“How are ye doin’ today, Harry?”

“Okay,” Harry said, his eyes downcast. Harry flinched when he felt a hand briefly squeeze his shoulder.

“Tis alright, Harry. I know this isna easy at all, an’ I’m sorry fer that, aye?”

Harry nodded as he concentrated on the tingling sensation of her touch. It was familiar to him now, as was her reassuring smile, her calming voice, her humming while she worked. He held onto these small touchstones like anchors in a storm.

“Before we get started, do ye want Professor Snape ta join ye right away, or do ye want to wait an’ see if ye need him first?”

Harry didn’t relish anyone seeing his darkest memories before he even knew what they were. “Let’s wait and see,” he responded. “No offense, sir,” he said, darting a glance at the Potions Master.

“None taken, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, and the sincerity in his eyes had Harry believing him. Perhaps Snape understood more than Harry would have given him credit for.

“Lie back now, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said, fussing with his pillows. “We are all here for you should you need us.”

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable and dreading what was to come, Harry lay back on the hospital mattress, covered himself loosely with a sheet, and closed his eyes.

“I’m goin’ ta lay me hand on yer shoulder, Harry, aye?” Healer Covey’s voice cooed.

As Harry was expecting it, he didn’t flinch, not much anyway.

“Just breathe with me, laddie, aye, there ye go. Let yer mind drift away.”

Harry felt his consciousness floating in time and space as Healer Covey’s warmth suffused his body. Last time, the warmth had focused deep inside, healing a bruised kidney from a kick to the lower back from Uncle Vernon when he was 12. She’d also released and healed a punctured lung from several cracked ribs the time before. But this was different. She seemed to be tracing the arteries in his limbs, the heat branching out in every direction at once.

Last time, she had explained to him that it was his body that was leading the healing, not her. She might initially try and focus on one thing, but after that was healed, his body would guide her to other places, leading her where it needed her healing the most. Unless there was a very good reason to follow a different path, she didn’t fight it.

As he was floating in the mist, his limbs started to burn and ache. When she had worked on his broken ribs, it had started this way as well. Then, though, only three ribs on one side had burned at a time as she released his elemental magic and healed it with her own. Then two more on the other side. Then his sternum.

But this was different. All of his limbs were burning and all at the same time—multiple places on his right and left arms, his left ankle, his right thigh. He gasped at the pain.

Harry felt a cool potion being poured down his throat as the words of the adults around him blurred together in the distance, indecipherable in the torrent of agony that kept increasing. He gritted his teeth and tried to grasp onto Covey through the pain-filled mist, but he couldn’t find her or her touchstones. Where was she?

The banister of the stairs from Privet Drive came into view, the white knuckles of one hand grasping the banister, the other hand wrapped around one of the spindles. Uncle Vernon stood at the bottom landing, his face purple with rage. Aunt Petunia stood at the top, trying to pry him off the stairs.

When Vernon started to ascend the staircase, Harry held on tighter, his 8-year-old voice crying out: “Nooooooo, please stop, please…” But Uncle Vernon never stopped.

Harry felt Vernon grab his thin arms, trying to force young Harry to let go. Harry managed to hang on, just barely. He felt his fear ratchet up one-hundred fold at the look of evil on his Uncle’s Face. He held on tighter, only to find one of his arms being grasped by both of Vernon’s, one on his wrist, and one nearer his elbow.

“I’ll teach you not to listen, boy,” the man seethed, spittle hanging from his deranged face.

And then he began to twist Harry’s arm. Harry let go of the spindle and begged his uncle to stop, but letting go was no longer good enough. The vile man just kept twisting, twisting until tendon separated from bone, twisting until the bone cracked loudly and his screaming rent the air.

Still, it wasn’t enough for the man. Vicious blows and kicks landed on his body, sending him crashing down the stairs until he came to rest in a heap on the landing. His uncle came to stand over him, demanding that he shut his damn mouth and stop screaming.

But Harry couldn’t. The pain wouldn’t stop. Vernon lifted his boot and kicked at Harry’s broken arm. When that didn’t work, he kicked Harry in the stomach. The screaming abruptly stopped as Harry had the wind knocked out of him.

Before Harry could even catch his breath, the scene shifted. He was in the back garden shed, light barely sifting in through the mostly closed door. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he knew Uncle Vernon was coming. He wanted to run, to hide, but he couldn’t. There was a large metal stake driven into the center of the concrete floor, and on that was welded a metal loop. Harry’s hands were tied behind his back and he was tethered to that loop. And his uncle was heading his way. Sweat beaded his skin as fear consumed him, his heart racing, bile in his throat.

Then his uncle was standing in the door, and rolling up his shirts sleeves.

“Vernon, wait,” his aunt called.

Confused, Harry glanced up to see his aunt rushing toward him.

“Vernon, we can’t afford for you to bruise your knuckles. We are going out to dinner this evening. Here, use this instead.”

To Harry’s horror, the vile woman had handed his uncle a four foot long 2’ x 4’.

Vernon smiled. “You think you can bully our son, do you? Scare him with your funny business? Well let’s see how you like a bit of our funny business then, eh?”

The first blow hit Harry on the shoulder and nearly knocked him over. He was 13 now, but it hardly mattered. He was small for his age and he hadn’t eaten in days. He was weak. The second blow hit him upside the head. The more he begged for Vernon to stop, the more it drove the insane man on. Petunia stood with her arms crossed in the doorway watching. Soon the board wasn’t enough and he started kicking Harry as well.

Harry pulled to the end of the rope tying him to the stake, trying to get as far away from his uncle as he could. But that seemed to enrage the man even more.

His uncle stepped over to Harry then, and looked at Harry critically. Harry’s one leg was extended at an awkward angle. In one horrible moment, Uncle Vernon lifted his leg, and brought the heel of his boot down viscously on Harry’s thigh, shattering his femur bone in a resounding crack.

Harry shrieked, his body on fire, his leg hanging at an awkward angle, his vision dimming, as wave upon wave of nausea overcame him.

He rolled on the bed in the infirmary and began retching.

<HHR>

“I don’t know how much more of this we can put him through, Albus,” Snape said.

The headmaster hung his head. “I know that I am asking a lot of you, Severus, but we must persevere. The boy needs to be healed. Poppy thinks it may have stunted his growth. It would be wrong to prevent him from reaching his full potential when it is within our means to grant him it.”

“And is it not wrong to torture him relentlessly with memories of abuse that his mind blocked out for good reason?”

“Harry is stronger than you think. He’ll get through this.”

“And if he doesn’t, Albus? He can’t sleep, he can’t focus on his school work, he’s having flashbacks and panic attacks…”

“And you have given him potions, have you not? And he is seeing a Muggle counselor. These are things we can manage.”

Snape shook his head at the old man’s foolishness.

“Why aren’t you Occluding for him during these healing sessions?”

“I am, when he requires it. I suspect he’d prefer not to share any more of the horrendous memories than he needs to.”

“Perhaps you should Occlude for him regardless of his wishes, if it is as bad as you say it is.”

Snape grimaced. He knew Potter was already hanging on by a thread and to take away yet another piece of his autonomy, the only one he had left, really, might be the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

“I know you, Severus, better than you know yourself sometimes. You won’t let the boy break. You made Lily and myself a promise, and I trust you to keep it.”

Snape felt his anger rise to a boil. “I promised to keep her son safe and well. I am not convinced that this, this healing, is keeping him safe or well.”

“Perhaps we need to find another healer, then,” Dumbledore suggested.

Snape blanched. “That is not the problem, Albus, and you know it. Healer Cook is an excellent healer, one of the very best. You yourself chose her for that very reason. But even she cannot prevent the boy from cracking under the strain of it all.”

“No,” Dumbledore replied, “that is what I am counting on you for, Severus.”

Snape clenched his hands into fists. Dumbledore was bound and determined to have his way, regardless of the people that got crushed on the path to his “grand plan”, whatever that was. And while Snape didn’t think he intended to sacrifice Potter along the way, the man’s arrogance might just do that anyway.

“You are asking a lot of Potter,” Snape ground out.

“No more than I ask of you,” the headmaster replied.

“But Potter is a child!”

“Did you consider yourself a child at 15, Severus? Two years from manhood, and already you acted as your own guardian. Isn’t Potter doing the same?”

“I… You… No, it’s not the same!”

“How is it not, Severus? Your home situation was not so very different.”

“We are not talking about me!” Snape retorted. “And furthermore, I did not have a madman seeking to kill me.”

“Did you not, Severus? Perhaps not in exactly the same way, but you’d already set your lot with the Death Eaters by 15.”

Snape was ready to pull his hair out in frustration. “It’s not the same thing,” he insisted.

Dumbledore just stared expectantly at Snape, and Snape knew that look. That look that said that it didn’t matter what anyone else said, Dumbledore had already made up his mind, and his minions would, in the end, come to understand his brilliance, even if their minds were too small to realize it at the present moment.

“I can see that you will not be dissuaded,” Snape spat. “So I will take my leave.”

“Do send Harry my regards, won’t you?”

“Tell him yourself,” Snape snapped, and with that, he stormed out of Dumbledore’s office.

Once Potter was stabilized, Severus led an exhausted Healer Covey back to his quarters, as had become their custom. He got her settled on his sofa and made her a cup of her favorite white cinnamon tea. Then, he sat down beside her, and pulled her toward him. She sighed, and settled against him. Wrapping an arm around her, he inhaled her enticing scent as he kissed the top of her head.

“How did the healing go?” he asked. True, he’d been there. He’d seen Harry’s body tense, curl into itself, fight against invisible fists, and the like, but things always looked different from Covey’s perspective.

He felt Covey shake her head against him. “Tis so hard on Harry. I wish I could make it a wee bit easier on him, ye ken?”

“It is not easy for you either,” Severus commented.

“Nay,” she confirmed, “but I have ye ta take care o’ me after, aye? I worry about Harry. He keeps too much ta himself.”

“He’s at a hard age,” Severus said. At 15, Potter was still trying to figure out who he was as a person. His life was anything but settled. And with the Dark Lord’s shadow hanging over the boy, his future was uncertain at best. Sighing, Snape shifted Covey to fit a bit more comfortably against him.

Earl Grey jumped up on the couch, settling himself next to Covey’s thigh and purring loudly, demanding attention.

“Aye,” Covey said, stroking the black cat. “Today was different as well. I was focusin’ on his arms and legs, aye?” She sucked in a breath, “An’ there’s so much there,” she lamented. “So many injuries… contusions, fractures, strains...” She shook her head again. “Tis a balance, ye ken? Healin’ things piece-by-piece, or tryin’ ta do it all at once ta get it done faster so he doesna have ta keep goin’ through this…” Covey’s voice caught in her throat.

“Covey,” Severus said, raising her chin to look into her teary blue eyes. “You are an amazing healer and witch. You are doing more for Harry than anyone has ever done for the boy.” And no less than he himself should have done, Severus thought, grimacing.

Covey reached up and stroked his cheek. “You, Sevvie, are a wee bit biased, aye?”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, as he bent forward to place a kiss on her lips. “But not on this topic,” he said against her mouth, as she scooted closer to return his kisses.

Severus drank her in, amazed that this slip of a witch had inserted herself into his life so effortlessly and completely. She was young and beautiful and so innocent compared to him. And even if she was more worldly than he liked to think, he relished in the thought of her being his opposite; lightness to his darkness.

Her hands slipped around his neck as her fingers wove their way into his hair. She deepened the kiss, and Severus felt himself responding in kind. He slid his hands under her robes and around her waist, relishing in the feel of her soft curves.

Her warm, contented sigh had him struggling to maintain his composure. There was no doubt that he wanted her, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her when she was so tired and worn out. When they came together for the first time, he wanted both of them to be fully rested and calm so as to be able to experience every sensual touch and kiss of their joining. Still, he wasn’t complaining.

Carefully, he slid his hand under the hem of her blouse, feeling the warmth of her skin dance beneath the pads of his fingers as he traced the curve of her lower back.

Her quick catch of breath and the way she snuggled closer to him had him fighting an inelegant moan from escaping his mouth.

One of her hands had slid up under his shirt. Now, it trailed down his neck, along his chest, down to the waistband of his trousers. Snape caught his breath in anticipation of her fingers continuing their exploration of him.

Just as her fingers slid beneath his waistband, he jerked and hissed in pain. He pulled away from her touch and her kiss as he leapt to his feet, his mind ablaze with fear and regret.

“Sevvie?” she asked, her expression uncertain.

Snape’s mind was spinning. He had to leave. Immediately. But what to tell Covey?

“What is it?” she said, getting to her feet.

Snape held up a hand to stop her, and stepped back, putting even more distance between them. Hurt flashed across her face, but he shook his head, and then hissed again as the pain in his arm redoubled. Unconsciously, he wrapped his fingers around his left forearm. She noticed, and understanding blossomed on her face. Snape felt his world crash down around him.

“Leave,” he said, much harsher than he intended. “Please,” he implored. He refused to put on his Death Eater attire in front of her.

After a moment’s hesitation she nodded and gathered up her belongings. Here shoulders were rigid as she threw a handful of floo powder into his hearth and vanished in a curl of green flames. She hadn’t looked at him again as she’d flooed away.

Snape wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. He knew she’d already known about his Dark Mark, she’d healed some of the curse for him after all. But what she didn’t know, what he’d neglected to tell her, was that he was still a Death Eater. Albeit a spy for Dumbledore, but he couldn’t tell her that either. Cursing and pushing away all thoughts of Covey, he did what he needed to do before answering the Dark Lord’s summons.