Chapter Text
Harry wondered if he was dead.
He could feel softness cocooning him. Even his toes were warm. His blanket at the Dursleys wouldn’t reach his feet and shoulders at the same time. And it was definitely far softer than anything the Dursleys would have ever given him.
Besides, for the first time since Hogwarts, Harry’s stomach was pleasantly calm. The aching from his shoulder was gone, and his nose didn’t feel broken anymore. All was quiet.
He snuggled into the comforting fabric, inhaling the gentle aroma of herbs and earthiness. Harry was so warm.
If this was death, Harry decided he was fine with it.
The only thing bothering him, actually, was the tip of his nose. It was chilly. And usually he wouldn’t mind, but the rest of him was so cozy that it felt rather cold in comparison. How annoying. He wondered drowsily why his nose would be cold in death.
He tried to pull up the blanket, but his arms wouldn’t budge.
Harry pried open his eyes. The world was blurry. He rubbed his eyes. Still blurred. Suddenly realizing why, he groped blindly to the side and thankfully grasped his glasses. He put them on and looked around.
The room he was lying in was clean and simply furnished. Daylight streamed in through the open window, catching dust particles dancing in the air. The walls were painted a foggy sage colour. There was a desk, a bookshelf, a set of drawers, a nightstand, and the double bed on which he was lying, all fashioned in matching dark wood. The soft duvet that Harry was so meticulously folded into was a dark forest green, with navy blue sheets under him and a grey knit blanket thrown over top. The bookshelf was full of time-worn leather bound tomes and tattered paperbacks, but the rest of the room looked untouched, as though no one had lived here for a very long while.
Hedwig sat on a perch near the window, staring at Harry as she bit down on a treat. As he met her eye, he became aware that he was not, in fact, dead. Furthermore, he became very aware that he had never seen this room before in his life.
It all rushed back to him. He had been at the Dursleys. He had been so hungry. A wizard had shown up. Not Dumbledore. And they had let him in. Had the stranger taken Harry?
And the voice. He remembered a voice, it had been trying to wake him up. He had recognized the voice, but he couldn’t remember where—
Harry had just had time to start panicking when a floorboard creaked. He lifted his head. Professor Snape was standing in the doorway, cooly observing him. His face was strangely blank.
It took Harry a second to form a coherent thought. It had been Snape. It had been Snape’s voice. Had Snape been worried about him? Harry flushed, realizing his exacting professor had been the one to find him curled on the floor like a baby. Had Snape tucked him in? God, Harry would never live this down. He pulled himself into a sitting position, careful not to react to the pain still wracking his body.
“Hello Professor,” he croaked. His throat felt rough, as if it hadn’t been used for some time. No wonder this room is so green, he thought to himself wryly.
For once, Snape didn’t tell him to speak up. “Mr. Potter,” he acknowledged.
Harry suddenly processed the fact that the dour man wasn’t wearing his usual robes. Instead, Snape was wearing a button-up shirt and trousers. All black, naturally. Still, Harry blinked in surprise. If you’d have asked him yesterday, Harry would have assured you that the man didn’t own anything other than his flowing teaching robes.
“You are in my home, located in Cokeworth, near Birmingham,” Snape stated bluntly, likely replying to the implicit question in Harry’s eyes.
“Your home,” Harry repeated in confusion, still sounding hoarse.
Snape raised his eyebrows. “Surely, Potter, you did not believe that professors resided in the castle year-round? What utter foolishness.”
Harry blushed. Of course he knew that would be illogical, he had just never thought about where the professors all lived the rest of the time. And also, Snape in particular existing outside of Hogwarts was very jarring for some reason. The man’s black scowl, sweeping robes and low, captivating voice belonged in those hallowed halls, surrounded by stone and shadows. He belonged in candlelight. The very idea of him residing in a regular house full of soft knit blankets and dust and owl treats made Harry feel wrong-footed.
Harry didn’t want to be rude though, especially in the man’s own home. Also, he wasn’t sure why, but it was different talking to Snape here. At school, though their conversations had been at times—most of the time, really—unpleasant, it hadn’t been particularly stressful or scary. But, here in the professor’s space, alone with him, Harry felt very, very small.
“Sorry, I’m a little out of it,” he replied quietly. He kept his head down, but his eyes followed Snape’s movements.
The potions master gave a sharp nod. He approached Harry’s bedside, pulling a vial out of his pocket. He held it out to the boy. “Drink this. How do you feel?”
“Much better, sir,” he answered immediately. It wasn’t even completely a lie. Now that he was more awake, Harry could feel that his joints and shoulder were still sore, but they were much better than they had been. Manageable. And he was pretty sure his nose had been fixed, since the dull throbbing sensation was entirely gone.
Harry took the bottle he was handed nervously. The potion was a gross, murky seaweed colour.
“It will soothe the irritation of your throat,” Snape explained impatiently.
Harry hesitated, but he decided his professor was probably unlikely to poison him. And, regardless, the man could probably force him to take it if he wanted to. Ron had talked about his mum spelling potions into her children’s stomachs when they refused to take them as kids, and it did not sound at all pleasant. Harry downed the thick, sticky potion. It tasted better than it looked, like wood and honey and some kind of flower. Lavender? Chamomile, maybe?
His throat constricted. Harry covered his mouth as he started to cough violently. After a moment, it relaxed, the dryness and pain having melted away. “Thank you, Professor,” he managed.
Snape grunted. Harry watched the man carefully. He was waving his wand in a pattern that Harry had seen Madame Pomfrey do in the hospital ward. His eyes were intense and alert. Harry tried not to flinch away or move. Based on Snape’s slightly pinched expression, he was only partially successful. Snape dropped his hand after a few moments. He looked at Harry. After a moment, he nodded, seemingly having reached a conclusion.
“I did not initially visit your aunt’s house to remove you,” the potions master began. “I had sent a letter to you inquiring about your living situation, and another letter when I discovered you had been sent a warning from the Ministry.” Harry coloured. “When I received no response, I decided to call on you personally.”
Harry supposed that all made sense. Mostly. His head was almost buzzing, chock-full of questions, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask them. Snape hesitated, before sitting on the edge of the bed. Harry kept quiet and still, aware that adults did not appreciate children interrupting their thoughts.
“After discovering the condition you were in, I could hardly leave you there,” he finally said. “Bringing you here was the simplest solution.”
Harry was surprised at this. After all, several of his primary school teachers had called child services after seeing his bruises, or how thin he was, or the way Dudley treated him. And each time, without fail, someone would talk to the Dursleys, listen to their tales of what a sneaky little liar Harry was, and then leave with a disappointed look on their face. After they left, Harry would have to deal with the aftermath. He winced at the recollection of Uncle Vernon’s face the last time.
And Snape had…just removed him?
The man looked expectant, clearly waiting for something. At least Harry knew how to respond to that.
“Thank you for helping me, sir,” Harry said, vainly hoping that showing his acknowledgement would make Snape less angry with him.
The professor narrowed his eyes. “Potter, you do not have to thank me. You should not have been in the situation to begin with.”
Harry felt so lost. Snape wasn’t yelling at him. He was at most mildly irritated. After Harry had greatly inconvenienced the man—he’d had to come all the way to Little Whinging to deal with his aunt and uncle, and then he’d had to bring Harry home. But instead of raving at him for being an idiot, or for not standing up to his muggle relatives, Snape had clearly given him healing potions or something while he was asleep, given how Harry’s shoulder was now feeling. More inconvenience. All of the healing potions seemed to take an age to brew. They were probably expensive, too, knowing how much even Harry’s rather rudimentary school kit cost.
Harry wondered if he had enough money in his vault to cover all of this. It had seemed like quite a large pile of gold, but he still didn’t have a great grasp on wizarding currency. Presumably Snape would charge him extra just for being Harry Potter and for being a constant source of irritation in his life. He sighed internally.
“I still appreciate it, sir. You didn’t have to do that, and you did,” he repeated, carefully keeping his tone softly deferential, the way that Uncle Vernon liked.
Snape was studying Harry’s face. He seemed…suspicious? Or confused? His eyes were so dark and inscrutable, it made him impossible to read. God, Harry was so, so tired. The professor must just be hiding his anger. Maybe he was trying to trick Harry, lulling him into a false sense of security so he’d admit things and Snape would have more to be mad about? Or maybe he just wasn’t willing to raise his voice at someone who was still bedbound? Harry wished Snape would just scream at him or hit him and get it over with. That he could understand, at least. He spoke that language.
But instead, Snape just sighed. “The potions I provided are likely making you fatigued and lethargic. Do you feel hungry?”
“No, sir, I’m fine,” Harry responded automatically. He was, in fact, ravenous, but he didn’t want to give Snape another reason to get upset.
Snape tilted his head in thought.
“Mr. Potter, given what I observed in your Aunt and Uncle’s house–” here Harry couldn’t hide a wince at the memory, and, based on how Snape’s eyes narrowed, the man had noticed. He continued, “I am forced to assume you have not eaten well recently. A more explicit question, perhaps? When was the last time you ate three full meals in a day?”
Harry blinked at him. His Aunt and Uncle would expect him to lie, and to assure his professor that he was grateful to be taken care of and provided for. But the potion master didn’t suffer liars, and Harry had always had the curious feeling that Snape could actually read his mind. He decided it was a safer bet to go with what Snape would want, given that he was currently bedridden in his house.
“At Hogwarts, sir,” he answered honestly, bracing for Snape’s reaction.
He was not prepared for the open devastation on Snape’s face. “Hogwarts,” the man repeated dully. Harry looked down, twisting the duvet in his hands. He knew his legs couldn’t support him enough to run right now, as much as he wished he could escape from this confusing conversation that he couldn't really follow. Besides, Snape was a wizard, there was no way he’d get away in time. Idly, he decided he actually liked the colour of the blanket. He'd always liked the colour green, at least until he'd gotten to Hogwarts. Snape cleared his throat, and Harry looked back up.
Snape’s expression was controlled once more, though there was still a tightness at the corners of his eyes that Harry wasn’t used to seeing. “Potter,” the professor said, his voice soft. “Given that you have eaten so little, we will have to give you light, frequent meals for your body to gradually adjust. Have your relatives ever underfed you before?”
Harry hesitated, which was apparently enough of a response for Snape, whose mouth pinched slightly. “I will design a regimen of nutrition potions, in order to replace the nutrients you have missed,” he continued, standing up. “I will return momentarily.” The man swept out of the room—somehow, even in a shirt and trousers, he managed to sweep out.
Harry hadn’t understood all of what Snape was talking about, but he wondered if that would mean he would finally catch up to the boys in his year in height. He hoped so.
Snape returned quickly, a steaming mug in his hand.
“It is a broth, with a nutrition potion mixed in,” he explained. “It will be gentle on your stomach, but it should help you feel better.”
Snape handed it to Harry, who took it automatically. The mug was stoneware, handmade and chipped at the lip. Blue-green. Harry could smell the spices. He looked up at his professor. Harry wasn’t sure why Snape was explaining so many things to him. He was used to having to follow instructions, but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia didn’t see the need to explain themselves to a child. It was an interesting change.
“Drink, Potter, and then you can rest,” Snape said, no trace of impatience in his voice.
Harry hesitantly took a mouthful. The broth was delicious, rich and fragrant and warm. He immediately started feeling better. As Harry slowly sipped on the drink, Snape moved restlessly about the room—replacing a stray book onto the shelf and throwing a cleaning spell at Hedwig’s perch, before gently stroking the snowy owl’s head. She cooed happily. Harry drank the last of the broth. His stomach felt more settled than it had all summer.
“I’m finished, sir,” he said quietly.
Snape turned and took the mug back from him. “I would give you more, but your body is not used to much sustenance, and I do not wish for you to be ill,” he said. “For now, try to sleep for a while. You must be exhausted.”
Harry was, in fact, exhausted, so he just nodded. He felt much sleepier now, probably because his stomach was full for the first time in ages. He shifted himself down in the bed, so he was horizontal again, sinking into the pillows. He felt Snape fix the blankets around him and take his glasses off, but he was too tired to care. The floorboards creaked as the man stepped away.
“Thank you, Professor,” Harry managed to call out.
He heard Snape sigh. “You are very welcome, Mr. Potter.” The door squeaked behind him, and Harry closed his eyes.