When Harry awoke about an hour and a half later, he knew instantly that he’d been taken from the Burrow. He was . . . in Sirius’s home. Why had he been brought here? Of all the places in the world he could have been dragged to while he slept it had to be here.

Harry forced himself to sit up from the bed he’d been sleeping on and he instinctively hunted for his glasses. He plucked his glasses off of the night stand they’d been resting on and shakily placed them on his face.

Harry pricked his ears. He could hear voices. He strained to hear them clearly through the nasty, unceasing pounding in his head. Harry winced as he forced himself to stand on legs that seemed to be filled with water. He caught himself against the wall and had to allow his body time to disregard the fierce pulsing sensation in his temples.

Harry allowed the vague sound of the muddled voices to guide him as he stumbled through his late Godfather’s home. The young wizard tried very hard not to look at anything in the house. He tuned everything out but his goal, like he had always done while playing Quidditch. Nothing mattered to him but the Golden Snitch. It was the same with this. At least Harry tried to force himself to think that way.

The young Gryffindor wandered into the dining room where four familiar adults were seated around Sirius’s table. Harry stopped just in the doorway to lean against the door jam for a moment, the boy took a deep breath and looked up.

Remus Lupin was seated next to Mrs. Weasley. They were both halfheartedly nursing cups of lukewarm tea. Professor Dumbledore was seated at the head of the table, while Professor Snape was brooding at the opposite end.

“Ah, Harry dear boy. It is excellent to see that you’re awake,” Dumbledore said with a soft smile.

Harry didn’t respond, he didn’t move a muscle. It was as though he hadn’t heard a single word the Headmaster had said to him.

“Come and sit down, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley offered the empty chair across from her and offered him tea, which he refused.

Harry dragged miserably toward the chair, every step seemed to pain him.

“Mr. Potter, Mrs. Weasley tells me that you haven’t been feeling well? Are you ill, dear boy?” Dumbledore asked gently, his eyes filled with genuine concern. Harry found that he didn’t want meet the kindly man’s gaze.

“I- I’m just not feeling well, Sir. It’s nothing, really,” Harry answered as he concentrated on his reflection in the glossy wood of the dining room table.

“Does your illness have anything to do with the four weeks that you were missing from the Dursley’s home?” Dumbledore leaned forward in expectation of an answer, everyone waited on bated breath for his answer.

Harry stiffened, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Sir.”

“Tell me about you nightmares, Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore’s gentle voice prodded him, Harry visibly flinched.

“I’ve told you about them already,” Harry mumbled quickly not wanting to talk anymore.

“I’m speaking of your more recent dreams, dear boy,” Dumbledore prodded again, not ready to allow Harry to retreat just yet.

“Sir, . . . Voldemort has not been present in my recent nightmares. I’d rather not talk about them with anyone,” Harry answered in an almost cold tone, there was a brief flash of rebellion in his eyes.

Snape gave an audible snort of revulsion before he spoke, “Well, obviously it was a complete waste of time to bring everyone here. It seems to me that Potter is not going to cooperate, he doesn’t appear to want to be helped,” Snape’s cool tone of voice made Harry shiver inside involuntarily.

“Well, whether or not Mr. Potter wishes to cooperate we are going to see to it that he receives all the help that he needs,” Dumbledore stated with an edge of authority in his soft tone.

The Potions Master silently rolled his eyes in disgust. If Potter didn’t want to be helped, then why should they all waste their efforts on a lost cause?

“Harry, I’ve decided that it would be best to send to you Hogwarts with Professor Snape. Perhaps with his and Madam Pomfrey’s help you can get back to your old self once more,” Dumbledore stated calmly, the smile was gone from his face, and his voice seemed a bit sterner then normal.

Harry drummed his fingers impatiently on the sleek surface of Sirius’s table in time with the pulsing that he heard in his eardrums. Within a few seconds the pristine surface of the table was blemished with the boy’s fingerprints.

It wasn’t enough that he wouldn’t be allowed to be with friends for the rest of the summer. He had to go to Hogwarts with the Professor that completely despised him for medical attention he didn’t want. Snape probably didn’t want to help Harry anyway, Dumbledore was probably making him do it. Certainly the head of the Slytherin house wouldn’t have volunteered to help Harry of his own free will.

“All things willing, Harry, and you’ll be able to attend school on time. If you have not recovered to my satisfaction by the time the next term begins, I shall be forced to look into other alternatives for your well being.”

Dumbledore was talking again, Harry knew it, but he wasn’t listening anymore. All these people seemed to want was to make him miserable. Sending him away to Hogwarts with Snape? Dumbledore should have just written Harry off the very moment the words came out of his mouth, because Snape wasn’t really going to try and help Harry anyway. Harry wasn’t going to allow it even if Snape tried at all, it wasn’t what he wanted.

“Harry, before you leave I’m afraid I must ask you to surrender your wand to Professor Snape. I assure you that it will be returned to you safely once you are well again,” Dumbledore’s words were spoken without even a slight hint of hesitation.

Was Dumbledore actually serious? Surrender his wand, his only real defense to . . . Snape. ‘No, I certainly won’t be doing that tonight,’ thought Harry.

Without so much as a look of warning the boy rose from his chair, startling Mrs. Weasley when his chair clattered to the floor behind him.

“Sir, I can’t give my wand to him! I need it!” Harry called out to the Headmaster in a pleading tone, asking him to reconsider.

“I assure you, child, that Severus will keep your wand safe for you. Just as he will make every effort to help you get well again. I’m quite sure that you will be perfectly safe at the school without your wand.”

“But Sir,” Harry began trying to sound calm, rational. It was difficult to be convincing. “I’m afraid you don’t understand. I can’t give my wand to him. I won’t give it to him, Sir,” There was a hint of defiance in the boy’s tone as he spoke, he showed no sign of being willing to compromise.

Dumbledore looked at Harry with eyes full of pity. Lupin and Mrs. Weasley shared looks of disconcertment. Professor Snape simply appeared put out.

“I’ve had quite enough of this nonsense,” Snape spat as he stood with confident smoothness. “Arguing with Potter in his state, serves little purpose. It is just wasting time that could be put to better use. Even if it has to be used to helping Potter.”

Harry shot Snape an icy look, no one had asked for his opinion on the matter. Without thinking Harry reached back and lightly gripped his wand. He tightened his grip and slid it from the security of his back pocket. He held it tightly at his side. There was no way that he was letting go of it willingly.

“Accio wand!” Professor Snape shouted and before Harry could react his wand obediently tore away from his tight grip and landed softly in the palm of Snape’s pale hand.

Harry felt his hands clench in fists of sudden rage, he’d never wanted to curse someone so very badly. He wanted to see Snape suffer dearly. He would have crossed the room to confront the greasy professor, but a sharp stab of pain in his middle subdued him with a loud hiss of pain. Harry steadied himself using Sirius’s table, to his surprise Snape had closed the distance between them. He was within spitting distance.

Snape glanced at Dumbledore, unfamiliar urgency momentarily creasing his stern features; Dumbledore gave the Professor a slight nod. The Potions Master grabbed Harry’s arm tightly, and before Harry could pull back, he recognized the horrid wrench of the Portkey forcing him away. He had the strangest feeling that he was never going to get his wand back, ever.