There was an old gramophone in the house which never stopped playing.

It was a decrepit thing, ugly and ungainly, corroded and crackly. The burnished filigree around the horn was weathered and pockmarked, its wooden base holding a dusty, warped turntable. It was set atop a small, ornamental stool that hardly looked sturdy enough to support it. And always, always, the same record spun from dawn till dusk, unending.

Harry was in two minds about it: On one hand, the persistent sound was better than abject silence, but on the other… The damn thing had a habit of roaming about the house. It moved like clockwork: First thing in the morning, it was nestled down in the elbow of the basement stairwell; then, at midday, it was in the ground floor library, tucked between a bookcase and a sitting room door; and finally, in the afternoon, it would settle upstairs in the western dead-end corridor. In every alcove it sat, it stood sentry beside a closed door.

The music followed Harry everywhere, echoing over dusty banisters and into every hollow nook of the empty mansion. The songs were all oldies; some were crooning and sappy, with weepy strings or jazzy piano -- the sort Aunt Petunia might listen to on Sunday mornings -- while others were harsh and energetic, the guitars and vocals pitched loud amid a driving tempo.

There were fifteen tracks in total. Harry had taken the time to count them, to memorize their sequence, because he had absolutely nothing better to do.

It was driving him a bit mad.

All told, logically, there was not much in his immediate vicinity to be upset about. He'd first woken up with a violent start in a soft, spacious double bed to the sound of a distant 60's tune, clean of dust and debris and with his broken arm fully mended. The gauzy curtains on the bed frame had fluttered as he’d flung off the duvet in a panic, and he'd rushed to look out the window to find sunshine and cloudless sky, acres of overgrown grass, and the peaceful whisper of winter wind through foliage. He'd bolted out of the room to the view of a mahogany banister overlooking a neat little parlor room on the floor below. Descending the wide staircase, he'd made an anxious exploration of dozens of other rooms, all spacious and richly furnished but ultimately defunct. He'd found a pantry filled with fresh groceries, a library filled with old books, and a quaint window nook filled with warm sunlight. He’d found himself mostly alone; there were signs of life here and there, but he hadn’t caught sight of another living soul outside of his own reflection.

And through it all, the ever-present gramophone had toiled away, hour after hour, playing its songs in sequence without pause or deviation.

There was a distinct surreality to the opulently antique, but long neglected, Victorian mansion he'd inexplicably found himself in. It was as if he'd awoken only to find himself still dreaming, the lead up to his current situation incomplete and untraceable. How the fuck did he get here? What was this place? Who the hell brought him here? And most importantly: Why? The juxtaposition between the… before, and this desultory after had left him feeling anxious and adrift.

So, obviously, he’d tried to leave.

The front door seemed to be locked, but there was also no chain, no deadbolt, or any visible means to interface with the thing at all. There wasn't even a door handle, so Harry had assumed only magic would open it. His hand had strayed halfway to his pocket before he'd remembered; he could hear the crack and hiss of his wand snapping as if it had happened only minutes ago. The reminder sent a chill straight up his spine.

But he hadn't been deterred, despite the fact that none of the ground floor windows would open, nor would they break when Harry had chanced bludgeoning them. Those on the first floor were too high to jump and, without a broom or a charm or somewhere to cushion his fall, he couldn't justify the attempt. They were all straight drops down onto sharp gravel or rough stone or rusty garden implements. Harry had valiantly resisted the urge to punch the glass.

There were massive fireplaces in nearly every room, but the grates were blackened and musty; there hadn't been fires in them for quite some time. But even if he could somehow solve the issue of finding fuel and lighting it, the larger problem was a lack of Floo powder. He'd practically stormed through the house, spending a full day scouring every inch of it, searching drawers, trunks, shelves, cabinets, pantries, supply closets, and all manner of nooks and crannies, to no avail whatsoever.

Worst of all was, without a wand, any attempts at magic were doomed from the start. Apparition was impossible at best and dangerous at worst. His every desperate Finite Incantatem fell flat, and there was no indication his bleakly hopeful Ostendo did anything at all. Damn it, he'd tried; if nothing else, he'd gritted his teeth and worked through the abject frustration, his voice growing more hoarse as the sun had sunk below the horizon. The cursed place was likely warded to the teeth -- not that he was equipped to go toe-to-toe with that sort of thing anyway -- but, by the time he'd reached this point, he'd just had to get out of this godforsaken hellhole right fucking now!

And that only really left him with one last desperate option: To ask for help.

Because someone was definitely in the house with him -- of that much Harry was certain. Days of restless exploration and detailed attention had quickly surfaced the evidence. Yet, despite all the half-empty mugs of coffee, the forgotten inkwells, the patterns of disturbed dust and the daily rash of dog-eared books scattered about; despite the acrid stench of smoke in the basement and the shadows passing under doors and the muted clip-clop of footsteps from behind the only locked bedroom door, Harry had yet to lay eyes on whoever it was.

But he did, in fact, notice one important thing which might be key: The gramophone followed them. Whatever room it was stationed by, there were always signs of life, the constant music not quite obscuring the sounds from within.

Unfortunately, knowing that wasn't so much an advantage as it was a source of endless torment, because it quickly became clear that, whoever it was, they were actively avoiding him.

It began on day five, when Harry had finally exhausted all other avenues of escape. He'd suffered an entire sleepless night, writing desperate letters to his friends, to Dumbledore, to anyone -- all of which he couldn’t send -- and had become so bored and starved for human contact that he'd actually cracked open some of the ancient, leather-bound journals in the library. He'd done little more than stare sightlessly at the dense, almost indecipherable tome before he'd heard footsteps in the hall, heading his way. Jumping up immediately, he'd waited with jittery anticipation, but… the music had swelled in the corridor before falling quiet as a whisper, and the door never opened. Fed up with waiting, he'd thrown it open himself to look outside, but there was nothing there and, even stranger, he could hear the gramophone had moved clear across the house from him.

From then on, Harry began seeking it out. Propping doors open, keeping tabs on the gramophone's whereabouts, pressing ears to wood and peeking in keyholes. Every time, the mysterious stranger evaded him, leaving only empty air and a maddening sense of presence, their imprint on the space both undeniable and infuriating. And the longer Harry's involuntary solitude persisted, the more stir crazy and obsessed he became. In a fit of pique on day nine, he had burst into the library so aggressively that the door actually scuffed the wall. But his efforts yielded only the faint smell of cardamom and a half-eaten, still-steaming can of lentil soup.

At the end of his tether, Harry had contemplated hiding out inside the rooms, but the prospect of curling up in some tiny, dark cupboard for hours on end in total stillness and silence made his skin crawl.

As a last-ditch effort on the tenth afternoon, Harry sat atop the mid-point landing of the basement staircase, peering between the slats of the railing to monitor the gramophone below. It was playing song number six: Some lazy, rollicking tune whose only lyric Harry could make out was “bang a gong”. He’d chosen this position carefully: It was a fair distance away and above eye level, and therefore harder for someone to see from the end of the hall, whereas the high ground lent Harry better line of sight and freedom of movement.

And, just as he’d predicted, when the grandfather clock in the parlor tolled noon, the song switched on the gramophone, and it vanished, the next song beginning to echo down to him from upstairs. The shock of defeat struck Harry then, and he perched his elbows atop his knees before digging the heels of both hands into his eyes with a despairing sigh, but just as he was about to resign himself to another day of crawling up the walls by himself, a figure swung open the hallway door.

Half-convinced he must be hallucinating, Harry blinked hard several times before staring. The figure was person-shaped, solid -- not a ghost or a house elf or some obscure magical creature, as he’d begun to suppose -- and they were carrying several plastic bags which crinkled dully as they crossed the hall into the kitchen. Robed all in black, the pale, spindly shape walked with a rigid sort of grace.

A figure whose gait he could recognize anywhere.

Harry felt a sudden, bone-deep chill, his body moving before his mind could catch up. By the time he’d fully processed just who was in the house with him, Harry had already fled back to the ground floor, traversing the short distance to the grand staircase in almost a single leap. He took the steps two at a time, cursing the awful way the wood groaned beneath his feet, and bolted to the room he’d been staying in the last nine nights.

With the closed door at his back, and the lock firmly in place, Harry finally let out the breath he’d been holding. Laying a hand on the smooth surface, he tried to cast a wandless Colloportus to seal it, but the trickle of magic only curled in his fingertips without taking hold. Fuck. Pulling in another deep breath, Harry rested his forehead on the wood, trying to quell the pounding of his heart.

Turning about, he sagged his weight against the door, one hand clenching the knob in a white-knuckle grip as if he could prevent it from turning with brute force alone. He waited a tense few minutes, listening, hoping he wasn’t followed.

The house was quiet. As the minutes passed, his hand grew more and more lax, until his fingers were merely resting, feather light, atop the burnished bronze handle.

His gaze caught on the landmarks of his chosen room: The rumpled four-poster he hadn’t bothered to tidy; the discarded scraps of makeshift dinners spent cross-legged on the rug; the mess of knick-knacks he’d picked up in his travels around the house. Then, he directed his attention out the open window. It was terribly cold outside, but at least the space was filled with fresh air, unlike the rest of the house. Slowly, he crept forward, both hands coming to rest on the windowsill, and leaned out.

Peering at the grounds with fresh eyes, it came to him then why the view looked so familiar. In the distance, like a discarded strip of black ribbon, a wrought iron fence curved around the property before disappearing into the tree line and beyond Harry’s sight. He remembered the massive gate he had passed through to enter these grounds three months ago. He remembered the glowing rope attached to his chest, the unfurled scroll of magic. He remembered the square, imposing figure of a distant mansion façade, shadowed by the nighttime gloom.

And he well remembered being abandoned there.

The broad field of grass before him suddenly felt much more sinister. He’d been wandering this place for days, holding out hope for some kind of company, some end to this strange interlude between the hellish before and the terrible after.

But this? This was almost worse. A terrifying amalgam of both, masquerading as a reprieve.

Harry didn’t leave his room for the rest of that day and, just like all the other days before, no one came to bother him.

The next morning, Harry cautiously tiptoed into the kitchen, prompted by his gnawing hunger. He cast only the briefest of glances at the gramophone across the hall, now playing a plucky, warbling song, before he silently slipped through the door.

His suspicion was correct: The pantry had been refilled once more. The only difference was, he knew who was doing it now. No way to justify the regular appearance of food as “just one of those magic things” anymore. Did that really change anything? It was the same food he’d been eating for over a week. It wasn’t poison.

But still, his appetite quickly left him.

The rest of the day was spent brooding. And the next. And the next. He was completely exhausted; he’d only ever slept in fits and starts since he first arrived, waking up multiple times a night in a cold sweat and feeling as if a boulder were slowly crushing his chest. Now, he simply couldn’t see any reason to get out of the bed, even if he was barely sleeping in it. His mind was in a near-constant whirlwind since the revelation. What was he doing here? Where were his friends? His teachers? The Order? Why hadn’t anyone come looking for him yet? Did they think he was dead? Or did they know exactly where he was, and just expected him to stay put?

As much as the questions consumed him, he found it equally hard to care much about the answers. Seemed pointless to wonder when there was nothing he could do about it. Seemed pointless when he barely had the energy to live. He was alone here.

Or, as good as. He couldn’t decide whether he preferred his housemate's disappearing act, or if he despised it.

On the fourteenth night, Harry had finally managed to fight off the heaviness in his limbs and trudged out to the kitchen to cook himself an actual meal for once, but when he returned to his room, Harry found something by his door. A whispered Lumos lit up his fingertips to reveal a little vial standing upright on the wood paneling, its contents a rich, opaque violet. He shivered; knowing who it must have come from, its presence settled ominously on his troubled mind.

After all, it was one of the few potions he could practically identify with his eyes closed: Dreamless Sleep. He knew he had every reason to want this potion, every reason to force his body to recuperate, to disperse the horrifying night terrors which plagued his unconscious hours. But this… This was an uncomfortable reminder that, no matter how isolated he felt, he could still be heard and seen. That no matter how hands-off his housemate had been up to this point, he was still paying attention.

Harry’s expression tightened.

“Nox.”

He left the potion where it sat and made sure to barricade the door behind him.

On day sixteen, there were voices in the library.

Harry had just come downstairs wearing an oversized jumper and loose jeans he'd borrowed from a dusty wardrobe, contemplating whether or not he should eat his eggs and toast in bed again or if he should give himself a change of scenery, when he heard them.

He froze at the bottom of the grand staircase, listening.

“… power to…”

“… wish it! …not your en…”

The ceaseless, tuneful crackle of the gramophone provided an incongruous backdrop to the muffled conversation. Both voices were low in timbre and agitated in feeling.

“… leave!”

“... desire to engage…”

“…not condone Harry…” A prickle of intrigue caught hold of Harry at the sound of his own name. “… your say-so… even be…”

He crept closer, strained his ears. The voice was so familiar…

“…obligated… a damn thing--!”

“…proper ex… hap… reason, Severus!”

Harry suddenly knew exactly who was speaking. And, in the next instant, he was pounding on the door, the sound as loud and frantic as the beating of his heart.

“Professor! Professor Dumbledore!”

His shout was met with silence. The voices had stopped, and he tried the door handle without much luck.

“Professor Dumbledore!”

Silence.

He slammed his open palm against the wood. “Please, Professor, I just need--!”

The door swung open suddenly enough for Harry to stumble in the threshold. Despite his earlier desperation, he stilled, staring ahead in quiet shock. There, right in front of him, was Dumbledore, in the actual flesh, and…

His eyes skipped right over Snape, purposefully focusing elsewhere.

“Harry,” Dumbledore breathed, weary but profoundly relieved. Then, Harry was startled to find himself caught up in a tight embrace, the man’s next wondering sentence uttered over his shoulder. “You’re alive!”

He could see the way Snape visibly bristled behind Dumbledore’s back, a scoff rolling all the way through his posture. “Of course he’s alive, Albus. What do you take me for?”

Reflexively, Harry’s arms tightened around the older man’s back before he forced them to release, pulling away to look at Dumbledore with wide eyes. “Professor, I…”

His voice was hoarse, whether from shouting, disuse, or emotion, he couldn’t say. He’d spent so much time here alone that it seemed unreal to be seeing and speaking with an actual human person.

Thankfully, the headmaster didn’t seem to require his articulation. In a moment, he was rising again to full height, a hand clasped firmly on Harry’s shoulder as he guided them both a few steps into the room.

“Severus…” Dumbledore said, his tone leading as if he were gearing up for a lecture.

“Well you’ve seen him now,” the other man sneered with an emphasis that implied a resentful capitulation. “He’s fine. As I said.”

Harry felt Dumbledore’s hand tighten on his shoulder. “Is that right, Harry?” he asked, his eyes blazing in challenge at Snape before he looked Harry’s way, his expression softening. “Are you ‘fine’?”

He’d barely begun contemplating his answer when Snape crossly spat, “I’m not starving him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Severus,” Dumbledore uttered in warning.

Harry’s gaze darted between the two men. “Er…”

God, he wasn’t even sure what to say. After all that had happened… He hardly knew what ‘fine’ even meant, anymore.

“I’m… I’ve been… uhm. Yeah, fine? I guess?” he parroted lamely. “Not… bad.”

There was nothing but kindly concern in Dumbledore’s eyes as he gave Harry’s shoulder another squeeze. “I am glad to hear it.”

At those words, he felt a preternatural calm descend on him, as if the Headmaster’s mere presence had soothed some deep-seated ache in his chest. The minutiae of Snape’s unpleasantness: His imposing stature, his immutable glower -- his shaking hands slick with far too much blood, painfully vivid in Harry’s memory -- all seemed to hold less power over him the longer Dumbledore’s fingers stayed pressed against his shoulder.

Not even Snape’s next words could touch him.

“Headmaster, I must insist you leave.”

“Whatever for?” Dumbledore straightened, his expression turning hard as he looked at the other man. “Explanations are still in order, here.”

Snape lifted his chin. “I don’t have to answer to you.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed -- not in anger, but confusion. “And why is that?”

“Because I choose not to,” he retorted.

The headmaster's voice became dangerously low. “On what basis?”

Snape's tone turned darker to match. “That's none of your concern.”

“If you are implying what I think you are,” Dumbledore argued, “then it most certainly is.”

Harry shrank back when he noticed the telltale signs of Snape reaching the end of his patience. “You'll remember I didn't invite you here,” he seethed. “I have no interest in being interrogated.”

“And yet you allowed my entry,” Dumbledore volleyed back. “For what purpose?”

There was a grim twist to Snape’s words when he answered, “I would rather not experience the damage you might inflict, should you find I had kept Potter from you entirely.”

“And would I not be well within my right to do so?”

Snape’s lips thinned in a contemptuous scowl.

Dumbledore continued, “It astounds me, the mere fact you could even think to conceal Harry’s safety from me, from all those who care most about him--!”

Snape interrupted, “I have not compromised his safety--”

“That's debatable.”

“-- but beyond that, I have nothing else to offer you,” Snape finished through gritted teeth.

Dumbledore stared at the younger man as if he were unrecognizable.

“You mean to say my chief spy--” Snape reacted to that with a derisive scoff. “-- who answered a Summons during the most devastating act of violence our kind have faced in centuries -- has absolutely nothing to offer me?”

Snape’s hackles raised at the recrimination. “Oh please, you and I both know that title is meaningless--”

“Since when, precisely?” Dumbledore challenged.

Snape threw his hands up in a gesture which was as profoundly frustrated as it was helpless. “Does it matter?”

A beat passed before Dumbledore’s voice rang out, soaked in incredulity, “You’re acting like a child.”

Harry felt a chill when, instead of getting angry, Snape responded with a splintered wisp of laughter, mirthless and hollow.

“I think we're done here,” he pronounced, his tone dangerous.

“I think not."

Dumbledore hardly seemed intimidated, but Harry couldn’t boast the same.

“No, I mean, we are done.”

“So you keep saying.” Dumbledore spoke with a tone that was droll and weary, but Snape’s frame practically vibrated with tension.

“I resign my post.” He enunciated each syllable with sharp precision. “Effective immediately.”

That brought Dumbledore up short. “Excuse me?”

“I am no longer in your employ, at Hogwarts or anywhere else.”

Dumbledore appeared quite disturbed by this statement. “You can’t mean that.”

Snape’s expression was hard. He did not relent.

Then, the Headmaster demanded, “Explain.”

“No.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed into an incredulous squint. “Surely you must know you are being unreasonable--”

“I will clear out my office and quarters before the week is out. Potter may remain, but you and your ilk are no longer welcome here.”

“You intend to keep the boy a prisoner, then?”

Snape didn't rise to the bait.

Dumbledore’s mouth tightened as his expression strained. Before Harry could process the oddity of having been singled out, his eyes jolted to his shoulder as the older man’s hand returned there, protective. “So you have chosen to defect, is that it?”

Snape's posture stiffened. “Of course not.”

“You don't sound very certain,” Dumbledore balked.

Snape only glared.

“Not to mention all these cryptic accusations, and your apparent desire to cripple our cause over some imagined slight--”

“My apparent--!” Snape bit out in irate disbelief, his control fracturing. “Have I not done everything you have required of me?! To the absolute letter?”

“That has never been in question--!”

“Half my life I've spent in service to you and yours--!”

“Which is why--!”

“-- and for what?!”

Dumbledore’s hand fell from Harry’s shoulder as he approached Snape. “Are you truly so selfish that you would abandon us in this critical moment?!”

“Selfish?” Snape expelled. Harry could tell he'd tried for disdain, biting sharply at the consonants, but his voice tapered off at the end in a manner which was alien to Harry's ears, sounding closer to wounded.

Dumbledore seemed to sense it too, like blood in the water. “Severus,” he began his appeal, his tone transitioning over the course of that one word into something more controlled. “This isn't like you.”

Snape's expression hardened.

“You are not nearly so detached and unfeeling as you purport to be,” Dumbledore went on, “so I do not understand this… reticence of yours. This fierce opposition to rational lines of inquiry.”

He paused, letting this pronouncement hang in the air.

Then, “I deserve some answers, Severus. And I think you know that.”

Snape said nothing, his gaze affixed to some distant landmark of the room.

“How did Harry come to be here? Why have you kept him hidden all this time?”

He did not respond.

And the more his obstinance persisted, the more caustic Dumbledore’s questions became.

“What did Voldemort want from you? For what purpose did he summon you?”

No answer.

“Where were you while the Ministry burned? While our people were trapped and dying?!”

The silence was impregnable. Harry felt it steadily pressing against his chest.

“You were Called,” he emphasized, “but you will say no more about it. You claimed, at first, to have no knowledge of Harry's whereabouts, and yet -- here he is. You will assume no responsibility for your absence and, in fact, now wish to quit altogether!” Dumbledore listed, his voice straining in frustration. “What exactly am I meant to take away from that?”

Snape’s hands clenched at his sides, but he did not say a word.

Then, Dumbledore seemed to take another approach entirely, beseeching the other man with a soft, “Severus… What could possibly have happened to render you so… resistant? So uncooperative?”

For the first time in weeks, Snape locked eyes with Harry.

“Nothing,” he said, his gaze intense. Unfathomable. “Nothing has happened.”

That sharp, crushing sensation in his chest started up again, and Harry forced himself to look away, pressing his knuckles hard against his sternum to quell the feeling.

“I don't believe that,” was Dumbledore’s patient reply, but Snape's attention snapped in his direction with sudden virulence.

“Believe whatever you wish.”

“Severus…”

Harry had to jump out of the way as Snape stalked past them.

“I expect you to be gone within the hour.”

“Severus!"

The door slammed behind him with a resounding bang.

Harry’s stare was locked on the door as silence trickled into the space. Dumbledore’s tense posture unwound, and Harry relaxed in turn, swinging his arms to rid them of anxious energy as he cast his eyes about the room.

It was strange, how one man’s presence could so drastically cause a shift in perspective. Yesterday, Harry might have called the library drab, disorganized, and musty. But now, there was a coziness to it: The books grouped in eclectic bundles, the sun painting the furniture a warm velvety hue, the settee resting beside the hearth, plush and inviting. The landscape seemed so changed, like a familiar trail overlaid with a fresh blanket of snow, and he marveled at how suddenly pleasant the room had become.

Or, perhaps, he mused, the ‘rooms’ didn’t matter at all. Only the people inside them.

His thoughts were disrupted by the sigh which issued forth from Dumbledore’s mouth as he lowered himself into a nearby armchair. He looked tired. Staid, even. His robes were much plainer than usual, just a muted blue paisley, and his expression sagged heavily. His hair, eyebrows and beard looked quite scraggly.

Harry imagined he, too, must have had a similar look of neglect.

“Well,” Dumbledore abruptly rasped. “That was… quite unpleasant.”

A little smile tugged at Harry’s mouth.

“I feel I should apologize for the trouble,” he admitted. “It appears I have developed the unfortunate habit of squabbling in your presence.”

Harry shrugged. “S’fine.”

Dumbledore shifted in his seat, a brief expression of discomfort overtaking his features, and Harry immediately picked up on it.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

But Dumbledore only said, “No, not particularly.”

“Oh.” Harry rapped his knuckles against his thigh, awkward. “I just… didn’t want to keep you if…”

The Headmaster’s kindly gaze settled on him. “You are not keeping me from anything, Harry. I am quite content to remain.”

He cleared his throat. “Right.”

“I’m not so easily scared off,” was Dumbledore’s acerbic remark. “So don’t you worry in that quarter.”

It took Harry a moment to catch his meaning. “Oh, right, yeah. That. I’m not-- It’s not that. I just meant, er--” He floundered for a less blunt way of putting it but ended up with: “You look terrible. Sir.”

That pulled a hearty little chuckle from the other man. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, sheepish.

Dumbledore waved a hand, his smile undimmed. “There’s no need for that; you are right, after all,” he said. “But believe me when I say that I am as well as I can be, under the circumstances, and there is nowhere I would rather be than right here with you.”

Put like that, it sounded a bit embarrassing, but Harry found himself able to bear it well enough, nodding with as much grace as he could muster.

They fell silent again, not even the sound of the gramophone accompanying them. Dumbledore seemed to be completely at ease in the stillness, but Harry grew antsy, sore muscles flexing, fingers tapping, legs pacing. Questions built up in the back of his throat, fighting for dominance, impatient to be heard. There was a pattern of his footsteps in the dust by the time one finally broke through.

“Uhm… Professor?”

Dumbledore’s chin rose. “Yes, Harry?”

“Why did you come here?” he inquired, forcing himself to stop moving. “Why now?”

The man’s mouth dipped into a frown. “In truth, Harry? I have been seeking after Professor Snape for quite some time since his disappearance on the sixth,” the older man disclosed. “Even on assignment, he is normally punctual in his communications, so I feared…”

He paused, and Harry squeezed his interlaced fingers together. “The worst?”

Dumbledore inclined his head in acknowledgement. “When I finally realized he was secluded here, I came to question him myself.”

He’d known the answer from the start, but it still stung to hear it. “So… You didn’t come for me.”

The man’s countenance softened. “Had I known you were here, Harry, I promise you would have been my first priority.”

While that was nice to hear, it didn’t magically erase the fortnight's worth of misery he’d endured. “Doesn’t seem like anyone was looking very hard,” he muttered. “I mean, isn’t this place an Order safehouse? Did nobody think to check for me here?”

Dumbledore’s sigh sounded rusty. “It’s not quite so simple as that,” he prefaced, his fingers awkwardly scratching at the top of his wrist. “The old crowd… our numbers have been spread thin in the recovery effort, and we expected… we feared that we might find you--” The man’s voice faltered as he was overcome with emotion before dismissing it with a forceful clearing of his throat. When he looked up, Harry could see the suggestion of a wet glimmer lingering in his eyes before he visibly switched tracks. “And too, this safehouse doesn’t strictly belong to the Order. Thus, entry is often… limited.”

The rest was hard to think about, so Harry latched onto that last point. “It doesn't belong to you? Then who does it belong to?”

Dumbledore pointedly raised his eyes to the door with a worried crinkle to his brow, and Harry bristled.

“Him?!” was his exclamation. “Seriously? So, what? This is some daft ‘Snape Manor’ that he can lock you out of whenever he feels like it?”

Dumbledore’s expression turned pained. “Well. Yes and no.”

“Some safehouse this is, then!”

“It is quite formidable, actually,” the headmaster remarked with patience. “The Prince family has a long and storied history of secrecy and seclusion; the Norwich Estate was the seat of their great household, and therefore, the warding on this building was largely geared to that purpose. They kept themselves closely guarded and well fortified, and so, as the holder of its deed, Professor Snape has become the ‘keeper of the keys’, so to speak.”

“So he's keeping me here, and keeping everyone else out?” Harry summarized bitterly.

"Until now, yes," Dumbledore agreed.

Harry closed his eyes tight, stewing in that. It was Snape who had been avoiding him. It was Snape who had trapped him here. It was Snape who had been denying him visitors and who had neglected to tell anyone Harry was still alive. It was Snape who had… brought him to this highly defensible safehouse? Kept the pantry well stocked? Brewed him sleeping potions? Had otherwise not bothered him at all?

He was still livid, but the more he thought about it, the more confused he became.

Dumbledore's voice pulled him from his thoughts, his tone brokering a tenderness as he suddenly broached, “Do you remember how you came to be here, Harry?”

He shrugged, his gaze falling short of Dumbledore's face. “Not really.”

This seemed to greatly trouble the headmaster. “Is there anything else you remember?”

Of course he did. He remembered before in excruciating detail, revisiting every blood-streaked memory in his sleep, his mind turning it over and over and over, and that was the trouble, wasn't it? “I remember I fell unconscious,” he divulged carefully. Any more than that and he wouldn't be able to handle it. “And then I woke up here, alone.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in that way where Harry knew, he just knew, that the man wasn’t going to let that slide. His voice was overcome with pity, with sympathy, as he began to prod, “Harry--”

“Tell me what happened,” he interrupted, if only to wipe that look off his face. “At the Ministry. I… I was trying to get to you before, but... I wasn't fast enough.”

Dumbledore observed him, reluctant, as his hands clasped together and came to rest in his lap. He sat there for a time, long enough for Harry to consider prompting him again, before a sigh preceded his next remark: “Truth be told, Harry, I’m not certain where to begin.”

“There was an explosion, right?” he asked with some uncertainty. “Or something went off?”

“There were several, actually,” the headmaster grimly noted. “Multiple explosive devices were planted throughout the building.”

That pain started up in Harry’s chest again, and he pressed against it with a thumb as he dropped onto the sofa nearby.

There was a slight tremble to Dumbledore’s voice as he continued his recount: “How many we cannot say, but we’ve come to understand that the structural warding was compromised by the blasts and, in the end,” his eyes closed as he paused. “The framework collapsed.”

“Collapsed?” Harry echoed. “What do you mean, ‘collapsed’?”

Dumbledore’s frown deepened. “I mean that the British Ministry of Magic is no more.”

Despite its simple wording, the statement felt too complicated to be understood, too vast to comprehend. He knew, logically, that there were certain implications he just could not face. He shied away from the thought of the monstrous death toll, many of whom were likely children, and the harrowing quantity of people he loved who had been packed into that building. It was too much. Too much, and he felt sick to his stomach, didn’t want to ask at all but the thought of not knowing was unthinkable--

“Hermione,” Harry croaked with a voice made feeble by fear, “Ron-- Please tell me they're okay. Please.”

The old man hesitated and, in that weighty second, Harry felt as if the ground had dropped out from beneath him, the rush of anxiety so sudden and powerful that he felt dizzy with it.

“Oh God…”

“They are both alive,” Dumbledore rushed to say, reaching over to give his arm a reassuring squeeze. His breaths still roared in his ears. “Miss Granger’s condition is precarious, but Mr. Weasley is much recovered and has remained by her side as much as he is able.”

Alive. Precarious. Recovered. The words swirled around Harry’s head, offering only the barest sliver of reassurance. His nausea didn't abate.

“What happened to them?”

“Mr. Weasley received a few broken bones, but is otherwise no worse for the wear."

“Okay,” Harry said, though it was far from. “Okay.”

“As for Miss Granger, she has sustained a very serious injury to her head,” Dumbledore explained. “As per her parents’ request, I allowed her to be transferred to a Muggle hospital in London where she is currently receiving the best of care.”

Harry frowned. “Do her parents…? I mean, why wouldn’t they let her stay with the healers?”

The old man's lips pursed in contemplation. “The situation at St. Mungo's is very grave at present,” he settled on, a hand lifting to scratch at the edge of his eyebrow. “You must understand... The unprecedented influx of patients from the Ministry attack put the building to capacity very quickly, and they are grossly under-staffed and under-equipped for the emergency. They are doing everything they can, but many of those injured have been forced… to wait.” Dumbledore frowned; the pause in his speech seemed purposeful, as if there were more he wanted to say, but wouldn’t allow himself to. After another sigh, he continued, “Miss Granger was mended to the best of the healers’ abilities, but, ah, as Mrs. Granger put to me--” His gaze rose to the ceiling as he withdrew his next words from memory, “‘Brain injuries are beyond wizardkind’s capacity to heal.’”

Harry felt inexplicably irked by that. “How would she know?”

“I would venture to say her assessment is quite perceptive,” Dumbledore put in. “She is, after all, a sort of healer herself.”

“Yeah, a dentist--”

“There is little use in arguing the point, Harry,” Dumbledore calmly replied. “The deed is done, and I fully believe it was the wisest course of action for Miss Granger and her family.”

Her family. As if it had nothing to do with him. As if there was some degree of separation. As if Harry didn’t consider her just as much his family as theirs.

“Sure,” he sneered, gathering up his righteous indignation, “except Muggle medicine is bad for--”

Dumbledore raised a hand to forestall Harry's coming diatribe. “I would never allow Hermione to come to further harm, Harry,” he gingerly admonished. “This was not a decision made lightly, nor without appropriate contingencies.”

Harry instantly deflated, his anger passing as quickly as it came. Slumping back in the cushions, he dropped a hand to pick at the seam of the sofa. “Right.”

“You need not worry that she is being properly cared for,” Dumbledore assured him. “Her parents are resourceful, intelligent people, and are dedicated to her recovery. They only want what is best for their daughter.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry mumbled, ashamed.

There was a short pause, in which the older man gave him a considering look. "But… it is not Miss Granger's situation which presently concerns me.”

Harry lifted his head with a wary frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Dumbledore met his eyes. “Oh, I think you do. After all, I doubt you have forgotten the drastic manner in which you entered this room.”

“Yeah, well…” Harry trailed off with an embarrassed grimace.

“It is nothing to be ashamed of,” Dumbledore noted. Then, in response to Harry’s doubtful stare, he said, “It takes great courage to ask for help when you need it.”

Harry shrugged it off. “I guess.”

“And so, in answer to that courage, Harry, I must ask: What is it I can do for you?”

“Er…” He knew his confusion must have been showing on his face, and he’d expected Dumbledore to respond to it, except he didn’t. He simply sat and waited, his hands calmly folded before him.

So Harry said, “I don’t know,” just to fill the quiet.

“Then, let us approach the question from another angle,” was Dumbledore’s mild suggestion, “and ask instead: Are you happy here?”

“No,” Harry said instantly, surprised at the vehemence of his own answer.

Dumbledore’s gaze sharpened. “Are you being mistreated?”

Harry sighed. Twisted his fingers together. Shrugged. “I don’t know; he doesn’t really treat me like anything.”

There was a short pause before Dumbledore prompted, “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he’s never around,” he replied, hunching in his seat. “Well, he is, but-- I don't know. He keeps to himself, I guess. Today’s the first time we’ve even been in the same room since I got here.”

The headmaster’s brow crinkled with concern. “How have you been caring for yourself?”

“Well enough,” Harry answered. “I mean, it would be nice to have an electric kettle, or-- I guess that probably wouldn't work with, you know… all the magic.” Realizing he was rambling, he summarized: “There’s not many kitchen supplies here at all, but-- It’s really not that important. I can get by.”

He was met with an uncomfortable silence as Dumbledore simply observed him, stony-faced. Then, as Harry shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, the man stated, “If you have anything in the house you need, go pack it now.”

“Er--” He felt like he was two steps behind, startled by the finality in his tone. “Am I leaving?”

The headmaster was clearly bemused by Harry's hesitation. “Do you not wish to?”

“I mean, yeah, of course, I just…”

Harry let the sentence dangle, unsure what to say. He'd meant what he said: Of course he wanted out. Of course. That's all he'd wanted since the moment he arrived. It would be ridiculous for him to feel conflicted about this, so... why wasn't he jumping at this opportunity? Why did the prospect leave him fraught with more anxiety than relief?

“Well, I…” he fumbled. “Where would I go?”

“For now, Number 12 Grimmauld Place--”

“No,” Harry blurted at once.

Dumbledore paused mid-word, peering at him with curiosity. “No? It would only be temporary, I assure you.”

“No, I can't-- just--” Harry took a breath, trying to settle his sudden tension before pronouncing in an even tone, “I can't stay there.”

Thankfully, the headmaster seemed to understand what he hadn’t said. With a sympathetic frown, he nodded, before suggesting, “Well, Harry, I have a home of my own. If need be, I’d take you there until something more suitable could be arranged.”

He didn't really like that idea either. “What about Remus?”

His stomach dropped; he had no idea if Remus had been at the Ministry, but he still shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have asked. Because what if-- what if--?

His heartbeat kicked up to a wild pace as he honed in on every minute change of expression on Dumbledore’s face, paralyzed with dread.

“He would have to stay with you at Grimmauld Place,” he said, calm and steady. Harry released a mound of tension in his next breath, nearly beside himself with relief.

But, after soaking in what Dumbledore had actually said, he found himself a little confused. “Wait, he's not living there, is he?” In fact, the last time he'd seen the place, it hadn't looked like anyone had been there for some time.

“No,” was Dumbledore’s answer, the ancient wingback chair he was seated in letting out a hearty groan as he leaned back in it. “It is not my place to speak on his living situation, but I will say that he cannot currently accommodate you. Though, I feel certain he would be willing to accompany you at Grimmauld Place if that would help you feel safer.”

Harry frowned. It wasn't his safety he was worried about, but, still… all that seemed to imply something worrying. “Professor, has Remus got anywhere to live?”

“Your concern is admirable, Harry,” the headmaster gently prefaced, “but Remus Lupin is a grown man, and quite able to care for himself.”

“Sure, but--”

“It is not my place to discuss,” he reiterated. “And the issue at hand is your situation, not his.”

“Well I can't stay at Grimmauld Place,” Harry firmly stated again. “So, what about Hogwarts? Is it still…?”

“Standing? Yes,” Dumbledore supplied. “But it is currently serving as an overflow facility for the injured. When the term might resume, I cannot say.”

“The Weasleys, then?” Harry inquired cautiously.

Dumbledore’s gaze turned quite morose.

He shut his eyes tight, making a desperate sort of noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t tell me, just--” He gripped his knees hard enough to bruise. “There’s no point, is there? I might as well stay here.”

“Do you truly not see my home as an option?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to-- I mean, aren’t you going to be busy?”

His brow furrowed. “It would be no sacrifice on my part to keep you company for however long you need to acclimate, or until an appropriate transition can be made.”

“But…”

He tried to conjure an appropriate reasoning for his hesitance, but came up empty. There was nothing inherently wrong with the idea; it seemed reasonable and accommodating, ensuring both his safety and comfort, while satisfying his desire for both freedom and company, which made it all the more strange that Harry found himself unable to accept.

The headmaster was just sitting there, hands folded, gaze attentive, awaiting Harry’s next rebuttal. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t seem like he just disliked the other man, which wasn’t true, but the prospect of trying to explain himself seemed even more daunting, and why did he even feel this way in the first place? There was no good reason for him to refuse other than the fact it didn’t feel right, and he just didn’t know why--

And altogether he was taking too long to answer, so Harry said the first thing that came to mind:

“But what if you get hurt?”

Except, the moment he said it, the words seemed to reach deep and take root, constricting his chest.

“Why do you think I might come to harm?” Dumbledore asked. But Harry couldn’t cobble together a coherent response, the feeling inside him so huge and unfathomable that he couldn’t pin down any singular concept, his thoughts a litany of people: Mum, Dad, Quirrell, Cedric, Sirius… Cleo. It hurt. Every memory hurt, each strand twisting and tangling into a Gordian knot. Violet, escaping her demise. Remus, hoping to die. Hermione, fighting for her life.

Snape, killing to survive.

To be asked such a question when harm seemed so commonplace, so woven into the fabric of his daily life, Harry’s mind couldn’t help but conjure the vicious counterpoint of: Well, why not?

But he didn’t give it voice, afraid to touch that dark, growing morass at the heart of him.

“Harry?” Dumbledore gently prompted. He gave the man the only response he could: A solitary shrug, jerky and overwrought, eyes averted.

They fell back into silence, but he knew the headmaster was tumbling through a series of unspoken thoughts, calculating and considering.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Then, again, “Harry.”

He grimaced at hearing his name float so tenderly from the old man’s mouth. It sounded exceedingly benign. Solicitous. Pacifying. Like the beginning of the school year all over again, here was Dumbledore, handling him with prodigious care, as if one misplaced word would shatter him.

Except, this time, it just might.

“I have been… endeavoring to approach this topic in a manner that would cause you the least amount of distress,” Dumbledore prefaced, clasping his hands together as he leaned forward. “I know you do not wish to speak about that day. The… circumstances which brought you here. And, equally, I have no desire to push you. But I do feel--”

His voice faltered as a significant sigh passed through his lips.

There was a pause long enough to spur Harry to look up. Dumbledore’s forehead was pressed into his clasped hands, eyes shut, expression strained as he searched for words. Harry felt a surge of guilt at the man’s obvious distress, wishing he wasn’t the cause, wishing he could be more helpful. He almost, almost, reached forward to touch him, but anxiety and shame stayed his hand.

“I do feel,” Dumbledore rallied, cadence slow and even, “that, as head of the Order, I must stress the importance of your sharing any salient intelligence you have received. I will not force your hand, but any detail, no matter how small, may be of great import to the war effort. Vital, even.”

Harry understood that, of course he did. He of all people understood the necessity of putting aside his own issues in favor of the greater good. And because he understood it so well, it was that much harder for him to refuse.

“If you know anything that could--”

“No.” The word escaped him so suddenly he nearly choked on it. Breathless, he clenched his hands on the fabric of his jumper. “No, I-- I can’t. I can’t talk about it.”

Another tense moment passed in which Dumbledore waited for him to settle, and Harry suffocated on the significant weight building in his chest.

“Because you have been forbidden?” the headmaster broached, careful. “Or because you feel incapable?”

The distinction struck Harry as purposeful, but he shook his head. “You said you wouldn’t push,” he accused. “I can’t talk about this. I’m--” He heaved in a breath. “I’m not ready.” I might never be.

Another sigh shuffled out of Dumbledore’s mouth and Harry instantly turned apologetic.

“I know I should just--” He made a vague gesture in front of him as if to refer to an amalgamation of his numerous failings. “I know I’m messing it all up; I know I’m a problem, and everything’s--” Fucked, he didn’t say. “Please-- I’m not trying to undermine anything, I just can’t do it, sir, I can’t--”

He stopped dead when he felt the weight of the older man’s hand on his knee, somehow heavier than anything he’d ever felt in his life. His expression was serious as he uttered, “I am not angry with you.” He paused to let that sentiment settle, but it melded with the addled mess in Harry’s mind as it continued to spiral. “And you aren’t ruining anything. I’m simply--”

His voice faltered as his lips pursed in thought.

“Simply what?” Harry prompted miserably.

Instead of answering him, he posed yet another question: “If I were to ask you yes or no questions, do you think that might be manageable? Or would that be too much for you?”

He wanted to say that yes, it was too much, that he was pushing still, that he couldn’t handle this, but he also wanted to say that he could handle anything, that of course he could manage something so small and stupid. He absolutely hated the delicacy with which Dumbledore was treating him, even though it was obviously warranted. He felt truly pathetic. Weak. And Dumbledore obviously knew it, too; he was treading so carefully, being so thoughtful and caring as he put up with Harry’s bullshit. So, really, doing this was the least he could do.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as if he were bracing himself for a blow.

“I’ll… try.”

It wasn't so much a blow; that would have been more merciful. Instead, it pulled along in a grueling slog, despite how rapid fire the questions came. 

“You were abducted from the Ministry after the bombing, correct?”

Harry gave a jerky nod and a frown.

“But not by Voldemort.”

“No,” he admitted. “Not by him.”

“Yet you ultimately ended up in his presence?”

He curled into himself, arms folded tight across his chest, barely choking out a whispered, “Yes.”

Harry looked up just in time to catch the confusion which briefly wrinkled the older man’s brow, but it didn’t stop him from continuing on: “Was Snape present?”

His nausea bubbled up again, fiercer than before. “… Yes.”

“Was anyone else present?”

That one was even harder to get out. “Yes.”

Dumbledore was cautious as he ventured, “Death Eaters?”

He nodded.

“... Innocents?”

His desire to continue dried up immediately upon hearing that word. As his gaze plummeted to the ground, he thought he might actually be sick.

Even without his answer, Dumbledore pressed on, “Were you harmed?”

Harry shrugged, his fingers going to the spot where his arm had been broken, of which there was no longer a trace.

With concern, the headmaster broached, “Was Snape tasked to harm you?”

“No.” Of this he could be certain, at least. And actually, it occurred to him that nobody but Snape had been in the house before now, and so it was Snape who must have healed his broken arm and mended the cuts to his face. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

“Was anyone else harmed, Harry?”

Harry tensed further, his next swallow thick with emotion. No words could break through the lump in his throat, so he only dipped his head in an approximation of a nod.

“... Was Snape tasked to harm someone?”

There was a horrible pressure behind his eyes, a sick roiling in his stomach, the taste of blood in his mouth. Dumbledore’s voice sounded much too soft. Too knowing.

He couldn’t bear it.

Stop, he wanted to say. I can’t do this.  But he was having trouble getting enough breath for it, his whole body seizing up with the effort.

Harrowingly, Dumbledore continued, “Harry…”

Don’t say it.

He watched the man falter, sigh, ruminate, recover, all in the space of a second. Their eyes met.

Don’t ask. Please.

“... Has someone died?”

Harry released a sound so full of unfiltered emotion that he leapt out of his seat to escape it. He had to go. He had to go-- He had no idea if he’d said that aloud or not, but it hardly mattered; his legs were already moving. His skin felt too tight, constricting around his head, coming apart at the seams, blocking his airways. He was frantic. Gasping. Hot and cold in equal measure. Pressurized, near certain something inhuman would burst out of him if he stayed a second longer in the room.

He tumbled into the parlor with a heaving breath. Nauseous and panicked, he desperately wanted to retreat to his room, but took one look at the stairs and knew it wasn’t going to happen. He halted halfway across the rug, pressing both hands to his face, but the gesture was futile. An ugly sob was ripped from his throat, his shoulders trembling with the strength of it. Stop, he told himself, but he couldn’t. Every quaking breath came unbidden. Every tear unchecked.

It seemed to go on for ages, this wild anguish that demanded recompense, offered no relief, and sapped his energy. It left him spent, unsure how much time had passed, sitting on his ankles and bent double at the center of the musty room. A pressure arrived on his shoulder, warm and strong. A hand. Peeling his hands away from his face, made sticky by tears, he sniffed hard, roughly swiping at his nose with the back of his sleeve.

Dumbledore squeezed his shoulder again. 

Harry braced himself for some sentimental lecture. Or perhaps a saccharine, pitying remark.

But instead he received a quiet promise.

“I’ll send for Remus to come here.”

The tension in his chest uncoiled ever so slightly.

“Okay,” he rasped.

“For tonight, I will stay,” Dumbledore announced. “And tomorrow, I will take you to see Mr. Weasley. Hopefully by then, Remus will have settled in. Does that sound agreeable?”

“But Snape said--”

“You leave him to me, alright?”

Harry sniffed again, nodding dumbly. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

A tender smile split the headmaster’s lips. “Have you eaten?”

He grunted to clear his throat, thrown off-kilter by the change in subject. “Not yet.”

“I haven’t either,” Dumbledore commented with mismatched levity. “It’s not quite noon, but I could use a warm lunch.” He turned a contemplative eye toward the basement stairs, which led down to the kitchen, before perking up. “I do believe I might be able to remember a few family recipes.”

Harry uncurled a bit, his interest piqued. “You cook, sir?” he questioned through loud sniffs.

“Occasionally. And inexpertly.” The usual genial twinkle returned to his eye. “But what I lack in finesse, I make up for in enthusiasm,” he declared.

Harry thought he should smile, and normally he might have, but he couldn’t quite make it happen this time.

Nevertheless, Dumbledore seemed to understand. “Come,” he said, offering a hand. “Let’s see what we can scrounge up, hm?”

He contemplated the offer, weighing his mental exhaustion against the chance for real company, but there was really no contest; Harry had wanted nothing more since the moment he’d woken up here. Even the possibility of running into Snape wasn’t enough to put him off.

So, with great effort, Harry took the proffered hand and pulled himself to his feet, taking in a long breath for composure. Then, with what dignity he could muster with his still-red eyes, pale complexion, and untamed bedhead, he managed to reply:

“Yeah. Sounds good.”