A/N: Although the majority of this chapter is safe, there are a couple of sentences that have very strong references to memories of rape and may be triggering.

Harry let out his breath. What Snape said made sense. And he knew he needed to work on his defensive and offensive magic if he had any hope of defeating Voldemort.

“There’s one other thing, Harry.” Snape was tapping his fingers on the table and looking ill at ease.

Harry’s gut swooped with apprehension.

Snape cleared his throat. “Can you inform me of your prior sexual experiences?”

Harry blinked, half caught off guard and half horrified. “Why do you want to know that?”

Snape glanced at Harry, and then away again. He continued to tap out a rhythm on the wooden surface. “The headmaster tasked me with seeing to your recovery. It is, therefore, my job to try and make you as whole as possible.”

Harry grimaced. “I don’t see how my… past experiences… are relevant to that.”

Snape cocked an eyebrow at Harry as if he was being purposefully dense.

Harry clenched his jaw. He did not want to talk about this.

The older wizard sighed. “As I said earlier, because of rape, sex can become… tainted.” Now Snape was the one grimacing. “If you were older and had had a healthy sex life…” Snape let out his breath and seemed to search for the right words. “For an adult, it can sometimes be easier to separate the two. There’d be some basis for comparison, at least. Some prior experience to fall back on.”

Snape refilled their wine glasses and took a deep swallow. “If, as I suspect, however, your experience has been limited to the typical teenager fumblings…” Snape looked pointedly at Harry. “Then rape is your only data point for sexual intercourse.”

Harry, who’d already dropped his head to the table, groaned. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Not looking up, he muttered, “Yeah, all right, I’m still a virgin. Or, at least I was, before… before they…” Harry shook his head, unable to continue. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You are still a virgin, Harry. You did not choose what happened to you.”

Harry snorted. What difference did that make? He was sullied now, broken, dirty. Damaged. He couldn’t look at Snape. He didn’t want to see the expression of pity on the man’s face.

Snape squeezed Harry’s shoulder before pulling his hand back. “You’ll get past this, Harry. I’ll do my best to help you.”

Harry’s eyes overflowed. When would it end?

The night was rocked by Harry’s nightmares. Severus should have expected it after the conversation they’d had that evening. Still, as Harry screamed and Severus shook him awake for the third time, he’d given up any thoughts of a restful evening.

“Talk to me, Harry,” Severus pleaded.

Harry shook his head. He’d refused to speak of it all night.

“You’ve told me about the other things they did to you,” Severus reminded him.

Harry turned away. “Not. This.”

Severus sighed. “Do you want to sleep in my bed?”

Harry shook his head and rolled over to face the wall.

Accepting the teen’s dismissal, Severus returned to his bed and subsided reluctantly into sleep. The sun was higher up in the sky than he’d expected when he awoke next.

Harry’s bed was empty.

Glancing quickly to the nightstand, a scrawled note read “Kitchen”.

Severus showered and shaved before joining Harry. The boy looked drawn. “Did you sleep any more last night?” Severus asked as he cast a warming charm on the breakfast foods.

Harry shook his head.

Severus ate in silence, contemplating his options. The boy was too tired and distracted to brew, he’d likely blow himself up. Severus could have him clean the lab. Or prep ingredients perhaps. But one look at Harry’s shaky hands and he nixed that idea. They didn’t have enough ingredients for Harry to mutilate or spill them. If he thought the boy could focus, he’d have worked with him on Transfiguration, but that didn’t appear likely either. Perhaps a review of charms, then. And some good, old-fashioned fresh air.

“Your muscles should have sufficiently recovered by now. Why don’t you clean up these dishes and we’ll go ice skating again.”

Harry said nothing as he pushed to his feet and cleared the table.

If Severus had thought the idea might excite the boy, like it had only two days ago, he was sadly mistaken.

They dressed silently in the back corridor, scarves and gloves and hats against the cold. Their skates and warm socks hung by their sides as they trudged toward the frozen pond.

“Do you know the charm to remove your footprints from the snow?” Severus asked.

Without a word, Harry withdrew his wand and flicked it behind him. Their footprints vanished at once.

Severus was impressed. Harry had done the spell wordlessly.

“How about clearing a path forward so we do not have to walk through this slush?”

This time, Harry flicked his wand forward. As if to prove a point, Harry not only vanished a path through the snow for them, but he cleared the entire garden. Non-verbally.

“Clearly, I am boring you,” Severus said, leaving out the fact that he would have been hard pressed to do half of what Harry had just done with such ease.

They walked in silence several minutes longer. When they arrived at the downed log they’d used previously to sit upon and put on their skates, Severus spoke. “Perhaps you could transfigure this log into a bench for us?”

As Harry raised his wand-arm, Severus cast out his hand, gently pushing Harry’s arm back to his side. “Wandless, if you please.” Severus was pleased to see the look of concentration that followed color Harry’s pale cheeks.

Several moments later, after trying fiercely to do it without using his wand, Harry’s shoulders drooped in defeat.

Severus sighed dramatically, feigning disappointment. “Use your wand if you must.”

A moment later, they were seated on a padded bench, removing their socks and boots.

Harry bit his lip, concentrating on keeping his balance. It was easier this time. He had the general feel of skating now and his body knew what it was supposed to do. He’d managed to summon enough energy to skate pretty well for about fifteen minutes, losing his balance only twice.

After that, though, his lack of sleep caught up with him and he hauled himself over to the bench and sat down. He watched Snape glide effortlessly around the pond and wondered, not for the first time, what had happened to the wizard. Part of him wanted to know, while another part of him did not.

Harry twirled his wand aimlessly, his mind wandering. He’d been able to distract himself mostly while concentrating on skating, but his mind was not cooperating now. He wouldn’t think about it. Would. Not. Think. About. IT.

“Harry?”

He wouldn’t think about hands grabbing him roughly, rolling him over, pushing his legs apart. He wouldn’t think about the stench of sweat, the mocking tone of their voices, the agonizing pain of being rent in two. He grit his teeth, his anger flaring as the images came, unwelcome and unbidden.

“Stop,” he moaned, yanking at his hair, as if doing so could pull the ugly memories from his head. “STOP!”

Along with the images, came the rage that had lain buried for far too long. It swamped his senses and tightened his muscles. Those bastards! How dare they! He felt his magic spike, uncomfortably pulsing against his skin in its unbridled intensity. How dare they do that to him! If only…

“HARRY!”

The shriek of sheer panic jerked Harry from his memories. He stared in awe, his mind rapidly cataloging the changes before him. The snow that had blanketed the pond and its surroundings was gone. Steam rose from the melting ice as water pooled on the surface and between the wide, jagged cracks. Cracks?

And Snape! Where was Snape? Harry was on his feet, his mind on rewind, as his eyes frantically searched for the older wizard. His short-term memory on auto replay, he registered the sounds he’d ignored moments before: the sharp sound of ice cracking, frantic splashing, gurgling, Snape screaming his name…

“ACCIO SNAPE!” Harry screamed, realization flooding through him as terror clawed at his chest.

A black shape rose up out of a large crack in the ice and flew toward Harry. The soaking wet and limp form of Severus Snape landed on its back at Harry’s feet.

“Snape, oh fuck. Snape!” Harry dropped to his knees, pushing the ice-cold, water-drenched hair from Snape’s face. Pointing his wand at Snape’s throat and chest, he cried, “Anapneo! Anapneo!”

The water cleared from his airways, the older wizard started to cough, his chest heaving. And then, he was vomiting, spewing lake water from his lungs.

Harry quickly rolled Snape onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on his effluence. Instinctively, he pounded the man on the back.

Gasping for air, Snape swiveled livid, black eyes to Harry. “Cease striking me at once.”

Harry removed his hand at the raspy command. He was shaking and stunned.

Shivering, Snape dug his wand out from inside his drenched robes and cast drying and warming charms on himself. Pushing himself to his feet, he flung his wet hair out of his face before casting a drying charm on it as well. Then he turned to Harry.

“What the bugger did you do, Potter?”

The venom in Snape’s voice had Harry taking a step backward. “Me?”

“Well I certainly didn’t banish all the snow and melt the damn ice!”

“I… I…” Harry spluttered. He had done this? His mind raced through what he’d been doing, thinking, before it had happened. “I… I was angry,” he murmured, trying desperately to put together the pieces of what had happened.

“Back to the house, now,” Snape said through clenched teeth. He used his wand to transfigure their ice skates into walking boots. Then he grabbed Harry’s upper arm and propelled him forward with enough force to leave bruises before letting go.

“I’m sorry, Professor.”

Snape said nothing, just stomped on ahead.

Harry fell behind, his shorter strides unable to keep up with Snape’s longer ones without running alongside the man. Then it hit him: He’d almost killed Snape. He’d almost killed the man who’d saved him. Without Snape, he’d be dead. Harry gasped for air, suddenly feeling as if he couldn’t get enough oxygen. Without Snape, the Death Eaters in that circle… they would have… had a go at him, too.

“Potter, get a move on.”

They would have broken him. Ripped him apart, more than they’d already done. The scent of blood and semen and excrement rose up around him, and he began to tremble in earnest.

“Potter, dammit, now is NOT the time!”

Harry looked up at Snape, his angry words stinging him like an irate army of wasps. When Snape raised a hand, presumably to grasp Harry’s arm and drag him along, Harry flinched. Harry’s gaze darted everywhere, trying to grasp onto his surroundings, but the winter landscape had shifted to the shadowed grey of a damp stone floor. The cackle of Voldemort boomed overhead, while men jeered around him, taunting him, waiting their turn.

“Salazar’s saggy left tit, Potter! You bloody imbecile!”

Someone was yelling in the distance. Maybe it was Snape. Maybe it was Harry himself. Harry wasn’t sure. Couldn’t be sure. Not in this place of debasement and treachery, of pain and fear and death. Hands were grabbing at him, pulling him. This time, Harry knew the screams came from his own throat.

“What the…” Harry moaned, coming to as he felt his body slam against something hard and unforgiving. When he opened his eyes, he was on the braided rug in front of the fireplace in the safe house. He looked up through bleary eyes to see the Potions master standing over him, arms crossed, a thunderous expression on his face.

“I am going to take a hot bath. I suggest you do not disturb me.”  Snape glowered at him until Harry pushed himself into a sitting position. Then Snape stormed off.

“Bloody hell.” Harry collapsed back onto the rug as the realization hit him once again: I almost killed Snape. I almost killed Snape.

Severus was still swearing as he stepped into the too-hot bath. Curse the boy for losing control of his magic and managing non-verbal, wandless magic at the most inopportune time!

He’d known something was wrong the second all of the snow had vanished. He’d called out to the boy, but Harry’s face had been pinched, his eyes unseeing, his hands fisted in his hair. Severus had begun to skate toward him when it happened.

Cracks had begun to appear in the ice, spider-webbing rapidly, their appearance foreshadowed by ominous groaning sounds. Mist had begun to rise due to the temperature difference between water and air. Suddenly, following the sharp percussion of a thunderous boom, he was plunged into icy cold water. The frigid temperature stole his breath as panic kicked in. He didn’t know how to swim. He clawed desperately toward the surface, only to hit his head against a ceiling of ice.

Fear and adrenaline crashed through him as he gasped stupidly for air, sucking the icy water into his lungs instead. Cursing himself, he fumbled for his wand. But his fingers felt like clubs and he couldn’t get past the heavy wool folds of his cloak. As his vision began to go hazy, he struggled anew, trying desperately to find a hole in the ice so he could breathe.

The next thing he knew, he was on the bank, sicking up, gasping for air, and ready to wring Potter’s scrawny neck.

He knew it had been fear—stark, primal terror as death wrapped its claws around his throat, choking off his oxygen—that had driven his anger and had made him lash out at the boy. He hadn’t done so before. After all Harry had been through, he’d kept a tight rein on his hair-trigger temper so as not to traumatize the boy further.

Severus leaned back in the tub, fighting off the slight twinge of guilt. Harry hadn’t done it on purpose, the bloody idiot. And if Severus wasn’t mistaken, once Harry had realized what had happened on the walk back, he’d fallen into a flashback. One that Snape had had no tolerance for at the time. He let out his breath on a sigh, knowing that he should go check on the boy and apologize.

But Merlin’s beard, the idiot almost killed him!

Muttering to himself, he closed his eyes, determined to block out all thoughts of the boy and enjoy his bath for a while longer before discussing what had happened. Harry could manage for that long without him. He’d damn well better be able to.

I almost killed Snape. I almost killed Snape. I almost killed Snape. The refrain pounded relentlessly through his skull. He’d long since got up from the rug in front of the fire. He’d make tea and laid out Snape’s favorite biscuits. Then he’d made sandwiches. Then he’d made up cake batter and put it in the oven. While it baked, he‘d cleaned and tidied the ground floor. He’d even reorganized the kitchen cupboards.

I almost killed Snape.

Anxiety pulled his nerves taut as visions of being trapped alone in the safe house had him triple checking locks and re-warding doors and windows. He hadn’t felt the need to do that in a couple of weeks. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. Blood.

Harry keened and began pulling at his hair, his eyes squeezed shut. Snape, covered in blood, pale, lifeless, not breathing.

Cold.

Wet.

Dead.

“Harry.”

Fingers were grasping his hands, untangling his clawing digits from his hair. A deep voice murmured near his ear, the words a cacophony of disjointed, meaningless sounds made indecipherable by the keening wail that echoed in the room.

“Shhhh... Harry… it’s all right… you’re all right… you’re safe… I’m here…”

It took Harry a moment to realize the identity of the speaker. When he did, he flung himself into Snape’s arms. “I almost killed you. Oh Merlin, I almost killed you.”

“Shhhhh,” the man soothed, holding Harry against his chest. “I’m here. I’m alive. You’re safe.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened,” Harry said, his voice choked with tears.

“I know,” Snape said. “I owe you an apology as well. I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.”

Harry let out a shrill sound and pulled back, his eyes roving over Snape’s features. “I almost killed you! You had every right to be angry.”

Snape nodded in agreement. “Be that as it may, I am still alive, thanks to your quick thinking and action.” When Harry opened his mouth to protest, Snape held up his hand. “Yes, you almost drowned me, but you also saved me.” Snape moved his hand to wipe the tears from Harry’s cheek. “Perhaps I should be thanking you.”

Harry averted his gaze before pulling completely out of Snape’s grasp, feeling embarrassed. “You wouldn’t have needed saving if it wasn’t for me.”

Snape placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “How about some calming draught with our tea, hm? I could use some myself.”

Nodding and wiping his tears, Harry plopped into one of the kitchen chairs, waiting while Snape poured the tea and added the potion. He’d almost killed Snape. And without Snape, there was no way he’d be able to defeat Voldemort, much less control his magic or regain any sense of normalcy.

“Drink,” Snape demanded.

Quietly, Harry did as he was told. If only there was a potion that could erase his memories.