Chapter five - What is your substance, whereof are you made

Severus looked down at the boy, sleeping again, eyelashes shadowed crescents on violet bruised skin. It was, he was fast discovering, always 'why' with Harry as if the child couldn't bear not to know. He had been on his way to bed, finally, when he'd felt eyes on his back, a lifetime as a spy had made him turn to look, and see Potter watching him with all of the wonder of a five year old faced with a fairy – it had stopped him in his tracks that look, wondering if Harry's sanity had slipped away even as the boy had reached out and doubled over in pain.

Those ribs would have to be fixed, he just wasn't sure how, he suspected they'd need re-breaking. It was the boy's response to his touch that worried him most – Harry just relaxed, let go, as if her were immensely trustworthy. And that really wasn't safe. After all, they were at odds most of the time. He sighed but he did, technically, own the boy, and the child knew it, and seemed to, need it.

He gritted his teeth, and walked into his bedroom, he was thinking in circles, nothing useful would come of constantly swinging around and around the same maypole of thoughts, he knew exhaustion when he felt it. And this was it dragging at his limbs like lead weights clouding his thoughts and making his neck ache. Still fully clothed he lay down on top of his bed, and let sleep claim him.

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"Severus………"

Hissing syllabants made his name a sensuous noise, like the caress of leather over skin but his muscles tensed, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up like a frightened cat, his eyes came open quickly and he rolled over to come face to face with. Potter. The boy's eyes were watching him with interest, a slightly detached interest, but jade eyes scanned him in a slow sultry up and down that looked, just wrong. He sat up, swiftly and met those eyes, and they were almost – glazed.

"Potter" his own voice was sharp as he looked around, it was dark, wherever they were, dark and cold, there was a wind coming from nowhere and the scent of damp carried on the chill. Neither were good for a boy who had recently attempted to take his own life, but Harry didn't look concerned, a chill shuddered up his spine again as he met the Boy Who Lived eyes "where are we Potter?" in response to his demand lids covered green eyes for a moment in a drawn out blink and a puzzled wrinkle formed between messy black eyebrows "we're here professor" the boys answer sounded, young, bewildered. Perhaps whoever had caught them had hit his head.

Delicate fingers, marked with Quidditch calluses reached out towards him, and he had a flash of déjà vu, the boy had tried this earlier before he'd been doubled over by pain – he let his own fingers drift up to brush the boy's, a poor attempt at reassurance, for either of them, but he felt, something like warmth steal into him followed by a snakebite of pain that made his hand jump back in instinctive withdrawal and those green green eyes cleared into something like shock "Professor? You shouldn't be here" then they hardened into glacial ice "I don't want you here" and one hand lashed out and shoved him backwards with more force than he'd believed possible from the broken youngster, he tumbled backwards……………

And woke up.

Panting at the sudden change in scenery he sat straight up in bed, still clothed. His innate time sense told him that he hadn't slept for very long – a blessing in disguise if Harry was going to give him nightmares, he rubbed absentmindedly at his hand feeling a twinge of phantom pain and then looked down, on the usually moon pale skin of his hand was a mark like a scorch mark as if he'd touched something and been burned- on the place Harry's dream fingers had brushed him.

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"Something you don't want me to see Harry my love" Harry turned, slowly, from the place where his Professor had been black eyes watching him in concern and confusion. His head felt clearer than it had in a long time, and he gently slid his fingers up to touch the black velvet rope that encircled his throat, a brand of ownership, belonging. He knew Snape didn't understand, if he belonged to him then he was his property, and he knew from arguments and accusations about potion ingredients that his Professor took things that belonged to him very very seriously.

And he so badly wanted to belong.

"Ahh" as he finished turning a sigh of satisfaction left carmine lips and glinted in crimson slashed green eyes "I see now" he looked up into that face shadowed slightly be artfully tousled midnight hair before the other boy knelt and gently ran a finger around the velvet of the collar and those lips quirked upwards into a Slytherin smirk "giving yourself away Harry love, how typically Gryffindor of you, tell me, if death won't take you, my lion, why would Severus – he doesn't even like you – you don't like him. And death, my sweet boy, death does like you he wants to keep you and claim you for his own"

Harry looked into those blood splattered eyes, and had no answer to give

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