Chapter 6

Severus nods his head periodically as the old wizard in front of him babbles on about Merlin knows what. He isn't listening. And why should he? After Albus betrayed the Potter girl, Severus lost all respect for him. He barely recognizes the man in front of him.

In spite of this, Severus knows that he must keep up appearances. He is still in debt to the man- as he will always be – and therefore he knows he must sit here and play along with the charade.

"How is Alastor doing?" Severus asks. It is a question borne out of obligation more than anything else. Severus has never particularly cared for Alastor Moody, even the real one. But after Moody's recent rescue from the trunk in the Defense professor's office, he felt that he should at least seem interested in whether or not the man had survived.

"He's doing well," Albus says, his eyes twinkling. "It took him a few days, but I think he's nearly back to his old self. He's understandably a bit more paranoid than before."

"I wasn't aware that the man could get any more paranoid," Severus drawls.

Albus chuckles softly, but it is clear that he's still upset that he didn't rescue his friend sooner. The old man hadn't taken action against the fake Moody until he'd seen the man walking toward the forbidden forest moments after Potter had been rescued. Crouch had attempted to disappear in the midst of all the chaos, but Albus had the man bound before he was able to apparate back to the Dark Lord's side.

"I'm sure you wish to inquire about more than just Alastor," Albus says, raising an eyebrow.

Severus feels his lips twitch in irritation. It is hard to get anything past the old man. He decides there is no point in pretending any further. "I wanted to ask you about Potter."

He can't help being worried about the girl. After all, he'd watched her being tortured and done nothing. He'd seen her struggling in the hospital wing. It was natural for him to be concerned. Or at least that's what he kept insisting to himself.

"She's fine, Severus. I made sure to speak with Petunia about what happened. She understood that Ms. Potter may be quite fragile for a while. I'm sure she's handling the situation."

Severus smirks bitterly, remembering so many fond memories of Petunia from his childhood. He'd seen the older girl berate Lily until she'd run to Severus crying on more than one occasion. Petunia was never a kind or caring child, and he suspects that she is just as awful as an adult.

"As much as I trust Tuney," he says, spitting her name as if it is a vile word. "I don't think the girl was ready to leave the hospital wing. She was obviously still in distress and wasn't even able to sleep without the assistance of a potion. Don't you think that someone should at least check on her? With the return of the Dark Lord, I assumed Potter's safety would be more important than ever."

"The wards protect her. And if she were ever in life-threatening danger, I would be alerted."

"You've set up charms for her protection?"

"They've always been there, and I've never once been contacted. She's safe there," Dumbledore says sternly, daring Severus to challenge him.

"If you insist."

Severus decides to leave the matter alone for the time being. After all, arguing with Albus has never gotten him anywhere before.

It isn't until the old man's head appears in his fireplace during the dead of the night that he realizes he should have fought harder for her. Again.

"Severus! Come quickly!" Albus's frantic voice yells from the floo. "It's Harriet!"

He's so startled by the sudden noise in his silent, empty quarters that he nearly drops the bottle of fire whiskey that he'd been nursing all night, but he doesn't bother to growl in irritation at the older man's lack of manners. In a matter of seconds Severus appears in the headmaster's office where a shrill siren blares. Albus thrusts out a shiny, green portkey, his hands shaking slightly. Severus wraps his hand around the thin piece of metal and the two of them are whisked away. They land on the Dursleys' front lawn.

"Point me, Harriet Potter," Albus instructs. His wand tip explodes with light, and as if suddenly magnetic, it pulls him toward the back yard. Severus lights his own wand in response and sprints to follow the old man. Shadows cast by his jostling wands send scatters of light and shadow dancing across the dew-covered lawn. In the distance, he spots something hovering in the air.

Severus can't breathe.

Potter is swinging listlessly from the branch of an ancient oak. Her hair is strewn over her face like an ebony mask, concealing her expression. Her skin is a glowing white that makes her appear almost translucent. Is this what muggles imagine when they think of ghosts? She's the most haunting sight he's ever seen.

Severus stands frozen in front of the tree as Albus slices the rope with a flick of his wand. He watches as the girl floats slowly toward the ground. Albus is immediately at her side, placing a protective charm around her.

"Clean this up," Albus instructs without looking at him.

"Is she-" Severus begins shakily, but Potter and the headmaster have already disappeared, leaving behind only a crack.

Burning. She's burning. Flames assault her from the inside. White, hot pain radiates up her esophagus, and her hands fly up to her neck before her eyes have even drifted open.

Am I dead, she thinks. No. Death would not be so painful. She would not be capable of feelings. She would not exist.

She squirms and twists in the darkness, clawing at her bare throat with dirty fingernails. She needs to make a hole. She needs to let the flames out.

"Ms. Potter! No!" A frantic voice screeches.

Large hands restrain her, and she tries to scream.

"Calm down, Harriet," A deeper voice pleads.

She opens her mouth to tell them, to let them all know she's on fire. "I'm burning," she mouths, but no words escape her. Only a raspy rattle that reminds her of nails scraping across a chalkboard.

Light floods her vision as her eyes shoot open. Dumbledore's worried face greets her.

"Don't try to speak. You've damaged your vocal cords."

She motions to her throat, her eyes bulging wildly.

"I know it hurts, Ms. Potter. The pain should be numbed in a few minutes," Madame Pomfrey assures her.

The mediwitch's words do not soothe her. The burning is all consuming. And even when it begins to subside, even when the flames are put out, she still feels pain; just pain of a different kind.

So much for being free, she thinks, and lets her eyes drift closed again.

"Harriet," Dumbledore says gently, interrupting the tense silence.

She lies there, unmoving. She doesn't want to speak to him. She doesn't want to speak to anyone.

"Harriet, open your eyes," he urges. He sounds very tired, and perhaps a bit sad. Harry wonders why.

Very slowly, she does as he says, and blinks away the harsh lights that assault her again. When the black dots fade from view, she stares blankly at the headmaster.

The wrinkles on his face seem more pronounced than ever, and for the first time she wonders how old he actually is. How long do wizards live anyway? Will I be forced to live this life for another hundred years? Or two hundred? She shudders at the thought.

The old man's dry lips part slightly, but he doesn't speak. It's as if he can no longer remember how. His mouth hangs open until finally he utters a single word. "Why?"

She knows that he doesn't expect her to speak. His question is purely rhetorical, but she wishes that he would understand why she had to do what she'd done, and why she would ultimately try to do it again.

"I'm tired," she croaks, in a voice even quieter than a whisper.

Dumbledore nods, allowing her to drift back into unconsciousness, but she can feel the disappointment radiating from him. She wonders if he realizes that she answered his question after all.

In the days that follow, Harry is filled with potions that allow her to rest peacefully. She does not dream. She is left in a near constant state of listlessness so deep, that in her brief moments of consciousness, she wonders if she has been comatose. Not that she would mind. She enjoys the deep, serene sleep. It is unlike anything she has ever experienced.

But soon, this sleep comes less and less. She feels herself emerging from the wonderful haze, growing closer and closer to reality. Why must all good things end? Why can she never be left in peace?

Harry knows that she is fully awake now, but still, she waits stubbornly, refusing to open her eyes. Don't move. Don't move. Don't move. Harry chants to herself, holding her breath. She listens closely, but she doesn't hear whispered voices or the steady tapping of feet on the floor. She prays that she is alone. Eventually, curiosity gets the best of her, and she tentatively peers around the room. It's empty. There is no one here to force feed her potions, to tell her to lay still, or to bombard her with questions. She breathes a sigh of relief.

She is reminded of the last time she laid in this bed. The bitter sting of her throat now was bearable compared to the pain she'd felt between her legs and across her chest. The room is identical to when she stayed here last. Exactly the same. Her eyes flit around the room, slinking over the familiar objects. From the single, small window, to the cart of medical supplies, to the other empty cots, and then back to the window. She turns her head in rapid succession to see each one. Harry whips around to look at the door, the floor, the ceiling. She feels her breathing speed up. Her hands travel frantically over the thin sheet on the bed, the slick fabric of her hospital gown, her own pale, cold skin. The heavy sensation of panic settles in her chest.

She needs to get out this bed, this room, her own body. Now.

Harry launches herself out of bed, swaying slightly when her bare feet make contact with the rough, stone floor. Her knees buckle slightly, and she clutches the side of the bed to keep herself upright. She ignores the high-pitched ringing that begins in her right ear and steadies herself.

She begins to walk. First slowly, and then, suddenly, much faster. She paces from one end of the infirmary to the other. Her heart pounds thunderously in her chest, and her palms grow slick with sweat. I have to get out of here. I can't stay here. Her skeletal fingers tangle around a mass of long, black hair and tug. Hard. She lets out a strangled cry of frustration when a small clump of strands slips from her hands and sways drunkenly toward the floor. The brief sting of pain in her scalp does nothing to relieve the tremendous pressure in her chest.

But where to go? She knows she can't make it out of the castle before someone finds her.

Where? Where? WHERE? She stops.

Then the answer comes to her: Where it is safe.

Damn the Dark Lord for doing this to a child. Damn Dumbledore for not listening to me. Severus sighs. And most of all, damn myself for not doing anything to stop this.

In the week since Potter was admitted to the infirmary at Hogwarts, Severus has been throwing himself into preparing potions for the girl during the day and throwing himself into his bottle of fire-whiskey during the night. Neither of these things seem to be fixing his problems.

Potter is still in the infirmary, injured in body and mind. She will live, yes, but what quality of life will she have? His potions will help numb the pain in her throat, they can help her get some rest, but they won't do anything to keep her from harming herself again.

Severus can't bear to look at the small lump in the infirmary bed any longer. His guilt is so strong that he's begun to unload his potions on Poppy when he catches her in the halls, just so he won't have to enter the infirmary. He doesn't want to see Potter with her sorrowful green eyes. He doesn't want to see the dark bruises on her pale skin or the sickly way that her collarbones poke out from beneath her hospital gown. He doesn't want to hear her croaking cries or to watch her lip tremble in the brief moments when she wakes from potion-infused sleep. He doesn't want to think of her at all. Never again.

And because he is so desperate not to see the girl again, she appears almost immediately. What in Merlin's name! he thinks as he catches sight of her long black hair billowing behind her as she darts down the hall. Without thinking, he breaks into a run after her.

Severus has never been a fan of running. He'd never been athletic. As a child he'd been lanky with limbs that always seemed disproportionate in comparison to his torso. He'd had to run a few times from his father, and many times from Gryffindors in his early years at Hogwarts, but as soon as he'd been old enough to apparate, he hadn't felt much need to take part in such trivial exercise.

It doesn't take long for his legs to start burning with exhaustion, but lucky for him, Potter is in no condition to be running. She's small and injured, and far too frail for such vigorous exercise. Looking severely winded, she stops to rest near the staircase to Gryffindor Tower, panting noisily and clutching at her throat.

Careful not to frighten the child any more, Severus approaches slowly. The girl glances up at him timidly. Then she lets her head drop toward the floor. She looks defeated.

"Ms. Potter, what do you think you're doing?" He asks calmly.

The girl does not lift her eyes from the floor as she answers. "Just exercising," she croaks weakly, and then promptly breaks into a coughing fit.

Of course, even in this state the brat is unnecessarily sarcastic.

Severus kneels against the wall and waits for her coughing to cease. "I assume Madame Pomfrey wasn't informed about your… exercise."

The girl purses her lips and then nods.

"Then I think you'd better get back to the infirmary before she notices that you're gone."

Potter turns to him then. She stares longingly, as if wanting to say something. She opens her mouth, sputters something that sounds like "please," clutches at her throat, and then goes silent again.

"Something to say, Potter?"

The girl nods.

Severus pulls a piece of parchment from his robes and conjures a quill. "Write it down," he says, handing them to her.

Her thin fingers reach out hesitantly, as if worried that he will pull the objects away at any moment. Then she begins to write. Severus waits patiently as ink smudges across the surface of the parchment. He struggles to read it when she holds it out.

She has only scribbled one messy sentence: Please don't make me go back.

Severus scoffs at her incredulously. "You have to go back to the infirmary. You are not well enough to leave," he tells her sternly.

The girl hangs her head in submission, and he isn't sure what to do. He's afraid she might start crying. That would make him terribly uncomfortable.

Why must I be the one to deal with this?

"Come on, Potter," he finally says, a bit more gently. And to his surprise, the girl gets up from the floor without arguing and follows him.

The very next day, when he sees the girl under nearly the exact same circumstances, he is much more annoyed. This time, she has just made it to the door of Gryffindor tower when he appears out of the shadows and latches onto her thin arm.

"Did I or did I not inform you this behavior would not be tolerated?" He hisses.

The girl flinches away from his touch, shivering slightly. Her breathing is erratic. Her eyes are wild. She has clearly reverted back into panic mode. Severus attempts to force down his anger. He takes a deep breath.

He had known that Potter would pull this stunt again. That was why he'd placed a charm on the infirmary door. If Potter passed through it, his wand would chime once, alerting him that she was on the move. And sure enough, as soon as Madame Pomfrey had gone to lunch today, he'd heard the chime.

"Come with me," he tells her once her breathing has returned to normal. And she does.

This routine continues for the remainder of the week. Each day at noon, when the mediwitch leaves for lunch, Potter tiptoes out of bed and rushes toward Gryffindor Tower. Each day, Severus lets her get a little farther. He is genuinely curious about the girl's intentions and he wonders if she has something stashed upstairs in the tower. Probably her father's damn cloak.

And each day, he wonders why Dumbledore has not placed more precautions to ensure her safety. Surely, he isn't stupid enough to believe that the girl is just going to stay in bed and follow directions. It's Potter for Merlin's sake.

But with each passing day, he gains a bit more respect for the girl. Despite her apparent lack of will to live, there is definitely still some fire left in her. She's stubborn, and so he believes that there is still hope for her.

On the sixth day, as he ushers the girl back into bed for what feels like the hundredth time, he looks down at her with a grimace.

"The only thing you have to do is stay in the hospital wing. Why do you always insist on making things difficult?"

The girl shrugs lazily. Potter seemed much more comfortable around him as of late, and he wasn't sure what to make of her behavior. When he caught her today, she appeared to be expecting it. She didn't even flinch when he approached this time. She just frowned slightly and narrowed her eyes in irritation as if he was a pesky gnat that wouldn't stop bothering her.

"Write it down, or I'll tell the headmaster what you've been up to, and he'll make sure you never leave this bed," Severus bluffs. He has no intention of mentioning this to Albus. After all that has happened, he can no longer trust the man's judgement.

She appears to consider his ultimatum for a minute. But then she huffs, grabs the paper on her bedside table, and writes.

I hate it here.

That's exactly what her father would say. I'm slaving away all night over potions for this brat, and she doesn't show the slightest bit of appreciation, he thinks, irritation creeping into his features. She's being waited on hand in foot, lazing about in bed all day.

Severus rolls his eyes. "Dramatic as usual," he mutters and sighs. "Why do you hate it here, Potter? Not getting enough attention?" he asks sarcastically, using the sharp voice he's spent time perfecting in his Potion's classes.

The girl pulls back, her expression shifting as if he's struck her. She carelessly drops her quill and parchment over the side of the bed, flinching when the quill strikes the floor with a sharp crack. Then she curls up on her side and pulls the threadbare sheets up over her face.

Shit. He'd been trying to keep his scathing remarks to himself, and he'd been doing a decent job of it lately. It was just hard to be sympathetic toward her when she was writing words that could have come straight from James Potter's spoiled mouth.

For years he'd reveled in making that look appear on the girl's face. But now it hurts him like a punch to the gut.

"Potter," he tries again. When she doesn't appear, he reaches down and plucks the sheets from her head.

He's greeted by pained green eyes. His own expression softens. "Why do you hate it here?"

The girl turns away from him, clenching her eyes shut and curling her skeletal arms around herself.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me why."

She appears to be thinking very carefully, as if deciding whether or not to lie. But then her mouth settles into a stoic line, and she begins to speak. "Every time I wake up in this room… It reminds me... Can't get him out of my head…. Just want to go home." Her words are raspy and disjointed. She whispers so quietly he can barely understand her.

"I see." Severus pauses. "However, you were just at your relative's house and that clearly did not go well."

"No," she croaks. "Not there. My dorm."

Severus is taken aback. He can think of no rational reason that the girl would feel more comfortable in an empty dormitory than in the home she grew up in. "Your dormitory? Why?"

"It's home," she says, clutching at her bandaged throat. And even in her hoarse voice he can hear the deep sentiment behind her words. She is telling the truth.

"You… You would feel more comfortable there?"

She nods.

"I will mention it to the headmaster."

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