Harry couldn’t stop screaming. No words, just screams. Terrified, anguished screams.

He tried to move, tried to wake, but he couldn’t. He was trapped in his nightmare. Panic overtook his fear and sorrow as soon as this realization cut through his shock. What if he couldn’t wake up? What if he was stuck forever in this frozen moment where nothing moved and nothing lived?

His screams gained momentum, broken only by his short, shallow gasps for air.

Maybe if he screamed loudly enough, someone somewhere would hear him. Anyone. He didn’t want to face this alone.

Please, he thought, unable to articulate the words through the screams, just don’t make me face this alone.

Not all alone.

He paused again to gasp for breath when he felt something against the skin on his arm. No, someone. Someone had hold of his arm. He looked around himself frantically but saw nothing but the battlefield. No one but the dead.

He opened his mouth to continue his screams and again felt the pressure on his arm. It was shaking him. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew there was someone there. He reached out, blindly, and encountered a solid form. Warm, breathing.

Alive.

He latched onto the form, clinging for dear life, lest the form which was invisible to his eyes vanish from touch as well.

It tried to push him away.

No! He closed his fists tighter, panic fighting off the momentary comfort he’d felt. The form didn’t want him. It was pushing him back toward the nightmare. His breaths started coming in short gasps again, and he felt a scream beginning in the back of his throat.

The form stopped pushing him away and after a brief hesitation, drew him close.

The scream died on his lips. He felt warmth on his face. A heart was beating next to his cheek. He concentrated on the feeling, which soon became a sound – and then a scent of plant and cloves. The earthy scent drew him further and further from the horror. The bodies gradually faded, and the battlefield vanished from sight. With a final shudder, he could feel himself rising up, up through the clouds toward the light.

And with the light came more sound. The sounds had been there for a while, he realized. He hadn’t been able to hear them, but some part of himself had been resisting their call.

Someone was yelling his name.

“Potter, wake up. Potter! It’s a dream, Potter!” Over and over the voice called out to him.

And there were more sounds. Stuttering, frightened sounds. A piercing shriek that hurt his ears. He burrowed his head in the fabric covering the beating heart. Arms were holding him, and he felt a hand awkwardly, hesitantly, pat his back. Once. Twice.

It felt good. Like…like he wasn’t alone after all.

He slowly opened his eyes. Blinking, he moved his head so that he could see. It was light out. Morning. He squinted into the brightness above him.

Terror and comfort vanished as one, replaced by shock as he stared up into the uneasy eyes of one Severus Snape. The form. Snape.

Snape.

Was holding him.

Harry started, broke free from Snape’s grasp, and pushed away from him so quickly that he stumbled back onto the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he put a few more steps between himself and the still-kneeling wizard. Harry’s face felt wet, and with a touch of his hand to his cheek, he realized that he had been crying. He swiped at his face with both hands, trying to erase all hint of tears.

Now completely awake, he was able to pinpoint the other previously disjointed sounds in the room.

The Dursleys – all of the Dursleys – were standing in Harry’s doorway. Vernon had stopped mid-stride, probably afraid to come any closer because of the likelihood of Snape being a wizard. He was stuttering. A lot. Harry couldn’t quite make out words, but the man was the angry purple color that he had gotten really, really used to this summer.

Harry backed up toward the window, just in case, and stumbled again, this time catching himself before he could fall.

Petunia, in contrast to her husband, was white as a sheet. She was cowering in the doorway, with Dudley right behind straining for a glimpse at what had his parents so worked up. Catching sight of Snape, he immediately yelped, covered his behind with one hand and his mouth with the other, and ran straight back to his room, slamming the door behind him. Harry thought he heard something scraping across the floor, like maybe Dudley was trying to barricade himself in his room.

Yeah, like that would help if wizards really were out to get him, Harry managed the sardonic thought through his muddled emotions.

Snape rose to his feet in one smooth motion, which set Vernon to stuttering actual words.

“You! Y-you’re one of…them! Aren’t you?” Vernon barked.

Harry couldn’t remember having seen Snape looking this uncomfortable before, but the man did. He looked positively ill at ease. Harry didn’t know if it was because of the Dursleys or because he had just done the unthinkable: comforted Harry Potter, of all people, from a nightmare. Only then did Harry notice the dark spot on the man’s chest where his tears had soaked through the shirt.

Oh, Merlin. Harry’s face heated with mortification. He had grabbed Snape, clung to him. To Snape. He tried not to think about it – which was incredibly hard to do.

Snape schooled his features, stood up straight, and addressed Uncle Vernon. “Mr. Dursley, I presume?” Snape gave a slight bow in introduction, playing every bit the gentlewizard, though his slight sneer told a different story. “Severus Snape. I am a professor at your nephew’s school.” He still looked intimidating despite the less-than-menacing clothing he wore. Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Uncle Vernon would have already run in fear if he had been faced with Snape’s customarily darker and more threatening appearance.

“I knew it! I KNEW it!” Vernon exploded and instead of addressing Snape, swiveled toward Harry. “I told you NO FREAKS! So what do you do? You go and start invading the neighborh-” Vernon broke off as his widening eyes caught sight of something to the side. Harry followed his eyes to the three owls which were still perched on and around the desk, calmly watching the humans argue. One emitted a curious hoot at the sudden quiet.

Uncle Vernon’s simmering rage boiled over. Ignoring Snape completely, he stalked right up to Harry until they were nose to nose. Well, nearly, if Harry had been slightly taller. Harry backed up a step, which put him square into the wall, but Vernon didn’t touch him, though he hissed so close to his face that he could feel the man’s breath. “I warned you, boy! I told you no more stick waving or birds or freakish behavior! I’ll have none of this, you hear? I put up with you long enough in this house. I don’t have to put up with your freak friends too! You send him and those birds packing right this minute or you can just go live on the streets for all I care! Better than you screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night, disturbing my sleep! I told you no more nightmares!” Harry grimaced as he felt Vernon’s spit on his face during the tirade.

He issued an automatic “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” then, “I mean, no, Uncle Vernon. I mean…” Harry didn’t know what to say without making things worse. But he knew he’d better come up with it fast. Somehow he was sure that starting with, Professor Snape has to stay inside just like me to hide from the evil wizards, but don’t worry, there’s only a slight to average chance he might curse you, probably wasn’t the best approach.

Snape. He was just standing there, expressionlessly watching Harry stutter like a wimp to his uncle. That was enough to make Harry straighten up to his full height. He wasn’t going to look weak. Not with Snape, not with Voldemort, and not with his ridiculous Muggle uncle.

“Uncle Vernon,” he managed with more confidence than he felt, “Professor Snape came here to save my life. If I send him out now, he’ll be killed.” Harry didn’t bother inserting that Snape was the older and more experienced wizard, so there was little chance Harry or Vernon could force to him to do anything he didn’t want to do. Besides, Vernon Dursley hated anyone who thought they were stronger or smarter than he was. (His uncle just wasn’t smart enough to realize how many people fit that description.)

“Professor Snape let someone from the school know he’s here,” Harry continued his explanation, “and they should be coming to get him anytime. So if you’ll just wait for them to –”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, for Vernon grabbed him then by both shoulders and shook him roughly, screaming into his face, “YOU CALLED MORE FREAKS? TO MY HOUSE!” Vernon continued with his rant, shaking Harry all the while, but Harry stopped listening. White hot flashes of pain were shooting through his sore shoulder, and he actually thought for a moment that he might pass out. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry out.

“V-Vernon!” Petunia’s voice cut through Uncle Vernon’s rant. “Vernon, stop!”

Harry felt the shaking end, and though his shoulder felt like it had been ripped from its socket, he opened his eyes, desperate for something to distract himself from the pain.

Vernon still had a tight hold on Harry, but he was looking over his own shoulder now, at his wife. Petunia was inching along the wall toward them, terrified eyes fixed on Snape, who remained frozen in place in the middle of the room. She didn’t really need to keep such a close watch – Snape’s focus wasn’t on her. His eyes were fixed, not even on Harry, but on Vernon’s hands where they gripped Harry’s still-injured shoulder. Harry couldn’t tell what he was thinking, though his whole body had stiffened.

Not taking her eyes off of Snape, Petunia lay a bony hand over one of her husband’s and pried it from Harry’s arm. “V-Vernon, l-let the boy g-go.”

Harry looked at his aunt, shocked beyond all thought. She’d been kinder to him lately, sure. But she almost never interfered outright with Uncle Vernon’s punishments, and this made twice in the last 24 hours. Harry didn’t know what to think, and he worked hard to try to squelch an unfamiliar feeling…was it hope? No. How could it be? Aunt Petunia had never cared for him, and he’d given up longing for a mother in her years ago. He was sixteen, after all, and way beyond the age where he craved a mother’s tender love…but if that was true, then why did he feel an inexplicable yearning suddenly rise within him…a hunger for something he knew he’d never have?

Dare he hope? Did Petunia maybe care for him in some way she was only now beginning to show? Even a little?

Harry watched her carefully, still aware of the pain in his body, but not caring anymore. He searched her face, though her eyes were still trained away from his. He couldn’t see anything beyond fear, but he searched for the smallest sign of…something, anything.

Vernon let go of Harry completely, turning to his wife, speechless. His face was losing some of its purple, and it occurred to Harry that Vernon was just as baffled by his wife’s behavior as he had been.

Petunia whispered to her husband, quietly enough to guarantee to herself that Snape wouldn’t hear. She couldn’t know what Harry was all too familiar with from Potions class: that the Potions professor rarely missed anything. Harry couldn’t count how many times the professor had taken off points for a whispered comment that he had heard perfectly from the complete opposite side of the classroom.

Her whispered voice shook, “Vernon, he’s one of the boy’s kind. Remember what we talked about – no touching the boy while there might be freaks around. There’s no telling what they might get it in their heads to do to us.”

Harry’s heart sank and his head felt hot. He’d known he was a right fool, getting his hopes up like that. He knew from experience that they’d just be dashed to the ground and stomped on completely. Petunia was never worried about him – not even yesterday when she’d had him wondering. She was just worried about herself. Worried that the ‘freaks’ wouldn’t do anything to her and her own.

And it was reinforced to him yet again that ‘her own’ didn’t include Harry.

He was angry, but mostly he felt defeated. It had been years since he’d hoped for the impossible. The hope had felt so good, which made reality feel all the worse.

He refocused on the other occupants of the room, desperate for a distraction from his self-pity. Harry had missed whatever reply Vernon made to Petunia, but at least her interference had served its purpose of distracting him from Harry. However, Vernon was still angry; there was no doubting that. He wasn’t done wanting to make a scene.

Instead of bullying Harry, Vernon focused his attention on Snape. Perhaps the fact that the man hadn’t made so much as a threat bolstered his own confidence. He raised his hand to point directly at Snape. “Out! OUT! Get out of my house this instant! I won’t have YOUR KIND in my own house! OUT!” He pointed to the door then, and Petunia hopped in surprise, scrambling to the other side of Vernon so that she would be out of Snape’s way.

Snape didn’t move. He had taken in the entire scene in silence, and he now watched Vernon Dursley’s yelling and wild motioning and facial color changes as if he were eyeing a dull but annoying little insect.

Snape tilted his head slightly back and looked down his hooked nose at the rotund man. He answered evenly - and rather snottily, in Harry’s opinion - “I would relish nothing more, Mr. Dursley, than to depart from your scurrilous company. Nevertheless, I regret that that is not an option.”

Vernon was taken aback at Snape’s refusal to comply.

So was Harry, come to think of it, albeit for a different reason. He hadn’t the slightest clue what was going through Snape’s mind, but knowing how nasty the man could get, his calm facade wasn’t boding well. Harry was getting a little worried, and he had the feeling that he should do something, intervene somehow. But he still didn’t know any better than he did earlier what to say that wouldn’t make it worse, so he stayed silent.

He considered prayer though. For Uncle Vernon’s benefit.

Vernon was getting flustered at being refused, so he tried another tactic. “Get out,” he took a deep breath and screamed, “OR ELSE!”

Snape’s eye twitched, though he merely responded with a calm, simple, “no.”

Vernon’s whole body screamed rage, from his dark face to his clenched fists.

The room was silent for several long minutes as the two men faced each other, one in agitation, the other with indifferent calm.

Harry could tell that Uncle Vernon didn’t know what to do. He relied on his skills of intimidation to get what he wanted, and Snape quite simply refused to be intimidated. And while Vernon may have been the more bulky of the two, Snape was the taller and obviously more physically fit. Even Vernon, with all of his Harry-bullying down pat, had to know that turning to physical means with a fully grown man wasn’t a wise course of action. So he glared, out of options but refusing to back down.

Snape stared right back, calm turning swiftly to boredom. Recognizing that shift in Snape’s eyes, Harry couldn’t help but think of all of the enemies Snape had to have faced over the course of his life, not least of all Voldemort himself. By comparison, Vernon probably seemed like an annoying little gnat that wasn’t worth the trouble of devoting a second of time or energy to.

Harry had had enough. Little as he cared for the Dursleys, he had to do something before Vernon gave Snape a real reason to rid himself of his annoyance. And Harry was afraid to witness just what course of action Snape might choose to take. A shudder ran through him as part of his nightmare flashed through his eyes. He’d seen enough of the result of violence in his sleep. He didn’t think he could bear to see more in his waking hours.

He launched himself away from the wall before he could rethink his decision and moved so that he stood between the two men. Facing Snape, back to Vernon, he forced himself to meet his professor’s eyes, though he could barely do so without embarrassment flooding back through him.

“Don’t,” he said, hating that it sounded like he was pleading. Still, if that’s what it took… “Don’t hurt them.”

Snape’s eyes betrayed his surprise as he evaluated Harry’s earnest stance. He opened his mouth to speak, but Vernon beat him to it, swiveling Harry around - thankfully by his good arm - so that he was now facing Vernon. “Hurt us! What, you think I can’t take care of my own family?” He shoved his nose in the air in a less subtle imitation of Snape’s earlier gesture and started in on the professor again. “You can’t do anything. Just you try  – I’ll slap a lawsuit on you before you know what hit you! Breaking and entering! And stealing for all I know. Food from my own table, no doubt, you THIEF!” Vernon was getting worked up again. Happily. Physical intimidation was discarded as he discovered the joy of legal intimidation. He rocked back on his heels, pleased with his own ingenuity.

“That’s right,” he continued, sure that the other man would be begging for mercy soon, “I know some of the best lawyers in the country, I do! If you don’t get out of my house this minute, I’ll be seeing you in court!” Vernon was positively smug.

Harry was glad that he couldn’t see Snape’s face right that minute, and he inched a little to the side so he was dead center between the men. He didn’t fancy making it too easy for Snape to reach out and choke Uncle Vernon, no matter how much Harry felt like doing it himself.

It occurred to him, then, how bizarre this whole situation was - that he would be standing guard between the two banes of his existence, his torturer at home and his tormentor at school. It was almost surreal.

It didn’t get any less strange in the next instant, as a scratching sound and a fluttering came from the direction of the window. All eyes turned to take in Hedwig, who was making her way through the bars with a long, narrow box in her grasp. She immediately flew in their direction, and Petunia ducked in panic as the owl fluttered past her.

Snape stepped back to accept the package Hedwig deposited into his grasp, and her delivery accepted, she fluttered back to her cage and water bowl. The other owls hooted in welcome.

Harry ignored Vernon, who wasn’t looking quite so smug after having lost his captive audience, and spun round to see just what Dumbledore had sent. Harry had expected something like a posse of wizards to come to retrieve Snape, not a package delivered by owl post.

Snape pulled a long, narrow wand from the box before lifting out a small slip of paper and scanning it. Raising his eyes, he met Harry’s questioning glance and, to Harry’s pleasant surprise, handed him the paper to read.

Harry passed his eyes over the short, direct note. There was no address, no signature. Only three short phrases:

Temporary untraceable wand enclosed. Box is Portkey. Every unusual creature deemed risky.

Harry looked up. Snape was watching him intently, though Harry couldn’t imagine what he might be looking for. The note didn’t give much to react to, did it? Although Harry did wonder where the Portkey might send Snape that would warrant a warning about “unusual creatures.”

Vernon cleared his throat, a loud, grating noise intended to bring the attention back to himself. Until he saw the wand, that is. Vernon shuffled back at the sight and grasped out again for Harry’s arm – the bad one this time – to pull him back with him. Harry let out a barely stifled moan at yet another jostle to his shoulder.

“Put it down! Put that thing down NOW!” Vernon yelled, holding Harry in front of him as a shield from whatever curse he was sure was about to be hurled his way. He was shaking, both from rage and from fear.

Snape, of course, no more listened to him about the wand than he had about anything else. His swift glance took in the terrified Petunia, purple-faced Vernon, and Harry, forcefully held within his uncle’s grasp.

Harry wished Snape would just leave already. He could now. He had the Portkey, and he had a wand, even. Harry couldn’t stand to deal with any more humiliation than he had already in the last several days. His uncle, the room, his nightmare, and everything Snape had learned about him intertwined with the physical pain swimming through his head.

“Go,” he said quickly. “Just go,” he repeated, trying to keep the pain out of his eyes as he met Snape’s strangely uncertain ones. He blinked, willing his glare to harden. The last thing he wanted when the school year began was for Snape to have more pitying memories to lord over him.

So when Snape turned to the bed to gather up his stack of parchment and a bundle that appeared to be his torn Death Eater cloak, Harry nearly sighed with relief. One more minute, and Snape would be gone.

But Snape didn’t activate the Portkey.

Instead, turning back round with an unintelligible oath, he raised his wand to Uncle Vernon’s eye level and pointed it straight at the large man. “I would suggest you remove your hands from your nephew, Mr. Dursley,” he stated coolly. His eyes darkened, and Harry shuddered at Snape’s deadly glare. He’d been on the receiving end of that glare more times than he could count, and he still hated it every single time.

Harry felt Vernon’s trembling increase as the full impact of Snape’s threatening figure finally registered with him. It only took another second for him to roughly shove Harry away and scuttle through the door, slamming it closed behind him. He had apparently forgotten that his wife was still in the room, for Petunia shrieked and ran for the door faster than Harry had ever seen her run in his life. It would have been quite entertaining if he weren’t so confused about Snape’s behavior. Petunia opened the door on her third shaky try and slammed it behind her even louder than Vernon had done.

Finally there was silence.

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he looked at Snape questioningly.

The man merely lowered his wand and studied Harry for a moment, seemingly making up his mind about something. When he spoke, it was to issue a simple, “Gather your things, Potter.”

“My…things.” Harry repeated, not sure if he’d really heard right.

“Yes, Potter! Your things!” Snape snapped at him. The man actually looked flustered. “Unless, of course, you would like to stay here for the rest of the summer.”

Harry stared uncertainly.

“Alright then, if you want to stay, be my guest. I’ll inform the headmaster that you are deliriously happy to spend the rest of the summer lazing about, contentedly starving in your lavish dungeon!” Snape raised the Portkey, which finally propelled Harry to action. He moved as fast as he could: the man looked uncertain enough about his decision to change it at any moment.

Darting over to his wardrobe, Harry quickly scooped up the few wearable items of clothes he possessed and dug out his birthday presents from the corner. One was already out. Sirius’ watch. Harry spun around on his knee to fix Snape with a glare.

The man was at the window, wand out, lips moving. Turning back around to Harry’s accusing glare and the watch in his hands, he merely shrugged. “If you do not want your possessions disturbed, I suggest you do a better job of putting them away.”

Harry snatched up the watch in exasperation and carried his pile to the padlocked trunk. And he sighed. Not because of the trunk, but because now he’d have to ask Snape for help.

But Snape saw the problem before Harry could speak and, with a muttered alohomora, unlocked the trunk. Harry couldn’t quite bring himself to thank the man after his recent intrusion into his sentimental gift.

Those items and a couple things scattered around the room packed away, there was only one place left – his hiding place under the floorboards. Taking a measuring glance at an impatient Snape, he decided he really didn’t have a choice but to reveal his hiding place. The things there were too important to leave. It wasn’t likely Snape would ever be here again, anyway.

Mind made up, he got on his hands and knees and pulled up the loose floorboard. Gathering up the contents of his hiding place, he threw them into the trunk and replaced the board. A glance up showed Snape watching him with eyebrows raised. Not sure if that was good or bad, Harry hastily closed the trunk.

“I’m ready,” he announced, and jumped aside as Snape pulled out his wand and pointed it in Harry’s general direction. A shrinking spell later, Harry’s trunk was small enough to pick up and fit in his pocket.

Snape held out the Portkey. Harry reached for it before he could think too much about the fact that he was going off to who-knew-where with Severus Snape, of all people. Wait. He stopped mid-reach. Suspicion filled him.

“What were you doing at the window just now?” he had to ask. Snape had been casting a spell, that much was sure…but he had a Portkey already. Harry couldn’t think of any reason whatsoever that would call for Snape casting some random spell out his bedroom window.

Finding no reply forthcoming, and further alarmed at Snape’s satisfied air, he sprinted over to the window and looked out. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What did you do?” he demanded, turning around, intent on getting his answer.

Snape held out the Portkey again. Harry crossed his arms, needing to know what horror he might come back to next summer.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Potter,” Snape muttered. “Take the Portkey and I’ll tell you.” Harry’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he grabbed the other end of the extended wand box.

“A simple weed growth enhancer spell, Potter. Perfectly harmless, I assure you.”

Harry didn’t have time to react to that, as Snape muttered the word, “enemy,” and he felt a familiar jerk behind his navel.

As one, the two wizards vanished from number four, Privet Drive.