Harry felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

“Harry, what is it?” Covey’s normally calm voice sounded worried.

“Snape,” Harry choked out hoarsely. “Voldemort is…torturing…him.”

Covey’s hand stilled.

“Are ye sure, Harry?”

Harry nodded; he’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

The next twenty minutes passed by in agonizing silence. There was absolutely nothing they could do. Covey had Floo-called Dumbledore immediately. The headmaster had confirmed that all they could do was wait. Dumbledore also informed them that Snape had an emergency Portkey directly to Dumbledore’s office, so if he was in dire straits, he had a way out. Dumbledore promised to let them know the moment Snape arrived if that was the case. Otherwise, Snape would likely turn up in his quarters as soon as the madman released him.

Harry sat fidgeting, a bundle of nerves. He cringed as he heard various glass bottles and vials being placed on the mantelpiece.

“Healin’ potions, aye?” Covey said.

Harry knew she was as nervous as he was. So this was why he’d been in such a foul mood. Not because of Harry, but because he was supposed to be making some potion for the Dark Lord and he’d been unable to do it. Harry felt as though he’d failed Snape. Maybe Snape would have been able to do it if he hadn’t had to babysit Harry. Maybe Harry could have helped. He could at least have been more understanding.

As Harry was going through the litany of his perceived failings, he heard a rush of air in the direction of the fireplace. Harry jumped to his feet, wishing he could see.

“Severus!” Covey exclaimed.

“Don’t touch me,” Snape hissed.

A moment of confusion ran through Harry’s mind before he realized that it was pain that he heard in Snape’s voice: real, physical pain, not a rebuff of Covey’s affection.

“Drink this, Sevvie,” Covey said urgently. “An’ this.”

Harry felt absolutely useless. He couldn’t see how bad off Snape was, he couldn’t help. He could only hear. And hearing was not nearly enough.

There was the occasional grunt or cry of pain, the sound of potions bottles falling to the stone floor, the soothing words of Covey.

“Harry, Professor Snape needs the sofa, aye?”

Harry skittered sideways, getting out of the way. He stepped to a chair nearby, his hands on the upholstered backrest, and hovered.

“There ye go,” Covey said, and Snape groaned, the cushions of the couch squeaking under his weight.

After a moment, Harry said, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“What are you sorry for, Potter? You aren’t the Dark Lord.”

Harry flinched at Snape’s tone as guilt washed over him. If only Snape knew of the connection that he, Harry, shared with the dark wizard. Of the things he saw Voldemort do. Of the things he did as Voldemort. Harry shivered. He wasn’t chilled, only disturbed. Then it hit him. He shuffled to his bedroom as fast as he could, counting steps as he went. There was something he could do to help after all.

“Covey,” he breathed, holding out the sparkling white unicorn hair blanket that Hagrid had made for him when he‘d heard about Harry‘s healing sessions.

“Harry,” she murmured, “tis a great idea.”

Harry heard the blanket being shaken out and, as Snape grunted, imagined it being spread out over the wizard, the healing power of unicorn hair easing the man’s pain. Harry sat on the edge of one of the wingback chairs near the sofa and waited.

After what was likely only moments but felt like hours, Harry felt a warm hand embrace his. “He’s restin’ now, Harry. He’ll be alright. He was subject ta the Cruciatus curse, ye ken?”

Harry nodded. He already knew that, though he didn’t want to tell Covey that. He felt dirty and tainted by his connection with Voldemort. The fewer who knew, the better.

Harry went to bed that evening feeling absolutely knackered. Instead of feeling relieved at understanding why Snape had been so short with him lately, he felt guilty. It was his fault that Snape was saddled with his presence as well as everything else. Harry had shown Snape the images of his abuse in a moment of anger, and now the man was stuck with him. Just as the Dursleys had been. And, from the looks of it, Snape had enough on his plate.

Harry vowed not to bother Snape anymore with his issues. He could deal with them. Maybe he could confide in Covey. She’d understand. But if he told Covey, she’d just tell Snape. He shook his head. Maybe if he had learned to Occlude, as Snape had tried to teach him, he could block out the bad dreams, the panic attacks, the flashbacks. He didn’t know.

All he knew was that he felt sullied, corrupted, as if he was the one who had tortured Snape and, in a way, he had. He wondered idly how much more danger Snape was in with Harry living in his quarters. With those thoughts in mind, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, Earl Grey curled up against his neck, in the space between his shoulder and his jaw.

He was walking down the corridor again, the door bright in the distance. He’d been through it a couple of times now, but never past the circular room with all the closed doors. He yearned to go forward, to keep moving on. But some part of him quailed at the idea. Some part of his brain questioned if going forward would put Snape in further danger.

Then he heard a noise, someone familiar clearing his throat, and one word that sent chills down his spine: “Boy!”

The scene shifted and he was no longer in the Ministry of Magic, but in the dark, cramped space of his cupboard on Privet Drive. A beefy hand was reaching in for him, a hand Harry knew would drag him out, throttle him, choke him.

He gasped awake, heart racing. Cursing, he swung his legs out of bed and stood up. He felt awful. His head spun, his mouth was dry, and he had to use the loo.

Carefully he counted his steps to the water closet, where he sat on the toilet, too tired and nauseated to stand, and took care of business. He dropped his head into his hands. He was scared, he was exhausted, and he didn’t feel as though he knew which way was up anymore. Sighing, he stood up and pulled up his pajama bottoms as a wave of dizziness assaulted him. Swaying, he took one step forward and then, as if in slow motion, he toppled, the bridge of his nose cracking loudly on the edge of the porcelain basin as he went down.

Severus awoke to two orb-like green tennis balls staring at him intently.

“Merlin’s balls!” he exclaimed, rocketing into a sitting position, his heart suddenly going a mile a minute.

“Elf,” he scolded, “if you EVER wake me like that again, I’ll have your head on my wall as a trophy!”

“Master Snape, sir,” the elf said, wringing his hands, “Dobby is sorry to be waking you, sir, but, it’s… it’s…“

“Spit it out,“ Snape snarled.

“It’s Harry Potter, sir.”

At the mention of Potter, Snape felt instantly awake. “What is it, Dobby?”

“Harry Potter is injured, sir, and he’s… he’s…”

Snape jumped to his feet and pushed the elf aside, rushing to the boy’s rooms. Potter’s bedclothes were rumpled, his sitting area and table were empty, but the bathroom door was shut.

“Potter,” he called, knocking on the closed door. “Mr. Potter, answer me this instant.” Still nothing. “Potter you have three seconds to open this door or I’m coming in! Three-two-one. Alohomora!”

 Snape pushed open the door. Blood. There was blood everywhere. And Potter was curled up in the fetal position in the middle of it all, his hands wrapped around his head. He was rocking back and forth, his eyes tight shut, and the sound that came from his throat sent chills up Snape’s spine.

“Harry,” Snape said, squatting down beside the teen, trying to determine where all the blood was coming from. It ran from the boy‘s nose into a puddle on the floor, but it also coated his hair, his chest, the walls. Snape checked the boy’s pulse and breathing; both were rapid but steady.

“Harry, look at me.”

The boy continued rocking and mewling, seemingly unaware of Snape’s presence. Snape reached out and put a hand on Potter’s shoulder and the boy shrieked and flinched away. Snape wondered if the boy was caught in memory or flashback of some sort.

Evanesco, Tergeo, Scourgify, and a few more choice spells had the room, Potter, and his pajamas mostly cleaned up. Now he just needed to get the boy to respond to him.

 “Harry, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me? It‘s Professor Snape. You are in my quarters. You are safe.”

The boy’s eyes didn’t open. Upon reflection, considering the boy was blind, he wouldn’t have been able to see Snape anyway. But, much to Snape’s surprise, a hand jutted out, reaching, and instinctively, Snape caught it. Potter’s grip locked onto him, hard and almost painful. What the hell?

And then images were bombarding his consciousness. Images from Potter’s mind. Horrific images that Snape could not control.

Harry was nine, and small for his age, wearing clothes that were at least three sizes too big for him. Snape hovered in the background, his back rigid, waiting. Nearby was a dining room table stacked full of gifts that a fat boy was tearing through. It must have been his cousin Dudley’s birthday.

“Boy! Get the cake already! And don’t forget the forks this time!“ a threatening male voice said, shaking a meaty fist at the cowed child.

Obediently, Harry retrieved the cake, four plates, and four forks.

They all sang Happy Birthday—Harry quietly so—and waited while Dudley made a wish and blew out his candles.

“Well, cut the cake, boy! What are you waiting for?”

Immediately, Harry cut three large pieces and one small one, handing out the three and taking the smallest for himself. He forked a bit of cake, and just as he was about to put it in his mouth, a horse-faced woman slapped his hand, taking the plate and fork and placing it before Dudley.

“You think you should have some of Dudley’s birthday cake? I hardly think you deserve it. Go to your cupboard until you are called,” the woman said.

Shoulders hunched, Harry loped out of the dining room into a small space beneath the stairs that had a lock on the door. He slipped inside and sat on a threadbare mattress, his knees pulled up to his chest, his heart aching. Tears streamed silently down his face.

“Your main present is outside, Dudders,” Petunia called. “No peeking until we say so.” Harry heard the back screen door swing open and shut again. “All right, you can look now.”

“Wow!!!” Dudley exclaimed. “A trampoline!” Harry heard the springs groaning loudly under Dudley’s considerable weight.

Harry had known that Dudley was getting a trampoline. While Aunt Petunia had taken Dudley out for a haircut and dinner the night before, Uncle Vernon had made Harry help him assemble it. Vernon had reminded him, repeatedly, that he was not allowed on the trampoline, under any circumstances, and if he dared disobey, he would regret it.

Harry listened with a heavy heart as Dudley jumped for what seemed like hours that day. He desperately wanted to try it out, but he knew he’d never be allowed. Still, he ached for such a wonderful gift.

“We’re taking Dudders out for ice cream,“ Aunt Petunia called. “You are to stay in your cupboard.“ She smacked the door for emphasis.

“Yes, ma’am,“ Harry muttered.

“Take Dudders to the car,“ his uncle said. “I’ll deal with the boy.”

Harry scooted into the far back corner of the cupboard where, from experience, Uncle Vernon wouldn’t be able to easily reach him.

“You will stay in this cupboard,“ Uncle Vernon commanded.

“Yes, sir,“ Harry whispered.

“You will make no noise.”

“Yes, sir.“

“I’m locking you in.”

“Yes, sir,“ Harry replied, hearing the lock click and feeling as dejected as ever. He sat in the far corner and heard the car drive away. If only he could sneak out and give the trampoline a try while they were gone. But he was locked in with no way out.

Sighing, he flopped down on his mattress, trying to avoid the uncomfortable springs that poked through in places. Then, as if by magic—a word he was not allowed to use in the Dursleys’ house—the lock clicked and the door swung open.

In complete awe, Harry cautiously looked out, trying to see if anyone was there.

“Hello?” he called, but there was no answer.

He checked the driveway for good measure, as well as the rooms on the first floor, ensuring that he was well and truly alone. His relatives would be gone for at least thirty minutes, but if he could just have five of those minutes on the trampoline, he’d be sooo happy—happy enough to make the memory last the whole year.

Quickly, he raced through the kitchen, out the back door, and to the bright, new trampoline, shining brightly with the setting sun. With reverence, he crawled on and bounced, just a little. Soon his bounces grew more bold. He hooted with delight, a joyous smile on his face. He jumped higher and higher, thrilled by the feeling of it.

Soon, he was jumping higher than the rooftops. Higher than the treetops even. It was amazing! He was flying, soaring, higher than ever; higher than one should be able to jump on a normal backyard trampoline, his face alight with happiness.

And that was how his uncle, who had forgotten his wallet, had found him.