Harry's mind drifted into consciousness thinking he was back in his cupboard. But that couldn't be right because the smell of frying bacon was strong, meaning breakfast was already in the process of cooking. That's usually my job. Wonder why I didn't hear them banging on the cupboard door? As he rubbed his face against the fluffy pillow before opening his eyes, he realized he must be back in Dudley's spare bedroom. Wait… Fluffy pillow? Harry didn't even own a pillow at the Dursley's, and the blankets on which he slept were scratchy and full of holes. But this blanket was plush and thick, meaning that for once he had actually woken up warm.

Harry was disoriented as he opened his eyes, his vision blurry as he reached out and tapped around, looking for his glasses. Finally feeling the wire rims, Harry sat up and put them on. He sat very still, his eyes roaming the room as knowledge of the previous evening trickled back into his brain. He cringed as he remembered some of the more humiliating parts.

Snape was nowhere to be seen, although he did see a neatly folded pile of extra pillows and blankets tucked into the corner. His eyes then found an outfit draped over the back of the desk chair – a pair of black trousers and a white button down, both shrunk down to his size.

Harry wasn't sure if he was grateful or dismayed at Snape's thoughtfulness about the change of clothes. What was I expecting? Jeans and a hoodie sweatshirt?* Harry couldn't help but smile weakly at the thought of his professor donning such casual muggle wear in his off time. It would actually fit better in a house like this…

Harry knew he was stalling, embarrassed to face the professor after… well, everything. But his stomach was starting to get the best of him as the additional smells of ham and eggs drifted in, so Harry folded the bed covers and placed them on top of the others before dressing quickly and investigating breakfast.

There was a flurry of activity as Harry walked into the kitchen, utensils flying across the room to various pots and pans, flipping, stirring, and chopping ingredients of their own accord. Harry watched in amazement, only taking notice of Snape when the man crinkled the Daily Prophet as he turned the page. He sat at an old yellow Formica table, the top nicked and scratched, bits of old material from the matching four pleather chairs flaking off and revealing their ancient padding. Snape said nothing, nor did he look at Harry as he took a sip of coffee from a plain white mug.

"Uh… Morning," Harry mumbled, still standing in the doorway.

After a long, uncomfortable pause where Snape said nothing, the man finally muttered darkly, "Are you going to sit down and eat? Or are you just going to stand there and continue gawking at me?"

Harry's face flamed as he quickly moved to take a seat. A plate heaped with eggs, bacon, ham, and toast flew across the kitchen and settled in front of him on the table with a loud clack.

"Wow," Harry said in bewilderment, "That's…um… a lot of food."

Without taking his eyes off the paper, Snape replied, "You are skinny for your age. I couldn't help but notice last night when you were weeping pathetically and had your arms around me."

Harry glared at Snape, his face flaming crimson yet again. Was the man trying to be such a prat? Or did it just come naturally? He remembered how tightly Snape's arms had held Harry as he cried in the darkness, the professor's calm, soothing strength offering Harry the comfort he'd so desperately needed. But to have Harry's childish behavior thrown back in his face mortified him.

Long minutes of uncomfortable silence ensued, filled only with Harry picking at his food finding that his appetite had quickly faded.

"If you're done," Snape announced suddenly into the silence, still not looking up from his paper. "We have errands to run."

Great, Harry thought, I can't wait to spend the day with YOU. He was trying hard not to be unappreciative of all the man had done for him, but Snape's churlish behavior was making it difficult.

"I also noticed that you left a mess in my lab last night," Snape continued, turning the page of The Prophet. "You will be spending the afternoon scrubbing cauldrons to make up for your carelessness."

What?! Thought Harry in dismay. First homework and now this? Where was this sudden shift in behavior coming from? Why had Harry even considered that Snape was able to show any human emotion towards him, other than hatred? Obviously last night had been… Harry didn't know what. An episode of "The Twilight Zone", maybe. But this was the Snape he'd known and grown to hate over the past five years, and his chest constricted as he felt their old roles sliding irrevocably back into place. Harry was eager to get as far away from the man as he could, as his lungs suddenly felt as if they were being squeezed by a full grown mountain troll.

"When do I go home?" Harry choked out, staring down at his plate.

"You don't," Snape stated, finally deigning to look at him as he snapped the newspaper closed. "You will be staying with me until the Order can determine what to do with you."

Was life really this unfair?!

"'What to do with me', sir?"

"Yes Potter, what to do with you. Seeing as how you cannot go back to the protection of the blood wards due to your atrocious behavior."

"My behavior?" Harry was shocked, and although he hated to admit it, hurt. "I.. I didn't— I never asked to be brought here! You brought me, after… after…" Harry couldn't finish, anger and humiliation once again warring within him. The mountain troll squeezed tighter.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. And about your… altercation… with your cousin, I spoke to the headmaster last night—"

Harry couldn't take any more. He was on his feet and sprinting out the door before Snape could finish spewing his revulsion at him.

Oh God.

It was bad enough that Snape had witnessed what had happened between him and Dudley. But for Snape to tell Dumbledore…

"Potter!" Harry heard Snape call out behind him as he threw open the front door. "Potter, get back here!"

Harry slowed when he reached the street, unsure which way to go, but threw caution to the wind when he heard Snape following. Let the bastard try and follow me with a broken rib, he thought savagely. Dashing down the street, Harry ran for the second time in as many days.

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

"Potter!" Snape called as Harry jumped up from the table. "Potter, get back here!" But the boy ignored him. Snape lunged as the boy ran past him, staggering painfully to his feet as Potter threw open the front door. "Potter!" he shouted again, the first tendrils of panic just starting to squeeze his heart. "Potter, don't!"

By the time Snape made it to the door, Potter was gone.

"DAMMIT!"

His rib was already aching from the sudden movement, but he couldn't just leave the boy out there roaming the streets. There was a reason why members of the Order had been watching him this summer – Voldemort and his Death Eaters wanted nothing so much as they wanted to spill Harry's blood. But not before they all had a go at torturing him first…

No. Don't think like that. Just GO!

Whipping his wand out of his inner sleeve pocket, he hissed, "Harry Potter… Point me!"

As he hurried in the direction his wand pointed, Snape couldn't help but imagine all the heinous, unspeakable acts that he'd witness the Death Eaters perform over the years. But all of that would pale in comparison to what they would do to Potter if they found the boy before he did.

What the hell was wrong with him?!

Why had he pushed the boy so hard? It wasn't Potter's fault that the old coot had gotten under his skin last night. Just because Snape had taken the boy away from his hideous relatives – something that should have been done years ago – didn't mean that Snape actually gave a damn. It wasn't like he had any claim on the boy, anyway.

He stopped to repeat the spell, but realized that he had been going the wrong direction and had to double back. "Bloody HELL," he ground out, frustration and worry clawing at his injured ribs like a trapped hippogriff. He remembered Dumbledore's words from the previous evening, replaying them in his mind as he turned around, pacing quickly down the street.

. . . . .

"Why didn't you call for someone, Severus? The Aurors have had to utilize more memory charms over the past six hours than they've had to use over the past six months. They're not happy that you exposed your magic to so many muggles."

"The boy was being physically attacked. What was I supposed to do, Albus? Stand by and hope he wasn't killed while waiting for backup?"

Snape met the old man's gaze defiantly, daring him to contradict his actions he'd instinctively taken to protect Potter. The headmaster looked ragged, his shoulders rising and falling with a heavy sigh.

"No… I suppose you're right." He paused, his eyes far away and looking troubled as he considered the scene of Harry's attack. "Harry's cousin and his group needed to be taken to St. Mungo's to heal their injuries before they could be obliviated. Young Mr. Dursley's parents were… not happy, to say the least. I assume Dudley and his gang's beating of Harry must have been severe for you to react like you did."

Dumbledore assumed that Harry had been beaten by his cousin. Beaten, and not almost raped. Because as knowledgeable and experienced as the man was, even he couldn't envision something that abhorrent happening to the boy.

Snape didn't bother correct the headmaster, infact even encouraged the misconception, and he couldn't understand why. Potter wasn't his responsibility. His injuries were not Snape's to heal. It wasn't his secret to protect.

And yet…

And yet, Snape realized in horror, that's exactly what he wanted to do: protect the boy from any more hurt than he'd already experienced in his short life. Potter didn't deserve to be used as a pawn in an old man's games, no matter that Dumbledore claimed it was for, "The greater good"; he didn't deserve to continually have the Ministry interfere in his life when all the boy wanted to do was get on with it; he didn't deserve to be continuously overwhelmed, controlled, and manipulated – which was exactly what would happen if Snape told Dumbledore the complete truth of Potter's attack.

"Did they wound him much?" Dumbledore asked, unaware of Snape's racing thoughts behind his cool demeanor.

"No," Snape responded quietly, "I was able to get there in time." The headmaster didn't even begin to realize the enormity of what those words meant to Snape. Worse, Snape hadn't realized what they would mean to HIM.

The very awareness of his burgeoning feelings toward the boy made him panic.

"So where will the boy go, Albus?" Dumbledore stared across the coffee table at him as Snape struggled to tamp down his emotions for the second time that day. One evening with Potter under his roof and his carefully constructed identity was beginning to crumble.

"It is my belief that Harry would be safest here, for the time being."

"Here?" Snape asked, desperately trying to summon his best sneer. "I was under the impression that you actually wanted the boy to LIVE through the summer."

The old coot's eyes has twinkled at that, as if he and Potter hadn't been at war since the first time the boy had set foot at Hogwarts. As if he hadn't been a genuine Death Eater for the past seventeen years, committing unspeakably cruel acts even though he'd been a spy for the Order. As if he hadn't been at the mercy of someone like his father for eleven long and tortuous years, learning what it meant to "love" a child.

"Severus, my boy," Dumbledore interrupted his troubled musings. "I do not believe Harry could be any safer than he is at exactly this moment. I and other members of the Order are doing what we can to prevent the information of Harry's departure from his relatives from leaking out. If, however, Voldemort hears of these developments – as I'm sure you will agree that he eventually will, since the Ministry is falling slowly back under his control – then this is the last place they would come looking for the boy. After all, who would think that Voldemort's right-hand man, his most trusted servant, would ever encounter Harry Potter without immediately bringing him to his master?"

Snape's mouth thinned into a line reminiscent of Minerva McGonagall. The headmaster had a point, but there were still many things to consider.

"And what of MY safety, Albus? Have you stopped to consider that? Countless Death Eaters have been to my home or know where I live. What if one of them should come calling?"

"You have always been known as a man that values his privacy, Severus," the blasted old coot said with a smile. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

After the headmaster left, Snape had conjured a small cot in his study since he couldn't make it up the stairs in his current condition (although he eventually admitted to himself that he really just wanted to be close to Potter in case he had another nightmare). It was as he lay a few feet from the boy, watching his chest rise and fall in peaceful slumber, that the voice inside Snape's head began once again to creep into his thoughts, clawing slowly and painfully at his mind like a parasite burrowing into his brain.

What exactly did he think he was doing?

Of all the people who claimed to care about Potter, why was it his diluted assumption that the boy would be better off with HIM? A man who was incapable of affection or emotion. A man who had only cared about a single person in his entire life, other than himself. A man who's own father—

. . . . .

Snape stumbled on the uneven pavement, the disturbing thoughts distracting him from paying attention to the task at hand. Hissing in pain, he staggered to a halt. I'm likely to fall and break the rest of my bloody bones at this rate. Grasping his agonizing rib, he repeated the Point Me spell once more.

It seemed that Harry was on the move and refusing to slow down, making it impossible for Snape to follow.

It didn't matter, Snape suddenly realized. Harry could run all night, Snape could be near collapse, and it still wouldn't matter. Because as terrified as he was to admit it, Harry had somehow started to worm his way into his long-dead heart. Snape steeled himself as he pushed the pain into a corner of his brain.

He wasn't stopping until the boy was safely back where he belonged.