Archive of Our Own

It was a normal Sunday morning at number four Privet drive. It’s late June in England, Surrey is in the midst of a rare but strong heatwave.

Harry gets up, he makes breakfast, he checks the post. The Dursleys' are getting out of the house and leaving him with Miss Figg to go to church. He wouldn’t mind it if he wasn’t with her, who always had something to say about the way he looked.

In addition to the normal slew of stupid sports or beauty magazines and various junk mail, there was a thick letter with a wax seal.

Addressed to him.

Addressed to his cupboard.

The following events happened in a flurry.

Aunt Petunia shrieked, and tore the letter from his hands. Harry shouted back in protest and chased his aunt as she ran into the kitchen to show his uncle the strange letter.

Harry was picked up by his shirt collar and thrown headfirst into his cupboard. Pain waters in his eyes from the collision as the energy of the motion absorbs into the bone supporting the bridge of his nose.

Blood streams down his face with a terrible crunching sound and fills his mouth. Harry’s terrified, he needs to get out- needs to get out-

Harry gathers himself and fights against the cupboard door. He’s not surprised to find he’s locked inside the space.

He screamed and fought, kicking at his door. It was his letter, he should get to see it. Some part of him knows he’s only making things worse for himself. He’s not strong enough to force the door open.

Harry felt true fear wash over him like cold, murky seawater as through his own screams and protests he heard Aunt Petunia taking ‘ickle dudlykins’ out for an ice lolly.

He doesn’t notice his thumb finding its way into his mouth, the skin hasn’t healed from last night when he bit it raw.

Or the past ten year’s worth of nights. The Dursleys never actually took the care to wean him from anything as a baby, so naturally; the habit stuck. Harry knew better than to do it in front of them though.

Blood is dripping down the back of his throat into his stomach.

Usually Aunt Petunia kept things from getting too bad when Uncle Vernon decided Harry needed ‘discipline’. Not for Harry’s sake, but so the neighbors didn’t worry when the source of the screaming couldn’t be found on the telly.

Harry breathes through his mouth as he stops his screaming, he hits his head on a supporting beam as he shifts onto his knees to lean forward. Years of ‘Harry hunting’ teach someone how to deal with a simple bloody nose.

Harry bites back his yelp upon pinching his nosebridge to stop the blood.

But if Uncle Vernon had convinced the two to go out for the day, it could only mean one thing.

Harry could only watch as the cupboard door was unlocked and ripped open. He kicked and fought as his purple faced uncle stuck a piggy hand inside and pulled Harry out by his hair.

His eyes blur at the ripping pain, his shattered glasses clatter to the floor. The frames are coated in blood.

Uncle Vernon is foaming at the mouth with rage, it’s more of a reaction then Harry has ever gotten from him.

Harry is lifted off the ground and carried to the kitchen by his raven hair. He screams and fights- yelping and kicking wildly. He fights at the grubby fingers holding him by his hair.

Uncle Vernon is deadly silent, a terrifying change from his usual screaming blubbering. His face has gone from the pale it was when he saw the letter to terrible, angry and swollen. He slaps Harry across the face.

Harry can tell there's no restraint in his body. There’s nobody to save him.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die at this man’s hands. He can’t prevent it. He can’t fight back. The neighbors won’t call the cops.

Vernon undoes his belt and starts to scream at Harry as kicks him to the floor and grabs him by the neck. Vernon holds Harry off his feet by his neck. Harry starts to thrash and gasp for air.

“YOU UNGRATEFUL- LITTLE BRAT! YOUR FILTHY KIND JUST DOESN'T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT!”

Vernon throws Harry onto the floor and stomps over to him. Harry can feel Vernon’s shoe connect with the side of his head. The world blurs out, his ears ring terribly. He’s going to be sick. He’s going to die.

“YO..U .ILL ST…P..H IS BE..AVIOR. I IL..MA..E SUR..O ..T!”

Harry cries and struggles as his trousers and his shirt are forced off. Dignity and privacy poached from him as if they were a privilege. In this house, they were.

The belt buckle lashes into the back of his thighs. Then into the canvas of his back. The metal buckle bites into his protruding spine.

He’s beaten until bruises turn into welts and welts turn into raw flesh. Nerve and muscle is exposed. Skin is beyond broken. He can feel every nerve lighting up with lashing sensation

Blood slicks down the back of his thighs, dries, and is rehydrated with new lashes.

Harry eventually stops being aware of screaming and cries. Not out of giving up, but he’s physically unable. His limbs won’t respond.

Uncle Vernon isn’t holding back, there’s nobody to tell him to stop. He finds nothing wrong with beating Harry unconscious. Or dead.

There's no substantial fat tissue to cushion the abuse. He shudders, hiccuping and crying.

The world hollows out around him. He can’t see or hear anything. But he feels everything as the bottom of a leather dress shoe makes context with his malnutrition weakened legs.

He can feel himself screaming at the agony that sears and pinches.

He’s going to die here. Harry is certain.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Harry wakes up he’s in his cupboard.

Pain sears through every nerve in his body. His existence feels crusted over with blood.

He bleeds from a fracture in his skull. That’s good, he’s getting all the injury out.

Or something like that.

The pain is inconsistent. Sharp, aching, splintering. It’s hard to describe, all encompassing. Like he’s been run over with a meat tenderizer.

Harry is scared. Beyond scared. Ever since that letter came, he’s been locked in his cupboard. He’s certain he’s going to die here.

Dudley is angry because for once in his life he’s not allowed to do something; look at the letter. He stomps up and down the stairs, letting spiders shower onto the dying 10-year-old locked inside.

It gets really hot inside the little cupboard in the summer. Harry’s used to being in here to sleep at night- when the house is cool, or for a few hours maybe… but it’s been days by now.

He’s hungry, and he can’t block out the pain. In the rare moments when his body ebbs on sleep, and the pain fades into the corners of his mind. His body feels disgusting, he’s wet from blood and other things he doesn’t want to think about.

He’s unsure about wanting to survive this anymore. He entertains himself with old memories. But it’s hard to focus.

He’s feeling more ..violated than scared. Uncle Vernon doesn’t take his pants off under his trousers when he’s disciplined usually. When his Uncle does

It’s made Harry feel unclean in a new way. He wants to scrub his skin raw of the feeling. Defiled. Degraded.

Aunt Peunia has always insisted he can’t bathe himself properly, being too stupid. But now, he would accept one of her baths where his skin is scrubbed until it bleeds and stings. She gets soap in his eyes, hitting him in the back of the head when he cries from the sting.

He’d let it happen if he could just- make the pain stop.

Just be clean.

Just wash it all off and grow a new skin.

He’d do anything Uncle Vernon wanted. If he could just have a paracetamol or an aspirin.

Days of not even a simple acknowledgement that the boy is even in the house pass. Harry’s limbs have stopped responding, his body feels like he’s rotting.

The adrenaline has long since worn off. It hurts. He struggles to form thoughts, the pain is all he can focus on.

There is virtually no difference between opening his eyes and closing them. Whether this means he’s dead, blinded, or simply- all light has been blocked out.

The wounds are unquestionably more than just the material damage to his body. Harry feels shaken more than he ever has. He’s petrified.

A summer rainstorm started to rage outside, it’s dinnertime in the Dursley household. Naturally, Harry’s not invited. He listens for any mention of himself.

He’s been dizzy for days now, the fever weather has stopped. He’s sweating profusely, but he’s freezing. Bruises bloom across his body, much darker than the usual slap or discipline. He can feel his heart pounding through his chest.

Vomit creeps up the back of his throat from his stomach pain. His stomach is swollen with bruising in contrast to the lashes on his body and his body feels exhausted. It all hurts so much.

He has to listen to Dudley whine about his most recent fit of idiocy. ‘Why can’t you just turn off the rain??’. Dudley is only being so petulant because his favorite game; Harry hunting, is off limits because Harry is ‘grounded’.

A knock at the door is ignored by his relatives. It’s followed by an aggressive knock at the door.

Harry strains, he can hear a murmured conversation between a man and his aunt..

He’s threatening her.. Fear flickers through Harry’s body.

But it feels different now. Whoever this is, he’s no friend of Harry’s aunt and uncle. That simple fact extinguishes his fear with an almost placebo level of hope.

Harry decides to pretend to be asleep. It’s not much different then his current position, but he’d rather it was a decision.

Minutes pass, an argument. Something makes a loud sound.

He can hear blood rushing in his ears, his heart thumping as footsteps that are much too light to be a Dursley.

A small explosion from destroying the lock vibrates the small chamber that Harry is locked in. Light floods into his cupboard as the door is gently pried open.

Harry finds himself opening his eyes.

“..a..r..y..?” The man is speaking to him. He has a big nose, and his hair looks wet. Maybe from the rain? Harry figures it’s from the rain. His voice sounds mean.

The man’s face starts to change. He stares into Harry’s eyes, over his body, into his soul. Harry feels like a piece of meat being sized up.

He looks odd. He sounds angry.

He’s wearing weird black drapey fabric.. He’s holding a weird stick. It’s about twelve inches Harry would guess.

“Ha..rry..?” The man’s tone is getting gentler as he stares into Harry’s eyes.

The stick looks both thin enough to whip painfully and thick enough to bruise him. Harry doesn’t want to be hit anymore. He’s tired.

Harry’s voice seems to tangle in his throat, he attempts to press his back into the inner wall of his cupboard.

It doesn’t get him all too much farther from the man, either from how small the enclosure really is, or his lack of control over his body.

Harry comes to the realization- this man is Death himself. Harry is finally dying. Relief mixes with fear and settles in his gut.

He blinks a few times. He hasn’t seen light in a week. His eyes ache and sting at the input.

Noise focuses more clearly than his vision.

“Harry, you are hurt.” The man reaches his arm in. Harry braces to be dragged out. “My name is Professor Snape. You’re going to come with me to the hospital now.“

Death speaks slowly and clearly, it’s extraordinarily gentle.

Harry squints open an eye, finding the man not grabbing him, but extending his own arm to be clutched onto.

Oh.

Well, Harry thought ‘following the light’ was always a metaphor. Turns out, Death is quite literal. A bright light, a dark cloak, a reaching hand.

Also, a professor.

Harry takes Death's hand.

Or he tries to, Mostly he makes a weak noise and twitches like a squashed spider.

Death smiles gently and pulls him out, Harry bites back his whimper at the movement on his vulnerable body.

It hurts. The pain is unbearable. He’s going to vomit, he’s surely going to die now

He’s detached from the pool of dried blood.

Harry finds himself being carried.

The man hums softly to him. Harry feels pitied.

Harry feels uneasy. He’s being too nice. He’s going to hurt Harry sometime or another. Harry closes his eyes anyways. He doesn’t want the man to have a reason to discipline him.

He can feel the man tap his weird stick to Harry's small head and trace a pattern.

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Severus had two months until he had to endure the offspring of James Potter in his own classroom.

Severus only had two measly months left in Spinner’s End before he retired to his Potions chamber to teach a batch of squirmy first-years the difference between toad livers and frog livers.

Severus didn’t quite enjoy his life here. He didn’t hate it either.

Spinner’s end was an old hoarder house at best. Devoid of evidence that anyone lives there anymore.

A fine coat of dust decorates the house, the chandelier a particular victim of spiderwebs. Nubs of candle wax still rest in their divots. Their wicks burned past use and wax drips hardened on their way down, suspended in time.

Severus only lived in this house during the summer holidays anyways. It’s not of his concern if cobwebs build, or if his books resting on their shelves are trussed with dry rot.

At the minimum, at least his place of residence was devoid of the childish litter left behind by students. Stinkbomb rip cords and Sugar quill ends. The kind of filth that sent Filch into a hissy fit.

The type of trash that he gets to be rid of when he gets to sleep in his own bed. He sleeps in his old childhood bedroom. The idea of moving into his parents irks him.

His room is dark, the walls lined with books. It’s stuffy and a sharp contrast from his parent’s room. His parents were fond of their windswept curtains that frame the balcony. Taking away from the suffocating feel of the small room. A goblin-carved headboard and dusty quilts. His father hated the way Severus always holed himself up in his room to read.

Severus sits brooding in his sitting room in front of the fire. He’s charmed a book to read itself out loud as he drinks deeply from a teacup with a dash of something stronger in it.

It’s raining quite hard, he’s retired for the evening into comfortable robes.

The gentle sound of the fire crackling is interrupted by a familiar whooshing sound.

A groan of annoyance escapes his body as he looks down to Albus’s head in his fire surrounded by Floo powder colored flames.

“To what do I owe the pleasure.” Severus gritted out at the headmaster.

Albus sighs, ash blows over the hardwood floor. “I do not call upon you lightly Severus.”

Severus raises an eyebrow, feigning innocent interest. “What could possibly be the occasion?” He hums sarcastically.

The elder professor shifts in his position, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s no pleasant matter. I trust there is no need to remind you that you will be teaching Harry Potter this year?”

Severus acknowledges, setting down his cup. He’s long since closed his book and given up on the idea of a relaxing evening.

Dumbledore continues.

“As you know, we've issued admission letters to all first years, it’s typical protocol to send a professor to muggleborn households. But as you know, Mr Potter does not fit into this category.”

The elder clears his throat and adjusts his glasses.

“The letter was not.. Taken as hoped. Vernon and Petunia Durlsley are not complying, more so than usual. This needs to be set right. I need you to collect him and correct this at least until the start of term. Of course you will be compensated for your time and any mat-”

Severus interrupts the headmaster, frustration ebbs in his tone. Even in death, Potter couldn’t let him enjoy a peaceful evening.

“I thought higher of you Albus. You must have me complete this? And where will the child go If i do succeed in collecting him? Is this not kidnapping?” He sighs.

It was a complicated emotion Severus was feeling. Putting aside the fact he did not want to do this even remotely- on one hand, this was the child of the two people with perhaps the most complicated relationships he’d ever held in his life.

“I’m afraid so, I believe your personal connection to Petunia Evans will prove useful. As I was saying, you will be compensated for your work and any materials you may use. Long term living has not yet been sorted; but as his living conditions worsen, it’s clear we do not have the privilege of such time. I ask a favor of you, to let him reside temporarily in your residence.”

Albus spoke with an air of caution, like he thought Severus would find this absolutely ridiculous.

Severus did think it was a ridiculous thing to ask. But still.

On the other; this was a child. A child in a situation that Albus had deemed unfit.

“What do you mean ‘unfit’?” He narrows his eyes as he comes to his feet.

“I am afraid we are already wasting precious time. I will, however, tell you that the blood ward is no longer in effect.”

The Headmaster pauses, watching Severus will his expression to stay unchanging.

“This is because the child is unloved. If you decline my request, I am required to send underage wizarding welfare. And I do not think that would go down well.

Severus begrudgingly agrees. In some irrational corner of his psyche, he knows it’s deeply unfair for Albus to bring up underage wizarding welfare. In his own youth, the same organization left him to rot with his high-strung, disapproving, disappointed parents.

Severus sighs as he tugs on robes more fitted for this weather as he Apparates with a sharp crack.

He looks around as an instinct more than a necessity. No one is watching him, and they have no reason to suspect him. He blends into the shadows. No muggle pays that much attention.

The potions’ master walks briskly. He knows better than to use a waterproof charm, it would raise alarm from anyone he might bump into.

It’s dark, cold, and stormy. Severus supposes this makes a pretty good origin story for Potter’s eventual little hero complex.

With a sigh, the dark figure approaches the alleged address and knocks curtly.

His knock is ignored. Severus pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters to himself. Albus couldn’t have had anyone else do this?

The door is opened to an old enemy.

Petunia’s ugly face stares back at him, cheap acrylic nails glued crookedly to her fingers. She gasps.

“You!” Petunia seethes. “What do you want from us? My husband will not be happy to hear that your kind ha-” She blubbers, throwing her little tantrum as usual. Some things never change, Severus supposes.

“I would suggest you comply then.” Severus interrupts, a hand slips inside his pocket, feeling over the thumb groove in his own wand.

“The boy, Petunia.” Severus sighs before she can continue her waffling.

“I am under strict orders, Petunia. Potter will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and wizardry. I’m not interested in negotiating terms. This is what will happen.”

A whale of a man came barreling at Severus from the sitting room.

Severus was not scared of this man. He simply pulls out his wand and with a simple charm, trips him.

Petunia gasps and sputters words that Severus could not honestly repeat. Whether that was that he wasn’t listening, because he doesn’t care or that she is sputtering utter nonsense;

Severus feels, is entirely up for debate.

“I’m going to step inside now. It’s very cold out here if you don’t mind.”

The best word, more so the only word to describe this man was grotesque. It’s like seven purple trolls have been stuffed into one ugly muggle and adorned with a wiry, twit-like beard.

The great big troll, easily identified as Vernon Dursley- looks akin to a fussy toddler with his feet spellbound, thrashing around on the floor.

“The boy. Where is he?” Severus drones on, already past done with this whole interaction. Severus could be doing whatever he wants. But he has to deal with hissy fitting muggles.

Severus presses his wand’s tip into the squealing pig of a man’s neck.

“The boy. I won’t ask again.” He hisses.

“We- We’d NEVER GIVE OUR DUDLEY to your- your- Your KIND! Get out of my house before I call the police!” He squirms madly, turning a brilliant shade of pomegranate.

“Dear Merlin, you're stupider than you look. I don’t care about your bloody muggle son. Where is Potter? The one with the scar?”

Severus mocks, speaking slowly and over enunciating like he’s talking to a child. He makes a crude squiggle gesture to his forehead. Vernon kicks and struggles against the ankle binding charm, he manages to knock a lamp off its table.

“Reparo.” Severus mutters with a lazy flick of his wand arm.

Vernon makes several disgusting blubbering sounds and points to the cupboard under the stairs with a sausage finger.

“What do you mean the- you’re really of no use, you know.” Severus exhales his exasperation.

Severus gives him a disgusted look and steps over him.

He steps over to the cupboard expecting to open it and find a staircase or a ladder to where Potter is spoiled in his own private room of sorts.

Probably the type to have a private study tucked away from the muggle world with a personal house elf down there.

He was expecting to find maybe just a cupboard, as the man had pointed wrong in his stupidity or panic.

He was not expecting to uncover an outright infringement on morality as a whole.

This was beyond James or Lily, this was not a matter of Dumbledore, or the order. This wasn’t a matter of a blood ward or not.

This was quite possibly a dead child lying in a cupboard.

The world starts to achromatize around Severus as he stares at the tortured soul, he’s almost unrecognizable if not for the scar on his forehead.

The protests from the Dursely’s have faded into mere static.

He absentmindedly sends both of them into a full-body bind with his wand. Somewhere in the distance they fall to the floor like sacks of potatoes.

The boy lies on a splintering wooden palette in a pool of dried, tacky blood. Bones stick out from his legs and arms where skin has broken, his clothes are far too big for him and absolutely drenched with blood.

“Harry?”

Severus simply gapes. He’s unsure if Potter is breathing. His nose is broken and his face has glass smushed into open wounds. His lip is busted.

Severus is terrified of what he might find if he removes the hand me down muggle wear.

Lily’s eyes stare at him from the shell of a 10 year old boy. His hair is crusted over with blood.

Severus swallows thickly as he opens the cupboard door wider, letting light flood into the small space.

The boy lies on his stomach with his head on his arms. It seems to be the most comfortable position one could sleep in on a sheet of pressed wood.

Spiders weave complex nests of webs above him on the support beams. There's evidence of an entire little life shoved away into this cramped space. Moth eaten clothes neatly folded and shoved into the back corner.

“You.. How could you do… this?” He seethes at the ‘parents’ lying on the floor stiff as the board Harry has soaked through with blood

Severus wants to turn around and murder the two who did this. It could wait though.

“Expecto Patronum!” He roars, finding it hard to conjure the doe with such fierce anger running through his body.

Severus casts a patronus swiftly, the doe stares back at him as he gives instruction to alert St Mungo’s urgently. The spirit understands the emotion in the urgency and gallops off, phasing through the wall.

“Merlin, I thought you would grow up even a tiny bit, Petunia! Did you seriously take out your rotting morals on an innocent child?”

The anger that flickers in his chest in response to the sight of lily’s eyes staring up at him from James’s little body. No. Not James. Harry. This wasn’t about him. This was about Harry.

“Harry.” Severus starts, clearing his throat and trying to soften his tone. It’s not often he’s trying to be gentle.

“Harry, you are hurt.” Severus slowly reaches his arm in. “My name is Professor Snape. You’re going to come with me to the hospital now.“

Severus watches as Harry twitches towards him. He mentally braces himself as he scoops up the broken youth.

He settles the boy in his arms and traces a sigil on his forehead with his wand, muttering an incantation.

Harry sleeps instantly, the charm simply draws out sleep that was needed, careful to not put him into a disruptive, artificial sleep.

He slowly walks over to Vernon Dursley, who stares at him like a pig to be slaughtered.

Severus bashes his nose in with the heel of his foot, he can’t exactly hurt him with magic, that would leave a trace. But this? Well within his right he reckons.

He cracks a smile at the satisfying crunch. The spell will break in a few hours, it’s fine.

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Harry doesn’t know what happened.

When he wakes up— it’s slowly, his body feels tight and itchy.

The pain is no longer sharp and unbearable but dull and aching, it comes in spasms and twinges instead of constant ebbs and sharp stabs.

He’s scared.

Is this death? He thought it would look different. Uncle Vernon always said he was going to go to hell. But Harry feels cold.. And it’s really bright in here.

He’s in a bed for the first time. It aches to be on his back like this..

His vision is fuzzy, it’s really bright in here. Harry’s face scrunches in discomfort, he moves his face from facing the ceiling.

The bed he’s in is white and pale blue. There are rails on the side of the bed keeping him in place

Oh.

Harry feels stupid. He’s in the hospital. That wasn’t death, that was some guy. Probably someone from an ambulance. He remembers loud noises. Maybe they were sirens?

The blanket over him has a bunch of little holes- but they look on purpose, not worn into the fabric but knitted into it. It's scratchy. The anti-suffocation holes make the warmth hard to keep close to his body, but Harry doesn’t mind, he likes having something to hide under.

The room he’s in is easily as big as Dudley’s bedroom, he feels small in comparison to the surrounding space.

The sheets are clean, pillows under his head soothing and cool. He squints, the door is closed, he’s alone. It’s raining softly outside the window.

His limbs respond slowly to him asking them to move, and he’s numb where the bandages on his chest are. He’s partially numb in most places where the pain was bad.

His mouth tastes weird. It’s not hard to arrive at the conclusion he’s on medication.

He pulls back the blanket slowly, his fingers feel stiff and disconnected from their sensations, his right leg and foot is wrapped in a stiff kind of bandage, he’s been cleaned up, he can smell disinfectant.

His left hand, his dominant hand- no matter how much uncle Vernon tried to beat it out of him- was immobilized in a splint and beyond numb. He can still feel an aching sensation that seeps deep into him like an injected chill.

He’s been changed into what he assumes are pyjamas. They fit him without obscene bagging, but without being tight on his skin.

But to Harry, they feel much too small in comparison to a lifetime of wearing Dudley's old clown pants.

Harry can hear footsteps.

He pulls his thumb out of his mouth and wipes it off on the blanket, unaware of having started to self-soothe in the first place.

Heels clack on the linoleum floor.

Aunt Petunia wears heels.

They’ve come to get him- He’s sure he’s going to be yanked from the bed and put back in his cupboard.

No.. they wouldn’t let anyone take him to a hospital, it’s all a hallucination.

He’s finally gone mad.

Harry knows for sure now this was all a silly dream! He’s going to wake up any minute now to the sound of Dudley stomping down the stairs and dusting Harry’s dying body with spiders.

Harry feels a weakened whimper claw itself from his vocal chords, his empty stomach flips as he tugs the blanket over his head. He hides as he hears the footsteps stop in front of the door.

There’s two people there, they mutter to each other and hesitate to open the door.

The blanket feels deceptively real in his hands- Uncle Vernon did always say he had a freakishly overactive imagination. Uncle Vernon thought most things about him were freakish.

Fear spikes, his heart starts to beat in his throat. He’s going to vomit- his eyes water. He’s been kidnapped if he’s not hallucinating.. He’s going to be experimented on! They know he’s a freak! They know-

The door swings open.

The air is forced from Harry’s lungs, he feels like he’s going through a small, dark tube all of a sudden. The world re-materializes around him a second later with a loud crack. He’s somehow gotten under the bed and is hiding there.

They were going to punish him. He did a freak thing. Hopefully they didn’t see.

Harry’s heart drops into his stomach as he looks up to find the ‘Professor’ and a doctor there.

They stare with open mouths.

Harry stares back from under the bed, hunching backward like a scared cat.

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Anger was not a strong nor specific enough word for what Severus felt when he watched a team of healers tend to the frail child. He had apparated right to the streets of London the second Harry was asleep and he was out of the house.

St Mungo’s was unusually quiet for this time of night, that was disrupted as a cloaked professor carried in a mangled child. Despite not being a magical injury, it would be absolutely mad to not give the unconscious one immediate medical attention.

Severus was offered temporary guardianship forms to sign at the front desk after a stiff conversation with the head healer. He had signed these, not because he wanted to be a guardian, but because they were not allowed to administer anything to the boy for the pain that came with the charm to reset bones, unless he did.

So, Severus Snape was now a secondary guardian of Harry James Potter until December 1st.

Great. Just great.

Severus had spent the night in the waiting room until he was told Harry was stabilized.

He trudged back home as the sun started to rise behind the stormclouds. How cliche.

He sent a Howler chock-full of select colourful language at Dumbledore, letting him know what had conspired in the past five hours.

In the week or so it took Harry to become conscious, Severus cleaned out Spinner’s end. Or at least his parents' old bedroom. How he felt about the arrangement felt entirely irrelevant after witnessing what had happened

The boy had several Healers working on building him back up and re-setting broken bones, thanks to magic, his physical healing could be sped up into a few short weeks. The same could not be said for the fearful look in Lil- Harry’s eyes.

But it was painful and uncomfortable to heal that fast without taking additional elixirs to deal with the rapid regeneration and the growing pains that come with.

Most pain draughts that are safe for underage wizards can knock out fully grown wizards. Let alone 5 stone worth of mangled skin with an innocent child hiding inside.

Meaning Harry had been mercifully out cold for the majority of the healing.

In that time he had needed skin graph draughts, nearly 16 pints total of 18 different potions, nutrient elixirs and salves, reset and regrown bones, bandages, splints.

He had been malnourished with severe blood loss. Harry needed the glass shards from his glasses taken out from his face with tweezers, Severus watched as one healer held his unconscious body steady as the other dug around in his epidermis. He needed healed bones reset, bones that had broken years ago and healed terribly wrong. His right ankle had been reset in four areas.

The worst of it was his left hand and arm. It had clearly been a focal point of abuse. The nerves themselves had needed extensive correction, the complex joints in his fingers needed a laundry list of treatments and repair.

Harry would likely need years of not only what muggles call ‘physical therapy’, but it would likely take a very long time to unlearn the habits he had been forced into while suffering the abuse.

Severus had transfigured his parent’s king sized bed into a wide twin, the mattress was softer, something that would cushion his underweight joints.

The professor had cleared the cobwebs and lightened the walls’ colour from dark and moody to something more appropriate for a child of his age. A pale blue with shelves to be filled with books. A few classic wizarding children’s books from his own collection, and a few textbooks he’ll need for his first year.

He had filled the closet with a mix of proper robes and muggle wear. The clothes were roughly his size, Severus could transfigure them to a better size later on.

Soft blankets were folded at the end of his future bed. He debated on buying him a plush toy. There was a small stuffed bunny at the foot of the bed leaning against the stack of blankets.

What do muggle ten year olds’ even do all day? What would Harry want to do? Severus can’t imagine he was allowed to do much back at Privet drive.

Severus had gone to a few novelty shops and bought a few games like wizard’s chess and exploding snap.

He tried not to think about that night, it beckoned forth rage beyond rage.

Severus knew he wasn’t adopting Harry obviously, but a month was a long time. He wanted the boy to be comfortable. He would put the room back to normal once he was rid of the brat.

No other reason.

Anyone in his position would spend their spare time reading up on Post Traumatic Stress disorder in adolescents, or waterproofing mattresses.

It wasn’t like he was adopting the boy.

Not like he cares for him or anything.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Severus walked up to the front desk and was pointed to Harry’s room, it was a room on level six, for private rooms. The public didn’t know about floor six, it was reserved for things that would be dangerous or unwise to have in a shared room. The Head healer had taken on this case. No doubt because it was Potter.

Harry was due to wake up in a few hours, and be discharged later that night as long as his healing was on track. Severus thought that bringing a traumatized muggle child into a magical hospital and knocking them out for a week only to discharge them an hour later was absolutely loony.

But he didn’t have much choice.

Madam Miriam Strout and him engaged in surface level small talk. He found her incredibly hard to talk to. She was much too chipper for his taste, she holds a clipboard of certain questions Harry will need to answer to make sure he’s not had substantial brain damage.

Severus carries a bag of magically lightened clothes and a warm coat for Harry. They would be taking the floo back, which was sure to be hard to explain to a boy that had never so much as ever heard of the wizarding world.

Severus follows her down a long hallway, approaching Harry’s healing room after several flights of stairs.

He had made up his mind, he would bring Harry back to Spinner’s end and explain the wizarding world. It was a severely imperfect plan. There was a very slim chance a child raised by Petunia Evans would easily accept something ‘supernatural’.

Strout was going through the potions Harry should take for the next few days, when he should take them, the side effects- Severus was internally frustrated with her assumption of the Potion master of Hogwarts being inept enough to not know what time of day to administer sleep draught. He tunes her out

“..nd just send an owl if you have any questions or concerns!” She stops talking, Severus snaps back into reality finding himself arriving at the door. He nods with a stoic face, feigning his attention.

Her face contorts from an overly cheery smile, into utter confusion.

There’s a few hours until Harry is intended to wake up, which makes it especially confusing that Severus can hear shifting and whimpering inside. His eyebrows change to match her raised ones as she opens the door.

Severus couldn't help to notice the utterly patronizing childproofing in the room. Nothing sharp, rails on the sides of the bed, and the anti-suffocation bedding that Severus knew was terribly uncomfortable from his own experience.

For a split second, Potter was hiding under the blanket- and with a loud crack he had apparated out of sight.

It’s common wizarding knowledge among teachers what the signs of a child feeling unsafe in their environment are: Underage Wizarding Welfare mandates those in professions where they frequently interact with underage witches and wizards learn the basic red flags magical children display.

At the top of the list was accidental Apparition. It was caused by extreme stress and an overwhelming need to escape.

The amount of stress a child’s nervous system had to be acclimated to, to be able to apparate at a young age was extraordinary. To do so without a serious injury like splinching or collision was a sign that this was not the first time.

Severus stepped into the room, crouching down to under the bed.

The sight that greets his eyes is incredibly familiar to last week. Harry is scrunched up with his fear basking in Lily’s eyes, frozen in fear and chewing on his thumb.

Unlike the last time, he is bandaged and properly dressed. He’s been cleaned up, and he’s visibly aware of his surroundings.

“Hello Harry.” Severus voiced gently, surprising himself with the tenderness of his manor.

He continues speaking with Harry nonvocal as usual. He doesn’t expect him to say anything quite yet anyway. He looks like a scared animal.

“Would you like to come out from under there and have some afternoon tea?” Severus can feel his middle aged back aching at the crouched position he’s in.

He can hear the healer behind him walking into the room and closing the door. With a quick glance, he finds her standing in a corner and averting her eyes, pretending to check a file.

Harry pulls his thumb from his mouth with a flush on his face, he nods and crawls out from under the bed. It’s so blatantly obvious from the way he carries himself that he does not want to do this, but he is scared. He is scared of what will happen if he says no.

Harry doesn’t outwardly protest in the slightest when he’s helped back onto the bed, His arms wrap around himself- accustomed to self soothing.

Severus takes a breath. Merlin, this is going to be difficult. “Harry, What would you like to know?”

The boy fidgets and twitches, his response forms slowly. His sentence starts only to stop instantly many times.

“Er..” He shifts. “W..” twitch. “I-” stammer.

Harry flushes a light pink. He looks remarkably like James. He seems surprised he hasn’t been interrupted. When his words do form, they seem to flood out all at once.

“Who are you.. Where am I? Where am I going to go? What happened? Do I have to stay here? Am I in trouble?” Harry twitches, he’s clutching his left wrist to his chest. It seems it still hurts despite the drought. There’s pretty extensive damage under the bandage.

Severus' heart clenches in his chest. He breathes in slowly, trying to produce a kind smile.

Potter sounds nothing like James, he sounds like a scared nine year old with a definite speech impediment. His ‘S’ sound is slushy, considering his own name was ‘Severus Snape’, this may prove to be a problem.

“My name is Professor Snape, you may call me Severus though. I teach at a school for children like you. You are in a hospital, because you got very hurt. You have a few options for where you would like to stay, but for the next week or two, you are going to stay with me. You do not have to stay here. I have a room for you, and if you need anything while you stay with me, I will supply it. What happened, I am not too sure of. What I know though, is that the headmaster of Hogwarts sent me to come collect you, and I found you very injured. And, you are not in trouble.”

Severus watches as the cogs turn in the youth’s brain, his palms run up and down the heavily textured blanket, the collar of his shirt finding its way into his mouth. Severus makes a note of this sensory seeking habit.

“W-wha..” Harry stammers, his face scrunching and twitching. He runs both hands down the front of his shirt, smoothing it. “What do you mean, ‘kids like me’? Freaks? Are you from the government? What’s Hogwarts?”

Severus sighs and pulls up a chair.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two hours later, Harry has an elating sense of wonder behind his eyes, his hands flap and scrunch in the air as he excitedly asks questions, his tone never gets very loud. Severus has to strain a little to even hear him.

Severus had convinced him long ago that he was in fact not messing with him, he was now ‘establishing rapport’.

Just that and nothing else. He was simply helping Harry adjust to his presence by entertaining him with his patronus.

Severus was going to take the Floo, but seeing as how Harry was already adjusted to apparition, he saw no reason to make a traumatized child with a stammer and a speech impediment around the ‘s’ sound, step into a fire and clearly say ‘Spinner’s end’. That just seemed cruel.

The Healer checked over Harry and scheduled a follow up, they were to come back in a week to check his healing progress and nutrient levels. Severus had been planning to take Harry back, let him settle and the next day take him to Diagon Ally for some new glasses and some robes of his own.

“Were my Mum and Dad wizards?” Harry asks innocently, taking a sip from his cup of juice.

Severus chokes on his tea, coughing and avoiding the innocent eyes staring up at him.

He takes a breath, clearing his throat. “Harry, they were the best.”

“Really?” Harry absentmindedly folds the blanket, Severus is helping him get shoes on over the bandage. “Aunt Petunia said they died in a car crash.. Cuz they were drunks.” He trails off.

“Petunia,” Severus loops a lace around his finger, pulling the shoelace through the ring of fabric to make a neat knot. “Is a right and proper Twit.”

Harry gives an honest to god giggle. He doesn’t laugh like James, it’s not a snorty guffaw or a cruel snicker. He sounds childish and innocent.

“W.. Wh.. a… What were my Mum and Dad like?” He stammers excitedly.

Severus swallowed his pride.

“Your mother’s name was Lily Evans. She was a muggle born in Gryffindor with your dad. She was smart as a whip. You have her eyes. I’ll show you a photo sometime- from a.. yearbook. Your father, I didn’t know so well. But you really are the spitting image of him. I was a Slytherin.”

“What’s a s.. s. .. sll.. Sslytherin? Or a Huffn’puff?” Harry questions as Severus pulls an overcoat onto him, being tender with his wrist as he buttons the coat, kneeling in front of the bed.

“Houses in Hogwarts, there’s a hat that the first years put on and it sorts you based on personality. I’ve got some books you can comb through after we get you some glasses.”
Severus picked the kid up.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Severus apparated into existence on the doorstep of his childhood home, holding the son of James Potter’s hand. The boy had apparated before because of stress. But never at such a distance. As Severus entered the passcode with his wand, he felt a tug on his robe.

Harry was there at his waist level, looking queasy. He hiccups, gagging.

Severus picks Harry up by his armpits and leans him over a bush, rubbing his back gently as he starts to retch.

It takes a few minutes before Harry calms down. His eyes have gone watery from the force of gagging, he sniffles and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “S..ss..S.sh.. sorry.” He mumbles, whimpering. He rubs his eyes like the exhausted child he is.

“It’s quite alright. I should have warned you.” Severus opens the door, carrying James’s boy into his house. Which looks… Much friendlier after being cleaned. Severus lies Harry down on the couch, murmuring a summoning charm for a fluffy blanket from the scullery linen closet.

Severus doesn’t outright tell Harry to take a nap, but he does light the fireplace and tuck Harry in. He helps Harry out of the coat and his shoes, and sits down next to him on the couch with his book, which he has not picked up since Albus popped through the very fire that lulls Harry’s mind to sleep.

Harry is out like a light within a few minutes, his thumb is firmly in his mouth. A self soothing habit he’s held onto like a crutch for all these years. Severus doesn’t see a large problem with it. Simple charms could fix any shifts in teeth. Obviously there would need to be some work done on the stress that causes it.. And he’s nearly chewed his thumb off. Severus could get him a dummy or something. Kid probably wouldn’t take to it though

It’s not like he’s even keeping him. He’s a stray, basically. A nuisance.

Not his kid.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry sat on his bed (His very own! Not a floor, a real one with pillows and a blanket), Professor Snape was downstairs making dinner. Harry writes in the journal Professor Snape got for him, the paper is yellowed and more textured then the smooth, bleached A4 printer paper he usually gets in school. Professor Snape calls the bound pages ‘Parchment’.

Its been like a weak since Mister professor snape picked me up sarted leting me liv in hes hous. I like it heer . i doent hav to cleen or cuk cook He says im majik. And so is he. I tought he was craszy but he showeded me with his wand an stuff. I hop im in slysternan. I still hav a munth until hogwoarts starts. Im so exited. I hope i maek friends. Professor sape snape is working wift me on my ‘penmansihm’. I lik it whem he reads with me on the couhc. I usually fell asleep though. He showed me photos of my mum, WIZERD POHTOS MOVE, N’ WAVE N’ STUFF! But he dosnted dosnt hav so meny pohtos of my dad. Hes really nice to me. I can get my wist cast off in a few days.

A quiet knock on the door, Professor Snape never shouts like uncle Vernon. Professor Snape doesn’t make him scrub or bleed. He lets Harry chew on things, and suck his thumb. He’s encouraged to if it calms him down. His new glasses make reading so easy, his head doesn’t hurt while he reads anymore.

“Suppertime. Wash up.” He strides into the room, giving Harry plenty of time to close the bound pages. He ruffles Harry’s hair. Harry likes it when he does that. Aunt Petunia always wanted it to be perfect and flat. He liked it when Professor Snape messed it up. He liked being touched. Being touched like this- gentle, loving. It’s foreign, but welcome.

Harry doesn’t like to talk too much, he likes to read and he likes to hide.

Harry sits at the table with Professor Snape. He doesn’t make Harry say grace, it’s not something Harry misses about the Dursleys’. Grace was usually a series of backhanded comments.

On his plate is sausage, jacket potato, peas and gravy. Harry likes all of these things. The sausage is cut up for him so he doesn't have to struggle with a knife in his non-broken, nondominant right hand.

None of the food is touching each other. The gravy is in a little saucer on the side. Harry didn’t even have to ask. He noticed on his own. Professor Snape cares enough to notice.

“Harry, Are you alright?” Professor Snape’s tone is so, so gentle. He puts down his fork and stands up.

He’s crying. Like a girl. He wipes his face on his jumper.

“Mmhm, s.. s… h shorry.” Harry hiccups, he’s not sad- why is he crying? He tries to stifle it and he starts to whimper.

Professor Snape is walking over to him, he crouches down to Harry’s level.

Harry tugs off his glasses and sets them on the table, warm tears drip from his chin onto his lap as he sniffles.

“I- I dunno- why-” Harry hiccups and gasps as he tries to suppress it. “m’ m..” He sniffles, giving up on making words.

“Would you like a hug, Harry?” Professor Snape murmurs to him, he never raises his voice. Especially when Harry gets overwhelmed, or upset.

Harry nods, he feels his hands rub up and down his jumper, letting the soft texture soothe him.

Professor Snape’s arms are thin, but shrouded with silk and cotton robes that trap body heat.

It’s kinda like a big blanket.

His arms are comforting, Harry doesn’t remember asking his head to drop into the crook of Professor Snape’s neck. Or his thumb slipping into his mouth. ‘

He can feel himself being lifted off the chair, he’s being held to Professor Snape’s chest like a stupid baby.

He likes this. Being held like this. It’s soothing. It’s dumb, and embarrassing. But he’s stopped crying.

“What’s wrong?” Professor Snape asks gently, tracing bony fingers up and down Harry’s back.

“Nothing.” Harry murmurs almost compulsorily. It’s a byproduct of several years of pushing it down and praying.

“Rubbish.” Professor Snape carries him into the sitting room, Harry can recognize the few sparkles that come from Professor Snape’s wand as a stasis charm by now. “You don’t have to tell me, but if I upset you, I want to know.”

He can feel himself being sat on the couch, He’s given space to move away- to get some space from his future professor. He does not want space. He wants to be held like a baby- but not to ask for it.

Professor Snape seems to notice this, somehow.

He’s held gently for what could be a few moments or an hour, there's no pressure to respond. It’s an incredibly comfortable silence.

“Professor S.. ss. Sh.. Snape?” Harry yawns, a small coo escapes him. “Why.. er.. How..? Why do you care so much about me?”

Professor Snape pauses “..Because. Harry. You are my responsibility. I was sent to check on you. I will take care if you. You’re a good kid. You deserve better.” He reassures, humming softly. “And I’m not your professor yet, just ‘Severus’ is fine.” He smiles

Harry eats most of his dinner, Professor Snape runs him a hot bath and Harry settles into bed on his own.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sink.

A hand.

Yelling.

Belt buckle.

Cramped.

Agony.

Thrash.

Pain.

A spike.

Crash.

Death.

Gasp.

Death.

Drown.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Severus woke up screaming. Loud, petrified screaming. He rose from the comfort of his quilts to go comfort what was most definitely Harry after a nightmare.

“Lumos.” He mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he staggers through the hallway.

“Harry?” He sits on the end of the bed, lighting a candle on Harry's bedside, the room floods with light.

Harry is scrunched up at the head of his bed. His face is blotchy with tears and he’s struggling for air. He looks terrified. He sniffles and hiccups, whimpering.

His bunny has fallen on the floor and under the bed.

The sight is painfully cute for someone with James’s face.

“Harry. You’ve just had a nightmare, you are perfectly safe.” Severus picks up the stuffed rabbit, dusting the fur off and reaching out to Harry. “Can I touch you?”

Harry sniffles, crawling over to Severus. He doesn’t answer, but he does situate himself on the adult wizard’s lap like he belongs there. He’s never not been comfortable when held. Severus figures it makes sense for him to really love physical touch, he’s not used to it being positive.

Harry sniffles as the bunny is placed into his arms, arms are wrapped around him. Severus pushes back his own yawn, picking up the boy onto his hip. He casts a locomotor charm, enabling the candle to float in front of him as he carries the boy back to his bed.

Harry’s making involuntary sounds, he whimpers and coos. His thumb is undeniably in his mouth by now. Severus gives small, soothing pats to his back. How to best comfort James’s son has been coming surprisingly natural to Severus.

Severus lies the boy down in his bed, wrapping him in a blanket. Harry gives an overtired whine of protest. Severus raises an eyebrow playfully.

“Hm?” The elder hums, making sure he has his bunny.

Harry whines, pouting. His eyes aren’t open, he’s very tired. “M’not five..” He grumbles, squirming.

“I never said you were.” Severus chuckles, lying down next to the four and a half foot eleven year old. “You’re exhausted, just go back to sleep. Alright?” He murmurs, hoping he can get some rest.

Severus does not get some rest. Harry is not a calm sleeper apparently. He squirms in his sleep, rolls over, adjusts positions- He does not stay still. It’s likely because underage wizards of his age are pretty active dreamers.

Severus is reminded of a dog chasing Squirrels in its sleep.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s a few days before the first day of Hogwarts. Harry has gotten his holly and phoenix feather wand. And thinks it’s the most fascinating thing ever.

Severus has taught him a few spells, simple charms like Lumos.

Harry and his appointed guardian sit in the garden eating lunch, Harry is eating a cheese and cucumber sandwich when he asks the dreaded question. The afternoon sun is blocked by a few clouds.

“...Where will I go next s.. S.. summer?” Harry takes a bite from the corner of his sandwich, where it’s mostly bread and cheese. The neighbor’s cat is roaming around the garden, batting at the junebugs that bask on the thorny raspberry bushes.

Severus sputters at the question, having been mid-sip of water. “You.. would be placed with a wizarding foster family.”

Harry looks disappointed. He hides the expression behind a bite of sandwich.

“Or you may return to your room here, if you like. I would not mind. You won’t be going back to Petunia.” Severus strokes the scruffy tabby. “Drink your Vitamin potion, I put apple juice in for you.”

Harry holds the cup with both hands, sipping the elixir. It tastes like chalky apple juice.

“I like it here.” Harry admits quietly, reaching out to pet the cat. “Hi kitty..” He giggles.

Severus smiles. “I’m glad you do.”