Snape spent the next several hours thinking about how he was going to handle Potter’s recovery. There were the physical aspects, of course—the boy wouldn’t be able to walk or use his hands for a bit yet. But more pressing than that were the emotional aspects. The broom Harry had been riding had just been ripped out from under him, so to speak, leaving Harry to fall hundreds of feet to crash land into cold, hard reality. It was more than a loss of innocence; it was a loss of one’s sense of identity and place in the world, a loss of one’s feeling of relative safety. Then there were the constant triggers and reminders. The cold sweats and nausea. The flashbacks. The nightmares. The trying to cope in a world that you no longer belonged to. A world that had been torn asunder and replaced with something much uglier, a cruel and merciless place.

Potter was only sixteen. Snape had to remember that. The boy had faced a lot in his short life, but Snape didn’t think that gang rape had been one of them. Truthfully, Snape didn’t know much about Potter’s sexual experiences, if any. Rape was rape, regardless, but if the boy had no experience beyond what happened to him, that would complicate matters. He wouldn’t have any positive experiences to balance what had happened to him, so that, somewhere in his mind, he could still believe that sex could be a pleasant, enjoyable encounter. Without that reference point, it would make future endeavours with partners complicated, to say the least. Snape knew that all too well from personal experience. He hated to see another messed up as he had been. Perhaps he could help the boy there. He hadn’t had anyone to confide in; maybe if he had, things would have turned out differently.

In any event, they both had a lot to deal with. Snape need to see him physically healed before too much else could be seen to. That meant making sure Potter took his potions and ate and slept. And with their being stuck in this safe house, with nothing in particular to pass the time, it would behove Snape to give the boy a schedule to follow. That last thing Potter needed was endless hours to dwell on what had happened. A schedule would give the boy structure to his day and a sense of purpose. Hopefully, it would be enough to avoid a severe bout of depression, which wouldn’t be uncommon given his situation as well as their absolute isolation.

It was well after lunch on their first full day at the safe house when an alarm sounded notifying Snape that Potter was awake. Snape set down the journal he was reading and collected the broth he’d prepared earlier for the boy and kept under a warming charm. Then he made his way to the master bedroom.

Potter was lying on his side, staring absently out the window on the other side of the room.

“I brought you lunch,” Snape said by way of letting the boy know he was there.

Potter didn’t even blink but Snape noticed that his breathing changed.

“Harry?” Snape asked, setting down the tray of broth on the bedside table.

Potter met his eyes only briefly but the teen looked haunted.

“Do you need to use the loo?”

The teen nodded.

Snape squared his shoulders. This was a conversation they needed to have and now was as good a time as any. Hopefully, it would get Potter’s mind off questions he didn’t have safe answers to.

“You are healing well but the injuries to your hands and feet were severe. Madam Pomfrey has taken care of them, but it will still be a bit before you can use them. Therefore, I will need to assist you.” Taking a deep breath, Snape said, “Until you can walk, I will need to carry you. In this case, to the loo. If you are not comfortable with that, I can conjure a chamber pot for you instead.”

Either option would be awkward and embarrassing for the boy, but there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Watching the boy struggle, Snape took pity on him. “I wish there was a way to make this easier on you, but the only way past this is through it. After everything that has happened, I know you would prefer to do this on your own. Until that is possible, however, we will need to manage these things together.” Snape smoothed down his robes. “I do not wish to embarrass you or make this any harder for you than need be. I will teach you what spells I can but, ultimately, some things will still need to be done the old-fashioned way.”

“I understand, sir,” Harry said, but his eyes had gone as dead as his voice.

“I promise that I will not harm you, Harry, nor will I discuss anything that occurs here. You are safe here, and you are safe with me. You have my word.”

Potter sucked in a panicky breath and swallowed hard.

Snape wondered how many times he’d have to say the words before the boy believed him. He picked up a potion vial, opened it, and held it to the boy’s lips.

“It is a pain reliever. Drink it slowly,” Snape directed.

A short time after Potter drained the potion, his features relaxed, the lines etched into his face from discomfort easing somewhat.  

“Have you made your decision?”

Nodding, Harry said, “Yes. The loo. Please.”

“All right,” Snape said, leaning over to slide his arms under Potter. “After this, you can have some lunch.”

The moment Snape’s hands touched Potter, the boy tensed and slammed his eyes shut.

“Eyes open,” Snape commanded, wanting to make sure Potter knew who was carrying him and for what purpose. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Harry had woken to sunlight streaming over his bed. It had taken him a moment to realize where he was and why. And then he’d wished he couldn’t remember at all. The horror of the memories made him want to shut his eyes and disappear forever. Instead, he was distracted by all of the aches and pains rushing to greet him. His hands and feet were the worst of it. They felt as if they were filled with broken glass, and even the slightest twitch or movement had him grimacing in pain. His bottom just felt tingly and he couldn’t feel pain there. That surprised him, but he supposed Madam Pomfrey had healed him. He shuddered to think about that. He sincerely hoped Snape wouldn’t have to examine him there. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle that, not after what had happened.

He clenched his jaw, willing himself not to remember, not to cry. It was over. He was safe. Nowhere is safe. They wouldn’t be able to get him here. We’ll find you.

Harry burrowed deeper into the covers, struggling to push the jeering voices away. He tried clearing his mind, wishing he’d actually tried to learn the skill when Snape had tried to teach him. But clearing his mind seemed next to impossible. He tried focusing on his breathing, timing it, counting breaths. He tried thinking about Quidditch. He tried thinking about anything other than what had happened to him, but the more he tried to push the memories away, the more they fought to the surface.

Giving up, he stared out the window, letting the thoughts swirl through his mind, hoping that doing so would allow them to run their course and leave him in peace.

He heard when Snape entered the room but he didn’t look up. The scent of soup wafted toward him and his stomach growled in anticipation. But food made him think of his time in captivity and he pushed away his hunger.

He listened to Snape’s voice, trying to let it sooth his frazzled nerves. Snape said it’s safe here. Snape won’t hurt me. He repeated those phrases over and over, wanting to believe them. Wanting to fall back into his relatively safe life, the one before he was kidnapped. The one before… No, he wouldn’t think about that now.

Instead, he focused on not fighting Snape when the man gingerly lifted him into his arms and carried him to the loo. He tried not to be embarrassed when Snape wiggled his pajama bottoms and pants off so he could pee sitting down. At least the man gave him privacy for that part. He tried to dress himself after, but his hands were agonizing and useless and he had to let Snape pull his pants back up for him. He hated it, but at least Snape was clinical about it, not making any snide remarks. He tried to remind himself that Snape had already seen him naked, but that was even worse.

He felt panicky and tense as Snape carried him back to bed but, if Snape noticed, the man didn’t mention it.

Snape set him down carefully, made a nest of pillows, and lifted Harry into it so he was in a reclining position. Then he placed a hover charm on the mug of broth and stuck a straw in it.

“Thanks,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure how much he could eat, but he was immensely glad that Snape wasn’t spoon feeding him.

“There is also bread if you’d like,” Snape said, “as well as water, pumpkin juice, and tea.” He set them all to hover within easy reach. “Eat and drink as much as you can, but don’t force it. Your body needs to readjust to food. It would be better for you to have many small meals than fewer larger ones.”

“Can you teach me the hover charm?” Harry asked.

“As soon as you can hold your wand,” Snape responded.

Harry felt a sick swooping in his stomach. “I lost my wand,” he mumbled, feeling beyond miserable. Without his wand, how would he defend himself? And how was he going to get another one when they were trapped in this safe house? He couldn’t just go to Diagon Alley and buy a new one.

“Harry.”

When Snape didn’t continue, Harry looked up at him.

“I have your wand.”

“You do?” Harry asked. “But how?”

“It was recovered from Hogsmeade. It is currently residing in the drawer of your bedside table.” Snape pulled out the drawer to show Harry.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry breathed. It was the first good news he’d had since… since he’d lost his wand. The relief was so great it felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Snape nodded. “Now finish eating. I have some ointments for your hands and feet which should help significantly with the pain.”

Harry finished the broth, ate half a piece of bread, and drank half a cup of pumpkin juice. His stomach felt full for the first time in days.

“I’m done, sir,” Harry said.

“Very well,” Snape replied, banishing the remaining food and dishes to the kitchen.

Then Snape took out a large glass jar from his robes and unscrewed the lid, showing the contents to Harry. It was mint green in color and it looked like frosting, all peaks and valleys. It smelled like eucalyptus.

“This cream has extremely strong healing properties. It is also an excellent pain reliever. It will drastically reduce the recovery time of your hands and feet.” Snape pulled on a pair of gloves and swirled his finger in the ointment, mixing the contents as he did so. “I don’t brew it very often, so it was fortunate I just so happened to have a batch in stock.”

Harry suddenly felt very glad that the person he was stuck with in this safe house happened to be a potions master.

“That’s the good news,” Snape said, meeting Harry’s gaze head-on.

Harry swallowed. “What’s the bad news?” he asked, feeling a bit of panic edge into his thoughts.

“The bad news,” Snape said, “is that I have to rub the cream into your skin quite firmly for it to be effective, which I am sorry to say, is going to be exceedingly painful. At least until the pain relieving properties take effect. I can only assure you that it will be well worth it.”

Harry let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Do I have to do this?” he asked, fully expecting a telling off or some nasty comment about his lack of Gryffindor bravery.

“No, Harry, you do not,” Snape said. “I would highly recommend it as I know how much it will help in the long run. But I will not force you. It is entirely your choice, and I will respect your wishes, whatever they may be.”

Harry considered it. Had Snape criticized him, he might have refused. But Snape had given him a choice. And Snape was trying to help him. That made all the difference in the world. “All right,” Harry said. “I’ll… I’ll give it a try.”

Snape nodded. “Hands or feet first?”                                                                                                

“Hands,” Harry decided. They were hurting the worst.

Snape scooped out a dollop of the salve and held out his mint-green-coated hands, an eyebrow raised in question. Getting the hint, Harry placed his left hand in Snape’s gloved grasp and held his breath, waiting for the shock of agony. Nothing happened. Snape merely enfolded Harry’s hand in both of his, letting the cool potion coat Harry’s skin, offset by the warmth of Snape’s hands beneath.

“Ready?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded.

“Lie back and try and relax. It will hurt initially, but then the pain will ease and your hands will go numb. Try and breathe through it, all right?”

Harry tensed involuntarily but nodded.

“I’m going to start now,” Snape warned.

Snape’s fingers moved to his wrist, thumbs pressing just below the base of his palm, fingers adding a firm pressure on the either side of his wrist.

It hurt, but it was tolerable. Harry let his muscles relax. He could handle this.

And then Snape moved his thumbs and fingers to the base of Harry’s hand and pressed and Harry shrieked in agony, trying desperately to jerk his hand away. It felt as if his hand was being crushed all over again, bones snapping and bone chards impaling tender muscles and tendons, slivers like knives in cutting through blood vessels and skin.

“Breathe, Harry,” Snape commanded.

The pain crescendo’d along with his screams, sending him spiralling back to that place. He was chained to the cold stone floor, naked, humiliated, unable to move freely. He thrashed uselessly against the restraints. Then the tall, burly man was there, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. It sounded harsh and clipped, and the only word Harry understood was “Potter.”

“Nooo!” he cried out, “No please! Don’t! Stop! Please! Not again! Please!”

It didn’t matter. The man wore the thick, heeled boots that he wielded like a weapon. He didn’t stomp on Harry’s hands. Instead, he carefully placed his heel on each finger and ground it into the flagstones like a Muggle putting out a cigarette.

Harry felt his bones being snapped, crushed, pulverized. Shouts of agony were ripped from his throat. Sweat soaked his skin, his mouth tasted like metal, and his vision had gone grey with agony. Tears ran unchecked down his face. He arched off the stones, trying to get away from the pain, from that booted heel, but it was no use. His fingers were being destroyed, one by one, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. When the boot came down on the next digit, his screams were hoarser, his throat sore, and still the torture continued.

He begged for the torture to stop. He begged for the darkness to take him. He begged for death. Anything to make the horrendous pain stop.