For what felt like an eternity, Severus Snape simply knelt by the lifeless body of Harry Potter, willing the child to stir. Open his eyes, ask for a story, ask for a game of Wizard’s Chess, anything mundane. Anything familiar.

But Harry remained still.

 “Severus? Severus…” a hand on his shoulder.

He turned to look at its owner.

 “We should get him to the hospital wing,” Filius told him.

Coming to a little, Snape nodded his head, turning back to scoop the boy up.

 “No! Don’t move him!” Poppy warned, fighting her way to the front. “Not until we know the extent of his injuries. Let me in.”

Under normal circumstances, the potions master would likely have made a cutting comment about the her bossiness.

But these were not normal circumstances and right then, he simply wanted Harry to be okay, so he stood up to let the mediwitch in.

Gripping her wand, she immediately went to work, casting diagnostic and healing spells on the boy.

It was all Severus Snape could do to stand  by and watch, helplessly.

The tightness in his chest and constriction in his throat were not familiar feelings for the professor, but he had felt them before. Just once.

Lily…

The feelings were similar, yet different at the same time. He was no longer that young and foolish version of himself, consumed by intense feelings of love and lust mixed with jealousy and hatred.

No, this felt different. This felt as if he was watching this child slip away, right before his eyes.

This child which he had come to care about so deeply. Come to love.

Lily, please…

Satisfied that Harry was not unmoveable, Madame Pomfrey slide one arm beneath him and brought his head to rest on her knees as she worked.

Another comforting hand on his arm. He didn’t know who it belonged to and didn’t bother to check.

Seconds turned to minutes and the mediwitch continued her work in relative silence aside from the mumbling of incantations beneath her breath.

And then, just as Severus Snape was about to give up all hope, the boy’s chest heaved and he began to cough.

 “Oh, thank Merlin!” Madame Hooch gasped as Harry opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to adjust to the light.

Hurriedly, Poppy pulled him up into a sitting position, rubbing his back and giving it several firm pats.

 “There, there. You’re alright…” she soothed, though her face had gone an ashen colour, telling her colleagues that she had been beginning to doubt that herself. “Harry? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

For a moment, Harry gazed around the room, groggily.

And then he began to murmur something inaudible.

 “Harry? Can you tell Madame Pomfrey how you’re feeling? Where does it hurt?” Minerva asked, leaning down to look at the child’s face.

Harry mumbled something again, disorientated.

 “What is it? I can’t hear what you’re saying,” Poppy told him.

 “Dad…” he managed, his voice hoarse and his eyes fixed on something directly ahead of him.

Pomona Sprout shook her head sadly. “The poor love, he doesn’t know… he doesn’t remember…”

The mediwitch followed the boy’s gaze.

 “No, he’s seeing that blasted mirror!” she retorted. “Will somebody get that out of here?!”

But Harry frowned in confusion, trying to crane his neck to look at the adults standing above him.

 “Want my Dad…” he murmured.

 “Oh sweetie, he isn’t here…” the mediwitch sighed.

 “On the contrary, my dear lady, I believe the one that Harry asks for is standing in this room right now,” Dumbledore told her.

The other staff members looked at him in confusion, but the headmaster simply turned to regard the potions master, a familiar twinkle in his eye.

 “Severus?”

For a moment, Snape stood stiffly, deterred by his audience.

But as his colleagues stood back, giving the young boy a clear view of his guardian, Harry tried to wriggle free of the mediwitch’s grip.

 “Easy,” Poppy caught him.

Eager to avoid any further damage to the boy, Snape knelt beside them and instantly, two arms reached for him.

 “Daddy…” Harry murmured.

The potions master lifted the child easily into his arms, a sense of relief washing him over him at the feel of the familiar, impish head finding its way to the crook of his neck.

Allowing Harry perch on his knee, Severus Snape held him tight, cupping a hand to the back of his head as if something horrible might happen if he were ever to let go.

 “Daddy…” the boy whispered again, his eyelids growing heavy once more. 

 “I’m here,” the potions master whispered.  

And he was.

There would be no need for Harry Potter to return to Number Four, Privet Drive that summer.

END