Severus stood in the courtyard, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air, sipping at his third cup of coffee of the morning. He’d risen early as usual. There were a myriad of potions he was brewing in the laboratory, most of them needing very strict and precise stirring and adding of ingredients. It was 5am when he’d left his room, and he couldn’t help but open the door of Harry’s bedroom just a crack, to make sure he wasn’t doing anything completely idiotic, like trying to escape through the window. The boy had been a tangled mess of sheets and shirt with one arm looking uncomfortably twisted under his head. With cat-like stealth, Severus had crossed the room and gently maneuvered him onto his stomach, releasing the trapped arm and allowing the boy to stretch freely across the bed. He’d pulled the sheets and duvet out from under Harry’s legs and spread them over his prone body. Then whispering a spell, he summoned the boy’s toothbrush and comb, and placed them next to the bathroom sink, not so the boy would be able to find them with ease, mind you, but because he didn’t need an unkempt child in his home. He’d slipped past the sleeping figure and out the door, hearing Harry murmur something from the confines of the warm blankets as the Professor shut his door softly.

It wasn’t as if he’d done it out of kindness. He just didn’t need the boy griping about a stiff neck the next morning. It’s not like I read the brat a bedtime story or some such ridiculousness, he thought to himself. Besides, he wasn’t going to go against years of ingrained behavior and start liking the child. It was more an act of obligation to the Headmaster that he even allowed Harry in his home to begin with. If it hadn’t been for Dumbledore leaving Hogwarts for the summer, the boy would be safely tucked away in the castle stuffing himself with cookies, or whatever delicacy the house elves were cajoled into bringing him.

Just then, a prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck. Feeling eyes upon him, Snape spun around, glaring, his eyes instinctively traveling to the top corner window where Harry was standing, staring at him. At seeing him, the boy’s face contorted strangely, and he stepped back out of view.

“What on earth is that boy up to?” He muttered under his breath, and turning on his heel, he ascended the stairs in long strides.

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Harry gave a long, leisurely stretch and pressed his face into the soft pillow, yawning. He turned his head slightly and cracked his neck before rolling onto his back and stretching again. He felt deliciously warm, and sleepy, still half trapped in slumber. It would be so hard to get up now, feeling so lovely, but there was breakfast to make, then dishes to do, and soon Aunt Petunia would be rapping on the cupboard door and shrieking at him to get the coffee on.

Harry rolled back onto his stomach and breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of, what was that anyway, Lavender? He breathed in again, nuzzling the soft sheets, his eyes closed in partial sleep. No, it was rose, the delicate, sweet smell of roses, like the ones in the yard that Harry tended to diligently every day. He yawned again. His mind felt fuzzy and groggy. Beautiful flowers, roses. He’d need to weed them today, and the topiary would need trimming again. Uncle Vernon always picked a different animal each year, and Harry would be out under the blazing sun, snipping and shaping the leaves. Snip snip snape snip.

Snape?

Oh, crap, Snape!

Giving a startled cry, Harry threw the covers off and scuttled backwards up the bed, slamming his back against the headboard, wincing. Fully awake now and eyes wide, he scanned frantically for the Professor. Seeing no one in the room, which was only dimly lit by the sun against the curtains, Harry cautiously slipped off the bed and hurried to the window. Grabbing one edge of the heavy material, he dragged one curtain open, cringing as the bright sun met his eyes. He stood for a moment, his hand shielding his face as he stared out across the front lawn of the estate. He could see the edge of the cliff in the distance, and the area where they’d landed on the island the day before.

Rubbing his eyes, Harry padded into the bathroom where he found his toothbrush and comb already set out, probably by Della, he thought, though he hoped the little elf hadn’t been poking around in his room as he slept. That was just plain creepy. He used the toilet, then brushed his teeth and hair and headed back out to his trunk, which he rummaged through to find the least offensive clothes he could. Snape had already made a comment about his lack of pajamas; no doubt he’d have something scathing to say about Harry’s regular attire as well. He changed in the bathroom, not wanting to strip in front of the bare window, thank you very much, then pulled the heavy duvet up on his bed as best he could, smoothing it out and placing the pillow at the top.

Not really sure what to do next, Harry wandered back over to the window and stood in the sun, letting the warm rays heat his face. He closed his eyes dreamily and gave a little half smile. It really was amazing how much better he felt after a good night’s sleep. It had been weeks since he really felt rested. He opened his eyes slowly, quite content to stand there basking in the sunbeams, when he noticed Snape outside standing at the base of the stairs staring out across the meadow. He was sipping from a mug, probably coffee, Harry thought, watching the fine tendrils of steam floating from the cup and up around Snape’s head.

He remembered the night before when Snape had threatened him in that low, lethal voice, warning him what would happen if he didn’t obey his instructions. Harry shuddered; it was just like Uncle Vernon used to do when Harry was little, before he understood the importance of compliance rather than disobedience, before he realized that trying to fight back just made things so much worse. He was so stupid last night! He’d gotten Snape so mad that he’d yelled, threatened to put Harry in a body bind if he didn’t comply. He didn’t mean to make the Professor angry; he’d just panicked. It was the same old story though, just a different house and a different person. If you got someone mad enough, they’d hurt you sooner or later.

But Snape hadn’t lied about the potion, and he did remember the man apologizing after he’d helped Harry into bed. He ran a hand through his damp hair, sending it into a disheveled mess, when suddenly Snape turned and stared up towards the manor. They locked eyes for a moment and Harry gasped, taking a few steps back away from the window and out of view. He stood for a moment, feeling rather stupid for his reaction, and then took a few tentative steps towards the glass.

Snape was gone.

Harry felt his heart constrict in fear. Nothing good ever came from an adult coming to his room. With Uncle Vernon, it meant getting the stuffing beaten out of him, and Aunt Petunia would screech and slap and call him an ungrateful little freak. With Snape, well, with Snape, it seemed to mean getting sedated, though he’d take sleeping over a beating any day of the week.

The sound of footsteps echoed from down the dark hall, and Harry turned towards the closed door, half expecting a riled Snape to burst through, robes billowing, face twisted in anger. The handle turned slowly, and Harry watched as the door opened gradually to reveal the Professor, looking mild for once, still holding his mug. He raised his eyebrows at the boy, as if surprised to see him looking so shaken.

“Sleep well?” Snape asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “The way you acted last night, one would have thought you were facing a firing squad instead of a good night’s sleep.”

He watched as Harry’s cheeks flushed slightly. At least the boy had the good sense to realize he’d over-reacted, but still, Severus wondered what the source of his fear was. After Harry’s unintentional admission he at least had an idea of the treatment the child had faced. The terror coming from the boy last night had been palpable, definitely not forged emotion. It was high time for some answers.

“Yes, Sir,” came Harry’s quiet reply.

Snape pointed to the bed.

“Sit please, Harry,” he instructed; his voice lacked any disdain now.

He watched Harry’s shoulders tense predictably. Slowly, the boy shuffled to the bedside and sat down, his eyes on the floor.

“You are not in trouble,” Snape declared, hoping it would calm the boy somewhat. He pulled the reading chair closer to the bed, opposite Harry, and sat down.

For a few moments, they both sat in silence. Snape could hear the boy’s breathing quicken from a few feet away.

“You’ve not been sleeping,” the Professor said bluntly.

Harry’s head shot up, his face taut with apprehension. He opened his mouth to reply, but Snape held up a hand, silencing him.

“I am not interested in dishonesty, Potter. If you think for one second I can’t judge when you’re lying, let me tell you, you’re as easy to read as a one-word book.”

Harry sat with his mouth half open, staring at the Professor with a mixture of shock and fear. He slowly brought his lips together, chewing the bottom one anxiously as his eyes fell to his lap. Snape sighed.

“Must you do that?” he chided, reaching out and tapping the boy’s chin with his fingers until Harry released the indented lip.

Harry remained quiet, slowly wringing his hands, crushing his fingers against each other, his brow knitted in thought. He couldn’t tell Professor Snape about his nightmares, he wouldn’t! Tears welled in his eyes and he fought the urge to cry. Dammit, there he went again, allowing the emotions to break through. Snape was right, he was easy to read. For some reason, whenever the Professor was around, it became so much harder to bear the pain. It was getting more and more difficult to push it back down when it tried to erupt. He so desperately wanted to let it out, to scream and cry and tear the world to pieces, ripping at it with his bare hands, gnashing at it with his teeth, biting and hating, spilling out the fear and loneliness and soul wrenching pain. He was pathetic, a stupid, useless little bastard who didn’t deserve love, or friends, or family. That’s what Uncle Vernon told him every time he threw him hard into the cupboard after a whipping. No good, waste of time, better off dead, little…

Snape leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at Harry with piercing eyes, not quite believing what he was seeing. The boy was falling apart in front of him. His face was flushed and tears wobbled precariously on his lower lids. The wringing of his hands had gradually built up to a frenzy, and his breaths came in rapid gasps. It was the same attack he’d had yesterday at the cliff, but this time Severus knew precisely what was causing it.

“The nightmares,” Severus said, so softly that Harry almost didn’t hear the words. The man leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he brought his face within inches of the boy’s. “They’re dreadful, aren’t they?”

It was a statement, not a question. He was declaring it, showing the boy he had some understanding of the horrors he fought in the darkness. Severus already knew the answer, and he wasn’t surprised when after a few moments of quiet torment, Harry’s head nodded ever so slightly. It was a tiny gesture on the child’s part, but Severus knew how painful it was for him to take the step of admitting he suffered at all. Most children of abuse swore up and down that the cruelty never took place, fearful of repercussion and swayed by terrible guilt and shame. In that moment, Harry had made the decision to allow the tiniest shred of trust to breach his carefully built walls, and a grueling decision it was. Severus slowly placed his hand on the mass of writhing fingers in the boy’s lap. Slowly, the small hands stopped their struggle and gradually untwined, allowing a brief moment of long desired comfort before pulling away to be wrapped around the boy’s torso.

Severus let out a heavy breath and rose from his chair.

“Come down to the kitchen. Della is keeping a plate warm for you.”

There was no need to ask the child anything else right now. Harry had started down an emotional rocky road in acknowledging his nightmares. For now, Severus would step back, and allow the boy to come to the realization that he hadn’t been spurned. All else that hounded him would be revealed in time.

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The kitchen was thick with the smell of apple cake baking in the oven. Harry took in a deep breath, inhaling the delightful aroma, and offered Della a hesitant smile. The elf was a bustle of gangly arms and whisks and spatulas as she poured treacle into a large glass pudding basin and covered it with heaping spoonfuls of batter.

“Really,” Snape said disdainfully. “Thirty-seven years of service and not once have you ever made me steamed treacle sponge pudding.” Della’s whirling arms came to a halt as she turned to look at her master.

“Master Snape, in thirty-seven years, has not been asking for treacle sponge,” she squeaked.

Snape’s eyebrows shot up as Della turned back to the counter and began frantically juicing a large lemon. Harry couldn’t stop the tiny smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Snape waved a dismissive hand, and then pointed Harry towards the kitchen table. A large plate of ham and eggs, toast, and a small dish of halved strawberries sat waiting. Harry took his seat, and slowly managed to eat a small portion of everything except the berries which he finished.

“You eat too little,” Snape growled as Della stopped cracking eggs long enough to clear away the plates with a wave of her hand. Harry shrugged weakly. He hadn’t eaten well in weeks. It went hand in hand with not sleeping well.

The Professor walked out into the hall and returned a moment later holding a heavy cloak.

“Here.” he said, handing the rumpled material to Harry. “I assume you’d like to get some fresh air, maybe explore the island a little?”

Harry tried not to look too surprised as he stood up and pulled the cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp at his throat.

“Really, Potter,” Snape snorted, amused at the boy’s astonished face. “You look as if you expected me to keep you locked in a dungeon all summer.” Harry forced a weak chuckle.

“I didn’t think that, Sir.”

Snape raised his eyebrows and gave the boy a questioning look. “Remember, Potter, a one-word book,” he said crisply. Harry’s cheeks glowed with a rosy hue.

“Oh, well, maybe I did think that, just a little,” he replied, his voice fading to a mere whisper by the end of his sentence.

Snape snorted again.

“Don’t get too close to the edge, Potter. I don’t need a corpse to explain at the start of term.” And with that, he turned and strode out of the kitchen, his robes billowing dramatically, leaving Harry and Della staring after him.

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It was nearing dusk. Harry stood shading his eyes as he watched the sun paint the waves a brilliant crimson as it set in the distance. He took a deep breath of the cool sea breeze and headed back towards the estate. He’d walked the entire circumference of the island, returning to the manor half way through for a lunch of sandwiches and pumpkin juice, which he ate alone, sitting on the front steps as he nibbled the crusts off, leaving the rest. The Professor had left him by himself the entire day, allowing him to roam the property at his leisure. Harry’s stomach flip-flopped between excitement and apprehension as he scoured the perimeter, searching for a break in the cliffs where the island might slope down to a beach, but he found none, and after hours of walking, he’d ended up back at the house where he’d started, all hope of escaping the isle dashed. No wonder that Snape had let him wander the island unaccompanied. He knew Harry wasn’t going anywhere.

Dejected, Harry walked up the stairs and in the front door. Della was bustling in the kitchen, and Harry heard her random yelps over the clattering of cookware. Harry had always thought house elves made the food appear magically, but the Professor had told him that Della preferred the old fashioned Muggle way of cooking, and had done so since her arrival.

Noticing the boy standing awkwardly in the doorway, Della made several peeping sounds before bowing low to the ground, a measuring cup in her hand.

“Master Snape is saying young Sir must eat, and then young Sir is to bathe and be staying in his room.”

“Oh.” Harry replied, frowning. “Um, where is Professor Snape?”

“He is being in his laboratory. He is not being disturbed, and wishes young Sir to eat, and then to bathe and then to stay in his room,” the little tan elf repeated.

She waved her hand and a plate soared gracefully from the counter top to the table. She eyed Harry wearily, looking very relieved indeed when the boy sat down and took up his knife and fork. Harry ate slowly, barely tasting the Veal Parmesan and mint boiled potatoes as he sat thinking about the Professor.

Would the man provide him another vial of potion tonight? Maybe last night was his way of trying to get Harry to admit he was having nightmares. Maybe it was just a trick, and Snape would taunt him, withholding a second dose in order to make Harry beg. Uncle Vernon liked to do that, too. He would place a large plate of the Dursley’s dinner at the door of the cupboard, and the tantalizing scent of roast lamb or grilled chicken stuffed with cheese would waft through the vent, driving the already starving boy into a desperate fit of raw emotion, sobbing and pleading for a mouthful of food, terrified that one more night without sustenance would be his last. Then his Uncle would pry open the cupboard and drag Harry through the kitchen and out to the back yard where he would turn the plate onto the grass, the entire family laughing as the boy frantically scrabbled for handfuls of meat and vegetables on the filthy ground. Then Vernon would grab him by the neck and yank him roughly back to the cupboard and hurl him into the darkness, his laughter still audible from the dinner table as Harry licked the last of the muddy cuisine off his fingers.

Harry pushed his plate away, suddenly feeling queasy. He shook his head sharply as if trying to pull himself from the memory. Professor Snape wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t torture Harry by denying the potion, surely. He’d been almost nice this morning, consoling even. He’d even touched Harry’s hand, and in that brief contact, Harry had felt something radiating from the Professor, like concern, or compassion, but not quite as powerful as that. It was almost like the man was trying not to care, but couldn’t help himself.

Closing his eyes tightly, Harry took a deep breath, steadying himself against another wave of nausea. He opened his eyes and the room swam for a second. Della turned towards the table and gave a shrill trumpet at seeing Harry’s dinner barely touched. Her eyes glistened with tears and her long ears drooped past her shoulders as she stared at Harry, a damp tea towel clutched in her hands.

“Little Master is not liking Della’s cooking?” She asked, her voice wavering.

“Oh, no, Della, it’s very good,” Harry lied, having not even tasted the few bites he’d taken. “I’m just not very hungry. I’m not feeling that great and -”

“Oh! Little Master is becoming unwell!” Della cried, her ears now pointing straight up in alarm. She grabbed Harry’s wrist and tugged him towards the stairs. “Little Master is to be going straight to his room! Straight to his room indeed and be lying down!”

“No….I….it’'s not that bad, really!” Harry replied, praying the distraught elf’s cries wouldn’t alert the Professor.

He stumbled as he collided with the first stair, and lurched up the first few steps. “Ok, I’m going, I’m going!”

He held up his hands in defeat, hoping Della would allow him to continue quietly to his room instead of shrieking in alarm at his side all the way down the hall. Thankfully, she stood at the bottom of the staircase, hopping from one foot to the other as she watched Harry ascend to the second floor.

He quickly tiptoed down the hall and into his room. He pulled the curtains and went to his trunk for his night shirt.

Sitting on the closed lid of the trunk was a folded pair of black pajamas which looked far too large for the small boy. Frowning, Harry unfolded the shirt and pants, marveling at their softness. A small piece of paper fell to the floor. He picked it up and scanned the neatly printed words.

Nefer Hotep Fine Egyptian Cotton Pajamas

Self sizing

Serving venerated Wizards since 1885

Shrugging, he bundled up the pajamas and headed into the bathroom. He took a quick shower and toweled off, then, giving the night clothes a quizzical look, Harry quickly changed, absolutely swimming in the enormous garments as he waded back out into the bedroom. He stood motionless, waiting for….well, not really knowing what on earth he was waiting for, but assuming that whatever they were supposed to be doing, they weren’t doing it.

“Stupid things are broken.” he muttered.

Then suddenly the shirt began to move, shrinking around his arms and torso. The pants were next, the luxurious material rapidly reducing in size until it fit him perfectly.

“Wow.” he said under his breath, clearly taken aback by his first experience with a pair of magical pajamas.

“Wow, indeed.”

Harry jumped nervously, the Professor’s presence catching him completely off guard. He whirled around, eyes wide as he came face to face with Professor Snape, who was leaning casually against the door frame, an amused expression on his face.

“Oh! Oh, um…I….um...” Harry stammered.

Snape frowned. The boy was obviously flustered at seeing him. He shouldn’t have snuck up on him like that, but he’d arrived just as the boy was exiting the bathroom, and decided he’d wait a moment to catch Harry’s reaction to the pajamas he’d left.

“Inarticulate to the core,” he said silkily as he entered the room. Then, noticing the child’s cheeks colour at the insult, he added, “I apologize for startling you, Potter.”

“It’s alright, Sir,” Harry replied, trying to sound blasé. There was no reason to get Snape’s back up. After all, the man held the anti-dream potion Harry so desperately wanted.

“Della tells me you are unwell,” Snape stated, coming towards the boy much too fast for Harry’s liking. The man raised his hand briskly, and Harry took a few jerky steps backwards, flinching uncontrollably. The Professor stopped immediately, his hand falling quickly to his side.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” Harry gasped, taking a few more unstable steps back, only stopping when his back came up against the wall. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice rough with emotion, half expecting the familiar feeling of a palm colliding with his cheek. Uncle Vernon always hit him for getting sick, and he closed his eyes out of habit, waiting for the blow.

When it didn’t come, Harry opened his eyes cautiously. Snape stood several feet away, a deep frown knitting his brow.

“Harry,” the Professor started.

“I’m sorry, Sir! I didn’t mean to!” the boy exclaimed. “It’s just you came so fast and then I thought that -“

“That I was going to strike you,” Snape finished.

“No! I mean…I mean yes, for a moment, but I know you wouldn’t, Professor, honestly I do,” Harry said beseechingly, only half meaning what he said.

“Harry,” Snape replied, forcing his voice to reflect a calm he was not feeling. “I was attempting to check your temperature. Della informed me that you were feeling ill. I came to ascertain your condition.”

The colour drained out of Harry’s face. The man was just trying to check his bloody temperature! He’d acted like a complete idiot when all the Professor was trying to do was feel his bloody forehead!

“Professor, I’m –“

“Sorry, I know,” Snape cut in. He took several steps towards Harry and slowly this time, raised his hand and pressed the back of it to the boy’s cheek. “You’re warm,” he said, moving his hand to the other cheek. “Though, with all your carrying on, I can’t tell if it’s from fever or from over exertion,” he finished sharply. “Now, get into bed.”

Feeling incredibly foolish, Harry climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to his chest, though he’d have rather have pulled them right over his head; he felt so stupid.

“Della!” Snape called, and within seconds the little elf was standing at his side. “Bring me a Dreamless Sleep potion, and a fever reducing elixir.”

With a pop, Della was gone, only to return again almost instantly, this time holding two vials. She handed them to the Professor, and gave Harry an anxious look before disappearing again.

Pulling the chair over to the bedside, Snape sat down and looked at Harry thoughtfully.

“Potter, I will tell you this now, not because there is danger of it occurring, but because you seem to need assurance.” His look turned into one of concern. “I will not hit you,” he said softly.

Harry gave a small nod.

“I know.”

“I will not hit you.” Snape repeated. There was sadness in his eyes now. He knew Harry was lying, the boy didn’t know at all. In fact, all he had likely ever known were fists raised in anger against him. He shifted his chair closer to the edge of the bed, and slowly, keeping his eyes locked with the boy’s, he reached out and put his hand on the child’s wrist.

“Harry, listen to me. I want you to understand. I will not hit you.”

“I know.” The words were barely whispered, and Harry’s eyes were glassy with tears as he stared up at the Professor.

“I will not hit you,” Snape said gently. He would repeat it a hundred times if he had to, a hundred thousand more times if only it would mean that the boy would finally understand that not every hand raised was a hand raised in anger and violence.

Harry only nodded now, unable to speak for worry of his buried fear and pain cascading out of him like a waterfall. Snape was telling him in no uncertain terms that he would never hurt him, and Harry pleaded with his brain to believe it. The worry of being thrashed by Snape had consumed him, and here was the Professor, his words ringing in Harry’s ears.

I will not hurt you.

He wanted to believe it so badly.

“For your fever,” Snape said, offering him a vial of thick yellow fluid, and Harry took it without question, not that he could have voiced any objections, his throat was so tight with emotion.

“And the Dreamless Sleep,” he continued, handing the boy the second vial and watching him drink it eagerly. The nightmares would be discussed soon, once Harry’s trust had developed further.

Severus watched the movement of the child’s chest slow as his breathing regulated; the familiar slump of his head indicating sleep had claimed him.

He sat in the darkness, listening to the slow steady breaths, wondering how many nights those breaths had turned to screams of anguish, wondering how dreadful the abuse must have been to engender such primal fear in a child.

It was hours later when he was finally able to stand and make his way across the room to the door, and he couldn’t help but wonder at what point in the evening he decided to care so much about Harry Potter.