When Vernon and Petunia had finally gone to bed, Harry pushed the cupboard door open slightly to let in the moonlight and took out the parcel to inspect it. A small note attached to it, in the twins’ handwriting; although he could never tell which one wrote what – told him to hold it in his hands and recite the Marauders’ motto. With a quirk of his brows, Harry did so.

“I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

With nary a sound, the parcel grew and grew, until it was hard to hold up in his weakened state. He allowed it to fall to his lap, where it slowed down and settled at a respectable pillow sized package. With a smile, he unwrapped it, carefully folding the paper and storing it in the corner of the cupboard, the snaking string wound into a neat roll and placed on top.

He was left with five packages, of various sizes, three with an envelope attached. He picked up the one from Ron first, instantly identifying his handwriting; as he unfolded the letter, a chocolate frog card fell into his lap. He picked it up curiously and flipped it over. With a startled gasp, he nearly dropped it again.

‘Harry James Potter.

1980 - Present

Boy Who Lived – Vanquisher of You Know Who – Amateur Quidditch Star

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, is currently attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He is well known for his prowess in Defence Against the Dark Arts and his talent as a Parselmouth, the only Light Wizard in living memory who speaks the tongue. Harry began his Quidditch career as the youngest Seeker in a hundred years, playing on the Gryffindor House Team at only 11, he won the Triwizard Tournament at the age of 14 and defeated The Dark Lord when a year old; he is expected to go on to do great things.’

Great. Just what he needed, another reason for people to hate him. Amusingly, his portrait was hiding behind the frame – it looked to be a photograph taken during the Triwizard Tournament, so it was more than a little out of date.  With a sigh, he put the thing to one side and read the letter, holding it up so the moonlight hit it. Not the best of light to read by, but it would do and more importantly, it wouldn’t bring the Dursleys’ wrath down upon him.

Harry,

Happy Birthday, mate! Hope you like the present!

I hope this summer isn’t going too bad for you. I can’t say much – you know how it is. You should see Mione’s parents though – they’re so Muggle! But at least Dad keeps them busy!

I found this card in my latest box – bloody weird, right? I couldn’t believe it when I saw it – your face on a card! Just imagine the Creevey brothers when they find out! I’ll bet you’re going to be a hot commodity in the Common Rooms this year! Well, maybe not Slytherin!

Let me know if you need anything and I can’t wait to see you again! Ginny and the twins are driving me nuts!

Ron.

Harry put the letter aside with a smile – that was Ron all over, and it was uplifting to read. He pulled Ron’s gift towards him and carefully unwrapped it. A box of chocolate frogs – he opened one and nibbled it, setting the Morgana card aside – and a new pair of Quidditch gloves.

After admiring them, he pulled Hermione’s gift over and opened it, placing her much neater wrappings on the pile. A book on Occlumency. Well, she must have been tired of being subtle about it all. There was a sharp pang in his chest as he flipped the book open. After skimming a few pages, he put the book aside and opened her letter.

Dear Harry,

Many Happy Returns!

I hope you like the present; when I saw it, I just felt you would like a copy – maybe it will help you sleep?

As you know, my parents and I are staying with Ron this summer. They say ‘hi’ by the way and wish you a Happy Birthday. It’s quite strange to spend all summer in the Magical world, instead of going home. Mum and Dad are loving it, though, and Mr. Weasley is taking the time to learn all he can from them.

I know you can’t be having much fun there, but be patient; we’ll have you out soon enough. Professor Dumbledore mentioned that you could spend the rest of the summer here with us, so we look forward to seeing you soon.

Sleep well, and try not to worry.

Love,

Hermione.

And that was Hermione all over – admonishing him and comforting him both at once. He slipped her letter between the pages of her gift and pulled Hagrid’s gift over. It was lumpy and very badly wrapped, but it brought a smile to his lips; Hagrid’s presents were always fun.

As he opened it, he wasn’t disappointed. A sketchbook and watercolour set, complete with pencils and paintbrushes, an eraser and a small book about how to use watercolours! His friend had remembered – Hagrid had found him, a few months ago, sitting in a nook on his own, doodling  on some spare parchment. They had talked for a while about Harry wishing he could draw more and maybe learn how to paint. It had been one of his few quiet moments, before everything went even further into Hell – before his fateful trip into Snape’s Pensieve, before Umbridge had taken over the school, long before Sirius...

Harry rubbed at his eyes angrily and carefully placed the art set to one side, he intended to use it at the first opportunity. There were two parcels left – one wrapped in odd looking paper and he recognised the other as a care package from the Weasleys. He opened the care package and dug in to find a sealed bottle of pumpkin juice. He drank down half of it in one go, enjoying the flavour and the refreshing feel of slaking his thirst.

After taking a moment to collect himself, he pulled the last gift over and looked at the unfamiliar handwriting of the letter before actually reading it.

Harry,

I remembered it was your birthday, so I made something for you.

Don’t feel bad about the Ministry; it wasn’t your fault. You did your best and that’s all anyone can ask of you. If you ever want to talk, I want you to know I’m available.

Have a good summer. See you at Hogwarts. (And watch out for the Snarfblatts – they’re out this time of year.)

Luna.

He hadn’t expected anything from Luna, the strange, quiet girl he had only recently befriended. But it was nice. Even in written form, she managed to make him smile at her unique way of thinking. Snarfblatts? He supposed he’d ask her about them when they saw each other again.

‘It wasn’t your fault. ’ Strangely, he found he believed it when Luna said it.

He felt so guilty for Sirius’ death, knowing it was his fault; for not checking the mirror, for not going to Snape for help, for all number of things that he could have done, instead of haring off to the Ministry with only a bunch of half-trained wizards as back-up. But... Luna’s simple words sparked something within him. He sighed and shook his head. When he opened her gift, it turned out to be a scarf, hand-made and of so many pieces of material, in varying shades of green, blue and brown, that he lost count. It was beautiful, yet not at all feminine – he knew he could wear this, come the colder weather, and feel perfectly comfortable doing so.

It was an interesting gift from an interesting girl. Luna’s distracted smile and long, honey-blond hair passed through his mind, causing him to smile. He carefully folded the scarf and put it on top of the care package, keeping it from the dusty floor. Something about the hand-made gift made it feel even more special, even though his upbringing had ensured he already felt any gift was something to treasure.

Harry sat back, with his shoulder-blades pressed to the wall, nibbling another chocolate frog. It wouldn’t be too much longer before Petunia was up again and he knew he wouldn’t sleep. So, with the door angled just right for maximum light, he opened the book Hermione had sent him and began to read, working around the way the text swam slightly – a strange new symptom he put down to tiredness, but wasn’t sure.

He was a quarter way into the book when he heard Petunia get up. He moved everything quickly and quietly to the far side of the cupboard, covered the small pile with his tatty blanket and pulled the door fully closed. While he waited, he sipped the last of the bottle of pumpkin juice and nibbled a small slice of fruitcake. Mrs Weasley, in her infinite wisdom, had placed a preserving charm on the care package. Thankfully, if he ate sparingly and kept it hidden, the food should last until he was picked up.

A few minutes later, Petunia descended the stairs, pausing for a moment at the bottom. Harry was ready when she banged the door, “Up, Boy!” He climbed to his feet and slowly followed her into the kitchen, shaking his legs between steps, trying to wake them up.

“Vernon’s taking the day off today, so you are to make two Full English’s  - and be careful about it! No burning the bacon today!”

Petunia glared at him as she poured herself some fresh tea and took one of the chairs at the small table. She was looking a little peaky this morning, almost grey and she was clutching at her chest again. With a worried frown, Harry quickly set about cooking the meal, thankfully without his stomach growling. He would have to remember to thank Mrs Weasley as often as possible when he got to The Burrow.

As Vernon and Dudley were eating their meal half an hour later, Harry hid in the bathroom and performed a quick all over flannel wash, wiping away as much of the daily accumulated grime as he could. Petunia had a habit of making his day worse if he wasn’t at least presentable. He stared at himself in the mirror again after cleaning his teeth. Yesterday’s clout had added another bruise to his face, this time on the right, and there was a little cut on the back of his head, where he had landed wrong in the kitchen. It was sore and tender, to the touch and had been caked in dried blood before he rinsed his hair in the sink. The bruising on his torso was a mess – mottled blues, purples, greens and yellows. He didn’t think anything was broken, he could breathe perfectly fine, but it still looked frightening, especially over his protruding ribs.

With a tired sigh, he pulled the grey and threadbare sweater over his head. It was baggy, hanging low over his hips, like all of Dudley’s hand-me-downs; the neckline would have been obscene on a girl. Once he was clean and dressed, he looked himself in the eyes again, watching his reflection tiredly.

“Happy Birthday to me,” he whispered, staring hard at his face. There. He could see something now. The kink in his nose was becoming visible. He ran his fingertips over it – it was even more obvious to the touch, following a much harder line than was visible at the moment. He ran his fingers up and down his nose wonderingly. Something moved behind him and he spun around, startled out of his contemplation.

Nothing. Nothing there. He had seen movement in the mirror, but there was nothing there. Before Petunia had cause to yell at him again, Harry scurried from the bathroom, intent on ignoring this latest symptom of weirdness and getting on with his chores.

She found something anyway.

Harry trudged in from the back garden, toeing his shoes off on the matt so as not to track mud everywhere. He had spent the early morning hours weeding the flowerbeds at Petunia’s bidding. He didn’t mind the work so much, but it was very tiring, especially on little food and no sleep.

“YOU! You little FREAK!” Before he even knew what happened, he was on the floor, a stinging pain blossoming on his cheek, shocking him so much he didn’t even cry out.

Petunia stood over him, one hand clutching the front of her loose blouse, the other balled into a fist. She was grey-skinned and looked a little clammy, her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot – she looked angrier, even, than Vernon had sounded last night.

Harry smoothed a hand over his cheek, his skin still smarting at the strength behind the slap. It would surely bruise.

“If you hadn’t been dumped here, this never would have happened! My Dudley is a good boy!”

He didn’t know how to react, so he chose what seemed like the safest route and simply agreed with her. “Y-yes, Aunt Petunia.”

Petunia’s nostrils flared and she darted forward, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him to his feet. His vision greyed out for a moment as the pain flashed through him and then she was screaming at him again, this time right in his face.

 “I never should have taken you in! You bring nothing but danger to this house! This family!” Harry wobbled as she slapped him again, only her grip keeping on his feet.

“Petunia?”

Harry looked up at Vernon, standing in the doorway, a confused expression on his face as he took in the scene. Merlin, he must look so pathetic, cowed by a bony woman with next to no meat on her. Petunia grabbed him by the hair again, dragging him round, presenting him to Vernon.

“This filth! It’s the Freak’s fault!” She shook him and he yelped as hair pulled free in her grip. “Dudders would never have gone that way without the boy here!”

Harry slumped to the floor as his aunt dropped him, clutching his head, rubbing the sore spot where she had pulled his hair out. Something was seriously wrong with his aunt – she never acted like this. She was a slave driver, certainly, and barely fed him – but she was passive aggressive in her actions – she never struck him, she left that to Vernon!

“We should never have taken him in!” A foot connected with his ribs and he curled up as something gave way inside. It suddenly hurt to breathe.

“Petunia?” There was a pause, followed by a scuffing sound. “Petunia!”

Harry looked up, forcing his eyes to focus. Vernon was holding his aunt. She was choking, clutching at her throat with one hand, grasping at her chest with the other. Her skin had gone grey and her veins stood out clearly. Vernon lowered her to the floor as she coughed, wheezed and clutched at her chest.

“He’s ...killed me..!” She gasped, her eyes wide and staring at him. “I’m ...dying!”

“Dudley! Call an ambulance! NOW!” Vernon roared in a panic, his face going pale and Harry could hear his cousin scrambling for the phone.

As he watched, Petunia went white and limp, her eyes rolled back. Heart attack, he realised absently. She was having a heart attack. Shaking, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position, where he curled up and hugged his knees to his aching chest, back pressed against one of the lower cupboards.  

In numb silence, he watched as Vernon and Dudley panicked.

With a groan and a muttered curse at the world in general, Severus awoke.

For a moment, there was blissful ignorance. It was another summer day at Hogwarts, and he would spend it working on his experiments. Perhaps he would join the remaining staff for lunch and then work late into the night on his experiments again. It promised to be a good day. Only, there was something niggling at him.

He opened his eyes and stared at the deep purple canopy above him. Lily and her bloody machinations! The girl could have given Albus a run for his galleons!

With another groan, he passed a hand over his face and sat up.  Blindly, he felt for and found his wand, pulled it out from under the pillow and muttered Tempus, cracking one eye open to see the resulting information.

Eleven! Bloody hell!

He was wide awake in an instant and clambering to his feet. Another curse rent the air as he pulled on his enveloping dressing gown and made his way to the small kitchen all staff apartments were equipped with.

“Coffee. Coffee. Where’s the bloody coffee when I need it?”

He was soon sitting at the small table, drinking his way through a large mug of unsweetened black coffee, waiting for it to kick in as he flipped the Daily Prophet open. There was rarely anything interesting to read, but he liked to keep abreast of the situation in the wider world.

Fudge was being an idiot again – though at least he was now admitting to the Dark Lord’s return, unlike last year, when he had been a complete – Severus managed to censor his own thoughts and turned the page.

The front page was filled with outbreaks of violence around the country. Inside pages held advice from various columnists on how to protect oneself and one’s family. There were reports of random Dementor attacks. He sneered at yet another wanted poster for Black. There were plenty of job advertisements and pages of reader’s letters – most calling on Potter to save them.

He sneered again at one particularly vehement letter, calling Potter ‘The Chosen One’ and speaking of him as if he were Merlin reincarnated. Bloody hell.

Severus allowed his face to fall into his palms, groaning as he did. He couldn’t get away from Potter this morning, however much he tried. He did not want to think about it! He wasn’t sure he even wanted to be a father – and he certainly wasn’t sure he wanted to play father to the bloody Golden Boy!

Whatever his newly revived memories told him, that was then, this was now. He was a different man!

His life was careening out of control. He felt like throwing himself off the Astronomy tower, and leaving the mess for Albus to clear up.

With a scowl and a grunt, Severus hauled himself to his feet and went to shower and dress, forcing all thoughts of Potter and fatherhood to the back of his mind.

He felt marginally more comfortable with clean hair and fresh clothing. He eyed the clock above his hearth and decided to join the others for lunch.

As he entered the hall, he blinked, quirking an eyebrow at the sight met his eyes; unusually, only Poppy and Hagrid were seated at the small table. “Albus and Minerva?” he queried as he sat down, pulling another mug of coffee to himself. He had wanted to ask Albus for a private conversation after lunch.

“Called to the Ministry for something urgent. Couldn’t say what it was, I’m afraid.” Poppy shrugged her shoulders as she sipped her tea. He knew already that Filius and Pomona had both left for their respective holidays – they always did at this time of year. Albus and Minerva’s absence worried him though. Both Headmaster and Deputy-Headmistress absent at once? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Yeh don’ think it were ‘Arry, do yer?” Hagrid couldn’t keep the worry from his voice or face, even if he tried. Severus scowled as he chose a sandwich from the platters in front of him. “Why would you think that? Though I suppose the boy is a magnet for trouble.”

“But tha’s what I mean. He ‘ad Dementor’s after ‘im last year!” Hagrid looked so sad and worried as he said this that even Severus found himself empathising with the man.

“I’m sure he’s fine, Hagrid dear. Albus and Minerva probably only had to deal with some administrative duties. They’ll be back before we know it.”

Poppy managed to calm Hagrid enough that they could all resume eating. Looking slightly ill at ease, as if she wanted to take the conversation anywhere else but Potter, Poppy addressed him.

“Have you replenished much of the medical stores yet?”

Severus quirked an eyebrow at the woman. “Yes. You will not want for most of the basics, come September. I have only a few of the more intricate potions to work on.”

Poppy nodded distractedly. Severus allowed his mind to wander as she and Hagrid began to discuss the need for extra security this year. With the Dementors and other Dark Creatures on the loose, Hagrid had offered his expertise concerning Magical Creatures as a means of protection for the school. Though without Albus here to add his thoughts and make determinations, the discussion didn’t cover much ground.

Severus sipped his third coffee of the day, eyes fixed on the ceiling, left un-enchanted over the summer period, above them, contemplating the Headmaster’s absence. Well, he supposed he would simply have to wait to have that discussion about Potter and his newfound relationship to the boy. He would have to ask the House Elves to notify him when Albus and Minerva returned.

 When he had drained his mug and cleared his plate, he stood, inclining his head in the direction of his co-workers, “Good day to you.” With their good wishes following him, he left the hall, intent on returning to his rooms. He still had a lot of thinking to do.

Even when he was working on a complex potion, he couldn’t get the boy out of his head. The potion itself was a rather distracting shade of green that was all too reminiscent of the eyes the boy shared with Lily. Stirring eight figure eights, anti-clockwise, Severus couldn’t help but think of the enthusiasm Lily had shown while they had concocted that final potion, the potion that resulted in their son. Stirring again in the opposite direction, he recalled the newborn – already with a mop of pure black hair, but his mother’s eyes. Even then, they had been able to see the resemblances.

Severus snorted inelegantly, dropping in the required amount of caper buds to render the potion effective, though foul. He understood the reasons behind the charm placed on the child, but even now, he couldn’t help but wonder if James had required it out of shame, however much he loved his son. Recalling the charm, he realised the thing must have begun fading by now – if so, then Potter was probably very confused.  Lily had likely set the two charms to end at the same date – her son’s sixteenth birthday.

As Severus reached for the next ingredient, his left arm throbbed sharply. He hissed between his teeth, hurriedly placing the potion under a stasis spell and clutching his left forearm. He staggered backward a few steps, until he came to rest against the wall. Not a summoning – the Dark Lord was simply letting his followers know he was there and that he was up to something. He wouldn’t find out what, until the next actual summons.

With quick steps, Severus hurried to his private stores and downed a pain reliever. He sighed as the pain lessened to more manageable levels.

“Severus!”

He spun, startled by the call. Albus was in his Floo – which could only mean this was an emergency fire-call.

“Albus?” He stalked to the hearth and knelt.

“Severus, you must go to 4 Privet Drive – something is wrong with the wards! Find Harry, protect him if you must!”

Severus’ heart skipped a beat, “I believe The Dark Lord knows, he may have sent Death Eaters – I will leave immediately.”

Harry was in shock, he had to be. He was completely numb. He hadn’t even reacted when Vernon bodily picked him up and threw him in the cupboard as the ambulance pulled into the drive.

He lay where he had fallen, staring at nothing, thinking nothing. At what he guessed was an hour after they had left, he had felt the wards go down. They had crumpled like a crisp packet in an oven and simply vanished.

Since that moment, he had known Aunt Petunia was dead.

Chalk up another person he had killed. He was getting quite a list for himself now. Mum and Dad. Cedric. Sirius. Petunia. Hadn’t he heard somewhere that after three kills you were officially classified a Serial Killer? Maybe he’d go on a wanted list. They’d hunt him down like they had Sirius, before he’d killed him.

He had been lying there for what felt like an hour, maybe more, since the wards fell. There wasn’t a sound in the house, only his laboured breathing. Until the silence was broken by the sharp crack of Apparition and a short blast of magic brought the door crashing down.

Harry blinked, held his breath. Order members, maybe?

Rough voices muttered to one another, before three sets of footsteps slowly made their way up the stairs. Not Order members then, which probably left only Death Eaters. Order Member’s would have called out instantly, making sure he was alright after the wards had fallen.   

Harry sat up and pushed the door open slightly, listening to the intruders. They hadn’t made themselves known, so he was instantly suspicious. Carefully, silently, he stole into the kitchen and grabbed a large knife from the rack. Without his wand, which was locked in his trunk upstairs, he was going to have to improvise. That meant Muggle style defence, if he could get his body to co-operate. Luckily, Petunia had kept her knives razor sharp – despite rarely ever using them herself.

 A single set of footsteps came back down the stairs again. Harry dashed behind the kitchen door and waited, legs trembling. He wasn’t sure he could do this – with a wand, it was so much easier; you were here, the enemy was over there, whatever happened to them was far away, all you did was throw words and light at them. This was more...real somehow.

The footsteps went into the living-room first. He listened as furniture was moved around, as if they were looking for him behind the sofa. Then the Death Eater entered the dining room – but a quick glance would suffice there, as the bare table and chairs would offer no hiding places. A moment later, the footsteps paused outside the cupboard door. Harry could hear quiet breathing and tried to hold his own breath, feeling the sweat break out on his body, his heart racing.

He closed his eyes briefly, wishing he had his wand, or anyone’s wand. When he opened them again, that faint netting of magic was back – he could see it, partially covering the places he had been working particularly hard the past few days. The sink, the cooker and even small trails of it over the floor, where he had walked, the chair where he had sat to eat dinner and write his reply letters.

He ignored it as the footsteps made their way to the kitchen door. Gripping the knife tightly, holding his breath, Harry waited. A figure stepped into the room, thankfully facing away from him – it was dressed in enveloping black robes, hood drawn low over the head; it was definitely a Death Eater. Surprisingly, Harry could see the same net laced over the figure, intricate webs of pure magic from head to toe, concentrated more thickly on the head, chest and right hand.

As the Death Eater began to turn in his direction, Harry reacted instinctively. The knife flashed in the stark midday light, before it found the throat – slicing through layers of cloth, into flesh, tearing the artery and oesophagus. The mask slipped off his face at the force of the blow and Harry looked into the eyes of a man he didn’t know. For a second, nothing happened; they stood staring at one another in shock, then the man clamped his right hand to his throat and reached for him with the left, murder in his expression – but Harry danced backwards, bringing the knife up again, slashing at the groping hand.

He didn’t know what to do! The Death Eater was still coming after him! They both slipped in the blood on the tile floor, and the man caught his ankle as they fell. Harry struggled wildly, catching the man in the face, wrenching the hand that had been trying to stop the blood gushing from the wound. A keening noise rent the air as Harry watched the man die; he didn’t realise it was his own voice until the hand holding his ankle relaxed, the grip suddenly releasing, the accusing eyes going blank as they stared at him.

Blinking in shock and terrified to his core, Harry watched as the web of magic netting the man faded and disappeared. Now he could see only the fainter nets of protective or vanity magic on the clothing.

A thump from upstairs kicked Harry out of his shock and spurred him to his feet. He slipped in the blood, socks soaked in the cooling fluid, not noticing that he was almost drenched in it. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Help me. Help me!” Harry whispered in a low monotone to the world, to anyone who would listen, as he scrambled from the kitchen into the living-room. Trying not to hyperventilate, he crouched behind the over-turned sofa. Realising the knife was slippery in his tight grip, he absently wiped his hands and the implement on the carpet, the low, pleading monotone never ceasing.

“Merlin! Someone’s butchered Holdstock!”

Harry fought to calm his breathing. If he could get to the front door, he could run. They didn’t know the neighbourhood the way he did, he could lose them in the alleys, maybe hide in the small woodland off the park. He only had to make it to the front door.

“Potter! We know you’re in here!” Harry flinched, but didn’t move. How had they known where he was? The Death Eater’s were in the doorway, he knew – he could see their shadows on the wall. He didn’t have a wand! He hadn’t grabbed the man’s wand! He was so stupid!

“Come out little boy!” Scuffling, muttered whispering and then one set of steps coming into the room. “The Dark Lord would like an audience with you, Potter.”

He barely made out a second voice, still in the hall, “Yeah, and I’d like to see how he did that to Holdstock.”

Legs, swathed in black robes, came into view. Without even deciding what he was going to do, Harry slashed, cutting and stabbing through both Achilles Tendons – with a guttural scream and a heavy thud, the second Death Eater hit the floor. As the man, still screeching, rolled away from him, Harry tried to scramble past. A curse, thrown by the third Death Eater he’d all but forgotten, missed by inches and he dodged behind the armchair, still pleading and cursing under his breath.

“Help me!” The fallen Death Eater whined between breaths, “Brooks, get that little shit and help me!”

“I’m trying!” Another curse ricocheted off the bookcase behind Harry, showering him in splinters and paper. “Reducto!” The armchair blew to pieces, throwing debris and dust throughout the room, and with a cry of intermingled fear and rage, Harry lunged through the cloud and barrelled into the third Death Eater, knife plunging into the man’s chest with a sickening crunch, all his weight and force behind it.

Again, the mask fell away as they careened into the wall, and a hysterical part of Harry’s mind gibbered about the strength of the Death Eaters’ Sticking Charms. This man was older, the face deeply lined. He didn’t recognise him. For a number of seconds, the man gaped at him, his face going white, his eyes wide and unseeing. They slipped slowly to the floor and Brooks didn’t move, the network of magic that had covered him fading into nothingness.

In the stunned silence, even the last Death Eater didn’t make a noise. Harry blinked out of his shock, and grabbed the fallen wand. As he turned, the last Death Eater stared at him with white-faced terror even as he held both his torn ankles, trying to stem the bleeding.

“Stupefy,” he whispered. The man slumped, hands releasing the wounds.

Harry dropped the wand from loose, bloody fingers, turned and slowly, silently, made his way to the cupboard. In silence, he climbed inside, pulled the door closed behind himself and sat, hugging his knees to his chest.

The house was deceptively quiet.

Severus scanned the area, eyes lighting instantly upon the open front door. It wasn’t wide, but just enough to be noticed. This boded ill. Already he could tell that the wards were gone – they’d either been broken, or someone had removed them, although he couldn’t have explained how that was possible.

He stalked up the drive, wand at the ready and quietly pushed the door open.

Blood. Everywhere. It was on the walls, on the floor – even some on the ceiling. Bloody footprints could clearly be seen, passing between the kitchen right ahead of him at the end of the hall, and what he guessed was the living-room to his right.

Nose wrinkled, senses on edge, Severus crept in. He looked first into the living-room. What he saw stopped his breath. The whole room looked like a war zone, with furniture over-turned and blood coating nearly every surface. Brooks and Carey, both obviously dead, were lying in pools of their own blood. Carey appeared to have bled out from the ankles – Severus noted the sliced ankles on both feet. Brooks still had a kitchen blade protruding from his chest – a smear of blood down the wall told him the man had been standing when it impaled him.

Fear began to prickle at him. Had the boy survived this? He turned and stepped back into the hall, made his way to the kitchen. More blood, more over-turned furniture. This time, Holdstock lying in a pool of his own blood, his throat inexpertly slashed and torn. Arterial spray was clear on the walls and ceiling, and the smears on the floor looked like the hand and footprints of a struggling teenager.

Severus stood in shock. Potter had managed to kill three fully grown Death Eaters, with what looked like nothing more than a kitchen blade! The boy must have been terrified out of his mind, yet he had managed it.

With a start, he finally heard the wheezing, choked breathing coming from the hall. He left the body where it was and followed the sounds. Severus’ eyebrows rose as he realised it was coming from the tiny cupboard under the stairs. Carefully, so as not to startle the boy, he opened the door.

Potter was indeed in there, but he was hardly recognisable, caked as he was in blood from head to toe, a fresh gash on his right cheek, bruises marring his features. He was so thin he looked anorexic. Severus couldn’t fathom the changed appearance under the blood.

“Potter.” Nothing; the boy continued to rock and stare at the wall. “Potter!” Not even a flinch.

In consternation, Severus tried to see what the boy was staring at. The words ‘Harry’s Room’ were scrawled in childish handwriting on the inverted staircase. Further shocked, he looked about, finally taking in the cupboard for what it was.

In one corner of the cramped space, he could see a moth eaten pillow, in the other, a pile covered by a skimpy, threadbare blanket. The walls held childish drawings and scraps of Christmas and birthday wrapping paper. Even the carpet, now blood-soaked, looked like an ancient cut-off than anything else, obviously put in as an afterthought.

It was the boy’s bedroom and from the writing on the step, it had been for some time. For Merlin’s sake, they had kept his son in a cupboard!

With a quick flick of his wand and muttered Quiesco, Severus spelled the boy to sleep. He levitated him out of the cupboard with a Mobilicorpus and after a moment’s thought muttered, “Accio Harry Potter’s possessions!”

A trunk and birdcage – he recognised both items – came down from an upstairs room, and the small pile he had seen carefully stashed in the far corner of the cupboard joined them. Nothing else came. He quickly worked his way through the protection and anti-theft wards on the trunk and carefully placed the stash – it appeared to consist of birthday presents and a small amount of food – inside. He replaced the wards and then looked about. He would have to inform Albus of what had happened here – though full details would have to wait until Potter awoke.

There would likely be an Auror investigation.

With a growl, Severus clutched Potter to his chest, shrank the trunk and birdcage and placed them in his pockets and then Apparated the hell out of the place, heading for the one place he knew would be safe.