A/N: This is a dark chapter, filled with memories of torture. If you are skipping the torture chapters, you’ll want to skip this one. The next one will be much lighter. FYI / be warned.

Snape paced back and forth, listening to the teen retching and sobbing. The boy’s words were muffled and he couldn’t understand them through the locked door, but he imagined that Harry was on hands and knees before the toilet, pulling at his hair.

“Harry, please, unlock the door.”

It wasn’t the first time Snape had made the plea. He could force the issue, use magic to gain entrance to the water closet, but if Harry wasn’t in immediate danger, he’d rather let the teen retain whatever sliver of control and independence that he could.

Sighing, he stopped pacing and leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, feeling useless. “Harry…”

The lock clicked.

Slowly, Snape twisted the knob and pushed open the door. He peered inside, ignoring the stench of vomit. Harry was sitting on the floor opposite the toilet, leaning against the wall. His legs were pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them. With his face buried in his knees, Snape couldn’t tell if he was still crying, but his thin frame was trembling.

“Accio blanket,” Snape murmured before casting an air-freshening charm.

A moment later, Snape settled the blanket over Harry’s shoulders, pulled him forward a bit so the blanket could fall behind the teen’s back, and then wrapped it around his legs, cocooning the boy. Then he sat on the floor beside Harry and leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closed, waiting.

A few moments later, the blanket moved a little and he felt a chilled hand searching for his. He took hold of it and held on, waiting for Harry to calm down enough to talk.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat there, both lost in their own thoughts. He wondered how willing he would be to discuss what had happened if the roles had been reversed. Hell, he’d flat out refused to tell Albus what the Death Eaters had done to him on the occasions when he’d been “punished” by the Dark Lord for some perceived failure, or simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yet, somehow, Harry seemed purer than he had ever been. This, it seemed, made the teen more worthy in his eyes, more deserving of help and understanding. Snape didn’t view himself as the nurturing sort, but Harry—for all his childish faults—hadn’t deserved what the Death Eaters had done to him. Snape had willingly, albeit foolishly, chosen his path; the boy had not. Harry’d been thrust into an adult’s game as a mere child: a pawn, a sacrifice, a hoped-for hero, the Chosen One. He had not volunteered, not as Severus had. And therein lay the difference.

“Harry…” Snape murmured, squeezing his hand. It was absolution and an offering all in one.

Harry raised his face and wiped the tear tracks on his blanket-covered knees. The trembling had subsided and his sniffling had ceased.

Embarrassed, Harry made to pull back his hand, but Snape only held it tighter.

“It’s all right,” Snape said, and then loosened his grip, in case Harry really did want his hand back.

Harry took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. He didn’t release Snape’s hand.

“They starved me,” Harry said, his voice hollow as he studied his shoelaces. “I was so hungry I would have eaten anything. Moldy bread, sour milk, anything,” he said, shaking his head.

Snape waited, listening, knowing whatever had triggered the boy would come out sooner or later.

“They would eat their meals in front of me, taunting me. They’d break off bits of food and offer it to me through the bars, but when I reached for it, they’d drop it just out of my reach and then spit on it, or mash it with their boots. And laugh.” Harry dragged in a breath and shook his head. “I was so desperate. And I felt so pathetic, begging them for just a morsel.”

Snape squeezed the hand clutching his, a silent token of support.

“Then, finally, they brought me food. They said they’d been ordered to treat me better. That Voldemort wanted me alive and strong so we could have a proper duel. They gave me a glass of water first. It was the most incredible thing I’d ever tasted.” Harry paused, drawing in breath and swallowing hard. “Then they gave me a plate of food. It had a large piece of cooked chicken on a bed of rice. They even loosened my chains so I could twist enough to use one hand to eat. They didn’t give me cutlery of course.”

Harry bit his lip and made a keening sound. He let go of Snape’s hand and wrapped both of his arms back around his legs, holding on tightly.

Snape scooted closer and put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. He wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do until Harry leaned into him.

“I thought they just wanted to humiliate me. To watch me eat with my hands like an animal. They were always calling me an animal…” Harry said, trailing off. “I had to twist awkwardly to reach the plate with my one hand, but I was so hungry I didn’t care. I picked up the piece of chicken and I…” he paused, gulping for air as his voice cracked. “I bit into it, barely chewing as I swallowed because I was so hungry. I took another bite and swallowed that one too. But if felt funny, and when I looked, it was because it was… the chicken was… filled with maggots,” he forced out with a shudder, his voice going up an octave. “Hundreds of them. All alive and wriggling. In my mouth, down my throat, on my chin.” Harry shivered violently. “I screamed and dropped the chicken, and started vomiting. I threw up all the water they’d given me, plus the maggots I’d eaten. By then, I was covered in them. They were all over me, swimming in my puke… and with my arms chained as they were, I couldn’t get them off of me.” Sagging against Snape, his voice desperate, he continued. “I just kept screaming and retching and thrashing around uselessly. And the guards just kept laughing…”

Harry let out a sound of despair and Snape pulled him closer. Harry let him, burying his face against Snape’s chest as his sobs redoubled. Snape rubbed his back, listening to the boy muttering against his chest. Snape couldn’t understand the muffled words, but he didn’t think it mattered. Harry just needed to get it out.

As he soothed the boy as best he could, he reckoned the only thing surprising about this breakdown was that it hadn’t happened sooner. He remembered back to when Harry had been rescued. Snape had tried to give the starving teen food then, but he’d refused it. The fact that Snape hadn’t prepared a meal that had triggered a bad reaction sooner was astounding. But then, he reasoned, that was likely because he’d been feeding the boy simple broths and bread and eggs exclusively up until that point. Tonight was the first time he’d tried something more substantial.

As Harry’s tears ebbed once again, Harry pulled back, righting himself next to Snape. Not making eye contact, he murmured, “Sorry, sir.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Snape informed him.

Harry glanced at him through his fringe of hair before looking away.

Snape let out a breath, feeling truly sorry for the boy. Softly, he asked, “Is there any chance I can get you to eat something this evening? Name it and I’ll make it for you.”

Harry shuddered and that was answer enough.

Snape got to his feet and wetted a flannel with warm water before handing it to Harry.

Harry took it and began to wipe his face.

“Give me a minute to clean up the kitchen. I will meet you in the sitting room when you feel up to it.”

Harry had been quiet and tense the rest of the evening, refusing both food and conversation. By the time they were preparing for bed, Snape had a bad feeling that it was going to be a long night. Even Dobby’s presence and reassurances that Harry was safe didn’t seem to calm the teen. And tonight was not a Dreamless Sleep night.

Snape made sure that Harry had his ball of light near him before he extinguished the sconces that lit the master bedroom. As Snape lay in bed, waiting for Harry to fall asleep, he could hear the boy fretting.

“What is on your mind?” he finally asked, knowing neither of them would be able to sleep with as agitated as Harry was.

“I was thinking about the Muggle in the cell next to mine. At least, I think he was a Muggle.”

There was a long pause, before Harry added, “I couldn’t help him.”

In a quieter voice that Snape had to strain to hear, Harry said, “There was nothing I could do.”

“You can’t save everyone, Harry.” Snape turned on his side, facing the teen. Harry lay on his back, the ball of light above him casting shadows over the planes of his face. “None of it was your fault. That Muggle would have suffered the same whether you were there or not.”

“I just felt so helpless,” Harry admitted. “I tried to speak to him, but he would just cry whenever I did, so I stopped.”

Silence hung between them as Snape waited for Harry to continue. “They did awful things to him, Professor. Worse than they did to me. He would scream until he couldn’t anymore.” There was a pause, and then Harry said, “I used to beg them to stop hurting him.”

Snape heard Harry suck in a breath. “I sometimes wished they would just kill the poor bloke so he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.”

“That is perfectly understandable,” Snape replied.

“Is it?” Harry asked, his voice tinged with self-reproach. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to die for his sake, or because I couldn’t stand hearing his pained screams.”

Snape opened his mouth to say something, but Harry kept talking.

“They wouldn’t let him die,” Harry said, his voice breaking. “They kept him alive, I think to taunt me as much as to torture him. They…” Harry stopped, cleared his throat. “They started… cutting off his body parts.” Harry started making that keening noise again, the one that broke Snape’s heart. “After the chicken, they brought me a bowl of soup and…” Harry gasped.

“Harry…” Snape said sitting up, knowing this was going nowhere good and not quite sure what to do about it.

“And… there were these chunks floating in it. And they were… they were the man’s toes…” Harry made a sound deep in his throat and rolled onto his side, curling into a tight ball.

Snape knelt beside the camp bed, placing a hand on the teen’s shoulder. When he didn’t flinch away, Snape rubbed gentle circles on his back.

“There was nothing you could have done, Harry. The situation was beyond your control. The blame lies entirely with your captors.”

“But I…” Harry sobbed. “I was glad it was him and not me,” he admitted and Snape could hear the pain and guilt in his voice.

“Of course you were,” Snape said soothingly, “anyone would have been in your situation. It was only natural for you to have those thoughts. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Harry continued to sob and Snape wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He’d never got his kicks from torturing people and steered clear of it as much as he could. When he was unable to avoid it, he survived by detaching himself from what was happening, and then burying it in the back of his mind as best he could.

“They would threaten to cut off my body parts as well,” Harry breathed, that awful keening sound resurfacing as he forced out the words. “One guard would hold me down and the other would use his dagger to make an incision on my wrist or my ankle, telling me he was going to cut off my hand or foot. Then…” Harry said, trembling now, “they would give me a choice. They said they would either cut off my hand… or the bloke’s in the next cell.”

Snape clenched his jaw, vowing to tear Harry’s torturers limb from limb if he ever got the chance.

“They wanted me to choose… him or me… and I… I… couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t choose.”

Snape pulled Harry toward him, gathering the sobbing young man awkwardly in his arms. He couldn’t even imagine having the strength it took Harry not to condemn the faceless man in the next cell to save his own skin. Harry was a better man than he ever would be.

“And then, one of the guards would go next door and tell the bloke that I had chosen for them to cut off his hand or foot instead of mine.” Harry looked pleadingly at Snape. “But I didn’t, Professor. I swear, I didn’t!”

Snape placed a gentle hand on Harry’s head and pulled the teen to his chest. “Of course you didn’t,” he whispered.

Harry’s hands fisted in Snape’s nightshirt. “He would beg and plead for the guard not to do it. And then he’d scream and scream and I’d scream too, but there was nothing I could do.”

“Shhhh, child,” Snape murmured, rocking Harry gently in his arms.

“When the guard came back he’d…” Harry swallowed, shaking his head back in forth as if to deny his memories, “he’d throw the hand or foot at me. Sometimes, he’d wipe the hot, sticky blood across my skin,” Harry whispered, a shudder wracking his body. “They’d always leave it there when they left, like a reminder.” Harry swallowed before adding bitterly, “As if I could forget.”

Snape dropped his head to rest on Harry’s, his heart aching. He wondered if they’d ever put the poor Muggle out of his misery. Unwilling to ask, Snape cast a Featherlight Charm on Harry, lifted him in his arms, and carried him to his bed, where he laid the boy down in the middle. Then he crawled in and pulled the boy back into his arms and against his chest, offering what comfort he could.

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he saw Dobby standing beside the bed, a vial of pink fluid gripped in knobby fingers. Snape nodded his thanks as he took the vial and handed it to Harry, encouraging him to drink the Calming Draught.

As Harry continued to tremble against him, Snape closed his eyes and began to sing. It was the one thing that seemed to calm the boy. As the words floated over them both, Snape couldn’t help but reflect on how pertinent they were.

Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.