Harry felt like he was floating. His senses seemed dull and slow. He had the urge to stretch, but his limbs didn’t seem to want to cooperate. He debated fighting the sensation, but was too tired and quickly slipped back into a restless sleep.

The next time he neared consciousness, he still had that muzzy feeling, but he forced his eyes open. Along with the late afternoon light, other sensations came flooding back to him, including a throbbing pulse that ricocheted through his head. He moaned softly, willing the pain to recede. His mouth was dry and the metallic tang of iron hung on his tongue; blood replenishing potion, he realized. He fought the urge to wretch and reduced his eyelids to slits to let in the smallest possible amount of light. Glancing around the room, he tried to remember where he was.

His vision was blurry, but he recognized the blues and greens of the bedroom in what had once been his mother’s cottage. With that memory came the image of Snape. And with the image of Snape came a burning, aching desire to destroy the man who had betrayed him so fully. The man who had convinced Harry that he was on Harry’s side, with the intention of handing him over to Lord Voldemort in the end.

Anger coursing through his veins, Harry made to swing his legs over the bed, determined to leave the confines of the cottage, even if he had to duel Snape in the process. The effort had his heart beating fast and his breath quickening, even before he realized, in utter confusion, that he could not move. He fought the sensation in vain, suddenly feeling more trapped than ever.

“Calm yourself, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes jerked to where a dark figure stood in the door, arms folded over his chest in a self-satisfied gesture. “You will need to be immobilized for at least 48 hours. Your little stunt on that broom cost you several broken bones and a concussion.”

Potter stared at the man. Forty-eight hours? How convenient, he thought bitterly. Plenty of time to ‘deliver him to the Dark Lord.’ He’d be damned if he’d let them take him so easily.

The blurred, dark figure approached and Harry fought to free his hand so he could pull his wand from his robes and curse the double-crossing traitor. He fought the full body bind in vain, leaving his nerves feeling as if they were on fire.

Snape continued to come closer, reaching his left hand into an inner pocket of his robes as he did so. “Fighting the spell is useless, Potter.”

Harry felt panic crawling up his spine at Snape’s ominous tone. He didn’t want it to end like this; him a helpless observer of his fate. As Snape pulled his hand from his pocket, Harry shouted: “NO!”

Snape paused, looking at him quizzically. Then he held the object in his hand two inches from Harry’s face. “See these? You didn’t look much better.”

Heart beating a painful tattoo in his chest, his breath coming out in pained gasps, Harry had to practically cross his eyes as he focused on the twisted black metal frames and spider-webbed lenses of his eye glasses.

Snape took the glasses back, touched his wand to them, and murmured “Reparo.” Sliding the frames onto Harry’s face, he said: “Now be still so you can heal.”

Snape left the room, leaving Harry stunned and shaky. Images of Snape colluding with Voldemort danced in his mind, mixed with images of himself flying around the pitch—no, the cottage’s perimeter—on a broom. A school broom? He wrinkled his brow, frustration swamping him as he tried to sort out truth from fiction. His memory felt fuzzy and his head ached as he faded into unconsciousness once again.

“You need to drink these,” a deep voice echoed from the doorway.

Harry’s eyes focused on Snape. He must drifted off for a bit, though he still had his glasses on. Studying the man before him warily, Harry noticed that Snape was wearing his customary black robes over black slacks and a white oxford shirt. He looked the same as he had since they’d arrived at the cottage.  

His wits sharpening, Harry blurted out the question that had been burning in his mind since he’d realized where he was. “Why did you save me?”

Snape stopped mid-way into the room, scrutinizing Harry as if he’d grown a second head. “We’ve had this discussion already.”

“Remind me then,” Harry said, his voice stiff with mistrust.

Snape set the tray of potions on the nightstand before considering Harry. Harry held his gaze and waited.

“I wasn’t saving you, per se; I was saving myself.”

“But what does that mean?” Harry insisted.

“It means that I had debts to repay. And that I was tired of catering to madmen’s wishes.”

“Are you calling Dumbledore a ‘madman’?” Harry breathed incredulously.

“Do you have a better name for a man who would let an unqualified, underage wizard fight the Dark Lord on his own? Not once, not twice, but three times?”

Harry studied the tall, pale wizard before him, the hooked nose, the black eyes, the greasy hair. “But why save me?” Harry asked, searching the man’s face for the lie. “Why not just save yourself?”

“As I’ve already said, Potter, I had debts to repay.”

“To who?” Harry persisted.

“To whom,” Snape corrected. Fiddling with the potions on the tray, Snape added, “To your mother, for one. Now drink this.”

Harry felt his whole body being tipped up at a 45-degree angle. As he opened his mouth to ask what his mother had to do with anything, he felt a cool liquid being poured down his gullet. He coughed and spluttered but managed to swallow most of it. Clearing his throat, he rasped out: “Some warning next time might be nice.” Snape merely rolled his eyes before returning Harry to a supine position and leaving the room.

The afternoon sun had long since faded, replaced by a full moon and the wavering shadows of candlelight from the wall sconces. Harry felt restless. He couldn’t reconcile the Snape reading in the single bed across the room with the knowledge that this man might also be a traitor, waiting venomously to strike at any moment. Steeling his nerve, Harry asked: “Are you going anywhere tonight?”

For a moment, Harry didn’t think Snape had heard him, or perhaps he was ignoring him. Finally, Harry heard Snape set down his book and pad across the floor to stand beside Harry’s bed.

“Have I ever left this cottage since we’ve arrived?”

“Not that I know of,” Harry answered with a challenge in his voice, meeting the man’s steely gaze with one of his own.

“Not that you know of,” Snape echoed, repeating Harry’s words in a way that made them sound like something only an idiot would say.

Harry tried to shrug, but his body was still held captive by the paralysis spell. If Snape was telling the truth, it was so that his body had time to heal. If not, Snape was merely holding him captive.

Snape pulled out his wand, and Harry would have flinched if he could have. Lighting the tip, Snape used it to test Harry’s pupils for dilation.

Catching the guilty look on Harry’s face, Snape abruptly asked: “What aren’t you telling me?”

Harry felt his cheeks redden. He was trapped and helpless, and entirely at this man’s mercy.

“Potter…” Snape said, his voice sounding both stern and irritated.

Harry shifted his gaze. “Nothing.”

“You have never been a good liar, Potter. And if your expression didn’t give you away, the sheen of sweat on your forehead and your increased heart and respiration rates would have betrayed you.”

Betrayed. The word echoed in Harry’s mind. The anger boiling just beneath the surface erupted. Fury and accusation colored Harry’s words as he snapped: “You’re still working for Voldemort, aren’t you?”

“What?!?” Snape hissed, shock and anger marring his angular features.

Harry studied Snape’s expression for any indication that the man was lying.

“You are as impossible as your father. How many times do I have to save your life for you to see reason?”

His anger cresting, Harry countered, “Why not just let me die then? Why heal me just so you can turn me over to Voldemort?”

Snape stared at Harry, his face a mask of disbelief. “Perhaps you hit your head harder than I thought.”

Snape pocketed his wand and turned to walk away, when Harry shouted: “I saw you! You were talking to Voldemort. You said… you said…” Harry suddenly found it hard to breath. Black spots swam before his eyes. What if he was wrong? What if he wasn’t? “You said you would bring me to him tonight,” Harry whispered.

Snape stared, stunned, at the boy who lived, even after the colossal head-first dive into the ground outside the cottage. Had the crash addled his brains? Could any of the potions be giving him strange dreams? Unless…

“Potter, look at me.” In a moment, Snape was in Potter’s mind, pushing through extraneous images, searching, searching… and there it was. A replay of what had happened in the circle the night the boy was captured and tortured, and then a scene where he and Voldemort were discussing a ‘plan’.

Sighing deeply, he pulled out of Potter’s head. “I see,” he said. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “You have seen into the Dark Lord’s mind before, Potter. You’ve seen him speak with his Death Eaters. He is an impatient master. Had I truly been working for him, had I been ready to turn you over to him this moment, do you really think he’d have had me wait until tonight? After you’ve eluded him so many times?

“Furthermore, ” Snape added with an odd twist of his mouth, “have you ever heard me speak so… enthusiastically… before?” Snape’s lip curled in distaste. “I beg at no man’s heels, Potter, I assure you. Only weak men like Wormtail stoop to such antics.”

 Still breathing heavy, Potter considered him. Snape could practically see the cogs turning in the boy’s head.

“If I was only interested in your death at the Dark Lord’s hands, I would not have brought you here in the first place.”

“Maybe you changed your mind,” Potter challenged.

Snape laughed without mirth. Reaching beneath his robes, he pulled out the brass key that he wore on a long chain around his neck. “Your mother gave me this key. She bade me promise that I would do all in my power to keep herself, and her loved ones, safe. I failed her once. I will not fail her again.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.