“Yes, it is hard. There’s only so much we can do.”

“Well a child like that… No one blames you, Petunia. Honestly, what you have done practically makes you a saint!”

“You know, he just came back for the summer. Was in a lot of trouble at Saint Brutus’. They say he stole a teacher’s car.”

“How shocking!”

Harry scowled. The snippet he’d heard while passing by the sitting room was enough to ruin his already dismal mood. Two days. He’d been back TWO DAYS, and already his Aunt Petunia was lying about him. 

He passed Dudley on the stairs. His cousin smirked. “Stealing cars now, huh?”

Harry roughly shoved past. Dudley gripped the rail as he wobbled, then shot Harry a fierce look. He reached out and grabbed Harry’s ankle as he passed him, yanking Harry down hard. The smaller teen lost his footing and fell, rolling down a couple of steps. Winded, he caught himself halfway down with a wince.

The voices in the sitting room halted, and then Aunt Petunia’s rapid footsteps preceded the woman herself. “Fighting in my house?” She put her hands on her hips as another woman peered around the corner. Harry recognized her as the occupant of Number Six.

“No ma’am,” Harry lied at the same moment that Dudley crowed a triumphant,

“He attacked me!”

Petunia indicated that he should come down the rest of the steps, eyes cold. Harry rose to his feet, noting several new bruises, and walked down the rest of the stairs to stand next to her. She gripped his ear and hurried to the door, dragging him along. Without a word, she opened the front door and shoved him out. He turned to see the door slam shut in front of his nose.

He stared at it a moment before turning and looking out over the street with a sigh. She (probably) hadn’t kicked him out permanently, and would (hopefully) let him back in after Number Six had left.

Deciding to wander over to the playground, Harry only made it four steps away from the house when he heard a thump and a moan on the front step behind him. Whirling around, he saw a dark shape draped across the steps. It shifted, and Harry saw blood stains on pale fingers.

He ran over, realizing that the lump was a person, and an injured one at that. He reached out, paused, then grasped a shoulder and gently pushed the figure onto its back.

With a start, he realized that it was Snape.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, glancing up at the door. Aunt Petunia had yet to show up, so Harry assumed that she either didn’t hear the sound, or decided that it was just Harry and didn’t care enough to investigate.

“Potter? What are you doing here?” Snape rasped, voice rough.

“I live here,” he said. Unfortunately.

For the first time, Snape seemed to take in his surroundings. The man cursed, and Harry blinked in amazement at the truly acid words coming from his professor’s mouth. “Must have been the wrong portkey.”

Well wasn’t that just perfect? “Why are you hurt?”

The man eyed him hatefully and clamped his mouth shut. Harry rolled his eyes and stepped over his inert form, cracking the door open. No one was in sight, so he turned back to the man. “Alright, you gotta be quiet. If my aunt hears you, she’ll have kittens.”

Snape’s protest was lost in another groan when Harry grabbed the man’s arms and hauled him to his feet. And I thought I was injured!

“Inside,” he muttered, glancing around the hall. When the man seemed ready to protest, he whispered a fierce, “Shh!”

The man tried to move on his own, but it was clear that he was much too injured to even stand. Scrunching up his nose, Harry slung a blood-stained arm around his shoulders and gamely supported at least half of the man’s weight.

“You look too thin to weigh this much,” Harry muttered, starting for the stairs.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” the man snarked.

“It’s summer,” Harry rejoined, inwardly worried despite himself because the man’s words had slurred together.

He could still hear his aunt and Number Six talking in the sitting room, but he didn’t know where Dudley was until they finally reached the top of the stairs and he heard the sounds of a video game coming from his cousin’s room.

“In here,” he hissed, briefly releasing Snape to twist his doorknob. The man swayed dangerously, so he hurried to prop him up again as he nudged the door open the rest of the way with his foot.

“What sort of prison is this?” the man asked as Harry dumped him on the rickety bed.

“My room,” he said, reaching for the robes concealing what had to be bad injuries.

“Do not touch me, Potter,” came the weak reply.

“But-”

“No!” the man shouted, and the voices downstairs paused.

“Shh!” Harry said frantically, forcibly reminded of the summer before his second year. He backed up a few paces, raising his hands. “See! Not touching.”

The man wrapped his robes tighter around himself, face contorting with pain. “I need to get to London.”

The front door opened downstairs, and Harry glanced out his window to see Aunt Petunia walking down the street with Number Six. She glanced furtively up at the house and Harry shrunk back out of sight, realizing that she must have also remembered second year and decided to get the neighbor well away from the house. He waited a few minutes, but she didn’t come back. She must have convinced Number Six to show her the prized gardens behind her house, which Harry knew for a fact that his aunt coveted.

“Okay,” he said to Snape, nodding once. “Okay. I’ll get you to London.”

Dudley was still in his room when Harry poked his head out into the hall. He cautiously approached Snape, hands held out non-threateningly. “I’m gonna get you to London, but we have to go downstairs. You need to let me help you.”

Snape glared at him as he approached, but only gave token resistance when Harry helped him to his feet and shifted him so that the man could lean against him as they walked. He disliked being this close to the man, but what choice did he have? It wasn’t like he was going to leave Snape to die. Well…

No! Remember what Dumbledore said! It does not good to dwell on dreams.

When Harry hesitated at the foot of the stairs, Snape somehow found the energy to look up. “How, exactly, are we getting to London?” he asked. He was panting from the short walk down the stairs.

“I wish you’d let me see-” Harry began, but the man glared, so he answered the question. “I was going to call the Knight Bus.”

“No,” Snape immediately said. “Surely even you can’t have forgotten that there’s a war going on? Public transport is not safe.”

“Alright then,” Harry said, fighting to remain calm. This wasn’t the time to blow up at the man. “No Knight Bus.” He thought for a minute, then felt a grin steal across his face. “We’re going to steal a car instead.”

“Potter!” Snape howled at a particularly sharp curve.

Harry winced, both at the squeal of tires and the man’s shouting. “I’m sorry!” he shouted back.

“Do you even know how to drive?” Snape gasped, clutching the sides of his seat.

There was already an L sticker on the car; Dudley had started learning to drive this summer. While Harry himself had never been allowed behind the wheel, he’d been forced to sit in the back seat during more than one lesson while Uncle Vernon gave instructions. They’d brought him along to change the tire in case it blew out during a drive, but Harry had heard enough that he was able to operate it now.

“Yes!” Harry defended, then amended at Snape’s glare, “Well, sort of.”

“Sweet Merlin,” Snape whispered, looking green.

“I snuck onto Dudley’s Nintendo once to play Super Mario Kart,” Harry offered.

“We’re going to die,” Snape muttered.

As another car passed him, Harry waved apologetically at the driver, who was eyeing him suspiciously.

“Do try to stay in the center of the lane,” Snape said, and it sounded like he was gritting his teeth. 

“I am,” Harry retorted, carefully applying pressure to the brake when the green light ahead turned to amber. He remembered the way Uncle Vernon had coached Dudley on a good stop. “Remember, son. Slowly increase the pressure. When you’re about to reach a full stop, each up a little so it doesn’t jerk to a halt. There you go… almost got it!” In the backseat, Harry had been thrown forcefully into the back of Dudley’s seat, so he was pretty sure that Dudley hadn’t almost got it, but he supposed that was the sort of thing a dad was supposed to say.

“When will this end?” Snape groaned, holding his ribs. Harry winced and made a mental note to drive smoother.

“London? It’s about forty minutes.”

Another groan.

“Where in London are we going?”

Snape glared at him. “Headquarters, obviously.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously. How do I get there? I’ve never driven there before.”

“And I have?” Snape asked.

Harry bit his lip to keep from giving a sarcastic response.

After about five minutes of charged silence, Snape burst, “Ease up on the clutch, Potter!”

Harry glanced at him sideways. “What, now you’re gonna teach me how to drive?”

“Someone has to,” Snape said snidely. 

“And slow down on the turns!” the man gasped. Harry had a brief out-of-body experience when he felt a tire or two lift off of the pavement, and then they were on their way down the road.

“If you let me treat your wounds, you could have driven. But now you could pass out at any moment from blood loss.”

“I wish I would,” the man said.

“Ha, ha.” Which was the way to London? Harry crossed his fingers and turned left. “How do you know about muggle cars?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It is if I’m gonna take your advice.”

“Do you have no concept of respect?”

“It’s summer,” Harry repeated.

The man huffed and looked out the side window. “WATCH OUT!”

Harry slammed on the brake, and they both sat panting as an elderly lady looked up. She’d been about to cross the street, and Harry had been about to nail her. He felt a wave of horror at the thought.

The woman inched along, moving slower than Harry thought possible. She watched him angrily and gave the car bonnet a solid couple of whacks with her walker as she passed, leaving a few dents in the metal. He gave an “oi!”, knowing that his uncle would take it out on him later, but unable to get mad since he felt so guilty.

“If you get pulled over without a license, I will personally leave you in muggle jail to rot,” Snape threatened.

That might be better than driving with you. “Don’t worry, sir. I believe you.”

The man humphed, then doubled over. 

“Sir?” The car jerked as Harry looked over anxiously.

“Eyes… on the road,” Snape gasped.

“Maybe we should go to a hospital,” Harry said.

“No!”

Harry hoped that he didn’t end up delivering a dead body to Headquarters.

The longer they drove, the less Snape shouted and the more he sagged against the window, fogging the glass with ragged breaths. Despite their past animosity, Harry found himself concerned. “Sir? You alive?”

There was no reaction, even though the man had usually managed a moan or a hand wave whenever Harry had asked this before. Alarm rising exponentially, he turned into the nearest drive and slammed the car into park, hurtling out of his seat and running around to Snape’s side. He threw the door open and caught the man as he started to slump out. He could feel the man’s shallow breaths now, but was only partially encouraged by this. “Sir, please don’t die. Dumbledore would have a fit if I let a teacher die on my watch.” The joke fell flat without an audience.

He heard running footsteps behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see a man hurrying towards him. He looked like he might have been the store proprietor. “What’s happened, boy?”

“My…” he searched for a term and said the first thing that came to mind, “older brother!” What. “He passed out!” He positioned himself between the man and Snape, hoping to block the bloodstains from sight.

“Potter,” Snape slurred, briefly coming to before going limp again.

“That’s your brother?” The man asked doubtfully.

“He’s adopted,” Harry said shortly.

“Is there anything I can-”

“No, thank you!” Harry gasped, shoving Snape back inside and slamming the door shut. Snape fell against it, cheek pressed against the window in what looked like a slightly painful position. Harry winced. He glanced at the store, noticing for the first time that it was a corner shop. “Do you have maps?”

Five minutes later, Harry had entered London proper. “Sir, almost there.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to use honorifics now that the man was unconscious, but the word slipped out.

He shook out the map with one hand, using the other to steer. He tried to glance at the map, but there was no way he could analyze it closely enough to find the tiny street name of “Grimmauld Place” amid all of the other endless side roads and alleys while still driving. He tried to go in the direction that made the most sense. He’d flown there once before, but flying above on a broom at night time was very different from driving a car during the daytime while trying to make sure the man next to you wasn’t dead yet.

He thought they were at least near the right borough, but after fifteen minutes of driving around, he had to admit that he had no idea where they were. “I’m sorry,” he said to the man beside him, “but I don’t know where to go.” His voice sounded hollow and defeated to his own ears, and he hastily blinked away tears of frustration. He couldn’t have gotten this far to fail now.

“To the left.”

The voice was creaky, and barely there, but Harry immediately obeyed. He glanced over to see that Snape had sat up slightly. He looked as pale as death (which is really saying something, in Snape’s case) and his hands were trembling, but at least he was awake.

He continued to give directions, apparently recognizing the area, and in five minutes they were there.

Those last few minutes of lucidity must have been the very last extent of his strength, because the man immediately passed out again. His head lolled back with a slackness he hadn’t yet seen, and Harry wasted no time in pelting up to Number Thirteen without even turning the car off

He pounded on the door, and it was almost immediately opened by Remus. “Harry!”

“Help,” Harry said desperately, grabbing the man’s arm and pulling him out of the house. “I can’t carry him by myself!”

“Harry, what-” the man must have caught sight of Snape sprawled out in the passenger’s seat, because he ran forward faster than even Harry had. “Severus, what happened?”

But Snape was too far gone to answer. Remus opened the door. “Harry, help me.”

Together, they managed to pull the man out without exacerbating his injuries. Apparently Kingsley Shaklebolt was also at Headquarters, because the man came to the door a moment later and saw them. He hurried out to help Remus, so Harry ran inside ahead of them to clear off a space to put Snape. “Floo call the Headmaster!” Remus called to him as he ran up the steps.

Harry ignored the screeching portrait in the entry hall and the sting that came with it when Sirius didn’t come to shut the curtains. It hurt to be here, in this place, knowing that Sirius would never come back. He’d been living in such a stupor since the Ministry, until this emergency with Snape seemed to snap his life back into full-speed.

He headed straight for the fireplace in the kitchen, using his wand to blast a roaring flame at the logs without a moment’s hesitation when he saw that there was none. The house was under a fidelius charm anyways, wasn't it? The Ministry shouldn't get an alert from the trace. Tossing a handful of floo powder in the fire, he shouted, “Dumbledore’s office!” and stuck his head into the green flames.

Never having done this before, he wasn’t sure it had worked until he saw the interior of the office he had trashed less than a week ago. Refusing to be embarrassed, he shouted, “Headmaster!” when he saw the wizard standing with his back to Harry.

The man turned around, but Harry didn’t give him time to ask questions. “It’s Snape. He’s hurt really badly. We’re at Headquarters.” He pulled his head free and moved out of the way so Dumbledore could come through.

The man did, emerging from the fireplace just as Remus and Kinglsey laid Snape’s limp form across the kitchen table.

“Go to the parlor, Harry,” Remus said as the three men began rushing around him.

“But-”

“Harry, please. You did your part in getting him here. Now let us do our part.”

Harry swallowed his protests and backed out of the kitchen, reluctantly walking down the hall to the parlor. He’d wanted to stay and help, but he knew next to nothing about healing and would have only gotten in the way.

The wait seemed interminable. Finally, when he thought he could stand it no longer, the three wizards entered the room. Harry leapt to his feet, anxiously looking between the three of them. “Well?”

Their faces were drawn with exhaustion, but Dumbledore managed a smile. “He will live.”

With a sigh of relief, Harry collapsed back onto the couch. 

“You did well in bringing him here so quickly,” Remus said, sitting beside him and wiping the sweat off of his forehead. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

“Neither did I,” Harry said with a shaky laugh.

While Dumbledore told Harry that he’d have to go back to Dursleys for at least a couple more weeks, he did allow him to stay until Snape woke up. A charm set to go off when the man was conscious chimed, and the three left the room again. Harry was surprised when Remus returned a few moments later.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Me?” Harry asked, as if there were anyone else in the room.

“Yes, you,” Remus smiled, and the teen followed him down the hall.

When he entered the kitchen, he saw that Snape was propped up by several purple pillows (no doubt courtesy of Dumbledore) and glaring weakly at him. “Potter.”

“Professor?” Harry asked, walking up to him. “Are you alright?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Somehow, despite your best efforts.” He winced as he sat up a bit more. “You drive like hell.”

“I didn’t drive, I panicked and hoped for the best,” Harry said.

Snape smirked slightly, an expression that for once didn’t seem to be cruel. “It showed.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, emboldened by this strange lack of malice.

“The Dark Lord discovered that I was a spy,” Snape said, seeming surprised as everyone else in the room at his own honesty.

“How’d you get away?”

“Portkey. The wrong one.” He tilted his head slightly. “I never meant to go to your house. I wouldn’t have expected to survive.”

“You didn’t expect me to bother saving you, you mean,” Harry translated.

“Yes, well.” Snape coughed and winced again. “Next time, I’ll coach you on how to drive properly.”

“Next time?” Harry asked, amused in spite of himself.

“With you, Potter, there always seems to be a next time.”

Harry smiled, and Snape… well, Snape didn’t smile, but he looked less perpetually angry; and for Snape, that was almost as good as a grin.