A small, black haired boy sat cross-legged at the end of a silent, dark alleyway dimly lit by a few ancient street lamps. He rolled a small object from one hand to the other, which were mostly obscured by the overlong sleeves of his dark-colored jacket. The rest of his body remained perfectly still, green eyes glowing strangely in the moonlight, staring straight ahead unblinkingly. To an onlooker, had there been one, he may have appeared almost statuesque, only the slow, deliberate movement of his hands proving otherwise.

The silence was suddenly broken by a muted clicking sound, after which one streetlamp prompty blew out. This did not seem to be an unusual occurrence; the streetlamps were long past their prime. The boy immediately stiffened, however, his eyes glancing rapidly from left to right. There was another click, and a second lamp blew out. The boy tensed, if possible, even further, and he rose swiftly from his cross-legged position. The boy’s gazed settled upon something at the other end of the narrow alley, which gradually made itself known to be a tall, thin figure swathed in robes, which fluttered slightly in the gentle breeze of the cool summer’s night.

The figure raised a long arm, pressing down upon a small object clutched in its hand, and the third and final streetlamp went out, leaving the alley in near complete darkness. A long, thin, sticklike object was then drawn and flicked, and a bright ball of light appeared at its tip. The sudden brightness revealed the figure’s face to be one of an elderly man with a wrinkled, grandfatherly face sporting small, half-moon shaped glasses. The eyes behind them were a clear, twinkling bright blue, and they were focused upon the small, black-haired boy at the other end of the alley.

The expression on the man’s face seemed wistful, as though he was reminiscing over an occurrence long past.

“Déjà vu,” he mumbled to himself, then appeared to pull himself back to the present.

After gazing searchingly at the small boy for a few moments, the elderly man smiled, the long, bushy white beard that obscured his mouth expanding, and his eyes crinkling, making his face appear even more lined.

“Ah… Harry,” the man said softly, drawing closer to the boy, the confidence in his gait belying his years.

The boy remained where he was, but fingered something in the pocket of his worn jeans, tense as a coiled spring.

The elderly man spoke again. “I’ve been looking for you for quite a few days, Harry. I’m glad to find you safe.”

The boy twitched slightly, but said nothing, apparently content to stare piercingly at the man.

“This is quite a dangerous area, Harry,” the man continued, clearly unperturbed by the boy’s silence. “It is quite fortunate that you have not come to harm.”

Again, the boy did not respond, but he took a small step backwards.

The elderly man lost his smile, replaced by a sorrowful expression. “I’m terribly sorry about your relatives, Harry,” he said gently. “To lose the ones we love is painful beyond words.”

A strange expression crossed the boy’s face fleetingly before returning to a determined blankness. He then finally spoke.

“Who are you, and what do you want from me?”

The man looked sad, and, if possible, even older than he had before.

“Why, Harry,” he said, “with your family gone, you clearly need a place to stay. After all, it will be nearly three months until you begin your schooling. I have therefore made arrangements for you to reside in the home of Severus, a colleague of mine, until that time.”

“You didn’t answer the first part of my question.”

“Ah, alas, you are correct. In my old age, my thoughts tend to wander, often down strange paths.” The man smiled again, as though attempting to make the boy feel more at ease. The boy looked unamused, however, and continued to stare at the man, patiently awaiting his answer.

“I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Harry, the headmaster of Hogwarts.”

The boy raised his eyebrows, clearly unsatisfied with the answer.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

The elderly man looked surprised. “Surely you have heard of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry. Did your relatives not inform you of its existence?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed slightly, and one could almost hear the mechanics of his mind whirring at top speed. He remained silent, however, his stare intensifying.

The man sighed. “Clearly not. I admit I did not foresee that occurrence, for all my supposed omniscience.” The man seemed to be talking more to himself than the boy, who continued to gaze unblinkingly at him.

“Did you aunt tell you nothing of your heritage, child?”

A flash of understanding crossed the boy’s face. “If you’re talking about me being magical, I’m aware of that.”

The man looked relieved.

“I suppose she simply preferred not to discuss the matter with you at length?”

“You could say that.”

The boy’s answer was somewhat sharp, a hint of irony flavoring his tone.

“Well, Harry,” said the man. “Hogwarts is a school which houses many children like you, where they learn to control and develop their magical powers. If I’m not mistaken, you should be receiving your letter of acceptance within the next two months. You will be turning eleven this July, as I recall?”

The boy nodded slowly.

“I’m glad we cleared that up then, child.” He then dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a handful of small, yellow sweets.

“Lemon drop, Harry? I have found them to be quite tasty, and rather soothing as well.”

The man sucked on one slowly, momentarily gazing off into the distance.

“Forgive an old man’s ramblings, but they say the sense of smell serves as a powerful connection to one’s emotions. As taste is closely related to the sense of smell, it is unsurprising that food can be such a comfort. ”

The boy shook his head, eyes tracking every one of the man’s movements

“No? Ah, well, all the more for me, I suppose,” he said, popping another into his mouth.

“Now, back to the matter at hand. I do tend to ramble,” he continued. “Why did you leave your relatives’ home upon their deaths, Harry? It seems a rather rash thing to do.”

“I didn't.”

“You did not run away from home?” Dumbledore asked, seemingly puzzled. “Then how did you come to be in London, child?  Surrey is rather far from here, I believe.”

This time, the boy did not answer, his gaze darting away.

“Did someone bring you here?” Dumbledore asked. “There were no signs…” his voice trailed off.

The boy tensed, his arms drawn unconsciously over his chest.

“What’s it to you?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Very well,” he said, “I suppose I will leave it for now. Will you consent to join me, Harry, so I can escort you to your new home?”

The boy looked, for a moment, slightly amused, though there was little true mirth in his expression.

“They say you shouldn’t take rides with strangers, especially the ones who offer you candy.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “You are correct, Harry, your caution is most admirable. Am I truly a stranger, though?”

“Yes.”

The boy’s answer was blunt.

Dumbledore, though saddened, did not seem unduly surprised by his response.

“I knew your parents quite well, Harry, and they entrusted me with your safety should anything prevent them from doing so themselves.”

The boy's expression shifted, then, into what could only be described as pain, thoughmuted, as though it had not been given the space to be fully realized. It made him appear smaller, somehow, as though he'd shrunk in on himself despit not moving a muscle.

That change was not lost on the older man, whose mouth twisted sligtly, as though he'd tasted something bitter. He drew in a heavy breath.

“Your parents loved you dearly, Harry, and all they wanted for you is to live a long, happy life.”

The boy drew in a breath, as though to speak, but he then closed his mouth firmly, pressing his lips together.

Dumbledore studied the boy for a moment, a sad, yet fond look on his face.

“You do so remind me of your mother, Harry. You have her eyes, but I’m sure you knew that. After all, the resemblance is uncanny.”

The boy’s hands clenched, and his eyes darted, as though unsure of where to land his gaze. He then seemed to school his emotions, settling for a mask of indifference.

Dumbledore did not appear fooled, but he said no more on the topic.

“Would you join me, Harry? I assure you, your mother was quite the formidable witch, and should you come to any harm in my hands, she would no doubt find a way to render me bound and unconscious, alive or no.”

Dumbledore waited patiently, as the boy appeared to undergo a brief debate in his mind. He seemed to come to a conclusion, and took a careful step towards the older man.

Dumbledore, pleased, held out his right arm.

“You will want to grasp my arm, Harry, as we will be utilizing a method of travel known as Apparition.”

The boy slowly reached out a hand, hesitantly wrapping his fingers around the man’s forearm.

“Brace yourself, my boy. The trip may be… unsettling.”

The old man and the black-haired boy then promptly vanished with a faint pop.

Harry tried not to retch when he and Dumbledore landed, for once thankful that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“All right, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, brushing off some imaginary dust from his cloak. “The sensation can be quite disconcerting.”

Harry nodded jerkily.

“Very well then, if you will just follow me…”

Harry could practically feel his mind expanding to accommodate the recent influx of information he had received. A school of magic? People looking for him? The Dursleys dead? Well maybe that wasn’t such a shock; after all, they’d been dead to him for quite a while now. Despite his confusion, Harry made sure to school his face into a calm, blank mask. Emotions were weakness, and he could not afford weakness. He would have been long dead if he was weak.

What the hell am I doing? Harry wondered to himself.

Every ounce of logic he possessed had been screaming at him to flee the moment that odd man had appeared. Who in their right mind would willingly take off with some creepy old man who claimed to know their parents? No one, that’s who. Even if the man had been telling the truth, that Harry’s parents had entrusted him with his safety, this Dumbledore character hadn’t exactly been doing a bang-up job of it, had he?

Sure, show up when the Dursleys drop dead, never mind that I haven’t set foot in their house since forever.

The idea that their deaths would hurt him was laughable. Clearly, this old man knew nothing.

But despite all that, something told Harry that Dumbledore meant him no harm, or at least no immediate harm. Harry did have good instincts; indeed, they had saved his life more than once, and right now, said instincts were telling him to go with this man.

And a magical school?

I knew I had powers, but there are that many others like me? It sounds like there’s a whole community of magical people; there would have to be if there’s a school.

Harry wasn’t stupid; he knew he couldn’t be the only person with powers, but an established community, that was something else.

If Dumbledore knew my parents and all that, why have I been completely cut off from this community? Why show up now?

Harry bit back a laugh as he recalled one of Dumbledore’s questions. Did your aunt tell you nothing of your heritage?

Imagine Aunt Petunia sitting me down and telling me all about magic. Ha! That’d be more unlikely than Uncle Vernon giving me the talk.

Harry tried to imagine Vernon, with all his formidable skill in the art of rhetoric, attempting to explain the mechanics, demonstrating how to apply…

Bad thought, baaad thought. Don’t even go there.

As those thoughts raced across Harry’s mind at top speed, he simultaneously scanned his surroundings, attempted to absorb every detail he could.

One moment of inattention, one missed detail, can mean the difference between life and death, or, at the very least, the retention or loss of vital organs.

Harry had learned these lessons well, the hard way, so his eyes darted rapidly around the location as he followed Dumbledore, sure to walk behind him at a slight angle.

It appeared that they were walking down a dark, unassuming road, with a few widespread, modest, but well-kept houses. There were no others outdoors at this hour, though Harry could hear the distant hooting of an owl and the chirping of crickets. Harry did not let down his guard, however; he knew that they were not in this particular location for nothing. There had to be something different about this place, or they would not be here. Harry was certain.

Sure enough, Harry finally caught a glimpse of something odd in the distance. It was a slight glow, a shimmering mist, which appeared to surround a vast, empty area of land at the end of the road. As he and Dumbledore drew gradually closer, Harry got the sense that only they could see it, though he could not say how he knew.

When they reached the edge of the mist, Harry hesitated.

For all I know, this is some noxious gas that will knock me out or kill me soon as I come in contact with it.

Harry felt Dumbledore looking at him, so he quickly turned to meet that appraising gaze.

“You are able to detect the protections, Harry?”

By Dumbledore’s expression, Harry sensed that he wasn’t meant to see the mist at all.

In answer to Harry’s unasked question, Dumbledore continued.

"This energy is composed of a variety of protective spells preventing outsiders from accessing, or even locating this area.”

That must be why he’s brought me here, because of the protection, Harry thought. Something tells me that the guy who lives here suffers from a moderate to severe case of paranoia. I suppose we’ll get along then. I can do paranoid. Unless he’s in hiding… but then why would it be safe for me to be here if people are after him? Unless I’m not really meant to be kept safe.

Harry watched carefully as Dumbledore drew the sticklike object from the sleeve of his robes and waved it over the mist in a complex motion.

Magic wands. Really. 

Dumbledore spoke. “Harry, I will need you to submerge your hand in the mist so I can properly key you into the wards.”

Suuure, I’ll just stick my hand into some unknown substance and see what happens. That would be rule number one of what not to do. Or rule number two, I should say, as I’ve already broken rule number one, which is to take off with weird strangers who wave sticks around.

Dumbledore seemed to take note of Harry’s doubtful expression, and smiled slightly, immersing his own hand into the mist.

Well, he did it.        

Harry stuck his left hand, just in case, into the mist, half-braced for severe pain, and was relieved to feel only a slight tingling.

“Very well, Harry, that will do,” said Dumbledore. “You may now step through.”

Harry waited until Dumbledore had passed through the mist before doing so himself. He then did a double-take, shut his eyes tightly, then looked again. What had recently been a large, barren piece of land had transformed into an extensive, well-kept property surrounding a large house of gray stone. He and Dumbledore were walking down a narrow walkway leading toward the house, which was lined with trees and odd-looking plants. Harry looked further, and realized that the surrounding land seemed to extend indefinitely, with no apparent end in sight.

This makes no sense, how can magic be this unlimited? It would completely upset the rules of nature, the balance of the universe. Hell, the entire existence of mankind. There’s got to be some restrictions.

As they drew closer to the entrance of the home, Harry felt the beginnings of anxiety creeping into his chest. He was about to be placed into the custody of a person whom he had never met.

What if he’s… No, I will not be afraid. Worst thing, I can just do what I did the last time.

They reached the entrance. Harry watched as Dumbledore knocked twice on the door. It almost immediately opened. Harry carefully controlled his breathing.

Show no fear. Show no fear. Show no fear. Fear is weakness. You are not weak. Show no fear.

A tall, lithe man clothed in dark robes appeared in the doorway. His face was long, angular, and pale, as though he rarely ventured outdoors. He had thin, shoulder length black hair with a greasy sheen that brushed his shoulders, and a long hooked nose. Yet his eyes were his most disconcerting feature. They were deep-set, and so dark that his pupils could barely be distinguished. The truly unusual aspect of them, however, was their almost magnetic quality; Harry felt compelled to stare into them, and, once he did, was hard-pressed to tear away his gaze.

This guy doesn’t like me.

It wasn’t hard to tell; dislike and irritation seemed to radiate from the man in waves.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, and the man finally looked away.

“Thank you, Severus, for accommodating us at this late hour, and with such short notice, I might add.”

The man twitched slightly, but other than that, made no acknowledgement of Dumbledore’s statement. Dumbledore seemed unbothered, as though he was long accustomed to such treatment, and turned towards Harry.

“Harry, this is Professor Severus Snape. He is the much respected potions master of Hogwarts, and the head of Slytherin as well.”

Slytherin? What in the…

“Severus has most graciously acquiesced to having you here for the next few months until you begin school, Harry. I’m sure you will be most pleased with the accommodations.”

Well, that’s not saying much; any accommodation is a step-up for me, anyway.

Harry nodded to the Snape person, and the man responded with a twitch of the shoulder.

“There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you, Severus, so if you would…”

Snape extending an arm in an exaggerated, somewhat mocking motion, and Harry followed Dumbledore through the doorway.

Harry looked around. They had just entered a modest sitting room with a couple of navy colored couches, and a small table at its center piled with books. The room was dimly lit; there was a fireplace at the far end of the room with a few dying embers, and a lamp attached to the wall glowed faintly. The floor was made of of dark wood, and bookshelves composed of similar material lined the walls.

Harry looked up as Dumbledore spoke again.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Harry, Severus and I have some things to discuss, so if you would remain in here, we shall return shortly.”

Without looking at Harry, Snape pointed to one of the couches, then immediately swept from the room with a swish of his black robes. Dumbledore smiled at Harry, and, with a sigh, followed Snape at a more sedated pace.

Harry waited until he heard the click of a door being closed, then crept soundlessly toward the room the men had entered and pressed his ear to the door.

“Severus,” Dumbledore was saying, “I am well aware of your feelings on this matter, and I assure you, if there was any other way-”

Yes, I am quite aware that there are no other options,” Snape hissed furiously. “I would never have entertained the thought of agreeing otherwise.”

Guess he’s not too pleased with this arrangement. Dumbledore must’ve made him. What hold does he have over this Snape guy, anyway? I guess I am here because of those protections, then. Funnily enough, I don’t find that very comforting.”

“If you would just keep an open mind, Severus, I’ve no doubt that you will find-”

“Enough, Albus, I have agreed. I will do my part. Just do not expect me to break out in paroxysms of ecstasy...”

Harry drew back from the door, and carefully crept back to the sitting room, seating himself carefully on a couch. This situation was appearing to worsen by the moment. What had he gotten himself into? Good instincts or not, his presence being forced upon a rather forbidding looking man who had no interest in taking him in, and clearly had something against him.

Not one of my more brilliant moves. This guy can do whatever he wants to me, as long as he doesn’t seriously injure or kill me. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. Or maybe I was hoping that this would improve things somehow. Connections to my parents and all that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stop hoping for pathetic things you know you’ll never get. Hope is emotion, and emotions are weakness. Weakness, weakness, weakness. Weakness gets you hurt. Weakness gets you dead. 

With some effort, Harry pushed his thoughts back. This wasn’t helping. He needed an out; there was no way he could stay here. He considered just running, but he doubted that he would get very far. He probably would have to leave the same way he came in, with a wand and some magic spell, which was obviously beyond his capabilities. Anyway, Dumbledore would just find him again and tighten the protections.

Now that I think about it, Dumbledore probably could have forced me to come here if I hadn’t agreed. It’s just smarter to make me think I have a choice.

No, running would be a senseless move. He would have to simply wait and feel out the situation before figuring out his next step.

Harry heard the door open, and immediately stood, muscles tensed. Harry forced himself to relax; it would not do for them to know of his wariness.

“Well, Harry,” Dumbledore said serenely, “I have intruded upon Severus’ hospitality for quite long enough, so this is where I take my leave.”

He extended a hand toward Harry, and Harry suppressed a jerk.

He just wants to shake hands. Oh.

Harry clasped Dumbledore’s wrinkled hand, drawing back as quickly as he could without appearing rude.

“I may return here at some point in the summer, Harry, but if I do not, I will see you in school come September.”

Harry nodded to Dumbledore, and watched as he strode soundlessly out the door, closing it softly behind him.

Harry breathed in once, then turned to face Snape. He met a sneering expression of hostility.

I wonder how many more days I have to live.

"Potter,” Snape spat, “as I will be enjoying the dubious pleasure of your company for the next three months, allow me to make a few things quite plain.”

Here we go.

“I am a solitary man. I am quite unaccustomed and disinteresting in having infantile brats run amok in my home. I expect strict obedience and exemplary behavior. I will not tolerate running, shouting, whining, complaining, or rudeness of any kind. You will keep your possessions where they belong, and if I discover anything of yours that is not where it should be, you will not see it again.”

What possessions?

Snape abruptly swept from the room, and Harry hurried after him. When they reached the end of the darkened hallway, Snape paused next to a door.

“This, Potter, is the entrance to my potions laboratory,” Snape said harshly. “It is entirely off-limits to you. Though I’ve no doubt that the Boy-Who-Lived feels entitled to go wherever he may please, and fancies himself fully qualified to cope with all things magical, if you venture past this door, the consequences may have you wishing for death.”

I’ve wished for that before. And the Boy-Who-What? Is that me? Clearly, there’s a lot more going on here that I don’t know about.

Harry followed Snape as he swept down the hall and up the stairs. Snape opened a door and pointed him inside.

“Now, it is currently a quarter past one in the morning,” Snape snapped. “Professor Dumbledore has taken the liberty of arranging provisions for you, as it seems you deem it beneath you to keep track of your own belongings.”

Yeah, that’s right. I've just managed to misplace all my belongings...

“There is an en suite bathroom in this room. I suggest you shower,” Snape said with a look of disgust, “and change into those.” He pointed to a pile of neatly stacked clothing on the bed.

“I will expect you in the kitchen for breakfast at half-past eight. Do not keep me waiting.”

With that said, Snape swept out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Did I offend this guy in another lifetime? This is really, really not good.

Harry felt his heartbeat speed up, and he struggled to control his breathing. He had been in this situation before; he had run from it, chosen to live in constant discomfort and danger rather than remain at the mercy of people who despised his existence, and now, as a result of his idiocy, he was right back where he started. To make things worse, something told Harry that it would not be nearly as easy to get away this time.

This guy’s a wizard; he’ll be ten steps ahead of me. He probably knows every trick in the book. No, stop. Hyperventilation is an incredibly lame way to die. When I die, I’m going out with a bang, and taking a bunch of people I hate with me. I will not die of asphyxiation alone in a bedroom. Breathe.

Harry, with some effort, managed to calm himself enough to think rationally. Figuring that he may as well take advantage of the situation, he found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt on the bed, and entered the bathroom.

He blinked once. Harry had not been in a proper bathroom in over a year. It was small, but pristine, lined with pale gray tile, and there was a matching rug spread across the floor. Harry opened a cupboard, where he found a pile of folded towels.

I am in heaven.

Harry basked in the sensation of warm water washing away layers of accumulated dirt and blood from his body, ignoring the sting of water spraying against his many scrapes and cuts. He could not remember the last time he had taken a shower; in recent times, the extent of his bathing habits had been a quick scrubbing down in a nearby public bathroom. Harry watched the brownish water swirling down the drain as he lathered soap all over his body. He scrubbed his hair viciously, rubbing out the caked dirt and blood.

When Harry finished his shower, he felt almost human, and he quickly dried off and dressed.

I could get used to this. A shower, clean clothes, an actual bed. If I can just get Snape to forget my existence, I’ll be set.

Infinitely more relaxed, Harry retrieved his dagger from the pocket of his soiled jeans, slipped it under his pillow, and settled into the bed, wrapping himself in the thick blankets. Suddenly exhausted, Harry fell asleep.

Harry awoke abruptly the next morning, and he was crouched in a corner halfway across the room before he remembered where he was.

What-how-? Oh, right.

Heart rate gradually slowing, Harry looked around, and noticed a clock on the wall, which dictated the time to be nearly eight.

I haven’t slept so well since, well, pretty much never.

Harry was surprised that he’d slept undisturbed. He rarely slept for more than three or four hours at a stretch, and he’d just slept a solid six hours.

I guess it was the shower, and the warm bed, and the blanket, and the closed door, and the clean clothes…

Harry luxuriated in the use of the clean bathroom, then found some clothes in the pile that Dumbledore had supposedly provided. Harry wondered where Dumbledore had procured them from, and why he had even bothered.

Maybe he’ll hold this over me somehow, maybe they’ve been tampered with, laced with poison or something. Oh, sure, and maybe they’re made of human skin, seriously, who cares? It’s not like these people are short of murder methods.

Harry dressed, for once in clean, well-fitting clothing, relishing the softness of the cloth. He slipped his dagger in the pocket of his new jeans.

Wonder what Snape would do if he found this. He would probably assume I was planning on slashing his couches apart. Or murdering him in his sleep.

Harry remembered that Snape had mentioned breakfast. When was the last time Harry had eaten a decent meal? He usually got by on scraps from the trash.

Don’t get your hopes up, he might not even let you eat. Maybe he wants you to serve him and just watch.

Harry had to almost physically push back the remembered agony of days without food, forced to cook for and serve the Dursleys, inhaling the succulent scents through the vents on the locked door of his cupboard-

No. It never happened. They’re dead, they never existed.

Noticing the hands of the clock inching towards eight thirty, Harry left the room and went down the stairs. Now most likely in the vicinity of Snape, Harry fought the anxiety that began to take hold.

Keep it together. Maybe you’ll get food.

After trying a few doors, (Snape hadn’t exactly given him the grand tour), Harry found the kitchen. It was small and, like the rest of the house, dimly lit, but there were delicious smells wafting from the circular table in the center of the room where Snape was seated, face hidden behind a newspaper, which, Harry noticed, was hovering in midair, unsupported.  Harry walked cautiously towards the table and sat down at a clean place setting.

I guess this is for me, but now what do I do?

Harry felt acutely uncomfortable and anxious as he sat, unwilling to serve himself, but unable to ignore the hunger. The table was set with plates of food and a pitcher of milk, all fresher than any food Harry had had access to in recent memory.

What will he do if I take some? Do I even care what he does? 

“The food is not here for decoration.”

Harry jumped slightly when Snape spoke.

“Is the food not to your liking? Is the Boy-Who-Lived accustomed to gourmet feasts?” Snape growled, face still obscured by his paper.

Again with the Boy-Who-Lived…

Harry did not hesitate; he hastily filled his plate, and it was all he could do not to inhale the whole lot at once.

Pace yourself, if you spew all over the floor, you’ll never see the light of day again. Ever.

So Harry ate slowly, choosing to savor the burst of flavor that filled his mouth. Warm toast dripping with butter. Hot, flavorful eggs, and fresh strawberries and grapes. Cold, sweet milk sliding refreshingly down his throat. Harry had never eaten such good food as far back as he could remember. The best he could generally get was old leftovers from the trash outside various restaurants, and the occasional candy bar he nicked from the drugstore. And back at the Dursleys, Harry had been lucky if he got-

Stop. Thinking. About. Them.

Harry tried valiantly to clear his plate, but midway through, he had to admit defeat; if he ate another bite, he doubted he would be able to keep it down.

Snape abruptly set down his newspaper with a wave of his hand, directing the full force of his glare at Harry. Harry stared back, face calm, fiddling with his fingers nervously under the table.

“Potter,” he said irritably. “I will be spending the majority of the day in my potions laboratory, as I do most days. As I previously articulated, you are not permitted to be anywhere in its vicinity.

Are you repeating that for your health?

“Therefore, you have a few options. You are permitted to make use of the library, which is located down the hall to the left.”

Library? This changes things! Books. Must read books. Must figure out what the bloody hell is going on here. Books will tell me all I need to know

“Additionally, you are permitted on the grounds, provided that you are indoors before dark. As said grounds are protected by powerful wards surrounding all sides, I strongly suggest you refrain from attempting to bypass them.” He gave Harry a look that clearly indicated a painful death if he dared to try.

“Furthermore, while it is no concern of mine at which hour you opt to retire,” Snape said with a derisive look, “you will be in your bedroom by half-past eleven. I will not have you traipsing throughout my house at all hours of the night.”

“Am I understood?” he asked austerely.

Harry nodded. This was better than he had expected. It really seemed as though Snape was intent on ignoring his existence, which suited Harry perfectly.

I’ll just have to make sure not to annoy him. Best way to do that is to stay far out of his way.

Snape spoke again, his caustic tone cutting through the air.

“Lunch will be at one, and dinner at six. Far be it from me to care if you choose not to attend. However, I will not tolerate you wreaking havoc in my kitchen should you feel a sudden urge to satiate yourself later on, so I do suggest you show up.”

Harry nodded again.

“I will be alerted if you get into any trouble, so I strongly suggest you stay out of it, as I will be most displeased should my work be interrupted. You have been warned. Is that perfectly clear?” Snape looked positively ferocious as he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, get out of my sight.”

Harry immediately rose, carrying his plate towards the sink.

“Leave it,” Snape snapped.

Harry jerked slightly, then shrugged and set his plate back down on the table.

Wait, he did let you eat.

“Thank you, sir.”

Snape grunted, hidden once more behind the paper.

Harry then left the kitchen in search of the library, immensely relieved to be out of Snape’s company. He found it easily, then opened the door.

Harry's eyes widened. The room was large; much larger than it should have been, considering the layout of the house. Rows of bookshelves crammed with copious volumes filled the room, reaching nearly toward the ceiling. There was a corner occupied by some comfortable looking armchairs and small tables supplied with writing materials.

I could definitely get used to this place. This room alone is worth having to deal with Snape. And the food. Definitely the food.

Harry had, in fact, taken refuge in public libraries on many occasions, both when he’d lived with the Dursleys, and after he had run. Harry liked the calming atmosphere, the quiet, the knowledge, and the almost magical spark he felt in the air. Libraries had always been his sanctuary. 

Harry had had few friends in his life. He much preferred books. Book were predictable, helpful, and often funny. They couldn’t hurt him, not like people did. Harry knew what other kids said about bookworms; indeed, cruel comments had often been directed towards him back when he’d still attended school. But Harry didn’t care. Books meant knowledge, and the more knowledge he had, the less likely he was to die. It had also won Harry many a battle of wits that left his opponent staring dumbly, which gave Harry time to flee, or to strike back unsuspectedly.

But there was something more about books that drew him. It was the escape they provided, the one place where Harry could forget everything, could forget who and where he was, could stop being Harry altogether. They were proof that maybe one day things would be different, that maybe he could be happy; perhaps he did actually experience a level of happiness as he read, despite that fact that he knew it wasn’t real, and, sooner or later, he would have to face reality and all the pain that came with it.

Harry smiled, and walked almost reverently towards the bookshelves.

So I need to find out who the Boy-Who-Lived is, and whether or not it’s me. I need to learn about the workings of this magical community; I can hardly join it unprepared. I need to know about Hogwarts, and if there’s a government, and what the limits of magic are.

A short while later, Harry had a pile of books stacked on one of the tables. He had found Hogwarts, a History, Magical Law and Customs, The Wizarding Community of Britain, Wizard and Muggle Relations, and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. Harry figured that he’d be kept busy for quite a while, and curled up on an armchair.

 Three hours later, Harry’s head was spinning. Rubbing his aching eyes, he attempting to sort out all of his recently acquired information. Apparently, according to The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Apparently, his parents had not died in a car crash (not that he’d really believed that), but they had been murdered by some sociopathic maniac akin to Hitler called Voldemort during the first wizarding war of Britain. Then he’d tried to kill Harry, but for some reason had not succeeded, and ended up, to use the phrase, impaled upon his own sword. Thus Harry was named the Boy-Who-Lived, and celebrated all across the wizarding world.

Harry felt strange. Though he’d suspected that his parents’ deaths had been magically related in some way, he’d never imagined something like this.

How in the world? I’m famous? No wonder Snape thinks I’m some sort of narcissistic horror. And how is it possible that a baby could’ve defeated him? It was probably something my parents did. How irrational are these people to believe this? Or maybe they were just desperate for a hero.

Harry also noticed that none of the books actually explained what had happened to Voldemort. Terms such as ‘vanquished’, ‘defeated’, ‘conquered’, and ‘vanished’ were used, but never the word ‘dead’.

Maybe didn’t die. What happened to him then? Where has he been? Oh god, if he’s still alive, and I’m the hero who defeated him, they’ll all probably expect me to get rid of him for good, eventually. This is not good. Well, I’ll show them… I have better things to do than be everyone's hero.

Well, at least the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ mystery had been cleared up, thought, admittedly, Harry wasn’t sure if that made him feel any better. He did not like being noticed.

And Hogwarts. Harry was intrigued, and he was actually looking forward to attending. The school had been around for thousands of years, and it was considered to be one of the most elite schools of magic there was, or, at least, that was what Hogwarts, a History had said.

He had ascertained what Dumbledore had meant by Slytherin as well. Apparently, students were sorted into four houses, all with unique traits, Slytherin being one of them.

How can anyone determine what the predominant traits of a person are when they’re eleven? People change. It’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy, being labelled that way. And what if a person doesn’t like the house they’re sorted into? Is switching an option?

Harry also had to raise his eyebrows at the notion of Snape being a head of house. He didn’t exactly seem like the nurturing type.  

The Ministry of Magic was a whole different story. It was apparently a bureaucratic government led largely by incompetents without an ounce of logic between them.

People with little brain and large amounts of power are dangerous.

Harry rubbed his head, his brain actually aching. He was feeling restless as well, his limbs twitching, so Harry stretched, and jogged out of the library and towards the front door. It was a warm day, somewhat cloudy, and a slight breeze ruffled his hair. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, Harry ran. He relished the sensation of running for its own sake, as opposed to running for his life. Finally out of breath, Harry stopped beside a sprawling tree and sat down underneath it, breathing hard, hands curled around his knees.

What was the point of his life? What was the point of him? Harry had spent the past nine years alone, unloved, uncared for, hurt, hungry, scared, angry, and finally, empty. He did not feel like a kid, he’d never been one, really; he’d never had the chance to enjoy any semblance of childhood. His innocence had been torn away from him before he’d learned to talk.

And all this time, I was the famous savior of the wizarding world. It was here the whole time. I didn’t have to suffer, but I did anyway. The wizards left me to rot.

Not liking the direction in which his thoughts were going, Harry impatiently pushed them aside and rose. It was probably nearly time for lunch, anyway. He headed back towards the house and into the kitchen, where Snape was, once again, seated at the table, concealed behind a newspaper.

Harry sat, and, this time, did not hesitate to help himself. Harry tried to pace himself, to chew slowly, but the food was just so good. Less than halfway through, Harry began to feel uncomfortably full. He reluctantly laid down his fork, and took a long draught of water.

Bad idea.

Harry felt an intense nausea rise up in his chest, and before he could so much as blink, he vomited all over the floor.

No.

I am dead. So dead. He’s gonna murder me, slowly and painfully. Why did I have to eat so fast? You complete. Utter. Idiot. He’ll never let you eat again, he’ll-

“Potter.”

The sharp voice snapped Harry out of his panicked trance. He realized he was sitting frozen in position, eyes squeezed shut. He opened them slowly, and looked up. Snape was looking at him oddly.

“Are you quite well?” Snape asked, sounding annoyed.

Harry exhaled slowly, grimacing slightly at the sour taste in his mouth, and nodded, reaching for some napkins.

Maybe he won’t murder me…

“Stop.”

Harry immediately dropped the napkins. Snape then waved his wand in an exasperated motion, and the mess vanished.

Oh.

“Are you well, Potter?” Snape asked again in a neutral, if slightly terse, tone.

“Fine, sir. I-”

Shut up, don’t say anything, maybe he’ll ignore this.

Harry started as Snape handed him a glass of water.

“Do attempt to drink more slowly, Potter, and we may be fortunate enough to avoid a repeat of such histrionics.”

He doesn’t even sound mad. Annoyed, maybe, but not like he’ll rip me apart. He even gave me water. He’s being, like, decent. What the hell? He was supposed to make me clean it up and toss me out of the kitchen, not inquire about my well-being and hand me a glass of water.

Harry drank slowly, the water soothing his burning throat, and noticed Snape looking at him appraisingly. Harry looked back, carefully blank, waiting for… something. But Snape said nothing, eventually looking away and turning back toward his food.

I can’t figure this guy out. He’s unpredictable. Unpredictable is bad. He was supposed to be angry.

I need to get out of here, Harry realized.

He got up slowly, his eyes on Snape, half-expecting him to refuse to let him leave. But the man simply jerked his head and went back to his newspaper.

“Th- thank you, sir.”

Snape looked at him oddly again, then closed his eyes for a moment.

“Do refrain from strenuous activities, Potter, if you will. We do not need a reenactment of today’s episode,” he said, in a tone oddly bereft of its usual venom.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry left the kitchen.

How weird was that? He’s not following the pattern. At all. How can I figure him out if he won’t even act normally?

Harry didn’t know what to think. No one had ever tolerated his illnesses; he’d been locked away, denied treatment, and punished for daring to be ill, and Harry had learned long ago to suck it up and ignore it. Later, in the streets, that ability had served him well, as pain and discomfort had never prevented him from doing what needed to be done. Snape’s actions were foreign to him, and Harry did not know how to respond.

Caught up in his thoughts, Harry had barely noticed that he was now facing the door to the library.

Back to the books, then, I suppose.

Hours later, Harry had completed Hogwarts, a History. He had now acquired a basic understanding the lessons he would be learning, and what they consisted of.

I must admit, while definitely unique, the curriculum does neglect the sciences, maths, literature… Why? Science and magic have got to be connected, and probably work together. Maybe wizards are just not into the ‘why’ or ‘how’ of things. Won’t stop me. But this means everything that I believed about physics was wrong. Or maybe magic does fit in with the laws. So far, potions seems to be the most scientifically based subject; technically, a non-magical person could do it, unless it requires spellwork. It’s mostly based on skill and logic. Arithmancy too, maybe, seems like a form of maths. 

Noticing the time, Harry set down the book.

I should probably go to dinner, I’ll just keep throwing up if I don’t get used to food.

Nonetheless, Harry was anxious. He had no idea of how to face Snape after his… episode.

What if he won’t let me eat now?

Harry ignored that thought and walked toward the kitchen. If Snape didn’t let him eat, so be it.

Harry entered the kitchen, where Snape was, once again seated, though his newspaper was resting on the table instead of hiding his face. Thinking that this could mean nothing good, Harry cautiously sat down.

Harry noticed that, though Snape’s plate contained what appeared to be a steak, there was lighter fare set in front of Harry’s plate; chicken salad, toast, and some sort of soup.

He got this for me, especially?

Snape nodded to Harry, and he filled his plate.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said quietly.

“Do not thank me, I merely wished to avoid having my dinner spoiled by the scent of bile,” Snape said sharply.

Harry felt his chest tighten, and he could feel his heart pounding.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry whispered. Maybe he won’t hit me if I apologize.

A strange expression crossed Snape’s face. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to say something, but then closed it again, starting on his food. Harry followed his cue, and began to eat, careful to chew slowly.

What in the bloody hell is going on? Why is he being nice?

Harry knew Snape had only given him different food because he didn’t want to deal with a repeat of lunchtime, but he could have more easily avoided it by simply not allowing Harry to attend meals at all. Harry could not wrap his head around it, so he tried not to think about it in favor of focusing on his meal.

Later, in bed, Harry clutched his dagger in his fist, his grip so tight it hurt. He knew this was too good to be true. There was no way that he could be well-fed, have constant access to a library, and be pretty much left alone while in the home of an adult who hated him. Or even just in general. Harry knew that the other shoe would drop; the question simply was, when?

 A large, beefy man is shoving him against a wall, fingers pressing down on his windpipe… Freak… Burden… Better off dead…

Meaty fists are striking his face, his ribs, his stomach… He chokes on the blood filling his mouth… He can’t breathe…

A glass slips from his hands, but before it hits the floor, it floats upwards back into his grip… He is yanked backwards and knocked to the ground… A heavy foot stomps down on his chest… Abnormality… Freakishness… Beat it out of you…

He is curled up behind an abandoned warehouse, eyes squeezed shut and palms pressed against his ears as the sound of gunshots reverberates around him…

He is in the dark room… He wishes he was dead…

He screams.

Harry awoke with a gasp. He trembled violently as he fumbled about wildly for his dagger, curling into a fetal position.

Stupid nightmares.

Apparently, the respite he’d had from his nightmares the night before had not been destined to last. Big surprise there.

Just a dream, just a dream. He’s dead, he can’t touch you. None of them can. Stop the stupid shaking. Makes you look weak.

Harry hated the nighttime. During the day, it was easy to forget, to pretend that nothing had ever happened, to feel nothing at all. But at night, all the feelings and memories came back to haunt him, to taunt him, reminding him of his weakness, that he couldn’t rid himself the feelings for good. Nighttime was when Harry felt the pain, the fear, the anger, and the knowledge that no one loved him, or ever could love him. And Harry hated himself for caring at all.

Stop being so bloody weak.

Harry suppressed a groan when he checked the clock, realizing that it was only four in the morning. He couldn’t leave the room now, Snape would not approve of him, to use his words, traipsing throughout his house at all hours of the night. So Harry tried to settle down, but he could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his body, making his heart pound and his breaths short. He tried to think of other things; cold, scientific facts and such.

Okay, the velocity of a falling ball after 3.4 seconds would be… multiplied by the acceleration of gravity… This isn’t working. Damn it.

No matter how hard Harry tried, he could not rid his mind of the images drifting menacingly across it. So Harry sat on the floor and amused himself by making his dagger float in midair, imagining painful deaths for everyone he hated.

I wonder how the Dursleys died. Dumbledore didn’t say. Because he thought I already knew. Hope it was painful. Excruciating. Unbearable. Agonizing. Torturous. Any one of those adjectives would be acceptable. I hope Hell actually does exist so they’ll continue to suffer for eternity. I hate them. Hate them hate them hate them HATE THEM.

“I hate them,” Harry said aloud.

He focused his magic carefully, making his dagger spell out the words in the air. The use of magic tired him, exhausting him of the anger, and his emotions ebbed, retreating into the back of his mind, where they would remain, hidden and unnoticed, until he slept again.

By half-past six, Harry was dressed and down in the library in search of more books. Now that he had acquired a decent understanding of the workings of the magical community, he needed to learn about the workings of magic itself. Finally, Harry spotted a book that had potential near the top of the bookshelf.

Does Snape not want me to read it or something? Maybe it’s dangerous to know; maybe it’ll make me dangerous- oh, get a life, it’s not like he had kids in his house before now, this place isn’t childproof.

Harry considered dragging a chair over, but it didn’t seem high enough. Too bad. Harry wanted the book, and he was going to get it, one way or another.

Glancing around once, Harry focused carefully, and slowly began to rise up in the air, toward the book. At the same time, the book slid off its shelf and floated downward, toward him.

What? Things never came to me before.

In his surprise, Harry lost his focus and went crashing to the floor, book in hand.

Ouch.

Testing his limbs carefully, Harry judged them to be only bruised, so he walked, limping slightly, over to his chair.

The workings of magic. Yes.

Well into his book, Harry finally began to understand how magic worked, and what he was able to do.

Accidental magic explains all the weird stuff I do, but it did stop being accidental after a while, except when I was really angry. The book doesn’t say much about that. The stuff I do does generally seem to require a wand. Better keep it to myself, then. But a wand can be a real liability. A weakness. What if it breaks, or if someone steals it? Is a wizard completely powerless, then? But the magic is inside a person, not a wand, so why is it even necessary? Why can't magic be channeled through a hand as easily?

Darn it, breakfast.

Harry hurried to the kitchen, despite the residual ache in his leg. He did want to eat, after all, and Snape would no doubt be extremely irritated if he came late.

He entered the kitchen and was surprised to find Snape look up as he entered, newspaper nowhere in sight. He looked irritated.

Not good.

“Good of you to show up, Potter,” Snape said acerbically.

Harry said nothing, right hand clenched around the dagger in his pocket.

“Now, as I regularly have food send over from Hogwarts by the elves, it has been decided that I must take note of your apparently delicate dietary needs.” Snape looked as though he would rather be doing anything but.

He’s asking me about my dietary needs? Next, he’ll be asking me how my day went. What am I supposed to say? That my previous eating habit consisted of a few scraps every third day?

“Well?” Snape bit out.

“Er… I…” Harry’s voice trailed off. What did Snape want?

“Has your rudimentary grasp of the English language suddenly forsaken you, Potter?” Snape definitely sounded angry, now.

No. No, what do I say? Stop panicking now, you idiot. It’s not helping. Just say something. Anything.

“I suppose I’m unaccustomed to such fine fare,” Harry responded flatly.

I’ll show you a rudimentary grasp of language, condescending old… Two can play this game. Why am I baiting him?

Snape raised his eyebrows, but did not appear unduly annoyed.

“Is that so,” he said, more than asked.

Yes indeed, it is so, if the understatement of the century. It looks like he knows it, too. Damn, the guy’s too observant for my own good. Although, I guess by the humiliatingly small size of me, it’s not all that hard to figure out.

Snape was looking at Harry calculatingly. Harry stared back, waiting for Snape to speak. Finally, he did, face becoming a cold, uncaring mask.

“Very well, you will continue to consume that which has been previously delivered for you by the elves. Sit.”

Harry sat, and filled his plate with the meal that had been delivered by the so-called elves.

Wait, what are elves? They’re delivering my food, I need to know. Just ask, what’s he gonna do? If he didn’t go mad when you were sick…

“What do you mean by elves, sir?” Harry asked in a carefully neutral tone. Inside, he held his breath.

Snape looked somewhat irritated at being interrupted, but answered.

“They are house elves; creatures that are wired to serve wizards in ways such as cooking and housekeeping. There is a large number of them working at Hogwarts. As I myself have little time nor inclination to cook, Professor Dumbledore has insisted on having elves deliver meals, as I have no interest in housing a personal elf.”

“Have I satisfied your curiosity, Potter?” he spoke sarcastically.

“Yes, sir.”

What? Hogwarts, a History didn’t mention anything about house elves. Seems sort of medieval. Slavery? Or do they want to do it, seeing as they’re wired to? Unless wizards have brainwashed them. It seems way too convenient, having creatures that exist solely to serve.

As soon as Harry had finished, he left the kitchen quickly; it was obvious that Snape felt that he’d had enough of Harry for one day. Per usual, Harry curled up in his armchair in the library.

 The rest of the week progressed similarly. Harry would be woken up from a nightmare, remain in his room till six, then relocate to the library, where he gradually expanded his knowledge of the magical world. He was at a disadvantage, after all, growing up so isolated, and he needed to make up for it now.

Often feeling restless due to the extensive amount of time he spent indoors, Harry regularly ran on the grounds every day, often more than once. He’d discovered that, in close proximity to the mist of protective spells, he was pushed back by a magnetic-like force, preventing him from passing it. Though Harry wasn’t surprised, it did make him uneasy that he wouldn’t be able to easily escape if he needed to. And he would need to, eventually, when Snape finally lost it, although, aside from meals, Harry rarely saw Snape at all. It appeared that he really did spend the majority of the day in his lab, brewing God knew what.

Snape was an anomaly. He clearly disliked Harry and did not want him around at all. Nonetheless, Snape did not go out of his way to make Harry’s life miserable; if anything, he did the opposite. He allowed Harry to eat, answered his questions, gave him a bedroom, and never touched him. Why? It wasn’t as if anyone would find out if Snape did hurt him, and even if someone did find out, why would they care? No one ever had before.

Ensconced in the library after dinner, Harry’s focus kept drifting away from his book.

Maybe this is a part of some master plan, my being here. Maybe it has something to do with the Boy-Who-Lived thing. But what is the plan? What is being accomplished? Dumbledore probably knows. The guy seems the type; all-knowing and everything. And the books say that Voldemort feared him, so he must be really powerful. Or maybe he knew something no one else did. Or both, probably.

Giving up, Harry closed the book. It was nearly eleven thirty.

I really don’t want to sleep. What’s the bloody point? I’ll just wake up and be all weak, like some pathetic child.

Harry went upstairs anyway. When he weighed his options, he concluded that a known evil, his nightmares, were safer and more easily dealt with than the unknown evil, which was Snape’s potential reaction if he didn’t go upstairs.

Not three hours later, Harry awoke, choking back a scream. He trembled uncontrollably, hitting his head repeatedly against the headboard in attempt to alleviate the fear, to distract himself from the memories. It didn’t work.

Even when they’re dead I can’t get rid of them. I swear their ghosts are haunting my dreams.

Severus Snape was confused- No, he was perturbed. Severus did not get confused. He would not have survived his years as a spy if he succumbed to the most plebian of sensations.

It was the boy. The child was behaving nothing like Severus had expected, and it irritated him to no end. 

Severus had been expecting James bloody Potter reincarnated, and he had been most displeased when Albus had informed him of the necessity of his housing the brat. He thought back with distaste of the night, scarcely over a week prior, when Albus had called.

***

“Severus,” said Albus’ head in the fireplace. “Would you be most kind as to invite me through? There is a rather urgent matter I wish to discuss with you.”

Severus had agreed without much care; Albus’ company was one of the few which he could occasionally tolerate. The old man generally knew his limits when they concerned Severus; he rarely outstayed his welcome, and he did not call unless there was a reason. Though Severus would never have admitted it to anyone, he did not particularly mind Albus’ company, as he was one of the few that Severus could converse with on an equal intellectual level, even if Albus did have a most inane obsession with sweets and muggle philosophy.

“Severus,” Albus had said placidly, brushing soot off of his, in Severus’ opinion, rather ridiculously colored cloak of deep purple. “I trust you are well?”

“Yes, thank you, Albus,” Severus had responded brusquely, gesturing toward a seat.

“I have potions to attend to, so if you would proceed with your oration, fascinating though it surely will be, I would be most grateful.”

Albus had given Severus that twinkling look that so vexed him, but thankfully, did proceed.

“It is Harry Potter.”

Severus’ teeth had clenched, his hands in fists.

“What about him?” Severus had all but snarled.

“The boy’s relatives have been recently deceased, and he has been located in London, not two hours ago.”

Severus had an awful feeling that he knew exactly where this was going. He played clueless, however, in attempt to put off the moment where he’d be forced to accept the inevitable.

“And?”

He raised his eyebrows in mock-politeness.

Albus had sighed slightly, as though bracing himself, and continued.

“As it will be nearly three months until the boy begins school, he requires a temporary place of residence.”

“Oh?” Severus had responded, courteous tone belying the raging anger bubbling beneath his chest. “Whatever did you have in mind? I presume Hogwarts itself is not an option?”

Albus had looked as though he knew quite well what Severus was thinking.

“You know, Severus, that I would not ask this of you were there any other possible arrangements. Believe me, I had thoroughly exhausted every resource of mine before coming here.”

In two hours? Severus had thought resentfully. But he knew it was true. The situation with the boy’s protection was precarious. The death of his relatives posed a definite problem. Nonetheless, Severus could barely contain the fury.

A Potter? In my home? That bastard continues to torment me, long after his demise.

Albus spoke again.

“There are few locations concealed by such powerful and intricate protections as yours, and none owned by an individual aware of the boy’s unique-”

“I am well aware of all that which you say,” Severus had bit out through clenched teeth, cutting Albus off.

“Do what you must. Fetch the boy. Bring him here. I presume you trust that he will be sent to Hogwarts in three months’ time, alive and intact.”

“Severus…”

“Go. Just go.”

Albus had paused beside the door, and looked toward Severus.

“I thank you, Severus.”

“Do not thank me.”

Albus still did not leave.

“You are a far better man than you believe, Severus.”

Before he could respond, Albus had gone.

Severus had taken advantage of that moment to hurl a glass against the wall. He watched as it shattered, shards scattering across the polished wood floor. Just as life as he had previously known it. Shattered. Altered. Overturned. And not for the better.

***

Yes, Severus had been furious, and well-prepared to put the boy in his place, arrogant and unruly as he would no doubt be, as the spawn of James Potter, and as the bloody Boy-Who-Lived.

And then the boy, with those blasted green eyes and untidy Potter hair, had the audacity to utterly shatter Severus’ expectations, just like that cursed glass he’d flung at the wall.

The child barely spoke; most of what he said consisted of variations of ‘yes, sir’, ‘no, sir’, and ‘thank you, sir’.

The boy had thanked him, after every meal, as though Severus was doing him a favor. As much as Severus despised all things Potter, he would not stoop so low as to deny a child food. Yet the boy had seemed almost surprised, as though that was what he’d expected.

And the child was minuscule; considerably smaller than he should have been, as he appeared to be closer to eight or nine years than nearly eleven. The boy’s eating habits were also strange. They were more apt to those of a six or seven year old child than of a boy his age.

And when child had vomited, Severus had been braced for a tantrum, tears, and regression to the age of a toddler, as most children saw fit to do when ill. But instead, the boy had seemed momentarily frozen, as though he’d transgressed a cardinal sin, and then proceeded to try and clear up his mess. In Severus’ vast experience with immature preteen brats, the boy’s behavior was unusual.

And not just in his eating habits. The boy spend an inordinate amount of time in the library, poring over piles of books, only occasionally venturing outdoors to burn off energy as a normal child might.

Severus had felt an averse sort of pleasure when informing the brat of his activities of choice. After all, what child would be satisfied with spending time in a library and having access to the grounds, with no playmates, broomsticks, or other such entertainment? But the boy did not appear bothered in the slightest, and he had proceeded to make use of the library at the first opportunity he’d had.

Why? How did the boy turn out this way? Snape wondered, as he stirred, six times clockwise, to neutralize the excess acid of the armadillo bile. He doesn’t even behave as a child, let alone as the spawn of James Potter known throughout the world as the Boy-Who-Lived.

At first, Severus had been certain that the boy’s silence was a sign of mischief. Clearly, he’d thought, the boy was involved in some devious plot to further disrupt Severus Snape’s ordered life, even more so than he’d already done by arriving in Severus’ home to begin with.

However, as the days passed, the boy continued to disprove Severus’ carefully laid theories and understandings. He arrived promptly for meals, ate politely, did not venture near the potions lab, and retired to his bedroom by half-past eleven every night without fail. He obeyed the rules, and Potters did not obey rules. This child simply defied nature, went against his heritage. The fact that the boy had known his parents for less than two years of his life seemed inconsequential to Severus. The Potter genes were prevalent. And the blasted boy was defying them.

Severus had grabbed on to any opportunity he could to put the boy in his place, if only to raise a reaction, or to take revenge, or both. He’d scorned the boy of his hesitation in answering Severus’ query about his eating habits, and Severus had known good and well that it was a difficult question.

But, far from displaying insolence, as Severus had expected, the boy had responded unexpectedly, all but outwitting Severus by cleverly disproving his comment about the boy’s lack of linguistic abilities. And quite impressive linguistic abilities the boy had, for a child his age.

Severus cursed as his potion began smoking slightly, and he stirred once, this time counterclockwise. If the potion’s pH levels fell below four, the entire brew would be rendered useless. Severus waved his wand over the potion, then exhaled. The levels were hovering slightly above four point three, which was manageable. He added a touch of wheat grass, just to be on the safe side. The smoking subsided.

On a purely objective note, thought Severus, it is fortunate that my home does provide the necessary protection.

He scowled. The complex protections of his home had most certainly not been erected with the boy in mind.

During his stint as a spy near the end of the war, Severus had needed a sanctuary, a place to hold meetings with Dumbledore, to brew potions for the Order, to strengthen his Occlumency shields. And he needed a place where no one would find him.

So, with Albus’ assistance, he had acquired the home and property in which he now resided, and protective spells rivaling the Fidelius Charm had been erected, concealing its existence from even the Dark Lord himself. His fellow Death Eaters, most of the Order, and the Dark Lord had only known of Spinner’s End, his previous home.

Although now, the protections were not strictly necessary, Severus had little desire to see others during the summer, his brief time free of dunderheaded brats and adults alike. And the place belonged solely to him. Until now.

Now, he was required to house a child, the son of James Potter, no less. And to make things worse, he couldn’t vent his frustration on the boy, as the boy did nothing to provoke him or raise his ire in any way.

And Severus couldn’t blame Albus either, no matter how much he wished to. He’d known from the start, from the day the Dark Lord had fallen, of the danger concerning the boy. Of the danger he himself had wrought.

***

Severus had been slumped over in a chair in Dumbledore’s office. He was exhausted, his emotions frayed and scattered. The Dark Lord had been defeated, but Lily was gone. All because of him. And her son, sired by his childhood enemy, had been the one to end the war.

Severus was free, but for what reason? He had nothing left to live for. But he was free, and Albus was seated behind his desk, facing him, not saying a word.

He’d not known whether to laugh or cry, to rejoice or grieve, so he settled for blankness.

Much easier. Safer

Albus had then spoken.

“I am sorry, Severus, I cannot convey to you how much-”  

“Say nothing,” Severus had croaked. “It does not matter.”

“Oh, Severus, but it does. What you are feeling-”

“Speak not of my feelings,” Severus had said coldly. “Just tell me what has happened, what must be done.”

Thankfully, Albus had respected his wishes, and continued.

“Voldemort, acting upon the prophecy, went after Harry Potter, whom he concluded was the child it spoke of. As you know, it led to his downfall.”

“What of the prophecy, Albus?” Snape had asked, numbly.

Albus had waved a hand.

“I view it as simply a possible future, in a metaphorical fashion, perhaps, as most prophecies tend to be. One cannot hope to determine its true meaning.”

“But the Dark Lord did not view it in that manner.”

“No, Severus, he did not. He chose to view it as an inevitability, as fate, leading to his ultimate downfall.”

“When the Dark Lord rises again, he will want the boy,” Severus had said slowly.

“Indeed,” Albus had nodded, a somber expression on his face. “And many of the Death Eaters who roam free will likely wish to exact revenge upon the boy.”

“Indeed,” Severus had murmured. “Although the boy did not do them a disservice by freeing them of the Dark Lord’s reign…”

“I have therefore place the boy with his muggle relatives, his last remaining family.”

“Muggles?” Severus had spat. “In what way might muggles be capable of protecting the boy?”

“Lily’s sacrifice provided the boy with protection, which resides in her blood, the blood of her sister. You know the magic of which I speak.”

Severus had nodded sharply. Yes, he did know. And he also knew that Lily was gone.

***

Severus chopped his valerian roots aggressively, carving faint lines into the table. He’d brought this upon himself, all of it. He’d signed Lily’s death warrant, he’d placed the boy in the danger he now faced. And he now had to see the boy every day, see those green eyes that seemed to stare into his very soul, reminding Severus of his failure. Not just concerning the prophecy, but of his failure in gaining Lily’s love. Potter had beaten him to it, and the outcome stood before him, every day. The messy hair, the green eyes. The shape of his face, the curve of her cheekbones.  

But the child was so small, so quiet, so controlled. He acted nothing like either of his parents, for bad, or for good.

Perhaps he is grieving, Severus realized, stirring in the roots. He did just lose his family, after all. Perhaps that is what causes him to be so silent, so closed, so… un-childlike.

He did know firsthand, after all, what loss could do to a child.

Severus shook off his thoughts. He did not care, one way or another, what the boy may or may not be feeling. His job was solely to ensure the boy’s protection until he began school. Nothing more, especially not for a Potter.

He focused on the potion; it was now at its most precarious stage. Lowering the flame slightly, he stirred once, then positioned a flask of Lobalug venom directly over the cauldron. If he was off by so much as a drop…

Severus suddenly felt a disturbing vibration from the ceiling, and the faint sound of shattering glass. At the same time, a band around his ankle tightened.

The disturbance caused Severus’ hand to jerk, landing far too much of the Lobalug venom onto the potion. The entire brew curdled into a pitiful looking glob at the bottom of the cauldron.

He swore.

The library- the boy-

He ran.

Harry was frustrated.

He’d read through every book he could find that might possibly contain information about his defeat of Voldemort in attempt to discover how it could have been feasible. However, all that any of the books offered were variants of pretty much the same thing.

At the height of his powers, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named (pathetic, they can’t even write his real name?) had been intent on hunting down and murdering the Potters for reasons unknown. The Potters, who were well-respected, powerful wizards deeply involved in the uprising against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, (seriously, that hyphenation is such a mouthful, a complete waste of ink) were not easy targets; they were known to have successfully evaded Him and many of his followers, known as Death Eaters, (Death Eaters? Yum. Can I have seconds?) on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named eventually tracked down the Potters, and on the thirty-first of October, 1981, He proceeded to kill them. Upon the deaths of James and Lily Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attempted to murder their son, Harry James Potter, who was three months past the age of one year. For unexplained and unprecedented reasons, the attempted Killing Curse failed to kill the child, and, instead, rebounded upon He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, thereby vanquishing Him. The child was left with naught but a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead, where the curse had made contact. This incident marked the end of the eleven year civil war among the British wizarding citizens.

That was it. None of the books explained how Harry had survived; none of them even offered any possible explanations or hypotheses. Nor did the books provided information on what exactly had happened to Voldemort.

There’s something missing here, Harry thought. I can’t tell what it is that’s missing, I just know it’s something important. Guess it makes sense that the information isn’t accessible, because if it was, it wouldn’t be important.

Harry skimmed yet another book half-heartedly, not at all expecting to discover any new information.

Thus, the book read, October thirty-first, 1981, marked the end of the war, pronouncing Harry James Potter as the Boy-Who-Lived. Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named-

Wait, there’s more? Harry read on, eagerly.

Upon his defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter was placed into the temporary custody of Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore, renowned defeater of Grindelwald (1945), and the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1956 - present). He was said to have placed the Boy-Who-Lived with his muggle relations, his last remaining family. The precise location is unknown.

Harry read the passage. Then read it again. And again. He felt an odd ringing in his ears.

 It was Dumbledore. Dumbledore had dumped him at the Dursleys and left him there. Dumbledore was the reason for everything; the reason he’d suffered, the reason he had nothing, the reason he couldn’t sleep through the night without wanting to end it all.

Dumbledore had left him there, and had only shown up when the Dursleys had died. And then he’d proceeded to dump him in the home of yet another person who didn’t want him.

A terrifying realization slowly began to dawn on Harry.

I’m being used.

This is no mistake on Dumbledore’s part, he’s doing this deliberately. This is a plot. He’s trying to mold me, to turn me into something by putting me through all this. He wants me not to have anyone, to hurt, to suffer, so that I’ll run into his arms when he “rescues” me, and do whatever he wants.

It’s all because of him. Everything. All of it.

A fury such that Harry had never felt ripped through him. He felt it in his chest, his lungs, his very heart. He had never felt such anger, such all-encompassing fury that possessed a life of its own.

The anger expanded within him, and his body could no longer contain it. It burst out of him in a terrific surge of furious magic.

The room seemed to explode before him. The windows shattered, and countless, tiny shards of glass scattered across the room. Hundreds of books flew off their shelves, landing in every corner of the room, piled haphazardly. The bookshelves themselves, every last one, crashed to the floor with a deafening thud, the entire room shuddering. The chairs and tables overturned, ink splattering everywhere.

Harry stood amidst the wreckage, unharmed, staring impassively through glazed eyes. The raging anger had left him with the magic, leaving him quite numb, and more exhausted than he’d ever been. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, unmoving.

“Potter!”

Harry sensed Snape’s voiced rather than heard it. He turned slowly to meet Snape’s livid gaze.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Snape was standing in the doorway, positively frothing at the mouth.

Harry did not even try to respond. What could he say? He didn’t think he’d be able to speak; he could not even muster up the energy to be afraid of what he knew was sure to come.

There was a brief moment of silence, where Snape appeared to be awaiting his reply. Harry continued to say nothing, staring at a point on the wall behind Snape.

Suddenly, Snape moved. He was striding towards Harry, much too quickly, and before Harry could react, he was grabbed by the upper arms and hoisted into the air.

Harry dangled for a moment before his exhausted and overwrought brain caught up with his senses.

No no no no no no. He’s going to kill me. This is it. Can’t move. Can’t get away. Running makes things worse at this point, don’t try. Go! Leave, go somewhere else, get out of here. Now!

And Harry did.

His consciousness retreated to a place in the deepest recesses of his mind, where he was safe, where nothing could hurt him.

He vaguely sensed that Snape was yelling at him, but all he heard was a faint buzzing in his ears. He felt, detachedly, a pressure on his upper arms, where Snape was gripping him tightly, shaking him forcefully.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered here, where he was alone, free, far from any threat.

Harry came back to himself abruptly as he was dropped to the ground quite suddenly. He looked up and saw Snape staring at him with a frozen expression on his face that Harry could not place. He didn’t try.

Harry moved his arms, and flinched slightly as he felt a shooting pain in his right shoulder.

Oh, a dislocation. That can be dealt with.

Harry gritted his teeth, then shoved his shoulder back into place in one forceful movement.

Snape was still staring at him, even more strangely this time, and much more intensely.

Harry’s well-honed instincts, and finally, the fear, began to pervade his senses.

Why am I still here? Get the hell out of here, you idiot, this is your chance, before he really hurts you.

Harry bolted.

Severus stood, overcome by an emotion akin to shock, staring at the spot the boy had just vacated. He could tell, by the distant pounding of the stairs, that the boy had not attempted to run away, he’d just retreated to his bedroom.

What did I just do?

He had, in a startling fit of rage, manhandled the boy roughly enough to dislocate his shoulder, and he’d likely left bruises on the boy’s arms as well.

Severus had never, in any sense of the word, liked children, but he’d never laid a finger on any one of them, let alone done them physical harm

Until now.

When he’d rushed into the library in response to his alarms, he’d seen red.

This home was the one place where Severus had been free of everyone. Free of his father, free of the Dark Lord, and free of his childhood tormentors.

He’d painstakingly rebuilt his life around this home, and that could never be taken from him.

But then, he’d entered the library to find it in a severe state of disarray, the damaged caused by none other than the spawn of James Potter. James Potter had come back to torment him, to wreak havoc upon his life, to destroy all that he held dear. And Potter had simply stood there, refusing to explain, staring at him insolently.

And Severus had utterly lost his composure, and proceeded to manhandle the child.

And a child he was, Severus had realized in the midst of his rage. The child had hung like a ragdoll in Severus’ unforgiving hands as he was roughly shaken, slight weight barely registering, his scrawny arms trapped within Severus’ painfully tight grip.

Severus had been too blinded by rage to process the boy’s initial reaction, but by the time he’d come to his senses, the child had looked… blank, lost, as though he’d all but vacated his body.

He’d then, in the shock of realizing his actions, abruptly dropped the boy, and he had been horrified to hear a popping sound. He’d just dislocated the boy’s shoulder.

He’d hurt a child. Not James Potter reincarnated, not a person of equal stature and strength, but a child, and a small, underfed one at that.

And then, the boy had promptly shoved his shoulder back into place with an air of practiced ease, as though it was something he did every day.

A lifetime of Occlumency training, years of serving the Dark Lord, months of spying, and I could not control my emotions in regards to a child.

Severus was seriously questioning the view he’d held of himself all these years. He’d sworn to himself, after growing up with a violent father, and upon witnessing the Dark Lord and Death Eaters alike torture children without a thought, that he would never harm a child. While children were irritating, dense, and immature, they were defenseless in the face of a fully-grown adult. And Severus was well acquainted with the feeling of powerlessness.

Yet he’d abandoned all his principles in a moment of uncontrollable rage and utter idiocy. No matter what the child had done, Severus’ actions were indefensible.

He waved his wand jerkily, restoring the bookshelves, restacking the books, repairing the windows.

Another wave of self-recrimination engulfed him. He’d hurt a child in response to a deed that was so easily reversed? If the child had destroyed his entire home beyond repair, then perhaps, somehow, his actions, if not excusable, could have been explained.

But no. Within five minutes, the mess had been entirely sorted out.

It was time that he seriously rethought his views of and actions towards the child residing in his home, the son of James Potter or not. He would have to speak with the boy, difficult though it might be.

Best to wait until morning, Severus thought. It is already quite late, and the boy will undoubtedly be disinclined toward my presence, just now.

Severus knew that he was simply putting off the moment when he’d have to explain his actions to the boy, but then, there was some logic to his rationalization. They’d both be well-served by a good night’s sleep. Then, come morning, he’d attempt to set things right with the boy.

Upon clearing up the mess of his failed potion, and ascertaining that the boy was indeed in his bedroom, Severus settled into bed. However, sleep evaded him as unwanted memories pervaded his mind. Recollections of his childhood, of his time in the Dark Lord’s service, of the tortured screams of young children… all with a backdrop of emerald green, of Lily’s eyes… the child’s eyes…

His thoughts were shattered by a scream.

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, a scream tearing at his throat.

This nightmare had been a particularly vicious one, no doubt prompted by that night’s earlier events. That explained why he had screamed aloud, as he hadn’t done so in years. Uncle Vernon had hated being woken, and, later, on the streets, any noise would have given away his location.

You’re ok, you’re ok, they can’t get you, just a dream, not real- No! It is real. He’s gonna come back and finish the job, you probably woke him up.

Harry immediately jumped out of his bed, backing toward the wall. He’d heard footsteps, and they were growing steadily louder as they neared his bedroom.

He’s coming. He’s gonna hurt me. Bad.

Harry watched as the door opened slowly, scarcely breathing, his heart beating like a drum. His breathing suddenly quickened, and he drew his arms around himself protectively as Snape walked in. He reached into his pocket, finding it distressingly empty. Cursing his exhaustion-worn instincts, he realized he’d neglected to retrieve his dagger from under his pillow. He trembled.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter, I have no intention of harming you,” said Snape, standing by the doorway.

Harry raised his eyebrows at that, but did not relax his stance.

I suppose you’re here to invite me to tea.

Snape spoke again, in the same odd tone, lacking its usual venom.

“I heard a scream.”

Snape paused a moment.

“A nightmare?”

Harry didn’t answer, but Snape appeared to interpret his silence as an affirmative answer.

“I’m sorry for waking you.” Harry whispered.

Actually, Harry wasn’t sorry at all, but Uncle Vernon had liked apologies; they had often tended to lessen the severity of what was to come.

“You did not wake me, Mr. Potter, but, had you done so, I would not be inclined toward harboring anger toward your person; you could hardly have prevented it.”

Harry felt his fear lessen slightly, replaced by a sense of irritation. Snape’s moods shifted at the drop of a hat; one minute, he looked about ready to strangle Harry to death, the next, he was asking about Harry’s nightmare. The vacillation was seriously unnerving.

The irritation, the exhaustion, and the fact that Harry’s inhibitions tended to lessen when woken from a nightmare loosened his tongue.

“Didn’t stop you before.”

Snape raised his eyebrows at that.

“Would you care to elaborate, Mr. Potter?”

Harry paused for a moment.

“In the library.”

Snape looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, Mr. Potter.”

Now beyond the point of caring, Harry elaborated.

“I was angry. When I get angry, things happen.”

Harry held his breath; he was certain that Snape’s wrath would now be unleashed. Perhaps that had been Harry’s intention, to provoke Snape into just getting on with it, instead of playing this unsettling guessing game.

He was surprised, therefore, to see Snape sigh, and close his eyes for a moment.

“Mr. Potter, I… wish to apologize, now even more so upon your recent revelation.”

He wishes to what? Apologize? Since when do adults apologize? Since when does anybody apologize?

Snape took a step forward, and Harry took a step back. Snape held out his palms.

“I will not hurt you again, Mr. Potter. I will not touch you without your agreement. I merely wish to explain, and for you to listen.”

Harry said nothing, at a complete loss of how to respond. He just waited, arms clutched around himself, back against the wall.

Snape, still standing near the doorway, spoke.

“Mr. Potter, had you, knowingly and willingly, destroyed my entire house, my earlier actions toward you would have been entirely inappropriate. Even more so, considering that you had not purposefully caused the damage, and that it was easily reversible.”

Huh? Since when does intention matter? Adults beat up kids to vent anger and show them who’s in charge. And he didn’t even hurt me that badly.

Snape seemed to notice his confusion, though Harry could not understand how, as he was sure he’d kept his face blank.

“I understand, Mr. Potter, than I’ve provided you with little reason to trust my word. However, I will say that you can be assured that I will not harm you again. Perhaps a time will come that you will believe me.”

Harry couldn’t even mask his expression at this point; he simply stared at Snape, eyebrows at his hairline.

There is no way he just said that. Impossible. This is part of the plot. He’ll try to gain my trust, then somehow, something will be accomplished, and Dumbledore will be happy.

“I don’t believe you.” Harry said flatly.

Snape just exhaled slightly.

“I do not expect you to. I simply wish to convey that it will not happen again. Eventually, you will come to see that I do not lie.”

Snape said that in an intense tone; he was watching Harry carefully, searchingly.

Harry stared back, studying Snape’s face in search of any indication that he was lying. Harry was sure Snape was, but he was usually able to judge a person’s sincerity by their tone or expression, a skill he’d developed out of necessity.

However, he could not detect anything in Snape’s expression. Nothing. Not even a twitch, a blink, or a movement.

Odd. Either he’s a better liar than I’ve ever come across, or he’s not lying. I’ll go with the exceptionally good liar theory.

There was a long moment of silence, as Harry and Snape simply stared at each other. Eventually, Snape broke the silence.

“It appears that you are not going to ask, but you may likely wonder why I had done what I did if I claim to be loath to harm you.” Snape paused.

I don’t wonder why you would want to hurt me, I wonder why you wouldn’t.

Snape spoke again, in a somewhat halting tone of voice.

“I admit that I had been harboring unwarranted negative feelings toward you, based on erroneous assumptions. It has become clear to me, upon the day’s events, that I was wrong in doing so. As such, my earlier actions will not, in any form, occur again.”

Did he just explain himself to me? Why would he have even needed a reason to hurt me in the first place? I am way too tired for this.

Snape seemed to be awaiting a response, so Harry looked at Snape and nodded his head.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape studied him again. Harry wished he would leave; the man was entirely too confusing.

“Very well, Mr. Potter,” said Snape. “I will leave it at that. If you should experience any difficulty in awakening later this morning, I will not be averse to postponing breakfast.”

Snape finally left.

Harry exhaled slowly and relaxed, climbing back into bed.

How weird was that?

Severus returned to bed, his mind racing. While he thought he’d gotten his point across well enough, the child’s reactions were… odd.

He is clearly terrified of me.

Severus felt a stab of guilt in his chest. He’d terrified the boy to the point of driving him to nightmares?

There is something more here. The boy seemed entirely too surprised at my apology, and his protective instincts are quite well-developed. Not to mention his generally odd behaviors. The boy’s fear clearly stems from a deeper place. I do have my suspicions.

Snape felt another jolt when he realized that he’d neglected to tend to the child’s injuries.

Somehow, when it comes to this child, I seem to abandon all rational thought. That must change.

Severus was determined to do right by the boy. And he had not been a spy for nothing; he would discover what it was that plagued the child.

Harry awoke the next morning, surprised that he’d actually gotten back to sleep. The previous night’s events came rushing back to him.

Discovering Dumbledore’s plot. The incident in the library. Snape blowing up, and then later, apologizing for it.

Why? What could he gain from doing that? He wouldn’t get in trouble; isn’t that exactly what Dumbledore wanted in the first place, for him to make me miserable? So what would Snape gain from pretending to be nice and saying he won’t hurt me?

Harry shrugged, noticing a lingering soreness in his shoulder. Ignoring it, he dressed. Technically, there was no more danger in being in Snape’s company than there had already been. Snape could do what he pleased, and Harry would not be able to escape, at least until he figured out how to break through the wards.

Shoving his dagger into his pocket, Harry made his way to the kitchen.

Snape was seated in his usual place at the table, but there was no newspaper in sight. He nodded to Harry, gesturing toward the food. Harry ate carefully, on his guard, knowing that Snape would speak eventually.

And he did.

“It has occurred to me, Mr. Potter, that I have not assessed you for lasting injuries you may have received at my hands.”

Snape said that in an inscrutable tone of voice, though Harry thought he glimpsed a glimmer of remorse in the man’s eyes.

He’s just faking it.

Snape was looking at Harry, waiting for something.

Oh.

“I’m fine, sir. There’s no need.”

That is the last thing I need. Especially considering what happened the last time someone wanted to assess me.

“While your forbearance is commendable, Mr. Potter, I cannot in good conscience leave your shoulder unchecked, considering that you treated it yourself,” Snape said carefully.

Harry felt his heartbeat speed up.

Not good. I don’t want him near me. I don’t want anyone near me. Ever again.

He shook his head quickly.

“It feels perfectly fine, sir. I don't need further treatment.”

Please let it go. Please.

“I am afraid I must disagree with you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry wanted to smash his head against the table.

“If your shoulder has sustained untreated damage, it is likely to grow more painful, and the injury may eventually become irreversible.”

Harry shook his head again, trying valiantly to control his anxiety.

“No, thank you, sir. I don’t-”

Snape held up a hand, silencing Harry, and he stiffened, his eyes following Snape’s movements.

Snape lowered his hand, looking somewhat agitated. He took a deep breath, as though gathering the last vestiges of his patience.

“Mr. Potter, I am aware that you do not feel you require it, but it is necessary for the damage to be attended to. I would much prefer that you allow me to do so. However, should you continue to refuse assistance, I will have little choice but to insist.”

Harry wanted to run, as fast and far as he could, ‘til he was back on the streets, alone and in control.

I have no choice now. When I don’t comply, it hurts more. And I’ve no doubt that he could force me. It’ll happen no matter what I do.

Harry's hands began to tremble, and he didn't bother trying to conceal them. He nodded once, tersely, avoiding Snape's gaze.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up through his fringe.

“I will reiterate, as it appears you require me to do so, that I will not harm you in any way. I intend to repair the damage, not to exacerbate it,” Snape said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be reassuring.

You don’t fool me. You’re a liar. This is a trick, so you can do what you want to me without my initial resistance.

Harry glared at Snape; there was no reason not to, now. Snape would do what he wished, but Harry wasn’t going to be pleasant about it. Clearly, being pleasant hadn’t worked thus far.

Snape, contrary to Harry’s expectations, did not call Harry out on his rudeness. He simply shook his head slightly, a crease between his eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. If you are quite done with your food, I will ask that you follow me.”

Harry nodded, and they both rose, Snape waving his wand to clear the table.

He followed Snape into the sitting room, and, as per instruction, sat down on the couch, while Snape conjured a chair, swiveling it around to face Harry. Harry sat back at far as he could, his hands in fists, far too agitated to contemplate the magic Snape had just performed.

 Snape sighed.

“Mr. Potter, I will require you to remove you shirt so I can properly assess the damage."

Please. No. Not this. Anything- Get a grip, idiot, you knew this was coming. Comply, and you might get off easy. Stop being pathetic. Show no fear. You don’t care at all. You don’t.

Forcing his fingers to cease their trembling, Harry removed his shirt, shivering slightly as he felt cool air breeze across his bare chest.

Snape’s reaction was odd. Instead of reaching toward him, Snape’s eyes traveled down Harry’s torso, pausing first at Harry’s slightly swollen shoulder, and then at the bruising around his upper arms. Harry saw Snape’s face tighten at that.

Harry then saw Snape’s gaze shift to the spot on his chest, just below the collarbone, where he’d been knifed a while back. At least Harry had won the dagger after that fight. Then Snape’s eyes moved toward the misshapen rib on his left side, which had never quite healed. And at all the more recent scrapes and bruises in various stages of healing.

Feeling exposed, Harry drew his arms around himself, but that just drew Snape’s attention toward the burn scars near his elbows, from when he’d been shoved into the stove.

What is he doing? Just get on with it, will you?

Harry looked at Snape, and studied the strange expression on his face. It was fierce, and angry, but Harry did not think that the anger was directed at him.

Why is he so interested in my scars and stuff?

Snape was silent for another moment, his gaze traveling to Harry’s face. Harry avoided his eyes, staring resolutely at Snape’s hands, which had yet to reach toward him.

“Are your nightmares a regular occurrence, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked quietly.

What? Damn his observance! Only he would make that connection. Why is he asking? What does he care?

Harry remained stubbornly silent. Snape could poke and prod ‘til the cows came home, but Harry was not going to make this easy for him.

However, Snape seemed to have guessed the truth.

“I must once again express my apologies, Mr. Potter. I was unaware of your current injuries.”

As if I would tell you.

Snape then straightened in his seat, pulling out his wand. Harry immediately tensed, and it was all he could do not to run for the door.

It’ll just be worse if you do.

Snape studied him through narrowed eyes.

“Mr. Potter, I wish to simply cast a diagnostic spell to determine the state of your shoulder, nothing more. You will not feel anything.”

Harry’s breathing only quickened at that, and he glanced quickly around the room, looking for an escape route.

“Potter, while your wariness would be prudent were I likely to pose harm, I only intend to help you.”

That’s what they all say.

Fear was beginning to overtake Harry’s senses.

You’re a liar. Stupid git. That’s it.

All logical thought seemed to abandon Harry, and he immediately ran for the door. It closed in his face, lock clicking shut. Harry just stopped and simply stared at the door, his chest heaving.

“Potter.”

Harry turned slowly to find Snape in the same position he had been, albeit with a less neutral expression on his face.

“To me. Now,” Snape said in frighteningly soft tone, his black eyes boring into Harry.

This is it, then. No more games.

Harry smoothed his features into blankness, and walked back toward the couch, feeling as though he was walking toward the electric chair.

He sat and looked at Snape, waiting.

After a pause, Snape raised his wand, and it was only through sheer force of will that Harry did not cringe.

But when Snape waved his wand, Harry felt nothing, his shoulder simply glowed red for a moment, then stopped.

“That was it, Mr. Potter. Was that truly worth your previous display?” Snape said, in what Harry thought was a condescending tone of voice.

Screw you.

Harry did not appreciate being talked down to. He had no reason to believe that Snape wasn’t going to hurt him.

“Yes, sir. It was,” Harry said in a hard voice.

Let’s see how nice he is now, after that.

However, Snape just looked at Harry with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“It is unfortunate that you feel that way, Mr. Potter.”

It is unfortunate that I have to sit here with my shirt off while you wave your wand in my face.

“Now, back to the matter at hand,” Snape said, it a more businesslike tone of voice.

“While your shoulder was indeed relocated correctly, it was done so rather roughly, which resulted in the swelling and stiffness you are currently experiencing. Therefore…” Snape pulled a bottle of a bright blue liquid out of his robes. “This will ease the swelling.”

He handed the potion to Harry. Harry didn’t take it, he just looked at Snape with raised eyebrows.

You expect me to just consume that willingly? Looks like poison to me. You’ll have to force it down my throat, I’m not dying willingly on your terms.

Snape looked irritated.

“Would it help, Potter, if I first sampled the potion, so you can be assured that I have no intention of poisoning you?”

No.

“Perhaps, sir, it is only lethal in large quantities,” Harry said tersely.

At this point, Snape appeared slightly amused. He flicked his wand, and Harry jerked back, but nothing happened. A moment later, a book flew into Snape’s hand. He rapidly flipped through its pages and handed it to Harry.

“This is the recipe for the potion, Mr. Potter, and it is pictured here,” Snape pointed.

Harry looked. There was an image of a blue potion identical to the one in Snape’s hand, titled Anti-Inflammatory Potion. He skimmed through the ingredients, finding nothing that appeared sinister.

“As I do not doubt you are aware, considering the apparently extensive research you have seen fit to engage in, if a potion is altered in any significant way, it will no longer appear as it was meant to,” Snape said, in an irritatingly erudite tone.

Nice try. You almost got me there.

“You're a potions master, sir. I’ve no doubt that you of all people would be able to get around that.”

Snape smirked slightly.

“While you flatter me with your most generous assessment of my skills, even I am not capable of such a feat.”

So you say.

Harry continued to stare at Snape, refusing to accept the potion.

Snape was appearing less amused, and rapidly more irritated.

“You are being irrational, Potter.”

No, just reasonably cautious.

Snape looked angry, now.

“You will drink it. Now.”

Harry shook his head, scooting backwards.

No, you’ll have to force me. I’m not an idiot.

Snape rose from his seat, towering over Harry.

Oh, god, here it comes.

Harry dug his head into his knees, wrapping his arm around them tightly as he waited for Snape to grab him. But nothing happened. A minute passed. Then another. Harry heard Snape sit down, and he peeked through his fingers.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said in a low voice. “I do apologize for frightening you.” Snape’s eyes were slightly narrowed, though his face was inscrutable as ever.

I am not frightened.

Harry slowly untangled himself and blanked his face. Snape looked tense, but no longer angry.

“If you were to assist me in brewing the potions you require, would you be amenable to consuming them?”

Harry studied Snape face, not quite believing his offer. But, odd as it was, Snape appeared sincere in his statement.

 I can do that. I guess he really doesn’t want to poison me. Otherwise he would have forced me. Maybe he’s come up with another plan.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter. You will accompany me to my potions laboratory immediately following lunch. You may go.”

Snape flicked his wand, and the door opened.

Harry pulled his shirt on and left the room as quickly as he could without running. Instead of going to the library, Harry retreated to the grounds, and he ran as far as he could from the house. He stopped by his favorite tree and scrambled up its branches, until he was almost completely concealed by large, dark green leaves.

Why did Snape have to start noticing him, now? Everything had been fine before, when he and Snape had simply left each other alone. But for some reason, now Snape insisted on asking questions, and he would not stop poking around where he was not wanted. None of it made sense to Harry, and he longed for the first few days he’d been here, when he’d barely had to look at Snape.

I don’t get it. He clearly does want to give me healing potions, because he’s going to the trouble of letting me help brew them. If he wanted to poison me, he wouldn’t do that. So why, then?

The only plausible explanation Harry could come up with was that Snape really was sorry for hurting him. But that made no sense.

Maybe he just doesn’t want Dumbledore to find out.

But that made no sense either.

According to my theory, Dumbledore wants me to be miserable here, and anywhere I live before Hogwarts. Unfortunately for him, I figured out his plan.

Nothing was adding up, and Harry hated it. He always knew what was going on, or at least had some idea, but now, he was coming up blank, and that was not okay.

Harry continued to sit on the tree branch broodingly, his legs swinging.

After an undetermined length of time, Harry figured, by the position of the sun, that it was about time for lunch. He hurried inside, and found that he was not far wrong.

Without looking at Snape, Harry sat at the kitchen table and filled his plate, eating in silence.

“Did those relatives of yours see fit to feed you regularly, Potter?” Snape asked suddenly.

Damn, more questions?

“I wonder why you’d ask that, sir.”

Snape narrowed his eyes.

“Judging by your physical state, Potter, I could only conclude that, at the very least, the muggles did little to ensure your well-being.”

If I lie, it means I care about the truth, which I don’t, but I’m not about to spill my guts, either.

“One might come to many conclusions to explain my eating habits, so I wonder why you choose that one, sir.”

That’s right, just be polite and clueless.

“Have you any others, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked sardonically.

Harry pushed back the glare that he sorely desired to direct at Snape.

“None that I wish to share with you, sir,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

Stop talking to me!

To Harry’s annoyance, Snape just raised a patronizing eyebrow.

“I do hope you are aware, Mr. Potter, that you have just answered my question.”

“Why do you suppose that, sir?”

“Your response, Potter, was simply a somewhat more polite and elaborate way of informing me that it is “none of my business.”

Well, it isn’t.

“Therefore,” Snape continued, “it is clear to me that I was correct in assuming what I did, as avoiding my question is rather a manner of providing me with an affirmative answer.”

Harry wanted to growl. Why couldn’t Snape just shut up and mind his own stupid business?

“Assume what you will, sir,” Harry replied in a deliberately calm tone, and he looked down towards his food, indicating that he was done with this conversation.

Thankfully, Snape said nothing more, and silence ensued for the next ten minutes.

Harry ate slowly, in attempt to postpone the moment where he’d have to accompany Snape to the potions lab. Although he was interested in brewing, it was not worth being in the company of Snape for any longer than he had to be. He swirled his food around his plate with a fork until it all combined into an unappealing brown mush.

“Mr. Potter, judging by the activity you are currently engaged it, it is clear to me that you have quite finished.” Snape abruptly rose and moved toward the door.

Harry groaned inwardly, but stood and followed Snape down the hall. Harry hesitated when they reached the door of the lab. What if this was a test? Maybe Snape wanted to see if Harry would still follow the rule about staying out of the lab.

Typically, Snape correctly deduced the reason behind Harry’s hesitation.

“I am aware that I informed you in rather strong terms that you are not to enter my laboratory. However, the rule no longer stands if I accompany you,” he said, turning to face Harry.

Harry nodded, looking away, and Snape waved his wand to open the door. Harry followed Snape down a steep flight of stairs, into a large, dark room. Harry tried to force back his apprehension.

Get a grip. He doesn’t have to bring you down here to do anything, he could just as well do it upstairs.

Annoyingly, Snape, once again, took note of his anxiety.

“You would do well to relax, Mr. Potter. It is not my intention to dismember you for use of potions ingredients, as very few potions require human body parts,” Snape said dryly.

Harry almost snorted, but oddly, Snape’s comment did relax him slightly.

Snape waved his wand again, and some lamps attached to the wall lit, revealing the room to be occupied by tables holding cauldrons of various materials and sizes. There were a few bookshelves containing potions volumes, and there were shelves filled with countless bottled potions and odd looking ingredients.

Despite himself, Harry looked around with interest. Now, somewhat less anxious, he was actually quite looking forward to attempting a potion, after reading so much about them.

Harry looked up quickly as Snape walked over, carrying the same book he’d shown to Harry upstairs, open to the anti-inflammatory potion recipe.

“As this is a rather advanced potion, you will primarily observe its making, only adding to it as I say. Is that understood?” Snape said severely.

Harry nodded.

“Follow me.”

Harry followed Snape to a narrow door, which turned out to be an ingredients cupboard.

“I will name ingredients, and you will retrieve them for me. Are you amenable?” Snape asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Snape began to call out ingredients, and Harry found them quickly, handing them to Snape.

He’s actually serious about this. He’s having me get the ingredients so I’ll know for sure that he isn’t adding anything.

When all the ingredients had been collected, Harry followed Snape to a table set with a large, black cauldron with a low flame lit beneath it.

“Now, I will first add the syrup of hellebore, as stated here. You will measure out two quarter pints of boswellin…”

Harry gradually began to relax, more and more and the potion progressed. Snape followed the instructions of the book precisely, even though Harry was sure Snape could make the potion without it. He allowed Harry to measure out and occasionally add ingredients, and, toward the end, he permitted Harry to stir.

Harry was fascinated. This was nothing like chemistry class, as Harry had thought it would be. Each ingredient caused the potion to change drastically, often in entirely unexpected ways, and even the stirring affected the potion significantly, in ways such as thickening it, changing the color, and the texture.

So great was Harry’s interest that he was almost okay with Snape's presence. He did keep Snape in view at all times, but his fear of Snape doing something gradually lessened as the potion progressed.

After roughly forty-five minutes, the potion was nearly complete.

“While the potions simmers, Mr. Potter, I will allow you to attempt a potion used for superficial injuries, as it is far less advanced.”

I get to make it myself?

Snape handed Harry the recipe, and Harry went back to the cupboard to assemble the ingredients, occasionally looking back at Snape to make sure he didn’t add anything to the first potion.

Harry turned his cauldron to face Snape, and carefully began, double-checking every instruction, while Snape occasionally voiced corrections.

The potion was pretty simple, and after a short while, it was complete. Snape came over to inspect it.

“Quite adequate for a first attempt, Mr. Potter, just be sure to stir more forcefully in the future.”

Did he just give me a compliment? Maybe he just wants me to think the potion is fine, but it’s really all wrong and- No, it looks like it’s supposed to.

Harry nodded to Snape, unsure of how to respond, and Snape bottled both potions. He beckoned toward Harry.

“Follow me.”

Harry tensed again, but followed Snape to a door, which led to a small side room stocked with more potions. He pointed Harry toward a wooden chair beside the wall and handed Harry the bottle of anti-inflammatory potion.

“I assume, Potter, that you now trust this is not poison?” Snape said sharply.

Harry nodded quickly. He didn’t understand why Snape felt it so vital that he take the potion, but as it was clearly not poisonous, he drained the bottle. Almost immediately, he felt tension leave his right shoulder, and he could almost feel the swelling diminish.

Harry felt a tightness in his chest, but, this time, it was not from fear. When had anybody ever gone to such lengths to heal his injuries? Heck, when had anyone even cared at all? Harry did not trust Snape’s motives, but he could not come up with any logical explanation for his actions.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry whispered.

Snape frowned, that fierce expression crossing his face yet again

“Do not thank me, Mr. Potter, as your injury was caused by myself.”

But I don’t think he even dislocated my shoulder on purpose. What the hell is going on? He hasn’t said one mean thing the whole time we were down here.

Snape spoke again. “As for the bruise balm, I presume you would prefer to apply it on your own?”

Harry nodded quickly, relieved.

“As for your… older injuries, such as your poorly healed rib and the scarring, they are beyond my capabilities to heal sufficiently. Therefore, they will be tended to by the school nurse at the start of term.” He gave Harry a look that clearly indicated that there would be no getting out of this.

Yeah, later is good. I can wait, possibly forever.

Snape then handed Harry the potion he’d made himself, which had taken on a hue of pale green.

“You may go. However, should you neglect to apply the balm, and I assure you, I will know if you have, I will apply it myself,” he said austerely.

No way are you doing that.

Harry gave Snape a look that communicated his thoughts. Snape just looked back, saying with his eyes that if Harry wanted to avoid it, he’d better apply the potion.

Without a word, Snape handed Harry the potions book he’d been using, and Harry nodded his thanks. He quickly climbed the stairs and curled up in the library.

Well, that was… fun.

“You’ll earn your keep while you live under my roof, boy!” growled Uncle Vernon, pinning Harry against the wall by his throat. “Do you know what that means?” He backhanded Harry across the face. “Answer me, boy!”

“N-no, sir,” Harry choked out. Uncle Vernon gave him a vicious grin, then knocked him to the floor.

“You’ll soon find out.” He kicked Harry sharply in his side as he left.

Harry was huddled against the shed behind the strip of townhouses, fists clenched, holding his breath. If those boys found him again…

A hand suddenly gripped his shoulder.

Harry gasped, and dug his knee hard into the chest of his attacker. He clawed at the hand on his shoulder, rolling away and crashing to the floor. He searched his pockets for his dagger, but he came up empty.

Where is it? Under my pillow- What pill- Oh.

Harry slowly opened his eyes and straightened up. He wasn’t on the streets, he was in his bedroom at Snape’s, who was standing beside Harry’s bed, looking somewhat disheveled.

Oh, god, I just attacked him! Now he’ll for sure let me have it, and he’d have a right to. You have this one coming, so take it like a man.

Harry waited, but Snape did not come any closer.

“Mr. Potter-”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry interrupted, gasping slightly. “I didn’t- I thought-”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter. I do not hold you responsible for your actions just now, as you were quite unaware of your surroundings,” Snape said, voice lacking venom entirely.

He’s not angry? Wait, what is he doing here, anyway? Did I scream or something?

“D-did I wake you, sir?” Harry asked hoarsely.

“No, Mr. Potter. I was, incidentally, passing your bedroom, en route to my own, and I detected movement. Another nightmare, I presume?”

Why does he keep asking about this? Maybe if I answer he’ll stay not angry. But I don’t want to.

Harry settled for a jerk of his shoulder.

“A vocal response, if you please, Mr. Potter.”

I should really do what he says right now. He has every right to be furious.

“I… prefer not to discuss it, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Potter.” Snape backed away from the bed, and Harry climbed back into it, watching Snape warily.

Why is he here? Why did he come in if I didn’t scream?

Snape was just watching him carefully, and it was making Harry feel anxious and uncomfortable. He was almost thankful when Snape spoke.

“Mr. Potter, there do exist magical means of managing… disturbances of sleep.”

Harry looked up. “I thought that the dreamless sleep potion can be toxic if taken frequently,” he said, remembering what he had learned from Snape’s potions book.

Snape looked faintly approving, which Harry thought was immensely strange.

“While you are correct, I was not referring to a potion, despite that being my area of expertise.”

What, then? Some sort of relaxant? That would probably be considered a potion, now that I think on it. Would potions be classified as drugs? Or drugs as potions? Do wizards even know what drugs are…

“I was rather speaking of a branch of mind magic, known as Occlumency,” said Snape, his voice jerking Harry out of his thoughts.

Occlumency? I haven’t found any books on that.

Once again, Snape seemed to read his thoughts.

“You would not have found any volumes on the topic, as I own very few, none of which are stored in the library. Furthermore, mind magic of any sort is not a skill that can be learned from books, rather, it must be practiced.”

Mind magic?

“Occlumency is, primarily, the art of guarding one’s mind against intrusion.”

Intrusion? Can wizards break into minds? Can he? What if he’s read mine?

“Can wizards-” Harry broke off.

“Yes,” Snape responded shrewdly. “Some wizards do possess the capability to access the minds of others, though it is a rare ability, known as Legilimency.”

Snape paused for a moment.

“I am proficient in both arts.”

Oh no, he can.

Snape smirked slightly.

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, I have not attempted to access your mind; you would certainly know if I had.”

Harry let out a breath, but he still needed to know…

“How is Legilimency performed, sir?” Harry asked, half-expecting Snape to refuse to answer.

“To perform Legilimency, one must maintain eye contact with the individual on whom intends to perform it,” said Snape, surprisingly forthright. “Even then, one can only detect surface thoughts and emotions. For instance, I, when maintaining eye contact with another, am always aware if I am being lied to, unless, of course, the individual is a competent Occlumens himself.”

He’s like a human lie detector. Better make sure not to look at him the next time I lie.

“Can it go further, sir?”

Snape looked as though he were deliberating an answer.

“Should one wish to access deeper emotions or memories, a wand is required.”

Hmm, I wonder if Voldemort can do it. Maybe Dumbledore can, too. That can’t be good.

“How can Occlumency diminish nightmares?” Harry asked, eyes narrowed. “Do people guard their minds against themselves?”

“Interesting observation, Mr. Potter, but no. The beginnings of Occlumency help decrease sleep disturbances by proxy.”

“How?” Harry asked.

“The first step towards guarding one’s mind is to clear it, which certainly assists in preventing nightmares.”

Interesting. Sounds a bit like meditation. I cannot imagine Snape meditating, that’s just strange.

“If you would like, I would be willing to assist you in clearing your mind.”

Harry looked sharply at Snape. Whatever Snape's motives were, this offer, if it worked, was too beneficial to turn down. If the nightmares stopped, he would stop being weak and he would never have to remember any of it. But would Snape somehow gain easier access into his mind if he helped him?

“How would you teach me, sir?” Harry asked inquiringly.

Snape looked as though he understood Harry’s hesitation.

He pulled out his wand and set it on the dresser behind him before Harry had a chance to tense up.

“I will simply provide you with verbal instructions in the methods of clearing your mind, nothing more.”

Harry considered it. What could it hurt?

“Yes, sir. I would… appreciate that.”

Snape nodded once, looking, again, oddly approving.

“The first step in clearing your mind, which has proven effective for most individuals, is to envision a place in which you feel safe and calm. It may be a place you have actually been, or simply an imaginative figment. Allow the memory to conquest the mind entirely, emptying it of all other thoughts.”

Snape was standing a good few feet away from Harry’s bed, so he didn’t feel too threatened and was able to think.

A safe place? Nowhere on the streets, definitely not. Nothing at the Dursleys. A library?

At first, Harry thought it might work, but he found that he concentrated on the knowledge he had gained there instead of the comfort it brought him. That just brought him back to his discovery about Dumbledore, and the subsequent anger.

Guess it won’t be the library…

Suddenly, it came to Harry; he could’ve hit himself for not thinking of it sooner. A memory, growing gradually clearer, blossomed in his mind. A small, warm space, far away, with a small, yet comforting presence beside him…

***

Harry was eight, and he was pulling weeds in the garden in front of number four, Privet Drive. The sun beat down uncomfortably on the back of his neck, and the sound of children enjoying their free Saturday afternoon echoed behind him.

It hadn’t been long since It had happened. Harry re-experienced It nearly every night in his dreams, and even now, he was half-expecting It to happened again. He jumped at every sound, hating the fact that his chore had him facing away from the street. How would he know if someone came up behind him?

Harry yanked out another weed, jerking as the breeze caused some fallen leaves to rustle. Every sound seemed amplified, and much more sinister than usual. He began trembling, and a handful of weeds fell from his slackened grip.

That did it.

Glancing around quickly Harry got up and ran as fast as he could from the house. He knew he’d catch hell for this later, but right now, that didn’t matter. He just needed to get away.

He alternated between running and jogging until he’d run a good few miles from the neighborhood. He gradually slowed his pace, glancing around carefully. This area did not look familiar; the gutters were piled with litter, the houses were run-down, and the lawns unkempt, a far cry from the orderliness and precision of Privet Drive. He was strolling now, a good deal calmer, kicking small pebbles as he walked.

“Hey, you!” a voice called out suddenly.

Harry jumped, quickly swiveling around toward the source of the noise. He relaxed slightly when he saw that it was only a kid, a young girl, who was jogging lightly toward him. She drew closer, and Harry watched her warily. Harry guessed that she was around his age, and, although she was a bit taller and more filled out than he, she was still pretty small and scrawny, so Harry didn’t judge her to be much of a threat.

“You looking for something?” the girl asked brusquely, brushing straggly, light brown hair out of her face. Her clothes were pretty unkempt, much like Harry’s, and when she spoke, Harry could see that she was missing a front tooth.

“Who says I’m looking for anything?” Harry said defensively.

The girl looked more closely at him.

“Sometimes, I look for things too,” she said softly. “I like to find places where no one will find me. A place where I’m in charge.”

Harry something in her voice made Harry look at her more closely, meeting her eyes. They were large, and blue-gray, and they had a haunted quality that reminded Harry of himself. She gazed back at Harry unflinchingly.

Then, Harry realized, she knew. She was like him, she felt like he did. She knew how it felt to be worthless and dirty and unlovable. And Harry could tell that she saw that in him, too.

She held out a small hand.

“I’m Jade,” she said simply.

Harry slowly grasped her hand.

“Harry,” he whispered.

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“I know a place,” she said in a low voice. Harry nodded. Without releasing his hand, she ran down the street, pulling Harry along.

After a while, they reached a forest-like area. She led him through the trees, deeper and deeper, then stopped. She pointed. Harry looked up and saw what appeared to be a treehouse, though it looked as though it had been built a hundred years ago. She scampered up the tree, Harry at her heels, and they crawled inside.

Harry looked around warily. The space was small, and the wood old, but it was thick and sturdy, and the little makeshift room felt warm. Jade sat with her back against the wall, and Harry mimicked her movement. His breathing inexplicably slowed; he forgot the fear and tension of the day, and the memories of It seemed less significant. Neither Jade nor Harry spoke, but Jade’s presence felt calming. Harry knew she understood, and, with her, inside this small, wooden sanctuary, he didn’t have to hide.

Harry had come back to the treehouse with Jade quite a few times over the next few months. They’d never spoken much, but Harry knew she had it bad where she lived, as she knew of him. Jade was the first person he’d ever met that smiled at him, that didn’t look at him as though he was a dead bug. She accepted him, and she seemed to need Harry just as much as he needed her.

Having Jade helped Harry coped with It, even though It had happened a few more times. Harry was pretty sure It had happened to Jade even more often. They never spoke of It; just being near each other in the small, wooden treehouse was enough.

One day, when Harry was already nine, he couldn’t find Jade. He’d eventually found out that she’d been sent to live with her mum, though he wasn’t sure where. Harry was happy for her that she’d gotten out of her hell-hole, he really was, but now, he was alone again. The loss of Jade’s company had been the last straw that had pushed him to finally run from the Dursleys.

***

Harry let the memory of sitting with Jade in the tree house wash over him as he leaned back into his pillows. He felt little fear or suspicion, despite Snape’s presence in the room. Harry vaguely heard him murmuring instructions, to let the memory engulf him, to think of nothing else.

It was significantly easier to do than Harry had expected

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured drowsily.

He didn’t fall asleep until Snape had left the room, though.

Harry opened his eyes, slowly for once. While he had dreamed last night, he could only recall vaguely unpleasant scenes, as opposed to terrifying.

I guess that Occlumency stuff worked. I can’t figure that guy out…

Harry wasn’t sure what to think. Snape had really done him a good turn, here, conspiracy or no. Harry dressed absentmindedly, reflecting on Snape’s behavior. Was he really just trying to be helpful? Did he actually… care?

No. He can’t care. Even if he does it won’t last. It’s better to never have something than to have it and lose it.

But was it, though? While it had hurt immensely when Jade had left, it was still a comfort to know that someone had once been there for him. At any rate, the memory of her and the treehouse had helped with his nightmares.

She didn’t mean to leave me. Did my parents mean to leave me?

Harry brushed off those thoughts like an irksome fly. He was treading in dangerous waters, thinking that way. Better not to feel. He hadn’t thought about Jade in ages, it had been easier to just push the memories away. Thinking about her last night had brought it all back.

 You’re never going to see her again, so quit harping on it.

A bit later, Harry entered the kitchen and sat in his usual place. Snape looked up when he entered.

“I trust you slept well, Mr. Potter?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir. I-”

He really did help me out. Why did he do it? Why bother?

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“Thank you, for last night,” Harry said quietly, feeling awkward. Snape tilted his head slightly.

“It was no trouble, Mr. Potter. I am pleased to hear that it was of some use to you.”

Why did he do it? Why?

“Why, sir?”

Did I really just ask that?

“Why am I pleased to hear that the Occlumency was of use, or why did I teach it to you?” Snape asked, the very picture of perplexed, though Harry was pretty sure Snape knew what he meant, he just wanted Harry, for whatever reason, to vocalize his question.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek.

“Why did you help me?” he whispered, surprised that he had spoken.

Snape was looking at him calculatingly. Harry avoided his eyes. He wasn’t going to take any chances, now that he knew Snape was an Occlumens.

“As you are, presently, a child under my care, it is my duty to ensure your well-being.” Snape paused. “I had been neglecting that thus far, an oversight on my part.”

Harry narrowed his eyes.

“But… it’s not as though I was hurt or anything, sir,” Harry responded cautiously.

Snape gave him a sharp look.

“One’s well-being encompasses more than just physical health.”

Wait… What? What’s that meant to mean?

“Is that truly such a novel concept?” Snape asked, watching Harry carefully.

Harry shrugged. How was he supposed to know what the duties of adults were?

“Did your relative care nothing for you, Mr. Potter?”

No, we are not going there.

Harry shrugged again.

“Again, I would appreciate a vocal response, Mr. Potter,” Snape said sharply.

Why does it matter?

Snape was still waiting for his answer.

“Does it really matter, sir? They’re no longer alive.” Harry said, in a deliberately dispassionate tone.

Snape was watching him again.

“It very well might, Mr. Potter.”

Huh? Well, that wasn’t a question, so I don’t need to say anything.

Snape said nothing more, though he watched Harry intermittently throughout the meal. By the time he was done, Harry was more than ready to leave. He hastened to the library, all but burying himself in books in attempt to distract himself from all the irritating thoughts.

Later, on his way to the kitchen for lunch, Harry cast about for something to say to Snape, so he could avoid a repeat of that morning’s conversation.

When he sat down, Snape was studying him again, so he opened his mouth, than closed it again.

Just ask the question. If he didn’t get mad when you kicked him last night, he won’t get mad from a question.

“Sir, can I ask a question?” Harry asked tentatively.

“Certainly you may, Mr. Potter,” said Snape, one eyebrow raised.

“Does magic follow the laws of physics, sir?”

Does he even know what physics are?

Snape’s forehead creased slightly.

“Interesting question. While most wizard opt to remain ignorant of the natural sciences,” he said with a slight sneer, “according to my observations, it does. Do you have anything in particular in mind?”

“The Hover Charm, sir. How can an object defy gravity?”

“Well, Mr. Potter, can you think of any muggle objects that appear to defy gravity in a similar fashion?”

Harry thought for a moment. Airplanes? No, they didn’t just hover, they relied on a forward force as well as lift, and they were also designed to use air pressure to their advantage. The Hover Charm allowed an object of any shape to float, without necessarily moving. Then it came to him.

“Balloons, sir?”

Snape nodded at Harry, an odd expression on his face.

“Indeed, Mr. Potter. And are you aware of what allows balloons to hover in the air?”

Harry nodded. “The warm air in the balloon is less dense than the surrounding cooler air.”

Snape nodded again, looking a bit… impressed?

“Correct. The Hover Charm alters the state of the molecules of the object at which it is directed, causing them to behave in much the same way.”

“It heats them up, sir?”

“In a sense, though the object does not physically heat up. Instead, the molecules of both the object and the surrounding atmosphere are manipulated to behave as though the object has been heated to the point where its density is less than that of room-temperature air.”

Wow, interesting. So magic doesn’t defy science, it just sort of manipulates it.

“Why don’t wizards learn about this?”

Snape looked slightly scornful.

“Unfortunately, most wizards do not bother themselves to expand their knowledge in this area, as they tend to view it as quite unnecessary.”

I guess they would, because everything comes so easily, so advances in science are not that important. But, if they knew more…

“If wizards were knowledgeable of the sciences, wouldn’t they be able to create more spells?”

Snape had an unreadable expression on his face.

“They would. However, it is the best interest of both wizards and muggles alike that they remain largely ignorant. Can you think why?”

Harry thought for a moment. Then it hit him.

“They’d have too much power, sir?”

Snape inclined his head.

“Precisely, Mr. Potter. You may have heard of the saying, ‘power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.’”

And the ministry of magic is corrupt as it is…

“Yes, sir.”

“Have I provided you with a sufficient response, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded. Snape had actually given him a really good answer.

“Thank you, sir.”

They both finished their meal in silence.

Harry could scarcely believe that he’d been living with Snape for nearly three weeks and nothing terrible had happened.

Snape had continued to assist Harry with clearing his mind after that first night, but eventually, he’d been able to do it himself. Although the nightmares had by no means abated, they had lessened to a degree.

Snape continued to subtly probe Harry for answers about his relatives, and Harry had politely avoided the questions every time. Snape hadn’t let up, however, and it put Harry increasingly on edge. Even so, Harry found, against his better judgment, that he didn’t really mind Snape when he wasn’t asking questions.

Snape had begun to allow Harry regular access to the lab with supervision, which Harry definitely appreciated. He was picking up brewing skills at a steady pace, and Snape, sometimes, seemed almost pleased with his progress. All in all, Snape was being decent, and Harry could not think of any ulterior motive he might have to do so.

Maybe this is how people are supposed to act, Harry thought, his legs swinging from the tree branch he was perched upon. Snape had instructed Harry to get some fresh air before joining him in the lab because he’d had ‘little interest in reassembling his laboratory upon its demolition by hyperactive children’. Harry had all but snorted at that. As if he had ever been ‘hyperactive’. He’d obeyed, though.

He’s acting like… I don’t know. He’s not being mean, it’s like he doesn’t mind my being here.

That thought somehow bothered Harry. Was this how normal people lived? Three meals a day, nothing to worry about except keeping their things clean, with an adult who didn't-

Just stop. What’s the use? Don’t get used to this; after first year he won’t take me back, or Dumbledore will send me somewhere else when he realizes that Snape’s alright.

The thought of Dumbledore brought back a wave of fury; an echo of the rush of emotion he’d felt in the library that day. Harry shoved it away forcefully.

Just get used to the fact that nothing will ever be easy. This can’t last. Either Snape will blow up eventually, or you’ll get kicked out.

Harry kicked the branch, hard.

Damn Dumbledore, damn him for leaving me with… them.

He needed to stop thinking about this. Now. He hadn’t survived this long by dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. As a distraction, Harry wrapped his legs around the tree branch and allowed himself to dangle upside down, his torso swaying slightly. The rush of blood to his brain seemed to shove the unwanted thoughts out of the way, sweeping them away as a rushing stream might. He hung there for a while, ignoring the pounding of his head.

“Potter!”

Harry started violently, his legs losing their grip on the branch. He began to slip backwards, and just managed to grab hold of the branch with his hands. Panting slightly from his near-fall, he pulled himself back onto the branch into a sitting position, and he looked down to see the intimidating figure of Snape, who was glaring irately up at him.

Guess I spoke too soon. He’s angry now. Why, though?

 “What was the meaning of that idiotic display?” Snape snapped furiously.

Harry felt his breathing quicken.

What did I do wrong? Does he think I would break the branch or something?

“I require an answer, Potter, or do you deem it too much trouble?” Snape bit out.

What do I say? What does he want?

“I felt like it, sir,” Harry said in a clipped tone, pushing back his fear. Snape couldn’t get to him up here, anyway.

“You Felt. Like it,” Snape hissed. There was a short pause.

“Get down. Now.”

No! no no no. This is it. I dunno why he’s mad, but he’ll give it to me now. I’m not letting this happen again.

“No,” Harry said, in what he hoped was a steady tone. Snape's face grew darker.

“Did you just tell me no, Potter?”

Is that a rhetorical question?

“If you do not come down immediately, you will most certainly regret it.”

Harry didn’t move.

I won’t like the consequences whether I go down or not. At least I’m out of range, here.

Harry then saw Snape draw his wand.

Oh, god. He doesn’t need me in close range, with that.

Harry felt the fear build up rapidly, and with it, his magic. Reflexively, he shot out his palms, releasing a surge of magic that threw Snape backwards a good ten feet. Harry immediately jumped down from his branch, landing painfully on his ankle in his haste. He was pretty sure he felt a bone snap, but, at the moment, it didn’t matter.

Harry sprinted away from Snape as quickly as he could, the adrenaline masking the pain in his ankle. He ran until he hit the mist.

Damn. Effing. Wards.

In his frustration, he pounded at the barrier with his fists, and he was shoved abruptly backwards by an unseen force. Without pausing, Harry turned to the side and simply ran along the mist instead, until the exhaustion and pain began to catch up with him.

His ankle now throbbing abominably, he slowed to a stop and dropped to the ground. Harry sat there, injured left ankle splayed out in front of him, his arms wrapped around his right knee.

When he finds me, I’m dead! Dead dead dead dead- Stop the stupid shaking. Stop being scared. Stop being weak.

All too soon, as Harry knew would happen, a shadow descended over him. He raised his head with an almost agonizing slowness, his eye's stopping somewhere around Snape's torso.

Brace yourself. Don’t give him any satisfaction.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” Harry breathed. Apologies usually helped, didn’t they? Snape closed his eyes, inhaling, then looked down at Harry.

“Stand up, Mr. Potter.”

Harry attempted to stand, trying to lay as little weight on his left foot as possible. Being as exhausted as he was, however, he swayed, inadvertently landing pressure on his injured ankle. He crumpled back to the ground with a barely concealed gasp.

Harry tried not to show his pain, but he couldn’t help biting down on his lower lip, letting out an almost inaudible groan.

“You have injured yourself,” Snape said in an inscrutable tone of voice, stating more than asking.

Harry didn’t answer. What was he supposed to say?

Snape abruptly leaned down towards Harry, who stiffened, his fists clenching in expectation of what he knew was sure to come. But, instead, Snape wrapped one arm around Harry’s upper back, and the other beneath his knees, lifting him up as though he was a toddler. Snape began walking towards the house, Harry struggling in his grip.

“Remain still, Potter, or I will immobilize you,” Snape growled.

Harry immediate froze. He had no doubt that Snape would follow through on his threat.

He’s… carrying me. Why on earth would he do that?

Snape entered the house and walked to the sitting room, depositing Harry carefully on the couch. He looked Harry in the eye.

“I will tend to your injury, Mr. Potter, and you will not fight me on this.”

Harry nodded; he was exhausted, and he couldn’t run if he tried. Harry watched as Snape carefully stretched out Harry’s left leg across his lap, waving his wand over the injured ankle.

“It appears that your ankle is broken in quite a few places, undoubtedly aggravated by your foolhardy flight.” His black eyes bored into Harry, a severe expression on his face. Harry deliberately avoided his eyes. Snape pointed his wand at Harry’s foot, removing his shoe and sock. Harry looked with detached interest at his ankle, which appeared reddened and swollen, resting at an unnatural angle.

“I will perform a charm that will set the bones,” Snape said in a businesslike manner. “You may experience an odd sensation.”

Is that a euphemism for intense agony?

Snape waved his wand, and Harry felt his bones shift back into place. Surprisingly, it didn’t quite hurt, but felt strange and uncomfortable, and he suppressed a shudder. The sensation ended, leaving his ankle aching somewhat. Snape flicked his wand again, wrapping Harry’s ankle and foot in bandages. Snape then conjured a footstool, setting Harry’s foot down.

The job done, Snape focused his gaze on Harry, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, unsure of what else to say. Snape had just healed his injury, as though Harry had not just thrown him ten feet across the ground.

“For what, precisely, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked curtly. Was this Snape’s idea of a game? What kind of question was that?

Better play along.

“For using magic on you, sir.”

Snape just shook his head, forehead slightly creased.

“No, Mr. Potter, it is clear that you simply reacted out of fear, as I drew my wand and did not warn you. For that, I apologize. I was simply planning on levitating you to the ground, but I should not have attempted so in the manner that I did. That is not why I am displeased.”

He’s apologizing? What in the name of…

“For running, sir?” Running away is always bad, makes the punishment worse.

Snape just shook his head again, looking exasperated.

“Mr. Potter, while you most certainly should not have run on an injured ankle, it is clear that that too, was simply a fear response. When the situation dictates so, it is a useful attribute to react both quickly and through pain. While it is important that you know that I do not pose such danger, I cannot blame you for believing so.”

What the bloody…? So what the hell is he mad about?

Snape looked profoundly irritated.

“I will spell it out for you, Potter, as is seems you require me to do so,” he said dryly. “The reason for my displeasure was your reckless behavior in the tree.”

That’s what he’s mad about?

“Why, sir?” he had to ask.

Snape looked as though he was trying valiantly to alleviate his frustration.

“Mr. Potter, had you fallen from the ridiculous position you saw fit to assume, you might have broken your neck,” Snape hissed, leaning forward slightly.

Harry leaned back, a bit unnerved. Snape was angry because he, Harry, could have been hurt?

“Why would that matter to you, sir?”

Snape looked ready to throw something. “For the love of…” he muttered. He let out another frustrated sigh.

“Mr. Potter,” began Snape, speaking slowly and intensely. “It has become increasingly apparent to me that there has not been an adult in your life who has seen fit to ensure your welfare.”

I guess not… Should there have been?

“That has changed. I am currently responsible for your welfare, Mr. Potter, and under my care, you will not behave in a manner that puts yourself at risk.”

Okay…

Snape seemed to be waiting for something.

“Er… I won’t do it again?” Harry tried.

Snape just looked tired, now.

“You most certainly will not. If you do attempt such a foolhardy stunt again, you will not like the consequences.”

Okay. So if I do something that might cause me harm, he’ll hit me? Where’s the logic in that?

Of course, Snape recognized Harry’s confusion for what it was.

“I will reiterate, Mr. Potter, that I will not ever raise a hand or wand to you with intent to cause you harm,” Snape said in an low, intense tone, looking at Harry intently.

So what kind of consequence does he have in mind? What else is there, if he won’t hit me? Grounding is only in the movies.

“As it is, I will overlook today’s idiotic behavior. You will keep as little weight on that ankle as possible, and it should be properly healed by the morning. Do not go outside; I will escort you to the library if you wish.”

Harry nodded cautiously, allowing Snape to pull him up carefully and help him to the library. Harry felt a bit ridiculous; it wasn’t as though he’d never walked off an injury before. He couldn’t even count the amount of broken bones he’d had in his lifetime. He thought it was all entirely unnecessary, but he allowed Snape to assist him, for fear of angering him further.

Later, at dinner, to where Snape had, thankfully, allowed Harry to walk unassisted, Harry was praying to whatever higher power might exist for Snape not to question him.

No such luck.

“For exactly how long have you been consciously utilizing magic, Mr. Potter?”

That’s not such a bad question. Nothing about the Dursleys, at least. But how does he know I did it on purpose? I thought he'd assume it was accidental.

“Consciously, sir?”

Snape gave Harry a discerning look. “Mr. Potter, episodes of accidental magic do not occur in the direct manner in which you did; generally, it is quite difficult to detect the source.”

Darn it. Really? Well, I can’t lie my way out of this, he’ll know in a second.

“A few years, sir,” Harry answered carefully.

Snape raised his eyebrows.

“At exactly what age did you begin to gain control?” Snape asked.

Harry paused, thinking. It was hard to say. He’d noticed a pattern of odd things happening around him when he’d been really young, like four or five, and by the time he was six, he’d realized that those odd things were the reason the Dursleys hated him. Eventually, he’d come to the conclusion that if the Dursleys were going to hate him for it, he would give them good reason to, and he began to fight for control of his powers.

 Oh, right, he wants an answer.

“I would say at around seven or eight, sir,” Harry answered. Snape was looking at him oddly.

What?

“Is that a problem, sir?”

“Not at all, Mr. Potter. It is simply quite unusual for one as young as that to gain control of their magic.”

Well, I’d gathered it wasn’t the norm, from the books, but Snape understates everything, so it must be a lot rarer than I thought.

“What prompted you to attempt to gain control, Mr. Potter?”

Oh god, back to this.

Harry shrugged.

“A verbal answer, Potter,” Snape said sharply.

“I don’t know, sir.”

Snape looked highly skeptical, but, thankfully, said no more.

A few days later, Harry had just joined Snape in the lab, and he was skimming through the ingredients for the potion he’d been instructed to brew.

A standard size 3 brass cauldron is required… the book instructed. Harry glanced around. Most of the cauldrons he could see were pewter, and the only brass cauldron was a size two.

“Sir,” Harry called out tentatively. “This potion requires a size three brass cauldron, I don’t...”

“I believe there are spares in the storage closet,” Snape responded without looking up, pointing towards the stairs.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry walked towards the stairs, and opened a small door beneath them.

He froze.

The cupboard under the stairs.

Suddenly, Harry was no longer in Snape’s potions lab…

He was in the dark room, curled up on the bed, trembling all over. He felt simultaneously hot and cold. His breaths were coming in short gasps, and it seemed as though the room was engulfed in a thick fog. He watched through vacant eyes as money exchanged hands, words were spoken, and Uncle Vernon escorted the man with the pale hair and dark eyes out of the room.

Uncle Vernon then returned, entirely too soon, yanking Harry up by the scruff of his neck. Harry didn’t fight; he allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and down the hall.

He distantly heard Uncle Vernon yelling at him to do something; perhaps tend to the garden, clean the bathroom, wash the floors… Harry didn’t respond. He stared, unseeing, into the distance, the scene in the dark room playing in his mind, over and over again.

He felt himself being shaken. He looked up at Uncle Vernon, and thought he caught a strange expression cross his eyes fleetingly. Something akin to… guilt? The look on Uncle Vernon’s face was then rapidly replaced by a sneer of disgust. He shoved Harry into his cupboard, tossing a bottle of water in behind him.

Harry collapsed onto his flimsy mattress, and he curled up into a tight ball, biting down hard on his fist. He felt a wave of sickness crash over him, and he turned his head to the side and vomited. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gulped down some water.

As he lay there, alone in the dark cupboard, beside a pool of his own sick, his entire body shivering, he felt the first beginnings of emptiness, when he realized that what had happened in the dark room was the closest thing to love he would ever receive.

And if that was love, he wanted no part in it.

Harry was eight and a half.

Harry felt something cold splash suddenly on his face. He jumped, then looked around. He wasn’t in his cupboard, he was in Snape’s potions lab, and the man was standing in front of him, looking at him with an expression Harry couldn’t read. Snape drew slightly closer to him, and Harry immediately backed away. Snape stopped, and stepped a few paces backwards.

Harry glanced at the open door of the cupboard, then back at the room, and then at Snape.

I’m not there. I’m at Snape’s house. That doesn’t happen here.

Harry was still trembling violently, but the terror was ebbing away, slowly. He stared at the cauldrons piled in the cupboard, in attempt to ensure that it hadn’t been real.

“Mr. Potter, are you quite all right?” Snape asked him, in an unusually hesitant voice. Harry nodded jerkily, without looking at him.

“Perhaps you would like to sit down?” he asked. Harry nodded again, and, without touching Harry, Snape led him to the side room, transfiguring the wooden chair into a softer, padded seat. Harry sank into it, hunching in on himself.

What just happened? It was like I was really there…

“A calming drought, perhaps, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head quickly. No, he did not need to be drugged. Snape nodded once, and remained blessedly silent for the next few moments.

“Mr. Potter, might I ask what brought that on?” Snape then asked in a low voice. Harry was quiet for a moment. Had it been a flashback? That had never happened before, though, admittedly, the last time Harry had been in the vicinity of a cupboard like that, he’d actually been shoved into it.

“I don’t know, sir,” was all Harry could think to respond. Snape looked skeptical. “Are you quite sure you do not, Mr. Potter?”

Please, can’t he give me a break? I can’t.

“I can’t say, sir.”

Let it go. Please.

“Very well, Mr. Potter.”

Thank you thank you thank you.

They both remained in silence; Harry, seated rigidly on the chair, Snape standing, facing him, a few feet away.

Eventually, Snape spoke.

“Would you prefer to remain here, or would you like to continue with your potion?”

Yes. A distraction.

“I’d like to continue, sir.”

Snape inclined his head, gesturing for Harry to follow him out of the room. Snape walked over the cupboard, retrieving the required cauldron.

Why didn’t he just summon it?

At Harry’s questioning look, Snape said, “Anti-summoning spells, Mr. Potter. Such a restriction is necessary in a potions lab.”

Makes sense. If something was knocked over…

Snape set up Harry’s cauldron for him, and Harry began to brew. It was oddly calming, and Harry felt the vivid images of his flashback begin to fade. He noticed Snape intermittently glancing at him, and then at the cupboard, and back again.

I can’t prevent him from guessing.

Harry woke up suddenly, gasping for breath.

More effing nightmares. Stupid Occlumency didn’t work.

He wanted to tear his hair out, throw something, rip something apart, anything to distract himself from the memories. He settled for, once again, hitting the back of his head against the headboard, over and over again, hard.

Suddenly, he felt the impact buffered by a relatively soft surface. He flitted his eyes to the side. Snape had come in without Harry noticing, and he’d caught Harry’s head in his hand, preventing him from hitting it again. Harry stared at Snape, but didn’t move. Snape looked back, his gaze oddly… softer than usual. He didn’t move his hand.

The touch felt unfamiliar, but strangely… good. It didn’t hurt. They both remained in that position for a few moments, the back of Harry’s head resting in Snape’s large, calloused hand. Inexplicably, Harry’s breathing steadied, and his heart rate slowed to a calm, even pace.

Harry thought he felt Snape’s fingers card through his hair gently before he let go.

Severus was sequestered in his office, composing his next letter in response to the Belgian potions master with whom he was involved in an extended correspondence. Though Severus much preferred to work alone, this particular potions master possessed knowledge that rivaled Severus’ own, so the man was too beneficial a resource to discount. Even if the views of this particular potions master did tend to be rather… innovative¸ for lack of a better word.

To Sir Arnaud de Clercq, Severus wrote,

I wish to express my appreciation for your timely response concerning my query in regards to the improvement of the Adrenaline Draught. The contents of your previous missive have been most illuminating, particularly the information provided on the myriad beneficial effects of foxglove roots used in absorbable potions. Might I suggest, however, that although foxglove roots added in modest amount to this particular draught would indeed increase the potion’s longevity as well improve its consistency, it is likely that, due to its alkaline quality…

To his annoyance, Severus found that his thoughts persisted in wandering toward other matters; namely, the boy. It had been quite surprising to find that the boy possessed an aptitude for brewing. The child had a degree of patience and an eye for detail that few in his age group could rival.

The boy is quite intelligent. I never imagined I would think as much of a Potter.

But Severus had not been thinking of the child as his father for quite a while. Loath as he was to admit it, the child’s company was not wholly unwelcome. In fact, Severus did enjoy the verbal sparring he and the boy engaged in; it was interesting to contemplate the extent of the child’s ingenuity.

But it was not just the boy’s intelligence that had Severus wondering.

What has that boy seen in his short life?

Indeed, the child was proving to be considerably more complicated than he ever would have foreseen.

Nightmares? Flashbacks? The boy is had clearly been traumatized. Abuse, unfortunately, is all too probable.

It had been a few days since the boy’s episode in the potions laboratory, but Severus could not put it out of his mind. The sheer terror he’d seen on the child’s face was not easily forgotten. It was not ordinary childhood fear. It was the horror that had claimed the visages of the Dark Lord’s countless victims. It was the fear of a grown man who had long despaired of any hope of salvation.

The child needs more- deserves more- than I can provide for him. I am not equipped to deal with a young trauma victim. My mere presence bears the capacity to terrify adolescents into submission. How can I provide such a child with the safe environment he so desperately requires?

Severus had endeavored to draw the boy out on many occasions, in attempt to gain an inkling of what the boy had gone through, but the child was, quite understandably, resistant to his overtures.

I am not the person for this job. But who is the right person? The wizarding world is woefully ignorant of the psychological ramifications of… most anything.  

Severus was pulled out of his thoughts when a Patronus in the form of a phoenix appeared before him.

“Would you be so kind as to avail your home to my presence at eight o’clock this evening? I wish to discuss with you some matters regarding your uocoming NEWT level class,” Dumbledore’s voice spoke from the Patronus. Sighing, Severus gave his consent, and the Patronus vanished.

Coming NEWT classes, my foot. He wishes to ascertain that I’ve not yet throttled the boy.

Severus rolled his eyes as he bottled the completed potion. He climbed up the stairs to the kitchen, finding the prepared lunch from the elves arranged on the table as usual. He sat, and, like clockwork, the boy entered the kitchen and sat in his usual place, avoiding Severus’ eyes. For a few moments, all that could be heard was the clinking of silverware.

Severus cleared his throat. The child looked up warily, and Severus could just detect the anxiety hidden beneath the his blank mask.

“Professor Dumbledore will be paying a visit at eight o’clock this evening. I felt it prudent that you be forewarned, as I’ve no doubt he’d like to speak with you.”

Severus saw the boy’s face turn stony upon his mention of Dumbledore. Severus narrowed his eyes.

“Do you find that objectionable, Mr. Potter?”

The boy looked up, his face perfectly blank, save his eyes, which were smoldering.

“No, sir. May I go?” the boy asked in a flat tone.

Severus frowned. “You’ve eaten very little.”

The boy’s face tightened. “I’m done.”

Severus paused a moment. Clearly, the boy was nearing the end of his rope, however masterfully he was hiding it.

“Very well.”

The boy left the room as quickly as he could without running, and, by the sound of it, went outside.

The boy did not appear to be particularly uninclined toward Albus’ presence when he first arrived. He has more reason to dislike me than the headmaster. What has changed?

Harry tried to push back the anger burning inside of him as he sat on the branch of his tree, upright this time. The nerve Dumbledore had, showing up. Harry doubted he’d be able to remain civil toward the man when he arrived.

He’s really coming to see if his plan is working. And when he finds out it’s not, he’ll take me away. Unless Snape really is part of the plot…

But the longer Harry was around the man, the less likely it seemed. Snape really did seem to, dare he say it, care, at least sometimes.

Maybe he won’t let Dumbledore take me away…Yeah, right. You’re an idiot. Of course he will. He might be a decent guy, but he doesn’t want me here. He’ll be glad to get rid of me.

And it came to Harry, just then, that he didn’t want to go. He liked living here. He liked the food, the books, and brewing potions. He even liked the fact that Snape helped him with his nightmares, loath as he was to admit it. And even when the man was angry, he had never hurt Harry, aside from that time in the library. And even then, he hadn’t really done it deliberately.

Just let Dumbledore try to take me…

But Harry knew, despite his abilities, that Dumbledore was far more powerful than he, and if Dumbledore wanted something, he would get it, no matter what Harry had to say about the matter.

In the end, I’m powerless. Dumbledore controls everything. He’s got the entire magical population of Britain in his pocket, according to the books, anyway. Next to him, I haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell.

In a moment of defiance, Harry jumped down from the branch, but he landed correctly, this time, avoiding an injury.

Read books. Now. Must stop thinking.

Harry hastened to the library, grabbing hold of the book he was in middle of, almost frantically.

Hmm… The five exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration… Limits. That’s what hopped-up, oh so powerful, conceited bastards who don’t know how to mind their own effing business need.

Harry read on, the topic providing a brief distraction.

Exceptions of transfiguration…

Food can’t be created from nothing or transfigured from any random object. Guess that makes sense, it would be too easy otherwise. Though it would’ve been helpful…  Good thing money can’t be transfigured or created, or anything of value really. The economy would completely fall apart. The wizarding world would turn into some sort of anarchy. I guess nothing of real substance can be created with magic. So even if someone did create food, it wouldn’t really sustain them. Water can be conjured, but water is really part of the atmosphere, so the magic just changes the state of it. So you can basically transfigure something into something else of equal value or substance, but that’s about it. So here’s more proof that magic works with physics; nothing is created or destroyed, just altered. Even when things are conjured, it looks like molecules are brought together, not created it out of nothing.

This stuff really was fascinating.

Better get a wand before I test it out. Who knows what might happen, otherwise. How will I get a wand, anyway? Maybe Snape will take me to get it. I swear, I’m not going anywhere with Dumbledore.

The anger was back, now.

The boy showed up for dinner, promptly as always, but, again, picked at his food. Severus watched out of the corner of his eye, somewhat distastefully, as the boy pushed his food around his plate.

“As you ate little at lunch, surely you have regained some appetite, Mr. Potter?” Severus asked the boy after a few moments of witnessing the mutilation of perfectly good food.

The boy finally looked up then, and Severus was almost startled- no, perturbed the see the sheer anger on his face before the expression cleared into a mask of cool indifference.

“I suppose I haven’t, sir,” the boy answered, the very picture of politeness.

I cannot overlook this any longer. But I cannot force him to eat, either. Most likely, he will fail to understand why it is of my concern.

Severus sighed. “Nonetheless, Mr. Potter, food is a requirement, and I will ask that you simply attempt to consume an acceptable portion.”

The boy looked at him again, a hard expression on his face. “I prefer not to, sir.”

How dare the boy defy me-! Do not lose your calm. The child does not respond positively to anger, as you well know.

Severus took a moment to regain control, then spoke again.

“That was not a request, Mr. Potter,” he said smoothly.

The child’s teeth were clenched.

“It sounded like one, sir,” the boy replied in a clipped tone.

Severus clenched a fist, but his expression remained much the same.

“Allow me to rephrase it. You will consume adequate serving of the meal set before you.”

The boy was now unsuccessfully attempting to hide his anger.

“And if I refuse?” he bit out.

Damn, I was hoping it would not come to this. What am I to do? Sweet Merlin, I am not qualified to care for children in this capacity, especially not traumatized, underweight children who cannot do with another missed meal.

Severus took several deep breaths.

“What is troubling you, Mr. Potter?’

The boy looked momentarily unsettled, as Severus knew he would, before schooling his expression.

“Nothing, sir.” The boy replied flatly.

Severus raised his eyebrows.

“Oh? I beg to differ, Mr. Potter. It is quite clear to me that Professor Dumbledore’s coming visit has upset you in some way.”

To his credit, the child did not attempt to deny it; it seemed he knew when he had been cornered. He shifted his eyes away from Severus, not speaking.

“Would you care to expound upon your apparent aversion toward the headmaster?” Severus asked.

The boy was silent for a moment.

“No, sir.”

“That is not an acceptable answer, Mr. Potter.”

“Then I don't have one, sir.”

I cannot win, Severus realized. Short of Legilimency, which is certainly not an option here, I cannot insist he enlighten me, nor can I force-feed the boy.

“I will not insist you provide me with an explanation. However, you will not leave this table until you have eaten. The choice is yours.”

Severus watched the boy carefully. The child was clearly experiencing more difficulty than usual in concealing his emotions. The boy’s teeth were clenched, his muscles taut, and his eyes wide. After a moment, the boy lifted his fork and, with a sullen air, shoved a few bites of food in his mouth. Severus did not comment on the boy’s lack of manners. At least he had obeyed.

In truth, his defiant attitude is not a bad thing. It shows that he does not fear me quite so much. Perhaps I have done something right.

One the boy had consumed about half of the food on his plate, he set down his fork.

“May I be excused, sir?’ the boy asked monotonously. Severus nodded his acquiescence. “You may, though I will expect your presence in the sitting room at eight.”

The boy nodded, then hurried off in the direction of the library.

At eight o’clock on the dot, Albus emerged from the fireplace, dusting ash from his mercifully navy robes.

“Ah, Severus, how good of you to have me,” said Albus, in far too cheerful a tone.

“Do have a seat, Albus,” said Severus stiffly.

This will not go well.

He tried to warn Albus with his eyes, and the irritating twinkle in Albus’ eyes appeared to dim ever so slightly. Other than that, however, he gave no indication that he had understood.

The boy entered the room just then, and Severus pointed toward the seat opposite the couch on which Albus was seated. The boy kept his head down, but sat, his hands in fists.

There was a long moment of silence.

You have been warned, Albus. On your own head be it.

“Harry, it is good to see you again,” said Albus amicably. The boy jerked his head slightly, but did not respond. Albus chose not take the hint.

“How have you and Severus been faring, Harry?”

The boy still refused to speak; the expression on his face was stony, and his eyes appeared almost glacial.

I would have to intervene. Of course.

“Mr. Potter, it is customary to treat guests with a modicum of courtesy. Do provide Professor Dumbledore with a response,” Severus said sharply.

The boy’s eyes glanced toward him for a moment, then he looked at Albus.

“Adequately, sir,” the boy said shortly.

“Good to hear, good to hear,” said Albus, paying no heed to the boy’s rudeness. He seemed to understand that the child would not be saying anymore, however, and he rose.  

“Severus, I would like to discuss your coming NEWT class, as I mentioned…”

Severus inclined his head, and rose as well. He looked down at the boy, who remained seated in the same rigid position.

“We will return shortly, Mr. Potter, so it is best you remain here. You may peruse the books you find on the shelves if you wish.”

The boy nodded, and Severus left the room with Albus and they entered Severus’ office.

“How has Harry been doing, Severus?”

At least he’s no longer hiding behind the pretext of discussing my NEWT classes. That is something.

“Quite adequately, to quote the boy,” replied Severus dryly.

“The two of you have been getting along, I trust?” Albus’ eyes twinkled.

“Well enough, I suppose,” Severus admitted grudgingly. “The boy is most unlike his father”

Instead of twinkling, Albus looked suddenly serious. “Have you drawn any conclusions as to explain the boy’s behavior?”

“The boy is reticent,” Severus said slowly. “He says very little, and any conclusions I may have drawn have been gleaned primarily from what he hasn’t said.”

Albus tilted his head slightly, raising his sliver eyebrows.

“The boy suffers from recurring nightmares. Rather intense ones, I might add.”

Albus sighed. “Have you…?”

“I have provided the boy with instructions of the rudimentary aspects of Occlumency. It is not just his nightmares, however… The boy had clearly been traumatized in some manner, though I cannot be certain as to how.”

Dumbledore closed his eyes, looking defeated. “I must say, I suspected as much when I first met the boy. He is not a child, really. It is clear that he has seen far too much. The look in his eyes…”

Severus’ eyes narrowed. “It is clear that the muggles, at the very least, were not fit guardians for the boy.”

If he knew and did nothing…

Albus looked as pained as Severus had ever seen him. “I did not know, Severus. Undoubtedly, the child’s experiences resulted from extreme negligence on my part, I readily admit.”

Severus’ nostrils flared.

“I was trying to protect him.” Albus spoke in barely more than a whisper.

And that worked out admirably, did it not?

But he knew it was true. Dumbledore had been attempting to protect the boy, as badly as it had turned out. If Severus thought on it, he was just as much to blame as Dumbledore.

I knew the boy was being sent to the muggles. I also knew Petunia Evans, who clearly feared magic and despised those who practiced it. The jealousy, coupled with the fear, would not have endeared her to the boy. I should have known.

Harry sat stiffly on his chair, shredding a blank piece of parchment he’d procured from the library earlier. He didn’t bother to eavesdrop on Snape and Dumbledore this time. He knew what was going on.

Dumbledore’s taking me away. Right now, he’s giving Snape the whole rundown about why it’s necessary. Dunno if Snape knows the real truth or not.

Despite the fact that, in a few moments, it would no longer matter, Harry hoped that Snape did not.

I hate Dumbledore. I hate him worse than the Dursleys. I hate him more than Jade’s stepdad. I hate him more than… no, I hate that guy more. But still, Dumbledore comes close. When I know more magic, he’ll never know what hit him.

Harry shoved the handful of shredded parchment into his pocked. He really wanted to toss them on the floor, but that would be an idiotic move, as angry as he was. He kicked the leg of his chair, hard, but all that accomplished was to send a shooting pain up his foot. A few moments later, Snape and Dumbledore walked back in. Harry immediately stood; he wasn’t going to go without a fight.

Harry carefully tracked the movements of both men with his eyes, his body poised for flight. Dumbledore turned toward Harry, and he braced himself.

Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling, the surrounding wrinkled skin them narrowing them into slits. It was funny how benign those eyes had seemed when Harry had first met Dumbledore.

He’s evil.

“Harry, it is so good to see that you and Severus have been getting along.”

What?

Dumbledore walked closer, holding out a hand. Harry stumbled backward.

Yeah, right, he want to shake my hand. It’s just a ploy to drag me off somewhere. Oldest trick in the book.

Harry kept his eyes on Dumbledore, refusing to take the proffered hand. He could not read Dumbledore’s expression, but, surprisingly, Dumbledore dropped his hand and walked toward the fireplace.

“Thank you very much for you hospitality, Severus. I will be taking my leave now.”

He smiled at Harry again, and Harry glared back. Dumbledore scooped up handful of the powder by the fireplace, floo powder, as Harry recalled, tossed it into the fire, and vanished in a flash of green flame.

He left? That’s it? He’s not taking me? What’s his game?

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned quickly. Snape was still standing there, and he did not look pleased.

“Would you care to explain your behavior?” Snape asked sharply.

Harry did not pretend to misunderstand. But what could he say? He opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head slightly.

Snape sighed, his expression softening minutely.

“Mr. Potter, I assure you, there is nothing to fear from Professor Dumbledore.”

Am I giving off that impression? Not good.

Harry straightened his shoulders.

“I don’t fear him, sir. I just don’t like him.”

Snape looked disbelieving, but he didn’t voice his sentiments.

“Whatever your feelings are, Mr. Potter, Professor Dumbledore is your elder, and your future headmaster. You are therefore obligated to be respectful.”

Harry nodded shortly. It wasn’t as though he could tell Snape the truth. And he was just confused, now. Had he miscalculated? Maybe Dumbledore had an entirely different plan, or maybe he was just luring Harry into a false sense of security. Or maybe…

Harry jumped slightly when Snape cleared his throat. Harry looked up to see Snape peering at him oddly.

“A verbal response, Mr. Potter.”

Oh, right. He has this thing about verbal answers…

“Yes, sir.”

Snape spoke again.

“When you begin your schooling, Mr. Potter, there may very well be professors with whom you feel you cannot contend. Nonetheless, if you wish to avoid loss of house points or detention, you will be required to show respect.”

I show teachers respect because I want to avoid unnecessary trouble. I don’t need to give adults a reason to be angry at me. But Dumbledore already has it out for me, so why should I bother?

“Yes, sir.”

The anger was gone now. Harry felt tired. Drained. Empty.

It was safer that way.

Harry pushed his food around his plate discreetly. It was funny, really, how quickly the novelty of three meals a day had worn off. Just over a month of regular meals, and food was almost routine. He simply had no appetite. He felt restless, and his mind was racing with thoughts he could have done without. Harry forced himself to eat a bit, anyway, so Snape wouldn’t harp on his eating habits yet again.

Thankfully, it seemed Snape was ignoring him, for once. He seemed rather preoccupied. It appeared that Snape was in the midst of composing a letter, so he too wasn’t eating much.

Hypocrite.

Not that Harry minded. He wanted to be left alone; the thoughts whirling around his head would have undoubtedly made it far too difficult for him to speak.

Snape set down his fork, and Harry mimicked him, relieved.

“Will you be joining me in the laboratory today, Mr. Potter?” asked Snape, scratching out something with his quill.

Harry though for a moment. He would’ve liked to, but the way he was feeling right now, he’d most likely end up exploding something.

I need to get out of here.

“No thank you, sir. I’d prefer not, today.”

“As you wish.” Snape nodded to Harry and strode out of the room, flicking his wand behind him to clear away the dishes.

Harry went outside and starting walking aimlessly, more in attempt to escape than to reach a destination. But from what he was escaping, he wasn’t sure.

Why am I… feeling so much? I never did, before.

It was true. It had been so easy not to care about anything when he’d lived on the streets; he had been more focused on survival. But now, the confusion he felt about Snape’s civil treatments of him, combined with his fury at Dumbledore, was proving to be difficult to process. There was fear there, too, that Snape would start hating him again, or would leave or throw him out. And that led to more fury at Dumbledore, who was the real reason Harry had cause to fear being taken away in the first place. In more ways than one, too.

I hate that man.

It was too much. The anger, the hatred, and the fear that Dumbledore would take Harry away in attempt to set the next scene in Harry’s miserable life. And when he though too hard about the scenes past… all masterfully assembled into a word perfect cabaret, thanks to the tireless efforts of its producer… I give you, Albus Dumbledore! And let’s not forget to mention our star… but wait, he mustn’t be made aware… It is for his own good, after all. For the good of all the wizarding world…  

Harry wanted to scream, but at the same time, he wanted to curl up somewhere and just give up. He’d never escape this anger, this misery…

Harry felt his limbs tremble. Without another pause, he ran as fast as he could around the grounds. He ran, and kept running even when his muscles began to complain bitterly. He continued even when he had no breath left, and he only stopped when his legs gave out entirely.

Harry sat where he’d fallen, surrounded by warm grass and fallen leaves, catching his breath. That had helped a bit. He felt drained, his muscles slack, and the flurry of emotion had diminished.

So, apparently I miscalculated. I thought Dumbledore would take me away when he found that Snape was alright, but he didn’t. So what will be his next move? I can’t really detect a pattern. He left me with the Dursleys, so he must have known about everything that went on there. But if he didn’t want me to have anyone at all so I’d only trust him, why didn’t he prevent me from seeing Jade? Maybe he didn’t know about her? Wait, maybe he caused her to leave… But that doesn’t really fit, considering the circumstances. He can’t be in control of the normal world, too.  It didn’t seem that he knew I lived on the streets, either, from the way he was talking when he found me. So that would imply that he wasn’t keeping such close tabs on me… but that doesn’t fit if he’s trying to control everything. Damn, none of this makes sense.

Harry gave it up as a bad job, then went inside to shower before lunch. 

Later, when Harry sat down to dinner, he filled his plate, finding himself hungry for a change. It seemed that his earlier sprint was just catching up with him now. 

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry tensed, and looked up through his fringe.

Snape had an odd expression on his face. It was almost… discomfited.

“Might I inquire as to which subjects do you anticipate enjoying upon your start at Hogwarts?”

Oh. He’s trying to make conversation? And he’s not too comfortable with that, either. May as well answer.

“I expect I’ll enjoy potions, sir.”

Snape nodded.

“Indeed. It seems you possess a certain aptitude for the subject.” Snape paused for a moment.

He just gave me an outright compliment. Any moment now, a green pig will fly into the room, on golden wings, no doubt. Wait… are there magical flying pigs?   

“Did you perhaps enjoy chemistry in your previous institute of learning, Mr. Potter?” Snape’s voice jerked Harry out of his musings.

Institute of learning? Interesting way to put it. I’d say it was more of a warehouses for idiots, with the occasional individual possessed of a brain allowed admission so the standardized testing average met the government standards…

“I did, sir.”

Snape seemed to be studying him carefully.

Gosh, what did I say now?

“I assume you have procured some level of knowledge as to the aspects of the other classes offered at Hogwarts?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause.

Oh, he wants me to tell him what other classes I like.

“It’s difficult to say, sir, but I think I might enjoy transfiguration.”

“It is indeed quite a fascination subject, though widely considered one of the more difficult magical disciplines.”

That would make sense, considering that you’re changing an object’s original state.

Snape was watching him carefully again.

What?

“Were you informed of your magical abilities by your previous guardians, or did you simply discover them unaided?”

Of course. I should have realized. He was just trying to find an opening to question me about them. I can’t lie, though, he’ll know. But anyway, what does it matter if I say the truth? Who cares? He won’t use it against me, I don’t think. How could he, anyway?

“They never told me, sir.”

“As I suspected,” Snape murmured.

Why would he suspect that?

“I think they were afraid of it, sir.”

Why did I say that?

Snape was studying him again. “It is a common human tendency to fear that which one does not understand, or cannot control.”

At that, Harry looked up at Snape’s face. There was a strange glimmer in his dark eyes. Of understanding?

He knows. He probably had a non-magical parent or something who hated him for his magic.

Harry did not know how he knew that, but judging by the look in Snape’s eyes, he knew it was true.

Snape was looking at him calculatingly. “You realize, Mr. Potter,” he said slowly, “that the irrational views of others dictate nothing of your intrinsic value.”

It was all Harry could do not to gape at Snape.

Harry was in the library, but he could not have repeated what he’d read; he was too distracted.

The irrational views of others dictate nothing of your intrinsic value…

Was Snape, in his own, subtle way, trying to tell Harry that he was worth something? Did Snape really think that of Harry, or did he want Harry to believe that of himself? Maybe he was just trying to make Harry think it was true, but then later… no. At this point, Harry truly did not believe that Snape was trying to trick him. Snape had no reason to lie about that sort of thing, anyway. Harry may not have known the man for very long, but he knew him well enough to know that Snape was not the sort of person to spout comforting lies, or to offer false compliments or platitudes.

But what does it bloody matter if I have value as a person, or if Snape thinks I do, or wants me to believe I do? What’s it worth, anyway? It doesn’t change anything. How would he even know that I’m worth something? I bet if he knew what really went on, he wouldn’t think so. He doesn’t know… And anyway, considering that I’m the so-called Boy-Who-Lived, and that Dumbledore’s a control freak, I’ll never be left alone. At least on the streets I was in charge. I’m destined for misery. It’s a fact. Self-worth or whatever makes no difference when nothing else is worth it.

Harry slammed his book shut with unwarranted force and headed to his bedroom. He was feeling nearly as tense as he had outside, before he’d gone for that run. In short, angry motions, Harry undressed and went into the shower, turning the tap to the highest temperature. He stood under the flowing water, feeling it scalding his back and scalp. It hurt, but it was a good kind of pain. It was from an outside source that he could turn off if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. The water felt good, as though its heat was washing away some of his raging emotions, absorbing the heat of his rage into its own.

After a long while, Harry exited the shower and toweled off, the cloth aggravating his reddened, tender skin. He wrapped the towel around his waist, still feeling anxious and on edge, though the fury had left him. He stared into the bathroom mirror, his tired, flushed face staring back at him.

They say externals mirror what’s inside. Is there something wrong with me on the outside that would somehow explain everything that’s gone wrong? Was everyone justified in doing what they did because I deserved it?

Harry examined his face carefully; he’d never really taken the time to look at himself properly before. Thick black hair, messy, but otherwise ordinary. Almond-shaped green eyes, the color unusual, but certainly normal. His nose was an average size, and his lips were pink, if a bit white around the edges. His face appeared drawn and slightly pale, and his eyes were shadowed, but wasn’t that how most people looked when they were tired? His skin wasn’t green, he had ten fingers and toes, and his facial features were all properly positioned.

If how I look doesn’t say anything, it must be something so deep inside me that’s gone bad that my body can’t properly translate it… Snape said that the views of others don’t define my value. But if that’s the case, than why is it that almost everyone sees something wrong with me? The Dursleys, all the neighbors, the kids in school, the people on the streets… It can’t just be my magic, because Dumbledore… and I’m the bloody Boy-Who-Lived… But Jade didn’t think I was bad…

Harry clenched his eyes shut against those thoughts. Jade was gone, so it didn’t matter. That only left Snape. And Snape was a mystery who made no sense at all.

Harry turned away from the mirror, feeling a pit growing in his stomach. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled on his pajamas. He left the bathroom and climbed into bed, shoving his dagger under his pillow as he curled up beneath his blankets. He attempted to calm himself, to think of and care about nothing, the way he used to, but he had poor results. His mind was racing, and he could almost hear the beat of his heart.

Find your safe place…

Harry’s thoughts immediately went to Jade. Memories involving her were the only ones that felt safe…

***

Harry was in the treehouse, waiting for her. He knew she would be there. Sure enough, he heard the rustling of leaves and a faint scraping sound, and Jade soon entered the treehouse. Her eyes were red, and her face was streaked with tears.

What? Jade never cried.

“You’re crying,” Harry said, feeling a bit out of his depth. Jade rolled her eyes, and Harry felt slightly relieved to see that she was still her normal self.

“You have a black eye,” she said in the same flat tone Harry had used. Harry smiled a bit, as if to say, touché.

He looked at Jade expectantly, though he knew better than to ask her straight out what was wrong.

Jade wiped her face with her sleeve. “I hate him,” she said in a low voice. Harry nodded. He could guess the rest.

Jade shrugged of her backpack, which she often carried with her, though Harry noticed that it was heavier than usual.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked. Jade smiled, just a bit. “Stuff.”

Jade first pulled out a water bottle and a brown paper bag and handed it to Harry. Harry nodded his thanks, gulping down some water. For some time now, Jade had taken to bringing Harry food and drinks, as she knew he was never given much of it. At least her bastard of a stepdad didn’t care what she ate.

“So what else is in the bag?” Harry asked, once he finished wolfing down the food she’d brought him. Jade pulled out some pens and a pad of paper from her backpack, ripping off the topmost sheet, and handing it to Harry. She grabbed a pen and leaned over the pad, penning out an image with such force that she nearly poked a hole through the paper.

“Draw whoever you hate,” Jade said, without looking up.

Harry gave her an odd look.

“What am I gonna do with it? Frame it and hang it on my wall?” Harry muttered.

Jade laughed a bit, and pulled a small object from her bag. A lighter.

Harry stared, a slow smile appearing on his face as he realized what she meant for them to do.

“Where did you get that?” Harry breathed, slightly awed.

“Nicked it from Ed’s desk.”

She bent her head back over her paper, shoving a pen toward Harry. He poised it over his paper, thought for a moment, then began to draw.

A short while later, when they were done, Jade grasped the lighter and made as if to set the paper alight.

“Wait!” Harry called out, a bit frantically. “You’ll set the whole treehouse on fire.”

Jade pulled out another water bottle. “We can put it out before it spreads,” she shrugged, a slightly manic look in her eyes.

“Still,” Harry said. “It’s better if we do it outside.”

Jade nodded in agreement, her expression clearing a bit. “I shoulda thought of that. Guess I was a bit too…” she trailed off. 

They climbed down the tree and cleared a small area of the woods from fallen leaves and branches. Carefully, they both set their papers down. Jade pressed her thumb down on the lighter, and a small flame rose out of it. She then held it against the eerily detailed drawing of the face she so hated, watching as the flame slowly began to spread. She handed the lighter to Harry, who’d drawn two faces; one of Uncle Vernon, and the other of that man he despised more than life itself.

They both watched with grim satisfaction as the flames consumed the faces of their tormentors.

***

Harry drifted off into an uneasy sleep. His dreams seemed engulfed in burning reddish flames, images rising in and out of them. Jade. Snape. Dumbledore. That man…

Harry awoke abruptly, a bit after six. His dreams, while unlike his usual nightmares, had unnerved him. The flames had seemed so real that he felt hot thinking about them. Harry then realized he was sweating rather profusely.

Odd. It’s like the fire was real…

Harry took a cold shower, as though in attempt to put out the flames. The irony of his actions wasn’t lost on him. A scalding shower last night to absorb the raging heat he’d felt inside, and now a cold shower to wash away the heat on the outside…

Fire’s an interesting element, Harry mused, his thoughts somewhat fragmented. Destructive. But could the earth manage without it? Probably not. Fire can destroy, but it can purify, too. If it doesn’t first destroy what it means to cleanse. Some things are beyond cleansing, anyhow. Some things are better off destroyed.

Dry and dressed, Harry made his way downstairs. It was too early for breakfast, so he went to the library. He didn’t feel like eating, anyway.

Harry settled in his favorite armchair, not even bothering to open a book. He stared at the wall. He felt a bit… vacant. Exhausted. As though he’d been running miles and miles and just couldn’t go on anymore. There was a faint ache in his chest, and Harry felt hard-pressed to even twitch a finger.

Get a hold of yourself. Pull it together. You have to be prepared, don’t sit here like a useless lump.

But for all his self-admonitions, Harry just couldn’t bring himself to care.

After a while of staring, Harry rose and walked toward the tall windows of the library, almost unaware of what he was doing. He then realized what had drawn him to it.

It’s raining.

It was storming, actually, and Harry could hear occasional rolls of thunder booming in the distance. The sound of raindrops hitting the ground wasn’t masked however, and something about it felt soothing. Almost transfixed, Harry left the library and walked through the front door. He felt large droplets land heavily on his head, his shoulders, his face. He stood in place for a while, his body soon becoming entirely soaked.

The rain is putting out the fire… But is it too late? Has it already been destroyed?

Harry walked toward his tree and sat beneath it, his arms wrapped around his knees. The leaves of the tree somewhat muted the steady assault of water.

Water. It’s the opposite of fire. But the same, in some ways. It can burn, too. And destroy. And purify. But not me…

Harry felt raindrops streaming down his face, almost like tears. But they weren’t tears. Harry couldn’t cry, he hadn’t done so in years, not since the day he’d realized the extent of its futility.

He sat under the tree a while longer, until he heard rustling. He looked up. Snape was walking towards him, his billowing cloak growing steadily damper. Harry tensed.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry relaxed slightly. Snape didn’t sound particularly angry. Concerned, perhaps?

“Come.”

Harry considered it for a moment, then rose. Snape, almost hesitantly, laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder to lead him toward the house. Harry shrunk away from the touch. It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly; he’d known for some time now that Snape’s touch wasn’t dangerous. If anything, it made Harry feel warm inside, as though he was being ensconced in a thick blanket. But Harry could not accept that sort of comfort. Not now.

When they walked through the front door, Snape waved his wand around himself, drying his robes.

“You as well, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shrugged.

For once, Snape didn’t request a verbal answer. He waved his wand around Harry, whose clothes felt abruptly dry and warm. It made his throat ache. Harry swallowed, trying to rid himself of the sensation. It didn’t help.

“Breakfast, Mr. Potter.” Snape swept toward the kitchen, and Harry followed him. They both sat down to eat, and silence ensued for the next few moments.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said suddenly. “Do you enjoy a thorough soaking while fully clothed?”

Harry stiffened. “I like rain,” he responded defensively.

Snape nodded, his eyes on Harry. “Have you been made aware of the potential hazard of positioning oneself beneath a tree in the midst of a thunderstorm?”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

Seriously?

“Statistically, sir, it’s unlikely that that particular tree would be directly hit by lightning.”

And at this point, I wouldn’t care if it was.

“While that may be true, Mr. Potter, the ability to exercise caution is a worthy attribute.”

That depends…

Harry, however, said what he figured Snape wanted to hear.

“I’ll exercise caution during future thunderstorms, sir.”

Snape inclined his head, his lips twitching ever so slightly. “Join me in the laboratory after lunch.”

While stirring his potion, a Swelling Solution, this time, Harry stared into the thick, but oddly, almost translucent substance. He could see his reflection staring back at him, looking as blank and tired as he felt.

Stir six time clockwise…

Harry watched his reflection distorting as he stirred. It seemed eerie, now, but he couldn’t tear away his gaze.

Allow potion to simmer on a low flame for four minutes…

While he waited, a realization slowly began to dawn on him, while Dumbledore’s face drifted across his consciousness.

He can’t do anything if I’m no longer around…

Harry, almost reverently, reached a hand into his pocket to finger a small, metal object. He could almost see the glint of his sharp, ever-faithful dagger. A sudden sense of calm washed over him.

Just in case…

Abnormal… Worthless… Useless… Boy! You open your mouth, and there’ll be hell to pay…

No… nooo…

Starve on the streets for all I care… Filthy little runt! That’ll teach you to nick food from my shop…

No… Stop…

I’ll knock your bloody teeth out… I’ll have none of your freakishness in my home… Needs to stay locked in like a rabid animal…

Lovely little lad you’ve got there… I am willing to negotiate…

Noooo…

That little girl? What was ‘er name, some sorta color? Oh, she left ‘ere a few days back, or, weeks, was it? Went to live with ‘er mum…

“Mr. Potter!”

“No… Stop…”

A hand is shaking his shoulder…

“Stop… Get off… No!”

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry jerked awake, gasping for air, to see Snape hovering over him. Harry’s breathing slowed a bit, but he turned his head away, squeezing his eyes shut, biting down hard on his lip

Weak, pitiful... Why does he have to see me like this?

Harry felt Snape’s hand settle on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly, but didn’t pull away. He lay there silently, then stiffened in surprise when Snape reached out with his other hand, slowly, to prise Harry’s lower lip from between his teeth. He allowed it, a bit bemusedly, feeling oddly calmed by the gesture.

“Did you attempt to clear your mind before bed, tonight?” Snape’s tone wasn’t accusing, just inquiring.

Harry shuddered, closing his eyes. “Didn’t help,” he whispered.

I’m so utterly pathetic.

“That is not an uncommon occurrence, Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up again. Snape was standing in the same position, his hand still resting on Harry’s shoulder, an unreadable expression on his face. “Would you perhaps like some assistance?”

No. I should be able to do it myself. Makes me weak if I need help. I am weak. Pathetic. Useless. Vernon was right about that…

“Mr. Potter?”

“N-no, no thank you, sir.”

Snape, for a moment, looked as though he wanted to object. He just sighed, however, and stepped back. “Very well. Do not hesitate to seek out my assistance, should you need it.”

Harry nodded, and Snape, after another long, contemplating look, turned and swept from the room.

Harry felt an odd sense of loss as he watched Snape go. He shoved his hand under his pillow to clench a fist around the handle of his dagger. His hand trembled.

I wonder what it would be like, Harry thought idly, leading back into his armchair, if I didn’t have to deal with any of this, anymore.

What would it be like not to feel anything, not to worry about anything, not to care? An existence without pain or fear, simply cool blankness.

What about the opposite? Like happiness or pleasure?

But emotions like that were out of reach for him, he just knew. The best he could hope for, or imagine, was neutrality.

I never asked to be born, I never asked for any of this. Yet people seem to think that they can do with me whatever they please, like I’m their personal property. It’s never going to end. If it’s not Vernon, it’s that man. If it’s not him, it’s Dumbledore. And even if I got away from him, someone else would just take over. If they won’t go away, I’ll have to.

Harry looked up vaguely, and noticed that it was already over five minutes past lunchtime. He didn’t care.

I’m not hungry, and no one can make me eat. No one. I can do whatever I please.

Harry hunched back further into his seat, trying to focus on the book he’d had resting on his lap for the past hour and a half.

…Nonverbal spells require not only a level of magical power and prowess, but a strong focus and understanding of the workings of the spell being cast is vital for success as well. It is for that reason that nonverbal spells are generally not attempted until the start of NEWT level-

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry purposefully kept his head down, his eyes trained on the next passage.

-NEWT level studies. It has been found that those who are practiced in the mind magics, or, as discovered in a more recent study, learned in the musical arts, tend to-

“You will look at me when I speak to you, Potter,” said Snape sharply.

Harry stiffened, then looked up reluctantly. Snape did not look pleased.

“Yes, sir?” he asked in a flat tone.

Snape looked as though he was searching himself for the last vestiges of patience he possessed. “It is nearly ten minutes past lunchtime. I am quite certain you are aware.”

“I’m not hungry, sir.”

 Snape’s face tightened. “Nonetheless, you will eat. Come.”

“I’d rather not, sir,” Harry replied, eyes on Snape’s left shoulder. He started slightly when he saw the shoulder tighten. He looked towards Snape’s face.

“Have I given you the impression that that was a request?” he said, in a slightly dangerous tone.

Why can’t he just let me be?

“You told me once, sir,” Harry said through gritted teeth, “that you don’t care whether or not I attend meals.”

Snape looked exceedingly frustrated, his breaths coming out in short, deliberate bursts. “I have indeed told you that, Mr. Potter. However, I have also stated that I regret my initial negligence and intend to rectify it.”

“I don’t feel like eating. You can’t force me.”

“I believe you will find that I can.”

“What, do you plan to shove food down my-"

“Watch yourself, Mr. Potter. You are treading on thin ice.”

Harry knew that he was crossing a line, and every ounce of reason he possessed was screaming at him to shut the hell up, but he didn’t care. He was far too angry. How dare these people abandon him for years, only to show up and try to control him as soon as it was convenient for them?

Harry pressed his lips together, glaring at Snape, refusing to move from his chair.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, in a voice that was almost a hiss. “Should you continue to disobey me, you will find that it is well within my capabilities to bar you from the library.”

Harry was almost shaking with a fury that was entirely disproportionate to the situation. Snape had every right to refuse him access to the library; he owned it, after all. But the logical side of his brain was growing fainter, and his anger was growing so rapidly that he felt his fingers tingling with magic.

No. I don’t need to destroy the library again.

With difficulty, Harry managed to reign in his anger. He looked up slowly to see Snape, his face tight with irritation.

“Have we reached an understanding, Mr. Potter?”

Condescending git.

Harry rose without looking at Snape, angry and humiliated. He followed Snape out of the room in silence. Before they reached the kitchen, Snape paused, turning to face Harry.

He tensed.

What now?

“In the future, I will not be quite so tolerant of your rudeness. You would do well to keep that in mind, or you just may find yourself spending the afternoon scrubbing cauldrons,” Snape said tersely.

Harry nodded shortly, beginning to feel a bit idiotic. He had gotten into an argument because Snape wanted him to eat? Considering that he’d spent most of his life scrounging for food, his behavior had been downright irrational.

He sat in his usual place, piling whatever food was nearest on his plate, looking everywhere but at Snape.

I’m being an ingrate. He’s giving me food and everything, and I just… He should throw me out.

At that thought, Harry felt a bit panicky. He’d end up entirely under the control of Dumbledore if that happened. And then he’d never be able to get away from… everything.

I have to apologize.

Harry looked up hesitantly. “Sir?” he asked in a tentative whisper.

“Yes, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked in a neutral, if short, tone.

He doesn’t sound too angry… Or maybe he is and is just pretending not to be…

“I… er- I’m…” Harry’s voice trailed off, and he bit his lip and turned his head.

What? I’m sorry for being a rude, ungrateful little-

“Is there something you wish to say, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked impatiently.

Harry inhaled quickly.

There’s no time for this. Just apologize and maybe he’ll forget about what happened.

Harry meant to say sorry, but what came out of his mouth, in an almost inaudible tone, was: “please don’t send me away.”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “Pardon, Mr. Potter? I did not quite catch that.”

God, I sound pathetic.

“I- I’m sorry for… please don’t kick me out,” Harry said, only slightly more loudly, a shaky undertone in his voice.

Snape sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He opened them to look at Harry, who was looking back at him with poorly concealed trepidation.

“You will not be sent away, Mr. Potter. You will remain here for as long as necessary. However, should you continue to refuse to efficiently communicate-”

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. So that was the way it was. He was welcome here only if he complied with the rules. If not, he was out. And he didn’t even know all the rules. Classic. He’d end up breaking them beyond repair at some point, and then he’d be at the mercy of Dumbledore, whose plans for Harry would not accommodate his need to escape.

He did not want to hear any more. He let his fork drop onto his plate and dashed out of the room and out of the house as quickly as he could.

Had Harry only remained for a few moments longer, he would have heard the rest of Snape’s statement: “-your time here may well be less than enjoyable for both of us.” And perhaps, had Harry not run away, he would have felt Snape’s hand brush his shoulder lightly, telling him that his presence in his home was more than welcome, even if he did insist on defying rules put in place for his own benefit.

But he heard none of it.

Harry scampered up his tree, feeling both guilty and betrayed. Snape didn’t want him. But it was his own fault for not being good enough. He was never good enough. Not for anyone.

I was for Jade… I hate her! I hate her for leaving. She never even said goodbye. So maybe she didn’t care after all.

Harry’s hand reached into his pocket of its own accord. He stared into the blade of his dagger, his eyes reflecting back at him. He moved it away quickly, into the path of a ray of sunlight. The blade glinted oddly.

Why is it sunny? I want rain… Rain makes everything go away… But so can this dagger.

Harry felt the familiar calmness wash over him as he ran a finger carefully across the sharp edge of the blade.

No one would care if I did it. Snape wouldn’t care, and it would serve Dumbledore right. And the effing wizarding world would have to find a shiny new Boy-Who-Lived. Maybe next time they’ll pick one who isn’t damaged goods… Stupid Jade. She didn’t need me, so I don’t need her. It wouldn’t matter to her, either.

Harry scraped the blade of his dagger across a tree branch, carving in his initials; H.J.P..

There. He’d left his mark on the one safe place nature offered. A tree. The trees would remember him, even if he was gone. Perhaps the trees would miss him when no humans would.

Harry thought he heard the front door of the house open, though, the tree being a considerable distance from it, he couldn’t be sure. He looked toward the house, and saw Snape standing at the entrance, looking toward him. Harry could not make out his expression, but he looked back blankly, surreptitiously sliding the dagger up his sleeve.

After a few moments, Snape turned and re-entered the house. Harry thought he would’ve felt relieved, but he didn’t. He just felt a brief flash of an unidentifiable, but painful emotion, and then… emptiness.

Harry floated through the rest of the day like a ghost; he showed up for dinner, dutifully clearing his plate, all the while refusing to look at Snape. He sat in the library, staring at the same spot on the page, but for how long, he didn’t know.

He lay in bed, flashes of terror and fury engulfing his senses, so much so that he scarcely slept. Even if he had been able to sleep, he knew it would not offer him any respite. All Harry had was his dagger, which, to him, was the one thing that kept him grounded in reality, reminding him that there was a way out. Otherwise, he didn’t know where he would be.

Harry awoke the next morning scarcely an hour after he’d finally drifted off. His eyes were gritty, and he felt sluggish and disoriented. A quick shower woke him up some, but he still felt exhausted.

Better than the nightmares, Harry thought darkly, rubbing at his eyes. But I shouldn’t be so tired; it isn’t the first time I couldn’t get to sleep.

When Harry further examined the situation, he realized that the cause of his exhaustion wasn’t solely sleep deprivation.

I’m just tired of… everything.

Harry dragged himself downstairs to the kitchen, stumbling a bit on the way.

Am I actually tripping over my own feet? he thought vaguely. 

He sat down, barely noticing what he was serving himself, and, once again, avoiding Snape’s gaze. He lifted his fork, which felt abnormally heavy, and the food on his plate appeared distinctly unappetizing.

“Did you not sleep well last night, Mr. Potter?” Harry heard Snape ask.

He shrugged listlessly, picking at his food.

“Nightmares?”

Harry looked up at that. Why did Snape keep having to ask him questions like that? What was he, a five year old who woke up crying every night? And why did Snape even have to know about them at all?

“No, sir. Stop asking me questions,” Harry bit out through clenched teeth. No one had the right to know anything. No one. Why couldn’t they all just leave him alone? He wanted to kick something. Hard.

What’s to stop me? I have nothing to lose, anyway.

Harry rammed his foot into the table leg, causing it to shake violently. He watched with satisfaction as a glass crashed to the floor and shattered, its contents splattering everywhere.

The satisfied feeling left him quite abruptly when he heard a distinct clearing of a throat.

Oh, god. What the hell did I just do? What was I thinking? What’s wrong with me? You don’t do stuff like this-

“Mr. Potter,” Harry looked up slowly at the icy tone, his insides all but curdling with dread. Snape looked angry. His lips were white with tightness, and his eyes were snapping . 

“Can you provide for me any sort of explanation for your actions, Mr. Potter?” Snape hissed.

Harry looked down, shaking his head slightly. He had no explanation; he didn’t have the faintest clue as to why he’d just done what he did.

Harry heard Snape take several deep, controlled breaths. “Look at me.”

Harry looked up, blanking his face. He didn’t care what happened next. He didn’t.

“I understand, Mr. Potter,” Snape said in a tone of deliberate calm, “that your judgment at present may be clouded as a result of a sleepless night. However, that does not give you leave to behave as a young child in the midst of a temper tantrum.”

I don’t care what he says. I don’t care about anything. I don’t care. I don’t care.

“Have you anything to say, Mr. Potter?”

Harry shook his head faintly, his eyes on his lap.

“Look at me, Mr. Potter.” Harry obeyed, noting how odd it was that Snape didn’t seem angry anymore, just a bit annoyed, and resigned. He rose, clearing the table and the mess on the floor with a quick wave of his wand.

“Follow me.”

Harry followed Snape out of the kitchen, feeling increasingly more fearful.

You complete idiot. What happened to laying low? What happened to staying under the radar?

 Snape entered a room that Harry had never been in before; he’d only stood outside it while eavesdropping on Dumbledore and Snape the day he’d first come here. It turned out to be a small study, with a wide desk piled with notes, a couple of wooden chairs, and some ever-present bookshelves.

“Mr. Potter.” Harry looked up, confused and anxious, an ominous feeling rising in his chest.

“Stand in that corner of the room,” he pointed, “and remain there until further notice. I will be at my desk.”

Er… Sorry? Did he just send me to a corner? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?

“I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir,” Harry finally replied, feeling completely at a loss, and not a little fearful.

Snape raised his eyebrows. “I believe my instructions were quite clear. You are clearly incapable of behaving in a manner befitting your age, just now, so you will spend some time in the corner, contemplating your actions.”

 Snape stood, there, waiting, while Harry walked slowly to the corner Snape had pointed to, leaning against the wall when he reached it.

What’s the point of this? What is he trying to say, or do, or whatever…?

“Turn around, Mr. Potter.”

Harry gave Snape a confused look. Snape looked irritated. “Face the wall, and contemplate your behavior.”

Harry remained where he was, frozen in place.

“Do as I say.”

Harry felt uncontrollable terror begin to take hold of him. Turn around? He couldn’t. He’d be facing away from the door, and he wouldn’t be able to see… He wouldn’t know if...

No. Nononono. I’m not turning around. He can’t make me, I need to see. I won’t. I can’t.

“Mr. Potter. Turn. Now” Snape definitely sounded angry now, and he looked it, too.

Harry’s breathing began to quicken. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for escape routes.

No. Don’t make me.

Harry gasped and pressed back into the wall as Snape starting moving toward him. In that moment, Snape’s figure began to grow hazy, and Harry wasn’t quite sure where he was. All he knew was that there was an imposing figure moving toward him and he couldn’t escape. But then, the figure abruptly stopped moving and began to back away.

Harry took that opportunity to move. He dashed out of the room at lightning speed, running up the stairs to his bedroom.

Need to hide. Need to hide where no one can get me.

The door of his room slammed shut at locked by the force of Harry's tangible fear as he dashed through it. He grabbed his blanket and curled up with it under his bed, dagger clutched to his chest. As he lay there, his breathing gradually steadied.

Snape wouldn’t’ve done anything, why did I freak out like a nut job?

How the hell do you know he wouldn’t do anything?

He just wouldn’t.

But Dumbledore can get in, and I couldn’t see the door…

Harry shuddered, and curled up into a tighter ball. Snape definitely wouldn’t want him, now. Harry had been rude and disrespectful twice today, and then he’d freaked out and run away, just because Snape had sent him to a corner. Even a two-year-old would have been capable of doing that.

I’m not afraid. I don’t need to hide here like a hunted animal.

Harry crawled out from under the bed and climbed into it, feeling exhausted despite having awoken so recently.

As Harry lay in the midst of a deep, yet fitful sleep, Severus stood beside his bed, watching.

“What am I to do with you, child?” he whispered. “You will not communicate your needs; I doubt you even know what they are.”

Severus reached out and brushed his fingers lightly through the child’s hair, careful not to wake him.

“I cannot discipline you, nor can I even raise my voice without you believing that I might harm you.”

Harry moaned in his sleep slightly, forehead crinkling in agitation.

“I cannot help you if you will not let me,” Severus murmured. “As it is, I fear that I am only worsening a difficult situation.”

With a heavy sigh, Severus turned and left the room.

The next few days melded into one another, time passing painfully slowly, yet far too rapidly. It felt as though Harry was moving through a thick, gray fog, unable to differentiate between what was really happening and what was running through his mind.

Sometimes, Harry felt nothing at all, and he moved through his daily routines automatically, yet he experienced none of it.

At other times, fury and fear overtook him, leaving him wanting nothing more than to hurt those who had hurt him. He could only imagine, though.

There were times, too, when Harry felt an undefinable, yet unbearable pain engulf him, a pain that had no cure nor treatment. It was inside him, yet it surrounded him as well, leaving him defenseless and hopeless.

Sleep offered no escape. Images of the past combined with fears of his future haunted his dreams whenever he did manage to sleep.

His dagger, secured in his pocket, day and night, was what kept him going. It was the way out, the only way. It reminded him that he wasn’t truly trapped, and he could escape if he really needed to.

The dagger was the only thing that felt real.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t answer; he hadn’t even registered the question. He was somewhere else, far away.

“Mr. Potter.” the sharper tone alerted Harry of the speaker’s presence.

“Yes, sir?”

“You do not look well.”

Don’t I?

“I am quite well, sir.”

“You are most certainly not.”

“I am.”

“Cease with the fabrications.”

“I’m not lying.”

I’m not! I’m completely fine. I’ve never been more fine. Perfectly, absolutely, unquestionably, undeniably, utterly, unequivocally fine. Fine. Fine. FINE!

He bolted, ignoring Snape’s voice calling after him.

Harry lay rigid in his bed, nearly paralyzed with fear. He had not been dreaming; he could not even match the emotion with an image or a memory. He just felt fear. He was fear. And pain, and anguish, and fury.

What am I still doing here?

Harry rose slowly and walked, as though in a daze, toward the bathroom, his fist clenched around a small, sharp, object.

Time to get away. No one can hurt me, now.

Harry entered the lit bathroom, suddenly imbued with a sense of purpose. He carefully laid his dagger on the counter near the sink. He then lifted the gray bath rug off the floor and hung it over the towel rack, taking care to smooth out any creases.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, and slowly reached for his dagger, grasping it firmly in his right hand.

He dragged the dagger through the air, toward the waiting, willing target in the form of a narrow vein in his scrawny left wrist.

Severus awoke quite suddenly, feeling a vague sense of foreboding. Long-trained reflexes had him immediately out of bed, wand in hand. It was then when he noticed a faint, but increasing tightening of the band around his ankle. The charm, concerning the boy. 

But it was acting oddly. It certainly would not have woken him; he doubted he would have woken at all if not for the distinct sense of unease he was experiencing.

Severus did not pause to contemplate the matter. He swept rapidly towards the boy’s bedroom, prepared for the worst.

The boy was not in his bed. His gaze traveled rapidly across the room, and he notice a thin line of light protruding from the narrow gap between the floor and the closed bathroom door.

What…

He didn’t bother to knock; he twisted the doorknob, finding it unlocked, and swung open the door.

Oddly, the first thing he noticed was the bare bathroom floor tiles, spotted with droplets of a dark, wet substance. The rug had been hung, ever so carefully, over the towel rack. At the same time, a faint scent, only made obvious to him due to his spying experience, engulfed his senses.

It was then, within a second of his entrance into the room, that he took in the entire scene.

The boy was seated on the closed toilet lid, his head tilted slightly, eyes gazing unseeingly, face deathly pale. A small blade hung limply from the boy’s right fist, and his left hand, palm face-up, was resting on his thigh. And there was blood.

With a jolt of horror, Severus understood what had happened.

Do not make any sudden movements.

“Mr. Potter, drop the dagger,” he said, keeping his voice low and smooth.

The boy did not look up, but he let it fall to the floor with a faint clatter.

“Thank you. Stretch out your arm.”

The child looked up then, his gaze no longer blank. He looked tortured, now, his eyes awash with a greater agony than Severus had though possible for a child as young as he.

“Can’t you leave me here?” the boy asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Dear Merlin. Put the right words in my mouth.

“No. You can stretch out your arm for me willingly, or I will do it for you.”

Severus paused, and stood carefully still as the boy slowly stretched out his left arm, displaying the deep, bleeding gash across his wrist.

Without wasting a moment, Severus waved his wand in several intricate motions, cleaning the wound and knitting it carefully, while surreptitiously performing a quick scan to detect any other injuries.

Once confident that wound was properly healed, and that the child was free of further injury, Severus looked carefully at the child’s face. His blank mask was back in place, and his normally vibrant, intelligent green eyes seemed dulled and vacant. He appeared even smaller than usual, as though the life force that had held him upright had abandoned him. Or perhaps, the child had abandoned it.

It does not appear that he has lost a great amount of blood, but for a small child…

Severus shifted his grip from the boy’s wrist to his upper arm in preparation to lead him out of the room.

 “You require several potions. Come”

Without pausing for a response, Severus gently tugged on the child’s arm, pulling him to stand. But when the child rose, however, his knees buckled, and his eyes rolled backwards into a faint.

Severus cursed, scooping the child, the small, intelligent, hurt child, into his arms.

He walked down two flights of stairs to his laboratory, refusing to allow himself to think too hard. He could worry later. He could admonish himself for his neglect of the boy’s needs later. Right now, he needed to focus his undivided attention on an ill, injured child.

Cradling the boy carefully, Snape wandlessly conjured a cot, which appeared a little way before him, in the side room. He laid the child gently upon it. After determining that the boy’s vital signs were stable, Severus took several deep breaths.

Blood replenisher, iron supplement draught, nerve regenerator, perhaps.

Within moments, Severus was by the child’s side, potions in hand. He then loosened the unconscious child’s jaws, pouring potions into his open mouth, and stroking the throat to prompt the child’s swallow reflex.

He must awaken naturally, I would think.

Severus leaned against the wall outside the small room, refusing to allow himself to sit. How could he have missed this? How had he failed to realize just how hurt this child was?

And I didn’t think to look through his belongings. I didn’t know he had any belongings of his own. But that is no excuse; a child under my care was in possession of such a lethal object, and I overlooked it entirely. And why did the monitoring spells fail to work efficiently…? Of course, because they were not meant to detect harm the boy inflicted upon himself. It failed to occur to me to keep that in mind when I set the monitors. The sole reason I felt anything at all was because the child would have died had I waited too long. I have utterly failed him.

Severus had come to appreciate the boy’s qualities, and enjoy his company as well, but he’d never realized just how much he’d come to care for the child. The sheer horror he’d experienced when he’d realized what the child had felt compelled to do…

The child is hurting deeply. I cannot tiptoe around the issue any longer. I will encourage him to confide in me, and I will insist that he, at the very least, attempt to open up.

Harry was no longer just a boy Severus had grudgingly taken in. He was his responsibility, his ward, and he would not shirk his duties. He cared too much, now, and there was no going back. Nor did he want to.

Harry opened his eyes, then clenched them tightly shut.. 

Ouch, the lights… where am I? 

Recent events made their way steadily back to his awareness. He opened his eyes again, slowly, this time, and found that he was lying on a cot in the side room of Snape’s potions lab. Harry bit back a snort. To an onlooker, it would no doubt have seemed that Snape was preparing to chop him up for potions ingredients.

But no. Snape had found him, and healed him. And wouldn’t let him effing die.

I couldn’t even get this right. Brilliant.

“Ah, you are awake.”

Harry started. Snape had just entered the room, several bottles in hand. He walked over to where Harry lay, tracking his movements warily. Harry attempted to rise, but Snape put a hand on his chest, pushing him gently backwards.

“Do not sit up, I will raise the back of the cot.”

Snape flicked his wand, and Harry felt the upper half of his cot push upward so he was propped up into a half-lying, half-sitting position. Snape handed him a clear glass bottle filled with a watery, dark brown substance.

“Blood replenisher. I had given some to you earlier, but you require a second dose.”

Harry obediently swallowed the potion, grimacing slightly at its somewhat metallic taste.

Makes sense, it’s like I’m swallowing blood. I guess the potion is made to adjust itself to my blood type. This is way better than finding a donor. Do wizards have ingestible replacement kidneys? Do wizards even need that? And what about heart transplants…

Once Harry had drained the bottle, Snape handed him a glass of water, which Harry gulped down gratefully. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been.

Snape handed him another potion, pale yellow, this time.

“For weakness and vertigo.”

Harry swallowed the slightly slimy, but thankfully tasteless brew. A dizziness and weakness he hadn’t even noticed he was experiencing left him, leaving him feeling clear-headed and energized.

No, I don’t want to feel like this. I was almost there. And then he had to show up.

But did he really not want it? Something about Snape’s ministrations made Harry feel something different. Something comforting. A sense of safety.

He must really not want me to die. Get a grip, if you died on his hands, he’d be in trouble. That’s why he’s doing this.

That idea made Harry feel calmer, somehow. The lack of conflict was easier to cope with. Snape wordlessly handed him another glass of water, watching as Harry drained it slowly.

After a few moments of silence, Snape cleared his throat.

“I trust you are now feeling well enough to walk, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded, his eyes on his fingernails, as he rose carefully out of the cot into a standing position. He did feel okay, physically, at least.

I don’t want to feel okay. I don’t want to feel anything.

“You will join me in the sitting room, and we will discuss this, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, his tone stern.

Is he angry? Of course he is, you nearly died on his watch.

Harry allowed Snape to lead him out of the lab and up the stairs. Harry sat on the couch, and Snape, instead of sitting across from him, sat down directly beside him. Harry hunched his shoulders, but that did not prevent Snape from gripping them firmly, turning Harry to face him.

“Look at me.”

Harry looked up into Snape’s eyes.

“Can you explain, Mr. Potter?” The tone was firm and inquiring, bordering on stern, but neither cutting nor caustic.

Harry opened his mouth, than closed it again. He couldn’t speak. He was, just as the first time he’d met the man, trapped in Snape’s dark, magnetic gaze, but it was different this time. There was anger there, surely, but there was also concern. Warmth. Caring. And… something else.

No adult had ever looked at him that way. Ever. He’d only ever seen scorn, fury, hatred, and disgust in the eyes of all those who’d been meant to care for him. Snape’s gaze was new, singular. And Harry couldn’t bear it.

He felt a pressure behind his eyes, and a stinging in their corners.

No. no crying-

But Harry couldn’t stop it. Years of pent up pain, fear, and anguish burst forth from him in a torrent of tears.

Harry pulled himself out of Snape’s grip, hiding his face in his hands, elbows pressing into his thighs. His entire body shook with the force of his deep, silent sobs.

After a moment, Harry felt something. An arm was reaching carefully across his shoulder blades, coming to rest on the outside of his upper arm, pulling him close. Harry fought it for a moment, but then gave in, collapsing against Snape’s side.

They both remained in that position for an undetermined length of time, Snape’s long arm holding Harry firmly against his side, while Harry sobbed silently, face still hidden in his tear-soaked hands.

Snape did not speak, for which Harry was grateful. He did not tell Harry to stop crying. He didn’t scorn him for it, nor did he attempt to end the tears by means of comforting words. He just sat with Harry, holding him, allowing him to let out his tears.

Eventually, Harry’s tears ebbed, and he pulled against Snape’s grip. Snape released him, giving Harry a few moments to collect himself. Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, too spent to feel embarrassed, as much as he knew he should. Though exhausted, Harry felt as though he’d been relieved of a weight he’d been carrying for years. Had it been the tears, or the subsequent comfort that had relieved him of it? Perhaps both.

Harry looked up when he felt hands on his shoulders. He looked up at Snape, again, unflinchingly.

“Why, Harry?” Snape voice was low, almost a whisper, and his expression intense, as though the answer to his question was all that mattered.

 I have to answer, I owe him that much. 

Harry thought. Why had he done it, and what had driven him to do it now, while his life had been better these past few weeks than it had ever been before?

The answer came to him.

“I was trying-” Harry’s voice emerged as a rasp. He cleared his throat, which felt as though it was coated in sawdust.

“I was trying too hard to s-survive to realize that I didn’t want to.”

Harry bit his lip and tried to look away, but Snape grasped his chin, holding his head in place.

“Until now.”

‘Cause I had time to think, and to see how screwed up everything really was.

Harry looked carefully at Snape; he’d never seen the man express so much emotion. The man’s face was lined with tension, but his eyes seemed shadowed, with sadness, and understanding.

“I know, Harry,” Snape said in a low voice, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “I know that the pain can become so great that you cease to feel anything at all. It chokes you, it binds you, until you lose yourself entirely to its clutches. Until the pain is all you know, and you cannot separate yourself from it, no matter how valiant your struggle.”

Harry inhaled sharply at those words. He stared at Snape, and that was when he knew. Snape did know. Snape understood what he’d felt, and what had driven him to such desperate actions. Snape wasn’t angry, he understood. Because he’d been there, too.

“You- you do know,” Harry whispered.

Snape nodded once, slowly, reaching out a hand slowly to grasp Harry’s.

“As much as it feels as though you are, you are not alone,” said Snape, his eyes deep with intensity, his voice projecting utter conviction.

I should be. I don’t need anyone. I can’t depend on anyone. I should be able to be alone.

Snape seemed to know where Harry’s thoughts were going.

“You cannot be strong all the time, Harry. Nor should you have to be. You can let others in. Allow them to hold you up when you can do so no longer.”

Can I? Is that really true? Maybe… maybe I can… be helped.

No.

But it feels good.

No! It’ll only hurt you in the end. But…

“Harry.”

Harry looked up at Snape’s voice, straight into his eyes. Snape hands were on his shoulders again, warm and strong and protective.

“Will you let me, Harry? Will you let me be that person?”

Harry gaze into the swirling obsidian of Snape’s irises. Those were deep eyes. Eyes that could hold secrets, carry burdens that no one else could. Those eyes held knowledge, understanding, and strength. They were eyes that would not fail him.

Slowly, the emerald of Harry’s gaze never leaving Snape’s, Harry nodded.

Harry felt Snape’s warm hand on his shoulder as he was led upstairs. He didn’t try to shake it off; he didn’t want to. In truth, Harry felt as if that hand was the one anchor holding him upright.

He’s right, I really can’t do it myself. How pathetic can I get? Now he thinks I’m some mental case that needs counseling, and I just cried all over him like a baby-

“Harry.” Snape’s deep tone cut into Harry’s internal tirade. Harry looked up to see Snape’s face, laced with concern. He grimaced, looking away. He didn’t want pity.

I don’t need help...You just tried to effing off yourself. Clearly, you’re just peachy.

Snape escorted Harry into his bedroom, leading him to sit on his bed.

“I will ask that you wait here for a moment – do not leave the room – and I will return momentarily,” Snape said in a level tone.

Harry nodded, and he stared at his hands, which were folded neatly on his lap. There was a silent pause, where Snape seemed to want to say more, but he then simply turned and left the room, closing the door halfway.

Harry examined the inside of his left wrist. All that remained of the… incision was a faint white line. Yes, that sounded good. Incision. A detached, formal way of communicating what he’d really done. He was not out of control. His actions had been planned, calculated, and if not for Snape…

But is that really true? You made it real easy for him to stop you. You left the door unlocked, and the light on, and you didn’t even fight him when he started healing it. True, he could’ve done, anyway, but still. It’s like you wanted him to find out. Did you?

Harry looked up as Snape re-entered the room. He was holding a small bottle filled with a thick, deep purple substance.

“Dreamless sleep,” Snape said quietly. “Normally, I would not encourage its use, however, I believe that exceptions can be made.” He handed the bottle to Harry, who took it while avoiding Snape’s gaze.”

He thinks I’m a basket-case that needs to be drugged. And he’s right. I won’t sleep without it, and I really need to. I need to get…away.

Harry crawled under his covers, and, without further hesitation, drained the bottle, almost immediately beginning to feel its effects.

Interesting, how quickly potions enter the bloodstream, thought Harry drowsily as he flopped back into his pillows, barely noticing Snape pulling the empty bottle out of his hand. Through drooping eyelids and rapidly clouding vision, he could just make out the hazy image of Snape, now seated on the chair near the wall.

He didn’t leave… was Harry’s last vague thought before he drifted off.

Harry awoke slowly the next morning, feeling a bit groggy. He squinted at the clock, rubbing his eyes, finding it to be nearly a quarter past ten.

I never sleep this late. Must be the potion.

A bit unsteadily, Harry made his way to the bathroom. He blinked as he saw the spotless floor, rug restored to its proper place.

Snape must’ve cleaned up while I was asleep… my dagger!

Harry searched the floor frantically, and then the rest of the room, even the shower, but it wasn’t there.

Snape, Harry realized. He took it.

Harry calmed slightly. Snape, most likely, did not want to leave it lying around. He’d give it back, he had to.

I’ll ask him, first thing.

Harry exited his room, walking towards the stairs, when he heard Snape’s voice.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry turned quickly. Snape was walking down the hall from the opposite end, towards Harry.

Harry felt suddenly awkward. After all that had transpired the night before, Harry found it difficult to look Snape in the eye.

I need the dagger. Just get a grip and ask him.

Harry took a deep breath, and looked up at Snape, who was looking down at him, face unreadable.

“Uh, sir?” Harry’s voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Do you have my… er...?” He couldn’t finish, not after what had happened.

Snape inclined his head.

“I do, Mr. Potter.” Snape pulled it out of his robes. “However-“

Disregarding whatever Snape had been about to say, Harry reached out for it, but Snape shook his head.

“Harry, I’m sure you understand why I cannot give this back to you at the present time.”

Harry bit his lip. Yes, he understood, but he needed that dagger. It was the only weapon he had, the only thing he really had of his own.

I don’t care. I need it. He has no right to take it from me.

Good. Now Harry felt appropriately angry, which masked the fear and vulnerability that had been all but drowning him.

“Sir, I need it. Please.” Harry refused to sound desperate, or too beg. He’d said his piece, and he’d even said please. He wasn’t begging.

Harry saw a glimmer of something like sympathy, or regret, in Snape’s eyes, but the man shook his head again.

“I fully understand why you feel you require it, but it would be entirely remiss of me to allow you to be in possession of such an object at this time.”

No.

“Please, sir, I won’t do… that again. I just really need it.” Harry hated the pleading tone that had crept into his voice. But, damn it, he needed the dagger.

Snape sighed.

“It is not my intention to permanently confiscate the dagger from you, Mr. Potter. It will be returned to you when we both feel that you can handle it responsibly.”

Oh. So he wasn’t keeping it for good. But how long would it take for Snape to believe that Harry could be responsible? Years, probably.

I need it now. Give it back.

“Sir, I-”

“Do you truly believe yourself to be in danger, here?” Snape cut in, looking at Harry carefully.

Harry thought for a moment.

Only when Dumbledore’s here. Otherwise… I don’t know. Anything can happen, I need to be prepared.

Snape seemed to take Harry’s silence as an affirmation.

“Harry, you are entirely secure, here. No one who wishes you harm has the ability to pass through my wards. I, and I alone, determine who may or may not enter the property.”

That helps; he lets Dumbledore in whenever he pleases. But clearly, Snape trusts him, though I can’t imagine why.

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up, chewing his lip.

“I just…” Harry whispered, his voice trailing off.

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting for Harry to continue, then sighed, brushing an imaginary stray hair out of his eyes.

“Do you by now trust that I do not mean you harm?” Snape looked as though he was apprehensive of Harry’s response.

Yes, Harry realized, I do trust that he won’t harm me.

“Yes, sir.”

Harry saw that Snape looked slightly relieved.

“I will say this: if anyone who steps on to this property, or any person at all, for that matter, attempts anything untoward, I will personally ensure that said individual exists solely to regret it.” He grasped Harry’s chin in the same manner he had the previous night. “You are under my protection, and I do not shirk my duties. Ever.”

Harry stared back at Snape, wide eyed. Apparently satisfied that he’d gotten Harry’s attention, Snape continued.

“At the present time, my duties include protecting you from yourself.”

Harry felt an odd urge to cry again, but he shoved it back fiercely.

He cares. He really does. I don’t know why, but he does.

“Am I understood?” Snape said in a stern tone, turning Harry once more to face him.

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered.

Snape was silent for a moment, regarding Harry carefully.

“Good. Come join me for breakfast.” He turned and walked down the stairs toward the kitchen, Harry at his heels.

“You didn’t eat yet, sit?” Harry asked tentatively as they sat.

“I have not yet had the chance, I was rather preoccupied with… other matters.”

He must have been searching my room, or the whole house, for other… potential weapons, Harry realized. The thought made him want to cringe with embarrassment. I’m such a-

“Mr. Potter,” Snape’s smooth voice cut in. “Do you plan on eating at any point in the foreseeable future?”

Harry nodded, head down, and proceeded to fill his plate, barely noticing what he was serving himself.

He probably thinks I’m an immature nutcase. I cried all over him. I let him hug me, like a needy little… Now he definitely won’t want to deal with me anymore. I completely lost it, I let myself go too much. That’s not okay. It’s weakness. You’re weak. A weak little baby.

Harry gripped his fork with unnecessary force, all but smashing his food into a pulp.

“Harry.”

Harry looked up reluctantly to focus on Snape’s shirt collar.

“Do you believe that, upon the day’s previous events, that I am inclined towards judging you in an unfavorable light?”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Snape, of course, knew what Harry was thinking. He met Harry’s gaze, and Harry did not look away.

“You are laboring under a misapprehension. I am in no way judging you, or your behavior.”

“Why not?” Harry burst out, then almost immediately froze. He could have kicked himself. What had he been thinking, yelling at Snape again?

“Harry.”

Harry looked up apprehensively. Oddly, Snape didn’t seem particularly angry, just tired. Harry relaxed his stance, laying his hands on his lap. He chewed his lower lip.

“While I did not appreciate your tone,” said Snape slowly, “You need not fear my reaction to such an extent.”

Harry nodded, feeling undone. He looked at Snape anxiously, who’d opened his mouth to speak again.

“Only the simple-minded and ignorant would dare judge another for their methods of coping with pain,” Snape said harshly.

What? What does he…?

 “Considering the suffering I’ve no doubt you have undergone, I am more inclined toward admiration of your forbearance than judgment of your attempt to… escape.”

Harry couldn’t help it; his jaw dropped.

“Good,” Snape said softly. “I have your attention.”

“I am well-acquainted with the emotions that may lead to the drastic measures you have felt it necessary to turn to." Snape leaned toward Harry, his hands gripping the table edge. 

"The knowledge that I possess puts me in a position to provide you with the help you need, if you would but allow me.” Snape’s tone had grown sharper, and his face was mere inches away from Harry’s.

“Sir, I…” Harry whispered. His eyes were darting rapidly left from rights, his instincts screaming ‘danger’. He ignored those feelings. Snape wasn’t lying; this was for real. Snape wanted to help, Snape cared, for whatever unfathomable reasons he had.

Snape reached out a hand to cover Harry’s which was resting on the table, slackened. “You need not say anything, just now, Mr. Potter,” he said quietly. He rose. “I prefer not to leave you alone, at present, so join me in my office while I work. I have books stored there that will undoubtedly pique your interest.”

Snape flicked his wand to clear the table and swept out of the room. Harry followed him into his office.

Snape pointed towards the bookshelves lining the left wall, then conjured an armchair not unlike the one Harry often used in the library.

Snape then sat at his desk, beginning his work, for which Harry was grateful. It seemed that Snape knew that he needed his space.

Curled up in the chair with the book he’d selected, Harry felt almost calm. However odd it was, Harry felt safe, here with Snape.

As Harry followed Snape to the kitchen for lunch, he cast around, a bit desperately, for another question to ask, in attempt to put off the imminent conversation he knew he’d have to have with the man.

“How do broomsticks work, sir?” Harry asked quickly, after swallowing a bite of food. He’d read a book on flying, recently, and he had been wondering.

Snape’s lips twitched slightly, as though he knew what Harry’s game was but was willing to play along.

“I suppose you are asking how broomsticks can fly for long periods of time in terms of physics?” Snape asked.

Harry nodded.

“Well, have you drawn any conclusions on your own, Mr. Potter?”

Harry narrowed his eyes in thought. He’d though of airplanes, originally, but just as they hadn’t explained the Hover charm, they didn’t explain brooms, either.

No, brooms move differently, and they’re built differently, too.

Harry frowned, shaking his head. 

Snape leaned forward slightly.

“I would say that broomsticks move in a manner most similar to rockets,” Snape said.

Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?

“I presume you are aware of the mechanics of rockets?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain.”

“Rocket move by Newton’s third law of equal and opposite reactions,” said Harry slowly. “The rocket engine forces high-pressure gas in one direction, causing the rocket to accelerate in the other direction.”

Snape nodded approvingly.

“Well, broomsticks work in much the same way. The magic stored within the broom is released through its bristles, which expand outward similarly to a rocket. The released magic therefore propels the broom forward.”

Interesting. That is pretty cool. And there’s no limit on the energy, either. But…

“How is the magic stored in the broom? Is there a spell?” Harry asked, forehead crinkled in thought.

Snape cocked his head slightly, looking thoughtful.

“Broomsticks designed for flight cannot be made by just anyone. The development of broomsticks requires extensive knowledge and skill, contrary to popular belief.”

Interesting. But how…

Harry looked at Snape in askance.

“Are you perhaps interested in pursuing a career in broomstick development, Mr. Potter?” asked Snape, looking a bit amused, by Snape’s standard, anyway.

“Not really, I just...”

Snape quirked his lips.

“I do not possess extensive knowledge on the subject, nor do I own many books on the topic, however, perhaps we can procure one for your use.”

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. He swallowed hard, looking down.

“Thank you, sir,” he whispered.

Snape cleared his throat. Harry looked up; Snape seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but appeared to be experiencing some difficulty. Harry waited patiently.

“Would you…,” he began, “perhaps like to gain some practical experience in that area?”

Really?

“You- you have a broom, sir?” Harry asked, holding his breath.”

Snape inclined his head. “Indeed I do. Would you like to ride it?”

That would be the coolest thing ever. Would he really let me?

Unbidden, memories of offers made available, only to scorn Harry for his gullibility in believing that they were genuine…

You want dinner? Well, you won’t be getting any.

Would you like to be let out of the cupboard? Too bad.

Harry shoved the memories away forcefully. Snape wasn’t like that. Snape had never said anything he hadn’t meant, for good or for bad. Not to Harry. Harry knew that Snape was sincere in his offer.

Harry looked at Snape, who was awaiting his response, though his expression was unreadable.

“I would like that, sir.”

Snape rose, clearing the table. He waved his wand, and a broomstick zoomed through the doorway into his hand.

“Very well,” he said briskly. “If you will join me outdoors…”

Harry followed Snape outside, then took the broom carefully from Snape’s proffered hand. He examined it, turning it in his hand delicately.

“I’m afraid my broomstick is rather timeworn,” Snape said gruffly. “Most children today tend to hanker after the latest models.”

There’re models of broomsticks? That’s just… strange.

Harry turned toward Snape. “How do I…?”

Snape waved a hand. “I suggest you simply do what comes naturally. I suspect you will have no trouble,” said Snape, his voice sounding a bit hard. Harry chewed his lip nervously. Snape seemed to notice this, and gave Harry a gentle pat on the back.

“Go.”

Do what comes naturally. Okaaay.

Harry swung a leg over the broom, pushed off from the ground, and shot up into the air at an alarming speed.

This. Is. Amazing.

As Harry zoomed through the air, he felt a jolt of pure joy rip though him. He had never felt such an emotion before. Ever. This was different; an entirely indescribable experience. He didn’t have to think, or to try. It seemed that he and the broom had become one, and he flew as though he’d been born to do so.

A wide grin blossomed across his face, his facial muscles feeling oddly tight from lack of use. He laughed; a loud, joyous sound that he’d never heard come from his own mouth.

Harry dove, rose, twisted and turned, flying through rays of sunlight that peeked through wide, fluffy clouds.

He felt as though everything that had been wrong with his life, wrong with him, had been left behind on the ground far below. He wasn’t the unwanted burden passed around, used, and shoved away. He was just Harry, a wizard boy flying through the air with an ability that was his birthright.

Up here, nothing mattered at all except him and the broom. Here, he was strong and capable, far from anything or anyone that meant to hurt him. Zooming through the air, magic crackling around him, Harry was unencumbered. He was free, if just for now.

Severus felt somewhat conflicted as he watched Harry take off. He’d been hesitant to allow the child to fly, and not least because of his recent suicide attempt. Seeing the boy fly reminded Severus of James Potter, in all his glory, zooming across the Quidditch field as if he owned the place.

But the child was not James Potter. He was Harry, a young boy, fragile yet strong, with a keen mind and wit that often took Severus by surprise.

Yes, the child looked uncannily like his late father, and he’d clearly inherited his skill on a broomstick as well. But if a bit of pleasure would help the child heal, who was he to prevent it?

His eyes were following the child carefully, wand at the ready lest the child attempt something dangerous, yet a distant noise still took him by surprise. After a moment, he realized what it was.

The child was laughing.

 Severus felt a rush of warmth in his chest upon hearing it. His actions alone had given the boy a chance to really be a child, if just for a short while. At that moment, any lingering unpleasant thoughts relating to James Potter melted away. The child was happy, and if flying gave him such joy, Severus would not hesitate to allow the child flying time whenever he wished it.

Severus watched Harry fly for another long while, a faint smile hovering upon his lips.

Eventually, the boy landed, far too forcefully, in Severus’ opinion, and he was about to say as much when he saw the child’s face. Harry was smiling; grinning, really, eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, and his hair windswept. He handed the broomstick to Severus, with the all too rare smile lighting up his face.

“Thank you, sir. Very much,” said Harry breathlessly, brushing his tousled hair out of his eyes.

Severus quirked his lips at the child, which had Harry smiling shyly back. “I take it that you have enjoyed that, Mr. Potter?” said Severus, his gruff tone hiding his discomfort at the child’s obvious gratitude.

Harry nodded rapidly; the child-like gesture heartening Severus more than he cared to admit.

“Yes, sir. It was… incredible.”

“I am glad to hear it; you certainly took to it quite well.”

The boy looked down, uncomfortable with the praise, but still smiling, nonetheless. Severus motioned toward Harry to follow him, and he led the way inside, broomstick in hand. He noticed Harry looking on a bit wistfully as he stored the broomstick in its cupboard. He turned to face the child in preparation to rectify that.

“You will be allowed to make use of the broom again; there is no reason why you should not be.”

The boy stared, a more open expression of surprise than Severus had seen on his face before.

“R-really, sir?” he asked hesitantly.

Severus raised his eyebrows at the boy. “Certainly. I did not make that offer for my health. I rarely fly, so for all intents and purposes, that broom is yours to use.”

Harry swallowed, looking overwhelmed and somewhat wary. He opened his mouth, than closed it again, as though unsure of what to say.

He fears that I may demand something of him in return, Severus realized, feeling a surge of fury at those who had damaged the child so. He was sure not to let his feeling show as not to alarm the boy.

“It causes me no trouble to grant you use of the broom. All I expect of you is to exercise caution – in all your behaviors,” he said pointedly. He felt heartless when he saw the boy flush and look away at his statement.

It had to be said. Regardless of a short respite, the boy is still struggling greatly.

“Yes, sir,” Harry murmured.

“Good,” said Severus. “Come join me in the lab before lunch, if you would.”

Severus set the boy to brew a calming drought, keeping a sharp eye on him all the while.

I will have to speak with him later. It will upset him, surely, to discuss his past and such, but it is necessary. I simply must be sure to question him in the correct manner. I may lose him all together if I push too hard.

---

I can’t believe he did that for me, Harry thought as he mashed his beetle eyes. He knew I’d like flying, and I didn’t even have to ask. He just gave it to me for free. He gives me everything for free. And he teaches me potions just because he knows I enjoy it, even though it’s probably an inconvenience for him.

Harry wondered vaguely if potions were invented regularly, and if Snape had ever done it.

Just ask him, no reason not to. He's answered my questions before.

Harry looked up from his beetle eyes toward Snape discreetly. It seemed the man had paused to allow his potion to simmer, and was brushing a stray clump of hair out of his face.

“Sir?” Harry asked tentatively.

 Snape looked up, eyebrows raised. “Yes?”

“Have you ever, er, invented any potions?”

I hope he’s not annoyed that I asked a personal question.

“I have, in a manner of speaking.”

“What have you…?”

“In my youth, I, ah, dabbled, or, shall we say, experimented.” Snape looked a bit amused, as though in reminiscence of past events.

“What did you invent, then, sir?”

“I was a rather… vengeful youth, at times, so I set out to exact revenge upon certain individuals who I felt had wronged me. I therefore created a potion meant to induce uncontrollable laughter in the drinker,”

Harry bit back a laugh. “Did it work? Sir?”

Snape smirked. “Seeing that it landed six individuals in the hospital wing, I do believe it did.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Any others, sir?”

Snape looked thoughtful. “I do recall one other, meant to induce… severe indigestion.”

Harry choked back a laugh. “I assume that worked as well, sir?” Harry asked, unable to force back a grin at the thought of what that might entail.

Snape almost smiled. “I was rather fortunate not to be implicated, considering the fallout.”

He’s way too good at this to just teach…

“You do more than teach potions, sir, don’t you?”

“Astute observation, Mr. Potter.”

Was that a yes?

Harry looked at Snape inquiringly. “Do you develop potions now, sir?”

Snape nodded, an intent expression on his face. “For many years I have been in correspondence with various potions masters like myself, developing new or improving existing brews.”

That is such a cool job. I wonder why he teaches… That’s probably too personal, I can’t ask.

“What sort of potions have you worked on, sir?”

Snape paused as he took a moment to raise the flame beneath his cauldron. “For the greater part of six years,” said Snape, still fiddling with the temperature. “I, and a few others, have been involved in extensive research on the development of the Wolfsbane potion, which has been perfected only very recently.”

“What’s the Wolfsbane potion?” Harry asked interestedly.

Snape finished stabilizing the heat, looking up again. “You are aware that werewolves do indeed exist?”

Harry nodded; in fact, he’d been quite interested to learn that many mythical creatures he had heard of, growing up, did exist.

“The Wolfsbane potion allows the drinker to keep his or her human mind upon the transformation.”

“How does it work, sir? In the brain, I mean.”

Snape looked a bit surprised at the question. He studied Harry carefully for a moment, his gaze unusually soft.

Harry lowered his eyes uncomfortably, unsure of what was expected of him. He was relieved when Snape spoke again.

“Werewolves, from the time they are bitten, possess an entirely animalistic aspect of their brains, which is released at the time of transformation, and, on a lesser scale, when the subject loses control of his or her emotions while in human form.”

Harry nodded, forgetting entirely about his potion, which was due to be stirred again.

“The Wolfsbane potion, as a result of the interaction of its various ingredients, primarily inhibits the sympathetic nervous system. You are aware of its mechanics, Mr. Potter?”

I did want to know what was happening in my brain, oh, about ninety seven percent of the time.

"Yes, sir."   

Of course… adrenaline, the main sympathetic nervous system hormone, activates the fight or flight reaction, which is pure instinct. Animals act upon instinct, so the sympathetic nervous system probably runs on overdrive…

“Mr. Potter, your potion,” Snape warned.

Harry looked up quickly; he’d left it simmering for far too long, so it was bubbling madly, and the color had darkened considerably. He quickly turned off the flame, stirring rapidly. Once the bubbling had slowed, Harry looked up nervously at Snape. Was he annoyed that Harry had messed up?

Snape seemed quite unconcerned. “A handful of mint leaves would suffice as a cooling agent, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded quickly, obeying, and he was relieved to see that the potion paled and thickened slightly, as it was meant to.

“Bottle the potion, Mr. Potter. I believe we can continue our conversation upstairs. It’s time for lunch.”

Harry did so, then followed Snape upstairs to the kitchen for lunch. Once seated, Harry looked up, eager to continue their conversation. Snape swallowed a bite of food.

“Ah, yes. We were discussing the effects of the Wolfsbane potion concerning the sympathetic nervous system.” Snape paused to take a swallow of water from his glass. “A chemical messenger, acetylcholine, stimulates the release of adrenaline and noradrenaline. You are aware of what those are?”

“Yes, sir. They’re the fight or flight hormones.”

“Correct. The Wolfsbane potion inhibits the release of acetylcholine, therefore preventing the release of said hormones, which, in turn, inhibits the sympathetic nervous system. You understand why such a process would allow a werewolf to retain his human mind?”

Harry nodded. “I suppose the sympathetic nervous system runs on overdrive during transformations, which makes the person act only on their animal instinct, which is already greater than normal since he has an animal inside him, unlike most people.”

“Very good,” 

A thought occurred to Harry just then. “Sir, what would happen if a, er, non-werewolf took the potion?”

Snape raised his eyebrows. “A purely hypothetical query, I hope?”

Harry nodded quickly, suppressing a smile.

“Should a non-lycanthrope ingest even a small amount of the Wolfsbane potion, it would send him into a deep coma from which he may never wake, and will certainly permanently damage his nervous system, even if he did wake.”

I guess that would happen because the potion needs to be really powerful in order to overcome the wolf brain, so a human brain would be completely overwhelmed by it…

“Have you worked on any other potions, sir?” Harry asked.

 “As you have not yet begun to eat, I believe we can continue this conversation at a later point in time.”

Harry nodded reluctantly, realizing that he hadn’t yet even served himself. He ate quickly, all the while itching to go to the library to research more on the topic they’d been discussing.

---

The rest of the day continued at a surprisingly calming pace. Harry spent some more time in the lab, discussing Snape’s potions work, though Harry took care to pay more attention to his potion while doing so.

Later on, Harry joined Snape in his office to read for a while, as Snape did not want to leave Harry on his own. Harry didn’t object, though it made him feel like an invalid. He continually reminded himself not to feel resentful of the arrangement.

You did it to yourself, Harry thought firmly. It’s not as though he wants me underfoot at all hours of the day, he’s just doing what he has to. You have no right to complain.

Despite his inner tirade, Harry couldn’t help shifting in his seat, feeling crowded and irritated. It was hard to relax with a book when shut in a small room with another person. Every sound seemed amplified, as it often did when Harry felt anxious. The scratching of Snape’s quill sounded like nails scratching on a blackboard, and even the ticking of the clock on the wall felt jarring.

Harry ground his teeth, and loosened his grip on his book, allowing it to fall unceremoniously to the floor. Harry winced at the sound.

Snape looked up at the noise, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I take it you’ve had enough, Mr. Potter?” Snape interjected, not seeming particularly annoyed.

Harry nodded, unconsciously rubbing at his eyes.

“I think it’s time you prepared for bed, Mr. Potter. I had not noticed the time,” said Snape smoothly.

Harry immediately tensed at that.

I can’t go to bed. I can’t. I’ll have nightmares. I don’t want to sleep, I don’t want to think.

“Harry.”

Harry looked up at that, noticing that he’d clutched his arms around his chest, and was rocking back and forth in his chair slightly. He stopped moving, feeling foolish.

“You cannot take a potion tonight,” Snape said slowly. “However, I will assist you with clearing your mind.

He cleared off his desk with a quick wave of his wand, rising from his seat. “Come.”

Harry rose jerkily from his seat, picking up the book he’d dropped and storing it on its shelf. He then followed Snape upstairs, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. At least Snape wasn’t half-carrying him upstairs, this time.

When they reached Harry’s room, Snape sat on the chair near the wall, while Harry gathered up his pajamas to change in the bathroom, figuring he’d shower in the morning.

Harry emerged from the bathroom a few moments later, teeth brushed and pajama-clad. He climbed into bed, any residual good feelings from the surprisingly enjoyable day he’d had quickly evaporating.

He wanted his dagger. His only comfort in this unfamiliar, conflicting situation.

Harry hunched a little when Snape walked over. He wasn’t a little kid; he didn’t need to be put to bed. Heck, even when he had been a toddler no one had ever put him to bed. Snape seemed to disregard Harry’s embarrassment and pushed Harry back into his pillows.

“There is no shame in accepting help, Harry,” said Snape quietly, backing up a few feet.

Harry looked down, a tight feeling in his throat.

Why do I keep feeling like I want to cry? I don’t.

Harry felt Snape draw a bit closer, reaching out a hand to rest on the back of his head. He leaned unconsciously into the touch, flitting his eyes away when he felt them burn. Harry took a shuddering breath, managing to shove back the tears that had been welling up in his eyes. Snape didn’t comment, for which Harry was grateful. Instead, he spoke in a whisper, talking Harry through the process of clearing his mind.

Slowly, Harry’s recent stressors began to fade away into the back of his mind, and all he was aware of was Snape’s low, soothing voice, and the gentle, calming sensation of Snape’s hand on his head.

Harry drifted off into a deep, untroubled sleep.

---

It was some time after breakfast the following day, and Harry was curled on his chair with a thick book. He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that, today, Snape had allowed him to be in the library unsupervised.

Though he probably has monitoring spells and stuff on me, just in case I…

Harry forced back his irritation at being treated like a child. What else was Snape to do? He supposed he’d do the same, were he in Snape’s position.

I don’t want to think about that.

Harry had only read a few more pages when he heard the library door open. He looked up quickly to see Snape standing by the doorway.

“Am I late for lunch, sir?” Harry asked, looking up sharply at the clock. Snape shook his head, moving closer.

“No, lunch is not for a while yet. I would simply like to speak with you.”

Harry felt his stomach lurch. This was it. Snape was going to ask him all the questions he couldn’t answer, and then he’d have to remember everything. And the worst part was, he couldn’t object.

“Yes, sir,” Harry mumbled, setting down his book and rising to follow Snape out of the room. They entered the sitting room, and Snape pointed Harry toward the couch while he drew up a chair to sit facing Harry.

Harry pushed back into the cushions, hunching his shoulders, unconsciously picking at the skin around his cuticles. He jerked slightly when he felt Snape gently pry his fingers apart. He looked up.

“This is not an interrogation, Harry.”

Harry nodded, attempting in vain to relax his shoulders.

“I am aware that you would prefer not to speak, but we must,” Snape said in a low voice, releasing Harry’s fingers to lean back into his chair.

Harry nodded, biting down on his lip. Snape sighed, looking tense.

I don’t wanna talk, I don’t wanna talk, I don’t-

“Harry.”

“Yes, sir?”

“It is not my intention to cause you discomfort. I will only be asking you what I feel is vital for me to be aware of. If you feel you cannot answer, I will not insist you do so.”

Harry stomach unclenched a little. So he wouldn’t have to fight to keep certain things to himself. Snape wouldn’t insist. But he would try to give the man at least something. He owed that much to him.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said in a slightly wavering voice. “I-I’ll try to…”

“That is all I ask.” said Snape quietly. Snape leaned forward in his seat slightly, and Harry forced himself not to shrink back.

“Prior to your arrival here, you resided with you aunt, uncle, and cousin?”

Harry jerked his head in semblance of a nod, eyes on his lap.

If you don’t count my year-and-a-half long jaunt in the streets…

“How did you get on with them, Harry?”

I can answer that one…

“Not particularly well, sir.”

“Why is that?”

Harry shrugged.

‘Cause they hated my guts and wanted me dead?

“We just didn’t like each other.”

Snape seemed to want to ask more about that, but he seemed to let it go. “Can you describe your late uncle for me, Harry?”

Harry tensed at that. An obese, hideous bigot who reveled in the agony of others?

“Large. And loud,” was all Harry opted to say. Snape nodded, his face inscrutable.

“Did he take charge of discipline in the home?” Snape asked carefully. Harry tensed even further, his breaths quickening.

I don’t want to answer that. But I have to say something.

‘Yes,” Harry answered shortly.

“Harry.” Harry moved his gaze from his fingernails to Snape’s face. “Can you try to expound upon that?” asked Snape, almost gently.

“Do the details really matter, sir?” Harry asked tersely.

“They do, Mr. Potter. As I am in a position of authority over you, it is absolutely vital that I know how you have been treated in the past, so I can avoid erring in my dealings with you. I fear I have already done so out of ignorance.”

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. Could he say anything to Snape? It wasn’t as though Vernon’s questionable methods of discipline would give Snape any ideas. It was clear that Snape didn’t want to hurt him.

I can just give him a basic idea, because it’s obvious he knows, or suspects that Vernon liked to knock me about. It won’t change anything if I say. It’s not like I need to tell him about that man. That wasn’t even a discipline method anyway, just a... It’s not relevant.

“Harry?” Snape pressed.

“He… when I messed up, he liked to knockmearoundabit,” Harry mumbled, the last part of his sentence entirely incoherent.

“Would you care to repeat that, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked, the epitome of patience.

No, I would not care to repeat that, actually…

Harry felt himself getting unaccountably angry, and he forced himself not to snap at the man.

He doesn’t deserve that from me.

“He hit me.” Harry muttered, unable to conceal his frustration. Snape closed eyes, sighing heavily, but not seeming surprised by Harry’s grudging revelation.

“Do you fear that I will do the same to you?” Snape asked quietly, his face unreadable again.

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. Not anymore.”

“Good.”

There was a momentary pause, where Snape seemed to be weighing his words. He inhaled slowly to speak again.

“For that incident that occurred in the library shortly after you arrival, I feel I have not apologized enough,” said Snape intensely, leaning closer to Harry with his hands on his knees. “Under any circumstance, my behavior was reprehensible, but in light of what you have just confirmed for me, I cannot…” Snape’s voice trailed off, but Harry heard true remorse in his statement.

“It’s all right, sir,” Harry whispered.

Snape shook his head.

“No, it most certainly is not. I can assure you, however, that it will not happen again.”

Harry nodded, chewing on his lip.

Snape seemed to be considering something, and he then spoke. “You say you do not fear me, but considering the incident when I ordered you to face the wall…”

Harry cringed. Stupid stupid stupid. Why did you have to go and act all weird?

“Harry?” Harry looked up, realizing that he’d failed to register the rest of Snape’s question. He knew what the man was asking, though.

“It wasn’t you,” Harry whispered. Snape simply looked on patiently, eyebrows raised, compelling Harry to continue.

“I- it- I just don’t like when I can’t see who’s in the room. I thought you were… someone else.”

Brilliant. How eloquent. Oscar-worthy prose.

Harry was relieved to see Snape nod in understanding.

“I do apologize for insisting you do that which frightened you,” said Snape, his dark eyes boring into Harry’s green ones, willing him to take his words as truth.

Harry wanted to be angry at that comment. He wanted to valiantly deny that he had been afraid, that he had ever even been acquainted with the feeling.

But it was a lie.

He had been terrified. His whole life, really, he had been afraid; the fear was the only emotion Harry hadn’t learned to shut away.

“I don’t think you would do what they-he did. I just wasn’t thinking straight,” Harry said quietly.

Snape nodded slowly. “That is good to hear, however, I would prefer to avoid causing such reactions in the future, you understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers. “I noticed that you made a reference to your uncle in plural terms, just now,” he said slowly, eyes narrowed slightly.

Harry felt his insides freeze.

No. I can’t talk about that. It’s off-limits. He can’t know.

“Harry?”

Harry shook his head fiercely, his hands trembling.

“I can’t sir. I can’t,” he whispered.

Harry felt Snape’s eyes boring into him as he tensed further, eyes trained on his knees.

“You may go.”

Harry took a shuddering breath, and he fled to his room to curl up under his bed.

Wishing for his dagger.

Wishing for oblivion.

Harry and Snape were at the breakfast table when their companionable silence was broken by a loud pop. Harry jumped wildly when a large, tawny owl suddenly materialized, a letter tied to its leg.

“What…?”

“Ah, that must be your Hogwarts acceptance letter,” said Snape, setting down his fork. He reached out to untie the letter from the owl’s leg, which then promptly vanished with another pop.

Harry felt a jolt of excitement. He was really going to Hogwarts! At first, it had seemed like a fantastical sort of dream, and later on, when he’d decided to…  Well, he’d convinced himself that he didn’t want to go, anyway. But now he did.

 I didn’t know owls acted like that...

 “Why did the owl appear like that?” Harry asked, reaching for the letter from Snape's proferred hand.

“The warding surrounding the property prevent owls from flying in. Professor Dumbledore is aware of that, so it seems he made other arrangements.”

Harry nodded his understanding as he carefully opened the envelope, feeling a brief jolt of anger at the mention of Dumbledore. He shoved the feeling aside as he eagerly unfolded the letter.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress  

Harry scanned the supply list with wide eyes. Robes, cauldron, wand, books… This was insane. And completely amazing. He read through the acceptance letter again, turning the thick, yellowish parchment in his hands.

Parchment… what century are these people living in…?

A thought suddenly occurred to Harry, and it felt as though a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on his head, washing away his excitement.

How was he supposed to pay for all of this?

That's it, then. I can’t go. I can’t pay for supplies, not to mention tuition, which is probably a small fortune.

Harry swallowed. “I don’t have any money, sir,” he said quietly.

There was a slight pause.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked up to see Snape peering at him oddly.

“Surely, you…” Snape’s voice trailed off. Harry waited patiently for Snape to continue, confusion temporarily overcoming the bitter disappointment that he couldn't quite shove away.

Snape cleared his throat. “Harry, you have inherited quite a vast fortune from your father, who was descended from a long line of very wealthy wizards.”

Harry stared.

“That can’t be, sir,” he said flatly.

“I assure you, Harry, I am not mistaken.”

Something in Snape’s voice convinced Harry that it was true. He stared at a discolored spot on the wall, his lips pressed together firmly.

He had money. He was actually rich. And all this time, he’d been begging and stealing to stay alive. And he’d been passed around like an unwanted package, while he’d had piles of money waiting for him somewhere.

I could’ve bought my own house. I could’ve done anything. Gone anywhere. I could’ve gotten Jade and me out of hell. All of that… for nothing.

“Harry?” Snape cut in to Harry’s internal diatribe, eyebrows raised in askance.

“It’s nothing, sir,” Harry muttered. “I just… I never knew I had money.”

Snape nodded in understanding. “Yes, I imagine it must be something of a shock.”

Snape's matter-of-fact tone set Harry at ease. 

Fine. So you were rich all this time and you didn’t know. Get over it, at least you have a way to pay for school, not to mention the security. It’s a good thing.

“Do wizards have banks, sir?” Harry asked quickly.

Snape nodded. “Indeed, there is but one in Britain, known as Gringott’s.”

“One? In the whole country?” Harry asked incredulously.

No competition. They can get away with anything-

“They are run by goblins, who do not think in quite the same way that wizards do,” Snape said smoothly.

Harry stared. Goblins?

What in the…?

“I gather that you are surprised to learn of that?” Snape said, looking amused.

“Quite,” Harry responded, lips quirking.

Snape studied him for a moment. “If you are amenable, I will escort you to Diagon Alley, the nearest wizarding… shopping area, as muggles would refer to it, later this week.”

Harry nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“It is no trouble,” said Snape, waving a dismissive hand as he cleared the table with his other.

“Now, go fetch the broomstick.”

Harry’s eyes widened, momentarily forgetting his upset. “R- really, sir?”

“Did I not tell you that you may fly again?” said Snape, exasperated.

“Y- yes, sir. I just didn’t…” Harry trailed off.

Snape closed his eyes briefly. “You did not believe me.”

Snape rose briskly, brushing some imaginary crumbs from his robes as he strode towards the door.

“For Merlin’s sake, don’t dawdle.”

Harry jumped slightly, then hurriedly fetched the broom and followed Snape outdoors.

---

It’s strange how differently I feel while I’m flying, Harry thought, curled up in the library later. And as soon as I land, it’s back to normal. The bad normal. If I could just live my whole life flying, I would be fine. But no, I have to stay down here and put up with everything.

Harry groaned in agitation as he closed his book. He couldn’t sit here anymore. He didn’t want to do anything, really, except fly. But Snape had made it quite clear that he wasn’t allowed to fly without supervision, and the man was obviously too busy to supervise him.

If I could just grab the broom and… No way. He’d kill me. Or, at least, never let me fly again.

Harry rose abruptly and walked swiftly out of the room. He couldn’t stay in the library any longer.

I’ll go outside, anyway. He never said I couldn’t.

But, of course, as soon as he reached the doorway, he heard footsteps. Harry turned quickly to see Snape striding toward him.

Harry tensed, looking up nervously.

Is he angry? How did he even know… The stupid monitors, that’s how. Why isn’t he saying anything?

“I just wanted to go outside, sir,” Harry said carefully, uncomfortable with the silence.

Snape tilted his head, studying Harry’s face carefully. Harry stared back, refusing to look away.

“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a stroll, Mr. Potter?” Snape finally said.

Join you for a stroll?

“Er...alright, sir.”

“Good,” Snape nodded, opening the door. Harry followed him, a bit bemusedly.

The air had cooled significantly since Harry’s flying session earlier in the day, and a breeze tousled Harry’s hair, a sensation that felt oddly soothing. Harry walked alongside Snape in silence for several moments, allowing the fresh air to calm him. It wasn’t like flying, but it was definitely preferable to being shut inside.

I’m taking a stroll with Snape. That’s weird. Since when is he the sort to ‘take strolls’? Surely he has better things to do…

“Harry?” said Snape, pausing where he stood.

Harry looked up warily. “Yes, sir?”

Snape inhaled, brushing a few strands of wayward hair of his eyes. “I do understand that it is very difficult for you to speak with me topics concerning your history.”

Harry clenched his fists, staring at the ground. This was why they were taking a so-called stroll, so Snape could question him more.

“Therefore,” Snape continued, tapping Harry’s shoulder to make him look up. “I propose to offer you an incentive, so to speak.”

An incentive?

“I will make time in my schedule to supervise your flying more frequently, should you make a reasonable effort to answer my questions.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “How frequently, sir?”

Snape’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “That would depend on how many questions are answered.”

Harry thought carefully.

This could be worth it. I’m losing it, staying inside. But…

“And if I cannot answer certain questions, sir?”

“Then I will attempt to steer the topic in a direction which you feel more comfortable,” Snape replied smoothly. “I will still allow you flying time even if you cannot answer any, as I said I would do originally. Yet if you do answer my questions, you will simply have more flying time.”

“And if I decline the deal, sir, and refuse to answer any questions?” Harry asked daringly. He needed to know all sides of this negotiation.

Snape’s lips twitched.

“I would not force you to do so. However, I would be unable to allow you your independence for an extended period of time, as I would have no way of knowing how you are faring.”

This isn’t really a deal. It’s more of a reward system. If I agree, I get more flying time. If I don’t, I won’t be allowed anywhere alone, which would not be preferable in the least. I suppose he doesn’t have to offer a reward, but he’s trying to make it easier for me. Nice of him, I suppose.

“I’ll accept, sir,” Harry said finally.

Snape nodded. “Very well, thank you.” He drew in a breath. “Now, if you make an effort now, I will supervise your flying after dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, chewing on his lip.

Just deal with it. It’s just questions, it’s just talking. It can’t hurt me.

Yet he could not prevent the cold fear gripping at his chest.

It’ll go away when I fly. It’s fine.

Harry squared his shoulders. He wasn’t a kid, he could handle it. He wasn’t scared.

Harry looked up when Snape cleared his throat.

“I will reiterate; this is not an interrogation. If you feel uncomfortable, I will not push you.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered.

He walked alongside Snape reluctantly for several moments more, bracing himself for the coming onslaught.

“Can you describe for me your relationship with your late aunt?” Snape asked in a low voice, slowing his pace slightly.

Harry felt his breath catch in his chest. The last time he’d seen her…

Don’t think about it. Whatever she did or said then, it doesn’t change anything. She never wanted you, and she never stopped Vernon or anyone.

“Nonexistent,” replied Harry stiffly.

“How so?”

“We ignored each other, unless she was giving me an order.”

‘Such as…?”

“Chores.”

“What sort of chores did she have you do?”

“Cooking, cleaning, garden work. Stuff like that.”

“How much time was your day spent on performing chores, on average?”

“Dunno. A while.”

Snape paused in his questioning for a moment, while Harry exhaled slowly, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. His muscles immediately tensed again when Snape spoke again.

“What of… recreation? Did you spend time with other children of your age?”

Harry was eternally grateful that he was walking beside Snape instead of sitting across him This way, the man could not see his expression.

I’m not talking about Jade.

“I didn’t get on with the kids at school.”

“No? Why is that?”

“They thought I was strange, and I thought they were stupid.”

And Dudley scared them all off before that, anyway.

“Why do you feel that they thought you strange?”

“Because I wasn’t like them.”

“How so?”

“Dunno. I didn’t talk much in school.”

“Your linguistic abilities were too vast for them to comprehend, perhaps?” said Snape smoothly.

Harry sort of smiled. “Something like that.”

“Is that all?”

“They didn’t like brainy kids.”

Snape nodded. “That is a common dynamic amongst school children.”

Harry shrugged listlessly. “I didn’t care. And I still don’t.”

“You had a cousin your age, did you not?”

Harry nodded jerkily.  “We didn’t get on either, sir.”

There was a momentary pause, where Snape seemed to be weighing his words. Harry walked on in silence, kicking stones that came across his path.

“Was your cousin given chores as well?” Snape asked, smoothing the front of his cloak, which had been blown astray by the breeze.

Harry snorted.

Dudley, chores? That’s a good one.

“No,” he replied in a hard voice, masking the odd feeling that was rising up in his chest.

Dudley’s dead. He was ten, and he died. He didn’t deserve to die. But I don’t feel particularly bad, either. Does that make me a bad person, for not caring?

“Harry?” Snape prompted.

“He’s dead,” Harry whispered, without meaning to.

Snape sighed, then made a stifled movement, as though he was going to grasp Harry’s shoulder but thought better of it. Good. He didn’t deserve comfort, not when he didn’t even care that a kid he’d known had died.

“He’s dead, and I don’t even care,” he bit out, his voice purposefully cold, but not quite hiding the tremor beneath it. Harry forced himself to look up. Snape’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were focused upon Harry’s steadily, not seeming disgusted by Harry’s revelation.

Snape stopped where he stood, reaching out slowly to grip Harry’s shoulder, keeping him in place. Harry didn’t resist.

“You did not have a positive relationship with him, nor with any of your relatives. Your response is in no way unusual,” he said firmly.

Harry shrugged, looking away.

“Are we done?” he whispered, feeling spent.

“Certainly,” Snape replied smoothly, beginning to walk towards the house. Harry followed, relieved.

“Dinner is in an hour. I will supervise your flying after.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

Harry sat in the library, attempting to piece together his feelings.

Do I care at all that he died? If I didn’t, I wouldn’t even be thinking about it. Proof is, I’m not thinking about Vernon, ‘cause I’m glad he’s dead. That way, I’m safe.  From him, at least. Petunia… I don’t know. She probably wouldn’t have cared if I died. But Dudley was just a kid, even if he was an enormous prat. He didn’t really do anything to me.

Harry rubbed his eyes, worn out. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

He was my age and he died. I was supposed to die. He had everything he wanted. Parents who loved him. Money, toys. Friends. It would have been worth it for him to live. Not me, though. So why did I live, while he died?

But had Dudley really had everything he wanted?

Harry thought back…

***

Harry was nine.

It was another hot afternoon, and Harry had been ordered to paint the garden fence, never mind that he’d done it just four days ago. He figured Petunia just wanted him out of the house. He didn’t mind. It was always better to be outside, even in the heat of the day.

Harry shifted slightly when he heard the familiar shuffle of Dudley’s heavy tread. He braced himself for an onslaught of juvenile insults. But, instead, he heard a sniffle.

Dudley was crying. Real tears, this time, not one of the fake tantrums he threw almost daily. Harry shrugged to himself, and continued with his work. This Dudley was no threat, but somehow, he was more difficult to ignore.

“You’re lucky, you know.”

Harry turned his head quickly at that. Lucky? Him? That was rich, coming from Dudley.

“Have you been sniffing glue?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

Dudley raised his head, bloodshot eyes glistening with tears. Harry’s comment seemed to fly over his head.

“Dad doesn’t care what you do. For me, I have to… I dunno, do everything he does, or else he’ll hate me, too.”

“He wouldn’t do to you what he does to me,” Harry told him flatly.

Dudley squinted at him. “Maybe he would. He doesn’t like you, so he hits you, so if he didn’t like me, he’d hit me, too.”

Harry rolled his eyes inwardly at Dudley’s logic.

“But you’re his kid. It’s different,” Harry responded impatiently, turning back to the fence.

“That doesn’t matter. There’re already things he wouldn’t like about me, if he knew. And he’d try to squash it out of me, like he does you.”

Harry stared at Dudley. Trouble in paradise? Who knew?

“How does that make me lucky?” Harry asked, honestly wanting to know.

At that moment, Dudley’s small, blue eyes seemed to harden with a rarely seen spark of maturity.

“Because you know what to expect.”

As Harry mulled that over, the screen door banged open, and both he and Dudley jumped.

“Get back to that painting, boy!” bellowed Vernon. “If you don’t have that done in an hour… Dudley, what are you doing over there?”

Harry turned quickly back to the fence, and Dudley shoved him to the ground, paint splattering everywhere.

***

Harry closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it. Eyes still squeezed shut, he grabbed blindly at the nearest book piled on the table, which turned out to be a volume on magical creatures. He flipped it open randomly, needing to focus his thoughts on something else. He skimmed through the pages quickly.

Boggarts. Odd creatures. How is it possible that they can detect what a person’s worst fear is?

What was the purpose of such a creature? Did it really do any good for anyone to face their worst fear if it wasn’t even real?

What would a boggart turn into for me? And how can it know what my worst fear is when I’m not even sure myself.

What was his worst fear? There were many things that could qualify, but did one stand out above the others?

Do I even want to know?

I wonder what it would have turned into for Dudley… Probably Vernon hating him like he did me… wanting to hurt him like… Stop. Just stop.

Harry shut the book with a loud snap, his mood rapidly plummeting.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

Harry curled up into a tight ball, palms pressed against his face. His heart beat sporadically as he rocked back and forth. He could feel himself shaking.

No. Just no. I need…

Clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking, Harry stood up, slipping outdoors as silently as he could. It was drizzling lightly, and the damp grass flattened beneath his feet as he walked. Uncurling his fingers to collect the raindrops, Harry paused where he stood. 

He searched the ground for some small object, anything, and spotted a few stray rocks. He focused carefully on the smallest one, as though trying to physically shove his stress straight into it. Only intending to make it hover in the air, he jerked back in shock when the stone, after rising a few inches into the air, shattered entirely.

I just shattered a stone. I must’ve been more stressed than I thought. Okay. That works too, I guess. Now, let’s see if I can do that again.

Harry focused whatever energy he had remaining on another stone, but instead, send it flying into a nearby tree. He watched with interest as it bounced off the trunk and landed, partially concealed, into the wet grass.

Harry jumped and spun around when the door banged open. Snape exited the house, face tight, as though expecting the worst.

Monitors. Stupid things. What good are they if they can’t tell the difference between a dagger and a rock?

Harry watched warily as Snape took in the scene, eyes traveling from Harry, who was breathing hard, to the shattered bits of stone scattered across the grass. The lines on the man’s face loosened slightly.

Harry then noticed that Snape was clutching a cauldron stirrer, pale gray potion residue dripping from it.

Snape sighed with exasperation.

“Come with me, I need a good hour to complete this potion without the threat of my imminent demise by heart failure.”

Harry stared skeptically into the jar of white powder, standing on the hearth near the fireplace. He was supposed to toss this powder into the fireplace and stand in the fire, as if there was nothing life-threatening about that?

“I assure you, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, sounding impatient. “The Floo is one of the most mainstream magical methods of travel existing. You have nothing to be concerned about.”

Harry just looked up at Snape, warily, refusing to take a step closer to the sinister looking flames. Sure, he’d read about the Floo, but actually using it was an entirely different story. Though he had seen Dumbledore use it, he wouldn’t put it past the man to have orchestrated the entire event for some incomprehensible reason.

Death by fire is probably the worst way.

“If I use it first, will you trust its safety?” Snape finally said.

Harry swallowed, then nodded, thrusting the jar in Snape’s direction. Snape grasped it, plucking a pinch of powder from the jar before replacing it back on the mantle. Harry watched as Snape tossed the powder into the fire, which immediately turned bright green. He then backed up slightly as Snape stepped into the fireplace.

“Diagon Alley,” he said clearly, and disappeared in a flash of green flame.

Okay. He didn’t burn up, apparently. So I just do what he did. Right. This is insane.

Harry shrugged, then pinched a bit of Floo powder from the jar. He tossed it into the flames, which had since returned to their normal state, and watched them glow green yet again.

Here goes nothing.

Harry took a deep breath, then stuck the toe of his shoe into the flames. When it didn’t appear to be consumed, he stepped into the fireplace, half-braced for unbearable heat and horrible pain. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the flames felt like little more than a warm breeze.

I won’t even bother to try and figure out how this makes any sort of sense…

Harry opened his mouth to state his destination, accidentally knocking his heel against one of the burning logs. He abruptly inhaled a mouthful of ash.

“D-diag-on All-ey,” Harry choked out, his lungs desperately attempting to expel the ash.

I’m screwed, was Harry’s last thought as he was whisked away into a blur of flame and bricks.

---

Harry coughed violently as he rolled out of the fireplace, landing in a strange, darkened room. There was no sign of Snape.

Harry pulled himself slowly to his feet, trying to shake off the dizziness and nausea. He swallowed back the rising anxiety.

Let’s look at this logically. Obviously, I didn’t say Diagon Alley clearly enough, which is why I’m not there, but what I said sounded mostly like it, so I’m probably somewhere nearby.

Harry studied his surroundings carefully; it appeared that he had landed in some sort of antique shop. There were odd-looking devices displayed on dusty shelves and tables, and though the room was still and quiet, Harry could sense the subtle magical influences at play. Harry felt a bit tempted to fiddle with some of the objects, but he abstained.

Yeah, brilliant idea, go touch creepy magical devices and see what happens. Best possible way to keep under the radar…

Harry inhaled sharply when he heard the door of the shop open with a ring. He backed carefully toward the far corner of the room, concealing himself behind some tall stacks of untitled books, holding his breath.

“Ah, Lucius…” Harry heard a gravelly, hoarse voice say.

I didn’t know wizards smoked, too… And Lucius? Did I just walk into a Shakespearean novel?

“A pleasure…” There was a faint rustle, which Harry assumed was the sound of sleeves brushing together as the men shook hands.

“I have come to see about acquiring the final products of my collection, if I may, Mr. Burke?” said a high, aristocratic voice.

“I believe that can be arranged…”

Harry heard footsteps growing steadily louder, and he pushed back more firmly into his corner.

“Touch nothing, Draco,” the aristocratic man, Lucius, said sharply.

Harry heard the faint tread of lightweight footsteps, and he realized that he was not the only child in the room. Unable to help himself, he shifted over slightly as to partially unblock his view.

Harry could see the backs of two men poring over some object or other, one slight and dark-haired, the other tall and thin with long, white-blond hair. A similarly blond-haired boy who looked to be about Harry’s age was examining some sinister looking jewelry with his hands clasped behind his back, a sullen expression on his face.

I suppose he’s Draco, the aristocrat’s son. What sort of name is that? Were his parents intentionally trying to make him the target of ridicule?

The boy suddenly looked up, and Harry could only stand there, frozen in place, when their eyes met.

---

Severus stepped neatly out of the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron, brushing soot off his robes. Ignoring the other occupants of the pub, he stepped to the side, waiting for Harry to come through.

As his wait crept slowly from two minutes to three, then five, Severus realized that the boy was not coming through.

Clearly, having the boy use the Floo was a rather imbecilic error of judgment. Considering his maturity, it is so easy to forget how inexperienced he is with the wizarding world. I cannot afford to make such mistakes… I must examine the monitors to locate the boy, though they will likely prove to be useless, as were not designed to detect specific locations outside of the property, due to my utter idiocy…

Severus waved his wand in a few intricate motions, his fears proving to be correct. He could not locate the child from where he was.

The monitors are tied to the property, perhaps I can return there to adjust them…

Seeing that it was his only viable option, Severus shoved a knut into the slot near the jar of Floo powder, grabbed a pinch, and was spinning through chimneys within seconds, all the while cursing the time he’d wasted.

How could he have let the boy out of his sight? He was well aware of the dangers, and he knew, quite acutely, what the boy was going through. The child could run into anything, he could get snatched off the streets, even run away. The child was far too clever for his own good, and a danger to himself…

---

Harry stared into the boy, Draco’s, gray eyes, unsure if he should remain where he was, run, or throw something. The blond-haired boy’s eyes darted toward the adults, then back to Harry.

“Draco,” Lucius suddenly called out. Draco jumped, turning quickly to face the other end of the room.

“Yes, Father?” he drawled, the very picture of well-bred propriety.

“Mr Burke here and I will be going to the back room for several moments. Can I trust you to remain here alone?” said Lucius sternly.

“Yes, Father.”

Harry heard the two men’s footsteps growing faint, and the boy turned back to face Harry’s corner, smirking slightly.

“One would think I had planned for that,” Draco muttered, shifting away some of the books concealing Harry.

What am I so afraid of? He’s just a kid, like me. He isn’t even that much bigger than me.

Harry stepped out from behind the stacks of books, an indifferent expression on his face.

“And who might you be?” the boy asked, with the air of a person well-accustomed to receiving answers.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “What’s it to you?”

“My father practically owns this shop,” Draco huffed. “Having the place infested with street urchins does nothing for business.

Harry knew he was supposed to be affronted, but he just felt amused. “Did your dad feed you that line, or do you come up with pretentious one-liners on demand?”

Harry hadn’t known a face could change colors so quickly. The boy’s pale face darkened red with anger at a speed akin to a traffic light.

“Do you know who I am?” the boy asked with a poor attempt at snobbery, nose in the air.

Harry just raised his eyebrows, his facial expression speaking for itself.

“I suppose that is unsurprising,” Draco sniffed, “considering your obvious lack of a cultural background. One cannot expect those of lesser status to be well-versed in the names and faces of higher society.”

Harry couldn’t help it, he snorted.

“Is something funny?” Draco sniped.

Harry rolled his eyes. “The fact that you seem to be under the impression that you represent this so-called higher society, perhaps?”

Draco squared his shoulders. “Well, you’d be a first year like me, I suppose?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Your point being?”

Draco sniffed again, though he couldn’t quite pull off the sophisticated pose he was angling for.

“When we start school, you’ll see what influences the Malfoys hold in Hogwarts. My father is a senior member of the board of education, and what with Severus being my godfather, I’m guaranteed preferential treatment… ”

Harry physically held back jerk of surprise. Severus, as in Snape? This absolute twit was his godson?

It took Harry a moment to identify the feeling rising in his chest. Betrayal. And jealousy.

Why would I feel that way? It’s not like I need Snape to be a… a parent, or anything. He’s just… well, I don’t know what he is to me, but I trust him enough to tell him things I never told anyone.

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Draco demanded.

Harry quickly regained his composure, complete with a disdainful raise of his eyebrow. “I wouldn’t know. Perhaps your little diatribe shares the effects of a mild sedative.”

For a moment, Draco looked stumped.

Does he not know what a sedative is? I win.

Draco took a haughty breath, but before he could respond, both he and Harry froze when they heard the approaching footsteps of the adults. Without pausing for a breath, Harry was out the door before Draco could as much as blink.

---

Back in the sitting room beside the fireplace, Severus’ eyes were squeezed tightly shut in concentration as he incanted. The focus and exertion it took to readjust these particular monitors when unable to locate the subject was notoriously draining.

Finally, beads of sweat running down his face, the job was done.

Harry was in Knockturn Alley, though he could not determine the exact location.

Wonderful. Of all places to end up… The very dredges of society, predators...

Severus was sprinting across the grounds, stepping past the wards surrounding his property. He disapparated, half-convinced that his trip was sped up by his utter panic.

---

Harry darted out into the street, peering around warily. It looked dark and slightly sinister, and almost as grimy as it has been inside. Harry felt the familiar street instincts take over as he glanced around carefully for potential threats, his senses on overdrive.

Well, I guess the next step is to find my way to Diagon Alley, which shouldn’t be too far…

For whatever reason, Harry did not feel nearly as anxious as he would have expected to be.

This is the first time I’ve been on my own since I got to Snape’s house…

Despite the sinister feel around him, Harry had missed his independence. Being told what to do, talking about his feelings… that was pretty foreign to him. But this, navigating the streets and keeping out of sight, was right up his alley. He didn’t need anyone to protect him, didn’t need Snape…       

He walked down the darkened street, scarcely breathing, keeping to corners and trash bins in attempt to conceal himself. At the same time, Harry felt quite calm. He was in control, here. He walked on silently, looking around interestedly.

He stiffened when he noticed a suspicious-looking person leaning against a wall, male or female he could not discern. The person flashed its teeth at him, and Harry reached reflexively into his pocket for the dagger.

 Bloody. Hell.

The realization of the absence of his dagger slapped Harry squarely in the face. This was not his turf; this was the magical world, where a dagger would offer little protection against an experienced wizard.

Harry shoved away the growing fear, forcing himself to breath evenly.

You’ve lived through much worse than this. Just find a way out of here and keep out of sight. You’ll be fine.

He’d been moving for barely a few more moments when his reassurances were proven false.

Harry jerked wildly when he felt a hand grab onto his sleeve. He turned his head quickly, heart beating frantically, to face what appeared to be a female  Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes, which glowed unnaturally, were partially concealed by a thick curtain of dark gray hair.

“Lost, are you, child?” the woman croaked, her cracked lips twisted into a perverse sort of smile. Harry tried to wrench his arm out of her grasp, but it seemed the woman was stronger than she appeared to be.

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Harry, thankful that his voice remained steady.

Show no fear, show no fear-

“Nonsense,” the woman crowed. “I’ll show you just where you need to go.”

She yanked Harry’s arm, pulling him along the road. The adrenaline kicked in then; Harry clawed wildly at her hand, and a surge of heat rushed from his fingertips, forcing the woman to release him with a shriek of pain and anger.

Without pausing for a further reaction on her part, Harry bolted in the opposite direction, head tilted behind him to see if she was following. It was for that reason that Harry didn’t notice the huge, hulking figure blocking his path until he ran straight into it and was sent flying backwards onto the pavement.

“What’r ya doin' down here, boy?”

Harry looked up quickly, gasping for breath, to see a giant of a man, face half-concealed with bushy, wiry black hair and beard. The man may have been frightening, if not for the warmth of his beetle-black eyes and slightly quizzical smile. He felt himself calm slightly.

“Can ya talk?” The question might have been offensive, if not for the sincerity of the man’s tone.

Harry exhaled, his breath coming out in a slight laugh of relief.

“Yeah, I was just l-lost. Floo powder…”

The man gave a nod of understanding. “Firs’ time, eh? Here, lemme help you.” Without waiting for a response, the giant leaned down to pull Harry up. He actually felt his feet leave the ground until the man set him down.

“So, were ya tryin’ ter get to Diagon?”

Harry nodded, brushing soot from his shirt.

“I can help yeh with tha’. Who’r ya with?”

Harry felt a bit weak at the knees, after all that excitement.

Excitement. Yeah, that’s right…

“Er… I was with Professor Snape…”

Who says he even knows who Snape is, anyway?

But it seemed he did.

“Ah, P’rfess’r Snape? Clever man, he is. C’mon, can’ be too hard ter track ‘im down.”

The giant gripped Harry’s upper arm, pulling him along. Harry didn’t resist. There was something about this man that seemed trustworthy. Familiar, even, as though Harry had known him once, and forgotten.

“I’m Hagrid, by th’ way. Gameskeeper at Hogwarts.” He said that last bit in a proud tone. “You’ll be a firs’ year, then. What’s yer name?”

“Harry,” he said quietly, brushing soot off his face with his free hand. The giant, Hagrid, stopped suddenly, releasing Harry’s arm to turn his head toward him.

“Harry?” Hagrid whispered. He stared into Harry’s eyes for a moment, his black eyes welling up with tears.

Without warning, he yanked Harry into a bone-crushing hug. Harry gasped in surprise, attempting weakly to pull himself away. But he was helpless to free himself from the grip of this huge, soft, giant who was currently clutching him desperately, his chest heaving with great, gulping sobs.

Finally, Hagrid released him, and Harry staggered backwards, rubbing his arms and breathing hard. He looked up to see Hagrid looking at him fondly, black eyes still wet with tears.

“Las’ time I saw yeh, you were jus’ a baby,” Hagrid said in a thick voice, fishing out an oversized handkerchief from a pocket.

Oh. That’s why he seems familiar.

“You look jus’ like yer dad, an’ you got yer mum’s eyes. Beautiful, she was. And both yer parents, such good people…” He paused to blow his nose loudly. “Tiny, little thing, yeh were. Yeh fit in the palm o’ my hand, yeh did…”

Hagrid continued his ramble as he led Harry down the narrow road, where a rickety sign nailed to a wall indicate that the area was called Knockturn Alley.

“So, how did yeh end up with P’rfessor Snape, Harry? He pick yeh up from yer relatives?”

Harry tensed at that. “Er… I live with him now.”

Hagrid peered down at Harry, an open look of surprise on his face. “Really? How’d tha’ happen?”

Harry shrugged, not really in the mood to discuss the details. Thankfully, Hagrid let it go, continuing to ramble on about the grandness of Hogwarts.

“Great place, Hogwarts is. Loved my time there, I did…”

Harry notice that the road was gradually widening and brightening; it seemed that they’d finally reached the exit. He then noticed a familiar figure in dark robes moving swiftly in their direction.

---

Severus stepped through the crumbling archway of Knockturn Alley, as he knew the boy was nearing the edge of the alley.

Severus quickened his stride as his eyes gradually adjusting to the unlit dankness of the alley. As he walked, the monitors tightened around his ankle, and he knew that the boy was near. Through narrowed eyes, Severus noticed a large, hulking shadow moving toward him, gradually making itself known to be a quite familiar individual.

Hagrid.

He knows the alley well, he may be of some help.

“Hagrid,” said Snape tersely when he was near enough. “Have you-” he stopped when he noticed Harry, small and insignificant beside Hagrid’s huge figure. He heaved an inner sigh of relief.

Oh, thank Merlin.

Scanning the child rapidly with his eyes for injury, Severus pulled Harry toward him by the shoulder. “You are unharmed?” he said tensely.

The child nodded, eyes on the ground.

Hand still gripping Harry’ shoulder tightly, Snape looked back up at Hagrid, who was overlooking the scene with a somewhat bemused, though fond expression.

“Thank you, Hagrid, you have been most helpful,” Snape said politely, wiping all traces of concern from his face. His hands felt shaky with the aftermath of his worry

“Arr, it’s no trouble. Best keep a close eye on young Harry, here,” Hagrid replied jovially.

Though he knew Hagrid meant nothing by it, Severus felt both guilty and affronted at the insinuation that he was not properly looking after the boy.

Well, you haven’t been doing a particularly good job, have you? Considering what the boy has gotten up to since coming into your care…

“I most certainly intend to,” replied Snape sharply. “We’d best be on our way.” Still gripping Harry’s shoulder tightly, he turned away to lead him down the alley.

“See yeh at Hogwarts, then, Harry, Severus,” Hagrid called from behind. Severus nodded without looking back.

For a few long moments, Snape walked alongside the child in silence, hand still gripping the child’s shoulder. It was only when the boy attempted to tug himself out of Severus’ grip when he realized just how tightly he’d been clutching the boy.

Snape immediately released Harry, wanting to kick himself.

You must be careful with the boy. You cannot be taking your anger at your own negligence out on him.

Severus sighed, looking down at the boy. Harry looked odd; not particularly frightened or anxious, just… more reserved in Severus’ presence that he’d been in quite a while

Perhaps he did run into trouble, Severus realized with a jolt.

“Did anything untoward occur in the alley, Harry?”

“No, sir,” Harry said quietly, looking at the ground.

“You are absolutely sure?” Severus asked sharply, frowning.

“Yes, sir. Nothing happened. I was just trying to find my way out when I ran into Hagrid.”

Severus frowned again, but he said no more.

Harry’s eyes widened as he and Snape stepped into the bright, bustling alley, a far cry from the dimly lit, dusty roads of Knockturn Alley. He’d never imagined that a place could look so… magical.

The scene really did look like something out of a fairy tale.

There were crowds of men, woman, and children clad in varying hues of robes, some plain and dark like Snape wore his, and some with embellishments such as wide lapels, lace, and brightly colored stitching. Some wore what would have been considered normal clothing if not for the fact that they were several decades out of date, though Harry did spot the occasional person wearing jeans.

Harry could feel magical energies vibrating in the air, sending a warmth into his chest as though the very atmosphere was speaking to him.

“Come along,” said Snape, prodding Harry’s arm to get him moving from where he had paused in wonder by the arched entrance.

Harry quickened his step, eyes darting back and forth in desperate attempt to take in everything. He could see shops with names like Magical Menagerie, Slug and Jigger’s Apothecary, Potage’s Cauldron Shop, Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions…

Within a few moments, he and Snape reached a tall, regal-looking white building.

“Gringott’s first,” Snape said, while leading Harry up the marble staircase to the wide, imposing doors, which swung open at the touch of Snape’s wand tip. Once inside, Harry scanned the room interestedly. Aside from the clearly non-human tellers, there was nothing particularly odd about the place, though it was obviously considerably grander than he would have imagined a bank to be.

Goblins. That’s what they are, thought Harry, recalling the conversation he and Snape had had about the bank.

As they neared the counters, Snape fished a small, metal object from his pocket, handing it to Harry.

“Your key,” he said in a low voice. “It has been kept safe for you until now, though I imagine you’d prefer to keep hold of it henceforth?”

Dumbledore probably had it, Harry thought with an inward frown. But he simply nodded his thanks as he accepted the key. Then a sudden thought occurred to him.

“Has anyone been able to access my account?” he asked suspiciously.

“No. No one but the legal owner is allowed access.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

They reached the counters, and Harry felt very small as a severe-looking goblin peered down at him. He squared his shoulders, refusing to display timidity.

“Mr. Harry Potter would like to make a withdrawal,” said Snape smoothly. The goblin raised an eyebrow, his shiny, black eyes boring into Harry’s, who stared back uncomfortably.

“Key, please,” the goblin said in a gravelly voice. Harry set it on the counter, standing on the balls of his feet to reach it.

The goblin pronounced it satisfactory, and, not ten minutes later, Harry, Snape, and another goblin had ridden the dizzying cart ride down to Harry’s vault.

The goblin unlocked the door with Harry’s key and pushed it open.

Harry stared.

He had never, in his wildest daydreams, imagined that he’d have such a sheer amount of money in his possession. There were mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins stacked nearly to the ceiling, so much so that it didn’t even seem real.

All this is… mine? It was just sitting here all this time...

Harry felt Snape press a small, velvet pouch into his hand, but he made no move to fill it. He continued to stare, transfixed, at the immense amount of money in his possession, entirely overwhelmed.

How much is this worth? Does this mean I never have to work for money? Or is wizard gold worth less? What do I do with all of this? 

“Mr. Potter?”

Harry looked up quickly, and Snape seemed to pick up on Harry’s utter confusion. He moved to assist Harry in filling the pouch, explaining the wizarding monetary system in clear terms as he did so.

Apparently, the gold was worth quite a bit.

---

Fifteen minutes later, Harry and Snape exited the bank, and Harry couldn’t help patting his pocket every few moments to remind himself that the money was real. An image of a pale, aristocratic boy rose in his mind as he did so, and Harry forced back a scowl.

I bet Draco never had to think about such things… He has everything, why does he get to have Snape too?

“Is there a problem, Mr. Potter?” Snape cut in.

Harry shook his head, avoiding Snape’s eyes. There was a slight pause.

“Are you absolutely certain that you did not run into any trouble?” Snape asked, a tinge of urgency lacing his tone.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said tonelessly.

Harry heard the older man sigh, and he jumped when Snape gripped his upper arm and pulled him to the side of the cobblestone road.

“Look at me.”

Harry obeyed reluctantly, not a little apprehensive at Snape’s irritated tone. The man’s face was tight, and he immediately trapped Harry within his dark, assessing gaze.

“Due to your record of being less than honest with me, I am having a very difficult time believing that nothing occurred in that alley,” Snape said sternly.

Harry opened his mouth to deny it, but Snape held up a finger, silencing him.

“I suggest that you think over your response carefully,” Snape whispered harshly, his eyes snapping. “I will not tolerate lies. Not about this.”

Harry stiffened slightly, but he refused to shrink back.

Why is he pushing this? He doesn’t care. As soon as school starts, I’ll just be another student to him, and he’ll only care about Draco…

“Harry,” Snape said warningly.

Harry sucked in an annoyed breath. “Nothing happened.”

Snape leaned down so his face was inches from Harry’s. Harry tried to step back, but Snape held him in place.

“I may be an expert Legilimens, Mr. Potter, but I do not have to access your mind to know that you are not being honest with me.”

Harry remained silent, and Snape continued to hold him in place, looking at him sharply.

He’s seriously not going to let this go. And he’s invading my personal space.

“Fine!” Harry bit out, yanking himself out of Snape’s grasp. Snape allowed it, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“I ran into this kid, Draco.” Harry paused for a moment, reluctant to continue. Snape raised an eyebrow in warning.

“He’s just a- a conceited jerk, and he said you’re his godfather,” Harry muttered, feeling idiotic that such a minor thing could upset him.

Snape closed his eyes for a moment.

“Come with me.”

Harry squinted confusedly as Snape turned and led the way down the cobbled road, expertly weaving his way through the hordes of people. Harry followed closely at his heels.

Snape eventually stopped, and Harry looked up at the sign to read ‘Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor’.

What…?

Snape sat at an empty table in the outdoor dining area, pointing to the chair opposite him. Harry sat, peering around apprehensively.

Snape swiveled a menu around to face Harry.

“Choose your preference.”

Harry stared at the menu of the various ice cream flavors, entirely at a loss.

I don’t know what any of this stuff tastes like. What’s the difference between strawberry and strawberries and cream?… unless wizards don’t uses cream to make ice cream…?

“Harry?”

Harry looked up, then immediately looked away, ashamed that he couldn’t handle a task as simple as selecting a flavor of ice cream.

“I- I don’t know what to choose,” he mumbled, looking up through his lashes.

Snape looked at him carefully for a moment, then plucked the menu from his hands.

“I would recommend the dulce de leche; it has long been a favorite of mine.”

Harry nodded, relieved, and Snape tapped the menu with his wand twice.

“The order is transferred to the kitchen,” said Snape in response to Harry’s questioning look.

Harry nodded, feeling awkward.

I’m sitting with Snape at an ice cream parlor. This is just strange…

“So you have enjoyed the dubious pleasure of Draco Malfoy’s company, I take it?”

So that’s his last name.

“Yes.”

Snape leaned forward in his seat slightly, clasping his hands together with his elbows resting on his knees.

“He has been raised in a wealthy, privileged home, which has lent itself to providing him with a sense of entitlement.”

“Damn right it has,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

Did I just say that out loud?

“Sorry,” Harry whispered.

Snape inclined his head, shifting in his seat slightly.

“I am… acquainted with the Malfoy’s, so I have known Draco for most of his life.”

And you care more about him…

“However,” Snape continued, raising his voice as if sensing the turn of Harry’s thoughts. “Draco has a tendency to exaggerate. I am not his godfather, nor do I have any intention of providing him with preferential treatment in school, as he undoubtedly implied. ”

Harry looked down, chewing his lip uncomfortably.

“Your orders, gentlemen.”

Harry looked up to see a waiter, their ice cream orders hovering in the air in front of him. Snape thanked the waiter and paid him, at which point the ice creams settled neatly on the table.

Harry stared at his ice cream, a sense of fear suddenly overtaking him…

***

He was six years old, and he’d been watching enviously as Dudley scarfed down pints of the ice cream Aunt Petunia had stocked up on for the summer.

“We must keep our Diddykins hydrated,” she’d said dotingly. She had also made no secret of the fact that ice cream was too good for freaky, ungrateful little whelps.

Harry had already known then that he was freaky and ungrateful, but that did not prevent his mouth from watering nor his stomach from rumbling as he watched Dudley eat, the sweet, melting treat dripping down his cousin’s pudgy chin.

Maybe if I’m really, really good, I’ll get to have some, too, Harry’s young, still fairly innocent mind reasoned.

So he tried. He did everything he was told immediately, without dawdling or complaints. He even went to his cupboard early to keep out of the way, and he got up extra early to prepare breakfast.

But no one seemed to notice, and day after hot summer’s day, Harry was forced to watch Dudley enjoying the treat, the envy and longing almost too much to bear. Harry was lucky if he was given a drink of water after a long day doing chores in the sun.

And one day, it got to be too much.

It was the hottest day of the year; Harry had known that from overhearing the man on the weather channel saying so before Dudley had waddled in and demanded that Vernon change the channel.

It hadn’t preventing Aunt Petunia from putting Harry to work as usual. She has also forgotten to feed him that morning, and he was forced to tend to the garden and mow the lawn despite the suffocating heat, his attempts to ignore the crippling thirst proving futile as he repeatedly wiped sweat from his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut to combat the dizziness.

So that night, Harry had snuck out of his cupboard, which, somehow, had unlocked of its own accord, and he crept toward to kitchen, certain that at an hour as late at this, the Dursley’s would be fast asleep.

He stood on tiptoe to open the freezer, straining to grab hold of the ice cream carton. However, it was stored on one of the higher shelves. So close, yet so tantalizingly out of reach.

At the time, Harry had figured that it was because he’d wished for it so hard that it happened.

The carton of chocolate ice cream floated off of its shelf and fell slowly through the air into his open, waiting hands.

Harry stared in awe and wonder, and his hands trembled as he eased off the lid. He dipped his small finger into the frozen treat, eye’s wide with excitement, when…

“Boy!”

Harry had never really remembered what happened next.

***

“Harry?”

Harry swallowed, then looked up into Snape’s concerned face, forcing his hands to remain still.

Harry tried to say something, but his throat felt too dry.

Stop being so pathetic. He’s not like them.

“Ice cream tends to melt if left to its own devices for long enough,” Snape reminded.

Harry lifted his spoon, but he couldn’t bring himself use it.

“What is it, Harry?”

Harry couldn’t speak, and though ashamed by the show of weakness, he lowered his head into his hands.

Harry felt Snape reach out and pull his hands away from his face. The man then picked up Harry’s spoon, scooped up some ice cream, and handed it to Harry. Snape then took a bite of his own ice cream casually, as though it was something he did regularly.

That was what brought Harry back to the present.

Snape? Eating ice cream? That’s just…

Harry took a tentative bite, and was immediately deluged in the pleasure of something he’d never had but always wanted.

He gradually relaxed as he and Snape ate in silence.

Slightly more than halfway through his serving, Harry set down his spoon, unable to finish it.

He looked up from his bowl and noticed Snape looking at him contemplatively.

“I was never allowed ice cream,” Harry, oddly, felt compelled to say.

“Oh?”

“I was never allowed much of anything, really,” Harry said quietly.

Snape was silent for a moment.

“I imagine that must have been difficult, watching other children receive that which you did not,” Snape said in a low voice.

Harry bit his lip. “I tried to sneak some ice cream, once.”

“That endeavor did not end well, I gather?”

Harry paused.

“I don’t remember,” he whispered.

Snape looked at Harry, his expression unfathomable. He then reach out his hand slowly to cover Harry’s.

“Despite what your past may have taught you, Harry, you are entitled to the simple joys that all children are given.”

Harry nodded, his throat dry. Lowering his eyes, he stared into the melted remains of his ice cream.

He then felt Snape’s hand leave his and grasp his chin, forcing Harry to meet his eyes.

“Despite my familiarity with Draco, you, not he, are my first priority,” said Snape intently.  “That will not change once school begins.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry whispered.

Snape released Harry’s chin, then cleared his throat.

“As it seems we are done here, do you have any preference as to where we should go first?” he asked.

“My wand, sir,” Harry immediately replied.

Snape nodded his acquiescence, and they both rose from their seats and made their way down the road.

Before long, they reached a small shop, titled Ollivander’s. Snape pushed opened the door, and a faint ring reverberated somewhere above their heads

Though it was empty, dim, and somewhat dusty, the room all but pulsated with magical energy. Harry shivered slightly.

“Good afternoon,” a soft voice suddenly spoke. Harry turned his head quickly to see a small, thin man with wispy, silver hair. His wide, pale eyes, which matched his hair, seemed to stare straight through Harry, as though the man could decipher his innermost thought just by looking.

Harry nodded back, resisting the impulse to lower his eyes. Harry heard the rustle of Snape robes as he leaned against the wall.

“Harry Potter. I've been expecting you,” the man said in a whispery voice.

How does he know my name? I didn’t think people know how I look; no one else recognized me…

Harry stiffened as the man drew closer, the intense, silver gaze unnerving him.

“You remind me of another young man I once knew.” the man whispered. “So much potential…”

How the hell can he tell?

There was a pause, while Harry and Ollivander continued to stare at one another.

“Those with the potential to do great, too, possess the ability to do great harm.”

Harry, furrowed his brow slightly, unnerved

This man knows thing, Harry realized. He knows about people, he understands them. I suppose that comes with being a wandmaker, because wands relate to people’s personalities. That's what it said in that book, anyway… 

Harry wished the man would look away.

“Well, to business,” Ollivander finally said. He gestured for Harry to follow him to the counter, summoning a rather ordinary-looking tape measure.

“Wand arm?”

“Er… right.”

Ollivander flicked his wand, setting the tape measure to action while he pilfered through the boxes.

Why exactly does the distance between my eyes matter for a wand?, Harry thought, bemused, as the tape measure continued its work.

Ollivander returned shortly, arms piled with boxes. He set them down on the counter, banished the tape measure, and began sorting through the boxes, eventually pulling out a thin, light brown wand.

“Hazelwood and unicorn hair, nine and a quarter inches,” said Ollivander, pressing the wand into Harry’s hand. Harry closed his fingers around it, unsure of what to do.

“Go on, give it a wave,” said Ollivander impatiently.

Harry obeyed, but it was snatched out of his hand within seconds. The pattern repeated itself until the counter was piled with wands of varying color and sizes, and empty boxes were strewn all over the floor. The odd thing was, that the more wands Harry attempted, the more pleased Ollivander seemed to become.

“Ah, tricky customer,” he said, all but rubbing his palms together in glee. “I suspected you would be…”

He rummaged through the shelves near the back of the store, then slid out one box carefully.

“Perhaps… though, would it be wise…?” Harry heard the man mutter to himself. Ollivander walked over, and yet another wand was pressed into his hand.

“Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. Go on…”

Harry gripped the handle tightly, lifting the wand to shoulder height, when a sudden feeling of warmth rose up his arm, seeming to shoot directly into his heart. He brought the wand down quickly with a gasp, and was pushed backwards when intensely bright silver sparks exploded from the wand’s tip.

Harry staggered, just managing to keep himself from falling. Ollivander walked over, the very picture of delight, waving his hands to restore the rejected wands back to their respective places on the shelves.

“Ah, very good, very good.”

‘A powerful wizard you are, indeed, Mr. Potter.” The man drew closer, meeting Harry’s eyes. Harry stared back, still clutching the wand, liking the feeling it gave him.

“You use the power you possess for good, and we may be looking at…” the man’s voice trailed off, and he put out a hand to take the wand.

Harry reluctantly relinquished it, and Ollivander replaced it in its box. Harry paid seven gallons and exited the shop alongside Snape, mulling over his experience and what Ollivander had said. Harry was grateful that Snape wasn’t saying much, because he didn’t feel up to discussing what had happened.

“Perhaps you’d like to collect your textbooks?” Snape eventually said. Harry nodded his acquiescence, and they continued their leisurely walk down the cobblestone road.

Harry then noticed something out of the corner of his eye that made him stop in his tracks. They’d just passed Eyelop’s Owl Emporium, and Harry had caught the bright amber eye of a snow white owl.

“Sir, do you mind…?”

“Go ahead.”

Harry walked slowly toward the owl, which was perched on a low branched, eyeing him with an assessing gaze. He reached out a careful hand to stroke the bird’s white feathers, feeling a sense of calm as he did so.

This owl is mine.

Harry knew it was true; there was a strange connection between him and this animal, and he didn’t want to let it go.

“You are quite taken to that animal, it seems,” said Snape, moving closer.

Harry nodded, pulling out his money pouch. He was going to buy this owl, whatever the cost.

“No,” said Snape, pushing Harry’s pouch out of the way. “Let me.”

Harry looked up, startled.

He wants to buy the owl for me?

“W- why?”

Snape caught Harry’s gaze. “Your eleventh birthday is approaching, is it not?”

Harry nodded slowly, a bit perturbed. “Yes, but-”

Snape silenced him with a finger.

“Let me do this for you, Harry.”

Harry took a breath.

“A- alright, sir.”

Snape patted Harry’s shoulder once, then motioned for him to follow as he swept into the shop.

As Harry brushed his hand through Hedwig’s soft, white feathers, his lips turned upward against his will. Harry had never been particularly interested in animals; in fact, he’d seen them more as inconveniences than anything else, but with Hedwig, he couldn’t imagine how he’d lasted this long without her.

“You know, it’s weird, living with Snape,” Harry murmured to her, moving over to the window seat in his bedroom with Hedwig perched on his shoulder.

“Once I left Privet Drive, I thought I wouldn’t want to have anyone in charge of me again.” Harry paused to settle further into the window seat, transferring Hedwig to his lap. “But with Snape, I… sort of like it.”

“He… he’s almost like a...” his voice trailed off.

Hedwig looked straight at him with her intelligent, amber eyes. Harry didn’t care what biology dictated; he knew that Hedwig understood every word he said.

“You had a mom or dad once, didn’t you?” Harry asked softly, stroking the feathers on her head. Hedwig hooted softly, hopping up to nip Harry’s ear. Harry rested his head against hers for a moment.

“I’m going soft,” Harry muttered to himself.

But, for some reason, that didn’t really matter.

Noticing the time, Harry rose carefully and made his way downstairs for breakfast, Hedwig still perched on his shoulder.

“You’ve become inseparable, I see,” drawled Snape as Harry entered the kitchen. Harry shrugged, giving Snape a half-smile.

Harry sat down, reaching for the fruit bowl, when he noticed long, thin package propped again the table beside his chair.

“Uh, sir?” Harry asked tentatively, looking up.

“It is your eleventh birthday today, is it not?”

Oh, right, it is.

For obvious reason, Harry had never set much store by birthdays. He was still struggling to fully process the idea of Snape purchasing Hedwig for him.

“You already bought Hedwig for me,” Harry said, flicking his eyes away uncomfortably.

“I did,” said Snape, inclining his head. “However, I felt it appropriate to give you something on your birthday itself, as well.”

Harry chewed on his lip.

“O-okay,” he whispered. “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on, open it if you wish,” Snape prompted.

Harry lifted the package carefully, ripping off the brown paper, then opening the box inside.

It was a broomstick. It was the broomstick that he’d been using, but it had been polished to perfection and its bristles had been straightened and untangled so that it looked brand-new

Harry stared at it in shock, then looked up, wide-eyed, at Snape.

The man’s face was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “First years are not allowed their own broomsticks. However, I am permitted to keep it for you while school is in session, granting you permission to make use of it when I see fit.”

Harry inhaled, finally regaining control of his vocal chords.

“Sir, I-I… thank you.”

 Snape give him a small, fleeting smile, then immediately schooled his face back into its normal, unreadable state.

“Eat first, then feel free to give it a test run. Some of its features have been updated.”

Within moments, Harry was zooming through the air, Hedwig flying alongside him.

---

“So… I gather you preferred to remain outdoors while living with your relatives?”

Always start with the easy questions. It will give the child a more tangible sense of safety.

“Yes.” The child paused, unconsciously picking at the bark of the tree behind him and chewing his lower lip. Severus wanted to pull it out of his teeth. 

“I always feel more… more relaxed outside,” Harry said quietly.

That would make sense. If the child was as mistreated as I am led to believe, the outdoors would certainly provide a sense of safety for him. Goodness knows I felt the same way.

 “You are not alone in that sentiment.” Severus said, studying the boy’s facial expression carefully.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I know.” He looked wistful for a moment, then seemed to pull himself back into the present.

I can see Lily in him. He does not resemble her in personality, but in these rare moments of vulnerability… he is his mother’s son.

“I slept in a cupboard,” Harry said suddenly.

Severus’ eyebrows shot to his hairline.

Merlin’s graying beard.

“Did you?”

Slowly, Harry nodded.

“It was the cupboard under the stairs. They… they didn’t like to waste space on me.”

A cupboard under the stairs… That explains his reaction to my storage cupboard. Merlin…How can I possibly respond to that?

Severus watched the boy carefully. Harry’s eyes looked hard, as though he had tried too hard to deny all feelings associated with that particular experience that the emotions had bypassed cold and became almost too numb to bear.

“That day, in the laboratory, when I told you to fetch a spare cauldron…” Severus began. “That cupboard must have brought up some difficult feelings for you.”

The boy’s face suddenly flashed with something like panic, then turned pale. Harry started breathing hard, and Severus stiffened, half expecting another panic attack.

But the child then seemed to calm, and his breathing slowed, though his face remained pale.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, what happened there,” Harry said quietly.

There is more to this than he is saying. It is not just the cupboard itself, it is what may have happened in the cupboard, or perhaps what may have caused him to be put in there.

“Harry?” Severus prompted.

The boy shook his head. Upon closer look, Harry was visibly holding himself still, and it seemed that he was working to prevent his lower lip from quivering.

If he would just allow himself to feel, to release some of his emotion… Who are you fooling, Severus? You are hardly the personification of emotional expression.

Severus took pity on the child, and he was about to excuse him from the conversation when the boy visibly relaxed. It was as though he had entirely switched off his emotions regarding the topic they had been discussing.

Harry turned his head to look towards the edges of the property, a contemplative expression on his face.

“Sir, why do you live here, with so many protections?”

Severus blinked.

Well. That is a somewhat drastic change of topic… Though, thinking back, we were discussing the outdoors, and the cupboard he mentioned is surely one of the reasons for his preference to be outside. But, of all the questions he could have asked, how can I provide him with any honest answer, considering the nature of the truth? And how can I not, considering what I have asked of him?

Severus sighed.

“It became… necessary during the last war for me to reside in a protected area, considering my role in it.”

Severus paused, knowing that it was not enough, and that the boy was bound to probe further.

“What was your role?”

Severus closed his eyes for a moment.

He cannot know of my tainted past. It may erode his sense of safety, and it will likely frighten him. Yet I cannot hide this from him, not now, when his trust is still so fragile.

Severus opened his eyes to look directly at Harry

“I served as a spy in the war, acting as a servant of the Dark Lord whilst relaying all information that I received to the Order of the Phoenix, which was a secret society working to overthrow him.”

The boy tilted his head, forehead furrowed slightly.

“But… weren’t Voldemort’s servants branded? I read that you have to be willing…” Harry said slowly, puzzled.

Severus had to physically prevent himself from flinching at the mention of his old master and nemesis’ name, and at what the child had figured out.

He is far too clever for an eleven year old. I cannot lie to him. It will be better in the long run if he learns the truth now.

That did not prevent him from feeling a profound sense of imminent loss as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I was a very angry, misguided young man, and I was led to believe that a life in the service of the Dark Lord would provide me with opportunities that I would not otherwise be given.”

Severus paused for a moment, both to gather his thoughts, and to monitor the child’s expression. It was impressively unreadable, which Severus took as a good omen. The boy was not recoiling in horror or disgust, after all.

I am not being entirely honest with him. I cannot be.  If he knew that I indirectly caused his parents’ deaths, I would lose whatever trust I have earned from him. And where would that leave him?

“I spent a brief period of time in the service of the Dark Lord,” he continued, “during which I realized the error of my ways, and I offered my services to the Order of the Phoenix. I was provided with this home, as the Dark Lord and his followers knew the location of my previous place of residence.”

Severus had been focusing his gaze slightly to the left of the boy’s face while he spoke. He then shifted his eyes back to meet Harry’s, both pained and resigned.

---

Harry listened carefully while Snape spoke, noticing that the man seemed unable to meet his eyes.

He’s ashamed, Harry realized. He expects me to hate him for it. But how can I, considering…?

The man stopped speaking, and met Harry’s eyes squarely. He seemed to be steeled for something.

Harry schooled his expression.

“I… I think everyone's done things they wish they hadn’t.” Harry said haltingly.

He must have had it bad, like me, to do what he did. Does that make me normal, or both of us strange?

Snape was looking at Harry with a rare glimmer of incredulity in his eyes.

“You are wiser than many decades your senior.”

Harry shook his head violently.

No. I’m not. It’s only because I did something worse than they did.

Snape narrowed his eyes.

“You disagree?”

Harry thought back, recalling a flash of fear and rage, and a great surge of energy. Vernon had been sent flying through the air, but his many pounds of padding had cushioned his fall. But that other man, the new man Vernon had brought over to do “business” with, did not have such an advantage. Harry’s magic had sent the man crashing into the wall on the opposite side of the room, his head smashing into it with a sickening crack.

Harry’s most vivid memory of that incident was the blood trickling from the man’s right ear.

Harry had left for good after that incident. He’d packed his meager belongings as quickly as he could, Aunt Petunia’s shrill screams and Vernon’s bellows of rage pressing into his eardrums, invading his senses like a poison that he’d never quite been able to expel.

He’d run for the door, stumbling in his haste, but before passing the threshold, he’d felt Aunt Petunia’s bony fingers grip his shoulder. He had turned, prepared for a fight, but she’d simply pressed a wad of bills into his hand and nudged him out the door.

The last thing he had seen was Aunt Petunia mouthing two words. I’m sorry.

“Harry?”

Harry blinked, pulling himself back into the present.

“I- I hurt someone, really bad, once.”

Snape opened his mouth, but Harry broke in.

“I think I killed him,” he whispered, unconsciously wrapping his arms around his torso. He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to see the expression on Snape’s face. But he felt a hand gently grip his chin, forcing his eyes up.

Snape’s eyes looked gentle; he didn’t seem at all disturbed, in contrast it seemed he understood what Harry was feeling even more intimately than Harry did himself.

Because he did the same thing, obviously.

At that thought, Harry felt his muscles slacken in relief. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was holding himself.

He gets it. He understands what it feels like, because he’s been there…

When Harry felt a strong arm wrap around his shoulder blades, he realized that he’d been unintentionally leaning against Snape. Embarrassed, he tried to pull himself upright, but Snape held on to him more tightly.

“It’s alright,” the man said quietly.

Harry took a few deep breaths, and stayed.

Snape did not speak for a few moments. It seemed that he was providing Harry with the space he needed to compose himself, and he was grateful for it.

“I left that day,” Harry said suddenly, this time successfully prying himself out of Snape’s grip and backing up a step.

It doesn’t matter anymore at this point, does it?

Snape furrowed his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“I saw him on the ground, and I ran. I never went back.”

Snape stared at him for a moment, understanding dawning on him.

“Just… how long ago did that occur?” Snape said in a low voice.

Harry chewed on his lip.

“Er… about a year and a half.”

Snape stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. Harry took an unconscious step back, digging his fists into his pockets.

Snape seemed to notice Harry’s reaction and his demeanor visibly calmed.

“Do you mean to tell me that you were living on your own for a year and a half before arriving here?”

Oh, that’s what he’s upset about...

Harry felt an unfamiliar, warm feeling encasing him. Snape cared. About him. He shifted his eyes downward.

“Er… yeah?”

“And you lived… where?” the man said tersely.

“In London. On the streets, in libraries… places like that,” Harry shrugged.

Snape took several deep breaths.

“Look at me, Harry.”

Harry looked up anxiously.

“You understand that such a thing will not be permitted to occur again under any circumstance?”

Harry jerked his head in semblance of a nod, his mouth dry.

Snape leaned down towards Harry, his dark eyes boring into Harry’s. “You have a home here, Harry. No matter what may occur in the future, you will always have a place to come back to.”

Harry took a shaky breath, willing himself not to release the tears that were stinging the corners of his eyes.

Snape took Harry’s hand and gripped it firmly.

“Is that understood?”

Harry nodded.

---

Severus swore under his breath as he crumbled up the fifth piece of parchment he had ruined. He set down his quill, recognizing that he was not in the correct frame of mind to accomplish anything more this evening.

It was closer to midnight, really. The boy was in bed, hopefully asleep, and Severus had hoped to complete the second draft of his thesis regarding the changes in his improved version of the Adrenaline Draught. The fact that he'd scarcely made a dent in the introduction after over an hour of drafting should have indicated to him the futility of his work long ago.

The child had been living on the streets of London, left to fend for himself, alone and uncared for as a stray dog. And here I was thinking we had failed him by leaving him with those people. How did this escape our notice? Where was Albus? Where was I?

Severus rubbed his tired eyes, inadvertently knocking over in inkwell with his elbow. Muttering to himself, he righted it with a flick of his wand.

It is a miracle that the boy is still alive and functional.

But there was something flickering on the edges of Severus’ conscious. As if the situation could be any direr than what had already been known.

The boy’s startling reaction at the mention of his cupboard. His assertions that it no longer mattered. The fact that his protective magic had flared up powerfully enough to possibly kill a full-grown man.

The mild, niggling suspicions Severus had had at the back of his mind for weeks were now coming to the forefront, convincing him that they were no mere doubts.

It is vital that I confirm these suspicions as soon as possible so that the proper measures can be taken. I am not doing nearly enough to help this child; I have failed him more than I thought possible.

But how would he get the boy to open up regarding such a topic?

He may not even recall it in its entirety. Trauma of that nature is commonly repressed…

He needed to phrase the question to the child in a manner that would not frighten him, but would simultaneously provide Severus with the information he sought.

Calling it a night, Severus cleared his desk and slowly made his way upstairs, deep in thought.

Whether or not my suspicions are correct, the boy needs help. I am not doing enough for him, nor am I capable of it. There are not nearly enough people in the wizarding community trained in child psychology, perhaps a handful of muggle-borns, or squibs… I do not want the child to end up like me.

Severus settled into bed, clearing his mind with a bit more difficulty than usual.

If my suspicions are correct, Albus has a hell of a lot to answer for…

---

Harry woke up feeling groggy. As he rubbed the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, a thought niggled in the back of his mind. He had been having odd dreams that night, though he couldn’t quite recall their exact nature.

I was dreaming about something to do with Dudley, maybe all the Dursleys…

Harry thought harder, still curled up in his bed instead of immediately rising as he usually did.

Then it hit him.

I don’t know how they died.

How had he not thought of this earlier? Dumbledore had seemed to assume that Harry had already known they were dead when he found him in London, and obviously, Harry wasn’t going to disabuse him of that notion.

Admittedly, he had not had much time to think about it as he’d been whisked away to live with Snape within moments of that conversation, but still…

Why should it matter to me, anyway? It’s not like they cared if I lived or not.

But it did matter. Maybe, if he knew, it would give him a sense of closure so he wouldn’t have to think about them anymore.

And Dudley was just a kid…

Harry shook his head as though attempting to shake off his thoughts, and he pulled himself out of bed.

A short while later, Harry found himself out on the grounds in the pale yellow glow of early morning. He walked over to his tree slowly, shoes making faint squelching sound as he walked across the dewy grass, still thinking hard.

What could have caused their deaths? An accident? Did someone do it deliberately? Or it may have been wizards…

Harry nearly kicked the tree trunk in frustration.

I really, really need to know. It’s not as if I could ask Dumbledore. He’d probably lie, anyway. Hell, maybe he was even involved… no. That’s pretty unlikely. He left me there in the first place, so he’d want them alive. No, I can’t ask anyone, I need to find out myself so I’ll know for sure…

Harry looked toward the edge of the property, not really seeing it, when the faint blur of the protective enchantments caught his gaze. He narrowed his eyes in thought, a vague idea gradually gaining clarity in his mind.

The discussion concerning the classification of spells and enchantments as man-made creations has been long debated. Though spells themselves have been invented by man and are activated by man, the energy put to use is drawn from the natural forces of the universe. An important argument against spells being entirely nature-based is the fact that all spells, without exception, contain flaws, or ‘holes’. It has been widely agreed upon than mankind is incapable of creating a flawless form, thus the imperfection of spells, according to many, proves their inorganic nature.

That argument leaves the question of how one detects such flaws in spells. A study done by Orchard Jennings of Australia (1921-present), provided the data to develop his widely acclaimed theory, the Magical Flaw Theory, which states that the variations of magical flaws can be divided into three sections: (1) the vibrations of active spells used in combat, transfiguration, and charms, (2) the fractures along the foundation of static enchantments such as protective warding-

“Wards. There we go,” Harry muttered to himself, skimming through the next few paragraphs until he reached the section focused on warding.

Without exception, faint cracks upon protective warding can be detected, though it will only apparent to those it serves to protect. Should the warding have been erected by a novice, the fractures will be relatively simple to perceive; an individual positioned within six and a half feet of the enchantment will detect a shimmering wave traveling in a vertical direction on several points upon the length of the enchantment. If the wards were set by a professional, one must position themselves within seven inches of the enchantment, and said individual may detect an area that glows comparatively brighter than the remainder of the enchantment.

Either Dumbledore or Snape set up the wards, and I would assume they’re both professionals, Harry thought.

To one residing within the wards, he continued to read, breaking through the flawed area is fairly simple once detected, though the level of magical power of the attempting individual must be fairly high. There is no one method to achieving so; it has been said that techniques vary according to an individual’s particular strengths… The use of a wand is not strictly necessary… One must focus their power upon the area which they plan to break through…

Harry smiled slightly as he closed the book and stuffed it back onto its shelf. Breaking through wards, that sounded like an endeavor entirely within his capabilities. It took mainly magical strength and focus, which Harry knew he had in spades, and relatively little practical knowledge.

I just have to find a way to do it without Snape noticing…

Harry frowned when he realized the unlikelihood of such a scenario. He was pretty sure Snape still had monitoring spells set up.

I just have to do it quickly enough that I can be out by the time he realizes.

Satisfied with his findings, Harry rose slowly from his seat, arching his back slightly, hearing several vertebrae pop as he did so.

---

Harry picked at his food distractedly, his mind racing with the possibilities of bringing his plan to fruition. He tried to school his face into nonchalance when he noticed Snape glancing at him oddly.

I don’t want to look like I’m plotting something. The man can read minds…

Harry waiting nervously for Snape to speak, convinced that, somehow, the man had discovered the nature of his most recent research topic. But Snape did not speak; he studied Harry for a few moments more, then abruptly returned to his meal.

Harry continued eating in silence, anxious to finish so he could return to the library. He felt Snape’s gaze burning into the top of his head yet again, and he deliberately focused his eyes on his plate.

How am I going to stay out of his sight long enough to break through the wards? He’s watching me more carefully than usual. But how can he know…? He said he wouldn’t read my mind, plus I would know it, even if he did.

Harry gave a mental shrug and set down his fork, wiping his mouth surreptitiously with his napkin.

Snape cleared his throat, and Harry’s heat shot up, his eyes widening.

Relax, he doesn’t know anything. He might figure it out if you keep acting like you have something to hide, idiot.

“Harry, I-” Snape paused, seeming unsure of how to continue. The uncharacteristic nature of his hesitance brought up a whole different set of anxieties for Harry.

It must be something bad, really bad. Why else would he act like this; he usually the epitome of composure. He’s kicking me out for sure. He doesn’t want me here anymore, he-

“There is a matter I wish to discuss with you that is of a rather delicate nature,” Snape said carefully.

Harry was taken aback.

What’s that supposed to mean?

“Er… okay?” Harry replied, frowning.

Snape was silent for a moment.

“I understand that it may be an… uncomfortable topic for you,” Snape said in a low voice, “but it is important… no, vital, that you attempt to be honest with me.”

Harry inhaled sharply, beginning to get a vague idea of what this might be about. He just nodded faintly, hoping that his suspicions were incorrect.

“I would suggest we take this conversation outside, but…” The distant rumbling of thunder was enough to lay that idea to rest.

“We could just stay here,” Harry muttered, wanting more than anything to get back to his books.

“Very well.”

Snape waved away the dishes and set steaming mugs of tea in their place within moments.

“I am going to get straight to the point, Harry, because this is not a matter to be taken lightly.”

Harry tensed, gripping his mug with both hands as though it stood to offer him some comfort, though the heat radiating from the black porcelain did nothing to calm him.

“Has anyone ever touched you in ways that made you feel uncomfortable, or unsafe, in any manner?” Snape said clearly, his eyes focused upon Harry unblinkingly.

Harry froze, wanting nothing more than to run as far as he could from the room and break through the wards at this very moment.

He can’t know about what happened. It doesn’t matter, it’s in the past, and I don’t want him bringing it all up again. Plus he’ll never look at me the same way. He’ll pity me and probably be disgusted, and he won’t want… You better say something now or he’ll know for sure.

Harry looked up at Snape with the slightly confused expression of a naïve eleven year old who had not yet been introduced to the ways of the world.

“I- I’m not quite sure what you mean, sir,” he said tonelessly. “I told you that my uncle…” Harry did not have to fake the slightly shaky undertone of that statement.

Snape’s face tightened at that. “Yes, I have not forgotten.” The expression on the man’s face said: “If he weren’t already dead…”

“However,” he continued, “I am referring to something of a different nature.” He paused, studying Harry’s face again.

Harry couldn’t prevent his eyes from darting back and forth, as though in fruitless attempt to spot an escape route.

He can’t find out about this, he can’t know. No. I won’t tell. I can’t tell.

Harry faked an expression of sudden comprehension. “Oh, you mean…?” Harry wished he could induce a blush, but his acting skills were not quite that finely honed. “No, no way, why would you even-?” He shoved his trembling hands under the table, eyeing Snape apprehensively.

I don’t think he’s fooled. Well, too bad, ‘cause that’s all he’s going to get.

---

Severus sighed in frustration as he watched the child sprint from the room as though it was burning down. The boy was quite an accomplished liar for his age, but he hadn’t fooled Severus, not for a moment. The way he had tensed, the darting eyes, the forced nonchalance… Severus was now even more convince of his suspicions than he had been before.

He must admit to it to allow for any healing to begin its process. If the boy continues to deny it, the wounds will fester until he withers. I cannot allow that to happen.

Clearly, he had taken the wrong approach. Perhaps he had been too abrupt or straightforward, or the boy may have been too anxious or inhibited at that moment to consider opening up.

He is constantly anxious and inhibited…

Severus shook his head, running a hand through his limp hair.

---

Harry stood at the edge of the grounds later that day, squinting at the misty enchantments surrounding them. The rain had stopped a while ago, and the setting sun was just at a point where it beamed directly into his face, making it difficult to focus upon the wards.

Harry shifted his position slightly, shoes squelching in the wet grass, and he tilted his head until he was able to make them out without too much difficulty.

Okay… I need to spot an area that glows more brightly…

Twenty minutes passed, and Harry had not yet been able to spot a single flaw.

Of course, I had to get stuck with a bunch of damn professionals putting these together. They are standing in the way of scientific experimentation…

Harry snorted to himself. Sure, scientific experimentation, that was exactly what he was doing.

Though I suppose I could use that as my excuse if I get caught…

Harry searched for a while longer, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see as the sky darkened. He huffed in frustration.

This would be so much easier if I could just Floo to Surrey…

Not that it hadn’t occurred to him before. Harry was quite certain, however, that there were no fireplaces in Surrey that were connected to the Floo network, and even if there were, it definitely wasn’t worth the risk.

I better go inside, or Snape will start looking for me. I’ll just try again tomorrow.

With difficulty, Harry turned away and trudged his way back into the house, then slinked into the library as quietly as he could as to avoid Snape. After a few moments of consideration, Harry decided to select a few books to take up to his room; it was more likely that he would be left in peace.

Despite the early hour, Harry readied himself for bed and clutched his blankets tightly.

Why do I feel so… so…?

Vulnerable. That was what it was. He was feeling more wound up in this room than he had since the first week or so that he’d been there.

It’s because Snape brought all that… stuff up.

Harry pressed his lips together and opened a book at random. He read for a while, though his eyes shifted in and out of focus as he struggled to ignore the unpleasant thoughts that insisted on plaguing him.

Eventually, Harry could keep his eyes open no longer, and hid book slipped from his slackened grip as he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Not for long, however…

Harry let out an agonized scream and sat bolt upright in his bed, his chest heaving heavily.

Those hands, those cold, clammy hands…

Harry rubbed his arms frantically as he gradually blinked his way back into awareness, struggling to make out the dim image of his bedroom. His room. In Snape’s house.

Damn, I screamed again.

Harry realized he was shivering uncontrollably, and he was too overwrought to even attempt to stop.

Snape heard me for sure.

Harry took a shuddering breath, feeling his eyes well up with tears.

I want him to come. I want him- What the hell? No you don’t. You don’t want him to come, you don’t want him to find out about any of this stuff.

But he couldn’t relax. He could still feel those cruel, icy hands gripping him, making him wish he was dead. They weren’t like Snape’s hands, which were warm and firm, and felt as though they would protect him from anything and would maim anyone that tried to hurt him.

Harry felt a tear drop from his eye and down to his lip, where he could taste the salty wetness that was his pain and fear and horror, and then another tear fell, and then another, and he couldn’t do a thing to stop it, and he couldn’t even bring himself to care, when all he wanted was-

“Harry?”

And Snape was there.

Harry looked up, his face wet with tears and his arms wrapped around his knees. He looked at Snape through slightly blurred eyes to see the man’s face, wrought with concern. The sight just made him cry harder.

Snape walked over slowly to sit on Harry’s bed beside him. He then drew Harry into his arms, which Harry did not hesitate to melt into, hiding his face in the man’s dressing gown.

Snape rubbed Harry’s back gently, and his other hand held Harry’s head pressed into his chest. Harry breathed in the scent of Snape, the herbal, smoky scent, the scent of safety, and he gradually calmed. He didn’t want to leave Snape’s embrace, though, so he remained where he was, his eyes closed, breathing slowly.

Finally, Harry pulled away. Snape let him go immediately, but he did not rise from the bed, and Harry was grateful. He kept his eyes trained on his lap as he pulled his blanket over it.

“That must have been a particularly distressing nightmare,” Snape said quietly.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, not even attempting to deny it.

They were both quiet for a moment. Snape then reached out to lift Harry’s chin.

“Sharing a burden with another halves the burden, Harry,” he said intently. “It seems daunting, I know, but the pain lessens once shared with another.”

Snape let go of Harry chin, though he did not look away, maintaining eye contact with Harry through that magnetic gaze he had.

Harry took a shuddering breath. It was true, what Snape was saying, he knew it was. How had he survived this long, if not for those long afternoons with Jade in the treehouse, where the shared, though unspoken pain between them provided for them the strength and will to live another day?

He suddenly felt exhausted, but not because of the hour. He was too tired to care, to keep his secrets. What was the point, anyway? What was he gaining?

“There was a man,” Harry whispered. “H-he paid my uncle to- to-,” Harry couldn’t go on, but he didn’t need to. Snape grip his hands tightly into his own, knowing exactly what Harry needed, that he didn’t want to be held like he had before, but he just needed a gentle reminder that Snape was there, and would always be there.

---

You will make an appearance in my home at precisely half-past nine this morning, or you will no longer have a potions master.

With a final wave of his wand, Severus sent his Patronus bearing the message on its way.

Under normal circumstances, Severus would never have addressed Albus in such a manner; while they were good friends, Albus was undoubtedly his superior.

But this did not qualify as a normal circumstance.

How could Albus have allowed this to happen? Severus fumed, pacing the floors of the upstairs hallway. The sun had barely risen, but Severus wanted to remain in close proximity to Harry, loath for him to awaken alone after all that had transpired during the night.

I’m having difficulty believing that this was all an innocent mistake on Albus’ part? What was the fool thinking?

Severus barely retrained himself from pounding a fist into the wall.

Save it for Albus.

A Patronus in the form of a phoenix appeared then, bearing Albus’ affirmative reply. Severus had not expected any less; Albus knew him well enough to know what constituted an emergency.

---

Harry kept his head down during breakfast to avoid looking Snape in the eye. After last night, he was not quite sure where he stood with the man.

“Harry.”

He forced himself to look up.

“Professor Dumbledore will be arriving here shortly - you need not speak with him,” Snape interjected when Harry inhaled sharply. “I simply thought you would rather be forewarned.”

Harry nodded, looking down.

Why is he coming this time? I can’t deal with that man anymore.

Harry forcibly shifted his thoughts away from Dumbledore, remembering his plan involving the wards, or rather, the lack of progress on that front.

Maybe I can work on it more while they’re talking.

“Can I go?” Harry asked abruptly, setting down his fork.

Snape nodded his consent, and Harry sped to the library in search of more books that might assists him in spotting the flaws in the wards.

Oh… This was why I couldn’t find the flaws, Harry realized as he read a passage of the book he’d selected. I was looking for them at sunset, and the light of sunset apparently masks them…

Deeply engrossed in his reading, he was startled to hear the door of the library open.

“Professor Dumbledore had arrived,” Snape said, standing at the doorway. “He and I will be in my study. If you require assistance of any sort, do not hesitate to knock.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered, hiding his anticipation. This was it. As soon as Snape and Dumbledore got talking, he could put his plan into action.

A few moments after Snape exited the room, Harry snuck quietly to the door. Pushing it opened carefully, hearing faint murmurings growing steadily quieter as the men walked toward Snape’s study. He then heard a click.

This was it.

I hope Hedwig won’t hate me for this, Harry thought as he made his way across the grounds. He would have liked to take her along, but she was out flying somewhere; Snape had adjusted the wards so she could come and go as she pleased.

Why am I worrying about Hedwig? Snape’s reaction is what I should be worried about…

Harry shoved that thought away. He needed to do this. He need to know what had happened to the Dursleys so he could forget about them and everything that had happened. Otherwise, it would mean that Vernon had won. He may have not managed to beat the magic out of Harry, but the memory of him and all that he had done would be burned into Harry’s mind permanently if he didn’t find a way to let it go.

Harry reached the warding and scanned the enchantments carefully, positioned within seven inches of them.

At last, he spotted it. The faint, shimmering flaw in the spell.

---

As soon as the door of his study clicked shut, Severus waved his want to muffle any sounds coming from the room. He did not want the boy overhearing any part of this conversation.

“So, Severus, I take it there is something of a serious manner you wish to discuss with me?”

Dumbledore, to his credit, was not smiling or twinkling. He obviously knew a dire situation when he saw one.

If he so much as twitches a lip, I will not be responsible for my actions.

Severus took a few calming breaths, intent upon confronting Albus in as rational a manner as he could manage.

“Tell me, Albus, exactly how closely were you keeping tabs on the child whilst he was in the dubious care of his aunt and uncle?” Severus said in a deceptively calm tone.

Albus closed his eyes. “I am aware that he was not treated well there; it is not difficult to tell, the boy being the way he is.”

Albus paused, looking tired. Severus felt no compassion, however; he merely tapped a foot in his impatience for Albus to continue.

“I felt that it would engender resentment if I made personal appearances, so I had Arabella Figg situated in the area to keep an eye on the boy.”

Severus raised an eyebrow.

“Clearly, she did not do quite as well a job as I had hoped,” Albus said quietly, fingering a loose string on his dark green robes. “I- I wish I had done things differently. It was a difficult situation, and I attempted do to my best.”

Severus took another breath, willing himself not to explode. “Clearly, Albus, your best did not come close to being acceptable,” Severus said in a hard voice. He was itching to come right out and tell Albus what was what, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for the man.

Albus closed his eyes again. “I know. The boy is one of many to have paid the price for my mistakes.”

Severus gritted his teeth. “That would be the least of it,” he all but growled.

Albus looked up. “But Harry… he is such a bright, talented child, despite what he has had to face in his short life. He is… remarkable.

Severus about had it right then.

“So, clearly, his abilities nullify the wrongs that have been done to him?”

Albus looked stricken. “No. I- Severus-”

Severus had it. He leaned forward so his face was inches from Albus’.

“Are you aware,” he said in a low, dangerous tone, “that the child opted to live on the streets of London for over a year rather than reside in the home of those monsters any longer?”

Albus’ eyes widened in horrified understanding.  

“They prostituted the boy,” Severus hissed. “He was no better than an object to them, to be used and discarded as they pleased.”

Severus paused for breath, perversely satisfied to see the sheet white color of Albus’ face. “You- you are certain?” he whispered, a trembling hand hovering before his mouth.

“No,” Severus sneered. “It is a likened pastime of mine to fabricate delightful tales of this nature- Yes, I am certain.”

Severus could not help but feel a sense of vindication at the agonized guilt that had overtaken Albus’ face. The man slumped against the wall, burying his face into his palms.

Severus waited in silence for Albus to gain ahold of himself. The man looked up a few moments later with watering eyes, his face looking older and paler that Severus had ever seen it.

“I did not know, Severus,” he croaked. “Truly, I didn’t. Had there been any indication, any at all, I would have taken the child in myself. I…” he couldn’t go on. Tears began to fall from his eyes, trailing down his face and into his silvery beard. He did not outright sob; it seemed that he had not given himself the right to do so.

Severus inhaled.

“I believe you,” he said slowly. “However, it is not me you need to convince.”

Albus nodded, conjuring a handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes.

“I- I must make things right by the boy. I will speak with him-”

“No,” Severus said sharply. “It is clear to me that you have long given up your right to assume an authoritative role in Harry’s life, other than as his headmaster.”

He paused while Albus took that in, and watched as the man nodded sadly, but firmly. “You are right, Severus, I-”

Severus cut him off again. “You will speak with the boy only if he is willing, and I will remain present during any interaction you might have with him.”

Albus swallowed. “Of course.”

“I want full guardianship of the boy.”

 Severus was at first shocked to hear those words come from his mouth, but after a moment, he fully agreed with the statement. He had been seeing Harry as his own for a while now; legal papers would only solidify the relationship and allow him to be there for Harry on a more consistent basis.

Albus looked at him for a long moment.

“It shall be done, Severus.”

“Only upon his agreement, of course, “Severus said firmly. “I-”

Severus stopped. He could feel a tightening of the band around his ankle as well as a faint humming coming from his wand, and from an additional, unidentifiable source as well. His eyes widened.

“The boy has breached the wards.”

Harry jogged down the streets of the quiet suburban neighborhood. He would have run, but he didn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than necessary.

There has to be some moving truck or other going to London…

Harry knew there would be no way he'd be able to catch a ride directly to Surrey from here, wherever he was, but it would be easy once he got to London.

 He jogged a little more quickly, his eyes darting from side to side until he spotted it. A large, white truck with the words ‘London Traveling’ splayed across its sides.

The back door was wide open, and the driver was nowhere in sight, though Harry could hear faint murmurings emerging from the half-opened door of the house it was parked beside.

Like he had done so many times before, Harry snuck his way through the back door and huddled beneath some large cartons. Before too long, the truck began to move

After what felt like an hour, Harry opened the door slightly to discover that he was back on the familiar streets of London. He waited until the truck stopped at a red light before hopping out the door and sprinting his way across the street before anyone could register what they had seen.

In the sunny midday heat of August, Harry did not feel particularly threatened as he weaved his way through the crowds, despite the various altercation and violence he had witnessed and occasionally been the victim of in this area. That had mostly happened during the night. He therefore wasn’t too bothered by the absence of his dagger, which he hadn’t dared attempt to sneak back from wherever Snape had stored it.

He made his way to the nearest subway station, his head down and hands shoved into his pockets. No one gave him a second glance.

Boarding the train wasn’t difficult; all he had to do was sneak on behind an older, obviously married couple, looking as young and innocent as possible.

Which isn’t all that difficult, Harry thought sourly as he slipped into an empty seat, considering that I’ll probably never hit five feet.

Harry shifted slightly, appreciative of his window seat as he peered out of the grimy glass, despite being squashed against it in the overcrowded train.

It would have been nice to fly… if not for the face that the law enforcement would have probably shot me down, thinking I was some sort of alien invasion…

Harry snorted inwardly, dragging the back of his hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated during his walk through London in the August heat. It was certainly one of the hottest days of the summer so far.

The train continued on its way, rumbling slightly at some moments, which caused the woman seated beside him to inadvertently jab her elbow into Harry’s upper arm.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, dear,” the woman apologized.

“It’s fine.” He shrugged

The women looked at him for a moment through pale eyes surrounded by the soft wrinkles of age. Her hair was gray and curly, and she was clad in a flowered housedress, posing a distinctly unintimidating figure. Harry relaxed minutely.

“Are you traveling alone, dear?” the woman asked kindly.

Harry chewed his lip for a moment.

“Er, yeah, I’m visiting some… relatives.”

The woman smiled. “Well, that’s lovely. I’m on my way to see family as well.”

Harry nodded slightly, pressing his palms into his knees.

“You know,” the woman said thoughtfully, “people put too much stock in blood.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, eyes widening slightly.

The woman looked at him more closely. “It is often whom we choose to share our lives with that are the most important.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely.

They were silent for the remainder of the ride. When the train came to its first stop, the woman straightened up.

“Well, this is where I get off.” She rose, gathering her bags. As she walked towards the exit of the train, she turned her head back toward Harry.

“Keep your family close,” she whispered.

With that, she bustled off the train. Harry watched her go, and as the train began to pick up speed, he could see that she was headed towards the cemetery across the street.

Harry was unsure why his heart felt simultaneously warm and was pounding uncomfortably fast.

Keep your family close… the people we choose…

Why did she say that to me?

Harry didn’t have a family, and the only person he’d ever ‘chosen’ had left him without a goodbye. Abruptly, the image of a tall, dark-haired man who smelled of warmth and herbs invaded his mind.

Harry shoved it away.

He’s not my family, he didn’t even want me. He’s just been nice to me because he’s a decent person and he feels sorry for me. Maybe he doesn’t mind me living with him, but it’s not like he really wants me there.

It didn’t matter how badly Harry wanted differently.

Harry shook off those thoughts. This was no time to get sentimental. He had a mission to accomplish, and the train would be arriving at his stop at any moment.

As Harry disembarked from the train, his eyes darted in all directions. The familiarity of the area was disconcerting and a little frightening as well.

The subway had stopped roughly half-a-block away from the local shopping center in Surrey, so Harry arrived at his first destination within moments. The supermarket.

Trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, Harry ruffled through the rack of newspapers positioned near the entrance.

I’d probably need to look through June’s edition, in the obituary section or something… or maybe May…

He scoured June’s edition with little luck; there were no articles about any deaths, and the only people mentioned in the obituary section were an eighty-three-year-old man who had died of congestive heart failure, and another man who apparently…

Why am I even reading this? Just check May’s edition.

He skimmed the paper carefully, blinking rapidly as the tiny, inked letters blurred intermittently. And then he spotted it.

The deaths of Vernon Dursley, 35, and Petunia Dursley, 33, were confirmed on May 30th. According to reports, a fire had broken out in their Little Whinging home between the hours of three and four AM. It was found that a lit cigarette had been discarded in a cupboard beneath the stairs, which had made contact with an ammonia-based cleaning fluid. The son of the victims, aged 10, who had not been in the home at the time, has been taken into the custody of a relative.

Harry blinked, and read it again. And again.

Wow. I never… A fire, from the cupboard… well, it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d thrown a cigarette in there… and Dudley’s alive…

Whatever Harry had been expecting to discover, that was certainly not it. The Dursleys hadn’t been attacked by an axe murderer, nor had they been accosted by dark wizards. They had simply died as a result of their own stupidity.

Well, that was certainly anticlimactic…But Dudley didn’t die. He’s alive, probably living with Aunt Marge.

As much as Dudley had bullied and tormented him, Harry felt sorry for him. And after that conversation he’d had with Dudley about Uncle Vernon’s expectations, Harry hadn’t been as bothered by the bullying. It had been so easy to see through Dudley’s exterior to the insecure child beneath.

And now his parents are dead, just like mine. Aunt Marge probably isn’t a very good guardian for him, anyway. I mean, she drowned one of her dogs when it was ill…

Harry replaced the newspaper carefully and exited the store, leaning against the window outside. He hadn’t anticipated that it would be this easy. But here he was in Surrey, mid-afternoon on one of the hottest days of the year, unsure of what to do next.

Harry straightened and began to walk, not quite sure where he was going. He simply strolled down the familiar roads that he’d frequented throughout his childhood. It felt strange to be there. It hadn’t been all that long, really, but the last time he’d walked down these streets he had been a different person.

He’d been nine years old, traumatized and fearful, still struggling with the loss of Jade’s companionship and not yet hardened by the streets he’d lived on for a year and a half.

Now, Harry didn’t feel as frightened or overcome by memories as he’d expected to. He felt stronger than he had back then, and he almost wished he could go back to his younger self and tell him that things would get better.

Harry blinked, and he realized that he’d reached Little Whinging, and he was just a few streets away from the house he’d grown up in.

There were very few people outdoors, undoubtedly due to the heatwave, and although that suited Harry just fine, it felt eerie.

I need to see the house.

He reached Privet Drive and walked slowly towards the other end of the road where number four was located. There wasn’t a single soul outside. It was almost completely silent; all Harry could hear was the faint rustle of leaves from the almost nonexistent breeze, a distant chirping of birds, and the tread of his own footsteps. He kept his head down, watching his feet move steadily.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

He idly kicked a stone that stood in his path, watching as it rolled away and eventually slipped through the bars of the gutter, vanishing into obscurity.

Harry stood still, and his head rose slowly to face the house that had never been his home. He stared.

There was yellow construction tape surrounding the properly, labeled ‘Caution’, and a sign with the words ‘Condemned Building’ had been stuck into the dirt.

What was left of the lawn was cracked and yellow, and the patch of grass drawing the perimeter of the house had been burned black.

What remained of the house itself was a skeleton of what it had once been. The bricks that had survived the fire were scorched and crumbled, and through what had once been windows yet were now just openings with the remains of the shattered glass still attached to the sides, Harry could see that the house has been emptied, scooped out like the inside of a clam. Although it seemed to be in the midst of rebuilding, not much progress had been made.

The workers obviously had the day off as nobody was around, so Harry took that as permission to step over the yellow tape.

He shivered. Though the immaculately kept garden was no longer, Harry could still see himself, clear as day, spending hours upon hours pruning it to perfection, the sun beating down on the back of his neck. Looking to his left, he noticed that he was standing just a few feet away from where Uncle Vernon had come up behind him once and shoved him face first into the fence. Harry could recall feeling dizzy for the next two days.

Suddenly, Harry remembered something.

Could it still be there…?

There was something he had left behind when he’d run away, something important that he hadn’t had the chance to grab as he ran from the house. But it had long since been forgotten, or, perhaps, pushed to the back of his mind where he would not have to think about what he had lost. It had most likely been burned away along with the rest of the contents of the house, but he still had to check.

He needed to go inside.

Harry wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and stepped forward, nearing the open entrance. The door had either been removed or burned away entirely, so Harry shut his eyes tightly and stepped through, opening them slowly when he passed the threshold.

The place was unrecognizable. Every last piece of evidence that the Dursleys had resided here had been eradicated, but Harry could still make out the faint remains of what had once existed.

The fireplace now consisted of crumbled brick and ash, but Harry could almost see the designs that had been carved into the wall beside it. He shuddered, turning away.

There was nothing left of the kitchen; like the rest of the house, the floor was grayish, scattered with pebbles and debris - pieces of what once had been tiny parts of what had made the house a home to those who lived in it. But not to him.

Harry walked towards the partially redone staircase, where the burned wood had been replaced with the shaky beginnings of fresh wood, and beneath it…

The cupboard. Or lack thereof.

Judging by the cracks in the surrounding patch of wall, there had clearly been an explosion inside, and the entire interior had been demolished.

Without realizing what he was doing, Harry stepped directly into the remains of his cupboard. To a stranger, it was just a crumbled mound of burned wood and concrete, but Harry could still see the outline of it. His breaths grew short and sporadic. He tried to even out his breathing by taking deeper breaths, but he ended up inhaling the thick dust that seemed to cover much of the surface of his surroundings. He choked and was soon caught in the throes of a coughing fit.

Okay, just calm down before you hack up a lung.

Harry’s coughing fit eventually eased, and he wiped his streaming eyes with his sleeve, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

Harry lowered himself onto his knees, ignoring sting of pebbles pressing into them as he did so. He then shifted some of the crumbled stone from a particular patch of the floor, feeling around for that one spot…

His hand eventually tripped into the edge of a slight incline in the floor, where the concrete had been somehow dug away long before the Dursleys had lived there. When the cupboard had been intact, there had been a loose floorboard concealing it that Harry had discovered when he’d been really young. Now the board was gone, but the opening was still there.

Heart beating rapidly against his ribcage, Harry tentatively dug his hand into it, fumbling around for…

His hand brushed a small, wooden box. He gave a small gasp and closed his fingers around it.

How is it still intact? It’s wood, it should have burned away.

Harry pulled it out and cupped the box into his hands. It was small and nondescript, and there was a small, metal latch that held it closed. Upon further look, Harry noticed a faint glow encasing it, and when he pressed his fingers more tightly into the wood, he could feel the slight vibration of magic.

So that’s why it didn’t burn.

Harry hugged the box closely to his chest, his hands trembling slightly. He hadn’t had the chance to take it with him when he’d left, and he had never expected to get it back. It was best that he had left it here, anyway, because it wouldn’t have lasted two days on the streets. But there it was, intact, as though it had been waiting for him all this time. His fingers twitched with the temptation to open it, but he didn’t want the contents tainted by the memories of the house. He rose to his feet, not bothering to brush the dust from his jeans. Directing his gaze straight ahead, he exited the house, kicking aside the debris that blocked his way.

Harry walked down the street away from number four, his box still pressed against his chest. The heat of the day had lessened slightly, but it did not prevent the sweat from gathering on his forehead and dripping into his eyes.

He didn’t bother to wipe it away.

Harry walked slowly, clutching his box so tightly that his hands were beginning to grow numb. Distracted, he failed to notice the tree stump obstructing his path until he tripped, landing painfully on his knees and forearms.

“Damn,” Harry muttered, his eyes watering in pain. At least his box hadn’t hit the ground. He sat up gingerly, shaking out his limbs to test for injury. Nothing seemed to badly damaged, so he pressed a palm to the floor to push himself to his feet.

Harry swayed alarmingly when he stood, so he sat down quickly on the offending tree stump to rest for a moment.

Tree stump… tree.

Harry sat up straight. He knew where he needed to go.

He rose carefully and walked for a while longer, distracted yet hyper-aware simultaneously, until he felt his breath catch in his chest. He had been right here, at this very corner, when he met Jade for the first time. He stood very still, seeing her in every movement and hearing her in every sound that brushed against his eardrums. But she wasn’t there. She was gone, she had left him, and she was never coming back.

You should be happy for her that she got away, stop acting like a kid.

Harry was happy for her. He wouldn’t wish the torture they had both gone through on anyone, and she deserved to be safe and happy.

I hope her mum is good to her…

Despite all that, Harry still felt the urge to cry. He missed her, was it asking too much to be able to see the only person that had ever provided him with the tiniest shred of happiness? He clutched his box more tightly. At least he hadn’t lost that, too.

Harry bit the inside of his mouth harshly and continued down the route that he and Jade had taken so many times before. This was the route to safety, or it had been once. It didn’t feel the same now, without her.

Or is it because it’s not the only safe place anymore?

Harry shrugged that thought away, and before he knew it, he was entering the familiar wooded area. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as he walked, his feet dragging slightly.

Why am I so tired?

Harry had to fight the urge to take a rest under one of the passing trees. He could rest to his heart’s content once he reached the treehouse.

And there it was, right before him.

Tucking his box under an arm, he made his way up the tree. The climb was more difficult than he remembered, most likely due to his exhaustion. But he reached the top and heaved himself through the entrance, and he was immediately assaulted by memories.

Curling up beside Jade after a particularly rough day, feeling her small warm hands atop his own…

Experiencing his first hug…

Laughing at one of her anecdotes…

Just being able to talk and know he was being heard…

The scent of the food she had always brought for him…

Letting Jade cling to him as she cried, relishing the experience of being able to give to someone…

Harry sat with his back pressed against the wooden wall with his legs folded. Then he finally opened the box. Exhaling upon finding that everything was intact and that nothing was missing, he pulled out a worn paper and unfolded it.

It was a picture Jade had drawn for him. She had always been artistically talented, and, unbeknownst to him, she had done a sketch of his face and later given it to him.

Harry remembered that he had been momentarily speechless, as he had never before received a gift.. She had flushed uncomfortably at his gratitude, but Harry could see a small smile coaxing the corners of her mouth.

What was most interesting about her sketch was the expression on his face. It was almost happy.

Harry re-folded the picture carefully and set it aside, pulling out a small, plastic toy soldier from the box. Not long before he had left the Dursleys for good, he had slipped into his cupboard one evening to find it on his bed. He had known right away that Dudley had put it there. After that conversation they had had in the yard, Dudley had been giving him, odd, furtive glances, and he only went out of his way to make Harry miserable when Vernon was watching. That wasn’t enough to make Harry like Dudley or forgive what he had done in the past, but Harry had been touched by the gesture. Though a toy soldier fixed nothing, it was still one positive thing he could cling to. Those little shreds of goodness, be it his times with Jade or Dudley slipping him extra food behind his father’s back, were what kept him sane during the worst times. So he had kept the toy soldier.

There was also a stone he had made glow when he first began to experiment with his magic, and there was an unopened bit of toffee that never seemed to grow stale, which he had received in school for getting a top mark on a test.

And there was another folded paper. It was a list he had written when he was really young, back when he'd still believed that if he tried hard enough, he could get what he wanted.

Head scrolled down the list. It read:

Be really, really good so Aunt Petunia will like me.

Taste every ice cream flavor in the world.

Make a friend.

Find a Dad.

At that, Harry couldn’t go on. He shoved everything back into the box and set it aside, hugging his knees to his chest and pressing his face into his arms. He dug his fingernails into his legs and squeezed his eyes shut tightly in attempt to suppress the tears.

He had gotten what he wanted, or at least some of it, and he had lost it all. He made a friend who had left him, and Snape…

Snape didn’t want him, and even if he did, Harry had certainly given it all up by running away like this.

Stupid, stupid, stupid… I lose everyone, and this time it’s my fault.

He sniffed, tasting the salty wetness of his tears as they dripped down to his lips. He forced them back before he broke into full-out sobs. Feelings incredibly drained, he curled up on the floor and rested his head in his arms.

Harry lay there for a while, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. He was not quite aware of time passing; all he knew was the familiar scent of the treehouse that had lulled him into a state of relaxation.

He was so tired…

A sudden rustling of the leaves outside jerked Harry out of his trance, rendering him wide-awake and alert.

Breathing carefully, he shifted over slightly to peek out of the entrance, and for one, heart-stopping moment, he was convinced that it was Jade.

But it wasn’t. He froze.

It was Snape, and the expression on his face was more irate than Harry had ever seen it.

And that was saying something.

What was that imbecilic child thinking? Severus fumed internally as he led Harry down the walkway toward the house.

Of all the idiotic escapades…

When they reached the sitting room, Severus had to restrain himself from positively shoving the boy onto the couch seat.

Once they were both seated, Severus leaned toward the boy, prepared for an interrogation concerning what on Merlin’s good earth had possessed him to do such a thing. Harry’s pale face gave him pause. The child’s face was slick with sweat, eyes glazed and unfocused, and his hands were trembling lightly.

He is dehydrated, Severus realized with a jolt of guilt. He’s been running about all day in this heat, and the foolish child most likely did not think to have a drink.

He flicked his wand sharply, feeling another stab of guilt at the boy’s flinch, though, by Merlin, he should be nervous, and a glass of water appeared, hovering in the tension-thick air between them. He handed the glass to Harry, who stared at him in a dazed sort of shock.

“Drink,” Severus said gruffly. “We are in the midst of a heatwave.”

Of all days the boy would have chosen to do this, it would be on a day like this…

Severus watched the boy gulp down the water frantically, who then promptly leaned over to vomit on the floor.

Clearly, he is worse off than I thought.

Severus waved away the mess and walked over to the boy, who immediately cringed, muttering “Sorry, sorry…”

Severus took several deep breaths.

“You are suffering from dehydration. I am going to carry you upstairs so you can recover, and we will discuss this little escapade of yours in the morning.”

Clearly too exhausted to argue, Harry slumped over and allowed Severus to lift him from the couch. When Severus did so, a small, wooden box that he hadn’t notice the boy was carrying slipped from his grip onto the floor.

Harry tensed.

“The box,” he said hoarsely. “I need the box.”

The child was growing more and more frantic, struggling in Severus’ grip as though to escape it.

Severus merely tightened his hold on the boy and summoned it. With a surreptitious flick of his wand, he ascertained that the box contained nothing dangerous, so he handed it to the boy, who grabbed hold of it and clutched it against himself like a lifeline.

The child calmed, then, and his eyes fluttered open and closed intermittently as Severus continued to carry him upstairs. Severus felt some of the anger fade at the sight. The boy looked so small.

It’s best that we discuss this in the morning, in any case. I need to cool down.

Snape entered Harry’s bedroom and lowered him onto his bed, propping his head up on some pillows. He quickly summoned a hydration potion from his bedroom and handed it to the boy, warning him to sip slowly.

It was then that Harry’s owl, Hedwig, flew from where she had been perched silently atop the tall wardrobe to land lightly on his chest. The boy dropped the box onto the mattress beside him and wrapped his free arm around the owl, stroking her feathers.

After draining the bottle, Harry looked up at Severus through hazy eyes.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered, letting go of the empty bottle and drawing his other arm around the owl as well.

Severus looked down at him, unsure of how to respond.

He does not understand the concept of a person truly caring for him regardless of his actions. According to his logic, in light of his misbehavior, he should not be provided with his most basic needs.

Severus opened his mouth to speak when he realized that the boy had drifted off, the owl still perched atop his chest. Shaking his head, Severus exited the room, his anger quite dissipated.

-

Harry picked at his food the following morning, his shoulders tight with anxiety. Snape had not yet said a word to him other than ‘eat’, and Harry knew good and well that he was in for it. He had never angered Snape to this extent; the worst thing he had done before this was either kick the table, or maybe hang upside down from the tree. His little trip the previous day qualified as misbehavior on an entirely different level, and, quite frankly, Harry was surprised that Snape hadn’t thrown him out by now. Or, perhaps not, considering the manner in which the man had taken care of him last night.

Why? Why did he do that when he was so angry? I guess he can’t punish me if I’m unconscious…

Harry let his fork slip from his fingers to land on his plate with a faint clinking sound. Abruptly, Snape rose, causing Harry to jerk slightly in surprise. Without speaking, he beckoned toward Harry to follow him, who did so immediately, loathe to anger the man more than he already had.

They reached the sitting room, and Snape pointed Harry towards the couch and seated himself opposite him.

Harry sat across from Snape for several moments, his eyes on his lap and his hands clasped together.

Why isn’t he talking?

Feeling simultaneously frustrated and uncomfortable, Harry peered up at Snape hesitantly, who was looking back at him with an infuriatingly blank expression.

Finally, Harry could no longer take it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Snape was silent for another long moment.

“You’re sorry,” he said flatly.

“What else am I meant to say?”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“If you can provide for me a semblance of a reasonable motive for you to traipse halfway across the country unsupervised, I would be more than delighted to hear it,” he said, his tone growing more caustic.

Harry looked down.

“Do not look away from me.”

Harry’s head shot up, eyes wide.

“I just- there was…”

“Yes?” Snape bit out, his voice trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping his temper.

“There were things I needed to do,” Harry finally said, knowing that his explanation would do nothing to curb Snape’s anger.

“There were things you needed to do.”

Harry remained silent.

“And what, pray tell, could possibly be so vital that you felt the need to break through the wards of this property meant to keep you safe? Did you not think to ask me to escort you if it was so important to you?” he paused for a breath. “Harry, have I not done enough to prove to you that I am sufficiently trustworthy to ask for assistance?” Snape sounded almost pained at that point.

Harry’s eyes darted, the beginnings of guilt creeping into his chest. He had known Snape would be angry, but hurt? Worried? He hadn’t really considered that.

Harry drew a shuddering breath, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. What could he say?

Snape looked moments away from exploding.

“Have you any idea of what might have happened? Did you think I envisioned finding you safe and intact in a bloody tree house?”

He never swears.

“For the love of Merlin, Harry, answer me!” Snape said, clutching the armrests of his chair so tightly his forearms trembled.

Harry would have thought he’d be more afraid, seeing Snape act this way. And he was frightened, but that emotion was overshadowed by the burning shame that was engulfing his insides. He really hadn’t considered how his actions would affect Snape, and after all the man had done for him…

I don’t deserve any of it.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally said, his voice cracking. “I wasn’t – I didn’t think that-”

“You didn’t think that I would care,” Snape said quietly. The man’s face was no longer tight with anger, it was tired, now, edged with lines of frustration and anxiety.

Snape exhaled heavily, slumping slightly in his chair, while Harry sat taut, his back ramrod straight.

“Now,” Snape said, straightening up again, “your punishment.”

Harry held himself very still, knowing that he deserved whatever was coming to him.

“As, clearly, you cannot be left to your own devices for more than two moments, you will remain within my sight at all times until I indicate otherwise, aside from when you are in your bedroom or the restroom.”

Harry winced slightly at that, but he did not say a word.

Snape continued smoothly. “If I am in my laboratory, you will be as well. If it suits me to remain in my office for the better part of the afternoon, so will you. You will not set foot on the grounds without my accompaniment, and you will not use the library unless I am with you.”

He paused to look at Harry, who attempted to keep his expression blank, hard as it might be. He deserved much worse than this, he had no right to complain or feel upset.

“Furthermore,” Snape went on, “your extended time spend in my presence will not be wholly enjoyable.”

Harry bit his lip, waiting for Snape to elaborate. When he did not, Harry asked hesitantly, “meaning?”

“Meaning that you will not be brewing fascinating and challenging potions alongside me, you will be set menial tasks to complete there, as well as in my office.”

Harry nodded minutely.

“Have I made myself perfectly clear?” Snape said sternly, his eyes boring into Harry’s.

He nodded again.

“A verbal response, if you would.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

-

The remainder of the day was just as tedious as Harry had expected. He spent the bulk of the afternoon in the lab with Snape, sorting different sized beetle eyes into piles followed by the distinctly unpleasant task of squeezing out flobberworm innards, for which, thankfully, he had been provided with gloves. It was boring and repetitive, just as Snape had promised, but that was all. It didn’t really feel like a punishment. It wasn’t painful or particularly difficult; it seemed like nothing more than a chore.

He deserved much worse than this for upsetting Snape so badly.

Maybe he’s just making me wait for the real punishment…

No, that couldn’t be it. Snape wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t hurt Harry, he knew that, but the pressure of guilt weighing on him was almost worse.

That was why Harry couldn’t look Snape in the eye as they sat down for dinner, which, again, Snape was providing for him even though he didn’t deserve it.

“Perhaps you’d like to share with me the details of yesterday’s little excursion,” Snape said smoothly.

Harry looked up, chewing his lip. Snape waiting, one eyebrow raised.

“I- I needed to know how they died,” Harry said in a low voice, his shoulders tensing.

Snape exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted, which made Harry feel even guiltier.

“And you did not think to ask me to obtain that information for you?” Snape said.

Harry had no answer.

Snape said no more after that, turning back to his food to continue his meal in silence. Strangely, Harry felt even more anxious despite having escaped further questioning.

He’s so angry he won’t even talk to me. He hates me.

Harry felt a lump grow in his throat, and he gripped his fork tightly with the effort of keeping his face impassive.

Snape sent Harry up to his room after dinner, allowing him to take a few books along. He clutched at Hedwig desperately as he sat on his bed with his back against the headboard, eyes occasionally flicking towards the box on his bedside table. After staring at the same paragraph in a book of which he couldn’t even recall the title, he gave up and crawled under his covers.

***

“You thought I cared for you, Potter?” Snape spoke derisively. “I never wanted you, but Dumbledore insisted.”

Snape’s pale, angular face morphed into the lined, blue-eyed visage of Dumbledore, who drew more closely to Harry.

“Come with me, Harry,” he said in that deceptively kind voice. “I imagined that Severus would learn to tolerate you, but it seems I was mistaken.”

He gave Harry a disappointed frown, then faded away, replace by Vernon, whose face was twisted into a snarl.

“No one could ever love you, boy.”

He reached for Harry, who stumbled backwards, his hands covering his face

***

Harry awoke, gasping for breath but mercifully silent. He gripped his blanket with trembling fingers, his heart beating frantically.

Just a dream just a dream just a dream…

Harry scrubbed his watery eyes furiously, biting his lip so hard he could taste blood.

Just a dream just a dream just a dream… But Snape still hates me.

-

As Harry walked down to the kitchen a few sleepless hours later, he ran through his plan once more. He was well aware that it was an act of desperation, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Halfway through breakfast, during which, again, Snape barely spoke. Harry asked quietly to be excused to use the bathroom. Snape nodded his consent, and Harry slipped out of the room, but instead, snuck out the front door to sit under his tree.

This was probably one of the stupidest things he had ever done, which was why it would work. Snape would be furious enough to give Harry a real punishment, after which Harry would stop feeling so guilty and Snape wouldn’t be quite as angry.

Sure enough, Snape was stalking toward him not five minutes later, his face white with fury. Harry disregarded his every instinct that was screaming at him to run for his life and remained where he was. He held perfectly still as Snape leaned down to grip his arm tightly and yank him to his feet.

Here it comes.

But it didn’t. Snape just pulled him through the doorway and into the office, where he was deposited into a straight-backed chair next to the wall.

“Just… stay there,” Snape said tersely, pulling out some fresh parchment.

Harry sat there for what seemed like hours, watching Snape scribble on the parchment and swinging his legs idly. He was bored stiff, but, again, that was all.

What’s it going to take to make him angry enough to hit me and get it over with? Harry thought, frustrated. Maybe a repeated offense…?

Harry was fraught enough to do anything to assuage the guilt and tension between him and Snape.

I just want it to be normal again.

So when Snape left to use the restroom himself, plying Harry with strict instruction to remain where he was, Harry slipped out the front door again silently to sit under the same tree.

The wait for Snape to come find him felt longer than it had the last time. The back of his t-shirt scraped lightly against the bark of the tree as he shifted, folding his legs underneath him. He yanked out a few blades of grass and peeled them into strips, letting them fall back to the ground once bored with the activity.

He can’t have been in the bathroom this long…

He waited for a few moments longer, and he was seconds away from just giving up and going back inside when he heard the front door open.

Harry trembled as Snape walked toward him.

You asked for this, you wanted it, so stop being scared and take what’s coming to you.

But when the man reached him, he didn’t lean down or lift a hand to strike him. He just stood there for a moment, looking down at Harry.

“I know what you are doing, Harry,” he said quietly.

Harry gaped at him.

Snape knelt down slowly on one knee.

“I will never hit you,” he paused to tilt Harry’s face upward. “There is nothing you can do to change that.”

Harry tried to shift away, but Snape held his head in place.

How did he know?

“I want you to repeat to me what I just said to you,” Snape said quietly.

Harry gave him an odd look.

Snape sighed. “I am well aware that you do not view your restrictions as a proper punishment, but, I assure you, most children would. Striking or otherwise harming a child in any manner is reprehensible.”

Harry averted his eyes.

Snape sighed again, letting go of Harry’s chin. “Tell me, Harry, what do you believe the purpose of a punishment is?”

Is that a trick question?

“Harry?”

“To show who’s in control,” Harry said with an undertone of bitterness.

Snape’s face was unreadable. “And you believe the best way to accomplish that is…?”

Harry didn’t hesitate this time. “Hitting.”

“Look at me, Harry.”

Harry flicked his eyes toward him.

“That is where you are wrong,” Snape said.

Harry shook his head slightly.

I’m not wrong.

“I know that has been your experience in the past,” Snape said slowly. “But do you honestly believe that the behaviors of your previous guardians were rational?”

Harry swallowed. “I don’t-” he paused, recalling the feral gleam he’d often seen in Vernon’s eyes, and the overwhelming fury that he unleashed onto Harry, often for no visible reason at all. He compared that to Snape’s controlled anger, only sparked to life when Harry risked his safety, and the acts of kindness present even at his most irate. He could see the warmth in Snape’s eyes even at this very moment.

“No,” Harry said in a low voice.

Snape looked faintly relieved. “Now that we have established that your late guardian’s views on punishment were entirely faulty, I will attempt to explain what the purpose of your current punishment is.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably.

“The purpose is to deter future similar behaviors, not to establish control. It is an attempt to prevent repeat occurrences of dangerous and irresponsible behaviors as was recently witnessed.”

Harry gave him a skeptical look. “But wouldn’t hitting be a better deterrence?” he said stiffly.

Snape’s lips tightened. “Absolutely not. Perhaps it would in the short-term, but ultimately, it only trains a child to fear adults, thus, halting the development of trust between them.”

That would be true…

Snape leaned closer to Harry, still on one knee.

“What is most important at this time is for you to trust me. I am quite certain this entire debacle would not have occurred had you done so.”

Harry was silent.

“And,” Snape continued. “Had I taken to harming you in any way, gaining your trust would be a very unlikely occurrence.”

Snape shifted so he was now resting on both knees.

“Perhaps, one day, you will learn that I care only for you and your well-being, and that I will do everything in my power to maintain it.”

“But… you’re still angry,” Harry whispered, pressing his back into the tree trunk. “You ha- you don’t want-”

“Stop.”

Harry stared.

“Stand up,” Snape said abruptly, rising to his feet.

Harry immediately stood, his breaths quickening.

“Come here,” Snape said, beckoning.

Harry walked toward him slowly, confused and half-terrified that he had managed to push Snape to the edge.

But no. Snape gripped Harry’s shoulder and pulled him against his chest, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

Harry froze in shock.

Snape had hugged him before, sort of, but it had never been like this, a full-on, tight hug when Harry had been doing everything he could to anger the man. He gradually relaxed into the embrace, latching his fists onto Snape’s robes and breathing in that familiar, herbal scent. He could feel Snape’s heart beating steadily against his ear.

“Do you understand now, Harry?” Snape said quietly. “There is nothing you can do that will prevent me from caring for you.”

Harry drew in a sharp breath, his head still pressed into Snape’s chest.

“I will never hurt you, Harry,” he said firmly. He took Harry by the shoulders and pushed him back slightly so he was looking into his eyes.

“I want you to say it.”

Harry felt his lips tremble slightly. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Go on.”

“You- you won’t hurt me,” Harry said shakily, biting down on the inside of his cheek. Snape was looking at him with such overwhelming compassion that Harry felt an intense urge to avert his eyes. But somehow, he couldn’t look away.

“Say it again.”

Harry took a breath. “You won’t hurt me.”

Snape’s grip on his shoulders tightened.

“That’s right.” Snape drew Harry back into his arms.

Harry released a shuddering breath, feeling as though a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Yes, he was in trouble. Yes, Snape wasn’t his father and never would be. And maybe he was only caring for Harry out of obligation, but in the end, Harry was being cared for by a person who was good to him, who didn’t hurt him, and who was kind to him no matter how angry he was.

Perhaps this was what Harry had been missing all this time.

The moment Albus walked through the door of Severus’ office, Severus sealed the door quickly and silenced the surrounding area.

Harry was safely occupied in the library, and considering the extent of the tracking charms on both the child and every entrance to the house, Severus would be immediately notified in the unlikely event that Harry attempted to leave.

If the child dared to be so foolish… Severus thought wryly as he sat across from Albus, who was settling into the large, purple armchair he so often conjured. Severus focused upon the older man’s bright-blue, alert gaze.

“Regarding my pending guardianship of Harry,” Severus began, steepling his hands. “Assuming it will come to fruition…”

“I do not foresee any difficulties in that regard,” Albus said confidently. “The eyes and ears I have in the Ministry should successfully override any concerns regarding your less-than-stellar background.”

Severus nodded. He had not expected any less.

“Of course, you will wish to speak with Harry first?” Albus inquired.

“Indeed.”

Albus clasped his hands together. “I had hoped,” he began, “that you might make an attempt to convince the child to speak with me as well.”

The older man’s eyes looked shadowed.

“I will,” Severus said slowly. “However, the decision will be left entirely in his hands.”

“Of course.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments.

“What of my position, Albus?” said Severus, his words a harsh splicing of the contemplative silence.

Albus simply looked at him with a questioning gaze. Severus didn’t buy it for a moment.

“I am a death eater, Albus,” Severus bit out. “Or, rather, I will play the part of one upon the Dark Lord’s return. Harry will be put at risk, and I will not have it.”

Albus gave him a steady nod, but did not speak. Severus ground his teeth.

“Is it not obvious to you how the Dark Lord will view the situation?” Severus didn’t pause for an answer. “He will either distrust me, which will undoubtedly end in my death, or he will expect me to use the child for his ends.” His shoulders tightened at the thought.  “I will sooner flee the wizarding world with Harry than put him in harm’s way.”

Severus stopped, his breathes short and angered.

Finally, Albus spoke.

“I foresaw that occurrence the very moment I found Harry in London.”

Severus then said the most inane thing he had spoken since his early years at Hogwarts. Or, rather, since they day he had verbally accepted the Dark Mark from the psychopath to whom he was eternally bound.

“Pardon?”

Albus continued. “I did not make the decision to place Harry in your care lightly. I anticipated that you might form a bond with him, and even if you had not, your relationship with him would still be closer than that of a school teacher.”

Severus raised an eyebrow.

“Then why was he placed in my care?”

“There was no other option,” said Albus, his expression infuriatingly placid. “I knew it the moment I sensed the collapse of the wards on Privet Drive. Admittedly, I am still unsure of the reason they remained intact despite Harry having left the home long before the demise of his relatives…” His eyes narrowed slightly in thought.

“What do you expect of me, Albus?” Severus cut it. “I will not see Harry put at risk, physical or emotional.”

“Nor will I, which is why I insist he remain in your care.”

“Then what of my position?” Severus responded, frustrated beyond belief.

“Severus,” Albus said softly. “I have long been prepared for the eventuality that you would be unable to reprise your role as a spy.”

“If not I, then who else?”

“I’d rather not speak of it just yet, but rest assured that I view your role as Harry’s guardian to be far more vital than your eventual spying position.”

Severus stared. He could do nothing else.

“Why, you ask?” Albus continued. “Certainly, your temperament and skills are more fit for spying than parenting.”

“Indeed-”

“Because Harry is thriving in your care, Severus. He positively glows with it.”

Severus froze. “If you knew of the mistakes I have made with him-”

“Yet he trusts you, far more than I thought possible when I first met him,” Albus cut in softly. “When I found him in London, Harry was so consumed by pain and rage that his aura was tainted with it.”

Severus closed his eyes.

“Your care for him has cleansed him of the overwhelming pain.” No, he is not free of it all,” Albus said quickly when Severus made to interrupt. “That will take years. But he glows. I see it even when the boy positively glares at me with distrust.”

Severus swallowed.

“Harry needs you,” Albus said softly. “And it is high time that the child gets what he needs.”

-

Snape was letting Harry brew this time instead of scrubbing cauldrons and sorting ingredients. It had been a while since he’d done so, and he was enjoying the calming focus that came with the activity.

Stir in four ounces of powdered ivory…

Harry stirred steadily, feeling more relaxed than he had in quite a long time. He set the potion to simmer and turned to his chopping board to slice the dandelion roots.

“Harry?”

Harry raised his head.

“Professor Dumbledore wishes to speak with you. I am not insisting you do so,” Snape said quickly when Harry stiffened. “However, I will remain in the room for the duration of the meeting should you accept his request.”

Why does he want to speak with me?” Harry asked, tense.

He’s taking me away. Snape’s giving me back. No. Nonono.

“Harry?”

Harry jumped wildly when Snape touched his shoulder. He hadn’t reacted that way in a while. Snape drew his hand back sharply, then quickly set both their potions on stasis.

“What is troubling you, Harry?” Snape asked, standing a few feet away and looking somewhat troubled himself. Harry felt a bit guilty for jumping at Snape’s touch. It wasn’t him Harry was frightened of.

Harry swallowed, unsure of what to say. He folded his arms across his chest and scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe.

Snape sighed.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m always causing trouble.

“Harry, I do not like to see you upset.”

Snape’s words struck a chord in Harry, helping him find his voice.

“I’m afraid that he’ll take me away,” Harry said in a voice that was almost a whisper.

Snape looked surprised.

“Why would you presume such a thing?”

Harry bit his lip, twitching his shoulder.

“Harry, I do not understand your reasoning, but Professor Dumbledore has absolutely no conceivable reason to remove you from my home. It was he who brought you here, was it not?”

Harry’s eyes shifted from the floor, to Snape’s shoulder, then back again.

Just tell him, it’s better if he knows, he might be able to prevent it.

“He only brought me here because you didn’t want me,” Harry started. Snape looked even more troubled at that and opened his mouth to speak, but Harry went on.

“He left me with the Dursleys and they hated me, and when they died he brought me here because you hated me, and now that you don’t any longer, he’ll give me to someone who does,” Harry said that all in one breath, eyes on the ground and fists clenched.

He chanced a glance up at Snape, who looked more taken aback than Harry had ever seen. That wasn’t saying much, considering how few emotions Snape regularly expressed, but still…

“Harry, that is entirely untrue,” Snape started.

Harry raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“Then what is he trying to do? What’s his game?”

“Why do you presume that he is, to utilize your term, ‘playing games’?” Snape asked.

“He left me with them!” Harry said hotly. “I know, it said in a book I read. Who just dumps a kid somewhere and never checks up on them? He had to have known what they did to me.”

Snape was silent for a moment.

“Harry, I do not know why Albus did not keep a closer eye on you, and I certainly do not understand how he could have missed the fact that you spent months living on the streets of London,” He took a step closer to Harry. “But I can say with absolute certainty that he did not intend for you to be hurt.”

Harry shrugged, entirely disbelieving.

“Speak with Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Indeed, I would as well like to know what the old man was thinking.”

-

So there they were, just two hours later, Harry and Dumbledore seated across from each other while Snape stood to the side, several paces away.

Dumbledore had not attempted to exchange any pleasantries when he walked in; he simply gave Harry a small smile, who stared back at him, stone-faced, and seated himself on a couch.

They remained quiet for several moments until Harry broke the silence.

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked in a hard voice and an unwavering gaze. “I can’t give it to you.”

Dumbledore looked nonplussed, but Harry didn’t buy it for a second.

“I just want you to be safe, Harry. That is all I ever wanted for you.”

Harry laughed humorlessly.

“Safe? I almost died, I wanted to die more times than I can remember.” His voice grew louder and more biting. “Voldemort would have taken better care of me than they did.”

Dumbledore looked as though he might cry.

“Harry, I honestly had no idea. Had I had an inkling of your treatment in that house, you would have been immediately removed-”

“And shipped off to another person who hated me? That’s what you did, isn’t it?” Harry said as Dumbledore opened his mouth.

“Professor Snape didn’t want me, he hated me at first. I suppose you win points for him not taking pleasure in torturing me,” Harry drew in a sharp breath. “He ended up being good to me, so are you now going to find someone new?

Harry was shaking, but he was no longer frightened. 

“Harry,” Dumbledore said in a quiet voice. “I truly, truly, did not know.”

“How could you not know? Aren’t you supposed to be the greatest wizard in the country or something?”

Dumbledore shook his head slightly. “Power does not immunize one from mistakes.”

“So this was all a mistake?”

“I am only human, Harry.”

“Human? I’m also human, and human five-year-olds shouldn’t be starved and thrown down the stairs. Human eight-year-olds shouldn’t have their ribs cracked and faces bashed in and-” Harry’s voice grew quiet. “I guess the Boy-Who-Lived is an exception.”

“Harry-”

“Well, I’m not anyone’s savior, I’m not going to kill the bloody dark lord for you when he gets resurrected or whatever it is. I just want to be left alone.”

 Harry’s voice cracked on that last sentence, and he could feel a lump forming in his throat.

No. I am not going to start crying right now.

With some effort, he pulled himself together, but he was done talking.

“Harry,” Dumbledore tried again. When Harry didn’t cut in, he continued, gazing earnestly at him.

“I have no excuse. I cannot begin to offer you a reasonable explanation for my gross negligence of your well-being. Something so very precious was entrusted to me, and I did not live up my responsibility.”

Harry didn’t say a word.

“I am not asking for your forgiveness,” Dumbledore continued. “I am not asking for your trust. All I ask is that you not fear that I will steal your happiness from you.” The way I have done in the past. He did not say the words aloud, but they hovered in the air, as apparent and obvious as if he had shouted them.

Harry didn’t move. His gaze was focused on the wooden floor, which was so impeccably polished that he could make out his reflection.

So this was what his whole life came down to. A mistake brought about amid the shaky and confusing aftermath of a war. He was left where he would be kept safe, set aside like an expensive, polished diamond might be stored away. Except it hadn’t quite worked out, and he was only alive as a result of luck, a friend, a bit of magic, and perhaps a touch of inner strength.

There had been no purpose for his suffering, and although it should have made Harry feel better, he wasn’t sure if it did.

Dumbledore did not seem surprised at his lack of a response. He rose from his seat, and Harry looked up.

“Your parents would be so proud if they could see you now, Harry.”

He’s saying that? After everything I just yelled at him?

Harry said nothing.

Dumbledore gave Harry a sad smile, which he did not return, then walked over to Snape and wordlessly handed him a sealed scroll of parchment. The two men stared at one another for several moments, seeming to communicating wordlessly.

The silver-haired man then turned and swept toward the fireplace, his teal-colored robes flowing out behind him. When he finally vanished in a flash of flames, Harry slumped in his seat, covering his face with his hands.

“Harry-” Snape started, moving closer to Harry. Harry shook his head slightly, indicating that he needed a moment.

Okay, okay, he’s gone, he’s not taking me away. Get ahold of yourself.

Harry lifted his head, face mercifully dry. Snape was watching him steadily, still clutching the scroll of parchment Dumbledore had given him.

“How long have you been under the impression than Albus wished you harm?” he asked.

Harry furrowed his brow. “A while.”

Harry then recalled the moment in the library when he had discovered Dumbledore’s actions, the anger growing so intense that he had overturned the room.

“It was the day I destroyed the library.”

“Ah,” Snape said, understanding dawning. “That would certainly explain that day’s occurrence.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Are you sufficiently reassured that he does not intend to harm you?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t trust the man, but he did think Dumbledore had been sincere in his statements and apologies.

“Good.”

Snape slipped the scroll of parchment into the pocket of his robes.

“It is unfortunate that you had been so fearful of Albus for this long.” I wish you had told me, remained unstated.

Harry wished he had, too.

-

Harry watched apprehensively as Snape set a fat textbook, a roll of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell in front of him where he was seated in a small desk in Snape’s office.

Right. He was still being grounded.

“Turn to chapter nine and copy.” The man sat down at his own desk to begin working.

Harry opened the book and flipped the pages.

Chapter Nine: The Dangers of Meddling with Unfamiliar Enchantments... Oh.

Harry unrolled the parchment and lifted his quill. He paused.

How do I write with this?

Right. He had never written with a quill. What was the point, anyway? Pens had been invented for a reason.

Shrugging, Harry dipped the quill’s tip into the inkwell and set it over his parchment. Black droplets marred the clean surface. He set the quill to the paper, promptly poking a hole through it. He clenched his teeth in frustration.

“I should be hearing the scratching of a quill, Harry.”

Harry muttered under his breath.

“Harry,” Snape said in a warning tone.

Harry exhaled.

“I don’t know how,” he said, frustrated.

Snape raised his head to meet Harry’s eyes.

“I do apologize. I had forgotten.”

He rose and walked over to Harry’s desk.

“May I?” he asked, his right hand hovering over Harry’s.

Harry nodded, and Snape set Harry’s fingers to grip the quill properly. One Harry had successfully written a shaky line of text with the quill, Snape stepped back and snatched up the textbook.

“Just practice the alphabet for now.”

Harry nodded, that warm, protected feeling he only ever felt with Snape engulfing him.

Snape left him to it, and it did not take Harry very long to become accustomed to using a quill. Although his writing was slower and messier than it was with a pen, Harry felt pleased with his progress.

Snape looked over his work and then nodded approvingly at him.

“Well done, Harry. You do catch on quickly.”

Harry blushed, his lips twitching into a small smile.

“Thank you for showing me how.”

“It was no trouble.”

Snape looked at him oddly for several moments.

“Harry-” He paused, seeming unsure of how to phrase his next words.

“Harry, there is something of import I wish to discuss with you, if you would join me in the sitting room.”

Harry felt immediately anxious, and he attempted to quell his nerves as he followed Snape out of the room.

Calm down, he’s not sending you away. We’ve been over this…

If anything, it seemed that Snape was the nervous one. Not that the man made it obvious, but he was holding himself more stiffly than usual, and when he sat across from Harry in his usual seat, his facial expression appear a bit too controlled.

Harry waited patiently for the man to begin.

Snape leaned forward slightly.

“Harry, as the start of the school year approaches, your routine will obviously change, and you will no longer be living with me or under my supervision.”

Harry stiffened. Snape was voicing the thoughts he had been pushing to the back of his mind for a while now. One he started school, Snape wouldn’t be there. And he wouldn’t necessarily end up being Harry’s head of house, so he would have no responsibility over him at all.

Where will I go next summer and during holidays?

“Harry?”

Harry focused on Snape, breathing carefully.

“That, however, is not to my liking.”

Harry’s eyes widened the tiniest bit.

“I am of the opinion that you do need an adult, other than teachers, to take responsibility for you and your well-being.”

Harry felt a jolt in his chest.

“Are you with me, Harry?”

Harry nodded quickly.

“Over the past months, I have become quite accustomed to your company, and-” he paused, his expression becoming slightly guarded and discomfited. “I have come to care very deeply for you, Harry.”

Harry stared unblinkingly into Snape’s eyes.

“You are in need of a proper guardian, Harry, and with your consent, I would like to be that person.”

Harry couldn’t talk. He could scarcely breathe.

He wants me? He wants to be my guardian?

“Of course, if you would prefer another arrangement…” Snape began stiffly.

Harry shook his head frantically and tried to speak, but he seemed to have temporarily lost the ability. He sat there, frozen, terrified that if he didn’t say something, Snape would rescind on his offer.

There was only one thing he could do.

His rose from his seat and walked slowly over to Snape to stand before him. Reaching forward hesitantly, he wrapped his fingers tightly around Snape’s wrist with a shaky hand.

He met Snape’s eyes.

“Yes,” he finally whispered.

Harry saw a shadow of a true smile cross Snape’s face.

He wants me.

Harry felt Snape’s hand wrap around his own, a warm and familiar grip that seemed to encase Harry’s instinctively. As though it belonged there.

He looked up to meet the man’s dark gaze, and he was met with the familiar warmth and caring he knew would be there.

That he could trust would always be there.