“What the hell are you talking about?”  Severus snapped, disbelief shading his features as he scowled across the table.  “How is that even possible?  He spent days torturing a twelve year old child for Merlin’s sake!  Then kidnapped him and delivered him to that bastard, Fudge, and he dares to plead not guilty?”  Snape stood abruptly sending his chair thudding against the wall and slammed his open palms down on the dark wood.  “You give me five minutes alone with that monster, Albus.” He growled.  “If the man wants to claim insanity, I can have it arranged.”

“This is why I asked you to sit down, Severus.”  Albus replied, voice as irritatingly calm as ever.  “You will accomplish little in such a state.”

“Ask Poppy what she saw, the condition of the boy, his injuries.  If you’re foolish enough to believe–”

“I have spoken with Madame Pomfrey.”  Albus countered, standing and leveling a look of warning towards the fuming potions master.  “And like you she shares the same distain for Craig’s argument, but dislike it as we might, the Ministry must accept the plea until the can prove it holds no weight.  I hold no authority over this situation, Severus.”

“You saw Craig’s tirade when he was captured.” Severus thundered.  “The man is a wellspring of hateful revenge.  The Ministry are fools if they think he was mentally unaware of what he was doing for four bloody days!”

Albus sighed.  With head slightly bowed he removed his glasses, rubbing at each eye in turn before replacing the spectacles and blinking rapidly for a moment.  He let out a heavy breath as Snape turned to stalk into the living room.  He followed, reluctant to ruffle the man’s feathers any further with talk of Craig’s plea.  Of course it was ridiculous.  A temporary insanity plea would likely be an abysmal failure, but what it was, was stall tactic.  Muggles were not subject to the same interrogation procedures as the wizarding world, and as such, his assessment could be dragged out for months while suitable psychiatric evaluation was arranged.  He watched as Severus stood with arms tightly folded, staring out the window, jaw furiously clenched.

“How is Harry?”  Albus asked brightly.  “After all, he is the reason for my visit.”

Severus turned and shot a glare at the Headmaster.  How like the old fool to change the course of conversation when Severus was at his most irate.  It was as if the conversation hadn’t happened as Dumbledore peered back at him with a look of unfaltering innocence.  It was no use demanding further discussion regarding Craig.

“He received his last dose of Dreamless Sleep last night.” Severus replied, turning back toward the window.

“Has he spoken much about what happened?”

“A word here and there.”  Snape said stiffly.  “However they are more confirmations than anything.  He offers nothing freely, or of much consequence.”

“The pain is still so fresh, Severus.”  Albus replied.

“No.”  Snape said softly as he watched Harry walk slowly across the meadow, shielding his eyes against the last dregs of sun as he gazed towards the mainland.  “He cannot bring himself to trust fully.  He spent days being abused by someone he thought was me, Albus.”  He turned towards the Headmaster, a strained looked on his face.  “He has tried so hard not to allow my presence to affect him, but often his fear overrides his intentions.”

“Then he wishes to trust you?” 

“I believe so.”  Snape replied.  “The weekend has been spent in relative calm; however, he had the potion to rely on.  He still displayed a few of the mannerisms of distress, though I daresay his emotional state will shift greatly as the day concludes.  I find myself at a disadvantage, blind to the full extent of Craig’s treatment of him, and I have yet to discover a persuasive argument for the use of Legellimency.”

“I see.”  Dumbledore replied, breaking into a knowing smile.  “I am under the assumption then, that you still have not told Harry how you feel about him?”

“And that would help how?”  Severus snarled, annoyed at the Headmaster’s unwillingness to view the situation with the seriousness required.  “What exactly do you suggest?  That instead of attempting to have him deal with his abuse that I simply tell him that I care about him?  I’m sure Harry will be completely cured of all emotional agony upon hearing that from me.  What a ridiculous suggestion, Albus.  With your indifference one would think you had no interest in the boy’s mental state.”

“Oh no, not at all my boy.”  Dumbledore replied, eyes twinkling, ignoring the scathing remark.  “I do not suggest you tell Harry that you care about him.”  He turned his head to a banging sound coming from the foyer.  “I suggest,” he continued, lowering his voice as he took a few steps towards the potion master and laid a hand on his shoulder.  “that you tell Harry you love him.”

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

That was nice.”  Harry said as he followed Snape over to the writing desk in the corner of the living room.  “That Professor Dumbledore stayed for dinner.” he explained as the man shot him a questioning look.

“Hmm, yes.”  Snape replied, putting little effort into a sincere response.  An evening with an excited Ablus Dumbledore was not exactly on his bucket list, and listening to the old man recount wild stories of James Potter to a rapt Harry did nothing but bring up old memories, though he had found solace in the fact that Harry seemed to thoroughly enjoy the ramblings.  He picked up a rolled parchment from a stack of mail and broke open the seal.  “It’s nearly bedtime.” he continued, glancing at the clock on the mantle.  “You’d best start getting ready.”

“Oh, right.”  Harry said faintly, feeling his chest tighten just a fraction.  This was it then, time to return to the nights of repeated waking and sobbing into his pillow.  He’d had one small accomplishment though.  He’d managed to convince Snape to let him stay in his room.  The Professor had wanted to move him to the guest quarters across from his own room but Harry had refused, insisting that he was perfectly able to stay where he was, and that he felt no distress about being there.

It was a complete lie of course, but he’d told it well.  There was no way Snape wouldn’t hear his screams if he was right across the hall, and even though Harry felt sick to his stomach at the thought of sleeping in the bed where he’d almost been choked to death, it was better than having Snape see his nightmares.

“Well, goodnight, Sir.  See you tomorrow.”  He started across the room but almost stumbled over his own feet when he heard the Professor call after him.

“I will join you shortly.”

“Sir?”  he asked anxiously, turning back to the man as Snape lowered the parchment he had been reading.

“I will join you shortly.” Severus repeated.  “I would hardly leave you to face the night alone after all that has happened, Potter.”  He waved the aged sheet of paper at the boy.  “Off you go, and don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Harry sat on his bed nervously twisting the hem of his nightshirt between his fingers.  How on earth was he going to get through the night with Snape sitting right there?  His wand was gone and there was no way he could cast the silencing spell without it.  He’d even tried in the bathroom, whispering the incantation over and over until the thick steam from the hot shower forced him to quickly bathe and retreat from the muggy room.  He’d contemplated just not sleeping, which would probably work for a few days.  He’d been rather good at waking himself just before entering a dream state, but with the Professor sitting right there it would be impossible.  He gave a savage twist of his shirt.  He felt so cheated!  He’d only had two days of blissful rest, free from nightmares, falling asleep in the fogginess of Dreamless Sleep and awaking to the Professor’s gentle admonishments of being a “shiftless Gryffindor”.

Two days.  That’s all he had gotten.  It seemed so unfair to be allowed only forty eight hours of respite after all he had gone through.  His nerves had been on edge most of the time , knowing that in two short days he would be without the calming support of the potion.  If Snape had known how he felt he didn’t say anything.  On Saturday he kept Harry busy with menial tasks; slicing ingredients in the lab, discussing some of the various potions that sat bubbling in the corner, and helping Della create a lavish cake of which he only let Harry have a tiny slice, citing some likely made up study regarding the dangers of increased caloric intake in young males.  Sunday had been Harry’s favourite though, a long walk around the island to replenish the Professors medicinal herb supplies. 

They’d headed out early that morning.  Snape had shown him the broken hedgerows where he harvested the reddish, creeping Agrimony and shrubbish Catmint.  He demonstrated how to collect the delicate Feverfew leaves and sticky Henbane, making sure to explain the medicinal benefits of each plant as Harry knelt silently next to his Professor, attention fixed on each tiny flower or leaf as Snape spoke.  Heartsease for inflammation, Partidgeberry for nervous exhaustion (he’d given Harry a pointed look then), and the ugly, insect-eating Sundew for asthma and gastic ulcers.  Harry had been so enthralled that he barely noticed the day pass, and his excitement turned to dread as the cool winds blew in and the sun curled its fiery fingers into sunset.  As they returned home, the silence fell between them, broken only by a muttered careful by the Professor as Harry stumbled over an unearthed root.  As they reached the manor, Harry slowed to a stop to watch the fading glow of sunlight against the hazy backdrop of the mainland.  Snape had come up alongside him, and after a few moments patted Harry on the shoulder and instructed him to stop dilly dallying.  As Harry turned, Snape’s hand remained despite the subtle shudder that rippled through the boy, and they’d walked back together, the Professor’s arm snaked across his shoulders, casually discussing the potions he was planning to have Harry assist him with that week, as if walking in the half embrace was the most natural thing in the world.

Harry sighed wistfully and released his shirt to rub at his eyes.  Snape still hadn’t asked him where his pajamas were or why he wasn’t wearing them.  That was the only good thing about the last two days, the Professor hadn’t made him talk about anything or asked him any questions about Craig.  He had asked him again about using the…what was it again, Legemincy?  That thing where he’d go traipsing around in Harry’s memories, opening whatever door he felt like and peering in on any part of Harry’s life he wanted.  He’d promised, like he had before, that Harry wouldn’t have any knowledge of what Snape was seeing, but in Harry’s mind that just made it worse.  Nothing felt more vulnerable than having the Professor inside his head.  It was just too open, too intimate, and the thought of the Professor seeing all those memories made him nauseous.                   

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Severus made his way down the hall towards Harry’s room, questioning himself yet again about the wisdom of allowing the boy to remain in his bedroom.  He’d mentioned the idea of moving him to the larger room directly opposite his own, but Harry had been adamant in his being fine to remain where he was.

Severus slowed to a stop a few feet from Harry’s door, knowing that the shadows would keep him almost invisible.  He watched as the boy fumbled with his shirt, his face drawn, worried, his hands trembling as he fretted at his closed eyes with bent fingers.  Harry had done remarkably well over the last two days, Severus thought, considering how palpable his fear had been only days before.  He’d kept the boy well occupied, making sure to stay close, and finding excuses to lay a gentle hand on the child as often as he could.  It was Severus’ subtle way of reminding Harry that not all touch was to be feared, not all touch hurt, and most importantly, that his touch would never cause him pain. 

Severus felt a fragile sense of pride at his treatment of Harry the last few weeks.  He wasn’t the same man who had offered such clumsy comfort during those first arduous days at the manor.  Now he felt immense confidence in his ability to deal with whatever terrors haunted the boy, and the love he felt for Harry was fiercely embraced rather than rejected. 

He stepped into the room, nodding at Harry as their eyes met, fearful green piercing raven black.  Snape guided his usual chair across to Harry’s bedside and seated himself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Fine, Sir.”

“Harry, if I was not interested in an honest answer I would not have bothered asking the question.”  Snape chided gently.

Harry gulped, his fingers returning to the now fraying hem.  He glanced down at the fabric, brow jutting into a frown before slowly dragging his eyes back to meet the Professors intent stare.

“I…I guess….nervous, Sir.” he admitted in a hushed voice, head bowing again, ashamed of the fear that dwelled within him like a coiled serpent.

“Harry, I – look at me, please.”  Harry tentatively inclined his head.  “I promise you, that whatever this night holds, I will not leave you, understood?”  Harry nodded miserably, unable to hold the man’s gaze any longer.  Snape remained silent for a moment.  “Does it frighten you?  The idea of my being here?” he asked solemnly.

“No!”  Harry exclaimed quickly, head snapping up revealing anxious eyes.  “No, Sir, I’m…I’m sorry!”

Sorry for living.  Sorry for breathing.  Sorry for being. 

Severus held up a silencing hand as Harry’s mouth opened again, likely to continue with another round of apologies.  Censored, the boy’s shoulders fell.

“Harry, there is no need to apologize.  Rest assured I would not think ill of you for feeling apprehensive at my presence.”  Harry looked back at him beseechingly. 

“Honest, Sir, it’s…it’s not so bad now.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, Sir” Harry replied, nodding to add further conviction to his statement.  “It’s just I...oh.”  Clamping his mouth shut, Harry quickly looked away, cheeks dusted pink. 

“Harry.”  Severus said quietly, earning a brief, anxious glance from the boy.  “Harry I would very much appreciate if you would finish your statement.”

“It’s just that…well, when…I mean…”  He looked up hopelessly, silently begging the Professor to let it go, but Severus only returned the imploring gaze with a briskly raised brow.  Harry paused, staring down at his fingers as he picked at the unraveling hem.  “It’s just, sometimes it feels so horrible to be touched.” Harry admitted quietly.  He swallowed as emotion welled in his throat.  “I don’t really like it too much.  It always feels like any second they’re just going wallop me for no reason.” 

Severus bristled at the revelation, sickened and furious all at once that the simple act of being touched could strike such fearful suspicion in a twelve year old.  He opened his mouth to respond when Harry swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and spoke in a frail, uncertain voice.

“Cept when you do.”

Severus felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.  He sat motionless, shocked, almost unable to wrap his mind around the words.  There it was, testimony to the hope he still had for the boy, the hope that he could survive the atrocities of his life and still find it within himself to trust, to allow love.  He reached out and placed his hand over Harry’s, giving it a comforting squeeze.  More than a little undone at Harry’s statement, his mind searched for an insightful or encouraging reply, but he found himself bereft of any appropriate words with which to express himself.

“Thank you.” he managed hoarsely, and after a stabilizing breath, continued in a slightly more stalwart tone.  “Now, I think it’s time you got under the covers.” he instructed, withdrawing his wand and spelling the room into darkness, then, as an afterthought, he waved his wand in the direction of the bathroom, opening the door a crack and setting the light to a dim glow.

Twelve years old or not, sometimes you just needed a nightlight.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

“Potter, stop squirming!”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Severus sighed.

“Harry, it is almost two thirty in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I –” More rustling of blankets.  “I just can’t, Sir.”

The shadowy figure on the bed sat up, the beam of light from the bathroom slipping across his face to reveal the bleary eyed boy.

Severus regarded him for a moment before motioning towards the bed.

“Lay back down.  Close your eyes and try to-”

“I was trying, Sir, I promise.”

“I know you were.  It’s alright.”  Snape replied as Harry reclined back against the mattress.  Severus stood to pull the chair closer to the bed, turning towards the boy, looming over him in the half darkness, his robes sweeping around him.  Instantly Harry’s face drained to stark white, a gasp escaping as one hand braced under him, the other flying to his throat. 

“Harry?”  Snape asked, suddenly concerned.  “What’s wrong?”

Blinking quickly, Harry whispered a soft oh before forcing his hands to his chest.  He stared back at his bewildered Professor who slowly lowered himself to kneeling at Harry’s side.

“What is it, Harry?”  Snape asked softly, studying the boy’s face, who wore a look of shock and embarrassment.

“Nothing.

“Do.  Not.  Lie.”  Snape said carefully, saying each word slowly, methodically, seriously.

There was a long silence as Harry stared back with glistening eyes, lower lip trembling as if on the verge of tears.  “Come, Harry.”  Severus said softly.  “We have some level of trust between us, do we not?”

“Craig.  He…” It was hard to swallow all of a sudden.  Severus reached out and placed his hand on Harry’s arm, squeezing gently.  “Craig came up here.”  Harry continued in a quiet, hollow voice.  “He was drunk…I think…and….I was…”  It was impossible to swallow now.  His tongue was one giant lump of clay, thick and stiff and stifling.  He took a deep breath, trying to stop the flow of tears that were already coming.  “He choked me!”  Harry blurted.  “He was on top of me and….and...”  Deep, ragged breaths.  “He was strangling me and I couldn’t breath and I couldn’t move and….and…and….”  He couldn’t say anymore, couldn’t even find the words, couldn’t find the oxygen.  He squeezed his eyes closed against the Professor’s look of angry alarm.  “It hurt.” he whispered, bringing his hands up and pressing the heels of his palms against his eyelids.  “I thought he was going to kill me.”

“The bruises on your neck.”  Snape said quietly, returning slowly to his chair, voice labored from the weight of the revelation.  “They were from Craig choking you?”

Harry managed a jerky nod, his eyes still clenched shut.  He pulled up the corner of his pillow up and wiped the cool cotton across his face.  He focused on breathing, his chest so heavy it felt like his blankets were made from sheets of iron.  Seconds passed; minutes maybe.  Time seemed irrelevant as he lay there fending off the tears with shallow breaths, feeling completely exposed, safe, and stupid all at once.  Snape had remained curiously silent, and Harry slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the splash of light across his face.  The Professor was staring at him, customary frown etched into his soft features.  Harry quickly broke the eye contact, uncomfortable under Snape’s rueful gaze. 

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

He heard the boy’s breath hitch again, and in the low light he saw the barely discernable nod indicating he’d been heard.  Unconvinced, Snape set gentle fingers under the boy’s chin.  Harry looked up at his Professor, face flushed, red rimmed eyes unable to look away this time as Snape held his gaze.  His tongue swept across his lips nervously before retreating, bottom lip following to be pinned anxiously.

Withdrawing his hand, Snape let the silence hang in the air as Harry shifted onto his side.  He wasn’t going to ask the boy to release his tightly held secrets all in one night.  He was much too fragile for that.  He would continue to give Harry the power to reveal what had happened with Craig and Fudge knowing that eventually, the confidence that came from being treated with kindness and respect would allow Harry to trust him completely.  He watched as Harry lay still for a few minutes, blinking rapidly against the continued threat of tears.  It was clear sleep would not come naturally.

Severus cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the slight ache now present in one shoulder.  “On your stomach.” he instructed softly.  “You need to sleep.  Allow me to assist you.”

Harry complied, albeit slowly.  He felt a tendril of fear curl inside his stomach at the request as he turned over, nuzzling his face into his pillow.  He felt drained after the tears, his skin overly sensitive, almost raw, and he shivered as the Professor pulled the blankets down to his lower back.  Snape hadn’t been angry at him.  He hadn’t yelled or asked why Harry didn’t stop what had happened.  He hadn’t peppered him with more questions.  He’d let Harry take the lead and say as much as he felt he could.  Maybe another day, maybe, he could tell him a little more. 

Before he could think of anything else, Snape’s strong hands pressed against his back.  They smoothed down his shirt and then moved to a tense group of muscles at his shoulders.  Harry felt himself flinch under the touch, but the careful movements forced relaxation upon him as the Professor’s hands kneaded his flesh through the fabric, pressing expertly at the tight muscles, encouraging them to loosen.  Snape worked methodically, unyielding, probing at each strained knot with compassionate determination.  Warmth spread across his back as Snape shifted the gentle strokes to the next group of protesting muscles, this time at the back and sides of his neck.  Harry flinched again, the attention to that particular area almost too much to bear, and one leg spasmed instinctively, fingers drawn into a fist at his side.

“Easy.”  Snape breathed, continuing to slowly maneuver his fingers over the trembling muscles of the boy’s neck.  With gentle pressure, he positioned his thumbs against the top of the spine and with a deliberate slowness slid his thumbs up the nape of Harry’s neck and into the hairline, feeling the muscles ease under his touch.  He repeated the strokes several more times before he finally felt the boy let out an effortless breath. 

“It is very late.”  Snape said in a hushed voice.  “You must sleep.  It’s ridiculous of you to be up at such an hour.”

Harry tried to reply, but a haze was forming at the edges of his consciousness and he couldn’t seem to be able to find the right words for a response.  He tried to nod instead, and he managed one, sort of.  His whole body felt slack, heavy, and blissfully relaxed.  The hands shifted again, never stopping their soothing movements, and Harry thought a touch had never felt so gentle, so caring.  It had been so long.

He was asleep within minutes, and Severus continued the comforting massage until he was sure the boy’s back had been properly worked out.  The amount of tension build up was startling, but then again, Harry had survived horrors Severus could not imagine.  He carefully pulled the blankets up to cover the sleeping child.  Shuffling his chair back a few feet, he leaned forward on his knees and stared grimly at the bed, the bed a drunken Craig had strangled Harry nearly to the point of death. 

Severus looked at the clock on the bedside table.  At best he had about ninety minutes before Harry phased into REM sleep, the period where dreams were often at their most vivid, and in Harry’s case, likely the most terrifying.  Sighing, Severus sat back in his chair and waited, silently praying that the nightmares would not be too potent, too monstrous, or that they would pass Harry by completely.

Two hours later he knew his prayers hadn’t been answered.

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

Severus hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but the room was overly warm and the slightly sweetened Camomile tea Della had brought to him over an hour ago was the perfect companion to the steady pulse of rain tapping gently against the window.

Harry’s whispered pleas woke him.  Throaty and desperate, half formed words cut off by hitched breaths, promises of I’ll be good repeated arduously as the boy’s body stiffened one moment and jerked helplessly the next.  As the nightmare continued his whimpers escalated, baleful sobs wracking his frame as he cowered from his conjured attackers, begging for the abuse to end, and, much to Severus’ dismay, apologizing for it. 

Severus stood at Harry’s bedside murmuring words of comfort, refusing to lay his hands on the sleeping child for fear of adding to his nightmare.  He continued to speak in low tones, repeating the same simplistic phrases over and over in the hopes that the boy might latch on to his voice and settle.

Harry stood motionless as Vernon Dursley crossed the living room towards him.  His eyes narrow, breath labored from the chase, belt in hand.

“Come here, boy.” He snarled, a cruel smile revealing blackened teeth.  Harry could smell the acrid stench of the man’s breath and his stomach rolled queasily as sobs burst out of him like a flood.

“Please, I’m sorry.  I’m sorry!  I’ll be good, I swear!”

The first lash hit him hard across the face, and instantly he tasted blood.  His mouth filled with it, viscous and tangy on his tongue, sliding down his throat like chunks of fetid jelly.  He fell to his knees, mouth open, coughing, choking as blood pooled in his mouth.  He tried to spit it out but it just kept coming and coming, filling his mouth as quickly as he could rid himself of it, a thick, never ending cruor that seemed to come from nowhere.

“Unle Vun!” he spluttered, begging his cackling uncle for help as the river of blood slowly filled his lungs.  The belt slashed through the air again, cutting into his back, the pain screaming across his skin.  Again it fell, and again, a dozen more times until the crimson fluid covered him, blood slowly dribbling from his hair, down his face, into his eyes.  Suddenly there was a cracking sound from behind and Harry twisted around, wiping at his eyes with his blood soaked sleeve.  Professor Snape stood in the hall, black cloak billowing dramatically, wand drawn.

In an instant Uncle Vernon was gone in a flash of green light.  The Professor knelt down beside Harry and took his head in his hands.  Without a word, Snape pulled Harry to his feet and lead him quickly to the front door at a half run.  The two wizards spilled out onto the front lawn where Harry fell to his knees, retching, finally able to breathe.

“Oi!” Harry clambered to his feet and turned towards the voice.  The Dursley’s neighbor was on his porch wearing his faded yellow dressing gown pointing a long, spindly finger at Harry.  “I’ve never seen no one else but Vernon, his missus, and their lad!” he shouted, his black eyes boring into Harry’s.  “Never seen you, you freak!  No one wants you here, freak!  Deserve everything you get and more, freak!”

Harry stumbled backwards against Snape, grabbing at his robes.  He turned to beg the man to apparate them out of there.

“Harry?”

He spun around at the familiar vice calling his name.  There, across the lawn, stood another Professor Snape.  Head swimming with confusion, Harry looked back and forth between the two, identical men, taking a few stumbling steps back until he was between them both.

“Harry.”  Snape said urgently, reaching out a hand.  “Harry, come with me.”

“No, Harry.” the other Snape said gently.  “Come with me, child.”

“Harry, he is not who he seems, now listen to me, take my hand and we’ll go back to Hogwarts where you’ll be safe.”

“He’s lying!  He’s trying to trick you.  Trust me, Harry, take my hand and we’ll return to the manor.”  

Harry’s head spun, pain seemingly splitting his skull as he looked back and forth at the pleading wizards, each one begging him to go to them, to trust them.

“I….I don’t know which one is you!” he cried, tears slipping down his face as he tried desperately to discern which Professor was telling the truth.

“I am!” declared one of the Snapes, striding towards Harry and placing a hand on each shoulder.  Harry shrank back, the smell of whiskey evident on the man’s breath, and he gave a startled cry as the Professor’s fingers dug fiercely into one of the wounds on his arm.  Pushing out of the embrace, he fled towards the other Snape, who opened his arms and pulled Harry against his chest.

“It’s alright now.” came the soothing, silky voice.  “I’m here.”  Flooded with relief, Harry looked up at his rescuer, only to see the man’s eyes narrowed, his mouth drawn into a pernicious sneer.  Clamping down hard on Harry’s shoulder, the Professor raised his hand and brought it down viciously against Harry’s face.  Crumpling to his hands and knees, Harry dug his fingers into the grass as another fist came down against his back, the force of the blow sending him face down into the dirt.  He tried to scream, but all that came from his throat was a breathless moan, barely even audible to his own ears.  Kicking at the man’s legs, he drew on every last ounce of strength in his body and scrambled to his feet.  The Professor roared angrily, his guttural cries turning into high pitched shrieks as Harry turned and ran down Privet Drive.  His lungs burned like wildfire as he reached the end of the street, the screams assaulting his ears, louder and louder until they were almost on top of him, the shrill screeching painfully drilling into his head.  Suddenly he hit a slick patch of ice and his legs gave out, sending him sprawling, his hands scraping against the rough pavement as he fell, and he cried out in pain as chunks of flesh ripped from his palms.  He flipped himself over onto his rear, eyes wide in terror as he took in the sight.  Dozens of black hooded Dementors hovered in front of him, each one shrieking madly, their clarion screams almost too much for Harry’s ears.  A wintery haze had settled around them and Harry shivered despite the heat of adrenaline.  The closest Dementor floated down to him, its hood falling back to reveal the Professor’s face, pale, smudged with blood, sadistic smile etched into his face, hair matted and lank.

“Please, Sir” Harry sputtered, his chest searing painfully with each word, each agonizing exhalation expelling puffs of steam out into the suddenly frigid air.  “I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”

One by one, the Dementor’s hoods slipped back, each one with the Professor’s face, each one with the same depraved sneer, eyes glinting dangerously as they slowly began advancing on the injured boy.

Screaming with what little breath he had left, Harry threw his arms up, protecting himself as best he could.  Black robes fluttered around him, the hissing and screeching deafening as dozens of icy hands clamored at his throat.  In the distance, somewhere very, very far away, he could hear someone calling his name.  He tried to focus on it, tried desperately, but soon there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat slowing in his ears as the Demetors slowly crushed the life out of him.

Harry awoke with a strangled cry, bolting upright, tears streaming down his face.  Every gasping breath ended with a whimper of fear as his eyes darted to the Professor’s worry worn face, and Severus’ stomach dropped as Harry flinched at the sight of him.

Slowly Severus took a few tentative steps forward, noticing the small, quaking hand clutch a handful of blanket as he neared.  As the Professor seated himself at the end of the bed, Harry scooted backwards until his back came in contact with the cool headboard.  He took a few jagged breaths, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe away the steady flow to tears.  He heard Snape clear his throat, and at glancing up he realized the man was holding out a black handkerchief.  He plucked the cloth from Snape’s grip with trembling fingers, managing a whisper of thanks before wiping his face.

“Are you able to tell me about it?”  Snape asked gently.

“My…my uncle.”  Harry replied in an uneven voice, refusing to meet the Professor’s eyes.  He pressed the handkerchief to his eyes again, sniffling.

“And…anyone else?” Severus asked tentatively. 

“He was beating me.”  Harry said quietly, seemingly ignoring the second question.  “There was blo-”  A hiccough of emotion. “blood everywhere and I couldn’t breathe.” he continued, voice warbling.

“You must have been very scared.”  Snape said evenly, setting a hand on Harry’s knee, thankful that the boy didn’t pull away.  Harry nodded.  “Was there anyone else in your dream?”  Severus asked again.  He had the distinct feeling Harry was shying away from this particular question, the boy’s continued silence all but confirming his assumptions.  “Harry.” He tapped the boy’s knee until Harry looked up anxiously.  “Harry, who else was there?”

“No one.” Harry said quickly, and a little too desperately for Severus’ liking.  The boy turned his head, and Severus leaned to the side, following Harry’s movement.

“Who, Harry?”

“It doesn’t matter!”  Harry exclaimed, turning back to the man.  The tears had stopped now, and Harry stared at him, unblinking.

“It does matter, child, of course it matters.  It matters because it seems to have affected you quite ardently.  It also matters because I believe that it was me.”

Upon hearing Snape words, Harry burst into fresh tears, raking the damp hanky across his face, his shoulders shaking as he bowed his head and wept pitifully.  Severus took in a sharp breath.  It was as he had suspected.

“What happened?”

“I don’t…nothing.”  Harry barely whispered back.

“Harry, these tears are not over nothing.  You are obviously upset by my presence in your nightmare.  Please, child, trust me enough to let me help you!”  Severus exclaimed, reaching out with both hands and grasping Harry’s smaller ones.  The slender fingers were cold, shivering under his palms.  “Harry.” Snape urged. 

“You…you came and I think you killed Uncle Vernon, and you took me outside and there was…-”

Severus listened as Harry recounted the nightmare, stumbling over the brutal description as if the words themselves caused him physical pain.  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle as Harry told him of the two Snapes, both equally ruthless in their treatment of him, and the chase by the Dementors, though for a fraction of a second Severus wondered how on earth the boy even knew what a Dementor was.

By the end, Harry was a sobbing, broken mess in front of him, hollowness eating him up inside, raw grief the only emotion he was capable of as he cried.

Severus shifted up the mattress until he sat mere inches from the boy.  He slowly leaned in and laced his arms around Harry’s shuddering frame.

“It’s alright.” He murmured, carding his fingers though Harry’s damp hair, an act he knew the boy found soothing.  After a few minutes the crying ebbed and Harry sat quietly in Severus’ embrace, the steady rise and fall of Snape’s chest calming him in the silence.  He couldn’t help but let out a yawn.

“How do you feel now?”  Snape asked as he smoothed down the unruly mess of hair.

“Fine.”  Harry replied, wincing at the automatic response.  Of course he wasn’t fine, the Professor knew that.  “I mean, better, Sir.” he said sheepishly.

“It often helps to relate your fears to a willing ear.”  Severus said.  “Perhaps in the future you will find it a less difficult task to do so.  I will always endeavor to make the process as easy as possible for you.”  Severus paused before continuing.  “For example, through the use of Legillimancy.”  he said carefully.  The topic was a source of anxiety for the boy, but perhaps now he had a persuasive argument.  “It would be easier for me to discern what is troubling you.  Your nightmares for instance.  Or Craig.”  He felt Harry stiffen in his arms, then pull away.  “I am only trying to help you.” he said, allowing the boy to lea back and pin him with a reluctant stare.

“Let me in, Harry, please.” Snape pleaded, voice taking on a tone of compassion that lanced into Harry like a spear of emotion.

“I don’t know why you -” Harry started. 

“Because you need to deal with these feelings instead of hiding them away.”  Snape replied, knowing full well the words Harry was about to speak.  The boy had been hidden away his entire life, physically by his family and emotionally by his own hand.  No one had ever cared.  Until now.

“I’m not!”  Harry exclaimed, turning his head to avoid Snape’s concerned look.  Severus quickly reached out and cupped Harry’s cheek with his hand, gently drawing the boy’s eyes back to him. 

“Yes.” he stated earnestly.  “You are.”

“Please.”  Harry breathed, rubbing at his temple where a headache was starting to form.  “I…I can’t do it, Sir, please.  Not yet.  I’m sorry, Sir.  Please…please don’t be angry at me.”  Severus’ heart clenched at the plea, those emerald eyes begging him, red and swollen and wide with suffering.

“There will come a time, Harry, where the thought of trusting me so implicitly will not seem like such an impossible task.” he replied soberly.  “I will never force your hand in this situation, but know this –” he paused to brush away a slowly descending tear from the boy’s cheek.  “I will never, ever be angry at you for being afraid, do you understand?”

Harry nodded, unconsciously leaning into the Professor’s warm palm.

“I also think it might be wise to move you into the spare room in the morning.”  Snape said quietly, eliciting a slow nod from the exhausted boy.  “Now, do you think you could sleep for a few more hours?  I will not leave.” he said firmly at Harry’s worried look.

Harry responded with a helpless shrug as the comforting hand was withdrawn and the Professor returned to his chair.  He reached up and brushed his fingertips across the warm cheek where Snape’s hand had been.

“Why don’t you try, just for a while?”

Nodding, Harry slipped beneath the covers and settled his head against his pillow.  He stared up at the ceiling, face devoid of emotion as he began to count the tiny dots of the speckled pattern above him.  

“This estate was built my Great, Great Grandfather.”  Snape said suddenly, leaning back in his chair.  “At one stage in history this manor was used to create some of the most powerful potions ever devised by the wizarding world.  You might be interested to know that some of the original Snape recipes are still used by a few of Sunderland’s more knowledgeable Apothecaries, and in some cases…”

Harry listened as the Professor recounted the history of Farne Island in his steady, silky voice.   As Snape’s soothing brogue continued, his eyelids felt heavier and heavier, slowly edging closed until the light of the room was completely gone.  Without pausing his story, Severus leaned over and carefully pulled the blankets up to Harry’s shoulders.

Half an hour later, having thoroughly recited almost every detail of the manor, the island, and the surrounding area, Severus’ voice slowly drifted into silence.  He watched the steady rise and fall of the boy’s huddled form, asleep at last, surprised the child even had the courage to face darkness yet again.

He picked up his wand from the bedside table and breathed a spell towards the bathroom door.  It inched open another foot or so, enough to illuminate half of the room.

Thirty seven years old or not, sometimes you just needed a nightlight.