Harry uncurled slowly, every part of him aching, his face feeling distended and raw as he looked wide-eyed around the room. He cringed as he pulled his arm towards him, the muscles stiff and twitching from hours of tightly gripping his wand, his arm never wavering as he held it high, wand trained on the door, waiting.

Wincing, he pulled himself to his feet, one hand splayed against the wall, steadying himself as a wave of disorientation hit him, and it took almost a minute for the disturbing sensation to fade.

He took a few hesitant steps, his wand still held tightly, and he reached out towards the curtain, pulling the heavy drapes aside, wincing as sunlight tumbled into the room. He turned back towards the door, his eyes falling to the spot just inside the entrance, a mess of dried blood, the yellowish residue of dried sputum a gruesome reminder of what had transpired, and Harry’s eyes welled with tears.

What did I do? Why would he…did something go wrong at the conference…I thought he…did I do something wrong…why would… why would he do that?

Harry lowered his face into his hands, his thoughts jumbled and disjointed, unable to fathom what he had done to deserve Snape’s wrath, and he gasped, not just from the pain, but from the swollen flesh that pressed against his palms. Pulling himself away from the door, he walked sluggishly into the bathroom, pain shooting up his legs with each step, and stopped in front of the mirror, setting his wand to the side.

Another gasp left his lips as he took in his reflection. His face was mottled with bruises, and the left side, the side Snape had struck him the most, was blackened, with a purplish blue border edging into his scalp and jaw line. He looked like he’d fallen off cliff, though he had looked worse before he thought, as he leaned in closer, poking at the split lip tentatively, noticing it was relatively pain free compared to the rest of his face. Oh yes, he’d looked a lot worse thanks to Uncle Vernon, but while those beatings had been brutal, almost inhuman in their savagery, the one he had endured last night was almost unbearable, because it had been dealt by someone who he thought truly cared about him, maybe someone that one day, maybe, might have loved him.

Another wave of dizziness caught him off guard, and his hands flew to the countertop, clutching the slick marble as he leaned forward, breathing heavily. After the feeling had passed, Harry took a few steps towards the door, peeking out into his room. Everything was quiet save for the soft warble of birds singing outside, and the whispering of windblown leaves.

Harry stood there, leaning against the door frame, feeling ethereal in his existence, like he was in some sort of other reality, perhaps a dream, only much more frightening. He bowed his head, eyes narrowed in thought, though the pain was so dense that he had to relax his face into impassiveness due to it.

Snape had hit him.

Snape had hit him.

A whimper caught in his throat. Only last week the Professor was in this very room, repeating his promise that he would never hit Harry, and Harry had believed him, well not at first, but he had after a while. Snape had been so nice to him, so caring, and he’d acted like - Harry winced – like he really cared about him. He’d comforted him, hugged him, and he’d said Harry wasn’t a burden, that he wasn’t a nuisance to his family, or to Snape.

Harry shook his head softly.

What had he done? Why on earth would Snape do something like this to him? He’d trusted the Professor, really trusted him. He had been the only adult in the entire world who seemed to really care about him. It had taken so much effort to allow himself to trust, to believe Snape wasn’t going to harm him. Every time Harry flinched, every time the fear of touch consumed him and he retreated back into himself, every time he cried or screamed or pulled away, there was Snape. The man had never given up on him, never letting Harry take the blame for the horrible things he had been through at the hands of his aunt and uncle, never letting him fall into despair. Harry grimaced. He must have done something to make the man change so drastically.

Then it hit him in a flash of wild panic, his heart beating riotously in his chest.

The Professor must have known he’d left the island! That was one of the rules, no sightseeing, trips off the island strictly were forbidden. The Professor said he put up wards, and they must have alerted him when he and Craig had gone into town. Harry’s bottom lip quivered. He broke the rules. He did deserve this! That had to be it. It had to be his fault. The alternative was that Snape had this all planned, that he’d brought him out here in the middle of nowhere to a deserted island knowing full well what he was going to do. Harry shook his head. No, that was stupid. Snape had cared about him, he did, and Harry had ruined it. Suddenly feeling sick, Harry slumped to the floor panting, grief and guilt assaulting him.

It was his behaviour that caused the beating, just like at home, just like Uncle Vernon had always said. It was his fault, not the Professor’s. It was his.

It was always his.

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Lunchtime came and went, and the muted rumbles from Harry stomach increased as the afternoon wore on. After he’d dressed, he wet a hand towel from the bathroom and went to work, mopping up the stale blood and froth from the floor on his hands and knees. It had taken some time to find all the droplets, as some had even spattered across the far wall, but finally he stood with a groan and returned the towel to the sink, the water running red even after a dozen rinses.

He made his bed next, ignoring the pain in his head that kept him on the verge of tears. The menial tasks somehow helped him feel better. The monotony of it, the predictability and control, it helped calm him. For as little control as he had over his world, these simple things were his solace. He pulled up the rumpled sheets, smoothed the duvet and straightened the pillow, then looked around the room, his eyes falling to his trunk. He still hadn’t transferred his clothes into the mahogany bureau, and he spent the next hour carefully folding each item of clothing and placing it neatly into the drawers. He didn’t own much really, a few pairs of too big pants and a handful of shirts, most stained and ugly from Dudley’s misuse. The pajamas were last, and Harry slowly let the shadowy fabric slip over his palm, feeling sleek against his skin as he laid the shirt out on the floor, the patches of blood shining on the black silk. Harry fingered the seam at the shoulder, which was rapidly coming apart, the delicate stitching unraveling at his very touch. They were ruined. The first gift the Professor had given him, and he’d wrecked them. Folding the shirt and pants carefully, Harry opened the bottom drawer, which he’d left empty, and placed the pajamas at the very back. Hopefully the Professor wouldn’t notice they were gone.

In the bottom of his trunk, shimmering like a pool of silvery water, lay his invisibility cloak. He’d almost forgotten he had it. Heart beating faster at the thought of possible escape, he quickly picked up the cloak and balled up the fabric as best he could, stuffing it under a pair of large jeans, smoothing out the denim so nothing looked out of place. He would find a use for the cloak soon, once the Professor had gone to sleep.

His room clean, Harry stood at the window fighting back tears, going over the beating in his head, shuddering as he recalled each blow, the wild look in Snape’s eyes, and anger, the excitement, almost as if he’d enjoyed it. Harry dabbed at his wet eyes with his fingertips. How could he have been so stupid? He should never have left the island, he should have listened. Why couldn’t he just listen? At least Craig got away in time he thought, wondering what Snape would have done to his friend if he hadn’t been called back to the Ministry.

The sound of the laboratory door grating open sent shudders through him, and Harry instinctively took a few steps back, his back coming up against the wall, and he winced at the hard contact against his bruises. Minutes passed, Harry frozen in place, eyes wide with fright, wanting to move, wanting to run, and his mind took him back to Uncle Vernon coming at him from across the room, fists clenched, that horrible smile on his face, and Harry wanted to run then too, screaming inside at his legs to obey as he stood motionless, only able to tremble in terror as the man came towards him.

He heard footsteps, and then the tinny sound of a key in a lock, and the door slowly creaked open to reveal the Professor, his black robes hanging limply, hair disheveled, the arms of his black shirt rolled up to his elbows. He looked around the room, as if inspecting it, his eyes coming to rest on Harry, and he looked him up and down before onyx met the terrified emerald.

As their eyes met, Harry reached back, one hand coming to rest frantically on the window frame, his fingers latching onto the wood as if it were anchoring him, the other hand outstretched, palm outwards, a gesture of deterrence against the man opposite him.

“S...Sir.” he stammered, his throat feeling narrow as he took in a distraught breath. “Sir, I’m really sorry I left the island. I’m sorry I disobeyed you.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, and after a moment of silence he took a step towards the boy, who immediately recoiled, all colour draining from his face, the bruises seeming even darker against the pale skin.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry cried desperately, seeing the man step towards him. “I’m sorry, please, Professor, please, I really am!”

The Professor stopped in mid-step, eyes suddenly wide, as if Harry’s pleas had shocked him. He turned abruptly and swept out of the room, locking the door behind him, and Harry heard the heavy steps echoing down the hallway before stillness once again overtook the room.

It took a while for his legs to finally obey him, and breathing heavily, Harry walked back into the bathroom, running a sink of cold water and bathing his swollen cheek and lip, enjoying the cool relief against his beaten skin. He splashed the water against his face, wondering how long Snape was going to punish him, wondering if there was something, anything he could do to get the man to forgive him.

He never heard the door open, or the soft click as it was closed again.

He never heard the footsteps across the hardwood floor.

By the time the bitter smell of alcohol was apparent, by the time his head shot up in alarm at the scent, it was too late. The Professor was in the doorway, belt in hand, chin wet with dribbled whiskey, and Harry didn’t even have time to beg the man for forgiveness before the belt came down.

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He awoke on the bathroom floor, the feeling of fire coursing across his back. He opened his eyes, surprised they weren’t swollen shut as the white tiles came into view. There was no blood beneath him, no tell tale signs of a harsh beating. It was just the belt then Harry thought to himself as he pulled his aching legs under him and pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the counter top for support. He gasped at the pain as he stood, the welts screaming as his shirt brushed over them. It had been so long since he’d gotten a whipping, but he sure remembered the pain. He was grateful the Professor hadn’t hit him in the face though. He didn’t think he could take that again, and he glanced at himself in the mirror, the bruising almost indistinguishable from the day before, and Harry knew it would likely take weeks to fade. The bad ones always did.

He gingerly reached down and took hold of the hem of his shirt, wincing as he lifted his arms and pulled the shirt over his head, whimpering as the cotton raked over the welts. He abandoned the shirt on the floor and stood with his back to the mirror, turning his head to assess the damage. The marks were angry and red, swollen ridges crisscrossing his back, and he could see where the belt had licked around his side and onto his torso, and he gently touched his finger to a welt that had snaked around to his stomach. All things considered, it wasn’t too bad. Uncle Vernon had done worse, much worse. He rested his hand on his stomach, unconsciously rubbing his aching abdomen, the hunger pains very apparent now, and he wondered if Snape was going to feed him. He’d gone without food for days before. It was a horrible punishment, probably worse than getting beaten, because at least after his uncle beat him he was usually allowed something to eat once he woke up. Well, some of the time anyway.

Sighing, Harry walked over to his bed, noticing the room was much darker now. Maybe it was past dinnertime, or maybe he’d slept through the night. He never knew what time it was when Uncle Vernon beat him and locked him in his cupboard, the vent tightly closed, allowing not a hint of light into the tiny space. He hated the way the days gelled together, never knowing how many days had passed as he was left to suffer in the eternal dark. Carefully lying face down on the cool sheets, he sighed. It felt so good to rest. Maybe he’d just sleep a little, a long yawn escaping past his still thick lip. Maybe when he woke, the Professor wouldn’t be so angry at him. Maybe then he’d let Harry apologize, then maybe things could go back to the way they were, and Snape would hold him, and tell him he was sorry, and that he’d never hit him again. Harry felt his eyelids drooping, and he focused on the door, the shining knob blurring as his eyes finally fell closed and he slept.

And the nightmares came.

He dreamed of the Professor, and it was deep into the night when his screams echoed down the hall.

And in the depths of the laboratory, Snape lifted his head at the sound, and took another long sip of his drink.

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Harry had barely fallen back asleep when the sound of his door creaking open pulled him back to wakefulness. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked towards the door, wincing as a flood of light met his eyes. There stood Professor Snape looking quite disheveled, holding a glass of amber liquid. The other hand gripped the door frame as if to steady him.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his chest rising and falling with force as panic swelled within him

Snape weaved across the floor to Harry’s bedside in such a manner that Harry knew the glass of alcohol he was holding was not his first of the evening. He set his glass down on the night table with a heavy clink, and stood staring at the boy.

By now Harry had pushed himself up to sitting, a concerned look on his face.

Without a word, Snape reached down and cupped Harry’s cheek just as he did when he was standing at the hearth before he left. His palm was gentle and warm against the bruises, and he ran his thumb over the battered flesh, across the scabbed lip, and for a moment, Harry thought the man’s tirade was over, and he couldn’t help but lean into the touch, but the hand shifted, almost jolted, and the fingers trailed down his jaw to his neck.

Harry’s chest tightened with fear as he reached up to bat the man’s hand away.

“What are you do-” Before he could finish, Snape’s hand was at his throat, grabbing the boy tightly, his slender fingers encompassing Harry’s neck as he squeezed.

Terror hit him like a ton of bricks. Legs kicking hysterically, Harry clawed in frenzied panic at the hands at his throat. In desperation he tried to scream, but Snape only tightened his grip, crushing Harry’s windpipe and turning his cries into hoarse guttural moans.

Snape’s other hand grabbed a handful of his hair and wrenched the boy down onto his back. In an instant he was on top of Harry, straddling him, his hand still at the boy’s throat. Harry’s thrashing became less hysterical as the lack of oxygen began to eat at his consciousness. Slowly, darkness crept in from all sides of his field of vision, and Harry’s arms slumped to his sides where they were quickly pinned under Snape’s knees.

Then, mercifully, the hand at his throat relented, and he felt the wild burning in his chest as air began to fill his lungs. The relief was short lived however as both hands now found his delicate windpipe, applying pressure steadily until the blackness again ebbed into view.

Harry laid trapped, dazed from shock, crushed under a man who outweighed him by over a hundred pounds. His breaths coming in short sharp bursts, desperate for air, clawing at the man’s bare arms, leaving trails of seeping crimson across his flesh. He felt the pressure around his neck lessen, and he gulped in a few mouthfuls of air before the assault began again. He could smell the liquor on his breath and recoiled as Snape’s face came into view, impassive, almost studying the look of terror etched on the boy’s face.

Harry retched, heaving at the smell of single malt and sweat. He shook his head wildly trying to fend off the grip that kept crushing and releasing.

“Please…” Harry begged, barely able to manage more than a pained whisper. “Please don’t do this.” But the torture persisted, as Snape was unaware of Harry’s pleas, or simply chose to ignore them as he continued the periodic choking; panting heavily as he clawed at Harry’s reddened neck with drunken roughness.

Alive with fright, Harry writhed under his teacher, desperately trying to free himself from the nightmare he was enduring, but the weight of Snape’s body crushing his hips barely allowed him to move. He managed to free one arm, and he brought it up and slammed his fist against Snape’s head as hard as he could, but in his weakened state, half overcome with fear and lack of air, his blows did little against his attacker, who was numbed by alcohol.

Harry’s mouth contorted in a silent scream, tears spilling from his eyes. The squeezing continued, the grip tightening until near unconsciousness ensued, then the fingers would pull away, only to return seconds later after Harry managed a few ragged breaths, crushing the very life out of him, and Harry started to wish Snape would just get it over with. There was nowhere to run, nothing that could free him from this horror. He was completely powerless; completely alone.

Then it was over.

Snape drunkenly climbed off the boy and slowly reached down to pick up his discarded glass. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, stumbling slightly, then righted himself and walked slowly towards the door. As he entered the hall, he reached out a hand and pushed Harry’s door closed with a slam.

He didn’t even bother to lock it.

Harry lay frozen for what felt like hours, silently willing himself to move. The sound of his heart beating was almost thunderous in his ears, and it wasn’t until the thudding had slowed considerably that he was able to control himself again.

“Get up get up get up!” his mind screamed.

With a strangled cry he leapt off the bed, running to the door and turning the lock. It wouldn’t keep the Professor out, but something in Harry urged him to bolt the door, as useless as it was against a simple Alohamora.

His breathing still labored, Harry backed slowly away from the door, half expecting the drunken man to burst through any moment.

Suddenly the crack of light under the door dimmed as the hall light was extinguished. A breath caught in Harry’s throat and he stood motionless in the dark silence, waiting. He heard the soft click as Snape’s bedroom door closed, and he let out the breath he’d been holding.

He trembled violently as he made his way to the bathroom. His body was weak from exertion and panic, and adrenalin pulsed through him making his movements shaky. His legs spasmed so erratically that he almost lost control, and would have fallen to the floor had he not seized the wall for support.

Barely able to stand, Harry flicked on the bathroom light and stood in front of the mirror, his hands clutching the basin’s edge for dear life, nausea rushing over him in waves. He stared wide eyed at his reflection, the tell-tale signs of strangulation standing out as dark red blotches on his throat. Harry became lost in the image before him as his thoughts raced. He shuddered, still feeling the hand around his neck, each finger wringing the life from him. Instinctively he rubbed his throat, wincing at the tender flesh. He felt the man’s sweat clinging to his body, and every pore felt infected by the pungent stench. The acrid odor of his saliva filled his nostrils. He felt polluted, repulsed.

His stomach clenched violently and he dropped his head and vomited into the basin. He retched over and over until nothing but bile came from him, bile that smelled like Snape had smelled, and he heaved repeatedly until his throat burned and his legs buckled and he fell in a heap on the bathroom floor, his head in his hands, his body trembling.

A cry escaped him, and he gasped for air, gulping in great mouthfuls of oxygen, and finally Harry broke, his muffled sobs echoing off the tiles as his body shook in torment.

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He awoke some time later to the cool tile against his cheek. He pulled himself to his feet with great effort, groaning as every muscle in his body protested after hours on the hard flooring. He ran some cold water in the sink and rinsed his mouth, spitting several times until the bitter taste of vomit was less distinct. Turning to the shower he ran the water until it was as hot as he could stand. Shivering in the coolness of the bathroom, he removed his clothes and stepped inside the tub, pulling the curtain around.

He took a sharp breath as the scalding water hit his body. He lathered his washcloth and began to scrub every inch of himself, washing away the putrescence that clung to him. He scrubbed under his fingernails, behind his ears, even the soles of his feet were scoured as he desperately tried to erase every remnant of his experience.

It was a long time before he finally came close to feeling clean.

When he was finished he stepped out into the steamy bathroom, toweled off, and brushed his teeth with equal fervor as he had showered.

His towel wrapped around his waist, Harry poked his head around the bathroom door, half expecting Snape to be waiting for him. The room was empty; illuminated by the silver tones of the brilliant full moon as it peeked through a gap in the curtain. Harry moved hastily to the chest of drawers and dressed as quickly as possible.

He noticed his wand on the dresser and froze. For a moment all he could do was stare at it. If he had only kept his wand closer! Dammit, why couldn’t he have left it on the bedside table like he’d been doing? Maybe he could have gotten to it before Snape…before he….no, he didn’t want to think about it. He wouldn’t think about it!

He let out a shuddering breath as he pocketed his wand and crept over to the bedroom door. He pressed his ear against the cool wood and listened. Minutes passed. If Snape was lurking around out there Harry sure couldn’t hear him.

His fingers moved to the lock and turned it slowly, the click of it unlatching was almost inaudible, though it sounded like an echoing clack to Harry. Grasping the handle, he turned it gingerly. He gave a light tug, but the heavy oak door wouldn’t move. Pulling a little harder, Harry was met with the same denial; the door simply wouldn’t budge. He checked the lock again, nope, no problem there. He glanced around the perimeter of the door finding nothing to hinder its release. With all his strength he pulled on the handle, his muscles quivering with exertion, but the door would not yield. He stood panting for a moment, and then gave the door a pleading look, as if it would make a difference. Snape had locked him in, obviously.

Harry didn’t even bother pulling out his wand. Whatever spells Snape used, Harry would hardly be a match for them.

He pondered for a moment, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, the same display that earned him countless reprimands from the Professor, and he scanned the room, his eyes coming to rest on the window. From where he stood he could see the gardens awash with moonlight, the trees eerie in the stillness.

Then an idea hit him like lightening.

The rooftop wasn’t too far down was it? Only three or four feet at most. If he could just…oh Merlin he was sure he could!

Running to the dresser he grabbed his invisibility cloak from the drawer where he had hidden it, and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Then he dropped to his knees by the bed, and reached under. His hand came to rest on the cool wooden handle of his broom and he pulled it to him. Clutching it to his chest, he made his way to the window and slowly unhooked the window latch. There was plenty of room out on the roof, and it was indeed only about a 4 foot drop onto the tiles. Harry remembered the rambling rose ascending a wooden trellis near the back door. He was certain he could make his way around and climb down.

Snape had warned the grounds were warded, but the wards mustn't have been barriers, otherwise he and Craig wouldn’t have been able to get into town. By the time Snape would be alerted, Harry would be on his broom and away, and the man was hopefully sleeping off what Harry prayed would be one hell of a hangover, surely in no state to follow with any swiftness. Harry could fly fast enough, especially now that he had the Velox. He’d keep close to the mainland and fly above the water. No one would even see him if he went high enough. Anyway, it was pitch black outside and would be for a few more hours if the moon was any indication. He’d keep flying until ….well he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet.

As quietly as he could, Harry pushed open the window, flinching as it creaked slightly. He climbed carefully up to the sill, kneeling at the window’s edge. He steadied himself with a hand on each side of the frame and launched himself through the window.

He was completely unprepared for what happened next.

With an earsplitting thwack his head bounced off the invisible ward. He flew backwards into the room and landed square on his back, the wind knocked out of him. It was a few seconds before he could catch his breath and painfully roll into his knees. He stared up at the open window, his mouth open in astonishment.

“He warded my window?” he whispered, then, almost shouting, his voice still ragged. “He warded my fucking window!” Fury and panic swelled within him. In that instant he didn’t care if Snape heard him. He would tear Snape limb from limb! He felt like a caged animal clawing for freedom in desperate terror. Salvation was so close!

He leapt to his feet, and without thought, Harry grabbed his broom and lifted it high above his head. With all his strength he brought it down against the window. Tears streamed down his face as the broom rose again and again, bristles flying every which way until it was only a long stick in his hands, then soon after it splintered, shards of wood raining down upon the hysterical boy. He assaulted the ward until his broom was little more than fragments in his hands, and he collapsed, his knees hitting the hard floor, the crumbled timber falling through his fingers. Sobbing, he gathered handfuls of what was once his beloved gift, pulling his clenched fists to his chest as if hold on to its former power.

He looked through his tears at the window, which of course was unharmed. He rubbed his closed fists against his face, smearing wet wood dust across his cheeks.

“You bastard” he choked, “You horrible bastard.” The next words out of his mouth shocked him, not because of their connotation, but because when he whispered them his tone resonated with such chilling hostility that the words could have been spewed by Voldemort himself.

“I hate you.”

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Time passed and the shadows crept across the room, following the shreds of moonlight as Harry sat and stared at nothing, thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

Holding the wall for support, Harry finally stood on still shaky legs and walked slowly over to his bed. He sat down near the end and eyed the bedcovers. The sheets were rumpled, half exposing the mattress from Harry’s writhing.

Harry shuddered as the scent of Snape caught his nostrils. The aroma of herbs, spiced and delicate, laden with mint and ginger root, with a hint of long burnt embers under a cooling cauldron, and Harry remembered a time when that fragrance once comforted him, but now it was a foul stench that unsettled his stomach, and he fought the urge to vomit. He stood and violently ripped the sheets from the bed, throwing them in a heap across the room.

Tears bit at his eyes as he sat on the now bare mattress, and he lowered his head into his hands. Just then he felt a sharp jolt against his leg. He bent forward, his eyes resting on a small dark shape jutting out from under the mattress. The book! His hand on the corner of it, he pulled the little tome from its hiding place, then slid to the floor, glancing back at the door as he made his way into the bathroom, pushing the door almost closed, allowing a few inches clearance in order to keep an eye out should Snape decide to return.

He flipped through each page, glancing from words to door and back again, scanning each curse, looking for something, anything he could use to gain his freedom. Most of the dark spells required the adding of potions to the victim’s system, others worked only during the full moon, or during certain times of year, such as the Viscus Gelidus curse, which turned one’s heart to pure ice, but only in the throes of a winter storm. Shaking his head in resignation, Harry made his way back through the book, re-reading to make sure he wasn’t missing anything vital, when he noticed two pages stuck together. He pried a thumbnail between the pages, separating them cleanly, and scanned the curses carefully, his eyes coming to rest on page eight.

Avada Kedavra – Circa 1412 by Olian Kedavra

Also known as the Killing Curse. Named for its creator, this curse is considered the most unfathomable of the Unforgivables. The simple wand movement and incantation are but a small component of the spell. The contributing factor to the success of the curse is the awareness and tenure of pure hatred for the victim. Only when such abhorrence resides within the caster, will the curse find its mark.

Harry stopped reading and stole a look at the door before he re-read the incantation and wand instructions. It seemed easy enough. All he had to do was point his wand at Snape, say the spell’s name, and the rest would take care of itself. His heart pounded deep within his chest as he tiptoed over and tucked the book back beneath the mattress. Hatred, he had plenty of that, didn’t he? After what the Professor had done to him, he had every right to hate the man, but did he hate him enough to kill him?

Grabbing his invisibility cloak, he tossed the velvety folds around him and pushed his wand into his pocket. As quietly as he could, he stole across the room, crouching down against the wall, behind the door. Once Snape came in, he would make a break for the living room. He’d floo to Russer Port and run for the train. He couldn’t trust Ernie, he couldn’t trust anyone. The only person who would possibly help him was Craig, and he was off with his Ministry team.

Harry crouched down, his head pounding, every inch of his body quivering as he huddled in the darkness, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, and he took a deep breath, only letting it out once the tears had receded. He heard the gentle patter of rain against the window.

And he waited.

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Minutes felt like hours, and slowly, the light outside the curtains changed as delicate tendrils of early morning light reached into the room and scattered the silvery hues of moonlight. Harry’s heart thudded in his chest, his body shaking in time to the beats it was so strong a palpitation.

Snape would come soon.

As if in recognition of his thoughts, there was the sudden brisk clack of shoes on the hardwood, and Harry clenched his eyes shut as the echoing came closer and closer. The key jingled in the lock, and the door slowly swung open. The silence was unbearable, and Harry pinched his lips together to quell his frightened, stammering breaths as Snape moved into the room.

Harry didn’t dare look at the man’s face as he passed him, his robes brushing up against the invisibility cloak, Snape’s dark boot only inches away as the Professor surveyed the room.

Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Harry kept his eyes on the man’s legs, forcing back the panic that was screaming inside his head to run run run dammit! Snape stopped, shuffled towards the bed, then towards the bedroom, and only when the Professor pushed open the bathroom door did Harry allow himself to rise, his hands shaking violently now as he crept out the door and into the hall. He tiptoed for a few more steps, then moved at a more swift pace, glancing behind him to make sure Snape hadn’t come out of the room. He had only seconds before the Professor realized he was gone, and Harry held his breath as he reached the end of the hall, taking the stairs as quickly as he dared, a whimper catching in his throat as the sound of rapid, heavy steps reached his ears.

Snape was coming.

Abandoning any hope of stealth, Harry bolted down the stairwell, skidding to a halt in the foyer, his speed almost causing him to go headlong into the wall. Panic rose within him casting aside his pain, fatigue, and weakened state as he righted himself and ran into the living room, cloak askew, his legs, head and one shoulder visible now, but it didn’t register, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the fireplace, and he almost burst into tears as he rounded the corner, the dusty hearth now in sight. He almost flew across the living room, his palms slapping against the tiles as he came to a stop. Panting, his eyes flew to the little pot of powder on the mantle. All he needed was handful-

It was gone.

Frenzied, Harry ran his hands along the mantle, searching for the floo powder, knocking aside photos, a vase of flowers, and various other curios, his hands scrabbling chaotically along the shelf.

“Oh please please please” he begged in a pained whisper.

Suddenly the door to the foyer flew open, slamming against the wall. Harry’s head shot up as Snape stood looming in the doorway, eyes wild and wide, fists clenched at his sides.

Harry didn’t even think. He ran.

He sprinted into the kitchen, the flash of black robes dangerously close behind him as he cut across the room, the kitchen eerily silent save for the clatter of footsteps. He heard a clunk as Snape lost his footing and steadied himself against the table, giving Harry time to run into the foyer and pull open the front door, stepping out into the overcast morning, wincing at the brightness of it, stumbling, a terrified cry piercing the solitude as he felt Snape’s hand brush against his shoulder. He dropped to the ground, pushing off with all fours, hurtling down the slick stairs, leaving the Professor with a handful of shimmering invisibility cloak which he tossed aside, taking up the chase once more with alarming speed.

Harry dashed into the wood, dodging fallen logs and fierce bracken that grabbed at his clothes. He pushed through the undergrowth, hearing Snape follow his trail, the loud rustling of foliage testament to how close the man was behind him.

He ran until his heart felt like a wild animal thrashing in his chest, beating against his breastbone in reckless abandon, his lungs aflame, hot sweat mingled with the freezing, rain. Realizing he no longer heard the telltale signs of being followed he took a quick look behind him, shocked to see nothing but a light fog swirling around the thick vegetation, trees ominously still in the light rain. Desperate to rest, Harry ducked behind a large tree, his back pressed against the cool, damp wood as he strained to hear any movement that would indicate the Professor was still in pursuit.

He heard nothing.

Allowing a moment of respite, Harry all but fell to his knees, the mud squelching beneath him as he leaned forwards, palms on his thighs, breathing deeply, enjoying the cool raindrops on his exposed neck.

The crack of a breaking stick shocked him into standing, and his eyes darted from tree to tree, taking a few steps out into the middle of the grotto, spinning in place, his breaths shallow and rapid, and his hand fell to his back pocket where he slowly withdrew his wand. Still turning in place, he waited for another sound, another warning sign, planning to run as soon as another heavy step gave forewarning to Snape’s location. He raised his wand a little higher, the gentle rain slapping against the leaves the only sound in the little grove.

Suddenly he was struck from behind, the blow sending him careening into the brush, adrenaline coursing through him as he landed on his outstretched hands, quickly flipping himself over onto his rear, pushing himself to his feet in an instant as Snape came towards him, hair sodden, the wet strands plastered across his face as he took another step towards the terrified boy.

“Stay back!” Harry screamed, lifting his wand, the whites of his eyes almost gleaming against his blackened face which was masked by mud and bruises. “Stay back!” he shrieked again, and the Professor came to a stop as Harry backed away slowly, wand aimed at the man’s chest. He took a few more steps, his foot coming down on a hidden rock, and he stumbled, almost falling to the ground, and for a split second his wand was lowered, and Snape came at him across the soggy grass and mud.

“Stop!” Harry screamed, steadying himself and raising his wand again, and again the Professor obeyed, his obsidian eyes boring into the boy, a stare so sharp Harry could almost feel the pain of it. He looked down at Snape’s hands, still tightly fisted at his sides, and suddenly it came to him, and his eyes locked with Snape’s.

“No wand.” Harry whispered breathlessly.

Face contorting in anger, Snape started towards Harry once more, ignoring the raised wand, ignoring the shouted warnings as Harry stumbled backwards.

“No!” Harry begged, voice broken. “Avada….Avada…” he choked, wand slicing through the air, tears streaming down his cheeks, and Snape was coming closer and closer, only feet away now. “Avada Ke…” Snape’s arm extended, reaching for the wand. It had to be now. He had to do it now!

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry’s mind couldn’t focus on what happened next. The force from the explosion of light sent him flying into the bracken. He raised his head, unable to find the strength to push himself to his hands and knees, and his vision swam as he desperately tried to focus his eyes, the strain too much for him, the tears and mud and swollen flesh only allowing him a distorted image of the scene before him. Snape lay writhing in the clearing, moaning, hands at his face, body undulating in agony. After a moment, he became still, arms over his head as if protecting from an attack as glimmering spell residue, like glitter falling from the sky, settled around him.

Harry lowered his head to the ground, darkness washing over him as he fell into unconsciousness, and with his last shred of awareness he realized he had done it, he had cast the spell. He had killed him.

Professor Snape was dead.

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The rain had stopped by the time he awoke. He steadied himself against a tree as he rose, a hand hastily brought up to pinch at his brow as vertigo hit him, and he swayed a moment, both hands on the trunk for support, waiting for the feeling to pass. He took a few deep breaths, the crisp morning air stinging his lungs, and he coughed, spitting out a tiny, damp leaf that had lodged on his tongue while he was out cold.

He turned, looking around him, and his eyes fell to the body across the clearing, and he paused a moment, waiting for the rising and falling of the chest before the corners of his mouth twitched with a ghost of a smile.

Feeling stronger now, he shrugged off his robes, leaving them to fall to the ground as he stepped over the scattering of rocks and fallen branches. He crouched down, gathering the boy’s body in his arms, shifting the weight of him against his chest before he started through the trees towards the manor.

He stumbled out from the trees into the meadow, the manor very close now. His arms ached, and he hoisted Harry a little higher up on his chest, trying to alleviate the strain on his forearms as he trudged towards the house.

Suddenly a figure appeared in the doorway. It raised a hand in welcome, and the hand paused in mid-air for a moment before the figure started hurriedly down the front steps, bolting to a full run as it crossed the meadow.

“What the hell happened?” Snape cried as he reached the man. He took in Harry’s condition, instantly pulling his wand from his robes and murmuring a diagnostic spell.

“He went out yesterday.” Craig replied, allowing Snape access to the limp boy in his arms. He quickened his pace, his voice rough with emotion as Snape guided him up the stairs. “He went flying.” he explained, his words falling over one another as his voice took on a panicked tone. “He never came back. I searched all night. I couldn’t…I didn’t know where…and I found him just now. He must have fallen.”

“Here.” Snape said quickly, taking Craig’s arm, helping him into the foyer and navigate the stairwell, guiding him down the hall to his bedroom. He pushed open the door and helped Craig lay Harry down on the bed.

Immediately Severus went to work. He called Della’s name, and the little elf appeared in the room instantly, her ears darting straight up in alarm as she took in the sight of Harry, bruised and bloody, laying on her master’s bed. Severus barked his orders for a variety of potions and materials, and Della vanished, leaving the distraught man to loosen Harry’s collar and smooth down the boy’s hair with a tender hand.

“Is he ok?” Craig asked from across the room.

“He will be.” Severus replied in a hushed voice, lightly running his fingers over the ghastly bruise on Harry’s face and shaking his head softly at the injury. The damage was incredible, the soft tissue trauma to the boy’s face indicative of severe blunt force trauma. He must have fallen from quite the height, and Severus’ stomach felt queasy. It was his gift that caused this, his foolish decision to put such a dangerous racing broom in the hands of a child. What had he been thinking?

Della appeared, arms filled with potion bottles and bandages, which she carefully handed to her master as he picked the vials one by one.

“Get Poppy.” Severus whispered, and again Della was gone in an instant.

Craig watched as Snape tended to Harry, so dedicated to his task of repairing the damage the boy had sustained. He watched the man administer several potions, setting the empty vials on the bedside table. Without a sound he moved to Severus’ en-suite and ran a sink of warm water, using the face cloth on the rack to wipe away the thick spatter of mud that dappled his face. Glancing towards the door, Craig fished a vial from his pants pocket, pouring the liquid into the sink, the concentrated aroma of mint and ginger filling his nostrils as he rinsed the phial clean and dried it against his shirt. Wetting the face cloth again and wringing it to a dampened state, he stepped back into the bedroom where Snape was leaning over the still unconscious Harry.

“Here.” Craig said softly, offering the moist cloth. Snape took it without a word, only nodding to acknowledge the gesture before tenderly pressing the warm cloth to Harry’s grubby brow. Stepping behind Severus, Craig reached out and gently set his vial down with the others, clearing his throat so as to mask the clinking sound of the glass against the tabletop.

He stepped back, watching Severus work, listening to the soft murmurs, words of comfort unheard by the boy on the bed, and unseen, Craig’s mouth again twitched with a glimmer of a smile.