Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or anything else related to Harry Potter; it all belongs to J.K. Rowling and her publishers. No money is being made.

Warnings: Child abuse, domestic violence, miscarriage

Summary: AU, no magic. London, 1829: Years ago, Severus Snape had no hope of marrying the woman he loved, Lily Evans. Now a rich chemist, he makes the acquaintance of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, the latter being his lost love's elder sister. Lily and her husband James Potter have died thirteen years ago, leaving a mentally handicapped son, who is not accepted by his uncle but locked away after a tragic accident. Not allowed to see her abused nephew, a desperate Petunia finally seizes an opportunity and asks Snape for help. Will he be able to help Harry as well as his aunt?


Chapter 01

It was after midnight when the door of the bedroom slowly opened and Petunia entered the dark hallway on the second floor of the large town house. Her blond hair was neatly tied into a bun, and she was wearing a dark muslin house frock far plainer than her usual daytime clothes. The yellowish light of the flickering candle she was bearing illuminated her tense face: the long neck, the thin line of lips, the furrowed brow, the grey eyes, nervously darting to all sides.

Soundlessly, she tiptoed down the long corridor, approaching the staircase which led down to the ground floor. She managed the way to the first floor without disturbance, but then one of the wooden steps covered with expensive purple carpet gave a creaking sound that made her freeze immediately. With bated breath, she listened for any sign that she might have been noticed, but the house stayed still; no sudden steps echoed through the darkness. She resisted the urge to sigh in relief, but instead continued her way down the stairs. Upon arriving, she turned to the right, silently walking across the spacious entrance hall towards another corridor that led to the kitchen and the servants' quarters.

She didn't dare to think of the consequences should she be discovered. Today was the first opportunity since almost four months ago, her husband being on a three-week business journey to Nottinghamshire from which he would return the day after tomorrow. With him being home, she would never have dared to disobey his orders so blatantly.

She had now entered a second corridor that crossed the one she had been walking before. If possible, her steps became even more careful as she slowly, foot by foot, crept along the wall until she reached a plain oaken door on the left. Her heart hammering wildly in her throat, she bent forward to press her ear against the wood. Almost, she expected to hear the handle be turned and the door to be flung open at any moment – but there was nothing except for the sound of loud snoring on the other side. She smelt alcohol in the air as she ever so carefully opened the door. She had been right, then. He had drunk himself unconscious, as he usually did every few weeks, and she was as safe in her undertaking as she could ever hope to be.

Turning to the right, she saw the large bunch of keys hanging on the nail beside the door. If only she managed to get them out without making too much noise! He seemed to be sound asleep, but you never knew.

Tonight, however, she was lucky and managed to remove the keys and close the door behind her without causing the slightest irregularity in the heavy snores. Leaning against the wall, she allowed herself a short moment of relief.

'Thank god I saw him carry these gin bottles to his room in the afternoon! Otherwise I would probably have had to wait another four months!'

At this thought, her eyes involuntarily wandered to a second oaken door at the end of the corridor, barely visible in the flickering candlelight. There were heavy locks on it as if to detain a strong and wild beast, or an equally dangerous maniac. Her heart ached to rush over and open it, but she had something else to do first. Forcefully detaching her gaze from the locked door, she laid the keys down on the floor, then turned and left the corridor, resuming her path down the first hallway to the kitchen. She could have got the food first, but her nerves wouldn't have allowed it – she'd had to get the most dangerous part out of the way.

Having arrived, she took out a wooden plate and put it on the table, then opened the door to the larder. Holding up the candle, she surveyed the food and took out two small pastries and an apple. The candle in one and the plate in the other hand, she then exited the kitchen and returned to where she had left the keys.

Still afraid of making any unnecessary sound, she put down the food and instead picked up the keys. Her breath had quickened, and her hands were shaking slightly as she began to open the various locks. Four months! It had been unbearable, yet she had been forced to pretend that she didn't care at all, even though they knew it was a lie. And how long would it take until the next time? Six months? A year? Longer even? Suddenly, it seemed that she couldn't open the door quickly enough. She had to get in immediately! In her feverish haste, she almost dropped the keys, but managed to catch them before they hit the floor. The rattling noise of the metal must have been heard across the house, but again everything stayed silent. Inwardly admonishing herself for her foolishness, she undid the last lock and put the keys into a pocket of her gown.

The heavy door gave a nasty creak as she opened it and peered inside. The overwhelming stench of dirt and excrements washed over her, making her feel nauseous, but she had expected this and braced herself. As she let her gaze wander across the small, unfurnished room, she spotted what seemed to be a bundle of rags on a bed of straw in the corner furthest from the door.

Her mouth felt dry, and she briefly closed her eyes before she let go of the doorknob and picked up the plate, then fully entered the room and silently closed the door behind her. Slowly, she felt her pulse beat return to a more normal pace – the most difficult part was over. Now calmer, she went over to the huddled form and knelt beside it, placing the food and candle next to her. Her lips were tightly pressed together as she gazed down at the boy lying on the dirty straw.

He was smaller than normal for his age; no one would have believed that he was fourteen already, since he looked no older than about eight or nine. There were no rosy cheeks, however, no soft boyish features: his skin was unnaturally pale, giving him a grey and sickly look under the layers of dirt. It stretched tightly over the hollow cheeks, indicating that the body hidden under the threadbare blanket was far too thin to be healthy. A large, purple bruise adorned his left cheekbone, and a trace of drool was trickling down the chin from his slack mouth. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched a bony shoulder, shaking him softly as she called him in a hushed voice.

"Wake up, pet… come on, wake up, please…" He made a small sound, but didn't open his eyes. She tried again, a little louder now. "Come on, wake up for me…"

This time, she succeeded, and green eyes fluttered open, settling on her after some moments. She had withdrawn her hand, but now reached out to touch him again. He instantly shied away with a yelp of fear, his arms risen protectively over his head.

"Shhhh, don't be afraid, pet," she whispered softly. She had expected this behaviour and knew what to do. When the intervals between her visits were shorter, he would respond to her positively, apparently remembering the last time. When she was forced to stay away for so long, however, he would react frightened to her presence, afraid to be hurt. She didn't even want to imagine what his guard did to the boy on a daily basis.

She began petting the matted black hair, whispering soothing words, inwardly praying that his moans of distress were not audible outside. After some minutes, he eventually calmed down and lowered his arms, staring at her questioningly.

"It's I, Auntie. You still know me, don't you?" She slowly moved her hand in the direction of his face again. When this time her fingers touched his cheek, he flinched slightly, but then melted into the touch with a strangled whimper. She caressed for some moments, before suddenly, he lunged himself at her and thin arms were flung around her neck.

"Aunnie!" The slurred word echoed loudly through the silent room. Quickly, she brought her hands up to return the embrace. As she stroked his back, she could feel the protruding spine and shoulder blades through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was clinging to her now, his face hidden in the crook of her neck, making inarticulate sounds of joy.

"Shhh, please be quiet," she tried to hush him. It was not his fault, he didn't know better, but all she could think of was the sleeping man in the next room. She loosened his grip on her and, to distract him, pointed to the plate on the floor.

"Look, I brought you something to eat."

His gaze followed her gesture, his face was lit up by a smile, and he quickly slid off her and grabbed one of the pastries. It was gone in no time, as was the second one. In the meantime, she had seated herself on the straw, leaning against the wall. With the apple in hand, he now climbed back into her lap, curling up against her. The cold winds of the November night were howling outside through the nocturnal streets of the capital, and she already felt the cold creep through her dress and make her shiver slightly. She wrapped the blanket that had covered him before firmly around them.

As he ate in silence, she tried in vain to detach her thoughts from the dinner party Vernon would arrange the following week. He had invited all his friends and business contacts, and the table would bend under the amount of delicious and expensive food. She would fulfil her duty as a good hostess, smiling and chatting pleasantly, all the while thinking of Harry being locked in here, who received so little to eat that he was positively thrilled at having a piece of fruit and two small pastries.

When he had finished the apple, he rested his head on her shoulder, and she resumed her caresses on his hair and back. There was nothing else they could do but savour what little time was given to them, and she didn't care that the skinny body in her arms was reeking of dirt and that, as he began to relax under her touch, drool again began running from his mouth onto her gown. Every now and then he would let out a soft sigh or another small sound of pleasure that made her heart swell. Harry needed so little to make him happy.

As time went by, his gaze became more and more unfocussed, until finally, after about twenty minutes, his eyes fluttered shut and he fell asleep again. She continued to stroke for a short while and after that simply held him, unwilling to leave so soon. She still had some hours until dawn, and she was content to just hold him and watch him sleep.

Another maybe fifteen minutes passed, and slowly, she felt weariness sneak up on her. She hadn't slept well during the last nights, since Vernon was soon to return, and she had feared that again there would be no opportunity for her to see her nephew. When she had realised that tonight she would have the chance, excitement had kept her wide awake. Now, however, stress and lack of sleep began to take their toll. When first her eyelids began to droop, she fought the urge. She couldn't allow her caution to wear off. What if she fell asleep and was found here tomorrow? She did not dare to imagine. For some time, this thought managed to keep her awake, but in the end, it slipped away, and fatigue overtook her, carrying her away into a light slumber.

It was a warm and sunny day. They were spending the afternoon in the garden, she sitting on a blanket under a large willow, reading, the boys playing some yards away. Dudley was fighting invisible enemies with a stick that in his imagination doubtlessly was a mighty sword. His blond hair was shining in the sun as he ran about, ducking and attacking, and his battle cries rang loud and clear through the air.

Harry was sitting in the grass, his gaze directed to the ground. He was fully absorbed in his task, which seemed to consist in picking as many daisies as fitted into his hand. When he had finally collected enough, he got up and ran over to her.

"Aunnie! Aunnie!" he cried excitedly, and she looked up at him, smiling.

When he arrived by her side, he offered her the bunch of small flowers, his green eyes shining brightly. His brow furrowed as he opened his mouth and, with obvious effort, managed to utter a word.

"Fower!"

She took the bouquet and kissed his cheek. "They are beautiful flowers. Thank you, pet."

He giggled happily at this display of affection and rewarded her with a kiss of his own. Pulling him into her lap, she once again was amazed by how small he was for his seven years. There was a spot of dirt on his cheek, and she produced a handkerchief to wipe it off as her attention was drawn away from him.

"Mother, mother, look!"

She looked up and over to her son, who had begun attacking a young tree.

"I'm Saint George, and this is the dragon!" he yelled, wielding his 'sword' forcefully enough to chop off some smaller branches.

She shook her head, about to tell him to stop it and let the plant live, but the boy in her lap laughed and clapped his hands together.

Suddenly, however, his laughter gave way to sobs and whimpers, and she felt a warm liquid soaking her gown. Looking down at him,

she blinked in confusion as she was surrounded by darkness, a single candle lighting her surroundings. It was cold, and a sickening smell of faeces was lingering in the air. A dream! She must have fallen asleep!

Overcoming the first shock at this realisation, she directed her attention at the child in her arms. Fierce sobs were shaking the thin body, and his small hands were clinging tightly to her gown.

"Shhh, it's all right, Harry," she soothed, gently stroking a clammy cheek. "It's just a nightmare… shhh… you are all right, I'm here…"

Several minutes passed until she managed to calm him down, but finally, he looked up at her with tearful eyes.

"Aunnie…" It was a mere whimper, and instinctively, she leant down and kissed his forehead.

"Yes, I'm here, pet, I'm here. Go back to sleep."

He closed his eyes again and let himself be pulled closer to her chest, every now and then sniffing weakly, until at length he dozed off once more. The urine that was soaking his clothes, her gown, and the blanket had cooled down, leaving them wet and cold. As she felt him shiver and instinctively arch closer into the warmth her body provided, she wished for nothing more than being able to give him a bath and then tuck him into a warm bed. But it was impossible. Again, she kissed his forehead, unable to fight the tears.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she whispered. She knew that she could do nothing to defy Vernon, but she felt that she owed it to her nephew. She loved him, and she failed to comprehend how his uncle could hate him so much. She knew that many people believed that children like him were some kind of abomination and in league with the devil, that they had the evil eye, or that they were cursed by god because of their parents' sins. Vernon didn't care much about religion, but in his eyes, Harry was a threat to his business and social life.

Sighing, she looked down at the small, pale face and smiled feebly. Yes, he had to be cared for much more than other children, and she doubted that this would ever change, but he had been such a happy child, so friendly, so easy to please. And he had made her happy as well. No, this boy was no devilish abomination; if anything, he was a gift from God, like all children were. And now that Dudley was dead, he was all she had left.

The thought of her son brought fresh pain and more tears, even though seven years had passed since his funeral. Maybe it would have been easier to let go, maybe she would have missed him less, if she had been allowed to care for her other child. After he had been entrusted in her and her husband's care after his parents' death, she had soon come to think of Harry as hers.

Vernon had been far from pleased when he had been burdened with custody of his sister-in-law's one-year-old idiot child. To have someone like him in his house would give him a bad reputation, he had argued. He had, however, not abandoned his nephew, but had set strict rules for his wife and servants to follow. Outside his house, they would not speak of the child. Harry wasn't allowed to leave the house and the garden, and when there were guests, he would stay in the nursery under all circumstances. Vernon Dursley did not want his guests to be discomfited by the presence of such a boy. Still, they had been happy – until the day Dudley had died.

She sighed again and dried her face with her sleeve. Right now, she didn't want to think of this any longer. Instead, she concentrated again on the sleeping child cradled in her arms. As she brushed a black lock out of his face, she noticed again how cold he was, and her heart clenched with fear. Winter had already arrived with icy temperatures, and like every year, she was afraid that Harry might not live to see spring coming. With his thin linen shirt and trousers and bare feet, he was by no means sufficiently protected from the cold. There was no fireplace in the room, and even if there had been one, Vernon would hardly have wasted firewood on his hated nephew. The threadbare blanket was all that protected the already sickly boy from the icy frost. It seemed a miracle that he had survived the last five winters like this. Carefully, she wrapped the blanket tighter around him. All she could do was pray for yet another miracle.

Deeply absorbed in her worried thoughts, she hadn't heard the footsteps approach outside. Suddenly, the heavy door was flung open with a loud bang, and she found herself looking up at her husband, his coarse face red with anger.

"Vernon…"

With a few steps he was beside her and had torn the boy out of her arms, carelessly throwing him against the wall. Ignoring Harry, who had screamed in pain and now began crying, he picked up the candle, grabbed his wife's wrist and dragged her roughly through the room and out of the door. She stumbled along silently, too frightened to speak. When they were outside, he pulled the keys from her pocket and began locking the door.

When he had finished this task, he turned, but not to speak to Petunia. Instead, he opened the second door and stormed into the room. He approached the bed and rudely grabbed the man who was lying on it by the shoulders.

"Pettigrew, you good-for-nothing drunkard!" he roared, shaking the smaller man. "Pettigrew, wake up!" The servant, however, didn't even stir, and with an exasperated grunt, Vernon let go of him. "I'll deal with you tomorrow," he announced before he left the room and banged the door behind him.

Finally, he turned to stare at her, seething with anger. She instinctively backed away a few steps, until she felt the wall behind her.

"So this is how you obey my orders," he ground out, his thick moustache quivering as he fought for control. "How often did you sneak to him during the last weeks? How often did you seize the opportunity to coddle this creature, this… this abomination?" Disgust dripped from every word.

She didn't answer, her gaze directed to the floor, her hands clenched tightly by her sides.

"It doesn't matters how often," he finally said, and there was a determined edge to his voice that sent a chill down her spine. "Should anything like this ever happen again, I will take measures. I'll take him to the city and leave him there. Alone. Do you understand?"

Silently, she nodded. Of course she understood. It would be Harry's death sentence. He couldn't survive on his own, and no one would want to burden themselves with him.

"Fine." Vernon turned away from her. "It seems it has paid that business took a few days shorter than I had expected. At least I now know how much you respect me." His voice was icy. "I would have been here earlier today, but a wheel of the carriage broke and had to be replaced. I've been travelling since sunrise and am tired. I expect you to be in my bedroom in fifteen minutes." With these words he walked away, taking the candle with him.

Alone in the dark, Petunia Dursley sank down on her knees. The desperate wailing of her nephew still audible through the door, she began to pray.