Harry swayed, then collapsed painfully at Snape's feet.

Just before he passed out, he realized he had vomited on Snape's shoes again.

Oh. Damn….

I looked down. Yes, he had managed it again. I Vanished the vomit and decided I had never liked these shoes anyway. I would dispose of them.

I conjured a stretcher and lifted him into it. He was far lighter than he should have been. I also realized, from the murmured protest and involuntary flinch when my hand touched his side, that the boy had broken ribs.

Perhaps I should pay another visit to the Dursley household later, once they had returned home…it was a pleasant thought. My fingers curled vindictively.

The infirmary was empty. I recalled, with sinking heart, that Poppy Pomfrey was visiting her sister. I ignited the fire and stuck my head into it to see if Dumbledore was back in his office yet. He had damn well better be, a part of my brain was hissing. I couldn't see him in his office; perhaps he was in his private chambers. One of the portraits turned to look at me: a former headmistress, who looked just like Minerva McGonagall would in twenty years time.

"Ah, Professor Snape," she said. "Professor Dumbledore requested me to inform you that he will be away for some days. He asks if you would be so kind as to keep an eye on Harry Potter until he returns."

I cursed. No help from Dumbledore, then.

I considered my options. My teeth began to grind. I could not think of a single person who was currently in residence at Hogwarts. Even Hagrid was off somewhere in France with his hideous female counterpart.

I looked at Potter. He was still unconscious; I supposed Apparation was probably bad for head injuries.

Damn. He could not be left on his own, clearly. I was going to have to take him back to my own chambers. And care for him. The thought was terrifying. Although not as terrifying as the look on Dumbledore's face would be if I abandoned him to isolation in the hospital wing. The boy would probably die of his injuries just to spite me.

At least the house elves would still be here and could tend to his more personal needs.

Thank Merlin for small mercies.

Odd moments of awareness overtook Harry. Cool hands, stroking soothing lotions into his skin. Fevered heat. The sickening reeling of the world when he attempted to open his eyes. It was easier just to lie there in the darkness.

Except when the darkness rose to greet him wearing Voldemort's face. Or worse, Cedric's, with blank fish-like eyes: dead eyes, in a face that followed Harry however much he tried to turn away. Or worse even than that, Sirius' face, as he fell backwards through the Veil, laughing, laughing and dying all at once. Then Harry knew he was yelling, and tossing aside sweat-soaked covers. Cool hands, and a cool voice, calming him back to less troubled sleep. A sleep without the faces.

He was screaming again. I lay down my scroll in resignation. It seemed that every time I sat down, he would yell. Or it would be time to apply some of the healing creams. Or force a potion down his throat. Or brew said salves and potions, a delicate and time-consuming activity. I had barely slept in four days.

The cause of my exhaustion was flinging himself about in a way that would undo all my efforts to mend his battered body. At least this time he wasn't babbling inanely on and on about 'the faces'. Again, I touched my fingers to his brow. I murmured to him. Again, it seemed to quiet him. For a moment, his eyes flickered open. They were unseeing and transfixed by some horror that haunted his rest, which I could guess at all too well. Then he subsided into more settled sleep.

I wished I might do likewise.

I wondered what the wizarding world would think if they could see him. This was the Boy Who Lived. The one who had mysteriously thwarted and survived the Dark Lord on several occasions. The one they desperately hoped would work another miracle, and somehow see off the Dark Lord for good.

Sleeping, he looked simply young, and very thin. His skin, under the fading bruises, was almost translucent. He looked fragile. Vulnerable.

I preferred him this way. Unconscious, he did not plague me with his stupidity and his arrogance.

Even that solace was soon to be denied me, however.

The next time he surfaced from oblivion, those green eyes made the attempt to focus. His hand searched frantically, presumably for his wand. He looked wildly around with his short sighted peer.

"It's all right, Potter," I drawled. "No need to panic. You are back at Hogwarts."

He subsided slightly. I supposed, with his history, panic was a natural reaction to awaking somewhere dimly lit and unknown.

I walked over and gave him his glasses. He still looked both nervous and defiant, as if he might need to jump up and defend himself from me at any moment. This was distinctly irritating since I had been waiting hand and foot on the brat for days.

"Professor Snape." His voice rasped. "Wh- what am I doing here?"

"You have been ill for some days, Potter. Madam Pomfrey is on holiday, as are the other members of staff here at Hogwarts. Therefore, you have been recuperating in my chambers. You were not fit to be left alone."

Was I actually justifying myself to the whelp?

"Oh." His brain was obviously struggling to process the information that he had spent the past several days in my care. I could hardly blame him for that. I was still struggling to come to terms with that knowledge myself.

"Er – "

"Yes, Potter?" I sighed. I had been right. Potter awake and recovering was going to be even more tedious than Potter practically in a coma.

"I need the bathroom," he blurted out.

I silently pointed him in the right direction and watched with professional interest as he tried to get up. There was no sign that his fading bruises still pained him. The ribs had been a little tricky, since I was no medi-wizard, but I appeared to have managed.

He was weak, of course. So I should have anticipated what followed. He stood, took one wobbling step, and crashed head first to the floor.

So there we were. Potter sprawled helpless at my feet yet again. At least this time he wasn't vomiting.

Isn't life just spiffing.

When lucidity first returned to Harry, after his days of unconsciousness and uneasy sleep, it brought with it confusion in equal measure. He did not understand where he was or how he had come to be there. In a reflex action, he groped for his wand. As he blinked anxiously around, he took in a blurry figure whom he knew instantly was Snape, just from the way he was standing.

Why was he in bed in a dungeon room with Snape?

Still puzzled and suspicious, Harry took his glasses from Snape's outstretched hand with a grateful murmur. For some reason, this stirred a memory he could not quite recall. He could not imagine why he was here, of all places, and Snape's explanation only increased his agitation. If he and Snape had been alone at Hogwarts, and he really had been sick all that time, that meant it must have been Snape who had looked after him. Snape. Looking. After. Him.

Harry also became aware that his bladder was full. How, in the past few days –

No: he really couldn't think about that.

He stood up to cross the room to the door Snape had indicated, and realized more or less instantly that it had been a mistake. Awareness seemed to whoosh out of the bottom of his head, and he knew he was falling.

He didn't lose consciousness altogether, though. Through the grogginess, he was aware of Snape picking him up. He could also hear Snape muttering to himself. Phrases like "idiot boy" and "bloody typical" seemed to feature quite prominently.

"Perhaps you should try sitting quietly for a few moments before leaping across the room, Mr Potter." Snape advised him politely. "I would prefer it if you avoided getting another concussion. It rather spoils my vacation."

Harry grit his teeth. This was hell. Weak, ill, and left to Snape's tender mercies. He wondered bitterly where his friends were when he needed them. As so often, Snape appeared to read his mind.

"Don't panic, Mr Potter. This is not intended as a permanent arrangement. Now the Weasleys are back in London, I would already have deposited you at the Order Headquarters except you were too ill to travel. I can assure you," Snape's voice went silky, the way it usually did when he intended to be particularly insulting, "sending you on your way would be greatly to my preference."

Harry could relate to that. His head seemed to have settled into more normal patterns, though. Cautiously, he stood up. The room did not swing upside down and fall on his head this time. He took a tentative step: and nearly fell again. This time it was his knees that gave way.

Snape snapped out his arms and grabbed Harry before he could tumble to the floor again. This time the word "nuisance" could clearly be heard in his muttered complaints. Harry found himself supported across the room by Snape's surprisingly strong arms.

"I stop here, Potter," Snape snapped at the bathroom door. "If you can't manage, call the house elves. And try not to fall over, will you?"

Harry rested his arms on the bathroom sink and examined himself in the mirror. There were signs of bruising. He frowned. What…? He tried slowly to process his memories. He had been at the Dursleys. He had been having a horrible summer. That would probably explain at least some of the bruising, but…Next thing, here he was, embarrassing himself by fainting at Snape's feet. In his private chambers, no less.

By the time Harry was hauled back to bed by Snape, he felt too tired to press the issue. However, he really did want to fill in those gaps and find out what had happened to bring him here.

With Snape.

Harry sank back into sleep with incredulity still the dominant emotion in his brain.

I supposed it was mildly amusing to observe his horror and disgust at finding himself in this situation, with me. Really, yes, quite funny. I ignored the odd sensation which resembled disappointment. I had not expected appreciation, after all.

He really was too thin, however. I had become even more aware of this when I half-carried him back to bed. He had been skinny when he arrived; although I had since dosed him with innumerable sustaining potions, he still seemed wasted.

I requested the house elves to prepare food suitable for an invalid, and cast a charm on it to keep it hot and fresh for a few hours. I congratulated myself on my foresight, when next he awoke, for he was hungry. I would not allow him to eat too much, too fast however. I knew what the consequences of that might be, and I was rather attached to the comfortable slippers I wore around my own apartment.

When he had completed his meal, he ran a hand through his rumpled hair, and gave me a number of sidelong glances.

"Yes, Potter?" I decided I deserved the Order of Merlin on grounds of patience if nothing else: such as suffering the Dark Lord's displeasure to save the free world. "What is it?"

"What happened?" he asked. His face was heating, as if he were embarrassed by his lack of memory. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

Ah. Yes. What had happened. I presumed, however unpleasant his relatives may be, it could only cause him distress to find they had damn near murdered him. Given the secondary complications that had arisen, I had serious concerns that the Boy Who Lived, and saw off the Dark Lord, would have become the Boy Who Died, locked beaten and sick in a cupboard by his Muggle uncle.

My mood darkened. Those Muggles, I promised myself, would be dealt with. I could not say these had been the worst days of my life. I was after all a former Death Eater. However, I had certainly suffered considerably more trouble and anxiety than was acceptable to me. I could not, however, leave the Castle while shackled to my involuntary charge squirming on a chair in front of me.

He was still shooting me those nervous looks. I sighed, and took in a breath.

"Professor Dumbledore," I began, keeping my tone carefully chill, "asked me to collect you from your relatives.."

Ah. He knew where this was going. He clearly remembered that much, at least. His shoulders had tensed and he was staring fixedly at his hands. I continued.

"When I arrived, your uncle ran away, and I discovered you locked in a cupboard under the stairs. You had been beaten."

There. Now he knew. I stroked my chin with my long fingers. Was that…oh save me. The boy was crying. Entirely silently, with shaking shoulders, tears were pouring down his face as he slumped at my dinner table.

I was going to have a long conversation with Albus Dumbledore when he returned about just what kind of tasks I was prepared to undertake. Threat to my life and personal safety was considerably easier to deal with.