A Season for Healing

By Dien

Summary: Circumstances lead Harry Potter to stay with Severus Snape for the summer before his seventh year-- a development neither of them expect to be happy with. But they both have a lot to learn about each other... and a lot to unlearn. And perhaps, in the process, they can each find some healing.

This will eventually be a romance piece. You have been warned. Don't read if the thought of Harry and Severus bothers you.

Rating: The series overall has an adult rating due to the Severus/Harry plotline... This part is G.

Notes. To Cedar: Oops. I think ya caught me on the question of Severus's clothes... Well, it's nighttime. A cold nighttime. So there!

Chapter One. In which our heroes catch a ride on wizardly transportation, and have a little conversation.

Severus Snape took a deep breath of the cool night air, forcing his tightly clenched fists to loosen and his teeth to un-grit. Those Muggles had been lucky that Potter had been watching the whole scene, or he might have let himself do far worse than simply threaten and use a mild Petrifying Curse.

But the scene had aroused considerable anger within him, stirred up memories and emotions he thought he had left well behind. Only his long practice at keeping his true thoughts and words firmly under control, under the mask he presented to most people, had enabled him to stay calm and professional in there, with those people...

Just thinking of them, especially of Vernon Dursley, made him want to snarl again. He entertained a brief mental image of seeing how that... scum... would react to Crucio...

And then Potter cleared his throat hesitantly, and Snape realized he was standing there on the Dursleys' doorstep as if he had nothing better to do. He forced himself back to the moment.

"Singularly unpleasant relatives you have, Potter," he said coolly, turning to look at the young man.

"You don't have to tell me," said the boy with a faint smile, then quickly added, "sir."

Snape ignored it and looked down at Potter's trunk and things with displeasure. "You can't Apparate yet, can you?" he asked.

"No, sir. We're supposed to learn this year."

"Hmph. I suppose there's nothing for it-- we'll have to take more... tedious forms of transportation." Irritation plain on his face, the Potions Master made his way purposefully down to the street, hearing Potter moving after him.

Once at the street, he held out his wand hand in the proscribed manner for summoning that god-awful form of so-called Transportation known as the Knight Bus.

That done he folded his arms and waited, not looking at Potter.

For a few seconds they stood there in awkward silence, Harry looking at the ground, Severus looking straight ahead of him. Then Harry asked the question that had been bothering him.

"Uh, Professor Snape?"

"What?"

"Why... um, well, why were you here tonight?"

Snape shifted impatiently. "As I said. Dumbledore sent me to inquire as to why you hadn't received or replied to your mail."

"Oh."

The silence resumed, heavy over the street. Before it could grow too oppressive, however, a flare of bright headlights shone down the street, and the large, violently purple bus approached rapidly. It pulled up in front of them with a screech of brakes and the muffled roar of an engine at idle, the doors swinging open.

"Knight Bus, at your service," a professional-sounding voice said inside. "Transportation for the stranded wizard or witch. Need a hand with any luggage?"

Severus closed his eyes unhappily. Thank God it was dark out, or the brutally ostentatious décor of the blasted bus would have bothered him more than it already did.

"Yes," he said, with a jerk of his head back at Potter's full hands. The attendant jumped out and quickly started loading Potter's things. "Get on, Potter."

He followed the boy onto the bus, saying curtly to the driver, "Two fares to Brennigan Moor-- without the hot chocolate, if you don't mind."

"Right then. Two for Brennigan... that'd be thirty-two Sickles," the driver said with a look at his co-worker that seemed to say, We've got one of those sort on board tonight.. Snape ignored it and dug the money out of one of the coat pockets, glad he'd had both Muggle and wizarding currency on him.

Potter was already sitting down on one of the beds near the back, looking a bit uncomfortable, and Snape wondered if he'd ever ridden the Bus before. But he didn't suppose it mattered.

Beds. Why couldn't the damn thing have chairs as well? He certainly didn't intend to doze off for a little nap, and beds are neither dignified or comfortable seating. Snape muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath and stalked to the bed opposite of the one Potter had chosen, pulling out his wand.

"Conjurare cathedram," he snapped, and a medium-sized armchair dutifully appeared at the foot of the bed. He turned the chair so it faced the front of the bus, sat down, and lapsed into a moody silence.

Thankfully there were few passengers on the bus, and all, with the exception of Harry and Severus, were fast asleep.

Harry sat cross-legged on his bed, too many things filling his mind to try and sleep. He was grateful that this unfamiliar version of Professor Snape wasn't trying to engage him in any conversation-- that would have been too strange, not to mention awkward. What could the two of them possibly have to talk about, even if Snape wasn't biting Harry's head off every time he spoke to him?

He wondered where they were going. Where or what was Brennigan Moor? Was it worth it to ask? For that matter, where would he be staying for the rest of the summer? And why, if this wasn't a dream, had Snape been so displeased with the Dursleys?

Harry sighed. Not the sort of questions you could just ask Snape... who, even if he was... restraining the usual sarcasm towards him, was still acting quite in character to everyone else. As in: terse at best, cruel at worst.

The Potions Master was currently staring forbiddingly ahead with an attitude that suggested asking him a question or disturbing his sacred sulk would be akin to inviting a dragon to eat you. Not that Harry even really wanted to talk to him-- just get answers to his questions.

Harry sighed again and looked down at the quilt beneath him, using one finger to idly follow a thread for a few minutes.

His face hurt. Not the only part of him, either. But the bruises on his face were by far the most noticeable and conspicuous, and he gave a little inner flinch. How delighted Snape must have been to see them. The current lack of malice notwithstanding, Snape still hated him-- he was quite sure of that. He'd seen the look in Snape's eyes too often at school, seen the satisfaction Snape got in twisting the knife, seen too much of the man as a bastard to quite accept the current... what was it? A truce? Yes, that might be the best way to describe it.

Harry bent his tousled dark head to the bedsheet once more, focusing on the pattern. It kept him from... thinking...

His hair was falling in his eyes, and he thoughtlessly lifted a hand to brush it back, forgetting what the movement might expose. The loose, too-large sleeve of his sweater slipped down his arm, revealing the marks there. Five of them, dark against the light skin of his inner wrist.

Harry heard the sound of a quick, sharp intake of breath from Snape's direction. Before he could process it, Snape was standing there before him, staring down at him. The professor grabbed his hand firmly and began examining the exposed bruises.

The boy bit back an exclamation of surprise and fought the urge to pull away as the surprisingly strong hand held his own unmercifully. Snape's dark eyes were unreadable as he gazed wordlessly at the fingerprints.

The professor's other hand, slender and deft of touch, came up to Harry's wrist, and his long fingers brushed softly against the marks. Harry again fought the flinch, the desire to yank his hand from that ruthless grasp and cover up the incriminating marks.

But in an instant, as if by magic, the hand released him. He drew his hand into his lap, back into the sleeve, where Snape couldn't see it. He realized he was shivering slightly and kept his gaze firmly on the bed sheet, not daring to look up at Snape, standing by his bed like some silent spectre.

"Your uncle?" Snape said in an amazingly soft tone, and Harry trembled. What the hell was Snape's game? He shot a glare up at his professor--

--and stopped.

The face that looked down on him held... concern. For him. From Snape.

The only part of his Potions Master's expression that he recognized was the fury glittering in the obsidian eyes. But not rage directed at him.

It was a bit of a world-shatterer to realize that Snape was genuinely angry with the Dursleys for the way they had treated him. Harry had to blink several times before he remembered that Professor Snape had asked him a question.

"I... yes," he said eloquently, his voice not seeming to work at all. Above him, Snape's expression hardened, and Harry suddenly thought that if he was in Uncle Vernon's place, he'd never, ever, ever want to meet Snape again.

"And your face?" said the voice, somewhat less gentle but still concerned. Harry shrugged.

"Partly him. Partly Dudley-- my cousin. Partly Aunt Petunia."

Severus did a double take. "Your... aunt?" he said skeptically, thinking with mild disbelief of the skinny, shrill woman-- not the type he generally associated with physical abuse. He was surprised to see Harry's lips quirk in something like mixed amusement and embarrassment. "She threw a frying pan at me and I forgot to duck," the boy muttered sheepishly.

The professor made a soft noise that might have been a snort. "I see."

A moment's silence, then; Snape staring down at Harry, and Harry staring anywhere but at Snape. The young man untucked his legs from under him and brought his knees up to his chest. Harry clasped his hands together in front of his ankles and rested his chin on one knee, a pensive expression on his face.

The pose and the expression made him look a child again, a first-year fresh to Hogwarts. Severus closed his eyes. So young... and yet so old.

"It's not like they actually... beat me, you know. Not exactly," Potter's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to look back down at the boy.

"Then what, 'exactly,' is it like?" Snape snapped, some of the customary harshness creeping back in, but Potter ignored the acid, went on in that thoughtful, solemn tone.

"Aunt Petunia... Well, she's Aunt Petunia. If she wants me disciplined, she leaves it up to Uncle Vernon. The frying pan thing was just, well, she sort of lost her temper that day.

"Dudley's a berk-- but that's to be expected. He trips me in the hallway-- that sort of thing. But he doesn't hit me-- hasn't since my second year, I don't think. He's scared.

"And then there's Uncle Vernon. He... he's... I think it's mostly just the way he was raised. 'Spare the rod, spoil the child,' and all that," Harry said with a short, bitter laugh, his right hand moving to his bruised wrist. "And he doesn't know his own strength.

"But it's not like they abuse me or anything. Not like the stuff you hear about in the papers," the boy finished, looking up at him with the strangest expression. Earnest and hesitant and insistent and broken, all at the same time.

Severus snarled something low in his throat and made an impatient gesture with his wand. The chair slid quickly over and he sat down, never taking his eyes off Potter's own.

"Don't you dare defend them," he hissed angrily. "Don't you even think about justifying or rationalizing for them. I will not sit here and listen to you apologize for them, because that is the same thing as admitting they are right about you. Do you understand me, Potter?"

Harry stared at him, taken aback by the intensity of his professor's words, but nodded slowly.

Severus blinked and made himself sit back in his chair, closing his eyes and wishing to all the gods that they were there already.

Damnation. What had he gotten himself into? Damnation indeed-- especially upon those wretched Muggle relatives of Potter's. Before tonight, it had been alright to hate Potter, simply and without complication, without any stupid shred of pity or moral quagmire-- as long as he didn't let himself think too long or analyze too deeply his reasons for that hatred. But now. Now. After he had made the mistake of feeling sorry for the little bastard...

It was going to be considerably harder to summon up the usual fury, the spite and rage and desire to stomp on that bloody Gryffindor arrogance that so characterized his dealings with the boy. Harder, after tonight. Snape felt a headache coming on and raised a hand to massage his temples.

Bloody hell. He'd been... justified, somehow, before the little twit had stood there on the doorstep looking so vulnerable, looking so beaten. It had been alright to despise him as long as Potter had been able to glare back, saying with his eyes what he didn't dare say to his face for risk of losing House points.

But now. After that look the boy had given him, trying to plead and convince all at once. Desperately seeking something from him that he wasn't sure he knew how to give. Almost laughable, really; Potter seeking consolation from him. Laughable indeed... if there had been anyone else for the boy to turn to.

At least he had had Albus Dumbledore as a boy. A better choice by far for the title of gods-be-damned Comforter.

Snape pressed his head back into the fabric of the chair, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips pressed together in an uncompromising line. His hands curled around the carved wooden armrests in mute exasperation, and for a while he sat there, nursing anger and dark thoughts and images of his father until he forced himself off that path. He knew all too well where it led to, where it would lead to, if he allowed himself to keep following it.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Potter was half-curled up on the bed, his eyes closed and his breathing steady in the deserved sleep of the just.

Severus spared him a glare of pure envy before expelling a weary sigh and wishing for sleep himself, sleep that was unlikely to come at any hour before midnight.

And it would be nowhere near as peaceful a slumber.

Harry woke slowly, at the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked up blearily into Snape's face, momentarily confused as to whereabouts and circumstances. Sitting up and looking around produced only unfamiliar surroundings: beds and windows, all lined up... an armchair surreally planted next to his bed...

"Get up, Potter, we've arrived," a sharp voice interrupted his dreamy state. He yawned and obediently swung his legs off the bed and onto the floor.

Beds. Floor. Chair. Windows. His mind, reluctant at being wakened, gave a half-hearted attempt to sort those images into some sort of coherent order, but it was considerably easier to go where he was told to. A dark figure that he was pretty sure was Professor Snape pointed him in a direction, he stumbled where indicated, then down the stairs and out into the night.

The chill air woke him with a start. Cold, more than cold enough to make him wish for a jacket or coat, but he'd neither and stood outside the Knight Bus stamping his feet as his luggage was placed before him. With full wakefulness came back the memory of the evening and what it had entailed. He shot a glance at his watch, last year's Christmas present from Hermione. The dial's glow read a little after one in the morning, and he couldn't stifle another jaw-cracking yawn.

Looking around him in the pitch-black night didn't reveal much. The only light came from the bus, just enough to let him see a patch of asphalt-- a deserted Muggle road-- the gravel turn-off from it that he and his luggage were standing on, and a wall of foliage to his back.

Snape got off the bus and moved away from the door so that the attendant could clamber back on board. Almost immediately, the bus roared into life once more and drove off down the highway, her crazily weaving tail-lights visible for a few seconds before the bus blinked out of existence on her way to other destinations.

The night was immediately quieter, colder and darker. Harry heard Snape mutter "Lumos" and the dark, at least, fled in a small radius from the tip of the Potions Master's wand. Harry blinked in the glow, rubbing his upper arms in the cold air and looking around again.

"Where are we?" he felt confident enough to ask, and Snape started.

"That's right, I hadn't told you. This," he said with a vague gesture of the wand to the surrounding area, as he stepped forward past Harry to the trees and bushes behind him, "is Brennigan Moor. Some miles west and north of York. My family home."

Harry turned, and saw behind him that which he hadn't noticed before: a large, wrought-iron gate that Snape was currently unlocking with a wave of his wand and a muttered spell. The gate creaked open slowly, and Snape turned a somewhat irritated gaze on Harry.

"I didn't think to have the bus take us all the way to the house, so we'll have to walk up the driveway-- it's not too far," the professor said in a tone that was actually a bit apologetic.

Harry nodded philosophic acceptance, and bent down to pick up his things. Snape made a little tch-ing noise, and said, "Don't bother. That's what spells are for," and suited action to words with a levitating charm. Harry's things rose and floated obediently off the ground, following him when he took an experimental step forward.

He turned back to murmur brief thanks to Snape, but found the professor eyeing him skeptically. "Don't you have a coat, Potter?"

Harry winced, thinking of the tremendously ugly puke-green raincoat thing with holes in it that was his legacy from the Dursleys, currently stuffed in the bottom of the duffel. Or he could dig out his winter cloak from the trunk, either option requiring the luggage to be set back down on the ground. "Well..." he started to say.

"Never mind," Snape said tersely, rolling his eyes, and quickly shrugged out of his long dark coat. "Here. Put this on. It's a short distance to the house, and you appear to need it more than I do."

Harry blinked. Snape was holding the coat out impatiently, and he took it a bit hesitantly. Conscious of Snape waiting, he put it on.

It was rather large for him, considering that his natural slenderness had been increased by the slim diet at the Dursleys', and the fact that Snape was still taller than him by several inches. But the warmth of it was delicious on his chilled skin.

And it smelled wonderful. The dark wool seemed to carry all the best smells from Potions class. Nothing overpowering, just subtle aromas...

A hint of woodsmoke. Mint. Something citrus. Sassafras. The delicious spicy burning subtlety of dragonscales. Leather. Cinnamon...

Harry wanted to close his eyes and just breathe of the heavy warmth and lovely smells of the coat. Some part of his mind shook its head in disgust, screaming something like Hello this is Professor Snape's coat you are wrapping yourself up in, the ugly git we all hate remember? but he wasn't paying much attention. On this oddest of nights, nothing was too unusual. He thought he might feel different in the morning, but he'd worry about that when it happened.

He focused. Snape was already walking through the gate, and with a quick glance to make sure his luggage was following, Harry followed after him.

It was an odd walk, in the dark; with the only lights the soft glow from Snape's wand and the stars overhead. The moon was hidden behind tattered clouds that swept across the sky, only occasionally showing her silver face-- though when she did, it was nearly as bright as daylight. Harry took advantage of those moments to try and look around, but was aware of nothing more than open, fairly flat terrain around him, dark shapes in the distance that might be trees, and the gravel road under his feet. He trudged after his instructor, neither of them breaking the late, late silence with words, and the walking became automatic as Harry's sleepiness settled in again. Automatic to lift your feet, to stumble occasionally over a larger stone or uneven space, and you could have been doing it forever, never had anything but this odd dreamlike journey from nowhere to nowhere in the dark, the glow bobbing ahead of you, leading you on further into the dream until even Time hesitates to follow you...

He ran smack into Snape's back when the older man stopped, and stood there blinking for a second, adjusting his glasses and coming back to himself. Snape was eyeing him from under a sardonic raised brow, and Harry managed to mutter an apology before the moon, with a perfect sense of timing, chose that moment to break free from her dark cage again.

Harry felt his jaw drop open but was too busy staring to do something about it. When Snape had said 'family home' Harry had visualized something along the lines of an older, two-or-maybe-three story Victorian thing, a little shabby around the edges... not... this. The word 'house,' he felt, was misleading, and he'd have been more comfortable with 'ancestral home,' 'manor,' or even good old-fashioned 'castle.'

Old, and stone, and big as all get-out. They were standing in front of a handful of steps that led to a massive front door of oak. It reminded Harry a bit of his first year impression of Hogwarts. Though this castle was not as big as the vast School, it vied for the title of imposing. Harry caught a glimpse of towers, turrets, windows, and lots of carved gargoyles and the like before the moon returned to hiding.

Harry followed Snape wordlessly up the stairs. His professor approached the door, which swung open as if it could sense him-- which it probably could, wizard doors being what they were. Candlelight from inside flickered out over the landing, and Harry hurried after Snape to get inside.

It was blessedly warm inside, and Harry felt his eyelids more than beginning to droop again. There wasn't a lot to see anyways-- only a very few candles were lit inside, and he got little more than an impression of an immense, high-ceilinged room with some furniture scattered around. Then he heard a pattering of little feet, and forced his eyes back open to see Snape speaking to a house-elf, then pointing at Harry. The house-elf nodded, scurried over to Harry, and grabbed his hand.

"Master Harry is wanting to be sleeping, yes?"

Master Harry attempted a whole-hearted yes, but yawned instead.

"Then Master Harry is coming with Tobble, and Tobble is showing him to a room!" squeaked the creature, and immediately started dragging Harry off towards a staircase. Too tired to argue, the boy let himself be drawn along after the elf, up stairs and around corners and through doors that all blurred together, until finally he was led through a door and into a bedroom.

The elf released his hand, and Harry stood blinking for a few seconds as soft lamps flickered into life, revealing a room he'd have to examine more later. For now, the only feature of interest was the large four-poster bed.

He wobbled towards it and fell forward, sinking gratefully into the soft surface. Within moments he was blissfully asleep. Tobble the house-elf regarded him skeptically for a few moments, then pried off the sleeping human's shoes, extinguished the lights, and softly closed the door.