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Chapter Text

Harry sat silently underneath the open window, knees tucked tight against his chest. The spot between the rose bush and the house was small, so Harry made himself small. It was that, or stick his legs into the thorny bush. He much preferred the former. He kept his breathing slow and listened attentively to the endless stream of Muggle news, his ears straining for anything that could possibly relate to Voldemort’s return. But so far, he’d heard nothing of the sort. No possible attacks or strange disappearances. The television droned on.

He opened his eyes, which he had shut against the late afternoon sun. After blinking, his green eyes taking a moment to adjust to the light, he spotted Mrs. Figg hobbling down the road. He was suddenly appreciative of the density of the bush in front of him. Thorns or no, it did an excellent job of hiding him from any further invitations to tea. He’d dodged too many of her inquiries about his life at the Dursleys, it was beginning to sound suspicious. And any suspicion around Petunia Dursley’s perfectly crafted image would be unacceptable. Nevertheless, the look in her eyes told him that she knew the nasty bruises that littered his body were not from your everyday schoolyard fights, even for a St. Brutus’ boy.

He waited for her to make her way down the road before any attempt at retreat. Before he could assess the right moment to slip out undetected, an incredibly loud crack sounded through the neighborhood. Alarms went off in Harry’s head and he shot up immediately, hands fumbling to retrieve his wand from the back pocket of his tattered, overly large jeans.

But there was no danger present. At least, not from what Harry could see outside. Inside, however…

Vernon’s abnormally large, purple hands gripped Harry’s unkempt hair, pulling the boy’s upper half into the open window. He let out a hiss of pain as Vernon gripped his throat in fury, demanding to know what the sound had been. Harry tried to answer, but the hands around his neck were too tight to get words out, or air in. His heart raced as he waited for Vernon to loosen his grip. A minute went by, then another, as Vernon seethed and shook the boy.

Was this it? Would he, The Boy Who Lived, perish at the hands of his own uncle? Nevermind the world-threatening Dark Wizard that had come so close the previous years—Vernon would come closer. However, Vernon soon spotted the wand that Harry was grasping, now limply, and in a panic, he threw the boy down into the rose bush.

Harry gasped for air, not minding one bit how the sharp thorns tore right through his thin shirt and worn jeans, piercing his skin all over. At least he could breathe. He clenched his jaw and steeled his eyes in anger as Petunia shrieked from the kitchen for Vernon to stop making a scene. She yelled at Harry to get inside at once, and, not wanting to risk her wrath as well, he scrambled up and hurried inside.

Once Harry was within the seclusion of the entryway, no longer in the neighbor’s view, Vernon grabbed Harry by the shirt collar and lifted him up. Harry could smell the alcohol on his breath and waited for Vernon to question him.

“What was that, freak? That sound of yours?” He said each word with quiet malice, spitting through his teeth. Their faces were so close that it splashed on Harry’s glasses. “Think you can go around this house waving that wand of yours and causing trouble?”

“It wasn’t me, I swear! I only stood up to see what it was,” he explained, though not sounding as ignorant to the situation as he wanted to appear. He knew he had recognized the sound of Apparition, but had no clue as to who it could have been, or why.

Petunia came behind Vernon soon enough. “Vernon, dear. Let him go,” she whispered in his ear, though it was more of a whimper. He noticed her furtive glances out the window. Harry remembered Mrs. Figg and, to his own mortification, realised she probably saw the entire display by the window. Vernon grunted, and released his hold on Harry, who collapsed to the ground. He then wrenched open the door and snapped at Harry to get out while he still could.

Harry needed no further encouragement.

~

Feet dangling slightly from the swing he was seated on, Harry observed the empty park. He had come here immediately after his violent exchange with Vernon. He knew that despite the summer day, the place would be deserted. It was barely a playground, anyway. A couple of rusty swingsets standing atop a pile of dirty wood chips. When he was younger, he would come to this playground and stare at the structures, imagining what it would have been like to be able to play at the park, to get pushed on the swing by his mother.

Fighting nausea, he took some time to relax. His upper body was sore and aching and his breathing wasn’t yet steady. Had he really thought he would die? All the rationality in him must have fled as soon as he’d felt Vernon’s sweaty hands on him. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Harry kicked the ground and scowled. He’d survived Voldemort 5 times in his lifetime. Why should he be so afraid of his uncle?

But years of experience ensured that Harry knew better. Every summer, there was nothing that could fend off Vernon’s rage or Dudley’s bullying, both of whom had the advantage of attacking him physically. Harry might be a powerful wizard, but he was certainly not a powerful man. This, he knew, was an unavoidable fact. He was 15, both scrawny and weak due to a lifetime of malnourishment, and thus he was incapable of fighting back against any and all abuse inflicted by his uncle. He was defenceless.

He waited there for a few hours, lost in his thoughts, until he spotted Dudley with his gang down the road. Getting up from the swing, he followed quietly. If Harry made it back to Number Four any later than Dudley, he was sure that he’d get locked in the shed again. But if his cousin spotted him, who knew what could happen? Perhaps a game of Harry Hunting, Dudley would no doubt suggest–a favorite pastime of his from the past. Harry was sure his body couldn’t handle another beating that night, magical healing be damned.

As Dudley separated from his group, Harry decided on taking a shortcut through a couple of the neighborhood yards in order to get home before his cousin. Little Whinging was quiet, but not silent. Televisions could be heard faintly from inside the houses, crickets chirped mindlessly, and Dudley’s thick footsteps echoed in Harry’s direction. Determined to not spend another night in the shed, he quickened his pace, vaulting himself over picket fences and dodging automated sprinklers.

Abruptly, as if by magic, the peaceful night withdrew. Harry froze. Dudley, some metres away, let out a gasp. The night instantly became blacker, the air grew colder, and any previous sounds were now mute in the two boys’ ears. The hair on Harry’s arms pricked up, and he slipped his wand out once more. If his fingers were trembling, the comfort of his wand was the perfect remedy. He looked around, scanning for any threats.

Dudley screamed, and Harry reacted immediately, running to where his cousin had fallen in the street. An immense, black figure was floating over him, feeding on him. Dudley was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness. Harry briefly considered running, leaving Dudley to suffer his fate. He deserved it, after all. Feeling disgusted with himself, he shook the thought out of his mind. In a moment of rushed panic and determination, he willed himself to cast his Patronus.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The powerful stag charged at the lone Dementor, and it flew away in defeat.

The night resumed, no longer silent and motionless. Dudley was completely passed out, and there was no way Harry was strong enough to drag, let alone carry, him back to the Dursley’s. After a moment of thought, he decided that he’d already used magic once, what was once more? Ignoring all possible consequences, Harry levitated Dudley’s limp body from the ground, and began his way back home. As sweat beaded on his forehead from the amount of concentration needed to keep his large cousin afloat, dread welled up in his chest. There was no way his aunt and uncle would believe him about the Dementor.

A sound of shuffling behind them caused Harry to twist around, ready and alert. But it was only old Mrs. Figg, who was pattering toward them. What had he gotten himself into? He quickly brought Dudley down and pocketed his wand as she neared closer.

“Oh, don’t put it away, Harry! Who knows if there will be more?” she whispered, warning him.

In confused compliance, he kept his wand in his hand. He stared at her dumbly in the night. “Well, come on then. Back to Number Four you go! Lift him up,” she commanded. He found himself easily obeying.

~

Harry awoke gasping for air. He had dreamt of Dementors and Death Eaters, circling him on Privet Drive, simultaneously cursing and sucking the life out of him, all while Cedric watched, laughing. Sweat had left his sheets a damp mess beneath him. His head pounded from dehydration, and his body throbbed with pain, but it was bearable. Fearing Petunia’s anger at him for running up the electricity bill if he switched on the light, he reached up to draw back his curtains, letting in the moonlight of the nearly full moon. The sight of it reminded him of Remus, and he felt a pang of loneliness and longing.

He got up and padded to the small bucket in the corner. When locked in his room, his aunt would allow him out thrice during the day so he could use the bathroom, but never at night. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of it, but he steeled himself, using the bucket despite his revulsion.

When he was done, he studied himself in the small mirror hanging from his wardrobe. Some of the lesser bruises on his face were starting to fade. Those on his neck, however, were not. They were extremely visible, even in the shadows and dim light. Harry winced as his fingers ran over them, barely touching the skin. Prickly splotches of red littered the front of his neck, while the sides were a deep purple.

He sighed, remembering the previous night. They had walked back to Number 4 together, Dudley in tow. After some guarded questioning, he learned that she was a Squib, a non-magical person born from a magical family. The Dursleys hadn’t taken kindly to that fact at all. In their eyes, she was just as much of a freak as him.

She explained that the crack from earlier had been Mundungus. Not that Harry knew the man from any more than his name. She also notified Dumbledore as soon as she’d spotted the Dementor. Harry wasn’t expelled, so far. He’d received notice from Mr. Weasley that Dumbledore had been negotiating with the Ministry of Magic. Now, Harry only had to wait and see what happened.

Thankfully, Petunia had locked him in his room right away so she could see to Dudley’s unconsciousness. He knew he wouldn’t be coming out any time soon, but anything was better than facing Uncle Vernon’s “discipline,” even if it meant being a starving prisoner in his own home. If he could call it that at all. He crawled back in bed and remained awake until morning.

~

Harry laid atop his bed and twisted his wand reflexively with his fingers. It had been two nights since the incident. He’d gotten no mail other than Mr. Weasley’s letter. He tried not to worry too much. Dumbledore would figure it out, and he would be okay. The lack of mail was a dilemma that had been bothering him all summer. He’d barely heard anything from Ron or Hermione, except for the occasional cautious message which hardly gave Harry any information at all. Nothing from Remus or Sirius as well. It was becoming increasingly difficult to not fault them all for it. He felt more alone this summer than he had been any summer since before Hogwarts.

He drew in a deep breath, curling in on himself as a sharp pain grew in his ribs. His body was in turmoil, and his lack of food or water was taking a toll on the healing process. Harry decided that if it got bad enough, he would have to take the risk and use magic again, some simple healing charms he had jumped at being able to learn when Hermione had offered to teach him in Second Year.

But in a stroke of incredible luck, that morning his pleads were not ignored. Petunia unlocked the door, the row of locks clicking in an all-too familiar pattern, with Vernon and Dudley nowhere to be seen or heard. She announced to him that they would be leaving. She neglected to tell him where they were going, or for how long. Harry would stay at Number Four, and that was that. She shut the door and departed without any further explanation.

As he listened for the familiar sound of the car doors slamming shut, Harry realized he was truly alone. He froze, not eager to be tricked into being punished even more. But the house was silent, and his impatience got the better of him. His fingers wrapped around the handle.

It twisted and clicked open. He was free.

~

Severus stood in the corner of the Headmaster’s Office at Hogwarts, his face soured at the old wizard who was sitting before him. “Why must I be the one to retrieve the boy, Headmaster? Surely either of the mutts would do, or the Weasleys?” he attempted.

“I am sorry, Severus. Sirius and Remus are preparing for the full moon tonight, as you are aware. The Weasleys have enough children to protect, and I wouldn’t risk them for such a task. It must be you, my boy,” Dumbledore replied, popping a sweet into his mouth.

Severus bowed his head, resigned. After a moment, he looked back up, a blank expression on his face. “As you wish, Headmaster. I have some business to attend to before the journey, but I shall be there before midnight.”

The old man smiled. “Perfect, Severus. Thank you.” He then resumed writing whatever letter he was sending in correspondence with the ministry, no doubt in defense of the boy’s arrogance in performing underage magic, in front of a muggle no less.

Severus turned and strolled out of the office at once, robes billowing in a dramatic flair.

Chapter Text

Harry planned to enjoy his new freedom thoroughly. After a quick scan of the house, to be sure the Dursleys really were, in fact, gone, he felt a sort of calm he hadn’t ever felt anywhere but Hogwarts. Being able to simply exist without the fear of being harmed by his uncle or cousin was not something he typically experienced during the summers, and he welcomed the feeling of relative safety as he went about the rest of his day.

As Harry began to get up and moving, the pain in his neck and shoulders grew. He searched the house for paracetamol, but was unlucky, however, and decided a hot shower should help.

His aunt normally allowed him 10 minutes twice per week to shower, as long as Harry scrubbed the bath down after every use and kept his hands off her soaps. Stepping into the bathroom and undressing, he waited for the water to warm up while examining himself in the mirror. He’d have to find something to eat soon—his ribs were the most prominent they’d ever been, and that was saying something. Still in pain, he eyed the bruising on his neck and winced. It looked like it wouldn’t be healing anytime soon.

He noticed his hair was getting longer, despite his aunt attacking it with the kitchen shears as soon as he’d returned for the summer. The unruly curls wrapped around his ears and covered the back of his neck in wispy pieces, sticking in some spots from sweat, a result of being locked up for two days. He’d have to cut it again soon, but not yet—the hair covered the worst of the bruising, he thought grimly.

After his shower, he traversed downstairs to the kitchen. He drank a full glass of water from the tap, then another, filling it up a third time and setting it aside. The cupboards themselves were locked, but the fridge remained free of any sort of Harry-proofing, and he searched for something to eat.

It was not an easy act. After some time of searching, Harry had a plate consisting of raw carrots, some cheese that was mouldy on one end, an apple, and a boiled egg from earlier in the week. It seemed that the Dursleys had thrown out any food that was in good condition, leaving only random and expired ingredients for Harry to eat. He drank his third glass of water and ate quickly, biting around the mould on the cheese. The gnawing pain in his stomach was not alleviated, but slightly lessened.

What Harry would give for one of Mrs. Weasley’s mince pies. Or any of her cooking, really. But so far, he’d had no contact with anyone since Arthur Weasley’s rushed note after the Dementor incident. Being at the Dursleys for almost a full month without a single letter from his friends or godfathers was incredibly isolating. His rational side wondered if there was a reason for their minimal contact. Perhaps they were simply trying to give him space to heal from the previous year? Or it was, in some way, dangerous to contact him? Even so, a simple check-in would’ve been appreciated.

Harry swallowed his sudden anger, not wanting to ruin his Dursley-Free day with such feelings. Entering his room once more, he grabbed the foul bucket from the corner to empty and clean it. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and fought down the shame bubbling up inside him. Hopefully he’d have no use for it anytime soon. He replaced the bucket under his desk when he was done, and then spent some time watching television in the sitting room, something he’d never been permitted to do in his life.

~

Harry’s day, having been more eventful than any that summer, left him weary. The sun was setting, and he soon found himself going back up the stairs to his room, another full glass of water in hand. Passing his cupboard, he debated picking the lock to retrieve his schoolthings, but decided against it. He already had his wand, and his photo album from Hagrid. Schoolwork could wait a bit longer.

He went to bed in a lighter mood than he’d been in all summer, hoping the Dursleys wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

~

Severus apparated as close as the wards around Number Four allowed him. It was late, the neighborhood deserted in a near-perfect silence. It was clear that Petunia had never grown out of her childhood demand for normalcy—each house was in pristine condition, all exact copies, indistinguishable save for the golden numbers along the front.

As he neared Number Four, he felt a familiar sensation wash over him, stopping him in his tracks at once.

Lily.

His best and only friend. It had been so long since he’d last felt her magic.

Of course. Her sacrifice that night must have been responsible for the powerful blood wards encircling Petunia’s residence, hence why the boy was raised here in the Muggle world. However, as he probed closer, it was clear that these blood wards were failing—a slow but steady decline in power. Probably due to the boy’s aging, Severus assumed.

He allowed himself only a moment of remembrance and guilt, the feelings simultaneous but stark in their contrast, before continuing forward to the front door, his robes catching in the slight breeze.

Murmuring alohamora under his breath, he twisted open the knob and stepped inside. Even in the darkness the impeccable condition of the home was apparent. The pink carpeting was smooth and undamaged, the air smelled of the fresh, lemony scent of cleaning chemicals, and the photos lining the wall to his left were free of any dust or blemishes. It was unsurprising. Petunia had always had an intense preference for cleanliness, sometimes borderline obsessive.

He eyed the cupboard under the stairs to his right, which was locked shut. What was Petunia so ashamed of, what was she trying so desperately to hide, that a simple storage cupboard required such a locking mechanism? Not in any sort of rush, Severus seized the opportunity to uncover his childhood enemy’s guilty secrets. The boy could wait.

Conjuring a small ball of light and unlocking the mechanism with a flick of his wand, Severus frowned. This certainly hadn’t been what he’d been expecting. A child-sized cot took up most of the space within the cupboard, with a school trunk stacked on top—Potter’s school trunk. Various broken toys were scattered atop the shelving lining the wall, a thick layer of dust coating them. Even the trunk looked to be untouched.

The boy’s schoolthings were locked up—was this why he’d never managed to do his summer assignments on time? Severus had previously taken it as a sign of disrespect, an utter disregard for all authority, just like his father. But this display proved different.

Crouching down to take a closer look at the cot, the ball of light floating lower, Severus noticed it had only a tattered, mildew infested sheet, and a pillowcase stuffed with old dishrags—a makeshift pillow. The wall close to the edge of the cupboard displayed various crayon drawings, obviously a child’s work.

In a sudden moment of horrifying clarity, Severus stiffened and leaned out of the cupboard, locking it back up after retrieving Potter’s trunk. He waved his wand and silently cast a shrinking spell, tucking the trunk into the pocket of his robes. Interested in learning more about the truth of the boy’s unexpected home-life, he silently studied the rest of the ground floor. The ball of light danced ahead of him, illuminating the sleeping house in a soft glow. The sitting room was decorated with various photographs, all of a blond, chubby boy who Severus had no doubt was Petunia and Vernon’s son, Potter’s cousin. There was no trace of Potter anywhere in this house, apart from what could be found in the cupboard.

Entering the kitchen, Severus’ mood darkened even further when he sighted the locks on the pantry and cupboards. He thought back to his first impression of the boy in his First Year as he sat at the Gryffindor table within the Great Hall, his heritage undeniable from the black curls wild atop his head, reminiscent of his father, and the shining green eyes that were just like his mother’s. He recalled noticing that the boy was far too small for an eleven year old. And still, even as the boy had begun puberty, he remained small and short-statured as his fellow classmates shot up like weeds.

When Severus had voiced his concern to the Headmaster regarding the matter, he had been reassured that children grew at varying rates, and that it was nothing to worry about—thus, Severus was free to rid himself of any concern he previously had for the boy’s wellbeing. But it was now explicitly clear that a “naturally slow pace of growth,” the Headmaster’s exact words, was not the source of Potter’s now apparent malnourishment.

Determined, Severus climbed the stairs by the entrance hall in search of the boy. From the landing he could see four doors, one of them already open. Severus cast a silencing spell and investigated. The first room turned out to be Petunia and Vernon’s bedroom, strangely empty. The second was a child’s room, filled with toys and video games, featuring its own television—the boy’s cousin’s room, no doubt—also empty. Severus frowned once more.

Where were the Dursleys?

The third door was a quarter of the way open, and Severus could see the ugly pink of the bathroom tiles along the wall, obnoxiously obvious even in the darkness of the home—his charmed ball of light having been put out before making his way up the stairs.

It was not hard to discern what was behind the final door. The outside of this door had multiple locks, similar to the one the cupboard under the stairs brandished, and a small, plastic cat flap at the bottom. Severus knew from their shared past that Petunia was allergic to cats, and it was unlikely the Dursleys owned one anyway due to the lack of feline presence on the first floor. No, this flap was clearly to provide provisions to the inhabitant of the room without the stress of unlocking the numerous locking mechanisms—which were unlocked at the moment, no doubt due to the peculiar absence of the Dursleys. Severus pushed the door open in an instant.

In the corner, Potter lay atop a thin mattress, his eyes pressed shut, sweat gleaning on his exposed skin. He stirred fitfully, thrashing underneath the blankets. The boy struggled in a familiar way, and Severus quickly recognized his movements as the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. He glanced about the room, surveying it in an analytic manner. The room was barren, however, and it took little effort as his dark eyes passed over the empty bird-cage and broken wardrobe, halting as he spotted a small bucket under the barren desk.

Eyes flickering back toward the door and its many locks, as well as the cat flap on the lower portion of the door, it was clear that the boy was used to being locked away for days on end. Severus looked away immediately. He needn’t guess what the bucket was used for.

Severus approached the bed with caution. Potter was clearly having a nightmare, and Severus was unsure how to deal with the situation. As he went to reach for the boy’s shoulder, he noticed the bruising around his neck and hardened his jaw.

He had never thought that Harry Potter, who looked—and, Severus previously thought, acted—so much like his father, would grow up abused by his muggle family. But Severus was no stranger to abuse. It was unmistakable—there was no denying the fact that Potter’s home-life was one of utter abuse and neglect.

Severus had failed him in every way. Had failed Lily in every way.

Staring down at the sleeping, convulsing boy, he vowed to never fail him again.

Harry’s eyes shot open.

Chapter Text

When he awoke, Harry thought he must have still been dreaming. It was the only possible explanation he could think of for Snape, of all people, to be standing above him in the middle of the night. During the summer no less. Harry turned over and shoved his face into the pillow, muffling his scoff of disbelief. “Well, that’s a new one,” he muttered to himself.

Still slightly shaken from his nightmare, his body periodically twitching involuntarily, he tried to relax into the pillow and took a few deep breaths. His endeavor for peace was disrupted, however, when he heard the deep voice of his most hated professor behind him.

“Potter.”

So this was really happening, then, Harry thought. He turned and pushed himself up onto his arms, glaring slightly at the professor.

“Snape.” He couldn’t get detention during the summers, right?

After a moment of awkward silence, the man spoke once more. “Professor Dumbledore has ordered me to collect you. It would be in your best interest to gather your things, as you will most likely not be returning here for the rest of the summer. I have already retrieved your school trunk—” he paused, raising his eyes at the obvious distress Harry had no doubt displayed at the thought of Snape finding his trunk—in the cupboard.

“Brilliant,” Harry responded, his voice thick with irritation. He grabbed his glasses off the windowsill above him and shoved them on his face, blinking as his eyes adjusted. Self-conscious about the state of the loose second-hand clothes he slept in, he eyed the professor warily as he got up and made his way to the middle of the small bedroom, kneeling down to pry open a loose floorboard and seizing his photo-album he’d gotten from Hagrid.

Harry was, truthfully, incredibly humiliated. Snape was watching him gather his most prized possessions from their hiding spot under his flooring. He’d seen the cupboard, the locks on his door—and, he realized with a wince—the bucket under his desk. Not to mention Harry himself, who was clearly bruised and the thinnest he’d ever been, swathed in Dudley’s tattered, stained clothing. It was mortifying, but he wouldn’t let Snape know how he felt. No, Harry held his head up, determined not to give Snape another thing to taunt him about.

Replacing the floorboard, he looked back at Snape, who hadn’t moved at all. Even his expression remained blank and unchanging. Rolling his eyes in a show of carelessness, Harry reached for Hedwig’s empty birdcage, then seized his wand from under his pillow.

“I’m all set, sir,” Harry said, holding up his few possessions with a wry smile.

Snape nodded and began to speak once more. “We will be travelling to the current headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, which is a covert league of Professor Dumbledore’s most trusted individuals. The Order has recommenced since the resurrection of the Dark Lord at the end of the school year, with the intention to protect and fight for the safety of the Wizarding World, and, by proxy, you. It is there where you will prepare for your trial at the Ministry of Magic, in which Arthur Weasley will be accompanying you.” He paused to make certain Harry understood, so he nodded once before Snape continued.

“Once we have left the wards around this residence, we will be able to Disapparate to our destination. You will need to hold onto my arm firmly if you do not wish to be splinched in the process. I trust you know what Apparation is, Potter?” he questioned, an eyebrow raised.

“Yes sir,” he answered. He’d heard of it before from Hermione, and knew it was similar to a Portkey, just without a physical object to hold onto. The thought reminded him of the sharp crack he’d heard days earlier—Mundungus, Mrs. Figg had told him—the one that had resulted in the deep bruising that still covered his neck.

“Good. No one save for Dumbledore and myself know of your relocation tonight, but we must nevertheless be on alert once we travel outside the wards. There are many people that would jump at the chance to deliver you to the Dark Lord given the opportunity. Keep your wand at the ready.”

“Okay,” Harry replied, gripping his wand tighter, his embarrassment forgotten after realising the severity of the matter.

“If you hand over your owl’s cage, I can charm it smaller and put it away with your trunk,” Snape said, reaching out his hand expectantly. Harry gave him the cage and watched with hidden wonder as Snape waved his wand and nonverbally cast a shrinking spell, tucking it into the outer pocket of his robes once the cage was as small as a pocketwatch. After all these years of lugging around his heavy trunk and awkwardly shaped bird cage, Harry had never thought to do such a thing. He’d have to ask Hermione to teach him. If she was even his friend anymore, he thought bitterly.

~

Severus had chosen his words carefully when informing the boy of their plans, occluding his emotions. To Severus, everything had changed, yet to Potter, nothing had changed. So he bit down his guilt and spoke soberly, giving Potter the facts without any hint that Severus now knew the truth and was inclined to do something about it. The boy, in any case, seemed to appreciate the lack of acknowledgement of his current situation, and indeed appeared to be set on acting as if there was nothing untoward about the situation at all, with an air of indifference that only told Severus how uneasy Potter actually was.

They’d discuss it all later, after Severus spoke with Albus. And speaking to him he would be, he decided, with a sudden flare of rage. How was it possible that Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, had been abused and neglected his entire life by his muggle relatives? How had Albus let such a thing happen?

Following Potter down the carpeted stairs, they exited the home without delay. Privet Drive was as still and silent as it was when Severus had arrived. As they made their way to the edge of the wards, Severus scanned the area with the practiced eye one gains out of necessity after years of spying—but he could sense nothing unusual. Stepping out of the wards, their footsteps echoing, he turned to the boy and met his eyes. “Grab my arm and ensure your hold is secure,” he spoke into the quiet of the night, holding out his arm.

The boy wrapped his fingers tightly around the fabric of Severus’ sleeve, around where they both knew the Dark Mark breathed and burned, and they were off.

~

As they Disapparated to the undisclosed headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry felt a wave of nausea so intense he could barely keep his hold on Snape’s arm. They landed on an unfamiliar London street, and Harry doubled over, throwing up on Snape’s shoes in an instant—if you could call what had come out of him anything but bile.

Wincing, he looked up at the professor and let go of his cloak, already beginning to apologise, wiping his mouth as he did so. What was he thinking, throwing up on the man who already hated him beyond reason?

“It is no matter,” Snape said, pointing his wand downward and casting a wordless scourgify. The bile disappeared at once, leaving the black leather of Snape’s shoes shining in the moonlight.

Bewildered at his professor’s indifference on the matter, Harry coughed to clear his throat, wondering what to say in response. He didn’t have to wonder long, however, as Snape began to walk forward, and Harry scrambled to catch up.

They stopped in front of an unassuming building, and Harry wondered how secret a place could be if it was in the middle of London. But, as soon as Harry had had the thought, the building—which was on Grimmauld Place, if the street sign was correct—began to shift in front of him, revealing a door that hadn’t been there before: Number 12. Well, that was how, he supposed.

They entered the building promptly, without a word. Harry followed Snape through a long, dark corridor. Darkness rolled off the walls and clung to Harry’s skin, almost smothering Snape’s lumos entirely. A part of him was glad that Snape was in front.

As they neared the door at the end of the hallway, Harry began to hear the familiar voices of the Weasleys and Hermione, along with a few others that were unrecognisable. Everyone who had been pretending he didn’t exist for a month, all of them here, while Harry wasted away at the Dursleys. He halted in his tracks, unsure of how he felt about seeing them all.

Snape turned towards him as soon as Harry had stopped following, a calculating look on his face. Harry stared at him, refusing to move. Snape raised his eyebrow at the defiance, and spoke quietly.

“Your friends await you on the other side of this door. I would have thought you’d be thrilled to see them once more,” he ventured, a question laced within the statements.

“I don’t,” Harry replied in a whisper, which was less to keep quiet and more to keep his voice from breaking. “I don’t want to see them.”

Surprisingly, the professor didn’t reprimand him for his confession—for a confession was what it was. They were his closest friends and family, and despite his loneliness, he didn’t want to see them. Harry had tried to suppress his anger over the past month, but now, facing them seemed to be impossible. Harry was afraid of what he’d say to them if he saw them, afraid of what he’d do. Instead, Snape locked eyes with him once more, the blackness of them akin to the blackness of the hallway. Something felt different just then, Harry noticed. It was as if Snape had finally decided on something, though Harry could not know what.

~

“I don’t want to see them,” Potter had said, had practically pleaded, when Severus had met his eyes. It didn’t take being a Legilimens to recognize his sheer desperation. And, he thought, why should the boy have to? He was clearly upset with them, and Severus knew all to well from numerous visits how overwhelming to the senses the redheaded family and curly-haired girl behind the door could be. Coupled with the evident abuse—and starvation, Severus had noted as the boy had heaved up bile onto his shoes—Potter had suffered recently, it was obvious that Grimmauld Place was not the right setting for the boy.

It was not as hard for Severus to make the decision as it would have been previously, back when he had refused to see what was right in front of him. He would do what so many others had failed at, what Minerva, what Albus had failed at. He would do what was best for Harry Potter, his enemy’s son.

His best friend’s son.

He would take him to Prince Manor.

Chapter Text

Prince Manor, as Snape had called it when Harry had asked where they were upon arrival, was only a bit disconcerting. It wasn’t teeming with dark magic to the point where it leaked from the walls, as had been the case in Grimmauld. But, Harry noted as he followed Snape through the unfamiliar halls, it was uncomfortably quiet, and even as the sconces lining the walls ignited in flames, he didn’t want to know what lurked in the absolute silence of the dark rooms they passed by.

Pondering the night’s events as they walked, Harry once more considered the possibility that he was dreaming. Again, it seemed to be the only possible explanation. The Dursleys had disappeared, something he was beginning to find suspicious, and after a blessedly Dursley-free day, Harry had been woken from his nightmares in the middle of the night by none other than Professor Snape, a man who hated Harry only a bit less than perhaps Voldemort did. Who had the Dark Mark.

Snape, who had seen the cupboard under the stairs. Who had seen the now-green bruising still covering his neck. Who had seen the locks on his door, the bucket under his desk, perhaps even the dented bars on his window.

Who had not insisted Harry grab changes of clothing before they had left, no doubt realising that none of it was worth taking. Who had, regardless of their sudden and questionable absence, practically saved Harry from the Dursleys.

Who hadn’t cared when Harry threw up on his shoes, despite the man’s notorious lack of tolerance for any sort of mess or childish behavior, as Harry and the rest of the Hogwarts student body were well aware of. Snape, who instead of reprimanding him for his juvenile defiance against Professor Dumbledore’s orders, had brought him here, without a word.

Snape, who had so far given him more care than anyone else in his life had done all summer.

They stopped in a sitting room—though, from the perfect stillness of the room, Harry doubted it was used much for sitting… or anything, really. It was clean, and dust-free, but still had an unused feel to it, like Aunt Petunia’s fine china cabinet. There was a grand hearth that, like the sconces along the walls, roared to life as they entered through the heavy double doors. Two wingback chairs in a dark brown leather sat on either side of a matching Chesterfield facing the hearth, all atop an ornate green Persian rug. Tall, thick candlesticks littered the room on any available surface, and they too, flickered alight at their entrance; the room was swathed in warmth immediately, of both light and temperature.

Thin windows lining the walls were sandwiched between long, velvet curtains that appeared black in the low light. It had begun to rain in whatever part of the country they were located, the droplets coming down in a thick sheet that glittered in the full moonlight. Harry looked away almost immediately—he didn’t appreciate the reminder that Remus and Sirius were out there, another family that didn’t need or want him.

The various flames in the room licked at the walls, which were of a wood Harry guessed to be oak, and glinted against the many golden frames that held portraits of people unknown to himself, but all with that same air of self-importance and pride that made it obvious the elusive House of Prince was a line of pure-blooded wixen. Like the Malfoys, Harry mused with a smirk. Like the Blacks, he thought, and his stomach churned in response.

Snape gestured for Harry to sit on the sofa, and he moved to do so as Snape took seat in one of the armchairs, his robes disguising the awkward movement into a fluid motion. Harry had no such luck, however, stumbling over the edge of the rug and only just catching himself on the arm of the chair his professor had just sat in.

Embarrassed, he sat down once he had regained control of his limbs and braved a look at the older man, who had simply ignored Harry staggering about the manor as if he were intoxicated. He should have been more careful, he chastised himself, but truthfully, he felt incredibly worse for wear. He was exhausted, and the dull ache of pain he had grown to live with over the summers had evolved into a sharper, more urgent demand for regard. Waking up at Privet Drive felt like ages ago—had it really only been five days since the Dementor incident?

Clearing his throat, Snape began to speak to him, his voice low in the quiet of the night. The only other sounds that could be heard were the muffled rain from outside and the crackling of the fire, which Harry glanced at periodically as Snape spoke in low tones, the eye contact too intense to handle.

“I am sure you are tired, so listen, and I will keep it brief. This is Prince Manor, as you are now aware of. You are safe here, and will remain so for the duration of your stay, as the only other people aware of its existence are myself and Professor Dumbledore. It is my own ancestral home, though I normally prefer to spend my nights elsewhere.”

Harry furrowed his brows. “Your ancestral home? But you’re a Snape, not a… Prince, professor,” he ventured, worried that for all his professor’s recent change in demeanor, this perhaps wasn’t the type of conversation where Harry was supposed to comment on such things.

“You are correct, Potter. Eileen Prince was my mother, and this was her home. I inherited the home, as her only son and the last of the Prince line. Despite my name, her blood runs in my veins, and it is enough to satisfy the wards around this manor.”

“But you don’t live here?” Harry asked, thinking back to the dark rooms in the hall and the untouched state of the sitting room.

“No, Potter, I do not. Nevertheless, it is mine, and I shall use it however I wish to. Currently, I wish to use it to aid you.”

Snape? Aiding him? That is what he’d been doing, he supposed. “But why?”

The man’s face twisted in a seemingly guilty fashion. Avoiding the question, if only for a moment, he suggested they have tea, “as is customary for conversations such as this.”

Harry shrugged, then winced at the pain the movement caused. “Okay.”

As soon as he had spoken the words, a complete tea set made up for two popped into existence on the low table in front of the sofa. Snape retrieved his wand in a lithe, quick motion, undetectable if Harry hadn’t already been looking. He waved it at the set, three sugar cubes and a splash of cream making their way into one of the cups. The cup then levitated over to Harry, docking itself into his open hands. He raised his eyebrows, looking over to Snape to demand how he’d known how he liked his tea.

The man’s lip quirked slightly. “Nonsense, Mr. Potter. I have seen you drink tea in the Great Hall an innumerable amount of times over your years at Hogwarts. Of course I am aware of your preferences.”

Harry nodded, watching as Snape used magic to stir the other cup of tea—three sugars and a splash of cream, just like him, Harry noted—and waited for the professor to answer his question.

After some of what looked to Harry to be an inner conflict, Snape began. “I wish to help you for a multitude of reasons, Potter, but none of them as prominent as my duty to you, as a student who was placed—if only for a short trip—under my care. As a professor, I have taken an oath to protect any student under my supervision. That includes reporting any indication of maltreatment that I perceive and taking the necessary steps to resolve such threats,” he answered. “Being said, I planned to go to the Headmaster as soon as I’d delivered you to headquarters—” He stopped at Harry’s stammering display of indignation. “It is not pity, Potter. I do not think of you differently,” he said. “Nevertheless, it is beneficial to all parties for me to report my findings to Professor Dumbledore.”

Harry was silent for a good moment, staring at the flames dancing in the hearth, nervous to meet his professor’s black eyes. “But you didn’t do it, sir. You didn’t drop me off there,” he settled on saying.

“No, Mr. Potter, I did not.”

“Why?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Because I believe that you have been in dire need of assistance for quite some time—perhaps, even, for your entire life. It is unthinkable that no such assistance has been provided to you, even more so after you had begun to attend Hogwarts—”

“I did get help!” Harry interrupted. “The Weasleys, they take care of me like I’m their… Like I’m their son,” he began. “Ron and the twins, they saved me from the Dursleys the summer before my second year, they used the flying car… Mrs. Weasley sends me food, sometimes,” But his voice died out as he met the professor’s eyes. What was he doing? Trying to convince Snape he was alright when he could clearly see how thin he was? When he could clearly see the bags under his eyes and the bruising around his neck?

“Regardless of all of this enlightening… information, you were still subject to a number of summers of abuse and neglect when such matters could have easily been avoided. I will be speaking with the headmaster tomorrow afternoon, regardless of how you feel about it.” The words cut through the air like knives, and it was clear that there would be no arguments on the topic. Though Harry was mortified of yet another figure in his life finding out about his situation, there was a small part of him that felt a sort of relief of letting it be dealt with by the adults, for the first time in his life.

“Okay, sir,” Harry murmured, gulping his tea down and stifling a yawn afterwards. At the show of tiredness, Snape rose.

“Wait here for a moment. Do not touch anything,” he said, and he strode from the room at once.

Harry waited as the minutes ticked by, studying the room and even braving a look out of one of the windows. They appeared to be somewhere in the midst of a forest of dark green trees of various types, with little open space on the grounds from what he could see. Wondering if they were even still in England, he moved to sit back down onto the Chesterfield, which he noticed was incredibly comfortable. The air was warm, and the distant sounds of thunder had Harry soon shutting his eyes, thinking about the fine china cabinet room, and nodding as he fell into a light sleep.

~

Harry was woken up by an uncomfortable-looking Snape standing above him and clearing his throat, a tall mass of black robes. It was the middle of the night, honestly, did the man even wear pyjamas? Harry got up, and Snape motioned for Harry to follow him. They left the warmth of the sitting room and were once again in the hall, Harry sleepily following Snape’s gliding figure through the manor. He tried to remember the way they took to get there, but the home seemed to be as much of a maze as Hogwarts was, and his attempt was a futile one. They stopped outside a door that was made of a thick—and, as Harry would soon find out, heavy—dark brown wood.

“This will be your room for the duration of your stay. There is a lavatory en suite containing toiletries that you are welcome to make use of. In the wardrobe you will find changes of clothing as well as nightclothes. There are two potions on the bedside table that I require you to consume before sleeping. The first is a nutrition potion that you will be taking every night and morning whilst you are here. The second is a healing potion that should begin to heal any internal injuries you may have received over the summer. There is also a salve that I encourage you to massage into any bruising, as it will amplify the healing process and eliminate any lingering pains. I will do a more thorough scan of your injuries at dawn. For now, rest, Potter.” He turned on his heels and strode down the hall, pausing briefly to turn back. “And, Mr. Potter? The manor does not appreciate those who are unknown to it. For tonight, remain in your rooms.”

He disappeared down the hall in an instant, leaving Harry to stare at the shut door. Hesitantly, he pushed it open, huffing at the effort it required. He was greeted with an enormous four-poster bed, made up with maroon bedding and curtains—much like that of the Gryffindor dormitories. There was a plush rug covering much of the floor, and a small hearth—not as grand as the one in the sitting room, but warm nonetheless—with a welcoming leather armchair in front of it. The wardrobe was short but held everything Harry would need to wear for an extended period of time, including robes and muggle clothing. How long would he be staying at Prince Manor? Once again, his heart ached at the thought of the family that he had so wanted and then lost; and the unexpected comfort he had gained from an enemy.

There was a wide window to the right overlooking the forest—had they even travelled up any stairs?—and a smaller door off to the left of the bed, which Harry assumed was the bathroom. The nightstand held, as Snape had promised, two potions and a tin of salve, as well as a glass of water and plate of crackers and cheese. Nibbling on the crackers, he continued his survey of the room, including the bathroom, which had a claw-footed tub and plush maroon towels, as well as a robe and an assortment of soaps and other toiletries.

~

After washing up, blowing out the candles that were strewn about the room, and changing into a pair of the deep brown linen pyjamas from the wardrobe, he climbed into the bed, which was perhaps the most comfortable bed he’d ever laid in—even more comfortable than his own in the dorms at Hogwarts. He stuffed his wand under his pillow and reached for the salve, spreading it thinly over the bruises on his neck and a few others he’d gained from doing chores around Number Four over the summer. It tingled, but eased the soreness he had gotten so accustomed to. Yawning, he grabbed the potions and mindlessly threw them back, nose scrunching at the foul taste of both of them as a warm feeling spread in his chest.

Taking his glasses off and setting them on the table, he shut his eyes against the comforting light of the flames in the fireplace, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep in minutes.

Chapter Text

Severus left Potter to his rooms, content to leave the messier things for the morning. Certain he wouldn’t be able to rest, he instead stalked through the empty halls—unfamiliar, as he hadn’t grown up in them—performing the occasional containment spell on the rooms that sent chills up his spine, and simply locking the knobs on the others. He ignored the curiosity within him that continued to bubble to the surface—there would be time to uncover the house’s secrets; but not yet. His only goal that night was to ensure the boy’s safety in his own residence.

At Potter’s exhaustion after their discussion—which went significantly better than Severus had dared hope—he gathered his wits and prepared a room for him, which he had already labelled as the least offensive room in the building. He’d ensured the boy would have everything he needed for the night, as well as some other comforts—such as the subtle Gryffindor theme—he thought he’d appreciate. Severus was confident in his doing this, for the boy could not guess that this was not simply what the house had already offered, but rather Severus’ own design.

It was not a simple act, making Prince Manor prepared for Harry Potter to reside within it. But Severus felt positive that he’d made the proper decision, bringing him there.

As the hours ticked by, he walked the entire length of the manor, stopping briefly in the kitchens to inform the house-elf, Buttons, that they had “a guest who was not to be bothered,” and to “have breakfast prepared in the morning, thank you.” Severus had never had an elf—it was unthinkable, to be ordering this one around, but here he was. With the sun beginning to peak through the trees on the grounds, Severus retired to his room, satisfied with his late-night inspection. He told himself he would rest for no more than an hour. After that, he had business to attend to.

~

Harry awoke with ease, blinking slowly, the amber morning sun shining onto his face and leaving him warm all over. Sitting up, he reached for his glasses from their spot on the bedside table. His fingers fumbled with sleep as he slid them onto his face and looked around. He was at Prince Manor, with Snape, and he was safe. It was almost euphoric.

The room was golden and bright from the light that spilled through the window, a contrast to the comforting warmth of the flames from the previous night. Harry wondered if the Manor had electricity at all, or perhaps a sort of magical substitute? Were the candles magic, like those at Hogwarts? He couldn’t recall what the Weasley’s used at the Burrow—all he knew was that there was always light radiating from somewhere or other in the hustle and bustle of the home.

Frowning, he redirected his thoughts to his surroundings. The decorations certainly evoked a sense of familiarity within him. It was as if he’d woken up in Gryffindor Tower, albeit more luxurious and spacious, and, Harry thought, solitary. Had Snape done all of this just last night? Harry shoved the thought away at once—it was a coincidence. Snape didn’t care that much. His mood lightened at the sight of his schooltrunk, birdcage, and photo album tucked neatly in the corner next to the hearth.

Turning his focus to the nightstand, he found the mess from the previous night had vanished, and instead there lay a duplicate of the nutrition potion he had taken, as well as a full glass of water and a bowl of sliced apples. Folded under the bowl lay a piece of parchment, and Harry opened it as he munched on the fruit, squinting to read the spindly handwriting of his Potions professor.

Potter,

I encourage you to call out for the elf, Buttons, when you wake. She will escort you to the dining chamber for breakfast, as I am quite sure you would not find your way on your own.

S.S.

The elf? A house-elf? Of course, Harry thought, that was how the tea had appeared last night.

Getting out of bed, he decided to have a quick shower before meeting Snape for breakfast. There was no way to tell the time in the room from what he could see, but the sun outside was still low in the sky, so he figured he had enough time. Retrieving a comfortable outfit of Muggle jeans and a black shirt from the wardrobe, he padded his way to the attached bathroom.

~

Having showered and dressed—the clothes, like the pyjamas, had fit him perfectly, though he’d had to put on his trainers, as only slippers had been provided—Harry figured it was time to call for the house-elf, Buttons. “Buttons?” he spoke, feeling a bit silly despite his knowledge on house-elf magic, ever since Hermione and SPEW last year. She popped into the room immediately, bowing deeply.

“Master Potter, sir, Buttons is here to be taking you to breakfast!” she squeaked. She was wearing a linen pillowcase of dark brown, similar to the pyjamas Harry slept in, that was embroidered with a multitude of buttons of various shapes, sizes, and colors.

“Hello Buttons,” Harry said with a smile. “You can just call me Harry.”

“Master Prince is waiting in the dining chamber for yous, Master Harry,” she replied. “Follow me!”

They exited the room into the corridor, which seemed less unfriendly in the daylight. A long Persian runner stretched the length of the hallway, in a golden brown with green detailing. The flames of the sconces were minute little things, more for aesthetics than lighting during the day, Harry assumed. He followed her tiny frame through the manor, trying to lock the route into his memory. The doors they encountered along the way were shut, and Harry quietly hoped they were locked, recalling the foreboding darkness of the open rooms when they’d first arrived. They went down a grand flight of wooden stairs—so they had gone up stairs last night, Harry thought—into the foyer, and finally stopped outside a set of tall double doors. Buttons snapped her fingers, and the doors groaned upon their magical opening.

Bowing once more, Buttons popped away, leaving Harry to gawk at the scene before him. A lengthy wooden table sat in the middle of the room, with Snape sitting at the head, Prophet splayed out next to his mug. He had foregone his typical black teaching robes for something presumably more comfortable, a solid black dress shirt. Underneath the table Harry could see that he was wearing slacks and dark leather boots. It was quite surprising to see the man wearing such casual—for Snape, that is—clothes. He couldn’t recall ever noticing him wearing anything other than the lengthy black teaching robes he wore at Hogwarts. Even on the unfortunate nights where he’d been found in the halls after curfew, he had been clad in full robes despite the late hours.

Shrugging off his surprise, he examined the room itself. The walls were stone like the halls had been, not wooden like that of the other rooms he’d been in. The table was lined with plush green chairs with ornate detailing, and almost looked too fancy to sit on. A chandelier hung low from the high-vaulted ceiling, and Harry took note that it was fitted with the same candles that lit the rest of the manor. No electricity, then.

On the table itself, there was a beautiful breakfast spread that made Harry’s mouth water: platters of bacon and sausage, poached eggs, buttered toast, scones and crumpets with jam, and serving bowls of porridge and berries; there was tea and juice, and coffee, a drink that Harry had made plenty of times but which he had never been allowed to try before. It was much like breakfast in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and certainly was not what Harry had been expecting in the middle of the summer, provided by Snape no less.

Moving to sit at the place that had been set up for him, which was at the end of the table opposite Snape, he murmured his thanks to the professor.

“Thank you sir, good morning.”

“Do not thank me, Potter, it is only breakfast. Good morning,” he replied, picking up the paper and sipping his coffee. He flipped through the pages without looking up, apparently wanting to allow Harry to eat without scrutiny.

Perturbed by the casualness of the affair—he was about to eat breakfast with Snape, in the summer, for Merlin’s sake—Harry hesitantly began to fill his plate. He chosee a bit of everything, including a mug of coffee with an unhealthy amount of sugar and cream that was incredibly good. He’d first tried it black—a mistake he wouldn’t be making once more.

“After you have finished, we will begin the day’s labors,” Snape began, setting the paper down. “First you will accompany me to the manor’s infirmary where I will perform a diagnostic spell to assess your injuries and do what is necessary to heal them to the best of my abilities. I will then lay down the ground rules you must follow should you wish to remain here and not be returned to headquarters, understood?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Harry, in the midst of chewing, gave a thumbs up. Thankfully, Snape didn’t take offense to such an informal gesture.

“Good. I take it you slept well?”

Internally baffled by such a display of humanness from Snape, he replied with a quick, “Yes sir, thank you.”

Snape only nodded once, picking the paper back up and leaving Harry to his meal.

Harry, now well-rested, had more worries about the examination than he had had the night before. He recalled feeling a somewhat sense of relief—of knowing that he would now be safe, if only for a small while. But now, he felt shamed at Snape possibly inspecting the scars and bruises that littered his body. Despite what the professor had seen at Privet Drive, he couldn’t have discerned the entire truth from only one night, and the thought of opening up to Snape was incredibly daunting, no matter how helpful he’d been so far.

With a sudden loss of appetite, Harry set his toast back down and stared at his plate. He hadn’t eaten much, but the anxiety he was feeling was situated deep in his stomach, and he felt terribly nauseated as a result. Deciding it was better to just get it over with rather than sit and worry, he mumbled, “I’m finished, sir,” still looking down at his plate.

Snape folded the paper down and narrowed his eyes at the sight of Harry’s still-full plate. “Very well,” he said, and got up, motioning for Harry to follow him out of the room.

~

At breakfast, the boy was neither arrogant nor discourteous. He did not behave how James Potter would have done if he were sat at Severus’s own dining table. No, Harry Potter was polite, thanking him multiple times, and speaking only when spoken to. At Hogwarts, it was easy to study the boy from afar, to focus only on his flaws. The contant disregard for the rules, the inexcusable questioning of authority, the lack of properly-done homework. Here, it was starkly apparent how wrong he had been about him.

He had hoped Potter would have eaten more that morning. Nutrient potions alone would not be enough to sustain him in his state for long. Honestly, it was a miracle that he was still up and moving. But Severus saved that conversation for later. He led the boy through the tangled maze of a manor, to the east wing that held the infirmary. It was a clean room, one of the only rooms that had been placed under stasis to prevent damage and dust during the manor’s long unoccupied period. It held two standard-size medical beds, each with a table and armchair to the right. There were large cabinets to the left of the beds that were fully stocked with everything one could need in case of injury or sickness. There was a small door on the opposite side of the room that Severus knew led to a lavatory. The room itself was not anything incredible, but was more window than wall, allowing a good amount of natural light to spill in, cascading in golden colors over the wooden flooring.

He directed Potter to one of the beds, neatly made in crisp white linens. After kicking off his shoes, which were probably two sizes too big, and ripping at the seams—he’d have to find a new pair for him—he obidiently climbed onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged atop the blankets.

Severus straightened his back, bracing his shoulders for a difficult conversation, and began to speak.

“I am about to perform a spell that will inform me of any injuries you have sustained in your lifetime, and their present state. It is not commonly done, but it is necessary for me to identify every injury in the event that your previous injuries did not heal properly and require proper healing. I also must log the results for a more… productive discussion with the Headmaster this afternoon.”

Potter winced at that, but did not object. Instead, he asked, “Is it going to hurt?”

“It will not inflict physical pain, but may be uncomfortable in other ways,” Severus replied. “As the spell illuminates the injuries, it may bring up painful memories that your mind had otherwise hidden from you.”

His face twisted in confusion. “Illuminates?”

“Yes Potter, the spell will cause the affected areas to emit light. The color of the light will vary depending on the type of injury, the severity of the injury, the age at which you obtained the injury, and finally if the injury requires attention at present.”

Glimpsing the boy’s face, now red with embarrassment, he continued. “The spell is typically done with the patient unconcious. I had not begun with this information as I had assumed you would prefer to be fully aware. However, if it would make it less troublesome for you, I can administer a light sleeping potion, or you could simply keep your eyes closed for the duration of the spell.”

“How long will it take?” The boy asked, still skeptical but apparently not as opposed to such an intrusive spell as Severus had thought he would be.

“That depends on the amount of injuries to go through. From what I have witnessed so far as well as your current state, I estimate about two hours, including the time it takes for me to record the data.”

Potter finally nodded. “Okay,” he said, looking Severus in the eye for the first time since entering the dining hall for breakfast.

Severus opened the cabinet to the left of the bed and pulled out a pair of white hospital robes. He handed them to Potter and gestured to the lavatory door. “You may undress in there and meet me back here,” he ordered.

As Potter shut the door behind him, Severus took a moment to gather his thoughts, releasing the occlusion he had been holding since breakfast. A mixture of emotions came flooding in at once: fear of the unknown horrors the boy had lived that the spell would expose; guilt for allowing such things to happen; worry that his confrontation with the Headmaster would not end well. It was necessary, so far, for him to occlude whilst he was in Potter’s presence, lest he be overwhelmed with the sheer intensity of emotion the boy brought him. It was necessary also, to not become reliant on such a coping mechanism, and he decided on performing the spell without occlusion. Conjuring a quill and parchment, he placed both on the table.

Potter exited the lavatory, clad in the too-big standard hospital robes he’d been given, and once more climbed atop the bed. “Do you require the sleeping potion?” he asked, to be sure, although he didn’t doubt that the boy would decline.

“No sir. I think I’ll be okay.”

“I assumed as much. Should you at any point need to close your eyes, you may do so. The spell cannot stop until completion.”

“Okay,” he replied.

“Then we shall begin,” Severus said, wand in hand.

Chapter Text

Harry kept his eyes open as Snape waved his wand over his body in intricate, practiced movements, mumbling Latin in low tones. His stomach was still queasy from earlier, but he took deep breaths as he prepared for the spell to take effect. As Snape’s voice died out, Harry looked down at the sight before him.

Well, Harry thought, squinting his eyes, Snape hadn’t been speaking figuratively. Harry’s entire body was a rainbow of light, the beams radiant enough to fill the room completely. The professor winced as he shielded his eyes from the sudden explosion of brightness, pulling a pair of Muggle sunglasses from the pocket of his slacks and slipping them onto his face at once. He then produced another pair, handing them to Harry in a quick motion. He gratefully took them, and there they were: evil professor and glowing student, clad in Muggle sunglasses. Ron would have a fit if he ever found out, Harry thought. Actually, Ron would have a fit if he found out about any of this. But Ron didn’t even know where he was, so Harry felt he was safe to enjoy the sunglasses.

Examining his body in the now-dimmed but still colorful infirmary, he remembered what Snape had told him: the colors depended on the type of injury, how severe it was, how old he was when it occurred, and if it still needed attention. Harry decided that was entirely too much to make note of and instead focused only on Snape’s work. It seemed the man had decided to begin with his feet, which were glowing a bright yellow around the toes that had been crushed and stomped on at various occasions in Harry’s life, and purple at both ankles—a result of numerous fractures and sprains. Snape was scribbling away on the parchment, and Harry tried to read the upside-down writing, but his professor’s handwriting was hard enough to decipher as it was, and reading it from such an angle proved to be impossible.

The minutes ticked by dreadfully slow as Harry sat and Snape inspected him. They had reached his arms at that point, and Harry was surprised at Snape’s reaction when he had sighted the pale scar from the basilisk bite on his upper right arm, which had given off an intense green glow. He’d broken the silence by demanding to know what exactly had happened for such an injury to occur, and Harry refused to meet his eyes as he slowly recited the end of his Second Year: how he and Ron had entered the Chamber with Lockhart, the backfired spell, saving Ginny from Tom Riddle, her possession from the diary, pulling the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat, and finally the basilisk, in all her terrifying glory. At Snape’s darkened look, he added that Fawkes had come and healed him after that bit, but it did nothing to amend the sourness on his professor’s face. Harry’s voice died out as Snape began to scribble furiously at the parchment without any commentary.

Then there was the scar further down his arm, from the previous school year. “Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken,” he’d mumbled at Snape’s questioning, who did not take that well at all.

It was odd, seeing Snape so visibly distressed. He’d been very cool and collected the night before, and Harry couldn’t decipher what had changed to make this interaction so different from the others.

They eventually made it to the last injury, which was, of course, his scar. Harry had many scars, would make a game of counting them at times when he’d been locked up with nothing to do, and had indeed been counting them as Snape ticked them off on his parchment. But none of those were more important than his first—the jagged lightning bolt that stretched from his hairline across the right side of his forehead and through his eyebrow, stopping just above his eyelid. The scar he couldn’t remember ever not having. The scar that was in the history books.

~

After they’d finished—three hours of terrible boredom after the initial awe of the spell wore off, and an extra thirty minutes of Harry forcing down foul potions that Snape decided were “necessary for the healing process,”—Harry removed his sunglasses and handed them back to Snape.

“Keep them,” Snape said in an off-hand way, still assessing the parchment and ignoring Harry’s outstretched hand. Harry was glad to have them, putting them in the pocket of his jeans after he’d changed back into normal clothes.

He then walked over beside Snape—a bit more comfortable with the short distance between them after he’d been in close proximity with the man for so many hours—to peer around his shoulder at the contents on the parchment, which had grown long enough to brush the floor. Snape only raised his eyebrow and pulled out his wand. With a quick wave, he duplicated the parchment, rolling up the copy before giving it to Harry. “A reminder,” he said in a grim tone.

Harry gave him a small smile. “Thanks, professor,” he replied, grabbing the scroll and shoving it, too, in the pocket of his jeans. “I’ll look at it later.”

“Now, I think, is a good time to discuss the rules you must adhere to whilst you remain here. Follow me to the sitting room,” Snape said, already half-way through the door.

~

Too many injuries. He had cataloged too many injuries. Most from Potter’s relatives, a belt buckle or frying pan or fat fist. But some from his time at Hogwarts, few in numbers but paramount in their effect. A broken arm that radiated gold, turned rubber by a fool. A glowing green basilisk bite. A dark red cut down his forearm, the resurrection of the Dark Lord.

Severus exited the room, leading the boy to the sitting room they had occupied the night before. He used the moments it took to navigate there to recover his occlusion. It washed over him in a wave of numbness, and he sighed with relief. Their footsteps echoed through the corridors, muffling only in the areas that were carpeted with the ancient rugs that came with the home when he inherited it.

They entered the sitting room, which was bright from the early afternoon sun, a contrast to the stormy night prior. Severus sat himself in the same chair he had occupied the night before, the leather creaking under his weight, while the boy chose to sit in the middle of the sofa—looking not at all as comfortable as he’d looked when he’d fallen asleep there, Severus thought with a smirk.

He summoned tea and began speaking without hesitation, as there was little time nor room for any awkwardness. “Now that I have acquired substantial evidence of both your abuse and neglect, I have enough to dispute with the Ministry your guardianship from your aunt and uncle. Your guardianship would then transfer to your godfathers. However, as Black’s name has yet to be cleared, and given Lupin’s monthly… transformation… it is possible to transfer temporary guardianship to another—perhaps the Weasleys?” he asked. The tea popped into existence and he offered Potter a cup.

The boy wrapped his fingers around the warmth of the mug and looked away—apparently set on staring into the fire he’d taken such an interest to the night before rather than looking Severus in the eye—and frowned slightly. Potter had been uncomfortable with seeing Granger and the Weasleys at Grimmauld Place. How deep was this discomfort, and where did it stem from? Whatever reasons Potter had for his avoidance, Severus was sure of one thing: The Weasleys were, in some capacity, aware of the boy’s circumstances.

He found himself unphased by the boy’s rudeness, willing to allow him a bit of grace after such a strenuous morning. “Why are you here?” he asked, staring at the boy’s mess of black hair that covered his eyes and his neck, urging those familiar green eyes to face him once more.

And face him, he did. Potter’s head turned at once, eyes locking with Severus’ as he scrambled for an answer. He must have been expecting a different question, Severus thought smugly.

“Because they don’t care,” Potter replied, kicking his left foot at the corner of the rug beneath his feet, averting eye contact once more.

Severus drew in a sharp breath, recalling Dumbledore’s orders at the start of the summer.

“Potter, I can assure you that they, if I am correct in assuming who you mean, do care.”

“No,” he replied, his voice low and thick with abandon. “They don’t.”

Severus sighed, an undetectable, inaudible sort of sigh that could only be noticed if one looked close enough. They had very little time before his meeting with Albus at Hogwarts. However, Severus thought, Albus could wait. The boy could benefit from talking about his feelings, and he was intent on allowing him both the space and time to do so.

“Why do you feel that way?” he asked.

“They ignored me all summer!” Potter exclaimed, though his face reddened with embarrassment at the outburst.

“Potter, they were following the Headmaster’s orders. I am not the best person to explain this to you,” he began. “But I shall try.”

He locked eyes with the boy, black meeting green. “When the Dark Lord was resurrected at the end of the school year, Professor Dumbledore feared that he may harbour a connection with you, a mental link of sorts. It was vital for the saftey of every person involved that you knew nothing of the Order, lest the Dark Lord find out.”

“But I didn’t want information,” Potter attempted.

“You did.” Severus returned.

He scowled. “Of course I did! But they didn’t have to ignore me. They didn’t have to act as if I wasn’t their friend, as if I meant nothing to them.”

“No, Mr. Potter, they did not. But that is how it happened, and there is nothing anyone can do to change the fact. It is up to you now to move forward,” Severus said.

Defeated, Potter sighed. Severus took the opportunity to broach the topic of guardianship once more.

“You will never set foot in that house again, unless it is your choice. You require a guardian. Are you really so opposed to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley taking you in?”

“They have enough children,” Harry frowned. “They didn’t ask for one more.”

“Potter, they would be happy to have you. You said it yourself that they treat you as if you were their son already. What is the true reason for your refusal?”

“They don’t want me,” he mumbled, looking younger than ever. He gulped down his tea, likely welcoming the cover it provided over his face, allowing him to break the intense eye contact Severus was determined to maintain.

“And why is that?” Severus asked.

“They just don’t. Neither do Sirius and Remus.”

Severus’s shoulders dropped slightly, a sudden clarity washing over him.

“It may feel that way, yes. But it is not so.”

“How long will I be staying here, sir?” Potter asked, in an attempt to change the subject no doubt.

Severus tilted his head, considering the vow he had made to the sleeping boy in Little Whinging only a night ago. He would not fail him again.

“However long you wish,” he answered. He meant it.

~

Harry stood alone in an unfamiliar room within Prince Manor. Snape had left only an hour ago, after making Harry aware of the many rules he was required to follow. No entering locked rooms had been one of them—but luckily, this one had been unlocked.

He surveyed the room, a thick layer of dust coating what was within. Not that there was much in there to begin with. Only what looked to be a grand piano, veiled by a white sheet, like it was only a ghost of what once had been grand. He didn’t attempt to remove the sheet, but circled the piano twice, examining it. The room was primarily windows, much like the infirmary had been, though these were angled in a sort of semicircular way around the piano. The position of the seat was so the pianist would face the windows, looking out onto the heavily wooded grounds.

It was probably peaceful, Harry thought, to have such a view while practicing the instrument. In a moment of both confidence and curiosity, he grabbed the sheet and pulled it off, the fabric falling to the floor in a fluid motion.

Harry flinched, recalling a memory of a piano that looked much like this one did. Harry was only seven years old. Dudley and his gang had been particularly belligerent that day, and Harry had had to run to the other end of the school to get away from them. He’d hid in the empty music room, under the piano the teacher would use for the school choir. His body folded perfectly beneath the wooden structure, and he waited there until the teacher had returned from her lunch break and kicked him out.

His throat suddenly dry, he decided to go find Buttons and ask for lunch. Exiting the room, he made note of which door it was. It would be a nice room to escape to for a while, if he was ever compelled to do so.