung limply over the side of the chair as he leaned back, his mind finally – finally – restoring itself to the collected, unemotional order that allowed him to calm his panicked breathing and ease his racing heartbeat. He did not care about the angry wounds on his forearm. Nor did he care about the puddles of blood dripping wetly onto the throw rug beneath his desk.

His mind was finally his own again, the ghosts of his pasts no longer haunting him.

It was only as the chaos of his mind faded into silence that Severus realized that he was not alone.