Chapter Text
On Harry's 10th birthday, he fell ill. So ill that the Dursley's, after a few days of leaving Harry stuffed in his cupboard hoping the problem with resolve itself, had to take him to the hospital.
Harry didn't have the energy to eat. To sip water or nibble at the stale bread rolls the Dursley's shoved in the cupboard for him.
It wasn't like Harry had the most varied diet living with the Dursleys, he was lucky to get a meal at all, but after a few days with no water or food, even the sturdiest of humans will starve to death. So, when Harry showed no sign of improvement, his Aunt begrudgingly dragged him to a bustling Surrey A&E.
Harry lay prostrate in the back seat, with Aunt Petunia grumbling up front as she drove.
His skin felt like it was on fire. Every single inch of it. From his hair to his fingertips and toes.
It was a sizzle, as if he'd been set alight. And it had been like that for days. His insides curling and burning, gurgling like an over-boiled pot.
There was no relenting. He couldn't sleep, just every now and then pass out from the pain, whimpering into unconsciousness before coming back to himself, an hour or two later, with fresh torture blazing him awake.
"Shut it, boy," Aunt Petunia hissed as she dragged him through the entrance to the hospital, the bright artificial light stinging his eyes. "Stop making such a fuss!"
Aunt Petunia dragged him to the reception area and tried to give his details while he hung for dear life onto the counter.
Then everything went black and he felt the world dip.
He woke up in agony. In a hospital bed, with a woman in a white coat standing at the end of his bed. Aunt Petunia frowning and gnashing her teeth as she listened to the woman speak.
He tried to sit up but then a fresh wave of pain knocked him on his back again.
"Harry? Harry, lay back now. I'm going to give you a sedative," the woman said, rushing to his side and barking orders at another woman in the room. "I'm Doctor Garnet, I need you to tell me where it hurts."
"Everywhere," Harry whimpered. He could feel the tears spill. "H-hurts--"
"Okay," Doctor Garnet pulled on some gloves and fussed with something then, injected it into a tube attached to his arm.
The world went fuzzy and dim after that.
The next few days were a buzzing, fading mess of darkness and pain. Every now and then he'd wake, find a sweet-toned nurse cleaning him or Doctor Garnet asking him questions.
Where did it hurt?
Everywhere. His skin, his muscles, his scalp and his teeth. His nose and his jaw and his bones and his feet.
How do you feel?
Awful. Like someone had carved up his skin and sprinkled it with salt. Pounded his wounds with a hammer and cracked his bones to a pulp.
Nausea and agony. That was everything he knew. He had no idea how much time had passed when he woke one day, eyes still closed but the world around him slowly fading into noise and coherency.
"Absolutely not," Uncle Vernon hissed. "Not in a million years. Let the boy die. Better off for everybody, I say."
"We can't," Aunt Petunia growled. "If he's gone then so will the payments."
"They don't have to know."
"They'll find out. They have their freakish ways of tracking things. Demons looking after their money. They'll find out."
Uncle Vernon growled. "We could just leave him here. If he's sick here then he's not at home with us."
"If they find out--" there was the click of footsteps as someone stepped into the room.
"Excuse me," a sweet-toned voice said. "Any luck eating his lunch today?"
"Oh, no dear," Aunt Petunia cooed, "poor darling can't keep anything down."
"Oh, how awful," there was the click of plastic as the woman picked up a tray. "Well, maybe tomorrow."
They waited until the click of heels were gone, then Aunt Petunia's voice turned hushed and acrid.
"If anything happens to him, Vernon--" she stopped abruptly, "these people are dangerous. We don't want to anger them."
There was a long, bleeding silence. The hushed sound of hospital chatter and a musty, clinical smell as Harry curled silently in the sheets, skin still burning. Muscles on fire.
"You know someone?" Vernon hissed. "One of--" he stopped, "one of them?"
"I have an old number," she whispered. "Lily's... friend."
Uncle Vernon growled like a dying bear. "Fine. Let's get this over with."
That was one of the last comprehensible things Harry remembered. He didn't know how much time passed after that. No concept of hours or days. Or even weeks.
The next thing he knew was being startled awake by a strange taste on his tongue. Hanging over him was a dark figure. Blurred by Harry's lack of glasses.
Harry could just about make out hanging black hair, like dark curtains, surrounding a pale face.
Harry hissed with pain. Whimpering.
Something was pressed to his lips.
"Drink," said a deep, icy voice, brokering no arguments.
Harry did as he was told, nearly hurling the drink back up again it tasted so vile. But he managed to swallow it down anyway.
Harry lay back and heard the man begin to chant in a strange language Harry didn't recognize. A bright, white light gleamed from the end of a stick and Harry realized he must be dreaming.
He lay back and breathed, feeling a numbness finally drown out the pain for the first time in a long time. And it was so wonderful he nearly drifted back off to sleep.
The dark man clicked his fingers. "Awake," he snarled. "I would not have woken you unless it were necessary. Now, describe your symptoms."
"Pain," Harry breathed. "Everywhere."
There was an aggravated huff. "Specifics, Potter. What manner of pain. Where in particular is it most prevalent?"
Harry swallowed and tried to think. "Burning," he whispered. "All along my skin and my muscles and my--my bones. And my chest hurts--"
"Where? How?"
Harry touched the center of his torso, above his naval. "Hot and..." Harry hissed, feeling the pain begin to creep back. "Stings."
Harry heard the man swear. "The pain's returning already?"
Harry nodded, whimpering. "Hurts."
"Blasted Muggles," the man growled. He grabbed Harry by the shoulder. "Sit up."
"C-can't," Harry sniffled. "Burns."
"Damn it all," the man growled, then threw the sheets off of Harry and grabbed the boy under the armpits and below his knees, hauling him into his arms. "Hold tight."
Harry did, clutching at the man's shoulders, hot tears falling from his cheeks onto the man's black clothes. He felt a wrenching sensation in his gut and a whirl, like they were twisting very quickly around a merry-go-round. Far, far too fast.
Harry whimpered and swallowed down his nausea when the spinning stopped, clutching tight.
The man ran, Harry jumbled up and down in his arms as they rushed. There was a gentle breeze and a quiet hum of birds.
When Harry opened his eyes he saw a forest in the distance, silhouetted by either a sunrise or sunset. Harry didn't know which.
Where were they, Harry wondered. How did they get here?
The answer, of course, was obvious.
He was dreaming. So he wasn't really here at all.
The path stretched as the man ran, Harry bundled in his arms, huffing and swearing under his breath while the burning swelled in his chest again, stinging and spreading until his skin and muscles were aflame again.
Harry hissed and breathed, tears falling.
He couldn't bear this any longer. He couldn't do it. He wanted to die, it was so bad. Dying would be better than this.
When Harry next opened his eyes, they were inside. Hurrying past ornate windows carved into stone walls. They dashed past portraits that moved and suits of armor that curiously turned their heads when they passed.
The man carried him up several flights of stairs while the staircases twisted and moved by themselves.
He didn't know how many staircases they ascended before they were rushing through a hallway and into a room filled with hospital beds and white privacy curtains. The man rushed to a bed and set him down.
"Your efforts to avoid retching on me have been noted and appreciated," the man said, throwing the cover over Harry as the boy shuddered, curled up and shivered. "I will be a moment."
The minute felt like an hour. Harry curled up and tried not to whine. Not to whimper, like Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia told him not to, but it hurt. Everything hurt. His whole body. Twisting and burning.
Harry heard a door burst open and two sets of feet hurry forward.
"--should have sent him to St. Mungo's!"
"Oh yes, fine idea. Have me of all people burst in carrying the Boy-Who-Lived in unbearable pain. What could possibly go wrong?"
"Hush! Symptoms?"
"He's experiencing pain at his magical core. I believe his symptoms begin there. Spreading out to his skin, muscles and bones. It appears they've left him like that for days."
"Merlin above," the woman hissed, rushing to his side. "Grab the pain reli--"
"I gave him some," the man said. "I wore off in mere seconds."
"Magic save him, that poor darling," the woman hissed and then hesitated. "Ostende Mihi Magica Potentia!"
The woman gasped.
Harry could feel a bright glow emanating from his chest.
"What is this?"
"Get Albus," the woman rasped, her voice low and panicked. "Now."
Harry heard footsteps hurry away and the woman clatter over to a cupboard, glass clinking as she grabbed something and rushed to Harry's side.
"Mister Potter," she said, "when did the pain start?"
"B-birthday," Harry whispered, "woke up with it."
"Merlin," she breathed, "you poor dear." A wet cold cloth dabbed at his forehead. "We'll get you fixed up. I promise."
Harry exhaled in a sharp short puffs, his chest burning like an inferno. He felt the world slip as he passed out.
Then he woke again to hushed voices.
"--would cause this sort of reaction?" Came the familiar voice of the dark man. "His core is practically on fire."
"It's hard to tell," the woman said. "A spell, I believe. One cast at his birth. It was not uncommon practice for parents to cast protective or power-amplifying spells at birth, once upon a time."
"That's Blood Magic, Poppy. The Potters would never cast such spells."
"Someone did," the woman replied. "It was set to last him until his tenth birthday, then be replaced or renewed, but without a parent to do so--"
"It's burning out?" The dark man asked. "Merlin, why would they risk such a dangerous spell?"
"It's not the spell that's the problem," she whispered. "His core is protecting him."
"Protecting him?" Came another voice. Soft and low. Like a kindly old gentlemen. "This seems a rather counter-productive way of doing so."
There was a hesitation. "I did a full diagnostic," she whispered. "He's malnourished. His organs are half-way to failure. His body is damaged and starved of nutrients. His magic can tell that if it allows the spell wear off, the shock could kill him. His core is desperately trying to maintain stasis, but holding the change off is causing him unbearable pain. And when it becomes too weak to..."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "Poppy, my dear, you must be mistaken--"
"Don't, Albus," the woman hissed. "I know a neglected child when I see one. He'd be dead already if he were Muggle." She inhaled a breath and exhaled again like she were steadying herself. "I'll start him on Nutrisi. But he'll need a whole regimen of potions to undo the damage. When he's well enough, his body will stop preventing the spell from fading. Until then, he's left to suffer unbearable pain the likes of which I can only compare to a Crucio."
There was a pause. "Severus, I think perhaps you should leave. You shouldn't be--"
"I think not, Albus," the dark man growled. "It is becoming abundantly clear you cannot be trusted with the boy's welfare."
The man's returning voice was low and warning. "Severus--"
"Leave," the dark man hissed, "leave before I Crucio you myself."
There was a clatter of steps toward the cupboard and the dark man whispered to the woman, Poppy, asking for the names of potions.
When Harry opened his eyes, he could make out the blurred figure of a man with a long, white beard. He was standing a little way off, staring at Harry as if analyzing him.
Then a dark figure slammed past him, almost knocking him aside.
"Head up," the dark man said, firm and urgent, "drink this."
Harry did as he was told. This potion tasted of a thousand of the worst, most pungent vegetables and fungus. He winced as he swallowed it down. His head swimming from the pain.
The woman passed over more potions, more vials of foul-tasting wretchedness and Harry tried very hard not to throw them all up again. He felt a cold wet cloth pat his forehead.
"Here, one more to help you sleep," the man told him, then pressed the potion to Harry's lips. He drank it down and then the world slipped into nothing.
#
Usually Severus would be thrilled by the opportunity to try something new. Most of these potions were Healer-grade and complex to the point of almost impossible.
For the layman, at least.
Normally, it would be a delight to try his hand at them, but with the memory of the boy shuddering and wracked with pain, any lingering enjoyment in the brewing process had been utterly decimated.
Something was utterly, unbearably wrong.
He knew it from the moment Petunia made the call. The way she referred to him. "Lily's brat."
She'd spat her sister's name like poison.
"The boy's one of yours," she'd growled, "you fix him."
One short phone call had sharply thrown any lingering conviction in the happy fiction that Albus had fed him.
'Pampered', 'loved', 'spoiled', the old man had told him.
And then he'd gone and seen him. Shivering with sweat and whimpering in pain. His wrists thin and tubes sticking from him his arm and out his nose.
Utterly alone in the middle of visiting hours. With nobody there to comfort him or hold his hand.
Severus swirled the first brew, checking the blood red consistency of the Zemra Tincture and inhaling the fumes. He bottled as many as he could from the mixture. Then set them in the first tray. Then he moved to his next cauldron, checking and bottling the Pfferter brew.
When the tray was full and the last of the phials capped, he grabbed it and swept from the room, rushing as swiftly as he could to the hospital room.
Poppy was still fussing over the boy, checking his vitals like a woman obsessed. All this was already beyond her purview as a Medi-Witch, but Albus had put his foot down at the suggestion of a Healer.
"Too many prying eyes will endanger the boy's safety," the old man had claimed. "I must find someone we can trust, first."
That, of course, could take days. Days which they had not the time for. Not with the boy in such agony.
"Here," He set the tray down on the bedside and passed her the first phials of the Zemra Tincture and Pffetter Brew. "A week's worth at least."
"Thank you, Severus," Poppy whispered, grabbing them quickly. "Mister Potter," she stroked the boy's hair whispering his name as she tried to wake him, but there was not even a flutter. "He's passed out."
"Wideye Potion?" Severus asked.
"Please."
Severus swept to the cupboard and grabbed a phial then rushed back and handed it to the woman.
The boy hissed as he awoke, whimpering already with the pain but managing barely to keep from crying out.
"Mister Potter," Poppy muttered, voice careful and sweet, "I have some potions for you. They should help."
The boy swallowed and nodded, slowly opening his eyes. She uncorked the Zemra Tincture and he drank down the sticky red concoction with a twisted face at the taste. Next was the Pffetter Brew. He swallowed it down and breathed slowly, in and out as he waited for the potions to work.
Then he his eyes fluttered open with shock and a sigh escaped his lips. "I... feel better."
Poppy breathed with relief. "Thank magic for that."
Severus closed his eyes and swallowed. "Good," he muttered, then opened his eyes, "good work Poppy."
The Medi-Witch smiled in return. "And you."
"What did you give me?" The boy croaked, voice still hoarse.
"Those were the final two in a course of Healer-grade health potions. The most complicated of the lot and the most important. They're fixing most severe of your organ damage."
"Organ damage?" The boy rasped.
"Your body, Mister Potter," Severus began, "has been struggling to cope under the weight of a number of health issues, caused by your... less than ideal living circumstances. Your parents appear to have imbued you with a spell at birth, most likely protective, and in an attempt to keep you from dying of shock, your magical core was trying to keep the effects from wearing off. We have stopped the pain by trying to fix the damage to your body, thus allowing the spell to fade naturally without damage."
"A spell?" The boy whispered. He was silent for a moment. "Like magic?"
Severus froze. A horrible foreboding spreading through him. "Exactly."
The boy was quiet for a moment, blinking up at him with those big green eyes. "I'm... not dreaming, am I?"
"No."
The boy blinked, green eyes wet and an understanding flooding across his face like freedom. "Magic is real?"
Severus swallowed and nodded. "Yes."
The boy licked his lips. "And my mother and father... were magical?"
"Your mother was a witch," Severus whispered, setting a hand on the boy's arm. "Your father was a wizard. As are you."
The boy pressed his lips together, then shut his eyes.
Severus looked at Poppy. The Medi-Witch was scowling at the realization. A fury in her eyes. "What do you know about your parents, young man?"
The boy blinked and wiped his eyes. "They... they died. In a car accident when I was one," Potter whispered, worrying his lip, "Aunt Petunia said they were... drunk."
A flood of rage swept through Severus's body. Like molten silver, ready to be forged into a blade.
"No," Severus slowly reached forward and touched the boy's forehead, brushing his thumb across his scar. "Your parents were hero's. Hero's who died protecting you."
The boy looked up at Severus as if he were a dark angel come to sweep him to safety. Adoring. His voice was a whisper as he spoke. "Please... tell me about them."
#
The dark man told him about his mother most of all. Lily. How she was sweet and caring, how she loved Harry more than anything. That she had eyes as green as Harry's and glorious auburn curls. That she was talented in Charms and Potions. That she died trying to protect him from the Dark Lord, who'd come to kill Harry and been banished from his mortal body after a failed Killing Curse.
He was brief with Harry's father, telling him that he was beloved by many, fostered many friendships and spent his last breath trying to hold off the powerful Dark Lord. Harry's father, like his mother, died protecting him. Even when he was outmatched and knew he had no hope. He held him off to buy his son and his wife time.
They weren't drunks, or deadbeats, or deviants.
They were hero's.
Hero's who loved Harry so much they died trying to save him.
"Why did I live?" Harry whispered. The question rolling around in his mind, most of all. "Why didn't it work? The Killing Curse."
The man hesitated at that. "It is hard to know for sure," he said. "I know someone who'd have us believe that love was the cause. That Lily dying in her attempt to protect you was a kind of old, pure light magic. One of the most ancient magics, which cast an almost unbreakable protection on you."
Harry paused. "Is that what you believe, sir?"
The man was silent for a long while, his hand tightened slightly on Harry's arm. He'd held onto Harry like that for a while. Gentle and grounding, like he was trying to keep Harry from floating away.
"I believe..." the dark man hesitated, "I believe that your mother was a powerful and adept Witch, who mastered every domain she set her mind to. I believe that it would be a mistake to discount that completely and throw it all onto a matter of luck and chance."
Harry just barely smiled at that. "You think she tricked him?" He asked. "Outsmarted him, somehow?"
Harry could just about make out a fuzzy smirk on the man's pale lips, though Harry's glasses were still missing. "I like to believe so." The man said. "It would be... a fitting irony, given his beliefs about Muggle-borns, such as her. But I have no proof. Just a notion."
Harry nodded. "I prefer your story."
The man was smiling now. He squeezed Harry's arm slightly. "As do I."
Harry felt just about well enough to sit up. The man helped him, propping his pillows up behind him and fixing his bedding in place. "Do you know where my glasses are?" Harry asked.
"Ah," the man chuckled, "I may have left those in that Muggle hospital during the fuss. I will procure you a new pair."
"Thank you," Harry smiled. "Um, sir... What should I call you?"
The man barked a throaty sound. "I usually pride myself on my skills of efficacy and control but I seem to have abandoned them somewhere in the last forty eight hours." The man huffed. "My name is Professor Severus Snape. You may refer to me as Professor or Sir, as is considered polite in Wizarding society. The woman who has been Healing you is Madam Pomfrey, the Medi-Witch here at Hogwarts."
Harry licked his lips. "Hogwarts the magic school," he said. He waited for the man to nod. "And why was I brought here and not, you know, to a magical hospital?"
He could have sworn he saw a smirk on the man's face. "Well noted," he said, tone dripping with pride, "I am afraid the details of exactly why are currently being kept strictly confidential, but I can tell you that you are quite famous in the magical world and arriving at a Wizarding Hospital in your state would have caused rather a stir."
"I'm famous?"
"Yes," Professor Snape replied. "You are the only person in recorded history to have survived a Killing Curse and you, according to the majority, were the one to defeat and eliminate the Dark Lord. You are often referred to, by the dimwitted masses, by the moniker 'The Boy-Who-Lived'."
"So I'm famous because I didn't die with my parents," Harry winced and looked away. "Great."
Snape paused, then slowly set a hand on Harry's shoulder. "It may not be a pleasant memory but your parents fought for you to their last breath, and likely saved you because of it." He squeezed gently. "Don't be ashamed of that. Honor it by living and making them proud." Then he hesitated. "Though, I must admit to being glad you don't relish the spotlight like a preening braggart."
"No, sir." Harry chuckled. "No risk of that happening. Promise."
The man smiled. "I'm glad."
"Severus," a voice called, low and quiet, a rumbling sound like a purring cat. Harry looked over to the doorway and just about made out a man in turquoise robes with a long white beard. "My office, if you have a moment."
The Professor hesitated. His hand sliding off Harry's shoulder as he straightened and turned. "Yes, sir. I will be only a moment."
There was a pause as the man stepped away. Then Snape turned to Harry. "I will see you soon, Potter," he said, voice still low. "Please rest."
Harry nodded. "I will, sir."
Then in a flourish of splendid black robes, the man was gone.
#
"No," Severus said.
The word clear as a thunderclap. The pronunciation elegant but razor-edged, like a blade so sharp it didn't pause when puncturing the skin.
The old man sat at his desk, hands folded and eyes no longer sparkling in that falsely cheerful facade. The Headmaster looked grim and firm.
"You do not believe he will be well enough in a week?" The Headmaster inquired, tone warning. "Poppy seemed to think that was the requirement for returning home."
"No," Severus snarled, "it is the minimum requirement to keep him from falling gravely ill. And no, he will not be returning to that vile woman's clutches."
The Headmaster frowned. "That woman is his blood. You know that the Blood Wards are--"
"Are worth nothing if the boy risks starving to death," Severus scowled. "Only an utterly heartless fool would send him back to those people. It is one thing to ignore the welfare of your students, Albus. It is quite enough to risk the welfare of the only boy with the power to defeat your enemy."
Albus's eyes turned hard as ice. "I will see to it that the Dursley's change their behavior."
"Oh, will you?" Severus snorted and laughed bitterly. "You'll sit them down and give them a sweet heart-to-heart. Implore to their sense of dignity." Severus sneered. "I assure you, Albus. Petunia has no dignity, nor pity, not for our kind. So long as the boy lives in their house, he is at risk."
There was a pause.
The old man's scowl faded to a neutral facade and he leaned back.
The quiet was heavy as stone.
"The boy will return there," the old man said. "The Blood Wards require it. Without them, the boy is in far more danger than the Dursleys could ever impart on him."
Severus recognized that tone well. It was the one that Master's used when their orders were not to be questioned or argued with.
Severus had heard it more often with the Dark Lord. But when Albus used it, it was irrefutable.
The man had made the boy's bed. Potter would return to the Dursleys and there was nothing Severus could do to stop it.
A horrid shudder crept up Severus's spine.
The old man didn't care.
It was despicable enough to neglect the welfare of abused students. Ones such as Severus, who'd beg and plead to be kept here for the holidays. It was another to force this boy, the boy Lily sacrificed her life to save, to live in amongst those who despised and neglected him.
They needed the boy.
And, more than that, Severus had pledged his life to protect him. Vowed it. And this man was asking Severus to break it.
Severus leaned back. Folded his arms. Mind whirring.
"What else?" Severus asked. There was more to the man's plots. More to expect than simply sending the boy home.
The Headmaster was quiet for a moment. "I believe that him being aware of your identity could be damaging to your future position as spy."
Severus felt sick. "You're going to Obliviate the boy?"
"It is an unfortunate necessity."
Necessity? Severus thought not. There were better ways to deal with the problem. But he could see the determination in the old man's eyes. The resolve.
Severus closed his eyes. His throat burning. "You want me to go along with this? They told the boy his parents were drunks who killed themselves driving under the influence. Who very nearly killed him."
The old man was silent.
Severus wondered, absently, if the old man would try to Obliviate him, too.
Soon, if he would, but not yet. Not until Severus had finished brewing the boy's potions. They were too complex for the layman potioneer. And the sale of Healer-Grade potions were controlled by the Ministry.
A couple of days, Severus realized. He had a couple of days to work with. Then the old man would do whatever he deemed necessary to continue the fiction he'd fed to Severus.
The Professor cleared his mind and packed away the memory of the boy in the hospital bed. The phone call with Petunia. He'd have to plan this carefully. Plot his approach carefully and delicately.
He opened his eyes and Occluded as he met the old man's.
"Grant me permission to speak to Petunia. To assure he will be cared for. I have experience with her and I know how to... manage her."
The old man hesitated, then nodded. "Very well, if it will ease your discomfort."
Severus stood up. "It will. Thank you, headmaster. I will need the day to procure ingredients for his next potions regimen."
The old man nodded. "The school's coffers are at your disposal."
Severus nodded and swept away. Determination fizzling in his chest.
He would find a way to shield the boy from the old fool's machinations. He would stick to his vow and protect Potter. No matter what.
* * *