Harry Potter and all related content belong to J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.

Author's Note: Just an idea, waiting to bloom…

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A HOUSE WHERE NO ONE LEAVES

Severus Snape prided himself first and foremost on his ability to stay calm in the direst of situations. In front of his colleagues, in front of the old man, Dumbledore, in front of the Dark Lord—he was able to maintain his sense of control. His sense of character. But of all the things that had moved him to the state of fury that he was currently in, of all the people that could possibly awaken the comatose state of his heart, it had to be him.

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Chapter One, Asphyxiated

Harry Potter knew he was in trouble. The Dursley's where due to come back at any moment, and where was he? Locked out on the front porch, outside the front door—the exact opposite side of where he was meant to be. It hadn't been Harry fault, though. He'd been cooped up inside his room for half the summer. A whole month! And he'd had every valid reason to want to sneak out of the house. Now, though, Harry was beginning to regret his decision. His stomach was frighteningly empty, and in his head were the beginnings of a terrible migraine.

If only Dumbledore had sent any word allowing him to go to the Burrow before the start of their sixth year. Then he would at least have something to look forward to instead of waiting every night for sleep to come to him…but September first was slowly drawing closer, and with it came a sense of understanding: that no matter what Harry said or did, Dumbledore would not listen to his pleas. When had he ever listened before? It had always been what other people though was best for Harry, never what he wanted.

He shook his head, trying to contain the anger that was building up inside of him. He stared out into the street, not quite holding off the familiar feeling of sadness that always seemed to follow him. The neighborhood was quiet and empty; most families had gone out for a trip, just as the Dursley's had. The faint sound of traffic reached his ears, but nothing else.

Out of habit he rubbed his index finger and thumb from both hands, wondering what he was to do next. He sighed and bit his lip. Not for the first time this summer, Harry felt lost…misplaced…as though he didn't belong anywhere. Not here, at this very doorstep where he was dropped years ago. Not in the Wizarding world, which isolated him for something he did before he was even able to walk. He just didn't fit in. And the one place that he'd been looking forward to calling home, the one person he had found that he could call family…

Harry bit his lip again, hard until he felt the skin tear. A sob died in his throat. He didn't want to relive those moments. He didn't want to feel that anymore. It was suffocating. If only he hadn't been so foolish!

He straightened at the sound of a car coming down the driveway. Hastily, he cleared his face, smoothed out his shirt, and turned to face the Dursley's.

"What in the devil are you doing out here, boy?" Uncle Vernon said as he got out of the car. His face was already beginning to purple, as it usually did whenever Harry was near him. Dudley wandered over with a smirk.

"Got locked out," Harry said, not having the energy to lie.

"Got locked out?" Uncle Vernon sneered. "Well, you shouldn't have been out here in the first place you undeserving little—!"

"Vernon, the neighbors…" Petunia whispered.

Vernon turned around to look, but there was no one in sight. Vernon grunted, gave one last glare at Harry, and ushered his wife inside before him. Dudley, who'd just started growing hard muscle on top of all the fat that surrounded him, knocked his shoulder against Harry. Harry was thrown back and, unable to catch himself, fell on top of the rose bushes on the side of the porch. The front door closed with a snap.

Grimacing, Harry disentangled himself from the thorns and plucked them away where they had pierced his arms. He began the process of fixing the rose bush as best he could, almost welcoming the burning from his small open wounds so that he wouldn't feel the pounding in his skull or the ache in his chest. Eventually he was let inside. He went to his room, closed the door, and sat, as he had done for the past month, at the chair by his wooden desk.

Harry wondered if this was any way to live. And on the eve of his sixteenth birthday he was sure—as he stared at the darkening sky outside his window—that it was not.

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