1.03 Settling In

Summary: Harry and Snape, Snape and Dumbledore, Harry walks

He'd barely awoken when one of his worst memories from the cellar came flashing into his mind.

He was standing in a garden, which looked a bit like Aunt Petunia's, except not that perfectly kept, and there were his aunt and uncle, smiling at him, with real love in their eyes, the kind of emotion he'd only ever seen directed at Dudley. He could smell the flowers in the garden; he could feel the realness of it.

"Hello, Harry," Aunt Petunia said. "You're home now."

He could smell her, too, a rather strange, scented smell of perfume. She held out her hand, inviting him to hold it.

Harry remembered Aunt Petunia saying that his parents were dead, that was the only reason why she'd allowed Harry to live with them, and he shouldn't ever forget the favour, without them he'd be out on the streets and did he think he'd be safe for a minute, all alone? And that felt like a real memory too, but so did this one, and he could pretend that this was the real memory and that the fake memory.

He took his hand.

"Come on, love," Aunt Petunia said, and something in the way she'd said it had stopped Harry from surrendering to the tug on his arm.

"You're not real," he'd said dumbly.

Aunt Petunia laughed, a bit oddly. "What do you mean?" Her hands tightened around his wrist and suddenly he remembered Mrs. Figg. He twisted his hand and tried to pull it away, and then their faces morphed into those white Masks and he'd opened his mouth but before he could scream a hand was on his arm and it was cold and very real and he opened his eyes.

The ceiling looked down dispassionately at him. In the periphery of his vision, Snape was watching him thoughtfully. "Nightmare?"

Harry looked back at him. He looked very real too, but he knew magic could make fake things appear real. He shook his head. "Is this real?"

Snape was silent and he wondered if he didn't understand the question, but then he lifted his arm and brought his fingers to his wrist. Pinched. "Does that hurt?"

"Ow."

"Hallucinations don't hurt."

Halla-what? Is that what they called it? "Magic ones might."

"They don't."

"And you're real?"

"Yes, Potter, I am real," Snape responded with just a hint of sarcasm.

"You could be lying about magic ones not hurting."

"What would I gain from that?" Now he sounded a little annoyed.

No, he realized. He sounded like someone who was really angry and trying not to show it. He was so confused by this that he almost forgot his question. "Oh—they did it to me once."

"And why would they do it?"

"They thought that their experiments weren't working because I was afraid. They thought that if they could pretend I was safe, it would work."

His face was impassive. "Did it work?"

"I figured out it wasn't real."

"How?"

"Aunt Petunia never calls me 'love'."

Snape leaned back in his chair, turning the vial over and over in his hand. Harry was looking at his long fingers, wondering why every part of him was so pale, wondering if maybe he wasn't fully human — it would make sense, he didn't even blink much —and then he handed the vial to him. "Drink."

He did so, obediently. As he left, he felt his eyelids drooping again.

"Albus, I'm not sure how long you expect me to keep him here."

Snape was in Albus' office, the first time he'd dared to physically leave the boy and come here. In addition to the plethora of spells he had already placed on the house to prevent any unwanted visitors, he'd put some on the boy, to alert him if he awoke, tried to leave, or hurt himself. Even so, there was a voice at the back of mind telling him insistently to go back as soon as possible. He ignored it.

Albus was looking at him calmly over his desk, and Snape wondered, not for the first time, how long it'd be before he went Muggle and took a fist to that face. He had come close many times.

"I'm afraid there's no viable alternative at the moment, Severus." Albus' voice was placating but entirely too businesslike for Snape's comfort. "He still needs constant monitoring, not to mention his wild magic may manifest any moment, considering the trauma he's been through."

"It has been a week since he woke, Albus. Babysitting was not what I had in mind when you asked me to patch him up."

The Headmaster smiled faintly. "I know, Severus. It is unfortunate that his care ended up in your hands—though I am confident you are more than up to the task."

"Why not keep him at Hogwarts?"

"Alas, this seems to be one of the few years when all Heads of Houses have decided they needed a vacation." Except you, of course, was the added subtext. "And I do not trust any other teacher for this task. Or anyone at all, for that matter."

He gritted his teeth in frustration. "Albus? What about you?"

He hated himself for asking it; it felt too much like surrender, a failure to live up to the terms of his pact with the Headmaster. His only defence was that his task was to guard him from Voldemort, not watch over him like a guardian.

Dumbledore looked regretful. "I am quite certain you are better suited—"

"I doubt that indeed!" the exclamation burst out of him, louder than he expected, and he paused, chagrined for a moment. After seven years, he was still not fully sure on what grounds he stood with respect to the Headmaster. But Dumbledore merely looked expectant, and so he continued, "This is Potter we are talking about. Do you forget the history his father and I had?"

"I am well aware of the seven years you and James spent at my school, Severus," he replied coolly. Snape felt mildly guilty, but only mildly. "Whatever Potter the Senior's faults, Potter the Junior is a victim of the Death Eaters. And he is a child, Severus. Whatever his father was as a teenager, Harry is not set on that path yet. Is he even aware of who his father was, his personality or character?"

Snape shook his head tightly. It didn't matter, he was a Potter, it was in his blood—and he was in his house, and a most unwelcome visitor at that—

"Have you seen his eyes, Severus?"

Yes, of course he had, it had been the first thing he'd noticed, Lily's eyes staring in fear at him—"I fail to see how that's relevant."

"I merely want to point out that if your main objection to his residing in your home is that he is Potter's son, he doesn't seem to embody all of the physical or character traits of the father." He paused. Snape decided that replying would not be worth the lecture he would undoubtedly receive. When Albus next spoke, his voice was much kinder. "He is a child, Severus. And a frightened one at that."

"I have none of the patience and gentleness that that calls for, Albus!"

"I trust you."

Snape groaned mentally.

"I trust you to do the right thing, Severus," he repeated, in a tone that quite settled the matter. "How is he?"

"Better, but he's still weak. I've been giving him Dreamless Sleep along with the other potions. The scarring is mostly gone but some of them—" caused by his Sectumsempra, he didn't say, although the look in Dumbledore's eyes showed that he understood that "—are going to be permanent. One down the inside of his arm, and another along his torso."

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Severus. Now, if you have nothing more to discuss, I imagine you want to be getting back."

"I need a house-elf."

He nodded. "I'll have one sent over."

Snape was halfway to the door when Albus spoke again. "And Severus, please try not to put any ideas in Harry's head about his father, not now."

Snape didn't qualify that with a response.

Harry mostly slept. Sometimes Snape woke him with a tap on his shoulder with his wand to give him a potion to drink. Sometimes he woke up on his own and lay awake in bed, staring absently at his surroundings, and then went back to sleep. Snape barely spoke a word to him throughout, except for a short reply whenever Harry asked him if he was getting better. The overall prognosis was, yes, he was, but slowly.

At Harry's request, Snape had set up a cool magic clock system to tell him the time and date. It was set up opposite his bed and was the first thing he would see when he woke up, red letters shining brightly. He counted the days going by with a sort of fuzzy acknowledgement.

Harry was pretty sure Snape had put some kind of alarm system on him to inform him if he woke up. There was no way he'd know this quickly, otherwise. He had barely rubbed the sleep out of his eyes this time when the man strode in.

"I imagine you'll want to bathe and freshen up," he said in his usual curt tone, standing next to his bed and looking more through him than at him. He found the scrutiny odd. "I've been using freshening charms on you for the past days, but it's a temporary substitute for the real thing. The Headmaster has offered the use of one of the school's elves to help you to the washroom and back."

Then he stepped aside, and he caught sight of a short, long-eared creature with big green eyes staring up at his.

Help, he thought, just that word, because he was incapable of thinking anything else. He had lifted himself up into a sitting position before he knew what he was doing, and it was only when Snape caught him and asked what was wrong that he realized that he was hyperventilating.

"Um, um..."

"Breathe, Potter. There's nothing to worry about." Snape looked over at the thing. "Trippy, you may leave."

It disappeared with a pop and he gasped.

"What is the matter now?"

He seemed rather put out, but he was too busy trying to get his breath back to notice. "What is that? —that— that thing?"

"That is a house elf. I take it you've seen one before?" Snape apparently decided the danger was over, because he took his hand off his wrist and settled into a chair in front of him.

"They had one. Over there. They used it on me." He brought his knees to his chest and put his arms around them, feeling cold and rather nauseous.

"Used it how?"

"What are you doing with it? What does it do?" Harry was aware that, in his panic, he was whispering the words, but he couldn't get himself to speak normally.

"House elves are common in the magical community, Mister Potter."

"What!" he said, a bit shrilly.

He inclined his head, his expression bland. "They are bound to the family they serve, unless they are set free. We have many elves working at Hogwarts, including the one you just saw."

Bound to. "They—they like that? Isn't that like slavery?"

"They were created that way."

"By a wizard?" he nodded once. "Why do they look so weird?"

"I'm sure your artistic skills would have been much better suited to the task, Potter. What is it about house elves that startled you so?"

He licked his lips and bit down on them, looking down at his knees. "They often used it, instead of coming themselves. To give me potions or feed me." Or take my blood. And there was always one to guard me, and he would stand next to me, staring with his horribly big eyes, not saying a word. Dobby the guard. He shuddered.

"House elves are required to do whatever their masters order them to do," Snape said in a bored voice after regarding him in silence. "They are quite proficient in magic, but they are unable to use it except carry out their masters' commands. The house elves at Hogwarts are essentially 'free' in that they are not bound to any family, but they are bound to the headmaster and the teachers. You have nothing to fear from this one, I assure you."

He was twisting his sweaty fingers. "They can, though. Sometimes. Disobey."

"They have to punish themselves for it, afterwards. That was how they were made."

Well, that made sense. A lot of the elf's actions seemed downright idiotic at the time. It would occasionally rush to the wall and bang its head on the stone, repeatedly, until blood spurted out of its head and poured into its eyes. Harry would stare at its bloody head and wonder if it was insane or just occasionally violently suicidal.

The white masks didn't seem to care. They would either ignore it or snigger.

"That's just creepy."

Snape didn't seem to care, either. "I asked the Headmaster for his services as I need some help in overseeing you." Harry flushed, just a little. "Shall I call him back in?"

"How can they pop in and out like that?"

"It's called apparition, wizards can do it too." And then he popped, and disappeared, and then instantly another pop and there he was on the other side of the bed.

He momentarily forgot his house-elf-scare to stare up at Snape, grinning wide. "Cool! Can I do that too?"

He looked unimpressed. "In about ten years. Trippy!"

The thing — house-elf, no, slave — popped back in. His big eyes looked remarkably sad, for some reason, and Harry stammered, "I'm sorry about earlier, I thought you were...someone else."

Behind him, Snape snorted. Trippy's eyes got even wider, but Harry couldn't figure out what had gotten him so surprised before Snape said, "He'll need help walking, Trippy."

The slave-elf obediently trotted over and held out his hands. His arms were reedy and Harry was afraid they'd break as he leaned his weight on his warm palms, but there was no sudden snap sound of breaking bones as he stood up. He tested the feel of his feet on the carpeted floor and found he liked it very, very much. The time in the cellar didn't count as walking, since the chains dragging on his bare feet really took the fun out of being vertical. He curled and uncurled his toes, grinning at the floor.

"You'll find some clothes in there, too," Snape said from behind him, and then he went out. Harry watched him go, wondering if he'd asked for the house elf's help because he was busy or simply because he couldn't be bothered to watch him.

Trippy was looking at him now. "Master wants to walk?"

"I think I can walk by myself, Trippy, thanks."

His eyes widened again, and Harry wondered if there was some protocol involved in talking to elves that he was butchering. But Snape talked normally to the elf, except maybe a little too bossily — but then that was his normal way of talking. "Trippy has been told to help you to the washroom, Master," he said again.

"Yes, I suppose you could stand next to me and catch me if I fall or something," he said. This didn't break Snape's orders, apparently, because he let go of his hand and stepped back. Harry breathed in, and walked forward, carefully at first, and then more confidently. There was an amazing feel to standing after a long time and he was grinning all the way to the hall, Trippy hovering anxiously right in front of him and even bumping into his thighs occasionally.

And then he followed him into the bathroom. "Trippy, you can wait by the door," he said.

"Trippy is to help—"

"Trippy, if I need you, I'll snap my fingers." He did so once, experimentally. The house-elf looked distressed and for a moment Harry was worried if he'd bash his head against the wall too or something. Dobby's bloody face flashed into his mind, and he said hurriedly, "Please, Trippy. I'm sure he won't mind. I promise I'll call if I need any help."

Trippy nodded, albeit mournfully, and Harry closed the door on him with no small measure of relief.

He pulled up his shirt and stared at his scar, running along his belly, where they'd cut him open. There had been many other scars, too, but they'd all gone, except for this one. And the one on his left arm—he looked at it now, a thin, light scar from his elbow to his wrist. From his reflection, he could see he'd lost a lot of weight, like, a lot. They'd chopped his hair but that had grown out, like it normally did, and now it was sitting very messily. His colour had returned to his face too, though he was still pale. He looked almost normal.

Except for the scars, which Mister Snape had informed him would never be going away.

Lucius Malfoy, he thought, with a renewed sense of fury.

He spent so long in the bathtub that Trippy apparently thought he was drowning, because he was startled by a flurry of small fists banging on the door, accompanied by a tremulous 'Master? Master!'

"Trippy! I'm fine!"

The bangs quieted and he sighed, settling back into the tub. He never wanted to get out.

All in all, it was about an hour later that he exited, wearing what looked like a fresh pair of pants and t-shirt. He wondered who might have bought them. It seemed unlikely that Snape would have, and unlikelier still that the Headmaster would, but he couldn't imagine an elf casually strolling into the kids section of any clothing store either.

Snape was not in the hall when he entered it, but one of the doors to the hall opened just then and he stepped out of a dark room. He was hit by a pungent smell — or rather many smells — and decided that that must be the potions room. "Alright?" Snape asked. He nodded. "You are to call Trippy each time you need to use the facilities. And Trippy will bring you your meals and your potions."

So, he was sick of him, and eager to get back to whatever he used to do to spend his time, and brought on the elf to take over for him. Harry nodded, but as Snape turned to leave, he hurriedly asked, "The room I'm in, is that your room?" Snape slowly turned to look at him. "Because I can make do on a couch—" oh wait, he hadn't seen any "— or the floor, or wherever you're sleeping, if you want it back. I don't mind."

He was staring. Harry wondered what kind of teacher he was if even his look made him squirm uncomfortably. The Headmaster didn't seem to mind his stares, though, but then he was Snape's boss, and also, he had a pretty mean stare of his own.

"I have two beds, Potter."

Of course. He felt decidedly foolish now. Why wouldn't he have two beds, anyway?

"Is there anything else?"

He shook his head.

"You've been on far too many potions for a child of your age. You are to rest as much as you possibly can."

He nodded. He swept back into the room.

He sighed, and looked down at the elf. Trippy's eyes, at least, weren't made of rock like Snape's seemed to be. Right now they were fastened on his own with expectation. "Come on, then." And so they journeyed back into his room, where, as soon as he slipped under the blankets, Trippy arranged them carefully around his and popped out, leaving him to wonder how long he would take to fall asleep this time.

He got an answer eight minutes later.