Author's Note: Wow! I have reached more than 100 favorites and more than 200 followers, which is insane. Thank you all so much for reading and enjoying my little fiction. It is almost done at this point, only two more chapters (I think, unless I get some other brilliant idea and decide to keep it going for awhile). All characters belong to Ms. Rowling. Please enjoy this next installment.

Chapter Nine –

Before Harry knew it, he had been at Prince Manor for an entire week. Seven full days of living with his potions professor, of doing homework and chores under the watchful eye of someone who never hurt him, who was, in fact, oddly nice. It wasn't always pleasant, of course. The nightly sessions with Snape were unbearable, really, but Harry had lived through unbearable before. Anyway, even those sessions became easier once Harry made the decision to tell Snape a little of what had been going on with the Dursleys.

Made the decision, ha. Harry knew he had no part of that decision. It was Snape who had forced him to talk, pulling all that mind trick with the potions ingredients, making Harry want to talk.

To his surprise, though, after the early morning chopping session, it had been easier to talk to Snape the next night, and the night after. He still was careful what he said, careful not to let Snape know the worst of the things Uncle Vernon had done. But the nightmares had lessened each night (helped, no doubt, by the sleeping potion Snape had offered him). And Harry was staring to get antsy.

He had had no contact with anyone but Snape for seven days now. He had no idea if Hermione or Ron knew where he was, or anyone else from the Order of the Phoenix. Snape didn't exactly keep him in the loop on things, and he was afraid to ask, afraid that Snape would be furious at him, or even worse, that news of his abuse had spread through the entire Order (something Harry felt desperate to avoid). He just kept his head down, did his homework and chores, and time was moving surprisingly fast.

It was the evening of the eighth day that Snape told him what Dumbledore had done to his relatives.

The evening had started the same as every other day, with Snape pulling Harry into his potions lab (where they'd taken to doing any serious talking). Harry set up his chopping station. As frustrated as he'd been with Snape that early morning, he had to admit that having something to focus on while he talked was tremendously helpful, and so Snape had been providing him with ingredients to cut every single night.

This night, Snape seemed distracted, more short than normal, and Harry wondered again what the man did all day while Harry was doing homework and chores. He hadn't seen Snape between breakfast and dinner, and now the potions professor was glaring at his own work like it had insulted his mother or something.

"Sir?" Harry said. "Do you want to skip tonight? I'm happy to go up to my room again or … something."

"Don't be an idiot, Potter."

Harry sighed. Too much to ask for a night off, especially when Snape was looking a little murderous.

"I have something to discuss with you, as it happens," Snape said. "I spoke with Professor Dumbledore earlier today. He will be coming here tomorrow."

Harry's knife slipped entirely off the cutting board, hitting the table underneath it with a resounding thud. "Dumbledore is coming here?" he repeated.

"He wishes to be kept in the loop as to your progress. And, as you will no doubt want to discuss it with him, it is time for you to be told what has happened to your aunt and uncle." Snape murmered something under his breath that Harry didn't catch.

"What do you mean, sir? What happened to my aunt and uncle?"

And Snape told him the whole story, of Snape and Dumbledore showing up at Privet Drive, of Snape reading Uncle Vernon's mind before Dumbledore shrunk them to the size of dolls and put them in a dollhouse. Of alerting the muggle authorities that Dudley would need to go into foster care.

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. In all the time that he'd been here at Snape's house, the man had given no indication that he'd been back to Privet Drive. No indication that he already knew about Harry's abuse because he'd seen it in Vernon's mind.

And now Vernon knew without a doubt that Harry had told someone—

He dropped his knife and tried to steady his breathing, but he could feel both pulse and breathing accelerating, could feel the panic rising in him. Deep in the distance, he could hear Vernon's voice, calling his name, calling him a freak. The voice was getting louder.

"Potter, calm down," said a voice much nearer to him, but Harry was too far gone to be able to listen. He felt his body cringing in on itself, like the injuries he'd suffered over the years were coming back to haunt him, even though they were all healed at this point. His stomach growled in memory of years of hunger. His back crawled, feeling the belt all over again.

He had to get out of here.

A hand came out of nowhere and grabbed his shoulder. A small part of Harry's brain registered that this was Snape's hand, probably trying to steady him, but the larger part, the part in control, saw only an adult male coming at him without warning, and Harry dodged around the hand and ran.

Out of the lab.

Down the hallway and out the front door.

And he kept on running, out into the deep dark of the forest surrounding Prince Manor. He barely noticed the scenery around him, so intent was he to get away.

Uncle Vernon was going to kill him. Literally kill him, not just mess him around a bit. And, if Uncle Vernon's threats could be trusted (which, in Harry's experience, they could), he was going to start by destroying Harry's stuff and hurting his friends.

He could still hear Vernon's voice, calling his name and getting closer, although the tone sounded wrong. And Uncle Vernon didn't usually call him Harry. Regardless, he had to get away. He sped up, dodging around trees and roots in his desperation to get away from that voice.

He didn't see the sudden decline until it was already too late. In the darkness, he ran full into an exposed tree root that tripped him, and instead of just falling flat on his face, he found himself tumbling down an embankment that got steeper and steeper until he wasn't running anymore so much as somersaulting, and then his fall was abruptly halted by a plunge into freezing cold water.

He gasped, pulled his head above water, discovered it was shallow enough to stand in but moving swiftly enough he couldn't keep his footing. Something, or rather several somethings, on his body hurt. He'd broken something in that damned fall, but he was too busy fighting against a current to figure out what.

He didn't know how long he struggled. Maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour. Regardless, by the time he'd pulled himself out of the current towards the embankment, he was shaking with cold and pain, and he lacked the energy to even attempt pulling himself onto the bank, which was several feet above the water level. Instead, he half-stood, half-floated on the edge of the (river? stream? fast-moving lake?) and half-heartedly wished he were dead.

As he would be, once Uncle Vernon caught up to him.

Luckily, it was Snape who found him first. The water had cooled down the panic attack, and Harry recognized now that it was Snape's voice he had heard earlier, calling his name and chasing after him. And it was Snape now who waved a wand at Harry, levitating him out of the water and drying him off with a single muttered word.

"By the beard of Merlin, Potter, why did you run off like that?" Snape said.

Harry was busy shivering and couldn't answer.

"Let's get you back to the house," Snape said.

Harry nodded, took exactly one step, and collapsed in a heap. He bit his lip in an attempt to keep from crying out. Apparently, in his undignified fall down a hill, he'd damaged his left leg, which was now burning with pain. In addition, his right shoulder felt broken, his fingers on that arm numb and tingling with more than just the cold from the water.

"Potter," Snape said. "What has happened?"

"Um," Harry said. "I fell— and I think something's wrong with my leg."

He lay there on the ground, feeling vulnerable and angry, and terrified. Snape took a step towards him, and Harry shrank back, hating himself for doing it, but unable to shake the terror that had engulfed him since finding out what Dumbledore had done to his uncle.

"I am endeavoring to help you, idiot. Just hold still," Snape said.

Harry held still as Snape did some sort of wand work, and a piece of parchment popped into existence near the black-robed man. Snape read it, frowning, and then turned narrowed eyes on Potter.

"Only you, Harry Potter, could manage to injure yourself this badly while in an entirely safe environment. You have broken your left leg, dislocated your right shoulder, and have cuts and abrasions all down your left side. And don't think I've forgotten the little panic attack that sent you out here to begin with. Why is it that I tell you your uncle has been dealt with, and you respond by freaking out and running away?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He couldn't explain to Snape his fear that Vernon hadn't been dealt, only made more dangerous.

Fortunately, Snape appeared to be more frustrated than conversational, as he didn't wait for an actual answer from Harry. Instead, he conjured up some sort of stretcher-type cot, floated Harry onto it, and started moving them towards the house. Harry recognized the stretcher from years ago, when Ron Weasley had broken his leg and Snape had helped him from the Shrieking Shack back to Hogwarts.

Of course, Ron had been blissfully unconsious for the whole thing. Harry wished he were unconscious. That would be the best way to forget everything that was happening here, to forget the humiliation of being injured and rescued (again!) by Severus Snape, to forget that his uncle was going to be coming after him.

And Dumbledore. Coming tomorrow. Harry hadn't seen him since he'd been in Dumbledore's office, destroying his stuff and finding out about the prophecy that ensured Harry or Voldemort would be killed by the other.

It was too much to deal with. He closed his eyes.

"Potter," Snape said, interrupting his thoughts. Harry ignored him. "Potter, look at me," Snape said, his tone peevish. Harry complied with gritted teeth. The potions master was walking alongside the stretcher, looking taller than Harry had ever seen him, and grim.

"Sound, feel, smell, sight," Snape said.

Harry stared at him. He'd finally done it. He'd been so much trouble that he'd literally driven the man mad. The potions professor was talking nonsense, spouting off words without sentences or meaning.

Oh. Right. Harry remembered now that early morning chopping session, when Snape had shown him how to work through the panic by grounding himself in his senses. Harry took a deep breath. He could hear the sounds of Snape's robes swishing as the man walked, could hear the lonely hoot of an owl somewhere in the far-off distance. He could feel the scratchy fabric of the stretcher under him, could feel the pain from numerous abrasions on his skin, could smell the dank aroma of the river behind him and the fishy smell of dried river water coming from his own body. He couldn't see anything, because his eyes were closed again.

Another deep breath. Another round of pay attention only to the physical senses, and the panic begain to seep away.

And they were back at Prince Manor, and Snape was, humiliatingly, keeping a hand on Harry's good shoulder to keep him in place on the stretcher as they went up the stairs. Back in Harry's bedroom again, Snape levitated him onto his own bed (first waving his wand to make the bed that Harry had completely neglected this morning).

"Here we go again, Potter. Sit tight, I'll grab supplies," Snape said.

Laying in this bed that had begun to feel like his own, Harry felt the emotional roller coaster begin to disappate, leaving him exhausted. And embarrassed.

The embarrassment got worse. When Snape got back, he disappeared Harry's shirt and pants with one banishment spell, leaving Harry laying on his bed in only his boxers.

"Oy!" Harry said. "Give a guy some warning, would you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. I must see your injuries if I'm going to deal with them. Try to relax. I'll go as fast as I can."

In the haze of pain that followed, Harry took a moment to appreciate the irony of the situation. Once again, injured, half naked in a room with this man who had hated him for five years, dependent on the dreaded potions professor for help at his most vulnerable.

Harry couldn't tell if he was grateful or furious at the man. He knew he should be grateful, especially as Snape was being fairly gentle as he cleaned and magically healed the broken leg, the shoulder, and the various cuts and bruises. On some level, he was grateful. On an entirely more visceral level, though, he was angry. Why did Snape have to be the one to keep rescuing him?

"Drink these, Mr. Potter," Snape said, interrupting Harry's thoughts and pushing two vials towards him. Harry recognized both of them (what did it say about him that he recognized a pain potion and Skelegro on sight?), and drank them down.

"Let us talk for a moment now," Snape said. "I'm going to invoke rules one and two. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me what in Merlin's name just happened."

"I ran off," Harry said sullenly, not looking at Snape.

"Oh do tell. Good thing your razor-sharp wit is around, because I never would have figured that part on my own. Explain, Potter."

Harry shook his head. Gratitude notwithstanding, he really disliked this man, who kept seeing him at his worst.

"For heaven's sake, Harry, I'm trying to help you. If we figure out what triggered your panic attack, you might be able to prevent them in the future."

That actually made sense. Taking a deep breath, Harry looked up at Snape's face, which was glowering down at him.

"I got, um, a little freaked out," Harry said.

"Once again, you have managed to point out the dreadfully obvious. Can you explain what terrifed you? I would have thought you'd be pleased to hear that your aunt and uncle have been dealt with."

Harry flinched.

Snape sighed. "Is that it? You don't think Dumbledore is able to deal with your uncle in a way that keeps the man from getting to you? Albus Dumbledore, who is the most powerful wizard in the entire country, so powerful that even the Dark Lord won't challenge him, but Vernon Dursley is stronger?"

Well, when he put it that way… Harry considered for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"If he could deal with Uncle Vernon, he would have years ago. He wouldn't have just left me there to be, well, um, abused, if he could have stopped it." At the look on Snape's face, Harry added, "Right?"

"Harry…" Snape said slowly, and Harry didn't want to know what was coming. He bit his upper lip, trying to keep the emotions that were threatening his eyes from leaking over.

"It doesn't matter. I'm tired. Would it be okay if I get some sleep, sir?" he said, rolling over before he waited for an answer.

Snape was silent so long that Harry snuck a look over his shoulder to see if the man was still there. He was, staring down at Harry with such a dark look on his face that Harry had to stop himself from shuddering.

"Professor Dumbledore will be here in the morning, Mr. Potter. You can talk with him then," Snape said finally.

Great, Harry thought, feeling the prickling behind his eyes again.

"Would you like a Dreamless Sleep potion?" Snape asked.

Harry shook his head, wanting Snape to just leave him alone. If he was going to cry, which it certainly felt like he might do, he definitely did not want to do it with Snape still in the room. He'd lost all other parts of his dignity today, but at least he hadn't cried like a baby yet.

A swoosh of movement, and then the door of his bedroom closed. Harry rolled back over to face the door. Despite wanting Snape to leave, he felt slightly bereft now that the man had done so. He was alone again. As always.

Then he had to chuckle to himself; Snape had left a small vial of Dreamless Sleep behind on his nightstand. It appeared the professor was beginning to know when Harry was sincere versus when he was blustering. Harry downed it in one gulp and rearranged his aching left leg. It was going to be a tough night.

AN: Thank you! Please review.