Harry couldn't help but keep stealing worried glances up at the Professor. The man had seemed particularly grim and displeased ever since the headmaster had left—and with good reason, of course, Harry reminded himself angrily. He never should have left the yard, no matter what. He was stupid and foolish, and now the Professor would never consider letting him stay.

But still, for as awful as he'd been, the Professor hadn't seemed too furious. Not yet, at least. Sure, the man had been brusque, but he'd still given Harry plenty of medicine to make him feel better. Before dinner, when he'd started to have strange shooting pains in his limbs and his arms had begun to tremble, the man had summoned another set of potions right away from his lab, and in minutes Harry was feeling better again.

He was even letting Harry eat dinner with him now at the table, soup again—this time potato and ham, with thick slices of freshly baked white bread on the side.

Harry knew that he was in trouble, but it certainly didn't feel like he was. After all, the Professor hadn't smacked him yet, or locked him in his room, or started in on an awful rant like Uncle Vernon would have. Of course, Harry knew for sure that the Professor and his uncle were really nothing alike. The Professor had a lot of restraint, he knew, and that thought made him nervous, because he could easily be saving all of his ire up for the next day. Or for that night. Harry didn't know.

But the man had been so gentle earlier, he thought, asking after Harry and making him lie down and rest, and even deciding to let Harry stay for the time being instead of sending him away. Maybe his punishment wouldn't be too bad. Probably worse than cleaning out the flobberworm enclosure, he decided, since he'd really messed up bad this time, but nothing he couldn't handle.

Still... maybe he was only letting Harry stay because he had a truly horrific punishment in mind, something to make Harry pay for dragging him out into the woods where he'd nearly died at the hands of the deranged witch. He shot another nervous glance at the man, trying to judge by the lines of his face just how furious he was.

The Professor slammed his spoon down suddenly, startling Harry from his seat. The man's glittering black eyes pinned him with a look of annoyance. "If I were cruel enough to beat you, Potter, I would have done it by now. Sit and finish your supper, and stop looking at me like a puppy about to be kicked."

Harry blushed and forced himself to sit back down. "I—I didn't think you were going to beat me, sir," he mumbled, picking his spoon back up with his slightly-trembling hand.

"Oh? And pray tell what did you expect?"

Harry stirred the contents of his bowl absently as he tried to decide how best to answer. "Dunno," he mumbled.

Snape's nostrils flared and he huffed in irritation. "I know you are young, but you seem to have a decent grasp of the English language. Kindly demonstrate it by giving me complete and properly worded answers, or I will set you to copying the dictionary. Clear?"

Harry tried to swallow past the lump that he suddenly found lodged in his throat. "Yes, sir. I—I don't know what to expect, and I guess that's why I'm so nervous."

"Hmph." Snape did not sound impressed. "Well, you know that you blatantly disobeyed me twice and put yourself at risk, which are substantial infractions. Your punishment will be severe, to reflect the gravity of what you've done. Did you doubt that?"

Though Harry didn't quite understand everything the Professor said, he had a fairly good idea of what the man was getting at. He was getting pretty good at guessing the meaning of some of those bigger words the man liked to use. So he knew that basically, he'd really messed up and he shouldn't expect to get off lightly.

"No, sir," he said softly.

"As it is, you need your rest tonight, and I need more time to reflect on what would be an appropriate consequence. Obsessing over it will do you no good, so put it from your mind and finish your supper." The Professor stood and sent his dishes to the sink with a flick of his wand. He paused to stare at Harry long and hard, his eyes sharp. "Believe me, though, when I say that you will be punished appropriately. I will not raise a hand to you, I will not deprive you of food, and I will not lock you away for an excessive amount of time." He paused and watched Harry, as if to see whether his words had sunk in or not.

Harry dropped his eyes and nodded into the table, trying to show that he understood and that he believed the man, even though he still felt a little wary.

"I will be in my study. Come fetch me once you've finished eating." And with those parting words the Professor swept out of the kitchen, the cloth of his robes snapping slightly with the force of his departure.

Harry managed to polish off his soup, and he lingered in the kitchen to clean up, even though the Professor had not told him to and usually took care of things with magic anyway. But after years with the Dursleys, tidying up was an ingrained habit, and something Harry associated with keeping the peace. Sure, the Professor might not notice or care, but hopefully he would, and maybe the gesture would soften him just the slightest bit.

Part of Harry still clung to the vain hope that he might still show the Professor that he wouldn't be too much trouble, if the man just let him stay. If Harry accepted his punishment without complaint and worked hard at whatever it was the Professor decided to make him do, and if he kept to his room and was very quiet and stayed completely out of the way, maybe Snape would see that Harry was hardly a bother. Even better, Harry thought, he could start doing little things around the house to prove that he could be useful. He could make breakfast, and weed the yard and garden, and prune the bushes.

Harry lost himself in a daydream of impressing the Professor while he washed dishes.

"Potter! What in Merlin's name is taking you so long?"

The Professor's sharp tone startled Harry, nearly causing him to drop the large soup pot he'd been trying to scrub. He had not expected the Professor to return, not after the man had retreated to his study. The irritation that was still present in the man's voice deeply unsettled him and left him feeling off-balance.

Slowly he turned to face the man, blanching as he tried to think up how best to handle this. What if the man was mad that he'd dawdled? How had he managed to dig himself an even deeper hole, when all he'd wanted was to show the man that he could be good and useful?

The Professor seized Harry by the wrist, though his grip was not painful like Aunt Petunia's, only firm and unyielding. He pulled Harry back into the sitting room, his strides quick and agitated.

"You should not be on your feet for so long, you brainless little fool. You've suffered five rounds of Cruciatus today! Let me assure you, it is not a curse to be trifled with. And I am not a miracle worker. The potions will stave off the worst of the effects and heal the damage done, but you still have to rest. Why do you think I sedated you this afternoon? Not merely to escape your inane chatter; even I am not that desperate. And whatever possessed you to wash everything by hand, when you have seen me straighten up with a few charms every single night since your arrival…. Perhaps we ought to have you checked for brain damage."

The man was mostly muttering to himself, Harry realized, and didn't actually want a response, so he held his tongue and let the man drag him along like a small child.

Snape deposited Harry back on the transfigured loveseat, his withering glare warning Harry to stay put and to not fuss. Harry waited, scarcely breathing, as the man disappeared down the hallway for a few moments.

When he returned, he was carrying something pale blue and neatly-folded under one of his arms. He tossed the clothes at Harry as soon as he returned to the living room.

Pajamas, Harry saw as he unfolded the fabric. And a nice set, too, not worn out or stained or ripped.

"Go change and wash up for bed," Snape commanded coolly, his hawk-like eyes watching Harry closely. "You may use my bathroom for tonight—down the hall and to the left. You'll be sleeping out here so that I can more effectively monitor you for the time being."

Harry flushed, realizing that Snape was having to waste an awful lot of time and resources tending to him now after that Bellatrix witch had hurt him. And really, the whole thing had been his fault. If he'd just stayed put like he'd been told….

"I can go up to my room, sir—"

"It's not up for debate," Snape cut him off, his tone brooking no further arguments. "Run along."

"I have my own pajamas too, sir," Harry continued, desperately searching for some way to make his presence less burdensome on the Professor.

"Potter."

The single word, edged with warning, was all Harry needed to hear. He clutched the pajamas close to his chest and scurried down the hall and into the Professor's bathroom. Surprisingly, the small room was not that much more elaborate than the one next to his room on the second floor. It was simple and worn-looking, with scrubbed linoleum tiles and faded, peeling mint-green wallpaper. The sink, toilet, and shower were all plain white, functional but by no means elegant.

It was strange, Harry thought, that he found that revelation comforting. The Professor hadn't purposely stuck him in the worst part of the house. He simply didn't have a fancy, well-kept home like Aunt Petunia. Which didn't bother Harry in the least, of course, because the less fancy the place was, the less fussing and upkeep it needed. And Harry liked things to be simple.

Harry washed his face and quickly changed into the new pajamas, which were slightly large on him but nothing like Dudley's castoffs. They were made of cotton, soft and light, perfect for summer nights. He wondered why the Professor had bothered instead of making Harry retrieve the giant t-shirt and overlarge boxer shorts he normally slept in. Was the man being intentionally kind?

Nah. That couldn't be it. These were probably just closer. Though Harry had to wonder who they belonged to. The Professor wasn't married, so it couldn't be his son. Maybe a nephew? A godson? He remembered Dudley's godparents dropping by Privet Drive on occasion to fawn over him. The Professor didn't seem like the kind of man to fawn, but maybe he did have a godson who stayed the night sometimes.

Maybe that was why he had the extra room upstairs, and why he was so adamant that Harry couldn't stay past the end of the week. Maybe he needed the room for someone else, and didn't want to have to find somewhere else for Harry to stay.

Well, Harry thought, he could be happy with less than a room. A cupboard here would be better than his cupboard at Privet Drive. Maybe he could bring up the idea to the Professor, and let the man know how little space he'd actually need. He could even offer to prove it by moving into the cupboard already and showing that he could be perfectly happy in such a small space.

Though he did like his room, with its nice window and bed and dresser, and marked lack of spiders. Even those nasty little imps were preferable to all the spiders that made their home in his cupboard. And after his confrontation with Bellatrix….

Harry shuddered. He would be perfectly happy if he never encountered another spider as long as he lived.

But still, he would brave spiders and put up with a lack of space as long as he could stay. Now he just had to think up a subtle enough way to let the Professor know.

When Harry returned to the sitting room, the Professor was tapping his foot, his arms folded tightly over his chest. His lips tightened into a sour expression when they fell on Harry, but he didn't start berating him for his tardiness. Instead, he indicated the transfigured loveseat with a pale, slender finger.

Harry settled down and drew the blankets over himself, then nestled into the few pillows the Professor had transfigured from books. The Professor made his way over to Harry's side, and for half a second Harry thought that the man intended to tuck him in.

But that little burst of excitement died rather quickly, as the man merely extracted a thin vial filled with a silvery-blue substance and offered it out to Harry.

"Sleeping Draught," he explained, his tone cool and distant. "Drink the whole vial. It should ensure that you do not wake for the rest of the night. However, in the event that you do…." The man's lips curled further, as if the mere prospect disgusted him. "If you should have trouble sleeping, or if your pains return, you may wake me. But I will not be pleased to be disturbed for trivial things. Understood?"

Harry bobbed his head, keeping his eyes on the potion he now clutched in his hands. It was easier to focus on the shimmery, undulating strands of silver in the potion than to have to look at the Professor's pinched, unhappy face.

He knew one thing for sure. No way was he going to bother the man in the middle of the night. Not for anything. Maybe if he was dying, but that was it.

"A verbal answer, Potter. You are not a mute."

"Yes, sir," Harry murmured.

Snape studied him for a moment longer before striding briskly down the hall toward his own rooms. The lights dimmed automatically behind him, leaving Harry with nothing stronger than moonlight.

Harry sighed. "Goodnight," he called quietly, knowing full well that he wouldn't get a response.

XXXXX

Harry was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. He'd taken the potion, hadn't he? The silver-blue one that tasted like bitter herbs and cotton? So why wasn't he sleeping?

Suddenly he felt a prickle on his neck, the slow, familiar creeping of insect legs that had so often plagued him in his cupboard. He bolted straight up, clasping one hand to his mouth to stifle a scream as the other sought to bat away the spider he was certain was stealing over him.

But just as his hand brushed with the too-large, hairy body, he felt a set of fangs sink into his hand, and an excruciating pain blossomed there. He bit his lip hard to keep from crying out even as he jerked out of bed, his eyes frantically scanning the dark room for more of the terrible little creatures.

"Sh, Harry, everything will be all right," a soothing female voice promised him.

Harry turned around, and he found himself face-to-face with a lovely woman with long red hair. She wore a gentle smile, and her arms were spread wide to welcome Harry.

"Mum?" he whispered.

The woman nodded, her smile stretching wider.

Harry did not know how he recognized her, but he was glad he did. Because as long as she was here, he was safe. He dashed across the room and flung himself into her arms, squeezing her tightly.

"Did you hurt your hand, sweetie?"

Harry was about to nod yes, but there was something wrong with his mum's voice. He didn't know how he could tell, since he'd never heard her speak, except as a baby, but it was suddenly all wrong, familiar in a different way….

Harry turned his head, and instead of seeing his mother's familiar red locks, he found his cheek being tickled by a thick, knotted mess of unkempt black hair. Harry jerked back, his veins icing over, as he realized why this new voice sounded so familiar.

The witch Bellatrix beamed down at him with her demented grin. Harry fought to free himself from her arms, but her grip was too tight, crushing him into immobility.

"Poor little dear," she crooned, the same way she had in the forest clearing. "Let me fix you up now."

There was a flash of red light, and suddenly Harry was sprawled on the ground, lost in the throes of pain and spasms again. He tried to scream, tried to call for the Professor to save him, but his lungs refused to cooperate. He could barely breathe; he was suffocating as he lay there, every muscle feeling as though it were being ripped to shreds by steel claws, his very bones protesting the power of the curse rippling through him.

He could hear the witch cackling as he writhed in agony, delighting in his suffering.

Harry looked around as much as he could, searching for anything on the floor that might let him escape. He would just need something heavy, like a big book…. He twisted his head to see under the transformed loveseat.

And that was when he saw them. Glittering eyes. Thousands of them, peering back at him from the darkness. And suddenly they were swarming forward, a whole host of evil-looking arachnids. Harry tried to thrash away, tried to shield himself, but they teemed over him in a wave, engulfing his body, their needle-like bites just sharp accents to the throbbing pain of Bellatrix's curse.

"Poor little dear," Bellatrix repeated. "I'll help. Let me end your misery. Avada kedavra!"

Her voice changed at the end; suddenly the girlish, sing-song mockery was gone, and instead it was a high, masculine voice that uttered that final incantation. Harry choked out a sob as everything dissolved in a flash of green light.

Harry bolted upright, his heart pounding out a painful tattoo in his chest. He leapt up immediately, brushing his hands hurriedly all over his body. He could still feel the ghost of all those legs crawling over him. The sensation was enough to turn his stomach.

He had to disentangle himself from the blanket before he could stumbled across the dark sitting room and hop up onto the overstuffed armchair, where he figured he could be safe until he fully sorted his dream from reality.

After he ran his hands over his arms one final time without feeling so much as a tiny orb weaver crawling on him, Harry hugged himself tightly and let loose a strangled sob. He could still feel the traces of tears on his cheeks. Hastily, he scanned the dark, silent room, desperate to reassure himself that he was safe, that there was no Bellatrix, no spiders, nothing that could hurt him.

Hurt. That part was real, he realized. His limbs shook, and they burned a little—though nothing like the curse he'd endured earlier, and nothing like the pain from his dream. But it was still too much to be comfortable. The Professor's medicines must have worn off.

Harry's eyes kept darting around the room. Everything was blurry without his glasses, and it was too dark to see anything well. He desperately wished he was a powerful wizard like Snape, so that he could summon the light he needed. His heart was gradually slowing in his chest, and the rational part of his brain was arguing that the Professor and the Headmaster had taken Bellatrix away, and that the Professor wouldn't have an infestation of hundreds of fist-sized spiders just lurking about his home. It had all been a nightmare, that was all.

Even that rationalization wasn't enough to entirely banish the lingering effects of the nightmare. Harry was terrified; he felt so vulnerable, like at any moment he would be plunged back into that hellish scene. And worse even than that, he felt alone. Utterly, completely alone.

He loved seeing one of his parents in his dreams, since it was so rare for it to happen, and it was the only way he could feel connected to them. But the bitterness when he woke up always left him feeling so raw and utterly depressed that he sometimes wondered if it was worth it. Worse, this time his mother's image was tainted by the crazy witch Bellatrix.

Harry shuddered and hugged himself tighter. No, he wouldn't let himself dwell on this. He was going to figure out a way to calm himself down and get back to sleep so he wouldn't be exhausted the next day. After all, he was going to be punished, so he doubted the Professor would let him sleep in. As much as he wanted to simply force himself to stay up for the rest of the night, he knew he couldn't.

Harry squared his shoulders. He was going to stop cowering on top of this chair like a little girl startled by a mouse, he decided. He would get down, and go into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. That would help with his throat, and maybe even ease the trembling and pain. And then he was going to stop being a baby and crawl back into bed, because there were no spiders there, and no Bellatrix. The Professor and the Headmaster had both said that the house was safe and that the nasty witch was gone, and Harry was going to trust them.

It was several more minutes of forced deep breathing before Harry managed to work up the courage to step down from the armchair. He couldn't help the way his eyes roved over the room still, searching for the slightest movement. Even his ears seemed hypersensitive, straining to pick up the softest noises.

But all was still and silent in the sitting room.

Harry forced himself to take a bracing breath. Okay. First things first, his glasses. Snape had left them on the coffee table… Harry shuffled his way over to the low piece of furniture, making sure to glance at the dark corners and crevices of the room every few seconds just in case anything tried to leap out at him. As soon as he'd crammed the badly-doctored frames onto his face, he felt heaps better. Not that he could see that much better, really. It just seemed to him that he was less helpless now that he had some vision.

Now for the water. Slowly but surely, Harry made his way into the kitchen. He knew that the glasses were up in the higher cabinets next to the sink, and that he would likely have to climb up on a chair in order to retrieve one.

He was careful not to drag the legs of the wooden chair against the floor as he moved it, not knowing how sensitive the Professor's hearing was. The last thing he wanted was to wake the man and destroy his chances of getting to stay once and for all. His hand spasmed once when he tried to grip the back of the chair, but the spasming only lasted for a few seconds.

It would likely be gone by morning, Harry decided. And if not, the Professor could give him more medicine then.

Harry clamored up onto the chair and opened the cabinet door very slowly. He selected one of the larger, heavier glasses from the bottom shelf, because even with the chair he could scarcely reach up to the smaller glasses near the top. At first he gripped it with both hands just as a precaution, but when he shifted it to his right hand so that he could close the cupboard again, another spasm began.

The glass slipped from his fingers and dropped to the floor, where it shattered against the hardwood. And it sounded to Harry's ears as if the whole cupboard had come crashing down around him.

Harry's heart immediately started hammering again. His brain was screaming at him to do something, anything, to fix it, but for too many excruciating seconds he was paralyzed. All he could do was stare down at the mess he'd made, a thousand glass shards spread like shrapnel all across the ground.

Harry heard the click of a door opening in the distance, and that was enough to spur him into action. He jumped down from the chair, wincing as he felt several pieces of glass pierce through his sock and directly into his foot. He dropped to his knees, again pushing back the pain, forcing himself to think only of cleaning up the mess before the Professor arrived in time to see the damage. Hurriedly, he began gathering as many bits of glass into his palm as he could, cradling the fragments carefully so as not to drop them again.

"POTTER!"

Yet again, Snape's voice was powerful enough to startle him to his feet. Harry leapt up, his hand instinctively clenching around the glass he'd been gathering, driving the sharp little pieces deep into his skin. But that was the least of his concerns.

Harry spun to face a livid Snape, who stood in the kitchen entryway, wand drawn, wrapped tightly in a midnight blue dressing gown.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," the man hissed, striding forward purposefully. He snatched up Harry's hand and instructed in a cold, precise tone, "Drop it."

Harry hesitated initially, unwilling to simply release the bloodied mess onto the floor. But when the Professor's hand tightened almost painfully around his wrist, Harry did drop the glass shards.

The Professor glared at him disdainfully before turning the hand palm-up and muttering a few spells over the flesh, removing the last of the glass and causing the small cuts to close and smooth over.

"Just what do you think you were doing?" the Professor demanded in a low, dangerous tone.

Harry swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "I—I didn't mean to—"

"An apology is not an explanation. Answer my question."

Harry winced and bobbed his head once to show that he would comply. "I woke up, sir, and I was thirsty, so I thought I'd get a glass of water, but it slipped and broke—"

"The whole truth, Potter, before I wash your mouth out for lying."

Harry winced again. Somehow, he knew that the Professor wasn't making an empty threat. But he didn't know what the man wanted. "I'm not lying! I didn't break it on purpose—"

"You are omitting," the man returned sharply, dropping Harry's wrist and moving to grip his chin firmly. He forced the boy's head up and into his dark, impatient gaze. "Why did you wake up?"

"Nightmare," Harry breathed, choosing to stare fixedly at the wallpaper behind Snape rather than meet the man's gaze directly.

"About today's events?"

"Yes, sir." The words were barely audible.

"And were you being tortured again in this nightmare?" Snape continued knowingly.

"Yes, sir."

Snape released the boy's chin. "Stupid little fool," he uttered harshly. He waved his wand at the mess of glass on the floor; every last broken piece vanished. Then he took Harry by the shoulder, his fingers digging deep into the boy's flesh. "Go sit on your bed," he commanded. "And strip out of your pajamas. You've bloodied them."

Harry wanted to protest that he wasn't about to just sit around practically starkers waiting for the Professor. But then, the man was already in a thoroughly foul mood, and he figured that being bereft of pajamas would likely be the least of his worries in a few moments. So as soon as the Professor released his shoulder he scurried off into the sitting room and hastily unbuttoned his pajama top, wincing slightly from the echoes of the curse pain that were throbbing in his limbs.

He hesitated when it came to removing the bottoms. Even the Dursleys hadn't seen him so exposed, not in years. He still remembered, vaguely, what had happened the few times he'd showed up less than fully dressed in their sitting room. It had been back when he'd been having so much difficulty dressing himself. And it wasn't like Aunt Petunia was going to take the time to help him.

Petunia had screamed at him that he was an 'uncouth little cretin' (whatever that was) and stuffed him back into his cupboard for a long stretch of hours.

Harry had learned fairly quickly after that.

But now…. Harry sucked in his lower lip and nibbled it nervously as he tried to work up the courage to shed his bottoms. Sure, he would still have his boxers. But there was something terrifying about being so unclothed, especially when the Professor looked ready to chuck Harry out on his ear.

Well, he thought, disobedience wouldn't make anything better. Likely it would just set the Professor off. So he peeled off the cotton bottoms. He could help but wince and whimper a little as they came off. Kneeling in the glass had been a stupid idea, he realized, because he'd driven a bunch of the stupid little shards into his legs. He saw that there were even little spots of blood where they'd cut the skin.

Harry bit his lip harder, trying to fight off the panic he felt rising in him again. He'd woken the Professor and messed up the kitchen and ruined the nice pajamas he'd borrowed. He'd ruined everything, and he could scarcely hold in the choking sobs that threatened to overwhelm him.

The Professor would definitely make him leave now. And no one would want him. So he'd either have to go back to the Dursleys or straight to an orphanage, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

The Professor swept in just as Harry was pulling his knees up to his chest in an effort to comfort himself. That, and keep warm. He already had gooseflesh all over his arms and legs from the slight chill of being unclothed.

Snape lit the room with an impatient arc of his wand. He still looked grumpy and displeased, but Harry didn't see the terrible black fury he'd expected for all the trouble he'd caused. If it had been Uncle Vernon….

But the Professor wasn't like Uncle Vernon. Harry had already established that. So it was stupid to keep making these comparisons.

Still, he wished he knew what was coming.

The Professor's critical eyes seemed to be taking him apart rather than condemning him, Harry thought, calming just a little. It was like the man didn't know quite what to make of him.

"All right, Potter," Snape said, his voice surprisingly even. He closed the distance between them and, with a gesture from his wand, retransformed the coffee table into his customary stool. He settled on it, then crooked a finger at Harry, beckoning him forward. "Let's see the damage."

Slowly, cautiously, Harry unfolded himself, allowing his legs to drop back to the floor. He scooted forward a little so that he was at a convenient distance from Snape, where the man could see his injuries.

The Professor was silent as he worked his spells, the same that he had used on Harry's hands to remove the glass and close the cuts. He tended to Harry's feet with surprising tenderness, his hands warm and gentle as they turned and twisted the appendages, searching for any lingering cuts and shards. At the end, he cleaned away the little drops of blood too; that spell tickled slightly, and despite Harry's apprehension, he could barely suppress a giggle as it ghosted over his bare legs and very, very sensitive soles.

Snape rolled his eyes, clearly having caught enough of Harry's reaction, before turning to the boy's pajamas and muttering a few cleaning spells. Satisfied, he thrust the pajamas back at Harry directing, "There, slip those back on before you catch a chill on top of everything."

Harry obliged, dressing as quickly as he could. It was hard because his hands started trembling again as he did up the buttons. Harry gnawed on his lip hard as he tried to muster the concentration needed to subdue his rebellious muscles.

But Snape quickly got fed up with watching him struggle and, moving in close with the speed of a swooping bat, batted the boy's hands away and began doing the buttons up himself. Then he brusquely directed, "Sit."

Harry fell back, dropping onto the loveseat bed as if his legs had been cut from beneath him.

"I would tell you how foolish it is to kneel in broken glass and try to pick it up with your bare hands, but I think the results speak for themselves, yes?"

Harry bobbed his head nervously.

"I should hope so." Snape exhaled heavily. "Your nightmare, Potter. You awoke from it with pain and tremors?"

Harry stole a glance up at the man. He looked weary, Harry thought. Like he just wanted to burrow back into bed. Which was strange, considering it was all Harry's fault that he wasn't there right now. Maybe he would be angrier in the morning…..

"Yes, sir," Harry confirmed.

Snape pursed his lips and cast a hand out toward the hall; seconds later a small leather satchel came drifting down the hall. Snape caught it expertly and began digging through it, pulling out vials as he went. He extended two—a bright green and a translucent concoction that contained strands of undulating silver, like the Sleeping Draught Harry had taken earlier.

Harry grasped them tentatively.

"Take them both—the whole vial. The dosages have already been adjusted for you."

Harry obeyed. The green potion was horribly bitter and acrid; it reminded Harry of earwax. The translucent potion, though, went down like water, and if it weren't for the strange silver strands, Harry would have doubted it was a potion at all.

It didn't take long for Harry to feel the effects. A strange coolness surged through him, soothing the pain like aloe on a burn, and calming the tremors. Harry slumped back, floating in the bliss of release from his extreme discomfort.

"Any residual pain or discomfort?" Snape inquired coolly.

"No, sir. Thank you—"

Snape waved the thanks away irritably, his face darkening in a scowl once more. "You can thank me," he growled, his weariness suddenly dissolving, "by explaining to me exactly why you could not simply ask for those potions, why instead you had to make a bloody mess in my kitchen and riddle yourself with broken glass instead. Tell me, boy, was I unclear in my instructions? Did I or did I not instruct you to come get me if you started experiencing side effects again?"

Harry shrank back from the man's accusatory tone. "I—I didn't want to bother you—"

"Were you in pain?"

Harry flinched. "A little, but—"

"And was your sleep disturbed?"

"It was just a stupid nightmare," Harry mumbled to himself, feeling a bright blush steal over his cheeks.

"And did I or did I not specifically tell you to come get me if you were in pain or if you had trouble sleeping? Did you think that if you experienced both issues at the same time that my instructions were suddenly null and void?"

Harry gulped. "No, I just didn't want to—to wake you up—"

"And then," Snape continued, standing in agitation, "you choose to crawl up onto the cupboard and attempt to retrieve a glass, while you are experiencing great pain and severe muscle tremors! Are you daft, boy? What if you had lost your grip and fallen backwards, cracking your skull? Or somehow impaled yourself on a piece of broken glass?" The Professor shook his head in disgust. "I don't speak to fill the air! When I give you specific instructions, Potter, you are to follow them! Is that understood?"

Harry's throat was so tight by then that he could scarcely squeeze the words past his vocal chords. But he managed a weak "Yes, sir", hoping that it was enough to appease Snape.

Apparently it was. That was all it took for the man to stop his furious pacing. Harry watched as the man drew in a deep breath, one so large that it made his whole upper body rise and fall. "Next time," he instructed, his voice quiet and controlled once more, "you will come wake me immediately. Now…." He settled back onto the stool and plucked the emptied vials from Harry's hands. His black eyes fell back on the boy, and they were surprisingly steady and intense, just like before. "I presume your nightmare was rather… intense?"

Harry did not know where this was going. Snape hadn't scolded him about what a bother he was, or how awful Harry was to have disturbed his rest. No, it seemed as if he were only upset because Harry hadn't found him right away.

But the pain hadn't been that bad, Harry reasoned. It was silly that Snape was worked up over that.

Even stranger, the man didn't seem upset about the destruction Harry had caused in the kitchen, only about how Harry might have hurt himself trying to get a drink.

"Potter?" Snape prompted. He barely even sounded impatient.

Harry nodded.

Snape seemed to wait a moment for elaboration, but when it became obvious that Harry wasn't going to offer anything else, he continued, "It's typical of victims of the Cruciatus curse—especially long bouts of it—to experience intense nightmares for several nights. Often the nightmares themselves become entwined with the return of the tremors and shooting pains that linger after the curse…. Have you recovered from your nightmare?"

Harry thought that last question was a bit stiff. Probably the Professor didn't want to ask it, because he didn't care all that much, but he was forced to ask it anyway because he was stuck with Harry. Not that the Dursleys had ever bothered…. But the Professor was loads better than the Dursleys in every way, so this shouldn't be surprising.

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled.

The Professor closed his eyes lightly for a moment. "Do you wish to talk about it?" he inquired, his voice even more forced than before.

"No, sir."

The Professor sighed, and his eyes opened again. His dark, assessing gaze fell on Harry once more—and Harry thought that, strangely enough, the man looked almost disappointed for some reason. "I think it would be best if you did," he stated. "It certainly won't hurt. What was the dream about?"

Automatically, Harry drew his legs up to himself, as if that could shield him from both the Professor and the lingering unease from his night terror. "S'not important—"

"Potter, I realize it is late," the Professor broke in, his tone irritated once more, "but I think you are still capable of using proper words and answering in complete sentences, are you not?"

Harry dug his nails into his legs at the Professor's reprimand. Stupid! he cursed himself. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It's just… it's not a big deal—"

"Answer the question."

Harry sighed. He could tell what that tone meant. There was no way around it. "It—at first, I thought I felt something crawling on me. I was—you see, in the dream, I was in here—I was dreaming I was in here—"

The Professor seized him by the shoulder and shook him lightly, interrupting his incoherent, increasingly panicky rambling. "Breathe, Potter," he commanded sternly. "Calm yourself."

Harry tried. It helped that the Professor kept his hand clasped on Harry's shoulder; Harry was sure it was just so the man could shake him again if he started babbling, but it felt nice all the same. Warm, and steady. A reminder of the wizard's strength. Harry decided to pretend that the Professor was trying to reassure him with that gesture.

So he took a few deep breaths, and then he told Snape all about the spiders crawling on him, and his mother turning into Bellatrix, and the torture curses, and the flash of green light. As he spoke, the Professor's face grew progressively more grim and pale, and Harry didn't know what to make of that. He had to swallow a few times so he could get all the details out, and each time he did, the Professor's brow furrowed a little deeper.

At the end, to Harry's great surprise, Snape gave his shoulder a little squeeze. "It's very common," he informed Harry, "for that curse to affect the victim emotionally as well as physically. It will fade with time, I promise. As for the rest…." Snape's dark eyes cast away to the side for a moment. "You are safe here. It's natural for you to be so shaken after such an ordeal, especially at such a young age. But you must know that Albus Dumbledore set the protections on this house himself, and he is personally safeguarding Bellatrix. He is the most powerful wizard of our time, Harry; nothing can harm you here. As I said, it will take time for the fear to fade, but I want you to reflect on how protected you are here."

Snape paused to clear his throat lightly, even as his gaze strayed even further from Harry's. "Too, I will allow no harm to come to you. As your temporary guardian, it is my duty to protect you, and I take all of my duties seriously. I came for you yesterday, did I not?"

Harry felt his cheeks warm when he remembered how the wizard had been forced to rush to his aid. "Yes, sir, you did."

"And I will always come for you, regardless of how foolish you've been or what trouble you've managed to find. That is the promise I made to your mother, and that is the promise I now make to you."

Harry couldn't speak. No one had ever made a declaration like this, not to him. Oh, he was sure his aunt and uncle would throw themselves in front of a speeding lorry for their little Diddykins, but not for Harry. But here the Professor was swearing to protect Harry with his life. At least, for the little time that Harry would be allowed to stay in the man's home….

No. He wouldn't think about that now. It was too depressing, especially knowing how devoted the Professor would have been to him, and how fair and forgiving.

Then something else registered in Harry's mind. "You knew my mum," he murmured, mostly to himself. That was why the Professor had been willing to take him in, even for two weeks. Not just because he knew the Headmaster, but because he was doing a favor for Harry's dead mum.

Snape dipped his head slowly in confirmation. "I did." And that seemed all he was willing to say on the matter for the time being.

Harry wondered if he might be able to beg the man to tell him about his mum—just a few things. Like what her voice really sounded like, and what her favorite things had been, and what her smile had looked like.

Later. Maybe when the man wasn't tired and furious with Harry. Maybe after he'd served his punishment.

The thought that he still had to face that the next day caused his stomach to start churning again. Harry took his lip in his teeth again and began to nibble, using the mild pain of his front teeth digging into his lip to distract him from that unsettling thought.

The Professor sighed and, releasing Harry's shoulder, rose to his feet. He extended a hand toward the kitchen, and seconds later a glass came drifting into the sitting room. The Professor caught it deftly, filled it from the tip of his wand, and extended it to Harry, one brow arched at him in challenge. "I trust you'll keep this at your bedside from now on, so that if you grow thirsty you won't feel the need for further escapades. Yes?"

Harry felt something unknot deep in his chest. He bobbed his head hurriedly, flashing the man a shy, grateful smile. "Thank you, sir—"

But Snape was already waving off the thanks. Clearly the man was not too irate, Harry thought. If he had been, he wouldn't have been thoughtful enough to get Harry a glass of water like this, or sit here and talk about the nightmare.

"It's late." Snape stood and turned his stool back into the coffee table. He cast a sharp glance back at Harry. "Have you had enough? Yes? Give it here, then." Snape plucked the glass, which Harry had been nursing for a scant few seconds, from the boy's grasp and placed it on the coffee table. Next he snatched Harry's glasses, which he folded and set right beside the glass. "Well, lie down."

Harry obeyed without a second thought. He tucked his knees up to his chest and was just about to fish about for the blanket when the Professor reached down and pulled it up to his chin, draping it lightly. There was no actual tucking, per se, but Harry couldn't dampen the warm feeling in his chest that sparked from that little, insignificant gesture. The Professor had tucked him in, after he'd woken the man up and broken his glass and made a general mess of things.

Harry stole a peak up at the Professor, and found that the man was now hold a jar in his hand, his wand inside it, his lips moving in a series of incantations. The man's brow was furrowed in intense conversation. As the Professor spoke, a tiny sphere of light began to take shape in the jar. It gave off a gentle blue-white light, and pulsed regularly like a heartbeat. It began to expand slightly, from the size of a pea to the size of a marble, and finally, just as the Professor withdrew his wand, the size of a golf ball.

The Professor gave a grunt of what Harry assumed was satisfaction and set the whole jar down on the table beside the glass. "This, Potter, is a charmed light. It will respond to your needs, and it will not go out. While you sleep, it will glow low like a Muggle pilot light. But, should you need to navigate in the dark, it will grow brighter. Likewise, if you awaken from a nightmare and wish the room to be lighter for a time, it will oblige you. But if that should occur for any reason—pain or no—you are to seek me out immediately. Understood?"

Harry twisted his hands in the blanket and tucked his head down so he could avoid Snape's accusatory glare. He was relieved beyond words that the man had thought to magic something like a nightlight for him—though Harry would never call it a nightlight. He was far too old for that kind of thing. But he didn't like the idea of knocking on the Professor's door in the middle of the night, no matter what the man told him now. Somehow he couldn't picture that scenario ever ending well for him.

Well. He would just go along for now, and if he woke again he wouldn't be stupid enough this time to try climbing on the countertops. He would just stay put in his bed, and make the light grow brighter if he needed a little extra comfort.

"Yes, sir."

Snape assessed him for a moment longer. Harry could feel those cool eyes lingering on him, searching for who knew what. "The pain is gone? Completely?"

"Yes, sir. Since you gave me the potion."

"Good. We'll dose you again in the morning. For now, try to sleep. If you cannot, come seek me out and I'll give you a little more potion." Snape quelled the lights in the room, leaving only the newly-created nightlight, which glowed steadily in a gentle, pulsing rhythm that made Harry think of waves, or a chest rising and falling.

"Goodnight, sir." Harry uttered the words even though they were meaningless, even though Snape had already started on his way down the hall and likely wouldn't hear them at all.

But the Professor surprised him. He paused just a little ways down the hall, turned back slightly, and returned, "Goodnight, Potter" before sweeping away.

Harry heard the light click of the man's bedroom door. And despite the lingering unease from the nightmare, and his anxiety about what the next day would bring, and his general fear of what would happen to him at the end of the week when he would have to leave, Harry felt just the slightest bit content.

Because he had a plan for the next morning.