1.02 The Rescue

Summary: The rescue and introductions.

When he slept and woke two times in a row without any white mask visits, he was delighted. When the count turned to four, he began to wonder what new scheme they were thinking up for him. The Dobby thing was still standing in the corner, so that hadn't changed, at least.

Narcissa Malfoy's reply of 'does it matter' to his question about the date had been nagging at him, and no matter how he looked at it, he'd come to just one conclusion: the blonde ghost thought he was going to die. He would be kept alive for as long as they needed to get whatever they needed out of him, although by their behaviour over the last few sleep cycles, he suspected they were getting nowhere.

Which made them annoyed and desperate, which made him frightened.

Dobby disappeared with a pop.

He stared at the empty spot in mounting horror, and closed his eyes tightly. If they were going to kill him, he would fight. He was taken for his magic; he'd show them magic. He tried pulling his hands out from the chains, like he'd done a million times before, but they didn't budge. With a cry of desperation, he closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to call it forth.

He'd tried this before too, so many times, but now he was going to die so surely that would make a difference, he thought

But though he fought to make the magic flood out of him, it was refusing to cooperate.

Then the door slammed open and two of the white masks strode in. One was the blonde man and Harry kept his eyes on him. The man had a vial in his hand, and just when Harry noticed it, his chin was pulled up by a cold hand and the vial's contents were tipped into his mouth. He swallowed, coughing as some of the liquid went down the wrong way, and then his eyes closed.

This feels different was the first thought he had on waking up. He kept his eyes closed and didn't move—out of habit, since being awake meant they got to work on him. It took him a while to figure out what was different, but that, he began to realize, was because so much was. The rock he lay on was soft now, softer than rock could ever be. It was warmer than the cellar, where the cold air used to make him shiver at night until they allowed cooling charms which only worked for four or five hours and woke him up when the effects dimmed.

It smelt different. This smelt—nice. He couldn't pin down a single smell but it smelt nice.

He opened his eyes with a certain expectation of seeing something other than what he had been seeing the last million times he'd opened his eyes. He was not disappointed. The ceiling was pale green, and there was a soft yellow light enveloping the periphery of his vision. He had to blink a few times to get adjusted to the light and banish the sleep away—

There was a man

His mouth opened of its own accord, but it wasn't fear, mostly, anyway. This was the first person he'd seen—apart from that blonde lady and the ```` silvery haired boy—without that white mask on. This man was pale, very pale, and his cheekbones were sunken, and his hair was long, and he could not pin down his age. His black eyes were utterly devoid of emotion.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Something had happened? He tried to think back. It had been Dudley's birthday and the Dursleys had gone to celebrate and he'd been left behind. Is that was he was referring to?

And then it hit him—Mrs. Figg, the white masks, all the liquids and Crucios—

"Where am I?" his voice came out raspy and for a second he couldn't even recognise it was he who spoke. That rattled him.

"Safe. We got you out. You're safe."

Safe.

He went over the word, each letter, letting it sink in. A wisp of his hair was on his face, and out of sheer habit, he lifted his hands to his face to move it. It was only after his fingers had touched his cheek that he remembered—this was something he hadn't been able to do, for the past however-long-it-was. He stared at his palm, his fingers with the dirty, long nails, and wrist. He'd expected some kind of scarring from the chains. There wasn't any. He brought his hand closer. Nope.

"Was… was I dreaming?" he whispered, and he would have laughed, disbelievingly, if he'd had the energy. He felt exhausted, like he'd cleaned the Dursley house ten times.

"We removed the scarring from your wrists and healed some of your other injuries," he answered, and he was grateful he understood the meaning of his question. "You were asleep for almost four whole days. How do you feel?"

"Tired." Even now he could feel his eyes drooping. It was slowly coming back to him though, his last memory, of the blonde man giving him a sleeping potion.

"Any pains anywhere?"

He shook his head. He was aching all over though, like he'd been scrubbed down with sandpaper. "What's the date?"

"July 11. You were taken May 27th of this year."

He closed his eyes, but he wasn't too surprised, after all, he'd lost track of time in there. He ought to be happy it wasn't like a year or something. But…some part of his had been blindly hoping to hear the words 'it was a dream, you're okay, nothing has happened' and to not hear those words wasn't exactly painful, but just…heavy.

"Sleep. We'll talk again later, when you're up to it."

Before falling asleep, he had one last thought—how had he managed to escape, anyway?

When he next awoke, it was with the same feeling of other-place-ness that he opened his eyes. His head was tilted to one side now, and the memory of his last conversation with the pale man came rushing back as he now stared at him. But he wasn't alone; there was another man, significantly older if the long beard of white hair was anything to go by, sitting, wearing –robes, that's what They called them—of some horrid orange colour, and blue eyes, sober but kind, fastened on him now. The pale man was standing behind the blue-eyed man as if in deference

"Mr Potter," he said, with a smile.

"It's Harry. What day is it?"

"July 12th. You were asleep for over twelve hours."

He nodded once, slowly, squelching the disappointment that had blossomed in him again.

"I'm sure you're wondering what happened, Harry. When we heard of your capture, we tried our best to find out where you were taken. Unfortunately we weren't able to rescue you as fast as we'd hoped, but eventually we did succeed. You are perfectly safe now, and you will be returned to your closest surviving relatives as soon as we are assured of your full health."

This little speech confused him more. Were they police? Is that why they'd been to rescue him? But then why didn't they hand him over to Uncle Vernon as soon as they got him?

"How is he, Severus?" he asked, addressing the man behind him.

Severus. That was an odd name. Lucius. Severus. Both odd names. A sickening feeling entered his stomach. Were they all part of the same mask-wearing group? They both used potions, although this Severus had apparently used it to heal his wounds.

Maybe it was a trick, like last time, maybe they thought that the reason why they weren't able to learn anything about him because he was afraid, so they were trying to make him feel safe by a 'rescue'!

The pale man was waving his wand over him now. He watched in mute fright at the wand that they'd used too, on him, so many times, to make him stop moving in fright or pain (petrificus totalus!), to make him conscious again (renervate!), to cut his (sectu—) and now his brain shut down, he could not think any more of that, he focused his attention on the pale man now telling the other man, "He's still weak, we need at least four weeks more of blood-replenishing potions before we can even think of moving him."

This was absolutely the last straw. "Please, sir," and he was aware his voice was pitifully thin, but whatever self-dignity and courage he'd mustered up in the past—months? Were they lying about the date too?—had all vanished, now he was back to when he'd first woken up in the dungeon with snot and tears all over his face, weeping, begging

Atleast he could see these faces. He couldn't see theirs, the white masks hid their faces. He could not see what they were feeling, although he didn't have to, their voices made it perfectly clear. But these faces were startled as they looked at him, interrupting their conversation.

"Are—are you here about my magic too? Is that why you want me healthy? I don't know want you want, please, I don't know what they are, please let me go please," and now he really was crying, and his hands covered his face, and again he remembered he wasn't in chains and the scars were gone.

The man who was sitting smiled at him, and there was nothing in the least scary in that smile. Harry felt himself relaxing even before he spoke. "I'm afraid you're quite mistaken. We're not with the men who took you. We rescued you. You're safe."

Sniff. Sniff. "Okay, so," sniff, "are you, like, other people who want to—?"

He laughed. "No. Harry," he scooted a little closer and Harry startled a little in fright but his eyes really were very kind so he didn't mind, "I am the headmaster of a school for people like you. The other men who took you—we are fighting against them."

He stared at him, and at the other man. "Okay," he said, wiping his nose. The other man stiffened and produced a tissue and handed it to Harry, who took it and wiped his nose. "What is this place? Why am I here?"

"You're not well. Whatever they did to you will take some time to heal. We would take you to a hospital but unfortunately we can't guarantee you will be completely safe there. This is Severus's house," he indicated the man behind him, "and he is quite knowledgeable in the area of potions, especially healing. He teaches at my school."

"Okay."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Can I sit up?"

He smiled, and looked back at Severus, who nodded. Harry pulled himself up and leaned back. Fingering the tissue, he asked, "What did they want?"

The man's expression became sorrowful. "Ah, I believe they thought you could—help them in some way."

"They thought I was a Dark Lord. What's a Dark Lord?"

The pale man made a soft sound like a cough, just barely, as if unable to help himself. Harry stared at him.

"It's a very evil man who uses magic for bad purposes."

"Why did they think I was that?" he gasped.

"They were quite wrong about you, Harry."

"Yes—I haven't even done anything—but why?"

"Harry, how much have your aunt and uncle told you about your parents?"

"Nothing much."

There was a look in his eyes, and a rather different one in the pale man's. "I'd like to know what."

Harry shrugged. "They died in a car accident." He stared at his hands. There was a lot more he'd been told, his father was a drunk, a nobody, who had married his mother, and then they'd died, and now Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had to take care of his sorry self, as if they needed more mouths to feed, did he think money grew on trees, boy—

"I do apologize, my boy," the man said, with a completely different intonation of the word boy than Uncle Vernon. "I imagined your aunt would not keep this from you. Perhaps she was trying to protect you from harsher truths—" cough from the pale man "—but I imagine you'd much prefer the truth."

"Oh yes, sir," he said, looking up in sudden hope. "Those—white mask people—they said my parents were magical too?"

"Indeed. And a very fine wizard and witch they were. But that is a story for another time, Harry. Right now, could you tell me, if you are up to it, what they did to—?"

"I think not, Headmaster," Severus said.

The man looked back at Severus, and they had some kind of mute staring contest, but then Harry said, "I don't mind, really."

They both turned to him. He shrugged. "They took a lot of my blood. Sometimes they hurt me, to make me use my magic. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes I hurt them. They got a little frightened once so they stopped hurting me. They took a little skin," his fingers sought out that spot, on his belly, where they'd numbed the area and taken the skin off, and the memory of the patch of skin handing in mid-air at wand-point gave Harry a wave of nausea, but he forced it down. "That's all," he finished, a little choked.

Severus was glaring at the other man, who didn't seem at all put out by the intensity of the look. He nodded, sadly. "That must have been terrifying. I apologize, dear boy, for not rescuing you sooner."

He stared down at the soggy tissue in his hands. "I didn't think I would be rescued, so thank you."

"It wasn't me, actually, it was Severus. He got you out."

Harry's eyes met the other man's, and he was a little taken aback by the lack of any emotion in them. He looked almost like he didn't like what he was seeing, but how could he? He hadn't even met him. Had he?

"Thank you," he said softly.

The other man nodded and stood up. "I will leave you in his capable hands, then. Mister Potter." He gave him a little bow and left with a smile.

Severus didn't see him off. He stood there staring at him for a minute before he opened a drawer, took out a vial and handed it to him. "Drink this."

He took it. "What was that man's name?"

"Albus Dumbledore."

He nodded, thoughtfully, as he uncorked the vial. "Sir? Do you … hate me or something?"

He seemed a little taken aback. "What makes you think that?"

"You don't look happy when you see me."

"You were kidnapped."

"It's not a feeling-sorry look."

"Drink your potion."

He tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth. It tasted disgusting but he recognized it now. Blood replenishing potion. They used to give this too.

"What's your last name?"

"Snape. And you are to call me Mister Snape or sir," he said, looking over at him.

"Did you know my parents?" Narcissa Malfoy seemed to know his parents.

That was definitely not a happy look. He stood up from whatever he was doing, said, "Go to sleep," and walked out.

When he came back in, he was sleeping.

A/N: R&R!

Also, I apologize for a slight error in the previous chapter. I didn't realize that .odt files would omit the page breaks. Weird, that. Anyway, it will not happen again.