After another couple hours, Severus could no longer stand the silence of his quarters, nor justify not making a complete report -- he'd given Dumbledore a few of the highlights, or lowlights, rather, the day before, when the Headmaster showed up briefly in the infirmary to check on Harry.  And so he sought out the Headmaster's office at last.  "Fizzing Whizbees," he said to the gargoyles, and was allowed onto the stair, which spun its lazy circle to deposit him on the entry way to Dumbledore's demesne.  The door opened all on its own.  He hated when it did so, that heavy-handed emphasis on Dumbledore's knowledge of all the comings and goings in the school, including his own. 

He shut the door carefully behind him and stood before the Headmaster's desk, feeling, not for the first time, like one of the miscreants he taught.  Or tried to teach.  "I've come to make a full report, sir," he said.

Dumbledore nodded, his smile careworn.  "I appreciate it, Severus.  But it can wait, if you'd rather."

"No, I wouldn't, and no, it can't.  The Dark Lord shared some of his plans with me, with his servants, that bear telling."

"Was this intelligence from before or after you were revealed as a spy?"  His words were softly spoken, but Severus could have screamed from the way they cut through him.

"Before," he admitted in a murmur.  " I apologize for losing my . . . status in his ranks, Headmaster.  But the boy was flailing, and I thought the risk too great to remain there.  His sight, for one--"

"I quite agree," Albus interrupted.  "I am only sorry we could not retrieve you sooner."  He paused, and took out his never ending supply of damnable candies.  "Lemon drop?  No?  Please sit down, at least, Severus.  Poppy tells me you have continued to visit Harry and are concerned about his condition."

With less aplomb than he would have liked, Severus took a seat, but refused the candy.  The thinking he had promised himself he would not have to do, swamped his brain and mired him in its bleak intensity.  "Concerned?  Of course I'm damned well concerned.  Anyone with a conscience would be.  Anyone with a shred of humanity.  If he's to be the bloody Chosen One who will defeat the sodding Dark Lord, I hardly think catatonia will work to our advantage."

"Language, Severus."

The potions master sneered, but inclined his head.  "My apologies, Headmaster."

Albus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, tucking a finger up under his spectacles.  Then he placed his hands on his desk, folded together, and peered over the lenses at Severus.  "I've made arrangements to have him sent to St. Mungo's for treatment."

Severus leapt to his feet.  "What?  You can't be serious!  The press will get wind of it quicker than you can say 'The Boy Who Went Crazy.'  And he won't be safe there from the Dark Lord, I can assure you of that."

Spreading his hands, Albus said, "What would you have me do, Severus?  His family has fled.  His godfather is gone now, too.  I can't send him to the Weasleys, for the same concern about his safety, and he simply cannot remain in the hospital wing until he's amply recovered."

It was all true.  He wasn't sure why such righteous indignation on the boy's behalf should so suddenly manifest in him, and yet, it did.  "He can't go to St. Mungo's.  They'll have no idea how to help him.  And who will guard him there, if we are stretched as thin as Minerva said?"

Albus looked pained, but not willing to budge.  "Severus--"

"I'll take him," Severus offered, and at once thought, What??  Yet, his mouth continued to move.  "He will stay in my quarters and I'll see to it that he comes back to himself."  Or he would die trying.

A thin hint of a smile creased the Headmaster's lips, a shadow of his usual merriment.  "If you think it will work . . ."

"It may be the only real chance the boy has," Severus said quietly.  And wasn't that a kick in the teeth?

---

Hours later, at Potter's bedside, Severus had cause to kick himself, again, for his rash offer.  The boy lay quite still.  Unresponsive, even when manhandled so he could be forced to drink potions.  Not so much as a twitch, Poppy told him, since Severus had doused him with the potion for his eyes.

For a few agonizing moments, he worried he'd inadvertently poisoned the boy with some kind of nerve toxin.  But it was the kind of worry not based in reality, and he went over the potion and its formulation in his head three times before he was satisfied that he was not -- directly -- to blame for the boy's current state.

Indirectly, however. . . .

Part of his offer to take the boy in was undoubtedly due to the guilt gnawing at his insides, the feeling that he should have done more -- or less! -- to prevent what the Dark Lord and his two chief lieutenants had done to him.  And he hated guilt, hated it with a passion unmatched by any other, except perhaps for his hatred of Sirius Black, no matter what he'd told Potter during their imprisonment.  He was just not the type to engage in self-flagellation.  If he could assuage his guilt by helping the brat, so much the better.

Sighing, Severus resigned himself to the task once again, and stood.

Poppy materialized at his elbow.  "I can cancel my trip," she said, again.

Severus shook his head and he leaned over the bed and gathered the thin child to his chest.  Dead weight, like there was nothing inside.  No one home.  He straightened with Potter in his arms.  "No.  We'll be fine.  You have family to see to."

"Severus . . . are you sure this is a good idea?"  Her look of concern was directed as much at him as it was at the boy, and he was warmed by it, briefly.

"No," he admitted.  "But it will have to do."

She nodded, reluctantly, and he carried the hope of the Wizarding world to his quarters, in the form of a broken child.

After placing the boy on a bed he had conjured earlier, on a room only recently spelled into being, Severus stood back and took a good look at Potter . . . Harry.  He supposed if he was to have the care of the boy, they might as well be a bit more informal.  He wouldn't put up with any disrespect, however!  None of his cheek . . .

Closing his eyes briefly, Severus drew a slow breath.  He had no reason, at the moment, to be angry with the boy.  And he couldn't very well vent his own inchoate rage, with Lucius and Voldemort, on their victim, no matter that the boy had been an easy target for him in the past.

Poppy had done well, he realized, in healing Harry's physical body . . . at least what he could see outside of the light blue hospital pajamas.  Thin pink scars lined his arms, but looked like they would fade well enough with time.  Rather than assume, however, he lifted the pajama shirt and checked Harry's stomach,. And was glad to find most of the scars there, too, would fade.  A couple looked nastier than the others, probably Bella's work.  He'd have to get a potion for those.

As for the boy's mind . . . well.

First things first.  Food, water, sleep.  Plus clothes, shelter, a place of safety.  The rest would come in time.

Without thinking, he smoothed the pajama top back over the boy's skin, then brushed an errant strand of dark hair out of the boy's eyes.  His fingers traced the lightning scar on Harry's forehead, and he shook his head.  So much pain, here. 

Was he doing the right thing?  He had no idea, really, how to make the boy all "better," or even if anything ever could.  But if they were to win the war, they needed their chosen warrior to be up to the fight.  Hating himself for thinking of the boy as a pawn - for that's what he was, pure and simple, just like Severus himself - he knew he had to do what was best for Wizarding kind, not necessarily what was best for Harry.

"Come back to us, child," he whispered, cupping the boy's head lightly in his palm, potion-stained thumb stroking circles on his temple.  "I know you don't want to, but we need you out here."

There was no response.  Not that he'd expected one, truly, but it have been nice to be pleasantly surprised for once.

---

In the darkness of the cupboard, Harry floated adrift, silent as the moon.  He was alone here, just the way he liked it.  Nothing and no one could touch him.  Even when he felt tingles on his flesh, he knew it was just spiders, not the other.  Spiders spinning their webs, minding their own business, and not intending to let him know they were there.  He had no problems with spiders.

There was no pain here, and the feeling was welcome.  For years, day after day, paid had been part of his body, of his life.  Here, he was comfortable, and comforted.  After some long while of restfulness, he could even hear someone's voice, soft and oddly sibilant, whispering to him that everything was all right, that he was all right, and that nothing would hurt him anymore.  He wanted so much to believe the voice that when it whispered that it could take care of him, if only he would let it, he could not find it in himself to refuse.

"Just let me in," the voice whispered, and promised safety, and warmth and caring, such as he had never known.

"No hurting," Harry whispered back.

"No hurting," the voice agreed.  "Safety, my dear, sweet boy.  And love."

He was not worthy of love, had never been.  As far back as he could remember, back to where the cupboard and darkness began, no one had ever spoken those three little words to him before, the words he longed to hear . . . I love you.  And he knew he was nothing, worthless, despicable and a freak, but still . . . he wanted so much to be loved.

A long time passed, how long, he couldn't say and he didn't care, really.  But finally, he gave in to the soothing, slippery voice, lifted away the last barrier and allowed the presence inside.

And for a little while, there was peace.

---

Severus was beside himself.  More than a week had passed with no change from the young Gryffindor.  Severus had fed him, given him potions and tea, had Scourgified him and vanished waste from his bladder with a wave of a wand.  The wand was a back-up he kept for emergencies, since his own was still at that loathsome manor.  He'd made sure the boy was comfortable in the bed at night and during the mornings, when Severus was preparing potions for Harry and for the school infirmary, and he had propped the boy up on pillows in the main room during the afternoons, in front of the fire, as he'd seemed to like in Topsham.

Because Harry was so unresponsive, Severus could not even be sure the eye treatment had worked.  Though he'd given the boy several more doses of the potion he'd developed, he had no idea if the boy could see yet.  But Harry stared at the fire each afternoon, almost unblinking, and seemingly mesmerized by the flames.  So he had high hopes, for that at least.

Harry's mouth moved betimes, but no sound ever came out.  Except once, and Severus still winced at the recollection.  Days ago, while the boy was propped on the long couch in front of the fireplace, Severus had been reading a new potions journal article aloud, hoping at least the sound of his voice would eventually stir some reaction, when he'd distinctly heard hissing.  More than anything else, it reminded him of that damned Parseltongue, which had given the boy so much trouble in his second year.  But it only lasted a second, and afterwards, when he'd risen and gone to the boy, and crouched in front of him, only to meet blank eyes, he wasn't sure he'd heard it at all.

If he had made any noise at all, Harry had since gone back to silence.

Which was why he was so completely gobsmacked when they were in their customary places one afternoon, Harry on the couch, and he on a winged chair, reading aloud from a Wizarding story book, when a small voice said, "Please, some water?"

Severus almost dropped his journal.  Indeed, he fumbled it in his hands as he hurried to put it down, even as he leapt to his feet.  "Harry?" he asked, peering at the boy.

Green eyes looked back at him tiredly, and the spark in them was more dampened than he had ever seen it - except perhaps that night after Cedric Diggory died - but it was there.

"Can you see me?"

Harry blinked heavy eyes, but nodded.  "Blurry."

"Your glasses," Severus looked around, finding the horrid NHS frames on the table beside him.  "Here, let me," he continued as the boy struggled to free his hands from the cocooning quilt, and settled the glasses on Harry's nose.  "Better?"

"Yes, sir."  His tone was hesitant, and softer than a whisper.  If these dungeons weren't so naturally quiet, Severus would never have heard.

In a trice, he conjured a small glass of water, and waited for Harry to get his hands free to take it.  The boy's hands still trembled as he accepted the drink, but not nearly like they had in the infirmary, just the faintest of tremors, really.  The new post-Cruciatus potion he'd developed, this one for prolonged exposure, was working swimmingly, it appeared.  He'd have to send a sample along to St. Mungo's.

Harry sipped at the water, the first independent thing he'd done since their incarceration, and Severus watched him with a strange sense of satisfaction.

When the boy had drunk almost half the glass, he stopped and closed his eyes again.

Severus took the glass from him and banished it to the kitchens.  "Harry?" he said again.  "Anything else I can get you?"

"M'tired, Professor," the boy said and did not open his eyes again, though he did pull the quilt closer and hunch himself inside it.  "Just tired."

Well.

It was a start.