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Harry gingerly picked himself up off of the kitchen floor, stooping to pick up the shards of porcelain that had fallen with him. The skinny 15-year-old had been washing the dishes after serving a dinner he himself did not have the privilege of eating, when Vernon suddenly kicked his legs out from under him. Caught off guard, Harry had landed flat on his rear onto the hard tile, his tailbone taking the brunt of the impact.

Vernon, now guffawing loudly at his accomplishment, had recently been burning nervous energy by picking on his nephew more often and more harshly than usual. The heavyset man was expecting a promotion at his firm, and dealt with his anticipatory stress by dealing blows. Whereas Harry had long been used to verbal assaults and the occasional slap, kick, or cuffing, Vernon had lately taken to lashing out every time he saw his nephew, doling out heavier beatings every evening after work and excluding the teenager from meals more often than not.

Harry straightened and dusted off his hands, wincing as his various bruises protested. He felt the now-familiar tingling sensation of his magic healing the worst of his injury, and thanked his lucky stars that it would also speed up the healing process. He cautiously took a few steps towards the bathroom, noting the tenderness in his tailbone that this brought about.

I look a right mess, Harry thought to himself as he eyed his gaunt reflection in the mirror. His eyes were all but eclipsed by the prominent purple shadows underneath them, his sunken cheeks causing his cheekbones to jut painfully out from his face as if trying to escape. Harry sighed and scrubbed his hands, wincing as the soap stung his inflamed and bitten nails, and wished he could clean himself of the sense of shame that his uncle’s behavior imparted to him. He resigned himself to the knowledge that at least he bore no outward signs of the beatings. Dudley’s hand-me-down clothing hid all signs of the encounters and Vernon always made sure to avoid Harry’s face.

Once he finished with the dishes, Harry limped outside to weed the garden and finish the last of his long list of chores, a task that was becoming harder and harder to complete. Since returning to Privet Drive, Harry’s sleep had been marred by vivid nightmares about Cedric and Sirius’ deaths, and he often found himself waking up to full-blown panic attacks which left him sobbing and gasping for breath. Sometimes, his screaming would wake up his aunt and uncle, inevitably driving the latter to administer a beating. As a result, Harry sometimes chose not to sleep at all rather than subject himself to the guilt and fear that his subconscious brought. The weeks of sleep deprivation and malnourishment had been taking their toll on him, and Harry found that he could barely muster enough energy to stand upright, let alone finish a gargantuan pile of housework. It was his magic alone that kept him going.

Pulling up the persistent crop of dandelions, Harry attempted to fight off the rising sense of dread that now made itself known every evening. His hunched form heaved with shuddering breaths as his hands trembled and his panic increased. Eventually, he could take it no more and shakily returned to his room to wash up and await the inevitable.

The hot steam of the shower soothed Harry’s tense form and allowed him a rare moment of comfort. His chest sported a trellis of brilliant purples, blues, and yellows mottled over prominent ribs and hip bones, a patchwork that made itself known whenever Harry moved too suddenly or twisted the wrong way. His feet, too, bore the evidence of his uncle’s treatment. The latter would often step on one of Harry’s feet when giving him orders, leaning in all of his weight to tower threateningly over him. Luckily for Harry, however, Vernon had never gone so far as to break a bone or cause any injury that might require medical attention.

As Harry turned off the water and stepped out of the shower to gently towel off his emaciated form, his heart dropped. Shit, he thought. I forgot to mow the lawn. Given Vernon’s recently volatile mood, Harry knew he was in for it this time. He hadn’t missed an item on his chore list since he was 10, and that time he had his nose broken and was locked in his cupboard for a week. The all-too-familiar sense of panic rose once more, undoing the small amount of good the shower had done him. Harry quickly dressed and hurried to his room, where he attempted to calm himself by talking to Hedwig.

“Ok girl, I think it might get ugly tonight. You’re gonna want to clear out for a bit. Go catch yourself a nice juicy mouse or something.” She hooted reassuringly and nipped gently at Harry’s outstretched finger. In spite of himself, he smiled.

“It’s okay girl, I can take care of myself. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t hurt me that bad, I don’t think. Nothing a little magic can’t fix,” he added, mostly to calm himself. He bit his lip. After a moment, he opened the drawer of his bedside table and pulled out a mangled scrap of parchment. On it, Harry had written “Number 4 Privet Drive” as a part of an old letter to Sirius asking him to pick him up. He had ripped up the letter after Sirius’ death but couldn’t bear to throw away the shreds. As he held the scrap of parchment, Harry felt a pang in his chest not caused by any of his injuries. Now, he thought, this might come in handy if things took a turn for the worse.

“Hedwig,” he began quietly, turning to the bird. “If things get real bad, I want you to bring this to someone and get help.” Harry paused, thinking about whom the recipient should be. He wouldn’t be able to face Hermione or the Weasleys if ever his shameful secret got out, and he didn’t want to worry Lupin as his health was frail enough as it was. Hagrid, perhaps? Yes, he was trustworthy, kind, and never pitied Harry. Hagrid it was.

“Bring it to Hagrid, if you can. Do you think you can make it all the way to Hogwarts?” Hedwig cooed and Harry took that as a yes. “I really don’t think it will get to that point, but best to have a plan I suppose.” At that, Harry blanched as he heard his uncle’s car pull into the driveway. He hurriedly tied the note onto Hedwig’s leg and ushered her out the window, preparing to face his uncle’s certain fury upon seeing the unmown lawn.

As if on cue, his uncle’s voice rang out. “BOY!!!” Vernon thundered. “Come down here this instant!” Harry gulped and steeled his nerves as he made his way downstairs to face a Vernon purple with rage. “What is the meaning of this?” he seethed, lumbering toward his nephew and looming over him menacingly.

“The meaning of what?” Harry asked neutrally, deciding to play dumb.

“Don’t you give me cheek, boy!” Vernon spat. “We specifically told you to mow the lawn today and what did you do? You goofed off as usual! We take you in out of kindness, out of the goodness of our hearts, and you throw it in our faces! If you hadn’t shown up and caused so much stress in our lives, I would have gotten that promotion at work! You would have been better off dying along with your freakish parents, you worthless, ungrateful brat!”

Rage boiled up inside Harry, replacing the earlier fear. “Don’t you dare speak about my parents like that,” he snapped, matching his uncle’s level of venom. “I swear, if you ever—” Vernon cut him off with a roar and a hand to his throat, pushing him up against the wall.

“I will not be threatened in my own home!” he exploded, spittle flying into Harry’s face. Harry, unable to speak and barely able to breath, simply glared back violently. “I should have known we could never stamp the rot out of you. I don’t care what your kind say anymore. One more strike, and you will find yourself without a home!” He punctuated this last word with a fearsome punch to Harry’s gut and released his grip, causing the latter to fall to the ground with a gasp.

Rubbing his throat and staring daggers at the floor, Harry muttered, “As if that’s what I would ever call this place.”

Vernon let out another enraged scream and swooped down at his nephew, still curled vulnerably on the ground. He grabbed Harry’s arm in a vise-like grip and bent behind his back, pushing up towards Harry’s head with every word. “You selfish. Thankless. Useless. Freak!!” Harry gritted his teeth against the pain and fought back the urge to cry out, determined not to display any sign of weakness. Frustrated at his nephew’s lack of protest, Vernon twisted Harry’s shoulder out of its socket with a sickening pop that finally left the teenager shrieking at the white hot pain. He finished Harry off with a swift kick to the ribs that produced a wet crunch of its own. Satisfied, Vernon whirled to join his family upstairs. “Clean this up,” he spat at his nephew’s broken form. “And see to it that you get the lawn mown bright and early tomorrow morning.”

Once his uncle left, Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in and instantly regretted it as his left side panged in protest. Still curled up on the floor with his right arm lying limply on his back, Harry gasped in some shallow breaths in a vain attempt to calm himself without further jostling his ribs. As much as he tried to hold it in, a thin, reedy whine escaped from his lips as his side throbbed and his shoulder burned.

It was several minutes before Harry could even consider the possibility of trying to stand up. First, he tried to slide his right arm off his back, but found he couldn’t so much as wiggle his fingers without unbearable agony shooting up his arm all the way to his neck. He decided he would push himself into a keeling position, allowing gravity to free his arm in one swift motion. After taking a few painful steadying breaths, he hoisted himself up with his good arm, crying out as his right swung limply to his side. Grasping his right forearm in his other hand to place it in his lap, Harry felt his vision swim and willed himself to stay conscious. The thin, reedy whine betrayed him once more.

It took easily half an hour, but Harry eventually managed to stagger up to his room with his bad arm wrapped tightly around his waist. Every step, every breath was pure torture. How the hell am I supposed to mow the lawn now? He thought angrily to himself. He entered his room and closed the door just as Hedwig tapped at the window to be let in. Lurching over, Harry struggled to open the window with just one arm, but finally created enough of an opening for the owl to slip through. She perched at the end of his bed, seemingly asking if she should now follow through with his earlier instructions.

Harry sighed, then winced at the pain this action brought about. “I’m fine, girl. Really. It could be much worse. I’m not…It’s not that bad,” he said unconvincingly. “I don’t want to worry anyone. If it gets much worse, I promise we’ll tell Hagrid. But let’s just wait it out and see, ok? I think my magic will heal most of it tonight anyways.” This seemed to appease Hedwig, who hopped into her cage and settled down.

Harry stumbled to his bed, black spots floating in his vision by the time he lay down. He could only manage the shallowest of breaths, which, coupled with his lack of food and sleep, made him feel faint enough to finally get some rest. For the first time in weeks, he slept peacefully and dreamlessly.

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It wasn’t long before the pain woke him up again. Harry’s eyes fluttered open to utter agony his shoulder as well as numbness in his neck and down his arm. His ribs, however, seemed to be fine and he pushed himself up only to find out that he was, in fact, very wrong. His eyes clenched shut as sharp, mind-numbing pain engulfed his left side; it was all Harry could do to keep himself from screaming. When the pain finally dulled enough for him to do more than grimace, he glanced at the broken alarm clock in his room. 6:28 am. That left enough time to mow the lawn before breakfast and hopefully appease Vernon enough to prevent further damage.

Harry cautiously stood up, taking care not to disrupt any of his injuries, and silently padded his way to the garage. When his eyes fell upon the lawn mower, he groaned audibly. It was gas-powered. That meant that he would have to yank the pull cord to start it, a task that usually took a fair bit of strength to begin with. How would he manage that in his presently battered state?

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered as he stared at the machine. “How in the hell am I going to get this to work? Vernon will kill me if I don’t get this done.” After another moment’s hesitation, he heaved a painful sigh and grit his teeth. Injuries or not, the lawn had to be mown. He knelt down, right arm hugging his waist, left hand gripping the cord handle. And he pulled.

It was instant agony. Harry cried out as a sharp pain erupted throughout his torso and shoulder, thankfully inaudible against the sputtering of the lawn mower. His eyes rolled back in his head, his body fighting to relieve him of his pain. For the second time in fewer than 12 hours, Harry battled to stay conscious. Unfortunately for him, the lawn mower’s engine petered out before the pain subsided, so he was forced once more to pull that damn cord. Again, despite Harry’s suffering, the engine failed to start. It took one more yank and one more round of unbearable pain for the mower to roar to life. Clenching his jaw against his suffering and pushing the mower out the garage with one hand, Harry set upon the verdantly maintained lawn.

He had scarcely begun when he felt a meaty fist thump against the side of his head. Ears ringing, he lurched forward and cut the motor, spinning around to find none other than Vernon Dursley standing in his bedclothes, looking positively livid.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing, boy?” he hissed, grabbing a fistful of Harry’s shirt and pulling him in.

“I’m mowing the lawn like you asked,” spluttered the startled teen, wondering what he could have possibly done wrong this time.

“At 6 in the bloody morning? Are you out of your mind!?” demanded Vernon. “We spend all day and night dealing with you and your worthless hide, and you deliberately disrespect us like this!”

“I just thought I’d get it done early like you said!” protested Harry. “I—I wasn’t thinking!”

“You weren’t thinking,” snarled his uncle, shaking him and causing eruptions of pain all over the boy’s body. “You NEVER think! You’re too caught up in yourself! I’ll give you something to think long and hard about, you freak.” He spat the last word, throwing his nephew to the ground and grabbing the nearest object—a shovel left in a nearby flowerbed—to drive it handle-first into Harry’s head. Harry’s instincts, aided perhaps by his magic, kicked in and the wide-eyed teenager rolled to the side, causing the heavy tool to collide with his jaw instead of his temple. Though this may very well have saved his life, there was a disturbing crack as the shovel smashed and dislocated Harry’s jaw.

Blood immediately burst forth, pouring onto the grass from his gaping mouth and Harry let out a strangled scream, crazy with fear and pain. He couldn’t close his mouth. He couldn’t. Close. It. Blinding pain. That’s all there was. That’s all he could comprehend. Between his ribs and his jaw, Harry couldn’t get a proper breath in and quickly dissolved into a gasping, sobbing mess on the ground, pain worsening with each heave.

“Shut up!” Vernon seethed, kicking Harry’s temple with enough force to make Harry see stars. “Do you want to wake the bloody neighbors!?” Harry, unable to control his vocalizations enough to speak, managed to quiet himself to strained whimpers.

“Now,” Vernon began again, placing his foot on Harry’s exposed right knee. “If you ever. Dare. To disrespect me like that again…” He trailed off, putting more and more pressure on the joint underfoot until Harry began to moan pleadingly through his nose. Vernon continued until he was putting all of his weight on Harry’s bony knee, the injured teen’s pitch rising with every second. Finally, his leg gave a resounding crack and Vernon stepped off.

“…there’s going to be a lot more where that came from.” By this time, Harry had succumbed to the unconscious and was lying spread-eagled on the ground, jaw still hanging open dumbly. His heavyset attacker now waddled back into the safety of Number 4, Privet Drive, satisfied.

From the smallest bedroom upstairs, Hedwig hooted nervously. She, too, had been woken up by Harry’s earlier attempt to cut the grass and had seen everything. She pecked at the door of her cage until it swung open, then squeezed out the open bedroom window—still ajar after Harry opened it the previous night—with the scrap of parchment still tied to her leg.

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            Having newly renovated his home in Spinner’s End, Snape had been enjoying his first few weeks off of work. He had been indulging mostly in reading and gardening, hobbies for which he had no time at Hogwarts. This particular morning, however, he had no choice but to return, as he had forgotten some important potions ingredients in his office at school. Really, it wouldn’t take much time at all. He would apparate to the edge of the grounds—the wards were much looser over the summer, when there were no students—take a leisurely stroll to his office to grab the necessary ingredients, then walk back to the apparition point and return home.

            The walk to the castle was just as pleasant as he had imagined. The grounds were far more enjoyable over the summer, Snape found. There were no bothersome students underfoot, running around and causing mischief and noise. The lawns were clean and unmarred by foot prints or litter, and even the lake seemed to sparkle more brightly. The castle, too, was far more bearable without students scuttling every which way, and he was able to arrive at his office far more easily than if those little boneheads were around.

            Potions ingredients in hand, Snape began his walk back to the edge of the campus. Looking up, he saw a snowy owl circling above and noted its oddity, given that there were neither faculty nor students at Hogwarts this time of year. He paused to look up at it, shielding his eyes from the sun. it appeared that the bird bore a bit of parchment tied to its leg. Lost, perhaps. The owl seemed to notice him and swooped down, dropping the scrap of parchment in front of Snape and landing a short distance away.

            Wary, Snape bent to pick it up and scowled as he read its inscription. The Potter boy’s residence, he sneered to himself. Looks like his attention-seeking self wasn’t coddled enough for his tastes. Couldn’t stand being away from the spotlight, even for a summer. It had been weeks since Snape had had to think about the little brat, and this reminder soured his mood. He crumpled up the parchment and began walking once more, only to be dive-bombed by the damned owl.

            “Blasted bird!” Snape exclaimed, swatting away the persistent animal. Hooting indignantly, Hedwig dodged the man’s hands and kept up her incensed assault. Snape pulled out the balled-up parchment and threw it on the ground. “Take your damn parchment if that’s what you want, you cursed owl!” This seemed only to upset the bird further, as she began dive-bombing him with increased fervor. Snape was so angry he could spit.

            “Fine,” he growled. “I’ll go.” This seemed to appease the owl, who ceased her attack. Snape made a mental note to inform the Order of his voluntary checkup, on the off chance that it would relieve him of future babysitting assignments. He hurried to his apparition point. One navel tug later, he disappeared to Number 4, Privet Drive.

            There wasn’t anything outwardly concerning about the Dursley residence. Unbeknownst to Snape, Vernon had shown up to roughly drag his unconscious nephew out of sight behind a large hydrangea bush before heading off to work. As such, the house was unremarkable, an utterly normal-looking home in a normal-looking neighborhood. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Why was he wasting his precious time catering to Potter’s hysterics? He made it to the porch before changing his mind. He would not give in to the insolent boy’s desperate pleas for attention. That was a job for someone else.

            He whirled around in a huff, ready to storm back to the serenity of his own home, when a rattling wheeze of a breath caught his attention. He paused, listening closely. Was he being followed? He drew his wand, ready to stun his foolish eavesdropper into the next century. The noise again, then a few more in quick succession, shallower this time. It seemed to originate from a nearby flower bush.

            He moved fluidly and cautiously, slinking really, with his wand at the ready. The noise was certainly coming from the bush. Pointing his wand at the source of the perplexing sound, he pushed the branches aside. What lay before him curdled the blood in his veins.

            “Potter?” he gasped, mouth agape. The boy splayed on the ground was nearly indistinguishable save for the lightening bolt scar peeking out from his mop of hair. His face was swollen to the point of unrecognition, mottled with vivid, angry bruises on the bottom half. His lower jaw jutted out at an unnatural angle, blood dripping pitifully from one side. Potter’s eyes, a striking replica of Lily’s own, were half-open, glassy and unseeing.

            Snape knelt down, struggling to maintain his ever-impassive expression. His eyes travelled over the skeletal teenager’s body, noting with horror the arm bent abnormally underneath his torso, the disturbingly twisted leg. He pressed an ear to Potter’s chest and was relieved to hear the boy continue to breathe, albeit unreliably and with great difficulty. Snape swore under his breath. What the hell happened to him? He cast a scanning spell, searching for any signs of Death Eaters, clueless as to who else might have taken such a fierce dislike to the (admittedly off-putting) boy. Nothing. No one. No breaches of the wards, either. Then what could it have been?

            There was no time to dilly-dally on that subject. Off-putting or not, the boy was Lily’s son and a crucial asset to the Light. Snape hoisted Harry up, slightly repulsed at just easy that was, and apparated to Spinner’s End.

            Once arrived, Snape immediately set to work. He lay Harry on a hospital bed transfigured from the dining room table and cast a flurry of diagnostic spells. These turned up three fractured ribs on the left side, a dislocated shoulder on the right, a shattered right knee, and a devastatingly broken and dislocated jaw. Among the mangled boy’s other injuries were a concussion and contusions on much of his body, as well as a dangerously depleted magical core. Snape’s skin crawled. Who could have done this? Potter had always exhibited reluctance to go back to his aunt and uncle’s home over the holidays. Could that have been because he was bullied? Were these hypothetical bullies the ones that committed this appalling act of violence? Snape quickly tossed out that theory: no schoolyard bullies would have done this level of damage. No, this was the work of someone who truly loathed the boy. For once, the ordinarily unflappable Severus Snape was baffled.

            Unsure of where to begin, he took his pulse: unsteady and irregular, but present all the same. Looking back upon what the earlier diagnostics had revealed, it occurred to Snape that he may not be sufficiently qualified to treat the ailing Potter. He was specialized in Potions, not healing, though the two often went hand in hand. Shaking his head, he resolved to do his best and call for more specialized help if need be. The boy needed healing now. Shifting into autopilot as he always did in tense situations, Snape methodically set upon treating the teenager’s many injuries.

            Potter’s shoulder was an easy fix, so Snape began there. He cast a spell to maintain the boy’s unconscious state, unwilling despite himself to allow the possibility of waking his patient up for the agonizing process. He straightened out the boy’s bony arm, then gave it a quick rap of his wand. One resonant crack, and Potter had the use of his arm back. Of course, it would take days before he would be able to use it without significant pain, or to any degree of precision. The shoulder was one of the most complicated joints in the body, and shoulder injuries took the longest to heal, even with magical assistance. Still, it was a simple mend, and for that Snape was grateful.

            Potter’s ribs, too, were easy enough to repair. Another jab of Snape’s wand, and they would heal in no time, though they would also be sore for some time especially with the cloak of bruising that enveloped them. Snape would sort that out when Potter woke up.

            The boy’s knee was in much worse condition. The bones were shattered beyond magical repair, so Snape was faced with two options: vanish and regrow the bones, or surgically repair the knee the muggle way. Judging the latter to be too time-consuming and vaguely barbaric, Snape opted for the former. He had no Skele-Gro on hand, but could brew it easily enough. For now, he vanished the bones and left it at that.

            Potter’s jaw was by far the worst off. It was so swollen that a spell would not easily realign it, so Snape was forced to wrench it in place manually. He began by spelling away the leftover blood caked in the boy’s mouth, then held his head still with one hand and took the disfigured mandible in the other. Snape gave it a firm tug and twist, and it popped back into place. Luckily, the bones had not shattered—merely cracked—and would heal in time with the help of magic and sufficient immobilization. Snape cast an immobilization spell on Potter’s jaw and neck to protect it from further harm and allow it to heal in the proper position. Until then, the boy would be on an all-liquid diet. The professor shuddered, feeling uncharacteristically sorry for the boy. Healing charms worked by stimulating a wizard’s own magic to repair himself. With Potter’s magical core at its current level, it would take weeks for him to be back on his feet. He would be in bed sipping nutrient potions for the foreseeable future.

            Snape stepped back, fatigued. He wanted to check on Potter’s concussion before going any further. Magical spells were ineffective at treating injuries of the brain, and Snape was reluctant to keep the boy under for much longer, lest it worsen the concussion. He pointed his wand between Potter’s eyes. “Ennervate.”

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            Harry’s eyes flew open to foreign surroundings and he let out a muffled gurgle of a scream. Where was he? Why couldn’t move his head or open his mouth? Why did everything hurt so much?? Eyes dull and clouded with pain, Harry fought to douse the inferno of panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

            “You’re safe in my home, Potter,” an oily voice drawled. “Calm down.” Ironically, this only served to plunge the boy into further terror, as he immediately identified the owner of the voice as none other than his most hated professor. Fuck fuck fuck, thought Harry to himself. He got me. I’m dead. He’s going to kill me. Too incapacitated to defend himself and unable even to turn his head to see his attacker, Harry screwed his eyes shut and waited for the worst.

            Cold hands pried open his lips and tipped a tasteless potion into his mouth. Snape leant into Harry’s field of vision, holding the teen’s mouth and nose shut to force him to swallow. Harry, certain it was poison, glared at his professor and refused to swallow. Brow furrowing as he struggled to manage his body’s lack of oxygen, he finally gulped down the potion and sucked in long, rattling breaths. Harry’s breathing, though still painful, quickly became slower and steadier, and his earlier sense of panic melted away.

            “That was merely a calming drought,” sneered Snape, still looming over Harry. “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to poison Professor Dumbledore’s golden boy, now would I?”

            Harry looked at first as if he would retort, but soon screwed his eyes shut once more, pain worsening as his body’s fight or flight-induced adrenaline dissipated.

            “What do you want with me? Why am I here?” he mumbled around his clenched and swollen jaw.

            “I was having a perfectly pleasant day when your owl found me and refused to leave me in peace unless I paid a visit to your residence. I… found you lying in the flowerbed,” Snape replied neutrally, his voice lacking its usual edge. In truth, though he would never admit it, the blasted boy had given him a real scare. “Care to enlighten me as to what happened?”

            Harry groaned, as much in pain as in frustration. He remembered with a jolt what had happened. It was Uncle Vernon who had knocked him around, not Snape as he had assumed. But that note was meant for Hagrid! How did Snape get his slimy hands on it? Harry couldn’t admit what had actually happened to Snape. The git would have a bloody good laugh about it, and Harry refused to welcome that kind of humiliation into his life. Snape could never know.

            “I fell down the stairs,” Harry murmured feebly, unable in his confused and hazy condition to come up with a more believable excuse.

            “Hm,” replied Snape curtly. He would have to wait until the boy was feeling better to extract the truth from him. “Well, those stairs took their toll on you.” He rattled off the list of the boy’s injuries, pausing to ask how his head felt.

            “Hurts,” Harry muttered, eyes still closed. “I’m nauseous too. Everything’s spinning.”

            Snape tutted. If the boy were to throw up, not only would he face the possibility of re-fracturing his ribs, but since his jaw was immobilized, he could choke on his vomit. Snape strode to his study to grab some of the simple nausea potions he kept on hand.

            Harry relaxed as he sensed Snape leave the room. Merlin, he thought. Vernon really didn’t hold back this time. His chest felt as though it had been wrapped in shrink wrap, tightening with each and every breath. He tried to wiggle his right fingers and grimaced. Did Snape hate him so much that he wouldn’t give him a pain potion?

            Snape reentered his view, startling the vulnerably-situated Harry. That man walked soundlessly as ever. He held out a bright green potion and this time, Harry didn’t fight his professor so much as swallow the potion down greedily. As Snape finished tipping the vial’s contents down Harry’s throat, the teenager’s nausea subsided but he began feeling uncomfortably full.

            “Are you sure this is a nausea potion?” asked Harry with some difficulty. He was still getting used to speaking without the use of his jaw. “I feel…weird and kind of sloshy. Am I supposed to feel this way?”

            Snape narrowed his eyes. What was the brat going on about now? “Use your meager excuse for a vocabulary and explain, Potter.”

            Harry flinched and furrowed his brow in a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed by Snape. “I don’t know; I guess just feel really full. Does this usually happen?”

            Snape sucked in a breath. The boy was feeling full from two small vials’ worth of potions? He must have been as starved as he looked. “Does it matter?” Snape finally replied dismissively. “Anyways, it would be in your best interest to get used to it. You will be on an all-liquid diet until your jaw is sufficiently healed, which will realistically take a few weeks.”

            If it could, Harry’s mouth would have dropped open. “You’re kidding,” he groaned. “Don’t bones heal quickly with magic? Why is this any different?”

            Snape sighed irritably at the teenager’s ignorance. “Healing spells simply instruct one’s magical core to heal one’s body in a more direct manner, and yours is dangerously depleted. Depletion happens when, for example, a wizard suffers many injuries in a short period of time and his magic must constantly facilitate healing.” He paused for effect. “I take it you’ve gotten to know those stairs quite well, then.”

            Harry blushed and averted his gaze, sullenly muttering something incomprehensible. He furrowed and unfurrowed his brow several times before speaking again, unsure of how to phrase his next question. “Do you think I could get something for the pain?” he finally mumbled quietly, still not looking at Snape.

            The older man felt an uncharacteristic pang of sympathy. It must have taken quite a bit of courage on Potter’s part to muster that question. Unfortunately, his answer would have to disappoint. “Regrettably, Potter, all pain potions produce nausea as a side effect. Even with anti-nausea potions, I would be remiss to allow for the chance for you to throw up in your condition. Moreover, pain in its varying levels is an indicator of healing, or the lack thereof. It will be more useful for you to be able to measure how quickly you are recovering.” Snape did not mention his last point, which was that a degree of physical pain would keep Potter off of his feet and therefore out of trouble.

            Harry’s good shoulder noticeably sagged, and his face betrayed his physical and emotional hurt. He really had scraped together a lot of nerve to ask for relief, and he really was hurting. Eager to avoid another burst of compassion for the brat, Snape quickly began retreating. “It would do you good to rest now, Potter,” he said disinterestedly. “I will be back in two hours’ time to check up on you.” Harry bit back a retort, deciding to maintain Snape’s surprisingly good mood. He closed his eyes reluctantly and was out before he even spotted Hedwig landing by his bedside table.

Chapter Text

            Snape let his mind wander as he brewed Potter’s Skele-Gro. Why the hell was he bothering with the detestable boy, letting him ruin his hard-earned break? Why not ship him off to St. Mungo’s where the boy would surely receive adequate care? Snape stopped stirring and sighed. He knew that that had never been a true option. On the surface, the ensuing media circus would be overwhelming, and would more than likely attract the Death Eaters’ attention. This would not only place an even larger target on the Golden Boy’s back, but endanger the lives of all at the hospital. Still, a more personal reason niggled at the usually detached Potions Master. Though he was Potter Sr.’s son, the boy would also always be Lily’s. And to see Lily’s eyes clouded with that much pain… well.

            An emphatic thud resounded from the dining room, followed by alarmed hooting, and Snape’s momentary compassion evaporated. What has that cursed boy done now? He simply couldn’t seem to keep out of trouble. Irritated, Snape strode to dining-table-turned-hospital-bed to find Potter crumpled in a heap on the hardwood, retching and choking, mouth still frozen shut.

            Harry, his bad knee folded awkwardly underneath him, heaved with the force of his vomiting. His jaw immobile, Harry’s body was at once fighting to rid itself of its stomach’s contents as well as draw in any kind of breath, and failing at both. Harry could feel his eyes popping out of their sockets as he gagged again and again, a mixture of stomach acid and previously-ingested potions burning his esophagus. Something deep in his chest rattled every time he stopped throwing up long enough to take a breath, only making his vision swim and causing a fresh round of heaving.

            Snape moved quickly, removing the immobilization charm and allowing Potter’s jaw to fall open and spill the offending liquid on the floor. He muttered a diagnostic charm and cringed at what it revealed. Turning to the boy, who was still choking and sputtering on the ground, he said matter-of-factly, “You’ve aspirated some of your vomit. This is going to hurt.” Snape knelt down and propped Potter against himself in a half-sitting position, then rapped the boy’s back once with his wand before he could react.

            Harry instantly choked up a smaller amount of sick, letting out a strangled moan as he did so. His lungs now cried out with relief: each breath still burned, but at least he could get them in at all. Harry closed his eyes and sucked in a few more calming breaths. Fuck, that hurt. Fuck. He stayed like that for a few minutes at least, breathing shakily and fighting off the residual urge to vomit. Harry might have even fallen unconscious for a moment, he wasn’t sure. As his nausea settled, he hazily became aware of his position. Snape was…holding him up? And rubbing his back? What the hell? He tried to shake off his professor’s hands but managed only to jostle his injuries some more.

            “I’m going to levitate you back up onto the bed now,” Snape murmured silkily from above. Harry nodded feebly in response, eyes still closed. He felt himself rise up before gently settling back into the comfort of the bed and finally opened his eyes once more.

            Harry immediately recoiled. Though there was no vomit on the floor—Snape must have cast a wordless cleaning charm—he had thrown up all over himself and the smell still lingered. The pungent odor made his stomach turn and brought back his earlier need to be sick. Plus, everything was too bright, too bright. Harry screwed his eyes shut once more and gritted his teeth, grunting in pain when his broken jaw made itself known once more.

            “Potter,” he heard, less venom in Snape’s voice than there had ever been. “What happened here?”

            Harry swallowed and slowly opened his eyes, relieved to see that his professor had dimmed the lights and vanished the remaining sick. “I woke up and I was super nauseous.” He kept his gaze fixed on his lap. “I didn’t want to be sick all over your sheets, so I tried to make it to the bathroom. I guess I forgot about my knee.” He burned with embarrassment at the fact that the man who most loathed him was seeing him in this state. “And then I was vomiting, and I couldn’t open my mouth and I couldn’t breathe…” He closed his eyes once more, hot tears of shame leaking down his reddened cheeks.

            Snape sighed. He had never been good at this kind of thing. “If it ever gets to that point again, simply call for me. Do not worry about the sheets,” he said as gently as he could muster.

            Harry just nodded silently, tears still streaming. Hedwig swooped over from the nearby chair on which she had been perching, and nipped at Harry’s finger comfortingly. In spite of himself, Harry cracked a small smile and stroked the bird, trembling slightly. He didn’t know why he was so nauseous this time around: his last few concussions had never been this bad. Noticing Snape’s unreadable gaze, he realized he must have said this last bit out loud and froze. “Quidditch injuries,” he blurted out hastily.

            “Of course, Mr. Potter,” replied Snape, one eyebrow raised. He was beginning to form a tentative theory about just how the boy managed to procure his injuries, but he would have to wait to test it. “Well, seeing as you are now awake, please remove your shirt.”

            Harry froze. “Erm, I’m sorry, Professor?”

            Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your shirt, Potter. Remove it. I need to check on your ribs and the amount of swelling that must surely have developed.”

            Harry’s eyes widened. He couldn’t take off his shirt, not in front of Snape. Not in front of the man who had gone out of his way to make his school life as difficult as possible. Harry, unlike Snape, knew exactly what lay under the tattered, worn fabric and it was far from pleasant. No way would he willingly expose the proof of over a decade’s worth of being knocked around: no one could know, least of all Snape!

            Harry realized at this point that he had been silent for far too long. “Err, I don’t think I can, Professor,” he finished lamely, gesturing vaguely at his bad arm.

            “Very well, Potter,” replied the bat-like man silkily. Before Harry could react, Snape pointed his wand at the boy and banished his hand-me-down shirt to the end of the bed.

            As soon as the shabby fabric disappeared, Snape sucked in a low breath. Angry purple-black patches, stark against the boy’s sallow skin, wrapped their way around Harry’s scrawny torso, a gruesome heat map revealing Vernon’s preferred targets. The bruises mottled their way across extensive scar tissue, knotty streaks that should have been silvery in the light. Under the patchwork, each and every one of Harry’s ribs was visible. His pointy hip bones threatened to puncture through his skin even as he lay down, and together with his ribs, they framed Harry’s sinkhole of a stomach. The boy’s chest shuddered as he breathed, looking for all the world as if they should be audibly creaking, threatening to collapse.

            Harry, indignant at Snape’s gaze, attempted to curl in on himself but immediately grunted in pain and settled back again slowly. “Funny, isn’t it?” he demanded hotly. “I bet this is a real laugh for you. I bet you wish you could have done this yourself instead of it being Uncle Vernon. Well fuck off, Snape, I don’t need this right now.”

            Snape opened and closed his mouth several times, stunned. Finally, he whirled around and strode quickly out of the room, Harry glaring holes in his back as he went.

            Snape’s feet carried him to his lab, where he leaned on his desk in disbelief. What in Salazar’s name had he seen? He had immediately seen through Potter’s pathetic stairs excuse, but he never could have expected this. The boy was…abused? By his own uncle? By the very family that was supposed to have worshipped the ground upon which he walked? Why hadn’t he seen the signs sooner?

            But you did, murmured a voice in Snape’s head.  You saw how he came to school every September looking half starved and paler than the Bloody Baron. You saw how he would flinch every time someone snuck up on him, how he never went home for Christmas. You just never stopped to think, did you? You never saw him for anything other than the father he never knew.

            Snape gripped the edge of his desk, white-knuckled. As much as he disliked the boy, he couldn’t bear the thought of any child being put in harm’s way, especially by those who were meant to protect them. Snape should have known what was happening as soon as he noticed the wards were intact, as soon as he heard Potter’s feeble attempt at covering up his ordeal. And instead, he had allowed his misguided delusions of the boy’s glamorous life to cloud the truth. He had succumbed to a trivial schoolyard rivalry with a dead man and acted downright childish when Potter had needed a responsible adult the most. What was worse, in ignoring the signs of Potter’s home life, Snape found himself complicit in the abuse. What would Lily think?

            Snape shuddered, pulling himself out of his reverie. It would do Potter no good to continue contemplating the past. The boy needed present-tense action. Snape straightened to his full height and grabbed one of the many jars of bruise salve he kept handy before making his way back down to the dining room.

            He found Harry attempting to put his shirt back on one-handedly, and paused in the doorway. Harry looked up. “Come back to gloat?” he sneered. “Congrats, you got what you wanted. I bet you already phoned the Prophet to come see what’s left of me. You think I deserve this, don’t you? Well, that makes you just like him.” Harry spat the last word, glaring dangerously at the floor.

            Snape stiffened at being compared to Potter’s monster of an uncle. Well, he thought. You haven’t given him much proof to the contrary. “No, Potter,” he began in a cautious tone of voice. “You don’t deserve this. You never did, and I hope you believe me when I say that. I…apologize for not having noticed sooner.” He held out the bruise salve. A peace offering.

            Harry furrowed his brow looking as though he might cry, and shifted his gaze to his black and blue chest. “Ok,” he said softly. Was this compassion the Potions Master was showing? What were his motives? What did he want from Harry? Where was the catch? Still, Harry was in no position to refuse the salve. He would just have to deal with whatever consequences were to come in the future. With his good hand, Harry pushed away the shirt that he had been trying to wrangle on, and reached out for the jar that Snape offered, biting his lip when he found that his right fingers were too weak for him to unscrew it.  

            Snape, still silent and eager to maintain their frail truce, gently took the small jar and began applying its contents to Harry’s chest and jaw, both men refusing to make eye contact.

            Harry shuddered as his professor spread the clear gel along his torso but relaxed when the shadows of pain began to fade with the bruises. By the time Snape stepped back, finished, Harry was breathing much more easily and was even feeling a little sleepy.

            “I will prepare something for dinner,” said Snape, not unkindly. Harry just hummed in response, heavy-lidded. As Snape turned to leave for the kitchen, a small “Professor?” made him pause.

            “Yes, Potter?”

            “Thank you."

Chapter Text

            Harry eyes fluttered open to the sound of Hedwig hooting and a fragrance that made his mouth water. Picking up his head and sitting up a little, he noticed a tray containing a hearty bowl of butternut squash soup on a nearby side table. It had been a while since Harry had had food that he hadn’t prepared himself. It’s been a while since I’ve had food at all, he added darkly.

            “I was just about to wake you,” a voice uttered from behind Harry, making him jump. How long had Snape been there?

            Snape, soundlessly as ever, placed the tray as well as a vial of Skele-Gro on Harry’s lap and helped the boy sit up properly, adjusting the pillows behind his back.

            “There is more if you should want it,” the professor said carefully, receiving a nod in return. He waited to make sure the boy would start eating. Harry noticed that Snape had provided a straw, and realized that his jaw was immobilized once more. He clumsily inserted the straw into the bowl of soup with his left hand, his right resting in his lap.

            “Ah yes, before I forget,” said Snape, procuring a square of white cloth from one of his pockets. “For your shoulder while it heals.” He fashioned the fabric into a sling and tied it around the boy’s neck, adjusting it several times for comfort. “Better?”

            Harry nodded again, his mouth full of the soup. Though he wouldn’t admit it, Snape’s cooking had pleasantly surprised him. Apparently cooking was close enough to potions that Snape had mastered both. He sipped it more quickly now, almost greedily, and soon finished the bowl.

            “More?” asked Snape, the corner of his mouth quirking up briefly into a half-smile.

            “Yes please, sir,” Harry replied timidly. Snape took the bowl away to refill it in the kitchen and Harry turned his attention to the potion, eager to get it over with. He had scarcely taken a sip when his stomach grumbled ominously. Shit.

            When Snape returned, Harry had a hand to his mouth and a strange look on his face.

            “Is anything the matter?” Snape asked before realization dawned upon him. Of course. The gauntness in the boy’s face and chest. He hadn’t eaten properly in so long that his body could not tolerate so much food at one time. Snape quickly a summoned a bucket and removed the immobilization spell on Harry’s jaw, unwilling to witness a repeat of what had happened earlier this afternoon.

            Harry let out a reedy whine, screwing his eyes shut for a few moments, before opening them again slowly. For a second, it seemed as though his nausea might have passed and Snape let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Suddenly, Harry lurched forward and heaved, a resounding crack sounding from his chest as the meager contents of his stomach splashed into the bucket. He coughed and retched a few more times until nothing but stomach acid came back up.

            When he was done, Snape silently spelled away the sick and place the bucket on the floor. Harry, still hunched over, wheezed shallow breaths and looked up at his professor miserably.

            “I don’t think I can take much more of this,” he admitted in a low, hoarse voice, pressing his hand to his re-broken rib. “Isn’t there something you can do?”

            Sighing, Snape helped him lie back down. “How long has this been happening?” he asked in the place of an answer. Seeing Harry’s quizzical look, he elaborated. “How long have you been unable to keep your meals down?”

            “Ah,” Harry said limply, still hoarse. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve had what you would call a meal in a little while. But I haven’t been able to keep down much of what I’d snuck in the past few days before you found me. I don’t know if that’s the concussion or not though.”

            Snape’s suspicions were confirmed: the Dursleys didn’t feed Harry. The ever-impassive professor’s heart panged when he took in the gravity of what his student had just admitted. Not only would the boy not receive enough to eat, but he didn’t know whether to attribute his nausea to the starvation or the injuries he’d received at the hands of his so-called guardians.

            “Erm, Professor?” Harry began quietly. “Do you think you could dim the lights? My head’s still hurting a bit.” Snape wordlessly waved his wand, eyes still trained on the weary boy in the bed. “Thanks,” Harry breathed in relief, wincing as his rib protested. Seeing this, Snape rapped his wand against Harry’s side, mending the bone instantly. The boy grunted gratefully.

            After a pregnant pause, Snape spoke again, answering Harry’s question from before. “I have no qualms with giving you potions to treat your pain,” he said, growing guilty as Harry’s battered face lit up with hope. “However, as I said before, all pain potions cause nausea as a side effect. Seeing as you haven’t managed to keep your dinner down as it is, I hardly think that would be a wise decision. Even if I gave you nausea potions to counter that side effect, the sheer amount of liquid in your stomach—between these, the Skele-Gro, and your meals—would easily be too much for your body to handle.”

            Crestfallen, Harry looked down and nodded.

            “Would you like to try some more soup?” Snape offered after another moment’s silence.

            “Sure.”

            Half an hour later, reeling from two more unsuccessful attempts at eating, both men were exhausted. Harry from his forceful throwing up and lack of nutrition, and Snape from seeing the former suffer so much just from eating.

            “Maybe we should just try tomorrow,” said Harry apologetically, voice shot after his third vomiting episode.

            Snape would have preferred to get some nutrition into Harry sooner rather than later, but he could tell the day’s events had taken their toll on the teenager. He agreed, instructing Harry to get some rest and reminding him that he would be back every two hours to check on his concussion.

            The night proved to be difficult for both individuals. Of the four times Snape woke Harry, the latter threw up on two occasions—each time bringing up nothing but pungent bile and what little water he had been able to drink in between episodes—and managed to break his rib once more.

            “It’s okay, Professor,” Harry rasped after Snape had mended the fracture for the third time since he had picked him up. “This nausea thing has happened a few times before. I’ll be ok after the first twenty-four hours or so.”

            Snape raised an eyebrow. There it was again, another nonchalant admission of past abuse. Snape wondered if Harry truly grasped how despicable his uncle’s actions were. He paused. Shit, when did Potter become Harry?

            “For how long has your uncle’s…treatment of you been going on?” Snape asked carefully.

            Harry hesitated, unsure of how to respond. He couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Snape would somehow use this information against him, or sell it to the highest bidder. Worst of all, Snape might overestimate how badly Harry was treated at the Dursleys’ and place him somewhere else where he would endanger more innocent people’s lives. He couldn’t bear it if there were to be another Cedric or another Sirius… Fuck. Sirius. Harry hadn’t thought about him in a little while. He admonished himself internally for being so selfish, so caught up in his own life when he had caused his godfather to lose his. Merlin, he was such a fuckup. When would he learn? When would he stop bringing pain to other people?

            Picking up on Snape’s searching look, Harry realized with a jolt that he had been lost in thought for a suspicious amount of time. Caught off guard, he ended up replying honestly. “Erm, well, they haven’t ever really been nice to me, exactly. It’s uh…we don’t really get along. Never have. It hasn’t really been this bad in a long time though,” he added hastily, seeing Snape’s expression darken. “This is the first time he’s really lain into me since I was young. I think he’s been too afraid to do anything too bad ever since I went to Hogwarts.”

            Snape’s anger flared, not at Harry, but on behalf of him. “And why, pray tell, have you neglected to inform any form of authority?” he snapped a little too violently. Harry flinched and blanched, clutching the duvet.

            Snape softened, regretting his harshness. He would get nowhere if the boy feared him as he did at Hogwarts, Snape realized with a pang. “Does anyone know about this?” he asked in a much gentler tone.

            Harry’s breath hitched and he coughed deep, hacking coughs. Pressing his uninjured hand to his side, he took some steadying breaths. “Not really,” he finally admitted. “Ron and Hermione know the Dursleys don’t feed me a whole lot, but that’s about it.” He hesitated before continuing. “I tried to tell a teacher once, in Year Three. She called in my aunt and uncle to talk to them and they managed to convince her that I was a lying, attention-seeking brat,” Harry said pointedly, voice hardening. Snape cringed at the words that he himself had used against Harry for so long. He deserved that dig. “Anyways, the way that Vernon laid into me afterwards made sure that I never wanted to speak up about it ever again. People just got used to what I looked like, I guess. No one ever asked about me, at least. Dudley’s clothes were big on me so they covered most of whatever I got and anything visible, like a black eye or a split lip, were usually chalked up to be Dudley and his gang.” Harry’s voice was unusually hollow and still hoarse. He realized that he was rambling and that his sentences didn’t really connect to one another, but he was too dazed and worn out to care. His head was pounding, his chest throbbing, and his tailbone was aching from lying down for so long.

            “But you never thought to inform Professor Dumbledore or your Head of House?” Snape pressed.

            Harry shrugged sleepily. “Dumbledore told me that that was the safest place for me to be and I agree. Vernon is nothing compared to what Voldemort could do. And this way I don’t have to endanger anyone else’s life either. Less collateral damage.” His vision was growing hazy, his eyelids becoming harder and harder to keep open.

            Maybe a trip to a Mind Healer would be in order, Snape thought to himself. It had taken nearly being beaten to death for Harry to admit this much, and Snape had a sneaking suspicion that what the boy had told him was just the tip of the iceberg.

            Two more days passed in much the same fashion as the first. Despite the arsenal of healing potions that Snape concocted for Harry, the sickly teenager failed to keep them down long enough for them to have any sort of effect. Without the Skele-Gro to regrow the bones in his knee, he was confined to bed, not that he would have been able to walk around and explore even if he had the use of his leg. Malnourished, dehydrated, and aching to the point where sitting up beyond ten minutes would have him in tears, Harry spent most of his time slipping in and out of sleep in a feverish haze. His perpetual lack of nutrition prevented his magical core from replenishing itself, which in turn meant that his injuries were healing painfully slowly, if even at all.

Snape watched as Harry seemed to grow weaker by the hour, futilely attempting to persuade something, anything, to stay in his system.  By the third day, Harry could barely lift his head without losing color, and Snape finally came to a solution.  

Chapter Text

            “Harry,” Snape said, the boy’s given name still feeling foreign in his mouth. Without moving his head, Harry looked over to where Snape strode into the room, eyes unfocused.

            “Hmm?”

            “This has gone on far too long. As we have been unable to come up with a magical solution to your symptoms, I have taken the liberty of researching muggle treatments. Dim as you have so often proven yourself to be, I am sure you have heard of a feeding tube?” his dig at Harry was halfhearted, almost perfunctory, and he finished his question by holding out a small package in explanation. Coiled in the plastic packaging was a thin, transparent tube.

            “Uhhh…” Harry gaped in response. A feeding tube? For him? Surely not. That was for ill people, for people with eating disorders and the like. It’s not like Harry was throwing up his meals on purpose! Moreover, the thought of letting Snape have even more control over his dietary intake worried him. Sure, the greasy-haired man hadn’t made any moves to harm him yet—quite the opposite, in fact—but maybe this was a part of a bigger plan of some sort. In any case, Harry wasn’t quite sure what to expect, and that worried him. Even at the Dursleys’, he could tell when Vernon was in a bad mood, and what his preferred punishments were. Snape was more of an enigma, and it was the not knowing part that made Harry so wary.

            Still, the prospect of a full stomach was enticing, and the idea of having enough energy to do more than lie about even more so. Snape had been harmless enough so far, so maybe this would be ok?

            “Eloquent as ever, I see,” sneered the Potions Master, propping Harry up into a sitting position. “In any event, you have little to no choice in the matter. This is called a nasogastric tube, and it will run from your nose to your small intestine. Usually feeding tubes of this variety end at the stomach, but yours will be longer to prevent the possibility of vomiting whatever nutrition you receive. I, of course, will administer your feeds, which will consist mostly of nutrient potions as well as nausea and, as you have requested, pain relievers.” He handed Harry a glass of water and instructed him to swallow when he felt the tube in the back of his throat. “Any questions?”

            Harry shook his head mutely, gripping the glass tightly. He had a feeling this would be uncomfortable. Snape unwound the tubing and slowly fed it down Harry’s nostril, the latter gagging and recoiling when he felt it breach the back of his throat. “The water,” Snape commanded, tilting Harry’s head forward slightly. Harry sipped obediently, willing at this point to do anything to make the discomfort go away. Snape continued expertly guiding the tube down for a few more moments, then leaned back, satisfied. The tube was in place. He finished by hooking the exposed end of the feeding tube around Harry’s ear and fixing it to his cheek with some tape.

            Harry coughed and shook his head slightly. The tube hurt! He felt it rubbing every time he swallowed and when he lifted his hand to touch his nostril, it came back red with blood. He grimaced. “Is it supposed to be like this?” he rasped, gagging when he felt the tube irritating his throat again.

            “Indeed,” murmured the professor. “You’ll get used to it in time. It shouldn’t have to be in very long, anyways.” He attached the dangling end of the tube to a clear plastic bag, then filled it with a vial of nutrient potion and a vial of Skele-Gro. “Take these for now,” he said before magically suspending the bag in the air above Harry’s bed. “If your body handles it well, then we can move on to nausea and pain relievers.” Harry just scowled, still unused to feeling half-choked.

            Within a few hours, just as Snape predicted, Harry grew used to being intubated. Though he continued to wince every time he swallowed or spoke, at least he no longer felt it at rest. By his third day with the tube, Harry had perked up considerably: the nutrition potions had begun to restore his energy, the pain relievers had freed him from the shadows of pain that had plagued his every movement, and his concussion symptoms had begun to ease up. Even the bones in his knee were restored! Though he was still easily fatigued and became dizzy if he moved too quickly, Harry was feeling better than he had since he’d left Hogwarts: not only was his physical health improving rapidly, but he had finally escaped the black cloud of fear that had drained him so much. Though he would never admit it, he now felt safe around Snape, no longer questioning the man’s every move.

            Throughout most of this time, Snape refrained from further inquiry about the boy’s home life, and Harry did not volunteer any information. Their interactions remained formal, though no longer strained, exchanging only needed information about Harry’s health. It wasn’t until Harry woke up screaming that this began to change.

            In his nightmare, he relived the fateful night at the Department of Mysteries, watching Sirius fall through the veil. Only this time, visible behind the veil were the accusatory faces of Cedric, Lily, and James, glaring at Harry as he reached futilely for his doomed godfather. “I’m sorry!” Dream Harry choked. “Please!” The faces only sneered at him.

            “Look what you’ve done,” jeered Lily. “Look how many have died for you.”

            “You’re no son of mine,” spat James.

            “You’ve torn apart my family,” leered Cedric.

            “You’re less like your father than I thought,” Sirius finished in disgust.

            Harry woke up with a start, suddenly aware that Snape had been shaking him and whispering at him to wake up for some time now.

            “What?” Harry grumbled, batting away his professor’s hands. Rubbing his eyes, he looked up to see Snape in silk pajamas with an uncharacteristically concerned expression on his face.

            “You were screaming in your sleep,” pronounced Snape.

            Harry flushed. “Oh. Sorry to wake you. That hasn’t happened in a while,” he muttered apologetically, turning away his face.

            “Was it about your aunt and uncle?” asked Snape carefully. Harry sighed shakily, still reeling from the vivid nightmare, and shook his head in negation. When he offered no explanation, Snape pressed on. “What, then?”

            Harry screwed his eyes shut as hot tears pricked the back of his eyelids. “Sirius. Cedric. Everyone who’s died because of me.” He bit his lip, unwilling to break down again in front of Snape, who had already seen him at his worst. Saying nothing, the professor procured a purple potion from his pocket.

            “Dreamless Sleep,” he said, holding it out for Harry’s observation. Harry sniffled and nodded gratefully, understanding that this was Snape’s method of comforting him. He watched as Snape poured it into the bag connected to his feeding tube, pleased to find that the potion began working almost immediately. “Thanks,” Harry murmured before falling into a peaceful sleep. When both men awoke the next morning, it was to a new understanding.

            Snape woke Harry up to cast a small army of diagnostic spells, which revealed that the teenager’s injuries were all well on their way to being completely healed. Though Snape left Harry’s arm in the sling, he removed the immobilization charm on his jaw.

            Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times cautiously. “Wow,” he remarked. “It feels as good as new. Thanks! Does that mean I can take this out now?” he asked, gesturing at the tube still taped to his face.

            “Unfortunately not, Harry,” Snape replied as articulately as ever. “We will have to build you up to solid food slowly, lest we encounter a repeat of your first few days here. Your knee, however, seems sound enough now that you may walk short distances. You may explore the house, although I request that, outside of a life-threatening emergency, you stay out of my bedroom.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “Moreover, I suspect the…troubles that came to light last night are nothing new to you. Please feel free to come to me should you need to discuss anything of the sort. That, or anything pertaining to your life at the Dursleys’.” Though the professor’s words came out smoothly and unflinchingly, Harry had never seen Snape look so uncomfortable.

            Harry nodded and suppressed a smile, deep in thought. “Look, I want to get this out of the way now. I, uh, just wanted to thank you? For everything? I know that you sort of hate me, and well, I never really liked you either, to be honest, but you’ve been really nice to me this past little while and that’s been…nice. I guess. And I really didn’t expect that. Anyways, what I’m trying to say is—” Snape put up a hand, cutting off Harry’s rambling.

            “Gratitude accepted.” The men sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.

            “Where will I go after this?” Harry asked apprehensively. “Will I have to go back to the Dursleys’?”

            “Never,” assured Snape with finality. And Harry knew better than to doubt him.