When Harry woke up, his body ached and heat suffocated his throat. The warmth driving him senseless and afraid until a tug in his mind reminded him where he was -what had happened -  yet  immediately failing him when a hand, cold and comforting, landed on his forehead. Lean fingers drew his hair back and placed a cold, wet rag on his forehead. The water slid down his head, tickling his skin.

The hand left, and Harry moaned. Trying to lift his head for a better view before he was pushed down, stern fingers lead him by the shoulders and Harry complied. 

Cold, hot, burning, freezing.  

He fought to stay awake while the voices around him danced - broken, angry. Snippets of words leaked through the cracks.   

“...fever still up… tomorrow…”

“....can’t… work… Have to take him…” 

One silky, the other very familiar. Not Uncle Vernon, but close enough that Harry whimpered. Shaking his head from side to side because no . Not Uncle Vernon. Not here. Not Uncle Vernon, please -

Uncle Vernon snorted, sauntering closer to the presence that was already beside Harry. A shadow loomed over his frame before the hand intervened. The owner slid between the shadow, slender but not Aunt Petunia, strong but not Uncle Vernon. 

Stern and not afraid.

“...Tomorrow….  need to discuss… unlicensed…”

And then, Uncle Vernon was gone. The floor shaking under his weight, the door slamming after him, rippling the water in the basin beside Harry’s head - rhythmic, appeasing. Afterwards, the rag left and came back colder than before, lulling him to sleep -despite the fingers that pried the sheets from him, despite the cold, despite the whimpers. For at the end, the voice did speak to him.

“... sleep, Potter.”

And he did.

*

The next time Harry woke, his eyes opened first. He blinked at the dark-wood ceiling. Hard. Then again, until the fog in his mind lifted and sleep was just as nauseating as the heat. 

But the heat wasn’t here anymore, was it? Nor the cold that chilled his bones. Not anymore. He altered between freezing and burning, leaving him confused in a stranger's bed with clothes that slid down his thin frame.

Harry pushed himself up - groggy and slow, but desperate to get out. He tried to untangle the sheets first -prying away the light green blanket with clumsy hands, he shook the material free, and stepped out. 

And then he fell.

An arm caught him by the waist before he could faceplant on the wooden floor. 

The arm, or rather the owner of the arm, stood still. Ghost-quiet. Harry perked his ears, searching for a sound, but not even the man’s rising chest emitted one. Swallowing tight, Harry craned his head. Lifting his eyes to see the Professor's face twisted with furious creases. The glare hardened, emphasized by the purple bags under his eyes. 

“Are you as arrogant as you are stupid?” he spat. 

The collar of the shirt cut into Harry’s skin, but Professor Snape didn’t let go. 

 “Does the prospect of death excite you, Potter?”

Well, most days. When the cellar floor was particularly cold or when Edwin’s belt was as sharp as his tongue.

Harry shook his head, casting his eyes away, “No, sir.”

“Does the idea of playing the martyr tempt you, Mr Potter? Or perhaps it’s the glory of the hero that drives you to saunter out of bed as if you haven’t suffered head trauma? Malnutrition and injured bones aren’t even the worst of the problems you have!”

Harry froze. His mouth hung open, ears deaf to the Professor’s voice. While his lips moved, spitting words like poison, all Harry could think was that despite his looks and tone of voice, the Professor seemed… concerned.

“... bruised body and a sprained wrist! Not to mention the filth that coated your skin and hair! The blasted water turned ghastly black by the time you were in an acceptable-”

“Did I worry you, sir? Were you concerned for me, a stranger? Even though…” Harry swallowed, rubbing his arm, “You had to go through the trouble?” Harry asked, hands clasped in front of him. Biting down when the hand that clasped his shirt faltered, planting Harry’s feet firmly on the ground. 

The anger that broke into loss lasted a moment too long. Wavering between confusion and a scowl before finally landing on the neutral frown that greeted Harry and Edwin this morning. The hand left, and Harry cradled his neck uncertainly. He winced as his fingers stroked his skin, stealing the occasional glance at Professor Snape. Bruised,  obviously. But now wasn’t the time to worry. 

The Professor didn’t snap. Nor did his rage return. Instead, he cleared his throat. Averting his eyes to the window in the corner when he spoke, “Into bed with you, Mr Potter. I shall not have you injuring my property any further.”

The hand that touched Harry’s shoulder didn’t have anything to do with the fear that plunged into his stomach. It stabbed him in the gut and twisted, pulled out and let the emotions gush wild in its wake with a grin. 

Harry fell once more. On his knees, this time. He stared up, eyes wide and shaking his head viciously from side to side, “I-I broke something?”

The Professor raised a brow, opening his mouth to answer before Harry jabbed in again, “I broke something when I fell, didn’t I? The chimney lining? The wood stands?” he said, heaving the words - rushing through them while his mind raced further, faster.

“That’s why Uncle Vernon was here, wasn’t he? I broke something and he had to come. Master Edwin told him that I ruined something and he came to take me back!”

“Mr Potter-”

“I’m sorry!” Harry shouted, sliding back until his back hit the bed. Lifting his arms, Harry squeezed his head. With eyes closed tightly, and now rocking back and forward, he cried, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I-I’ll get the repayment, somehow, but please don’t make Uncle Vernon pay for it. He-he-”

The rest didn’t come. Because now Harry was heaving. His breath raced,  his heart clenching in all the wrong ways, and his stomach prickled with sharp needles over and over. He could no longer think.

At first, Professor Snape didn’t move. A confused look still firm in his face, lips thinned into a line. Harry didn’t take much notice. Even as the Professor kneeled to his height, face now really concerned, Harry remained trapped in one flashback after another. 

Plates shattering, glass falling and the desperate hopelessness before he was hurled into the cupboard. 

Dark, small. 

The dust settled in his lungs, blood on his lips, and the smell of Aunt Petunia’s perfume drifting into the cupboard. All the while, Harry rocked himself. When the fear came, when the door rattled closed on its hinges. 

Dark, small.

Harry came back, eye-to-eye with Snape, and wiped the tears with his sleeve. The Professor's face was still sallow. Sallow and somehow grey. Black eyes searched him from within their narrow sockets.

“Mr Potter?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you…” The Professor paused, then shook his head, “Nevermind. Up you get, Potter. To bed, now, or you will not get soup.”

Harry complied. Pushed himself up and slid under the covers, keeping his head down even after the Professor brought him a bowl of steaming chicken soup. He did not call for the Professor after he left, his mellow footsteps disappearing behind the closed door.

He couldn’t finish the soup.

It was delicious, all the same.

*

It wasn’t Uncle Vernon that came the next morning. Instead, Edwin stood parading before the shop. He stomped harshly over the floorboards while the Professor, with much distaste, helped Harry down the stairs with a hesitant arm around his waist, stopping every few steps when Harry’s head gave a hard spin. 

“I don’ see why I couldn’a come up myself,” Edwin greeted, crossing his arms.

The Professor chose to answer by dropping Harry in one of the leather chairs by the chimney. Then he straightened out the black shirt beneath his black waistcoat before turning to face him, clearing his throat, “So. The flue lining.”

“Wha’ about ‘em?”

“It’s tarnished.”

“An’ so?”

“It’s your fault.”

Edwin’s scowl was almost enough to rival Professor Snape’s. Almost. The herbs and floral scents wafted through the air, ill-tempered and taking their rage out on Harry. At least for today. The herbs were pleasant the day before. A pleasant greeting in his nose. Now, they only distracted him. The room concealed behind a palette of odors. 

“Now you listen to me, Professor,” Edwin hissed, cocking his head to the side, gritting his teeth, “I am not payin’ for none of your property. I told you I had to keep the boy in line. You told me to leave.”

“No supervision would have helped a boy falling down a chimney, Mr Edwin. And I find it hard to believe that you would have managed to catch him before his body collided with the stone. Can your meagre brain comprehend the damage the boy would have were it not for his fast-thinking? If he had not managed to restrict his momentum? A tarnished chimney flue would be the least of your worries.”

With his back to Harry, Professor Snape’s face was hidden from view, but even then, by the way he stood firm and tall, his slender body almost arching over Edwin, Harry could imagine the man’s expression. Rigid. Terrifying. Something Harry was thankful not to see. 

“I am a decent man earnin’ a livin’!”

A few people passed by the shop, not stopping but staring nonetheless. Harry only noticed because of a woman’s clothes. The colourful fabric a bright contrast to the dim, dark shop. A sort of light, in the boring palette. Her attention led Edwin to regain his posture. He took a step back, straightening his spine, “Get up, boy. We’re leavin’.”

Harry’s breath hitched. His hands clasped the armrest, straining his knuckles. Then Harry smelled the soup, felt the warmth of the brown quilt, and the ghost of a touch brushing his hair back, checking his fever, applying balm to his body, and wrapping the white bandages around his wrist before walking him down. Harry saw the real contrast, then. Of the cellar, of the soot. Of only looking at that red-headed family, only wishing for something that wasn’t his. 

Professor Snape wasn’t family.

Harry told himself he wasn’t attached. But the cold stung harshly when he stood. 

He limped the distance from the chair to Edwin. The wood creaked unnaturally under his foot. Wincing at the sound, Harry stopped directly  beside Professor Snape, where he risked a look up. Professor Snape didn’t return his smile. But Harry didn’t mind, and made it known by mouthing the words very slowly: Thank you.

He did clasp Harry’s shoulder though, once Harry took a step forward. Bony fingers clawed into his skin, pulling him back. Harry almost tripped, flailing his arms until another hand balanced him, keeping him still.

He didn’t let go.

“Potter is not going anywhere.”

Edwin’s bones cracked when his head whirled to face Professor Snape. His brows lifted in a way that showed surprise before knitting in a way that promised something a lot worse, “What?”

“He shall make adequate compensation. You refuse to pay, for you don’t own the amount, and by having Mr Potter work in my shop without pay, I believe he can relieve the debt from the incident.

Harry stared, bewildered, mouth opening and closing. Eyes rushing from one adult to the other, a hint of a smile rose on his lips when Edwin’s face fell after Snape continued in the tense silence, “If not, the inspectors would be delighted with the report I give them. Especially so when one boy was almost severely injured. Are your arms up for the heavy labour that comes with the penance? If needed, I have just the balm. Mr Potter proved its efficiency via usage.” 

He then turned to Harry, clasping his hands behind his back, “How is your back, Mr Potter?” 

“Uh, em-” Harry stuttered, taken back by the address, “Much better, sir.”

Professor Snape looked to be proud of much more than merely his balm, surely. After he offered Edwin a prescription, Edwin turned around, stomped to the door, and before he slammed it close, shouted back, “Mark my words, Professor! You don’ come complainin’ about the boy. I’m not takin’ ‘em back! And you -” he faced Harry, “You work an’ mind you,  do it well. I don’t ever wan’ to see your face again and I’ll tell Dursley exactly so!”

The windows rattled, wobbling the jars lining the shelves. The bell hanging over the door chimed wildly after him, echoing. Swift, loud.  His words settled like the sound, only producing a reaction long after it was rung.

“Did he-” Harry looked up, “ - kick me out?”

Professor Snape arched an eyebrow and turned to face the door. Eyeing the glass as if it were profoundly amusing, though Harry couldn’t find anything funny about this situation. Professor Snape curled his lips, “Come, Mr Potter. There is much that can be learned during bed rest and my patience wears thin by the minute.”

Harry hesitated to follow after him, still facing the door, eyes pinned on the street Edwin had walked away from. All that trouble to earn his keep, all that hard work… those cold nights in the cellar where he dreamed of the Dursleys, warm and waiting for him after he’d proven his worth… And all it took was one accident. One fall. One prayer and Harry was kicked away, never to return. 

“Mr Potter?”

Harry wiped his eyes and followed, “Coming, sir.”

*

Professor Snape, as expected, valued academics and weighed a person's worth by their brains. He, also, stared wide-eyed, book still in hand after Harry had specifically told him he couldn’t read. 

“What?” 

Harry blushed, and hid his face behind the pillow above his knees. A copy of what was apparently Common Herbs and Identifications balanced on his legs.

“I was never taught, sir.”

“Never?”

Harry meekly shook his head, feeling more wretched by the second. He didn’t suppose it was fair for the Professor to belittle him for something he hadn’t done. Or something no one had bothered to teach him when he could learn to earn some money and be useful.

That was Aunt Petunia whenever she caught him sneaking a peek at Dudley’s books or touched the spines of the volumes in the parlour while he dusted. Not that the Dursleys would read when they could spend their time gossiping about neighbours and attending operas. But Petunia’s keen eye always spotted something out of place. It seemed like the only thing it could do, but Harry never said that out loud. 

“My Aunt and Uncle didn’t like me reading,” he muttered in defence, “Said it was wasted on me.”

Professor Snape didn’t comment. His fingers curled along the spine of another, much thicker book. 

So after ten seconds, when he emerged from his thoughts, Harry was taken aback when he was asked (ordered) to follow. The Professor’s curtain of black hair billowed behind him while Harry struggled to keep up, finding it an especially hazardous task to walk down the stairs. 

In the shop, Professor Snape told him to stand behind the counter while he walked around it straight towards two of the leather chairs. He started to drag one behind him, however the legs screeched against the wooden floor, causing him to lift it half-heartedly,  dropping it back down whenever the task got tedious. 

Once the chair was behind the counter, Professor Snape pointed a finger at it, “Sit. Wait here and if you value your fingers, do not touch anything.”

Harry fell in his chair just as Professor Snape stalked behind him to another door on the other side. Throwing it open he prowled inside, rushing down another flight of metal stairs, judging by the gradually falling sounds before eventually, there was nothing. Silence. Not a flinch, not even from a mouse. Not that he expected this shop to have any mice. Professor Snape’s hair was greasy, and his skin sallow and pale over his thin face. But the clothes he wore (and lent Harry) were, if not of great quality, well kept. He had turned his nose at Harry’s body - rolling the sleeves over his arms and legs, complaining about the wrinkles. But other than his hair, Professor Snape was one of the cleanest people Harry had seen, and his building was no different. 

The bell chimed the second time that morning. Harry couldn’t see the visitor from his position. So he craned his neck up above the wood from side to side, wanting to see the owner of these light footsteps with equally light shoes.

“Severus?” a voice called. A woman’s voice. Kind and curious. Warm. Harry enjoyed it awhile before his hand shot up, calling her over, “Um, Madam, over here.”

The voice fell silent. Her footsteps continued, then her face emerged from behind the wood and Harry, with guilt, found himself disappointed. The woman, around the same age as Professor Snape, if not younger, wore a black dress that pooled down her body, hiding her shape. Not only that, but a long fabric veiled her head, masking her hair and neck and draping down her chest. 

“Oh dear,” she looked down, a hand over her thin lips, “Well. Good morning, young man.”

“Good morning,” Harry replied, making sure to look at her eyes - kind- like his mother from a  dream, “I’m Harry.”

“My name is Aisha Patel,” said the woman that looked like his mother. Especially with the long, black fabric that fluttered down her head and her light brown skin. Harry was now very thankful that his bangs covered most of the scar that covered his forehead, “What are you doing down there, Harry?”

“Professor Snape asked me to sit down.”

“Asked you?”

“Well, he didn’t say please, now that you’ve mentioned it, Madam Patel,” 

Madam Patel laughed, hiding her mouth with the back of her hand, “Oh dear. But oddly enough, he isn’t here now.”

Harry shook his head and then pointed to the door Professor Snape had disappeared down , “No. He went down there.”

Madam Patel nodded knowingly, “To the laboratory.”

“The laborty?”

“La-bo-ra-to-ry,” Madam Patel pronounced each syllable and Harry mouthed after, testing the word in his mouth, “What does he do in the laboratory?” 

Madam Patel gestured around the shop, “Oh, many things. Medicine, teas. Personal research, if I know him well enough. And I daresay I don’t,” she chuckled at her joke, “He’s a proclaimed chemist, a very talented one, at that.”

“So he doesn’t just sell… Herbs?” 

“Oh, dear, no. Creams, balms, the whole lot.  He even takes custom orders, if it matches his skill set. More often than not, it does.”

“I have yet to be challenged,” Professor Snape’s voice disrupted. He closed the door to the laboratory behind him. Crossing the distance between Harry and the wall in a few steps, placing both a blackboard and a jar wrapped in brown paper over the counter, “You've arrived early, Professor Patel.”

“Oh dear, have I? You don’t like to be kept waiting, last I remember,” she answered, retrieving a small coin sack from her skirt pocket, counting the coins on the counter.

His lips quirked up, “No, I do not. And we’ve discussed the matter of payment, have we not?

“You also do not like engaging with children outside of school. And yes, we have discussed it,” she slid over a stack of coins, eyeing Harry, making him duck his head, “An assistant of yours?”

“A nuisance, more likely.”

Harry glared, biting the inside of his cheek. He locked eyes with Professor Patel. Seeing as Professor Snape, who valued titles despite not agreeing by their affiliations, used them, Harry did so as well, “I’m no nuisance.”

Professor Snape chuckled, plucking the money from the counter. He then unlocked a drawer on their side of the counter with a key he lifted from his pants pocket, sliding it open and placing them in corresponding sections separated by thin pieces of wood before closing and locking it again, “If you require no more assistance, I shall ask you to leave, Professor Patel. Harry and I have much work to be done.”

Professor Patel lifted the jar, eyes narrowed in concern, and  brows knitted close together as she and Harry shared another long glance. That eased her frown. The corners of her lips lifted into a smile and Harry felt warmth suffuse his cheeks, evidence of the surprise from being called by his first name. 

“Don’t derive your pleasure from insulting his intelligence, Professor Snape.”

“You assume he has intelligence in the first place.”

This time, Harry did notice the sudden turn of personality. Mouth gaping open, staring at the smirking Professor, the memories of the two days blended fast and strong. Professor Snape helping him to bed. Professor Snape rubbing the balm into his back, suspicious, even after Harry assured him the bruises were from the fall. (They weren’t, but he didn’t need to know that.) Professor Snape healing him, making sure his fever broke before retreating. Caring, concerned. Keeping him anchored and away from Edwin, though the hands on his shoulders gripped too hard.

Professor Snape insulting him. Scouting for the minute he was well and scorning him for it with a grudge Harry hadn’t caused. 

“I assume he has more than he’s letting on. And not just intelligence,” she said, then placed  the jar in her bag, “Shall I deliver your regards to Minerva and Poppy?”

Professor Snape nodded, “Please do.”

“Take care, Professor, Harry,” 

She turned, her robes flying behind her, and soon she too was gone.

“So you…” Harry began, “So you two know each other?”

“We work at the same school facility,” 

“Ah,” he nodded, no longer eager to interact with Professor Snape, “She’s very beautiful.”

Well, not very. Harry had seen much prettier women over the years. With modelled hair and touches of make-up, colourful, grand dresses that fluttered after them. Professor Patel didn’t show any hair, and her skin, darker than Harry’s, was make-up free and her dress looked like it had lost its colour long ago. But, Harry smiled, her warmth was vibrant.

“Is she?” Professor Snape asked, bent over the chalkboard, “Not many call her that, upon first meeting.”

Harry shrugged, “She looks like my mom.”

The chalk in Professor Snape’s hand gave a nasty, ear-splitting  screech.  Harry could see half of it between his fingers, while the rest lay broken on the material. The writing beneath was jagged,  jerked in the wrong direction. Angry, though Harry couldn’t imagine why. 

Professor Snape’s back straightened. He ignored Harry. Instead, his eyes remained pinned to the door, as if he saw something Harry could not. 

“What did you say?” he asked, still looking away.

Harry swallowed. The lump in his throat wouldn’t loosen, though. Even after the second gulp, “My mother… She has long black hair and kind eyes. Maybe dark skin, as well, because my father has red hair and green eyes. Must be...." 

Professor Snape’s hands met on the counter. His head lifted. As if his neck had gone stiff from Harry’s words. And it must have. Harry found no reason for the Professor to have gone meek over such a statement. He decided to ask, opening his mouth when Professor Snape spoke once more. 

“And who has told you about this?”

“No one, sir. Aunt Petunia only told me that they left me on their doorstep because they were poor and didn’t want me-”

The sound of hands slamming against the wood silenced his words. It also made Harry flinch, one hand jerking up to his shoulder, clutching his shirt. Professor Snape didn’t look, of course. He acted as though he was personally insulted. That or someone had disappointed him by dropping a bad odour in his shop. A very, very horrid odour, worse even  than the herbs.

Harry said nothing more. But then Professor Snape turned around, the grin from Professor Patel’s presence long gone. His eyes downcast and emotional. Professor Snape took a step towards him. Harry straightened his back. Leaning forward, despite there being no possibility of being heard, the professor whispered, “You do not share this information, or any information about yourself, with anyone. Anyone. Do I make myself clear, Mr Potter?”

Harry had an answer ready. A long string of answers, actually. The first one was a question, Why? Why couldn’t he? He’d shared it among his sweeper family. They all had. At nights, near fires. When one was bored when none could read, and the only stories they’d been taught leaked clear and clean from their lips.  But a bigger question blared louder. In the background, huddled to a corner. Afraid to be noticed and still screaming when Harry blurted it out.

“You know my name.”

Professor Snape’s eyes widened. Just a bit, but Harry still noticed. 

“I never told you my name,” he snapped, “Master Edwin didn’t, either. He called me a boy. You called me by my surname ever since I came here, but not in front of Professor Patel. Why? 

Adults turned amusing, whenever they were backed into the corner. Childish, confused. Much like Professor Snape. The wrinkles around his eyes eased. His open lips complemented his confusion. Harry was beginning to like the situation less and less by the minute, “I said how do you know my name!”

Professor Snape took a step back, looking down at him by the length of his nose, “Tantrums will do you no good.”

‘“I don’t care!” Harry screamed, chest heaving. A blur swam in his vision and mind. His chest seized with uncomfortable tightness. The days under Professor Snape’s ‘care’ no longer held the same warmth and comfort as before. 

“You know my name. Professor Patel must have as well since you’ve only used my first name. And I want to know why. I want you to play fair!”

“You, of all people, should know that life isn’t-”

“Well, you should work for it, then! It’s my life, and I deserve to know what you’re hiding-”

“Mr Potter!” 

Harry’s mouth clamped shut. His hands balled into fists, squeezed against his legs. The anger didn’t leave. In fact, Harry felt his fury rising the longer he stared at the man. The heart thumping in his ears muffled any sound, the injustice of it all suffocating his patience, even more so when Snape spoke again.

“I am underjm4ç no obligation to share anything with a brat who can’t keep himself in line. Anything! You are here to pay a debt, after which you will leave. Furthermore, during this time, you will act with dignity in my presence! Am I understood?”

Harry refused to share his thoughts. He nodded

“A verbal answer, Mr Potter.”

“Yes,” he hissed. The way Snape’s shoulders fell made him bite the inside of his cheeks, suppressing a scream.

Snape left for the counter. Then came back with the small chalkboard from earlier. He smudged the fifth symbol to the right with a cloth. The board wiped clean before he drew it again. Half a circle, with a smaller copy to its right. Harry knitted his brows. They sort of resembled-

“Today, Mr Potter,” Snape said with a controlled voice. He handed the chalk to Harry, dropping the board on his knee, “You shall be learning how to read.”