The second the portkey let him go, Severus hit the infirmary floor running. "Where is he?" he asked McGonagall, though she could hardly know more than he, having arrived at the same time Severus did.

Still, she nodded at a bed not five feet away, which Poppy was currently hovering over, and he got there in two strides, one hand out conjuring robes for himself without even thinking about it. He pulled the dark clothes over his head in one motion and then took in the Boy Who Incredibly Still Lived, lying pale and unmoving under the white sheets of the hospital bed, which were hastily drawn over his body. Only his face showed now . . . probably the only part of him currently unmarked, but for the inflamed scar on his forehead.

"My stars," McGonagall said, and put a hand over her mouth. She looked to Severus for answers he knew he wouldn't be able to give. "What happened to him?"

"Nothing good," he answered shortly. He glanced at Poppy, and she ignored him in favor of running diagnostics. Just as well. Still, he summoned a chair from the other side of the room for Minerva, hardly missing his wand in the effort. Anger was great for something, after all.

Nymphadora Tonks materialized in the infirmary only moments later, clutching a battered lemon drop tin, and looking startled and disheveled. McGonagall went to her, and they conversed in low tones as Severus tried to listen in. Then, giving it up, he approached the medi-witch.

She looked over at him, then down at his bare feet, and frowned. "Do you need anything? Are you hurt?"

He shook his head. His leg would need to be seen to, but he could deal with that on his own, later. "How far have you gotten?" he asked quietly.

"How many times?" she asked back. Her voice was even lower than his. She knew, then.

"Twice." He swallowed. "Lucius, then the Dark Lord himself."

She drew a sharp breath, then nodded solemnly as she let it out, professional to the core. "Just as well he's not conscious, then, for the healing I have to do. Pull the curtain round, will you?"

Severus complied, then staggered as adrenaline left him in a rush that made his head swim. They were safe, for the moment. Out of the awfulness of that manor-house prison, and safe. He would never be able to go back to his spying, now that the Dark Lord knew his true loyalties . . . he would never have to go back to his spying.

Perhaps some good could come from this after all.

Outside Potter's sanctuary, McGonagall grabbed Severus' arm before he could fall down, and settled him in the chair he'd meant for her. He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion taking the place of his rage.

"You were bleeding, too, Severus," McGonagall said. "Your leg . . ."

"It's fine," he said and stared at the curtain that hid the broken body of the savior of the Wizarding world. He knew, he knew what such an experience could do to the boy. Would he survive it, or would it be the proverbial straw to break Potter's back? As he'd mused days ago - or was it weeks? - this boy had been through so much in such a short time that it was frankly amazing he still had his sanity intact. Or at least, he'd had it before this latest encounter.

Watching the Dark Lord teach the boy his lessons in "manners" had been one of the hardest things Severus had ever been forced to witness. He had lost count of the number of times each of them - Lucius, Bellatrix, and Voldemort - had cast the Cruciatus on Potter, likewise the number of cutting curses, stinging hexes, and all the rest. But with everything and anything they did, the boy bore it better than any Wizard or Muggle he'd ever seen. His courage, his fortitude, was undeniable. Potter had endured it all, until the end.

"What did they do to Harry?" Tonks murmured, loud enough for him to hear.

"Everything," he said under his breath. "Everything they could think of, to break him." While Minerva and the young Auror stared at him with wide eyes, he climbed to his feet again. He'd promised the boy he'd make a potion for his eyes. If he got going on it now, he might even have it done before Potter woke. That is, if he woke-

No. He wasn't going to be fatalistic about this. Not this time, despite the self-recriminations he was currently indulging in over what had happened. It had been his plan, his fault they were captured. Wouldn't they have been better off just remaining the Dark Lord's captives, ensconced in their pretty room? If he had known what would happen, he would never had made any plan to escape. Never. Ai, Merlin!

Stepping briefly behind the curtain, he said to Poppy, "Let me know when he wakes. I might . . . I might be able to help."

She acknowledged his words with a nod and went back to her work. Severus caught a glimpse of the whip-like gashes on Potter's bloodied back before she blocked his view again. He left the infirmary with only a slight limp slowing him down.

---

It was almost twenty-four hours later before the boy woke. Severus had already prepared the potion for his eyes. He had cleaned and healed the gash on his leg, and even slept, badly, for a few hours. And for the last three hours, he had been sitting by Potter's bedside, watching him. Waiting. He didn't know, exactly, why he felt the need to sit vigil, and yet, here he was.

And he wasn't sure what he had been expecting when the boy came back to consciousness, but a brief furrowing of his forehead before lapsing back into blankness was not it. The boy's eyes were shut, still, and bandaged up again, by Poppy, but Severus knew he was awake. "Potter," he said quietly, and was ignored.

His lips twisted sourly before he made himself say, "Harry. I know you're awake. I want . . ." He cut himself off and changed what he was going to say. "I have a potion for you, for your eyes. You need to drink it."

No response, as if the boy were deaf as well as blind.

Frustration welled in him, tempered by . . . understanding? But he couldn't let this go on. "Very well," he said. "I don't want to have to use force, but this potion is very important. Unless you'd rather remain blind?"

Nothing.

So be it. Severus made a show of uncorking the vial loudly. Snitch-fast, he snaked his arm under the boy's head and brought the potion to Potter's lips. Still, though he expected something, he was unprepared for the ferocity of Potter's reaction. The boy slapped his hand away, knocking the vial into the air, and jumped sideways several feet to get free of Severus' arm.

"Don't! Get away!" Body trembling as much as his voice, Potter stood next to the bed, dressed in hospital wing pajamas, with one arm flung out to ward off intruders into his personal space.

At least it was a reaction. And Severus had several vials of the potion.

"Harry," he said again, but much more quietly this time. "I want you to drink this potion. Please."

The boy shook his head minutely, but it might have been tremors left from the Cruciatus; he couldn't tell.

"No? Care to tell me why not?"

"I -- I dunno." Potter wrapped his arms around his middle. "Tired."

"I'm sure you are," Severus agreed, keeping his voice as reasonable as possible. "But that shouldn't keep you from taking the potion. It's for your eyes. Once you drink it, then you can go back to sleep, all right?"

"I . . . " The boy swallowed and hitched his shoulders up, but then nodded, finally. "Okay, yeah. All right."

"Do you want to climb back in bed first?"

With jerky movements, owing as much to his blindness as to his level of upset, Potter found the bed's covering again, and pulled them up so he could slip beneath them.

Severus waited until the boy was situated before uncorking another vial. "The potion is near your left hand, all right? You take it and drink it, and then I'll leave you alone." For a bit, anyway.

Watching the extent of the tremors in Potter's hand as he reached for the vial was instructive . . . and worrisome. But the boy tossed the potion back and hardly made a face at the taste, then held out the empty vial. Severus was careful not to touch him as the vial passed between their hands. One startlement of that kind was more than enough for day one.

"We'll give that a few hours, and I'll come back and check to see how well it's worked," Severus told him. But he was back to being ignored, as Potter curled up on his side and drew his legs to his chest. He hesitated, then decided to offer, regardless of how much heed his words might be taken. "If you need anything before then, even just . . . just to talk, or have someone sit with you, let Madam Pomfrey know, and she will send for me."

He stopped by Poppy's office and let her know that the boy should have some Dreamless Sleep potion, soon. She nodded, but searched his face with an unreadable expression, until he had to turn away. Duty done for the moment, Severus returned to his chambers and tried not to think. At all.

---

Harry lay in darkness and tried not to think. If it wasn't so dark, if he could just see, he wouldn't still feel like they were touching him, he could see that they weren't there, and he was in a bed, instead, in Hogwarts, but he couldn't see, and he was sure they were there, waiting for him to let down his guard. And they were laughing. Horrible, ugly laughter that set his teeth on edge and made him want to vomit over and over until there was nothing left inside.

There was nothing left inside.

He curled his legs in tighter to his chest, and rested his head on his knees. He was small. He was invisible. No one could see him anymore. No one was touching him; no one! They weren't, they couldn't be. No one could touch him, no one could see him when he hid deep inside his cupboard.

Ah, Merlin! Snape had seen, seen everything! Harry's face burned with shame and mortification, and his stomach flipped over. He had broken down. He had wept and pleaded with them, his captors, and Snape has seen it all. And then, then he had come here, and . . . he hadn't laughed.

Head still reeling, Harry hardly noticed when someone new approached the bed, but the moment they spoke -- she spoke -- he flinched away. But it was only Madam Pomfrey. Her voice was soothing, yet crisp. "Sit up, now, Mister Potter, there's a good lad. I've a potion for you . . . "

He couldn't make sense of her words, though; it was like they swam through his head, never touching his ears. He was in the cupboard, door shut tight now, and it was the only safe place he knew. Dark, and quiet, with no more screaming, and no one could ever find him or bother him ever again. Even if they cursed him and bloodied him, even if they put hands on him, or laughed at his pain, at his screams, he wasn't really there. Only his body. Not him. He was hidden, far, far away.