A/N: This chapter is generally safe, HOWEVER, the last section details a post-rape medical examination, which may be triggering to some. Feel free to skip it and go on to the next chapter if need be.

Poppy returned to her quarters, exhausted from working on the Potter boy and worried for him. Cuts and broken bones she could heal, but psychological trauma required a much more delicate sort of healing, and one that took place over weeks and months, not mere minutes and hours. Mr. Potter had a long road ahead of him, and Poppy didn’t doubt that Severus Snape did as well.

Poppy poured herself a glass of red wine and savoured it in front of her fireplace, contemplating what the future might hold. She rarely indulged in alcohol, but it had been a long day, and the two Hufflepuffs who’d come down with a case of dragon pox had already been released that afternoon, so the infirmary was empty.

Poppy sighed and stretched out her legs, leaning her head back on the couch and watching the shadow of flames flicker on the ceiling. She’d succumbed to a light doze when the alarms in her quarters sounded, signalling that someone had entered the hospital wing.

Quickly, she pulled on her robes, slid her feet into her shoes, and Floo’d back to her office to greet the newcomer, wondering what sort of illness or injury she’d be treating this late in the evening. She entered the dim hospital wing to see the legs of a student lying on a bed, blocked by two other students hovering over him or her. The students were wearing school robes and seemed quite tall: probably seventh years, then.

“What seems to be the problem?” Poppy said, making her way toward the small gathering.

The two students shuffled to the side, revealing the third.

And Poppy Pomfrey found herself staring down the tips of three wands pointed straight at her chest.

“Where’s Potter?” one of them said.

“Tell us, or your dead,” the other said.

The third, the student on the bed, gave her a cold, hard smile.

Snape carefully removed a vial of unicorn tears from its protective case and put an Unbreakable Charm on the bottle before laying it carefully in a velvet-lined traveling case next to two vials of essence of dittany and one vial of powdered trout. He was in his private laboratory, packing the last of his potions ingredients for the safe house. He’d already gathered all of his other essentials, as well as Potter’s belongings, and the many healing potions that Potter required. They were all shrunk down and ready to go, laid out on the coffee table in front of the sofa where Potter slept. The headmaster would be sending them off in thirty minutes, which should give him plenty of time to pack what he needed for an extended stay. If he had all of the base ingredients and equipment, he’d be able to brew anything they might need while they were away.

The traveling case now filled, he snapped the clasps shut and warded it before setting it aside. He picked up another empty case and nearly dropped it when Dumbledore appeared in the doorway.

“It’s time to go,” Dumbledore said holding out what looked to be a bottle of butterbeer.

Snape frowned. Dumbledore was early. “I’m almost finished packing…”

“Take the boy and go,” Dumbledore demanded, his words brooking no argument. “I can send along whatever you are missing later.”

Snape grabbed the travel case of potions off the bench and hurried with Dumbledore to where Potter lay asleep.

“What has happened?” Snape asked.

 “Poppy was found unconscious in the hospital wing. She’d been Stupefied and Obliviated.”

Snape felt his mouth go dry. “When?”

“She was found five minutes ago,” Dumbledore said, his expression grave.

Snape swore. “And the perpetrators?” Snape asked as he shrank down the traveling case and shoved it, along with the other shrunken pile of his and Potter’s belongings, into his pockets.

“The castle is being searched as we speak.”

Snape scooped Potter up into his arms, taking hold of the Portkeyed bottle.

“Keep him safe, Severus,” Dumbledore said, his eyes shining with emotion. Then Dumbledore touched his wand to the bottle and murmured, “Portus.”

Snape held Potter tightly as Dumbledore and his quarters vanished before his eyes.

Harry awoke in darkness, pain skating across his nerves like a million sharp blades. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, relieved, at least, that he was no longer restrained. Still, his heart raced and his mouth flooded with a copper tang. Unable to help it, he leaned over the side of the bed and retched repeatedly, achieving nothing more than a bit of spittle and horrendously painful dry heaves that had him keening in pain and wrapping his arms around his middle.

When something wet and cold touched his forehead he cried out, jerking away. He huddled into himself, his body recoiling in horror and agony. “Don’t touch me!” he rasped. “Get away from me!”

“Mr. Po­tter, it is I. Professor Snape. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Harry let out a sound like a wounded animal and buried his head in the pillow, fighting back tears of pain and confusion and relief.

“It’s time for your next dose of potions. I suspect it’s the pain that woke you.”

Harry shuddered. “Everything hurts,” he admitted, his voice muffled against the pillow.

“Drink this, it will help with the pain.”

Harry turned his head towards Snape’s voice and felt a cool vial against his lips. He drank.

“I have a few others here that will help with inflammation and infection, as well as one for nerve spasms. And something to quiet your stomach as well.”

Harry took a breath, absorbing Snape’s calming words, his deep reassuring voice. He wanted to crawl inside that voice, get lost in it; he wanted the feeling of terror and panic to go away. He forced himself to drink each vial before burying his face in his hands.

Snape must have realized a bit of what Harry was feeling because he said, “You’re safe here.”

“Nowhere is safe,” Harry mumbled.

“Mr. Potter, look at me.”

Harry tried to get a handle on himself, tried to rein in the growing terror and dread, the feeling of walls closing in on him, of hands reaching for him, grabbing him, hurting him.

“Potter!”

“Please don’t call me that,” Harry moaned. “Please.” Trying not to remember, he whispered. “They called me that.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Harry heard Snape’s voice. Softer. A quiet entreaty.

“Harry. Look. At. Me.”

Reluctantly, Harry raised his gaze.

“Tell me what you see.”

“I… you…” Harry gulped, his breathing fast and shallow. He glanced around. They were in what looked like a large bedroom. There was a four-poster master bed, its hangings pulled open, the blankets and pillows rumpled as if the bed had been slept in. There was a small grouping of furniture on the other side of the room, a couple of comfortable chairs and a round table positioned beneath a large window with a cushioned window seat. There was also an antique-looking roll top desk, a small fireplace, and the single bed that Harry was currently occupying.

And Snape. Who was studying him. And waiting for his response.

“Where are we, sir?”

“We are in a safe house. Far from Hogwarts. Far from England, actually. You are safe here.”

Harry glanced at the fireplace.

“We arrived by Portkey last night at the headmaster’s insistence. This was once a Muggle residence. It is not connected to any Floo network, nor has it ever been. It is unplottable, untraceable, and invisible to wizards and Muggles alike. It is highly warded. Albus Dumbledore is the secret keeper,” Snape paused before adding, “You are safe here, Mr. Po– Harry.”

Harry looked away. Wherever you are, we will find you. “Nowhere is safe,” he murmured again.

“Harry.”

Snape didn’t speak again until Harry looked back at the wizard who was gazing intently at him.

“Do you trust me?” Snape asked.

“Nowhere is safe, nowhere is safe, nowhere is...”

“HARRY!”

Harry bit his tongue, glanced up.

“Do you trust me?”

“I… yes… yes, I trust you.”

“Then believe me. We are the only two here and you are safe. I will keep you safe. Can you trust me to do that, Harry? Can you trust me to keep you safe?”

Harry swallowed against the rising tide of panic. Snape, who had been cruel and vindictive to him for years. Snape, whom he’d spent the summer with, getting to know. Snape, who’d protected him without him knowing it. Snape, who’d tormented him in Potions class. Snape, who’d  bought him clothes and fed him and given him birthday presents. Snape, who’d cured him from a Death Eater’s deadly curse. Snape, who’d saved him from the Dark Lord. Snape, who was complex and confusing and harsh, but ultimately good and honest and trustworthy.

“Yes,” Harry finally said. “Yes, I’ll try.”

As the potions kicked in and his racing heart slowed, he loosened his limbs and rested his head more comfortably on his pillow.

“Good,” Snape said. “Now, I have a cool, wet cloth here. I am going to lay it on your forehead, all right?”

“All right,” Harry muttered. This time, when the cool wetness touched him, he didn’t flinch.

As he drifted off to sleep, a litany of words played through his mind. I’m safe here. (Nowhere is safe.) Snape says I’m safe here. (Wherever you are, we will find you.) Snape says he’ll keep me safe. (Nowhere is safe, we’ll find you.) Snape will keep me safe. (Nowhere is safe.) Snape is safe.

Snape waited until Potter was deeply asleep before examining him. He hadn’t mentioned it to the boy, but one of the potions he’d given him was a very strong sedative. Under Poppy’s firm instructions, Snape needed to be sure that Potter was healing well from the Death Eater attacks at the “celebration” and he didn’t dare try and do it while the boy was awake, lest he be further traumatized. He also needed to put on a variety of healing salves and thought it best to get these first few treatments done while the boy was unconscious.

Snape pulled back the covers and cast a warming charm around the boy. A quick whispered spell later and Potter was naked. Snape bit his bottom lip at the sight before him. Potter was so young, not quite a man, yet not much younger than Snape himself was when he’d foolishly joined the ranks of the men and women who had tortured Potter so recently. He cursed his youthful folly and all that the boy had come to suffer because of it.

This was another form of penance, Snape thought. Taking care of the son of a woman he once loved, a woman killed and a boy orphaned by half a prophecy he himself had overheard and delivered to the madman he served. That he had caused his own torments did nothing to alleviate his inner turmoil.

Cursing, he pushed aside thoughts of his past and debated how to position the teen so he could best examine him. He tried laying the boy on his back, but that wasn’t working. Finally, he rolled the teen onto his stomach, propping the boy’s hips up on several pillows and, with the light of his wand, carefully examined the damaged orifice.

Thankfully, it looked to be healing quite well. The puckered opening was red and swollen, but there were no outward signs of infection, no red streaks stretching away from the site of injury, no pus, and the area wasn’t overly hot to the touch. He slid on a glove from the healer’s kit and dipped his finger into an all-purpose healing gel that he brewed. It was clear and viscous, self-warming and numbing, and contained antibiotic and antifungal properties. Fortunately for his purposes, it would also act as a lubricant.

Snape slid in a finger, thankful that the poor child was unconscious. He spread the slick ointment around inside, feeling for any unhealed rips or tears, relieved to find none. He also checked for any bulges that might signify a hematoma or any other irregularities. With a sigh of relief, he removed his finger, thankful for the numbing ingredient that would be left behind to, hopefully, relieve any additional pain his necessary intrusion might cause.

Snape was immensely thankful that Potter’s most tender tissues were healing well. Assuming the boy didn’t develop any new symptoms or pain, Snape shouldn’t have to check the boy again. Potter would have to continue on the rigorous potion regimen he was on, to reduce swelling and counteract infections, but the boy should heal fully in time.

His mind eased in that matter, Snape took advantage of the position Potter was in to rub a muscle relaxant and bruise salve onto Potter’s buttocks, back, neck and shoulders. He also rubbed a healing salve onto the boy’s shorn head, which had suffered numerous cuts and bruises as well. He used a charm to set the salve so that it wouldn’t rub off on the sheets and then carefully rolled Potter onto his back, where he proceeded to rub the salve into the boy’s chest, arms, and legs, careful not to get any in the numerous small cuts he had. He knew from personal experience how bad that stung. He used a gentler salve on the teen’s face. Last but not least, he worked on the boy’s hands and feet, which had been the most badly damaged. He smoothed a burn cream onto the bottoms of Potter’s feet, followed by a deep-acting bruise salve. He did the same with the boy’s hands, careful to work around all of the still fragile joints.

Potter’s hands were badly swollen, likely from trying to use them too much. Snape was sure they must be quite painful. There was another potion he had that would likely help the pain tremendously, but he’d have to wait at least six hours before it could be used as it couldn’t be mixed with the healing salves he’d already put on the boy. He cast another setting charm, used his wand to redress the boy, and then covered him up and went to see about some breakfast.