“Can you stand, Potter?” Snape asked, struggling to his own feet and shuffling over to Harry.

Mindful of his very broken wrist, Harry nodded and slowly pushed to his knees. He was grateful to take Snape’s offered hand and be helped to his unsteady feet. Snape kept hold of him and he couldn’t help but lean into the man slightly.

“To the river,” Snape said quietly. “Try and clean ourselves up.”

Harry nodded again and they slowly stumbled across the meadow and makeshift road to the river. Their feet dragged, kicking up dirt and uprooting flowers. At the edge of the river, Snape helped Harry sink back down to the ground while crouching beside him. Harry watched the professor examine himself, frowning likely at the sheer amount of blood covering him, before taking the bottom of his torn shirt and ripping off a large, semi-clean chunk. Snape dunked the fabric in the river, soaking it, and then rung it out before turning back to Harry. He just accepted the light hold on his chin and the swiping of the rag across his face. He could imagine what he looked like, if he looked anything like Snape.

Skin stained red with blood, hair matted with it. Inflamed cuts and burns everywhere. Chunks of flesh and skin missing. Black, blue, and purple bruises covering any skin not already red. Tremours wracking their bodies and exhaustion clouding their eyes. Besides his wrist and rib, though, neither of them had broken bones.

He followed the gentle prodding and stretched out on his side, providing access to his mutilated hip and calf. He jerked and hissed as water was poured over the injuries in an attempt to clean them. The rag wiped around the edges, clearing away any dirt, blood, and other weeping fluids. He clenched his hand into a fist in response to the pain, but made little sound. It hurt, but it was nothing compared to the last however long. He stayed in the same position as Snape moved behind him, pushing aside his ruined shirt to get to the lash marks on his back. He shuddered as water was, once again, poured over them and as the rag passed over as well.

Snape let the remains of his shirt fall back into place and Harry watched the man return to his side. The rag, now completely red, was dunked into the river and shaken vigorously, trying to get it slightly cleaner. Removing it from the water showed little change and Snape huffed, chucking it aside. Harry pushed himself up so he was sitting just as Snape pulled his entire once-white shirt off and submerged it like he had the little piece. He watched the man wipe at his own injury-laden arms, chest, legs, and face, hardly reacting to the pain Harry knew he was feeling. The professor was dabbing at a particularly large and deep section of missing flesh on his side when Harry spotted just the edges of lashes on Snape’s back that he knew mirrored his own.

“Let me do your back,” he said, the first words spoken in many minutes.

Snape looked at him and Harry was sure the man wanted to refuse, but something made him decide not to. The shirt-turned-rag was soaked back in the river and rung out before being handed silently to Harry. He shifted so he was sitting up more, but leaning heavily on his left side to avoid his injured hip and leg. Snape moved closer so Harry didn’t have to strain to reach. He tried to copy Snape’s gentle touch, wiping away the blood and grime and trying to let the cool, fresh water soothe. He could see and feel the skin twitch under his touch, truly the only indication of Snape’s discomfort.

When he finished, he handed the bunched-up shirt back to Snape who moved it aggressively through the water, hoping to get at least some of the blood out. When it was rung out, it did seem to be slightly less red. It was draped over Snape’s shoulder as the man stood.

“Come on,” Snape said, holding out his hands.

Harry took one with his left hand and he was pulled carefully to his feet. They retraced their steps, returning to the meadow, but headed to the huge tree. Harry was lowered to the ground again and he leaned against the tree as Snape sat beside him, their arms brushing. Harry stretched his legs out, turning his right so his skinned calf wasn’t pressed to the ground and leaned more on his left hip again. Snape’s legs stretched alongside his, crossing at the ankle. Harry gazed out at the landscape, watching the distant water wheel turn slowly.

“What do we do now?” Harry asked.

“Short-term? In this moment, we rest,” Snape said. “We can do nothing until we’ve recovered more. Once I am more recovered, I will search for supplies to help with the healing process.”

“And long-term?”

“We find out where we are, either by someone coming by or by going to find something, and contact the Order,” Snape said.

“Are we even in the U.K. anymore? It’s like summer here, but it’s just gone on February,” Harry said.

“I do not know,” Snape said with a small sigh.

“Do you know what happened?” Harry asked. “Did you Apparate us?”

“No, Apparation is not possible in the Dark Lord’s residence, nor was I in any condition to do so,” Snape said. “I have no idea what happened.”

Harry blew out a breath. “We don’t have our wands.”

“No, we do not,” Snape said.

“Can you do wandless magic?”

“Yes, though I’d rather not in case it draws enemies to us.”

Harry nodded, understanding. Between the pain, the prior exhaustion, his waning adrenaline, and the warm sun, he found his eyes growing heavy. Not caring to think about anything, he let his head fall to the side, resting on Snape’s shoulder.

“Professor?” he said, feeling the man shift under him to allow him to settle more comfortably against the professor. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

There was a moment of quiet and Harry felt something rest against the top of his head.

“As am I, Potter,” Snape said quietly. “Rest now. Try to get some sleep.”

And Harry did.

When Harry woke, it was to a slightly darker world. The sun, while still up, was setting, bathing them in soft orange rays and growing shadows. He was still tucked into Snape’s side, his head on the man’s shoulder. A bird chirped here and there above them, and a cricket sounded out every now and then to join in the sounds of nature.

“How are you feeling?” came Snape’s voice above him.

“Pretty awful, but I think I’ll live,” Harry said and his lips twitched at the huff he knew was a concealed laugh. “You?”

“Likewise.”

Harry didn’t bother moving. Snape had given no indication he wanted Harry to move, so he stayed, enjoying the slightly comfortable position he’d managed to find.

“How long were we there?” he eventually asked.

“Nine days,” Snape said and Harry was startled. He hadn’t realized it had been that long. It had felt both shorter and infinitely longer. “Are you thirsty?”

The question made Harry realize he hadn’t even thought about such bodily needs and, now he was, the needs hit hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Stay here.”

Harry lifted his head and shifted to allow Snape to get to his feet. He realized as the man walked somewhat shakily to the river that Snape was still shirtless and he spotted the man’s shirt spread out on the grass on the other side of where Snape had been sitting. Obviously, Snape had been hoping for the sun to dry it out. He looked up as the professor returned and sat beside him again, holding out a simple silver goblet. He took it, giving Snape a questioning look as he took a long drink.

“Transfigured a stone,” Snape said in simple explanation. “It shouldn’t have drawn any unwanted attention if there is any to draw.”

Harry nodded, still drinking deeply. He started coughing when he gulped a bit too much and felt a hand gently hitting his back, avoiding the lashes as much as possible.

“Easy, Potter,” Snape said. “Surely you don’t want to survive what we did only to choke to death.”

Harry chuckled as his coughing eased. “Something I would do, for sure.”

He felt Snape rub his back before removing his hand and taking the goblet from Harry. He watched the man down the remaining water and drop the goblet beside the shirt which he snatched up and pulled back on, ignoring the damp spots, blood, and rips. They settled back against the tree, watching the land grow dark around them as the sun sank away.

“Unfortunately, I can do nothing about food right now,” Snape said.

“It’s okay. I’m fine. I can manage,” Harry said, thinking of the long days without food courtesy of the Dursleys.

Snape just hummed as he usually did in response to any reference to his life with the Dursleys. Harry knew their treatment of him infuriated Snape; the man just wouldn’t say so. Harry shifted around and leaned against Snape again, still just as tired as he was. He looked out through the dark, spotting what seemed to be a couple of torches around the water wheel, but nothing else to indicate civilization. Fireflies darted around and crickets sang around them, and he was sure he heard an owl hoot somewhere.

A breeze picked up, but it wasn’t warm like before; now it had a slight chill. He brought his arms up across his chest, being careful of his wrist.

“Cold?” Snape asked.

“A little,” Harry said.

He was jostled as Snape rearranged them to allow his arm to settle around Harry’s shoulders while keeping Harry tucked against him. He heard a mutter and a rush of warmth heated him from the inside.

“Warming Charm,” Snape said. “It won’t last long, but it should help.”

Harry just nodded, relaxing the best he could into Snape’s arm and chest. He fought the fluttering of his eyelids, not wanting to sleep again already. He wanted to talk to Snape, to figure out their next steps, and to just be with the man he’d been through so much with. It was a battle he was quickly losing, however.

“Sleep, Potter,” Snape said softly. “I will be here.”

Harry could do nothing but obey once again.

Severus let out a deep sigh as he felt Potter slump against him in sleep. He tightened his arm around the boy’s shoulders and rubbed Potter’s upper arm when a breeze picked up again and the boy shivered slightly. It wasn’t necessarily cold, but through their malnourishment and blood loss, they weren’t exactly up for fighting the elements. They really weren’t in shape for anything. His numerous injuries burned and stung and pulsed as though he needed a reminder of his own present condition.

He leaned his head back against the tree and let his eyes close for a moment. It had been a long nine days filled with nothing but pain. He’d been through Voldemort’s torture before, maybe not for such an extended period, but he’d endured it before. His own torture had been fairly inconsequential. Being forced to watch Potter’s, however, had provided a level of agony never before experienced. Watching the mutilation of the boy, the trembling of the small body, and hearing the sounds the child had been unable to hold back had been like nothing else. Then, to know he would die before the boy, that Potter would be left alone and alone with Voldemort, it had forced him to acknowledge how things had changed between them since October. The child meant more to him than anyone ever had in his life, even more than Lily. He’d needed Lily; Potter needed him.

He opened his eyes and looked around again. He remembered those last moments in Voldemort’s headquarters, the white light that had surrounded them and virtually dissolved the green Killing Curse that had been coming his way, the rushing, warm air, and the strange feeling of moving through space. He had no idea what had happened nor where they were. It seemed like they were still somewhere in the U.K., but it didn’t make sense. It was clearly summertime where they were, but, as Potter had said, they were only in February.

He wasn’t completely sure what they should do. They needed help, but he was hesitant to seek anyone out without their wands. They had no way of knowing what they could walk into. Enemies could be anywhere and now they’d escaped, Death Eaters and Voldemort would be relentless in their hunt for them. They needed to find safety and try to connect with the Order.

He sighed again and looked down at the messy hair pressed against his chest when he felt the boy shift. He frowned at the lines of pain and discomfort in the boy’s face, unable to escape it even in sleep. He examined the visible injuries, glad none of them seemed to be infected while acknowledging infection was far more possible now they were outside. He needed to find plants and herbs so he could at least attempt holistic healing methods. He didn’t want to leave Potter in such pain.

He looked up, resting against the tree, and watched the fireflies dance through the darkness. He could hear the water of the river, the crickets that filled the meadow, and the leaves that rustled above them. The nature sounds were calming and he realized that, despite his anxiety about not knowing where they were, he felt…free. His job was over. He was no longer trapped between Voldemort and Dumbledore. He was alive and could take his life back for the first time in nearly twenty years. They just needed to destroy Voldemort and he would be completely free.

This moment, in an unknown meadow, covered in painful injuries, and with a sleeping fifteen-year-old Potter in his arms was the most peaceful moment of his entire life. The realization allowed him to drift off into a surprisingly pleasant sleep.