Snape was going to slaughter him.

Harry stood outside Snape’s office, bent double and trying to catch his breath, a stitch in his side. He’d sprinted all the way to the dungeons, knowing he was already late yet hoping to minimize the damage. But first, he had to find a way to clear his mind. And just how was he supposed to do that?

He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d gone to bed the night before with a headache, which had kept him awake most of the night. He and Seamus had gotten in a fight over Voldemort before breakfast, and when Ron had tried to intervene, Harry had snapped at him, too. So Ron wasn’t talking to him, and when Hermione had tried to intercede on Ron’s behalf, Harry had gone off on her as well. Now, none of the Gryffindors were speaking to him, and that was just as well with the mood he was in.

On his way to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, Draco had tripped him in the corridor, causing Harry to sprawl on the floor, landing hard on his left hand and wrist, resulting in nauseating pain. Just as he’d managed to gain his bearings and raise his wand to curse the laughing git, Umbridge had stepped out of the shadows of her classroom, a triumphant look on her face.

“Caught cursing students in the hallway, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge had simpered.

“I did no such thing,” Harry had refuted.

“Lying again, Mr. Potter?”

“I’m not– I didn’t– Malfoy tripped me!” Harry had felt himself swell with anger and indignation.

“Tsk, tsk, Mr. Potter. Clearly you haven’t learned your lesson yet. I do not tolerate lies, Mr. Potter. Perhaps another detention will help to etch the message into your memory. My office, 6 o’clock tonight.”

“But Professor,” Harry had said, “I have… a lesson… with Snape tonight at 6 pm. And he doesn’t tolerate tardiness any more than you do.”

Umbridge had studied him closely. “What kind of lesson?” When Harry had hesitated, Umbridge had chimed in, “Don’t even think about lying to me Mr. Potter, unless you’d like a week’s worth of detention.”

Gritting his teeth and dropping his head to avoid the mocking stares of his peers, Harry had mumbled, “remedial potions.”

“Come again?” Umbridge had asked sweetly. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

Hands balled into fists, knowing full well she’d heard him but that she’d want to humiliate him further in front of his classmates, he had bit out, “REMEDIAL. POTIONS. PROFESSOR.” If looks could ignite, his hate-filled gaze would have set the toad-like woman alight then and there.

With a truly evil and calculating look, Umbridge had seemed to make up her mind and had nodded in decision. “Very well then, Mr. Potter. You will report to my office immediately after your last class and serve your detention with me until it is time to meet Professor Snape.”

“But then I will miss dinner,” Harry had complained, knowing all too well that he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Of course you will. Do you honestly think you deserve to have dinner with the rest of your civilized classmates? I think not, Mr. Potter. You are a nasty boy, and nasty boys need to be punished.” Turning away from him with a smirk, she had addressed the rest of the class gathered in the hallway. “Take your seats, students. We will begin with Chapter 10. There’ll be no need for wands.”

She must have been running low on students for detention, Harry had thought, as he was forced to carve the words “I must not tell lies” into his hand once again, opening and deepening the scars that were already present.

Umbridge had seemed to be watching him more closely than usual, taking immense satisfaction in any sign of discomfort that Harry wasn’t able to conceal—the hiss of pain, the gritting of his teeth, the traitorous tear squeezed from between eyelashes and hastily wiped away, the sweat that drenched his clothes, the occasional whole-body tremor, the pregnant pause between sentences.

“The more you procrastinate, Mr. Potter, the longer you will be in this detention,” she had practically purred.

“But I have to see Professor Snape at six o’clock,” he had lamented.

Umbridge replied, “Well then, I suggest you hurry up if you don’t want to be late.”

Seething inside, Harry had bit back the many curses and retorts he had wanted to throw at the vile woman preening in front of him. He knew there would be hell to pay if he was late for Snape again, and so he had kept his mouth shut and had bent his head to the task.

The problem was, he was pretty sure he’d sprained, or perhaps even broken, his wrist and hand when Malfoy had tripped him and he’d fallen on them earlier. So, in addition to the sharp, biting pain of the words cutting into the top of his hand, was the ever-present, acute agony of his swollen and throbbing hand and wrist. Every time his hand involuntarily cringed away from the pain of the blood quill, his nerves fired and his muscles tensed, thus aggravating his pre-existing injury. It was a vicious cycle, and he was nearly convinced that Umbridge knew it as well, and the reason she had seemed so satisfied this evening. To be able to get off on someone else’s misery was a class of evil all its own, Harry had mused bitterly.

Blood ran freely from his scarred hand now, and his robes were soaked with sweat. His throat was sore from rasping in pain, and his bottom lip was bleeding from trying to prevent himself from crying out.

It was three minutes to 6 pm, and still she refused to release him. His heart was racing as his stress levels rose. He was shaky, and clammy, and felt nauseous. It was 1 minute to 6. He looked up at Umbridge, silently pleading to be released. She made a show of looking at the clock, and then at his lines. Looking back at Harry, she smiled cruelly and shook her head.

Harry cursed under his breath. She was doing this on purpose. She wanted him to be late. She wanted to make him suffer. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be able to make her suffer too, he thought vengefully.

At ten minutes past 6 pm, Dolores Umbridge dismissed Harry Potter from her office. 

“Snape is going to slaughter me,” Harry moaned, trying to get control of his anger at the injustice of it all, and his fear of what his now second-most-hated professor was going to do to him once he realized how compromised Harry’s shields were. Not to mention the excruciating agony that was his hand and wrist. Perhaps he could focus on the pain, use it to block everything else from his mind. Then, even if Snape broke in, there would be nothing to see. It was worth a shot, because he knew he didn’t have a chance in Hades of taming his emotions, not after the day he’d had, and especially not after spending 2 hours with the deranged, sadistic witch who called herself a teacher. More like a torturer, Harry thought darkly.

Finally catching his breath, Harry straightened, pulled his injured hand back up into his sleeve to hide the evidence, and knocked on the door, his wand held loosely by his side.

The door to Snape’s office flew open of its own accord. Snape stood behind his desk, looking furious. Snape spoke with words as cold as ice, “So nice of you to gift me with your presence this evening, Potter.”

“I was detained…” Harry began.

Snape snorted with derision. “Detained, Potter?” Looking him over, Snape said, “Your face is flushed, your lip is bleeding, and you are clearly sweating. Tell me, Potter, was it a Weasley reunion match? All the banned Quidditch players sneaking out onto the pitch to have a quick go at it on the school brooms while everyone else was at dinner in the Great Hall and none the wiser?” Leaning over his desk, his eyes filled with anger and impatience, Snape spat, “You think this is a game, Potter? You think I enjoy wasting my evenings with the brat-who-lived? The boy who thinks of nothing and no one but himself?”

Harry opened his mouth to counter the man, but Snape cut him off.

“Precious, pompous Potter, raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, coming to Hogwarts all holier-than-thou,” Snape scoffed. “You may be Dumbledore’s favorite, but I see nothing more than an entitled, ungrateful brat, a boy who thinks he is above the rules, and prances around this castle as he pleases, day or night. Arrogant, impertinent, better than everyone else,” Snape’s eyes were narrowed, his nostrils flared, “just like your father. Well, Potter, you may have fooled the other teachers, but you have not fooled me.”

Harry clenched his fists, causing the pain in his injured hand to skyrocket. The blood from the cursed cut began to flow more freely, likely dripping onto the floor, but he didn’t care. Anger and resentment curled through his veins like thick black smoke. How dare he? How dare Snape insinuate that he, Harry, was all those things? Snape had no idea, no idea at all. Harry was bursting with hatred for this wizard, who from the day Harry met him, had taunted him and singled him out, made his life a living hell, for no reason at all. “You’re wrong,” Harry hissed, his breathing labored as his magic swirled around him, uncontrolled, building up in a blind fury. Without even realizing it, he had raised his wand.

“Prove it,” Snape sneered, his wand outstretched, menace and vengeance clear in his voice. “On the count of three.”

Searing hot rage whipped through Harry, surging through his core and strengthening his elemental magic. Snape wanted him to prove it? Fine, he’d PROVE IT, he’d show Snape, the cruel, presumptuous bastard! So instead of fearing the brutal invasion into his mind, Harry welcomed it. Welcomed the chance to teach the know-it-all git a lesson.

“One…”

Hate-filled eyes met hate-filled eyes. Harry’s heart beat hard and fast.

“Two…”

Their gazes locked together, clashed. Harry’s fury stoked the flames of his magical core.

“Three…”

Neither moved, both refusing to look away, blink, or break the contact. Vindication screamed through Harry’s soul.

“LEGILIMENS!”

Harry held his wand tightly as the room began to tremble. The jars on the shelves filled with dead things rattled ominously into one another; a couple dancing to the edges of their shelves until they finally toppled over the precipice and shattered spectacularly on the stone floor. But neither man took note, because the burst of light that blinded the room’s occupants when Harry’s wild magic was released knocked Snape backwards with such force that Snape flew from standing behind his desk into his chair, which screeched backward until it hit the wall.

Snape’s eyes were wide, pupil’s dilated, nostrils flared. His hands gripped the chair’s arms, his fingers claw-like and digging into the hard wood. His gaze was still locked with Harry’s and the look on his face said he’d never in a million years expected this unrestrained force of magic from the teenager in front of him.

Harry focused on the link, his anger and hatred channeling his magic so that it exploded through their connection. He drilled into the other man’s psyche with the force of a tidal wave, challenging every false illusion Snape had ever had of him. ‘Snape wanted to see? Well, let him see,’ thought Harry. ‘Let him see it all.’

CHAPTER 2

Snape cried out at the force of the images pummeling his mind. It was worse than when the Dark Lord pawed through it. Potter’s white aura was much more powerful than Snape could have ever foreseen, and with the boy’s righteous anger to back it up, this was much more than a slideshow of Potter’s life; it was as if Potter was physically assaulting him with each and every memory he forced into Snape’s mind.

Snape tried to cringe way; the invasion was excruciating. But try as he might, he couldn’t stop Potter. The teen tore through his mind, destroying his barriers, toppling walls, going through his Occlumency shields like a wrecking ball, leaving Snape’s mind a complete and utter mess as chaotic sights and sounds ricocheted relentlessly throughout his mindscape. And more than that, they left Snape defenseless and unable to slow, much less stop, the ongoing assault.

It didn’t matter that Snape didn’t want to see the boy’s memories, didn’t want to be subjected to the landscape of the boy’s scattered psyche, didn’t even want to contemplate all that he was being exposed to. Snape felt violated by the indecency of it all. He wanted to scream for it to stop, to push Potter away, to pull his own hair out, anything to make the mental attack cease. But this was wild magic, and there was no halting it; it had to run its course.

And though he might not be able to admit it quite yet, he knew that, on some level, he was responsible for the events of tonight. His years of taunting the boy, of assuming he was just like his father, of not seeing him for the curious young lad he actually was, had been his, Severus Snape’s, mistake. And now, he was paying for that error, and paying well.

As the onslaught continued, the vision of Potter standing before him, white light and fury emanating from him, reminded Snape forcefully of the Headmaster on the very few occasions he’d seen the wizard in a towering, well-earned temper. Snape had never before realized how thankful he should have been to not be on the receiving end of that unleashed wrath; for now, he knew what those who were must have felt like.

He ground his teeth together and gripped the chair arms harder.

There was nothing he could do now but hold on and watch the hideous movie of memories play across the backdrop of his battered mind.

A baby waking up: cold, hungry, and alone. Its head hurt and the child tried to rub at it, but he was too tightly swaddled.

The same baby, alone in a crib, crying forlornly for “mama” and “dada”. But no one came.

The baby, a toddler now, learning to walk alongside another child his age, only to be repeatedly and harshly pushed to the floor while the other child was praised beyond measure.

Birthdays, holidays, a happy family—for all but the boy, the “freak”, the unwanted child who didn’t receive gifts or praise, only orders—fetch the mail, do the dishes, make breakfast, clean the house, go to your cupboard.

The tiny broom closet under the stairs that locked from the outside, spiders spinning their webs all around, with only a tattered rag for a blanket.

Starting primary school, gaunt and pallid, with stick thin arms, protruding ribs, hollow cheeks, and peeling skin.

Being picked on for his too-large, hand-me-down clothes and the funny scar on his forehead.

Feeling ostracized and alone; no friends to call his own.

Back in a kitchen, the boy standing, frozen and shocked, over a cutting board as a knife rose into the air and began chopping carrots of its own accord.

A horse-faced woman, his aunt, shouting, grabbing the boy’s arms, forcing his small hands into a pot of boiling water on the stove.

The boy’s pain-filled screams and the righteous anger on the woman’s ugly face.

A portly man, his uncle, finding out what the boy had done and beating him senseless, leaving the child to crawl—bloodied, bruised, broken—to his cupboard. The ruthless man locking him in.

Young Potter trying to tend to his broken bones and burned flesh with no training and no supplies.

The nauseating hunger and insistent thirst as his relatives ate take-out while he was denied meals, sometimes for days on end.

The shame of having to relieve himself in a bucket in the tiny cupboard beneath the stairs.

The self-blame and self-loathing at being “unlovable”, of being a “freak”, of being the family’s deep dark secret that must be hidden and denied at all costs.

The endless loneliness.

Then, a spark of hope—Hagrid, and being told he was a wizard.

A trip to Diagon Alley, the joy and wonder and excitement of it all. People knew his name. They wanted to meet him, to talk to him, to touch him.

Feeling, for the first time in his life, that he wasn’t a repulsive, untouchable outcast.

And the fear. Fear that it wasn’t real, that it was all just a joke or a dream. The fear that it would be taken away from him.

And finally, finally, Hogwarts. New friends, new experiences. Being famous, but still being accepted. For a time.

Then Draco Malfoy taunting him over his dead parents.

Snape cruelly ridiculing the boy—who looked just like his father—in front of the whole class.

The boys’ schoolmates turning against him, thinking that he was the heir of Slytherin.

Trelawney constantly predicting his death in some horrendous fashion.

Discovering and meeting his godfather in his third year, only to have him taken away again.

Trepidation at finding himself entered into a dangerous tournament, and dread at the impossibility of the tasks that stretched out before him.

Losing his way as his two best friends squabbled, as the Weasley boy wrestled his own jealously and abandoned him during that trying time.

The anxiety at not being able to live up to others’ expectations.

The horror and anguish of battling the resurrected Dark Lord in that grave yard with nothing but his wits and his brains and his Gryffindor courage.

Devastating grief as Potter sought to deal with the death of Cedric Diggory.

The knowledge that Voldemort was out to kill him, while the Wizarding World strove to remain in denial, going so far as to suggest that he was an attention-seeking prat or that he was insane or just trying to stir things up.

Losing more friends over this.

The overwhelming isolation.

The summer holidays filled with beatings and bullying, starvation, derision, and being constantly reminded of his worthlessness.

An overwhelming sense of sorrow crashed hard into Snape, stealing his breath.

The utter grief and responsibility for those who died around him, because of him.

The thoughts of ending it all when it became too much, both countered and strengthened by the knowledge that he would either kill or be killed by the mad wizard in the end.

The guilt.

The terror.

The feeling of never being good enough.

And over and over again, Snape telling him what a worthless, arrogant, rule-breaking, waste of space he was.

And then something else slipped in, something Snape didn’t think Potter meant for him to see.

Draco sticking out his foot, tripping Potter. The boy sprawling across the flagstones, sharp pain ricocheting through his hand and wrist.

Umbridge assigning detention.

Potter at a desk in Umbridge’s pink, vomit-worthy office, jet-black quill in hand. The absence of ink.

Distress etched in every line of the boy’s face.

Umbridge watching with supreme satisfaction.

Abruptly, Snape felt the presence in his mind flee. One minute it was there, and the next minute, both wizards were back in Snape’s office. Cautiously, Snape relaxed his tensed muscles, unclenching his fingers and trying to regain the feeling in his limbs, as well as his composure.

Potter stood across the desk from him, bent over slightly. He was shaking his head and panting, muttering unintelligibly. His aura had dimmed. The potions on the shelves were still. The candlelight ceased flickering. No one spoke.

Snape knew he was going to have one hell of a headache, but he said nothing. He was still in shock. He might have thought that Potter was making it all up, except for the authenticity of what he’d seen and his knowledge of Lily’s sister “Tuney,” not to mention the raw unbridled power behind what Potter had done.

“Are you going to expel me?” Potter spat while looking at the floor, his voice ragged.

“Are you going to curse me?” Snape retorted. He had no doubt the boy was itching to do so.

Silence hung heavy in the room.

Finally, Snape sighed and gingerly pushed himself to his feet. Potter had yet to make eye contact with him. “First,” Snape drawled. “You will have detention with me every night after Occlumency lessons for the next month.” 

Potter gaped at him.

“Second,” Snape said, taking the boy by his uninjured arm and propelling him toward the fireplace, “we will be visiting Madam Pomfrey.”

“What?” Potter said, the panic rising in his voice, “NO!”

Snape snorted and grabbed a handful of floo powder before pushing Potter into his fireplace and stepping in behind him. Together, they stumbled out into the cool, clean air of the infirmary.

“Professor, I don’t…”

“Potter, you will sit on that bed and wait for Madam Pomfrey, or I will stick you to it. And believe me when I say that it will be much more comfortable if you do this of your own free will.”

“How can you call it free will if you are forcing me to do it,” Potter protested.

A door opened and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. “Oh, Severus,” she said as she came out of her office. “Whom have you brought me?”

“The Potter boy.”

“Again?” she chastened. “What is it this time, Mr. Potter?”

Potter sat stiffly on the bed, his mouth shut tight.

The headache was steadily building behind Snape’s eyes. “Poppy, I will have the strongest headache potion you have, if you don’t mind. As for the Potter boy, could you please run a full body diagnostic scan on him, detailing his complete medical history, as well as any past injuries and treatments?”

Madam Pomfrey studied Snape a moment, before nodding her head, and retreating to her office. She returned momentarily, silently handing Snape the headache draught and then turned to Potter, who sat resolutely on the stiff cot, arms crossed, refusing to speak or look at anyone in the room.

“This will only take a moment,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I’m sure everything is just fine, no need to worry.”

Snape harrumphed at that, and watched as Poppy ran a diagnostic sweep over Potter with her wand. As the enchanted scroll began filling with line after line of what Snape knew would be a long list of partially healed injuries, Poppy looked first at Potter, and then at Snape, startled surprise etched in every line of her face.

When she opened her mouth to speak, Snape shook his head, his message clear: This was not the time, nor the place, to discuss what the diagnostic spell was steadily revealing. Pressing her lips together, Poppy scanned the parchment, before re-scanning various parts of Potter’s body to get a better understanding of the more significant injuries. She paused over the boy’s left hand, her eyes flashing in outrage, but again, Snape shook his head, gesturing instead to Poppy’s office. Potter had still neither looked at, nor acknowledged, either of them.

As Poppy gathered the scroll, Snape cast a sticking charm on Potter’s bum so he couldn’t leave. Then, he followed Poppy into her office, shut the door, and cast a silencing charm on it.

Harry was outraged; he’d shown Snape his memories out of anger and to prove a point—that he was NOT the spoiled brat that Snape always claimed he was. It had been a rash decision born out of a sense of injustice and anger, leaving little room for thought about the consequences. He hadn’t considered what Snape would do with the knowledge once he had it.

He’d been forced to go to the hospital wing, against his will, for the entire world to see his humiliation. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that the charmed parchment had continued to fill, and fill, and fill. His cheeks flushed in shame. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, only to be abused by his relatives and treated like a house elf.

The second he heard Madam Pomfrey’s office door close, he made to jump off the bed. No way was he sticking around for this discussion. But try as he might, he could not move. His bottom was stuck to the cot. Snape, he seethed in disgust. Leave it to that vile man to use what he’d found out against Harry. Well, what had he expected? Sympathy? Harry scoffed at his own foolishness. The day Severus Snape showed Harry Potter sympathy was the day hell froze over. Cursing loudly, he kicked out, noting that he could move everything but his bum. He contemplated making a run for it, mattress and all.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, exiting Madam Pomfrey’s office alone and walking toward him.

Harry looked up into the inscrutable eyes of his loathsome professor. He opened his mouth to shout some obscenities at the git, when a vial of potion was shoved into his good hand.

“Drink half of it now, and the other half in 20 minutes.”

Harry clasped the potion stubbornly. He was not going to drink whatever Snape had handed him. It was probably toxic.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft, Potter. As if I’d poison the headmaster’s Golden Boy. Now drink up, it’s the strongest pain-relieving potion I have.”

Hesitantly, Harry raised the ampoule to his lips. He sniffed, smelling a hint of mint, and was that lilacs? He tipped the vial back and swallowed.

“As soon as Madam Pomfrey and I are finished speaking with the headmaster, we will tend to your injuries.”

Harry choked and sputtered, coughing to clear his lungs. “The headmaster?” Harry rasped.

Snape gave Harry a look that plainly said he was lacking a brain if he thought this could go unreported. Then, much to Harry’s dismay, Snape swept from the infirmary, the scroll listing Harry’s injuries clenched tightly in his hand.

Minutes crawled by as Harry lay stuck to the damn hospital bed, his mind wandering aimlessly. At least the pain was gone, for now anyway. He wasn’t fool enough to think it wouldn’t come back. He wondered if Madam Pomfrey was with Snape and the headmaster at the moment, or if she was still in her office, documenting the state he was in. Either way, she hadn’t come to check on him again.

And what would happen now? Would they finally let him leave the Dursleys’ for good? Maybe he could live with the Weasleys. Perhaps he could stay at the castle over the summer. Some of the staff stayed, he knew. Or, at least, he thought they did.

 He yawned and stretched as best he could. The sky outside the windows was dark, and he pondered how late it was. He wondered if his friends were worried about his absence.

“Severus,” the headmaster welcomed. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come in. Would you like a lemon drop?”

Snape scowled. “No thank you.”

“What can I do for you this evening?” Dumbledore inquired, shifting an instrument on his desk out of the way, so as to have a better view of his colleague.

“How much do you know about the Dursleys?” Snape asked without prelude, his expression set in an impenetrable mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Potter’s relatives. What do you know about them?” Snape insisted.

“Well,” Dumbledore replied, stroking his beard. “They are Muggles, of course, and Harry’s only remaining relatives. Why do you ask?”

“I was under the impression,” Snape said carefully, “that the boy was treated like a prince. Coddled, spoiled, his every whim and desire met.”

Snape remained unreadable as the headmaster studied him. He wanted to know how much Albus knew about the boy’s upbringing.

“Ah,” Dumbledore replied. “I presume you saw something during Occlumency lessons?”

Snape nodded curtly.

“Well, I must say, Severus, I have told you before that his childhood was very different from his father's. Though I dare say you didn’t believe me at the time.”

Snape waited, silently, for the headmaster to continue. This was a game of strategy and wits, and he wasn’t going to give in first.

The headmaster sighed in resignation. “Have a seat, then, Severus, and I will tell you what I know.”

Snape averted his gaze, loathe to let the headmaster see any hint of his thoughts on the matter.  

 “You know why I placed the boy with his relatives. The blood wards were the strongest protection I could give Harry. Even so, I knew his life would not be easy. His relatives fear magic, and if I am correct, they believed that if they raised Harry with no knowledge of our world that, perhaps, he could be prevented from discovering his true nature.” Dumbledore paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Snape clenched his jaw, his patience running thin.

“As you know, we have been watching Harry for years. Mrs. Figg played an important role in verifying the boy’s well-being. She reported, as did other sources, that the boy attended Muggle schools, was made to do chores around the home, and did not appear to get along with his cousin.” Dumbledore shuffled some papers on his desk before continuing. “He spent much of the summers outdoors and alone. It appears that he was often not included in family outings, being left with Mrs. Figg during these occasions.” Looking tired, Dumbledore asked, “Does that answer your question, Severus?”

A slow, blinding fury was building inside of Snape. Did the headmaster honestly believe, with all of his power and sources of information, that this was as far as it went? Was the seemingly omniscient wizard truly ignorant of what Potter had endured?

“No, Albus, it most certainly does not,” Snape snapped. He was inwardly pleased at the taken-aback expression on the headmaster’s face. “Are you telling me that no one noticed the numerous injuries that Potter suffered?”

“Injuries?” Dumbledore asked. “Harry was an active child, of course some minor bumps and bruises were to be expected.”

Snape stood abruptly, his hands splayed on headmaster’s desk, his eyes alight. “What of his emaciated appearance, Albus? His extensive bruises? His broken bones?”

Dumbledore rose to his feet as well. “What are you talking about, Severus?” Dumbledore demanded.

Snape studied the headmaster critically. “I will need the Pensieve to show you.”

Without a word, Dumbledore summoned the magical device from Snape’s office to his.

With the stone basin now lying on the desk between them, Snape used his wand to pull strands of memory from his temple, being sure to reveal only what the boy had shown him regarding the Dursleys and Umbridge. He saw no reason to implicate himself in the poor treatment of the boy; he would have to remedy that on his own.

“After you,” Snape invited, following Dumbledore into the Pensieve. Snape didn’t need to view Potter’s memories again. Instead, he scrutinized the headmaster, watching the old wizard’s face for signs of a reaction. What he saw there made him want to close his eyes. Horror and regret marked his mentor’s already lined face, and in the time it took to view what memories Potter had bequeathed him, Albus seemed to age ten years.

Back in the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore slumped in his chair. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, his eyes glassy. “I knew they weren’t ideal, I knew they were not the most affectionate of people, but I never would have guessed…” The old wizard dropped his head into his hands, “Dear Merlin,” he uttered in despair.

Snape remained standing, feeling awkward at Dumbledore’s emotional display. He’d seen the wizard furious before, enraged even, but he’d never seen the man look this devastated. The only positive in the situation was that the headmaster truly had been ignorant; for the alternative would have been unforgivable.

“What is to be done, Headmaster?” Snape stated, more than questioned.

Dumbledore lowered his hands and sat up straighter in his chair, shaking his head as if to negate the truth. “First, we must heal the boy. He is our priority.”

“And the rest?” Snape demanded.

“I will turn the memories over to the appropriate authorities. The Dursleys will be prosecuted accordingly.” Dumbledore paused and stroked his beard. “Although…”

“Albus...” Snape said in a dangerous voice.

“His aunt needs to stay in the home. Harry needs the protection afforded by the blood wards.”

“You aren’t seriously considering sending him back there!” Snape thundered.

Dumbledore looked resigned. “He must, Severus.” At Snape’s look of outrage, the headmaster raised a hand. “Protections will be put in place.”

Snape’s let his skepticism show.

“He will not be left there alone. We will find someone suitable to stay with him for the duration of his stay,” Dumbledore said.

For now, Snape would accept that. Clearing his throat, he addressed the next pressing issue. “And Umbridge?” he asked, sure that the headmaster was aware of the danger the alarming object she had in her possession posed to the students. How had the depraved witch even acquired such a dark object? “What of her?”

Dumbledore sighed. “That is a bit trickier. Clearly, she cannot be allowed to continue using a Blood Quill on our students.”

“Not to mention it’s highly illegal,” Snape fumed.

“That it is, my boy, and with good reason. And while I would prefer to have her removed from the school entirely, I highly doubt Fudge will cooperate. You and I will need to put our heads together on this one to come up with a suitable solution, Severus.”

“Agreed,” Snape responded, his teeth gritted.

“Where is Harry now?” Dumbledore asked.

“He is resting comfortably in the hospital wing,” Snape answered.

“Has Poppy seen to his injuries?”

“Not yet,” replied Snape. “We were waiting to speak with you to decide how to proceed.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Poppy did run a comprehensive set of diagnostics on him though,” Snape informed, tapping the scroll he held against his palm. In a quieter voice, he added, “And I gave him the strongest pain elixir that I brew.” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Snape’s admission, much to Snape’s satisfaction.

“I am afraid to ask, but is it that bad then?” Dumbledore inquired, his voice grave.

Instead of answering, Snape lifted the scrolled parchment that detailed all of Potter’s injuries, past and present, and held it out to the headmaster.

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, seeming to steel himself, before accepting Snape’s offering. His expression became shuttered, but Snape knew from the slump of the older man’s posture and the trembling of his hands that the weight of guilt on the headmaster’s shoulders was immense.

“Please summon Poppy, Severus.”

Nodding, Snape stepped to the floo and called the medi-witch, who joined the two wizards promptly, her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line.

“Potter.”

A deep baritone voice roused him from sleep. The lights in the hospital wing were dim, but it was enough to see by. Forcing his eyes open, Harry saw three blurry figures standing over his bed. He scrambled to sit up.

“Relax, my boy,” Dumbledore’s rich voice encouraged as he laid a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder and guided him back to the mattress. “There is no need for you to get up.”

As Harry’s fingers scrabbled on the night table in search of his glasses, they were placed in his hand. “There you are,” the headmaster said.

The reason Harry was in the infirmary came rocketing back to him. He cringed inwardly, embarrassed and a bit ashamed. The headmaster looked sadder than he’d ever seen him; Madam Pomfrey was fussing about, straightening his bed clothes; and Snape, Snape looked inscrutable. He was studying Harry, but Harry couldn’t make out what he might be thinking.

“Harry,” Professor Dumbledore began, “I am very sorry to have awoken you, but we wanted to heal your wrist and hand before the pain potion wore off. Then, we will let you get some sleep. Tomorrow, we shall discuss the rest of what you so bravely shared with Professor Snape this evening.”

Brave? Harry hadn’t done it to be brave. He’d done it out of anger and frustration.

“Now, let Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape do their work, and I will see you in the morning.”

“Professor,” Harry called out.

“Yes?”

“Will I have to go back to the Dursleys anymore?”

Harry watched with a feeling of dread and betrayal as Dumbledore’s face fell.

“Tomorrow, my dear boy. We will discuss everything tomorrow. Do try and get some rest this evening. And Harry?”

“Yes?”

Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, the gesture making him seem even older than his 100-plus years. “I am so very, very sorry for all you have endured. I fear that I bear responsibility for much of it. Please be assured that I will do everything in my power to make up for the damage I have caused and the mistakes I have made.” With those words, a very humbled and teary-eyed headmaster strode from the infirmary, the door swishing shut behind him.

Wasting no time, Madam Pomfrey spoke up. “Harry, dear, your wrist is fractured and you have a couple of broken bones in your hand as well. I can fix those right up for you. It won’t hurt a bit. Just lay back and relax for me, won’t you, dear?”

Harry grimaced. Madam Pomfrey was being much more conciliatory than her usual stern, no-nonsense self. Harry thought he knew why and turned away from the pity in her voice. His eyes met Snape’s, and resentment seared through Harry. Silently, he dared Snape to say something nasty about Harry needing to be treated like a baby, but Snape remained still and watchful.

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He felt a warm, tingling sensation encompass his wrist and hand. It kept getting warmer, though not uncomfortably so, while Madam Pomfrey murmured a few potent spells. He thought he could feel the bones knitting themselves back together, but as she had promised, there was no pain. When she lifted her wand, he sighed in relief.

“That’s done, then,” she said, fluffing his pillow unnecessarily. “Professor Snape will see to that abomination on your hand now,” Madam Pomfrey said, her tone suddenly one of disgust as she studied the writing on the back of Harry’s hand.

“Why Snape?” Harry interjected. “Why not you?”

“Because I,” drawled Snape, “am more versed in Dark Magic than Madam Pomfrey. And that’s Professor Snape to you. Don’t make me remind you again.”

Harry gritted his teeth and turned away. He was sure that anything Snape did to him was going to hurt, even if it could have been done in a less painful way. His stress level jumped even higher when he heard Madam Pomfrey retire to her office, leaving him completely alone with the vindictive Potions Master.

The silence stretched between them as Harry refused to meet Snape’s gaze. Finally, Snape’s voice filled the emptiness. “Why those words, Potter?  What did you lie about?”

Harry scoffed. “This time?” Harry asked. “Or all the other detentions I’ve had with her?”

“There’s been more than one?” Snape asked, and the aghast sound of Snape’s voice had Harry breaking his promise to himself not to give Snape the satisfaction of matching his gaze.

“Yes,” Harry spat out. “The first month’s detentions were because I refused to follow the ministry line and pretend that Voldemort had not returned.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “You told her that the Dark Lord had returned?”

“Repeatedly,” Harry replied.

“In private?” Snape inquired.

“Nope,” Harry said. “In front of the whole class.”

“Potter,” Snape breathed out in exasperation. “There’s Gryffindor bravery, and then there’s flat out stupidity.”

“I know, McGonagall said the same thing.”

“Professor McGonagall,” Snape corrected.

Harry heard Snape take a deep breath. “I regret to inform you that this will not be pleasant.”

“Of course it won’t be,” Harry retorted. Things could never be easy for him.

Snape looked at him oddly before continuing. “Blood Quills are illegal for a reason. They not only carve into your skin using your own blood, they also leave traces of Dark Magic behind that are not easily removed.”

Harry turned his head away. Great, just what I need, to be infected with Dark Magic, Harry thought bitterly.

“I will siphon out as much of the Dark Magic as I can. This process will likely need to be repeated over the coming days. You will also need to take potions to stabilize the area and allow the damaged tissue to release the curse. With time and luck, we may be able to minimize the scaring, but I cannot guarantee it.”

Harry looked down at the red and inflamed message on the back of his hand—I must not tell lies—and sighed.

“Are you ready, Potter?”

“Does it matter?” Harry muttered.

“If you need more time…”

“No, it’s fine. Just do it,” Harry said, and then added, “Professor.”

Snape scrutinized Harry and, seemingly satisfied, nodded.

Harry let his eyelids fall shut, waiting for the pain to come. Instead, he jumped when he felt his hand encased in a larger, warmer one. His gaze snapped to Snape, but the wizard wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he had Harry’s hand gently cradled in his own while he studied it.

Harry tensed, not sure what to expect. He listened as Snape held his wand over the wound and chanted a few words in another language; Latin, Harry thought. Then he watched in awe as the words on the back of his hand glowed amber and strands of the same color spread out from the wound, coursing down two of his fingers in the one direction, and up his arm in the other direction, all the way to the middle of his upper arm.

“You are lucky, Potter,” Snape said. “It seems that your innate magic has limited the curse to just your arm. Had it gone farther, to your shoulder, for example, it could have reached your heart and been circulated throughout your entire body.”

That didn’t sound good, Harry reflected. “Can you fix it?”

“Eventually,” Snape replied. “It won’t be pleasant though.”

“So you said,” Harry responded dully.

“Brace yourself.”

Harry tensed instantly. Those words reminded him of Legilimency lessons all over again. But unlike when his mind was broken into, this was the pain of 1000 daggers being stabbed simultaneously into his hand, his fingers, his arm. He cried out, twisting away from Snape and trying desperately to pull his hand free.

“Be still,” Snape hissed.

Harry bit his lip to keep his screams at bay, but it was no use. He tasted blood as a high pitched keening escaped his throat. Moisture wet his lashes as sweat gathered between his shoulder blades and ran in rivulets down his back.

How? How could he be still? How could he endure? This was like the Cruciatus curse. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of his flesh rebelled. Every instinct in him fought to pull away, to escape, to flee. Eyes squinted in sheer agony, Harry opened his mouth to tell the professor just where he could go when he saw something that stunned him momentarily into silence.

Snape was siphoning off the amber essence of the Dark Curse, pulling it from Harry’s very tissues, and absorbing it into… himself.

“Professor!” Harry gasped.

Snape’s face was a study in concentration and pain. The man’s breathing was ragged and it seemed to be taking all of Snape’s attention to fight the excruciating torment and continue.

“Quiet,” Snape rasped, his features contorted, sweat beading his brow.

Finally, with an expletive, Snape dropped Harry’s hand and collapsed back in his chair.

For Harry, the pain had stopped the moment Snape had released him. But Snape had hunched forward, his chest heaving. The man seemed to curl in on himself, his arms wrapping around his middle, struggling to breathe.

Harry scooted forward, not even realizing that his bum was no longer stuck to the bed. “Professor… do you…  I mean… are you okay?”

Snape swayed on his chair, his eyes scrunched shut, his jaw clenched.

Harry glanced toward Madam Pomfrey’s office. Snape looked terrible. Should he go for help?

“Potter,” Snape gasped. “Potion… right pocket… give it... to me.”

Harry leapt from the bed. He hesitated, not wanting to touch the man, and definitely not wanting to go through the man’s pockets. But Snape had started to make the same keening sound of pain that had come from Harry, and Harry couldn’t bear it.

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry said as he pushed Snape’s arms away and reached inside the man’s robes. It was awkward and unnerving and no easy task with the Potions Master hunched over himself in distress.

Harry searched desperately for the right pocket, trying to ignore the haunting gasps and the man’s constant trembling. Finally, he felt a cool cylindrical shape, and he dove inside, his fingers encircling a glass vial and yanking it out. He held it up for Snape’s examination, hoping it was the correct potion.

“Uncork it.”

Harry popped the cork. “Here, Professor,” Harry said, raising the elixir to the potion master’s lips.

Snape grunted and batted Harry’s hand away. With a tremulous grasp, Snape took the vial from him. He downed it in one long gulp and let the small glass bottle fall to the floor, where it shattered upon the flagstones. Then, Snape slumped in the chair and his breathing evened out, his twitching limbs finally starting to calm and uncoil.

Harry leaned back against his bed, dumbfounded. “Why?” was all he could say. Why would Snape do something that clearly caused him so much pain? And why would he do it for Harry Potter of all people? It made no sense. The pause was so long, Harry didn’t think Snape would answer.

“Because… it needed… to be done,” Snape finally got out.

“But… you… I… why? Why would you do that for me?”

Snape opened one eye, and Harry could see the irony in the man’s expression. “I am already marked with Dark Magic,” Snape said, then paused to take a breath. “My body can... handle it… in a manner of speaking.” Snape sighed, dragging a hand across his face. “You are not to be tainted with it.”

Harry’s mouth opened, closed, opened again, and then closed. It was as if Snape was saying he deserved the darkness and the pain, that somehow he’d earned it. Thinking back to how Snape had treated Harry all those years at Hogwarts, Harry could almost believe it.

But, not quite.

The pain was like the Cruciatus curse for Harry when it was being removed; he couldn’t imagine how much worse it was for the person taking the Dark Magic into their body anew. The thought horrified him.

Snape struggled to his feet, swaying ominously. Harry jumped up to help him, but Snape waved him away. Harry couldn’t see how the wizard was going to make it to the dungeons in the condition he was in.

Instead, Snape staggered a few steps, then half-fell, half-launched himself at the hospital bed next to Harry’s. Harry watched in wonder as the potions master curled into the fetal position on the mattress, shuddered once, and then laid still.

“Potter,” the man croaked.

Harry rushed to his side.

Snape reached into an outer pocket and pulled out a small object. “Take this. Use it.”

Harry took the tub of ointment from Snape’s unsteady hand. “Should I get Madam Pomf…”

“NO. Go to bed.”

Harry hesitated. It was all so surreal. Snape, huddled in the bed next to his. Snape, draining the poison from Harry’s body and taking it into his own. Harry shook his head in denial. It didn’t make any sense.

“NOW.”

Harry jumped at the sound of Snape’s command. Quickly, he hurried back to his bed, pulling the covers up over himself. He unscrewed the cap and rubbed the cool ointment on his hand where the scar stood out angrily. Then he lay back, hoping that Ron and Hermione wouldn’t worry about him.

With the taciturn wizard lying scrunched up in the bed next to his, and the many thoughts tumbling through his head, Harry was sure he’d never be able to fall asleep; he couldn’t stop thinking about what Snape had done.

The next thing he knew, he was being blinded by the sunlight streaming in through the infirmary windows. The bed next to him was empty.

“Coventry,” Dumbledore greeted, clasping the newly arrived witch’s hand in both of his. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Welcome back to Hogwarts.”

“Aye, Albus, an’ ye too. Tis good ta be back. How have ye been keepin’?” Coventry Cook replied, removing her traveling cloak and handing it to Dumbledore, who was waiting patiently to hang it up for her.

“Well enough,” Dumbledore replied, pulling out a chair for her. “Please, have a seat.”

The witch smoothed her robes beneath her and sat in the proffered chair, nodding her thanks.

Dumbledore made his way around his desk and took a seat as well. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Coventry.”

“Aye, ye said 'twas important,” Coventry responded.

“It is,” Dumbledore said gravely. “I only wish I could have brought you here under better circumstances.”

Dumbledore reached for a now well-worn scroll of parchment, one he had read over countless times in the past several hours. “An unfortunate situation has arisen with a student that requires a healer with superior skills and the utmost discretion.”

Dumbledore glanced once more at the parchment, before focusing on the attractive young witch seated before him. “As an acclaimed healer and a member of the Order, can I trust that you will keep this conversation, and any future ones on the subject, strictly confidential?”

“O’ course, Albus,” Coventry assured. “Ye have me word as a healer an’ a trusted friend,” she said, reaching out her hand to cover the headmasters.

Dumbledore nodded. “Very well, then,” he said, sliding the scroll in her direction, but not releasing it. “The identity of the student in question must be guarded at all costs. I cannot stress this enough, for this is no ordinary student.”

Coventry nodded. “Privacy in these cases is always strictly guarded.” She tilted her head before continuing. “Can I assume then, since ye contacted me, that we are discussin’ a case o’ child abuse?”

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Healing wizarding children who have suffered abuse and trauma is your specialty, is it not?”

“Aye, 'tis.”

Dumbledore rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose, a headache pounding behind his eyes. “Here is the list of his injuries,” Dumbledore said, finally releasing the scroll into Coventry’s custody. “Our medi-witch ran this diagnostic scan last night.”

Coventry accepted the parchment and read over the extensive list. To her credit, Dumbledore noticed, she remained professional. “I will need ta meet him before I can decide how ta best help him, ye ken?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed. “I need to speak with him first, and then I can arrange for you to see him. I also have a couple of staff members quite capable of assisting you. One is the medi-witch I mentioned earlier. The other is our potion’s master and resident Dark Magic expert.”

“I did notice the use of a Blood Quill,” Coventry observed. “I am curious as ta how he fell victim ta such a dangerous an’ illegal dark object.”

Dumbledore rubbed his forehead wearily. “I am sure you will have many questions, Coventry. Permit me to answer them in time, if you will. If it is amenable to you, I would much prefer for you to meet your new patient and get started with your evaluation immediately so that we can chart a course for his care.”

“O’ course, Albus,” Coventry said. “Assumin’ I can help the lad, I am at yer disposal.”

Dumbledore was rising from his chair as she spoke, but at her phrasing, he paused. He studied the healer before him, an idea forming in the back of his mind. She was in her early-thirties, if memory served, with a thin athletic build and an attractive face. She was intelligent, quick-witted, and highly skilled. A small smile crept across Dumbledore’s weathered face.

“I think you may be of great help to more than just my student,” Dumbledore replied cryptically. “Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to visit the hospital wing.” Checking his watch, Dumbledore added, “Let us meet again in one hour’s time. Do feel free to partake in our delicious breakfast and tour the castle as you wish. However, I must ask that you refrain from mentioning the purpose of your visit, should anyone inquire.”

Breakfast arrived at his bedside, and Harry heartily tucked in. Classes would be starting soon and he was wondering if he’d be released to attend. He felt well enough, no worse than he did before he’d broken his wrist. Just as he was pondering this, Dumbledore entered the hospital wing.

“Good morning, Harry. It’s nice to see you awake.”

Harry gulped down the food he had in his mouth, causing himself to choke and cough, before managing to croak out a “Hullo, professor.”

Harry thought Dumbledore still looked graver than usual; the sparkle in his eye was notably absent. He shifted over a bit as the headmaster sat on the edge of Harry’s bed and rested a hand on Harry’s knee.

“First and foremost, Harry, I owe you an apology, although I fear it can never be enough. As I said last night, I had no idea that your relatives had treated you so badly.” Dumbledore’s eyes shone with remorse and guilt. “Still, I take full responsibility for what happened to you as it was my job to ensure your safety and well-being while you were being raised, and clearly, I failed. For that, Harry, I will be forever in your debt.” Dumbledore rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He looked utterly exhausted and Harry wondered if the wizard had gotten any sleep at all.

“It wasn’t your fault, professor,” Harry replied. “Maybe if I had been more like Dudley…”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said sternly, “Never make excuses for abuse. There are none. Nothing that happened was your fault, nor could it ever be.”

Not knowing what to say, and hoping it would suffice, Harry nodded.

The headmaster didn’t quite look convinced, but he went on. “I am sure you have many questions, Harry, but first I would like to tend to your old injuries.”

“Sir?”

“It seems that your relatives inflicted quite a bit of damage on you over the years.”

Harry noticed how Dumbledore winced when he spoke that truth. Regret radiated from the old wizard.

“It also appears that, unbeknownst to you I am sure, you used elementary magic to stabilize many of those injuries. Although the broken bones and damaged organs were not fully healed, they were mended enough for you to go on. Am I correct in my assumption?”

Harry thought about it. He remembered the broken arm that Vernon had given him for burning a strip of bacon one morning. His aunt had still made him tend to the garden all day, and clean the living room, so that by the time he went to his cupboard and collapsed on the threadbare, stained mattress that evening, he was in tears from the pain. But somehow, the next morning, although his arm still hurt, the bone had clearly mended somewhat. He was able to use it at the very least. It was, once again, one of those things he could never quite explain. Harry suspected his relatives knew it as well, which was why they never bothered themselves over inflicting hospital-worthy injuries upon Harry in the first place.

“I believe so, sir,” Harry finally responded.

Dumbledore nodded. “While that rudimentary magic saved you, there are still many internal remnants of those injuries, which, if left untreated, will certainly cause you trouble as you age. Though Madam Pomfrey is an excellent medi-witch, her talents lie in healing more immediate injuries and illnesses.” Dumbledore squeezed Harry’s knee. “As such, I feel it would be wise to consult with a healer who specializes in cases in like yours.” Dumbledore gazed meaningfully at Harry. “Child abuse cases.”

Harry felt a sickening swoop in his gut. He had no desire to have yet another person become aware of what had happened to him.

“Were it any other student, I would send him or her to St. Mungo’s. But as you know, Harry, you are a special case, and I think it would be best to refrain from alerting the magical world at large.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, heartily agreeing. The last thing he needed was to have the Daily Prophet write up this angle of his life.

“As such, I have contacted a healer who also happens to be a former student of Hogwarts, and more importantly, is affiliated with the Order. She has the experience and knowledge to help heal old wounds, and she can be trusted to use the utmost discretion.”

Harry felt uneasy and wondered, not for the first time, if Dumbledore trusted others too easily.

“If it is alright with you, Harry, I’d like for her to meet with you later this morning.”

Harry wasn’t sure he had much choice in the matter, but he nodded anyway.

“That’s settled then,” Dumbledore said, taking back his hand to brush some lint off his robes.

“Now, about Dolores Umbridge,” the headmaster continued, his expression hardening. “I am outraged that any teacher in this school would use a dark object on a student. Blood Quills are old magic and are highly illegal. Even Cornelius Fudge, for all of his faults, will be unable to overlook such a crime. And against children no less,” Dumbledore said scathingly. “And, no, Harry, you were not the only student affected. I have personally verified at least three other accounts, and I am sure there are more. Furthermore, the Aurors removed the dark objects from Dolores’s office last night and are holding them as evidence.”

“Is Umbridge still here?”

“At present, yes. But I have contacted the Ministry and they are investigating,” Dumbledore replied. “What happens next, I am not sure, but I can promise you that she will never use a Blood Quill or any other dark object against a student again. At least not in my school.”

Harry found that somewhat reassuring, but knowing how difficult it was to find DADA teachers, he wondered if Fudge would get her off and send her back with some different, but equally awful, means of punishment.

“Next, I believe you asked me last night about spending summers at your relatives.”

“Yes,” Harry replied tentatively.

“I’m afraid it is more complicated than you can possibly know. If it were just a simple matter of making other living arrangements for you, I would do so in an instant.” Dumbledore removed his glasses and polished them on his robes. “As it is, however, being able to call number 4 Privet Drive your home has offered you a protection from Voldemort that I have been unable to match. In other words, Harry, it has kept you safe—from Voldemort, at least.”

It was clear to Harry that the headmaster was struggling with the definition of the word “safe” after what his relatives had done to him.

“What do you mean, professor?”

“You see, Harry, when Voldemort tried to kill you, your mother stepped in front of you, shielding you from him. She chose to sacrifice herself in hopes of keeping you safe. This sacrifice lives on in your blood, and in the blood of your mother’s sister, Petunia. As long as you can live with your aunt and call it home, Voldemort cannot touch you.”

Dumbledore placed his glasses back on, peering at Harry through their half-moon lenses. “That, Harry, is the reason I left you on their doorstep all those years ago. That is why you have needed to return there each summer. And that, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said with a sigh, “is why I must insist that you continue to return there each summer until you turn 17. In short, Harry, Petunia’s home is the best protection I can give you from Lord Voldemort.”

Harry felt sick to his stomach. It was too much to take in. His mother had given her life for him. Her sacrifice lived on in the home of his cruel aunt and sadistic uncle. And most of all, no matter what they did to him, Dumbledore was still going to send him back. He felt betrayed, but not surprised. When had his life ever been simple? He looked away, hoping that Dumbledore would take his leave so he could process all that he’d been told in peace.

“There is more, Harry. Some of it for the better, and some for the worse. In order to keep those wards in place, your aunt must be living in the place you call home. Thus, while we can pursue charges against your uncle for abusing you, it may not be wise to do so for your aunt, lest she too ends up in prison and the protection against Voldemort be lost.”

Dumbledore let out a long sigh, staring momentarily into the distance. Looking back at Harry, he continued. “So while it pains me greatly to do so, I think we must consider that Petunia Dursley’s continued presence, and your ability to call Privet Drive home, may very well be the thing that keeps you alive.”

Harry puffed out a breath of air, and, under his breath muttered, “Yeah, if they don’t kill me first.”

Dumbledore replaced his hand on Harry’s knee and squeezed in a gesture of comfort. “Harry, I am a man of many mistakes, but I can assure you of this. I would never willingly send you back to a dangerous situation without good reason. Furthermore, I would never do so without ensuring your protection first.”

With very little confidence, Harry replied, “How do you intend to do that, sir?”

“I have many ideas, but first and foremost, you will not be returning their alone. Someone will be with you in that house, and out, at all times, so that your relatives will be unable to insult or injure you. There are other ways too, of course, and we may implement some of those as well. Nevertheless, rest assured that when you do return to Surrey, the circumstances will be much improved.”

“Who will accompany me, sir?”

“As I said, I am not sure yet. It may be a member of The Order, or a professor. It may even be a classmate of yours, or a house elf, or a combination of the above. Whoever it is, you will be included in the decision when the time comes.”

Harry wasn’t sure how well this would work. He couldn’t imagine the Dursleys tolerating yet another “freak” in their home. On the other hand, he knew Dumbledore could be quite persuasive. Given the choice between granting a fellow witch or wizard house space, or going to prison for abusing Harry, his aunt just might find the former more tolerable.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, “If you are feeling up to it, I will fetch Healer Cook so that the two of you can meet.”

Harry looked at the remnants of his unfinished breakfast—his appetite had vanished. Closing his eyes he pondered, not for the first time, how his one simple act of vengeance had spun so far out of control.

Healer Coventry “call me Covey” Cook was nothing like Harry had expected. Unlike the matronly Madam Pomfrey, who could be anyone’s stern grandmother, Healer Covey didn’t look old enough to be a Healer.  She was young, with spiked blonde hair tipped in a bright blue that matched the color of her eyes. She had a sparkling nose ring, wore stylish robes, and smiled easily. She spoke with an odd accent—part Scottish, part he-had-no-idea-what, and blew and snapped bubbles of bright pink bubblegum with enthusiasm.

When Harry spoke, she stopped popping her gum mid-snap and tilted her head in such a way that she made you feel that whatever you were saying was the most important thing in the world. He liked her instantly, and imagined that her demeanor made it easier for kids to relate to her. She reminded him a bit of Nymphadora Tonks.

"Aye, laddie, let me take a look at ye then. It wonna hurt a bit." Covey waved her wand over Harry, generating an even more detailed list of the injuries Harry had suffered throughout his life.  

Harry observed the healer, but no matter how long the list on the parchment grew, her demeanor didn't change. She was cheery and light-hearted, with a positive attitude that was infectious. He supposed that would help to keep her younger patients calm. Harry found it equal parts encouraging and disconcerting. He supposed it did inspire confidence, though.

"Hmm…” Covey said, studying the list. “You had a bad break in this wee bone here, see?" Healer Cook said, holding up Harry's right hand and showing him his pinkie finger, which he couldn't quite straighten. "Do ye remember how ye got it?"

Harry shook his head. 

"What about this scar here on yer neigh shoulder, do ye remember that?"

 "No, not really," Harry responded.

 "Aye, I betcha you were just a youngin’ when it happened," Covey proclaimed, smiling. "An’ here?"

 "That was from Quidditch," Harry replied. "Third year." 

 "Aye, dangerous sport, that," Covey said, “though I must admit I played it fer a bit.”

 “Did you?” Harry asked.

 “Aye, I did.” Covey said, glancing between Harry and the parchment.

 “What position?”

 “Keeper. Til I nearly had me head knocked off. Sort o’ lost me interest after that I’m afraid.” Laughing softly, Covey continued. "Last question, Laddie. What about this leg here. Looks like a nasty one. Transverse fracture an' all."

 Harry shook his head. A transverse fracture didn't sound good, but he had no memory of that either. "I don't remember," Harry uttered. "Is that unusual? That I can't remember?"

 Healer Covey smiled reassuringly at him. "Not at all, Laddie. Tis perfectly normal. Now, be a good lad, aye, and stay put. I just need ta nip up and have a word with the Headmaster." 

Dumbledore and Severus Snape were discussing the situation with Dolores Umbridge when there was a knock on the headmaster’s door.

 "Come in," he called, pleased to see the young woman who awaited his audience.

 "Ah Healer Cook," Dumbledore said, striding to the door to welcome her. "Let me introduce you to my esteemed colleague, Severus Snape. He is our Potions Master and a Professor here at Hogwarts."

 "Pleased ta meet ye, Professor," Covey said, holding out her hand.

 “Healer Cook,” Snape said, shaking her hand.

 “Please, call me Covey. The headmaster speaks very highly of you.”

 “The headmaster,” Snape said with a scowl, “is much too generous.”

 Covey laughed softly and Dumbledore, who was watching the two closely, smiled.

 "So you have met our Mr. Potter, yes?" Dumbledore inquired.

 "Indeed, I have. Nice young lad. Run afoul of some Muggle relatives, aye?"

 “Indeed,” Snape confirmed. "Can you heal him?"

 "Physically, aye," Healer Cook said, directing her response to Snape, "but there's more to it than that."

 Dumbledore noticed that the usually cheery healer was looking quite grave. "What have you found?" 

 "He donna remember his injuries." She looked to the headmaster. "That is nay a good sign, Albus. True he was too much of a wee bairn to remember some o' them, but others... I ken he's repressed them. Too painful, ye see?"

 Dumbledore took a deep breath. Snape's face darkened.

 "There's more too, I reckon. Because he used untrained magic to heal himself, the memories will be tied up in the partial healin’. I canna heal over what he did; I have to undo it first, and then heal from the base up, ye ken?" Healer Cook’s gaze was steady, intent. "That means when I release his magic, all of those memories, and the pain, will be a comin’ back at him. It mighta be too much for him to handle."

 Dumbledore carefully considered this, before asking the room at large: "Do you have any recommendations? Magical or Muggle?"

 "Certainly a calming draught would be in order. An’ pain potions, too." Healer cook replied.

 "Done," Snape said. 

 "But I donna reckon that will take care o’ it all. The memories were repressed for a reason. Once they escape the binds holdin' them, I imagine the lad will have some sufferin' and such. PTSD the Muggles call it. I’d recommend findin’ him a counselor. He’s gonna be needin' ta talk ta someone."

 Dumbledore glanced at Snape, who shook his head. "The boy has already showed you some of his memories, Severus. It only makes sense." 

 "I am NOT a counselor, Albus. I am a Potion's Master." 

 "And the head of Slytherin house, where you have counseled many students." 

 "So send him to McGonagall," Snape retorted. 

 "Ah, but he did not share his memories with Minerva. Nonetheless," Dumbledore said, raising a hand to silence Snape's objections, and turning his attention back to the healer. "What else may be needed to help Harry through this?"

 "I am concerned that we will release too much at once, too many memories. It would be much better if we could release them slowly. But there's no tellin' what will come out when we undo his magic. He wonna remember what he used so he wonna know what's all tied up in there."

 Silence held sway in the room until Snape looked to Dumbledore and uttered one word. "Occlumency." 

 Dumbledore considered this. "Severus, do you think you could shield the boy's mind during the healing process? Act like a filter for him, if you will. Release the memories in bits and pieces, over time, so he could handle them."

 Severus snorted. "As if he'd agree to that."

 "He might not have a choice," Dumbledore replied, his tone serious. 

 "Covey, are you familiar with the field of Occlumency?"

 "Nay, Albus, I am not."

 Dumbledore spent some time explaining the theory, with Snape jumping in on occasion to clarify. Finally, Dumbledore said, "Do you think it could work?"

 "Well," Healer Cook considered, "I donna think we got anythin' to lose by tryin' it." 

 Harry was not surprised to see Healer Covey and Dumbledore enter the infirmary. He was, however, surprised to see that Snape was with them. He reflected that he shouldn't have been, though, since Snape had said it would take more than one session to cure him of the Dark Magic that Umbridge had tortured him with. Even so, Snape was looking markedly uncomfortable. 

 "Hello, Harry. How are you feeling?" Dumbledore inquired. 

 "Fine." 

 "Good, good. Healer Cook here was just telling us what would be needed to heal your old injuries. As you already know, you used some of your elemental magic to stabilize them. Unfortunately, in order to restore you completely to health, Healer Cook will need to undo those fixes, and re-heal them from their original injured state." 

 Covey smiled and nodded. "Not ta worry, Laddie. I've done it hundreds o’ times before."

 "Unfortunately," Dumbledore continued, "When she undoes your magic, the original injury will pain you as it did when it first occurred. We have, however, some means of combating the worst of it. Professor Snape here," Dumbledore gestured to the stoic man standing beside him, "will administer pain relieving potions and a calming draught." 

 Harry studied the three figures around him. Healer Covey was looking pleasantly expectant, Snape was unreadable as usual, but Dumbledore looked unsettled. Harry shifted into a more upright sitting position. "And?" Harry inquired.

 "And," Dumbledore said, taking a calming breath, "there is some concern that the pain may be too much to handle."

 "Albus," Snape warned.

 Conceding, the headmaster continued. "Not just the physical pain, although I don't wish to minimize it. But what we are more concerned about is the emotional pain that may arise."

 "Emotional pain?" Harry questioned.

 "Healer Cook informs me that you do not remember how you obtained your injuries. We think that you may have suppressed those memories. A perfectly natural response, I assure you. For how could you continue to live with the Dursleys with the constant reminder of what they had done to you." 

 Harry noted that Dumbledore's face had taken on that aged look again, as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders.

 "To be bombarded with all of those memories at once, Harry, may be too much for any one person to handle." Dumbledore added.

 Harry swallowed. He didn't like the sound of any of this. "I feel okay now, though, Professor. Do I really need to be healed?"

 Before anyone else could answer, Snape said, "Yes, Potter, you do."

 "Yes, Harry," Dumbledore echoed. "You have likely grown used to the discomfort and don't even realize how much it affects you. And even if it doesn't affect you much now, it certainly will as you age."

 Harry couldn't imagine not being able to handle the memories. They were in the past. He probably just forgot them because they weren’t important. 

 "Lucky for you, laddie, your potions master has a good idea on how to help ya through it."

 Harry looked up, startled. He wasn't sure he would like anything Snape came up with. It probably would just make things worse. Instead of looking at Snape, Harry directed his gaze to Dumbledore.

 "Coventry is referring to Occlumency, Harry," Dumbledore stated. 

 Harry felt his stomach drop. No way was he going to engage in that again. That's how this whole things started. Vehemently, he shook his head.

 "No?" The headmaster questioned.

 "I can't do it, sir," Harry replied. Averting his gaze, he continued, "I never learned how."

 Harry waited for Snape to make some snide comment about his inadequacies or his laziness, but one never came. 

 "It would not be necessary for you to occlude, Harry. In fact, I'm not sure that you could even if you had gained some success with the skill. However, as you've already developed a link with Professor Snape, it might be possible for him to occlude for you, to shield your mind so to speak, if the healing process becomes too overwhelming for you."

 Harry swallowed. If his memories truly were that bad, did he really want Snape to see them? True, he'd already thrown a bunch at the man, but that was in a fit of anger. He wasn't in his right mind at the time. Knowing that Dumbledore was expecting an answer, Harry said, "Er, I really don't think that will be necessary, sir. I am sure I can handle it." 

 Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "It may be a lot to manage, Harry, and it would not be a sign of weakness if you needed help. The number and severity of your injuries are many."

 Directing the conversation away from Snape, Harry asked, "What would happen to me if I couldn't handle them, as you say?"

 The three of them exchanged a glance that made Harry feel decided uncomfortable. 

 Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "When the magical mind is overwhelmed by too much pain for too long a time, the damage can be irreparable."

 "Like Neville's parents?" Harry asked in a whisper.

 "I'm afraid so," Dumbledore said gravely. "To avoid that, Harry, it would be my preference to at least have Severus present, just in case he is needed. If you don't need him, no harm done. And if you do need him, he will be here to help you."

 Harry looked at Snape's inscrutable expression and wished he knew what the man was thinking. Rashly he blurted out, "And you agreed to this?" The question was clearly directed at Snape. 

 Snape nodded curtly, he lips pressed tightly together. 

 Harry flopped back against his pillows. He didn't like feeling that he didn't have a choice. Making one last ditch effort, imploring Dumbledore: "What about you? Could you be my shield?" The look on Dumbledore's face gave him the answer before the wizard even spoke. 

 "I am truly sorry, Harry, but for many reasons, I cannot."

 Harry turned away unhappily. He wanted to ask if it could be someone else, anyone else, but he already knew the headmaster's answer to that too. If there were another choice, he'd have been given it.

 Sighing, Harry said, "When do we begin?"

 Dumbledore cleared his throat. “We think it best to clear out the remaining dark magic from the Blood Quill first. As Professor Snape is needed for this, and as it is quite taxing for you both, we will aim for a schedule of every-other day. Once all traces of that curse have been removed, we shall commence the remainder of your healing.”

 Harry nodded. He had one more day of respite then.

 “For now, Harry, you may return to class,” Dumbledore informed him.

 Harry looked at his watch and practically groaned aloud. Charms was nearly over and the next class was double potions with the Slytherins before lunch. He glanced up at Snape who seemed to know what he was thinking.

 “Don’t be late, Potter,” Snape said, and then turned to leave the hospital wing. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried outside of the Potions classroom. “Where were you? We’ve been incredibly worried! We asked Professor McGonagall, but all she would tell us is that you were fine and not to worry.”

“Yeah, mate,” added Ron, looking around cautiously and lowering his voice to a whisper. “When you didn’t come back to the tower last night after Occlumency, we thought Snape might have done you in.”

Harry smiled. Aside from all of his worries, he had his friends, which was much more than he’d had growing up at the Dursleys. Deciding on the lesser of two evils, Harry pulled his friends aside to a more secluded area and said, “Snape found out about the Blood Quill.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up and Hermione’s mouth opened into an “O”.

“He told Dumbledore, and they made me stay overnight in the hospital wing to examine me since it’s dark magic and all.” Well, that was true enough. He wasn’t sure about how much detail he wanted to go into, nor how he felt about Snape, so he decided to leave the rest for later. “Has anything happened around here that I missed?”

Ron snorted. “Not much. When you didn’t show up for breakfast, Malfoy speculated that you had died, but of course no one believed him.”

Just then, the bell rang and they made their way into the Potions classroom, taking their regular seats at the back of the room.

After shepherding his students in and closing the door, Snape stalked to the blackboard. He had a headache and wasn’t looking forward to this class in particular. The fifth-year snakes and lions loved to antagonize each other and he had no tolerance for it. He’d had enough surprises in the last 24 hours; he certainly didn’t need anymore.

“Today we will be brewing a mind strengthening potion. You will have two hours to complete it. This potion often comes up in OWLs, so I suggest you pay special attention,” Snape intoned. “You will keep your eyes on your own potion, and if I catch anyone sabotaging another student’s work, no matter the house, you will receive a zero.” Snape locked eyes with the trouble-makers in his class, including, out of habit, Potter and his gang. “The instructions,” Snape waved his wand, “are on the board.  You may begin.”

A cacophony of stools being scraped across the stone floor echoed in the dungeon classroom as students got up from their desks and filed toward the stockroom where the ingredients were kept. While the pupils retrieved their supplies, Snape walked around the room and handed back the most recent set of essays on the many uses of powdered eel’s eyes in potions.

As the students got to work, he surveyed their progress. A sharp word here, a snide suggestion there, and his students, dimwitted as they were, generally avoided blowing up their cauldrons. This period, in particular, was fraught with mistakes as it was a double period before lunch, and the students tended to be tired and distracted.

He found himself watching Potter more closely; the boy was abysmal at potions. He used to consider the boy lazy and unmotivated, but after what the boy had shown him that fateful night in Occlumency, he began to scrutinize the boy more closely.

After all, he didn’t do as poorly in his other classes, so why this one? He no longer intimidated Potter, Snape knew, and after Potter’s efforts at proving him wrong, why did that not extend to potions? Did he dislike the subject that much?

Furthermore, Potter had made his intentions clear to McGonagall that he wanted to be an Auror, and in order to continue on with potions—a requirement to be an Auror—he would need to achieve an Outstanding on his OWLs. Thus, it was neither logical nor sensible for Potter to continue to perform so poorly in his class.

As the period was coming to a close, he walked to the back of the dungeons. Ms. Granger’s potion was near perfect, Weasley looked befuddled as usual, and Potter’s potion was…

“Atrocious as usual, Mr. Potter,” Snape remarked derisively. “Evanesco.” The potion vanished and Potter looked outraged.

“Time’s up. Bottle up a sample of your potion and leave it on my desk. Class dismissed.” Snape swept back toward the front of the classroom. “Potter, stay after class.”

Snape ignored the mutterings of the Golden Trio, considering instead a possibility that had never occurred to him before.

Potions were decanted, bottled, labeled, and set in the collection rack on his desk. He waited for the students to file out, shooing out Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger before closing the classroom door. Potter, he knew, was livid.

“Potter,” Snape said, noting the tension in the boy’s shoulders and the loathing in his eyes. He had been watching him closely all class and now came to stand beside him, facing the board. “Read the ingredients on the board to me.”

The shell of an English edgerbrind, pulverized
2 riggleworms, whole
¼ tsp powdered root of asphodel
8 baileywick pods, crushed
6 frog legs, diced
1 pinch heliotrope

Potter breathed heavily as he recited the ingredients, line by line. “The shell of an English edgerbrind, pulverized; two riggleworms, whole; one-half teaspoon powdered root of asphodel, three baileywick pods, crushed; six frog legs, diced; and one pinch heliobore.”

Snape frowned. Two possibilities ran through his mind. One was rare, while the other…

Snape pulled a piece of scrap parchment from his robes and set it on the bench. He tapped it with his wand, transferring his spiky writing from the blackboard to the parchment. He then handed it to Potter. “Read it again,” he instructed.

“I just read it!”

“Again, Potter,” Snape commanded.

Potter snatched up the parchment. “The shell of an English edgerbrind, pulverized; two riggleworms, whole; one-half…” Potter pulled the paper closer to eyes his, “no, one-fourth teaspoon powdered root of asphodel, eight—not three—baileywick pods, crushed; six frog legs, diced; and one pinch of… heliotrope.” Potter’s shoulders dropped. “Not heliobore,” he added in a whisper.

“Correct,” Snape nodded. “Tell me, when was the last time you had your eyes checked?” Snape had noticed the boy squinting every time he looked at the board. Could his poor performance be as simple as that? His other thought had been dyslexia, which was extremely rare in wizards and typically only seen in Muggleborns, but as Potter could read the ingredients up close, he had ruled it out.

“Er, I think it’s been awhile, sir.”

“How long, Potter?”

Potter bowed his head. “Primary school,” Potter all but whispered. “They had screenings in the first grade and the school notified my relatives that I needed spectacles.”

“And they never had your eyes checked after that?” Snape asked, his voice rising in outrage.

“No,” Potter said defiantly. “They said I wasn’t worth wasting the time or money on.”

“I see,” Snape said, clamping down on his anger. “You will come to my office this evening at 6 pm, where I will give you a copy of the instructions for this potion. You will have two hours to re-brew it. If you do so successfully, I will award you full marks.”

Potter looked stunned. Snape never gave students a second chance at potions.

“See that you are on time, Potter. You are dismissed.”

Leaving a bemused Potter in his wake, Snape swept from the dungeons. He found there was yet another task on his to-do list.

Potter arrived at Snape’s office at five minutes to 6pm and knocked tentatively. He had no idea how this would go. Would Snape be his usual cruel self? Would he stand over Potter and criticize his every move?

“Enter,” Snape’s voice called.

Potter stepped inside.

“Close the door and follow me,” Snape ordered.

Harry did as he was told. Snape led him to a room off the back of his office that had four lab benches. On the bench nearest the door was a cauldron, a set of ingredients, and handwritten instructions on a piece of parchment.

“You have two hours, Potter. I will be in my office if you have any questions. Do endeavor not to blow anything up.”

And with that, Harry was on his own. He was very careful to follow the instructions precisely and was pleasantly surprised when everything worked just as it should have. It was so much less stressful when he wasn’t distracted by his classmates, or feeling Snape’s cold eyes weighing his every movement.

Harry finished in a little under 90 minutes. Pleased with what he’d accomplished, he stepped back into Snape’s office. “I’m finished, sir.”

Snape looked up at Harry before checking the time. Then he rose, silently, and came to look over Potter’s progress. Snape stirred the potion once, clockwise, and then leaned in to inhale its aroma.

“This appears to be adequate, Potter. Decant two full vials. Then clean up your work area and meet me in my office. Bring the vials.”

Harry quickly did as he was told, excited to have met Snape’s exacting standards and to be getting out of Snape’s office early. When he was finished, he brought the small bottles into Snape’s office and set them on his desk.

“Have a seat,” Snape directed. “How are you feeling after last night?”

“Fine,” Harry answered, squirming under the potion master’s scrutiny. 

“No ill effects from removing the dark magic from the Blood Quill?”

Harry thought about it. “No, I don’t think so.” Remembering Snape curled up in pain on the bed next to him, Harry impulsively blurted out, “What about you?”

Snape gave him a sardonic look but didn’t answer. Instead, he uncorked one vial of the potion that Potter had brewed and handed it to him.

Then he picked up the other vial himself, removed the stopper, and saluted the boy across the desk from him. “Bottoms up,” he said and swallowed the potion in one long gulp.

Harry was startled. Had his second-most hated potions professor (second only to Umbridge, of course), the one that told Harry he was atrocious at potions, just drank the potion that he, Harry, had brewed? At Snape’s expectant look, Harry downed his vial as well.

“Let me see your hand,” Snape said.

Harry held out his right hand.

“Your other hand,” Snape hissed.

“Oh, right,” Harry said, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks. He felt like an idiot. He held out his left hand and jumped slightly when Snape took it and pulled it forward, examining the scarring on the back.

“Have you been using the ointment I gave you?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry responded. “Three times a day, like you said.” Snape was still holding his hand and it felt very awkward. Harry wanted to pull away but he wasn’t sure what was going on.

Snape nodded and pulled out his wand. “I am going to check the progress we made last night. This part shouldn’t hurt.”

Harry’s hand instinctively jerked in Snape’s.

“Be still,” Snape muttered. Then, with a wave of his wand, Harry watched as I must not tell lies glowed bright amber once again with the same colored streaks running up his arm and fingers. Unlike yesterday, the streaks only went to his mid-forearm, instead of past his elbow. And the ones that yesterday had stretched to the tips of his fingers now only reached his middle knuckle.

“It’s working,” Harry breathed, looking at Snape in astonishment.

Snape scowled. “Of course it is.” Taking a deep breath, Snape asked, “Do you know why I had you drink the mind strengthening potion?”

Harry shook his head.

“The headmaster and I think it wise to remove all traces of this curse from your body as soon as possible. The longer it remains, the more time it has to fester, and considering your cursed scar,” Snape paused to look pointedly at Harry’s forehead, “the more likely it is to become less tractable to being cured.”

“Meaning?” Harry asked.

“Meaning that if we don’t take care of it right away, it could become permanent.”

“The words?” Harry asked.

Snape scoffed. “The words are the least of our worries at the moment. Dark magic can damage tissue, and that damage can become irreversible if not tended to in a timely manner.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, absently rubbing his forehead.

“As such, I would like to make another attempt at removing it again tonight.”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He thought he’d have a day’s reprieve, but it appeared he would not be granted that mercy.

“The mind strengthening potion should enable us to move faster in this endeavor.” Quirking an eyebrow, Snape said, “Let us hope that you brewed it well.”

“Why do we have to go to the hospital wing?” Harry asked.

“It is a wise precaution. Dark magic can be tricky, and it is best to be in a place where help is available, should it be needed.” It galled Snape to admit it; he’d have rather stayed in his office where he could have retired to his quarters in peace.

As it was, attempting to siphon off more dark magic less than 24 hours after the last time he did so was dangerous. But time was of the essence, and hopefully, the potion would do its job. “Settle yourself in a bed, Potter, and I will alert Madam Pomfrey to our presence.”

When Snape returned, Harry was sitting on the edge of a bed, hands in his lap, looking nervous. He didn’t doubt the boy dreaded the pain. Pain was never something one got used to no matter how many times one experienced it.

“Drink it,” Snape commanded, handing Potter a vial filled with an opalescent pink potion.  “It’s a calming draught with a dissociative agent. While I can’t give you a pain relieving potion directly, this should help.”

“Did you drink it too, sir?”

“No,” Snape grunted.

“Why not?”

Snape looked at Potter in frustration. The boy truly didn’t know when to stop asking questions. “It doesn’t work that way, Potter. Now lay back and try to relax. The potion should kick in shortly. Let me know when you are ready.”

Snape pulled up a chair next to Potter’s bed and mentally prepared himself as well. Dumbledore had advised him against moving too fast with regard to releasing the dark magic from Potter, but they both knew what was at stake, and if Snape could handle it, it would be better for them all to get this evil out of Potter’s body.

“Ready,” Potter said, his eyes slightly unfocused.

Good, Snape thought, the potion is doing its job. “Give me your hand.” When Potter extended his hand, Snape clasped it from underneath with his left hand. Wand in his right hand, he took a deep calming breath and chanted the words to begin.

It was a curious sensation at first. He could feel the dark magic swirling under the surface of Potter’s skin, gathering like a storm cloud, preparing to fight off the intrusion. Although it wasn’t alive, per se, it seemed to have a will of its own.

It was like using your mind to try and pull a deeply rooted plant from the ground, or in this case, Potter’s very own cells. It didn’t want to budge. Snape had to prod it with his mind, try to wriggle it from its moorings, pulling inch by inch, all the way fighting the scrambling roots from reattaching to surrounding tissues. This was the tiring part; the part that could give him a pounding headache.

Once he’d gotten one root up, and then another, and another, he could start to draw it out, siphon it off, take it into himself. It was when it was pulled from Potter, and when it entered his body, that the pain started.

The more he pulled out, the more pain that was induced. He would pull until he couldn’t stand the pain any longer, until his mind and body objected so strongly that it retreated, making him unable to hold on, forcing him to abandon his efforts. This is where he hoped the mind strengthening potion would help; he was hoping it could make him last longer, and make Potter able to tolerate the pain longer as well.

When the link finally broke, the two ends would separate, and the dark magic would bounce back like a rubber band that was stretched to breaking point and then let go. After that, the darkness would settle and root again.

Potter would experience relief, while Snape would experience the agony of incorporating more dark magic into his body and the pain and exhaustion that the process caused.

But at the moment, the dark magic was still gathering and writhing, fighting him off, trying to stay put. Snape nudged some more, twisting his own magic around the darkness, trying to pull it forth. Just as it broke free of the surface of Potter’s hand, Potter made a mewling noise. Certainly the boy felt something; Snape just hoped it wasn’t as bad as it had been the night before.

And then it hit him, the agonizing punch in the gut as the first strands of dark magic connected with his essence, wrapping their tendrils around his core, trying to strangle him. The pain took his breath away.

He gasped, trying to override the agonizing sensation and maintain his focus. He pulled harder, dragging more of the dark magic into himself, faster and denser, trying to get it all out. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this wasn’t the best idea.

Taking too much at once would only overwhelm his system, make his recovery that much harder, make it that much longer before he could attempt this again. Still, if he could get it all out, get it over with once and for all, he’d do it.

A keening sound rose around him as the pain skyrocketed. Still he kept pulling, forcing himself to go on. In the distance, he heard a small voice whining: Professor, stop. Please stop. Please. STOP.

Still he pushed forward, siphoning more and more, the pain blocking out all else, the keening growing louder and louder in his ears until, just before the world went entirely black, he realized that the keening was coming from him.

“Professor!” Harry cried out as he jumped off his bed and crouched on the floor beside Snape, who lay there seizing, blood dripping from one corner of his mouth. For a moment, Harry didn’t know what to do. He was consumed by panic.

And then he remembered: the potion. Snape had set it on the table beside the hospital bed so as to be in easy reach. Harry grabbed the vial filled with the deep red liquid and carefully removed the stopper. Then he waited anxiously until Snape stopped jerking.

Sliding a hand under Snape’s head, Harry titled the man upright slightly. “Professor, you have to drink this. It will make you feel better.”

Harry put the potion to Snape’s lips and held his breath. Slowly, he poured the potion into Snape’s mouth, drop by drop. “You have to swallow, Professor, I can’t do that for you,” Harry implored.

Finally, Snape gasped, swallowed instinctively, and started coughing, and then retching.

Harry jumped back.

As soon as Snape’s airway was clear, Harry tentatively brought the vial up to Snape’s lips again and coaxed him to drink some more. This time, the man did. His eyelids fluttered once but didn’t open. His body was still rigid, as if caught in the throes of agony, though thankfully the keening had stopped. The sound of a human in that much distress had made Harry break out in a cold sweat.

A few terrible moments passed, and then Snape’s body relaxed, melting bonelessly onto the floor. For one, terrible panicked moment, Harry thought Snape had died.

He immediately checked to make sure the wizard was still breathing and was relieved to see his chest rising and falling. Harry sat back on his haunches, relieved.

But he couldn’t leave the man lying on the cold stone floor; blood still trickled from his mouth and sweat beaded Snape’s forehead. A tremor wracked Snape’s body. Raising his wand, Harry levitated Snape onto the bed next to his and went to fetch Madam Pomfrey.

The medi-witch summoned Dumbledore, and both worked frantically to stabilize Snape.

“Tell us what happened,” Dumbledore said.

Harry told them everything he could remember, including that while he felt the pain when Snape was siphoning off the dark magic, it was as if it was in a distant part of his mind, and so it didn’t bother him much.

But for all the pain that Harry didn’t experience, it seemed like Snape experienced it 10-fold. Harry instinctively knew it was too much, and he begged Snape to stop, but Snape either couldn’t or wouldn’t cease what he was doing. When Harry finished explaining what had happened, Dumbledore shook his head.

“Foolish man,” Dumbledore mumbled.

“What did he do?” Harry inquired.

“If I am correct, he tried to complete the ritual all in one go. I warned him against this, but alas, he is still young and much too ambitious at times.”

“But why?” Harry asked. “Why did he do it if he knew it was so dangerous?”

“Penance, I imagine,” Dumbledore said. “For misjudging you so.”

Harry didn’t know what to make of that, so he asked instead: “Will he be alright?”

“Yes, he will be fine. Though I dare say he’ll need to stay in the hospital wing a couple of days, something I am sure he will dislike immensely.” Dumbledore paused. “How are you feeling, Harry?”

“I’m feeling fine,” Harry said, surprised that it was true.

Dumbledore looked him over critically. “Very well, you may return to your dormitory.”

Nodding, Harry hopped off the bed he had used and headed for the door. He took one last look at Snape, who seemed to be resting peacefully now, although Madam Pomfrey had spelled numerous monitoring charms on him.

Better him than me, Harry thought, and then felt the sting of guilt wash over him for the thought.

By the next morning, the rumor mill was abuzz. There were “No Class for the Rest of the Week” signs on the DADA and Potions classrooms. 

Students wondered aloud if something happened between Snape and Umbridge. Speculation ran the gamut from them being dark wizards who’d been arrested, to them being secret lovers who’d absconded together. Harry knew where Snape was, although he only told Ron and Hermione about that, but he, too, wondered what had happened to Umbridge.

He suspected her absence was related to the hearing at the Ministry, but he couldn’t be sure.

Eager to get some answers, he snuck into the Hospital Wing after lunch, hoping to catch the headmaster. He couldn’t very well go to the headmaster’s office to ask just because he was curious.

The hospital wing was bright and empty, save for one bed in the far corner where Snape was propped up, reading a book. His eyes flashed when Harry entered, and Harry felt like he’d been caught spying.

“Have you come to annoy me, Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I was looking for the headmaster.”

Snape looked skeptical.

Still standing by the door, Harry wondered if he was suicidal. Nonetheless, he ventured, “I was just wondering about Professor Umbridge’s… er… absence.”

Snape raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“But he’s not here, so I’ll, ah, just be going then.”

As he turned to leave, he caught a motion in his periphery. Snape had set down the book he’d been reading. Harry paused, hoping the dour man might shed some light on the issue at hand.

“The Aurors arrested Dolores Umbridge this morning for the theft of a highly dangerous and illegal magical object, and for use of said object on several Hogwarts students.”

Although he hadn’t said it, Harry knew he was referring to the Blood Quill.

“The students who were injured,” Snape continued, looking pointedly at Harry, “are being treated at St. Mungo’s as we speak.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch at the realization that he may not have to be implicated in this mess, that she could likely be charged based on the testimony of the other students, which was all the better for him. “What will happen to Umbridge now?” Harry asked. 

“As long as she does not return to this school, that is not my concern,” Snape replied.

“Do you think that’s likely? That she’ll return? Sir?”

Harry steadied himself as Snape contemplated him. “I highly doubt it. The headmaster made himself quite clear to the Minister this morning, and considering that the headmaster is also the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, I rather think we will not have to worry about her any longer.”

As Harry drew in a breath of relief, Snape promptly squashed it with his next words.

“However,” Snape continued, “there is no telling who the Minister will send in her place.”

Harry knew he was right and the thought didn’t sit well with him. Fudge could send someone even worse.

Deciding not to dwell on that topic, Harry took another stab in the dark, hoping it wouldn’t cost him. “Sir, about last night… er…” Harry quelled under the angry look Snape was directing at him. Changing direction, he asked quickly, “Are you alright?”

“Potter, you have intruded on my solitude long enough.”

“Right,” Harry answered. “I’ll just be going then,” he said and quickly exited the hospital wing before Snape decided to curse him for good measure. He felt quite lucky that he had gotten as much information as he had without anything bad happening.

Later that day, when Harry got back to the Gryffindor Common Room, he saw a large notice on the bulletin board stating that all Hogwarts students were required to be present for mandated vision, hearing, health, and dental screenings that would take place over the weekend.

He overheard students asking what the mandatory health checks were about and if they occurred annually. Feeling queasy, Harry slipped back out the portrait hole to take a walk, knowing full well that he was the cause of the new screenings. 

“Aye, laddie, so here we are, aye?” Healer Covey was back, her smile and her hair as bright as ever. “Are ye ready ta get started?”

Harry nodded, not quite sure what to expect.

“I reckon this’ll be somethin’ different than what yer used ta. See, my people are from an ancient roamin’ tribe. We healers had our own ways. We learned ta channel our magic through our hands, not wands, ye ken? So when I touch ye, ye’ll feel me magic stirring up yers. Ye might feel a bit tingly, aye?”

“Okay,” Harry said, glancing briefly at Snape who stood nearby.

“We arn’ gonna do much today, laddie. Just givin’ yer magic a chance ta get ta know mine. That way, when we start the healin’ process, yer magic will accept me magic, ken?”

Harry nodded, thinking that Hermione would probably love to be here to see and learn this. “Will Professor Snape need to do anything?”

“Nay,” Healer Covey said. “Though I might bring his magic in too. It’s nay important now, but it might be in the future. Best our magic all gets acquainted, aye?”

Harry wasn’t sure what this meant. How was his magic supposed to mingle with theirs? And without a wand? Still, he stayed silent, guessing that either Healer Covey would tell him or he’d figure it out soon enough.

“I’m just gonna lay me hands on ye,” Healer Covey said soothingly.

Harry tensed as Healer Covey’s hands hovered over his chest. She stayed like that for a moment and smiled her reassuring smile at him. “Dinna fash, laddie, it won’ hurt a bit.”

Gently, she laid her hands on his chest, and Harry relaxed.

“That a boy,” Healer Covey cooed. “Take a nice, deep breath… an’ relax. Now, close yer eyes, aye?”

Harry shut his eyes.

“I want ye ta concentrate on me hands. Do ye feel the warmth spreadin’ out from them?”

Harry concentrated, and much to his surprise, he did feel something. “It feels like my skin is tingling, just under the surface.” Harry opened his eyes to see an approving smile.

“Exactly,” Healer Covey purred. “That’s yer magic meetin’ mine.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“I’m just gonna move me hands ‘round a bit, get ta know yer magic a little better, aye?”

“Ok,” Harry said again, noticing that each place she moved her hands, his own magic rose in tingling waves to greet her—on his shoulders, the top of his head, his forearms, his hips, his knees. It felt as though she was awakening dormant magic throughout his body. He felt light and tingly. A pleasantly content sensation spread through him.

“Now, Harry, if ye dinna mind, I’d like ta bring Professor Snape in fer a bit. I’d like ta have ye meet his magic as well,” Covey said.

Harry tensed, unsure. He looked at Professor Snape who looked grim but determined.

“I’m gonna put his hands on yer chest here, laddie, just like mine, aye?”

Harry nodded, still uncertain. He watched as Healer Covey directed Snape to stand closer and then took his hands and positioned them a hair’s breadth above Harry’s breastbone. The healer advised Snape to take a deep breath, close his eyes, relax, and just feel. Harry almost laughed at the scowl on Snape’s face, but Snape did as she instructed.

Slowly, Healer Covey lowered Snape’s hands onto Harry’s chest. Snape didn’t flinch away from touching Harry as Harry thought he might.

“Let go yer breath there, Professor, aye?” Healer Covey said softly.

Snape released his breath and Harry felt the weight of Snape’s hands more profoundly, as if Snape had relaxed into him.

“Concentrate on his magic there, laddie,” Healer Covey said to Harry.

Harry couldn’t concentrate while watching Snape, so he closed his eyes as well. Instead of heat radiating out from where Snape’s hands rested on his chest, he felt a coolness spreading. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just different.

“I’m gonna add me hands now too, aye?”

Harry sensed more than felt when Healer Covey added her hands because the feeling spreading out across his chest was no longer cool like Snape’s, nor hot like Healer Covey’s, but somewhere in-between; a welcome warmth.

“Aye,” Healer Covey said, beaming, “Ye feel it, doncha?”

Harry opened his eyes to see Snape nod, a momentary look of wonder on his face.

“That’s all o’ our magic comin’ together. That’s what’s gonna heal ye, Harry.”

Dumbledore rested his elbows on his desk, his hands steepled, studying the temperamental wizard who sat before him. “You could have died, Severus,” he stated plainly.

Snape just shrugged his shoulders. “I may have overestimated my capabilities,” Snape allowed.

Dumbledore rubbed his temples, feeling a headache coming on. “How many more sessions do you think it will take to remove the curse from Harry?”

“One, two at most. I think I got most of it already,” Snape answered.

“I am wondering if there is any way to make this process easier on you,” Dumbledore said.

“You know there isn’t, Albus. Potions and spells have no effect.”

“Perhaps not,” Dumbledore acknowledged, “but there are other ways.”

“Such as?” Snape asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I wonder if Coventry could assist. She can, after all, channel magic. Perhaps she can help channel dark magic.”

“Albus,” Snape snapped, “you can’t be serious. I haven’t met a purer witch. Healer Cook is certainly not going to tamper with evil.”

“Ah, you underestimate her, my friend. After all, if child abuse—which is her specialty—isn’t evil, then what is?” 

Snape was not in the best of moods and he didn’t relish basking in dark magic with Healer Cook by his side. Not everyone was cut out to deal with dark curses, and surely she didn’t know the pain she was in for. Yet, for all her ignorance, she exuded confidence, repeatedly reassuring him that she had enough control of her magic to help channel his, while blocking herself from becoming a conduit herself.

He wondered briefly if part of her tribe’s training had included a form of Occlumency, even if they didn’t call it that, or perhaps even realize it. Still, he wasn’t sure if she could actually help him, and he really didn’t want to try it, but after the disastrous last session, the headmaster had insisted.

And so, here he was, sitting side-by-side with Healer Cook, Potter in the bed before him.

“Ready?” Snape asked, questioning those around him.

Harry nodded and Covey said, “Aye.”

Harry Cook, Covey he reminded himself, who was sitting to Snape’s left, placed one hand on his shoulder and the other on his upper thigh. He scowled at her reassuring smile, which just made her smile wider, as if she found his reticence amusing. Did nothing intimidate the blasted woman? Snape wondered.

“First,” he said to Covey, “we will see how much of the dark magic remains.”

Waving his wand, Snape revealed the bright amber light that seeped from the cursed words on Harry’s hand and stretched out in streaks. Much to his relief, the streaks that had run up two of the boy’s fingers previously had retreated almost entirely into the cursed wound itself, while the other streaks only ran a few inches up his forearm.

Snape felt Potter relax too, knowing that the boy could sense their painful sessions were nearing an end. He’d already given Potter the calming and dissociative draught, which had seemed to work well last time.

He felt Covey squeeze his shoulder in acknowledgement of the curse.

Snape took a deep breath and readied himself. He waved his wand and chanted to begin the siphoning process. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to begin.

He was slightly distracted by the heat emanating from Covey’s hands on his shoulder and thigh. It was as if she was infusing him with her magic. He tingled where she touched him. He opened his eyes briefly to look at her, but she just nodded for him to continue.

Closing his eyes again, he focused on the dark magic remaining in Potter. After the last session, he felt himself hesitate. He’d known he’d been closer to dying than even the Headmaster realized, and while he didn’t doubt his own abilities, he found that his body was less willing to sign up for another round of torture.

As his determination wavered, he felt Covey’s magic swirl inside of him, as if wrapping him in her confidence and assuring him that she would protect him. Protect him, he scoffed internally. The woman was beyond ridiculous.

Pushing thoughts of Covey from his mind, he concentrated on coercing the dark magic in Potter to coalescence and rise to the surface. He coaxed and cajoled it forward, urging it to slip out of Potter’s pores and into his own.

Finally, the dark essence emerged, struggling against his pull, but it was no match for the darkness within him. He gulped it in, pulling hard and fast, and when the pain hit, he nearly doubled over, blinded by the intensity of it. Yet he knew he couldn’t stop; he had to do this.

Then, all at once, the blinding pain lessened. It was still present, but there seemed to be a buffer between him and the pain, as if it was wrapped in some sort of cotton batting. It still flowed into him, but a semi-familiar warmth surrounded it, coaxing it to spread out and settle, leaving the poison-tipped daggers of agony behind.

Surprised, his eyes popped open, and he looked to Covey. He expected to see her rigid and writhing, suffering it on his behalf, to which he would have promptly objected. But she wasn’t. She sat serenely next to him, her eyes closed, and she was… humming?

“Concentrate, Sevvie, dear,” she purred. “Ye still need ta do yer part.”

Snape snapped back to attention, focusing once again on draining the curse from Potter, on keeping the dark magic flowing from Potter to himself. It was amazing how much easier it was with Covey by his side. And she had called him ‘Sevvie’. What the hell? He’d have to deal with that later. For now, he needed to keep his attention focused where it belonged—on Harry Potter.

Thankfully, there wasn’t much left of the curse now; he just had to make sure he got it all out. He feared the last little bit might be especially resistant to leaving the boy, but he didn’t want to increase his pull too much for the flow could break and rebound on both the boy and him. And then it would be that much harder to find the cursed shards and weave them back together and suck them out if they splintered and spread. Instead, he kept the conduit flowing smoothly, urging every last particle to cling to the whole and release its unholy grip on the boy.

Finally, he felt the last of it drain away. Heaving a sigh of relief, he slumped back in his chair, breathing heavily. While her magic had lessened the pain, it clearly had done nothing to stave off the utter exhaustion the process caused him. Dimly, he realized that he wasn’t shaking like he normally did either.

Eyes still closed, he murmured, “It’s done, Potter. It’s all out.”

Bedsprings creaked and he barely heard Potter whisper “Thank you, Professor. Here’s your potion.”

Snape felt the touch of glass against his lips and tipped his head back to swallow the potion just before he passed out.

Snape partially awoke to the sound of humming and the feel of a warm touch kneading his forearm, the skin being stretched taut between thumb and fingers before being released again. If he’d had the energy, he would have objected, but as it was, he’d sunk back beneath the waves of darkness once more. 

The next time he awoke, the touch on his forearm was like a warm breeze; feather-light strokes sending tingles up his spine. The humming was softer now. As he surfaced fully, he realized exactly where those fingers were stroking and bolted upright, yanking his arm—and his dark mark—away. Anger sparkled across his aura as he looked daggers at Covey. “How dare you touch me there, woman?”

She blinked at him, not in the least cowed by his indignation and scorn. Standing, she deliberately wrapped her hand around his dark mark, and looked directly into his eyes. “Professor,” she scolded softly, “I am a touch-healer, ye ken? I am drawn ta where I am needed.”

Her gaze touched him softly, with acceptance and understanding, like Lily’s once had before he’d gone and screwed it all up.

“Tell me, Professor, does it hurt when I touch ye there?”

Snape opened his mouth to curse the bold witch when it hit him. If anything so much as brushed up against his mark, in even the slightest way, it hurt like the Cruciatus curse itself. Even silk could send him into spasms of agony. The Death Eaters tended to put a bubble charm over their dark marks to keep anything from inadvertently disturbing them.

And yet, here this woman stood, her hand curled around the cursed dark mark, and there was no pain.

Snape stared at her, absolutely astounded. “How?” he breathed, his eyes wide with wonder.

Covey took her hand from his arm and placed it on his head, softly stroking his hair. “Tis what I do.”

Without even realizing what he was doing, Snape grasped the hand stroking his hair, and held it tight over his heart. “I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.

Covey just shook her head and smiled. “Yer welcome, Sevvie.”

He squinted his eyes in dismay, but truth be told, he kind of liked her calling him that, not that he would ever admit it to her. Reluctantly, he released her hand.

“Get yerself some rest there, aye? I have ta check on Harry.”

“He’s alright?” Severus asked.

“He’s just fine,” Covey reassured with a smile.

Harry was dozing lightly, still in the hospital wing, when Healer Cook woke him with a light touch on his shoulder. “How ye feelin’ there, laddie?”

“Tired,” Harry said around a yawn, “but otherwise fine.”

“Good ta hear,” Healer Covey responded. “Ye just lay there an’ relax. I’m gonna help balance yer magic, aye?”

“Aye,” Harry responded automatically, only realizing after the word slipped from his mouth that it might seem that he was mocking her. But the reassuring smile she always wore was still firmly on her face, and her eyes twinkled quite as much as her nose ring in the light streaming in from the hospital windows.

Harry watched as Covey placed her other hand on his hip. Immediately, a comfortingly warm tingly current ran between her two hands. As the warmth spread out to encompass the rest of his body, he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next day, Harry, Madam Pomfrey, Healer Cook, Professor Snape, and Albus Dumbledore sat around an oddly shaped table in Dumbledore’s study as Healer Cook discussed the upcoming procedures.

“Ye all know yer roles, aye? I’ll be directin’ the healin’, Poppy will administer any potions Harry’ll be needin’ an’ assist me overall, an’ Professor Snape will be helpin’ Harry occlude if any o’ the memories become overwhelmin’, ken?” Healer Covey said, looking around to gain everyone’s assent.

“Now, we have ourselves a few different options here. Ye all ken the importance o’ the healin’. What we need ta decide is how we’re goin’ ta approach it, aye?”

“There are three main approaches,” Covey held up three fingers, and lowered each one in turn as she spoke. “They pertain ta time, severity, an’ direction. Time means we peel the onion, outer layer ta inner, meanin’ most recent injuries ta most distant ones. Or we could do the reverse—oldest injuries ta newest. Severity refers ta treatin’ the worst injuries first, get the bad ones out o’ the way soonest, ye ken? Or, heal the easy ones first, an’ save the harder ones fer last. Finally, direction means healin’ the core an’ workin’ yer way out. Or visa-versa.”

“Is one way faster than the others?” Harry asked.

The healer shook her head. “There isna way ta answer that, Harry,” Healer Covey said with understanding. “There are many factors that affect the healin’, such as how well ye respond, how many o’ yer memories come back, how traumatic they are, how much healin’ we can do in each session, how yer body responds, how yer magic reacts… ye ken?”

“What has worked in the past?” Snape inquired.

“Each case is different, aye? Harry’s is a bit more complex because he’s older than me typical patient, an’ has injuries stetchin’ over a longer period o’ time.” Covey paused a moment, considering. “Then, too, his memories are tied up with those injuries, which he partially healed with elemental magic, ken?”

Albus cleared his throat. “Do you have a preference, Coventry?”

“I think it might be wise ta start at the core ta stabilize Harry’s internal organs. That way, his body’ll be able ta process any toxins future healin’ may release. After that, I will have ta see, or feel, rather.” Healer Covey said.

“It might be good ta peel the onion, so ta speak, aye? On the other hand, healin’ the earlier injuries might have a domino effect, allowin’ the newer injuries ta heal on their own, ken?” Healer Covey nodded at Harry. “I willna know til I see how Harry responds.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t like to be the center of attention, and he didn’t want to waste these peoples’ time. “What might change after you heal me?” he asked tentatively.

“Well fer one, Harry, after we heal yer leg an’ reverse the malnutrition, I expect ye’ll grow taller, ken?” Healer Covey winked at Harry.

Harry, who’d always been short for his age and hated it, smiled. Now that was something to look forward to. Maybe the healing would be worth it if he could gain half a foot or so. He thought he’d be happy just to be taller than Hermione.

Snape had spent the afternoon tidying up his quarters. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to Healer Cook’s suggestion, if you could call it that. She was sly, that one; surely she’d been in Slytherin. He’d have to ask. She’d somehow managed to invite herself to his quarters this evening in such a way that it had seemed like it was his idea. He still wasn’t sure how it had happened.

After the meeting in Dumbledore’s office, when all but Harry and the headmaster had departed, Healer Cook, Covey he corrected himself, had placed her small hand on his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. When he’d turned to her, he’d been caught by the guileless expression in her sea-glass blue eyes.

“Sevvie,” she had called him, her touch and the appellation catching him off guard.

After that, he’d been distracted.

She had said something about discussing the Potter boy’s care with him, and somehow or another, she’d manage to wrangle an invitation—to his personal quarters no less!—for that evening.

He’d never invited a woman to his quarters at Hogwarts, and yet, somehow, she’d managed to slip past his well-honed defenses. He’d have to put a stop to that, he decided.

The knock on his dungeon door had his stomach in knots—something he hadn’t felt in… well, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt that with anyone other than Lily. Surely it was just that he hadn’t had a woman in his private rooms before. She was too young for him anyway, he reminded himself.

Still, he’d managed to procure a very nice meal for his guest, as well as two bottles of wine—a red and a white, not sure of her preference.

The fresh flowers on the table were just a side effect of being a potion’s master; it surely was not because a comely young witch was visiting him, in his private quarters. Surely not.

Stiffly, Snape opened the door, his scowl firmly in place. He had to set the tone for this meeting from the start. This was a professional encounter, nothing more.

Covey stood comfortably outside his door, ocean blue robes that perfectly accented the color of her eyes and the tips of her spiked hair. Sparkling silver threads spun like waves along the hem and matched her nose ring. A nose ring of all things! Although, he had to admit, on her, it was fitting.

Her fingernails shimmered sliver as well. Without even meaning to, he offered her his arm, which she promptly took, curling a small hand around his arm as he led her inside.

“Thank ye fer invitin’ me, Sevvie,” she purred as she squeezed his arm.

Severus almost responded ‘Aye’ in return, but caught himself. What was it about this woman? She got under his skin without even trying.

“Yer flat is lovely,” she added, taking in his mahogany furnishings and sparse but meaningful décor.

“As are you,” he murmured, then flushed, then scowled. What the hell? He glared at her, wondering if she’d put some sort of curse on him, or if Dumbledore had slipped a love potion into his tea when they had met earlier that afternoon. More loudly, and to cover his faux pas, he announced, “Dinner is ready.”

“Aye, it smells divine,” she said, her eyes twinkling. 

Severus groaned inwardly, determined to focus on the meal, on the Potter boy, on anything other than the unwanted thoughts running through his mind about the intriguing witch lounging in his quarters as if she belonged there.

Just then, a streak of black darted across the room, circled the dining table, and flung itself into Covey’s lap.

“Off!” Snape demanded, pointing at the floor.

Covey laughed, her grin infectious. “Well, hello there. An’ who might ye be?” Covey cooed, petting the solid black short-haired cat that now lay sprawled in her lap, purring loudly.

“That,” Snape said, his arms crossed in front of his chest, “is Earl Grey.”

“Earl Grey?” Covey echoed. “I just bet there’s a story behind that, ye wee fella.” She looked up at Severus, her regard silently asking the question as she scratched behind the cat’s ears.

“It just so happens there is,” Snape replied. “I found him near dead, caught in a crevice in the dungeons. Skinny as a newborn Niffler and covered in scatter bites. The pitiful thing was yowling up a storm. I freed him and intended to give him to Hagrid, our gamekeeper.” Snape sniffed, and pushed a lank of hair out of his eyes. “It turns out that Hagrid is allergic to cats.”

“Aye, so ye kept the wee bugger,” Covey said.

“Not exactly,” Snape replied. “More like he wouldn’t leave me in peace. Cleaned him up and gave him a bite to eat, and the damn thing wouldn’t leave. Scratched and yowled at my door all night long.” Snape reached over and gave the cat a pat. “He’s grown on me a bit since then,” Snape admitted.

“An’ his name?” Covey asked.

“I have a habit of having afternoon tea. Earl Grey to be exact. And the cat seems particularly fond of it. If I don’t have my hand covering the mug, he will dip a paw in and lick it off.” Snape raised his chin, affecting a pompous air. “I much prefer my tea without a lump of fur, thank you very much.”

Covey giggled. “Wee smart bugger too, I see. An’ good taste,” Covey said, waggling her eyebrows at Snape.

Snape scratched the back of his neck, feeling uncomfortable, unsure if she was talking about the tea or himself. To cover his discomfort, he took a sip of his wine and tried to look anywhere but at the witch before him, who was grinning like an imp.

Clearing his throat, he said awkwardly, “Well, I supposed we should eat.”

With a flick of his wand—a signal to the house elves—plates full of decorative and sinfully delicious cuisine appeared.

A moment later, the sconces dimmed and a few candles popped into existence on the table, adding a romantic ambiance to the room. Snape groaned. “Damn house elves,” he muttered.

Covey looked over at him and smirked. “They are still as canny as ever, I see.”

Dinner passed fairly innocently. Although Snape had forced himself to remain reserved and aloof, or at least tried his best to, Covey had not only spoken enough for both of them, she’d managed to draw Severus out as well, even earning an occasional bark of laughter from the taciturn wizard.

Afterward, they moved to the sitting room. Seated facing the fire, each with a glass of wine, Snape steered the conversation to safer business. “You wanted to discuss Mr. Potter?” he prompted.

“Aye, I did,” Covey said.

Snape watched as a troubled expression settled upon her features. It was the first time he’d seen her look less than confident. He set down his wine glass and leaned forward. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid that the boy’s healin’ isna goin’ ta be easy on him,” shifting her gaze to Severus, she added, “Or ye.”

“Me?” Severus asked surprised.

“I sense that ye feel a certain obligation ta the boy, aye?”

Severus grimaced. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the boy these days. Certainly his assumptions about Potter’s childhood had been incorrect. Even so, did that entirely negate the last five years at Hogwarts? How much of the antagonism between them was perpetuated by Snape himself? He wasn’t ready to delve too deeply into that subject just yet.

“I knew his mother,” Snape replied, hoping to deflect further inquiries.

“Ah, Lily Potter,” Covey said. “I have heard o’ her. They say she was a prodigious witch that You-Know-Who himself killed.”

Snape nodded, waiting for the familiar sensation of his gut clenching at the mention of Lily’s name. But coming from Covey’s lips, it didn’t materialize. It was as if the blow was cushioned when she said Lily’s name, like when she had helped Snape heal Potter’s cursed hand, softening the pain he felt in the process.

Directing the conversation away from Lily, Snape said, “Why are you concerned about Potter?”

Covey worried her bottom lip, something he hadn’t seen her do before. “I dinna know if Albus mentioned it ta ye, but Harry’s blocked quite a bit o’ his memories. He dinna remember getting many o’ his injuries at ages when he should have had knowledge o’ them, ken?”

“Why do you think that is?” Snape asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“I think, since he had ta live with those Muggles, blocking out what they did ta him was the only way he could continue livin’ there an’ stay sane, ye ken?”

Silently, Snape agreed, waiting for her to continue.

“I worry fer his state o’ mind when all those memories surface, aye? He is goin’ ta need more than just physical healing. He’s goin’ ta need a strong support system.”

Snape wanted to shake his head. Did she think that he, Severus Snape, would volunteer to counsel the boy? “Did you have anything in mind?” he asked.

“Aye, I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout it an’ I ken a Muggle counselor would be best.”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Muggle? How so?”

“I imagine,” Covey said, “that he would feel more comfortable speakin’ with someone who’s never heard o’ him. It would be better fer him too. He would be treated like any other abused child an’ he could get the help he needs, aye?” Covey sipped her wine, then set the goblet on an end table. “Without worryin’ about word spreadin’ aroun’ about what happened ta ‘The Great Harry Potter,’ ye ken?”

A twinge of guilt twisted inside Snape. He himself had used that moniker on the boy. “I will look into it,” he found himself saying. He shook his head. How did she get him to volunteer for these things?

She put her hand on his arm and smiled, her gaze holding his. “Thank ye, Sevvie. The laddie is lucky ta have ye.”

Snape  was about to disabuse the witch of that presumption when he found himself mesmerized by her bright blue eyes, by the firelight dancing across her expressive face and high cheekbones, by the weight of her hand on his arm, a hand she had yet to remove, a hand that he found that he didn’t much want her to remove.

Clearing his throat, he looked away from the captivating witch. “More wine?” he asked inanely.

“Aye, Harry, are ye ready ta begin?”

 Harry looked between Healer Covey, who stood over him on one side of the bed, and Snape, who sat in a chair on the other side. Tentatively, he nodded. They were in a private room at the back of the healing ward. Madam Pomfrey had stepped out for a just a moment to check on a first year who had fallen off his broom and sprained his wrist.

“I’m gonna start with yer core, Harry, aye? I can go as slow as ye need. Healin’ is a process, an’ at any time ye need ta stop, ye just let us know, aye?”

Harry nodded.

“Would ye like any of yer friends ta be here with ye?”

“No,” Harry replied. He didn’t know why, but he hadn’t felt like telling Ron and Hermione what was happening. It was one thing to tell them about having his cursed hand healed, and he knew that they knew that the Dursleys didn’t treat him very well, but even they didn’t know how bad it had truly been. It shamed him to admit it to himself, much less his friends. He hoped he could continue to keep his silence.

Harry also hoped that he wouldn’t need Snape to Occlude for him. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. He didn’t relish Snape digging through his mind, seeing his worst memories. And although Snape had been relatively decent to him—for Snape anyway—that didn’t mean he wanted to hand him more ammunition should the man return to his old ways.

Harry sighed in relief when Snape began perusing a potions journal. He was sure the professor didn’t want to be here anymore than Harry wanted him here.

Madam Pomfrey bustled back in, a little harried, but ready to begin. Snape looked up only briefly. Healer Covey signaled for everyone to take their places.

“Here we go, laddie. Just try an’ relax, aye?” Healer Covey instructed, shaking back the sleeves of her robe.

Harry tensed, but when Healer Covey’s hands touched him, and her magic seeped inside, calming and reassuring, he relaxed. He concentrated on the feel of her magic. It felt like warm tendrils swirling beneath his skin. It was comforting and somehow familiar, even if he’d never felt anything like it before.

He felt himself becoming drowsy as the warmth continued to spread through him. He drifted freely, in the space between thoughts. Murky images floated by, sliding in and out of focus, but nothing stayed for long. Not even long enough to recognize, really. He supposed they were bits and pieces of memories, but they didn’t disturb the calm that had come over him as Healer Covey’s magic soothed him. If this was what healing was like, he didn’t mind it one bit.

He barely noticed the dark fog that stole in, little by little. It was so slow and incremental, that he hadn’t even recognized it was taking over. It wasn’t until he felt a sharp jagged twinge deep inside that it he realized he was in trouble. Things were no longer gray and misty, but black and ugly.

Harry bit back a cry as the deep twinge became a full-on deluge of agony. It was like his whole body was on fire. Unable to suppress it any longer, he groaned loudly, writhing away from the scorching pain, fighting against the prongs of torture that claimed him.

In the distance, he heard disjointed commands directed elsewhere, while calming words were spoken to him, but they barely scratched the surface of his consciousness. He curled into himself, biting his lip to suppress the screams trying to break free.

Potion bottles were pressed to his lips as Madam Pomfrey’s voice said things like “anti-inflammatory” and “calming” and “pain”.

He swallowed them reflexively, willing himself not to vomit them back up.

A keen of despair broke free as the blackness shifted from an indistinct mass into the form of his uncle, face bulbous and purple with rage, coming at him with his fists raised, mouth open and shouting. The audio of the reel seemed to have been turned off, though, as Harry could hear no words. Still, he could see the corded muscles in his uncle’s neck as the man’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“NO!” he screamed as fists slammed into him, pummeling him relentlessly. When his small body fell to the floor, his uncle had picked him up, and thrown him into the wall. Harry felt his head hit, hard, and moaned in pain. Then he was on the ground again and his uncle was kicking him, over and over and over, anywhere his steel-toed boot could reach—face, head, arms, legs, back. Harry felt blood drooling out of his mouth and dripping from his nose as everything faded to black, taking the desolate and dead feelings inside of him with it.

On the hospital bed, Harry wrapped his arms tightly around legs, curled into a ball as he was, and wept. He couldn’t help it. He buried his face in the mattress, vaguely aware that he wasn’t alone. He was vaguely aware of Healer Covey’s calming words, her magic soothing now as she healed him and worked him through the process.

Then a deep melodic voice broke into his thoughts then. Snape’s voice.

“How old are you?”

Unable to get words out without sobbing aloud, he pulled one arm away from himself and held up four fingers.

Then, the mist shifted and the blackness started to return. Harry tensed, expecting the worst. And he wasn’t disappointed. This time his body stretched out of its own accord, his limbs rigid, a panicked shout escaping his mouth. Uncle Vernon had him tied to a four poster bed. Harry’s ankles and wrists were raw as he fought against the restraints, watching in terror as Vernon heated metal kitchen utensils over an open flame.

“No,” Harry begged, “Please, no. PLEASE!”

Vernon’s grin was malicious as he held the red-hot instrument over Harry’s bare skin. Harry shrieked in fear as he tried to curl away from the impending torture. Sweat beaded his forehead, chest, and back, and ran down his sides. And then Vernon lowered the instrument, burning Harry’s skin.

Harry shrieked and writhed against the torture, tears leaking from his eyes. In the mist, he saw Aunt Petunia, standing in the doorway, her arms crossed, watching the proceedings. Uncle Vernon looked to her, nodding once, and then looked Harry directly in the eyes.

Although there was no sound, Harry could read the man’s lips: There’s no such thing as magic.

Then hot metal singed his skin again and screams tore from Harry’s throat as he thrashed helplessly at his bonds.

“LOOK AT ME.”

The hard edge of command in this new, deep voice drew Harry’s attention.

A man was now standing beside him. A black-clothed man with a long nose and a curtain of dark, greasy hair. An expression that was a cross between rage and disgust sat firmly on his features.

In this place of miserable memories, Snape put his hand on Harry’s forehead, and gazed into Harry’s pain-riddled eyes.

Instantly, the agony lessened as it was shoved to the back of Harry’s mind, a pinprick relegated to distance recesses as Harry continued to gaze into the almost completely back irises of Professor Snape.

The grotesque scene continued with his uncle trying to burn the magic out of him and his aunt observing in the background, but the pain no longer tortured him.

Harry’s breathing eased, his screams ceased, and he sunk back into the mattress in the infirmary, drifting uneasily into the restless sleep of shattered dreams.

“I will keep an eye on him,” Madam Pomfrey said. “You two get some rest. Between the dreamless sleep and the recovering his body needs to do, he will be out cold for at least the next 12 to 14 hours.

Snape nodded curtly and made to turn on his heal to leave when he glanced back at Covey. She looked exhausted, yes, but she also looked troubled, and so very young.

“Would you like to accompany me in a night-cap?” Snape found himself asking.

“Aye,” Covey said, “I would.”

Snape and Covey walked to his quarters in silence. He hadn’t stepped in to Occlude initially, preferring to let Potter handle it on his own if he could. But when the second memory surfaced and Potter couldn’t stop screaming, as if he was suffering the Cruciatius curse, Snape decided it was time.

What he saw had made his blood run cold. While he hadn’t known the man Petunia had married, he should have known better than to trust Petunia; he knew Lily’s sister was jealous and vindictive. Why he’d ever thought Harry’d been spoiled in that house now defied reason.

He felt sick and shaken by what they had done to the child. Snape knew the horrific images wouldn’t leave him anytime soon. No wonder Potter had suppressed them.

Finally, they reached Snape’s quarters. Covey looked dead on her feet. It surprised him to see her that drained, and he realized that she must have been hiding it in the infirmary.

“Come,” he instructed, taking her arm and leading her to his sitting room.

“Sit,” he instructed as he lowered her onto his leather sofa. He took the chair opposite, his own fatigue temporarily forgotten. Leaning forward, hands clasped between his knees, he inquired: “Are you alright?”

“Aye,” she said wearily. “Sometimes, healin’ takes a lot outta me. It isna usually like this, though. But he’s older than most I treat, aye? An’ he’s been through so much.”

“Indeed,” Snape murmured. He hesitated a moment before asking, “Could you see everything I saw?”

“Nay,” Covey said. “I donna get the images. Just the feelin’s. An’ the intensity o’ them. An’ when it is tied up with blocked memories, tis much harder on me, because when healin’ releases the memories, the intensity of the feelin’s that come with ‘em can be overpowerin’.”

“I apologize,” Snape murmured.

“Apologize?” Covey asked quizzically. “Fer what?”

“I should have done a better job protecting him,” Snape said, staring at the floor.

“Ah Sevvie, ye canna blame yerself. Ye couldna known.”

Snape met Covey’s eyes and, in a hard voice, forced out the words: “Trust me when I say that I made things worse for the boy.”

Covey looked startled at his outburst.

Good, Snape thought. She shouldn’t delude herself into thinking he was some sort of saint. Far from it. He got to his feet and turned away.

Anger and impotence coursed through him at his own failings. Why hadn’t he seen the boy’s suffering? But he knew why. He’d been too busy reliving his school years through Potter, punishing the boy for the sins of the father. He’d been blinded by his own prejudices.

“Sevvie,” Covey cooed, sympathy coloring her voice as she put a hand on his arm.

Snape shook her off. He didn’t deserve her comfort. “Leave it,” he said roughly.

Straightening his shoulders, he muttered, “You must be starving. Let me floo the house-elves for dinner. In the meantime, what can I get you to drink?”

Covey wavered for a moment but then assented to the change in subject. Seating herself back on the couch, she said, “Red wine would be lovely, aye? Or bourbon. Either one.”

“Bourbon it is,” Snape said. “I will be back in a moment.”

Snape went to his small kitchen to pour two generous glasses of the fortifying liquor, then summoned a house elf to request dinner for two in his quarters. When he returned to the sitting room, Covey was yawning widely.

“How did you become a healer?” Snape asked Covey as they sat sipping wine and waiting for the house-elves to bring their dinner.

“I was pants at everythin’ else,” she said, the twinkle back in her eye.

“I highly doubt that,” Snape retorted.

Her smile was mischievous when she responded. “My grand-da was a healer. He was a great wizard. I like ta think a wee bit o’ his skill rubbed off on me. An’ ye? Why did ye become a potion’s master?”

Snape relaxed back into his chair, enjoying the drink and the company. “It was what I was best at.”

“An’ how did ye decide ta teach at Hogwarts?”

Here Snape hesitated. On one hand, she already knew about his dark mark. On the other, there was no sense rubbing her nose in it. Instead, he answered, “Albus needed a teacher and I was in a position to offer my services.”

“Do ye like it, then?”

Snape scowled and Covey laughed.

“I prefer the older students,” Snape replied. “The ones who can think for themselves and don’t need constant babysitting.”

“Aye,” Covey said with a smile. “I ken that.”

A spread of food arrived and they sat in silence while they filled their plates and their stomachs. More small talk ensued until Snape noticed that Covey was barely able to keep her eyes open.

“Pardon me for saying so,” Snape said, “but you don’t look in any fit shape to Apparate back home this evening.”

Covey glanced up at him, bleary-eyed and young-looking.

“You are welcome to stay in my quarters if you like. You can have my bed and I can sleep on the couch. Or, if you prefer, I could sleep in the hospital wing.”

“Sevvie,” she murmured, settling back into the couch and lounging against its padded arm. “I thank ye, but it really isna necessary.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not usually so drained,” she commented. “I’ve been plannin’ ta connect my flat ta the floo network fer some time,” she uttered, stretching languidly and tucking her feet up underneath her, “but I’ve been so busy.”

“Covey,” he said, “if you prefer not to stay here, I could escort you to an inn in Hogsmeade.”

“Nay, tis fine. Would ye mind if I just kipp’d on yer sofa fer a few winks?”

“Not at all, but the bed is much more comfortable,” Snape replied.

“Tis fine here,” she said, sliding down until she was lying across his sofa.

Severus nearly moaned at the sight of her lounging in his study, arousing parts of him he hadn’t thought about in quite some time. Ignoring the sudden tautness of his trousers, and glad he was still wearing his robes, he said, “Let me get you a blanket.”

By the time he returned with a warm blanket and pillow, she was already asleep. Firelight played off her blue-tipped spiked blonde hair, making it look like it was waving in a gentle breeze.

She lay on her side, her hands folded under her pale, smooth cheek, her lips pursed as if in concentration. She looked young and whole, and entirely too beautiful for the likes of him.

Taking a deep breath, he spread the blanket atop her and placed a warming charm on it. Then he gently slid a hand under her head to lift it so he could slide a pillow beneath. He felt a momentary impulse to kiss her forehead, but refrained, instead trailing his fingers softly from brow to chin.

“Sleep well,” he breathed, before forcing himself to head to his own bed chambers. He wondered if she’d still be there come morning, doubting that she would be.

Harry gasped awake, looking around with a start. Instantly, Madam Pomfrey was by his side.

“You are looking a bit peaky, dear,” she said, holding out a potion. “Nutrient potion. You missed breakfast.”

Harry reached for his glasses, which lay on a side table. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost noon, dear.”

He looked at the medi-witch questioningly. She was usually brusque and to the point. She had little time for endearments and less time for coddling. Why was she being so nice to him?

“Can I go to lunch, then?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not,” she said, pursing her lips. “I need to get a few more potions in you, and Professor Snape wants to see you before you are released.”

“Snape?” Harry asked. “How come?”

Instead of answering his question, she said, “I will let him know you are awake.” She fussed with his sheets before adding, “Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley have stopped by several times to see you. I told them you were resting and were not to be disturbed.” Then, she bustled back off toward her office.

Harry wondered what Snape wanted. But, more importantly, he wondered what he should tell his friends. He’d so far evaded their questions with half-truths and redirection, but he had a sneaking suspicion that they weren’t at all fooled and were just waiting for him to fess up.

But how do you tell your best friends that your relatives had beat you unconscious and burned you for doing magic? How did you tell them that the people who were supposed to keep you safe had tried to their hardest to break you?

And maybe they had, Harry thought wryly, considering he had blocked out most of the memories from his childhood. Lost in thought, Harry didn’t hear the approaching footsteps.

“Why the frown, Mr. Potter?”

Harry jumped. “Sorry, Professor,” Harry said. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

Snape nodded curtly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine, sir.” Harry said, noting Snape’s skeptical expression at his response.

“Any residual pain?” Snape asked in his deep voice.

“No, not at the moment.”

“Very well,” Snape said and then handed over a potion.

Recognizing the color and consistency, Harry guessed, “Mind strengthening potion?”

“Yes,” Snape said.

Harry unstoppered the vial and drank. The potion tasted like grass and bitter lemon.

Snape pulled a chair over with his foot and sat down. He rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers.

Harry felt like he was being examined like some odd potion ingredient.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Potter.”

Harry barely kept his mouth from falling open in shock.

“I realize now that I have been quite unfair to you, stemming from my obviously incorrect assumptions regarding your upbringing.”

Harry surreptitiously pinched his thigh, wondering if this was a dream. Not only had Snape apologized, he had also addressed him with a modicum of respect. Snape seemed to be waiting for a response, so Harry mumbled honestly, “I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“You needn’t say anything at this time,” Snape said, still gazing at Harry.

Harry squirmed, feeling uncomfortable. This was not the Snape he knew, and he didn’t know what to do with this new seemingly repentant side of the usually cruel wizard.

“The next thing I wanted to discuss,” Snape intoned, “was yesterday’s healing session.”

Harry tensed, his defenses rocketing into place. He did not want to talk about his memories, least of all with Snape!

“I presume the images I saw in your mind were memories?”

“Yes,” Harry gritted out, daring the professor to challenge him or ask him what he’d done to deserve his relative’s harsh treatment of him.

“Have you told your friends what happened to you?” Snape inquired. “Mr. Weasley or Ms. Granger, for instance?”

“No.”

“Any reason?” Snape inquired.

“I… they… I just…” Heat rushed into Harry’s face. He hung his head, feeling suddenly ashamed.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, remaining silent until Harry met his gaze, “it is our collective and professional opinion that it would be in your best interest to speak with someone about what happened to you. Your healing sessions have just begun. If yesterday was any indication, you are going to need assistance dealing with the memories as they surface.”

Harry shook his head, as much in confusion as in denial.

“People don’t block out memories for no reason. Clearly you did what you had to do to survive. Now those memories are being forced into the open, whether or not you are ready to deal with them. It is only logical that you have someone that you can speak to about this.”

Harry felt his gut twist. He didn’t want anyone to know what had happened to him. He couldn’t even tell Ron and Hermione. “Who?” Harry forced out in a whisper.

“Healer Cook suggested a Muggle talk therapist,” Snape informed him.

“A Muggle?” Harry asked, surprised.

“She thought it would be easier for you to speak with someone who did not know you. Someone who had not heard of your name and wouldn’t have any preconceived notions about you.”

Harry gaped. Who was this wizard sitting before him? Normally Snape would have taunted him about wanting to wallow in his fame, see his name in the newspaper. Did Snape really understand how much he hated being famous for something he couldn’t even remember? And something so odious as well?

Snape cleared his throat before continuing. “Healer Cook said that she would find you a Muggle therapist who specializes in child abuse if you were amenable to the idea.”

Ah, Harry thought, nodding. Healer Covey had come up with the idea. That made more sense.

Snape took his nod for assent and said, “Very well, I shall inform her of your decision.”

Harry thought to correct Snape, but stopped himself. As much as he didn’t want to tell anyone, telling a Muggle who knew nothing of his past would be easier than telling his friends. And considering how often he had nightmares about Voldemort and his parents dying, he imaged these uncovered memories were likely to haunt him equally, if not more, in the coming weeks.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape added, “the headmaster asks that I relay a message. He begs that you do not block your friends out, for as hard as it may be to confide in them, he feels confident that they will stick by your side and be your best allies in working through this.”

“He asked you to tell me that?” Harry queried.

“He did,” Snape responded. “Also, if you find yourself unable to keep up with your schoolwork, or are in need of any other kind of assistance, you may seek any of us out: myself, the headmaster, or Madam Pomfrey. We will do all in our power to see you through this, as we would any child who has suffered through what you have.”

Harry felt, once again, that he’d fallen into an alternate reality. Snape, the king cobra of the dungeons, was offering to help famous Harry Potter? He shook his head, stunned.

“The offer stands, Mr. Potter, should you need it.”

Harry looked up, surprised by the sincerity… and was it regret?… in the potion’s master’s eyes. “Thank you, sir,” he breathed.

Snape nodded. “You may return to your dorm now.”

Relieved, Harry flipped his legs off the bed and bent to put on his shoes.

“Oh, and Mr. Potter?”

Harry glanced up.

“Do remember what the headmaster said about your friends.”

Stymied, Harry was about to reply with ‘I will’, when, as Snape opened the door of the private room, his two friends burst in, concerned and defiant expressions on their faces.

“Harry!” Hermione screeched. “Are you alright? We’ve been so worried.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said. “McGonagall wouldn’t tell us anything.”

Harry glanced at the door and met Snape’s gaze. It wasn’t soft or patronizing, and the man wasn’t rolling his eyes at the teenage drama. Instead his glance was calculating, measuring, assessing.

Somewhat reassured that Snape hadn’t been given a potion to change his personality altogether, Harry returned his attention to his friends, vowing to tell them just a tiny bit of the truth. They’d always been there for him before. Why should this be any different?

Harry took a deep breath and leaned against the infirmary bed, feet still on the floor. Madam Pomfrey came out of her office just as Snape was leaving. Snape indicated Harry with the direction of his gaze and then gave Pomfrey a curt nod. Harry assumed that meant that Snape had given Madam Pomfrey the okay to release Harry.

Thus, when Madam Pomfrey came over, Harry assumed it would be to kick him, Ron, and Hermione out. Instead, and much to everyone’s surprise, she said, “Mr. Potter, I will be in my office, should you need me. You three take as much time as you need.”

The trio glanced at each other. Hermione spoke first. “Harry, what’s going on?”

“And why was Snape here?” Ron asked indignantly.

It was Ron’s Snape-bashing that brought things back to normal. Harry gave a half-smile, feeling very thankful for his friends.

“Snape,” he said, “and Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore and a Healer named Coventry Cook are all helping me.”

Hermione looked concerned, Ron, just confused.

“Helping you what, mate?” Ron asked.

“Heal,” Harry said in a single word. And for the first time, he realized just how true that was. “Along with you two.”

“Us two?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said, stretching.

“Heal from what?” Hermione asked tentatively.

“The Dursleys.” Harry paused and steeled his courage. “There’s a lot more to it than you know.”

“More than them starving you?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’m so sorry. I always wondered…”

Harry shook his head. He wanted to tell them it wasn’t as bad as they thought, or that it wasn’t really a big deal, but he couldn’t. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“I don’t remember most of it,” he admitted. “I blocked out most of the memories.”

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, but Hermione gasped. “Oh, Harry,” she repeated.

“What does that mean? Blocked them out?” Ron repeated.

“It means,” Hermione said, ever the book-smart one, “Harry sort of boxed up his memories and stored them high up on a shelf in his mind. They are still there, but he can‘t remember them consciously.”

“Why would he do that?” Ron wanted to know. Harry was content to let Hermione explain so he wouldn’t have to.

“To stay sane,” Hermione said. “Sometimes, it’s too hard to remember everything, especially really bad things. So, in order to keep living, you have to box them up and hide them away.” Hermione looked to Harry, her eyes glistening with unshed tears for Harry’s suffering. “Am I right?” she asked in a whisper.

Harry nodded. Ron cracked his knuckles menacingly.

Hermione put her hand over Harry’s and squeezed gently. “You can tell us anything, Harry.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron agreed, “You wouldn’t mind if I went and cursed the Dursleys to Hades, though, would you?”

Harry laughed softly.

It was a cold, rainy day; one that Snape didn’t mind spending in front of his fireplace with a good book. He’d finished grading student essays first thing that morning so he could spend his afternoon relaxing before Potter’s next healing session. He stretched languidly, contemplating a particularly convoluted argument the author had made, when a voice interrupted him.

“Sevvie, are ye there? I need ta talk ta ye…”

The face speaking out of the fireplace was welcome, albeit surprising. On second glance, he leapt to his feet and knelt before the fire.

“Covey? What is it? What’s wrong?” Snape asked, observing the fresh tears tracks lining Covey’s ashen face.

“I canna do Harry’s healin’ today,” Covey said around a sob. “Somethin’s happen’d and I canna do it. I’m sorry.”

Severus frowned. Covey looked caught between anguish and panic. Preferring to have this conversation in person, he said: “Can you come through?” When she hesitated, he added, “Covey, please, step through.”

Covey’s head disappeared, and then her slender body stepped out of his fireplace. She stood forlorn before him, head bowed, arms wrapped around herself, tears streaking her face.

Snape lifted her chin with his hand. “What happened?”

“Glenny,” she uttered. “He was a little waif I was workin’ with. Such a wee little bairn.”

Snape watched her expressive face, willing her to continue.

“He was just 4 years old,” Covey said around a sob.

Gently, Snape asked, “What happened to him?”

Covey dashed tears from her cheek. “His da killed him. We were supposed ta be keepin’ him safe, but we failed.”

Snape took Covey into his arms and let her weep against his shoulder, her words echoing in his mind: We were supposed to be keeping him safe, but we failed. It could have been Potter who had died, and he would have been the one who’d failed. That thought twisted in his gut as he consoled the witch in his arms.

“Shhhh…” he murmured as he rubbed Covey’s back. If he’d have imagined this beforehand, he would have thought this scenario would be awkward at best. But it wasn’t. It suddenly seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be here comforting her. In fact, he was amazed at how right she felt in his arms.

“I am sure you did the best you could,” Snape whispered against her hair. “Sometimes things happen that are beyond our control,” he continued. He felt her soften some against him as he continued babbling a litany of inanities he hoped she might find consoling.

“I tried ta help him,” she said in a defeated voice.

“You did help him,” Snape assured her. He knew that if she was involved in the child’s life, that she surely had been a great help to him. He lifted her chin gently and wiped a tear from her cheek. “You are an amazing healer. I’ve seen your work.”

He gazed into her shimmering eyes, his own brimming with emotion. Without really thinking, he placed soft lips to hers. “You are amazing,” he whispered against them.

She made an anguished sound and then suddenly they were kissing. Their lips and tongues came together in a way that was as unexpected as it was welcome.

Snape hadn’t seen it coming, but like everything else when it came to this witch, it was enchanting and beguiling. He gripped her to him tighter, and fought the urge to deepen the kiss, to take all that she was offering and so much more. Merlin knew, he wanted her.

But he wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t regret this later, when she came to her senses and realized that he just happened to be the most convenient outlet for her despair, the most available distraction at the moment. And so he steered their enthralling kiss to a close and pressed her to his chest, unable to look into her eyes for fear of what he might see there.

“Sevvie,” she breathed as she melted into him. “I…”

“Shhh….” he said, hushing her. He pulled back to place a chaste kiss on her lips, the tip of her nose, the space between her eyes, her forehead, and then held her to him once more, not wanting the moment to end.

“Harry!” Colin Creevey called, his voice full of excitement. “Harry, I have a message for you from Professor Snape.”

Harry took the proffered parchment and smiled knowingly as Colin shuttered when speaking Snape’s name. Once Colin had left, Harry unfurled the scroll, Ron and Hermione looking over his shoulder to read along with him.

“I wonder why your healing session for today has been cancelled,” Hermione remarked.

“Wonder why Snape wants to see you in his office,” Ron commented darkly.

“Dunno,” Harry replied, but he was secretly relieved. While he understood he needed healing, the newfound memories were starting to wear on him in a way he didn’t think he’d be able to hide much longer.

The flashbacks were getting worse, the nightmares had turned into night terrors, and his ability to concentrate on school work was at an all-time low. “But he wants to see me in 20 minutes. Hopefully it won’t take long.” Getting up from his seat, he said, “I’ll see you guys at dinner.”

“Do you want us to go with you?” Hermione asked.

“Nah,” Harry said instantly, before he’d even seriously considered the offer. He knew he could talk to his friends about anything, knew they’d listen. But did he really want to burden his friends with this? Weren’t their lives hard enough just being friends with the boy-who-lived? The boy-who-Voldemort-wanted-to-kill? Which also meant that just being friends with him put them in danger.

And the memories were so horrific that just the thought of them made him want to vomit. The gut-level shame, the helplessness. He wanted to push the memories back into the box they’d slipped out of. And the thought of who knew how many more sessions of healing—sessions that led to as much pain as they relieved—was beyond daunting.

Finally arriving at Snape’s office, he knocked on the door.

“Enter,” Snape’s familiar voice called.

Harry came to stand before Snape’s desk. “Sir,” he said, “you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, have a seat.”

Harry did as instructed and waited for Snape to explain why he’d requested to see him.

“Healer Cook had a personal situation arise that has made her unable to assist you today,” Snape reported.

“Is she okay?” Harry asked.

“She is,” Snape said. “She will be able to work with you next weekend as planned. For now, though, I wanted to ask you how you are managing the return of your memories.”

Harry shifted under Snape’s scrutiny. He didn’t feel like admitting to the man just how much he was struggling.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, leaning forward, “It would be ludicrous to expect that you would not be experiencing some degree of difficulty with all that has happened. It is not a question of IF you are struggling, but rather to what degree you are struggling.”

Harry looked away, unable to meet Snape’s gaze any longer. “I am having trouble sleeping,” Harry said quietly.

“Nightmares, I expect?” Snape inquired.

Harry nodded.

“What else?”

Harry sighed. He’d known Snape wouldn’t let him off the hook that easy. “I flinch all the time now,” Harry admitted. “I don’t mean to,” he quickly added, “it just happens.”

“That is due to body memories. The good news is, as your mind integrates the memories, that automatic reaction, or reflex you might say, will diminish and disappear.”

Harry was relieved to hear it, but he wished he could speed up the process. It was awkward to explain and he wasn’t sure how much longer his ‘lack of sleep’ excuse was going to work.

“What else?” Snape pried.

“I am having a hard time concentrating on my studies, sir.” Harry waited for the nasty comeback that he knew Snape would have, something about his mediocre talent, or undisciplined mind, but none was forthcoming.

Instead, Snape responded, “That, too, is to be expected”

Harry looked up, surprised, but Snape just raised an eyebrow and before continuing.

“If you need additional time to finish your coursework, I am sure your instructors will accommodate you, myself included. That said, though, you don’t want to fall too far behind or that, in and of itself, will become a further stressor on you.”

Harry nodded; he understood that all too well.

“What else?” Snape repeated.

Harry stared at his feet. “Flashbacks,” he mumbled. When Snape didn’t respond, Harry looked up to find the potions master staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. Swallowing, Harry admitted, “They are the worst. They come without warning. After they are over,” Harry shuddered, “it’s like I just relived that horrible event, whatever it was.” More to himself than to Snape, he added, “I’m surprised I don’t wake up covered in blood.”

At this, he saw Snape frown before running a hand through his hair. “Flashbacks are not pleasant,” he conceded. “Anything else?”

Harry shook his head.

“What about panic attacks?” Snape asked.

“Sir?”

“Episodes where you feel like you can’t breathe, your heart is racing, you feel like something terrible is about to happen.”

“I didn’t know they had a name,” Harry said, feeling unaccountable embarrassed.

“Indeed they do,” Snape replied. “Have you felt the urge to self-harm?”

Harry was taken aback at the thought. “No sir,” he said.

“Any thoughts of suicide?”

“No.”

“They may come,” Snape said. “And if they do, you are to come to one of us for help immediately. It is not uncommon for someone in your situation to become overwhelmed and consider such a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

Harry grimaced. With his lack of sleep, inability to concentrate, and the constant images of what he’d suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, he could see how one could get to that point.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape called, and suddenly Harry realized it was not the first time that Snape had addressed him in an effort to get this attention.

“Sorry sir,” Harry said.

Snape nodded without comment. “If thoughts of suicide or self-harm come to you, I have your word that you will let a staff member know immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Your word, Potter.”

“Yes,” Harry said, “you have my word.”

“Very well,” Snape said, shuffling some papers into neat stacks on his desk. “On to some other housekeeping issues, then. First, I have a few potions you may take as needed. The first is a dreamless sleep potion, the second a mind-strengthening potion, the third is a potion to help you focus, and the fourth is a calming draught. None of these can be used long term, but they can help you get through the more traumatic periods. As they can be addictive if used excessively, I encourage you to use them sparingly as I will not give them to you freely.”

Harry felt the intensity behind Snape’s stare and nodded in understanding.

“Use them with great care and only when most needed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Second, Healer Covey and I have located a source of Muggle therapy for you. We have found a married couple that does therapy together for individuals in your situation. They prefer the model of counseling together as they can then provide male and female input, as well as stand as positive male and female role models for the children who lack them.”

“Sir,” Harry interrupted. “I understand why a Muggle therapist was suggested, but I’m not sure it’s that simple.”

“How so?” Snape inquired.

“Well, the reason the Dursleys… did what they did… was because they didn’t want me to have magic. And I can’t explain that to Muggles. Plus, there’s that whole thing with Volde--” Harry stopped mid-word at the look Snape gave him. “with a mad man hunting me down to kill me, and telling a Muggle that would make me seem paranoid and crazy. I think. Sir.”

Harry watched as Snape seemed to consider this.

“Those are valid concerns,” Snape conceded. “However, I think with the Muggle therapists, if you focus solely on the abuse, and dealing with the memories that have been recovered, you will have plenty to talk about. Muggle and wizarding children alike are abused, and the reason for that abuse has to do with the abusers, NOT the children. Hence, I don’t think the reason really matters, unless, of course, you blame yourself for the abuse, and that, again, is something that the Muggle therapists can help you with.”

“And he-who-must-not-be-named?” Harry asked.

“If you would like to speak with someone about that situation,” Snape replied, “I am sure that can be arranged with a competent professional in the Wizarding world. Do you wish to pursue that as well at this time?”

“No,” Harry replied promptly. “I think I have enough to deal with at the moment.”

“I agree,” Snape said. “As your healing sessions are generally on Saturday afternoons, we feel it best for you to visit with your Muggle counselors on Sundays. Does this sound reasonable to you?”

Harry didn’t like it, but then again, he didn’t like any of it. He didn’t like the emotions and memories the healing brought up, he didn’t like that he’d been abused all his life, that his parents had died, that Voldemort and tried to kill him and was after him still now.

“What is on your mind, Mr. Potter?”

Harry jumped. “I was just…”

When he didn’t finish his statement, Snape said, “Spit it out.”

“My life is not my own,” Harry said, “and I don’t know if it ever will be.”

Snape sighed. “That, unfortunately, is something we have in common.”

Harry looked up, startled. Had Snape just said they had something in common? And something so personal?

“Do you have any more questions?” Snape asked.

“No,” Harry answered.

“Very well,” Snape said. “Come to my office tomorrow at 3pm and I will escort you to your first therapy session.”

Severus walked back into his private quarters to find Covey curled up on his couch, wrapped in a blanket, cradling a cup of tea, Earl Grey perched contently on her hip. Severus smiled at the sight of her. Simply put, she fit: In his quarters, in his life.

“How’d it go?” Covey asked, looking up at Severus.

“Fine.”

“Is he doin’ alright, then?” she asked.

Severus quashed the urge to shrug. “Mr. Potter is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

Covey frowned. “He agreed ta see the Muggle therapist t’morrow, aye?”

“Yes.” Snape cleared his throat, and needlessly rearranged some of the knick-knacks on his mantelpiece. “I thought, perhaps, we might both escort him there, if you’re free tomorrow?”

He glanced up at her in time to see her smile. “O’ course,” she said, scooting to the middle of the couch and patting the place next to her. Earl Grey yowled at being displaced and stalked off toward the kitchen.

Severus sat where she indicated, between her and the arm of the sofa, wedged in and perfectly content. Promptly, she scooted next to him, leaning her body against his, side to side, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. As he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer, he reflected that he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

“This is nice,” she murmured into his chest.

“Aye,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He let the heat of her body against his, and the warmth of the fireplace, wash over him. Her scent filled his keen nostrils; she smelled of spring rain and daffodils.

“Sevvie?”

“Hmm?” he inquired, lifting his head to meet her gaze. Swollen eyes and all, she was exquisite, like an exotic bird who’d flown in out of nowhere and slipped gracefully into his life.

“Kiss me?”

He felt his insides melt as he leaned forward and took her lips in a tender kiss. The angle was awkward, and soon she’d scooted into his lap, her bum planted firmly on his crotch. He fought the instinct to groan aloud as she wiggled herself into a more comfortable position, awakening him in ways he’d rather not advertise.

With her sitting the way she was, though, it was unavoidable that she’d notice. And with the way she was kissing him back, running her fingers across his face and through his hair, that awakening was an inevitability.

He kissed her ardently, hands gliding across her back, pulling her even closer as the kiss deepened. When she finally paused long enough to catch her breath, she leaned her forehead against his, eyes wide and guileless, and he felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe this was real after all. Thoroughly encouraged by that thought, he fit his lips to hers once more.

Harry was going to be late for Potions. Snape was going to flay him alive. Snape might have been cordial to him outside of potions, but in class, nothing had changed. He rushed to the classroom, biting his lip, not quite sure what had just happened.

He’d taken a quick detour between classes to use the restroom. He was washing his hands in front of the mirror, when his vision wavered and the scene in front of him—the mirror reflecting himself, the stone floor, the walls, and the bathroom stalls—vanished.

It was replaced by the constricting walls of number 4 Privet Drive. He was outside his cupboard under the stairs, and his vision was dimming as he fought to breathe against the thick, beefy fingers curled tight around his throat. He felt a wall at his back as his small legs pedaled uselessly in the air, his small fingers clawing at those around his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Like an old TV set, his vision went grey static, then solid black.

The next thing he knew, he was panting and heaving on the cold stone bathroom floor of Hogwarts. He massaged his neck, trying to catch his breath. No hands were there, but try as he might, there just wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. He was shaking and trembling. He scrabbled in his bag for the calming draught, but just as he pulled it out, it fell from his unsteady hand, shattering on the stone floor.

“Bugger!” he cursed. Out of frustration and helplessness, he slammed the stone with his fist, a sob escaping him.

The pain had been so real. He didn’t have any more than this tidbit of memory; just this piece, but it kept coming to him, over and over, like some obscene punishment for being alive to remember it.

When he’d finally peeled himself off the stone floor, trembling and sweaty and still struggling to breathe, he considered skipping potions class altogether. Maybe he should go to the hospital wing. But then he’d have to explain what had happened to Madam Pomfrey, and he didn’t want to do that either.

Steeling his shoulders, he made his way to the potions classroom, dread coursing through his veins. He was 20 minutes late. He didn’t want to deal with Snape’s outrage and disdain on top of everything else. He wasn’t sleeping for the nightmares, he couldn’t stay present during the day, and he had lost control of nearly everything in his life. Or at least it felt that way. Bracing himself, he entered the classroom and stood by his seat, awaiting Snape’s wrath, not even bothering to sit down.

The Potions Master didn’t disappoint. “Well if it isn’t our local celebrity, deigning to join us at last.”

Harry braced himself against the man’s derision. It was nothing. It meant nothing. He’d suffered worse.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention tonight.”

Harry held himself rigid, refusing to meet Hermione’s or Ron’s worried looks.

“In my office NOW, Potter, where you will explain to me why you thought it acceptable to enter my classroom a quarter of the way into class.”

Harry’s was about to set down his shoulder bag when Snape called, “Bring your things.”

Harry trudged to the front of the room, to the classroom entrance to Snape’s office. He was barely holding himself together. He wanted to rally against the injustice of it all. And he wanted to collapse in a pile of exhaustion.

Snape shut the door and leaned against his desk. “Explain yourself.”

Harry stood, looking at his feet, willing the asinine tears back. When had he lost control of everything so badly?

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, more gently. “What happened?”

At the change in tone, Harry looked up. Instead of finding rage and impatience on the man’s face, he found, not understanding, but sincerity and curiosity. The lack of anger there prompted him to speak.

“I passed out, I think.”

“You what?” Snape asked, straightening up alarmingly.

“I was in the bathroom, and then I wasn’t.” Harry felt his breathing become labored once again and his pulse spike. “I was at the Dursley’s. I was little. My body was little, I mean.” He swallowed against the rising panic. “And Uncle Vernon was choking me. He had me up against a wall, off my feet, and I couldn’t breathe, and my vision went all fuzzy and…” He couldn’t go on. He hadn’t even meant to say as much as he had, but it just sort of spilled out.

Harry jerked violently when two hands settled on his shoulders.

“Breathe, child,” Snape’s voice was gentle, soothing, as he squeezed Harry’s shoulders.

“I can’t,” Harry gasped, feeling once again like a fish out of water. His hands had formed into fists as he fought against the sensation of choking once again.

The hands on his shoulders disappeared. Words echoed in the distance, Snape’s words Harry guessed, but he couldn’t decipher them. His vision was blurring and he began clutching at his throat, scratching at it, as the panic overwhelmed him.

Suddenly there was a glass vial at his lips and a hand behind his head, supporting him. “Drink this,” barely made it to his brain as the fluid touched his tongue and he reflexively swallowed.

After another few panicked moments, he felt his body start to relax and his breathing ease.

“Sit,” a voice was saying, a hand on his shoulder pushing him down into a chair. The hand didn’t leave his shoulder though; it stayed there, rubbing small soothing circles.

“What happened to the calming draught I gave you?” Snape asked.

“Dropped it,” Harry breathed, “Shattered.”

He heard Snape mumble something about “silly child” and “unbreakable charms”, and then Snape said: “Name one place you find peaceful or relaxing.”

“The lake,” Harry choked out.

“Here at Hogwarts?”

Harry nodded, suddenly realizing that his face was wet with tears. He wanted to bury his head in shame.

“Imagine yourself there,” Snape’s melodic voice was saying. “You are sitting by the lake, beneath the large Beech tree on the shore.”

Harry forced himself to focus on Snape’s words.

“It is a glorious, sunny day. The air is warm, and a soft breeze is blowing in from the West, making small waves grace the surface of the water.”

The hand rubbing circles on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck. “That’s it, Potter,” Snape murmured as Harry relaxed.

“See the birds over the lake, swooping in and soaring over the water, their wings extended, flying free on the air currents.”

Harry took a deep breath, finding it a little easier to stay present now.

“Imagine that you are that bird; untethered, not a care in the world, soaring over the landscape, feeling the wind under your wings. You can go anywhere you want, fly away, take a break from it all.”

Harry felt the sudden urge to hold the hand that massaged his neck, to hold in it gratitude, to hold onto it for dear life. He resisted the urge.

He heard a chair scrape and opened his eyes briefly to find Snape sitting before him. Snape pulled back his hand, and again Harry fought the urge to grab it.

“You can be that bird whenever you need to be, Mr. Potter. You can fly above yourself, take a break from it all. Get your bearings before you land again.”

Clutching his hands together, Harry nodded, fighting back tears. Shame and embarrassment flooded him. He was not a baby. He gritted his teeth in frustration and longed to lash out at something, hit something, in his desperation and helplessness.

“Why is this happening?” he breathed in frustration. He closed his eyes, knowing it was a stupid and obvious question and waiting for Snape’s snide remark. When it didn’t come, he looked up to meet the Potion Master’s gaze.

“We’ve stirred up a lot of memories, Mr. Potter. I imagine this will keep happening for quite some time.”

Harry wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. Instead, he hung his head. “I think the Muggle therapy is making it worse,” he uttered.

“Why is that?” Snape asked.

“It just brings up more bad memories,” Harry said.

“I imagine it does,” Snape replied. “But, in this case, I think things might have to get worse before they get better.”

Harry snorted. Wasn’t that the story of his whole life?

“Have you told Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger about these episodes?”

Harry shook his head. So far, he’d managed to hide this latest embarrassment from them.

“Perhaps you should,” Snape was saying.

But Harry had tuned him out. He just couldn’t make them worry about him even more. Realizing Snape had stopped talking, he glanced up.

“I need to be getting back to class,” Snape said, “before the students blow themselves up.”

The look of consternation on Snape’s face brought a small smile to Harry’s face. “What should I do now, sir?”

Harry waited as Snape studied him. Then Snape transfigured one of the chairs in his office into a bed that looked remarkable like the ones in the hospital wing.

“Rest here, Potter. I will lock the doors. I will wake you after class is over so you can make it to your next class.”

“Sir?” Harry asked in astonishment.

“On one condition.”

Harry felt his stomach drop.

“You tell your friends what is going on so that they can help you.”

Dejectedly, Harry nodded.

“Tonight, for your detention,” Snape continued, “you will come to my office at 6 pm to complete today’s potion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Mr. Potter?” Snape waited until Harry looked up before he added, “Fifty points to Gryffindor for you showing up to class after what happened and for telling me the truth.”

Harry felt his eyes grow wide.

“If this happens again before my class, come straight to my office and wait here. I will leave the outside hall door to my office unlocked and I will ward this room to your signature so that I am notified when you arrive. That way, I won’t have to humiliate you in front of the class.”

Hermione felt sick to her stomach. Harry had looked dreadful when he’d arrived to class. He was as pale as a sheet, his clothes and hair disheveled. He’d been sweaty and shaky too. Hermione exchanged a meaningful look with Ron. What had happened to Harry before class? And what was going on now?

Hermione tried to ignore the rude comments and snickers of the Slytherins who always enjoyed it when Harry got on Snape’s bad side.

“Fifty points!” Malfoy was saying gleefully.

Hermione saw Ron flex his fists in her periphery vision. “Ignore him,” she said, trying, but failing, to focus on her potion.

“Git,” Ron uttered.

Hermione picked up the powdered horn of bicorn and added two scoops before realizing she was only supposed to add one. She cursed, causing Ron to look up at her in surprise.

“You must be worried if you are screwing up your potion,” Ron observed grimly.

“It’s been over 15 minutes,” Hermione whispered.

“If Snape’s not back in the next 5 minutes, I’m going in after him,” Ron announced.

Hermione bit her lip. Harry hadn’t been himself since this whole healing thing started and they both knew it. Just then, the door from Snape’s office to the potion’s classroom opened, and Snape strode in.

“Back to work,” Snape commanded.

Hermione desperately wanted to ask if Harry was okay, but she didn’t dare do so in front of the whole class. She glanced at Ron who was glaring daggers at Snape. Snape, however, was ignoring them both.

“You have 30 minutes to finish your potions. I suggest you make the best use of your time.”

“Think he’ll tell us what happened?” Hermione whispered to Ron.

“Doubt it,” Ron said, “but I plan to stay after and demand he does.”

“Good idea,” Hermione whispered as she turned down the flame on her cauldron and added an antidote to the powdered bicorn horn.

The class seemed to drag on until the end, but finally, the students bottled up their potions and cleared out. Hermione’s wasn’t perfect, but Ron’s was a disaster.

Slower than the rest of the class, they cleared away their things, taking their time packing up their bags until they were the only ones left in the room, aside from the potion’s master.

When Snape finally glanced in their direction, Ron demanded, “Where’s Harry?”

“Sir,” Hermione said, hoping to diffuse some of Ron’s anger and suspicion, “Surely you noticed that Harry did not look well at all when he arrived…”

“And why should Potter’s whereabouts concern you?” Snape queried in a dismissive tone.

“We’re his friends!” Ron shouted.

“He needs us!” Hermione echoed.

Hermione and Ron quelled as Snape raised his hand to ward off their outburst. They stood firm under his assessing gaze, Hermione hopeful, Ron agitated.

“Fine,” Snape relented. “Come with me.”

Hermione looked to Ron in shock. Snape was actually going to tell them something? Ron shrugged as the two of them followed Snape to his office.

Harry awoke to the sound of knocking on the door, followed by the door opening and Snape’s voice.

“Mr. Potter,” he called, “your friends are demanding to see you to assure themselves that I have not turned you into potion ingredients in their absence.”

Harry smiled, pushing himself into a sitting position.

Beyond Snape, Harry saw Ron and Hermione’s worried faces.

“Harry,” Hermione cried, rushing to him and hugging him awkwardly. Pulling back, she asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, stretching. “I just had a quick nap.”

“A nap?” Hermione asked, clearly confused.

“In Snape’s office?” Ron asked, looking gobsmacked.

Harry glanced over at Snape, who nodded, before stepping out of the office, and closing the door, effectively shutting him in with Ron and Hermione. Harry glanced back at his two best friends who were watching him expectantly.

“I just… I was tired, that’s all,” Harry said. “How much time until our next class?” Harry asked, hoping for an excuse to get out of this.

“Ten minutes,” Hermione answered absently. “What happened?”

Harry was debating how much he should tell them when a loud pop heralded the appearance of a roll of parchment. He and Hermione bent to pick it up at the same time.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You read it.”

Hermione unrolled the parchment and read aloud:

Prof. Binns,

Please excuse Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Ms. Granger for their tardiness. A situation arose that required their extended presence in my office.

S. Snape

“Harry, what’s going on?” Ron asked.

Harry closed his eyes momentarily and took a deep breath. So, Snape wasn’t giving him an out on this one after all. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

“You might as well have a seat while I explain,” Harry said, hopping back up on the bed to sit as well. 

“How are ye doin’ today, Harry?”

“Okay,” Harry said, his eyes downcast. Harry flinched when he felt a hand briefly squeeze his shoulder.

“Tis alright, Harry. I know this isna easy at all, an’ I’m sorry fer that, aye?”

Harry nodded as he concentrated on the tingling sensation of her touch. It was familiar to him now, as was her reassuring smile, her calming voice, her humming while she worked. He held onto these small touchstones like anchors in a storm.

“Before we get started, do ye want Professor Snape ta join ye right away, or do ye want to wait an’ see if ye need him first?”

Harry didn’t relish anyone seeing his darkest memories before he even knew what they were. “Let’s wait and see,” he responded. “No offense, sir,” he said, darting a glance at the Potions Master.

“None taken, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, and the sincerity in his eyes had Harry believing him. Perhaps Snape understood more than Harry would have given him credit for.

“Lie back now, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, fussing with his pillows. “We are all here for you should you need us.”

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable and dreading what was to come, Harry lay back on the hospital mattress, covered himself loosely with a sheet, and closed his eyes.

“I’m goin’ ta lay me hand on yer shoulder, Harry, aye?” Healer Covey’s voice cooed.

As Harry was expecting it, he didn’t flinch, not much anyway.

“Just breathe with me, laddie, aye, there ye go. Let yer mind drift away.”

Harry felt his consciousness floating in time and space as Healer Covey’s warmth suffused his body. Last time, the warmth had focused deep inside, healing a bruised kidney from a kick to the lower back from Uncle Vernon when he was 12. She’d also released and healed a punctured lung from several cracked ribs the time before. But this was different. She seemed to be tracing the arteries in his limbs, the heat branching out in every direction at once.

Last time, she had explained to him that it was his body that was leading the healing, not her. She might initially try and focus on one thing, but after that was healed, his body would guide her to other places, leading her where it needed her healing the most. Unless there was a very good reason to follow a different path, she didn’t fight it.

As he was floating in the mist, his limbs started to burn and ache. When she had worked on his broken ribs, it had started this way as well. Then, though, only three ribs on one side had burned at a time as she released his elemental magic and healed it with her own. Then two more on the other side. Then his sternum.

But this was different. All of his limbs were burning and all at the same time—multiple places on his right and left arms, his left ankle, his right thigh. He gasped at the pain.

Harry felt a cool potion being poured down his throat as the words of the adults around him blurred together in the distance, indecipherable in the torrent of agony that kept increasing. He gritted his teeth and tried to grasp onto Covey through the pain-filled mist, but he couldn’t find her or her touchstones. Where was she?

The banister of the stairs from Privet Drive came into view, the white knuckles of one hand grasping the banister, the other hand wrapped around one of the spindles. Uncle Vernon stood at the bottom landing, his face purple with rage. Aunt Petunia stood at the top, trying to pry him off the stairs.

When Vernon started to ascend the staircase, Harry held on tighter, his 8-year-old voice crying out: “Nooooooo, please stop, please…” But Uncle Vernon never stopped.

Harry felt Vernon grab his thin arms, trying to force young Harry to let go. Harry managed to hang on, just barely. He felt his fear ratchet up one-hundred fold at the look of evil on his Uncle’s Face. He held on tighter, only to find one of his arms being grasped by both of Vernon’s, one on his wrist, and one nearer his elbow.

“I’ll teach you not to listen, boy,” the man seethed, spittle hanging from his deranged face.

And then he began to twist Harry’s arm. Harry let go of the spindle and begged his uncle to stop, but letting go was no longer good enough. The vile man just kept twisting, twisting until tendon separated from bone, twisting until the bone cracked loudly and his screaming rent the air.

Still, it wasn’t enough for the man. Vicious blows and kicks landed on his body, sending him crashing down the stairs until he came to rest in a heap on the landing. His uncle came to stand over him, demanding that he shut his damn mouth and stop screaming.

But Harry couldn’t. The pain wouldn’t stop. Vernon lifted his boot and kicked at Harry’s broken arm. When that didn’t work, he kicked Harry in the stomach. The screaming abruptly stopped as Harry had the wind knocked out of him.

Before Harry could even catch his breath, the scene shifted. He was in the back garden shed, light barely sifting in through the mostly closed door. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he knew Uncle Vernon was coming. He wanted to run, to hide, but he couldn’t. There was a large metal stake driven into the center of the concrete floor, and on that was welded a metal loop. Harry’s hands were tied behind his back and he was tethered to that loop. And his uncle was heading his way. Sweat beaded his skin as fear consumed him, his heart racing, bile in his throat.

Then his uncle was standing in the door, and rolling up his shirts sleeves.

“Vernon, wait,” his aunt called.

Confused, Harry glanced up to see his aunt rushing toward him.

“Vernon, we can’t afford for you to bruise your knuckles. We are going out to dinner this evening. Here, use this instead.”

To Harry’s horror, the vile woman had handed his uncle a four foot long 2’ x 4’.

Vernon smiled. “You think you can bully our son, do you? Scare him with your funny business? Well let’s see how you like a bit of our funny business then, eh?”

The first blow hit Harry on the shoulder and nearly knocked him over. He was 13 now, but it hardly mattered. He was small for his age and he hadn’t eaten in days. He was weak. The second blow hit him upside the head. The more he begged for Vernon to stop, the more it drove the insane man on. Petunia stood with her arms crossed in the doorway watching. Soon the board wasn’t enough and he started kicking Harry as well.

Harry pulled to the end of the rope tying him to the stake, trying to get as far away from his uncle as he could. But that seemed to enrage the man even more.

His uncle stepped over to Harry then, and looked at Harry critically. Harry’s one leg was extended at an awkward angle. In one horrible moment, Uncle Vernon lifted his leg, and brought the heel of his boot down viscously on Harry’s thigh, shattering his femur bone in a resounding crack.

Harry shrieked, his body on fire, his leg hanging at an awkward angle, his vision dimming, as wave upon wave of nausea overcame him.

He rolled on the bed in the infirmary and began retching.

<HHR>

“I don’t know how much more of this we can put him through, Albus,” Snape said.

The headmaster hung his head. “I know that I am asking a lot of you, Severus, but we must persevere. The boy needs to be healed. Poppy thinks it may have stunted his growth. It would be wrong to prevent him from reaching his full potential when it is within our means to grant him it.”

“And is it not wrong to torture him relentlessly with memories of abuse that his mind blocked out for good reason?”

“Harry is stronger than you think. He’ll get through this.”

“And if he doesn’t, Albus? He can’t sleep, he can’t focus on his school work, he’s having flashbacks and panic attacks…”

“And you have given him potions, have you not? And he is seeing a Muggle counselor. These are things we can manage.”

Snape shook his head at the old man’s foolishness.

“Why aren’t you Occluding for him during these healing sessions?”

“I am, when he requires it. I suspect he’d prefer not to share any more of the horrendous memories than he needs to.”

“Perhaps you should Occlude for him regardless of his wishes, if it is as bad as you say it is.”

Snape grimaced. He knew Potter was already hanging on by a thread and to take away yet another piece of his autonomy, the only one he had left, really, might be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

“I know you, Severus, better than you know yourself sometimes. You won’t let the boy break. You made Lily and myself a promise, and I trust you to keep it.”

Snape felt his anger rise to a boil. “I promised to keep her son safe and well. I am not convinced that this, this healing, is keeping him safe or well.”

“Perhaps we need to find another healer, then,” Dumbledore suggested.

Snape blanched. “That is not the problem, Albus, and you know it. Healer Cook is an excellent healer, one of the very best. You yourself chose her for that very reason. But even she cannot prevent the boy from cracking under the strain of it all.”

“No,” Dumbledore replied, “that is what I am counting on you for, Severus.”

Snape clenched his hands into fists. Dumbledore was bound and determined to have his way, regardless of the people that got crushed on the path to his “grand plan”, whatever that was. And while Snape didn’t think he intended to sacrifice Potter along the way, the man’s arrogance might just do that anyway.

“You are asking a lot of Potter,” Snape ground out.

“No more than I ask of you,” the headmaster replied.

“But Potter is a child!”

“Did you consider yourself a child at 15, Severus? Two years from manhood, and already you acted as your own guardian. Isn’t Potter doing the same?”

“I… You… No, it’s not the same!”

“How is it not, Severus? Your home situation was not so very different.”

“We are not talking about me!” Snape retorted. “And furthermore, I did not have a madman seeking to kill me.”

“Did you not, Severus? Perhaps not in exactly the same way, but you’d already set your lot with the Death Eaters by 15.”

Snape was ready to pull his hair out in frustration. “It’s not the same thing,” he insisted.

Dumbledore just stared expectantly at Snape, and Snape knew that look. That look that said that it didn’t matter what anyone else said, Dumbledore had already made up his mind, and his minions would, in the end, come to understand his brilliance, even if their minds were too small to realize it at the present moment.

“I can see that you will not be dissuaded,” Snape spat. “So I will take my leave.”

“Do send Harry my regards, won’t you?”

“Tell him yourself,” Snape snapped, and with that, he stormed out of Dumbledore’s office.

Once Potter was stabilized, Severus led an exhausted Healer Covey back to his quarters, as had become their custom. He got her settled on his sofa and made her a cup of her favorite white cinnamon tea. Then, he sat down beside her, and pulled her toward him. She sighed, and settled against him. Wrapping an arm around her, he inhaled her enticing scent as he kissed the top of her head.

“How did the healing go?” he asked. True, he’d been there. He’d seen Harry’s body tense, curl into itself, fight against invisible fists, and the like, but things always looked different from Covey’s perspective.

He felt Covey shake her head against him. “Tis so hard on Harry. I wish I could make it a wee bit easier on him, ye ken?”

“It is not easy for you either,” Severus commented.

“Nay,” she confirmed, “but I have ye ta take care o’ me after, aye? I worry about Harry. He keeps too much ta himself.”

“He’s at a hard age,” Severus said. At 15, Potter was still trying to figure out who he was as a person. His life was anything but settled. And with the Dark Lord’s shadow hanging over the boy, his future was uncertain at best. Sighing, Snape shifted Covey to fit a bit more comfortably against him.

Earl Grey jumped up on the couch, settling himself next to Covey’s thigh and purring loudly, demanding attention.

“Aye,” Covey said, stroking the black cat. “Today was different as well. I was focusin’ on his arms and legs, aye?” She sucked in a breath, “An’ there’s so much there,” she lamented. “So many injuries… contusions, fractures, strains...” She shook her head again. “Tis a balance, ye ken? Healin’ things piece-by-piece, or tryin’ ta do it all at once ta get it done faster so he doesna have ta keep goin’ through this…” Covey’s voice caught in her throat.

“Covey,” Severus said, raising her chin to look into her teary blue eyes. “You are an amazing healer and witch. You are doing more for Harry than anyone has ever done for the boy.” And no less than he himself should have done, Severus thought, grimacing.

Covey reached up and stroked his cheek. “You, Sevvie, are a wee bit biased, aye?”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, as he bent forward to place a kiss on her lips. “But not on this topic,” he said against her mouth, as she scooted closer to return his kisses.

Severus drank her in, amazed that this slip of a witch had inserted herself into his life so effortlessly and completely. She was young and beautiful and so innocent compared to him. And even if she was more worldly than he liked to think, he relished in the thought of her being his opposite; lightness to his darkness.

Her hands slipped around his neck as her fingers wove their way into his hair. She deepened the kiss, and Severus felt himself responding in kind. He slid his hands under her robes and around her waist, relishing in the feel of her soft curves.

Her warm, contented sigh had him struggling to maintain his composure. There was no doubt that he wanted her, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her when she was so tired and worn out. When they came together for the first time, he wanted both of them to be fully rested and calm so as to be able to experience every sensual touch and kiss of their joining. Still, he wasn’t complaining.

Carefully, he slid his hand under the hem of her blouse, feeling the warmth of her skin dance beneath the pads of his fingers as he traced the curve of her lower back.

Her quick catch of breath and the way she snuggled closer to him had him fighting an inelegant moan from escaping his mouth.

One of her hands had slid up under his shirt. Now, it trailed down his neck, along his chest, down to the waistband of his trousers. Snape caught his breath in anticipation of her fingers continuing their exploration of him.

Just as her fingers slid beneath his waistband, he jerked and hissed in pain. He pulled away from her touch and her kiss as he leapt to his feet, his mind ablaze with fear and regret.

“Sevvie?” she asked, her expression uncertain.

Snape’s mind was spinning. He had to leave. Immediately. But what to tell Covey?

“What is it?” she said, getting to her feet.

Snape held up a hand to stop her, and stepped back, putting even more distance between them. Hurt flashed across her face, but he shook his head, and then hissed again as the pain in his arm redoubled. Unconsciously, he wrapped his fingers around his left forearm. She noticed, and understanding blossomed on her face. Snape felt his world crash down around him.

“Leave,” he said, much harsher than he intended. “Please,” he implored. He refused to put on his Death Eater attire in front of her.

After a moment’s hesitation she nodded and gathered up her belongings. Here shoulders were rigid as she threw a handful of floo powder into his hearth and vanished in a curl of green flames. She hadn’t looked at him again as she’d flooed away.

Snape wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. He knew she’d already known about his Dark Mark, she’d healed some of the curse for him after all. But what she didn’t know, what he’d neglected to tell her, was that he was still a Death Eater. Albeit a spy for Dumbledore, but he couldn’t tell her that either. Cursing and pushing away all thoughts of Covey, he did what he needed to do before answering the Dark Lord’s summons.

Snape limped away from the Death Eater gathering. The Dark Lord had been in a foul mood to begin with, and as Snape had nothing new to report, he had been one of many to suffer Voldemort’s ’frustration’.

He had a gash on his thigh that was bleeding heavily and burned like the fires of Hades, but he would remedy that soon enough. Still, the pain had his breathing ragged and sweat glistened on his skin. He knew he needed to get back to the castle and quickly, or he would succumb to the blood loss. The undershirt he’d wrapped around his thigh as a bandage was doing little to staunch the flow of blood.

He’d been luckier than Mulciber, he thought, cursing. If someone didn’t manage to get that wizard to St. Mungo’s, he’d be dead by morning.

Snape gripped the wrought iron fence on the edge of the property and tried to steady himself so he wouldn’t splinch. True, he had a port key directly to the headmaster’s office in case of emergency, and he would use it if he had to, but at present, he thought he could manage Apparition. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and spun on the spot.

Half way up to the castle, he considered using that port key, but stubbornly pressed on. He would have to report to the headmaster eventually, but at the moment, he just wanted to nurse his physical, and emotional, wounds in private.

He knew he’d lost Covey. There hadn’t been time to explain, and even if there had been, what would he have said? He couldn’t break his cover no matter what. Her bright smile flashed before his eyes. He viciously cursed the fates. She had been the one bright spot in his dark existence.

He was limping badly now and dripping blood. His sight was beginning to dim. Black spots danced on the peripheries of his vision. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to manage the walk through the castle to his quarters, he unwarded and entered the door at the back of the castle that only he used, slipped into the unused office next door, and floo’d directly to his quarters.

He stepped out of his fireplace, his Death Eater robes still on, his mask in hand, and froze. There, on his sofa, sat Covey, Earl Grey curled happily on her lap. His moment of shocked hesitation cost him.

He reached out for the chair by the fireplace to support himself as his vision winked out. He vaguely registered his knee making painful contact with the stone floor as the world around him faded to black.

“How is he?” the headmaster asked.

“He’ll be right as rain in a moment here, aye?” Covey said confidently, her hands working her magic over the now healed gash in Snape’s thigh.

Dumbledore waved his wand, vanishing the blood that coated Snape’s leg and the bed sheets he now lay on. “Thank you for being here for him, Coventry. It means a lot to me.”

“Tis my pleasure, Albus, ye ken that,” Covey replied with feeling.

“I do,” the headmaster responded, a twinkle in his eye. “Be gentle with him, Coventry. As you know, Severus is a very private and guarded man. He does not tend to accept help graciously. But he is a good man, underneath all the bluster.”

Covey laughed. “Aye, that he is,” she said, leaning forward to place a chaste kiss on his brow.

 “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nay,” Covey replied. “An’ thank ye fer everythin’”

“You are most welcome,” Dumbledore said, patting Covey’s shoulder before he left. 

Snape came to slowly with a weight on his chest. As the sound of loud purring met his ears, he realized that Earl Grey had claimed his usual spot. As he became more aware of his body, he recognized a warm tingling sensation in his leg and the cool feel of his cotton sheets beneath him. He was wearing only his skivvies, he realized.

There was also the sound of humming somewhere in the background, a sound he recognized as a familiar balm to his battered soul. As the humming continued, his brain sluggishly began connecting the dots. Humming… healing… Covey….

Snape’s eyes snapped open, half expecting the sound of humming to vanish as reality set in. Instead, Covey stood a few feet away, humming to herself as she arranged a series of potions bottles on his dresser. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

He had sent her away after he’d been summoned. Surely she wouldn’t have returned of her own accord, would she? Maybe Dumbledore had summoned her, but Poppy would have been more than capable of healing him, so that didn’t make sense either.

“Covey?” Snape said softly, bracing himself as she whirled around.

“Sevvie,” she said, her hand over her heart. “Ye startled me. I dinna realize ye were awake.”

Severus studied her as she stood, seemingly awaiting his judgement. “Why are you here?”

He watched as Covey put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. “Why wouldna I be here?”

“Because I was summoned,” Snape replied.

“Aye, ye were,” she replied.

“But I’m a…”

“Yer a stubborn fool, is what ye are, Sev’rus Snape,” she said. “I ken what ye were b’fore, remember?”

“I know, but…”

Covey raised her hand to silence him. “I only left when ye asked because I figured ye were needin’ yer privacy,” Covey said.” I’ve known Albus a long time,” Covey continued. “He’s a very wise man an’ I knew he wouldna let just anyone teach in his school, or help ta heal Harry Potter.”

Snape’s heart beat a rapid tattoo, hope a sharp thorn in his chest.

Clearing her throat, she continued, “I am also a member o’ the Order o’ the Phoenix. An’ while I donna know everythin’, I do know that we each have a roll ta play, aye?” she added, walking to the bed and sitting beside him.

Severus jumped slightly when Covey picked up his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing each knuckle.

“An’ a good thing I was here, aye? Ye dropped like a sack o’ potatoes when ye came through yer floo.”

Snape watched the witch before him in awe as her brassy façade slipped a little, her eyes glistening with unshed tears of worry for him of all people.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Snape commented.

“I’ve seen a lot worse, lovey,” Covey said.

Snape reached out and covered her hand in his. “Thank you,” he breathed.

“Aye,” she said, a touch of sadness crossing her face.

It wasn’t absolution, Snape knew, but it was acceptance, which was more than he deserved.

“You must be exhausted,” he said, know that he himself was.

“Aye, I am,” she said. “So scoot over, ye bed hog.”

Severus glanced at her in surprise.

“Unless yer feelin’ prudish,” she added.

Snape snorted. “Come here you saucy witch,” he said, shifting over and lifting the covers for her. Earl Grey meowed in protest at being disrupted, but soon resettled himself in his favorite spot.

“Shoo, you damn menace,” Snape said, pushing the feline off of him as he Covey slid into bed beside him. He scooped her closer to his side, and kissed her gently, his lips and tongue saying all the words he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. It wasn’t long before they broke apart on a yawn that Covey wasn’t able to suppress.

“Get some sleep,” Snape said.

“Aye,” Covey said around another yawn. “G’night, Sevvie.” She settled her head into the crook of his shoulder, flung her arm over his chest, and closed her eyes on a sigh of contentment.

Earl Gray snuck under the covers and curled himself against the hollow of her lower back, purring loudly. “Cheeky fella,” Severus heard her whisper.

Closing his eyes, Snape smiled. How had he gotten so lucky?

Harry awoke to streamers of sunlight shining in through the infirmary window.

Realizing he was up, Madam Pomfrey came over and handed him his morning-after potions: a nutrient potion, anti-inflammatory potion, and a calming draught.

“How are you feeling this morning?” the medi-witch asked.

Harry stretched tentatively, noticing the way that his joints felt looser, freer somehow. “Fine,” he said.

“Your friends have taken to camping outside the hospital wing since I wouldn’t let them in while you were resting. Go ahead and get dressed, and I will fetch them,” she said.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, getting to his feet and changing from pajamas to regular clothes. His friends arriving the morning after had become their custom, and Madam Pomfrey had taken to letting them speak in his private room at the back in private.

“Hey, mate,” Ron said. “I brought you a muffin. They had your favorite at breakfast today.”

“Thanks!” Harry said, biting into the chocolate chip pumpkin confection.

“How was it?” Hermione asked.

“They worked on my arms and legs,” Harry confided, stretching them out experimentally. “It feels weird,” he commented. “Like they’ve grown a few inches and are really loose or something.”

“So you might grow taller than me,” Ron said.

Harry laughed. “I’ll be happy if I grow taller than Hermione. Hey, how was Hogsmeade yesterday?”

“Not bad,” Ron said.

“We say Mundungus,” Hermione said. “He was doing some shifty business as usual. Said hi when he saw us, but disappeared soon after that.”

Just then the door opened and Healer Cook walked in, beaming at the three of them.

“Good ta see y’all,” Healer Covey said, nodding to them. “I’m Healer Cook, but ye can call me Covey, aye?” she said, extending her hand. “Ye must be Ms. Granger.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“An’ ye must be Mr. Weasley, aye?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, shaking her hand as well. “I, ah, guess we should be going,” he said.

“That would be up ta Harry,” Healer Covey said. “I donna mind if ye stay.”

Harry met Ron and Hermione’s gazes and nodded his approval.

“I just wanted ta see how ye were feelin’ today, Harry. Yesterday twas a bit harder than I was expectin’.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “But today I feel good. My joints feel less tight,” he said, holding out his hands and looking at them. “Like I can move more freely, and like they weigh less.” Meeting Healer Covey’s eyes, he said, “I feel lighter.”

“That’s very good,” Healer Covey said, “I’m so glad ta hear it. Would ye mind if I examined ye?”

“No,” Harry said, “go ahead.” This was the easy part, he knew. Just her magic reaching out to touch his, checking to make sure the healing had taken properly.

Harry felt Healer Covey put her hand on his shoulder, a warm tingling spreading down his arm. He shivered involuntarily.

“Does it hurt?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Harry said. “It just tickles a little.”

Healer Covey smiled up at him before returning her focus to her work. She slid her hand down his arm and held his hand loosely. Next she checked his other arm.

“Aye,” she said, “ye have healed very well. I just want ta check yer legs, an’ then ye an’ yer friends are free ta go, aye?”

Harry nodded.

Healer Covey placed her hand on his right thigh and ran her fingers down his leg. She repeated the process on the left leg. “Perfect,” she said. “Ye did great last night, Harry. I know it isna easy.”

Harry swallowed, wishing he could deny it, but he couldn’t. The calming draught would help for a bit, but after it wore off, and especially after seeing the Muggle therapists later today, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d be struggling again.

‘How are ye likin’ yer Muggle therapists, Harry?”

“They’re ok,” Harry said, looking at his feet.

“Just ok?”

“Well,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “They are nice enough. It’s just not the easiest thing to talk about.”

“Aye, I ken that,” Healer Covey said. Harry felt her hand squeeze his. “Give it some time, laddie, it does get a bit easier ta talk about as time goes on, ye ken?”

“Healer Covey,” Hermione ventured. “If it would help any, Ron and I would be more than willing to go to therapy with Harry.”

“Yeah,” Ron chimed in. “If Harry wants us there, were in.”

Healer Covey smiled at Harry. “Ye have yerself some good friends here, aye?”

Harry nodded.

“Tis a great suggestion,” Healer Covey said. “Let’s give Harry some time ta think about it, aye? An’ I will speak ta the therapists about it as well.”

“Thanks guys,” Harry said, after Healer Covey had made her farewells.

“We mean it, Harry,” Hermione said. “We want to help you.”

“Hermione’s right,” Ron said. “And I also want to practice some spells on your aunt and uncle and cousin.”

Harry smiled. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning toward the hospital exit. “I wouldn’t mind doing a few laps on my Firebolt before I have to leave for therapy.”

It was Monday and Harry was exhausted. He’d felt okay Sunday morning, but by 3pm, when it was time for Snape and Healer Covey to escort him to Muggle therapy, he was nervous. The new memories of his arms and legs getting broken were hard to swallow.

And talking about them in therapy was even harder. His therapists, the Stanleys, were nice, always very understanding and caring, pointing out repeatedly how none of what had happened to him was his fault. And yet, Harry had a hard time believing them because he couldn’t tell them the whole story.

He couldn’t tell them that his aunt and uncle had tried to beat the “unnaturalness” out of him. He couldn’t tell them about magic. So he’d ended up saying he didn’t know why they had punished him. Thus, he left the sessions feeling drained and off-balance, as if they meant well, but they just didn’t get it. The anonymity was nice, but their inability to relate to him was becoming an issue.

He’d returned to the castle after therapy, distinctly worse off than when he’d left. He wanted to sleep and forget everything that had happened to him once again—to pretend it had never happened, to leave it locked in the past where it belonged.

He begged off Ron and Hermione to go to bed. It wasn’t until he reached for the vial of dreamless sleep that he realized it was empty. “Bugger,” he swore. He’d have to ask Snape or Madam Pomfrey for some more in the morning.

He cast a silencing charm around his bed and drifted off into a restless night’s sleep, punctuated by dreams of his uncle’s fists and his aunt’s dreaded kitchen utensils. By the time he’d woken up for the fifth time, shaken and sweating, he’d thrown back the covers, grabbed his school bag, and made his way to the common room to catch up on some homework until it was time to go to breakfast.

Harry managed to make it through his morning classes and lunch alright, but then he’d run into Malfoy and his cronies and lost it. Ron and Hermione had to literally drag him away, and by the time he’d come to his senses, he’d felt overly embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ron had said. “It’s history.”

But the last thing Harry needed was for everyone to think he was going crazy. He’d suffered that assumption far too many times during his tenure at Hogwarts.

He climbed the ladder into the Divination classroom, which was overly warm and smelled of sickly sweet incense. The scent made his stomach turn and he nearly tripped over a throw pillow on the floor, grabbing a table to steady himself.

“What is that smell?” Ron asked, holding his nose, as he sat down next to Harry. “It’s awful.”

It was awful, but it was also somewhat familiar to Harry. He remembered it from somewhere, but his tired brain wasn’t engaging at the moment. He, too, plugged his nose, and waited for class to begin.

“Today,” Professor Trelawney began, “we will be using incense to help open the mind to the vibrations of the future that are all around us.” She raised a golden lantern-like object and swung it back and forth, releasing more of the overwhelming scent into the air.

Beside him, Ron groaned, and Harry stilled. He knew. He knew that scent.

Harry bolted to his feet and ran for the trap door. He had to get the hell out of here. He vaguely heard the shouts of Ron and Trelawney behind him, but he couldn’t stop. He felt clammy and shaky and nauseous.

He scrambled down the ladder and hit the floor at a dead run. Even the portraits shouted at him as he ran past. He needed to find someplace where he could be alone. Where he wouldn’t be bothered.

Too consumed with panic, he let his body lead him, down stairways and hidden passageways, behind suits of armor, past startled ghosts, until he found himself in the dungeons, bursting into Snape’s empty office. He fell to his knees, panting, before the memory flooded into his consciousness.

His aunt had been boiling petals from the flowers she‘d instructed him to pick that morning. She had read in a magazine about how to make your own floral perfume, and she’d wanted to try it. Having seemingly had little success with the flowers themselves, she’d started mixing other things together to try to obtain the scent she wanted.

Clearly, it hadn’t been working. By the time Harry’d come into the kitchen to make prepare dinner, he’d nearly gagged on the sickly sweet scent.

“What is that smell?” he’d exclaimed, instantly regretting his impulsive words. He’d been made to clean it all up, and told not to speak of it again. Plugging his nose, he’d poured the mess into empty condiment bottles, screwed the caps on tight, and thrown them in the garbage outside, hoping to rid himself of the odor forever.

If only that had been the end of it.

Instead, later that night, Dudley and his gang had found Harry, and cornered him. They had the condiment bottle of that foul perfume experiment, and they squirted it all over him, taunting him about being a faggot, about wanting to be pretty, about now smelling pretty.

It was humiliating and petty and it would have been bad enough if it had stopped there, but it hadn’t. It had gotten worse, so much worse, until he was on his stomach, naked below the waist, his legs spread. Dudley and his gang were laughing and jeering, and Harry was left bleeding from his arse, and “sobbing like the little girl he was.”

Snape was in his quarters, grading papers during one of his rare free periods, when an odd alarm sounded. He looked up, racking his brain to remember what he’d set that alarm for. It hadn’t sounded before, so it either had to be a new alarm he’d set, or a very old one. As he pondered its significance, it hit him. He jumped to his feet and all but ran to his office.

Snape threw open the door to the sound of retching. Potter was on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth, keening, tears and snot running down his face as he vomited. Snape vanished the putrid puddle and performed an air freshening charm, then transfigured his handkerchief into a wet washcloth.

“Potter,” Snape said, handing him the washcloth. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Potter accepted the cloth and sank back onto his haunches, wiping his face. Then he sat and pulled his knees to his chest, still rocking back and forth.

“Potter,” Snape said urgently, kneeling on the floor beside the boy and putting his hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder. “Talk to me.”

But Harry just shook his head, unwilling or unable to respond.

“Was it a memory?”

Harry nodded.

“A new memory?”

Harry nodded again and then started making that awful keening noise, his eyes squeezed tight shut. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Please, just make it stop.”

“Do you want me to Occlude for you?” Snape asked.

Once more, Harry nodded.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” Snape directed, grasping the boy’s chin and pulling Potter’s focus toward him.

Slowly, Harry’s lids rose, revealing desperate, haunted eyes.

Snape’s gut clenched as he whispered, “Legilimens.”

And then he was watching what those vile heathens had done to the boy. Snape gritted his teeth, wishing for nothing more than to snap their worthless necks. Instead, he entered Potter’s mind, crouching on the leaf-strewn ground by where the teen lay half-naked. He guessed Potter was about 13.

“Mr. Potter,” he called out. “Ha-Harry. Look at me.”

The boy’s tortured gaze met his.

“Focus on me. Only me.” Snape said, as the boy’s gaze held his and Snape absorbed the boy’s pain and humiliation, giving him the escape he so desperately needed.

The teen huddled on his office floor before him slumped noticeably and the keening stopped. Potter closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to remember this,” he uttered. “I don’t want to ever remember this.”

Snape grimaced and put his arm around Potter’s shoulders, giving Potter a quick squeeze. He didn’t blame the boy. Who would want a memory like that? “What triggered it?” he asked gently.

“Trelawney’s room,” Potter replied, “the scent.”

Some of the teachers had been told what had happened to Potter, but Trelawney was not, and never would be, one of them. They’d need to devise a plan for Potter for her class in the future.

Curious, Snape asked, “What prompted you to come to my office?”

“I dunno,” Potter replied. “I didn’t mean to. I mean, I just sort of ended up here.”

“You are welcome to come here anytime you need,” Snape murmured, surprising himself with his words likely as much as Potter.

“Thanks, Professor,” Harry said, still not looking at him.

“Let’s get you off the floor,” Snape said, taking Potter by the elbow. Once they were both seated in the two student chairs in front of Snape’s desk, Snape asked, “How are you sleeping?”

“Not well,” Harry stated. “Oh, and I’m out of dreamless sleep.”

“That can be easily remedied,” Snape said. “And calming draught?”

“Half left, sir.”

Snape stood up and gathered the necessary potions, making sure to place unbreakable charms on the bottles before handing them to Potter, who murmured his thanks.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, sitting back down again. “Do you find the therapy sessions useful?”

“No,” Potter said, before backtracking. “I mean, the Stanleys are very nice, and they try to be helpful.”

“But,” Snape prompted.

“But they don’t get it. They don’t understand.” Harry dragged his forearm across his eyes, wiping away the rest of the tears.

“What don’t they understand?” Snape asked.

Troubled eyes met his as Potter forced out the words. “My relatives tried to beat the magic out of me.” Potter glanced away. “And I can’t tell them that.”

Snape sat back in his chair, taken aback. Did that tiny detail really matter? Clearly to Potter it did. Snape knew how therapy went; he’d done it himself. You spilled your guts while the therapist told you it wasn’t your fault. But if Potter couldn’t tell them this key piece of information, then perhaps he couldn’t relate to the rest of the things they were saying.

He’d have to have a conversation with Dumbledore and Covey and see how they could handle this to make therapy more useful to the boy. In the meantime, Potter needed a babysitter.

“I am going to excuse you from classes for the rest of the day.”

“You are?” Potter said, looking both startled and relieved.

“Unless you would rather attend them?”

“I’d prefer not to, sir,” Harry said quietly, glancing at his feet.

“What would you think about helping Hagrid with his first and second year Care of Magical Creatures class? I hear he could use a hand, and as your afternoon is free…”

“Okay,” Potter said. “I can do that.”

“Very well,” Snape said. “I will let Hagrid know to expect you, and I will alert your other instructors as well.”

“Could you tell Ron and Hermione too?” Potter asked. “Just so they don’t worry.”

Snape wanted to roll his eyes but refrained from it. The boy needed his friends now more than ever.

“Here,” Snape said, handing a parchment and quill to the boy. “Write them a note, and I will make sure it gets delivered to them immediately.” Snape watched as the boy carefully wrote the note and then rolled up the parchment, breathing a thank you as he handed it over. Snape nodded.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape called as the teen was leaving.

Potter stopped and turned back to look at him.

“I am not a man of platitudes. But trust me when I say that you will get through this, and you will be stronger for it.”

Potter looked at him doubtfully for a moment before giving a curt nod. Then, he was gone.

Hermione gathered up her things and exited her Ancient Runes class to find Ron waiting for her. “Ron?” she gasped. “What’s wrong?” Looking around she said, “Where’s Harry?”

“I dunno,” Ron said. “Divination had just started when he bolted. I went after him, but I couldn’t find him.”

Hermione felt as worried as Ron looked. “Let‘s go to Transfiguration. Maybe he‘ll be there.”

“And if he isn‘t?” Ron asked.

“I don‘t know,” Hermione replied. “Where all did you look for him?”

“Gryffindor tower, the hospital wing, the library. I even waited outside Dumbledore’s office for a bit.”

Hermione sighed. “I wish there was more we could do to help him.”

As they rounded the corner into the Transfiguration classroom hallway, an eager Ravenclaw first year ran up to them. “Weasley, right?”

“Who’s asking?” Ron replied.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, this is Ron Weasley. Can we help you?”

The Ravenclaw held out a scroll. “I was supposed to give this to you.”

Ron grabbed the scroll and pulled it open, ignoring the messenger.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, as she looked over to read it with Ron. In Harry’s untidy script she read:

Ron,

Sorry I had to dash off like that. I remembered something I’d forgotten. I am helping Hagrid this afternoon with his Care of Magical Creatures classes. See you and Hermione at dinner.

Harry

“At least he’s okay,” Hermione said with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, but it’s strange though, skipping classes to help Hagrid.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastised. “Did you read what he wrote? He had a flashback.”

“What?” Ron said, “Where? I didn’t see that.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at her friend. “I remembered something I’d forgotten…”

Hermione watched Ron consider her words. “I thought he just meant… Ohhhh,” Ron commented as the magnitude of Harry’s message sank in.

As they entered the Transfiguration classroom, they saw Professor McGonagall at the front of the room, reading a similar scroll to the one they’d received. They watched as she pursed her lips and then slid the scroll into her robes. McGonagall looked up, directly at Ron and Hermione, nodded once, and then began organizing the papers on her desk.

“She knows,” Ron said.

“I think so too,” Hermione agreed.

“I havne been here b’fore,” Covey said, looking around Le Fleur-de-lis, an upscale wizarding restaurant located on a side street in Hogsmeade.

“I haven’t either,” Snape replied, lifting the glass of wine to his prominent nose and sniffing its aroma. “But I have heard good things about it.”

“Aye?” Covey said.

“Aye,” Snape agreed. “And it’s nice to get out of the castle once in a while.”

Covey laughed, the smile lighting up her sparkling blue eyes.

Snape reached for her hand. “How was your day?”

“Twas fine,” she replied. “Not much ta report. An’ yers?”

“Potter showed up in my office,” Snape said, frowning at the memory. “It seems he is remembering more of the abuse.” Snape felt Covey’s fingers caress his hand in comfort.

“Aye,” she said, “I figured he would. How’s he handlin’ it?”

“Not well,” Snape replied. “He was vomiting all over my floor when I found him.”

Covey grimaced. “Perhaps he should be seein’ those Muggle therapists twice a week.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Snape responded, “or at least part of it.” Snape pulled his hand back from Covey’s and steepled his fingers, resting his lips against his index fingers.

“What do ye mean, Sevvie?” Covey inquired.

“It seems that Mr. Potter has been unable to receive the full benefit of their wisdom.”

“Because they are Muggles?” Covey asked.

“Peripherally,” Snape replied. “Potter believes that he was abused because he was a magical child and his relatives wished him not to be so.” Snape paused to take another sip of his wine, and reached for Covey’s hand once more. “And since he cannot tell the Muggles that this is the reason they targeted him, he has not been able to accept that it was not his fault.”

Covey took a deep breath, a look of concentration on her face. “So let’s tell them.”

“Tell the Muggles that he’s a wizard?”

“Aye,” Covey said.

“And the International Statute of Secrecy be damned?”

Covey waved her free hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Think of all the Muggleborns. Their parents have ta be told about our world, aye?  An’ their siblings. What’s a couple more Muggles? An’ professionals no less?”

Snape considered this. “That is a thought,” he conceded. ‘We’d have to get Albus’s approval first.”

Covey smiled. “I am quite confident I can convince Albus.”

“Are you then?” Snape said, raising an eyebrow as a smirk crossed his lips.

“Aye,” Covey replied coyly. “I am.”

Severus dressed in a pair of black trousers with a pin-striped gray button-down shirt. Beside him, Covey wore navy blue slacks and a salmon colored silk sweater that accentuated her curves in a way that made Snape want to take her to bed rather than to the appointment they had made.

Kissing the tip of her nose instead, Severus growled, “Later, I would like to ravish you, Ms. Cook.”

To which the comely witch wiggled her eyebrows and replied, “Promise?”

Snape bit back a groan.

Together, they apparated behind a rubbish skip (dumpster) in an alley in London before making their way to the block of buildings in which the Stanleys had their office.

“After you, madam,” Snape said, holding the door open for Covey.

Covey sashayed through the entryway, looking back over her shoulder with a smirk, knowing that Snape was looking at her bum. Snape cursed the saucy witch as he followed her inside, where they sat on the stiff chairs of the waiting room.

The two Stanleys entered and promptly stretched out their hands in greeting.

“Dr. Snape and Dr. Cook,” Dr. Roland Stanley said, shaking both of their hands. Dr. Marsha Stanley did the same.

“Please do come in,” Dr. Marsha Stanley invited them.

Snape and Covey followed the two therapists into their joint office and settled themselves onto the couch across from them.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice,” Snape said.

“Aye,” Covey said, “we appreciate yer time an’ yer dedication ta yer profession. An’ ta our Harry o’course.”

“You are very welcome,” Dr. Marsha Stanley said. “And please, call me Marsha.”

“And me, Roland,” Dr. Stanley said. “It’s gets a bit confusing otherwise. Dr. Stanley,” he pointed to his wife, “and Dr. Stanley,” he pointed to himself.

“Of course,” Snape acknowledged.

“Remind me of your professions again,” Roland said politely.

Snape spoke up, his voice commanding respect. “I am a professor of Chemistry and one of the teachers at Harry’s school. Dr. Cook is a pediatrician who specializes in working with abused children.”

“Ah yes,” Roland commented nodding his head. “Do you mind if I take notes?” he asked, looking up at both of them.

“Not at all,” Snape said.

“Also,” Roland said, “before we begin, I must remind you that, due to confidentiality, we cannot reveal what we have discussed with Harry, at least not without his written consent.”

Snape held up a hand to stave off the conversation. “That is of no concern.”

Covey broken in then. “What he means is that we arna here ta discuss Harry’s therapy sessions precisely. We trust ye are both professionals an’ are doin’ what is best fer him.”

“Without giving us any specifics,” Snape said, “do you feel that he has been receptive to your techniques?”

“We haven’t had enough sessions to accurately gauge his progress as yet,” Roland responded.

“That is true enough,” Marsha added, “but I must say, I have had the feeling that Harry is leaving something out, something important, that has made therapy, shall we say, less relevant to him.”

Roland nodded. “I have sensed that, too. That Harry is holding something back. Until he trusts us enough to tell us, he may struggle to incorporate our therapeutic advice and techniques.”

Snape and Covey shared a glance; Covey nodded.

“You are both correct in your deductions,” Snape said.

“Tis why we are here tonight,” Covey clarified. “Ta explain ta ye both just what it is that Harry hasna been allowed ta tell ye.”

Snape watched as the Stanleys exchanged worried glances. Covey’s wording had aroused their suspicions. Secrets were never conductive to therapy.

“Before we begin, however,” Snape said, opening the Muggle briefcase he’d transfigured for this visit, “we will need you to sign a customary confidentiality agreement.” He pulled out the two sheets of paper and handed one set to each of them. “Standard procedure, I’m sure you understand.”

The therapists looked at each other in some alarm. Everyone in the room knew there was nothing standard about this.

Snape spoke to allay their concerns. “The agreements simply state that you will not discuss anything we talk about here outside of this office. Nor will you put anything in writing or into records of any sort, or publish anything about what we discuss, now or in the future.”

The Stanleys shifted uncomfortably.

“What about Harry?” Marsha asked.

“You are, of course, free to discuss this with him. It is because of his need to speak freely that we are disclosing this sensitive information to you,” Snape informed them.

Roland frowned as he reached for his reading glasses.

“Please take all the time you need to read the agreements. We are in no hurry,” Snape advised them. That wasn’t strictly true, but the agreements were straightforward and there was no hidden agenda. Albus, Covey, and he had decided this would be the easiest and most understandable means of getting the Muggles to agree to the terms of the International Statute of Secrecy, without having to explain it to them.

Strictly speaking, the confidentiality agreement wasn’t enforceable per se, but their signatures would bind them magically such that they would not be able to speak or write anything about the magical world outside of their discussions with Harry or amongst themselves as needed for therapeutic purposes. If they tried, they’d find themselves tongue-tied or suddenly distracted.

“We can wait outside while ye go over the document, if ye like,” Covey offered.

“Is this really necessary?” Roland asked. “We are professionals, after all, and our code of ethics prevents us from speaking about our clients specifically.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Snape said simply.

“Ye will understand why tis necessary after ye hear what we have ta say, ye ken?”

Marsha and Roland shared a look.

“It seems pretty straightforward,” Marsha remarked. “There’s nothing in this agreement that impedes or prevents us from treating Harry, nor anything that goes against our therapeutic standards.”

“Very well,” Roland conceded. “Would you like us to sign these now?”

“Aye,” Covey said. “Then we can tell ye what we came here fer.”

Snape watched with satisfaction as Marsha and Roland signed the agreements.

“Do you mind if we make a copy of these?” Roland asked.

“Not at all,” Snape replied. “But let us speak first. What we have to tell you will likely be a bit hard for you to believe, a bit incredible, if you will. Yet it is information that we believe is crucial to your ability to treat Harry, and for Harry’s ability to receive the type of therapy he needs.”

Snape felt the Stanleys’ intense gazes on him, half curious and half doubtful.

Never one to beat around the bush, Snape began succinctly. “Centuries ago, the world was a much more magical place. Some of the humans back then had what would today be referred to as magical powers. They were called witches and wizards. Some of them are in the history books: Merlin, for example, Joan of Arc, King Henry the VIII, Mozart, DaVinci, Aristotle, and many more.”

Snape ignored the doubtful looks on the Stanleys’ faces. “In more recent history,” he continued, “humans became jealous of the witches and wizards and violence erupted. Eventually, the magical folk went into hiding. They started their own schools and communities, and kept their powers from their non-magical neighbors.”

Pausing, Snape looked to Covey, then back at the Stanleys. “We are still called witches and wizards today.”

Silence hung in the room, and then Roland said, deadpan, “Magic.”

Snape and Covey both nodded.

Clearly thinking they were both pulling his leg, he quipped, “Let’s see your magic wands then.”

Without missing a beat, Snape and Covey both pulled out their wands.

Marsha cleared her throat. “We are both very busy professionals, Dr. Snape and Dr. Cook. Perhaps some would find your joke amusing,” she said, getting to her feet; her husband followed suit. “But we have more important things to do with our time than…”

“Please,” Snape interrupted, “hear us out.”

Looking wary now, the Stanleys reluctantly sat back down on the edges of their seats, prepared to stand again at any moment.

“Do you have a pen, sir?” Snape directed at Roland.

“A pen?” Roland repeated.

“Yes, a pen, an instrument used for writing.”

“I know what a pen is,” he muttered, pulling one out of his suit jacket.

“Set it on the table, please,” Snape requested. When he did so, Snape continued. “Marsha, what is your favorite small animal?”

“Small animal?” Marsha asked.

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. What was it about Muggles repeating everything you said as if they were completely daft. “Yes, a small animal.”

“I don’t see how this is relevant…” Marsha interjected.

“Humor me,” Snape insisted.

“Very well,” Marsha said with a sigh. “A rabbit.”

“What color rabbit?” Snape asked, sensing Marsha was reaching the limit of her patience.

“White with brown eyes,” she bit out.

Snape pointed his wand at the pen on the table, said a simple transfiguration spell, and sat back in amusement as the Stanleys first gasped, and then swore, at the small white bunny with big brown eyes and floppy ears nosing around their coffee table.

Sensing they were about to refute the evidence hopping around before them, Snape looked at Covey and said imploringly, “Do something.”

Covey stood, drawing all eyes to her. She pointed her wand at her head and her blue-tipped spiky blond hair turned green and grew rapidly to the floor. With another flick, her hair turned blue, then purple. Another flick saw it braid itself into long plaits. Another flick of her wand, and both she and Snape were wearing traditional robes.

“This is what we normally wear, ye ken?” she informed the Stanleys, pointing the wand at her head and returning her hair to normal.

With a shaking hand, Marsha reached out toward the bunny. “Can I touch it?” she asked.

Snape nodded.

Marsha petted the bunny with wonder.

“How is this even possible?” Roland murmured, his eyes round.

Snape smirked. “Some quirk of nature, I imagine.”

Roland shook his head, clearly not wanting to accept this new reality. “Are you sure this isn’t some sort of elaborate ruse?” he asked.

“I assure you it is not,” Snape replied.

Marsha scooped up the bunny and held it close. Looking up, she said, “I take it Harry is a wizard?”

“Aye,” replied Covey. “But he couldna well tell ye when ye didn’t even know about our world, ken?”

“We had no intention of telling you,” Snape added, pocketing his wand. “But it has come to our attention that the reason his relatives gave for abusing him was to rid him of his magic, which they saw as an undesirable trait.”

Roland laughed nervously. “I would think most of us would love to be able to do whatever it is you just did with your…”

“Wand,” Snape said sardonically.

“Yes, that,” Roland said.

“Unfortunately, Harry’s relatives don’t share your view.” Snape said.

“How did you come to chose us?” Marsha asked. “Surely you have therapists in your own world that would understand Harry’s heritage better than we would.”

Snape looked at Covey and knew she was thinking the same thing that he was: How much to tell them.

“For reasons that were entirely beyond his control, and not bad in the least, Harry has become a bit of a celebrity in our world. He did not wish for his very personal past to become public knowledge.”

 “But surely you could have found someone trustworthy,” Martha replied

“It wasn’t worth the risk,” Snape said with finality.

“Were Harry’s parents a… a witch and a wizard?” Roland asked.

“They were,” Snape replied.

“And why didn’t they raise Harry themselves?”  Roland inquired.

“His parents were murdered when he was one year old,” Snape said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marsha said.

“What happened to the person that murdered them?” Roland inquired.

“He’s still around, causing trouble,” Severus said.

“Is he a wizard too?” Marsha asked.

“He is,” Snape said, knowing that he needed to change the subject before they realized they would become a target if Voldemort ever discovered their connection to Potter. Directing their attention to the signed confidentiality agreements, he asked, “Would you like me to duplicate those for you?”

Together they nodded.

Snape pointed his wands at the papers. A copy of each document appeared.

“Bloody hell,” Roland breathed. He looked to his wife with excitement. “That surely would be useful.” Looking back to Snape and Covey he said, “There’s no way you could teach us how to do that, is there?”

“Sadly, no,” Snape said, a genuine smile tipping his lips at the childlike wonder in the man’s eyes. For a brief moment, he could understand Arthur Weasley’s fascination with Muggles.

“Ye have ta be born with it, I’m afraid,” Covey added.

“If you could do that, Roland, we’d have a house full of old cars,” Marsha said to her husband. Then looking at the witch and wizard, she said, “He collects old cars.”

Looking abashed, Roland cleared his throat. Snape could see it was taking the man great effort not to ask a thousand questions about the magical world. “Is there anything else we need to know to better help Harry? About this… stuff?“ He gestured around the room, indicating the rabbit now dozing in his wife‘s hands.

Snape looked at Covey.

“I canna think o’ anythin’ specific,” she said. “Ye can, o’ course, contact us if ye have any questions.”

“That would be very helpful,” Marsha said. “I imagine we will have many questions as time goes on.”

As Snape and Covey rose to leave, Marsha said, “What do I do with the bunny?”

“Keep it if you like,” Snape said. “Or I can banish it back to the woods if you prefer.”

Marsha looked imploringly at her husband. “We could keep it in the office,” she said. “The children would love it. It could be a great therapy tool.”

Roland smiled ruefully. “How could I possibly say no to a magical rabbit?”

Snape reached out to take a copy of the confidentially agreements. Seeing a paperclip on the table, he transfigured it into an identical copy of Roland’s pen that was now a bunny. “Your pen, sir,” he said, handing it to Roland.

Roland looked as though he’d just won the lottery. “Blimey.” Looking up at Snape he said, “this is going to take some getting used to.”

“Harry,” Dr. Marsha Stanley said. “It’s not your fault. None of what happened is your fault.”

“Magic is a gift,” Dr. Roland Stanley added.

“Not to them it wasn’t,” Harry muttered.

“We work with a lot of abused children,” Marsha said. “And they aren’t magical. Their guardians abuse them nonetheless.”

“What Dr. Stanley is saying, Harry,” Roland continued, “is that even if you weren’t magical, your relatives would have abused you. They may have used another reason, but they would have abused you just the same.”

Harry doubted it. How many times had his relatives told him it was because he was abnormal? How many times had his punishments been so much worse after a bout of accidental magic?

“They called me a freak,” he said, hating to admit it.

“That is not uncommon, Harry. Abusers use name calling to belittle and intimidate their victims,” Marsha said.

“And to give themselves a feeling of power and unearned authority,” Roland added.

“And name calling can be immensely painful. Sometimes even worse than being hit,” Marsha added.

“Name calling is a very powerful way of controlling an impressionable child. It can make them doubt their reality. Even more so in your case when they weren’t magical and you were a wizard,” Roland said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. It was so much easier to talk to them now that they knew. “I didn’t know I was a wizard, though. Not until I was 11. Even then I didn’t believe it.” He took a deep breath and continued. “They’d always hated any mention of magic, though. It absolutely wasn’t allowed. I didn’t understand why at the time. I just knew if I said the word, or talked about anything that wasn’t physically possible, they would punish me.”

“Go on, Harry,” Marsha encouraged him.

“I just didn’t understand why they hated me so much. I tried to be good. I did what they asked. I always followed their orders. But I was never good enough for them, never.” Harry swallowed against the tears clogging his throat. He normally wasn’t this emotional, but since all of this had started, he felt so much closer to the edge, constantly. Taking a deep breath, he added. “They hated me because my mum was a witch and my dad was a wizard. But I didn’t know that either,” he pleaded.

“Of course you didn’t, Harry,” Marsha soothed.

“How could you know?” Roland added. “They kept it from you.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “So they made it their mission to… to try and beat the magic out of me.”

“Harry, it wasn’t your fault,” Marsha repeated.

“But it was,” Harry said. “I was magical, and I couldn’t change it. I didn’t know it at the time, but I couldn’t change what I was.”

“How does that make it your fault?” Roland asked.

“Because if I could have been normal like they wanted, like their son Dudley, then they wouldn’t have had to hurt me.”

Roland leaned forward, capturing Harry’s gaze. “Let’s take a look at what you just said there. You said that they had to hurt you. Do you think that’s true?”

“Well,” Harry stammered. “I guess they didn’t HAVE to hurt me.”

“No, they didn’t Harry,” Roland affirmed. “They CHOSE to hurt you, and that’s an important distinction.”

Harry tried to absorb his words, tried to believe them. “But if I wasn’t magical, they wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“Harry,” Marsha said, “when your uncle hit you, was he angry?”

“Always,” Harry said.

“Can you remember a time when he was angry about having a bad day at work, or maybe his car broke down?”

Harry nodded.

“What happened that time?” she asked.

“I don’t know, he lost a contract at work or something. I knew right away when he came home that it was going to be a bad day. I tried to hide in my cupboard, but he just came in after me and dragged me out and…”

When he couldn’t continue, Marsha said gently, “Beat you?”

Harry nodded.

“Had you done any magic that day?” Marsha asked.

“Not that I know of,” Harry said.

“Had you said the word magic, or referenced anything that couldn’t be logically explained?” Marsha continued.

“No way,” Harry said. “I’d learned my lesson by then, and anyway, Uncle Vernon was not in a good mood. I generally tried to stay out of his way and say nothing when he was like that.”

“So, is it correct to say,” Marsha continued, “that there was no magic involved?”

“None,” Harry agreed.

“Then what you are saying, Harry,” Marsha confirmed, “is that your uncle came home from work in a bad mood and took out his anger on you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“And it sounds like this was a common occurrence,” Roland observed.

Harry nodded.

“So, would you say, that at that very moment, it wouldn’t have mattered if you were a Muggle or a wizard? That perhaps your uncle beat you simply because he had a bad day at work and you were a convenient target?”

Harry opened his mouth, and then shut it again. “Well, yes, but I was a wizard.”

“But at that moment,” Marsha repeated, “did your status as a wizard have any bearing on your uncle’s actions?”

“I… I guess not, but, I don’t know, if I wasn’t a wizard…”

“Then you would have been a Muggle child being abused by his abusive uncle, correct?”

“I guess so,” Harry admitted, feeling confused.

“Harry, sometimes we tell ourselves a narrative that helps us to put things in a framework that we can understand,” Marsha said. “For you, telling yourself that the only reason your relatives abused you was because you were a wizard has helped you to cope with that abuse. But now, Dr. Roland and I are asking you to question the very foundation that has enabled you to survive all this time. We are asking you to consider a new framework with which to understand what has happened to you. And that isn’t an easy task. It can be uncomfortable and scary to let go of the things that have worked for us, even if there are new things that can potentially work a lot better for us. Does that make sense?”

“I think I’ll need some time to think about that,” Harry responded.

“That is perfectly understandable,” Marsha said. “It’s not easy for any child, young or adult, to work through the process of having been abused by the very persons who were supposed to protect them and keep them safe.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, fidgeting with a loose thread on his robes. “I often wonder what my life would have been like if my parents had been alive to raise me.”

“I’m sure you do,” Roland said. “Your life has not been an easy one.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Harry muttered.

“Can you tell us more, Harry?”

Harry had been referring to Voldemort, and the headmaster said that he could talk about that if it came up, but that it might be better to work on one problem at a time. In other words, to focus on the abuse, and really, Harry knew that was what he needed help with the most at the moment.

“So, you’re saying,” Harry said, dodging the question, “that it wouldn’t have mattered if I was a wizard or not, that my relatives would have found something to hate about me, and they would have abused me anyway, just because I was there.”

“Yes, Harry,” Marsha said gently. “And most importantly, it wasn’t your fault.”

“I just kept thinking that if I could have been normal they wouldn’t have hated me.”

“Unfortunately,” Roland said, “it is never as simple as that, although children, and even adults, who are abused, think that very thing. It is a way for them to feel a modicum of control in a situation that is entirely beyond their control. The alternative is to feel completely helpless.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. His brain felt fuzzy. It felt like all too much information at once.

“If you believe that meeting the abuser’s expectations will stop the abuse, then you feel that you are in control of their actions. For instance, if last time your abuser hit you they claimed it was for not doing the dishes properly, you might think that if you’d just gotten them a little cleaner, or done them a little faster, that they wouldn’t have hit you.” Roland explained.

Harry nodded.

“The problem is that the reason the abuser hit you had nothing at all to do with the dishes. He or she just used that as an excuse so he could blame you for his own actions. If an abuser was to be honest, he might say: ‘I hate myself today and I have no self-worth. I am angry at myself for failing this that or other thing. I don’t like feeling angry, and so I am going to take my anger out on someone weaker than me. Then I can feel like this big strong person who’s in control of my life.’ Of course that’s not what they say. They say, ‘You didn’t do this right, or you didn’t do what I wanted you to do.’ Or they find some other way to place the blame on your shoulders.”

Harry tried to absorb Roland’s words.

Marsha added, “It’s never the victim’s fault. There is nothing that the victim could have done to avoid being abused, short of removing themselves from the situation entirely, which isn’t an option for a child.”

“I think I see what you are saying,” Harry said. “But it’s going to take some time to sink in.”

“Harry,” Dr. Marsha added, “if you found out that your friend Hermione’s parents treated her the same way as your relatives did you, would you think it was her fault that they abused her?”

“No!” Harry was horrified by the thought of that happening to Hermione.

Roland interjected, “But her parents are Muggles too, and Hermione is a witch. Wouldn’t she have deserved it for being so different from them?”

“No,” Harry denied vehemently. Shaking his head he said, “I see where you are going with this. It’s easy to see that my friends would not have deserved this. It’s just harder for me to see it when it’s me.”

“It’s always easier to feel compassion for another person. Self-compassion, Harry, is much harder for most people.”

Harry nodded. He had a lot to think about.

 “Ready, Harry?” Covey asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Harry said.

“I bet ye just want ta get it over with, aye?”

Harry nodded.

Severus watched as Covey visually checked in with Madam Pomfrey and then himself. He nodded his consent that he was ready.

“Alrighty, then, Harry, just go ahead an’ relax,” Covey coached. “I’m goin’ ta start with me hands on yer chest as always, aye? Madam Pomfrey an’ Professor Snape will be here ta help ye with whatever ye need, ken?”

Harry took a deep breath and nodded.

“There’s a good laddie,” Covey soothed. “Nice an’ easy.”

Snape watched as Covey laid her hands on the Potter’s chest. She glanced up briefly and smiled at Severus, before returning her attention to her work.

Snape found that he liked to watch her: the way her hands glided over her patient with an assuredness that made him envious, the way her closed eyes fluttered and her lips pursed as she concentrated, the way she hummed when she was ensconced in the healing process. He thought he could watch her all day.

First, she ran her hands lightly over Potter, checking to make sure that all of the healing she had done in previous sessions had held. If anything needed to be tweaked, she always did that first. This part of the healing usually only took a few minutes, since she rarely had to redo her work.

Occasionally, she had told him, there was a stubborn spot that didn’t want to stay healed, but when that was the case, it was usually more of an emotional block than a physical block on the patient’s part. Covey’s hand checked over Potter quickly, so clearly all was well regarding her previous work.

Now her hands rested once again on his chest as she waited for Potter’s body to lead her where her efforts were most needed.

Snape first noted that something was different when her hands wavered over his chest for much longer than normal. After an interminable length of time, he asked, “Covey?” But she just shook her head. She didn’t talk while she was healing. She said it took all of her attention and focus to do the healing; she couldn’t chat at the same time.

Still, it struck him as odd. Perhaps she was working on something in his chest, or his core, but as Potter was lying perfectly still and not showing any physical reaction, Snape didn’t think that was the case. Potter always reacted physically when Covey healed him.

Covey had told him that this wasn’t always the case, but because Potter had used his own magic to mend himself, and because his magic was untrained, she’d have to release his elemental magical bindings before she could heal him. By releasing his magic in the injured areas, she would cause his body to revert to the injured state before she could properly heal it. And that meant immeasurable pain for the boy.

Snape and Poppy tried to stay ahead of the curve with potions and Occlumency, but even so, it wasn’t easy on Potter, and they all knew it. Albus’s phrase that it was all in Harry’s best interests had come to make Snape want to strangle the old wizard.

Snape jerked to attention as a shudder ran through Covey. He stood, on full alert should he be needed, but there wasn’t anything he could do at this point. He looked to Poppy, who looked equally unnerved.

“Everything in order?” Snape asked Poppy.

Poppy nodded. “His vitals are holding steady.”

Reluctantly, Snape returned to his seat. He couldn’t fight the feeling that something was wrong. Looking at Covey’s face didn’t ease his worries: She looked distraught.

As he watched, her hands slid gradually up Potter’s chest to his neck, pausing momentarily, and then to the boy’s head. Here, she seemed to settle. Slowly, she moved her hands around his skull. When she began to hum, Snape felt himself relax. Potter twitched and moaned a little, but then was still.

Releasing the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, he looked to Poppy, who smiled in understanding. He noticed her hands unclench as well.

Later, Snape wouldn’t have any recollection of that brief moment of serenity: the calm before the storm.

Snape jumped to his feet instinctively when Covey cried out. Her hands, which normally rested gently upon Potter’s body, had a death grip on Potter’s skull as if she was trying to hold it together. The next moment, Potter was screaming in agony.

Poppy was on her feet, gathering potions.

“Give him a calming draught,” Snape demanded.

Poppy put the potion to his mouth, but Potter was inconsolable and refused it.

“Spell it into his stomach,” Snape urged.

Clearly Poppy’d had the same idea, as she was already doing it.

Snape knew the second it hit Potter’s stomach because Potter instantly expelled it, spewing vomit everywhere.

Covey made a sound of such desperation that both Poppy and Snape gaped at her. She was shaking her head as if in denial of whatever was happening inside Potter’s body. Tears had gathered on her lashes, her eyelids still firmly shut.

“Covey, what’s going on?” Snape demanded.

Still shaking her head, Covey managed to whisper, “Gotta focus… canna talk.”

“His blood pressure’s dropping,” Poppy announced, notified by her monitoring spells.

“Merlin’s balls,” Snape muttered, looking at Potter in horror. The boy’s head and face had deformed, his jaw hanging to the left, the right side of his head bashed in. Blood poured from his nose, his mouth, his ears. Just when Snape thought it couldn’t get any worse, Potter started seizing and choking on his own blood.

“Anapneo!” Snape barked, clearing Potter’s airway as Poppy frantically cast spell after spell from her side of the bed. Suddenly, Potter went limp.

“I’m losing him,” Poppy shrieked.

Snape glanced at Covey, who seemed to be deep in concentration, her hands now gliding urgently around the boy’s face and head. As if mesmerized, Snape literally saw Potter’s head swell and shrink, indentations come and go.

“Severus!” Poppy cried out. “His heart stopped. I can’t restart it. And he’s not breathing.” The tone of her voice matched the terror Snape felt.

“Out of the way,” Snape shouted. He started doing Muggle chest compressions. If magic wasn’t working, it was the only other thing he knew.

“Stop the bleeding in his mouth and nose,” Snape instructed Poppy. “Then support his neck and tip his head back.” He spared a brief glance to make sure Poppy was successful in following his directions.

Frantically, Snape pumped Potter’s chest. “When I say so, cover his nose and mouth with your mouth and breath into him. Two big breaths.” Snape said. “Now,” he commanded, pausing momentarily.

Poppy did as instructed. Snape watched Potter’s chest rise and fall with each of her breaths.

Restarting the chest compressions, Snape said, “Monitor his heart and breathing and let me know the moment one or both come back.”

“Severus, we need the headmaster,” Poppy said.

“Lina,” Snape called.

Instantly, a house-elf appeared by his side. “Master called Lina, sir.”

Although Snape didn’t have time to spare her a glance, he imagined her eyes would be bulging at the sight before her. “Get the headmaster,” he demanded.

“Now, Poppy. Two more breaths,” Snape directed, pulling away from Potter. As soon as she was done, he went back to the chest compressions. Sweat broke out on his forehead and the muscles in his arms were beginning to protest.

A brief look at Covey told him that she was working equally as frantically. One of her hands was on his broken jaw, the other where his head had been bashed in. Tears streaked her face.

The headmaster came running from Poppy’s office, Professor McGonagall right behind him; they must have Floo’d in.

“What has happened?” Albus demanded as Minerva gasped and covered her mouth.

Poppy spoke up. “We aren’t sure, other than he was bleeding profusely about the head and his heart and breathing stopped. He’s not responding to magic,” Poppy said helplessly, motioning to Snape.

“Now,” Snape said, and Poppy promptly exhaled two more breaths into the boy.

“If he dies Albus,” Snape said through gritted teeth, “it’s on your head!”

“What… what does that mean, Severus?” Minerva demanded.

Snape sneered, still pounding Potter’s chest. “I told him…“ Snape spat out, breathing heavily now from exertion, “Potter was breakable… but he … wouldn’t … listen.”

“Albus,” Minerva cried.

“Poppy, now,” Snape said, and Poppy, who was running constant diagnostics, bent over to give Potter another two breaths.

Snape heard Dumbledore say something, but the headmaster was the least of his concerns at the moment. “Poppy,” Snape gasped, “try the… cardiac spell… again.”

“Cardio-enervate!” Poppy shouted.

They waited with bated breath.

Snape cursed. “Breathe for him Poppy,” he said, starting chest compressions again the moment she finished.

“What is that you are doing to him?” McGonagall asked.

“Muggle CPR,” Snape breathed.

“Cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” Poppy clarified. “Muggles use it. We only use it when all else fails.”

“Last… ditch… effort,” Snape choked out. “Poppy, now.”

Poppy gave two long breaths.

Snape’s arms began to shake. Covey was still frantically working over Potter. Potter’s jaw looked normal again, the bashed in side of head now only dented.

“Now,” Snape rasped out, and again Poppy breathed for him.

“Severus,” Albus called.

“Not. Now,” Snape jerked out, his arm muscles screaming in protest.

“Poppy.” Snape paused and wiped his brow as Poppy breathed into Potter’s mouth and nose.

“Try. Enervate.” Snape rasped.

Three “Enervates” resounded around the room. Snape looked up to see that not only Poppy, but also Minerva and Albus, had all cast the spell at the same time.

Both Minerva and Poppy cried out when the boy gasped and his chest rose of its own accord. The monitor once again showed a steady heart rythmn. Severus promptly fell into a chair, panting heavily. “Merlin’s fucking balls,” he muttered under his breath, hanging his head as he tried to steady his breathing.

He felt Albus’s gnarled hand on his shoulder. “Well done, my boy,” Albus praised, and Snape didn’t even have enough energy to tell the man off.

As soon as he got his bearings, Snape went to Covey. One of her hands was now on Potter’s head, the other, on his chest. He stood behind her and put his hands on her hips. “It’s me,” he whispered. “I’m here for you.”

Although her hands never wavered, he felt her lean back into him, silently accepting his support. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, still breathing heavily as he leaned his head against hers. “You are doing an amazing job,” he breathed into her ear. “Just a little bit longer,” he encouraged her. “You’re almost done.”

Snape had no idea if what he said was true, but he knew she must be even more drained than he was. He knew that, all too soon, the adrenaline would fade from his body and he’d be dead on his feet.

If anyone was surprised to see Severus Snape hugging the Healer from behind, they didn’t say so. And frankly, he didn’t care. The only two things he cared about at that moment were Covey’s warm body pressed against his, and the steady beat of Potter’s heart being played out on the monitor.

It was a quarter of an hour later before Covey’s hands finally drifted to Harry’s chest to seal the healing, signaling the end of the session. When her hands finally slipped from Potter’s chest, the Healer collapsed. Had Snape’s arms not already been around her, he wouldn’t have been able to catch her. As it was, he was caught off guard, and the best he could do was ease her onto the stone floor. Covey was trembling in his arms. “She needs a blanket,” Snape called out.

“Let’s get her into a bed,” Dumbledore said, squatting beside Snape.

“I’ve got her,” Snape said, lifting the trembling witch in his own shaking arms. Albus summoned one of the beds closer and Snape set her gently atop the mattress, throwing the blanket Minerva handed him over her. “Covey?” he said, as he stroked her hair. “Can you hear me?”

She nodded her head as tears slid down her cheeks.

“Shhh,” Severus soothed her. “It’s over now. Whatever happened, it’s over now.”

“He should’ve died,” Covey moaned. “He was only nine and he shouldna lived.”

Snape sat on the bed beside her, holding her hand and wiping the tears from her tender skin.

“What do you mean, Coventry?” Albus asked.

“No one could have survived what they did ta him.” Covey gulped in air. “The only reason he lived was because o’ his magic, ye ken?”

“It’s all right,” Snape said again. “He’s alive. His heart is beating and he’s breathing on his own. He’s fine now.”

“But I donna know that he is,” Covey lamented. “I donna know if he’ll ever be fine again. So much damage,” Covey whispered, turning her face into the Snape’s caressing hand and weeping.

Choosing not to touch on this subject just yet, Snape asked gently, “Can you tell us what happened?”

“His magic saved him, aye, but he was so badly off, that all he could do was bind himself together by the smallest magical thread. And when I released his magic, when I released it...” Covey put her hand over her mouth to cover her sob, “he just fell apart.”

He left Potter in Poppy’s capable hands with strict instructions to contact him immediately if anything in Potter’s condition changed. Then he scooped up Covey and carried her in his arms to Poppy’s office where he Floo’d them both directly to his quarters.

He held Covey close until they reached his bedroom where he set her on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed and tears still seeped from them as she leaned against his shoulder for support. Snape’s heart ached for her.   

Murmuring words of comfort, he gently laid Covey back onto the mattress and kissed her on the forehead. Then he got to his feet and pulled his robes off, throwing them over a chair as he made his way to his private potions stores. He returned a moment later with four small vials.

Slipping his hand under Covey’s shoulder and neck, he raised her up slightly. “I have two potions you need to drink,” he instructed her gently. “One is a nutrient potion, and the other is a restorative draught.”

Clearly too tired to object, Covey obediently drank both, a grimace on her face at the taste. Snape laid her back down and banished her robe and her shoes to the same chair his were tossed over. “Do you want me to undress you?” he asked. She nodded.

He could have done it with his wand, but it seemed too impersonal. Instead, he carefully unbuttoned her slacks and slid them down her slim, shapely legs. He then helped her wiggle out of the light sweater she wore. Lastly, he unclasped her bra, slipped it off one arm, and then pulled it through the other side; a trick he learned years ago from watching Lily do it. That left Covey in a purple cotton tank top, turquoise knickers, and white ankle socks.

He smiled at the sight of her. As exhausted as he was, which was surely nothing compared to Covey, he could still appreciate the sight of her beautiful, womanly figure. With a twinge of regret, he pulled the sheets and blankets up over her, hiding her from his view, and kissed her brow. “I will join you in a moment,” he murmured.

Snape downed his nutrient and restorative potions in one long gulp and took a quick shower. He Floo called Poppy to make sure Potter’s condition was still stable, and then, wearing only his smalls, he slid into bed beside Covey and dimmed the lights. It was only 7 pm, but he had no doubt they would both be able to sleep until morning, or until duty called.

“Come here, you,” he said huskily as he slid beneath the bedclothes. Earl Grey jumped on the bed and sidled up to him. “Not you, ya daft cat,” he muttered, shooing Earl Grey away. Lying on his side, he scooted closer to the center of the bed, pulling Covey to spoon against him.

She was curled on her side as well, and they fit together perfectly: her legs curled around his, her bum nestled into his crotch, her back to his chest.

He buried his nose in the sweet scent of her hair and inhaled deeply. He slipped his lower arm under her neck and wrapped his other arm around her, splaying his fingers across her warm, flat stomach. She made an appreciative sound and snuggled closer, her breathing slowly evening out, signaling that she’d fallen asleep. Snape closed his eyes, blissfully following her mere moments later.

“Sevvie?”

Snape came back to bed, sliding in beside her.

“Everything’s fine,” he assured her. “I just went to check on Potter. He’s resting comfortably.”

“Good,” she murmured. “What time is it?”

“Half four in the morning.” He kissed her softly on the lips. “Go back to sleep, love, everything is fine.”

“Aye,” she said. She rolled over to face him, pushed him gently on the shoulder to signify that she wanted him to lie on his back, then settled herself partially atop him, an arm and a leg straddling him as she lay her head in the crook of his shoulder. In the next moment, she was fast asleep.

Snape smiled, kissed the top of her head, and let slumber claim him once more as well.

Snape woke a few hours later to the feeling of fingers tracing over his boxers. He sighed in contentment and put his arms over his head. “This is a nice way to wake up,” he murmured.

Covey winked at him and then raked her teeth over his nipple, sending desire straight to his groin.

Snape groaned as Covey continued her ministrations. When her mouth joined her fingers, his world unraveled in a tidal wave of pleasure. 

As it was Sunday, Severus and Covey took breakfast in Snape’s quarters. Sated, refreshed, and secure in the knowledge that Potter was still resting comfortably, they enjoyed kippers and toast and pleasant conversation. They had just finished eating when a house-elf popped into Snape’s quarters. “Master Snape and Healer Cook,” the elf bowed, “emergency message. Poppy is needing you both.”

Severus and Covey bolted from the table and ran for Snape’s floo. The moment they burst from Poppy’s floo, they heard it: a high-pitched wail that was as shocking as it was eerie.

Poppy was struggling to contain Potter, who was resisting for all he was worth.

Snape pointed his wand and bound Potter’s shoulders, torso, legs, ankles, and wrists. He hated to do it, but Poppy’s nose was oozing blood and her lip was cut. Potter was clearly out of control. His eyes were wide and unfocused, his mouth open in that haunting wail.

“Legilimens.” Snape said, tunneling into Potter’s thoughts. Everywhere he turned was darkness. Pure, pitch black, darkness.

“Lumos,” he muttered. It cast enough light for him to see, except that there was nothing to see. “Potter,” he called into the void. The word seemed to echo back at him, empty and desolate. Snape continued searching, through dark landscape after dark landscape, finding no memories and no Harry. Finally, he pulled out of Potter’s mind.

“Poppy, sedate him, now,” he demanded.

“Severus, are you sure?”

“NOW,” Snape roared.

Poppy spelled a strong sedative into Potter’s veins and finally the wailing stopped, Harry’s combative limbs finally going limp.

Covey’s hands were on Potter’s chest but they weren’t moving, and a frown creased her face.

“What’s going on?” Poppy asked.

“Get the headmaster,” Snape said, and moved to place his hands atop Covey’s. “What is it, love?” he asked.

Covey opened her eyes, something she didn’t do in the midst of healing. Her face looked stricken. “I canna find his magic,” she whispered in distress. “Tis like it vanished.”

Snape felt his heart go into freefall and the grim expression on his face told Covey all she needed to know as well.

Moments later, Dumbledore burst from Poppy’s office, Poppy right behind him.

“What is it?” Dumbledore asked.

“Potter’s gone,” Snape said simply.

“Gone?” Dumbledore asked, clearly noticing the magical monitor showing that his vitals were normal.

“See for yourself,” Snape said, motioning toward Potter’s body, which lay quiescent on the bed, still bound by ropes.

Snape watched as Dumbledore picked up Potter’s wrist, closed his eyes, and delved inside the boy’s consciousness. Or lack thereof.

A moment later, Dumbledore released the boy’s wrist, his face one of utter devastation. He stumbled backward and Snape conjured a chair for the old wizard. Dumbledore slumped into it. “Coventry?”

Covey sucked in her breath, fighting back tears. “I canna find his magical trace,” she said. “I canna heal him if I canna connect ta his magic, ye ken?”

Reflexively, Snape moved to stand beside her, taking her trembling hand in his.

“Albus,” Poppy said, “what does this mean?”

“It means,” the headmaster said, “that either his soul has taken flight, or he’s hiding.”

“Hiding?” Poppy asked.

“It’s possible that the last healing was too overwhelming for him and he closed in on himself, so to speak. Imagine a black hole, sucking everything into itself—his magic, his essence, his soul. If that is the case, Potter is still in there, just very well hidden.” Looking to Snape, Dumbledore continued, “Perhaps he is a master Occlumens after all.”

“If that is the case,” Snape replied sourly, “he’s Occluding himself from himself.”

“Have you ever seen anything like this before, Coventry?” Dumbledore asked.

“Once,” Covey said with a shiver. “But he was a cursed child. Darkness through an’ through, ye ken? He hid his true self away so that no one would discover the darkness. When we finally found him, he tried ta kill us all.” Snape noticed Covey absently rub at her shoulder, where he knew she had a jagged scar.

Poppy made a sound of dismay.

“How did you find where he was hiding?” Albus queried.

“I donna know,” Covey said. “I was just workin’ with his magic, tryin’ ta heal him. There were others workin’ on his mind.”

“Poppy,” Snape began, raising his wand and quickly fixing her nose and lip, “how did Potter come to be in the state he was in when you called for us?”

“I was checking his vitals when he opened his eyes. I thought he’d woken up and so I began to talk to him. Then he just started screaming and flailing. It didn’t seem like he even knew I was here.” Suddenly Poppy’s expression cleared. “Healer Cook, you said the other boy was cursed?”

Covey nodded.

“What about Harry’s scar, Albus?” Poppy continued.

“No,” Snape said, shaking his head. “If the Dark Lord was in Potter’s head, I would have felt it.”

“Aye,” Covey added. “Before that boy hid, I worked on him. His magic always felt a bit off, I just dinna ken why. Harry’s magic has always been pure.”

“What do we do now?” Poppy asked all three, wringing her hands.

“We wait,” Dumbledore replied. “Give his body more time to heal.”

Looking to Snape and Covey, Dumbledore said, “Will you two please continue to try and reach him?”

Snape and Covey nodded.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Please keep me apprised of your progress and let me know if I can be of any assistance.”

No one said the one thought that hung heavy in the air: that if Potter’s soul had already flown, there would be no finding him or coaxing him back.

Hermione was working on her Ancient Runes homework when the Gryffindor common room suddenly went quiet. Looking up, she soon saw why: Professor McGonagall had just come through the portrait hole. With a rising sense of dread as McGonagall seemed to be making her way toward them, Hermione looked to Ron, who looked just as ill at ease.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said, “the headmaster would like to see you.”

Hermione felt her legs shake as she pushed herself up from the table. Sharing a fearful glance with Ron, she followed McGonagall out of the portrait hole, leaving behind the stunned silence. The only reason the headmaster would be summoning them was if something had gone wrong.

Hermione shook her head. She always overthought things. Perhaps the headmaster just wanted help with Harry, or was going to invite them to attend therapy with Harry. She tried to focus on more positive thoughts, but her head of house’s grim expression did nothing to ease her mind.

“Licorice wands,” McGonagall said, her voice sounding choked. “Go on up, he’s waiting for you.”

They rode the rotating staircase until it delivered them to Dumbledore’s large wooden door, which was already ajar.

“Mr. Weasley, if you could please shut the door behind you,” Dumbledore said. “Thank you both for coming. Please have a seat.”

Hermione sat, her heart racing, palms sweating.

“Would you like a sweet?” Dumbledore asked, offering his candy dish.

Ron took a red sphere, but Hermione shook her head. She was too nervous to eat anything.

Placing the glass dish back on his desk, Dumbledore sighed, his lined face suddenly showing all of his years.

“I’m afraid I must pass along some unfortunate news about Mr. Potter.”

At those words, Ron must have inhaled the candy, because his eyes had bugged out and he was holding his throat.

Dumbledore waved his wand and the sweet dislodged from Ron’s windpipe and flew out of his open mouth to land in Dumbledore’s hand. Dumbledore dropped it into the bin.

“Perhaps sweets were not such a good idea after all,” Dumbledore pronounced, looking grim.

“Is Harry okay?” Hermione asked.

“It would seem that the answer to that would be no,” Dumbledore responded gravely.

“Is he dead?” Ron demanded.

“Not that we know of,” Dumbledore said, “but he seems to have gone missing.”

“Missing?” Ron and Hermione said at the same time.

“Not all of him,” Dumbledore said, “not his body. That remains in the hospital wing.”

Hermione cried out and covered her mouth with her hand. Ron just looked confused.

“Like he’s lost his marbles?” Ron said.

“We aren’t sure,” Dumbledore said. “His mind is all dark. No thoughts, no memories, no Harry.” Dumbledore paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s possible that he is hiding deep inside of himself.”

“Why would he do that?” Ron asked.

“Did something go wrong with the healing?” Hermione asked.

“Miss Granger, you are as insightful as ever. Indeed the healing did not go as planned. I am not at liberty to discuss all of the details; that right remains with Harry, should he return to us.”

Hermione bit her tongue, trying to hold back the tears. “Can we see him?”

“You may,” Dumbledore said. “I have instructed Poppy to let you visit him whenever you like. It may help if he hears your voices.”

“What are you doing to fix him?” Ron demanded.

“Healer Cook is working on his magic, and Professor Snape is working on his mind,” Dumbledore informed them.

“Snape!” Ron shouted. “Snape hates Harry! He’d just as soon Harry not come back!”

“It's Professor Snape, Mr. Weasley,” Dumbledore corrected, “and I can see why you’d think that. However, the nature of their relationship has changed in recent months. Did Harry not tell you that?”

Ron grunted, clearly not willing to forgive five years of torment from the Potions Master, no matter the current circumstances.

“Has this ever happened before?” Hermione asked. “A wizard’s mind gone missing?”

“I am looking into that as we speak,” Dumbledore responded.

“Would you mind if I looked into it as well?” Hermione asked.

“By all means, Ms. Granger. The more, the merrier.”

“Could I have a pass to the restricted section?”

“You may,” Dumbledore said with a sad smile. With a flick of his wand, he conjured up a note and handed it to her.

“Is there anything else we can do?” Ron asked, his arms crossed tightly, his face locked in a scowl.

“I think visiting with Harry, talking to him, reminding him of all he has to live for, would be the best place to start.” Standing, Dumbledore added, “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to get back to researching a cure for Mr. Potter.”

The hospital wing was locked when Hermione and Ron arrived. Ron knocked loudly, clearly impatient to see Harry for himself.

Finally, the door creaked open. “Oh, it’s you two,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Come in.”

Once they were inside, Pomfrey locked the door behind them.

Hermione and Ron rushed to the private room at the back of the ward. Madam Pomfrey followed them inside.

“You can talk to him,” Madam Pomfrey said, “but keep it positive. We don’t want to upset him.”

“Can he hear us?” Ron asked.

“When Muggles are in a coma,” Hermione interjected, “they hear everything that is said around them.”

“What’s a coma?” Ron asked.

“Like what Harry is in now,” Hermione said.

“He looks like he’s sleeping,” Ron said.

“How’s he doing?” Hermione asked Madam Pomfrey.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” Pomfrey said. “Healer Cook and Professor Snape have been working with him all morning. They went to grab a bite to eat. They should be back shortly, and then you can ask them.” She looked at the two of them, huddled around Harry’s sick bed. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

“Hi, Harry,” Hermione said tentatively after Madam Pomfrey had left. “How are you feeling?” Hermione looked expectantly at Ron.

“Yeah, hi, mate. It’s Ron. Your best friend?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “He knows your voice, you prat.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Ron said, “I’ve never spoken to anyone in a comma before.”

“It’s a coma, Ron, and we don’t even know if he’s in one. It might just be a Muggle thing.”

“So what should we talk about?” Ron asked.

“Well,” Hermione said, “um, today is Sunday, Harry. And, we have classes tomorrow, and…”

“Harry doesn’t care about that,” Ron interrupted. “So, Harry, you gotta wake up because the weather is getting nicer now and with Umbridge gone, you can fly again! And if you don’t wake up, I’m going to steal your Firebolt and make you ride my CleanSweep.”

“Ron,” Hermione moaned.

“What?”

Just then, the outer hospital door opened. Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron as voices floated in their direction.

“We can try,” a heavily accented woman’s voice was saying. “It canna hurt anythin’, aye?”

Hermione and Ron watched as the witch and wizard came into view through the open doorway of Harry’s private room.

“Oh!” the woman said, putting her hand to her heart, “I wasna expectin’ anyone else ta be here.”

Snape stepped in behind her, scowling at the sight of them.

“What’s wrong with Harry?” Ron blurted out.

“What he means to say,” Hermione said, giving Ron a dirty look, “is how is Harry doing?”

“No, that’s not what I meant to say, I meant…”

“Ronald,” Hermione scolded in a whisper.

“Tis all right,” Covey said, holding up a hand. “I donna mind answerin’. Ta be honest, we donna really know. Professor Snape an’ I were just discussin’ that.”

“Professor Dumbledore said that Harry might be hiding. Why would he do that?” Hermione asked.

“Tis possible that the memories the healin’ brought up were too much fer Harry ta handle. We think he might o’ hid himself away deep inside himself ta protect himself, ye ken?”

“Protect himself from what?” Ron demanded.

“Ron,” Hermione implored. “Calm down. They are trying to help Harry.”

“If they were trying to help Harry,” Ron replied, “then he wouldn’t be laying here in a comma, or coma, or whatever.”

“Mr. Weasley, you will treat Healer Cook with respect or you will be spending a week in detention with me,” Snape said, glowering at Ron.

Covey put her hand on Snape’s arm. “Tis alright, Sevvie, Mr. Weasley’s just worried about his friend.”

Ron schooled his features and repeated in a less angry voice, “Protect him from what?”

“The pain, I imagine,” Covey responded. “An’ the fear, an’ the memories, aye? We donna really know, but somethin’ was too much fer him, ye ken?”

“How can we bring him back?” Ron demanded.

“We’ll let you know when we figure it out,” Snape said. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

Ron glared at Snape. Hermione was about to ask if they could help, when Covey said, “Nay, let them stay. I have an idea.”

Snape seemed put out, but acceded to the healer’s wishes. “Very well, but stay out of the way.”

Covey flashed them a smile and winked at them.

“What are you going to do?” Hermione asked.

“I’m going ta try ta connect ta Harry’s magic. An’ Professor Snape will try ta find where Harry’s hidin’, aye?”

“How do you find where someone’s hiding?” Hermione asked.

“Occlumency,” Snape said shortly, clearly done with the conversation.

Ron scowled. “Harry hated when you did that to him,” Ron declared. “Why would that bring him back? He’d probably just want to run away from you.”

“Ron,” Hermione groaned. “I’m sorry, Professor. Ron’s just really upset. We know you are trying to help Harry. And Dumbledore trusts you, so we… “ Hermione swallowed, “we do too, don’t we Ron?”

Ron grunted.

“As touching as your words are, Miss Granger, I really must get to work.”

Hermione glared at Ron, and he looked back at her as if to say, “What?”

Sighing, Hermione watched as Healer Covey laid her hand on Harry’s chest while Snape took his wrist. All was silent as both of them concentrated on their tasks.

“Go ahead an’ talk ta him, aye?” Covey instructed.

Hermione glanced at Ron and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Hi, Harry,” Hermione said. “We just wanted to come and see how you were doing. We miss you.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said. “It’s really boring without you. Hermione’s pants at chess, and she doesn’t know anything about Quidditch. I mean, what’s a bloke to do without his best mate?’

Hermione gave Ron an exasperated look. “Ginny’s been asking about you,” Hermione added. “She said she really misses the DA. We all do, actually. Neville was getting really good at the spells you taught us.”

They lapsed into silence, when Snape suddenly boomed: “Keep talking!”

Ron and Hermione jumped, glanced at each other, then resumed speaking.

The darkness in Potter’s mind was oppressive. Everywhere Snape went, it was tunnel upon black tunnel, a complex, twisting maze leading to nowhere.

“Potter, where are you?” he called, but there was no answer. It was frustrating and a bit eerie to be wandering these deserted channels. Not a speck of light or a shred of memory. Was Potter even still here? If he was, why was everything so empty and black? And where was his magic?

Suddenly, in the distance, he heard whimpering.

“Potter?” he called. He rushed through the tunnels, trying to locate the source of the sound. Just as he was getting nearer, it stopped. So, too, did the voices of his friends.

“Keep talking!” Snape shouted aloud to Granger and Weasley.

Returning his focus to Harry’s mind, his heart racing in anticipation, Snape waited. Potter’s friends had started chattering again, and so too did the sound of crying. “Potter, I’m coming,” he said, following tunnels, doubling back, trying to locate the source of the sound.

Then he saw it, a dim light in the distance. A light where there was no other light in this place of complete darkness. He raced toward it, only to come to a halt before a sphere of pulsating, arcing electricity. This clear, sparking bubble was Potter’s magic, and inside sat Potter, albeit younger than he was now. Snape lowered his wand.

“Pott… Harry, can you hear me?”

The boy was sitting on the ground, if you could call it that, his knees to his chest, his skinny arms wrapped around them, his head on his knees. The boy raised a tear-streaked face. “Who are you?”

“I’m Professor Snape, your Po… your science teacher.”

“No you’re not,” Potter responded.

“How old are you?” Snape asked.

“Nine. Why?”

Nine, Snape thought. The age Covey thought he was when he suffered the head injury that should have killed him. Snape crouched down outside the sparking sphere. “Po… Harry, I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to see if you were alright. We’ve been really worried about you.”

“Who’s we?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Your teachers, your friends.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Harry declared.

Snape scratched his head. This child didn’t know him from any other adult in his life, and he didn’t trust adults—for good reason.

“Why are you hiding?” Snape asked.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I care about all of my students,” Snape replied.

“No one cares about me,” the boy whispered, more to himself than to Snape.

“That’s not true,” Snape said. “I care about you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Harry said.

“I knew your parents,” Snape coaxed.

“My parents were killed in a car crash,” Harry asserted.

Snape was confused. Then he realized that that was what the Dursleys must have told him.

“I knew them before they died,” Snape said. “They loved you very much, Harry.”

The 9-year-old Harry curled in on himself. “I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember them.”

“But I can,” Snape said. “Your mother was my friend when I was your age. We went to school together.” He was hoping talking of the boy’s parents might draw him out, but it didn’t seem to be working.

The boy just shrugged.

“It’s awfully dark in here,” Snape commented.

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” Harry stated.

“I am sure you aren’t,” Snape conceded. “But perhaps you’d like to come with me, to where it’s lighter and brighter.”

The boy shook his head.

“Why are you here?” Snape asked.

“Because no one can hurt me here.”

Snape couldn’t dispute that. “Aren’t you lonely here?”

Harry gave a bitter laugh that sent chills down Snape’s spine. For a boy of nine years old to be that jaded was heartbreaking.

“I’m sure your friends miss you, Harry.”

“I told you,” Harry said. “I don’t have any friends.”

Snape frowned. “Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the boy said, turning away.

“It matters to me,” Snape said.

No response.

“What if I told you that you did have friends. Two best friends. And I could bring them to you right now.”

“I’d say you were lying,” Harry replied.

“Would you mind if I proved you wrong?” Snape asked.

“Do whatever you want,” Harry said.

“Will you wait here for me?” Snape asked, afraid to lose the boy again.

“I suppose,” Harry said.

Snape pulled partially out of Harry’s mind, enough to be able to communicate with Granger and Weasley.

“You two,” Snape practically shouted, making both Hermione and Ron jump again.

“Take my hand,” Snape demanded, waving his free hand around. “I’m going to pull you inside. I found him.”

Hermione grasped Snape’s long fingers. His skin was cool to the touch. Ron grabbed onto his thumb, Ron’s palm resting against Snape’s.

“Whatever you do, do not let go.”

In the next instant, Hermione felt herself being sucked into blackness, cool air rushing against her skin. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. Suddenly, she realized that she was in a tunnel, a long, dark tunnel, with a faint light in the distance. In the next instant, they stopped.

“Potter is surrounded by his magical signature. To us, that manifests as an electrically charged bubble. Do NOT touch it.” Snape commanded. “He is nine years old. He will not know you. You must convince him that you are his friends and somehow get him to want to come back.”

“Right,” Ron said, straightening his shoulders. “Let’s go, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled at Ron’s take-charge attitude. “Remember,” she said, “don’t touch the bubble.”

Together they walked to just outside the sparking sphere. It reminded Hermione of a Muggle plasma ball, except that all the blue and pink arcing electricity was on the surface instead of inside.

“Harry?” Hermione said tentatively. “I’m Hermione Granger. We haven’t met yet, but we will soon, and you’ll be our best friend.”

Nine-year-old Harry looked up, curious.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, “We met on the train, and we play Quidditch together. Or, at least, we will.”

“What’s Quidditch?” Harry asked.

Hermione nudged Ron and mouthed “He doesn’t know about magic yet.”

Ron’s mouth formed into an “O”.

“It’s just a game you guys made up,” Hermione covered. “We do lots of things together.”

“Like what?” Harry asked.

“Well, for one, we go to the same school. So we have lots of subjects together.”

“And we eat lunch together,” Ron added. “And sleep in the same dorm.”

Harry looked doubtful. “You’re lying. My aunt and uncle would never pay to send me to a boarding school.”

Ron opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione elbowed him.

“Harry,” Hermione said, “in a couple of years you’ll start a new school and we become best friends.”

“So you’re from the future,” Harry said, clearly not believing them.

“Actually,” Hermione said, “we are from the same time as you. It’s just that, right now, you’ve sort of hidden yourself away at nine years old.”

Harry considered this. “I don’t believe you.”

“When I met you,” Hermione said, “you were really shy. And you were afraid all of the other kids would know way more than you. And that you wouldn’t fit in. You didn’t know it at the time, but we were all new too, and we were afraid of the same things.”

“But the school was really good, Harry,” Ron continued. “And you made lots of friends. And everyone liked you.” Ron said. “Well, except for this one git, but we don’t talk about him.”

Hermione shot him a look and Ron shut up.

“Harry, we really miss you. We were hoping you’d come back with us, so we can all be together again.”

“Why does everyone want me to leave?” Harry muttered. “I am safe here. Why can’t people just let me be for once?” To Hermione, he said: “I don’t even know you.”

“But you will,” Hermione coaxed.

“And you’re my best mate,” Ron added.

Harry shook his head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s just it, Harry,” Hermione said soothingly. “We do know you.” Hermione glanced at Ron. “We know that your aunt and uncle aren’t very nice to you. They make you do all the housework and they don’t feed you very much and they make you sleep in a cupboard under the stairs. We know that when your uncle gets angry, he…” Hermione swallowed, “he hurts you.” In a quieter voice she added, “With his fists and feet and… and other things.” Hermione saw Harry shudder. “And we are really sorry about that. We want to take you away from all of that. We want to help you.”

“Nobody can help me,” Harry moaned.

“Yes, they can,” Ron said. “Professor Snape, that man standing over there, the one that found you? He works at our school. And he’s been helping you a whole lot this year. And in our second year at school, over the summer, my brothers and I drove to your house in the middle of the night and we broke you out!” Ron was building up steam and continued enthusiastically. “You had bars on your window, Harry, and we pulled them off with the car and we stole you away! Your uncle was really mad, but you got to live with me and my family for the rest of the summer. And my family really likes you. My mum always makes lots of food so you can eat as much as you want. She says the Mugg… the Dursleys don’t feed you enough.”

Harry looked up, a mix of shock and hope on his face.

“Please, Harry,” Hermione said, “Please come with us. We love you, and we want to help you. We want you to be our friend again, in our time. Please.”

“Yeah mate, no one will hurt you at school. No one will hurt you ever again, I promise!” Ron said. “I won’t let them,” Ron said, cracking his knuckles for emphasis.

“We’ll keep you safe, Harry. We promise.”

“Promise,” Ron confirmed, nodding.

Slowly, and much to Snape’s relief, Potter stood up slowly. As he did so, his magical essence started to expand outward, first encompassing Ron and Hermione, and then Snape himself, and then seeping through his whole being. Hermione reached out and took the nine-year-old Harry’s hand, while Ron put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. As they walked, the tunnel started to expand, opening up more and more, and filling with light and color. The shadows started to recede.

“Are you ready to wake up, Harry?” Snape asked, keeping his distance.

The boy averted his eyes, scuffing his shoes on the ground. “Promise you won’t let them hurt me anymore?”

“I promise,” Snape said.

“I promise too, Harry,” Hermione said.

“Me, too,” said Ron.

“On the count of three, then,” Snape said, catching young Harry’s nod of assent.

“One – Two – Three!” Snape pulled himself, along with Weasley and Granger, out of Potter’s mind. The two teens fell to the floor, promptly picking themselves back up. Snape hadn’t moved a muscle. He vaguely recognized Covey humming in the background, a good sign indeed. But until Potter opened his eyes and spoke to them, he wouldn’t let his guard down. Maybe not even then.

Snape started counting the seconds in his head: one magic wand, two magic wands, three magic wands, four magic wands, five magic wands, six magic wands, seven ma…

Potter opened his eyes and pushed himself up on his elbows at the same time.

Covey lifted her hands and stepped back.

“Harry!” Miss Granger screamed, rushing toward him and giving him a hug.

“Welcome back, mate,” Mr. Weasley said, clapping Harry on the shoulder.

Poppy rushed over then. “Oh good heavens, Mr. Potter, you gave us all quite a fright.”

But Snape and Covey exchanged a glance. Something wasn’t right. Harry wasn’t moving, wasn’t smiling. His eyes were open, but there was no expression on his face.

“Harry?” Covey said, moving to squat before him so they were eye to eye. “Tis me, Healer Covey. Do ye remember me?”

“Cantse,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“What was that, dearie?” Poppy asked, leaning forward.

The monitors started beeping. Harry’s pulse was skyrocketing.

More loudly, Harry said, “I can’t see.” Pushing himself into a full sitting position, he rubbed his eyes harder. “I CAN’T SEE.” His breathing was fast and shallow, his panic clearly rising. “WHY CAN’T I SEE?” he shouted in desperation, swiveling his head this way and that.

Mr. Weasley looked dumbfounded, while Miss Granger had her hand over her mouth and appeared quite distraught.

“I CAN’T SEE!” Potter shouted again, his hands turning into claws as he started to scratch at his eyes in panic.

Snape grabbed his wrists to prevent him from injuring himself as he shouted, “Poppy, calming draught, now!”

Potter was starting to twist on the bed, fighting Snape’s hold. His feet were kicking out, his arms struggling against Snape’s grip.

Covey was speaking soothingly while trying to put her hands on his head, but he was bucking too hard to allow it.

Harry managed to get a hand free, and as Poppy brought the calming draught to his lips, his hand struck out, sending the potions bottle flying and giving Poppy another bloody nose.

Seeing things quickly getting out of hand, Snape tackled Potter back to the bed, using his strength to hold Potter’s upper body down, Potter’s wrists firmly encased in Snape’s grip.

“Weasley!” Snape yelled, “Hold his legs.”

Snape met Covey’s eyes for only a moment, but it was enough. Still holding the struggling teen, Snape said, “I’m going in.”

Potter’s mind was a mess. In his panic, he’d caused complete chaos. Colors whirled in every direction, a cacophony of noises echoed, and in the center of it all stood Potter, pulling on his hair, screaming as if in agony.

“Potter!” Snape shouted in his most commanding and intimidating voice. “Calm yourself this instant.” Much to Snape’s amazement, everything stopped. “Get control of yourself, Mr. Potter. This is no way to behave.” His voice was harsh, but he needed the boy to get a grip.

The colors that had been spinning so violently around them settled to the ground like confetti and the sound faded away.

“I can’t see,” Potter said in despair.

“So what,” Snape retorted. “So you’re blind. Big deal. Get over it. Lots of people are blind.”

Potter looked at him as though Snape had just slapped him. Snape watched as tears pooled in Lily’s beautiful, but unseeing, green eyes.

“I can’t be blind,” Potter said.

“Why not?” Snape snapped.

“Because, I just can’t be. How will I fly? How will I catch the Snitch?”

“Potter, if you want to fly, you will fly. If you want to catch the bloody Snitch, you’ll catch it.”

“But how?” Potter asked.

“I’ll help you. Now enough with the pity party. Your friends are waiting to see you and they won’t care if you’re blind either. For some reason, they seem to love you no matter what.”

Potter just stood there, looking stunned.

  “What is it now, Potter?” Snape asked.

“You’ll help me?” the boy asked.

“Of course I’ll help you. I’m not a monster, you know.”

Harry gave him a lopsided grin. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Snape’s heart settled in his chest and he let out his breath. It was a gamble, this no-nonsense approach, but it had worked. At least for now, and now was all they needed.

“So,” Snape said, “are you ready to talk to your friends?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, okay.”

“And, Potter?” Snape put his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “You’ll get through this. We’ll all help you get through this. All right?”

“Yeah, okay.” Potter said. “And, Professor?”

“Yes, Potter?”

“You’re squishing me.”

Snape laughed aloud and pulled out of Potter‘s head.

Snape stood up so he wasn’t squishing the teen any longer, but he still held Potter’s wrists, just in case.

Ron, who was laying over Potter’s legs to keep them on the bed, looked to Snape for confirmation that he could get up but Snape shook his head.

Potter opened his unseeing eyes and said, “It’s okay. I’m okay now. You can let go.”

Immediately, Mr. Weasley released Potter’s legs, but Snape still held his wrists. “Mr. Potter,” he said, “before you sit up, let Healer Cook finish examining you.”

“Okay,” Potter said, closing his eyes and relaxing on the bed.

“It wonna hurt a bit,” Covey soothed, her hands still cupping the boy‘s head as they had been since Snape had held him down. “Can ye feel me?”

“Yeah,” Potter said. “You feel warm and tingly.”

“Tis me magic touchin’ yers,” she said. “I’m gonna place me fingers on yer eyes now, aye?”

“Okay.”

Snape watched as Covey gently slid her fingertips over the boy’s eyes.

“Harry, have ye ever lost yer sight b’fore?” Covey asked.

“No,” Potter said.

“Do ye remember ever havin‘ a head injury?”

Potter shook his head, “No, not that I can remember.”

Snape glanced sharply at Covey, knowing all too well that Potter’s ‘head injury’ had been a fatal one and the only thing that had saved the boy was Potter’s own magic initially and, later on, all of them working together to save the boy.

Covey made a sound of encouragement as she slid her fingers to Potter’s forehead and then to his temples. “When yer eyes are open, Harry, what do ye see?”

“Nothing,” Potter responded. “Just darkness. Everything’s black.”

Snape spoke up then. “Can you perceive changes in light? Shadows? Motion?”

Harry took a deep breath. “No, sir, nothing at all.”

“Yer doin’ a great job, Harry,” Covey murmured, running her fingers down Potter’s cheeks and neck.

Potter‘s body shook like a wet dog. “Sorry,” he said, “that tickles.”

“Tis quite alright,” Covey said around a smile. “All done.” She slid her fingers off of Harry and smiled reassuringly at Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. “Ye did great, Harry. Ye may sit up now.”

Snape looked at her for any indication of what she had found. Her smile never wavered but she shook her head minutely, whether because it was hopeless or because she didn’t want to speak in front of Potter and his friends, he wasn’t sure.

“Ye must be famished, Harry,” Covey said. “Would ye like some lunch?”

“Yes, please,” Potter said, sitting up and rubbing his palms on his pajama pants.

“I will have the house-elves bring you something,” Snape said, looking to Covey for direction.

“We will let ye catch up with yer friends while ye eat, Harry, aye?”

“Ron and Hermione are still here?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Miss Granger said, taking Harry’s hand in hers and giving it a squeeze.

“We’re right here, mate,” Ron said. “We aren’t going anywhere.”

“Ron’s right,” Hermione said. “You’re stuck with us.”

Snape watched a small smile flit across Harry’s face and felt relief wash over him. If Potter was truly blind, he’d have a long road ahead of him and he’d need his friends.

Snape took his leave, following Covey into Poppy’s office. Poppy wasn’t there, which meant she was most likely informing the headmaster of Potter’s condition.

“Lina,” Snape said, summoning his favorite house-elf.

A pop sounded and an elf appeared in the uniform of a tea towel with the Hogwarts crest on it. “How may I serve you, Master Snape, sir?”

“Please prepare a lunch tray for Mr. Potter. Make sure that he is able to easily eat all of the foods with his hands. No silverware.”

“Right away, Master Snape, sir.”

“Shall we go my quarters?” Snape asked Covey, unsure if she’d want to stay near Potter or not.

“Aye,” she said, taking Snape’s hand as she led them to Poppy’s floo.

Sitting on the sofa in his study, Earl Grey curled happily in her lap, Covey spoke. “Physically, Harry is perfectly healthy,” Covey said. “There is no physiological reason fer his lack o’ sight.”

Snape considered her words. “Any theories as to why he is blind, then?”

“My guess,” Covey said, “is that he was temporarily blinded after his uncle attacked him. Then, either due to time or his magic, or both, he regained his vision.”

Snape nodded, considering her words.

“Tis also possible,” Covey said more gravely, “that he’s choosin’ ta be blind. Not consciously, o’ course,” Covey added. “But he donna remember the head injury that almost took his life, twice. So he might be blockin’ that memory an’ it’s manifestin’ itself by takin’ his vision, ye ken?“

“Is that possible?” Snape asked.

“Aye,” Covey said. “I’ve seen it before, though not as blindness, ken, but as other physical disabilities.” Sighing, Covey added, “In essence, his subconscious might’ve decided it’d rather be blind then have that memory.”

“How do we determine the root cause?” Snape asked.

“I think we should talk ta the Stanleys,” Covey said. “I’m guessin’ they’d know more about this sort o’ thing, aye?”

Snape nodded; it couldn’t hurt.

“There’s one other thin’,” Covey said.

Snape was leaning against the fireplace mantel, something he tended to do when he was contemplating a particularly difficult problem.

“He canna stay in the dorms. Not if ye all want ta keep his condition quiet, aye?”

Snape straightened. “That’s true.”

“An’ he canna stay in the hospital wing indefinitely either, aye?”

“I am sure the headmaster can arrange for Potter to have a private room,” Snape said.

“Aye,” Covey said, “but it isna safe fer him ta be alone right now, an’ not because he’s blind. If his subconscious is hidin’ his memories from him, when they come out, he could seriously injure himself.”

Snape was suddenly suspicious. “What are you saying, witch?”

Covey smiled slyly. “I’m sayin’ that the best place fer Harry would be here, in yer quarters, where we can keep an eye on him.”

Snape groaned and sank into a chair, his head in his hands. Glancing up through his fingers, he looked at the brilliant witch he’d fallen in love with. “I can see why Albus likes you so much. You two think alike.”

Covey grinned and continued to stroke his cat, who seemed to fancy her just as much as the headmaster did.

Sighing in resignation, Snape pushed to his feet. “We might as well go talk to the barmy old wizard. I’m sure he’ll be delighted by your conclusions. Plus, I’ll need his permission to add a room for the boy.”

Covey eased Earl Gray off her lap and came to stand by Snape. She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll need better than that for housing Potter,” he growled.

“Will ye?” she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him more firmly.

Moaning, he pulled the saucy witch against him, deepening the kiss and relishing in the feel of her body pressed tightly against his.

Snape and Covey returned to the hospital wing to find the trio sitting around a table playing wizard’s chess. Weasley was black, Potter was white, and Granger was narrating and helping Potter to find and move his pieces. Black was winning by a wide margin.

Snape saw Potter stiffen when the door to the hospital wing opened.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said soothingly. “It’s just Professor Snape and Healer Cook.”

“Do ye mind if we join ye?” Covey asked.

“Sure,” Potter said, looking in the direction of her voice.

Snape conjured two chairs, and Granger and Weasley scooted closer to Potter to make room for them.

“Harry, there are some thin’s Professor Snape an’ I would like ta discuss with ye.”

Potter nodded, seemingly resigned to his fate.

“Tis up ta ye whether ye’d like yer friends ta stay or not,” Covey said, placing a gentle hand over Potter‘s, which lay resting on the table.

Potter considered this a moment and then said, “I‘d like them to stay.”

Covey, as well as Weasley and Granger, smiled. “Aye,” she said. “First, do ye have any questions?”

“Do you know what’s wrong with my eyes?” Potter asked immediately.

Snape met Covey’s glance and nodded as Weasley and Granger looked on.

Gently, Covey said, “Nothin’ is wrong with yer eyes, Harry. Nor yer brain. Everythin’ is in perfect workin’ order.”

“Then why can’t I see?” Harry asked.

“That is the question,” Snape said.

Everyone around the table was silent for a moment.

“We have some thoughts on that, Harry, but we’d like ta run them by yer Muggle therapists first, aye?”

Harry nodded, looking disheartened and confused.

“If you prefer, Mr. Potter, we can bring the Stanleys here to Hogwarts so you don’t have to venture into London today,” Snape offered.

“That would be great,” Potter said, toying with a fallen chess piece with his free hand. “So, if there’s nothing wrong, then you can’t heal me?” he said, attempting to look in Covey’s direction but gazing to the side of her instead.

“Nay Harry, tis not somethin’ I can fix for ye.”

Potter’s shoulders slumped. “That’s okay,” he said, “I’m not sure I could go through another healing session anyway.”

“I do have one wee bit o’ good news,” Covey said, squeezing Potter’s hand gently. “When we worked on ye this mornin’, I was able ta finish the rest of yer healin’. There wasna much left anyway, but yer right as rain now, ye ken?”

“Except I can’t see,” Potter lamented.

“Harry, we will do everythin’ in our power ta help ye see again, ye have me word,” Covey reassured him.

“And even,” Hermione said, swallowing audibly, “even if we don’t find a cure, Harry, we will never stop trying, and Ron and I, we will always be by your side.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, “You can count on us.”

“Thanks,” Potter said.

“There is one more issue we need to discuss,” Snape said, watching as Potter turned his head toward him. “The headmaster feels it would be best to make alternate living arrangements for you until this issue is resolved.”

Potter stilled, apprehension coming off of him in waves. “What do you mean, sir?”

Snape grimaced. He was a very private man. It was one thing having Covey stay with him, but the thought of opening his private quarters to not only Potter, but also Potter’s care staff and friends, was irksome at best. At least it was only temporary, as Covey reminded him whenever his thoughts went down this path.

Snape looking to Covey imploringly.

Laughing lightly, Covey squeezed Harry’s hand. “We’d like ye ta stay with us.”

“Us?” Potter asked.

“Professor Snape an’ me,” Covey said, “in his quarters.”

Weasley choked and Hermione, looking equally surprised, patted Ron on the back as he coughed and spluttered.

Snape scowled at the playful grin Covey gave him. “They’d have worked it out sooner or later,” Covey said, leaning over and kissing Severus on the cheek.

Damn it all to hell, but Snape felt himself blush.

Covey laughed even harder. Leaning in to whisper in Potter’s ear, though not quite quietly enough, she said, “His bark is worse than his bite.”

Snape cleared his throat. “I know that staying with me, Mr. Potter, would not be your first choice. However, it is not feasible for you to live in the infirmary, and we would prefer not to advertise the fact that you have lost your vision, hopefully only temporarily, to the children of Death Eaters. Therefore, with Covey in residence,” Snape said, glaring at Covey who waggled her eyebrows cheekily in return, “it would seem that my quarters would be the most suitable choice.”

“What about his classes?” Granger asked.

Sighing loudly and pinching his brow, Snape said, “I presumed that you and Mr. Weasley would tutor him.”

Granger’s mouth formed an “O” of surprise, while Weasley grinned.

“They can visit me? In your quarters?” Potter asked.

“Of course,” Snape said. “Although you will endeavor not to drive me insane during your stay.”

“Donna worry, Harry, I’ll keep ye safe,” Covey teased.

Potter smiled, thought he still looked unsure.

“The castle’s already made ye yer own suite o’ rooms” Covey said. “It even gave ye yer own fireplace, so yer friends can come an’ go directly, ye ken?”

Covey hadn’t said as much, but Snape had insisted on that point. If Potter and his friends were going to be socializing at all hours of the day and night, the least they could do was not bother him about it. He had very little free time and what time he did have, he did not want to be continuously interrupted by the constant traipsings of Potter’s friends Flooing in and out.

“When do I move in?” Potter asked, sounding downtrodden.

“If the arrangement is amenable to you, Mr. Potter, we can relocate your belongings now.” Snape paused before adding, “Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley are welcome to accompany you.” Snape smirked inwardly at the looks of astonishment on Potter’s friends’ faces.

Potter took a deep breath. “You’ll be there too, Healer Covey?”

“Aye, Harry, I will be.”

“Ok,” Harry said. “I guess now is as good a time as any.”

“Do you want me to get his things, sir?” Weasley asked.

“That won’t be necessary. The house-elves will move his belongings,” Snape informed them.

“What should we tell the others?” Ms. Granger asked.

“The headmaster is working on that as we speak,” Snape replied. “He’ll make an announcement tonight at dinner.”

Harry felt sick to his stomach. He was going to live with Snape, of all people. Yes, Healer Covey would be there, and his friends too, but not all the time, not every minute of the day. It was true that Snape had been rather decent to him as of late, but Harry knew all too well that people acted very differently behind closed doors. And without his eyesight, if Snape turned mean, he wouldn’t even see it coming. Harry shuddered and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Fine,” Harry said, “Just… just cold.”

Harry was pretty sure that Ron and Hermione were exchanging glances about him, but without being able to see, he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t like this one bit. He couldn’t even walk by himself. Ron and Hermione had to guide him to the Floo in Madam Pomfrey’s office and one of them went into the fire with him.

Instinctively he closed his eyes in the cool tickling flames that he knew were green and felt himself hurtling through space until they stepped out of a different fireplace onto something soft. A rug of some sort, he guessed.

He heard Ron gasp beside him, while Hermione murmured, “It’s beautiful.”

“What?” Harry asked.

“Snape’s place,” Ron said in awe. “It’s not at all what you’d expect.”

“What’s it like?” Harry asked.

Ron tugged him. “Tell ya more later, mate,” Ron said as he tugged Harry to the side at the sound of two more people coming through the Floo. “But it’s cool. Not Snape-like at all.”

“I heard that, Mr. Weasley,” Snape said.

Healer Covey laughed. “I believe Mr. Weasley was complimentin’ Professor Snape’s talent fer interior design, which is quite sophisticated, I might add.”

 “You wouldn’t even know you were in the dungeons,” Hermione said. “No offense, sir,” she added.

“None taken,” Snape replied.

A moment later, Harry tensed as something bumped into his leg.

“I see you’ve met Earl Grey,” Snape said.

“Who?” Harry asked.

“My cat.”

“You have a cat?” Harry asked. He couldn’t imagine Snape with a cat.

“Obviously,” Snape replied.

“So he’s grey then?” Harry asked, bending down to stroke the cat he couldn’t see. The cat arched into his touch, purring loudly.

“No, he’s black. And skinny.”

Harry paused, not knowing if Snape was joking or not. It was so hard to tell people’s intentions when you couldn’t see their expressions.

“Why did you name him Earl Grey if he’s black?” Hermione asked.

“He has a certain obsession for tea,” Snape replied, and Harry heard a note of fondness in Snape’s voice.

“Harry,” Covey interjected. Harry stood back up at the sound of her voice. “We will spend some time getting ye acquainted with the layout of Professor Snape’s quarters later. But fer now, let’s get ye settled in yer rooms, aye?”

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Right this way,” Covey said as Ron on one side, and Hermione on the other, started walking him forward.

Harry stepped carefully, in case the cat was still nearby. He wanted to ask Snape how he ended up with a cat in the first place, but now didn’t seem to be the right time.

Suddenly, Ron and Hermione stopped walking.

“This is brilliant!” Ron declared.

“Harry, your rooms are gorgeous!” Hermione added.

“Why donna ye two show Harry around his rooms, aye?” Covey said. “We’ll just be in the study if ye need us.”

“Harry, you’re gonna love this!” Ron said. “Well, as soon as you can see again. Your room is huge! You’ve got a big bed, just like the ones in Gryffindor, the same curtains and all, but I swear my whole family could sleep in that bed! And you’ve even got a window,” Ron paused, “though how you’ve got a window when you’re in the dungeons, I don’t know. And then, over here,” Harry felt himself being turned to the right, “is your fireplace. You’ve even got your own sitting room!”

“And bathroom,” Hermione chimed in. “With a shower and a bathtub. And there are no rugs to trip on, either in the bathroom or in the main room. You’ve got a wardrobe for your clothes, and a table by your bed.”

“Can you walk me around so I can get used to where everything is?” Harry asked. He felt ashamed to have to ask, but what else could he do?

“Of course, mate,” Ron answered. “The fireplace is over here,” Ron said, taking Harry’s hand and placing it on the mantelpiece. “This is where we’ll Floo in. And it’s separated from your bedchambers by a wall, so no one can just pop in on you while your dressing or something. And here,” Ron said, leading Harry forward, “is a sofa and two arm chairs.”

“There’s also a large table with six chairs, which I’m guessing can be used for eating or studying,” Hermione added.

After Ron led him around his room in what felt like a random, zig-zag tour, Harry said, “Umm, this is great, but I’m going to need a better way to get from one place to the other.”

“You can follow the walls, Harry,” Hermione said. “They are empty and there is no furniture against them, probably so you can find your way from the bed to the bathroom and out into Professor Snape’s quarters.”

“And for things in the middle of the room, you can count your steps,” Ron said. Harry felt Ron let go, and then heard Ron say, “If you walk straight out of the bathroom, the table with the six chairs is about…. ten steps forward. And it’s another ten steps straight ahead to the sofa.” A moment later, Ron added, “And ten steps between the bed and the table, and ten steps between the table and the door.”

Harry could practically hear Ron thinking.

“They must have really planned this out for you,” Ron said.

“Of course they did,” Hermione said. “They wanted Harry to be able to get around on his own in his own room.”

Harry heard a man clear his throat. He turned toward the sound but didn’t move as he didn’t quite know where Ron had left him in the room.

“There is someone else who’s been pestering me all morning to see you,” Snape said.

Harry felt something hit him hard in the legs, and nearly toppled over backwards. “Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is so happy to be seeing you, sir. Dobby is wanting to help Harry Potter, sir.”

Harry felt something warm settle in his chest as he smiled. “Dobby, I am very happy to see you, too.”

Dobby made a sound that sounded to Harry like someone swooning.

“Anything Harry Potter needs, sir, anything at all, you is just having to call Dobby’s name sir, and Dobby will be here. Master Dumbledore says that Dobby can stay with Harry Potter all the time, sir, and not work in the kitchens, if that is what Harry Potter wants, sir.”

“Thanks, Dobby, I appreciate it.”

“Dobby is bringing lunch for Harry Potter and his friends, sir. Dobby is a good house-elf.”

“That you are, Dobby,” Harry said, reaching out for the elf he couldn’t see.

Harry felt his hand encapsulated by a small, knobbly one. “Dobby is right here, sir,” the elf said. “Dobby will be Harry Potter’s eyes, sir, until Harry Potter’s eyes works again, sir. If Harry Potter wishes it.”

“That would be great, Dobby.” Harry smiled. Maybe he wouldn’t have to ever be alone with Snape after all. Still holding the elf’s hand, Harry said, “Did you say you brought lunch? I’m starving.”

Snape and Covey left the trio and Dobby to fend for themselves as they went to meet with the Stanleys.

“A pleasure, as always,” Roland said, shaking both of their hands.

“How’s the rabbit doin’?” Covey asked Marsha with a wink.

“She’s doing great,” Marsha said with a childlike smile. “We named her ‘Bunny’.”

After greetings and handshakes were exchanged all around, Marsha led them from the waiting area back to their office.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet us early,” Snape said. “We have had a bit of a development, as I indicated earlier, and we could use your professional advice.”

“We’d be glad to help,” Roland responded.

“As you might imagine,” Snape proceeded, “we do things a bit differently in our world. For the sake of time and brevity, we ask you to delay your questions on how our world works until another time.”

“Of course,” Marsha said.

“What we have told you about Harry so far has all been true, although many of the details have been left out to avoid confusion between our worlds. Suffice it to say that you may not understand everything I’m about to tell you, but the essentials are all the same and should not affect what we need your help with.”

The Stanleys nodded and Snape continued.

“As you know, we became aware that Harry was abused only very recently. In our world, our magical essence, for lack of a better word, is intertwined with our physical well-being. Our healers, what you might call physicians, heal not only the physical body, but also the magical essence.” Snape observed his listeners to make sure they were still with him.

“Healer Cook, here, has been working with Harry once a week to heal the physical injuries from Harry’s past. In Harry’s case, it appeared that, after his injuries, he was not taken to any doctors, but rather, he used his own untrained magic to heal himself, subconsciously I am sure.”

“He healed himself?” Roland asked, looking stunned.

“It appears so,” Snape responded. “But as I said, he had no training and did not even know he was a wizard, so he was unaware of it.”

“How do you know he healed himself, then?” Marsha asked.

“Healer Cook found his magical traces around the injuries. In order to properly heal him, she had to undo his untrained magic and start the healing process from the bottom up, you might say.”

The Stanleys looked on in wonder.

“We worked as a team during these weekly healing sessions. We found that, when treating his past injuries, it tended to bring the memories of the injury to the surface, thereby unlocking the memories he had blocked.”

“Which is why you started bringing him to us,” Marsha surmised.

“Correct,” Snape affirmed. “These healing sessions, however necessary, proved to be immensely traumatic to Harry. He experienced flashbacks and uncontrollable panic attacks.”

Again, the Stanleys nodded.

“During yesterday’s healing session, Harry nearly died.” Snape felt Covey shift beside him, and he took her hand in his, squeezing it. “It seems that Harry had a very serious head injury when he was around nine years old, an injury that should have been fatal. Indeed, he did die on the cot yesterday while we worked to heal him.”

Marsha gasped, covering her mouth.

“But he survived?” Roland asked urgently.

“He did,” Snape assured them. “However, he has no memory of the abuse that caused his head injury, which is atypical of his response to the healing sessions. Much more troubling, though, is that when he awoke, he was—is—completely blind.”

“Blind?” Roland repeated.

“How so?” Marsha questioned.

“His vision is absent in both eyes. His pupils are responsive to light, although his brain does not interpret light or other visual stimuli. He complains of complete blackness, with no ability to distinguish shadows or movement.”

Snape gave them a moment to process his words before he continued. “Healer Cook confirmed that there is no physiological damage. His optical nerves are not damaged and his cortical brain centers are functioning properly. In other words, there is no physical reason why he should not have the capability of full vision.” 

“Pardon me for asking this,” Roland said, “but could have anything have been inadvertently damaged while you were healing him?”

“Nay,” Covey responded. “The way healin’ works is that I take the child back ta the original injury, ye ken, an’ then I heal it from the ground up. I heal in layers, so ta speak, usin’ magic as I go. If somethin’ wasna healed properly, I’d feel it.”

Covey noticed their uncertain expressions. “Think of it like an electrical circuit,” she explained. “If the wires arna all hooked up properly, the electricity willna flow, aye? Tis the same with magic. If anythin’ was wrong in Harry’s body or brain, his magic wouldna flow an’ I’d know it.”

“You will have to trust us on this,” Snape said.

“Ok,” Roland agreed. “Go on, please.”

“As we can find no physiological reason for his blindness, and as this particular memory and healing were particularly traumatic for him—he has no memory of either—we are left to conclude that the reason for his lack of vision is likely psychological,” Snape concluded.

“We wanted ta know if you’d ever heard of somethin’ like this happenin’ before. If there’s a name fer it, aye?” Covey added.

Marsha shared a meaningful glance with Roland. “There’s conversion disorder. I did my master’s thesis on it.”

Roland stroked his beard and studied his wife and partner thoughtfully. “That’s what I was thinking, too,” he said, “but it’s so rare.”

“It all fits, though,” Marsha said before turning back to Snape and Covey.

“Conversion disorder is a psychological disorder that has a physical manifestation with no identifiable physical cause. It typically occurs in individuals between the ages of 10 and 30, and it occurs immediately after a particularly traumatic event.”

“If I remember correctly,” Roland added, “children who were physically or sexually abused are at higher risk.”

“That’s correct,” Marsha affirmed. “It is also seen more often in individuals who suffer from anxiety or depression.”

“And blindness is a symptom of this condition?” Snape queried.

Roland nodded and Marsha said, “It can be, yes. Classical symptoms include either physical ailments such as partial or total paralysis or weakness in a given limb or set of limbs, or sensory deficits such as a loss of vision or hearing.”

Snape took a deep breath, steadying himself for the answer to the question he must ask. “And if Harry has this, what is the prognosis?”

Snape felt Covey squeeze his hand, whether in worry or support or both, he couldn’t be sure.

“It’s actually quite good,” Marsha said. “Symptoms typically last anywhere from an hour to a couple of weeks, and for most people, the symptoms disappear as abruptly as they arrived.”

“Tis great news, Sevvie,” Covey said, turning to Snape, her eyes alight.

“Let’s hope it holds true for wizards as well as Muggles,” Snape said, feeling less optimistic. This was Harry Potter after all, and the rules that applied to the rest of the world didn’t seem to apply to him.

“How can we help him?” Covey asked.

“You are doing it,” Marsha said. “Psychoanalysis and therapy, along with an individual who is willing to participate in the therapeutic process, yield the best outcomes.”

“Plus, he’s young,” Roland added. “Younger patients are typically more amenable to treatment. Their brains are more elastic too, more able to be rewired, so to speak.”

“Are there any other known treatments?” Snape asked. “Since Harry is a wizard, it is best that we cover all of our options should we need to try an alternative.”

“Of course,” Marsha said.

“I believe antidepressants and antianxiety medications have been used with some success,” Roland reported.

“Potions, aye,” Covey said.

“Potions?” Roland asked.

“Our version of medications,’ Snape clarified. “Anything else?”

“Hypnosis has been used,” Marsha added, “but without psychoanalysis, resolution of the primary symptom often results in its manifestation elsewhere. For instance, a person’s blindness could be resolved, only for them to become deaf.”

“We wouldna want that,” Covey said.

“I can check in the literature to see if anything new has come out, but the only other treatment I know of is TMS—transcranial magnetic stimulation. It uses magnetic fields to stimulate the nerve cells in the brain and can sometimes help to resolve the symptoms of conversation disorder,” Marsha informed them.

“It’s also been used, with some success, to treat anxiety and depression,” Roland added.

Snape nodded. “Thank you, this has been very helpful. And if you could review the literature for us, we’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Absolutely,” Marsha said. “If anything turns up, I will let you know right away.”

Snape paused, assessing the therapists seated before him. “Assuming Harry has conversion disorder, are you qualified to treat him?”

The Stanleys both nodded.

“Yes,” Marsha confirmed. “The treatment is not unique. It is the standard therapeutic approach that we use. In fact, almost all therapeutic methods will work.”

Roland nodded. “The important part is helping the patient to work through the trauma. In that regard, his therapy won’t really change, other than we will now be working through the added challenge of his vision loss and how that affects him emotionally.”

Snape nodded, then asked, “Is there any way to confirm that this is indeed what he is suffering from?”

“As long as Healer Covey is one hundred percent certain that there is no biological basis for his vision loss, and based on the preceding traumatic event and Harry’s history of being abused, it is safe to assume that he has conversion disorder,” Marsha said.

“And even if he didn’t,” Roland assured, “the treatment protocol is the same either way as there is no special treatment for conversion disorder.”

“It sounds as though we have a workin’ hypothesis, then, aye?”

“One more thing,” Snape said. “As I mentioned earlier, the head injury he suffered should have been fatal. Whatever happened to him when he was nine was enough to make him completely shut down. After we resuscitated him, he went into a coma of sorts. We had to use rigorous magical methods to coax him to come back to us, and when he did, he came back blind.”

Snape paused, gazing intently at the Stanleys, trying to impress the importance of this point to them. “Whatever that memory holds, I do not believe that Harry is strong enough to handle it at this point in time.”

“We understand, Dr. Snape. We will proceed with extreme caution,” Roland said, “as we do with all of our patients.”

“Yes,” Marsha echoed. “Most of the patients we treat have been abused and many have repressed memories. We help the patients work through the memories they bring to us. We do not attempt to recover memories, as that is a very dangerous practice. The mind releases blocked memories only when it is able to process them and not before.”

Snape nodded, satisfied with their answer. He glanced toward Covey. “Did I miss anything?”

‘Nay,” she said, touching his arm, “Ye covered it all.”

Covey grinned mischievously as she caught Snape’s gaze. “On ta the fun part now?”

Snape chuckled. “Go ahead.”

Covey glanced back at the Stanleys, a gleam in her eye. Tugging on her nose ring, she asked, “How would ye like ta visit a magical castle?”

“Appa-what?” Roland said, his eyes wide.

“Apparition,” Snape repeated. “It’s the fastest way to get where we are going, though it may be a bit disorientating for you, as you haven’t done it before.”

“Is it safe?” Marsha asked.

“Aye, it is that,” Covey said.

Snape awaited their decision as Marsha and Roland looked at each other. Snape knew Roland was on board—he found magic fascinating, and the allure of a magical castle was too much for him to pass up.

“You only live once, right?” he said to Marsha. “Let’s give it a go.”

Marsha was much more reluctant but, once her husband took Snape’s arm, her only choice was to hold onto Covey or be left behind.

“Front entrance, aye?”

“Yes,” Snape said, as he and Roland Disapparated on the spot.

Snape and Roland spun into being at the front gates of Hogwarts. Covey and Marsha appeared a moment later.

“Bloody mother of Jesus,” Roland swore, swaying unsteadily on his feet. “Bugger me if I ever do that again!”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Marsha proclaimed, her face deathly pale.

Snape looked over at Covey and grinned.

“Look,” Snape said, pointing to the grand castle beyond the gates. “What do you see?”

Roland was still pacing around, stamping his feet, and slapping his hands against his thighs. Marsha was standing bent at the waist, one hand on her stomach. At Snape’s question, they both looked up.

“I see a bloody ruin,” Roland said. “You put me through that for a bloody ruin?”

“It says, Danger, Keep Out,” Marsha said. She looked first at Covey, then at Snape. “Is this some sort of joke? Why are we even here? This place doesn’t feel safe at all.”

Covey smiled and patted Marsha on the shoulder. “Ye see a ruin and feel uneasy because ye are Muggles, aye? The castle has a bunch o’ spells an’ enchantments on it ta warn away non-magical persons like yerselves.”

Roland looked doubtful, Marsha flat out disbelieving.

“Are you sure we are at the right place?” Roland asked.

“Positive,” Snape said. He reached up to unlock the gates. They swung wide upon recognizing him, allowing him and the others entrance. “Trust me. Once you step through these gates, you will see the castle in all her glory.”

Roland and Marsha shared a glance, clearly worried they were being tricked.

“Would it help if I transfigured one of these rocks,” Snape pointed to the ground, “into a rabbit? Or maybe an elephant?”

“No, no,” Roland said, “that’s quite alright.” Tentatively, he stepped over the threshold and gaped. “Marsha,” he said, his voice filled with awe, “you have to see this. It’s absolutely amazing…”

Marsha looked warily at the gate, likely worried about being locked in once she stepped through the archway.

Snape raised an eyebrow at her.

Finally, her fate decided, she took a cautious couple of steps forward to join her husband. Soon, all reluctance vanished from her features as the same childlike glow she’d had when she’d held the bunny rabbit swept over her face. “It really is magical,” she whispered.

Covey sidled up next to Marsha’s side as Snape closed the gates. “Tis only the beginning, ye ken?” Covey said with a wink.

“It is Sunday, so the students won’t be in class right now,” Snape informed the Stanleys. Checking his watch, he said, “It is not dinnertime yet, either, but I imagine we will still run into a few students in the corridors. They may or may not be in uniform, since it is the weekend.”

“Right,” Roland said, looking eagerly at Snape. “A magical castle,” he said, shaking his head. He looked to his wife and grinned.

“This way, then,” Snape said, leading the group forward. “We will enter through the main doors and turn right. At the end of the long corridor you will see The Great Hall, which is where the students and staff eat their meals. We will be turning left and taking the stairs to the dungeons.”

Marsha stopped mid-step. “The dungeons?”

Giving her a deadpan expression, he said, “That is where my living quarters are.”

“You live in a dungeon?” Marsha asked, clearly alarmed.

“Sevvie,” Covey said, batting his arm, “Stop scarin’ them.”

“What?” Severus said with a straight face. “I do live in the dungeons.”

“Dinna fash,” Covey said, rolling her eyes as she took Marsha by the arm. “Tis really quite beautiful. There‘s nothin‘ ta be afraid of, I promise.”

They made their way up the front steps before Snape stopped and turned to face them. “I must remind you both that you have signed a confidentiality agreement. Anything that you see—from the time you entered the gates until the time that you leave them—is strictly confidential. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” they both said.

“In addition, you may see a variety of things that are unusual to you. Please save your questions until we are in the sanctity of my quarters, or until your return journey, understood?”

Again, they both nodded.

“Finally,” Snape said, “Harry will be there, as will his friends, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. While magic is new to you, it is normal for them. I would therefore like to remind you that you are here, by our invitation, in a professional capacity.”

Choosing his words carefully, Snape continued. “Harry is still quite fragile at present and is struggling to come to terms with the loss of his vision. Therefore, I ask that you keep Harry’s needs at the forefront of your mind, regardless of the uniqueness of what you will experience here today. You are of course welcome to share your questions or comments with either one of us,” Snape gestured to Covey and himself, “at a later time.”

“Absolutely,” Roland said.

“Yes, of course,” his wife responded.

“Very well, then. Are you ready?” Snape asked.

“Ready,” Roland replied, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Marsha merely nodded, clearly more unsure.

Snape took the last few steps and pulled open the large wooden doors. “Please follow me.”

He led them past the jewel-filled hourglasses, several statues, and a few moving portraits to the intersection of the entrance hall and the main thoroughfare. This was the main transfer point in the castle, and several stairways ascended to the various floors of Hogwarts, a few of them moving occasionally to shuttle students to a different location. Snape watched as the Stanleys, eyes wide with wonder, tried to keep their reactions in check.

“This way,” Snape said, leading them down the main corridor toward the Great Hall. Suits of armor saluted them along the way and a few students in Slytherin robes greeted their head of house, while others just looked curiously at the group of them. A couple of first years were playing a game of gobstones in an alcove, while farther along, some older students were waging war across a game of wizard’s chess. A ghost floated by and, unable to see it, the Stanleys just shivered. A stray owl was perched on a windowsill, hooting dolefully. Another student passed by levitating a cauldron in front of him with his wand. Said student promptly grabbed it and shoved it behind him when he noticed Snape. Hagrid the half-giant walked by, dwarfing them all and greeting them jovially as he passed. Two Hufflepuffs holding brooms skidded to a slow walk upon seeing Snape, heading to the Quidditch pitch, no doubt.

Snape glanced at Covey, who was clearly enjoying the Stanleys’ stunned expressions.

“The Great Hall,” Snape announced. They all stopped for a moment as the Stanleys peered inside at the raised dais where the staff sat, and the four long house tables. Several students were scattered throughout, working on homework or socializing.

“This way,” Snape said after a few moments, leading them to the stairway to the dungeons. As they descended deeper into the castle, sconces lit the windowless corridors, giving the stonework a yellowish glow. It was cooler down here, as well. Fewer students were in the halls, and the atmosphere was more subdued. Snape liked it that way. He had enough energetic students to last him a lifetime.

“Down this passage, if you please,” he said, leading them to one of the entrances to his quarters.

Standing in front of a stone wall, set apart from the rest of the corridor by a decorative stone archway that seemingly led nowhere, Snape tapped his wand against a particular stone in the wall and said, “Moonwart.”

Instantly, the stones slid apart to reveal a heavy wooden door. He placed his palm on the door and it, too, slid aside, admitting them into his private living space. He led them through a short passage and into the sitting room.

“Please have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the grouping of furniture surrounding them. A fire burned in the grate, taking the chill out of the air.

“I’ll make some tea, aye?” Covey said, winking at Snape as she made her way to the small kitchen.

Marsha and Roland remained standing, taking in their surroundings with dumbfounded expressions.

“Incredible,” Roland said.

“This is beautiful,” Marsha said, admiring the high cream arched ceilings supported by thick wooden beams, the tasteful decor, leather furniture, matching wooden bookcases, desks, and tables, and the large off-white fur rug that lay upon the flagstones.

Snape gave them a moment to absorb what they’d seen, smirking at their childlike wonder.

Everyone jumped when an unexpected voice rang out.

“I thought I heard voices.”

They turned to see Harry, standing in an adjacent doorway, arms outstretched to either side, holding onto the doorframe. Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger stood behind him looking nervous.

“Harry,” Roland said, stepping toward him. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

Harry nodded, and held out his hand, searching blindly for Dr. Stanley’s.

Roland took it and shook Harry’s hand. “Dr. Marsha is here as well,” Roland said, guiding Harry’s hand to Marsha’s so they could shake hands as well.

“It is very interesting to be here,” Marsha commented. “And these must be your friends,” she said warmly.

Harry stepped to the side, still holding the doorframe with one hand.

“I’m Hermione Gr… Hermione,” she said, stopping herself giving her last name as Snape had instructed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Marsha said, shaking Hermione’s outstretched hand.

“And I’m Ron,” Ron said, holding out his hand as well.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Marsha said, shaking Ron’s hand.

“Yes, indeed,” Roland added. “Harry here is very lucky to have you.”

“We are more lucky to have him,” Hermione said.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “getting in trouble wouldn’t be half as much fun without Harry. I mean…” Ron stammered, looking guiltily at Snape.

The Stanleys just laughed.

“Can I get anyone anythin’ ta drink other than tea?” Covey asked.

“I could go for a pumpkin juice,” Ron said.

“Ron,” Hermione gasped, “she wasn’t asking you! She was asking Dr. Stanley and Dr. Stanley.”

“Well, she wasn’t not asking us,” Ron complained. “She didn’t say: Dr. Stanley and Dr. Stanley, do only the two of you want something to drink?”

Snape found the bickering painful to listen to, but Harry had begun to smile at his friends and for that, Snape was grateful.

“Umm… just a glass of water?” Marsha asked. “You do have water, don’t you?”

“O’ course,” Covey laughed. “An’ fer ye?” she asked Roland.

“I wouldn’t mind trying something I’ve never had before,” he said.

“Aye, I will get somethin’ special fer ye, then.”

“I guess we should get going,” Hermione said. Looking to Snape, she said, “Can we stop by after dinner?”

“You may,” Snape replied. “If you prefer, you can have dinner here with Harry.”

“We can?” Ron asked.

“I believe I just said as much,” Snape responded.

“Great!” Ron said. “See you later, Harry.”

“Bye, Harry,” Hermione said, lightly touching Harry’s arm. “We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“I was thinking we could all sit at your table, Harry,” Snape said, practically getting stuck on Potter’s first name since he never used it. Perhaps it was time he started. “Would that be acceptable to you?”

The boy nodded.

“Do you need assistance finding a seat?” Snape asked.

“No thanks, I can manage,” Harry replied.

Snape watched as Potter turned in the doorway and then walked in a diagonal line to the table, counting his steps as he went and stopping within a foot of it. He then felt around for a chair, pulled it out, and sat down. Snape nodded in silent approval.

Covey came in levitating a tray full of drinks for everyone. “Butterbeer, Harry?” she asked.

“Thanks,” Harry said, holding out his hand for the bottle.

Covey placed it in his open palm. “I’ll sit next ta ye, aye?” Covey said, touching his shoulder as she sat. “An’ Professor Snape is sittin’ next ta me, ye ken?”

“I’m on your right, Harry,” Marsha said. “And Dr. Roland is right here next to me.”

Covey passed Marsha a gillywater and Roland a bottle of Rosemerta’s finest oak-matured mead. To Snape, Covey passed a cup of tea.

Speaking of tea, Snape looked around, noticing that Earl Grey was curled up on Potter’s pillow, fast asleep.

“Harry,” Covey said, “we spoke with the Stanleys before we arrived an’ they have a name fer what ye are experiencin’.”

“They do?” Harry asked, his head swiveling from left to right as he attempted to gaze where he thought they were sitting.

“We do,” Marsha said, touching Harry’s hand lightly to let him know where she was. “It’s called conversion disorder. It’s been around for a very long time, all the way back to ancient Egypt.”

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“It’s something that sometimes happens to people when they receive a great shock. An emotional trauma or something extremely stressful for that person. If it’s too much for their mind to cope with, the mind shunts the overload into a physical ailment. A loss of vision in your case,” Marsha said. “Rather like giving the emotional trauma a different outlet until the mind is ready to deal with it.”

Snape watched Potter as the Stanleys gave him a moment to process what they’d said.

“But there is some good news, Harry,” Roland interjected. “Conversion disorder is relatively easy to treat, and the treatment is what we are already doing here, talking about your memories and your feelings. The good news is that, as you integrate your memories and deal with your feelings, the physical symptoms should resolve.”

“In other words,” Marsha said, “the blindness should only be temporary.”

“Really?” Harry said, his whole body seeming to relax in on itself.

Snape cleared his throat. “That is how it works for Muggles,” he clarified.

For a moment, the room was silent and Harry’s body tensed once more, reclaiming the hunched position it had been assuming.

“Harry,” Covey said, “we donna know if it works the same way fer witches and wizards, but I have nay reason ta think that it doesna, aye? Furthermore,” Covey continued, “I donna think this is the first time ye lost yer vision.”

“You don’t?” Harry asked, looking startled.

“Nay. Ye had a pretty serious head injury when ye were nine,” Covey said. “An’ I think ye were blind after that fer a bit, too. I donna know how long, but ye got yer vision back that time, aye? So I think you’ll get it back this time too, ye ken?”

“And this time,” Roland said, “we’ll all be here to help you.”

“Yes, we will,” Marsha said reassuringly.

“Every step o’ the way,” Covey said, covering Harry’s hand with hers and giving it a squeeze.

Harry awoke abruptly, his mouth open in a silent scream, his heart racing. He opened his eyes to complete darkness. Panicking, he sat up and looked around frantically but there was no light. There was no light. He was blind. He remembered now. Tears came unbidden as he lay back. He rolled over and punched his pillow. How could he be blind? The Stanleys had said it was temporary, but they were Muggles. What if Snape was right? What if it worked differently for wizards? A sob escaped Harry as he curled in on himself, hugging the pillow, wishing with all his might that just once his life could be easy.

When Harry next awoke, it was to the sound of humming and the feel of someone lightly running their fingers through his hair. Covey.

“’Lo,” Harry mumbled. He felt shaky and his pajamas were damp with sweat. “What time is it?”

“Tis still the middle o’ the night. Ye were havin’ a nightmare. I just came in ta make sure ye were all right, aye?”

Harry felt shame rush up his spine. “Sorry I woke you,” he muttered.

“Shhh,” she soothed. “Ye didna wake me. I was readin’.”

Harry half felt as though he should tell Covey she could stop stroking his head, while the other half of him wanted to soak up her touch.

“Looks like ye got yerself a new friend, aye?”

Harry felt Earl Grey, who was sprawled out on his chest, stretch one long front leg, the furry paw brushing his cheek, before the cat curled back up into a ball over his heart, purring contentedly.

“Yeah,” Harry said, stroking the cat affectionately. “I never had a cat before.”

“Aye, an’ he’s a good one.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Covey?” he asked, knowing the answer already but needing to hear it from somewhere outside his own head. “Do I have to remember what happened to me in order to see again?”

Covey’s hand stilled. “Honestly Harry, I donna know. I think that when yer mind is ready, ye’ll remember what ye need ta remember, ye ken?”

“And then I’ll be able to see again?”

Harry felt Covey card her fingers through his hair once more.

“Tis more than just yer mind an’ body, Harry. Yer magic has ta be ready too, aye? I think that when all three are ready, then ye will see again.”

Harry felt despair creep over him. “How long will that take?”

“As long as it takes,” a deep, male voice said. Snape. A shudder of fear went through Harry.

“Tis alright, Harry,” Covey said. “Sevvie willna hurt ye.”

Harry heard Snape sigh as a new weight settled on his mattress.

A hand came to rest on his ankle. “No, Harry, I will not hurt you. I know you’ve had abominable experiences with the adults in your life, and I regret that I myself have not always been kind to you. But you have my word that I will not physically harm you."

Harry wanted to say What about emotionally? but he didn’t have the courage. He tried to relax.

“Want ta talk about yer nightmare?” Covey asked.

“Not really,” Harry said, “but I suppose I should.” Harry took a deep breath. “It’s always the same lately. I only get bits and pieces. My uncle dragging me out of the cupboard by my ankles as I‘m trying to hold on so he can‘t get to me. Then he’s got me up against the wall and he’s choking me and I can’t breathe. And then…” Harry‘s words got clogged in his throat. “Then I am filled with terror and everything goes black. I know something really really bad is about to happen. And then I wake up.”

Covey’s hand had paused in the stroking of his hair once again. Harry imagined that Snape and Covey were silently communicating through glances he couldn’t see.

Finally, Snape spoke. “Is this the same memory as the flashback you had the other day in my office?”

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“I see,” Snape said.

“Harry, when that full memory comes back, I want ye ta know that we’ll be here fer ye, ye ken? Sevvie an’ I, and yer friends too, and the Stanleys, we’ll all be here fer ye. It willna be easy, but ye are strong, Harry, stronger than ye know. We’ll help ye through this, aye?”

Harry felt Snape squeeze his ankle in silent confirmation of his support as well.

“Okay,” Harry said.

Snape cleared his throat. “I’d like you to take some Dreamless Sleep potion. Your body and mind need restorative sleep to process everything you’ve been through, and to heal as well.”

“All right,” Harry said. He wouldn’t mind not having that dream again tonight. The foreboding tone of it made him edgy and restless.

“I have it right here, Harry,” Covey said.

Harry felt her tip his head up a bit and, as he raised his hand, she placed the vial in it. He drank it down in one long gulp. It wasn’t as bad tasting as most potions, and he felt sleepy almost at once.

“We’ll stay til ye fall asleep,” Covey said. “Yer safe here, Harry. We’ll keep ye safe. No one can hurt ye here.”

Harry drifted off to sleep, the feel of Covey’s hand stroking his head and Snape’s hand on his ankle more comforting and needed than he’d ever care to admit.

Covey took Snape’s hand and led him back to bed. “This willna be easy fer him.”

“These things never are,” Snape agreed.

“I think,” Covey said, as she slipped under the sheets and welcomed Snape into her arms, “that the blindness is symbolic.” She met his gaze. “He doesna want ta see that bad memory. Tis too traumatic.”

“You’re probably right,” Snape agreed, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

Covey shivered as Snape ran his fingers down her neck and over the swell of her breast.

“This time, though,” he said, eliciting a gasp from Covey as he caressed her nipple into a firm peak, “he won’t have to face it alone.”

“Aye,” Covey said, her lips meeting his as she rolled him onto his back, settling her weight atop him. “None of us will have ta face it alone.”

“Mmm,” Snape agreed, pulling Covey tighter against him and kissing her with the passion of a man running not only from his own demons, but from those of the boy sleeping in the room next door.

“Harry,” Hermione’s voice rang out. “We brought you breakfast!”

“Yeah,” Ron’s voice echoed. “Time to get up, mate.”

Harry groaned. “What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock,” Ron said. “We thought we’d stop by before class.”

“Ugh,” Harry said, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table.

“Here you go,” Hermione said, and Harry felt the frames being placed against his fingers.

“Er…” Ron said. “Harry? Do you really need those?”

Harry wondered for a moment what Ron was on about. “Oh,” Harry said, pulling his glasses off. “I… No.” Harry shrugged. “Habit I guess.” Harry reached out to set the glasses back on the bedside table.

“Keep them on, Harry,” Hermione said. “You never know when your vision will return, and it would be best if you could see when it does.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, “you’re right, Hermione.”

“I’m always right,” she said.

Harry laughed. His friends bickering used to drive him to the brink of insanity but now it just made everything feel normal. And considering he was blind and living in Snape’s private quarters, ‘normal’ was a very welcome feeling.

“Oh!” Hermione suddenly said. “We forgot to tell you. Last night at dinner, Dumbledore motioned for us to come up to the head table. He told us that your uncle had passed away unexpectedly and that you had left the castle to be with your relatives.”

“He said you’d be gone for a few days,” Ron added.

“It was rather clever of him,” Hermione observed. “That way, the teachers overheard him, and all the students in the Great Hall were super curious, so of course the rumor spread quickly.”                                      

“That’ll work,” Harry said. “Now I just have to get my vision back so I can return to Hogwarts.”

“You will, Harry,” Hermione said, patting his hand.

“What’s for breakfast?” Harry asked, getting up and counting the ten steps to the table.

“Good mornin’, Harry,” Covey called, knocking loudly on his door. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Harry called.

“Did yer friends come by this mornin‘?” Covey asked.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “We had breakfast. Hermione is going to bring over some homework for me at lunch.”

“That’s good.”

“Is it?” Harry said. “I won‘t be able to read Hermione’s notes, much less my textbooks, and I won‘t be able to write. I don‘t know how I‘m supposed to keep up with my schoolwork.”

“Harry,” Covey said, her voice sounding nearer. “Mind if I sit next ta ye?”

Harry shook his head and scooted over. He had been sitting on the edge of his bed, contemplating how on earth he was going to pass the time, when Covey had arrived.

Harry felt the mattress dip next to him.

“I ken how ye can do yer schoolwork,” Covey said.

“Yeah?” Harry said, his voice more sarcastic than he meant to make it.

“Well,” Covey said, ignoring his attitude, “there’s this wee little thing called magic,” she said, lightly bumping her shoulder against his. “I ken we can charm Hermione’s notes and yer books ta read ta ye, an’ I know I can charm yer quill ta write whatever ye say ta it, aye?”

Harry could hear the smile in her voice.

“An’ I’d bet I willna even be needed, since I have a feelin’ that Hermione will already have it all figured out, aye?”

Harry did smile at that. “Yeah, I’m sure she does.” Harry closed his eyes—it made no difference, anyway—and said, “I’m sorry. I’m just having a really hard time with not being able to see.”

“I ken ye are,” Covey said, “but it’ll get better, I promise.”

Harry nodded, hoping beyond hope that she was right.

“Now,” Covey said, “what’d ye say ta takin’ a tour o’ Sevvie’s quarters? You dinna want ta be stuck in yer room all day, do ye?”

Harry felt Covey’s hand enclose his as she stood up. She pulled lightly, silently offering to hold his hand as she led him around Snape’s living space. One part of him wanted to protest that he wasn’t a baby. The other part of him enjoyed her touch; she was an attractive witch, after all, and intelligent, too. He might have to reconsider the latter; she was dating Snape, after all.

“Lead the way,” he said, and Covey did.

Harry was listening to the notes Hermione had taken in Transfiguration via an audio charm that Hermione had placed on them when there was a knock on his open door.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, “the headmaster would like a word with you.”

Harry stood up from the table in his room where he was working.

“No need to get up, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am happy to speak with you here. How have you been doing?”

“Fine,” said Harry automatically.

“Professor Snape tells me that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have made good use of the Floo in your room.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a smile. “Ron brings me dessert and Hermione brings me homework.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Dumbledore said. “Please, have a seat.”

Harry sat and heard Dumbledore do the same.

“I have some news that might interest you, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice had taken on a more serious tone. “Your uncle was arrested today by a select group of Aurors who specialize in Wizarding child abuse cases. They are under the strictest orders to keep your case confidential. In fact, as head of the Wizengamot, I picked them myself. Rest assured, Harry, that your uncle will be prosecuted to the full extent of Wizarding law, and will likely spend the rest of his life in Azkaban.”

Harry felt a trickle of ice-cold fear race through his blood. Uncle Vernon in Azkaban?

“I dare say he won’t be able to trouble you any longer, Harry,” Dumbledore said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry flinched at the unexpected touch. He supposed he should be happy at hearing this news; indeed, Dumbledore was expecting some response.

“That’s great,” Harry choked out. But all he could think of was how much Vernon Dursley hated witches and wizards and how his uncle was going to kill him for this.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s distress, “Professor Snape has been able to provide enough information from your memories that you shouldn’t even have to testify in the trial.”

Harry forced himself to nod. Dumbledore spoke as if he were handing Harry a gift. Yet, fear was gnawing at the base of Harry’s spine and he felt sick. This was bad; this was worse than bad. Uncle Vernon would be sooo angry, and Harry would be the one who would pay for this. Everything that went wrong was always his fault, and Harry knew Uncle Vernon wouldn’t be the only one coming after him; Dudley and Aunt Petunia would be, too.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, “I need to use the loo.” Harry bolted from the table as fast as he could, given that he had to count the steps to the bathroom, and locked himself inside, trying to control his breathing. He felt the hysteria coming on, the panic. Vernon was going to kill him. And Vernon was going to succeed this time. Harry just knew it.

Snape stood in the doorway to Potter’s room, watching the teen’s reaction to Dumbledore’s words. Instead of relief crossing the boy’s face, a look of utter terror seemed to grasp him. Snape frowned; Vernon Dursley wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. What was Potter worried about?

By the time Potter bolted for the bathroom, looking as though he was ready to vomit, Snape knew he’d need to intervene.

“Headmaster,” said Snape, “it’s getting late. I can answer any questions Potter may have.”

Dumbledore nodded, pushing up from the table. “Thank you, Severus. I am not as young as I once was. An early night would be welcome.”

Snape nodded and saw Albus to the fireplace before heading back to Potter’s room.

Snape knocked on the door. “Harry?”

There was no answer.

“Harry, answer me, or I am coming in.”

Still no answer.

“Alohomora,” Snape said, entering to find the Potter boy sitting on the closed toilet, his head in his hands, swaying. “What is it, Harry?”

“He’s going to kill me,” Potter said, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s going to kill me for this.”

Confused, Snape said, “Who’s going to kill you?”

“Uncle Vernon.”

“Your uncle has been removed from Privet Drive, Harry. He won’t be returning there. He won’t be able to lay a hand on you ever again.”

But Potter just shook his head, repeating his assertion.

This was not logic speaking, but some form of childhood trauma, and Snape wasn’t sure how to get through to the boy.

“He hates magic,” Harry said. “He’ll never forgive me for this. He’ll make me pay. He always makes me pay. Even when it’s not my fault. Even when it’s not magic,” Potter said, a shudder running through his body.

Snape wouldn’t mind Covey’s softer touch for the boy right now, but she’d returned to her apartment to take care of a few things. Snape reached into his robe and pulled out one of the vials of calming draught he’d taken to carrying with him at all times in case Potter needed it. “Drink this,” he said, handing it over.

Potter obliged, and Snape relaxed a little.

“It’s getting late. Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Potter shook his head.

“Alright, then. I have some essays to mark. Why don’t you come sit in the study with me and you can help.”

Potter’s head came up. “Sir?” he asked, clearly confused.

Snape smirked. “Surely you know enough now to be able to mark first year essays,” Snape replied.

Snape took Potter’s arm and led him to a comfortable chair in his study.

“I’ll be right back,” Snape said. He returned shortly with a stack of essays, which he set on an end table next to Potter. Then he handed the boy a warm glass bottle.

“Butterbeer?” Potter asked.

“Yes,” Snape replied. “Covey fancies them.”

“Thanks,” the boy said, opening it and drinking deep.

“Now,” Snape said, picking up the top essay. “I shall endeavor to read this tripe and you can tell me the errors in their thinking.”

Snape wanted his opinion? Harry paled at the thought. Was this some sort of trap? But when Snape began to read, he nearly spat out his butterbeer. The snide inflection and mocking tone in Snape’s voice as he poked fun at the ludicrous and often senseless essays were quickly becoming hilarious.

“The properties of water in potion,” Snape droned, “are to add water to the potion.” Snape paused. “So very astute, wouldn’t you say, Harry? And you wonder why I call you all dunderheads.”

Harry laughed. “I see your point, sir.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied, continuing. “Water comes from the ocean and it can be purified by boiling.” Harry heard Snape take a sip of something. “This one,” Snape stated, “is clearly Muggleborn. We needn’t boil water to purify it; a simple spell will do.”

“Were you Muggleborn, sir?” The question slipped out, and Harry quickly stilled, wondering if he’d overstepped some boundary.

“Half-blood,” Snape replied. “Muggle father, witch mother, raised mostly Muggle. My father hated magic quite as much as your uncle does, though he was somewhat less violent in his anger.”

Harry nearly choked on his butterbeer again at that pronouncement. Snape was abused as a child, too? It explained a lot, Harry reflected. He wished he could see Snape’s face.

“Are your parents still alive?” Harry asked.

“No.” After a long silence, Snape added, “In the beginning of my seventh year, my father shot my mother with a gun, and then himself.”

Harry gaped. His mind was reeling. “I am so sorry, sir,” he finally uttered.

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.” After a pause, Snape said, “Shall we continue?” He cleared his throat. “Water is an essential ingredient in potions that need to sit overnight so they don’t dry out.”

The way Snape read, it made it sound as if the first year was talking about a dead toad desiccating in the hot sun. Harry snorted.

“Really,” Snape said, “is it too much to ask for a little forethought?”

“Were we that stupid?“

In a deadpan voice, Snape replied, “Do you really need to ask?“

Harry laughed. He finished his butterbeer and tried to set the bottle on the table beside him. He felt Snape take it from him and muttered a quick thanks. Then he slid down in his chair a bit and laid his head back against it. He found that it was rather pleasant to listen to Snape’s deep voice and his acerbic wit when it wasn’t directed at him.

The professor did have a point; seen from a teacher’s perspective, these essays really were dreadful. Harry yawned and closed his eyes, a small smile on his face, as Snape continued to read the abominable essays.

“Harry. Wake up, laddie.”

The soft feminine voice drifted in his ears as a hand shook his shoulder. Startled, Harry jerked awake.

“Yer fine, Harry, tis just me, Covey, aye? Sevvie is here too.”

“Sorry, I must have fallen asleep,” Harry said.

“You should be,” Snape said. “The first years would be insulted.”

Harry was confused for a moment before he remembered that Snape had been marking essays and realized Snape was teasing. Actually teasing.

“I’m surprised they didn’t put you to sleep, too,” Harry said around a yawn.

After a beat of silence, in which Harry was sure some unspoken communication was occurring between his Potions master and his healer, Covey said around a smile, “They did. I found ye both here, snorin’ away.”

Snape groaned and muttered something that sounded like, “Insufferable witch,” at which Covey laughed.

“Come on, ye two, both o’ ye ta yer beds.”

“And bossy, too,” Harry heard Snape mutter.

Harry got to his feet and felt Covey’s warm hand lightly grasp his, offering assistance to his room should he need it. He held on as far as his door frame. “I’ve got it from here, thanks,” Harry said.

“Aye,” Covey replied. “Sleep well, Harry. I’ll see ye in the morn’, ken?”

“Yep,” Harry said. “Good night.”

Harry spent the morning with Ron and Hermione, catching up on the week’s gossip, discussing classes, and playing a rousing game of wizard chess with Ron. They were going to Hogsmeade later in the day and promised to bring Harry lots of chocolate from Honeydukes. As Harry no longer had healings on Saturday, it had been decided that it would be best for his Muggle therapists to come to the castle while most of the students were at Hogsmeade. And so it was that Harry was sitting at the table in his room with Dr. Roland and Dr. Marsha.

“How have you been doing?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Any more memories?” “Dr. Roland asked.

Harry shook his head. He’d told them the ones he’d had so far, or the bits and pieces of them.

“What about nightmares?”

“Always,” Harry said. And more than they knew. Of course there were the ones about his relatives, but Voldemort played into many of his night terrors as well.

“Dreams are often a place where we process our hopes, wishes, and desires. And in nightmares, we often face the things we are afraid of.”

“That sounds about right,” Harry replied.

“What else is going on?” Dr. Roland asked.

“My uncle was arrested for abusing me,” Harry volunteered.

“How does that make you feel?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said. The truth was, he felt terrified and ashamed and confused. “I know I should feel relieved, but I know how angry he must be. And he was arrested by wizards, which just makes it worse because he hates magic. So he’ll blame me. He always blames me. I just can’t get it out of my head that he’s going to make me pay for it.”

“Well, Harry, based on your past experience with your uncle, it makes sense that you would fear his anger and retribution,” said Dr. Marsha.

“Professor Snape keeps telling me that he can’t hurt me anymore,” Harry said. “Why am I still so afraid of him?” he asked in a whisper.

“The abuse started when you were very young,” Dr. Roland said. “You feared him because he hurt you. Even though your body aged, your primal fears began when you were still small, and they were continually reinforced throughout the years. Now suddenly you are being told that the threat is no longer present, but your body and mind are still on high alert.”

“In other words, Harry,” Dr. Marsha added, “you need to learn a new normal. And that takes time.”

Harry sighed. “I think the other reason I am so afraid is that I still have to go and live there for part of the summer.”

“Why is that?” Dr. Marsha asked.

Harry paused. While Snape and Covey had told his therapists some things about the magical world, they had not been told everything. “There is a reason I must spend at least two weeks there every year, preferably more. As you know, there are some things I can’t tell you, and this is related to one of them.”

There was silence for a moment, then Dr. Roland spoke. “When do you need to return there?”

“I usually go mid-June and stay until the end of July. Then I go and stay with one of my friends for the rest of the summer.”

“And there is no alternative?” Dr. Roland asked.

Harry laughed bitterly. “I wish. But I understand why I must stay there for that time. Still, it won’t be easy. I imagine it will be a little better with Uncle Vernon gone, but Aunt Petunia and Dudley will still be there, and they aren’t much better.” Harry fidgeted with a quill on the table. “They might even be a lot worse with Uncle Vernon gone.”

“Was your aunt also arrested for child abuse?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“No,” Harry said with a sigh. “For the same reason that I must return there every summer, she also can’t be arrested. She has to be there too.”

 “What about your cousin?” Dr. Roland asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about him. I have been assured that I won’t have to go there alone, so that should help.”

“Who will go with you?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe one of my friends. Maybe a house-elf.’

“A what?”

Harry smiled. “House-elf. They are magical creatures. They are about this tall,” Harry said, gesturing with both hands, “with these huge eyes. They are generally very loyal and very hard working.”

After a short pause, Dr. Marsha said, “I see.”

Harry doubted she did.

“So what scares you most about returning there?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“The memories, I reckon. Flashbacks, panic attacks. And how they treat me. It’s not always obvious to someone outside of the family.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” Dr. Roland asked.

“Well, if you didn’t know them, you probably wouldn’t pick up on a lot of it. But my aunt has this really cold look, and when she gets it, I try and stay away from her. And Dudley, he has this, ‘I’m going to get you’ look and this other, ‘I know what happened to you’ look. And it’s not always the words they say, but the way they say them. Their tone of voice. It triggers something in me, and makes me feel, I don’t know, wrong-footed somehow.”

“Can you say more about that?” Dr. Roland inquired.

Harry rubbed at the space between his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “It’s like I’m this worthless little kid again. Like nothing I can ever do is good enough. Or right. Like I’m tainted somehow.”

Harry sat at his table, head in his hands, trying to stay awake. History of Magic was just as boring when being narrated by Hermione’s notes as it was when Professor Binns gave the lecture. His mind was wandering when a loud pop brought him to full attention.

“Harry Potter, sir,” said a squeaky but deep voice that he knew very well. “It is Dobby, sir. Dobby brought Harry Potter some chocolate biscuits, sir.”

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harry said.

“Dobby brought Harry Potter some Gillywater and pumpkin juice as well.”

“You’ve thought of everything, Dobby.”

“Is there anything else Dobby can be doing to help Harry Potter, sir?”

Harry had the distinct impression that Dobby desperately wanted Harry Potter to need him. He wracked his brain, trying to figure out a task for the elf to do. “Well,” Harry said, knowing that he’d live to regret this but his friends would get a good laugh, “as I can’t see my clothes these days, I am finding it difficult to pick out ones that match. Perhaps you could put some outfits together for me so I know that I will look alright when I put them on.”

“Dobby would be most honored to match Harry Potter’s clothes for him, sir.“

“Great,” enthused Harry, anticipating the many odd looks and comments of the few people who would see him. Luckily, most of his socks were either black or white, but he was sure he’d be wearing one of each daily. He heard the elf in the background, happily rummaging through Harry’s wardrobe and putting together who knew what combinations. If Dobby’s mismatched socks and numerous, multicolored, toppling hats were any indication, he was in for a real treat. Or at least those around him would be.

Harry felt a tap on his elbow. “Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is not finding many clothes. Dobby knows where there is extra clothes at Hogwarts. Dobby will be right back.” And with that there was a pop.

“Er…” Harry was left to stammer to himself. He knew Dobby couldn’t do too much damage with the clothes that Harry had, but turning the elf loose in the castle to find extra clothes was another matter entirely.

Dobby returned with a pop. “Dobby has found the perfect clothes for Harry Potter, sir!”

The elf sounded so excited and pleased with himself that Harry didn’t have the heart to rein him in. Resigned, Harry said, “That’s great, Dobby. Well done.”

Harry returned to listening to Hermione’s notes, but he couldn’t concentrate. He tried to switch to Herbology, but without being able to see the sketches of the plants, it was no use. Thirty minute later, with nothing to show for his efforts, Harry gave it up as a bad job.

“Dobby, I am going to go and take a shower. Do you think you could give me a complete outfit to wear right now so I can change into it when I’m done?”

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said with glee, “right away, sir.”

In moments, Harry felt a pile of clothing being laid on his lap where he sat.

“I hope Harry Potter is happy with Dobby’s choices, sir. Dobby could not find many matching sets, but Dobby did the best he could, sir.”

“I am sure you did an excellent job,” Harry said, reaching out to pat the elf in gratitude. He connected with a pointy ear and slid his hand down to Dobby’s shoulder.

“Harry Potter is too good to Dobby,” the elf nearly sobbed.

Harry scooped up the piles of clothes, thanked the elf again, and went to shower.

Feeling that it would be too suspicious if both of them failed to turn up for every single meal, Hermione and Ron had started taking it in turns. Lunch fell to Hermione today and, as had become their custom, she went to McGonagall’s office to Floo to Harry. It was the most private and she didn’t have to worry about questions from other students as she would if she tried to use the Floo in the Gryffindor common room.

“Hi, Harr…” Hermione called, before interrupting herself. “What in the name of Merlin are you wearing?”

“It’s all the new rage, Hermione, straight from Paris.” Harry stood and twirled. He couldn’t see Hermione’s face but, from her silence, he imaged she was shocked or appalled, maybe both.

“Well,” Hermione said, “it’s certainly… unique.”

Harry burst out laughing. “Dobby wanted to do something to help me, so I let him put together some outfits for me. And then, he said I didn‘t have enough clothes, so he went and got some extras for me from somewhere in Hogwarts.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathed.

“I thought we could all use a good laugh,” Harry said, smiling. “So, what am I wearing?”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, for starters, you have one lime green sock with purple Snitches on it, while the other is puce with white lions.”

“Puce?” Harry repeated.

“Your trousers are bright red, and your top is a violent shade of yellow with vertical gold stripes and red buttons.” Hermione paused. “I think he was going for Gryffindor.”

“Well,” Harry said with a laugh, “don’t tell Ron. I want to hear his reaction.”

“I won’t,” Hermione said, “I just need to remember to bring my sunglasses this evening.”

“So what’s for lunch?” Harry asked, still smiling.

Harry was sitting on the sofa in the study, Earl Grey curled up on his lap, when Snape returned from classes. Harry heard Snape’s entrance, his footsteps, and then, his silence.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, and Harry had the impression the man was choosing his words carefully, “where on earth did you find such stylish attire?”

“Dobby,” Harry said with a smirk.

“Pardon me?”

“Dobby was bored,” Harry replied, “so I let him pick out clothes for me.”

“You let that elf dress you?” Snape exclaimed.

“I think it’s sweet,” Covey said. “Dobby adores Harry, aye?”

“Dobby,” Snape replied, “is off his rocker.”

Harry burst out laughing.

“Aye,” Covey said, laughing as well, “but he means well.”

A cup of tea was set beside Harry on the end table.

“Tea, Sevvie?”

“Please,” he replied.

“How was yer day?”

“A second year Hufflepuff blew up a cauldron,” Snape replied. “I had to send three students to the hospital wing.”

“Ouch,” Harry said.

“Indeed,” Snape replied. “Then, a sixth year Ravenclaw played a prank on another student, causing her potion to shoot up in flames, scaring everyone in the class and leaving a burn mark on the ceiling.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “What did you do to him?”

“Detention for a month,” Snape replied. “And we won’t even mention your class,” Snape said with menace in his voice.

“Ah Sevvie,” Covey said, “yer days are always so entertainin‘.”

Severus growled and Covey’s laugh tinkled across the room. Then Severus groaned loudly and Harry suddenly felt hot. He didn’t know what they were doing as he couldn’t see, but he suddenly wondered if he should go to another room.

“Yer shoulders are always so tight,” Covey said. “Ye need ta relax more, Sevvie,” Covey said.

“You work with that lot of dunderheads and see how relaxed you are,” Snape retorted.

Prompted by their banter, Harry realized with surprise just how relaxed he’d become here, in Snape’s quarters, with Covey and Snape around. He leaned back against the sofa, eyes closed, and continued to stroke Earl Grey, who purred appreciatively. He reveled in the unfamiliar feeling of comfort and home and hoped that for once, unlike most everything else in his life, it wouldn’t turn out to be too good to last.

The next morning, Hermione and Ron had both come for breakfast, and Ron had come for lunch.

“So, rumor has it that Umbridge is in Azkaban,” Ron said with relish.

“Really?” Harry asked.

“Yeah. I don’t think it would have happened except for this one kid in Hufflepuff. Umbridge took a special dislike to him because he’s a Muggleborn and he grew up in an orphanage,” Ron said around a mouthful of food.

“See, it just so happens that there’s this pureblood family,” Ron continued, “and the chap gives loads of money to the Ministry. Meanwhile, his wife is into these charitable causes, and one of them is orphanages for magical kids. She volunteers there and visits all the time, and she knew this kid. When she heard what Umbridge did, she had a right fit. Pressured her husband to see that justice was served.” Ron loudly gulped down his juice. “I suppose Fudge had to pick between the two and, since the money that bloke gives the Ministry makes what the Malfoys give look like Knuts, Fudge put Umbridge on trial.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “Serves her right.” He felt a weight slide off his chest. He never expected Umbridge to get her comeuppance, what with her connection to Fudge and all. It was nice to see that justice was actually served sometimes, even if the reasoning behind it was skewed.  

“Potter!”

Harry jumped, his glass of pumpkin juice slipping from his fingers. He hadn’t heard Snape come in but more than that was the man’s tone of voice, as if Harry had done something terribly wrong. The tumbler hit the stone floor and the sound of breaking glass and sloshing liquid echoed throughout the stone chamber.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, squatting down automatically to clean up the mess. He reached out a trembling hand, intending to feel around for the broken glass and gather it into a pile.

“STOP!” Snape’s voice bellowed.

Harry froze.

“What in Melin’s name do you think you are doing?”

Harry started to shake. He couldn’t see the man before him, but he knew that tone of voice. That was the voice of anger, the one his uncle used just before he beat Harry senseless.

“I was going to clean up my mess,” Harry mumbled.

“You stupid child!” Snape roared. “You can’t even see!”

Harry rocked back, as if slapped by Snape’s words.

“Stand up this instant.”

Harry stood, waiting for the blows to come.

“Evanesco,” Snape said and, although Harry knew that the mess was gone now, he felt no relief. Fear coursed through his veins. Why was Snape so angry? What had Harry done? He thought they’d been getting along all right.

Harry instinctively felt Snape’s hands coming toward him and flinched away.

“Potter! Stand still!” Snape said, his voice ringing with impatience.

Harry stood, his heart racing. He felt something go over his head and settle around his neck and chest— a necklace of some sort. He ran his fingers along the chain, coming to rest on a piece of cool metal in the shape of an old fashioned key. He stopped the moment Snape hissed.

“That is an alarm beacon,” Snape said. “I am wearing an identical one. I will be in my lab. You are to rub the key like this,” Snape said, and Harry felt the pendant turn hot and vibrate, “if there is an emergency.”

Hard hands grabbed his shoulders as if to shake him. In a deadly voice, Snape sneered, “And you best not summon me for anything less than a dire emergency. Do you understand, Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed, sweat running in rivulets down his back and his heart raced. What the hell was going on?

“Call on your friends or that infernal elf if you need anything. I am not your servant,” Snape said, and the harsh hands disappeared from his shoulders.

Harry gathered up every bit of courage he could manage, knowing that questioning the man now was not the best idea. Yet he needed to know. “Will…” Harry swallowed, feeling incredibly nervous. “Will Covey be coming tonight?”

“I surely hope not,” Snape snapped.

With that, Harry heard Snape’s footsteps pound away, the door to his private storeroom and lab slamming in the distance.

Harry felt shaken. What had he done to make the Potions master so angry?

Disconcerted, Harry abandoned his thirst and made his way back to his bedroom. He knew that he wouldn’t bother Snape for anything in the world with the black temper the man was in. He’d have to be dying, and even then he wasn’t sure he’d summon the man. Still trembling, he sat on his bed and tried not to let the tears slip down his face.

What started out as a bad day with Snape turned into a bad week. The surly wizard was hardly ever around and, when he was, the man was terse and angry. He didn’t touch Harry in his anger and for that, Harry was grateful, but he still wondered what he had done to break the fragile truce that had formed between the two of them.

Gone was the cordial, if not kind, wizard he’d begun sharing quarters with. In his place was the man Harry had grown to loathe over the years. He didn’t like this venomous version of Snape at all and he certainly didn’t feel safe with him.

His nightmares roared back to life, his panic attacks increased, and his flashbacks held him prisoner more often than he cared to admit. He spent little enough time with Ron and Hermione that, for the most part, he could fake it while they were present, but he suspected that even they were beginning to realize that something was wrong.

He felt himself spiraling down a rabbit hole of despair. But Snape had said not to bother him unless it was an emergency. And running out of Calming Draught and Dreamless Sleep potion didn’t seem enough of an emergency to risk angering Snape over.

Covey was with him the night it happened. She’d been spending more time with him than with Snape lately, which Harry found odd. The only time he heard them together was some evenings after he’d gone to bed, and then, most times, they’d be arguing. At least their arguments were civil and verbal, and not the beat-your-brains-out arguments he had with his aunt and uncle.

Harry was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, Covey in a chair beside him. She was reading aloud from a mystery spy novel and Harry, getting sleepy, snuggled up on the couch with a pillow, blanket, and a very content Earl Grey.

Covey’s voice soothed him. With her, he didn’t feel anxious or depressed. He felt accepted. She wasn’t quite a mother figure to him—more like a big sister. A sister who cared about him and had his best interests at heart. A big sister who could be a buffer between him and the thunderous black cloud that Snape had become.

Then, in a flash of agonizing pain, Harry cried out, his hands clutching his forehead. He rocked forward as vision upon vision assaulted him. Voldemort, pure rage and white-hot hatred. His servant had failed him. His servant needed to be punished.

Harry tasted that fury as if it were his own. Hatred flooded his veins as he raised spider-like long white fingers, his ugly wand outstretched.

“What good are you, potions master, if you can’t even make me a simple potion?”

“Master,” Snape’s voice rasped, “I am trying. It is a complicated endeavor. It is taking longer than I anticipated. But I will succeed. I just need more time.”

“You useless fool!” Harry bellowed in Voldemort’s ice-cold voice. “You are intentionally delaying me. You wish for my plan not to succeed. Is that it, Severus?”

“No, Master, never,” Severus whispered, his voice a plea for mercy.

“You worthless servant,” Voldemort spat. “Maybe this will remind you not to dally.”

Snape’s screams echoed through Harry’s mind, snapping him out of Voldemort’s grip.

“NOOOO!” Harry screamed, gripping his hair and pulling hard as if to dislodge the memory. “No, no, no,” Harry begged. He was on his hands and knees on the floor, rocking back and forth. It had been just like Mr. Weasley. “Noooooo,” he cried. 

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. 

“Boy,” Uncle Vernon hissed, “get off that thing at once!”

Instantly, Harry landed, not even rebounding into the air after coming down from a height well above the treetops. Vernon’s face had gone from purple to white in an instant and Harry, who didn’t yet understand physics, couldn’t understand why.

Vernon’s fists were clenched, his beady eyes trained on Harry, the vein in his temple pulsing. “How did you get out of the cupboard?” the livid man breathed.

“I… I don’t know,” Harry whispered, his legs beginning to shake. “It just opened. All by itself. Like ma…”

But Harry felt a hand clamp hard around his ankle as he was dragged bodily off the trampoline and toward the back door of the house, which was still open.

“Ouch, ow, let go,“ Harry protested as he was dragged out of the opening, down the ladder, and along the ground, Uncle Vernon’s grip still tight on his ankle.

They passed the flower gardens, the whiskey barrel trailing strawberries, the cricket bat and dirty shoes leaning beside the back door.

“I told you that you were not allowed on Dudley’s trampoline,” Vernon seethed, dragging Harry over the threshold and into the kitchen.

Harry had never seen Vernon so angry, and he’d never been so scared in his life. 

“Didn’t I?” Vernon snarled.

Harry was shaking violently now. He had no defense. What could he say?

“Answer me, boy!” Vernon roared.

When Harry didn’t speak, Vernon picked the boy up and threw him across the kitchen. Harry’s face smashed against the edge of a worktop, his nose instantly gushing blood. Harry cried out but said nothing. He tried to squirm his way back toward the cupboard under the stairs, hoping to gain some distance from the violent, unstable man.

But Uncle Vernon was having none of it. He stood, his chest heaving like a bellows, as a gleam of something that made Harry feel sick to his stomach glittered dangerously in the man’s cold, cruel eyes. Vernon took a step back, his gaze never leaving Harry’s, and reached around the back door.

“Maybe this will teach you to listen,” Vernon said, swinging the brightly painted wooden cricket bat into view.

Harry’s eyes went wide with terror as he cowered on the floor. “I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon, please, I’m sorry. I won‘t do it again. I promise,” Harry cried.

“This will teach you to disobey my rules,” Vernon said, raising the bat.

Harry shrieked and instinctively covered his face but it did no good. The first swing struck Harry on the side of the head. Harry felt his skull crack as the bat sank in. Pain exploded behind his eyes, through Harry’s head, ear, and jaw.

“And this will teach you not to do any funny business in our home,” Vernon bellowed, as the bat came down again, this time on top of Harry’s head, bones crunching ominously in its wake.

Harry heard screaming in the distance—terrible, heart wrenching, agonizing screams. He grabbed at his exploding head, only to find his hair wet and slick. The blows kept coming, smashing his fingers, shattering his eye sockets, cracking his skull wide open. The pain was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. He couldn’t keep it all in. The last thing he remembered as everything faded to black was the taste of blood and bile in his throat, and the distant realization that the screams he heard were coming from his own mouth.

Rapt with attention, Snape was caught in the web of images that played mercilessly through Harry’s mind, and now his own. He couldn’t stop them, he couldn’t Occlude them. He was forced to experience them along with the boy himself.

For a short time, everything faded to black. Slowly, the room came back into focus. Now, instead of seeing the images play out from the boy’s perspective on the ground, Snape was floating near the ceiling, looking down at the horrifying, gruesome, blood-drenched scene below. Glancing to his side, he saw nine-year-old Harry Potter, floating next to him, watching as his uncle continued to pummel the small, unmoving body with the painted bat.

Spittle and curse words flew from Vernon’s mouth in time with the blows Vernon landed against Harry’s now caved-in skull, the jaw now hanging at an odd angle. The boy’s body wasn’t trembling anymore. He wasn’t even moving. He was slumped against the tiles, limbs splayed out and relaxed, a wet spot gathering between the legs of his too-big trousers. Blood was everywhere—covering Harry’s head and face and neck and chest, pooling on the floor, splattering the cabinets, the worktops, the walls. There was even some on the ceiling.

“Vernon!”

It was his aunt’s voice.

“Vernon, stop!”

Vernon looked to his wife, the bloody bat still clutched in his beefy hand.

“What have you done?” she gasped.

“The boy,” Vernon heaved. “The boy, he was… jumping… on the…. trampoline… higher than… the treetops!”

Petunia surveyed the badly beaten boy as well as the state of her kitchen and made a sound between annoyance and disgust. “If you kill the boy, his kind will surely notice,” she said, looking unnerved.

Vernon, who was sweating profusely, grimaced. “The last thing we need is his kind snooping around here.” He wiped his brow with a sweaty forearm and finally lowered the bat. “What should we do with him?”

Petunia pursed her lips. “Take some gauze from the first aid kit under the kitchen sink and wrap up his head so it stops bleeding. Then put him in his cupboard. His kind seem to be able to heal themselves.” Petunia looked around her kitchen in disgust. “Then clean this mess up and then change your clothes. I’ll distract Dudley. We’ll wait for you in the car.”

Harry and Snape watched from above as Petunia left the kitchen, leaving his uncle to deal with the mess. Vernon roughly wrapped Harry’s disfigured head in gauze, wiped down the boy’s bloody face with a wet hand towel, and then picked up the small child and carried him to the cupboard where he laid him on the mattress.

“You better not die, you worthless rat. I don’t need your kind nosing around here, you hear?” Vernon said. Then he slammed the cupboard door shut and went to find a mop to clean up the kitchen.

Abruptly, Snape was ejected from Harry’s memories. He fell back on his arse, panting. He felt sick and stunned and murderous. How could anyone hurt a child like that? Death Eater killings were ruthless, but at least they were quick. This slow torture of a child for wanting to be a child was beyond anything Snape had ever experienced.

Teenage Harry lay on the floor, tears running silently down his swollen and bruised face. He didn’t reach out for comfort. He didn’t complain about how unfair his life was. His hand no longer held onto Snape’s for dear life; instead, it lay limp on the floor, an inch away from Snape’s own.

To say Snape had misjudged the boy had been the biggest understatement of the century, second only to how much he had failed Lily Evans. Snape bowed his head in regret. He didn’t think it was possible to screw up as badly as he had.

“Harry,” he said, reaching out to squeeze the boy’s limp hand. “Let’s get you to your bed.”

Potter either didn’t or couldn’t move. Sighing, Snape cast a Featherlight Charm on the boy, scooped him up off the floor, and carried him out of the water closet. He laid Potter on the mattress, where the boy immediately curled into the fetal position and buried his head. The boy’s hand lay flat on the mattress and Snape took it in his once again. He wasn’t one to give comfort but, after what he’d seen, they both needed it.

“I am very sorry, Harry. You did not deserve that, any of it.”

Harry muttered something into the pillow.

“What did you say?” Snape asked, leaning closer.

“He tried to kill me.”

Snape closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “He did kill you, Harry. It was only your magic that saved you.” Snape vowed to do everything in his power to see that Vernon Dursley never saw the outside of Azkaban again.

“I tried to behave,” Harry said. “I really did. But nothing I ever did was good enough.” A sob escaped the boy. “Not for them,” Harry gulped, “Not for you,” he whispered, pulling his hand away. “Not for anyone.”

Potter’s voice rang with desolation, yet all Snape heard was: Not for you.

Snape put his head in his hands. He hadn’t meant to abuse the boy too, but he had. He might not have laid a hand on him physically but, to one who’d spent a lifetime being abused, the insults and cruel accusations Snape had made would certainly have left their mark on an already scarred child. Not to mention the last horrible week where he’d been short with everyone because Voldemort was breathing down his neck for a damn potion that may not even be possible to create.

“I misjudged you, Harry. Badly. I was blinded by my hatred of your father. It is no excuse. I was wrong.” So very very wrong, Snape thought. “I should have told you this long before now.” Snape ran a hand through his hair.

“I am not a nice man, Harry, not even at the best of times. I am impatient, exacting, and terse. I have no time for the niceties of life.” Snape paused. What was he trying to convey to the boy? He was tired, his body ached from the Cruciatus Curse, and here was this child, the son of the woman he had loved and the man she’d chosen over him.

“You didn’t deserve my wrath. Not on the basis of your father’s failings, and not this last week when my problems had nothing to do with you.”

Snape noticed that the boy’s tears had stopped, but his eyes were still closed.

The boy raised a hand to wipe his nose and winced.

“What happened tonight, if I may ask?”

“I had a nightmare,” Harry said. “I got up to use the loo. I got dizzy and fell and hit my nose on the basin. I’m pretty sure it’s broken,” Potter said, touching it lightly and wincing again.

Looking at Potter’s two black eyes and swollen face, Snape silently agreed.

“Then I saw the blood everywhere and everything just sort of came back to me.”

“Why didn’t you call for me when you hurt yourself?” Snape inquired.

“I…”

“Out with it, Mr. Potter.”

“I thought you were mad at me. I thought I did something wrong. You told me not to bother you unless it was an emergency.” Harry swallowed convulsively. “And then tonight, I felt… my scar… I saw…” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I saw him torturing you.”

Snape sucked in his breath. Clearly the connection between the Dark Lord and Harry Potter was still alive and well.

“I told Covey. Well, I mean, she saw me react and asked what was wrong. I had to tell her something,” Harry said in defense of himself. “Anyway, I heard you when you came through the fire, and I knew. I knew he’d used the Cruciatus Curse on you. I knew you had enough going on.” In a much quieter voice, Harry said, “You didn’t need me to add to your troubles.”

Snape let out his breath. He deserved that. He’d never let the boy think anything more than that. Snape shook his head.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Harry continued. “If I hadn’t shown you those memories in Occlumency in the first place, none of this would have happened and you wouldn’t be stuck with me.”

“Is that what you want?” Snape asked, his voice low, feeling the fury build in him. “For things to go back to how they were? For me to treat you as I did before?”

“I…” Harry scrunched up his face, then cried out in pain.

“Wait one moment,” Snape said, summoning a pain potion and handing it to the boy. “Drink this, it will ease the pain.” Potter drank. “Now, you were saying?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “I don’t want it to go back to the way it was. You and every other adult either hating me or using me, but not really caring about me one way or the other.”

“Surely Molly and Arthur Weasley don’t hate you.”

“No,” Harry said, a fondness flitting across his features. “No, they treat me like a son.”

Harry sighed and rolled onto his back. Earl Grey, who’d been lying at the foot of the bed, ambled up next to the boy, climbed on his chest, and curled into a ball, purring. Harry stroked him absently. “But I was a burden to them, too. They had to have extra security when I was there and all.”

“I doubt they see you as a burden,” Snape said.

“What about you, sir? Do you see me as a burden?” Potter challenged.

In truth, Snape had. He’d understood it was necessary, but he hadn’t wanted Potter in his quarters. He hadn’t wanted to be part of his healing, but he understood the necessity of it. Somewhere along the way, though, that had changed. He’d stopped seeing Harry as his father and had started seeing the troubled, struggling young man that he was. “Not anymore,” Snape said softly.

“Please, don’t,” Harry said. “Don’t lie. It’s bad enough knowing the truth; it’s worse to have hope only to have it taken away.”

Snape sat stunned. “Why would say that?”

“Because you were civil to me for a while, kind even. But then you went back to being your cruel self. I thought I did something wrong but I didn’t know what. It wasn’t okay to come to you for help anymore, and once again I had no one. And that would have been fine except I…” Harry swallowed, and Snape got the impression he was fighting back tears. “I got a taste of what it was like to have an adult who cared, or at least who I thought cared. But it was just an illusion. And now… now I don’t know what to think. I don‘t know what this is,” Harry said, gesturing between the two of them. Then he rolled back onto his side, facing away from Snape. He took Earl Grey with him and curled around the cat.

“I don’t know who the real you is and I can’t take the disappointment again.” Harry took a deep, ragged breath. “So thank you for coming to me tonight, but please, just go. I can’t do this again.”

Snape was dumbfounded. Thoughts tumbled over each other in his mind. He was hurt, he was angry, he was confused, he felt unappreciated, and yet he also knew he deserved Potter’s estimation of him. Most of all, he didn’t know what to say. Standing up, he said, “I will send Covey in to heal your nose.”

Snape had abandoned him. Harry curled further in on himself and began to sob. Yes he’d told the man to leave, yes he’d said all those things, but what he’d really wanted, more than anything, was for Snape to tell Harry that Harry was wrong. That he was there for Harry. That he did care for Harry. But Snape, like all of the other adults in his life, had just up and left without a backwards glance. Harry felt his world crash down around him. If this was living, he’d rather be dead.

“Covey, wake up,” Snape said, shaking the witch in his bed gently.

Covey opened an eye and looked at him. Her blue-tipped blonde hair was in spiky disarray, her spaghetti strap nightgown had slipped down over one shoulder, and she looked sexy as hell. He pushed the distracting thought away. Now was not the time.

“Harry needs you.”

Seeming to finally get her wits about her, she sat up. “What‘s happened? Is he all right?”

“He will be fine. He fell and broke his nose. I could fix it but you will do a much more thorough job.”

Covey nodded, standing and slipping on her dressing gown.

Snape flopped back on the bed. “He showed me the memory of how… how he died. When he was nine. From that head injury.” Snape swallowed. “We can now add attempted murder to Vernon Dudley’s charges,” Snape said grimly.

“Oh, Sevvie,“ Covey said, shaking her head as tears sprung to her eyes. “That poor child,” she lamented. “At least he has us now,” Covey said, laying her hand on Snape’s shoulder.

A crushing weight of guilt lashed at Snape. Did Harry have him now? Harry had asked Snape to leave. Snape hadn’t known what to do; he wasn’t good at these things. Emotions were a liability he couldn’t afford, and the whiplash of teenage emotions was even worse.

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Snape rasped, “Go to him.”

“Harry?” Covey asked, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are ye all right?”

Harry tensed momentarily and then relaxed. “My nose is broken, I think,” he said. The swelling and congestion of that alone would cover his crying.

“Aye, Sevvie told me,” Covey relayed. “Why donna ye lay back an’ relax, aye? I’ll fix ye right up.”

Harry uncoiled himself and lay on his back, trying to calm his breathing. He focused on the way Covey laid her hands on his chest, humming. Slowly, they moved up his body, his neck, his jaw, to rest on his cheeks, under his eyes, then the bridge of his nose. Her touch was gentle and warm, her healing magic making his skin tingle. He felt the bones reassemble and slide back into place, mending themselves. When the tingling sensation receded, he knew she’d healed him, but for some reason, she didn’t take her hands away. Instead, she moved to his head and then slowly back down his face, to his shoulders, his collarbones, finally coming to rest over his heart.

“I’m sorry yer hurtin’, Harry. I wish I could make it easier fer ye, ye ken?” Covey sighed deeply. “It does get a wee bit easier with time, tho, I promise ye that.”

Harry said nothing. Things never got easier for him. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. And there was still Voldemort out there, wanting to kill him.

“Get yerself some sleep, aye Harry?”

“Sure. Thanks for healing me, Covey. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Yer welcome an’ it was nae bother,” she said.

Harry felt her brush his forehead before she left.

Harry awoke the next morning to muted orange rays of sunlight streaming in through his charmed window. It had to be charmed, since he was in the dungeons and no real windows would show him the view he had. He sat on the edge of the bed, noticing the colors of his room in Snape’s quarters: the dark wood tones, the muted blues, the soft grays.

He should be ecstatic that his sight had returned and that it was, in fact, clearer than he could ever remember. When Covey had healed him, she must have managed to fix his vision as well, for he didn’t need his glasses any longer. This alone should have made him euphoric.

But all he could think about was that now that he could see, he’d have to leave. And once Snape knew he could see, any illusions about Snape caring about his wellbeing would evaporate, if they hadn’t already. He’d hoped Snape would come back in the night and talk to him. Tell him he cared. Tell him that Harry’d been wrong about him. But Snape hadn’t come back. And Harry hadn’t seen him yet this morning.

Sighing in resignation, Harry got up and walked to his doorway. If nothing else, he knew he needed to find the man and ask to restart Occlumency lessons. The dreams had returned with a vengeance, and he knew he was supposed to stop seeing these things. If someone could only tell him why, it might give him more motivation, but as it was, no one wanted him to know anything.

He forced his feet forward, finding Snape sitting at the breakfast nook, Daily Prophet in one hand, coffee in another.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, setting down his things and standing immediately to help guide Harry into a chair to sit.

Harry hesitated. “That isn’t necessary, sir,” Harry said, and it broke his heart to say it. “I can see again.”

Snape froze, looking closely at Harry.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Snape said.

“Seven,” Harry replied.

“How many now?”

“None,” Harry said, “your thumb isn’t a finger.”

Snape’s eyebrows raised. “Where are your glasses?”

“I don’t seem to need them anymore.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Potter. You must be ecstatic.”

Harry nodded, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice, Snape’s favorite breakfast beverage, and pouring himself a glass, then adding eggs and sausage to his plate.

“For someone who’s just regained his vision, you don’t seem very happy,” Snape observed.

Harry shrugged. “I suppose I can return to Gryffindor tower now.”

“I will speak with the headmaster forthwith,” Snape informed him, “and have your belongings removed to there immediately.”

Harry nodded again. This was what he wanted. Of course this was what he wanted. So why were tears gathering in his eyes? Snape was dismissing him once again, as if he wasn’t worth the air he breathed. Why couldn’t one person, any person, find him worthy?

Harry pushed back his chair and bolted from the table. He would not cry in front of Snape, not again.

Snape sat, taken aback. What in Merlin’s name was that about? Should he go after the boy? Should he give the child space? He hated this and he didn’t know what to do.

Covey had had an early breakfast and had left to take care of some of her other patients. She would have known what to do. Here alone in his kitchen, Snape was at a loss. And he was due to teach in twenty minutes. Shaking his head, he got up from the table to dress for class and resigned himself to talk to the boy that evening, even if he had to give him detention to do so.

Snape’s morning classes had just ended when an alarm went off in his office. Potter? Why was Potter in his office? Snape hadn’t had the chance to talk to the headmaster yet about the teen moving back to Gryffindor tower. So Potter should have been in Snape’s quarters.

Snape hurried to his office to find the boy pacing in front of Snape’s desk, wearing his school uniform. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” the boy stated, not making eye contact. “I need to restart Occlumency lessons.”

“Alright,” Snape said, unsure of why this was so critical at this very moment.

“I’ve started dreaming about the corridor again, but now the door is open. I know I’m not supposed to go through it, but it’s a dream, and how am I supposed to stop myself?”

“By not allowing those thoughts to enter your dreams,” Snape said sharply. He was surprised at how far the boy had got and he was not the least bit happy about it.

“So you’ll teach me, then,” Potter said.

Snape ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course I’ll teach you. Be ready tonight after dinner.”

“Okay,” Harry said, still not looking at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“Harry,” Snape said and then hesitated. He wanted to make amends for whatever he had done to upset the boy. He wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, though. “I am glad you came to me. With this. I will help you however I can.”

The boy nodded.

Snape wasn’t sure what else to say. He glanced down and caught sight of the boy’s bare shins. He glanced back up abruptly, realizing how much closer the boy was to his height now. “It looks like it is time for some new trousers.”

Harry smiled slightly and looked a bit awkward. “Covey was right. She said I’d probably grow after she healed me. It’s nice not to be so short anymore. Although, as you said, I will need to get some new clothes.”

Ron had come for breakfast but Harry hadn’t felt up to seeing his friends, so he pretended to be asleep. Ron had made a half-hearted attempt at waking him. Harry had mumbled something about being awake all night and to come back at lunch. Thankfully, Ron had left.

Much to Harry’s surprise, he fell back asleep after Ron left. He dreamed of walking down a long dark corridor. There was a door at the end of the hall and light spilled out from around its edges. Instinctively, he was drawn to that light, as if something was beckoning him forward. As he stepped closer, the door swung open, light flooding the corridor.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and, once they did, he saw that door opened into a circular room with other, identical doors leading off of the circle in all directions. He faltered at the open doorway, feeling the need to go forward but not sure which door to take. Just as he was about to take a step forward, Earl Grey leapt onto his chest, startling him awake.

Harry opened his eyes to find the cat staring down at him, a dead mouse dangling from its jaws.

“Ack!” Harry shouted, shoving the cat to the floor. Then he felt guilty. “Sorry, Earl Grey. I know you just wanted to show off your prize. You did good,” Harry said, reaching out to scratch the cat’s ears. “I’d rather not watch you eat that, though.”

By the time he returned from the loo, Earl Grey had taken her snack elsewhere.

Glumly, he headed over to his trunk and threw it open. He started pulling his clothes out of the wardrobe and throwing them into his trunk. He saved one pair of trousers and a button down shirt to wear, along with his robes, back to Gryffindor tower. It would be the first time he wore more formal clothes, as he’d been pretty much living in pajamas, Dudley’s oversized clothes, or the odd outfits Dobby had picked out for him. Seeing those outfits now, in all their eye-watering glory, made Harry laugh.

He picked up his school clothes and headed for the shower. He needed to talk to Snape about Occlumency. He had thought long and hard about his strained relationship with the Potions professor. The man was fickle and moody, and could be distant at times. But overall, since Harry’s childhood had come to light, Snape had been there for him, even if it was in Snape’s own, sometimes impatient, way. When Harry was able to step back from his own emotions, he realized that Snape had been trying, and that Snape was likely as confused about how to deal with Harry as Harry was at reading Snape.

Snape was still alive, still present, as was Covey, and Harry didn’t want to lose the rare adults in his life who actually seemed to care for him. If it hadn’t been for Snape, Harry wouldn’t have made it through this year. He knew that. He wouldn’t be where he was now. Snape was far from perfect, but then Harry wasn’t perfect himself. So if Snape was still willing to help him, Harry was willing to let him. Merlin knew that few enough adults in his life showed any inclination to.  

Harry was back in his rooms in Snape’s quarters by the time that Ron and Hermione came for lunch. He was wearing his too-short trousers—which he hoped Hermione could fix with a spell until he got new ones—and his school robes, as he would be moving back to Gryffindor tower as soon as Snape spoke with Dumbledore. He had his glasses and his wand in his pocket. He sat at the table, reading through his astronomy text while he waited for his friends to arrive.

Hermione stepped through the Floo first, followed by Ron. Harry watched as Hermione took in the open wardrobe, which was now empty, and the overstuffed trunk.

“Harry? Is everything all right?”

Harry stood, facing his two best friends, a genuine smile on his face. Warmth filled his chest at the sight of them. He hadn’t precisely forgotten what they’d looked like during the time he was blind, but it was certainly nice to be able to see them again. “Everything is brilliant,” he said.

Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. “Can you… Harry, can you see again?”

Harry nodded.

Hermione flung herself at Harry, and Harry barely got his arms around her to catch. She hugged him tightly. “I am so happy for you,” she gushed.

Ron shook himself from his surprised stupor and stepped forward, clapping Harry on the back. “Well, I bet you didn’t miss my ugly mug.”

Harry laughed. “I did, actually.” Harry glanced at Hermione who was looking at him strangely. “What?” he asked.

“You’ve grown. At first I thought the elves shrank your trousers, but you’re taller than me now!”

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said, “Hermione’s right. You are taller.”

Hermione grabbed Ron by the arm. “Ron, stand next to Harry so I can see who is taller.”

Ron obeyed and the two boys stood shoulder to shoulder.

“Ron is still taller, but only by a couple of inches,” Hermione observed. “And Ron’s at least six inches taller than me!”

“Hermione,” Harry asked, “do you know a spell to lengthen my trousers until I can get new ones?”

“I do,” Hermione said, waving her wand in a complicated motion. “There,” she said, satisfied. “That should last for a little while.”

“My mum needs to learn that spell,” Ron said.

“I’m sure she knows it,” Hermione said. “But as it weakens the fabric, it can’t be used long term. That’s why Harry will still need to buy new trousers as soon as possible.”

Hermione opened her mouth to say something else, and then paused. Tilting her head in Harry’s direction, she said, “Where are your glasses?”

Harry smiled. “I don’t need them anymore.”

“What?” Ron gasped.

“Why?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “I reckon that when Covey healed me, she healed my eyesight, too.”

“Wicked,” Ron said.

Hermione patted him on the shoulder. “That’s great, Harry. You must be really pleased.”

Harry nodded.

“So you get to leave the greasy git’s place now, right?” Ron asked. “Now that you can see again, and all.”

Harry nodded again.

“I can’t imagine having to live with him,” Ron said with a shudder.

“It wasn’t so bad,” Harry said. “Actually, it was kind of nice.”

“Have you gone mental?” Ron asked.

“Look,” Harry said. “I got my own set of rooms that I didn’t have to share, you two could come and go as you pleased, Dobby brought me all my favorite foods, and I got a cat,” Harry said, walking over to his bed to pick up Earl Grey, who purred happily in his arms.

“Yeah, but Snape…” Ron said.

“Snape’s been pretty decent to me,” Harry said. “Granted, he’s not the most friendly person, but he’s been there for me when I needed him.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said. “You haven’t said so I had hoped they were getting better. Are you still having nightmares and flashbacks?”

Harry looked away. “They come and go.”

“Well,” Hermione said, giving Ron a dirty look, “I’m glad Snape was here to help you with them.”

“Me too,” Ron said begrudgingly. “And you can always come to us, too, if you need anything.”

“I know,” Harry said. “I don’t know how I’d have made it through everything without the two of you.”

Hermione’s eyes grew misty.

“Buck up, Hermione. It’s not like Harry’s dying.”

Hermione punched Ron playfully in the shoulder.

“Food’s getting cold,” Ron said. “Shall we eat?”

They all took their seats. Hermione poured everyone pumpkin juice while Ron heaped his plate with roast chicken and fried potatoes.

“When will you move back to Gryffindor tower?” Hermione asked.

“Either this afternoon, or maybe after Occlumency lessons tonight,” Harry surmised.

“You still have to take Occlumency?” Ron asked.

“Voldemort is still breaking into my dreams, so yeah, I reckon I should.”

“Better you than me, mate,” Ron said as he bit into a roasted chicken leg.

 “Maybe it won’t be so bad now that you and Snape are getting along better,” Hermione said.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Harry said.

Ron snorted. “I can’t imagine Snape being anything other than an arrogant bastard.” When Hermione gave him a dirty look, Ron threw his hands up and said, “But, hey, what do I know?”

A/N: Dialogue excerpt from end of Chapter 28, Book 5. All rights belong to JK Rowling.

“On the count of three, then: one-two-three-Legilimens!”

Snape was walking through Potter’s mindscape, rolling his eyes at the trivial things he found there: Ron and Hermione laughing, Remus patting him on the shoulder, Sirius embracing him, Cho Chang leaning in for a kiss…

“I’m trying,” Potter complained. “But I don’t know HOW to do it.”

“Clear your mind,” Snape said. “Focus…”

“TEACH ME!” Potter shouted. “Teach me HOW! I don’t know how to do it!” Potter said, pulling at his hair in frustration. “Sir,” he added as an afterthought, dropping his hands.

Snape eyed Potter as if he were some odd potions specimen. Did the boy really not know how to clear his mind? Could he be that obtuse? Was it truly not an act just to infuriate Snape and make his life miserable?

“Potter,” he said, “are you honestly telling me that you can’t clear you mind?”

“How would I know how to do that?” Harry demanded.

“I thought it’d be obvious,” Snape said, now loosely holding his wand in his hand.

“Well, you thought wrong,” Harry stated. “Sir.”

Sucking in a breath and willing himself to be patient, Snape finally said, “Have a seat, Po– Harry.”

The boy obeyed.

“Tell me, what do you think about when you are on a broom, playing Quidditch?”

“I think about catching the Snitch. And about if we are winning, or how many goals ahead or behind we are. And how that affects our chances at the House Cup.”

“Really?” Snape replied. “Tell me, once you see the Snitch, once you have it in your sights, what do you think about then?”

“Catching it,” Harry replied instantly. “As soon as I can.”

Snape paused, stroking his chin. “You think about catching it,” Snape repeated, deadpan, looking at Potter as if that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

“Yeah, I…” Harry began, but then a puzzled look came across his face. “I guess I don’t really think about anything when I’m pursuit. Everything in me is a hundred percent focused on catching it. I don’t need to think about it, it’s like a reflex, I suppose.”

Snape looked expectantly at Potter, waiting for the boy to make the connection.

“That’s it, isn’t it,” Harry expressed in wonder. “I’m a hundred percent focused and my mind is clear when I’m going after the Snitch.”

“And why is that?” Snape coached.

“Because I already know the end result. The Snitch, in my hand. I don’t need to think. Everything in me already knows.”

“Exactly,” Snape said, feeling satisfied at the look of dawning recognition on the boy’s face. “Want to try again?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, just give me a minute to think about this.” After a few moments, Harry nodded. “Ok, I’m ready, let’s give it a go.”

Snape raised his wand. “One-two-three-Legilimens.”

Snape was once again inside Harry’s mindscape, but this time, he was surrounded by darkness. Not an ominous darkness, just emptiness. As if no one was home. He prodded the darkness with his wand, but it merely shifted and slid; no openings were revealed that he could pursue.

He doubted that Potter’s shields could hold up under a full assault, but it was definitely a start. In the past he might have pushed past them just to prove he could and then given Harry a hard time about it. Instead, he pulled out.

“Well done, Mr. Potter. For a first attempt, that was excellent.”

Harry beamed at him.

Snape set his wand on the desk and looked Potter dead in the eye. “You were able to show me memories you wanted me to see months ago. You were able to take me into your memories and hold me captive there last night. You have the makings of an incredibly strong Occlumens. You need only training and discipline to master the art and nuance of it. But your natural inclination is already strong.”

Harry stared at him, looking startled. “But you said I was terrible at it.”

“You are, in the sense of learning first things first. But you, Mr. Potter, never seem to do things the way you are supposed to. You skipped all of the first steps—shielding, protecting your thoughts, guarding your mind—and went straight to showing others your memories, or holding them captive in them. That is not the normal order of things.” Sighing, Snape said, “I suppose I should stop looking for normal when it comes to you and take a page out of Covey’s book.”

“Covey?” Harry asked, looking confused.

“Yes,” Snape replied. “She had a very specific and well-thought-out plan when it came to your healing. And yet, when she tried to follow that plan, your magic rebelled. It led her to other places, demanding she follow your magic’s direction and not the other way around.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed. “I didn’t know that.”

“What you do not know could fill an ocean,”

Harry’s mouth turned down in annoyance at the jibe.

“And that is why,” Snape said, “I am going to train you. You are a blank slate. With discipline and determination, I have no doubt you can become an Occlumens to rival Dumbledore himself.”

Harry gaped at him. Finally, a small smile slipped across the boy’s lips. “Can you tell me something, sir? Why does Dumbledore not want me to go through that door? What is in there that I mustn’t see?”

“That is not something I can answer.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Both,” Snape said. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

“I disagree,” Potter said stubbornly.

“Do you?” Snape said. “Well then, I suggest you take the matter up with the headmaster. He is the one who makes the rules, not I.”

Harry had never had a pet before, although he’d always wanted one. He had Hedwig, of course, and she was dead useful, but it wasn’t the same as having a pet you could snuggle with and sleep with and hang out with all the time. Earl Grey had taken a liking to Harry from the moment he’d moved in to Snape‘s quarters, and the feeling was mutual.

Harry’s belongings had already been moved to Gryffindor tower, heralding his return, yet Harry stood in his first-ever bedroom holding Earl Grey and lamenting leaving. Yes, he wanted to return to school and his friends, but he didn’t want to leave the safety of Snape’s quarters behind, nor the comfort and acceptance of the black cat who always seemed to know when he needed her.

“You‘ve already corrupted my cat. Surely you aren‘t planning to kidnap her now too, are you?” Snape asked.

“No, sir,” Harry said, reluctantly setting her on the floor. Earl Gray looked put out. She stretched her paws up to rest against Harry’s knees, as if asking to be picked up again.

“Sir?” Harry began, but then decided better of it. Clearing his throat, he said, “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

“Harry,” Snape said, “ask your question.”

Harry fidgeted. It was stupid really. “I was just wondering if I could come visit sometimes. The cat, I mean. Earl Grey.”

Snape sighed. “I suppose it would not hurt for you to visit. Perhaps after Occlumency lessons.”

Harry grinned.

“But only,” Snape said, raising a hand, “if you come prepared and do well. If not, no cat.”

“Deal,” Harry said, feeling just a little bit lighter about leaving.

Harry made his way to Snape’s office for another Occlumency lesson. He was getting somewhat better, but with all that was going on, he hadn’t practiced nearly as much as he should have. He knocked on the door and was bidden to enter.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry said.

“Mr. Potter.” Snape nodded.

Harry noticed that the man looked harried and a bit out of sorts. So he wasn’t entirely surprised when Snape started without further preamble.

“Ready?” Snape asked, lifting his wand.

Harry, standing opposite Snape across the man’s desk, nodded. He barely noticed the Pensieve sitting on the desk. It was always there and, on occasion, Harry had seen Snape removing his memories, though he didn’t dare ask what they were.

“On the count of three, then. One-two…”

The door burst open and Draco Malfoy stood there, panting, looking surprised at the sight of Snape with his wand trained on Harry.

Slowly, Snape lowered his wand. “What is it, Draco?”

“Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Draco said, shooting Harry a curious look. “But Montague has just turned up jammed in a toilet on the fourth floor.”

“How did he get in there?” Snape asked.

“I don’t know, sir, but he’s a bit confused.”

“Very well,” Snape said, stowing his wand. “Potter, we will continue this lesson tomorrow evening.”

“Okay,” Harry said, returning Draco’s considering look with a glare.

Harry had taken two steps towards the door when he realized he’d left his book bag on a chair in Snape’s office. He stepped back inside and flung it onto his shoulder. As he turned around, pain shot violently through his scar. He cried out, stumbling forward, clutching his forehead.

Blinding, excruciating waves of pain coursed through his head. He felt himself falling forward and tried to reach out to break his fall, but before he knew it, his face hit something very hard and he felt, as well as heard, his front teeth snap. Simultaneously, his wrist hit something else equally hard in a very awkward position, twisting sharply. He cried out again in pain, only to gag on a glutinous fluid.

The room began spinning and his vision blurred to darkness. Then, coughing, spitting out blood, and in agonizing pain, he suddenly found himself standing in the middle of the Great Hall. The long house tables were gone and he was surrounded by hundreds of smaller desks, the heads of students bent over rolls of parchment, writing furiously. The edges of the room seemed to slide out of focus, misty and dim.

“Oh no,” Harry moaned. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Where the teachers usually sat was now a large chalkboard with the words “DEFENSE AGAINST THE DARK ARTS -- ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL.” Beneath that, was a charmed clock that showed the remaining time for the exam.

Harry looked around frantically, cradling his injured wrist to his chest and wiping the blood from his mouth with his other hand. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a too-thin version of teenage Snape, looking around Harry’s own age, his hooked nose precariously close to the parchment he was writing on. His hair hung in a lank, greasy black curtain around his pale face. Harry groaned. This couldn’t be happening to him. Snape would NEVER believe this was an accident.

Dizzy, and still in excruciating pain from his throbbing scar, his missing teeth, and his aching wrist, Harry looked up, hoping beyond hope to find a way out of Snape’s memories and back into the man’s office. But even though he’d been in a Pensieve before, he had never been the one to extract himself. Dumbledore had done that, and Harry had no idea how the wizard had done it.

Thus, with a heavy heart, Harry was forced to watch, from Snape’s perspective, the utterly disgusting and intolerable behavior of his father and Sirius. He felt sick. This wasn’t any different than how Dudley treated him. Snape, like Harry, had done nothing to incite the ill treatment. His father and Sirius had merely gone after Snape because he was different, unpopular, poor, and they were bored.

Beyond feeling sorry for Snape, he also felt the landscape of his life sliding out from under him. Who was his father, anyway? At least his mum had tried to stand up for Snape. But his father had been arrogant and cruel, just as Snape had always claimed. Harry had always thought of his father as someone to look up to, but now… Now all the things he’d believed shifted into what the rest of his life had always been—an illusion.

A vice-like grip suddenly closed around Harry‘s upper arm.

“Having fun?” Snape’s adult voice said, vicious with fury.

“Sir!” Harry exclaimed, his speech slurred due to his missing two front teeth. “I wawn’t…” But his words were cut off as the scene fell away beneath him, spinning and going dark, before he was flipped once and then landed back on his feet in the Potions master’s office.

“So,” Snape said, his face white with rage, his pupils dilated, making his eyes look completely black. “So… been enjoying yourself, Potter?”

“No!” Harry replied, “Sir, I…”

“Amusing man, your father, wasn’t he?” Snape interrupted, seething.

Harry shuddered. He’d never seen Snape so angry.

“Pwease, I- “

“You will not repeat what you saw to anybody!” Snape bellowed.

“No, I woulwn‘t…” Harry said desperately.

“Get out, get out, I don’t want to see you in this office ever again!”

Snape threw Harry from him, and Harry cried out, the motion jostling his already injured wrist. Harry wanted to explain, wanted to demand that Snape look at him, see his two missing teeth—evidence that it had been an accident, but one last look at Snape’s livid face told him the man was beyond reason at the moment. Deciding to give Snape time to cool off, Harry raced out the office, his heart in his throat. He heard the office door slam and lock behind him as he went.

Two floors up, he found a deserted classroom, shut and locked the door, and sat in an empty desk, his head on his uninjured arm. Why did these things always happen to him? It wasn’t fair! But then, his life had never been fair: not his parents dying, not his abusive relatives raising him, and not Snape’s unjustified hatred of him.

At least now he understood where Snape’s rage stemmed from. It still wasn’t fair that Snape took it out on Harry, but now Harry knew that Snape’s hatred of his father was warranted. He knew the feeling of being humiliated and ostracized all too well. He swore loudly.

There was so much more at stake now. Snape was the one adult who seemed to care whether Harry succeeded or failed, lived or died. Or at least he had. And Harry was not willing to give that up, even if he had to go crawling back to the man for forgiveness.

His tongue flicked up to the hole in his mouth where his two front teeth had been. The pain had lessened some. Would Snape look in his Pensieve? Find the teeth floating there? See the blood mixed in with the memories? Make the connection?

Harry doubted it. Snape was too inclined to believe the worst of him, perhaps the worst of everyone. And after what Harry had seen, both in Snape’s childhood memories and the memories in the Pensieve, Harry couldn’t really blame the man for his pessimistic attitude.

Pulling a piece of parchment from his book bag, he transfigured it into a piece of fabric and used it to make a sling for his arm and wrist. With the pain he was in, he reckoned it was broken. He thought about going to the hospital wing, but then he’d have no evidence to convince Snape, and he knew he’d need that evidence. And so he waited. He thought he’d try Snape’s quarters around 8 pm. In the meantime, he’d attempt to distract himself by doing some homework.

Snape slammed into his private quarters, rage still coursing through his veins. How dare Potter? How dare the boy delve into his most private memories? After all he’d done for the boy? Opened his quarters to him, taken care of the ungrateful brat, healed him. He shook his head in disgust. Had Potter’s seeming vulnerability all been an act? Was this his way of getting revenge on the man for going soft?

Reaching for a Calming Draught, Snape was as disgusted with himself as he was with Potter. Really, what had he expected? He should have known better. He downed the potion in one long gulp, thankful that Covey was busy this evening as he’d rather she not see him in this state. So distracted was he that it wasn’t until the last of the potion slid down his throat that he coughed, trying uselessly to hack the potion back up. He grabbed the bottle and looked at it more closely. 

“Merlin’s hairy balls!” Snape cursed, throwing the bottle into the fire, and not the least bit relieved when it shattered. He’d taken a vial of extra-strength Dreamless Sleep potion. Similar in color to the Calming Draught, but clearly NOT the same thing.

Snape ran his hands through his hair. He had work to do tonight. But clearly, Potter had ruined that, too. Snape grabbed the other glass vial, checking the label this time, and downed the Calming Draught as well. His night was over anyway, he might as well make the best of it.

He showered quickly and, by the time he put on a pair of pajama bottoms and crawled into his bed, his lids were already closing and his anger had abated somewhat.

At 7:50 pm, Harry headed back toward the dungeons, his book bag slung around his neck, his injured wrist hidden under his robes, and a note in his other hand. He was bound and determined to gain Snape’s audience, even if he had to sleep outside the man’s office. He only hoped that Snape’s office and quarters were still keyed to his signature and that Snape hadn’t removed his access after tonight’s events. But first, he had to find a Gryffindor. As he was passing the Great Hall, he ran into Colin Creevey.

“Cowin!” Harry called out.

“Hi, Harry,” Colin smiled. “What happened to your teeth?”

“Wong swory,” said Harry. “Can you gib dis to Ron?” Harry held out the note, which explained to Ron and Hermione that he’d knocked out his front teeth and might need to spend the night in the hospital wing. He wanted to cover his bases in case he didn’t return that evening.

“Sure, Harry,” Colin said. “Good luck with your teeth.”

“Hanks,” Harry said.

He arrived outside Snape’s office at exactly 8 o’clock. He knocked, lightly at first, and then harder. But there was no answer. He tried the door, but it was locked. Now what? Remembering seeing Snape open his office this way once before, Harry placed his palm in the center of the door and held his breath. To his amazement, a click sounded and the door creaked open. A wave of relief washed over Harry; Snape hadn’t removed his access after all.

Stepping inside the dark office, Harry pulled out his wand and muttered, “Umos.”

 By the light of his wand, he closed and relocked the office door, and then went to the door to Snape’s private quarters. There he knocked again, more nervous now. He knocked louder. He waited. Had the man gone out? Was he ignoring Harry?

Harry tried the knob. It was locked, but even if it hadn’t been, Harry wasn’t sure he’d go in uninvited. Should he just stay in the man’s office and wait? After all, it was alarmed to his presence—or at least it had been. After what happened, Snape may have removed the alarm as Harry would likely be the very last person he’d want to see. Harry fidgeted, debating what to do. In the end, he decided that he couldn’t wait until the morning.

Gathering up his courage, he placed his palm tentatively against the door to Snape’s quarters. Again, there was a click, and the door swung open. Harry stood on the threshold, wondering how smart it was of him to enter Snape’s quarters uninvited. If Snape was that angry about his private memories being breached, what would he do to Harry for entering his private rooms?

“Hewo?” Harry called softly. “Pwofeffer Snape?” he called more loudly. There was no answer, but there was a soft glow in the room from the fireplace. “Cobey?” he called, taking a step inside, and hoping that the healer would be there. She would listen to him and surely side with him. The only sound, though, was that of Earl Grey, who meowed plaintively as she wound her way between his ankles.

Harry pushed the door wider and tiptoed inside, hoping beyond hope that Snape would not find him having broken into his rooms as he’d found him in the Pensieve.

“Pwofeffer?” Harry called again, closing the door behind him. He ran his tongue through the hole where his front teeth should have been; it was strange to speak without them.

There was no sign of the man in the sitting area near the burning fire, nor in his study or kitchen. The bathroom door was open. The room that had been his was also open, but Snape’s bedroom door was closed. Harry recalled that the only time Snape closed his bedroom door was when he slept.

His heart beating almost painfully in his chest, Harry considered what to do. Had the man gone to bed so early? When Harry had stayed there, Snape was usually up until at least 11 pm, often midnight, grading essays or chatting with Covey over a glass of wine or mulled mead. Perhaps they were together in his bedroom and, if that were the case, Harry would likely have just signed his death warrant.

Nervously, he approached the closed bedroom door. Was this suicide, he wondered? He looked at the door between the man’s office and sitting room, which stood ajar. Perhaps he should just leave now, while he still could. It was tempting.

But, no, he’d promised himself that he’d set things right. And he was in pain. The sooner the man believed him, the sooner he could get fixed up.

With that in mind, and trembling slightly, Harry knocked softly on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, a little louder, and waited. Waited for the sound of a grunt or a footfall or something to indicate the man was approaching the door. Or a shout, perhaps. With still no response, Harry pressed his ear to the door. He thought he heard something. Holding his breath in hopes of hearing better, he waited. And there it was, a soft snore. Harry pulled back. So, Snape was asleep. Harry wasn’t stupid enough to poke a sleeping dragon.

He leaned against the wall, debating what to do. He wished he had a pain potion at the very least. He was sure Snape had several, but he wasn’t about to go rummaging through the man’s things looking for one. Well, maybe he’d have a quick look in the loo. Surely the man wouldn’t fault him for helping himself to a pain potion, would he? As the pain throbbed in his wrist, he wasn’t sure he cared. He had a plan and if he was going to get any sleep tonight, he was going to need something to ease the pain.

He stepped into the water closet. There were a few bottles and jars on the vanity, but no pain potion. There was, however, a neat little shelf on the wall that had several glass bottles, all labeled in Snape’s slanted script. And there was a vial of Pain Reliever. Hoping against hope that Snape wouldn’t mind, he uncorked it, took a couple healthy swallows, and sighed as the potion washed over him, taking the edge off the worst of the pain. He put the bottle back on the shelf and headed to the room that had been his.

Nothing had changed since he’d left, although it was neat and clean, probably the work of house-elves. And, as he had hoped, the bed was made. With his good arm, he gathered up the sheets, blankets, and pillow and put his hopefully-not-too-dangerous plan into action, Earl Grey trailing happily behind him.

Snape rolled over and groaned. He had a sickly sweet taste in his mouth—Dreamless Sleep potion, he realized—and he felt as though he’d slept much too long. His back ached and he had a kink in his neck. He grabbed his wand and waved it in the air. The numbers 5:15 glowed brightly for a moment and then faded away. Then he remembered yesterday, and Potter, and groaned again.

He needed a cup of coffee and he needed to use the loo. Pushing the covers aside, he rolled out of bed, stood up, and stretched. Coffee first. Then maybe he’d finish grading the sixth year essays he’d meant to do last night. By then it would be time for breakfast.

He was thinking about his teaching schedule for the day ahead as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

“ARGGGHH!”

“Oomph!”

“What in the name of Merlin…” Snape said, barely catching himself from falling as he stumbled over something obstructing his doorway. That something was righting itself into a sitting position.

“POTTER!” Snape hissed.

The boy held up a hand. “I sowwy, siw,” Potter lisped.

“What are you doing here?” Snape demanded angrily.

The boy was trying to get to his feet, but seemed to be tangled in the sheets and blankets that were strewn in front of the door to Snape’s bedroom. Snape resisted the urge to give the boy a hand up, instead, resting his hands on his hips.

“You’d better have a damn good explanation for this, Potter. I could have you expelled for this.”

Now on his feet, the boy looked defiantly at him, one arm curled protectively against his body. “I sowwy, siw. I needed to tawk to ooh.”

Snape opened his mouth to yell at the boy, but paused. “What is wrong with your speech?”

“I knock my two fwunt teef out when I fewl in your offif.”

“You what?”

“My scaw hut an I fewl in your pensif. It wa an acwi-ent.”

Snape scratched his head. The boy was looking at him intently, desperately even, but Snape was too tired to understand. He pulled out his wand and held Potter’s chin in his hand. He uttered a spell to regrow the boy’s teeth. “Now speak sense before I lose what little patience I have.”

“Thank you, sir,” Potter breathed, running his tongue over his newly formed teeth. “Yesterday, after you left your office,” Potter burst out, “my scar hurt really bad. It does that sometimes. I started blacking out from the pain and I fell. I hit my mouth on your Pensieve, that’s how I lost my teeth. And I must have toppled inside.” Potter looked up, his eyes pleading. “Honest, Professor. I would never have invaded your private thoughts on purpose. I know you probably don’t believe me, but I wouldn’t have.”

Potter took a breath and continued. “I understand now why you hated my father, and you had every right to. I’m sorry he treated you that way. I hate that he treated you that way.”

Snape stood rigid, still not sure he believed the boy.

“Please sir,” Potter continued. “You know what happened to me. You know how my cousin bullied me. I would never wish that upon anyone. Least of all you, after all you’ve done for me.”

When Snape didn’t respond, Potter stared anxiously at him. “Use Legilimency. You can see for yourself. You can see what happened for yourself.”

“You could show me whatever you chose to,” Snape said, crossing his arms.

Snape felt a small sense of satisfaction at the panicky expression that crossed Harry’s face. “I’m not lying, sir!” he asserted. “Would I really risk breaking into your private quarters and sleeping in front of your door if I’d meant to go in your Pensieve? That would be suicide!”

Snape had to agree with that.

“I wanted to leave the Pensieve the second I realized what had happened but I didn’t know how. I swear, Professor. I’m sorry it happened, but it was an accident.”

“Why are you holding your arm like that?” Snape asked.

Harry looked down, as if just remembering his arm. “When I fell into your Pensieve, I think I broke my wrist.”

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital wing?”

“Because I knew I’d have a hard enough time convincing you, and if my injuries were healed, you’d never believe me,” Harry replied.

“Who says I believe you now?”

“Also,” Potter said, looking away, “I, er, used some of your pain potion last night. I’m sorry I took it without permission, but I just couldn’t help it. I will pay you for it, or brew you some more, or serve a detention for it.”

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, waiting for the boy to glance up at him. “Let me get this straight. First, you FELL into my Pensieve, knocking out your two front teeth and injuring your wrist. Then, instead of seeking treatment in the hospital wing, you did Merlin only knows what until you decided that speaking with me could not wait until morning. So, you broke into not only my office, but my personal quarters, where you proceeded to steal some pain potion, which, I might add, Madam Pomfrey would have happily given you had you gone to the hospital wing forthwith. Then, when you presumably couldn’t rouse me, you decided to camp outside my bedroom door, where you would be poised to ambush me as soon as I left my bedroom. Is that the essence of it, Mr. Potter?”

“Well, when you say it like that…” the boy said, hesitating, “it sounds very…”

“Moronic?” Snape offered. “Asinine?”

“Er, Gryffindor?” Potter said hopefully.

Snape burst out laughing. “You know,“ he said, “I could assign you detention for the rest of your school career given all the school rules you have broken in the last eighteen hours.”

“Sorry, sir,“ said Potter. “I just really needed you to know that it was an accident and that I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“And just why was that so important to you?” Snape asked.

The boy’s expression grew shuttered. “I’m not my father,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “And I don’t want to be anything like him if that’s the way he treated people.”

Snape sighed. “I’ll be right back,” he said. He stepped into the loo, did his business, and grabbed the remaining pain potion.

“Drink this,” he said, handing it to the boy. “Covey will be joining us for breakfast, and she can heal your wrist when she gets here.”

Potter looked at him curiously. “You aren’t going to punish me, sir?”

“For your complete lack of common sense?” Snape asked rhetorically. “Tell me” Snape said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “would it change anything if I did?”

The boy smiled. “Probably not.”

“As I thought. Now, pick up your things and go to your room. I’ll wake you for breakfast when Covey arrives.”

Potter stood there, looking dumbfounded.

“Is there a problem?” Snape asked.

“Er, no sir. Thanks for the potion. And, er, for hearing me out.”

“Of course,” Snape said, waving the insufferable boy away. “Now go.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape shook his head and walked to the kitchen. He really needed coffee now.

“Sir,” Harry said, standing in front of Snape’s desk, bent at the waist, hands on his knees. “I get it. I feel you trying to break though and I can keep you out of my thoughts most of the time, but that’s when I’m conscious,” Harry protested, still panting from the exertion of fighting off the man‘s mental attacks.

“It is the same thing, Mr. Potter,” Snape said impatiently.

“No, it’s not,” Harry objected, standing upright at last. “When I am sleeping, Volde—He-who-must-not-be-named accesses the link between us through my dreams. How am I supposed to fight him off when I‘m asleep?”

“The same way you do here,” Snape replied.

Harry shook his head. “Here I am aware of what you are trying to do. And even if you came upon me when I wasn’t expecting it, I’d still be fully aware of what was happening. I’d feel you trying to get inside my head. But when I’m sleeping, I dream, but I don’t know I’m dreaming.” Harry scratched his head, trying to explain. “It feels different. Here, I feel you trying to break into my head. But in my dreams, it’s as if…”

“As if what?”

And then it hit Harry. “It’s like when I pulled you into my memories,” Harry breathed. “It’s not him trying to break into my mind, it’s him pulling me into his!”

Snape looked at Harry with a strange expression on his face.

“Like last night,” Harry said. “I dreamed of the Department of Ministries again.” Snape looked angry and Harry raised a hand to forestall the reprimand. “I know, I know, I’m not supposed to let him do that, but it happens anyway. And it’s more than that, it’s like he wants something, wants to show me something, wants me to find something…”

“Mr. Potter,” Snape hissed. “We are here to teach you to turn these visions off! They are dangerous. Don’t you realize that the Dark Lord could plant all sorts of visions in your mind? He could try and trick you into leaving the safety of this castle.”

“I know,” Harry moaned. “But can you control your dreams?” Harry challenged.

“You are lacking discipline,” Snape snapped.

“Maybe I’m lacking a good teacher,” Potter muttered beneath his breath.

“What did you say?” Snape asked, looking livid.

“I said,” Harry replied, knowing he was skating on thin ice, “maybe I’m just like Kreacher.“ Harry shrugged. “You know, wondering around in the dark, collecting odd bits of things but unable to put them all together.”

Snape pursed his lips, looking skeptical.

Harry forged ahead. “I’ve tried cleaning my mind and strengthening my shields before I go to bed, but a dream doesn’t feel like an invasion. What I need is a way to figure out when I’m in a dream so I can wake myself up.”

“Hmm. You never do things the easy way.” Snape began pacing. “If your shields are strong, I should not be able to put a vision in your head. So let’s try that.”

“Okay,” Harry said, beginning to feel nervous. Occlumency was uncomfortable enough. He wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever images Snape chose to try and shove into his mind.

“On the count of three, then. One, two, Legilimens.”

Harry staggered, wanting to protest. Snape had cheated, and he wasn’t ready. Already a strand of images was cascading into Harry’s mind. He saw himself through Snape’s eyes, a tiny, dark-haired child, fresh off the boats with Hagrid, dwarfed by the half-giant’s immense size. Then he was in the Great Hall, pallid and frightened, his bottom lip caught in his teeth as he waited to be sorted. Then he was on a broom in a Quidditch match, by far the smallest player, zooming around the pitch in search of the Snitch. Then he was fighting to hold on to said broom, being hurled this way and that, an invisible force trying to unseat him. ’Not an invisible force,’ Harry’s mind interjected. ’Quirrell, Voldemort’s minion.’ And with that, Harry pushed Snape’s vision out of his head. He felt sick and dizzy, and altogether too winded.

“That was atrocious, Potter,” Snape said, raising his wand from Harry. “You weren’t even trying.”

“That was much more difficult,” Harry replied, ignoring Snape’s criticism. “It wasn’t unpleasant, or even foreign. It was sort of interesting.”

“Potter!” Snape said in exasperation. “You have the focus of a flobberworm!”

“That’s just it,” Harry said. “It wasn’t aversive, which made it much more difficult for me to block. It was only when Quirrell reminded me of Vol— of You-know-who that I was able to break away.” Harry wiped his sweaty brow. “I need a trigger,” Harry said.

“A trigger,” Snape repeated deadpan.

“Yeah,” Harry said, “something that makes me realize that what I’m seeing isn’t real or interesting. Or that I shouldn’t be seeing it.” Harry shook his head. “It’s hard to explain.” Looking back at Snape, Harry said, “When I showed you my memories, could you have blocked them?”

Snape paused, seeming to consider his response. “I assume so,” Snape said.

“Can I try?” Harry asked. “To show you a vision? Then maybe you can explain to me exactly how you block it.”

“Very well,” Snape said.

Harry paused, thinking of what to show the man. Then it came to him. “Alright, I’m ready.”

Snape merely raised an eyebrow.

“Three, two, one, Legilimens,” Harry said. It was the first time he’d actually cast the spell. The other times, he’d simply invited Snape into his memories, or sometimes forced them on him. But this felt like power, seductive and rich. And very dangerous. He pushed an image of himself speaking to the snake at the zoo, and the snake responding in return, the glass falling away, and the snake slithering out, causing a mass panic as it went. He still felt the surge of power that linked him to Snape and was wondering why Snape hadn’t blocked him yet, when he was suddenly thrown back, as if by an invisible hand.

Snape looked shaken. “You set a boa constrictor loose on the public?” Snape asked.

“Well, not on purpose,” Harry replied, half-smiling, but he suspected Snape was more unnerved by Harry speaking Parseltongue than by the snake itself. “Why didn’t you block me sooner?”

“Because I was intrigued,” Snape replied.

“Exactly!” Harry said. “And that’s the problem. I’m intrigued in the dreams. There is not a signal of danger telling me to break away, to get out.” Shoving his hands in his pocket, Harry repeated his thought, “I need a signal. A trigger. Something to distract me in the moment.”

“That’s not normally how it works,” Snape said.

“But you said yourself that I’m not normal,” Harry returned.

Snape snorted. “That you are not, Mr. Potter. Normal hardly seems to apply to you or anything around you.”

“Including you?” Harry said cheekily.

“Don’t push your luck,” Snape said, but Harry just smiled at him.

“Muggles have all sorts of ways to test if you’re dreaming—like if you can’t see your hands, you’re dreaming. Or if you can’t find a clock. Or if you can’t find anything with writing on it. Or if you read something written, but then the words change. Or if you don’t see your reflection in a mirror.” Harry frowned. “But you have to realize, at least on some level, that you ARE dreaming before you can even try to test any of those things.”

“I think you are making it too complicated,” Snape observed.

“Am I?” Harry responded. “How did you push me out when you decided to?”

“I simply slammed my shields into place, thereby disallowing you access to my mindscape.”

“Mindscape,” Harry repeated. “Dreamscape… mindscape… it’s all related,” he mused.

“What are you babbling about now, Potter?”

“I’m not sure yet. It’s like I know something, remember something, but it’s just beyond my reach.” Harry bent down to tie his shoe, still ruminating on what it was that was escaping him. “Let me get back to you on that,” he muttered absently.

Harry alternatively pondered, or tried to distract himself from thinking about, that thing that teetered on the edge of his consciousness. He returned to the Gryffindor common room to find Ron and Hermione sitting in chairs by the fire.

“How’d it go, mate?” Ron asked.

“Fine,” Harry replied, pensive and distracted.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, leaning forward in her chair.

“It’s just,” Harry said, scratching his head, “there’s something I can’t quite remember, but I think it’s important.” Harry shook his head. “Anyway, what have you two been up to?”

“The usual,” Ron said, waving his Astronomy chart at Harry.

Absently, Harry rubbed at his scar.

“Is it hurting again?” Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged. “It aches almost all the time, now that he’s back.”

Hermione frowned.

“Hey, do either of you know when you’re dreaming?” When his two friends looked puzzled, he added, “I mean, when you are in the middle of a dream, do you ever think ‘Hey, I’m dreaming!’”

“Nah,” said Ron. “I never know until I wake up.”

“Sometimes,” Hermione said. “Although usually when that happens, I wake up as soon as I realize it’s a dream.”

“That’s what I need to do,” Harry proclaimed. “I need to realize I’m dreaming and wake up. How can I do that?”

“No idea, mate,” Ron said, stretching his long legs before slouching in the chair. “I’m tired.”

“Well,” Hermione said, “I know they’ve done research on that in the Muggle world. I’m not sure if it’s the same for witches and wizards, but in the Muggle world they say you should look for inconsistencies—like the house you grew up is suddenly ten times larger than normal.”

“Yeah, but it’s like I told Snape,” Harry said. “You have to realize, on some level, that you ARE dreaming, before any of that stuff can help you.”

“True,” Hermione said.

“I need a trigger,” Harry said. “Something that will instantly alert me that I’m in a dream.”

“Why, what’s up?” Ron said.

Harry looked around to make sure no one was too close, then leaned in conspiratorially. His friends leaned in as well. “Voldemort is invading my dreams. And, unlike Occlumency lessons with Snape, I am not consciously awake and aware enough to push him out.” Harry glanced around once more. “Plus,” he added, “it’s different in a dream. It’s not like Voldemort is trying to break into my mind, as much as he’s inviting me into his.”

Hermione looked frightened.

Ron said, “That’s sick, mate.”

“I know,” Harry said. “It’s like he shows me the things he wants me to see, and he makes me want to see them too. So I don’t even realize it’s happening, especially because I’m asleep. Snape says I just need to close my mind, but I can’t do that while I’m sleeping,” Harry finished, feeling frustrated.

Hermione looked thoughtful. “Close your mind, a trigger.” Hermione looked up at Harry. “Maybe you don’t need a trigger to wake yourself up when you are dreaming as much as you need a trigger to close your mind when you are dreaming.”

Ron snorted. “That’s about as clear as a crystal ball, Hermione.”

Ignoring Ron’s barb, Harry said, “But it all comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe not,” said Hermione.

Snape and Dumbledore made their way up Privet Drive in the early evening. The identical cookie-cutter houses with their perfectly manicured lawns defined Muggles for Snape. Did they lack all sense of originality? Walking up to the front door, he noticed that the lawn of Number 4 Privet Drive was not as well kept as it once had been. Nor were the flower beds, which had sprouted a copious number of weeds. Dumbledore knocked and the two wizards waited.

Petunia Dursley opened the door, looking much older than she had the last time Snape had seen her.

The horsey woman’s face immediately took on a pinched expression, as if she’d just sucked on a lemon. “You have no business here,” she snapped, attempting to close the door.

Dumbledore stuck out his foot as Snape said, “You have no business calling yourself a mother.”

Petunia’s face grew even colder and angrier. “I never asked for that freak.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore warned.

Severus hadn’t even done anything yet, but he wanted to. He wanted to wring that sanctimonious woman’s neck with his bare hands.

“I suggest you invite us in,” Dumbledore said, more of a command than a suggestion. “I assure you, it will be much easier that way.”

Petunia glared at them both, turned her back, and walked away, leaving the door open. Snape and Dumbledore followed her into the kitchen.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “You’ve already taken my husband, leaving my son and myself poor and alone.”

Severus gritted his teeth. “You deserve so much more than that, you sorry excuse for a woman.”

Dumbledore raised his hand to silence them. “Let us sit, shall we?” The elderly wizard pulled out a chair for himself and sat at the dining room table. After a moment’s hesitation, Snape did the same, but much less gracefully. When Petunia remained standing, Dumbledore produced his wand.

“Put that away,” Petunia hissed, seating herself begrudgingly.

Dumbledore, Snape noticed, merely set his wand on the table before him. Snape decided to do the same. Petunia quailed at the display of power.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, “you, Mrs. Dursley, have failed to provide more than the most basic food, shelter, and clothing for the precious child I entrusted you with fourteen years ago. You allowed him to be beaten and nearly killed in your home by your beast of a husband. You allowed your son to bully him and harm him. You yourself have physically assaulted and starved the boy. At no time did you treat him as your own son, as I had instructed you to do, and as you had agreed to do when you took him into your home all those years ago.”

Petunia sat stiffly, her arms crossed over her chest, looking into the distance. She refused to make eye contact, much less speak.

“As you know,” Dumbledore continued, “your allowing the boy house space has enabled him to remain safe from the madman who seeks his demise. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that you were the ones I needed to protect him from!”

Snape was impressed by the fury that emanated from the headmaster. Even Petunia couldn’t ignore Dumbledore’s anger. She leaned back in her seat, trying to put as much distance between her and the headmaster as possible.

“We have just returned from your husband’s trial,” Dumbledore said. “Vernon Dursley has been sentenced to life in Azkaban for the torture and attempted murder of Harry James Potter, a sentence that both he AND you deserve.”

Petunia jerked in her seat, finally meeting the older wizard’s eyes. “You had no right,” she rasped. “We did as you asked. We let the freak live here, with our son.”

Snape wanted to lunge at the stupid woman but stilled when, without looking, Dumbledore rested his hand over Snape’s to calm him.

“You fulfilled the most basic portion of the agreement, which, I might add, did NOT include trying to kill the boy by starving, beating, and humiliating him. The punishment for your husband is more than just, and long overdue.”

Petunia opened her mouth to protest, but Dumbledore continued.

“As for your son’s punishment…”

Petunia blanched. “Dudley!” she exclaimed. “What does Dudley have to do with any of this?”

Dumbledore’s words punctuated the air like daggers. “Dudley bullied, beat, and raped…”

“He would never…” Petunia shouted, outraged.

Snape could hold back no longer. “Oh, yes, Petunia, the boy you coddled and spoiled turned out just as you had raised him to be: entitled, prejudiced, and cruel,” Snape said in a voice that promised vengeance.

Petunia’s mouth hung open, looking like a fish out of water. Then she said, “You have no proof.”

“We have Mr. Potter’s memories,” Snape said. “And in our world, those memories can be displayed for all to witness.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “For Dudley Dursley’s crimes,” Dumbledore said gravely, “he will serve six months in Azkaban, as will the other boys who participated in that grievous act against Harry. The Aurors will arrive in one hour to arrest him.”

“You can’t do that,” Petunia said, shaking her head in denial.

“As for you,” Dumbledore continued, ignoring her protests, “you are, unfortunately, still needed. As such you have a choice. You can continue to allow Harry to return here in the summers…”

“No!” Petunia shouted, getting her to feet. “That FREAK has cost me EVERYTHING! My husband, my son, my income…”

“Or,” Dumbledore continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you can spend the rest of your days in Azkaban, along with your husband.”

Snape watched as Dumbledore’s words slowly sank in. He watched the fight drain out of Petunia as self-preservation kicked in. Slowly, she sank back into her chair, looking furious but contrite.

Gritting her teeth, Petunia asked, “I suppose there are conditions?”

“Indeed,” said the headmaster. “The first condition is that you will treat Harry with respect. You will not raise your voice to him, nor your hands, nor any other objects. You will not speak to him in a condescending tone or use body language that could be construed in a negative manner. In other words, you will not cause him any more physical or emotional harm.”

Snape watched as the vile woman seemed to be thinking of ways she could agree to Dumbledore’s terms while still getting around them.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continued, “you will act the role of a proper guardian. You will make his meals, do his laundry, provide him with an adequate clothing allowance so that he may purchase his own clothes, as opposed to wearing Dudley’s overlarge ones. He will be allowed to do a minimum of chores, such as mowing the lawn and cleaning his bedroom, and you will pay him an allowance for doing so. You will not make him do all of the chores as you have in the past.”

Petunia looked very cross as Dumbledore continued laying out the terms.

“Harry will return here after the end of term, and he will be accompanied by a schoolmate who will remain for the duration of his stay to ensure that you are treating him well. Professor Snape will deliver Harry here, and Professor Snape, myself, or another adult witch or wizard will check on Harry’s well-being at least once every other day, and much more often if necessary.” Dumbledore paused, letting his words sink in.

“Furthermore, although Harry is not yet of age, his classmates are, and they will perform magic if necessary to ensure Harry’s safety. If you give Harry any trouble, you will also be welcoming the addition of an adult witch or wizard, or a non-human creature called a house-elf. Trust me when I say you do not want this.”

Petunia quailed under Dumbledore’s constraints.

“Loath as I am to give you the choice, for Harry’s sake I must. Will you, Petunia Dursley, welcome Harry into your home? Or would you rather spend the rest of your life in Azkaban? I must tell you to choose carefully because, should it come to light that you have abused Harry further while he is in your care this summer, you will automatically be sent to Azkaban for life.”

Petunia grimaced, wringing her hands together in her lap.

“That isn’t much of a choice,” she spat. “And if I take the boy, I will not have to spend any time in that dreaded prison?”

“I am afraid you will still have to spend time in Azkaban,” Dumbledore said, not in the least regretful. “You will be arrested with your son and remain in Azkaban until just before Harry’s term ends. You will then be allowed to live here during Harry’s tenure. Depending on how well you do during his four-week stay, you will either be returning to Azkaban or you will be allowed to remain in your home, where you will be required to perform community service for the rest of your life.”

Petunia closed her eyes. “This is outrageous.”

“No more outrageous than your treatment of the boy,” Dumbledore informed her, “and much less than you deserve.”

“Aren’t I entitled to a barrister to represent me?” Petunia muttered.

Snape scoffed. “You willfully and intentionally abused a Magical child. Muggle courts no longer apply, and neither do Muggle laws.”

After a long pause, Petunia spat out, “Fine. He can return here. For four weeks only.”

Potions class was much the same as always. Snape was slightly less obnoxious toward the trio, but just barely. They were brewing a strengthening solution, and Harry had almost managed to get it right. His was a deep blue with green swirling smoke. Hermione’s had turned the teal color it was supposed to, while Ron’s was gray and giving off an odor of rotten eggs. When Snape walked past to inspect their potions, he wrinkled his nose at Ron’s and said nothing about Hermione’s. When Snape got to Harry, he gave Harry a searching look.

Harry watched as Snape’s face changed. The man sighed audibly and said in an exasperated voice, loud enough for the whole class to hear, “Potter, stay after class.”

Harry felt confused. His feelings toward Snape swung on a constant pendulum, unsure of the man’s true regard for him. Was Snape’s treatment of him just for show? It looked like it. And considering Snape still had Death Eater duties to attend, and Dumbledore trusted him, it made sense that Snape was a spy. With the children of Death Eaters in the class, the man would need to put on a show. He had discussed this theory with Hermione and Ron several times. Hermione said it was the most logical conclusion, while Ron just thought Snape was a git and Dumbledore a fool for trusting the double agent. But Harry had seen another side of the man, one that helped him and healed him as needed, albeit not ebulliently so.

Thus, at the end of class, Harry waved off his friends and waited. Snape stalked toward him as the students exited, radiating menace. After seeing the last of the students out, Snape slammed the dungeon door and locked it. Then his whole demeanor changed.

“Your potion wasn’t bad, Mr. Potter,” Snape said. “Your flames were a bit low, which was why it didn’t turn the proper color. Otherwise, it was sufficient.”

Harry felt stunned. That was a huge compliment coming from Snape.

“I kept you after,” Snape said, leaning casually against the desk in front of Harry’s, his face now calm and composed, “because Covey and I would like to invite you to dinner this evening. There are some things we need to discuss with you.”

“Sir?” Harry said. “Am I in trouble?” Harry swore he saw Snape’s lip twitch, fighting off a smile.

“Not at the moment,” Snape said. “But I don’t doubt that could change by the time dinner rolls around.”

Harry laughed, relieved.

“Can we expect you at 6 pm, then?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Is that all?”

Snape was looking at him with that searching expression again. “For now,” Snape finally replied.

“Okay,” Harry said, gathering up his things. “See you tonight then, sir.”

Snape nodded as he held the door open for Harry to leave.

“What was that about?” Ron immediately asked.

Harry looked around, making sure no one could hear him. “He invited me to dinner.”

“He what?” Ron shouted.

“Ron,” Hermione said, putting her hand on his arm. “Be quiet.” Turning to Harry, she said, “That’s a bit odd, isn’t it? Did he say why?”

“He said he and Covey had some things they wanted to discuss with me.”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “It’s probably something about your healing, then.”

“Or the Muggle therapists,” Ron pointed out.

Harry considered his friends’ suggestions. His healing was finished, so far as he knew. And he was still seeing the Muggle therapists weekly, which was helping. He was learning how to ward off his panic attacks and work through his feelings. He was having fewer flashbacks and learning how to integrate his returning memories. His nightmares hadn‘t improved all that much, though.

“Or maybe he’s not happy about my lack of progress in Occlumency.“ Sighing, Harry said, “Well, I’ll find out tonight, won’t I?”

At five minutes to six, Harry knocked on Snape’s office door. When no one answered, he entered, and knocked on the door to the Potions master’s private quarters. Instead of being bidden entrance as he’d expected, the door opened and Healer Covey stood before him, in turquoise blue dress robes that matched the color of her eyes and the tips of her hair. She had changed her nose ring to a fuchsia color that matched the threads of the embroidered patterns that decorated her robes. Looking down, Harry suddenly felt underdressed.

“Harry, tis so nice ta see ye,” Covey said, her smile as welcoming as the hug she gave him. “Please, do come in, aye?”

“Thanks,” Harry said, stepping inside.

Snape was setting the table and he, too, was wearing dress robes—black with silver trim over a dark purple button-down shirt.

“Er,” Harry said, looking down at his more casual, Muggle-like attire, “was I supposed to dress up?”

Covey smiled at him. “Nay, Harry. Dinna fash yerself.” Covey ruffled his hair and said, “Sevvie has prepared the meal for us, ye ken?” Leaning in, she whispered, “He’s quite a good cook.”

Snape, cook? Harry hadn’t thought about it before.

“It is quite natural for Potions masters to be skilled in the kitchen,” Snape said. “Attention to detail, proper preparation of ingredients, following a recipe…”

Covey winked at Harry and led him into the dining room, where Covey stood on tip-toe to give Snape a kiss on the cheek. Harry shook himself. It was odd to see Snape, of all people, to be in a romantic relationship.

Snape held out a chair for Covey and she sat. “It smells wonderful,” she commented.

That it did, Harry thought. He fidgeted uncomfortably. What was he supposed to do? “Should I help serve?” he finally asked.

“Sit,” Snape commanded as he came to the table, a steaming pot floating before him as he ladled out a generous helping of soup into the bowl beside Harry’s plate, before serving Covey, and then himself. Braised lamb and roasted quail made their way around the table next, followed by sautéed vegetables, and fresh bread. Lastly, Snape poured each of them—even Harry—a hearty glass of red wine.

Harry stared, dumbfounded. He’d eaten with Snape and Covey before, but then he’d been blind and it had never felt so formal. What was the occasion? Had he missed something? Not to mention it was just strange seeing your strict, rigid professor in an entirely different, and much more personal, light.

Snape took his seat and lifted his glass. Covey followed suit, so Harry did, too.

“Santé,” Snape said, and was echoed by Covey and Harry alike.

The wine was quite good, Harry reflected, never having had any before. It was just a touch sweet and tangy, and made his head buzz a bit. Feeling a little emboldened by the alcohol, Harry asked, “Are we celebrating something?”

“Nay,” Covey laughed. “It was me idea ta have a nice dinner. After all, ye have passed the first major milestone of yer healin’, aye?”

“I have?” Harry asked.

“Aye, ye have,” Covey said. “Ye have finished yer physical healin’. An’ the Stanleys say ye are doin’ quite well with them.”

Harry glanced toward Snape, who was watching him closely. No one had yet touched their food. He still felt as though he was missing something. As if a curse was about to fall from the ceiling and change everything.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Snape invited.

Covey carried the dinner conversation, as Snape was naturally reserved and Harry felt off-balance in the given circumstances. That said, the food was amazing.

“This is incredibly good, Professor,” Harry said.

Snape nodded in acknowledgement.

“I told ye he was an amazin’ cook, aye?”

“You did,” Harry said, smiling.

“But I made the dessert,” Covey said with a wink. “Sevvie doesn’t put much stock in sweets.”

“They are unnecessary,” Snape commented.

“Aye, but they add a wee bit o’ flavor an’ adventure ta life, aye, Harry?”

Harry nodded, not quite sure what to say.

By the time Covey brought out dessert, Harry was quite full, but the sight of the gleaming confection coated in crème and strawberries was too much to pass up.

“Wow,” Harry said, savoring his first bite. He noticed that Snape had only take a small helping, but seemed equally satisfied.

When they were all finished eating, Snape cleared the plates away to the kitchen with a wave of his wand, then refilled everyone’s wine glass. “Shall we retire to the sitting room?” he asked with a casualness that fooled no one, least of all Harry.

Harry glanced around nervously, feeling as if he was being set up. He followed Snape and Covey, who sat together on the sofa, while he took a seat in a nearby leather chair. Earl Grey, who had been warming herself before the fire, slowly made her way to Harry to take her favorite spot on his lap. She was silky soft and warm and purring loudly by the time she’d kneaded his lap and settled in. Harry felt pleasantly warm, too, after the exceptional dinner and fine wine.

Snape took a long sip of said beverage. “I hope you enjoyed the meal, Mr. Potter.”

“I did, thank you. It was all very, very good,” Harry said.

Snape cleared his throat. “I invited you here this evening because there are issues we must discuss. Covey thought it would be more… suitable… to have dinner first.”

Harry had a strong feeling that the word Snape was really looking for had been ‘palatable’, easier to stomach. Which meant that bad news was coming. What else was new, Harry thought with a sigh.

“I do not wish to upset you,” Snape said, “but you have a right to know. Your relatives were all sentenced early this morning.”

Harry blanched. “You mean my uncle?”

“Yes,” Snape said with a nod, “as well as your aunt and cousin.”

“But I thought only my uncle was arrested?”

“He was arrested first, it is true,” Snape said. “But your aunt and cousin were also arrested at the end of last week.”

“Because of me?” Harry said in a whisper.

“No,” Snape declared. “Because of what they did to you. There is a big difference, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded to be agreeable, but he didn’t really feel it. “What…” Harry cleared his throat. “What sentences were they given?”

“Your uncle was sentenced to life in Azkaban, as was to be expected. Your cousin was given six months in Azkaban.”

Harry swallowed. When Snape didn’t continue, he asked nervously, “What about my aunt?”

“Her case is more complicated,” Snape said, taking another sip of his wine.

Seeing this, Harry followed suit, taking a larger gulp then he meant to, which caused him to choke. He coughed and spluttered, his eyes watering.

Snape swished his wand, clearing Harry’s airway instantly.

“Thanks,” Harry rasped, feeling chagrined.

“Your aunt,” Snape spat, “is, unfortunately, still needed. As such, she was given a choice. She could allow you to return to Privet Drive until you turn 17, or she could join her husband in Azkaban.”

Harry felt stunned.

“Personally,” Snape said, setting down his now empty wine glass, “I would have preferred to see her in a cell beside her beast of a husband.”

“What did she say?” Harry asked, feeling breathless and disoriented. His relatives, his Muggle relatives, in Azkaban. It was too much to take in.

“Nothing of consequence,” Snape replied. “She will spend the next two months in Azkaban, after which time she will be released to Privet Drive where she will await your arrival so that the blood wards remain in place for your protection.”

Harry’s hands began to shake. He knew he’d have to go back there, but it still didn’t make the notion any easier. His aunt wasn’t generally as violent as his uncle but, without his uncle there, who knew how she’d act toward him. He carefully took another sip of the wine, and then set the glass on the table.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, drawing his attention. “Your aunt has had to agree to a number of rules pertaining to your return. Should she disobey them, she will be sent to Azkaban for life.”

“What kind of rules?” Harry asked. That panicky feeling was starting to crawl into his chest. He rubbed his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans.

“Breathe, Harry, tis goin’ ta be fine,” Covey said, reaching over to give his knee a squeeze.

Snape continued. “Your aunt will not be allowed to mistreat you. That will be seen to. She will act as a proper guardian. She will make your meals, she will do your laundry, she will give you an appropriate allowance for clothes. She will…”

Harry shook his head, Snape’s words turning into so much indecipherable buzzing. It didn’t matter what rules they laid out, she’d do as she pleased when no one was watching. It might not be as bad as it was with his uncle and cousin there, but his aunt was capable of plenty of cruelty. And what happened the following summer when Dudley was no longer in Azkaban, but was full of the need for revenge?

Harry felt the walls closing in around him. He gulped in air, seemingly unable to get enough oxygen. This couldn’t be happening. How could he possibly go back there? How could they expect that of him? Why couldn’t he stay in the castle? Why did these things always happen to him?

“Mr. Potter, calm down.”

Suddenly, someone was crouching in front of him. Two hands landed on his shoulders, holding him in place. Harry jumped to his feet, inadvertently knocking the person aside.

“Don’t touch me,” he shrieked. He turned his body away, his chest heaving, sweat running down his back. He grabbed his hair, pulling on fistfuls of it as if doing so could somehow tether him to sanity.

“Mr. Potter!”

He couldn’t do this.

“Harry!”

 He needed to run.

“Look at me.”

He needed to get the hell out of here. Now.

 “Harry. Look. At. Me.”

Snape’s voice, deep and grounding.

Snape’s words, insistent and coaxing.

Finally, Harry looked up.

Snape was standing a foot in front of him, Covey beside him.

“That vile woman will NOT hurt you,” Snape said, his voice harsh, his dark gaze intense. “I will not let her. WE will not let her.”

Snape’s hands came up very slowly and gently disentangled Harry’s fingers from his hair. Then he guided Harry’s hands back to Harry’s side.

 “You can’t stop her,” Harry said, looking away, his fists now clenched by his sides. “You won’t be there all the time. She’ll only be civil when someone is there to see her.”

Covey spoke up then, her voice a soothing melody. “Someone will be there with ye, Harry. The whole time. Tis part o’ the agreement, ye ken?” Covey said, reaching out very slowly to put a hand on his shoulder. A tingling, calming warmth spread through him.

Harry took a deep breath and looked between Snape and Covey, unsure he’d heard correctly. “Someone will be with me? At the Dursleys’?”

“Yes,” Snape affirmed.

“The whole time,” Covey reassured.

Harry took several deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves. He wanted to pace around the room, but forced himself to sit back down.

“Who?” he asked, watching as Snape and Covey returned to their places on the couch as well.

“That is up to you,” Snape informed him.

“Me?” Harry asked in surprise.

“Yes, although we can make that decision for you, if you’d prefer,” Snape said.

“I…” Harry began, but he didn’t know what to say.

“There are several options,” Snape offered. “The headmaster, Covey, Professor McGonagall, and myself have discussed the situation. It would be best for you to stay at Privet Drive for the first four weeks of the summer holiday.”

Harry closed his eyes momentarily, not wanting to hear this. He didn’t want to go there. And he didn’t want witnesses to his degrading treatment, either.

“Thus,” Snape was saying, “the two main decisions that need to be made include who will stay with you on Privet Drive, and where you will reside for the remainder of the summer.”

“What are my choices?” Harry forced out.

“Regarding your time at the Dursleys’, we thought you might prefer to have Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger stay with you.”

Harry glanced up. “That’s an option?”

“It is,” Snape replied.

“But they’re underage,” Harry said.

“Petunia Dursley doesn’t need to know that,” Snape said slyly. “Furthermore, a member of the Order will come at least every other day, if not every day, to check on you. If you prefer, a member of the Order could stay with you at the Dursleys’ instead. Or even that house-elf that seems so found of you.”

“Dobby,” Harry said. “So I could have Ron or Hermione with me at the Dursleys’?” Harry asked again. It was just too unbelievable to be true.

“Yes.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said.

“Whoever stays with you will be under strict orders to report any ill treatment, however slight, to the Order for your immediate removal,” Snape advised.

“All right,” Harry said. “Have you talked to Ron and Hermione’s parents yet? Will they agree to let them stay?”

“We will do that once you have made your decision.”

Harry nodded, the panicky feeling finally receding somewhat.

“Why are you letting Ron and Hermione stay with me?” It was just too good to be true.

“Several reasons,” Snape replied. “First, they both grew up in relatively normal homes, so they should be able to recognize anything that could be construed as abusive or neglectful. And they are very protective of you. Also, you will need support, and we feel you’d be more likely to confide in your friends than in an adult.”

“Ye need yer friends, Harry,” Covey said. “An’ they want ta help, aye?”

“You’ve talked to them?” Harry asked.

“Nay, but Sevvie an’ I have observed them when they were here with ye. We are sure that they’d be more than willin’ ta help ye.”

Snape cleared his throat. “There will be several other safeguards in place as well.”

“Aye,” Covey agreed.

“We know this won’t be easy for you, having to return to the place where so many abhorrent things happened to you. We will do our best to make it tolerable and to help you get through it. We have discussed the situation with the Stanleys as well, and it would be advisable for you to confide in them regarding this. They are more than willing to help you through this.”

Harry nodded, considering all that was being said. “Will I still see them over the summer? The Stanleys?”

“Yes,” Snape said. “We will make sure you have access to them. Whether you go to them or they come to you has not yet been decided.”

He was beginning to feel sleepy. Probably the wine. He yawned.

“We are agreed, then,” Snape continued, “that you wish for either Mr. Weasley or Ms. Granger to stay with you at the Dursleys’?”

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“Then that leaves where you’d like to spend the rest of your summer.”

“Can I stay anywhere?” Harry asked.

“Within reason,” Snape hedged.

“So, at the Weasleys’?”

“Yes.”

“Or at Headquarters? With Sirius?”

Snape frowned. “Yes.”

“Can I think about it?”

“You may,” Snape responded.

Harry took another sip of his wine, finishing the second glass. His head felt pleasantly buzzed and his stomach felt warm. He reached over and petted Earl Grey, who had relocated to the floor after Harry’s abrupt jolt to his feet earlier. Then he slipped down into his chair, laying his head on the arm. “Anything else?” he asked around another yawn.

“I think that is enough for one night, don’t you?” Snape inquired.

“Mmm,” Harry said, his eyelids feeling heavy. He glanced at the clock. It was already 10:20 pm. “Sir!” Harry said, bolting upright. “I’ve missed curfew.”

“You may stay here tonight if you like,” Snape said.

“I can?”

“You may. Your room is ready for you.”

Harry scrunched up his face. Had they planned this? Giving him alcohol and all? But why? Another yawn overtook Harry and he realized that he was just too tired to care at the moment. He’d think about it in the morning.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m knackered. I’ll stay.” Harry pushed to his feet and instantly his head spun. “Whoa,” he said, grabbing the chair for support so as not to fall over.

Snape snickered.

“Not funny,” Harry said.

“That is a matter of opinion,” Snape said dryly. “Would you like help to your room?”

“No, I got it,” Harry said. He took an experimental step, and then another. He was a bit wobbly, but thought he could manage it. “Night, Professor. Night, Covey.”

“Night,” he heard them both say as he made his way to his room.

“Well, at least that part is over,” Snape said.

“Aye,” Covey said, snuggling against Snape’s side in front of the fire. “Do ye think we should have given him Dreamless Sleep?”

Snape sipped his third glass of wine. “As much as I’d have liked to,” Snape said, pulling Covey closer, “I think it is better not to. He will be particularly vulnerable and open tonight after all we have told him. He will be ripe for the Dark Lord to attack.”

Snape stroked Covey’s hair; he loved the feel of running his fingers through it, short as it was. “If the Dark Lord does attack, it would be best if I am here to help him Occlude, and a sleeping draught could interfere with that.”

Covey nodded before straddling Snape’s lap, a wicked grin on her face.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think we would be safer in the bedroom? What if Mr. Potter decides to come out for a glass of water?”

Covey wiggled suggestively against him and brushed her lips along his neck.

“Aye,” she said, “as ye wish.” She slid off him and sauntered toward the bedroom, undressing as she went.

“You are going to be the death of me, witch,” Snape growled, following close behind.

Snape awoke to a red strobe light and a soft buzzing sound. He ended the alarm with a wave of his wand and looked at the clock: 3:35 am. Potter had slept longer than he’d thought the boy would. He leaned over and kissed Covey on the cheek before slipping out of bed to pull on a pair of sleep pants, a robe, and slippers.

Snape padded down the hallway, stopping just outside Potter’s door to listen. The boy wasn’t screaming or thrashing—at least, not that Snape could hear. He knocked softly before entering.

Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. Snape stilled, surprised to see him upright and awake.

“Are you all right?” he called out.

The boy looked up and nodded, and Snape was somewhat surprised to see that his face was dry.

Snape came and sat beside Harry on the bed.

“How did you know I was awake?” Harry asked.

“After what we discussed this evening, I would have been surprised if you hadn’t had any nightmares,” Snape responded. “What was this one about?”

“The one where my uncle is choking me. I remember now why that happened.”

Snape waited for the boy to gather his thoughts and go on.

“There was this teacher at school: Ms. Becker. She was really nice, and she was especially nice to me. I think she felt bad that I didn’t have any friends, and I think she guessed things weren’t good at home.” Harry took a breath before plunging on. “At first, I wouldn’t tell her anything but, after a while, I told her that they didn’t feed me much and that I only got Dudley’s old clothes and that my uncle hit me sometimes.” Potter shook his head. “You’d think by then I’d have known better,” Potter said in a self-deprecating tone. “Anyway, she confronted my aunt and uncle and you can imagine how well that went over.”

“Indeed,” Snape said, once again feeling out of his depth. He could handle Occlumency lessons, he could counsel and coach the teen on how to Occlude the Dark Lord, but he had no idea how to comfort the teen when it came to his abusive relatives.

“He was so angry,” Harry whispered. “He was choking me for telling. He said I’d never be able to tell anyone ever again.”

Snape put his hand on the boy’s knee in silent commiseration. “He won’t ever be able to hurt you again,” Snape said.

“Part of me knows that,” Harry said, “but it’s just so hard to believe.”

“It will get easier,” Snape said.

“Everyone keeps telling me that,” Harry replied.

“They are right,” Snape said.

“Did it get easier for you?” the teen asked, looking at him through Lily’s eyes.

Snape caught his breath and looked away, surprised that Harry had guessed as much about Snape’s own childhood, and even more surprised he’d been bold enough to ask. “I am not sure easier is the right word,” Snape admitted, “but it does get less painful over time. It fades to a dull ache.”

The boy nodded beside him. “Thanks. I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir. You didn’t need to get up for me.”

“Of course I didn’t need to,” Snape replied.

Harry studied him, confusion shining in his eyes.

“I didn’t need to, Mr. Potter, I wanted to.” Snape gave the boy’s knee another squeeze before getting to his feet. “Don’t hesitate to knock on my door if you have another dream or if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” the teen said, sliding back under his own covers.

“And, Mr. Potter?”

“Yes?”

“Your mind is especially vulnerable tonight, so do try to Occlude before you go back to sleep.”

Harry grimaced. “I’ll do my best,” he said.

“That is all I ask,” Snape replied, running his hand over Earl Grey, who lay curled at the foot of the bed, before making his way back to Covey and his own warm blankets.

A few nights later, Harry was dreaming of the Department of Mysteries corridor again, walking down it towards the open door. There was something he needed in there, something important. He passed through the entryway into the circular room. And there he stood, surrounded by many more doors, unsure which to choose.

There was a hissing sound and Harry immediately tuned into it.

“Straight ahead,” the voice hissed. “Go through the door straight ahead.”

Except it wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command.

Just as Harry was about to take a step forward, he was being shaken awake.

“Come on, mate, wake up. You’re going to miss breakfast!”

Harry opened his eyes to the blurry image of Ron standing over him.

“That’s it,” Harry said. “I figured it out.”

“You figured out how not to miss breakfast?” Ron asked, confused.

“Not that,” Harry said, looking around, noticing that Neville, Dean, and Seamus were all present, in various states of getting dressed. Harry glanced back at Ron and mouthed ‘later,’ then grabbed his things and headed to the showers.

By the time they got to breakfast, they were late, and Hermione was already finished.

“I didn’t think you lot were coming,” she said.

“Sleepyhead here,” Ron said, gesturing to Harry, “wanted a lie-in.”

“Good thing you woke me,” Harry said, and he meant it. Had Ron not woken Harry when he did, Harry wouldn’t have had his epiphany.

Ron inhaled his food. Harry ate what he could and then grabbed an apple and a couple of muffins and stuffed them in his bag for a mid-morning snack.

“Hey, if it’s not Potty and the Weasel,” Draco said as they entered the Potions corridor.

“Bugger off, Malfoy,” Ron spat.

Draco opened his mouth to retort but Snape arrived just at that moment. “Inside,” he growled, and the students filed into the classroom obediently.

“You will be continuing your potions from last time,” Snape said. “Need I remind you that this is a tricky concoction, one that must be carefully monitored?”

Harry nodded absently. He needed to speak with Snape AND Hermione together, without arousing suspicion. His next Occlumency lesson wasn’t for a couple of days. He looked up at Snape, hoping to catch his eye but when he did, the Potions master merely looked away. Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Harry, pay attention,” Hermione hissed, grabbing his wrist.

“Oh, right,” Harry said. It wasn’t the first time she’d stopped him from making a mistake.

Harry wasn’t screwing up entirely on purpose. He was distracted. But by the third time Hermione had hissed a correction in his ear, Snape was looking decidedly annoyed. Which gave Harry an idea: a reckless, crazy idea, but an idea nonetheless. Without taking the time to think better of it, he grabbed his bottle of bearded dragon bile and dumped it upside down over Hermione’s cauldron, which promptly spluttered and spat vile liquid and fumes into the air.

“Harry!” Hermione screeched. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry lied.

“Yes you did! I saw you! You ruined my potion!”

“I did no such thing,” Harry stated.

“Potter! Granger! Detention!” Snape said, stalking toward them. “How dare you disrupt my class? You, Potter, I expect. But Ms. Granger? Really? Fifty points from Gryffindor! I expect you both in my office tonight at 6 pm sharp.”

Hermione was fuming but Harry felt relieved. He tried to look at Hermione but she refused to meet his eyes.

Ron was looking at Harry as if he’d grown horns. Ron mouthed, “What the hell?”

But Harry just shrugged. He waited for class to end; he hadn’t had a chance of making a decent potion anyway.

Hermione, on the other hand, was frantically trying to fix hers, but it was no use. Hermione had tears in her eyes as she handed in a clearly substandard potion—probably her first one ever—packed her things and left in a rush.

“Ron, pack my stuff, please? I have to catch Hermione.”

Harry caught up with her outside the girls’ bathroom. Hermione was walking out, brushing tears from her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Hermione, it was a stupid thing to do,” Harry spluttered.

“How could you, Harry?” Hermione said, her voice sounding clogged.

“Because,” Harry said, dragging her behind a wall hanging that concealed a secret passageway. He checked to be sure it was deserted before he said, “I figured it out. I need to talk to you and Snape. Together. It was the only way I could think of.”

Hermione stilled, looking closely at Harry.

“You did it so he would give us detention?” Hermione asked.

“Yep,” Harry said.

Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. “Why didn’t you just stay after class and ask him if we could meet?”

“I thought it would look too suspicious,” Harry said. “This way, no one will ask any questions if we are spending time with Snape.”

Hermione looked doubtful.

“If I’m right,” Harry said, “Snape won’t like it, but he’ll understand. And, after we talk, he should let us redo our potions for full marks during detention. He’s been letting me redo mine, anyway.”

“He has?” Hermione said.

“Yep. That’s why I’m not failing anymore.”

“But he never lets students redo their work.”

Harry shrugged. “Best not look a gift horse in the mouth, eh?”

Hermione seemed slightly mollified.

“Come on, even if he doesn’t, it was just one potion. And everyone knows you’re the brightest witch in the year. Plus, I made sure that Malfoy was watching when I wrecked your potion and he’ll be all too happy to spread that around, which means Snape will have heard by the time we got to detention. So it’ll all be on me.”

“We’ll see,” Hermione said. “Come on, I don’t want to be late for Charms.”

Hermione insisted they arrive early, so it was at five minutes to six that they knocked on Snape’s office door.

“Enter.”

Hermione led the way. “Professor, I’m really sorry about this morning…”

But Snape had eyes only for Harry.

“Care to explain yourself, Potter?”

“I think I worked it out,” Harry said.

“Worked. It. Out,” Snape sneered.

“Yes, the dreams, and Occlumency. Last night, I was in the Department of Mysteries again and…”

Snape raised a hand. “Do you mean to tell me that you disrupted my class and endangered my students just so you get a detention with me?”

“Well, I…”

“And you involved Ms. Granger in this as well, for reasons known only to you…”

“Well, you see…” Harry stammered.

“When you simply could have stayed after class and arranged for a meeting time?” Snape continued.

“That’s what I said,” Hermione muttered.

“I know it sounds stupid now, but…”

“Stupid, reckless, idiotic,” Snape said, slamming his hand on the desk. “Do you have no sense, Potter?”

“I needed to meet with you and Hermione together and I thought if we got detention with you, it would alleviate any suspicion,” Harry stated. “Sir.”

Snape sighed and then shook his head. “Ms. Granger, am I to assume that you knew nothing of Potter’s plans?”

“No, sir,” Hermione said. “I was just as surprised as you were, sir.”

“Very well,” Snape said. “Ms. Granger, after Potter finishes telling us what is so incredibly important, you may re-brew your potion. Potter, you will receive a zero. For while you may have had your reasons, I daresay you had no idea what adding that ingredient would have done to Ms. Granger’s potion and your recklessness could have caused serious harm to those present in the classroom.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, not caring one whit about some stupid potion. He bit his tongue, bidding himself to wait for permission to explain why they were all really here.

Snape took a seat behind his desk and gestured for the other two to do the same. “Do tell us, Mr. Potter, what precipitated this urgent meeting?”

“Well,” Harry said, leaning forward in his chair. “You know I haven’t been able to stop the dreams. Try as I might, I just haven’t known how. I was talking to Hermione about it after one of our meetings,” Harry gestured toward Snape, “saying I needed a trigger to wake up. But Hermione said that maybe I just needed a trigger to close my mind.” Harry looked eagerly between Hermione and Snape. “I think I’ve worked that trigger out.”

Snape raised an eyebrow and Hermione asked, “What is it, Harry?”

“Parseltongue,” Harry announced. “I only realized it because Ron happened to wake me up out of my dream this morning. When I’m in the dream, Vol—” Harry broke off at the deadly look Snape was giving him, “You-Know-Who, then, he directs me using Parseltongue. He tells me where to go, which door to choose. That’s the trigger I need. I have never heard Parseltongue in any other dream. It’s the one thing that makes these dreams different.”

Harry watched as Snape seemed to consider the prospect.

“So if you can recognize Parseltongue in your dream, you’ll know you’re dreaming,” Hermione summarized.

“Yes,” Harry said, “and there’s more. Maybe I can’t block myself from having the dreams, but if I can block myself from understanding Parseltongue—if I can hear it as hissing like everyone else does—then I wouldn’t be able to follow his instructions.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Mr. Potter, but how do you propose to do it?” Snape remarked.

“That’s where I need your help, Professor,” said Harry. “The whole reason I can speak Parseltongue is because You-Know-Who imparted that power to me when he tried to kill me. So, if I can’t block him getting into my dreams, maybe I can block that part of him, or myself. Then I should be able to make it so he can’t control me in my dreams.”

Hermione looked pensive. “Is there a way to single out and Occlude an ability in that way?” Hermione asked, directing her question at Snape.

“In theory,” Snape said, “it should be possible. I will have to do some research on it.”

“I can help,” Hermione volunteered. Then, backtracking, she added, “If you want, sir. I’m sure you are more than capable on your own, of course. It’s just that you are surely quite busy, and I’m pretty good in the library, so I just thought…”

“She’s the best at research,” Harry rejoined.

“I appreciate the offer, Ms. Granger,” Snape said. “You are welcome to research anything that might be useful in this matter. If you come across something of potential value, please record your findings and hand them in to me during class.”

“Yes, sir.” Hermione beamed.

“Anything else?” Snape asked, picking up his quill and writing out a pass to the restricted section for Hermione.

“Er, no… yes,” Harry said. “Sorry about your class today, sir, and thanks for allowing Hermione to re-brew her potion.”

Looking aggrieved, Snape replied, “Next time, Mr. Potter, just stay after class. All right?”

“Deal,” Harry replied, grinning at Hermione.

Ron, Harry, and Hermione spent much of the next week in the library. Hermione frantically researched everything she could find about Occlumency, while Ron and Harry tried desperately to catch up on homework.

“Your situation is so unique, Harry,” Hermione commented. “I don’t think the library is going to be of much use.” Hermione put a tome titled Occurrences in Occluding on top of a growing pile of books. “Maybe I am thinking too literally about this,” she moaned. “I need to think outside the box.”

“Outside the what?” Ron asked.

“It’s a Muggle expression,” Harry said.

“It means to sort of leave everything you know behind and come up with something new from all of the pieces,” Hermione clarified.

“Huh,” Ron responded. “Well, better you than me. Harry, where is Egrio’s moon? I thought it was supposed to be near Neptune, but I can’t find it anywhere,” Ron said, pushing his astronomy chart toward Harry.

Hermione rested her head on the table as Ron and Harry conversed. She let a stream of words run with abandon through her mind: moons, tides, currents, undertows, magnetism, direction, entranced, stuck, scarred, occluded, closed, roped off, bound... “That’s it!” she said, her head springing up.

“What?” Ron and Harry both asked, shocked by her outburst.

“Bound! We need to bind… I need to think about this,” Hermione said, reaching for a fresh scroll and a quill.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance.

“Never mind me,” Hermione said, waving at them to continue their work.

“Yes, never mind her,” Ron said, “she might tell us someday. When it’s important.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Shh, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Well, since it’s me you’re working things out about, do let me know at some point, okay?” Harry said.

Hermione ignored him, gesturing again for them to get back to work. She began to make notes on the scroll before her. They needed to bind Harry’s ability to speak and understand Parseltongue before he slept. Parseltongue was considered dark magic. That was Professor Snape’s area of expertise. She could spend a decade in the restricted section and not figure out what she needed. But she could present the idea to Professor Snape and hopefully he’d know a spell to do it. Putting her head down, she got to work, writing an essay on her idea.

Harry walked the hallowed halls of Hogwarts in search of something he’d never had. Never would have. For it was too late now. He was too sullied; too broken. Still, he couldn’t stop the sliver of hope that shone in his heart. It was only desperation and adrenaline that drove him now. The one last morsel of his fate he controlled--his own actions, as crazy and demented as they surely were. He knew his sanity was hanging by a thread. If only he could have this one chance, his heart’s truest desire--however fleeting, however illusory--maybe, just maybe, it would be enough. And on that slim branch he placed his heart, waiting for it to be broken, hoping it wouldn’t be.

Secure under his invisibility cloak, he checked the time once more. Eleven pm. It wasn’t that late. He hoped the man would still be awake. He hoped the man wasn’t alone. It was a Friday night after all. He hoped they were together. But he’d spent his life hoping and wishing for a plethora of things that never came true. Why should tonight be any different? Because he needed it to be, he thought, grasping at the fragile strands of his sanity. He needed this more than the air he breathed. If it didn’t work out—if he wasn’t there, if she wasn’t there, if the answer was no—he knew, to the depths of his soul that he wouldn’t make it. He’d end up in St. Mungo’s beside Neville’s parents—and would that be so bad after all? he wondered idly.

He made his way down the stone steps, feeling the dampness seep into his skin. On one hand, he couldn’t believe he was doing this. On the other, what choice did he have? The door was locked, as he knew it would be. He placed his palm to the door, heard the lock click, and entered, closing and locking the door behind him. Lumos. He followed his wand’s light to the other door, the door to the inner sanctuary; his hoped-for refuge. He knocked. Once. Twice, a little louder. Three times, hard. But there was no response. Was this, then, his answer? A resounding NO? His tears increased as he leaned his forehead against the hard wooden door. And then it, too, clicked open, and he stepped forward into a deserted sitting room, the light from the fire dim but welcoming. The door closed and locked behind him. At least the door was on his side, he thought. Earl Grey sauntered up to him, meowing plaintively. Harry bent to pick her up, stroking her as he looked around the sitting room. He saw two wine glasses—a good sign. And on the mantel, a new picture. A moving photograph of Snape and Covey, wearing the dress robes they wore that night that they had invited Harry to dinner. Snape stood behind Covey, looking straight ahead, his hand on her shoulder. Snape seemed to be fighting off a smirk. Covey sat in front of him, prim and proper, save for the blue tips of her spiky blond hair and the absolutely devilish smile on her face. She looked back adoringly at Snape, who pursed his lips, before she burst out laughing, which made the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch. After which, they went back to sitting like a proper witch and wizard in a family portrait. The scene repeated over and over again. It was enduring. And it was agonizing. It was all Harry had ever wanted.

Harry set the cat down on the sofa and made his way to the bedroom door, which was closed. He knocked. He’d never been inside before, only seen it in passing when he’d stayed with them, and only once then—after he’d regained his vision. Were they in there now? Sleeping? Doing something more than sleeping? He leaned his ear against the door and heard nothing. Slowly, he turned the knob and stepped inside. Was this suicide? he wondered. Would it be so bad if it was?

Snape was dreaming. His mind was replaying the stunning evening he’d had—a wonderful dinner at King Solomon’s restaurant on High Street, an after-dinner drink in his quarters, and Covey in his bed, in his arms. The feeling of her body straddling his as they made love. The sound of her pleasure; the feeling of his. Stretching out bonelessly afterwards, gathering her to him, feeling her heart beat against his chest as she feel asleep, a smile on her face. A smile on his. Bliss. Undeserved unfettered bliss. Then the dream shifted, changed, to something more unknowable. Something that felt off. Something that prickled at the edge of his consciousness. The feeling of being watched. He slipped into awareness, opening his eyes to see an apparition standing at the foot of the bed, glowing with untamed magic, luminescent tears shimmering on the forlorn face.

“Potter,” he gasped, rocketing up in bed.

The apparition moved, shifted, but only slightly. The magical aura dimmed and deepened, the tears continued to flow, but all else was silence.

“Harry?” Covey said, waking from sleep herself. “What is it, love?”

“Please,” Harry said, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t get up. I’m sorry to wake you.”

But Snape was already getting up, the covers held tight to his waist. He summoned his sleep pants, dressing quickly under the sheets before slipping out from under them. He glanced at Covey, who had the covers pulled to her chin.

“Potter,” Snape hissed. “We aren’t decent. Give us a moment to get dressed.”

Harry turned and hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Snape glanced at Covey, who looked just as confused as he felt. With a wave of his wand, Snape erected a dressing screen and summoned Covey’s nightgown, throwing it to her in one smooth movement.

“Mr. Potter, what’s wrong? Why are you here?” Snape asked, half annoyed, half concerned, as he pulled a shirt over his head.

Covey, now dressed, screen vanished, came to stand on the other side of the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. Harry’s magical aura pulsed, then seemed to collapse in on itself. Snape frowned.

“Sit down before you fall down,” Snape commanded.

The boy sat on the edge of the bed, Covey and Snape sitting on either side of him.

“I remember,” the boy said, dropping his head into his hands. “I remember everything.”

Snape glanced at Covey over Harry’s bowed head, her look of confusion mirroring his own.

“Go on, Harry,” Covey said.

“I was shaving,” Harry choked out. “And I nicked myself. Nothing major. I went to wipe away the blood and it was like the floodgates opened. Everything rushed back at me.” The boy gasped. “Everything,” he whispered hoarsely.

The boy began trembling in earnest. “The beatings, the burnings, the whippings, the starvation, the bullying, the name calling… everything…”

Covey took Harry’s hand in hers, squeezing it.

“I can’t do this,” Harry said. His shoulders hunched in defeat. “It’s too much. All I ever wanted was a… was a family.” Harry shuddered. “All I ever wanted was to be loved. To be cherished. Like a child should be.” Harry shook his head. “But that is not my destiny,” he said in a hollow voice. “I was destined to be murdered—first by Voldemort, then by the Dursleys.” Harry’s voice caught. “And they both still want me dead.”

“Harry…” Covey said.

“I just…” Harry interrupted. “This once, just once, I just…need…”

Snape glanced at Covey again. He wondered if she felt as out of depth as he did.

“What is it you need, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked.

The teen cringed. “Please, call me Harry. Just Harry. Just for tonight. Please.”

“All right,” Snape said. “What is it that you need, Harry?”

The boy seemed to crumple in on himself. The flow of tears increased.

“It’s crazy. It’s stupid. I’m too old. But I… just this once… if I could have this… to hold on to… to remember, just this once… maybe it will be enough. Maybe it will give me the strength I need to go on… to end this. End him.”

Harry grabbed at his hair, pulling it. “I’m losing my mind,” he muttered.

Snape was inclined to agree. “Mr. Po—Harry, you have to give us a little more to go on,” he said.

“I just… can you… I know it’s insane… but… can you… just once… just for one night… can you… pretend… to be… to be… my mum and dad?”

Snape felt the floor drop out from under him.

“You want me to be James Potter?”

Harry flinched as if he’d been hit. “No, it doesn’t matter who you are, just that you could be… could pretend to be… my dad… you could still be you…” Harry buried his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, it’s stupid. Of course you wouldn’t want me for a son… I just wanted to feel… just once… what it would be like to be… to be loved…. like a son… I…”

Harry started to get up, but both Covey and Snape forced him back down with a hand on each shoulder.

“I can’t do this,” Harry intoned again. “I just thought… maybe… if I could just pretend… just not be hated for… well… for existing… if I could have parents I could go to… who would love me, comfort me…”

Harry’s tears broke into heart-wrenching sobs.

Snape looked helplessly at Covey.

“Harry, how can we help ye? What is it ye were hopin’ fer?” Covey asked.

“I… it’s insane… I know… but I was just… I wanted…” Harry took a deep breath and then forced the words out in a rush, before he lost his nerve. “I wanted to pretend that you were my mum and dad. I wanted to sleep between you, like a cherished child after a bad dream.”

Harry shook his head.

Snape glanced over at Covey, feeling startled by the childlike admission. Covey looked terribly sad. Her eyes seemed to ask his permission. He looked down at the boy sobbing brokenly between them, Snape’s hand still on his shoulder. He shrugged as if to say, “Well, it can’t hurt.” Covey smiled approvingly at him.

Snape squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Come on… son.” Snape shivered. “Come to bed.”

The boy beside him stilled. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” Snape murmured. “Come on now.”

Harry looked up at Snape in sheer wonder. Snape had to look away from the raw emotion he saw in the boy‘s eyes. It was too much.

“Out of your robe, then. You have pajamas on underneath, yes?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded and carefully removed his robe, folding it and setting it aside.

Covey crawled back into bed, beckoning Harry in after. For a moment, Harry just stared, looking lost. “I didn’t think… I was sure you’d say no… I…”

“Harry,” Covey said. “Ye are never too old fer a little comfort, aye?”

Harry glanced at Snape. Snape nodded.

Tears still streaming down his face, Harry crawled into bed, curling into the fetal position facing Covey. Earl Grey jumped in after the boy, wiggling his way up against Harry’s chest, purring loudly.

Seeing Covey, Harry, and his cat, all curled up in bed, made Snape’s heart yearn for things he’d long ago given up on. He shook his head, firmly shutting that part of himself away, as he waved his wand to make the bed large enough for all of them. Then, he climbed in as well. This was damn strange, he thought. He looked over at Covey, who was stroking Pott—Harry’s disheveled black hair and whispering soothing words to the boy. Harry seemed to melt into her touch, sobbing quietly as he did so.

Snape instinctively raised his hand to rub the boy’s back, paused at the impulse, shrugged, and did it anyway. The boy’s sobs increased.

“You’re safe,” Snape found himself saying. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Harry cried harder.

Snape realized that in all the time he’d known Potter—Harry, he corrected himself—through all of the healings and all the of pain and memories, the boy had never cried in front of him while awake. Sure, there’d been tears on his face when he was being healed, but he wasn’t conscious then. The teen had been lost in his own mindscape. Not present and pleading for help.

And if Snape was honest with himself, he understood. How many times had he wished for a father who wasn’t an abusive drunk, a mother who had the strength to whisk him away some place where they could be together, just the two of them, without the constant threat of violence. How many times had he wished for just this—parents he could go to when he needed a solid place to land, a hand of comfort, a word of reassurance? He hadn’t had it, either. How much courage had it taken for Harry to admit this? To come to them? He must have been beyond desperate. He must have been on the edge of breaking.

“Harry,” he found himself saying. “It’ll be all right. We’re here for you.” He paused before adding, “Son.”

Snape rolled toward Harry, toward Covey, and reached across to the witch in his bed. She took his hand and, together, they rested their clasped hands on Harry’s trembling shoulder.

“Sleep now, child,“ Snape said. “It will be all right.“

Slowly, the boy’s sobs dwindled to an occasional hiccup.

After a long while, and just before the teen slipped into a deep, peaceful slumber, Snape heard a whispered, “Thank you.”

Snape closed his eyes, releasing a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. What had they all expected? This child, for he was still a child, to withstand the torment of a lifetime of abuse and torture, and the onslaught of the Dark Lord as well? It was a wonder the boy hadn’t broken before then. He squeezed Covey’s hand and she squeezed back.

“Sleep is the best healer,” Covey whispered into the darkness between them. “He’ll be better in the mornin’, aye?”

“I presume so,” Snape said. “We best get some sleep as well.”

“Aye,” Covey replied, yawning. “G’night, Sevvie.“

“Night, love,” he whispered, giving her hand one more squeeze before he, too, drifted off to sleep.

“I have graded your essays on the use of lacewing flies in potions to OWL standards. As you will see, your work is not nearly good enough,” Snape said as he walked around the classroom, returning scrolls of parchment. “I expect much better from fifth-year students.”

Ron and Harry accepted their scrolls, but Hermione, Harry noticed, received two scrolls. Intrigued, he watched as Hermione eagerly opened them. The one that was her essay she set aside with barely a glance. The other, she looked at carefully, her eyes scanning furiously. Then she looked up.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Don’t you have…” she tilted her head toward Snape and wiggled her eyebrows, “tonight?”

“Yeah, six o’clock,” Harry responded.

Nodding, Hermione slid the scroll into her robes. She put the essay into her bag.

Harry just stared at her.

“Later,” Hermione mouthed.

Later turned out to be Harry’s 6 pm Occlumency lesson with Snape, which Hermione accompanied him to.

“I wrote to him about my theory. The one I worked out in the library.”

“The one you wouldn’t tell us about,” Harry said.

“Well, I wanted to see what Professor Snape thought first, to make sure I was on the right track.”

“And?” Harry asked.

“He just wrote ‘six pm tonight’ on it. So I assume he wants to discuss it with us both.”

They arrived at Snape’s office—a little early at Hermione’s insistence—and were bidden to enter. They took their seats and waited as Snape organized some papers on his desk.

Finally looking up, Snape said, “I have read your report, Miss Granger. Your logic is sound.”

Hermione beamed.

“There is an old binding spell, and one that may work.”

“Er,” Harry said, “can someone please explain to me what we are talking about?”

Hermione spoke up. “Well, when we were in the library, it occurred to me that if you couldn’t understand Parseltongue, you wouldn’t be able to follow You-Know-Who’s instructions, right?”

“True,” Harry said.

“And then I thought, how could you temporarily forget a language you know? And you can’t. At least I couldn’t think of a way. But,” Hermione said, looking transcendent on the track of new knowledge, “maybe you needn’t forget it, per se, you’d just need to lock it away while you slept. So, if we could bind it somehow… it would sort of be like Occluding by parts, just in a different way.”

Harry shook his head, thoroughly confused.

“Suffice it to say,” Snape continued, “if we can bind your knowledge of Parseltongue to an object, then we could lock away your use of that skill. And the Dark Lord would be prevented from directing you in your dreams.”

“Is that possible?” Harry asked.

“We are about to find out,” Snape replied. “First we need a sample of Parseltongue to test the theory.”

Snape pushed over what looked to be an ordinary rock. He tapped it twice with his wand. “Speak some Parseltongue into this, and it will be recorded.”

“You want me to speak Parseltongue now?” Harry asked.

Snape nodded. Hermione was balancing on the edge of her chair, looking excited.

“Er,” Harry said. It wasn’t like speaking in just another language. While one could chose to start speaking in German or French, Parseltongue wasn’t quite like that. It didn’t have the easy sibilance of conversation. Parseltongue was a language of means. It was used to command, not converse.

Still, he was in the office of the Head of Slytherin House. He’d just need to find a snake to command, and surely there would be plenty. He found an embroidered snake on Snape’s robes, over the man’s heart, and, squinting, focused on it. He instructed the snake to uncoil, to move.

Beside him, Hermione gasped and pointed. Snape looked down in time to see the snake on his robe’s Slytherin crest slither out from the edges of the badge and travel up his robe to unspool around his collar. Now, instead of being encased in the crest, the snake wrapped around his neck like a stole.

“Harry,” Snape said, breaking the spell of the hissing language.   

Harry glanced up.

“I think that will do,” Snape said. 

Harry frowned. “Oh,” he said, recognizing what he’d done. “Er, sorry about that, sir. I didn’t mean to ruin your robes.”

Snape looked unnerved. “It is fine,” he said. “Let us continue.”

Harry nodded.

“Now, the binding spell needs something alike to adhere to. Parseltongue is considered to be of the dark arts. And your scar,” Snape said, prompting Harry to touch the lightning bolt mark on his forehead, “is also dark magic.”

“Ohh,” Hermione breathed. Harry glanced at her.

“Typically one would try to bind to something in the physical realm. However, since you don’t own any dark objects…”

Harry shook his head.

“…and I don’t recommend that you do so, we are left with your scar,” Snape finished.

“Okay,” Harry said uncertainly, not sure he understood, and not sure that he liked what he did understand. “Will it work?”

“We’ll soon find out. If it does,” Snape continued, “you shall use it every night before you go to sleep, and release it each morning. Understood?”

Harry nodded. Snape raised his wand and Harry tensed, waiting for he wasn’t sure what.

“Incarcerous encantio,” Snape began. A string of more Latin words followed, along with a complicated wand movement.

Then a burst of discomfort snapped at his scar, as if someone had released a taut rubber band there.

“Ouch,” Harry said, rubbing at the offending lightning bolt.

 Snape lowered his wand. “How does it feel?” Snape asked.

Harry lowered his hand. “It’s okay now. It hurt for a second. Now it just feels kind of…” Harry searched for the right word. “Full.” He grimaced. “That probably doesn’t make any sense, but it feels a bit different. Heavier.”

Snape nodded. “All right, let’s see if you can understand what you said before.” Snape tapped the rock before them and an ominous hissing filled the room.

Harry stilled. He’d never heard Parseltongue as an outsider before. To him, the strange hissing sounds automatically translated into words in his mind. But here, now, before him, the sounds escaping the rock seemed truly frightening.

“I did that?” Harry gasped.

“You did,” Hermione said.

“That’s a bit scary,” Harry said. “I never knew it sounded like that.”

“So you do not understand it?” Snape clarified.

Harry shook his head. “Plus,” he said, “that’s just scary enough that it, in and of itself, might wake me out of the dream.”

“The trigger,” Hermione stated.

Harry nodded.

Snape flicked his wand and released the spell. Then he again tapped the rock, which began to hiss and sputter.

Instantly Harry felt the draw of the sibilance. He was sucked in, entranced, as the strange sounds translated into words which directed the snake to uncoil, to be free, to move.

“I understand it,” he said, feeling awed.

“We have our answer, then,” Snape said.

“I never knew. That’s just creepy,” Harry said. “It draws you in,” he continued. “It’s like… like the kid’s cartoons of snake charmers. It’s mesmerizing.”

Snape looked discomfited again, and so did Hermione.

“It’s dangerous,” Hermione said.

“It is indeed,” Snape affirmed. “Now, Mr. Potter, let’s teach you this spell and hopefully we can all sleep better at night.”

Harry enjoyed several dream-free days and had begun to relax in the evenings without the worry of being tempted in his sleep. So it came as a bit of a surprise to Harry when the vision struck him mid-day. It took only moments to impart, leaving Harry’s mind abuzz with terror. Sirius was being tortured in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries by Voldemort and he, Harry, was the only one who knew. He paced anxiously, waiting for the exam to finish so he could speak to Ron and Hermione. He needed to work out what to do but he was panicking and couldn’t think straight.

Voldemort was going to kill Sirius. Over something in the Department of Mysteries, something that Voldemort had been trying to show Harry for months, but that Dumbledore hadn’t wanted him to see. ‘Close your mind,’ Snape’s voice echoed. ’Well,’ Harry thought, ’if I had been able to close my mind, I’d never have known that Sirius was in trouble.’

Harry looked at the enchanted exam timer, TWO MINUTES LEFT flashed in bright red. ‘Come on,’ he moaned. ’Sirius is being tortured NOW.’ And what was he, Harry, going to do about it? ‘Close your mind,’ Snape’s voice said again.

“Shut up!” Harry said, rubbing at his scar. “You hate him anyway,” Harry muttered, thinking of Snape’s loathing for his godfather, and pushing away the thought of how justified that loathing was.

Finally, the buzzer rang and Harry stood aside as the students streamed out, grabbing onto a worried-looking Hermione and Ron when they came out of the Great Hall.

“Harry!” Hermione squealed. “Are you alright?”

“You look white as a sheet,” Ron observed.

“Over here,” Harry said, pulling them into an alcove.

Harry relayed what he’d seen. Ron looked as sick as Harry felt, but Hermione looked skeptical.

“Harry,” Hermione intoned, “are you sure this is real? You know Vol…” she took a deep breath, “Voldemort,” she whispered, “has been planting images in your head. Maybe this is just another one.”

“I know it’s real!” Harry declared angrily. “It’s just like what happened with Mr. Weasley. Sirius is being tortured!”

Hermione looked a bit frightened at Harry’s declaration but he saw her gather her courage. “Alright, Harry. Let’s… let’s just be sure, ok? Let’s go ask Dumbledore.”

“He’s not here,” Ron said. “We saw him leaving earlier, remember? Said something about taking care of something at the Ministry.”

“Maybe he’s gone to save Sirius,” Harry said, before he could think better of it.

“I don’t know, mate,” Ron said. “It’s the middle of the day. Be awfully risky for You-Know-Who to enter the Ministry in the middle of the day, with all the workers and people there.” Hermione nodded and Ron continued, “I mean, last time, when you saw my dad, it was at night, right? No one was there then.”

Harry felt incredulous. “Don’t you understand?” he roared. “Sirius is being tortured right NOW!”

Hermione was urgently trying to quiet him down but Harry didn’t care. He began tearing at his hair. “We have to help him.”

“Okay,” Hermione said. “We could go to McGonagall.”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “She never tells us anything and when we’ve gone to her in the past, like with the Philosopher’s Stone, she didn’t take us seriously.”

Harry was getting impatient. “We’re wasting time,” he declared.

“Just, just let’s check, please Harry? Before we rush into something?” Hermione asked, her voice pleading.

Harry opened his mouth, but Ron interrupted.

“What about Snape?”

“What about him?” Harry demanded.

“Well, he‘s in the Order, right?”

“He hates Sirius,” Harry observed. “He’d probably like to see him killed.”

“Harry,” Hermione scolded. “Ron’s right. And his office is closest.”

Grudgingly, Harry agreed and the three of them raced to the dungeons. When they reached Snape’s office door, there was no answer and it was locked.

“Now what?” Ron said.

“We could check the teachers’ lounge,” Hermione suggested.

Harry was starting to panic again. They were running out of time. Instinctively, he placed his palm on the door. With a loud click, the door unlocked and swung open. Hermione and Ron looked astonished.

“How did you do that?” Ron asked.

“Never mind that,” Harry said. “We need to find Snape.” He rushed to the door to the man’s private quarters and knocked loudly, calling, “Professor!”

He felt a momentary rush of relief when it opened but it was quickly replaced by disappointment.

“Harry, tis nice ta see ye. An’ Ron an’ Hermione,” Covey said, before her smile began to slip. “What is it, Harry? What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Snape?” he demanded, too upset to be polite. “We need to see him. It’s urgent.”

Covey’s face fell. “I’m not sure, actually. I just got here, aye? I havena seen him yet today.”

Harry cursed. His scar ached, his breathing and heart rate were rapid, and his mind was beginning to cloud with terror. If he had a panic attack now, he’d be useless to Sirius.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on shoulder.

“Breathe, Harry, it’ll be alright, ye ken?” Covey soothed.

“No, it won’t be,” Harry declared, stepping back out of Covey‘s reach. “I need Snape.” Harry’s breath hitched. “Now.”

Covey tilted her head. “Didn’t he give ye a necklace ta reach him in emergencies?”

Harry jumped. He’d totally forgotten about that. He reached into his shirt and grabbed the old-fashioned skeleton key and rubbed at it furiously.

“Come on,” he muttered. His focus had narrowed to just the old-fashioned key; Covey, Ron, and Hermione a very distant thought. They were talking, he realized, but it all sounded like so much noise to him.

“Harry,” Covey was saying, “come inside an' have a seat.”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He was waiting for some sign that Snape had got his message. Hermione was pulling at his arm, but Harry was rooted to the spot.

Then, the skeleton key burned and vibrated in his stiff fingers—Snape had gotten the message. Sighing in relief, Harry allowed himself be led to the sofa in front of the fireplace in Snape’s sitting room.

Snape would be arriving any minute now; that was all that mattered.

“Let me get ye all some tea, aye?”

“Is he coming?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded, his throat thick with nerves.

“This is scary,” Ron said, “sitting here in Snape’s private quarters.”

Covey came back and handed out cups of tea. Harry accepted his, but set it down on the table.

Then, in an instant of black glory, Snape swept into the room, looking stressed. “What is it, Harry? What’s happened?”

Harry jumped to his feet. “Voldemort’s got Sirius,” Harry blurted out. “In the Department of Mysteries. He wants Sirius to take something and Sirius won’t do it. He’s torturing him,” Harry said, feeling his panic rising again.

Harry watched as Snape’s face clouded over with annoyance and anger.

“Mr. Potter,” he snarled, “how many times do I have to tell you to CLOSE YOUR MIND!”

“If I had, I wouldn’t have seen Sirius being tortured, and Voldemort would kill him! WILL kill him if we don’t do something!”

Snape shook his head as if Harry was a complete idiot.

Harry felt the sudden urge to hit Snape. “Just because you hate Sirius…”

“Stop right there,” Snape said. “I know more than you do. The whole reason we have been trying to teach you Occlumency is so that the Dark Lord couldn’t plant false visions in your mind!”

“But it’s not false!” Harry shouted, pulling at his hair in agitation. “It was real. It was just like Mr. Weasley. I saw it. I saw Voldemort torturing him!”

“And were you in the Dark Lord’s mind when you saw this? Were you torturing Black?”

“I…”

“Didn’t you tell the headmaster that you saw through the snake’s eyes when Mr. Weasley was attacked? That you were the snake?”

“Well, yes, I…”

“So I ask you again. Were you seeing Black through the Dark Lord’s eyes? Were you torturing him?”

Harry hesitated. “No… but I could see him being tortured, and I…”

“You were seeing what the Dark Lord wanted you to see,” Snape said, his voice dismissive.

Harry felt angry and confused.

“Please, sir,” Hermione interjected. “I think it would help if Harry could talk to Sirius.”

Hermione glanced over at Harry and Harry hated seeing the pity in her eyes.

“I don’t think he’s going to believe Sirius is okay otherwise,” Hermione added.

Snape rolled his eyes. “You want me to get the mutt.”

“Please, sir,” Hermione repeated.

“Very well,” Snape said. Then he glared at Harry. “Stay here. You are not to leave my quarters. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded numbly and felt Covey’s hand on his shoulder once more. She was murmuring comforting words to him but he couldn’t focus on them. The world swirled around him. Was Snape right? Was Voldemort trying to lure him out of the castle on false pretenses so he could capture Harry? As much as he didn’t like to admit it, Harry knew it was a possibility.

The fireplace flashed bright green as Snape stepped through it and Harry felt a dizzying sense of despair wash through him. 

Snape stepped out of the kitchen fireplace at Order headquarters, home of the Blacks. He hated the place. It was filled with an aura of dark magic, it was home to the mutt, and people distrusted him here.

He was surprised to find Kreacher staring at him in astonishment. “Elf,” he said, “I am looking for Black.”

The elf seemed to straighten his shoulders. “Master Black is not here,” the elf stated.

“Not here in the kitchen? Or not here at all?” Snape asked.

“Not here,” the elf repeated.

Snape rolled his eyes, raised his wand, and uttered “Hominum revelio.” The spell revealed that at least one human was in the house.

“Black!” Snape called, stepping around the elf. “Black! I need to speak with you!” When there was no answer, Snape ascended the stairs, his impatience growing with each flight of steps.

“Ah, my dark friend,” the portrait of Mrs. Black cooed as he walked past her landing. “Welcome to the House of Black. It is a pleasure to welcome you to my home.”

Snape bit back a sharp retort. “I am here to see your son.”

Her expression darkened. “He is not worthy of you,” she scoffed.

“I agree,” Snape said, “but I need to find him nonetheless. Do you know where he might be hiding?”

“The disappointing spawn of my loins is likely in his room,” she said, not bothering to hide her contempt for her son.

Snape nodded and continued up the stairs. He found Black in the man’s bedroom, nursing an injured hippogriff.

“Snape!” Sirius shouted in surprise, jumping to his feet, his wand at the ready. “What are you doing here?” He pointed his wand at Snape’s chest. “You aren’t welcome here.”

“I assure you,” Snape sneered, “I have no wish to be in this disgusting place.” Snape looked around, disdain clear on his features.

“Then why are you, Snivellus?”

“Unlike you,” Snape bit out, “I am saving your godson.”

“What?” Black said, his wand dropping and his face paling. “What’s wrong with Harry?” Raising his wand again, he said, “If you so much as touched a hair on his head…”

“Calm yourself, mutt,” Snape said, turning to walk away. “Your godson is fine. Physically anyway.”

“Wait!” Black called out. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He seems to be under the impression that the Dark Lord is torturing you for information.”

“What?” Black gasped.

“And you might want to check on that elf of yours, he seems a bit… off.”

“Kreacher?” Black asked dismissively. “What are you talking about? And where’s Harry?”

Snape found it amusing that Black was easily caught off guard. He kept walking, ignoring the man following him like a well-trained dog. He could feel Black’s growing impatience and alarm and didn’t feel the least bit guilty for causing it.

Back in the kitchen, Kreacher was still hanging around, mumbling to himself. “The spawn of my mistress is still here, oh what would my mistress say, such a scab on the Black family tree…”

“Kreacher!” Black yelled. “Go do something useful! Go clean the drawing room!”

“Yes, master,” Kreacher said, shuffling out of the room, still muttering under his breath. “Such a disappointment to my mistress…”

Black slammed the kitchen door behind the elf, turning back to Snape, his wand drawn once more.

“I want to see my godson,” Black demanded.

Snape rolled his eyes, throwing green powder into the flames.

“Snape…” Black said, a threat clearly imminent.

“I’ll send him through,” Snape said. “You have five minutes,” Snape declared as he spun away, but not before seeing the look of outrage on the mutt’s face.

Stepping out of the fire and back into his sitting room, he found Harry huddled on his sofa, stroking Earl Grey who had curled up on his lap—traitorous cat—his friends on either side of him.

Harry jumped to his feet, upsetting the cat, “Where’s Sirius?”

Snape raised a hand. “He’s fine,” Snape replied. “He is waiting for you in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.” Snape gestured toward the fireplace.

Harry looked both confused and relieved.

“You have five minutes, Harry,” Snape said, handing him the jar of Floo powder.

Harry nodded. Just as he was about to throw a handful into the flames, he met Snape’s gaze. “Thanks, Professor.”

Snape nodded as he watched the boy go. 

School had ended and exams were over. Summer plans had been made, promises exchanged, and the Hogwarts Express boarded. And Harry was going to the Dursleys’ once again. He’d worked extensively on this with the Stanleys. He’d worked on what to do if he had a flashback, or the onset of a panic attack. He’d worked on how to handle any memories that were triggered there. He’d still see the Stanleys weekly, and it was only for four weeks, even if a month seemed like an eternity at present. After that, he’d be heading to the Weasleys’ for a couple of weeks, and then he’d finish off the summer at Headquarters with his godfather. The only person he wouldn’t be seeing regularly over the summer was Professor Snape, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. While he’d finally worked out how to stop the dreams, he wasn’t sure it would be enough. And what if it wasn’t? Sighing, he watched as the scene outside the windows slid by, greens and blues, mountains and sky.

“All right there, mate?” Ron asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Just not looking forward to the next four weeks.”

“It’ll be all right,” Hermione said. “I’ll be with you for the first two, and Ron the last two, and we can always call on Dobby if we need to.”

Harry smiled. He appreciated his friends giving up their summer to be with him. He just didn’t know what to expect when it came to his aunt. She’d have been released from her two-month stay at Azkaban a week ago, and she’d be the only one in the house. Surely she’d hold the absence of her son and husband against him.

By the time they’d reached King’s Cross station, Harry had been thoroughly distracted by his friends and hadn’t even realized the trip was over. Disembarking, he said his good-byes and walked with Ron, Hermione, and Ginny to find Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Then they made their way to a designated café a few blocks over, where Snape would be waiting to take him and Hermione to Privet Drive.

Snape was already there, sitting at a table drinking coffee and reading a Muggle newspaper. He was wearing faded black jeans and a black button-down shirt. Harry blinked. He looked just like a Muggle and it was disturbing.

“Sir,” Harry said, walking up to his table, Hermione beside him.

Snape nodded once, before getting to his feet, folding the newspaper, and leaving it on the table. He placed some British notes under a glass and ushered them back into the sunshine.

“There is an alley up here just a bit. We will Apparate from there,” Snape informed them.

Harry’s stomach twisted. He glanced at Hermione, who took his hand and squeezed.

They made their way into the alley and behind a rubbish skip.

“Each of you take an arm and hold on tight,” Snape said, extending his arms for them to grab. “Do NOT let go until I tell you to, understand?”

Harry and Hermione nodded and, in the next second, Harry felt as though he was being sucked into a tube, his body stretching and twisting, his lungs constricting. As soon as it had started, it stopped. They appeared in the alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Way. Hermione swayed while Harry cursed, both of them still clinging to the Potions master, who looked supremely unaffected.

“Steady yourselves,” he said. “Then you may let go.”

Hermione looked shaken. “Is it always like that, sir?” she asked.

“It is,” Snape replied.

“Do you ever get used to it?” Harry asked.

Snape frowned. “In a manner of speaking,” he said. “Now, let’s get this over with.”

Snape led the way to Number Four Privet Drive. “Remember, you aren’t to do magic, unless absolutely necessary, and even then it is better for Ms. Granger to do it than you, Harry. Today is an exception as the Ministry has been warned that you are being escorted by an adult wizard.”

Harry felt a spark of anger go through him. As if he hadn’t remembered how Umbridge had sent dementors to Little Whinging and he’d almost been expelled for defending himself and his cousin. At least that vile woman was spending time in Azkaban for her crimes against the students. There had been so much outcry from the parents of students that even Fudge hadn’t been able to smooth that one over.

As they stepped up to the front doorstep, Harry was startled to see how much the garden had fallen into disrepair. The lawn had been mowed once, it seemed, but it needed it again. Weeds grew in the flower beds and along the cracks in the once pristine sidewalks. Snape knocked smartly when they reached the door.

Promptly, the door swung open to reveal Petunia Dursley. She looked thin and pale, her face lined and her lips pursed. She looked over their shoulders, refusing to make eye contact, as she stepped aside to let them in. Snape gestured Harry and Hermione inside, before following them and shutting the door. It was a bit awkward, with no one speaking and no one quite knowing how to act, Harry thought.

He jumped when he felt Snape’s hands settle on his shoulders from behind. “Petunia,” Snape said coldly.

“Severus,” she said in return, her voice lacking her usual venom.

“Here with Mr. Potter is Ms. Hermione Granger,” Snape said. “As you know, she’ll be staying for two weeks. An additional adult will be checking in at least every other day, if not more often.”

Aunt Petunia nodded, her stance rigid, still refusing to make eye contact.

“I trust I will not hear any reports about your mistreatment of Mr. Potter.” Harry felt Snape give his shoulders a squeeze. “If I do, you will have me to answer to. Do you understand?” The threat in Snape’s voice was unmistakable.

Stiffly, Aunt Petunia nodded once more.

“Very well, then,” Snape said. “Let’s get you both unpacked.”

Snape nudged Harry forward—indicating the boy should lead the way—before removing his hands from Harry’s shoulders.

Harry appreciated Snape’s show of protectiveness in front of his aunt. He glanced at Hermione and then led her and the professor up the stairs to the where his bedroom and Dudley’s were. 

“This is Dudley’s room,” Harry said, gesturing toward the large space filled with everything a boy could want—computers, TVs, handheld electronics, radio-controlled cars, gaming systems, comic books, posters, and more. With a sigh, Harry continued on and said, “And this is my room.”

Harry didn’t miss the doubtful looks of his friend and professor at his very small, plain room that had none of the things that Dudley’s had. His walls were bare and there was only a single bed, a badly scratched dresser, and a tottering desk with a broken leg. Everything looked worn and secondhand. Harry looked at his feet, not wanting to see the pity on their faces. He distracted himself by placing Hedwig’s cage on top of his dresser, releasing the latch, and opening the window so she could fly out if she wanted.

“Would you prefer to sleep in your cousin’s room?” Snape asked.

“No,” Harry said automatically. He’d never been allowed in his cousin’s room. But if he thought about it, he didn’t want to the constant reminder of Dudley, either.

“Very well,” Snape said, waving his wand in a wide arc.

Harry watched as his bed groaned and popped and turned into bunk beds with an ornate iron ladder, the mattresses covered with gold sheets and burgundy comforters. The plain walls transformed themselves into a pale yellow-gold color and deep red curtains formed to cover the single window. His desk and dresser transformed into the dark wooden heavy style of furniture that could be found in Gryffindor tower. The long plain wall opposite the bunk beds now sported a breathtaking picture of Hogwarts, and a Gryffindor pendant hung above the door. Then the room seemed to stretch itself, elongating in a way that Harry knew didn’t fit with the floor plan of the house. A table and two chairs popped into existence and an extra-wide wardrobe formed, as well. The locks on the outside of the door cracked and broke off and a new doorknob appeared that could be locked from the inside.

“That’s much better,“ Hermione breathed. “Thank you, Professor.”

Harry stared around in awe. “Yeah, thanks,” he breathed.

With another wave, Snape enlarged their trunks. He set the briefcase he’d been carrying atop one of them and opened it. The inside was lined with potions bottles held in place by strips of what looked like elastic. He proceeded to pull out a few of them and hand them to Harry.

Harry read the labels: Calming Draught, Dreamless Sleep, Mind Strengthening Solution.

“You know how to use them. Send an owl if you need more.”

“I appreciate it, sir,” Harry said.

“Is there anything else you need while I am still here?” Snape asked.

Harry shook his head, still stunned by all the things that Snape had thought of, his room in particular. Did Snape know how much of a trigger his room would be? And that by changing it so spectacularly, he could make new, better memories and not be haunted by the old ones?

“Harry,” Hermione said, “where is the toilet?”

Harry pointed her down the hall, leaving Snape and Harry alone.

“Harry,” Snape said. “You have come a long way and I am sure that returning here must feel like a setback.”

Harry looked at his feet but said nothing.

“Are you still wearing the chain I gave you?”

Nodding, Harry pulled out the long necklace with the antique key attached to it. “Where did you get this?” Harry asked, fingering the warm metal key.

When Snape didn’t answer, Harry glanced up. Snape was standing there but his focus was elsewhere. Finally, he reached into his shirt and pulled out his own identical chain with matching skeleton key. Then he touched his wand to each old-fashioned key and dark etched lines started to grow and spill out across the ornate surface of the metal. On Harry’s key, a lithe Gryffindor lion wound its way around the top of the key on one side, with the name “Lily” in a looping script on the other side. On Snape’s pendant, a snake curled around the key’s curvature, with the name “Sev” in the same looping script on the other side. Snape was staring at the keys with a faraway look on his face, one that had remnants of loss and regret.

“Professor?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Your mother made them for us,” Snape said. “She and I were friends before Hogwarts. We were, of course, sorted into different houses.”

Harry stared, stunned. Snape and his mother were childhood friends?

“By second year, she was a whiz at charms. When one of us needed to talk to the other, we simply rubbed them to let the other know, and then we met in a predestined location.”

Fascinated, Harry asked, “Did you use them often?”

Snape grimaced. “Your mother was very pretty and very popular. Everyone adored her. I, on the other hand, was the odd one out. I was teased and picked on. Lily knew. She summoned me quite often, more for me than herself, I suspect.”

Harry was running his fingers along his mother’s name. He had never had anything of his parents’ before, and now he had a necklace that she had charmed.

“How did you get hers back?” Harry asked.

Snape sighed. “In that memory you saw in the Pensieve, when she tried to help me. I rejected her help and called her that awful name.” Snape shook his head. “I tried to apologize. She said she’d stood by me long enough. She threw her chain at me and refused to speak to me after that.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said. He couldn’t imagine losing Ron or Hermione. It would crush him.

Snape shrugged. “I’d got mixed up with the wrong crowd by then and Lily didn’t like it. Looking back, I can see her point. At the time, I was blinded by the perception of power and fitting in.”

Harry guessed that Snape was speaking about some school version of the Death Eaters but he wasn’t about to ask.

“In any case,” Snape said abruptly, snapping back to the present, “keep this on you at all times. Should you need me, you know what to do.”

Harry nodded.

“And, Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Do not play the hero. I am here for you, as is Covey. Whether that be because you are experiencing new memories or panic attacks or flashbacks, or if your aunt is giving you any trouble, or if the Dark Lord is invading your mind. If you need me, do not hesitate to reach out to me. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, either the headmaster, Covey, or myself will escort you to the Stanleys each week,” Snape said, sliding the key and chain back beneath his shirt; Harry followed suit.

“What about Occlumency lessons?”

“Practice what we have worked on each day and each night before you go to bed. We will resume regular lessons when you return to Headquarters.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For everything. For helping me this term. And just, everything.”

Snape nodded. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. Then he was gone.

Hermione found Harry sitting on the lower bunk.

“Are you all right?” she asked, sitting beside him.

“Yeah, I am,” Harry said and, with his friends and professors and the whole Order behind him, he knew he would be.

~*~ The End ~*~