The fifth day in the safe house dawned with sunlight streaming in through the windows and a light snow frosting the ground. The snow would be gone by midday, Snape knew, but it was enough to remind him that Christmas was less than a month away. He hadn’t spent much time pondering the holiday, but with a teenager in residence, he supposed he’d have to give it more thought. If he were here alone, he wouldn’t bother with a tree or decorations. Looking over to the teen huddled in the camp bed across the room, however, he thought it might prove to be a good distraction.

A disturbance in the corridor drew his attention. A large silver tea service floated into the room, nearly completely obscuring the server. All Snape could see above the tea kettle was a teetering stack of multi-colored hats, and below, a pair of mismatched socks. A moment later, the tea service settled onto his bedside table and Dobby poured him a cup of tea.

“Good morning, Professor Snape, sir. Dobby is making tea. Dobby is making breakfast for Professor Snape and Harry Potter when they is ready, sir.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Snape said, sitting up in bed and sipping the aromatic beverage.

“Dobby is not being missed in the kitchens, sir. Dobby is happy to serve Professor Snape and Harry Potter, sir. Professor Snape is only needing to tell Dobby his wishes, sir.”

“We can manage during the day,” Snape said, noticing the elf’s ears drooping in disappointment. “However, your presence in the evenings while we sleep would be much appreciated.” Glancing toward Harry, Snape added, “The boy seems to need the reassurance at present.”

After that short discourse, Dobby arrived each evening before the two wizards retired. While Snape and Harry slept, Dobby cleaned the house, did the laundry, cooked pastries, and did whatever else Snape or Harry asked him to. Come morning, tea would be waiting for them both, as well as breakfast, both placed fastidiously under a warming charm.

Harry’s nightmares continued, as Snape had expected, but every third night, he was blessedly relieved to be able to give the boy Dreamless Sleep.

Outside of the interrupted nights, Snape had instituted a routine for the boy, including showering, cleaning up after breakfast, and then studying for two hours in the sitting room. Snape would then quiz Harry on what he had learned, answer questions, and assign or review homework as needed. There’d be a short break, and then lunch. Afternoons were two more hours of lessons, and two hours of practicals—which rotated between Potions and Transfiguration on even days and Charms and Defense on odd days—and then an hour for homework. Joint dinner preparations came next, and after dinner, Snape expected Harry to finish the day’s homework and then spend the evening in leisure activities of Harry’s choosing.

Snape applauded himself for this masterful schedule that would keep Harry busy and engaged, as well as up to speed with his peers academically. He envisioned Harry making great strides in his education, which Snape reflected—later—he’d been an idiot to expect. Harry had never been the best or most focused student to begin with. Add post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and paranoia to the mix, and anyone but a complete moron could have predicted what would happen next.

“Harry, you need to study.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You haven’t opened your book.”

“Right,” Harry said, opening his book in his lap and staring down at it.

“You need to actually read the words,” Snape forced out through gritted teeth.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape watched as Harry stared blankly at the page. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to berate the boy. “Focus,” he ground out.

Harry didn’t reply. Instead, his eyes drifted from the page and out the window, where he gazed listlessly.

“Potter,” Snape shouted, slamming the Potions journal he was attempting to read down on the coffee table and pushing to his feet. “Is it that hard to…”

Harry instantly cowered, curling into himself in the corner of the sofa to make himself as small a target as possible, his Transfiguration text sliding to the floor with a loud thump.

Snape cursed to himself as he took a few steps toward the boy.

“Please don’t hurt me,” Harry pleaded, wrapping his arms around his head to shield himself. “Please. I won’t do it again.” Harry’s breathing had turned ragged, his voice broken. “Just don’t… don’t…”

“Harry,” Snape said softly, squatting down in front of Harry. “I apologize for frightening you. No one is going to hurt you. You are safe here, I promise.”

Harry lowered his arms from his face. “I don’t feel safe,” he murmured.

“I know,” Snape bit out, feeling equal parts frustrated and helpless. “But you are, nonetheless. No one can find us here.”

“What if you’re wrong?” Harry asked. “What if they do find us, what then?”

His legs aching from squatting, Snape cast a cushioning charm and sat back on the floor. “For the sake of argument and to put your mind at ease,” Snape said, “I will indulge your question.”

Slowly, Harry pushed himself back into a sitting position on the sofa. Snape got off the floor and sat next to him on the sofa, but not too close.

“First, this house is unplottable and invisible—to Muggles and wizards alike. For all we know, this plot of land we occupy could actually be a charmed illusion. We may be miles under the earth’s surface or resting atop a forest of trees or hovering over the middle of a lake.”

“Really?” Harry asked, clearly startled at the thought. “It that possible?”

“Yes,” Snape replied. “But let us assume that someone manages to stumble near our safe haven. The wards would drive them away, inserting strong suggestions in their minds to make them remember something they urgently need to do or to give them a really bad feeling, making them want to leave immediately.”

“But if they are Death Eaters,” Harry countered, “they would expect that. They would try to break through the wards.”

“The wards are incredibly strong. Professor Dumbledore cast the original wards, and I added my magic to them as soon as we arrived.” Raising his hand to cut off the boy’s protest, Snape continued. “The moment anyone so much as thought about casting a spell or forcing their way through the wards, the house would fill with alarms. Even if they could break through the wards—which I assure you they cannot—it would take time. We would have more than sufficient warning and ample time to Apparate away.”

Harry seemed to consider this.

“And before you ask, yes there are anti-Apparition wards on the house. The wards are tuned to our signature, so we can Apparate out if necessary, but no one can Apparate in or side-along Apparate out with us, not even Dumbledore.”

“Dobby can,” Harry pointed out.

Snape frowned. “Dobby, like yourself, seems to be an exception to the standard rules of the universe,” Snape said. “Even so, Dobby’s travel between here and Hogwarts is not technically Apparition. Apparition is a form of wizard transportation.”

“So another elf could come here, perhaps one that worked for the Death Eaters,” Harry said, his breathing shallow.

“No, Harry. It does not work that way. An elf cannot go wherever it pleases. Dobby was able to come to you because you called him. You gave him a direct command, an order, and as he is loyal to you, he obeyed.”

“But that’s not true,” Harry protested. “He came to me at the Dursleys’, when he was the Malfoys’ house-elf. He wasn’t supposed to, and I knew nothing of house-elves then, so I certainly didn’t call him to me, nor was I in immediate danger at the time. He came to give me a warning.”

Snape stroked his chin, rubbing at the stubble there. He’d forgotten to using a shaving charm that morning. “As I said, Dobby seems to be an exception.”

Harry looked unconvinced.

“Do you know any other house-elves?” Snape asked.

“Well, there’s Winky,” Harry said, Barty Crouch’s old house-elf.”

“Call her,” Snape instructed.

“Now?” Harry asked.

Snape nodded.

Harry screwed up his face for a moment and then his expression cleared. “Winky,” he said, his voice a clear command.

They waited in silence for a few moments. Just as Snape was about to belabor his point, a sharp crack rang out.

“Dobby?” Harry said, sounding confused.

“Harry Potter, sir. Why is you calling Winky, sir? Winky is not being able to come. Only I is able to come to you, Harry Potter, sir.”

Snape smirked. “Thank you, Dobby. Harry was just testing the strength of the wards and enchantments protecting this house.”

Dobby turned his tennis-ball eyes to Professor Snape and nodded gravely. Then the elf made his way to stand before Harry.

“Harry Potter, sir,” the elf said, more gravely than Snape had ever heard him speak. “No one is finding Harry Potter, sir. No one is being able to. I is the only one who can come here, sir. No one is hurting Harry Potter here. Magic is not allowing it, Harry Potter, sir.”

“How come you can come here but not another elf?” Harry asked.

“Dobby is owing a great debt to Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter set Dobby free. Now Dobby is connected to Harry Potter. Dobby is able to find Harry Potter wherever Harry Potter is, sir, because we is linked. Harry Potter is only needing to call Dobby and Dobby is coming, sir.”

“And no one else can come here like you can?” Harry asked.

“No, Harry Potter, sir. I is the only one who can come. Harry Potter is safe here.”

If Snape thought the elf’s reassurances would put matters to rest, he was mistaken. Harry still jumped at the slightest noise and constantly glanced out the windows and checked that the doors were Muggle-locked (as if any wizard worth his wand couldn’t get through a Muggle door). The behavior was beginning to grate on Snape’s nerves but he bit his tongue. Taking another tact, he began teaching Harry warding spells. This, at least, caught the boy’s interest and motivated him to read the relevant chapter in his Charms book.

They spent one fruitful afternoon with Harry casting wards on all of the doors, windows, fireplaces, and cracks in the wall. Snape’s feeling of success was short lived as, soon thereafter, instead of checking the Muggle door locks, Harry began casting revealing spells at the doors and windows to make sure the wards were still in place. Snape sighed and tried not to resent Harry’s lack of trust in him.

Harry felt trapped. Trapped inside the safe house, trapped inside his head when he was awake, trapped inside nightmares when he was asleep. He felt the danger of being discovered pressing in on him at all sides. Snape and Dobby had tried to reassure him that he was safe here, but nowhere was safe, no matter what they said. And their being here with him just put them at risk as well.

He knew he was trying Snape’s patience, but he couldn’t help it. Part of him wanted to fling himself out of the safe house and run. Run anywhere, just away from this all-consuming, gnawing sensation that they would find him, they would get him, they would lock him up again, torture him, and… and… worse.

The memories raced across his mind, fighting for dominance, each one more horrible than the next. How was he supposed to function when he couldn’t push them back, couldn’t make them stop haunting him? It was impossible.

And all Snape seemed to care about was making him study. As if he could concentrate on his coursework. He knew he needed to keep up in his classes, as he couldn’t attend them in person, but for the life of him, he couldn’t dredge up the motivation. Classes and Hogwarts seemed a million miles away. He’d left that world behind, and it couldn’t be replicated in the sitting room or tiny potions pantry in the safe house. Not to mention, the biggest part of Hogwarts was missing—his friends.

Ron and Hermione had always been there for him. They’d got him through the tough times. But he couldn’t even talk to them now. What he wouldn’t give to just sit between the two of them in the Gryffindor common room—even if they were bickering, or play a game of wizard’s chess with Ron, or study with Hermione in the library while she scolded him for not putting enough effort into his homework. Without their presence, he couldn’t motivate himself to do much of anything except lament the fact that he missed them terribly.

If he was honest with himself, what he missed most was his former life. The life he’d had before he’d been abducted and tortured by Death Eaters. It may have been fraught with what seemed like one injustice after another, but those things seemed petty in comparison to what had happened to him since.

He dropped his head into his hands, rubbing wearily at his face. He needed to shower. He needed to eat breakfast. He needed to face Snape. Instead, he rolled over and buried his head under the covers of his camp bed. Maybe he’d feign illness in hopes that Snape would let him stay in bed all day. And maybe the Chudley Cannons would win the World Cup, too, Harry thought with a sigh.