Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the characters in this story.

Author's Note: It's almost 2 in the morning. Cut me some slack?

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Chapter 1: Noted

He had no desire to help others. Why should he? Nobody helped him in his life, when he truly needed it the most. Except, maybe Dumbledore. But Dumbledore helped every poor soul the world spat at him. Well, every poor soul, except one.

But upon hearing the news, he couldn't keep quiet anymore. He couldn't stand by and watch a student - a mere child - harmed. It was against his beliefs. He expected it for years, he supposed, but never cared enough to stop it.

How does one go about stopping such issues? Sometimes, it only makes matters worse. Perhaps that's why Dumbledore never interferred - the student was from a prominent family, a family that was both feared and adored throughout the Wizarding World. To belong to such an exclusive family, such as the Malfoys or, if he dare say, the Blacks, is a mere privelege. For one, such as himself, who was a Snape, a nothing among generations of everything, it was an honor to be noticed, even for misbehaving, for doing poorly. To get involved in personal issues - that's unheard of! It's absurd!

Yet, here he was, pacing his bedroom, unable to sleep for the - what? fourth? - night in a row. He needed desperately to find a way to stop what was happening around him. He dare not interfere with business of students - he could not, no, he would not! - allow the entire bloody world know that he, Severus Snape, cared about someone other than himself. No, he shook his head, that wasn't it. He didn't care. He was concerned, but that didn't mean he cared. And why should he? he reasoned. Nobody else cared about him, but himself.

And maybe Dumbledore.

Bah! Dumbledore again. No more of that dolt. No, no, he wasn't that. He was a genius. A pure soul. He would have interferred by now if he felt the situation hazardous to the child's health, to the child's well-being.

What now? What could he do? He was a mere man, and not a very good one at that. He had no special talents that he could use in this situation. No potion making could stop what was happening. No flick of the wand could make the situation any less..substantial. No, he couldn't change his appearance. They'd eventually find out it was he who had done it - especially the child. No, no, the child would definitely find out.

But who? Who could he trust to find the child and save him? Lupin would be much too obvious. Forget about Granger or Weasley - they were far too involved as it were. Dumbledore would be cause for panic; but then again, the whole situation is ridiculous. It's humourous, but, sadly, there was nothing funny about it. Except, maybe, the fact that Severus Snape was dragged into Harry bloody Potter's problems, yet again.

No, he was not snooping about Potter's house, and stumbled upon what was happening. Why would he do such a thing? No, absolutely not. And no, for the record, a little birdie most certainly did not inform him of the dire situation.

No, sadly, a letter was sent to him.

Severus Snape snorted at the thought. Harry bloody Potter sent him a letter. No, actually, he did not. He sent Dumbledore the letter, and consequently, it ended up in Severus Snape's grasp. Again, Severus snorted. He wasn't snooping at Potter's house, certainly, but he couldn't resist snooping in Dumbledore's office.

No, he decided quickly. Not snooping. The letter was lying on the desk, unopened, addressed to no one in particular. It had no name on it, to specify to whom the letter was for. It simply said: Urgent.

So, Severus had reasoned, if it was an urgent letter, and Dumbledore was away for a few days, it must be read. It was, afterall, urgent.

Sadly, however, after reading the letter, Severus regretted everything he did right in his life, deciding that the best fate he could have ever had at that specific moment in time, would have been his death. In fact, Severus thought with a sigh, he now wished he had never been born.

Severus collapsed on the foot of his bed, rubbing his temples with his fingers and closing his eyes. The lanterns floating above his desk and in the middle of his room let off a soft glow, but even the little light he had hurt his head. He pushed back his hair and fell onto his back, staring at the dark ceiling above him, trying desperately to grasp a full idea.

He needed to get Harry Potter out of his household, without ever letting anyone know it was he who did the deed.

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Harry sighed as he stared up at the sky. A light breeze ruffled the grass around him, and he felt peaceful, lying on his back, just being lazy. His uncle, aunt, and cousin were gone for the day, but even if they were home, he would probably still be lying out here. It was a nice day. Somewhat cloudy, threatening rain later on in the evening, but for now, it was perfect.

It was the first time in a long while that he hadn't felt the need to explode. His head wasn't clouded up, his body wasn't itching to get out of its skin, and he was at peace. He rarely had a moment like this anymore. Not since..well, not since he'd come back from school. Part of him didn't believe he'd ever go back there - it's not that his aunt and uncle had forbid him to go back. No, this time, it was he who didn't want to be there. It held too many memories. Too many bloody memories.

It had only been, what, a month since school had gotten out? It felt much, much longer than that, but he dreaded the day he was to step foot onto the train again. He could still see the sad faces staring at him as he said his good-byes to his friends. Especially Lupin. Lord knows Harry didn't go a minute of his summer without remembering the looks he'd received, from Lupin, from Tonks, from..everyone.

Rolling over onto his side, Harry pulled his legs up to his chest and closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting. What was he to do? He couldn't do anything, well, "stupid". No, that would be stereotypical; that would be expected. He did anything but what was expected. No, he would be strong, but Lord, was it hard.

Harry let out a bitter laugh. Hard wasn't even the beginning of it. Painful.

Extremely, utterly painful.

Swallowing down the tears, Harry opened his eyes and sat up. Inside, his cousin threw the front door open, screaming for Harry to bring in the bags from the supermarket. Without waiting for an answer, Dudley bounded up the stairs, a friend of his trailing behind him, and slammed a bedroom door shut.

Once inside the confines of his home, his life, Harry quietly unpacked the bags and started to take out the pots for supper. Uncle Vernon, who had collapsed onto the couch and was now watching his television show, barely glanced in Harry's direction. Aunt Petunia, however, stood with her arms folded across her stomach, her face twisted in disgust. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, as if to say something. She let out a frustrated sigh and spun on her heel, stomping out of the kitchen.

A moment later, she stalked back in.

"Harry James Potter," she hissed, clenching her fists at her sides as she stopped in front of Harry. He looked up at her, startled. She'd never used his full name before.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" He murmed back, glancing at Uncle Vernon, to see if he was paying attention. He wasn't. He gripped the handle of the pot, unsure of what to do with his hands, as he cautiously watched his aunt.

Petunia grabbed the pot from Harry's grasp, slamming it onto the countertop. She pressed her fists onto the counter and leaned forward until her face was inches from his. She started searching his eyes, then bit her lip and pulled back a bit.

"Something's wrong with you," she finally said, shaking her head in wonder. "What could it be? Could it be..what? What would be wrong with you?"

The disdain in her voice dripped from her chin.

Harry lowered his gaze and retrieved the pot. He shrugged nonchalantly. "Nothing, Aunt Petunia. I swear it."

"No," she muttered, grabbing his hair and forcing his head upright, so that he was forced to look at her. "No, no. There's something. I can feel it." She clicked her tongue, turning his head to the left, then to the right. "You're not eating anymore, are you, boy? No, I can see that you're not, but that isn't what the worry is about." She leaned closer to him, putting her lips right next to his ear, to whisper. What she had to say wasn't meant for Uncle Vernon's ears. "I hear you at night, screaming into your pillow. You lock the door so I can't come in. I hear it, though, and it's the kind of thing that could get you punished if the neighbors ever heard."

Harry fought to keep his eyes from widening. His fumbled for words to say, for excuses, for anything to deny anything was wrong. He shook his head, pulling away from her, and fixed a smile on his face.

"My Godfather passed away, Aunt Petunia, remember? I don't scream at night, I promise. Maybe it's Dudley's television. You know how he plays those video-"

"DON'T!" She shrieked, snatching his hair again and forcing his head toward hers again. "Don't lie to me. The sooner you're out of here, the better. Your mother was insane, but -"

"Petunia, what the hell is going on?" Uncle Vernon asked, starting to stand up from his couch.

Aunt Petunia let go of Harry's head, spinning around to face her husband. "Nothing, Vernon. I was telling the boy not to burn the dinner again. You know how he's been getting lately, zoning out during his chores and such. I was just making sure he knew the consequences again."

Uncle Vernon grunted, then fell back into the couch, staring unblinking at the screen. Aunt Petunia shot Harry a glare before leaving the kitchen. Harry stared from the empty spot his aunt had been standing, to his uncle, then scratched his head where his aunt had pulled his hair.

Sighing, Harry filled the pot full of water and put it on the stove to boil..

..and woke up, gasping. His face was pressed into his pillow as he let out a long, piercing scream. His body shook with pain as his muscles clenched. His head felt as if it were going to explode at any moment. He could feel every vein in his body pulsing with blood, his heart beating and his lungs expanding as he sucked in another breath, only to let out another long, pain-filled scream. His throat ached from screaming. His hands, clenching the pillow, were cramped and he couldn't let go. His entire body was on fire, every fiber cramped or burning, as if being torn apart.

His mind, his thoughts, were completely dark. He couldn't think one thought; he didn't know who he was, or where he was, only that he was there, in a bed, screaming. Nobody could hear him, though; they weren't allowed to. No, that wasn't it. He wasn't allowed to.

Another scream ripped out of his lungs, and he passed out.