“What. Are. You. Doing?”

Each word was said slowly, pointedly, as if each were its own sentence. Snape’s silky voice, very low and dangerous, sent chills slicing up Harry’s spine as the Professor’s obsidian eyes pinned him with a quiet, deadly stare. Harry swallowed the impossibly large lump that had appeared in his throat, his tongue sweeping across his parched lips as the hair at the back of his neck bristled uncomfortably. The anger that had coiled within him moments ago was rapidly abating at the sight of Snape’s un-nerving gaze, and he tried desperately to grasp onto the emotion, to let it bolster his confidence to confront the man, but it slipped away like water down a drain, and Harry was left with nothing but a quickly forming dread.

“I repeat.” Snape said, his tone fatally smooth and even. “What are you doing?”

“I…” Harry started, lips trying to form the words, but his voice petered out leaving him staring mutely back at his Professor. He felt his hand twitch uncontrollably, fingers brushing against his palm for a second before he grasped onto the hem of his shirt.

“Give that to me,” Snape said in a strict tone.

Harry looked down at his wand. He was holding it so tightly his fingers were white, the flesh toned lines across his knuckles standing out against the alabaster skin. This was his wand, his wand, not Snape's. He had no right to take it from him! The anger stirred within him again and he latched onto it, his head jerking upwards to meet the Professor’s eyes.

“No,” Harry said defiantly. His hands were shaking now and his fingers snaked even further around the crumbling rod. He felt a fragment of charred wood shift under his palm. “Why didn’t you tell me you had it?”

“I will not explain myself to you while you are in this state,” Snape replied calmly, his voice losing its severity. “This is not about me; this is about you; you, who were found in my quarters without my permission, handling a wand when you have absolutely no idea in regards to its safety.”

“Why would it be unsafe?” Harry asked heatedly, his whole body suddenly feeling very warm, as if his blood were rushing through him with astounding speed. He could hear his heart beating frantically in his ears. “It’s my wand; it wouldn’t hurt me. You should have told me it was here. You always want me to tell you things but you don’t tell me anything! ”

“Then I’ll tell you!” Snape barked. “You cast an unforgivable, you silly boy! I’ve seen the wands of greater wizards than you turn blighted after a successful killing curse, let alone the failed one you cast. You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself in the process!”

Harry froze, a look of shock spreading across his face. His heated skin prickled uncomfortably and he swallowed against the urge to cry. All traces of bravado evaporated in an instant. He felt the shard of shattered holly shift under his grip, fragmenting from the weight, crumbling, falling apart.

Suddenly the Professor stepped forward and briskly pulled the wand from his fingers, leaving Harry’s hand to fall with a soft slap against his side.

Severus looked down at Harry’s wand and forced himself to let out a slow breath. Ernie had returned it that morning with the confirmation that Avada Kedavra had indeed caused the damage. Severus had assumed as much, but the idea of a child Harry’s age knowing about the curse let alone attempting to cast it, was almost beyond his understanding. It was one of the many things on the mental list Severus had compiled, things he would attempt to gently draw from the boy if only he could regain the tenuous trust they once had. Much of he wanted to know would be too painful for Harry to even think about, and though last night had been somewhat of a breakthrough, Severus was already seeing signs of Harry retreating, fighting the desire to trust, likely out of fear of being hurt again.

Snape closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. His display of anger was the last thing the wary boy should witness, and he opened his eyes to see Harry, head bent, shoulders slumped in defeat. Snape sighed.

“Harry,” he started gently. “I did not tell you about your wand because in all honesty, I though you weren’t ready to see it. Harry?” Snape paused, waiting for the boy to look up at him, emerald eyes glistening. “You cast a very powerful and dangerous spell during a time of what I can only imagine must have been terrible fear and desperation. You cast the killing curse, I presume at what you thought was me, which means whatever Craig did to you, it was horrendous enough for you to wish him dead.”

He watched as Harry’s face paled dramatically.

“He…” Harry managed in a rough voice, lowering his head. “It wasn’t that bad. I shouldn’t have cast it. I shouldn’t ha –”

“I saw your injuries, Harry,” Snape said, cutting the boy’s attempt to downplay the situation. “There were times I was afraid I was going to lose you, they were so severe.” Harry’s head shot up. “I do not doubt you had your reasons for attempting the cast such a spell,” Snape continued. “And you are right, I have tried to encourage you to discuss what happened without any reciprocation of the trust I asked you to give me. I have asked so much of you, and yet I have not allowed you the same right. I apologize.”

Severus swallowed, remorse settling in. In a way, it was unlike the abuse Harry’s relatives had forced him to endure, an atmosphere where he was expected to obey without question, without any explanation, without the ability to ask anything of his elders. Haunted, Severus stepped towards Harry and gently placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. There was a long pause, Harry’s chipped breaths the only sound in the chillingly quiet room, when suddenly Snape spoke in a pained voice.

“It’s called 'In Memoriam'”.

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“The poem you quoted earlier,” Snape explained. “I hold it true, whate'er befall. I feel it, when I sorrow most. 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. Harry,” he continued, his voice now barely above a whisper as he tightened his grip on the slender shoulder. “You will not lose me.”

Harry stared back at the Professor as the tears he had fought to restrain spilled unchecked down his cheeks. So the Professor knew then, not that Harry was surprised. The man always seemed to know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and Harry remembered the gentle insult Snape had thrown at him weeks ago about being an open book, but Harry was suspicious that it was only Snape who read him with such little effort.

“But when summer ends –” Harry started, his mind compulsively thinking the worst.

“Harry, I give you my word. I told you weeks ago that I would never allow it and I say it again now. It. Will. Never. Happen.”

“I know!” Harry exclaimed, his trembling voice tainted with worry. “I know what you said, but-”

“But nothing,” Snape replied, almost exasperated at the boy’s inability to believe his words. “Did you really believe that I would allow anyone to return you to those…people after what they’ve done to you? The very thought of it sickens me.”

Severus paused, giving the distraught child time to process his words. “Trust me, Harry, anyone wishing to send you back to those Muggles would have to go through me to do it. Now, will you please stop tormenting yourself with worry and trust me?”

Without awaiting an answer, he gently pulled the boy to him, cupping the back of his head with his free hand as Harry allowed himself to find quiet relief in the Professor’s embrace.

“Child,” Snape whispered in half admonishment as he rested his chin on the head of messy chestnut hair.

Harry reached up and swiped at his damp cheek with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against the black robes, the faded scent of mint and ginger still embedded in the soft fabric. “I just…I just…I get worried about things and I never know what to do and…” he took in a shaky breath. “Every time I think I know what to do, something makes me think I’m doing it wrong,” he finished, voice cracking with emotion.

Suddenly he felt Snape’s hold on him lighten, the strong arm falling from his back and grasping his shoulder. Harry took the cue and stepped back, looking up at the Professor.

“One of the most daunting decisions one can make is in whom they place their trust,” Snape said seriously. “But more important than trusting others, is trusting in yourself. If you believe you are incapable of making decisions regarding your own life, you will forever second guess every choice you ever make, and that is no way to live, Harry.”

Harry nodded. He was already doing that, second guessing himself at every turn. He had trusted Craig and look what that had gotten him. He had trusted Snape too, but….but Snape hadn’t done anything, Harry had only thought he had, but it hadn’t been Snape, it had been Craig. Harry reached up and rubbed at his eyes, still damp with tears.

“Sir?” He asked in a hushed voice. “Why does everything have to be so confusing? Is it always like this? Life, I mean. Is everything this…hard?”

Severus shook his head, his hand tightening on Harry’s shoulder. He stared at the child in front of him, the emerald eyes swirling with jade and worry. A child so torn apart. His child. For too long he had feared the boy’s reaction to his true feelings, and for too long he had second guessed himself, second guessed his own instincts. His words of advice had been aimed at a confused child, but in reality, they also applied to his own anxious musings. Perhaps it was time to heed his own counsel.

“No,” he replied. “You have weathered a particularly difficult life, but I promise you, Harry, not everything is this challenging. You will find things get easier with time. For example,” he continued, drawing in a deep breath, brow furrowing slightly. “I have always found it extremely difficult to allow people to become…close to me. I did not think it was possible for me to care about anyone, to…to love…anyone; however, I find that in the last few weeks I....” Severus cleared his throat, his tongue nervously gliding across his lips, heart racing anxiously.

“Harry,” he said carefully. “I need to tell you that…how I feel…that is…Merlin,” he murmured, unaccustomed to such discountenance. He took a swift breath. “Harry…I-”

“Master Snape, Sir?” Della stood in the doorway, her dusky cobalt eyes brilliant against her copper skin as she peered at the two figures before her. “Mister Russer is arriving and being in the sitting room,” she said brightly, completely oblivious to her interruption.

Severus closed his eyes, anger and dismay flooding into him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a carefully controlled breath.

“We will be down shortly,” he managed in a crisp voice, though it was all he could do not to verbally tear the silly creature limb from limb. Of all the moments to be interrupted. “We will continue this later,” he promised, and Harry nodded. Setting the charred wand down on the crumpled parchment, Severus motioned the boy out into the hall.

After a few feet, Snape stopped at a doorway, an ornately carved frame outlining the old, oak slab.

“Your new room,” Snape announced.

“My new room?” Harry asked, brow raised in confusion.

“Last night,” Severus explained. “I told you that I felt it best that you not sleep in your old room any longer. I take it you do not remember?”

“Oh,” Harry replied quietly, shaking his head. “No, I don’t. Sorry, Sir.”

“Forgive me,” Severus said, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder, surprised and relived to feel the young man lean slightly into his touch. “You were…distracted, exhausted. It is understandable if you have little recollection of what was said.”

He gave the slender shoulder a comforting squeeze as Harry’s cheeks glistened pink with embarrassment. “You’ll find it slightly larger than the previous one,” he continued. “I took the liberty of transferring your things. After Ernie has departed, you will have the chance to look it over. I will make any changes you feel are necessary.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry replied, suddenly distracted by a sparkle on the etched frame. He leaned in to more closely to inspect a small dragon, about half the size of his hand, near the door handle. Affixed on each scale was a shard of iridescent pearl that shone like sunlight on a stream. Its eyes glimmered with tiny flecks of violet, amaranth and jade, and flames, shimmering with crushed garnet, vivid and scarlet, were sculpted at the beast's gaping mouth.

“The Antipodean Opaleye,” Snape said, seeing the boy’s interest. “Widely considered one of the most beautiful of all dragons.”

“It is beautiful,” Harry exclaimed in a hushed voice, in awe of the magnificent carved creature.

So that’s what the Professor had been doing all afternoon? Great, while Snape had spent hours preparing a room in order for him to be more comfortable, he’d spent the day avoiding the man because he'd been too damn scared to let him get too close.

If the door frame was this fantastic, he couldn’t even imagine what the inside looked like. Snape must have really cared about him to make something this beautiful for him, and his stomach swirled with hope and nervousness. It had always been an impossible dream, feeling cared for like this, and somehow, even as the summer seemed to torture him, he managed to cling to that hope amid the constant apprehension. It seemed at every turn, Snape was his anchor.

“I’m glad it is to your liking,” Snape replied, studying Harry’s awed expression. Even in the rare moments when the child seemed to step back from his near constant vexation there was always such exposed sorrow in his eyes, and he found himself wondering if Harry had ever experienced respite from the unrelenting pain and despair of his existence. He pressed his lips into a thin, thoughtful line, unable to conceive the strength of will of the young man beside him. Even in his own turbulent life there had been moments of happiness with which he was able to fortify himself during his darkest hours, and in that moment he vowed to create those moments for Harry, no matter the effort required. He cleared his throat of emotion and announced “We should attend to our guest.”

Harry nodded and followed as Snape made his way down the hall, but before he’d taken more than a few steps, Harry stopped, bottom lip pinned between his teeth as he thought about what the Professor had said to him about placing trust in others, about how frightening it was, and how scared he was when Harry had been hurt.

“Sir?” Harry said suddenly, before he even had time to think. The Professor slowed to a stop and turned, eyebrows raised.

“Were you….I mean, you were really scared?” Harry asked, his voice strained. “When I was...” he paused and Snape remained silent, his obsidian eyes emotionless as he stared back at the boy. Harry’s heart sank instantly. “Never mind, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, shuffling past the Professor, embarrassed that he’d even asked the question. What kind of question was that anyway? Were you scared when I was dying? Harry cringed internally at his stupidity. Of course Snape would say yes. The man wasn’t going to be rude and say –

“Terrified.”

Harry stopped in his tracks. After what seemed an eternity, he slowly turned around. Snape’s features were illuminated by the flickering candle across the hall; his expression solemn, serious, intensely honest. He took a few steps towards Harry until they stood almost toe to toe, his dark robes swirling gently, the hem brushing across the tops of Harry’s shoes.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Snape said, his voice as genuine as his expression. “And I was absolutely terrified.”

Harry felt his chest tighten, as if someone had reached into his body and wrapped their fingers tight around his heart. He gave a small, slow nod, not trusting his ability to manage a verbal reply without bursting into tears. He felt Snape’s hand on the small of his back, gentle pressure forcing his feet to move, and he almost stumbled as he turned and started down the hall, his mouth dry, apprehension partnered with excitement swirling within him, and all of a sudden one of his decisions got a little easier to make.

Soon it would be time.

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“What a lovely meal, Della!” Ernie exclaimed as he pushed his empty plate towards the center of the table. “One of your best creations yet!” The silverware clinked gently as the plate slowly lifted off and drifted into Della’s waiting arms. The smile on her weathered face was wider than Harry had ever seen. Clearly the little elf was not used to such commendation.

“It was merely acceptable,” Snape said coolly, banishing his own plate as Della moved to his side, her spindly arms open to receive his dinnerware. A grieving expression quickly replaced her elation, her ears slapping audibly as they fell in disappointment.

“Don’t listen to him!” Ernie called from across the table, waving a pointed finger at his host. “Severus, you great Grindylow, and here I thought having Harry around had mellowed you.” Ernie turned towards Harry, who was seated next to him and winked mischievously. Snape snorted and rolled his eyes indignantly. He looked at Ernie, then to Harry, whose face was alight with anticipation.

“In retrospect, I suppose one might consider the meal more than palatable,” he drawled, looking down at the distraught house elf. Then, in little more than a whisper, he added, “Exquisite work, Della.”

“You see?” Ernie announced triumphantly, barely able to finish his statement as he erupted into giggles. “Sweet as a newborn Kneazle when it comes down to it.” He ignored the glower shot at him from across the table and tapped Harry’s arm. “Della’s made Severus a treacle sponge for dessert, I believe. Let’s enjoy it in front of a cozy fire in the living room, hmm?” At Harry’s approving nod, Ernie slipped down from his chair and followed Harry into the living room. Severus didn’t follow.

“Treacle sponge?” Snape inquired silkily, his dark gaze narrowing in on Della, who had almost managed to slip into the kitchen un-noticed. She turned, fretful eyes trained on her master as he rose from his seat. “Thirty seven years,” he said slowly, voice dripping with suspicion. “Tell me, Della, to what do I owe this sudden altruism of yours?”

Della emitted a shrill squeak, the plates in her arms clattering as she squirmed nervously.

“I am being…Master Snape, Sir…could I being asking….if Master could…and Little Master is….”

Severus sighed in annoyance. Nothing was more frustrating than a highly strung house elf.

“Out with it,” he demanded sharply.

“I am being hoping,” Della said a little more calmly. “Maybe Master Snape is being asking for Little Master to stay not just for summer, but for all times. Little Master would being happy here, yes? Master Snape would being happy, too.”

Severus let out a heavy breath.

“I had planned on asking just that,” he said gravely. “But he has far to go, Della. There is a long road he must travel before he trusts me enough to answer that question truthfully.”

Della banished the plates she was holding and scratched her head with a thin finger.

“No, Master Snape,” she said solemnly, earning a raised brow from the wizard. “Little Master is being on a shorter road than Master thinks. I am being thinking,” she continued, waving a hand and sending each chair tidily into place. “That Little Master is very much near the end indeed.”

“What are you talking about?” Severus asked, suddenly feeling a sense of urgency. Della was wise beyond her many years and he had come to trust her musings almost as much as he did Albus’. Just then, a half giggled Incendio sounded from the next room along with an appallingly loud crack. Severus turned his head towards the sound as laughter billowed through the half open door.

Seconds later, when Severus turned back to the little elf, there was nothing but the kitchen door swinging aimlessly on its hinges.

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“Oh, Severus!” Ernie exclaimed as the Professor swept into the room. “I was just giving Harry a lesson in fire starting.” He beckoned Harry to lean down to him and ran his small fingers over a smudge of soot on the boy’s cheek, banishing the mess. “Got a wee bit out of hand,” Ernie murmured, forcing back a snicker. Harry couldn’t help but smile as he made his way to the couch. He felt Snape’s eyes on his back, but didn’t turn around, and instead let himself sink into the soft cushions, his eyes on the dancing flames in the hearth. He yawned into his hand.

Harry sat quietly as Ernie and Snape talked. The chatter had been mundane, a recent storm in Berwick-upon-Tweed, the arrival of a new apothecary in Sunderland, a woman who Ernie animatedly described as having breasts till Tuesday, whatever that meant. Harry had looked up from his wand care book as the Professor launched into a scathing lecture about showing some decency in front of the boy as Ernie erupted into high pitched laughter until tears ran from his golden eye, the indigo flecks sparkling as he giggled an apology to Harry.

He was half way through chapter thirteen when he noticed the voices had lowered. He could no longer hear the conversation clearly, and instead of focusing on his book, he tried his best to make out the murmured words of the two men opposite him.

“He has not offered up much more than……I fear…..”

“Do you think…..Severus? Perhaps….”

“I do not……bring himself……I will attempt….”

Suddenly there was silence. Harry continued to stare at the page in his lap until a cleared throat invited his attention, and he looked up to see the Professor and Ernie staring directly at him.

“You’ve been on that same page for the last seven minutes,” Snape said incisively.

“Oh,” Harry replied, his mouth all of a sudden bone dry. He quickly pressed his finger to a random paragraph. “Uh…this part here…um…it’s very interesting and…um...” He stopped his rambling, knowing full well from the look on Snape’s face that there was nothing the Professor believed less in that moment than Harry’s flimsy explanation.

“Well, I’d best be going,” Ernie said abruptly, cutting the quiet tension of the room. He slipped off the couch and tapped his wrist. “I see it’s getting late.”

“Shall I bring the fact that you aren’t wearing a watch to your attention?” Snape asked in a tone which to Harry’s relief was laced with amusement rather than scorn or anger.

“Oh!” Ernie exclaimed in faux surprise. He glanced at Harry, then to Snape, then to his wrist, then back to Harry. “Then I suppose I should head out and pick one up!” He walked briskly over to Harry and patted the boy’s knee. “Take care, Harry. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure. Severus!” He called as he made his way to the fireplace, raising a hand without turning around.

“Ernie,” Snape replied as his tiny friend waved his hand across the fireplace. The flames ceased completely for a moment, allowing Ernie to disappear at a spoken word, and a puff of coal-black smoke rose lightly in the hearth before the flames reappeared and devoured it.

“Don’t say it,” Severus warned, seeing Harry’s mouth open to offer an apology. He watched as the young wizard sank back against the couch, eyes darting to his lap where the torn corner of Stick in the Mud was already succumbing to fretful fingers. Severus ran his hand through his hair, wincing as his ring finger pulled at a tangle. His scalp felt a tad slick, common after hours of potion work, though he usually showered afterwards. Today though he’d gone straight from the rainbow dappled wall of his laboratory to the second master suite that lay almost directly across the hall from his own, where he proceeded to give the long disused room a more auspicious appearance. He’d lost track of exactly who had occupied the quarters back in its day, but their sense of style was sepulchral at best, with coal black walls, the same dusky carpet, and an archaic bathroom lined with sickly beige tiles, a tired looking chamber consisting of a single commode and wash basin.

Though Severus was not without a sense of vogue, he had little knowledge of what would present itself as worthy to a young boy of twelve. Colours in Slytherin quarters were dictated by the school, and Severus refused to think of his childhood, even if it were to recall something as innocuous as room décor. He settled, but not without a strong sense of aversion, to the traditional Gryffendor hues, though he toned the garish red and yellow to a more evolved magenta and gold, only using the two shades as a highlight rather than showering the room with colour.

“I expect you’d like to see your room?” He asked. Harry’s head slowly inclined, curious eyes silently asking the question his nerves wouldn’t allow him to put voice to. “You are not in trouble, Harry,” Severus said, beckoning the boy to stand. “Ernie was merely curious as to how you were doing. He feels…responsible for what happened.”

“But…no…he shouldn’t!” Harry exclaimed, eyes darting to the fireplace where the exuberant little man had been only moments ago.

“No, he shouldn’t,” Severus agreed. “The fault lies with only one person, and that person is –”

“Me,” Harry said quietly. Instantly Severus’ blood ran cold.

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry looked up imploringly at the Professor. He had to come clean.

“I....it was my fault. Craig wouldn’t have needed to stay here if I hadn’t…” Harry paused to take a shuddering breath as Severus began to shake his head in refusal. “Sir, if you knew what I did –”

“Harry, I want you to listen to me,” Snape said, allowing a tinge of authority to graze his voice. He reached out and placed his fingers under the boy’s chin, ensuring Harry couldn’t look away. “There is absolutely no way you are at fault for anything that has happened to you, by your relative’s hands or by Craig’s. I will not have you taking any responsibility for your abuses.”

“But it was my fault,” Harry declared again, eyes glistening. If the Professor knew what he had done, if he only knew about his lies and manipulation, he’d understand.

“Ridiculous,” Snape countered. “No twelve year old boy could do anything to deserve such treatment. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine.”

“You?” Harry asked in a shaky voice, taken aback by Professor’s claim. “But you didn’t do anything!”

“I left,” Snape stated, shaking his head as Harry opened his mouth to begin another dispute. “Had I remained at the manor, there would have been no need for Craig’s presence. I allowed him into my home and you paid the price for my poor judgment.”

“But you don’t understand!” Harry started, desperately fighting the emotional outburst that was threatening to explode within him. He couldn’t let the Professor take the blame for what happened, not after all he’d done for him, not after he’d helped him, not after he’d held him like that in the rain and after the nightmares, letting Harry scream out the pain and confusion and fear. He couldn’t take the blame. He wouldn’t let him!

“I understand perfectly,” Severus said seriously. “Harry, you are not the cause of this atrocity.” He felt Harry’s chin quiver, but he retained his gentle hold on the boy’s delicate jaw as tears spilled from pain filled eyes.

“But I lied!” Harry choked out, ignoring the tears now. They would come anyway, the emotions so raw and deep that there was no way of containing them any longer. “I had nightmares every night,” Harry continued, stumbling over the words as if there were physically painful to say aloud. “I used a silencing charm so you wouldn’t hear my nightmares and I acted happy so you would think I was ok. I made you think I was ok without you. I lied so you would go, so you wouldn’t be disappointed, so you wouldn’t be upset!”

“And who gave you the idea that I would feel such things?” Snape asked, his hand slipping to Harry’s shoulder in order to calm the boy’s frantic shaking, but Harry pulled away, sidestepping out of the Professor’s grip and slipping behind the couch where he stood panting, tears cascading down his face. The room swam uncomfortably.

“Who?” Snape asked again, determined to purge Harry of his guilt, his shame.

“But it was true!” Harry sobbed, shaking his head. “You wanted to go so badly. You’d been working on it for years. It was an honor, you said so!”

“I said it was an honor, yes,” Snape countered, but I said nothing about my desire to attend. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you the opposite. Now, I ask again, who told you I would be disappointed?”

“Craig did!” Harry admitted. “He said that –”

“He lied,” Severus replied in a firm tone. He was done with this. Done with Harry’s lamentable guilt. Done with Craig’s manipulations haunting the boy at every turn. He skirted the couch, ignoring the instinctive step back Harry took as he approached, the small hand clutching the back of the settee at if to steady himself.

“Is this the reason you’ve been pushing me away?” Severus asked gently, reaching out to catch the boy’s chin as he bowed his head.

Harry felt the familiar touch under his jaw, the gentle pressure that caused him to look up and into those obsidian eyes. In that moment he could feel emotion radiating off the Professor like a tangible wave. It was unmistakable, riveting, encompassing, an emotion so gentle and yet so powerful that it sent a shiver up Harry’s spine, and he tightened his grip on the couch as the room tilted. He felt dizzy, drained, and overwhelmingly tired.

“Do not think for one moment that I could feel a shred of anger at you for what happened,” Severus said, his voice fiercely emotional. “I will not have you blaming yourself. I don’t care what you’ve done or you think you’ve done. Merlin, child, do you have any idea how much you mean to me? Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of breathing.

They stared at each other, Harry’s mouth slightly agape, eyes unblinking, and for a moment he thought he’d misheard until the Professor’s silky baritone voice repeated the words Harry thought he’d never hear.

“Harry. I love you.”

He didn’t catch the rest. Snape’s mouth kept moving but Harry couldn’t hear the words anymore. He watched as the Professor continued to speak, shaking his head, his brow furrowing for a moment before raising his eyebrows, a brief, gentle smile, then a pause, his eyes suddenly narrowing in worry as he noticed Harry’s glazed expression.

He didn’t even realize he was falling until Snape caught him. He was scooped up into the Professor’s strong arms and carried across the room. He felt the lilt of each stair, then the short walk down the hall, his eyes open but barely seeing. His head lulled to one side and the smoky scent of Snape’s robes brushed across his face.

“Sir?” He breathed, barely able to keep the dark figure in focus. He squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them, and the blur that was the Professor slowly became clear. The man was looking down at him, his cool palm pressed to Harry’s forehead.

“How are you feeling?” Snape’s voice rumbled as Harry let his eyes fall closed again. The boy’s forehead was too warm, and Severus moved his hand to one flushed cheek then the other, gauging the warmth with the back of his hand, unable to hold back a smile as Harry leaned into his touch, seeking the cool comfort.

“M’ok,” Harry murmured.

“You most certainly are not,” Severus chided softly. “You’ve not had nearly enough sleep, you spent most of the day roaming the island without your cloak, and likely fretting over all these worries you’ve kept to yourself. You’re exhausted.”

Harry made a plaintive sound in the back of his throat. It was meant to be a rebuttal against Snape’s accusation, but since the man wasn’t exactly wrong in his assessment, Harry’s complaint turned to a disgruntled whine instead. He heard the Professor chuckle from above and begrudgingly pulled his eyes open.

“Sir?” He asked weakly, watching as Snape pulled out his wand. He felt the air change against his skin, then the velvety softness of being spelled into pajamas.

“Mmm?” Snape murmured, pulling the thick duvet up to the boy’s chest and pocketing his wand.

“Did you…did you really say…” Harry’s voice trailed off, as much from reluctance to hear he’d misunderstood Snape’s words as from sheer exhaustion.

Severus smoothed an errant lock of hair from the boy’s forehead, carding his fingers through the messy brown mane in an effort to help him relax.

“Yes, Harry,” he said gently as the emerald eyes closed once more. “You were not mistaken. I do love you.”

Severus felt his heart swell as he spoke the words. Finally he was able to give voice to how he felt about the child. Finally he was able to give Harry what he had longed for, and what he too had longed for. He loathed admitting it, but Albus had been right. He did need Harry as much as Harry needed him. They were each so desperate for the love the other had to give, and so afraid to allow themselves to hope for it, to admit how much they wanted it.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “I will be here when you wake.”

Harry managed a weak nod, half asleep already, but through the haze he had heard the Professor’s confirmation, and with a happiness he’d never dared to imagine, he let sleep claim him.

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Severus was under no illusions about Harry’s emotional state. The declaration of love, while a momentous step, was in no way a fix for the secrets still locked inside the boy’s fragile mind. The pain was still there, hidden behind years of carefully built walls, and no three words could tear those walls asunder, no matter how long Harry had yearned to hear them.

But it was a step. A huge one.

Severus stared at the sleeping child, knowing full well that any second the silence could be broken by terrified, heart wrenching screams. It was disturbing in itself that Severus could sit so calmly, waiting for the event as one might wait for a bus, and he bowed his head for a moment, his own fatigue setting in, and he rubbed at the space between his eyes where a headache was forming. The waiting was literally painful.

Suddenly Harry bolted awake with a terrified moan, eyes glassy, rabid, darting around the room as if he were a trapped animal. He launched backwards, instinctively retreating from danger, barely seeing the Professor through the remainder of nightmarish images floating in his field of vision. He slammed up against the headboard, the sharp thwack echoing around the room which was eerily quiet save for his gasping, desperate cries.

“Harry,” Severus said quickly, on his feet in an instant, but making sure not to approach the panic-stricken child. He kept his voice low, level, devoid of the sickening worry that was gripping him at seeing Harry in such a state. “Harry, you’re safe, you’re in your room. Nothing will hurt you here.”

Scrambling as if the treat of attack loomed, Harry pushed himself off the bed, dropping to the floor with a dull thud. Hysteria in full swing now, he forced himself to his feet, legs trembling, shaky, almost unable to support his frame as he took a series of rapid steps back, eyes now glued to the Professor as his back came up hard against the wall. A hand shot out, palm towards Snape as if the small hand might keep him at bay, the other desperately clawing at the wall, as if searching for a secret panel that might spring open and lead him to safety.

“I’m sorry!” Harry cried, voice at a fever pitch, his pupils dilated to almost complete blackness. A sob escaped his lips as tears spilled from his unblinking eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him like a runaway train and he flinched, the hand suspended out in front of him shaking as if an electrified. “I’m sorry! I won’t….I won’t…I won’t….”

“Harry,” Snape pleaded in a near whisper. His heart felt as if it would explode, the mad thudding in his ears almost drowning out the piteous pleas of the terrified boy in front of him. He took a small, slow step in Harry’s direction, the movement causing the boy the flinch violently and skitter further down the wall, almost tripping over his own feet in a frantic effort to put as much distance between the two as possible.

“Harry,” Snape repeated, this time retreating back a few steps. “It’s Professor Snape. You’ve had a nightmare but everything is alright now, there is nothing to harm you, nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe, Harry, do you understand me?”

“I’m…I’m sorry I disobeyed you!” Came the distraught response, and Severus agonized at the frailty of the voice, the sheer desperation of it, and he shook his head gently.

“No, child. You have done nothing wrong. Craig was the one who hurt you, remember? He disguised himself as me but that is over now. Craig is gone, Harry. Do you remember?”

Please remember, child.

A slight shake of the head.

Feverish blinking.

The hand sinking just a little. Painfully slowly.

Harry’s eyes darted to the floor across the room near the door. No blood. The hand that gripped at the wall was slowly drawn to his face, turbulent fingers brushing over his lips, across a wet cheek, pressing against his brow. No swelling. No pain. A soft, wretched moan welled from deep inside him as he finally escaped from the terror of the nightmare. There was awareness now, understanding.

He remembered.

There was the Professor, the real Professor, his Professor, his long strides carrying him across the room towards Harry. The hands went to his shoulders, and Harry was pulled towards dark robes. He fell against the broad chest, the familiar scent of the potions master reassuring him as he cried in fear and relief, his arms hanging limply at his sides, sobbing as one of the Professor’s hands slid to his back and gently swept small circles of comfort. The other pressed lightly against the back of his head, fingers lost amid the mess of chestnut hair, the soothing, barely moving fingers grazing his scalp.

And Snape held him.

He held him until the slender body stopped shaking.

Held him until the tears faded to jerky, involuntary gasps.

“I will not let go until you are ready,” Snape assured him in a barely whispered voice, and he felt Harry nod against his chest.

Severus let out a careful breath. The severity of Harry’s reaction had stunned him. There was such fear, such primitive and instinctual terror. Severus felt an uneasy fear of his own, fear that this was too much for Harry, and that he was not enough. Had the boy not untangled himself from the nightmare on his own…no, he wasn’t going to think about that. A shard of sympathy and guilt stabbed at his chest. How helpless he had felt during the emotion he had witnessed.

His self admonishment was interrupted by Harry slowly drawing both hands to his face and rubbing carefully at his eyes.

Harry took a few steps back, gaze habitually trained on the floor as he watched Snape’s hands fall to his sides. It was funny how two hands could offer so much warmth and comfort. Maybe it was the way the Professor touched him, always seeming to know which quiet movements would soothe, able to inject his aura of calm into Harry’s very core. His touch was incredibly gentle, as if he were handling a fledgling bird instead of a boy.

Suddenly warmth washed over him, and the nervous, blissful feeling was there in his chest. He felt lightheaded for a moment, as if one more emotion might just be the end of him, but this one was joyful. As the feeling blossomed he continued to stare at the Professor’s hands, the potion stained fingers that so many times had taken him carefully by the chin, forcing him to stare into those worried, dark orbs, commanding the honesty and dignity of eye contact. It meant so much, felt so much, and suddenly the appreciation overwhelmed him, his breath hitching in his chest, eyes stinging with tears yet again.

Snape loved him.

And he…

He loved Snape.

He felt it for the Professor, miniscule at first, inching into his countenance so slowly that Harry had barely noticed.

He stood motionless, stunned by his sudden realization.

And in that moment, he made his decision.

It wasn’t just the trust, not just the way the man had so carefully allowed him to experience it. It wasn’t the way he spoke to Harry, gentle, careful, honest, all the things his relatives had refused to be, or the way he let Harry just…just be, just be himself without worry of anger or harm or mockery. It was all of those things, every single tiny moment Snape had let him scream and yell and cry and carry on like a wild thing. It was everything he felt and thought since he’d arrived at the manor, and as Harry felt the man’s hand on his back, wordlessly directing him back to his bed, the words Snape had recited to him flooded into his mind.

Better to have loved and lost.

Was it? Was it better to finally let the walls down, the barriers he’d so carefully tried to erect since Snape found him sitting on that too hard chair at the station? He was terrible at it really. Snape kept breaking through them no matter how hard Harry tried, and no matter how strong he thought he was, Snape was always able to slip through a crack and make Harry question the reasons for hiding in the first place. He sat at the edge of the bed and the mattress dipped at the weight of the Professor beside him, quiet, waiting, allowing Harry time to clear his thoughts, never once demanding anything, forcing anything, but letting things just….just be.

Harry stared straight ahead, brow creased in thought, the occasional shuddering breath reminding him of the nightmare, the fear dissipating, slowly swirling back down into the depths, ready to sink its fang into him again without warning.

He would have given anything for someone to care about him the way the Professor did. His entire life was spent waiting for it, praying for it, begging with all that was in him for just one chance at being loved, and suddenly there it was, staring at him from under that flickering light in that dingy men’s bathroom at Kings Cross, and in that moment, in that scene of shock and disbelief and fear, without knowing it, his prayers had been answered.

Suddenly it didn’t matter about the Dursley’s, it didn’t matter about Craig. It didn’t matter about the seemingly never ending fountain of mistrust, the overwhelming fear of losing someone who actually cared about him, wanted him, loved him.

He had to trust himself, just like Snape said.

Quickly he slipped off the bed and turned towards the Professor. His heart slammed against his chest like a tempest, the fear rising in him again, the storm of pain and uncertainty and desperation clamoring, churning, and over the crashing of emotions he tried to speak, his eyes locked with Snape’s, and emerald met ebony.

Yes, he had made his decision. He trusted in it fully, in himself, a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He managed a shaky step forward and held out his hands, relived to feel warm palms slip against his. He focused on the Professor’s face, falling into the darkness of those eyes, losing himself in the swirling black until there was nothing but the coal black irises, comforting him, holding him, and only when he was fully embraced by the welcoming obsidian did he give the only warning he could think of as he felt Snape’s hands tighten anxiously around his own.

“Sir,” he gasped, lips almost unable to form the words. “I...I need to…show you….”

It was just like the day he’d inadvertently shown Snape images from Craig’s abuse, only this time he understood what he was doing, encouraged it, hoped for it. He wasn’t sure how he’d done it then, and he had no idea how to repeat it. He simply…let go. He released everything, memories of Craig, of Fudge, of the Dursley’s, of Hogwarts. Every thought and feeling and remembrance poured out of him in a torrent. He surrendered it to the only person who could possibly understand, the only person who cared enough, loved him enough.

You will not lose me

And Harry held onto that promise as darkness engulfed him. Slowly, like smoke dancing from quenched embers, the images began to form, and it was all he could do not to scream out loud as he began to relive the unimaginable, and somewhere in the unending shadow, he felt Snape’s hands clutching his.