“Harry Potter and Professor Snape is decorating a tree!” Dobby said, bouncing alongside Harry’s bed. “Dobby is wanting to help, sirs. Dobby is bringing candy canes, sirs.”

Harry stirred from his pile of blankets and reached for his glasses. Sliding them on his face, he propped himself up on one elbow, trying to get his sleepy eyes to focus. A tall stack of multi-colored striped boxes was floating in the air before him. Glancing down, he saw scrawny legs, knobby knees, and two differently colored and patterned socks.

“Dobby?” Harry groaned. “What time is it?”

“It is quarter past six, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is made breakfast already. Dobby is needing to return to Hogwarts now, sir. But Dobby is wanting to help Harry Potter and Professor Snape decorate their tree, sir.”

Harry shook his head, as if testing to see if he was dreaming. When the boxes didn’t disappear, he said, “Thanks, Dobby. You can leave them by the tree.” Around a large yawn, Harry murmured, “I promise I’ll hang them up right after breakfast.”

“Dobby is happy to help, Harry Potter, sir. If Harry Potter is needing anything else, sir, he is only needing to let Dobby know.”

“Mm, right,” Harry mumbled, collapsing back onto his pillows. Moments later, he was snoring.

Snape had to restrain himself from laughing aloud. He got up, removed the sleeping boy’s glasses, and pulled the covers up around him. He folded the circular frames and set them on the bedside table before returning to the novel he was reading by the early morning light.

“Where did all the candy canes come from?” Harry asked, gawking at the tall stack of boxes.

“You don’t remember?”

Harry scratched his head. “Should I?”

Snape snorted. “Dobby woke you early this morning to let you know that he wanted to help you decorate.”

Harry looked startled by the revelation.

“As I recall,” Snape continued, sipping a cup of tea, “you promised him you’d hang them on the tree immediately after breakfast.”

“Really? You aren’t taking the mickey out of me?” Harry asked.

“Can you imagine me requesting such sweets? Or gifting you with them for the tree?”

Harry sniggered. “I suppose not, sir.”

Harry picked up the box on top of the stack and pulled out a tray of oddly colored candy canes. “What the…?

“What is it?” Snape queried.

“These candy canes... There’s lime with peas, cherries with pork roast, and bananas with leeks. Yuck!” Setting the tray down and pulling out another, he continued. “Here’s radishes with smoked sausage and salmon with blue cheese. Who would eat these?”

“Your cousin might appreciate them,” Snape commented dryly.

Harry glanced at Snape for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “He would, too.”

Snape smirked and returned to the crossword puzzle in that day’s copy of the Daily Prophet that Dobby was always so kind as to bring him.

“At least they’re colorful,” Harry said. It took him almost an hour to hang the plethora of oddly flavored curved sweets on the branches of the tree. Standing back, he clasped his hands together. “Well, it’s definitely a unique tree.”

“That it is,” Snape mused. He’d almost returned to his crossword puzzle when he saw Harry’s face fall. Leaning forward, he asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry murmured, but his gaze was averted and his shoulders had drooped. Any merriment that had been present a moment before had deserted the boy.

“Harry?”

“It’s… nothing. I just…” Harry glanced up and opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again and shook his head. “I think I’ll go take a shower now, if it’s all right with you, sir.”

Snape nodded, wondering what had soured the boy’s mood.

“There are some potions I need to brew. Would you mind making lunch?”

“Sure,” Harry replied. “Anything in particular you’d like?”

“You choose,” Snape said, scratching absently at the underside of his wrist.

“What are you brewing?”

“A few standbys: Headache Helper, Stomach Settler, Acid Alleviator, Diarrhea Dissuader. Plus, some more Dreamless Sleep and Blood Replenishing Potion. It never hurts to have those on hand.” Snape paused and looked at Harry critically. “And, Harry?”

“Yes?”

“Feel free to interrupt me if you… need anything.”

Harry dropped his gaze. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what Snape was referring to. The Potions master was worried that poking around the food stores would trigger one of Harry’s food episodes. Swallowing against the tightness in this throat, he nodded.

“After lunch, I could use your assistance in the lab.”

Harry nodded and began scrounging around in the kitchen. He found a large slab of beef in the cabinet that they kept cold with a cooling charm. Not for the first time, he wondered where their food came from. Different things appeared in the cabinets each day. Some items would remain a week or more, some would vanish overnight. It wasn’t unusual to find fresh oranges on the table in the morning, to be mysteriously replaced by apples mid-afternoon, and bananas in the evening. Harry imagined the stock of a local grocery store magically disappearing off the shelves. He snickered to himself at the thought of a Muggle reaching for a can of peas only to have it vanish mid-grasp.

He pulled out the biggest pot they had and set it on the cooker before adding the large slab of beef. Then he peeled and quartered an onion and four carrots, adding them atop the roast. After preparing meals for the Dursleys for so many years, he didn’t use recipes anymore. Cooking had become instinctual for him and he rather enjoyed the creativity it inspired.

Going through the cabinets once more, he found a bottle of burgundy cooking wine and added a splash of that to the pot, along with some water and a can of sliced mushrooms. Next, he seasoned the roast with a variety of spices. Then he covered the roast and spelled it to a low heat. It wouldn’t be ready until the following day, as it would need to cook slowly overnight, but it would cover the next day’s meals with roast beef sandwiches for lunch and beef roast for dinner.

In the meantime, he threw together a couple of ham sandwiches and began working on a large bowl of salad, tearing and adding lettuce to the bowl. Preparing food, Harry found, sometimes helped to take his mind off of things—like how Christmas was going to be without getting any gifts. It wouldn’t be like Christmas at the Dursleys’, he reminded himself, reaching for a bell pepper. Yes, he might not have any presents, but it wasn’t because no one liked him. It was merely a consequence of the circumstances he found himself in.

And giving gifts was more important than receiving them—wasn’t that what everyone said? Harry dumped the chopped peppers into the bowl, then brought a red onion to the cutting board and began dicing it. He did have something for Snape, after all. He’d found the bag of gifts he’d bought in Hogsmeade in his trunk that had been transported with him to the safe house. Someone must have located the bag on the street after he’d been kidnapped and figured out it was his.

So what if Snape didn’t have anything for him? Snape had already been amazingly generous with his birthday gifts to Harry that past summer, not to mention everything else the man had done for him since then. He wiped his sleeve across his burning eyes—damn onions—and grabbed a cucumber, slicing it with more force than was strictly necessary.

He had managed ten years without gifts, he chastised himself, dumping in the cucumber bits and grabbing a carrot to peel it. He felt guilty and selfish to be fretting over something as trivial as Christmas presents. But a part of him, perhaps the unloved young child part of him, saw those small tokens bestowed upon him as a reassurance of his worth, a checkmark in a box that said someone, somewhere, cared about him. Those gifts, no matter how small, reiterated that he had something he hadn’t had all those years with the Dursleys: friends.

Sighing, he pitched the carrots into the salad and seized the tomatoes, breaking one off the bunch. He tried to force back the loneliness that made his soul ache. He did have friends, friends who cared about him, even if he couldn’t be with them at present. They’d wait for him, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t they?

“Lunch is ready, I see.”

Harry jumped, hissing in pain as the knife he was using to cut tomatoes sliced into his hand. Instinctively, he fisted his hand and held it to his chest.

Long, cool fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling the injured flesh out into the open.

“My apologies for startling you, Harry,” Snape said as he waved his wand, healing the deep gash instantly. “I should have announced myself.”

Harry let out his breath, the pain vanishing instantly with Snape’s healing spell. “It’s all right, sir,” he said, flexing his healed hand. “I should have been paying more attention.”

Snape gave him an odd look before releasing his wrist. “The bases for all of the potions are finished. After lunch, we can brew the final products.”

“All right,” Harry said as he set out plates and cutlery.

A mostly silent lunch was followed by an even quieter afternoon brewing.

“Something on your mind, Harry?” Snape asked after restraining Harry’s hand for a third time from adding the wrong ingredient to his cauldron.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said, dropping his hands to his sides. It was no use; he couldn’t concentrate. It was a mark of Snape’s uncharacteristic forbearance that the Potions master hadn’t taken to yelling at him for his lack of focus.

“Clean up your station, Harry. I will finish these potions.”

Harry set about cleaning the tools he’d used and putting ingredients away. He felt Snape’s eyes on him but he couldn’t tell the man what was bothering him. What was he supposed to say? You’ve been really good to me and all, but clearly something is wrong with me because it’s not enough. I know you’ve been trying really hard, but I miss my friends and I can’t bear to think of spending Christmas with you instead of them. It sounded pathetic and childish, not to mention highly ungrateful, even to his own ears.

Feeling disgusted with himself, he made his way to the kitchen table and slumped into a chair, his head in his hands. He didn’t feel like eating, he didn’t feel like sleeping. He didn’t feel like doing anything. Even the sight of sunshine outside and a newly decorated Christmas tree in the next room weren’t enough to lift his spirits at the moment. Sighing, he let his head fall to the table and felt even more wretched for feeling sorry for himself.

Severus awoke to weak rays of light streaming in through the bedroom window. He stretched languidly before rubbing at the underside of his wrist—the damn skin there had been bothering him for the last day or two, and the ointment he’d put on it hadn’t helped any. Ignoring the irksome itch, he bit back a yawn, relieved that Harry’d managed to sleep through the night without the help of any potions. It was a rare occurrence, as Harry was usually restless in his sleep, the nights fraught with cries and tangled sheets even if he didn’t wake to full consciousness.

Staring up at the ceiling, Severus reflected on the previous day. Harry had been unusually quiet and distracted. Something had clearly been bothering the boy but he hadn’t wanted to tell Severus. Either that, or he simply hadn’t been able to. Severus didn’t doubt that many horrific memories still played on the boy’s mind, and it would take time for the boy to heal. Patience, Snape reminded himself. Except that patience was not one of his stronger suits. He only hoped that whatever was ailing the boy would either have resolved itself, or that Harry’d be able to address it head on today.

At just after six in the morning, it was much too early for the boy to be awake yet, giving Severus time to shower, have a cup of coffee, and catch up on the day’s news. As he sat up to get out of bed, he glanced toward the camp bed where Harry slept, his mind already filling in the image of the boy’s tousled dark hair, mouth hanging open as he snored lightly, the covers wildly askew.

Except that the camp bed was empty.

Severus frowned and listened for sounds from the WC, but all was silent. A small twinge of unease fluttered in his stomach. Grabbing his wand off the nightstand, he exited the room and glanced around. The door to the WC stood ajar.

“Harry?”

Severus made his way to the end of the short hallway. Perhaps the boy had finally decided to sleep in the second bedroom. He stuck his head inside to see the bed still made, the room as empty as it had been since Severus had relocated the potions lab to the pantry.

“Harry! Where are you?”

Sweat prickled warningly on his skin as he rushed down the stairs to the ground floor. Harry had never not been in bed in the morning. He didn’t like to be alone. Perhaps he’d gotten hungry and went to the kitchen. But the kitchen, as well as the pantry, the sitting room, the ground floor WC—even the closets—were empty.

His heart beginning to pound painfully against his ribs, Snape said, “Hominum revelio.”

Only a single light glowed—the one that outlined his own silhouette.

Severus stood frozen, wand still outstretched. Blood thundered in his ears as a metallic taste flooded his mouth. On the verge of his knees giving out beneath him, he stumbled to the sofa, his mind reeling. He was completely unprepared for the overwhelming fear and panic that consumed him.

Harry Potter was missing.

The chill of the damp, hard ground soaked into Harry’s skin. He was cold, so cold. His teeth chattered and his limbs shook as he dug his hands into his armpits. His feet had long since gone numb. Even with his knees pulled tight to his chest and his body huddled into itself, he didn’t seem able to get warm.

Images pushed their way forward, laced with terror. He remembered being in that other place, chained and naked, hungry and cold. The guards would come throughout the day and night to taunt and torment him. One of their favorite things to do was to pour buckets of ice water over his already chilled body. Sometimes they’d deluge him with the icy fluid all at once. Other times, they’d drip it over him slowly, just to watch him thrash against the chains, trying futilely to get away. Still other times they’d hold ice cubes to his flesh, laughing as sobbed and writhed in pain.

But this place wasn’t the same as that place had been. It was completely silent, and the walls were different. Furthermore, he could see a barren landscape bathed in dusky grey light. He’d not had any sense of time or place when he’d been in that other place. And here, no one had come to torture him. At least not yet.

His stomach rumbled with hunger and sleep dragged at his consciousness, but those sensations paled in comparison to the biting, agonizing cold. It seared every inch of exposed skin, the chill paradoxically burning his flesh. His hands ached terribly, as had his ears and feet before he’d lost feeling in them.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, or even where here was. He had a vague sense that something had happened, but he couldn’t remember what. There had been fear and adrenaline, and maybe even hope? Had there really been hope? Or maybe it was loneliness masquerading as hope. He wasn’t sure anymore. Everything seemed so far away. Trying to think was like slogging through mud.

He knew he should try to escape while he had the chance, while no one was there to stop him, but he was so tired and his body didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Plus, it was getting harder and harder to breathe, as if the same thick sludge in his brain was filling his lungs as well.

Perhaps he’d been drugged. That made sense. It would explain why he couldn’t think straight or get his limbs to move. And why he just wanted to sleep. Why was he fighting sleep anyway? If only he had a blanket...