July, 1996

Harry let out a quiet, yet happy trill. It was perfect. Small, but perfect. Or close to. It never would be perfect perfect, but it was the closest he had ever gotten a nest to be.

It had been hard work building his nest, but for the first time ever he had all the materials he needed. He’d spent the better part of the week burning the variety of woods he had been provided, digging the ashes out with his hands, and arranging them around the backside of the fireplace. Finally, he had a comfortable place to lay his head, relax his body, and simply soak up the heat.

Maybe one day, he could use his nest to attract a mate.

His trills suddenly stopped at the thought. That wasn’t allowed. That would never be allowed. His nest was his alone. Being a bachelor couldn’t be too bad, could it?

Slowly reaching out his hand, he let it hover over the small mound he had created next to the fire proper. The ash was extremely fine, so fine it was stirred constantly by the winds created by the flames, forming small vortices which danced in the light. It was the highest quality ash he could find and create. It was beautiful and mesmerizing. It was perfect for a child.

He wouldn’t need it.

A low crooning sound started in his throat as he debated what to do. Destroying that pile felt as though it would destroy his dreams. Dreams he had only just begun to allow himself to have. He didn’t want to destroy it, but if he didn’t …

The ministry had come after him for less.

But he couldn’t do it, the point of his nest was to prepare for mates and to prepare for children. It was so much more than a simple pile of ash. He had built it with his two hands to prepare for a future child. He had built it to give them a warm place in which to live and grow. To start their life happily and healthily. A life which he never had and knew would never exist.

“Now what, Potter?” The Professor’s voice called to him from outside of the fire, only causing the crooning to increase.

Snape sighed in exasperation. That had been the first time ever he had heard the demon make any noise of happiness, as quiet as it had been, only for him to go right back to the distressed crooning he had begun to loathe. The boy was likely locked in his thoughts once again, reliving the horrors of the past few years.

Snape had read his files, of course. There was no point in “purchasing damaged goods” if there was no record on what had happened to them. What little there was appallingly out of date, human-centric, and down right racist propaganda spread as truth. It was enlightening yet horrifying to know even some of what the boy had been through, but it would never amount to the whole story. The true story.

Everything done to him had been labeled as “standard practice” in the treatment and management of demons. His horns had been cut every few months to “keep them manageable,” his fangs removed due to being deemed a hazard to those “handling” him, and his tail docked with no logical reason provided other than “preference.” Whose preference was it to remove a demon‘s tail? Even demons themselves didn’t do so, preferring to keep them long and useful, like an additional arm capable of carrying a few items or tending to a portion of fire out of reach from their hands.

Those were only a few of the items listed.

The fact the boy was responsive to him at all was a damn miracle. He had never been the boy’s favorite teacher in school, quite the opposite in fact. It was what he represented that allowed the boy to find some sort of solace: the school which had first given him a window into his past and a hope for the future. He had been nothing but awful to the boy when he was a student, choosing to focus on the assumed similarities to his father rather than the boy himself. It was petty and pedantic and he loathed himself for it. If he knew then what he knew now, perhaps the boy wouldn’t be as bad off.

The Harry Potter the world knew was kind and charitable to those around him. He was a hard worker, a fact Snape had borne witness to on many occasions during the boy’s multiple detentions with him over the years. Even looking at the last few months of his formal education, before he was sent to those… to the Ministry, he proved he was nothing but industrious.

How bad had he been before he finally lost consciousness? Was he already feeling the pain of the cold air? Was he already showing signs of intolerance to moisture? It had been hard to track down this kind of information, but the more he dug, the more the boy’s efforts to remain under the radar came to light. His friends had thought he didn’t want to spend time with them, that he was angry with them, but it seemed far more likely he was unable to stay with them for long periods as he became more and more tied to the smoke and fire. The other professors noted he had started asking to leave the classroom frequently during his last few weeks at Hogwarts but had assumed he just needed the loo. The portraits, however, painted a different story, stating he would run to the nearest brazier and just … stand there.

Those last weeks must have been a torture in and of themselves. He had likely been freezing cold and choking on the moisture of the castle and still pushed himself to attend class. If they hadn’t been brewing a potion which tended to have mildly toxic gasses that day, Potter may have made it another few days or weeks before his body couldn’t take it any more.

In spite of feeling miserable, in pain, and legitimately drowning, Potter had been nothing like the descriptions of his species made him out to be. He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t any more impulsive than any other teenager in his class. He didn’t actively try to start fights, but he certainly tried to finish them. He was like the fire he now relied on; capable of doing great or terrible acts if given the kindling to do so.

Thinking back on how he had been towards the boy, he wasn’t sure he would have advocated for him to remain in the school at the time. He would have likely seen him as another creature like Lupin and wanted him sent away. As it was, he felt awful just knowing he had nearly killed the boy during the trip from the dungeons to the Hospital wing. He couldn’t even imagine the guilt he would feel now if he had been the true reason for the boy’s agony as he listened to him cry for unknown reasons hidden inside of his fire.

“Potter, what’s wrong?” he asked, resisting the urge to move the top log in the fire so he could view the demon behind it.

“Why?” The boy whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames at first before reaching a shriek that made the hair on Snape’s arms stand on end. “Why? Why why WHY!”

“What do you want to know, Potter,” Snape responded gently, not knowing if the teen was speaking to him or the memories of officials which were ever-present in his mind.

A pained howl and a puff of extremely fine ash were all that answered him, followed by gut wrenching sobs.

---

February, 1994

Harry lay on his side, back to the small fire he was allowed. His whole body ached as though he had the flu. His stomach roiled and turned under his hand, making him gag violently, but he knew better than to vomit. They would just force him to take the potion again. And again. And again. Until they were satisfied he had had enough to jumpstart his transformation.

He’d inadvertently thrown up when they first shoved the vial in his mouth, a fact which only served to infuriate the guard and the healer. He hadn’t meant to do it, it just happened, yet they both swore he had done it on purpose. His cries of denial were met only with a silencing charm and his teeth were spelled together after the second dose was given.

Breathing heavily through his nose, he tried to shift backwards towards the fire. It felt as though it was getting colder in the room and the few flames behind him weren’t enough to warm him. His head was beginning to ache just above his temples, his stomach roiled violently, and his lower back throbbed. He wasn’t sure what the potion was supposed to do, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he had been poisoned.

How much more would he change anyways? Would his skin change color? Or his eyes? Would he grow claws or a tail? Or horns or wings?

What made him so bad anyway? He hadn’t been bad that he knew of. He hadn’t done anything to them. Why did they want to lock him away so badly? If he was going to become dangerous, why were they forcing him to go through the transformation?

Swallowing heavily as a wave of pain crashed over his head, he couldn’t help but let out a small whimper. What if it didn’t work? What if he had some sort of reaction to the potion and was now dying? Would they help him?

His whimpering increased as the pain raced down his spine, a strange pulling sensation beginning at the base of it, feeling almost as though it were being stretched and pulled outward. His legs momentarily and blissfully went numb before the burning pain of the cold shot through them once more. A new and odd sensation raced up his spine, once again screaming against the frigid air of the room he was in. It felt as though he had a new appendage, however the was in too much pain to look.

The throbbing in his head increased as the skin split open on both sides directly over his temples, leaving rivulets of blood dripping down his face and onto the floor. He didn’t dare try to reach up and touch his head to see what had happened fearing the guard would come for him again.

“Can’t you make it be quiet?” the guard grumbled, flipping a page in his book as the healer sipped his tea.

“Its bone structure is changing, so probably not,” the healer said nonchalantly, ignoring the whimpers and groans coming from the slowly changing demon.

“I thought they didn’t feel pain?!” the guard said, looking up in mild shock.

“Not in the same way you and I do,” the healer laughed, glancing over at the grimacing demon. “Look at it, it's already calming down even though its bones were literally stretching and bending not five minutes ago. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” the guard peered almost cautiously at the panting teen on the floor.

“Positive,” the healer said, rolling his eyes and sighing. “Ought to put it in holding now. It should be ok to walk. Just… watch out. They tend to get more uppity after the potion.”

The guard nodded almost hesitantly before approaching the demon laying on the floor. Fire demons weren’t common, but he had heard stories of their deeds. Of how a single demon had nearly burned the entirety of London down. How they controlled massive fires to do their bidding. How they were evil incarnate and would happily destroy anything around them if given enough leeway.

After the Great Fire of London, there had been a massive push to eradicate the creature, yet somehow they occasionally would reappear as though they had managed to breed with wizards at some point in the past. Who would want to breed with such a violent creature was beyond his understanding. These demons, unlike their close cousins, the goblins, were only interested in fire and burning things. They didn’t care who they hurt or killed: if it was on fire, it was good.

No, it didn’t matter who it was before it turned, Harry Potter or not, it was now a dark creature and should be seen as such. It was a pity that, of all the wizards in the world, Harry Potter had to be the one to change. Maybe he hadn’t been the figurehead of the light after all? Maybe that was how he had defeated You-Know-Who all those years ago?

“Alright demon,” the guard said, releasing the gag and ankle restraints. “On your feet.”

Harry looked up blearily at the guard, barely breathing. His chest burned, his legs felt weak, and his head felt as though it were going to crack open. He didn’t know if he could move, let alone stand. He was beyond pain. Even whimpering hurt.

“I said, on your feet!” the guard said, brandishing his wand.

Harry tried to stand, only for his arms to give out simply from trying to push off the ground. He couldn’t do it! It hurt too much! His bones felt broken and his muscles torn.

“Get up, demon!” the guard snapped, reaching down and grabbing Harry by the arm out of habit.

Harry didn’t even have a chance to react before a wave of pain crashed over him radiating out from where the man had grabbed him. Couldn’t they see he was in pain? That he was still hurting too much to move? All he wanted to do was curl up in a ball around the small fire behind him and rest. Was that too much to ask?

Another yank on his arm was too much to bear. A fiery feeling built up inside him as he lashed out, all of his strength going into his attempt to escape the man’s grasp. All he wanted was to rest and heal. To be left for even a moment to collect his thoughts and gather his strength. To recuperate from the transformation he had been through.

He only needed a moment. A moment of peace.

A feral growl left his throat as he whirled at the guard, fangs flashing and claws fully extended. His tail whipped around behind him, grabbing a spadeful of embers from the fire he had been resting near. He could hear screaming in the background as the flames of the fire engulfed his body, radiating up from his tail and wrapping him in their protective warmth. Briefly looking at the guard’s hand, he was pleasantly shocked to see there was no longer a hand there, but a sizzling stump with fire clinging to the man’s robes and slowly advancing up his arm in spite of his fruitless efforts to quench the flames.

A piercing alarm began wailing as the now ashen-faced healer threw up a shield in an effort to protect himself from the demon who was now ablaze and stalking seemingly towards him. He shouldn’t have been able to enrobe himself in flame so quickly after his transformation! He shouldn’t have! It was impossible!

Stumbling backwards over the chair the guard had vacated, the healer let out an undignified screech as he tumbled backwards, his shield failing just as the demon launched himself into the now raging inferno that was the fireplace causing a massive explosion. The heat of the explosion instantly caused his clothing and all of the furniture in the room to combust. For a brief moment, he felt immense pain before suddenly he felt nothing.

Harry heard the scream of the healer cut short as he fell into the fire in exhaustion, not caring what occurred around him. The pain was less when he was in the fire. He could breathe better. The healer and the guard couldn’t follow him into the flames. He could rest here. He could heal here.

He was safe. He was warm. He was…

…unconscious.