(Rated T for mentions and flashbacks of child abuse, and violence, and details of Werewolf transformations which aren't exactly child-friendly)

(Disclaimer: don't own, never will, don't plan to. Doing it just for fun.)

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Chapter 2: Sleeping and Waking

The Man awoke. He groaned as his joints and muscles screamed in pain from the transformation, and recent cuts and bruises throbbed for attention. He was used to this. Waking up after the transformation was a painful, slow process. He was used to lying sprawled on a stone floor, naked and shivering and alone. He had been alone for years, since the last of his brothers left him. But this was new. He was lying curled up in sweet smelling grass, under a sheltering pine tree, and he jolted in alarm.

"No; oh no ... oh no, no, no …" The Man whispered. "Where …?" He turned accusingly to the Wolf within, but the beast remained angrily silent. Shaking with dread, the Man raised his hands to his face, nearly vomiting as he saw bloodstains ground into the lines of his palms and crusted under his ragged nails. He hated this; the waking up with no memory of the night before, nothing beyond a hazy recollection of blurry sights, sounds, and emotions. He remembered nothing of last night. Why did he have blood on his hands? Only the Wolf could answer that, and he was uncharacteristically sullen.

Being careful not to rub his tender skin against the rough pine branches drooping over him, the Man crawled out of his hiding place, shivering and aching, longing for the cabin where he had thought they would be safe, where they could make the world safe from the Wolf. But the Wolf was strong, and he must have broken through the wards he'd erected. Once he could stand, he spent a minute assessing his location. The trees were dense and the birds were singing freely. Mist trailed through the trees and a cool breeze blew, chilling his bare skin and making his various cuts sting. He heard no sound of human activity or habitation. He sighed with relief. It seemed remote enough.

Of course it is, the Wolf snorted in his mind. I'm not stupid.

Never said you were, the Man tossed back automatically. Then I'd be insulting myself, wouldn't I? ... What happened last night?

The Wolf gave off a good impression of curling up and going to sleep, which made the Man growl in annoyance. He would normally have blessed the Wolf for being so accommodating, but he was too alarmed by the blood on his hands. He hoped dearly that he didn't have any on his face, but that was likely too much to hope for. He tried to calm himself. It was probably nothing. They'd never attacked a human being before and there was no reason why the Wolf would start now. The Wolf likely got hungry and caught a rabbit or something. It happened once before, back when he was a boy. He had caught a rabbit and the remains were still warm in his arms when he awoke in the morning. Even though he saw no animal remains, he convinced himself that there was nothing to worry about. Except that his stomach grumbled suddenly. The Man winced and pressed a hand to his aching belly. Had the Wolf not eaten anything after all? He got a swift impression of the Wolf's rage last night. He had been too angry to eat. He had just wanted to destroy. The Man shivered. He dreaded what he would see, or maybe hear, when the Wolf finally decided to tell him what had happened this night. But there was nothing he could do here, in the middle of a strange forest, with no clothes, no medical supplies, and no food.

Planting his bare feet in the grass, the Man, turned on his heel and threw himself headlong into the void of apparition, his mind intent on the little cabin where he had thought the world would be safe. Once he arrived there and collected his things, he would treat his injuries and see if he couldn't get the Wolf to talk on his own. He hated having to resort to tricks with the stubborn beast.

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Monday morning was terrible for so many reasons. Professor Snape was fighting a migraine, and why on earth had he scheduled double potions with his rowdiest third year class first thing in the morning? He was sure he must have been insane for doing such a patently stupid thing, and he had probably taken a hundred points altogether from Gryffindor by the time class finally finished. He had assigned no less than five detentions, and he had no wish to take care of them himself. Collapsing at his desk when the last terrified Slytherin girl darted out of the classroom, Severus wrote off a quick note to Professor McGonegall to arrange the five detentions with Filch, because if he tried to take care of it, he would almost certainly end up hexing the unfortunate squib. He could control himself somewhat around the children, (mostly because he needed the job) but around an irritatingly blood-thirsty caretaker, he didn't trust himself right now. He massaged his throbbing head and groaned softly. He hated his life right was so unfair.

He had a young werewolf going through a hellish transformation back at his house in an induced coma, he had not slept since Thursday night, and he couldn't find one of the rarer ingredients for the Wolfsbane potion he needed to brew by the end of the month. He didn't have it at home, and he couldn't find any here at Hogwarts either. Usually, he would just go ask Dumbledore to check with his contacts if he couldn't find a rare ingredient, and the old Headmaster would have it on his office desk within the week. How he was always able to find anything Snape happened to need was a little disturbing, which was why he usually waited until he was desperate to ask the old man. He hated to depend on anybody, even if Dumbledore claimed to enjoy helping him out. However, he was still fuming at Dumbledore, and the old man had not yet alerted him that Harry bloody Potter was missing from his home. Either the Headmaster did not yet know, (meaning he was an imbecile) or else he was keeping it secret from everyone, including Severus, (meaning he was simply a son-of-a …you-know-what). He was most certainly not going to assure the old fool that his precious Potter was alive until he got some answers. For example; why wasn't the boy's neighbourhood warded against werewolves? Who exactly was it that attacked the boy? How could the boy be attacked and left to die like that without anyone going to his aid? Snape's money was on Fenrir Greyback, who had been evading the authorities ever since the last Wizarding war. The notorious werewolf had not struck in years; that he had heard, anyway. But Greyback had a reputation for infecting and running, and for specifically targeting young boys. He seemed to think that the younger they were turned, the better the monster. But something did not make sense about it. He needed to do some research. If he asked Lucius nicely, the pureblood Ministry politician might be willing to tell him if Greyback had been sighted recently. He also needed to reach out to the Magical Creatures Research Department for more information about the transformation itself. He did know that he was supposed to have mixed powdered silver in with the dittany to help the boy's transformation not be so brutal, but he had not known at the time that he was treating a survivor of a werewolf attack. It was rather too late now, although he still needed to know specifically if it would harm the boy to start taking the Wolfsbane potion right away.

A reply to the note he had sent to the head of Gryffindor House sailed onto his desk and he unfolded it.

Severus:
Are you ill? For pity's sake take a few days off and get well. Mr. Wood from your last class seemed rather concerned with your mental health. You took 85 points from Gryffindor during one class?! What is going on with you? –M.M

Snape sneered at Minerva's obvious concern. Sometimes she was a little too much like a mother lion. He turned the page over and scribbled his reply. Playing on Gryffindor sympathies was usually the best way to get her off his back. If she assumed his bad mood was from 'emotional' issues rather than something else, it was better than her dragging him to Madam Pomfrey, which she had done before. He needed to get back to his house by tonight or Potter would probably die; induced coma or not.

I have had a migraine for over twenty-four hours now. Take care of the detentions or I will not be responsible for what happens to those children. And what is going on with me? Pray tell me what the date was last Friday and then leave me alone.

He sent it off to the Transfiguration Professor with a disgusted shake of his head. His Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff N.E.W.T class was due in the next fifteen minutes and he stood up to get the classroom ready for it. Giving his pounding head another rub, he sighed and wondered if he should risk another pain potion, since headache potions did not do much for migraines. But he had already taken his limit of painkilling potions that morning when the headache refused to leave. Before he could go to the storeroom to fetch some of the more dangerous ingredients he would require soon, the note from McGonegall sailed back to his desk and he unfolded it with a flick of his wand.

Good heavens, please forgive me, Severus. I completely forgot about Lily's birthday. Do let me know if there is anything I can do. But please go a bit easier on the children. They don't really deserve to be tortured like they were this morning, do they? –M.M

Rolling his eyes in disgust at the woman's maudlin twaddle, Snape banished the magical memo to the rubbish bin and swept into his storage room. Today, his most advanced class would be making Draught of Living Death, also known to his sarcastic mind as the coma potion. Potter was currently dosed up on half-a-bottle right now. Thinking of the boy made him want to bash his head against the wall. What would he do with the boy when he was recovered enough to awaken? How was he going to finish a batch of Wolfsbane potion when he couldn't even start it without the strips of Basilisk skin? He hated having so many questions without clear answers. He wished life could be like potion-making, orderly and methodical, with predictable results every time. But life in reality was more like seven years of Defense Against the Dark Arts in this school.

In his seven years as a Professor here, he had watched no less than seven separate Professors gain the job and lose it over various reasons. There was Professor Moorland, who had a nervous breakdown during end-of-term tests and was still in St. Mungo's for rehabilitation. Snape never liked the nervous little man and his anger issues and was glad to see him go. Professor Ackridge had slowly died of a rare Chimera cancer, but at least he had been able to finish the entire year, and he was actually halfway competent. Then there was the nightmare last year of Professor Whitman, who had turned out to be having illicit affairs with no less than nine students, four of whom were under sixteen. Good riddance to the creep, he thought. Whitman had stalked Snape all year long, and it was a year, and a man, best forgotten. This year, the Defense Professor, Cassiopeia Pendrake, was an airy-fairy mystic who had quickly become best buddies with Professor Trelawney, the Divination teacher. She encouraged her students to get in touch with their feelings and reach out to poor misunderstood dark creatures. It was ridiculous. Professor Dumbledore really ought to give the position to Severus Snape, come hell or high water. The poor children weren't learning a thing. At the very least, one year of Defense Professor Snape ought to leave them with some semblance of education in that department. Whether there was actually a jinx on the Defense job or not, the least Dumbledore could do was stop hiring teachers who wouldn't last more than a year regardless, like Ackridge who was doomed to die of his illness inside of a year anyway.

He was interrupted from his musing by the sounds of a dozen seventeen-year-olds entering the classroom, still chattering and getting settled. Normally, he actually enjoyed teaching his N.E.W.T classes much more than the others, since these were children who actually wanted to focus and make potions. He took the ingredients out into the classroom and fixed the class with his signature scowl.

"Today we will be brewing Draught of Living Death," he snapped, aware that his voice sounded somewhat rough and scratchy. He put the ingredient bottles down on the desk and flicked his wand at the blackboard. "I believe you have already made this potion before, last year. But since you have likely forgotten everything you learned in the last twelve months, I have put instructions on the board. The Avoria petals are here on the desk. Begin!"

The students in their yellow and blue trimmed robes jumped to attention and moved quickly to begin their potions. Snape watched them closely, and relaxed when he noted that despite their alacrity, they were careful. This was better than his first, second and third year students, who usually ended up tripping over each other when he snapped so abruptly. He did begin to relax a bit more as the students set to work with a will, mostly silent. Though a couple of Hufflepuffs conferred briefly as one warned the other to make sure her cauldron was properly cleaned before this particular potion. He did not mind a few whispers in his classroom, so long as they were brief and only related to the class and not to some inanity that had nothing to do with potions. When the class finally finished and he had twelve bottles of silvery liquid in a row on his desk, he was in a slightly better mood. He had managed not to yell or take points, and that was an accomplishment considering how his head was still pounding.

Once the students were gone, he sagged over his desk and fought the sudden wave of exhaustion that washed over him. The wide-eye potions he had been taking during the past several days were wearing off. He slowly pulled another out of his pocket, but he felt nauseous when he looked at the poisonous-looking green potion. He would need to make more wide-eye potion later. But just the thought of more work when he was already so tired was depressing. He grasped the cork to pull it out when he was startled by a voice from behind.

"Severus?"

Snape spun around, scowling at Professor McGonegall standing in the classroom doorway. He hated being startled by anyone. "What are you doing down here?" he snapped. "Don't you have crying Gryffindors to comfort?"

The Scottish woman shook her head and adjusted her glasses. "You look dreadful, Severus," she commented severely. "When's the last time you slept?"

"None of your business," Professor Snape sneered. He uncorked his wide-eye potion and downed it to spite her.

The Transfiguration Professor squinted suspiciously at the green liquid as it emptied from the bottle. "Is that … wide-eye potion?"

"Why do you care?" Severus rasped. He blinked hard as his vision doubled for a second, and then he leaned on the desk as the world tilted. He cursed out loud and shook his head. He had overdosed on wide-eye potion probably only twice before in his life, but he thought he had a longer tolerance than this. His magic throbbed rebelliously in his chest and he realized he ought to have caught a nap last night after soaking the Potter brat in the bathtub again. The boy had been calm for hours before he had another fever spike and a bout of agonizing pain closer to the morning.

Severus was startled when he felt McGonegall's hands on his shoulders, guiding him into a chair. "…everus? Severus? Can you hear me?"

"Yes, now get off me," Snape mumbled, he reached up and rubbed his eyes, blinking as his vision returned to normal.

McGonegall gave him a gentle shake. "Merciful heavens, what is wrong with you?" she demanded, sounding both exasperated and worried. "Severus?"

"'M perfectly fine," he mumbled, and massaged his throbbing forehead. He was just tired. So very tired …

"You need sleep," Professor McGonegall said sternly. "Tell me right now when you last slept."

Snape shook his head wearily. He couldn't do this. He couldn't fight McGonegall. That wide-eye potion hadn't done anything for his exhaustion. He was overwhelmed with two urges, one to curl up on the floor and go to sleep; and the other to scream at McGonegall to leave him alone. He fought both of them and gave in.

"Friday morning," the Potions Master muttered, staring down at his hands. When did they start to tremble like that? "I slept Thursday night and woke on Friday. That's the last time I slept. Happy now?"

The woman stared at him as if he had grown a second head. She dropped into the chair beside him and shook her head slowly.

"Why haven't you slept all weekend?" she demanded, sounding horrified. "Severus! Shame on you! I know you're quite able to make yourself a dreamless sleep potion if it's nightmares or bad memories … So what's really going on?"

"I've been rather busy," he snarled. "And no, it's none of your business."

"Well, my business or not, you're taking the rest of the day off," McGonegall huffed, standing up and glaring down at him. "Are you going to sleep if I take you back to your quarters? Or do I need to escort you to the hospital wing?"

Severus glared at her and pointed his finger for good measure. "I do not need a babysitter, Minerva!"

"Oh no?" Minerva McGonegall arched a challenging eyebrow at him.

Severus glared at her for another few seconds before he lost the strength to do so anymore. He sighed and let his scowl fall of his face. "Fine; I'll go lie down," he acquiesced. "It's the only way to get you off my back, isn't it?"

The stern Scotswoman cracked a grim smile at her former student. "I still want to know what's eating you so, Severus," she said. "But I suppose I'll wait for an explanation 'til you've slept a bit."

Professor Snape shook his head at her stubbornness. "Tell you what," he said slowly. "If you keep this very quiet, I might tell you a bit of it." He frowned thoughtfully. "I may actually need your … expertise. But not one single person must know of my … sleep deprivation, understand?"

Minerva gave him a real smile suddenly. "It's a deal," she chuckled. "But I'm not sure how much help I can be in potions research. That's what's been keeping you up nights, isn't it?"

Snape treated her to a Slytherin smirk and stood up. "I suppose I'll tell you when I return to the land of the living." With that, he swept out of the classroom like the bat he was so often compared to. He paused at the door and waved his wand at it, putting up a sign for his next two potions classes of the day. He rarely used such a sign, but much as he hated to admit it, McGonegall was right. He needed to go lie down before he suffered a nervous breakdown or worse.

Due to extenuating circumstances,
the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw fourth-year and Slytherin-Gryffindor
second-year Potions classes scheduled for today have been postponed.
Classes will be rescheduled and alerts will be given to affected individuals by noon tomorrow.

-Professor Snape

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Potter's condition was mostly unchanged. Severus Snape sighed and sat on the edge of his own bed, toying with his wand. The boy appeared to be doing alright, all things considered. After he gave the boy the antidote to the coma potion, (he wanted the boy to wake soon under his own volition) he spelled a nutrient potion into the comatose child's stomach and performed an elimination spell on his bladder. He was lucky that the medi-wizard tests included an extensive section of properly caring for patients in comas. He wasn't sure he would have bothered with such a section if it had not been required. After all, who could imagine Severus Snape tending to the needs of helpless unconscious strangers? Yet here he was: tending to Potter's brat himself. Poor old James must be spinning in his grave; either that or laughing at him. Snapesnorted at himself. Sleep deprivation had gone from making him grumpy and moody, to giddy and goofy. He definitely needed to get some restat once before he went completely barmy. Setting a magical alarm to wake him at seven the next morning, he transfigured the chair beside the bed into a cot. It was close to Potter so he could wake immediately if the child started another of his screaming fits. The simple transfiguration had seemed to use up all of the magical reserves he had left. Feeling a sudden wave of weakness and exhaustion, Severus collapsed on the cot and snagged the extra blanket off the foot of his bed before he dropped into oblivion.

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He woke to pain. A lot of pain. Everything hurt, even his hair. Wait, could your hair hurt? The boy did not know. Or was he a boy anymore? Hadn't he died? He could not figure it out. His body felt like it had been taken apart and thrown back together, and he could feel agony throbbing in a marching beat along the seams where he had been sewn back together. He felt hazy memories swimming through his mind, but he couldn't be completely certain that they were his. Had he really run straight toward a giant brown wolf to save Dudley Dursley? That just sounded stupid. Dudley was nothing but a fat bully and it was his own fault that he got attacked by the giant dog-wolf. After all, it was Dudley who started the stupid Harry-hunt.

More memories seeped into the boy's tired brain and he twitched his hands. Yes, they were still attached to his ; he thought he remembered the big dog biting him. Did the giant monster rip his throat out? Was that why his throat hurt so badly? He moaned softly, and although the sound was rough and hoarse, his throat seemed to be intact. Breathing hurt, and there was pressure wrapped around his ribs. He couldn't remember breaking any bones this time, but he couldn't be sure. His bones ached. Everything ached. He wondered if that being-torn-apart-and-getting-sewn-back-together had actually been true. He twitched his feet and winced at the sudden pain in his left side. At least his feet were still attached. The old one-legged man who used to hang around the park before the coppers ran him off said that the worst thing about waking up after the war was trying to move a limb that wasn't there anymore. The boy was reasonably certain that he still had all his limbs.

He frowned and realized that his face hurt just as bad as the rest of his body, and he wondered for a wild moment if he was actually dead and just waiting to be picked up by the angel of death, or something. But didn't you have to have your name in a book to get into heaven? What if he couldn't remember his name? He had a few seconds of blind panic before his wandering brain rebooted.

Harry, the boy thought fuzzily. My name's Harry. Where am I? What happened?

Realizing with some relief that he was actually live, Harry decided that it was time to wake up and figure out where he was. It was awfully quiet, and he was lying on something big and soft. He was covered in warm blankets and despite the pain throbbing throughout his entire body, he was very comfortable. It was a struggle to open his eyes. How in the world could his eyelids hurt so bad? He hated the pathetic whimper that escaped his throat, and he swallowed down any other sounds that might have come up. His mouth tasted nasty and his stomach roiled with nausea. He forced himself to take a deep breath, but his lungs and his chest exploded in pain. He moaned louder, and forced his eyes to open, blinking hard at the tears that stung them.

Everything was blurry. Well of course, dummy; you don't have your glasses on, he scoffed at himself. But even without his glasses, he could see wooden rafters, peeling plaster, and water stains on the flat ceiling, and when he turned his aching head, he could tell that he was a lying on a large bed in a moderately sized bedroom. It was just getting light, if the rosy colors leaking through the curtains were any indication. Harry shifted slightly and whimpered as pain raced across his skin and through his bones. He had never felt so achy before in his life, not even when he had pneumonia last winter. He froze as he heard another noise. It was no more than a sigh, but it sounded too loud, and too close. He whipped his head around in terror, and froze.

Lying on a cot beside the big bed was a tall, dark-haired man he had never seen before. The man's head was facing away from him, but Harry was certain he had never met a man with such greasy hair seemed to be sleeping, and Harry immediately swallowed his tears. His heart thudded painfully fast and he gasped at the horrible agony that lanced through his ribs and across his back. His arms felt like they weighed about a thousand pounds, but he managed to pull them from under his covers and wrap them around his aching chest. That helped a little, but every movement hurt and Harry clenched his jaws tightly against any cries. Uncle Vernon said only good boys deserved sympathy. Bad boys had to be quiet, even if they got hurt. His uncle hated it when the Freak cried, and Harry did not want to make this new man angry by waking him up. Of course, Harry wondered how he had gotten here. Would the new man hurt him? He had another horrifying thought. Had the man hurt him while he was sleeping? Was the man planning to keep him here in this strange house just to hurt him? His uncle had told him before about kidnappers and explained in detail the kinds of things creepy men would do to boys they kidnapped off the streets.

Harry shut his eyes tightly and shuddered. He nearly choked from the effort of keeping himself from crying or making any sounds. The sleeping man would not be happy if he got woken up, and then he would probably punish Harry like Uncle Vernon did when he was a bad boy. To keep quiet, he imagined that he was in his cupboard, and that made it a bit easier. But the bed was so comfortable and his body was so tired and he hurt so badly that the tears inevitably rolled down his face. Soft sounds of his distress escaped his throat, though he kept his mouth shut tightly. He thought he heard a faint chime like a high-pitched grandfather clock. Mrs. Figg had a bunch of clocks in her house, and Harry had loved hearing them all chiming together like music when she babysat him. The sound calmed him a bit, but when the noise stopped, he heard a different sound. The man was awake and getting up. He cringed and held his breath, but it was hard, because he still hurt so bad and felt so achy and teary.

There was a soft rustling as the man got up from his cot, and then Harry heard a soft gasp from very close and the boy trembled, keeping his eyes shut as tightly as possible.

"Potter?" the man spoke somewhere above him. His voice was smooth and silky and deep; strangely mesmerizing and almost, gentle. The sound of it sent shivers up and down Harry's spine and he let out a sob before he could stop it.

"I'm… s-sorry …" Harry whispered. He realized that his throat hurt a little when he tried to speak.

"You're finally awake," the man sounded … happy about it. That was odd. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were never happy with him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he gasped and stiffened. The man's voice came again. This time, he sounded very stern. "Potter, if you can hear me; open your eyes."

Harry obeyed, squinting up at the dark-haired man bending over him. The man had a large nose and very dark eyes like the bottomless wells of treacle in Alice's Wonderland. But although his pale, thin, scowling face did not look kind, he did not look cruel or hateful either. He was looking down at him like a doctor would; not overly concerned, but not indifferent either. Harry relaxed a bit, and his muscles practically screamed with relief. The man wouldn't hurt him, he was pretty sure of that. He usually had good feelings about people and could tell if they would be cruel to him or not.

"Can you move? How do you feel?" the man asked calmly. He reached out his long, thin hand, touching Harry's forehead and cheeks for some strange reason. But Harry had seen Aunt Petunia do that to Dudley when he complained he felt sick and she would say that he didn't have a fever. Was the strange man checking him to see if he had a fever? It was too confusing. Didn't this man know that he was a freak who didn't deserve to be touched?

"I … h-hurt," Harry whispered. "I'm f-fine, though," he added quickly. He didn't want the man to think he was a crybaby. He could handle a little bit of pain. He just needed to rest.

"You most certainly are not fine," the man grumbled, his sallow face pinching into a scowl. "Arrogant brat. Now, answer me truthfully: where does it hurt?"

Harry blinked up at the man in confusion. Why should anyone care where he hurt? Nobody had ever asked him that before and he wasn't sure how to answer it.

"Potter?" the man said in a slightly louder tone. "Did you hear me?" He sounded worried. Odd that, Harry thought. Nobody worried about the Freak.

"Yes sir?" Harry whispered. He blinked at the fresh tears that kept pooling up in his eyes and blurring his vision even more.

"I asked you where you are in pain. If you don't want to answer me …" the man trailed off, narrowing his fathomless dark eyes at the carefully scrutinized the boy's face. "I'm going about this all wrong, aren't I?" the man said slowly. "You've just come out of a coma, for Merlin's sake. Can you tell me your full name?"

Harry nodded. "I'm Harry," he whispered. "Harry Potter."

"And how old are you?"

"I'm …" Harry had to think about that one. "I'm nine?" he guessed. "Or … I think, almost nine."

"Close enough," the man muttered. "I suppose you are fully cognizant after all. Now, let's keep this simple for that little brain of yours," he sneered. "I'm certain you are in a great deal of discomfort at the moment, but try to focus now and tell me just one thing: where do you feel the most pain?"

"I … alright, sir …" Harry whispered. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Talking to the stern man took his mind off the pain a little, so it felt likehe wasn't hurting quite as badly as before. "My chest … hurts," Harry finally whispered. "I feel like I was sewed together … Was I?"

"Ah," the man murmured. "Well, you could say that. Hold still." His slender hands reached toward Harry and gently pulled the quilt down before he openedthe boy's shirt. With a jolt, Harry realized that this big dark blue shirt that he was wearing was not his at all. The boy blushed deeply when he realized that he had no other clothes on besides the funny open shirt like a bathrobe and he reached out to keep the quilt covering him, at least up to his waist.

"Relax," the man snapped in annoyance, batting his hands away. "I need to examine your injuries and apply more salve."

Harry froze obediently, though he kept his hands tangled in the blanket for safety's sake. He had to protect his modesty, he thought. He didn't want the stranger to be tempted to hurt him. That's what Uncle Vernon said once last year. For a second his vision darkened and he saw his uncle's bloated face and its creepy expression, sneering at him as he shakily pulled his pants down for a thrashing. 'You tempt people like a little whore, don't you? I'll just have to punish you worse for tempting me like that ...'

Harry shivered with dread and blinked his vision back to normal, but thankfully, the man didn't try to pull the quilt down further.

Instead, the strange man took a funny little stick out of his sleeve and pointed it at the boy's chest. Curious, Harry looked down at himself and noticed that his ribs were wrapped in clean white bandages. The man mumbled something quietly, though Harry couldn't understand what he said. It sounded like a different language. Harry gasped as he watched the bandages around his chest suddenly unwinding by themselves, without any outside force touching them. The white cloth finished unwrapping,exposing his bony chest, which had big, angry-looking red gashes on it. He didn't like it. Bandages didn't unwrap themselves. It was freaky. It was wrong. Uncle Vernon would be so mad.

"Bad," Harry whimpered. His ears rang and his vision clouded with panic, and he gasped, struggling to breathe. "Bad freak, bad, bad …" he mumbled, his eyes scrunching tightly to avoid Aunt Petunia's glare. She hated it when he was a freak. Uncle Vernon was going to thrash him again. It was bad. He was a bad freak and he was going to get it now. "Bad, bad, bad freak …" Harry babbled, shuddering all over and starting to convulse in his panic.

"Potter? Potter!"

A strong, frightening hand grabbed his face and Harry felt the glass rim of a small bottle being pressed to his lips. He was terrified, but he didn't have the strength to fight. His head was tilted back and something slimy and flowery-tasting slid into his mouth. He choked and gagged, but smooth fingers were gently massaging his throat and he obediently swallowed. Immediately, he felt better. He could breathe again and his muscles stopped seizing in panic. He could smell chamomile and ginger close by, along with the scent of clean sweat and something else he couldn't identify. It wasn't familiar, yet it was strangely comforting. Unconsciously, he leaned closer to the arms still wrapped around him. One strong arm was around his shoulders, supporting him, while the other hand was resting on his shoulder, the one that didn't have a stiff bandage on it. The man was calling his (last) name again, so Harry reluctantly opened his eyes, blinking up at the strange man's face. The man didn't seem to mind when Harry's hands fluttered nervously on his arm.

The man simply stared down at him with an odd expression on his pale, thin face. "Are you alright now, Potter?" he asked in a careful tone.

Harry blinked, unable to remember if he was alright or not. He squeezed the cloth of the man's long sleeve in his trembling hands, struggling to remember why he felt so panicked and scared. What had happened? He remembered the word 'Freak', but he was so confused. Were Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon here or not? Something bad had happened; he was sure of it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Harry whimpered. His self-control broke and the tears came gushing out. He clutched the man's sleeve tighter and sobbed like a baby. Now the nice man knew what a freak he was and now he was going to throw him out of the house. Or worse, maybe the man would take him back to the Dursleys and tell Uncle Vernon what a freak he had been. His uncle would thrash him so bad he wouldn't be able to move for a week.

"Potter? Blast it all …Harry!"

The boy flinched in surprise at the sound of his first name from a stranger's lips. He stopped crying and gazed up into the man's dark eyes again. He trusted this man, he realized. Why he trusted this stranger, he had no idea. But the man's voice was soft, his hands were gentle, and he gave the freak boy medicine. He asked where it hurt and if he was alright. It could be a trick, but Harry was too tired to care. The man was nice, and he didn't want to disappoint the man by being difficult.

"Yes, sir," Harry croaked. "I'm sorry, sir, really sorry …"

"For heaven's sake!" the man grumbled, gently setting the boy back on the pillow, peeling Harry's fingers off his sleeve and straightening up. His sallow face had twisted into an annoyed scowl. "What in the world are you apologizing for?"

Harry blinked. Hadn't the man seen his freakishness? Didn't he get annoyed when Harry started crying like a baby? "I was … I was bad …" Harry whispered fearfully. "I'm sorry …"

"Stop!" the man held out one hand in a halting gesture and pinched the bridge of his large nose with his other hand. "Honestly, boy; what's got into you? Getting attacked by a werewolf was hardly your fault, waking from a lengthy coma in a highly emotional state is nothing to apologize for, and I'm not going to hurt you, so stop looking at me like I'm a rampaging mountain troll!"

Harry just stared up at the man, who was glaring down at him now. Sure, he might have been afraid the man might hurt him back when he first woke up, but that was before he gave him the flowery medicine and let him hold onto his sleeve while he cried. He knew the man wasn't going to hurt him. It was odd, how safe he felt with this stern, greasy-haired man and his funny little stick.

"I know," Harry whispered hoarsely. "I know you won't hurt me."

"No, I most certainly will not," the man huffed. He pulled out his weird stick again and bent over Harry again. "Now, perhaps I can finish your exam without you descending into hysterics again!" He waved his stick in odd patterns and whispered something. Harry heard a scratching noise, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. Maybe the man had mice. "I suppose you have plenty of questions," the man said suddenly. He glared when Harry flinched at the sudden sound of his voice. "Don't children your age usually talk nonstop?" he demanded. "Why don't you ask, and I will do my best to answer you. It will help if you have a distraction while I put more salve on these wounds."

The man was going to let him ask questions? Grown-ups were always telling him to shut up, not encouraging him to babble! Harry decided he would do his best not to be annoying, and since the nice man gave him permission, he may as well see if he could figure some things out.

"Th-thank you sir," Harry rasped. His voice sounded rough and scratchy and made his throat hurt more. But Aunt Petunia was always telling him to speak up, so he wasn't going to whisper his questions. "I'm sorry, sir, but who are you? Why'd you help me? And where am I?"

The man began waving his stick and muttering under his breath again. He looked up at the boy and his dark eyes flashed with what might have been amusement.

"My name is Severus Snape, but you may address me as Professor," the man answered in a dry tone. "I found you bleeding to death in the middle of the street and brought you here so I could patch you up. You are in my house, which is a good deal further from your home than you might think. Do you know where Cokeworth is?"

Harry blinked and shook his head. "No sir," he whispered, and then remembered that he was supposed to be speaking a little louder. "Are we … are we very far from Little Whinging, sir?"

"I'm afraid so," the man smirked. "You're a polite little brat, aren't you?"

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He had been called a brat before, lots of times, but never polite.

"Any other questions?" the man asked, going back to his stick-waving.

"Er, no sir …" Harry hesitated, paying attention now to what the man was doing with the stick. "But, um … Sir? What are you doing, sir?"

"You may stop saying 'sir' over and over," the man grumbled. "I told you to call me Professor. Don't apologize!" he warned the boy, looking up with a flash in his dark eyes. "And I'm running diagnostics."

"Sir … Professor," Harry said carefully. "What's dia … diganoss …?"

"Di-ag-nos-tics," the Professor smirked again. This time, he definitely looked amused. "I'm casting spells that will tell me how your body is doing. So far, you seem alright enough for what you've been through. How do you feel? Achy? Tired? Hungry?"

"I …" Harry closed his eyes to better assess his condition. He had never had to put his discomfort into words before, and it was hard. "I feel … achy. And sore. My bones hurt. Everything hurts, actually." He cringed, wondering if he was whining too much.

"To be expected," the Professor shrugged, continuing his stick-waving. "Anything else?"

Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief before something the man had said suddenly registered. "D-did you s-say s-spells?" Panic descended on him again. Spells were bad, magic was bad, freakishness was bad; Uncle Vernon was going to kill him. It was hard to breathe and he could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

His brain still caught the man's exasperated reply, although he hardly saw the man look up and give him a curious glance. "Yes, of course; I'm a wizard like you."

Harry fainted.

HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP~HP

Yes, I know; I'm evil for leaving such a cliffhanger. But don't worry, Chapter 3 is coming on Friday. Let me know what thoughts you have!