1994

Rolling over with a moan, Harry Potter sat up from bed and rubbed his eyes furiously. Sitting still for several more minutes, he finally opened his brilliant green eyes to look around his tiny bare room. But at least you have a room, a small part of his mind reminded him. After living in a cupboard for almost eleven years, it really brought a new perspective on small blessings.

Casting a sleepy glance over to the corner, Harry smiled stupidly at his owl, who was still sleeping, her face buried under her wing. Looking over at the clock on his tiny light stand, the boy sighed as he read the numbers. Only five after five in the morning; much too early for sane people to be awake, but here he was. Putting up with his relatives’ crap for the past thirteen years, Harry decided that he had to be insane.

Kicking his feet over the bed, the sleepy wizard stood up slowly, stretched, and made his way over to the closet. Opening the door as quietly as he could, lest he wake Hedwig, Harry picked out his outfit for the day. What would it be today? His baggy pants and t-shirt, or perhaps the baggy pants and t-shirt? Or maybe he could wear those baggy pants and t-shirt?

Smiling humorlessly, the young wizard grabbed the first pair of pants and shirt his hands brushed up against before he turned and walked out of his room. Thanks to his godfather, Sirius, Harry had been able to convince his relations not to lock him in his room. Although he forgot just exactly what he had said, he did recall telling them that the man was an escaped convict from Azkaban and highly dangerous. Mentioning he also had a werewolf friend had not hurt either.

But that threat was slowly wearing off. The Dursleys were getting back into the regular swing of things where they abused him, but thus far, they had forgotten about locking him in his room. But pushing all those thoughts back in his mind, Harry walked to the bathroom and closed the door. Locked in and secure, the boy smiled once more before stripping and stepping into the shower.

Harry let the warm water hit him without moving. He let the heat surround him, let it fuse into his skin, and he draw as much comfort as he could from its embrace. A tired sigh escaped the boy’s lips after several minutes when he realized that he had to stop wasting time and actually get on with the fundamentals of showering. Washing his body first, Harry scrubbed himself as clean as he could before moving on to his mess of curly, wavy hair. Even when it was wet, the rebellious mass of locks still refused to be tame.

Turning off the water, after only a seven minute shower, Harry dried himself off and dressed quickly. After years of observation, the young wizard realized that his relatives slept the heaviest in the early morning. So in order to actually take a warm shower, all he had to do was get up before them, make sure everything was exactly as it had been before, and they were none the wiser and he was much cleaner! It was a brilliant plan really, even if he had to suffer the loss of a few hours sleep. But it was worth it to be clean. He hated having greasy hair.

Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Harry scowled. His hair was too unruly and his frame too thin. He hated being the lightest and one of the shortest boys in his entire year. If only he could grow! He would be happy with being five foot ten if he could achieve it. The thought of his statue’s less than desired accomplishments thus far only brought bitterness when he realized that part of it was to be blamed on the Dursleys and their abuse. Sighing once more, deciding that it was not worth it to brood, the young wizard carefully opened the bathroom door and returned his sleepwear into his bedroom. After he watered and fed Hedwig her tiny meal, he decided to get a jump on his chores for the day. When Uncle Vernon could not find anything for him to do, it was usually better to be kicked outside in order to walk around the neighborhood rather than having to scrub the floors on his hands and knees.

Walking down the stairs, Harry scowled at the pictures of his cousin on the way down. How could anyone love such a gross child like Dudley? But obviously there was some appeal to him, as Vernon and Petunia utterly dotted on and spoiled the walrus. Harry could not help but wonder how he would have turned out had his mother and father lived. Would he be as spoiled as Dudley or, heaven forbid, Draco? Or would he be more along the lines of a child like Hermione? His parents did have a lot more money than the Weasleys, but would they have raised him with the same affection and discipline as Arthur and Molly? Unfortunately, he would never know.

When he was walking to the kitchen, something flopped onto the couch in the parlor caught Harry’s attention. Stopping, the boy frowned when he saw a large black… something. It looked like some sort of black blanket that someone had thrown unceremoniously aside while walking by. But who could have done that? He was never so careless of being messy-at least not in the Dursleys house- and Aunt Petunia would rather die than have anything out of place. But what was it?

Shyly creeping forward, Harry inspected the offending object with curiosity. But as he got closer, something else caught his eye… A boot! “Holy shit!” the boy hissed, reeling backwards. This wasn’t some sort of blanket at all, it was a person!

Gathering up his Gryffindor courage, Harry crept forward once more, carefully watching for any signs of life. Whoever this was, definitely was not one of the Dursleys as he was far too thin to be Vernon or Dudley, but far too tall to be Petunia; not to mention that the shoe size looked far too big for any of his relatives. But then that meant this was a complete stranger!

Looking around frantically, Harry backed away slowly, afraid of getting attacked. Without really thinking of what he was doing, the boy went and grabbed an umbrella from the rack before entering the parlor once more. Now armed, he decided that he could handle the intruder. But what if this man simply over powered him and took the umbrella? Shrugging, Harry decided that he’d just run to the fireplace and get something else. The idea of chucking all of his aunt’s glass baskets held a very great appeal on the thirteen year old.

Whoever this was had to have had a key to get in. Or a wand, Harry thought grimly. But then if this was a wizard, then he had had no intent upon coming here to harm Harry as the wards would not have let him in otherwise. Or had this wizard been able to take down all the wards surrounding the house and had collapsed from exhaustion? Or was this simply some average drunk that had wondered off the street last night looking for his house and had somehow gotten in?

Whoever this guy was, Harry had no intent upon letting him stay. As much as he hated this place, this was still his house and no one was going to chase him out! If only I had my wand!

Taking a deep breath while tightening the grip on the umbrella, Harry got within several feet of the intruder. Cautiously he kicked the booted foot. Said foot merely swayed a bit before settling; nothing else. The teenager kicked it again, but received the same response: nothing. Frowning, Harry leaned forward, determined to unmask, so to speak, the blob of black, when a hand shot out from the black monster and latched securely onto Harry’s wrist.

Caught unprepared, Harry let out a surprised cry as he frantically tried to shake the intruder off his hand. “Get off! Get off!” the boy cried, and prepared to strike his attacker when he looked down to see blaring obsidian eyes glaring up at him. “Professor Snape?” Harry gasped in surprise.

The older wizard stared at his student for a moment before his face scrunched up into a mix between agony and confusion. While his hand never loosened its grip, the professor began to slouch back into the sofa once more, as though his surprise attack had taken more out of him than he had first thought possible. Unbalanced, Harry found that he was going down with the Potions Master.

“Professor Snape,” he whispered urgently. “Professor, get off my arm!” he pleaded.

But Snape did not seem to hear the boy. When Harry looked down at his hated teacher once more, he found the man looking much paler than the last time they had seen each other. In fact, the man looked dead. He seemed to be fighting unconsciousness and illness. Dear Merlin he’s drunk! was Harry’s first thought. And when he was about to tell his professor to get up and go be drunk somewhere else, he noticed dark smudges on the couch. As his green eyes swept over the older wizard once more, Harry was shocked to see darkening stains all over the man’s robes. Blood. 

Dear God!

“Lily,” the raspy voice caught Harry by surprise and he jumped. “Lily, I’m bleeding,” Snape’s voice was unnatural in the young wizard’s ears. “I’m hurt,” the man pleaded on. “Help me!”

Harry blanched. He stared down at his teacher who was looking intently into his green eyes expectantly. “P-Professor?” Harry’s voice shook far too much for his own liking. “Professor, it’s me, Harry. Harry Potter? What are you doing here?”

Slowly, Harry watched as the vulnerable, pleading face of the dungeon bat contorted into a mask of angry confusion. “What are you doing here, Potter?” he spat, but in his weakened state, it paled in comparison to when he was in full health. “You shouldn’t be wandering the castle at this time of night.”

“P-professor?” Harry frowned.

“You’ll get yourself killed,” Snape went on. “And I’ll have to clean it all up. I always have to clean it all up, never you.”

“Sir, I think you’re delusional. What’s wrong with you?” Harry’s alarm grew the more the man spoke. And why had Snape said Harry’s mother’s name? Had Snape know Lily Potter? It was a possibility since the Potions Master had known and loathed James Potter.

“Potter!” the professor looked at his student for the first time with clear recognition blazing in his cold eyes. “W-where am I?” he asked quietly.

“You’re in my house, sir,” the boy eyed the wizard carefully. “What’s going on? What happened to you? Why are you here?”

“I’m hurt,” the Potions Master said bluntly. “I need medical attention immediately.”

“Where are you hurt?” Despite having hated the man for three years, Harry found he could not deny the man help, even as a little part of his mind screamed that he should let the bastard bleed out.

“It’s my torso,” Snape grimaced in pain. “It’s bleeding. It bleed last night.”

Frowning, not knowing exactly what to do, Harry helped his teacher sit up straight. The man was tall, and Harry found that although Snape had almost been dead weight, Snape did not seem like he weighed all that much, as helping him had not been nearly as hard as Harry had thought it would. Snape began to shrug off his cloak, and the teenager found himself helping.

Merlin! The absolute last thing in the world Harry thought he would ever do was help Snape get undressed! But here he was throwing the cloak to the side and unbuttoning the man’s custom shirt. Disgust coursed through Harry’s body as he thought about what he was doing. He had absolutely no desire to see his professor’s exposed chest and he had no desire to touch this man. But catching his thoughts, the teenager chastised himself thoroughly for his grudges. Snape saved my life before, and now I’m just returning the favor.

As Harry began to peel the shirt away from Snape’s body, the man let out a startled cry of pain. Paling, the thirteen year old began to shake in fright. When he had pulled the shirt away, it seemed that the blood had dried and had begun to scab over the wounds. Essentially he had just ripped off a very big scab. “P-professor, I-” he began, feeling ill.

With wide, horrified eyes, Snape looked into the bright green eyes, his own dark seeming to glaze over once more. “You…you hurt me.”

The statement was like a knife in the heart. There was no heat behind those words, no bite. Gone was the dreaded and feared Potions Master, and in his place seemed to be a frightened child. Snape’s voice had no malice, no sneer. He looked at Harry as though the younger wizard had utterly and totally betrayed him.

“I-I’m sorry!” Harry whispered through tears in his eyes. Merlin, why did he feel so terrible? Hadn’t he and Ron plotted ways to hurt the greasy old bat a million times? Hadn’t everyone in the school plotted some sort of way to hurt the dungeon master someway? So why then, when he had the chance, did Harry feel so utterly horrible about doing the necessary?

The two wizards continued to stare at each other for a moment before Snape’s eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness again. For about the fourth time that morning, Harry’s face lost all color. What was he to do? He was usually the one hurt, he had never healed anyone before. What was he to do? What was he to do!

A creak of the stairs brought Harry back into awareness and his head shot up to look over his shoulder. Oh no!

“Harry James Potter!” he heard his aunt’s whiny voice hiss. “What the hell do you think…” her furious tirade ended abruptly when she saw the scene before her. “Dear sweet Mary!” she gasped.

“I-I can explain!” Harry tried desperately to think of something. Oh no, oh no, oh no! She’s gunna kill me and then she’s gunna leave Snape to die!

Her face set in a mask of outrage, Petunia stormed forward and Harry tried to think of a way to protect the injured wizard. After all, Snape had saved his life once, the least Harry could do was make sure his aunt did not kill the Potions Master. But just as the boy was about to block his aunt’s way, she stopped promptly once more, her face turning bone white before taking on a green color. She stifled a scream by shoving her fist in her mouth and just stared down at Snape with wide blue eyes. Her whole body began to shake violently and for a moment, Harry thought his aunt would faint.

“I-I-is h-he real?” her voice was whisper.

Harry looked from his aunt’s white face to Snape’s and back confusedly. “Yes,” he did not know what to say.

“How-?” Petunia seemed to have forgotten her nephew’s presence all together as she stared down into the unconscious man’s face. “It’s not possible,” her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she studied his face.

“Please, Aunt Petunia!” Harry pleaded, bringing the woman out of her thoughts. “He’s hurt. Really badly. I think he’s got a fever and I… I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.

For a sickening moment, Harry thought his aunt was going to deny the professor aid when she sat down next to the injured man and felt his forehead. She winced slightly as her hand brushed up against the wizard’s skin. But after a moment, she mover her hand over to the man’s long black hair. Almost tenderly, she brushed the locks out of Snape’s eyes before dropping her hand again.

“Go get some towels and the first aid kit out of the bathroom,” she instructed. “Now! I’ll get a bowl of water to clean out his wounds.”

Shocked, Harry stood staring at his aunt as though she had grown a horn in the middle of her head. She was willing to help? Why the hell was Petunia Dursley helping a man she did not even know? But not wanting her to change her mind, Harry nodded once before he sped off to do as his aunt had bid him, for the first time in his life, not cursing her under his breath as he normally did.

Running into the bathroom, Harry began collecting several towels that he thought could get bloodied without leaving stains and grabbing the first aid kit and the extra bandages. No telling how big Snape’s injuries were, but if Harry had to judge, he would say they were pretty extensive. He did not think a few scraps and bruises would lead the stern Potions Master to hallucinate. Besides, the man had a fever, and that was never a good sign.

Rushing back down, Harry found that his aunt had managed to take Snape’s shirt completely off and was tenderly rinsing off the clots of blood. Seeing the man’s exposed torso, Harry sucked in a sympathetic hiss. The wizard had a long, nasty looking cut from the bottom of his left hip to the top of his right shoulder. His hand also looked crippled and broken. What had happened to the man?

“Get over here!” Petunia growled, instantly snapping Harry out of his observations.

Quickly scooting over to his aunt, he began to open the first aid kit and handed her all of the bandages. Petunia looked over the supplies and took out the rubbing alcohol and several cotton swabs. “This big cut’s the worst,” her voice was flat. “It’ll need stitches I think. And he has several nasty looking things on his back that need cleaned as well.”

Harry nodded absently. What had happed to Snape to leave him in such a state? “What can I do?” the teenager found himself asking.

“Hold him while I lean him forward,” his aunt commanded. “You’ll have to be careful with him. He’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t think he’s seen a doctor for any of these.”

Nodding, the boy did as he was told and readied himself as his aunt pushed the professor forward. Snape’s head flopped onto Harry’s shoulder, and the boy had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. This was far too close to the man he hated most, but he could find no anger with his professor while he was in a state of helpless unconsciousness. Besides, Snape probably did not want to be this close to him either. After all, it would all be over in a minute.

Once Petunia started cleaning out the wounds, Snape’s head shot up and he hissed in misery, his eyes tightly clamped shut. But the teacher tried nothing else. He simply sagged against Harry once more and let the woman accomplish her task, all the while biting his bottom lip, as though trying no to cry out. For a moment, Harry even thought he heard his professor whimper. But that was ridicules. Severus Snape whimpering? Please, the man probably did not even know how to cry.

After the cleaning was done, they wrapped the wounds securely before Harry was finally able to lean Snape back up against the couch. He looked over to his aunt to find that she was still shaken pretty bad. “He’ll need medicine,” she said candidly. “Does he have any potions with him?”

Blinking in surprise, Harry stared up at his aunt. How would his aunt, the woman that hated the magical world and anything attached to it, know about healing potions? And why had she helped a man, and more importantly, a wizard, she did not even know? What was going on here? Was the world finally at an end? Or was this some kind of dream? Was he about to wake up any moment to find himself upstairs in bed?

“I don’t know,” the boy admitted. “But I think I have a few in my trunk.”

“Stay here with him,” she instructed, her voice sounding weak. “I’ll go get the key to the cupboard.”

Openly gawking, Harry watched as his aunt walked away. She was going to let him in his truck? The world really was coming to an end! Or he was in some sort of alternant universe where professors randomly appeared out of nowhere and his aunt was being civil to him. What was next? Was someone going to come and inform him that Dumbledore was his father? That would just be the icing on the cake!

Looking down at the wounded wizard, Harry found that he could not sneer. While not awake, the teenager found his professor quite agreeable. In fact, the closer that he looked into Snape’s face, Harry realized just how young his professor really was. Thinking back to his own parents, the young wizard remembered that James and Lily had married almost right out of Hogwarts, which meant that they were both twenty when he was born, which made Professor Snape only thirty-four years old. Cocking his head thoughtfully, Harry found that he could believe it looking at the man when his infamous sneer was not in place.

Only thirty-four…

Petunia came back into the room and handed Harry a little silver key. “Go on,” she jerked her head over to the cupboard.

Nodding, the boy went and felt a strange sense of power at being able to open what had been his prison for ten years on his own. It was odd how such a little and insignificant act of opening a door made Harry feel as though he were more powerful than Albus Dumbledore himself. Snorting at his own stupidity, the Boy-Who-Lived decided that sooner he got the professor his potions, the sooner the man would get better, meaning the sooner Snape would be able to leave.

Rummaging through his things, at last Harry found the potions he had been looking for. The Headmaster had given them to him at the end of the term, say that they were there if he needed them. As uncomfortable as it had made him feel then, the Gryffindor was glad he had accepted them. Although Dumbledore knew that the Dursleys were not particularly… nice to Harry, the old wizard could never have known that his act of kindness would have been so appreciated as it was now. The Headmaster did not know that Snape would end up here wounded this summer… did he?

Shaking his head of all thoughts not directly linked to the sick man in the parlor, Harry grabbed the potions he thought he would need before shutting the lid of his trunk and walking back. Despite their abhorrence for one another, the young wizard could not help but feel that things would change between he and the Potions Master after this. After all, the man was in his student’s debt. Maybe he would remember this when the school year rolled around again.

“Here,” Petunia held out her hands for the vials. “Which one is which?” she asked.

Looking at the labels, Harry read them each carefully before handing them over to his aunt. “The blue one’s for disinfections. The green one’s blood replenisher. The pink one’s for the fever.”

There was no mistaking Petunia’s revulsion of what she was doing now handling magical potions, but she seemed to be biting her tongue. “How much do I give him of each?” she asked, her voice loosing confidence.

“Um… all of the green, a swallow of the blue, and… um, all of the pink,” Harry thought back to all the times he had been in the hospital wing at school and was confident that he was right. But what if he wasn’t? Would Snape die? Don’t second guess yourself, Potter, Harry told himself sternly. Always go with your gut.

Harry watched in fascination as his aunt held Snape’s head up and pressed the vial to his pale lips. Instantly, the professor’s eyes flew open. “Poison!” he gasped.

Both Petunia and Harry were startled by the outburst, but were able to gather their wits back quickly. Harry came and gently held his professor’s shoulders while Petunia spoke quietly to him. “Severus?” she said, her voice more gentle than her nephew had ever heard it before, even to Dudley. “Severus, it’s Petunia. You’re sick and you need to take your medicine.”

The Potions Master seemed to be confused at first as he looked up at the woman before him. His eyes were glazed over and glassy, and for a moment, he really looked dead until he shivered. “Don’t send me home,” he whispered.

The statement was dismal and imploring, and for just a moment, it was as though the frightening Potions Master was nothing but a child. Indeed, for a brief moment, Harry saw nothing but a little black haired boy, scared and alone. How was he supposed to hate this man if after every passing moment he felt more and more sorry for him?

Petunia also looked deeply affected by the man’s overture, and Harry thought he even saw tears in his aunt‘s eyes. “I’m not going to send you home,” she said tenderly. “But you need to drink these.”

The obsidian eyes looked at the vials before him distrustfully and then at the people before him. In his fevered state, Snape did not seem to fully understand the situation or the fact that anyone was trying to help him. He was stuck in the dreadful bridge between awareness and dream. As soon as the Muggle and the young wizard figured that the Potions Master did not understand, his eyes sparked with some recognition and reached for the potions.

Snape’s hands trembled awfully, but Petunia kept her hands on the glass as the wizard grabbed them and tossed back one after the other. “Harry,” the boy’s aunt said quietly, as though afraid to dismay the professor, “please go get Severus something to drink.”

Nodding, Harry scuttled off to the kitchen. Only when he was filling the glass did he realize one very important thing: he had not told his aunt who Snape was! Nowhere in his memories did Harry ever recall telling his aunt about Snape, nor had he introduced him this morning. But that would have to mean that his aunt had known the Slytherin before Harry had!

Coming back out, the young Gryffindor listened as his aunt cooed the distressed looking man down. When the boy was near enough, his aunt snatched the water away and helped the shaking man drink it down. “Harry,” Petunia’s voice was still low. “We need to get Severus upstairs and away from view. Vernon will be waking in half an hour.”

Snapping his head towards the clock, Harry’s jaw dropped when he did indeed behold it was already six thirty in the morning. Where had all the time gone? What seemed to have only taken ten minutes had truly taken over an hour! “Where are we going to put him?” he asked his aunt, making sure he too kept his voice soft.

“For now?” the woman bit her upper lip. “For now I think we should keep him in your room. Vernon goes in every other room, and I don’t want him finding Severus. We’ll keep him there until he can leave. I’ll make up a cot for you to sleep on until then.”

Nodding, agreeing with the plan, Harry went on the other side of the professor and he and his aunt lifted the man to his feet. Snape once again did not seem to understand that they needed him to walk and tried to twist out of their grasps. “I’m not going back!” the wizard’s trembling got so bad that he almost shook out of Harry’s hands.

“You’re not going back, Severus,” Petunia winced, while trying to keep her peer upright. “We’re going to put you to bed and need you to climb the stairs.”

“I’m not going back,” Snape glowered at the woman, but it was a pathetic attempt due to his condition.

Sighing in frustration, the Muggle woman seemed to look around for an idea to use. Her face brighten when she came up with one. “Lily’s upstairs,” she said sweetly. “She’s waiting for you.”

At this, the man’s face relaxed, and his eyes brightened. “Lily? She…she’s waiting for me?”

“Yes, Severus. Come along upstairs.”

Although it was slow goings, the trio made their way out of the parlor and up the stairs. A few times Harry worried that the wizard was going to collapse, but he seemed determined not to fail. The idea that the man was so very much wanting to see Harry’s mother really confused and unnerved the boy. And how did Petunia know that would work? How did Petunia know Snape?!

Once in Harry’s room, Harry and his aunt laid Snape down in bed. As Petunia covered the man up, the boy took off his professor’s boots and set them beside the bed. The two of them huffed and puffed for a moment as they looked down at their charge who had already passed out, his raven hair falling in his face, sweat covering his body.

Petunia looked over at her nephew thoughtfully for a moment before looking back down at the sleeping wizard. “Come on Harry,” she said quietly. “Let’s make breakfast.”