The sun was hot on his skin, but the cool breeze more than made up for it. Harry lay flat on his back on the green grass, basking in the beautiful weather, and in that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care how angry Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would be over how few weeds he’d managed to pull today. Cleaning up the stairs had taken so long that he’d already resigned himself to not being able to get enough weeding done to satisfy them. At this point, all he wanted to think about was how good the cool fresh air felt on his lessening headache and the relief in his shoulder at a much-needed break from scrubbing and cleaning and picking and pulling. He felt…almost happy.

The “almost” part he blamed on the intruder upstairs in his bedroom. He didn’t feel guilty for leaving Snape with his injuries. Not guilty at all…or so he kept repeating to himself.

Why couldn’t he just forget about him and be completely happy right now? It wasn’t Harry’s fault Snape had gotten himself in trouble, after all. And Merlin only knew what help he thought he’d find at Harry’s house. Serves him right, Harry said to himself and shoved aside his nagging conscience.

He closed his eyes tight against the sun and tried to think of anything but his unconscious professor. It turned out to be easier than he expected, for he was jolted out of his reverie in the next instant by a loud clatter in the street, followed by a piercing scream and the blare of a car horn. 

He jumped to his feet by instinct, reaching for his wand before he remembered that it was still upstairs. He cursed under his breath at the feeling of vulnerability, and he took stock of his surroundings.

He could see that a car had crashed into a tree a few houses down. Nearby, a child’s bicycle lay on its side in the street. 

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Where was the child?

He ran. He had to help. He had to make sure they were okay. Was anyone moving in the car? He couldn’t tell. Wait, there was something moving on the hood. Jumping off, running away. Too small to be a person – more like a…rat?

Harry skidded to a stop just shy of the sidewalk. A rat. Warning bells were going off in his head. A rat…

Harry had pushed the morning’s vision to the back of his mind in the chaos of the day, but it came rushing back as he surveyed the accident scene more closely. Something about Harry…and a plan…and Wormtail watching something. And…

Harry felt chilled all over as he recalled Voldemort’s words. We strike the next time the boy leaves the house.

There was nobody in the car. No child near the bicycle. No one in sight except for a few neighbors beginning to peak their heads around their doors at the commotion.

His breaths were coming in short gasps now. Uncle Vernon had locked up his wand two days ago as a punishment for threatening Dudley. He had left the house, and he was defenseless. He spun around, fully expecting to see Death Eaters ready to snatch him or kill him or whatever “strike” meant to them.

No one was there, but he wasn’t about to push his luck. He sprinted back inside, dead-bolting the door behind him. 

He forced himself to breath calm, deep breaths. What else had he seen in his vision? Voldemort had spoken of a plan – a plan involving Harry. Before that, he had been torturing someone. He’d called him a traitor. But the traitor had gotten away, Apparated away just before Harry woke up. 

Snape’s words came back to him then. His weak voice had trailed off and Harry hadn’t fully absorbed – or cared, really – what he’d been trying to tell him. 

Must…not leave…stay…house…

It was obvious now what he had been trying to vocalize. The only logical conclusion was that Snape had been found out as a spy and tortured. If he was in fact the traitor in the vision, he must have barely had enough strength left to run outside Voldemort’s warded area to Apparate away. And when he did, he came to number four, Privet Drive. 

Professor Snape, after being thoroughly beaten and tortured, came to warn Harry. And now he was lying on Harry’s hard floor, maybe still bleeding from untended injuries.

The pangs of guilt he’d been trying to ignore came back in full force, joined with the horrible feeling of shame.

Snape was in the same place Harry had left him, flat on his back, eyes closed. Harry knelt beside him, not quite sure what to do. He hadn’t exactly been Healer trained. He certainly didn’t have any potions on hand. All he had were water, towels, and some pathetically small band-aids.

Plus, the prospect of having to actually touch the dirty, greasy Potions master didn’t exactly have him thrilled, no matter the semblance of gratitude he maybe, might possibly have felt…sort of…toward the man a few minutes ago.

Well, better just get to it, then.

The head was a logical place to start. Harry bit back his aversion at touching the git’s greasy head, forcing himself to quickly prod the back of his skull to feel for any bumps or cuts. That done, he gingerly dabbed smudges of blood from the man’s forehead with a damp towel. 

Carefully removing the Death Eater cloak from the still body, he rolled it up as small as he could and tossed it to the farthest corner under his bed. Snape’s clothes had stuck to the blood on Snape’s skin, and Harry resorted to cutting part of his shirt with scissors. He sucked in a breath at Snape’s dirt- and blood-strewn chest and arms. The blood was mostly dry, but he couldn’t tell where most of it had come from. 

The injuries actually weren’t as bad as he had thought once he got the dirt and blood pretty well wiped off. Other than the bruises, Snape had several cuts and scratches along his arms, most of which Harry figured were caused by his escape through the brush and branches. A few deeper cuts on his chest were probably the result of torture curses, but they didn’t look serious, as long as he could keep them from getting infected.

Probably the main part of the damage had been done to his nerves with the Cruciatus curse, Harry guessed.

He glanced over the rest of Snape’s body. There was no way he was removing his trousers, he quickly decided. Injured or no, Snape would never forgive him for that intrusion. He’d kill Harry the moment he woke up.

He still needed something to clean the wounds. He ran out of the room and returned with some rubbing alcohol from the bathroom cabinet. 

What now? Was he supposed to pour it over the wounds or was he supposed to put some on a cloth and just dab it on? Or something else? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon hadn’t been exactly generous in giving him medicine or seeing to his injuries growing up, so when it came to the Muggle way of doing these kinds of things, Harry was pretty much lost.

He decided against pouring it directly on the skin. Aunt Petunia would be sure to notice if the whole bottle was missing. They counted everything after he was alone in the house. Rather than locking him in his room and chancing “that odd-eyed freak” finding out about it, they’d taken to keeping meticulous track of every item of value or of food in the house, both before they left and after they returned. Of course, after about a month with no sign of anyone from the Order, they weren’t being quite so cautious about how they spoke to him or how many extra chores they handed out to him. Harry was actually surprised they hadn’t taken to locking him in his room again. The main reason Harry didn’t outright defy them was that he knew he might be stuck here at least another month and it could get worse for him if he pushed too far.

Harry poured some rubbing alcohol on his last clean towel. It didn’t seem wet enough, so he poured some more and touched the towel to Snape’s scratched arm first – might as well start small. The arm twitched under his touch, startling Harry a little. He’d gotten used to a still subject. He continued applying it to both arms and went on to his chest. The first cut was pretty deep – he should probably put a little more rubbing alcohol on the towel. He touched the wet towel to the cut, letting the excess liquid drip into the wound.

Snape’s eyes snapped open with a loud groan. He immediately pushed himself up, almost knocking into Harry, who scooted back quickly, upsetting the container of rubbing alcohol. He caught it up, but not before half its contents had spilled out onto the floor. He sighed. So much for Aunt Petunia not noticing.

“Potter,” Snape snapped, then immediately winced at the pain that caused. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing to me?” he demanded, lowering his voice. His arms were trembling slightly from the effort of holding himself up. Other than that, he looked alert. His narrowed eyes darted around the room to take in his surroundings, and Harry cringed at how the small room must look to Snape. His old beat-up desk was the nicest piece of furniture on the bare floor, and threadbare sheets lined the one small bed. At least the professor couldn’t see the bars on the window or the padlocked trunk from where he was sitting. Snape had to feel worse than he wanted to let on – the usually vigilant man hadn’t even attempted to turn around to take in the rest of the room.

“I…er…um – infection!” Harry held out the bottle. “It’s a Muggle way to clean cuts.”

Snape shifted his weight and snatched the bottle from Harry’s hands.

“Rubbing alcohol?” he sneered and scanned the back of the bottle before thrusting it back at Harry. “I do not need some fool Muggle potion.” He looked around the room again. “Where is Dumbledore?” he demanded.

“He’s not here, professor,” Harry spoke slowly, realizing that Snape must be confused. “You’re at my house, remember? You showed up on my doorstep – ”

“I do not have a memory problem, Potter,” Snape snapped. “You did owl him, did you not? I would think even a meager brain such as yours would have thought of that?”

Harry bit back a retort. He actually hadn’t thought of it. Not that it would have mattered.

“I sent out my owl last night – to the Order,” Harry added at Snape’s narrowed eyes. “I’m supposed to owl them every three days, and I told Hedwig to go to the Weasleys until I need her again. She likes it there – lots of room and hunting…” Harry realized he was rambling and rushed to explain, “anyway, she won’t be back for a couple days.”

Snape’s glare was downright hostile. 

“But you’re awake now, sir. You can Apparate…or make a Portkey…or something…”

Snape gave him a look of pure exasperation. “Look around, Potter! Do you see my wand? I cannot use what the Dark Lord has. And Apparition!” He snorted. “Are you really so daft? Dumbledore made anti-Apparition wards in and around this house the moment you moved in. In my weakened state, by the time I reached outside the wards, I’d never be quick enough to escape the dozens of Death Eaters who would have been instantly called the moment I stepped out the door.”

That must have reminded him of his initial purpose in coming there because Snape leaned forward as much as he could manage. “Potter, this house is being watched. You are not to leave under any circumstances. No outings of any kind! Do you understand? Nothing – I do not care in the slightest what parties you are planning to attend.”

Harry wanted to hand Snape a good hard curse for his superior authoritative tone, even if it did indicate he wasn’t as injured as Harry had first feared. But this was his opportunity to find out about Voldemort’s plan. Harry opened his mouth to interrogate Snape about what he knew and why Death Eaters hadn’t gotten to him earlier when they’d had the chance, but before he could get a sound out, he heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening.

“Boy!” 

Harry sighed. Aunt Petunia must have seen all the unpicked weeds. Interrogation would have to wait. 

“Listen,” he rushed to explain, “My relatives don’t know you’re here. If they find out, well…  Just stay in here, okay? And be quiet. They never come in this room if they don’t have to.”

“How surprising,” Snape said dryly. “Where exactly did you put me, the prison tower?” He scowled at yet another glance at his accommodations.

“Erm…just don’t leave, okay?” Harry repeated on his way to the door.

“I am not dying to explore your house, Potter. Go,” he snapped at Harry’s uncertain glance. “I won’t be leaving this room unless you put us all in danger by leaving this house.”

Harry shut the door as Snape slowly inched toward the bed.

“Boy!” Aunt Petunia’s voice was louder and shriller this time. Harry quickly replaced the rubbing alcohol on his way past the bathroom and took the stairs two at a time. If he was going to be yelled at, he wanted to be as far out of Snape’s hearing range as possible.

Aunt Petunia was waiting for him at the front door, her stance rigid at having to be kept waiting. Dudley shoved past him up the stairs with a box containing several new video games.

“Are you determined to be trouble today?” Petunia demanded. “First the mud, now this!” she held up a soiled towel between two fingernails, far away from her body.

Harry mentally kicked himself. He had forgotten about the towels he’d hidden in the plant earlier in the day.

“And you’ve barely even started on the weeds! Just you wait until Vernon gets home. Now, bring in Dudley’s new things and start working on the yard!” She pulled open the door and gestured for him to precede her. “Well? Don’t stand there – get going!”

Harry was glad he was just dealing with Aunt Petunia right then. She wasn’t near as threatening as Uncle Vernon or Dudley, both of whom didn’t have a problem at all with physical intimidation. Petunia hadn’t laid a hand on him since he’d hit his latest teenage growth spurt – except for the occasional finger jab, of course. When it came down to it, Aunt Petunia was pretty much all talk.

“Um, Aunt Petunia, I can’t go outside right now.” It was worth a try, anyway.

Aunt Petunia’s eyes narrowed into slits. “What did you say?” 

In that instant, Harry decided that a version of the truth was actually something he could use in this situation.

“Well, you see,” he began, sweetly over-respectful, “that bad wiz– I mean, you know, that bad guy back and out to get me – well, he’s got somebody watching the house, and if I go outside he’ll know I’m home and come out of his hiding place and use-” he dropped his voice to a whisper – “magic.” That was probably enough to scare her, but he knew how to clinch it. “And then all the neighbors might see…”

Aunt Petunia slammed the door shut. “Be quiet! Do you want everyone to hear you!?” she trilled. “Get these towels cleaned up!” She shoved him further into the house, tiptoeing around to the living room to peer out the curtains, eyes wide.

Harry grinned as he left the room. Aunt Petunia was so distracted by his story, he could probably wheedle some extra food out of her. After all, he’d have to feed Snape too, for however long he was stuck here. Ha! If Snape had sneered at his room accommodations, he was going to be even less thrilled when he saw what was on the menu.