“I will give you a tour of the house tomorrow,” Snape said, leading a Featherlight-charmed Harry to a room across the corridor and down from the water closet. “For now, we will focus on brewing your potion.”

Harry followed Snape, glad to be doing something of use. He knew he needed to rest to heal—it was only the third day after Snape had rescued him, after all—but lying in bed all day with nothing to do but think was wearing on him.

Snape pushed open a door at the end of the corridor and ushered Harry inside. “This is the second bedroom. I have temporarily made it into a potions lab to be closer to you. Once you are well enough, you may claim this room as your own and I will move the potions lab to the ground floor.”

“Oh,” Harry said, a mixture of fear and panic making his mouth taste bitter.

Snape was studying him intently. Harry glanced at his feet, biting his lip. Seeming to sense his discomfort, Snape spoke. “You are welcome to stay in the room you are in as long as you like. There is no shame in not wanting to be alone. Even I…” Snape paused and cleared his throat.

Harry wasn’t sure Snape would finish his sentence, but then Snape started speaking again.

“There have been times in my life when I have not wanted to be alone, either.” Looking away, he quietly admitted, “Even as an adult.”

“There have?” Harry asked.

Snape nodded and directed Harry to sit on a stool.

Harry felt himself relax just a little. Snape had promised he wouldn’t judge Harry. It was still strange not to be on the receiving end of Snape’s constant criticisms and harsh tongue, though. Especially since Harry seemed to be giving the man so many fertile opportunities to demean him.

“Isn’t there a spell to make hair grow?” Harry asked.

“There is,” Snape replied. “But you asked for a potion.”

Harry frowned. Did it really matter what method they used?

As if he knew what Harry was thinking, Snape said, “As we are no longer at Hogwarts, it will be my job to continue your education. What better place to start than brewing a potion that you have a vested interest in?”

“What if I fail, sir?”

“You will not fail,” Snape said.

“How do you know?” Harry asked.

“Because I will not let you,” Snape replied, placing a pile of tangled herbs in front of him. “Sort them according to length,” Snape directed.

While Harry sorted, Snape chopped various ingredients, pulverized a few roots with a mortar and pestle, and used his wand to start a low fire beneath the cauldron. Harry guessed that Snape was giving him tasks that wouldn’t tax his healing hands.

“Will it hurt to regrow my hair?” Harry asked. It was probably a stupid question, but the last thing Harry wanted was for an unexpected bout of pain to throw him into a flashback again.

“No. It will cause your scalp to tingle, though.”

Nodding, Harry finished his herbs and looked to Snape for further instruction.

Snape handed over a bowl of greens that were decorated with red and white berries. “Separate the berries into two piles based on colour.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

They worked in companionable silence, each completing their own tasks, until all of the ingredients were prepared and neatly ordered. Then Snape slid both the cauldron and the recipe book in front of Harry.

“You will carefully follow these written instructions,” Snape said sternly. “If you have any questions or do not understand something, you will ask me to clarify. You will not make assumptions. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry answered. There was some perverse comfort in Snape reverting to strict professor mode. It made Harry feel, at least temporarily, as if things were as they had once been.

Harry managed to only need clarification once, and he’d almost made it through the whole potion without messing up. When Snape stilled Harry’s hand, stopping him from adding too much of the second-to-last ingredient, Snape’s dismissal was not as sharp as it could have been.

“Clearly you have reached your potential for today,” Snape said. “Off to bed with you. I will finish this.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said. He had been doing fairly well but the exhaustion that overcame him was both sudden and overwhelming. When he stumbled getting off his stool, Snape caught him by the elbow and insisted on walking him back to bed.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, crawling beneath his covers. Snape said something in response but Harry was drifting toward sleep and couldn’t make out the words.

 When Harry awoke a couple of hours later, Snape was setting a tray of lunch on his bedside table. There was also a pot of forest-green goo giving off a combined scent of mint and lavender.

Harry pushed himself up in bed. “Is that the hair-growing potion?”

“It is,” Snape replied. “It needs to be applied topically. Eat your lunch first.”

Diligently, Harry dug into the soup and bread. The broth was thicker now, and no longer clear, as if Snape had added vegetables and run it through a blender. Harry was thankful for the lack of chunks.

When he had eaten and drunk his fill, Snape banished the tray to kitchen.

“Would you mind if I applied the potion? I would rather you not strain your hands,” Snape said.

“That’s fine,” Harry said.

Nodding, Snape slid gloves onto his hands and picked up the glass jar. Then he handed Harry a mirror.

Harry grasped it but Snape didn’t let go.

“It would be preferable for you to watch, if you think you are able,” Snape said.

“It’s alright. I can watch now.”

Snape let Harry take possession of the mirror. Then he dipped his gloved fingers into the viscous green ointment. “I will apply the potion in layers. It works by stimulating the hair follicles. The more potion I apply, the more your hair will grow.”  Snape rubbed his hands together, spreading the potion out over his fingers and palms. “You will need to tell me when to stop so it does not grow longer than you would like.”

“I just want it long enough to cover my scar,” Harry said automatically.

“Very well,” Snape replied. Holding his hands near Harry’s head, he asked, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Snape placed his hands on Harry’s scalp and began massaging in the potion. It felt cool on his skin and sent a shiver through his body.

“All right?” Snape asked, pausing momentarily.

“Fine,” Harry replied. “It’s just cold.”

Harry watched in the mirror as the tiny black stubble that had sprouted on his head grew longer. Snape continued to apply the potion in layers until a half-inch of black hair stood out all around his head.

“Would that work on other places on your body? Like your face or chest?” Harry asked.

“It would,” Snape replied. “In my year, a boy in Ravenclaw used it to grow a beard that reached the floor.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “It sounds like it could be dangerous.”

“In the wrong hands, it can be. Mr. Fred and Mr. George Weasley, for instance.”

“Did they use it?” Harry asked.

“Not that I know of,” Snape replied. Harry noticed the amusement that crossed Snape’s features at the mention of the twins. He thought perhaps that Fred and George may have broken up the monotony of school for the teachers.

Shifting the mirror, Harry said, “Sir, can you only apply the potion to the top of my head now? So the sides and back stay short, but the front grows longer?”

“Certainly,” Snape said, doing as Harry requested. Once the hair reached past Harry’s scar, Snape raised his hands. “Is that sufficient?”

Harry reached up and ran a hand through his untidy black hair, relishing the feel of it sweeping through his fingers. Looking in the mirror, he smoothed out the longer hair on top so that it covered his scar.

“Brilliant,” Harry said. “I feel much more like myself.” Looking at Snape, he said sincerely, “Thank you, Professor.”

“You are very welcome,” Snape said, stripping the gloves from his hands. He capped the jar of potion. “Do let me know if you are overcome by a desire for a handlebar moustache.”

“I’ll wear one if you do, sir,” Harry said cheekily.

A look of surprise crossed the professor’s face, followed by the tiniest of smiles gracing the corners of the harsh man’s lips. “Touché,” Snape murmured.

Harry was sweating and shaking, his eyes glued to the fireplace. They were coming for him. He had his wand gripped tightly in his hand, his muscles cramping around it as he sat sentry on his camp bed. We’ll find you, wherever you are.

Ever so often, he’d glance to where Snape was sleeping. Snape. They would come for Harry, but they’d take Snape too. And they would hurt Snape. Snape, sleeping and unaware, wouldn’t even be able to defend himself, much less Harry.

Harry ran a hand through his hair. His newly grown, unkempt, sweaty hair. Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe. It wasn’t working. Images of a hand, a lone hand, being dragged over his skin, the fingertips still warm, danced in front of his eyes. He tried to push the memory away, tried to hold on to the present.

His glance darted to the open bedroom door. Then to the fireplace. Then to the window. Then to Snape. Over and over. Waiting. We’ll find you. We’ll come for you. Nowhere is safe. We will always find you. Wherever you are. Nowhere will ever be safe for you, Potter.

A log in the fireplace hissed and then popped very loudly, the sound startling a shriek out of Harry. His eyes were wide, his wand held in a death grip, as his lips moved frantically. “No, no, no.”

Snape forced his eyes open and glanced wearily over at the boy who was huddled in the corner on his bed. One more night and then he can have Dreamless Sleep, Snape thought, forcing his exhausted self out of bed.

“Harry.”

Haunted eyes met his. “They’re coming for us,” Harry proclaimed, his voice hollow.

“Who is coming?” Snape asked, sitting down on the narrow mattress a foot away from the trembling teen. He reached out to gently and slowly peel Harry’s tight fingers from his wand.

“They told me they would find me. They would come for me.” Fear glistened in the boy’s eyes, made Harry’s voice crack. “They will never stop looking for me, never.”

“Harry…” Snape began.

“They will take you, too,” Harry said urgently, his voice rising. “They will chain you up and torture you. They will make me listen to your screams. They will make me…”

“HARRY!” Snape snapped. The boy was spinning out of control, paranoia taking over. “Harry, look at me!”

Harry’s eyes were wild, his gaze swiveling around the room, his body rigid, as if preparing for a fight.

Snape opened his mouth to speak again, when Harry lunged. To Snape’s shock, Harry grabbed his hand, enclosing it desperately in his.

“Please,” the boy whispered. “I don’t… can’t… Don’t let them take me. Please. Promise you won’t let them take me.”

“I promise I won’t let them take you,” Snape said, squeezing Harry’s hand in return. “We are safe here, I promise you that. No one can find us here.”

Harry’s breathing had not evened out.

“Accio Calming Draught,” Snape said, catching the small vial easily in his hand. Harry drank it without objection.

“Have you slept at all?” Snape asked.

Harry shook his head.

The boy looked miserable. He had that haunted expression on his face and he was still shaking and gripping Snape’s hand as if his life—or his sanity—depended on it.

 Snape glanced between Harry, still huddled into himself, and his own warm, comfortable, regretfully vacated bed. Coming to a decision, likely born of exhaustion and the desperate wish to get some rest, he cast the Featherlight Charm on the boy.

“Come on,” Snape said, tugging on the hand that held his own in a death grip. He led the boy over to the large bed and gestured toward it with his wand. “In you go.”

Harry looked momentarily confused. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he released Snape’s hand and crawled over to the far side of the bed, slipping beneath the covers.

Snape got in after him, sliding beneath the bedclothes and settling on his back on his side of the bed. A moment later, he felt Harry’s hand scrabbling across the mattress. Snape reached out his hand, allowing the boy to grasp it. He could feel the teen’s frantic pulse. Snape frowned. The calming potion should be taking effect by now.

Then Harry spoke, his voice a hesitant whisper in the darkness. “The first thing they did was strip me and shave my head.”

Snape stilled, listening. He wondered vaguely if the act of regrowing Harry’s hair had been, in some way, an act of defiance on Harry’s part against Harry’s captors. Had this, then, triggered the boy’s renewed fears?

Harry sucked in a breath, drawing Snape’s attention.

“I would rather die than go back there.”

The boy’s breath hitched and Snape squeezed his hand, sensing Harry had more to say.

“Promise me that if they come back… if you can’t stop them from… from taking me…” Harry swallowed and gulped in a breath. “Promise me you’ll cast the Killing Curse on me,” Harry said, his voice cracking.

Snape felt his stomach swoop with dread. That the boy could wish for death had him reeling. He rolled to his side to face Harry, an expanse of empty mattress between them. “What can I do to make you feel safe?”

“Promise me!” Harry demanded, his intense gaze lit with an equal measure of determination and desperation.

“It will not come to that, Harry, I promise,” Snape said.

“But if it does…” Harry pleaded.

“It won’t,” Snape reassured. “I’ve sworn to protect you, Harry, with my life.”

Harry let out a sound like a wounded animal. “I don’t want them to take you either,” he cried.

“They won’t. We are safe here,” Snape said.

“You weren’t safe from Voldemort,” Harry said dully, his voice clogged with tears.

Snape cringed at the reminder.

“What if Voldemort uses me to attack you? What if we are attacked while we are sleeping? What if you get sick or injured? What if…”

“Potter, stop!” Snape commanded, frustration and exhaustion making his temper flare and bringing the teen up short.

Harry shut his mouth with a snap and turned away, but the boy’s grip on Snape’s hand did not lessen.

Snape forced the breath from his lungs and scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” Snape said.

“For what?” Harry said, still not looking at him.

“For snapping at you. You have every right to have those concerns.”

Harry dashed the tears off his face and turned back toward Snape. “I can’t sleep for worrying,” he admitted.

“I know,” Snape said. “I cannot give you another sleeping potion until tomorrow. Is the calming draught helping any?”

“Not really, sir.”

They lapsed into silence, Harry’s hand still firmly encased in his own. Snape rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. How could he convince the boy he was safe? How could he reassure the boy of anything when he felt just as broken as the boy at times? What had Dumbledore been thinking leaving the traumatized teen in his care?

He heard a stifled sob beside him and rolled to face the boy once again. Harry was lying on his back, tears streaming down his cheeks, staring at the ceiling as Snape had been. Snape was just about to ask what was wrong when Harry began to speak in a hollow, monotone voice.

“There was a man in the cell next to mine. A Muggle, I think.” Harry wiped at his tears. “I never got to meet him.” Harry choked on another sob and stuck his fist in his mouth momentarily, trying to get control of himself.

Snape squeezed the boy’s hand.

“They tortured him. Constantly. His screams…” Harry said, shuddering at the memory. The teen’s sobs increased.

Snape gritted his teeth, wanting to kill the bastards that had hurt Harry.

“Then one day… one day…” Harry choked out, gasping for breath. “They cut off one of his ha… hands…” Harry’s trembling increased and a low keening noise escaped his throat. “They used it to… touch me… all…” Harry swallowed convulsively. “All over.” Harry’s words broke off in a sob and he covered his face with his free hand. Then the boy curled into a ball on his side, still clutching Snape’s hand.

Well fuck, Snape thought, biting his lip to keep from cursing. What the hell was he supposed to say to that? And worse, he guessed that was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to what they’d done to the boy. If they’d cut off a hand, he could only imagine what else they’d done to the poor sod, and how they’d used it to torment Harry. Snape clenched his jaw, vowing vengeance if he ever got the chance.

In a hoarse voice, Harry added, “I can still feel the fingertips being dragged over my skin.”

Swallowing against the constriction in his own throat, Snape uttered, “Harry, I…”

Harry shuddered again, his sobs increasing. He looked up, the picture of wretchedness. “Could you… could you hold me… please?” he asked, his voice thick, his whole body trembling.

Wordlessly, Snape opened his arms and let the child crash into him. He held the young man as he sobbed his heart out, curled up in a bony ball, knobby knees pressing uncomfortably into Snape’s chest. He patted the boy’s back and whispered nonsense words. He’d had plenty of crying Slytherins before, but he’d never had to comfort them to this extent. A potion, a kind word, and sending them off with a book to read usually did the trick. If it was anything more serious than that, he’d send them to Madam Pomfrey who would either cure them or connect them with more skilled counselors as St. Mungo’s. He’d never had to face this level of pain before—other than his own, which he was equally unskilled at handling.

After what was likely only several minutes, but felt like hours, Harry’s sobs turned to sniffles. Harry pulled away, apologizing profusely as he scooted back over to the other side of the bed, removing his hand from Snape’s as he curled back into a ball, facing away from his rescuer.

For reasons Snape didn’t want to consider, he felt bereft. He lifted his hand to touch the boy’s shoulder, but hesitated, finally dropping it. At a loss for what to say, he murmured, “Do you think you will be able to sleep?”

Harry shrugged, not looking back.

Frowning, Snape rolled onto his back and stared listlessly at the ceiling, listening to the boy’s breathing, which alternated between sniffles and calm, but did not settle into the rhythm of sleep. He imagined they’d both be dead on their feet come morning.