Left Behind

by swamygliders

Abandoned at a run-down orphanage by the Dursleys, Harry struggles with fresh injuries and a growing sense of betrayal. Confronting a world of unfamiliar faces and hesitant kindness, he cautiously navigates the bustling corridors and guarded smiles of Little Haven Orphanage. With his pillowcase of scant belongings, Harry steps into a new chapter fraught with uncertainty.

2. Chapter 2

Another long one! Sorry, couldn't help it!

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The air in the entryway grew tense as Harry and Snape stared at each other. Harry's grip on his crutches tightened, the dull ache in his hands fading beneath the unease settling in his chest. He hadn't expected to see anyone from Hogwarts—not here, not like this—and the sight of Snape standing on the orphanage's doorstep sent his thoughts spinning.

Snape's eyes flicked downward, stopping briefly on the crutches before moving back up, taking in the way Harry stood—too rigid, his shoulders drawn tight in a way that spoke of more than just surprise. His usual look of disdain was still there, but something else crept into his expression, subtle yet undeniable. The crease between his brows deepened as his gaze lingered, not with its usual sharpness, but with something closer to concern. It was fleeting, barely more than a flicker, but Harry saw it before Snape schooled his features into their familiar severity.

"Potter," Snape said impatiently, "I am here to collect you. The Headmaster was notified you left your relatives' residence and sent me to bring you back."

Harry's heart sank. His grip on the crutches tightened, his palms sweaty against the worn handles. "Back?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "To the Dursleys?"

"Do not make me repeat myself," Snape said coolly, his glare landed on the doctor before returning to Harry. "Your antics have already disrupted enough of my time. Collect whatever meager belongings you have, and we'll leave at once."

Dr. Winslow stepped forward, placing himself between Harry and Snape. The relaxed stance was gone, replaced by a sharpness as he stood taller, his shoulders squared. "I'm sorry, but that won't be happening," he said firmly.

Snape's eyes narrowed, his face darkening as he regarded the doctor. "And who, precisely, are you to make that determination?"

"I'm Dr. Winslow," he replied evenly. "I'm the physician here, and I've been overseeing Harry's care since his arrival. More importantly, I witnessed firsthand the state in which his relatives left him after they abandoned him here."

The words landed like a blow. Snape's expression barely shifted, but Harry noticed the faint twitch of his jaw, the tightening of his hands at his sides. He turned back to Harry, quieter but still sharp. "Is this true?"

Harry hesitated, his throat dry. His eyes darted between Snape and the doctor before he nodded. "Yes," he said quietly. "They left me here."

Snape's eyes remained locked on Harry, unreadable but sharp. He shifted slightly, the fabric of his overcoat brushing against the floor. "You say they abandoned you," he said slowly as if trying to piece together a puzzle. "Was it after one of your usual stunts, or perhaps you provoked the wrong person again?" He glanced briefly at Harry's ankle, the question more for himself than for Harry.

Dr. Winslow frowned, his posture firm as he remained between Harry and Snape, blocking Snape's view entirely. "That's enough," he said sharply. "I don't know who you think you are, but this conversation is over. We're leaving for the hospital now. We have an appointment to keep."

Snape turned toward the doctor, his eyes narrowing. "That won't be necessary," he said curtly. "The boy's injury is serious but easily treatable here. I have more expertise than any general practitioner you will find."

Dr. Winslow frowned, his shoulders set as he kept himself firmly between Snape and Harry. "Excuse me? Treatable here? Who are you to make that call?" His tone was sharp, his stance making it clear he wouldn't back down. "This isn't up for debate. Harry has a badly broken ankle, and he needs proper medical evaluation—X-rays, treatment plans, and possibly surgery."

Snape's face remained in his trademark mask, though his lip curled ever so slightly. "I assure you, such measures are unnecessary. I can repair the break fully and without pain." He looked back at Harry, who looked as though he wanted to shrink into the crutches. "Potter, you can confirm this. Speak."

Harry's heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. He opened his mouth, hesitating as the throbbing pain in his ankle made itself known again. "I—" he began, but Dr. Winslow cut him off firmly.

"Harry doesn't need to say anything. He's in my care now, and it's my job to make sure he receives appropriate treatment. You can come back after we've been to the hospital if Harry wishes to see you."

Snape's face darkened further, his shoulders stiffening. "You are wasting time and allowing his suffering to persist. I can mend his ankle within moments, with no need for your crude medical procedures."

Dr. Winslow straightened, his frown deepening. "Crude? You clearly don't understand how serious this is. Harry's injury could involve torn ligaments, nerve damage—things that can't be 'mended' with a quick fix." He stepped closer forcefully. "Now, unless you're a licensed doctor or surgeon, I suggest you leave and let me do my job."

The tension between the two men was palpable. Harry felt caught between them, his hands gripping the crutches tightly as the pain in his ankle flared with every small move he made. Snape's jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might lash out. Instead, he drew a slow breath, his face settling into something cold and calculating.

"Very well," Snape said icily. "Take him to your hospital, waste your time with unnecessary procedures. But understand this—I will return, and this matter is far from over."

Dr. Winslow didn't respond. Instead, he turned to Harry, softening into a comforting smile. "Let's go, Harry. We're running late."

Harry nodded but couldn't help glancing back at Snape as he hobbled toward the door, the crutches digging awkwardly into his palms. Snape stood unmoving, his sharp glare fixed on Harry with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

But what could he have said? Harry stared at the ground, his thoughts spinning. He couldn't exactly explain to Dr. Winslow that magic was real and Snape could heal his ankle with a flick of his wand. Even if he tried, he wasn't sure he could find the words to make it sound believable. He was in no shape to argue with anyone, and he doubted Snape would've appreciated him dragging the truth into the open in front of a Muggle.

Dr. Winslow guided Harry to the car, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder as Harry awkwardly lowered himself into the seat. Every time he moved, it sent a fresh jolt of pain through his ankle and ribs, making him grit his teeth to keep from groaning. The crutches clattered as he placed them across his lap.

As the door shut and the car pulled away, Harry couldn't resist one last glance at the orphanage. Snape remained in the doorway, his dark figure framed by the morning light. Even from a distance, Harry could feel his stare, a silent promise that this wasn't over.

As they turned onto the road, Harry sat stiffly in the passenger seat, his back pressing against the seat in a way that made his ribs ache. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the discomfort, but the motion sent a dull, stretching pain across his torso, forcing him to breathe slower. His ankle throbbed in protest every time the car hit even the smallest bump.

The discomfort was almost welcome, though—it gave him something to focus on besides Snape. Harry could still see him in his mind, standing in the orphanage doorway in dark, well-worn Muggle clothes that somehow seemed just as severe as his usual robes. The sharp lines of his coat and the dark slacks only made him look more out of place, and yet Snape had carried himself like he belonged there—like he was in control of everything around him.

Harry let out a slow breath, careful not to jostle himself too much. The steady hum of the car, the muted city streets passing outside—it should have been grounding, but his mind kept circling back to Snape's expression. The way he had looked at him, not just with irritation but with something else, something calculating. Harry tightened his grip on the crutches across his lap, unsure what conclusions Snape had drawn—but certain that he wasn't done with him yet.

Snape had been angry. That much was obvious. But there had been something else beneath it—an awareness Harry wasn't used to seeing from him. It wasn't just irritation that Snape had to come fetch him, but something closer to scrutiny. Like he was trying to figure out how Harry had ended up there, crutches and all. The thought made Harry's stomach turn, and he shifted slightly in the seat, flinching as pain jolted through his broken ankle.

Dr. Winslow glanced over as they stopped at a red light, his curiosity evident. "That man—Professor Snape, you said? What exactly is his connection to you, Harry?"

Harry turned to look out the window, watching the morning unfold outside. A couple passed by on the pavement, their quiet laughter carrying through the open air. The world outside seemed so ordinary—people going about their day, completely unaware of the chaos Harry had been swept into.

"He's a teacher," Harry said after a pause, his tone steady but distant. "At my school. The headmaster must've sent him to come find me."

Dr. Winslow's frown deepened slightly as his fingers tapped the steering wheel. "The headmaster? How would he even know you weren't with your family anymore? You've only been at the orphanage since yesterday."

Harry felt the question hit harder than it should have. How had Dumbledore known? Harry hadn't been able to send out a letter to anyone. The Dursleys wouldn't have told him; they were probably celebrating never seeing him again. He shifted again, fiddling with the edge of the crutches. "I don't know," he muttered finally. "He just... knew, I guess."

But the answer didn't sit right. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. Dumbledore always seemed to know things before anyone else—like when he had sent Hagrid to fetch Harry for Hogwarts in the first place. Had there been some kind of magical tracking on him? A spell woven into his school records? Something that alerted Dumbledore the moment he left Privet Drive? The idea made Harry uneasy. He had spent years trying to go unnoticed, and the thought that someone might have been keeping magical tabs on him all along sent an uncomfortable prickle down his spine.

Dr. Winslow didn't look satisfied with the answer, though he didn't say anything further about it. After a few minutes, as the car rumbled over a patch of uneven road, he spoke again. "Does he always act like that? Your teacher."

Harry's shoulders hunched slightly at the question, the crutches wobbling against his leg. "He doesn't like me," Harry said simply, staring at his hands. "He probably wasn't too happy about being sent here."

The doctor didn't respond right away, but Harry could feel his eyes land on him again. Harry wasn't about to explain Snape—or Hogwarts—or why it made perfect sense that Snape had dismissed the idea of a hospital altogether. Snape could've healed his ankle; Harry knew that. But how was he supposed to explain that to Dr. Winslow, who didn't know about magic—who wouldn't believe him even if Harry tried? It would just make things worse.

For a while, the only sounds were the hum of the tires and the faint rustle of papers in the glove box as the car turned a corner. Harry let his head rest back against the seat, his eyes again turning to the world outside. The morning streets were busier now, shopkeepers rolling up their shutters, cars weaving in and out of traffic. It should've been comforting—something normal—but it wasn't.

Dr. Winslow's calm voice broke the silence again. "Harry, there's something you need to know."

Harry turned his head slightly, his hands stiffening around the crutches again. "What?"

The doctor kept his eyes on the road. "Your relatives were taken into custody this morning. Charges against them were filed yesterday, and the authorities have acted on them."

Harry froze, the words hitting him harder than he expected. He hadn't known the police were even involved. He hadn't known anyone cared enough to involve them. The Dursleys—arrested. It didn't seem real. For as long as he could remember, the Dursleys had been untouchable.

Uncle Vernon's red face, his booming voice that could shake the walls when he was angry; Aunt Petunia's sharp, disapproving eyes, her constant vigilance to keep everything perfectly "normal"; and Dudley—Dudley with his fists, his sneering laughter, his effortless ability to make Harry's life miserable. They were as much a part of Harry's world as the cupboard under the stairs. Unshakeable. Immovable.

And yet, now it was over.

The thought sat heavy in his chest, strange and hollow. The Dursleys were gone—not just out of his life, but really gone, taken away by police he hadn't even known were coming. The ache in his ribs flared as he sucked in a shallow breath.

"What… what did they do?" Harry asked suddenly, though his voice felt like it belonged to someone else. He didn't know why he wanted to know, but he couldn't stop himself.

Dr. Winslow looked at Harry quickly before turning his focus back to the road. "The police acted on the condition you were found in—your injuries, Harry. You were left at the orphanage without so much as a word, and they documented the state you were in when I first examined you. That was enough to press charges for neglect and abandonment. There may be more added later, depending on the full investigation."

Harry swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to his lap. The word "abandonment" echoed in his head, twisting uncomfortably in his stomach. He had spent years trying to make himself invisible, surviving day after day in the Dursleys' house without asking for more than scraps of food and a place to sleep. It was easier not to think about it too much—to just get on with things. Now, hearing it laid out like that, spoken so plainly by someone who didn't even know the half of it, made it feel all too real.

The thought of Uncle Vernon—red-faced and sputtering—being dragged out of his house by the police was jarring, like trying to picture a mountain crumbling to pieces. Aunt Petunia's shrill outrage, Dudley's confused, terrified shouting—it played out in Harry's mind even though he hadn't been there to see it.

"What about Dudley?" Harry asked abruptly, his voice quieter than he intended. He didn't know why he cared, not after everything Dudley had done to him. All the punches. All the times Dudley had made him a target for his friends. The way Dudley laughed when Harry was shut in his cupboard for hours—or days. But still, the thought of Dudley being ripped away from everything he knew made Harry's chest tighten.

Dr. Winslow gave a slight nod. "Your cousin will be placed with another family member if they can find someone suitable. If no relatives step forward, other arrangements will be made."

Harry didn't respond right away. He stared out the window, though he wasn't really seeing the streets anymore. Dudley wasn't a good cousin—he wasn't even a decent person—but he was still just a kid. Dudley wouldn't know how to deal with all this. He'd probably been sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling cereal into his mouth, when the police knocked on the door. Harry could picture the confusion on Dudley's face, the way he would crumple when he realized his parents weren't coming back anytime soon.

Dudley had always had everything—his parents' affection, their protection, more toys than any child could need—but Harry knew what it was like to have all of that ripped away. Even if Dudley had never lifted a finger to stop what happened to Harry, even if he had made things worse, it still left an uneasy feeling in Harry's chest.

"He's just a kid," Harry muttered after a long pause. The words felt strange leaving his mouth, but he couldn't stop them. "He didn't ask for this."

Dr. Winslow looked at him thoughtfully. "That's fair, Harry. However things were, it's still difficult to see another child caught in between."

Harry didn't answer. He just stared out the window again, watching as the hospital building loomed closer in the distance, its tall white walls catching the morning sun. Dudley wasn't kind—Harry would never forget that—but Harry knew what it was like to have no one. To feel like the world had left you behind without asking first. He didn't think Dudley deserved that, not really.

The thought of the Dursleys being charged made Harry shift uneasily. He remembered the last time someone had tried to intervene. A teacher in primary school had noticed his bruises and filed a report. There had been questions and even a visit from a social worker, but Uncle Vernon had smoothed it over with one of his stories about Harry being clumsy and difficult. After that, everything had gone back to normal, which meant Harry kept quiet and tried to stay out of the way.

This time felt different, though. They had actually abandoned him at the orphanage. Surely that counted for more. Still, Harry wasn't sure what to hope for. Part of him wished things would just go back to the way they were, awful as it was, because it was at least predictable. Another part of him couldn't help but wonder—could things actually get better? He didn't know what to think, and the uncertainty settled uneasily in his chest.

As Dr. Winslow turned into the hospital lot and pulled the car to a stop, the sudden shift of the vehicle broke through Harry's swirling thoughts. He blinked, realizing he'd been staring blankly out the window. Dr. Winslow shifted in his seat, turning slightly toward him. "Let's get your ankle sorted out, all right?" he said.

Dr. Winslow exited the car and headed toward a nearby rack of wheelchairs stationed just outside the hospital entrance. He brought one back quickly, its rubber wheels gliding silently over the smooth pavement. Opening Harry's door, the doctor gave a reassuring nod.

"Let's get you in this. It'll save you from aggravating your injuries," he said firmly, crouching slightly to help Harry shift into the seat.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek as a sharp sting shot through his ankle, but he managed to settle into the wheelchair without much trouble. As he moved, he lifted his crutches from his lap and set them against the seat. Once he was clear, Dr. Winslow reached in, tucking them along the side near the center console so they wouldn't shift before closing the door.

Dr. Winslow pushed Harry through the automatic doors, the scent of disinfectant and faintly bitter coffee greeting them as they entered the hospital lobby. The reception desk was staffed by a woman with a sleek blonde ponytail, her fingers already flying across a keyboard as she acknowledged them with a practiced smile.

"Harry Potter, here for an appointment," Dr. Winslow explained, his voice calm and professional. He added the details of the scheduled X-rays, and the receptionist nodded briskly, directing them toward the radiology department down the hall.

The journey through the brightly lit corridors felt both too fast and far too slow. Harry tried to focus on the unremarkable décor—the walls painted in neutral tones, the floor tiles gleaming under the fluorescent lights—but his thoughts kept circling back to Snape. The way his professor had stared at him as though he were some unsolvable puzzle had left Harry on edge. That, combined with the throbbing ache of his ankle and ribs, made every step of this process blur together.

At last, they reached the radiology wing. A technician wearing teal scrubs greeted them just outside the designated room. He was holding a clipboard and offered a polite smile. "Mr. Potter? You're here for an ankle X-ray, correct?"

Harry nodded, gripping the wheelchair's armrests as though they might steady his scattered nerves. The technician gestured toward the machine in the center of the room.

"If you're able, we'll need you to transfer to the table here. Take your time—we're not in a rush."

Harry glanced at Dr. Winslow, who offered an encouraging nod before stepping in to assist. Every motion to slide from the wheelchair to the table sent flashes of pain through his ankle, but with some effort and the doctor's help, Harry settled onto the cold surface.

The technician moved quickly and efficiently, explaining what he was doing as he adjusted the machine. Harry kept quiet, focusing instead on the hum of the equipment and the steady click of the technician's shoes against the floor. When the ankle X-rays were done, Harry was ready to return to the wheelchair and call it a day, but the technician held up a hand.

"We'll need to take a chest series as well," he said. "Just to confirm the condition of your ribs. It won't take long."

Harry's stomach twisted. He looked at Dr. Winslow, who met his eyes calmly. "It's just precautionary," the doctor said. "Let's make sure we have the full picture."

With help, Harry was repositioned for the chest X-rays. Every time he took a breath under the technician's instructions sent a sharp jolt through his ribs, the kind of pain that made him break into a cold sweat. By the time they finished, Harry felt thoroughly wrung out.

"Good work," the technician said with an encouraging smile as he adjusted the machine for the final time. "We'll review the images and let you know the results soon."

Dr. Winslow guided Harry back into the wheelchair, his grip firm and reassuring. As they left the radiology room, Harry leaned back in his seat, the dull aches settling deeper. The thought of Snape lurked in the back of his mind, making it impossible to relax. Whatever the X-rays revealed, he was certain that facing Snape's return would be just as painful—if not worse—than anything the doctors could find.

The waiting room was just as it had been earlier—rows of gray chairs, scattered patients, and the faint hum of activity from the reception desk. A mother soothed a crying toddler in the corner, while an older man flipped through a tattered magazine. Harry barely paid attention as Dr. Winslow wheeled him into a quieter spot.

Dr. Winslow parked Harry's wheelchair in a quiet corner of the waiting room and crouched slightly to meet his eyes. "I'm going to speak with the radiologist. I'll be back in a few minutes, all right?"

Harry nodded, resting his hands across his lap. "Yeah. Okay."

The doctor gave a brief nod before stepping through a set of doors, leaving Harry with nothing but the sterile quiet of the waiting room. He shifted in his seat, his gaze drifting aimlessly. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a dull glow over the scuffed tile floor. A nurse murmured to the receptionist at the front desk, their conversation low and indistinct. Near the far wall, a woman rubbed her temples, her expression tight with discomfort, while a man a few seats away drummed his fingers against his armrest, his leg bouncing with impatience.

Harry slumped back in the wheelchair, his thoughts pulling him away from the hum of the room. The orphanage had been unexpectedly... kind. Not the bleak, impersonal place he'd always imagined when the word "orphanage" came to mind. The staff had treated him like he mattered, like he wasn't just a burden or an inconvenience. They'd even made sure he had proper meals and a clean bed.

Would he be able to stay there now that Snape had found him? The question twisted in his mind. Part of him wasn't sure he wanted to stay—staying meant accepting that he didn't have anywhere else to go. But the alternative wasn't appealing either. What would Snape do? Drag him back to the Dursleys? That couldn't happen, could it? Dr. Winslow had said they were in police custody, but Harry couldn't shake the doubt. What if they got away? They always managed to worm their way out of trouble before.

And then there was Dumbledore. How had he known Harry wasn't at the house anymore? Harry's fingers tightened around the crutches. Dumbledore always seemed to know everything, but what else did he know? Did he know about the injuries? About what the Dursleys had done? The thought made Harry's stomach churn. Dumbledore had left him there for years—if he knew, then why hadn't he done anything?

Harry's mind raced as he stared blankly at the floor, the sound of a distant intercom barely registering. He hated how uncertain everything felt, how every thought spiraled into another question he didn't have the answer to. His future stretched out in front of him like a foggy road, and he didn't know where it led—not tomorrow, not even the rest of today.

The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Dr. Winslow returning. "All right, Harry," he said, his voice calm but purposeful. "Let's get you into an exam room. The radiologist and a surgeon are ready to discuss your results."

Harry nodded mutely as Dr. Winslow wheeled him through a nearby door. The room they entered was small but clean, with crisp white walls and an X-ray lightbox mounted on one side. The glowing images of Harry's ankle stood out against the backlit panel, the bones fractured in ways even Harry could tell weren't good.

Another man stood near the X-rays, his coat slightly crumpled, looking thoughtful. Dr. Winslow gestured toward him. "Harry, this is Dr. Morgan. He's a surgeon who specializes in orthopedic injuries. He'll explain what's going on with your ankle and how we're going to fix it."

Dr. Morgan stepped forward, his demeanor warm but professional. "Hello, Harry," he said with a nod. "I've reviewed your X-rays. You've got a pretty significant break here—looks like you took quite the fall."

Harry's lips twitched in a faint, humorless smile. "Something like that."

Dr. Morgan didn't push for details. Instead, he pointed to the X-rays on the lightbox. "This break here," he said, indicating an image with a jagged line running through one of the larger bones. "It's not something that will heal properly on its own. We'll need to stabilize it with pins to ensure it heals correctly and you regain full function of your ankle."

Pins. The word sent a jolt through Harry's chest, but he forced himself to nod. "Will it… hurt?"

"There will be some discomfort during recovery," Dr. Morgan admitted, "but we'll manage that with medication and therapy. The surgery itself will be done under anesthesia, so you won't feel a thing. It's the best option to ensure a complete recovery."

Harry swallowed, glancing at Dr. Winslow, who gave him a small, encouraging smile. "You're in good hands, Harry. This is the right step forward."

Harry nodded again, his throat tight. He knew this wasn't his only option—Snape had offered to fix his ankle with magic earlier. That idea felt more tempting with every moment. But here, surrounded by Muggle doctors, there was no way to even hint at something like that. They wouldn't understand, and refusing surgery without a reason would raise questions. His stomach churned at the thought of someone cutting into him, but he forced himself to respond.

"All right," he said quietly. "Let's do it."

Dr. Morgan smiled and stepped toward the door. "I'll get you on the books. We'll take good care of you, Harry."

As the door clicked shut, Dr. Winslow adjusted one of the images on the lightbox. "The X-rays confirmed what we suspected—your two ribs are definitely broken. Fortunately, they don't need surgery. With rest and time, they'll heal on their own."

Harry nodded. But Dr. Winslow lingered by the X-rays, his brow furrowing slightly. He gestured toward the faint lines that marked older fractures, their edges clean and healed but still visible. "I did notice something else, though. You've had several fractures in the past—ones that have completely healed. It's unusual to see this many in someone your age."

Harry's stomach twisted, his grip tightening on the hospital blanket. He had to come up with an explanation that wouldn't raise more questions. "I, uh… fell a lot as a kid," he muttered. "Not exactly graceful."

Dr. Winslow's eyes lingered on the X-rays for a moment longer, his expression focused. After a brief pause, he straightened and turned toward Harry with a small, sad smile. "I see," he said quietly, though there was an undertone in his words that caused a knot to form in Harry's stomach.

A wave of unease washed over Harry. He forced himself to look up, trying to steady his breathing as he focused on the ceiling, tracing the faint pattern of speckles. He wanted to push away the past, to leave it buried for just a little while longer. It felt easier that way.

Dr. Winslow's gaze returned to the X-rays. "Some of these look like they were left to heal without proper treatment," he remarked, his voice calm but matter-of-fact. "Not recent, but still significant."

Harry tensed, trying to keep his expression neutral, his hands tight in his lap. He could feel the tension building, his mind beginning to race.

Dr. Winslow sighed softly and took a step back from the images. "I see," he said again, his voice softer now, less clinical. There was a quiet understanding in his tone that made Harry's chest tighten even further.

Trying to push the unsettling thoughts aside, Harry glanced at the ceiling once more, focusing on anything but the doctor's words. It would be easier if the past could just stay out of reach, even for a little longer.

The doctor seemed to sense Harry's discomfort and let the subject drop. "We'll focus on the injuries you have now," he said, his tone shifting back to its usual calm. "The ribs will heal with time and proper care. In the meantime, you'll need to be careful—no heavy lifting, no sudden movements, and plenty of rest."

Harry nodded stiffly, feeling restless at the mention of rest. The thought of being still felt almost unbearable. It would leave too much room for his mind to wander, and he wasn't sure he could handle the questions that might come flooding back.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and a nurse peeked inside. "Dr. Morgan has the surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning," she informed them. "Harry will need to fast after midnight but can return to the orphanage for the night. He just needs to arrive early for pre-op preparation."

Dr. Winslow turned to Harry, smiling gently. "That's good news. You'll have a proper place to rest tonight and won't have to stay here. Just remember, no food or drink after midnight—only water if you need it. Understood?"

Harry nodded again, relieved by the unexpected reprieve. The hospital walls had felt suffocating, and the thought of spending the night there had left his stomach in knots.

The nurse stepped back into the hall, and Dr. Winslow began gathering the X-rays. "I'll make sure everything's arranged, and then I'll take you back to the orphanage for the night."

Harry glanced toward the door as Dr. Winslow continued tidying up, the faint creak of the nurse's retreating footsteps fading into the quiet of the exam room. The mention of returning to the orphanage left him with a complicated knot in his chest—not exactly relief, but not quite dread either. He was glad to avoid the sterile stillness of the hospital overnight, but the thought of walking—or hobbling—back into the place where Snape had confronted him earlier wasn't exactly comforting.

As they exited the exam room, the faint murmur of hospital activity filled the air. Nurses walked briskly past with clipboards in hand, patients shuffled quietly between waiting areas, and the occasional beep of distant monitors punctuated the background. It was all so normal, so unremarkable, yet Harry felt like everything was moving like molasses.

Dr. Winslow pushed him down the hall, offering a faint smile as they reached the sliding glass doors. "We'll get you back to Little Haven, make sure you're settled in, and review any final instructions for tomorrow morning. Sound good?"

"Yeah," Harry said quietly, his eyes drifting toward the parking lot. The day had brightened since they'd arrived, the high sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. He spotted the doctor's car near the far end, its dark paint gleaming faintly in the light.

The ride back was quieter. Harry kept his thoughts to himself, turning over everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. It was almost too much to untangle—the Dursleys, Snape, the orphanage, the looming surgery. Every time he tried to focus on one thing, his mind darted to another.

When they pulled up to the orphanage, Harry's stomach twisted uncomfortably. The sight of the building, with its weathered brick exterior and sturdy form, was becoming familiar and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was familiar yet carried too many unknowns. Dr. Winslow stepped around to open the car door, offering Harry a steady hand as he adjusted his grip on the crutches.

Inside, the orphanage was quieter than when they'd left earlier. Faint voices drifted through the halls, mingling with the occasional laugh, but the calm in the main entryway felt delicate. The air was warm and carried the faint smell of tea and freshly baked bread. Harry sighed, letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

As they stepped inside, Harry's grip on the crutches tightened, his arms aching from the strain. His ankle flared with pain whenever he moved, the ache growing worse the longer he stayed on his feet.

Dr. Winslow motioned for him to follow and led him down the hallway toward the kitchen. The soft murmur of conversation and the clink of dishes grew louder as they got closer. Harry's thoughts wandered, his focus shifting from the pain in his leg to the sounds around him.

As they reached the kitchen doorway, Harry glanced up—and his eyes immediately froze.

Snape.

The sight of him made Harry's stomach churn. He was seated in one of the simple wooden chairs, his imposing figure dressed in sharp Muggle attire. An impeccably tailored black overcoat hung open, framing a dark suit and a crisp white shirt that stood out against his pale complexion. His jet-black hair fell to his shoulders in straight, unkempt strands, framing a face that Harry had hoped not to see again so soon. Severe and unreadable, Snape's features seemed carved from stone, his sharp eyes fixed on the orphanage director seated across from him.

Julia, the director, was speaking with him amicably, gesturing occasionally as she leaned slightly forward. Her voice was low, but it carried a warmth that seemed to make no impression on Snape. His posture was controlled, with one hand resting on the table near a teacup, the other folded loosely in his lap. Despite his outward calm, Snape exuded a quiet authority that dominated the small kitchen.

Mrs. Fields bustled near the stove, her apron dusted with flour as she set out plates and cups. The ordinary motions of her work seemed oddly out of place against the tension in the air. Harry couldn't take his eyes off Snape, the memory of countless humiliations and cutting remarks flooding back in an instant. His grip on the crutches tightened as a wave of dread washed over him.

The sound of them walking in the kitchen broke the moment. Snape's head turned sharply, his dark eyes locking onto Harry with an intensity that made his breath catch. For a heartbeat, Harry felt as though the air had been sucked from the room. Snape wasn't being openly hostile, but his glare still gave him the willies, like being studied by a predator calculating its next move.

Snape slowly set the teacup down on the table. His fingers lingered on the rim for a moment before he straightened in his chair carefully. He turned to Dr. Winslow, inclining his head in greeting.

"Dr. Winslow," Snape said, his voice low but clear. "I owe you an apology for our earlier interaction. It was… not my intention to escalate matters." He glanced at Harry, lingering just long enough to send another chill through him, before returning to the doctor. "I hope we can start again."

Harry's chest tightened, and he swallowed hard. There was no sneer in Snape's tone, no visible malice on his face, but that only made it worse. The polished civility didn't feel genuine—it felt like another layer of control, another reminder that Snape's sharp mind and calculating presence could dominate any room he entered. Harry shifted awkwardly on his crutches, his heart pounding as the dread refused to ebb. Snape, dressed like a stranger but unmistakably himself, was no less dangerous in the small kitchen than he had been in the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Dr. Winslow raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical but professional. "I appreciate the gesture, Professor Snape. I'm here for Harry's well-being. If we're clear on that, then there's no need to dwell on the past."

Snape gave a curt nod, his hands clasped behind his back. "Entirely clear." He gestured toward the table. "Please, join us for a moment. I would like to discuss Harry's situation moving forward."

Harry hesitated in the doorway, his hands tightening on the crutches. The sight of Snape sitting at a kitchen table, drinking tea like a regular person, was jarring enough without the added tension of the conversation to come. Dr. Winslow glanced at him, offering a reassuring nod before turning back to Snape.

"All right," the doctor said cautiously. "Let's talk."

Mrs. Fields bustled over, her cheerful demeanor cutting through the unease. "Harry, dear, come sit down. I'll bring you a cup of tea. You look like you could use it."

Harry nodded mutely, carefully making his way to the table. As he lowered himself into the chair beside Dr. Winslow, the familiar aches in his ribs and ankle flared again. He looked at Snape, who met his look with something Harry couldn't quite interpret. Whatever came next, it was clear Snape wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Snape watched Harry settle into the chair, his eyes as steady and intense as ever. The kitchen, warm with the scent of tea and bread, felt strangely oppressive under the tension hanging in the air. Harry nervously looked between Snape and Julia, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if anchoring himself. Across the table, Snape's pale hands rested lightly, interlaced, his posture upright and formal.

Mrs. Fields placed a steaming cup of tea in front of Harry, her gentle smile doing little to ease his nerves. "There you are, dear. Let me know if you need anything."

Harry gave a small nod of thanks, though his focus remained fixed on the adults at the table. Snape leaned slightly forward, and the silence seemed to thicken around them.

"Potter," Snape began, his voice even but quieter than usual. "I owe you an apology."

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. Snape continued before he could react.

"Earlier, my conduct was… less than professional," Snape said softly. "The situation caught me off guard, and I failed to address it properly. For that, I apologize."

Harry blinked, unsure how to respond. Snape's tone wasn't exactly warm, but the apology itself felt sincere enough to catch him off guard. He nodded slightly, his throat dry, unsure if words were necessary or even possible.

Snape shifted his focus to the director, inclining his head. "While you were at the hospital, I spoke with Julia about Hogwarts and the magical world. It is allowed for caretakers of magical children to be informed of certain details, and I felt it was necessary to explain your unique circumstances."

Julia smiled kindly at Harry. "It's true, Harry. Professor Snape has given me a great deal of insight into your schooling and the magical world. It will help us ensure you're cared for properly."

Snape gave a brief nod. "To that end, I have also placed basic wards around the orphanage," he said, turning to Harry directly. "They will not interfere with any non-magical individuals, but they will deter unwanted magical interference and provide notice if any wizard comes near. It is a precaution, nothing more."

Without pause, he continued, his gaze sharp. "I also discussed magical healing techniques with her," he said, his tone clipped. "Your injuries require specialized care, and while much has already been done, I will ensure that appropriate measures are taken to help you heal quicker."

Dr. Winslow, who had been silent until now, straightened abruptly, his expression shifting from restrained patience to open challenge. "Magical healing? Are you serious?" His voice edged toward disbelief. "Bones don't just mend themselves with a few magical words." He crossed his arms, his stance rigid. "I'm a man of science, Professor. What you're suggesting doesn't happen. It can't happen."

Snape's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Julia stepped in, raising a hand in an attempt to defuse the tension. "Dr. Winslow, I understand your hesitation, but Professor Snape has proven himself more than capable. This isn't a matter of belief—it's about ensuring Harry receives the best care possible."

Dr. Winslow's mouth tightened, his skepticism unshaken. "Be that as it may, I'm responsible for Harry's care. If this… treatment… is going to happen, I insist on being present. I need to see exactly what you're doing."

Snape's jaw tensed, his patience visibly fraying. "Your presence is unnecessary."

"Maybe so," Dr. Winslow shot back, holding Snape's gaze without flinching, "but I'm not stepping out of the room while this happens. Not a chance."

Julia exhaled slowly, looking between them before turning to Snape. "Let him stay. He's concerned for Harry's well-being, as we all are. I trust this won't be a problem."

Snape's expression darkened for a fraction of a second before he gave a curt nod. "Very well," he said, his voice smooth but cool. "As long as your presence does not interfere, I see no reason to object."

Dr. Winslow exhaled sharply, the tension in his stance unmistakable. Harry, meanwhile, felt like he was caught in the middle of something much larger than himself. He didn't care who stayed in the room or who argued—he just wanted the ache in his chest and the sharp twinges in his ankle to stop.

Snape exhaled quietly, then turned his gaze to Harry. "You cannot stay here permanently."

Harry tensed. He hadn't thought about what would happen after this, not really. He'd been too focused on just getting through now. The orphanage was unfamiliar, but at least it wasn't the Dursleys. If he couldn't stay, then... where was he supposed to go?

"You will remain here for the time being," Snape continued. "But once the trial is concluded, arrangements will need to be made."

Harry blinked. "Trial?" The word sent a jolt through him. He hadn't heard anything about a trial.

Snape's expression didn't change. "Yes. A trial. The Dursleys will be held accountable for what they have done." His voice was calm, almost too calm.

Harry stared at him, trying to make sense of it. "They're going to court?" He had never imagined that. Arrest sure, but he couldn't wrap his head around the idea of it actually sticking. The Dursleys had always gotten away with everything. No one had ever cared before.

Snape gave a curt nod. "It is already in motion."

There was a pause, then a quiet sigh from across the room. Julia folded her hands on the table and looked at Harry with something like reassurance. "This is a good thing, Harry," she said gently. "It means people are listening. What they did to you—there are consequences for that. You don't have to face them again."

Harry's chest felt strange—tight and unsteady. "So... what happens now?" His voice was smaller than he wanted it to be.

"You will remain here until it is over," Snape said. "Afterward, we will need to find permanent arrangements for you.."

Harry bit his lip, absorbing that. "Where?" He didn't have anywhere else.

Snape studied him carefully. "That is something you must consider. I will inform the headmaster of your preferences."

Preferences? As if he had a choice? He had spent his whole life being told where to go, where to sleep, what to do—there had never been options before. Now, suddenly, he was supposed to pick?

"But I don't know where to go," Harry said quietly, his fingers gripping the edge of his cup. The words felt strange—like something he wasn't supposed to admit. No one had ever asked him where he wanted to live before. He had never been given choices. He had always just been put somewhere and left to figure it out on his own. Now, suddenly, he was supposed to decide, and he didn't even know where to start.

A warm hand touched his shoulder, and Harry turned slightly to see Mrs. Fields standing beside him. Her face was soft with concern. "It's a lot to take in, dear," she murmured. "No one expects you to have all the answers right away."

Snape's expression didn't change. "Which is why you must think about it. The headmaster will take your wishes into account."

Harry swallowed, his mind racing. What choices? The Dursleys were gone—that much was clear. He couldn't stay here. And beyond that? He had nowhere else. No family, no home waiting for him. The only place that had ever felt like it fit was Hogwarts, but that wasn't an option outside of the school year.

His thoughts scrambled for something—anything—that made sense, but he came up with nothing.

Then Snape spoke again, his voice more pointed. "A decision will need to be made, Potter. It may not be entirely your choice, but your preference will be taken into account. There are those in the Ministry who would be more than willing to make that decision for you."

Harry's head jerked up. "What do you mean?"

Snape's gaze sharpened. "There are individuals who may attempt to claim guardianship over you. Draco Malfoy's father, for one."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "Draco's father?" He had never thought much about Malfoy's parents. He barely even knew anything about them, other than the way Draco bragged about his family's wealth. The idea of his father being involved in this—in Harry's life—made his stomach twist.

"Lucius Malfoy," Snape clarified. "He is well-connected within the Ministry and comes from a long line of wealthy pure-blood wizards. He presents himself as respectable, but he holds views that are anything but. He has always aligned himself with those who believe only certain wizards deserve power—those who look down on Muggle-borns and those raised outside the wizarding world."

Harry stiffened. He didn't know much about blood purity, but he knew enough. He had heard Draco talk about it before—how he looked down on Hermione, how he thought being born into a wizarding family made him better than everyone else. It had always made Harry angry, but it had never been his problem.

Now, suddenly, it was.

"Why would he want me?" Harry asked, his voice quieter now, uncertain.

Snape's eyes didn't waver. "Because you are Harry Potter," he said. "Your name carries influence. If he were to gain guardianship over you, it would grant him far more than another child to care for. He would use the connection to further his own interests—to make sure you followed his ideals, not your own. And he is not the only one who will try."

Harry's grip on the cup tightened. No one had ever wanted him before—at least, not for him. The Dursleys had taken him in because they had to, not because they cared. But this? This wasn't about care at all. It was about control. About what his name meant to them.

The idea of living in Malfoy's house, surrounded by people who thought like that, made his stomach churn.

"You understand, then," Snape said. "that if a permanent residence isn't found, the situation could quickly become... perilous."

Harry nodded stiffly, feeling overwhelmed. He didn't have a plan. He didn't even know where he could go.

Mrs. Fields made a quiet, disapproving sound. "That's awful," she muttered, shaking her head. "A child isn't a prize to be claimed."

Dr. Winslow, who had been silent, finally spoke. "And there's no way he can stay here?" His voice was steady, but there was something careful in the way he asked.

Snape didn't look away from Harry. "The Ministry has the authority to remove him from Muggle care if they see fit. It is not a risk we can take."

Harry's stomach dropped. He had thought—maybe—he could just stay here until school started again. That it would be fine for a little while. But it wasn't that simple. It never was.

"You don't need to decide immediately," Snape said, his tone softer now. "Just think about it and let me know after you have."

A heavy silence settled over the table after Snape's words. Harry shifted uncomfortably, still gripping the edge of his cup. He knew he should be thinking about what came next, about where he was supposed to go, but his mind refused to settle on anything solid.

Julia must have sensed the tension because she suddenly leaned back, stretching her arms before resting them on the table. "Well," she said, her voice lighter, deliberately shifting the mood. "I have to ask, Professor—how do you manage to keep a school full of children under control when they have access to magic?"

Snape turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable. "We don't," he said dryly. "That's why Hogwarts has so many rules. And detentions."

Harry let out a snort, the unexpected change in topic pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. "Yeah, and Filch writes half of them," he said, his lips quirking up despite himself.

Dr. Winslow raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Filch?"

"The caretaker," Harry explained, shifting slightly in his chair. "He hates students. Spends all his time lurking in the corridors, waiting for someone to step out of line. He's got this whole cabinet full of chains for punishments—not that he's allowed to use them anymore. But he still keeps them polished, just in case. He's always muttering about how things were better in the 'old days,' when he could string students up by their ankles or make them scrub the dungeons with no magic."

Julia's face twisted into a mix of disbelief and horror. "Your school has a caretaker who wants to chain children up?"

Snape waved a dismissive hand. "Filch is harmless, albeit bitter."

"Very bitter," Harry added. "He's always chasing after us, but mostly he just grumbles and gives us the evil eye. Except for when he's with his cat, Mrs. Norris. Then he's downright smug. She's the real enforcer. You don't even have to be doing anything wrong—she just shows up out of nowhere and stares at you like she knows something you don't."

Julia smirked, resting her chin in her hand. "So she's a cat with a grudge?"

"More like a personal vendetta," Harry muttered. "She always finds me, even when I'm not breaking the rules. I can just be walking to the common room, and she'll pop out from behind a suit of armor, and the next thing I know, Filch is breathing down my neck, demanding to know what I'm up to."

Snape exhaled slowly, his patience visibly thinning. "Perhaps that's because you are frequently breaking the rules, Potter."

Harry grinned despite himself. "Not all the time."

Dr. Winslow shook his head, looking between them with a mix of amusement and concern. "Your school sounds… chaotic."

"It is," Harry admitted, leaning forward slightly. "But it's brilliant, too. We learn all sorts of spells—charms, potions, transfiguration." He glanced at Julia, a spark of enthusiasm breaking through his usual guardedness. "I bet you'd love Herbology. It's all about magical plants—some of them even bite."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Bite?"

Harry nodded, grinning. "Yeah! There's this plant called Devil's Snare—it wraps around you if you struggle too much. Feels kind of like strong vines closing in on you. But it hates sunlight, so you can get free if you relax or use the right spell."

Dr. Winslow gave him a flat look. "That sounds horrific."

Julia, on the other hand, hummed thoughtfully. "Actually, that sounds useful. You could use it for security. Imagine having a front garden full of plants that tangle up intruders."

Snape's expression shifted just slightly, his eyes glinting with something close to approval. "A rare moment of practical thinking from a Muggle."

Julia rolled her eyes. "I'd be offended if I thought that was a compliment."

Dr. Winslow leaned back in his chair, studying Harry. "And you like it there? Even with all the… unpredictability?"

Harry barely had to think before nodding. "Yeah. It's the first place that's ever really felt like… like I belong."

Something flickered across Snape's expression, gone as quickly as it appeared. Julia's lips curled into a small smile, while Dr. Winslow sighed, shaking his head. "Well, magic or not, I suppose school is school."

"Except when it's not," Julia added with a smirk. "Because I don't recall my school ever having biting plants."

Harry grinned. "Or moving staircases."

Dr. Winslow groaned, rubbing his temples. "I really don't need to hear about more things in that castle that could kill you."

Julia let out a short laugh. "Forget that—what else does it have? Man-eating textbooks? Haunted broom closets?"

Harry's grin widened. "Well, there is a book in the library that'll bite your fingers off if you try to open it the wrong way."

Dr. Winslow groaned again, muttering something about needing stronger tea, but Julia was clearly intrigued. "So your school has a killer library? I knew academia was dangerous, but that's taking it to another level."

Harry laughed—really laughed—for what felt like the first time in days. Everything that he had been feeling until then just seemed to melt away.

The warmth of laughter still lingered in the air when Snape suddenly tensed. The shift was subtle—his posture straightened, his head tilting slightly as if listening for something beyond their hearing. A fleeting silence settled over the room, and then, almost imperceptibly, his fingers tapped against the table.

Harry, still catching his breath from his laughter, immediately noticed the change. The lightness from moments ago drained away as unease curled in his stomach. He had seen Snape irritated, even angry, but this was different—controlled, precise.

Julia must have sensed it, too, because her amusement faded. "What is it?" she asked, her tone quieter now.

Snape didn't answer at first. He stood in a single, fluid motion, his robes shifting around him as he turned sharply toward Julia. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet but unmistakably firm.

"Lucius Malfoy," he said. "How he knew so soon I don't know, but he's here."

The air in the room shifted, the easy atmosphere vanishing in an instant. Julia's breath caught, her usually calm expression flickering with unease. She pushed back from the table, glancing toward the entryway.

"Now?"

Snape nodded, his fingers twitching at his side before he turned his gaze to Harry. In the next breath, he reached out, his hand gripping Harry's arm—not painfully, but with enough force to make his intent clear.

Harry stiffened. "What—"

"We need to leave. Now," Snape said, his voice low and urgent. "Malfoy cannot know you are here."

"How did he even find this place?" she asked sharply.

Snape's expression darkened. "Malfoy has deep connections within the Ministry. Someone must have informed him that Potter had been placed here—whether officially or through less direct means." His voice was laced with disdain. "He has resources that make finding people… efficient."

Julia's expression hardened. "How much time do we have?" she asked.

"Minutes. If that," Snape replied darkly.

Dr. Winslow, who had been silent until now, straightened in his chair, his frown deepening. "Wait just a second. You can't just—"

A sharp knock echoed from the front door, cutting through the air like a knife.

Harry's breath hitched. Julia's head turned toward the hallway, her expression tightening before she moved quickly toward the kitchen doorway.

Snape's grip on Harry's arm tightened slightly as he turned to Julia one last time. His voice was steady, cold. "You will answer the door and play ignorant. Tell him nothing. As far as you know, Harry Potter is not, nor has ever been, at this orphanage. Do you understand?"

Julia nodded sharply. "I understand."

Dr. Winslow stepped forward, looking between them with disbelief. "This is absurd—"

Snape didn't wait for him to finish. His other arm moved swiftly, wrapping around Harry's shoulders, and before Harry could fully register what was happening, the familiar pull of Apparition yanked him from the kitchen.

The last thing he heard before they vanished was Julia's voice, calm and steady, calling out, "One moment, please."

The disorienting pull of Apparition released them, and Harry stumbled as his feet found solid ground. Snape's grip remained firm, steadying him as they landed in an unfamiliar space—bright, warm, and unlike anywhere Harry had ever expected Snape to bring him.

The room was awash with natural light, streaming in through large windows that stretched nearly from floor to ceiling. The pale curtains fluttered gently from an unseen breeze, framing a view of a sprawling green landscape beyond the glass. The furniture was soft and inviting—overstuffed couches and armchairs in warm, neutral tones, their cushions plump as if they had never known discomfort. A thick, woven rug covered most of the hardwood floor, its deep blues and golds adding a rich warmth to the room.

A fireplace sat unlit along one wall, its mantel lined with books, small trinkets, and a simple clock that ticked softly in the background. The air smelled faintly of parchment, something floral, and a hint of fresh air, as though the windows were often left open to welcome in the breeze. Despite the suddenness of their arrival, despite Harry's lingering nausea, the space exuded comfort—something lived-in, cared for. It was a home, not just a house.

Snape held onto him for a moment longer, making sure Harry didn't collapse outright before releasing his grip. But the moment Harry was left to his own balance, his knees buckled. The world tilted, and his stomach lurched violently.

Snape caught him before he hit the floor, his hands gripping Harry's shoulders firmly but without malice. Harry barely had a second to process the support before his stomach rebelled entirely. His breath hitched, and before he could even register the full humiliation of it, Snape flicked his wand. The mess vanished instantly, leaving nothing behind—not a stain, not a smell, not even a trace of exasperation on Snape's face.

Still steadying Harry, Snape guided him carefully toward the couch, his grip sure but not rough as he eased him down onto the cushions.

Harry shut his eyes for a moment, waiting for the nausea to subside. His hands pressed against his lap where his crutches would have been—if he hadn't left them back at the orphanage.

After a long pause, he finally gathered the courage to look up. Snape was standing nearby, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He hadn't snapped, hadn't sneered, hadn't made a single disparaging remark.

Harry swallowed hard, still feeling weak but unable to keep the question from slipping out.

"Why?" His voice was hoarse, uncertain. He met Snape's eyes, searching for something—an explanation, a reason, anything that made sense.

Snape didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at Harry, his dark eyes unreadable yet intent. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.

Snape held Harry's gaze for a long moment before exhaling, his expression remaining unreadable. "Because it is my duty," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I am your professor, and whether you like it or not, your well-being falls under my responsibility."

Harry frowned, his fingers gripping the soft fabric of the couch. That wasn't the answer he had expected. He had assumed Snape would say something about Dumbledore, about orders, about how it was necessary rather than personal. But duty? That sounded almost… like he actually cared.

Snape straightened slightly, glancing around the room before returning his focus to Harry. "We are in my home," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "It is in London, not far from the orphanage. That is why I was sent to fetch you."

Harry blinked, glancing around again with new understanding. Snape's home. This warm, inviting place with sunlight streaming through the windows, soft furniture, and an actual sense of comfort—this belonged to Snape?

He had expected something cold, dark, maybe even dungeon-like, considering how Snape lived at Hogwarts. But this place didn't match the man at all. There was no sterile formality, no oppressive gloom. It was a home, not just a space someone existed in.

"You—" Harry hesitated, still processing. "You live here?"

Snape's lip twitched slightly, but he only nodded. "Obviously."

Harry let that settle in his mind, his exhaustion making it hard to form words. The idea of Snape having a home outside of Hogwarts, a home that looked like this, was oddly disorienting. It didn't fit the image he had built in his head over the last year.

Snape studied him for a moment longer, then with a sharp flick of his wand, a glass of water appeared on the small table beside the couch. "Take small sips," he instructed. "It will help."

Harry eyed the glass warily, then picked it up, taking a slow sip. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat, though it did nothing to settle the knot of confusion twisting inside him.

Snape didn't move to sit, nor did he speak again right away. He simply stood there, watching, as though waiting for Harry to regain himself.

Harry swallowed another sip before lowering the glass slightly. His fingers tightened around it as he finally asked, "What now?"

It was a simple question, but it carried too many meanings. What happened next? Where was he supposed to go? Would Snape take him back? Would Dumbledore get involved? Harry didn't know what he expected, but he was certain nothing about this situation was normal.

Snape regarded him carefully before responding. "That depends, Potter. But for now, you are safe."

Safe.

Snape let out a slow sigh before lowering himself onto the couch beside Harry, the cushions dipping under his weight. He sat rigidly at first, his hands resting on his knees, as though unused to relaxing in his own home.

After a moment, he glanced at Harry, his expression unreadable but his tone quieter than usual. "I should heal your ribs at the very least while we wait. If there is anything else that needs tending, now is the time to say so." He exhaled shortly. "Your ankle, however, I will save to heal in the doctor's presence. Wouldn't want to rob him of the chance to be thoroughly baffled by a sudden recovery."

Harry nodded, understanding. It made sense—Dr. Winslow already doubted Snape's abilities, and if his ankle magically repaired itself before they returned, the questions would only multiply. A slight smile tugged at his lips at Snape's remark, but he said nothing, letting the comment stand on its own.

Without hesitation, Harry shifted forward slightly and reached for the hem of his shirt. He hesitated briefly before tugging it up over his head, careful not to strain his ribs too much. As the fabric slipped over his shoulders, Snape's eyes flickered to the bandages wrapped tightly around Harry's torso.

Without a word, Snape reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of the wrappings. "Hold still," he said, his voice quieter than usual. He began unwinding the bandages with carefully, pulling the fabric away layer by layer. As he worked, his eyes briefly caught sight of another set of bandages across Harry's back.

He said nothing about them.

Harry hadn't mentioned them, and Snape had no intention of prying—not yet. He would wait. If Harry wanted him to know, he would say something.

The last of the bandages slipped free, revealing the mottled bruises beneath. Some had already begun to fade into sickly yellows and greens, but the deeper ones—dark purple and blue—still marked where the break had been. Snape didn't react, didn't comment. He simply reached out, his hands hovering over Harry's ribs, his fingers barely grazing the injured skin.

A soft orange glow radiated from his palms, warmth blooming in Harry's chest as the healing magic seeped into him. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever felt—like the ache was being unwoven from his bones, the pain dissipating without a trace.

Snape remained silent as he worked, his focus entirely on the magic flowing between them. Harry felt his ribs shifting, mending, the pressure easing with each breath he took. It was an odd sensation—both deeply soothing and slightly strange.

While he worked, Snape spoke, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity. "The doctor doesn't seem to like me very much."

Harry let out a short, dry chuckle. "Yeah, I noticed."

Snape made a low sound of acknowledgment. "Perhaps we did not start on the right foot," he mused. "It seems to be a pattern as of late."

Harry glanced at him, catching the faintest trace of something wry beneath the words. It took him a second to realize Snape wasn't just talking about the doctor.

The double meaning wasn't lost on him.

Harry didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded slightly.

Snape didn't elaborate, nor did he take the words back. He simply finished his work, the last traces of orange light fading as he sat back. "Your ribs are fully mended. You may feel some lingering soreness, but nothing that will last."

Harry reached for his shirt, fingers brushing the fabric, but he hesitated. His grip lingered on the hem as he processed everything that had just happened.

Snape had healed him. Snape had acknowledged that things hadn't started the way they should have at the beginning of the school year.

It wasn't quite an apology. But maybe it was close enough.

His fingers tightened slightly around the fabric before he let out a slow breath and set the shirt back down. His shoulders tensed, and after a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice quieter than before.

"There's… more."

Snape didn't react immediately, but after a brief pause, he gave a small nod. "Turn around."

Harry swallowed and shifted carefully, turning his back toward Snape. The bandages Snape had noticed earlier were still in place, wrapped neatly over his skin. Without a word, Snape reached forward and began unwinding them, his fingers moving carefully.

As the last layer fell away, the red, raised welts came into view. Some had begun to fade, others were still raw. Snape didn't speak, didn't ask. He simply placed his hands lightly over them, and the familiar orange glow spread outward, warmth seeping into Harry's skin.

The pain dulled almost immediately, the tight, aching pull of the wounds easing under the steady flow of magic.

Snape withdrew his hands as the last traces of healing magic faded. Harry exhaled slowly, the lingering pain in his back now completely gone. He shifted slightly, testing the movement, and found that for the first time in days, he wasn't bracing for a sharp stab of pain. It was strange—almost unsettling—to not feel the constant ache anymore.

Snape observed him closely. "That should suffice," he said, his voice measured. "If there is any lingering pain, you will inform me."

Harry nodded, pulling his shirt back over his head. He hesitated before speaking, glancing down at his hands. "Professor…" He paused, unsure if he should even bring it up.

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Harry swallowed. "My trunk—I don't have it. My relatives didn't let me take anything before they left me at the orphanage."

Snape's expression darkened, though his voice remained controlled. "You mean to say they abandoned you without so much as allowing you to retrieve your belongings?"

Harry nodded stiffly. "Yeah. I—I don't know if it's still at the house or if they got rid of it."

Snape's lip curled slightly, though whether it was from irritation or something else, Harry couldn't tell. "I will handle it," he said simply.

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "You—you're going to get it?"

"Obviously," Snape said coolly. "Your belongings are not theirs to discard. I will see that they are returned to you."

Harry looked away, unsure what to say. He hadn't expected that—not from Snape, not from anyone. He had assumed his things were gone, that there was nothing to be done. But Snape… Snape was simply going to take care of it.

Before Harry could think too much about it, Snape continued, "Do you require anything in the meantime?"

Harry immediately shook his head. "No, I'm fine."

Snape gave him a scrutinizing look before rising and stepping out of the room. When he returned a moment later, he carried a small stack of neatly folded clothes. "These will hold you over until I retrieve your belongings." With a flick of his wand, he shrank them slightly before handing them to Harry.

Harry hesitated before taking them. A couple of pairs of jeans, a few shirts—plain, practical, but clean. More than he had expected. His fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. "Thanks," he said, his voice quiet.

Snape gave a slight nod and adjusted his coat. "The wards indicate Malfoy is gone, but I am going to the orphanage to confirm it." His gaze settled on Harry, firm and expectant. "You are not to wander while I'm gone. Is that understood?"

Harry nodded quickly. "Yeah. Got it."

Snape studied him for a brief moment longer, as if making sure his instructions had truly sunk in, then turned sharply and strode toward the other room. A second later, Harry heard the distinctive crack of Apparition.

Left alone, Harry sat there gripping the clothes Snape had given him, still trying to process everything. His back no longer hurt. His ribs weren't aching. And now, Snape was making sure he had clothes, and that he got his things back.

He wasn't sure what to make of any of it.

A few minutes passed as Harry let his eyes wander, taking in more details of the room. The bookshelves between the windows were packed with thick, well-worn tomes, some stacked horizontally on top of others. A few had bookmarks sticking out, and one lay open on a side table, left mid-read. These weren't just for decoration—Snape clearly used them.

His gaze shifted toward the hallway, where wooden floors stretched further into the house. He caught sight of a kitchen—unexpectedly refined, with dark countertops, polished wood cabinets, and a kettle resting on the stove as if it had been used recently. A small breakfast table sat near a window, bathed in soft light. The space was tidy but not stiff, organized but not untouched.

Before Harry could process much more, a sharp crack broke the quiet, and Snape was suddenly back. He stepped forward, his eyes scanning Harry as if checking for any change.

"The cost is clear," Snape said without preamble. He extended a hand, and after only a brief hesitation, Harry took it. Snape helped him to his feet, his grip firm but not rough as he steadied him.

"We're going back now."

Harry nodded, clutching the clothes tightly against his chest. Snape wasted no time, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before turning sharply.

The familiar pressure of Apparition wrapped around Harry, twisting his stomach. When they landed, the warmth of the orphanage kitchen surrounded him, but his body still reacted poorly.

His knees wobbled, and Snape kept a firm hold on him, guiding him into a chair before releasing him. His stomach twisted, but there was nothing left to bring up—only that awful sickness clinging to him, making it hard to breathe properly. He shut his eyes, trying to push past the sensation.

Snape remained nearby, watching him carefully. The scent of tea and something faintly sweet filled the room, a reminder that life continued as usual, even while Harry felt like everything had been thrown off balance.

Dr. Winslow appeared almost immediately, his expression tightening with concern as he crouched beside Harry's chair. "Harry? Can you hear me?" His eyes flicked over him, quickly assessing his condition.

Harry nodded weakly, still gripping the clothes in his lap. "Just—nausea," he muttered, swallowing hard.

With a steady hand, Dr. Winslow pressed two fingers against Harry's wrist, checking his pulse before shifting his focus to his breathing. "You're pale. Any dizziness? Trouble breathing?"

"He'll be fine," Snape interjected smoothly. "It's only nausea from Apparition. It will pass in a few minutes."

The doctor's head snapped up, his glare sharp. "What the hell did you do to him?"

Snape exhaled through his nose, restraining the impulse to snap back. He had spent years as both a spy and a professor, dealing with temperamental allies and arrogant students alike, yet this man was looking at him as though he were a threat. It was an unfamiliar role—to be the one trying to pacify someone who genuinely cared about Harry's well-being.

"I transported him back here as efficiently as possible," Snape said evenly. "Side-along Apparition can be unpleasant."

Dr. Winslow wasn't impressed. His frown deepened as he studied Snape, then turned his attention back to Harry. He moved to the sink, filled a glass with water, and set it in front of him. "Sip this," he instructed.

Harry took it with slightly unsteady fingers and obeyed, taking small sips as Dr. Winslow watched him closely.

The familiarity of it struck him. Snape had done the exact same thing at his house—handing him water, telling him to sip. Harry hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now, with Winslow repeating the same action, the similarity was hard to ignore.

Snape seemed to notice it too. His lips twitched in the briefest smirk, as if privately amused by the reflection of his own actions.

Only then did Winslow straighten and face Snape fully.

Snape sighed, knowing the conversation was far from over, but before Dr. Winslow could launch into another round of questioning, the orphanage director entered the room. She casually pulled out a chair and sat down, smoothing her skirt as she did so.

"Well, that was exciting," she said lightly, as though commenting on the weather.

Snape narrowed his eyes. "What, precisely, was exciting?"

She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. "The man at the door, asking about Harry."

Snape stiffened, his fingers curling against the table's edge. "And?"

Julia gave him a pointed look. "Lucius Malfoy. He claimed that now that Harry had no guardians, he was there to take him to the Ministry until they could figure something out. That he was already approved to be his foster parent and just needed to get the proper paperwork." Her expression didn't shift, but there was an unmistakable firmness in her posture. "I told him Harry wasn't here. And that, in fact, if we did have guardianship of him. If he wanted to take any child, he would need official paperwork. first"

Snape's expression darkened, but he gave a slow nod. "That was the correct response."

She reached down, retrieving a book from her pocket and setting it on the table between them. "He tried to leave this behind. I have years of experience watching sneaky children, so I noticed."

Snape's gaze snapped to the book. The moment his eyes landed on it, he felt it—the unmistakable pulse of dark magic radiating from its cover. His wand was in his hand in an instant, a quiet incantation falling from his lips as he cast a protective barrier around it.

A faint shimmer appeared in the air around the book, distorting the light slightly before settling. Even through the protective spell, Snape could sense the magic coiled within, waiting—malicious.

He lifted his eyes to Julia. "You were wise to stop him."

Her expression remained calm, but there was a sharp awareness behind her eyes. "I don't take kindly to strangers trying to slip unknown objects into my home."

Dr. Winslow crossed his arms, looking between them. "What is it?"

Snape didn't answer immediately. His grip on his wand tightened as he carefully examined the book, assessing the depth of the magic within. Whatever Malfoy had intended, it wasn't harmless.

Harry, still pale but more alert now, swallowed and sat up straighter, looking between them. "What's wrong with it?"

Snape met his eyes briefly before returning his focus to the book. "Dark magic," he said simply. "I will give it to the Headmaster to investigate. I am glad no children got their hands on it."

Julia leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "What exactly was Malfoy hoping to accomplish with this?" she asked, keeping her voice measured, though there was a sharpness in her eyes.

Snape exhaled slowly, his fingers hovering just above the book's cover, careful not to make direct contact. "I do not know," he admitted, and that alone sent a ripple of unease through the room. "But I can tell you this—it is not a simple tracking charm, nor a standard cursed object."

Julia and Dr. Winslow exchanged wary glances.

Dr. Winslow let out a breath, folding his arms. "You're saying Malfoy tried to sneak something into the orphanage that you—an expert in all this—can't even identify?"

Snape didn't take his eyes off the book. His wand twitched between his fingers as he cast another diagnostic spell. A faint shimmer of dark magic flickered across the surface, then vanished in a way that didn't settle right—not fading, not dispersing, but sinking back into the object as though it were alive.

Snape's jaw tightened. "Dark Magic leaves a signature. Even the most complex enchantments can be unraveled with time and the right methods." His voice, usually so controlled, edged toward something colder. "But this—" He cut himself off, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Harry had never seen Snape hesitate before.

Julia frowned. "But you can break whatever spell's on it, right?"

Snape didn't answer immediately. He cast another spell—one designed to isolate lingering magic—but instead of illuminating the usual threads of enchantment, the book absorbed the light, swallowing it whole. The spell simply ceased to exist.

Snape sat back slightly, his expression unreadable, but Harry caught the flicker of something rare in his eyes—something close to doubt.

"This is not a normal Dark object," Snape finally said. "Magic this deep should leave a trace, a structure I can follow. But this—" He exhaled sharply through his nose. "This magic does not behave as it should."

Dr. Winslow narrowed his eyes. "Meaning?"

Snape's gaze remained fixed on the book. "Meaning it is either so old or so powerful that it does not register like other Dark artifacts. It does not want to be understood."

Harry shivered.

Julia tapped a finger against the table, looking between them. "And if someone had opened it?"

Snape's wand twitched again. "I do not know."

The admission left an uneasy silence in the room. Then, with a sharp flick of his wand, Snape cast another spell, this one wrapping around the book like an invisible barrier. A faint shimmer crackled along its surface before vanishing.

"No one will open it now," Snape said. "Nor will it harm anyone who touches it. Until the Headmaster determines the extent of its magic, it remains sealed."

Without another word, he picked up the book, slipping it into his coat pocket. The movement was smooth, but Harry didn't miss the way Snape's fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary, as if weighing the risk of carrying it himself.

Dr. Winslow scoffed, shaking his head. "You're telling me that man tried to smuggle something dangerous into an orphanage? What kind of lunatic—"

"The kind who considers his interests above all else," Snape interrupted, his expression cold. "And who will not hesitate to manipulate legal channels to achieve his goals."

Julia drummed her fingers against the table. "He'll be back," she said. "Men like him don't walk away after being told 'no.'"

Snape inclined his head slightly in agreement. "Indeed."

Harry adjusted his grip on the clothes Snape had given him, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His ankle still ached, though his ribs felt fine, but a different kind of unease settled in his chest. He hesitated for a moment before asking, quieter than before, "So… what do we do?"

Snape's gaze snapped to him, studying him closely. "We do what must be done," he said simply. "For now, you will remain here. The orphanage remains the safest option. I will reinforce the protections around the building."

Julia nodded. "I'll make sure none of the staff let in anyone without explicit verification." She glanced at Harry. "If you hear anything suspicious, you come straight to me. Understood?"

Harry nodded quickly. "Yeah."

Dr. Winslow exhaled sharply. "I don't like any of this," he muttered. "This kid's been through enough already."

Snape glanced at him, expression unreadable. "That is not in dispute."

Dr. Winslow crossed his arms. "No, I suppose it's not." His eyes flickered to Harry again, assessing him for a long moment before he finally sighed. "Look, I don't know much about whatever wizard mess you've got going on, but if Malfoy tries something again, you're going to deal with it before it reaches my kids. Understood?"

Snape's lips curled slightly. "That has always been my intention."

Dr. Winslow grumbled something under his breath but didn't argue further.

Snape's gaze flicked to Harry's ankle, then to Dr. Winslow, his expression unreadable but firm. "We should address his ankle now," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. "His ribs have already been healed." The way he said it made it obvious he was trying to brush over the subject, dismissing any further discussion before it could begin.

Dr. Winslow held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. His eyes shifted to the bundle of clothing still clutched in Harry's arms, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

Mrs. Fields, standing nearby, noticed as well. She stepped forward, offering her hands with a gentle nod toward the clothing. "Here, love, let me take those for you. I'll make sure they're folded and waiting on your bed."

Harry hesitated for a brief moment before handing them over, relieved to not need them anymore. His arms ached more than he had realized. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Mrs. Fields gave him a kind smile, tucking the bundle under her arm. "Of course. You'll want something clean once all this is sorted." She patted his arm lightly before turning toward the kitchen. "And when you come back, I'll have lunch ready for you."

Snape watched the exchange without comment, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—approval, perhaps, or just acknowledgment that at least one thing had been handled. Either way, he didn't linger on it.

Dr. Winslow straightened, giving a brisk nod as if resetting the course of events. "Right. Let's deal with that ankle before anything else comes up."

He turned, motioning them down the hall toward the procedure room. "Come on, Harry. Let's get you settled." His tone softened noticeably when addressing Harry.

Harry shifted, glancing at the crutches he had discarded earlier. He leaned down, picking them up before pushing himself out of his seat. His ankle protested, a dull ache running up his leg, but he adjusted his stance and steadied himself.

Dr. Winslow stepped out of the kitchen, pausing just long enough to make sure Harry was steady before leading him forward. The orphanage was anything but quiet—voices echoed from the dining hall, footsteps pounded overhead, and somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.

Harry kept his grip firm on the crutches as he followed. The uneven rhythm of his steps was nearly lost under the noise of children shouting and staff calling out instructions. A group of younger kids ran past, chasing each other without paying attention to where they were going. They barely swerved around Harry in time.

Dr. Winslow put a hand out, guiding Harry slightly to the side to keep him from being knocked into. "Almost there," he said over the noise, his voice calm but clear.

They passed through the entranceway, where a few older kids lingered, watching curiously before turning back to their own conversations. A volunteer hurried by, arms full of folded sheets, barely sparing them a glance.

At the end of the hall, Dr. Winslow opened a door and switched on the light. He stepped inside first, then turned back, giving Harry a reassuring nod.

The examination table was in the center, ready for him. Winslow gestured toward it. "Take your time. Let me know if you need help getting up."

Harry braced himself against the table, pushing himself up carefully. His arms strained slightly as he adjusted his position, pulling his injured leg up last. This was much easier than the day before without his ribs throbbing.

Dr. Winslow kept his eyes on Harry, his hands hovering slightly, ready to steady him if needed. His focus was sharp, tracking every movement. "Alright?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered, shifting until he was comfortable. His ankle still ached, but it was manageable.

Satisfied, Dr. Winslow turned back to Snape, and the change in his expression was immediate. Whatever patience he'd had for Harry was gone, his features tightening. "What exactly are you going to do?"

Snape lowered himself onto the rolling stool with deliberate ease, his face unreadable. "I will remove the bandages, then heal the underlying damage."

Dr. Winslow's arms crossed tightly over his chest, his skepticism clear. "You mean you're going to force the healing process."

Snape tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp. "That is an imprecise way of putting it."

A slow breath left Dr. Winslow, his jaw shifting as he visibly held back a sharper response. "Bones take time to heal. Ligaments need time to strengthen again. If you're telling me you can fix this in a few minutes, that means you're skipping steps, and that—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "That isn't healing. That's—"

"Magic," Snape finished, his voice flat and unwavering.

Dr. Winslow's fingers dug into his arms before he let out another sharp sigh, clearly restraining himself from arguing further. Instead, he turned to Harry, and when he spoke again, his voice was noticeably softer. "You listen to me, alright? If anything feels off—too hot, too tight, too much—you tell me. I don't care how much you trust this, I don't want you just sitting through it because it's easier. Got it?"

Harry met his gaze, something settling in his chest at the doctor's concern. It wasn't obligatory or performative—it was real. The steady insistence in Winslow's words made it clear he wasn't just saying what he thought Harry wanted to hear.

"I will," Harry said with a nod.

Dr. Winslow studied him for a long moment before giving a reluctant nod and stepping back. "Go ahead."

Snape reached for the bandages wrapped around Harry's ankle, his movements precise and controlled. He started at the top, peeling back the first layer and unwinding the fabric slowly. The material was tight from days of wear, the creases pressed firmly into Harry's skin. Snape didn't pause, working efficiently until the last strip loosened and fell away, exposing the swollen joint beneath.

Harry instinctively tried to move his foot, but pain shot through the joint, stopping him instantly. His breath caught, and his fingers curled around the edge of the table, gripping tightly.

Dr. Winslow stepped forward without hesitation, his hand resting lightly on Harry's knee. "Easy," he said, steady but firm. "Give it a second."

Snape didn't acknowledge him. He placed his hands just above the injury, fingers hovering for a moment before settling gently against the skin. His eyes closed, his brow furrowing slightly as his hands began to glow orange. The warmth spread outward, slow at first, then growing deeper, radiating through the joint.

Unlike his ribs, which had mended in moments, this took much longer. The damage was more complex, the injury layered in a way that required time and focus. Snape remained still, the orange glow pulsing faintly as he concentrated. His breathing slowed, his expression unreadable.

The pain didn't vanish all at once. It ebbed, unraveling bit by bit, like a knot being carefully loosened. The sharpest ache dulled first, fading into something more manageable before slipping away entirely. The deep stiffness that had settled into the joint eased, the discomfort unwinding until all that remained was a sensation of relief.

Harry felt the shift happening—not sudden, not forced, but steady. It wasn't unnatural, only different, like his body was being nudged toward what it was supposed to be.

The bruising faded, dark purples and blues softening, turning yellow before disappearing altogether. The tightness that had made every movement feel restricted was gone. His ankle no longer pulsed with each heartbeat.

Snape remained silent, his hands still glowing faintly as he kept them in place a moment longer, as if making sure the work was complete. Then, finally, the light faded, and he pulled away, his eyes opening.

Dr. Winslow, who had been watching without a word, slowly unfolded his arms, his expression unreadable.

Snape withdrew his hands, pressing his fingers lightly against the skin, testing for any lingering stiffness. "Move it."

Harry flexed his foot without hesitation. No pain. No tightness. He rotated his ankle, stretched his toes, then set his foot against the table, already knowing what to expect. It was healed, as it should be.

Dr. Winslow gently touched Harry's ankle. He turned it carefully, pressing along the joint, moving it through its range. His touch was firm but cautious, as if searching for any sign of weakness.

The longer he examined, the deeper the lines in his brow became. He let go and sat back on his heels slightly, his expression unreadable. "That shouldn't have worked," he muttered under his breath.

Before anyone could comment, Snape gave a flick of his wand, and the discarded bandages vanished without a trace. "They are no longer needed," he said smoothly, as if that settled the matter.

Dr. Winslow exhaled sharply, but instead of conceding, he pressed two fingers against Harry's ankle again, his grip firmer this time. He moved the joint in slow, deliberate motions, his expression growing more incredulous with each test.

"This—this makes no sense," he muttered. He turned Harry's foot again, watching the way it moved effortlessly, with none of the residual stiffness or swelling he had fully expected. His thumb pressed carefully along the tendons, searching for any sign of strain. "No pain at all?"

Harry shook his head. "Nope."

Dr. Winslow huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's not possible," he said, his voice a little sharper now. "Even if some freak regeneration happened overnight, you'd still have residual weakness. Ligaments, soft tissue—none of that repairs instantly."

Snape gave him a pointed look. "And yet, as you can plainly see, it has."

The doctor ignored him, turning back to Harry. "Stand up," he ordered.

Harry hesitated for half a second before sliding off the table, placing his weight evenly on both feet. The floor was solid beneath him, and he took a cautious step forward, then another. It was completely fine.

After a moment, he gestured toward the corner where Harry's crutches had been left earlier. "I'll hold onto these for the next kid who needs them." His eyes flicked to Harry's now fully healed ankle."

Harry bent down and picked them up, feeling a little strange as he held them. "Guess so."

Dr. Winslow stared at him, then let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "This is absurd," he muttered before pinching the bridge of his nose. "And you're certain you feel fine? No tightness, no residual stiffness, nothing?"

Harry flexed his foot again just to be sure. "Completely fine."

Dr. Winslow's jaw tensed as he glanced at Snape. "And you're not going to explain how any of this works, are you?"

Snape smirked slightly. "I believe the results speak for themselves."

Dr. Winslow exhaled sharply and shook his head. "Right. Fantastic. A broken ankle just vanishes. That's perfectly normal. No reason to question anything at all." He let out a short, dry laugh and turned toward the door. "I need to sit down. And probably rethink everything I know about medicine."

The doctor nodded, then let out a short sigh as his gaze dropped to Harry's feet. "Right. You came in here with your foot wrapped, which means your sock and shoe are still upstairs."

Before Harry could respond, he stepped to the door and poked his head into the hall. "Daniel!"

A muffled "Yeah?" came from down the corridor.

"Run up to Harry's bed and grab his sock and shoe," he instructed. "Left foot."

There was a brief pause, then a quick, "Got it!" followed by the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hall.

Shaking his head, Dr. Winslow stepped back inside. "Kid's walking out of here good as new, but I'll be damned if I let him do it with one shoe missing."

Harry sat back on the table, waiting as the doctor leaned against the counter, arms crossed. It didn't take long before the sound of rushing feet returned, and Daniel skidded into the doorway, slightly out of breath but holding out Harry's missing sock and shoe.

"Here," the boy said, stepping inside and handing them over.

Harry took them with a nod. "Thanks."

"No problem." Daniel nodded before running off to to the dining room.

Harry pulled on his sock, then slipped his foot into the shoe, tightening the laces. He stood again, testing his balance out of habit, but everything was exactly as expected.

Dr. Winslow gave a short nod. "Alright. Now you're good to go." He gave Harry's shoulder a quick pat before stepping back, but when his eyes flicked to Snape, the warmth was gone. "And you—" He let out a sharp breath. "I still don't trust this."

Snape's face was unreadable. "That is your choice."

Dr. Winslow let out another breath, shaking his head. "Alright," he muttered, motioning toward the door. "Get out of my procedure room before I start rethinking everything I know about medicine."

Harry followed Snape out, his steps steady, his ankle completely healed.

Behind them, Dr. Winslow muttered under his breath. "I need a damn drink."

The hum of voices grew louder as the children of the orphanage filtered into the dining room, drawn by the scent of food and the unspoken routine of mealtime. Chairs scraped against the worn wooden floor, the steady clatter of bowls and plates filling the air as everyone settled in.

Snape stood near the entrance way, arms crossed, watching as the younger children rushed past him, their energy unchecked. One nearly ran straight into him, stopping just short when he finally noticed the dark figure in his path. The boy hesitated for half a second before darting around him, hurrying to his seat as if sensing that lingering near Snape was a mistake.

With an exasperated sigh, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. This was summer. His summer. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of an orphanage filled with far too many children. At Hogwarts, at least, students were bound by rules, by structure. Here? It was mayhem.

Lowering his hand, he turned to Harry. "You should get to lunch," he instructed. "I need to speak with the director for a moment more, and then I will reinforce the wards before I leave."

Harry glanced up at him, shifting slightly. "You're leaving?"

"For a few days," Snape confirmed. His gaze settled on him, firm but not unkind. "The wards will alert me if anyone attempts to breach them. You are not to leave their protection. Do not step beyond them for any reason."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Got it."

Snape studied him for a moment before giving a brief nod, then added, "I will also retrieve your trunk. Once I have it, I will ensure it is brought here."

Harry blinked. He had known Snape intended to handle it, but hearing it stated so plainly left him momentarily at a loss. "Okay," he said after a beat.

Snape gave a short nod, then glanced toward the window, his gaze shifting briefly as if checking the time or considering something unspoken. He exhaled quietly before looking back at Harry. "I'll be back in a few days." Without another word, he turned and walked toward the director's office, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat as he disappeared down the hall.

Harry nodded again, but the confirmation sat heavier this time. He wasn't sure why. It was just a few days. He had spent entire years on his own, figuring things out without anyone stepping in. He should have been used to it. But as Snape turned back toward the director's office, Harry felt an odd pang in his chest, something sharp and unfamiliar. It made no sense.

He frowned slightly, trying to pin down the feeling. He wasn't upset. Not really. And it wasn't worry, because what was there to worry about? Snape was coming back. It wasn't like he was abandoning him here, not like—

Harry stopped that thought before it finished.

Maybe it was just the strangeness of the past few days catching up with him. Too much had changed, too fast, and Snape—somehow—had become the only stable thing in the middle of it. That had to be it.

Still, as he turned toward the dining hall, he couldn't quite shake the unsettled feeling, even if he didn't understand it. Left on his own, he hesitated for a second before finally heading toward the dining room.

Inside, the room was already alive with commotion. Long wooden tables filled with children, bowls of soup steaming, plates of sandwiches being passed around. The scent of warm bread and something vaguely resembling vegetables filled the space.

Luke and Eddie had already claimed their usual seats near the middle of the room, waving him over as soon as they spotted him.

"Took you long enough," Luke said as Harry slid onto the bench across from them. "Figured you got lost or something."

Eddie, already halfway through his sandwich, shot him a look. "Or maybe that guy from earlier got to you first."

Harry tensed slightly. "What guy?"

Eddie jerked his chin toward the kitchen. "Tall, miserable-looking bloke in black. I saw him standing in the entryway after breakfast talking to Julia. Thought he was some kind of inspector or something."

Harry hesitated before sighing. "That was my teacher. He was just checking on me."

Luke blinked. "Your teacher?"

"From school," Harry said, keeping his voice even. "Professor Snape. He was sent to see if I was alright after everything that happened."

Eddie scoffed. "That guy teaches? What does he teach, glaring?"

Harry smirked. "Wouldn't be far off. He teaches—" He caught himself before he could say Potions. "Chemistry, sort of."

Luke studied him for a second before shaking his head. "Weird. Seemed like he was about to haul you off or something."

Harry grabbed a sandwich, hoping to shift the conversation. "He wanted to, but the doctor here wasn't having it."

Eddie leaned forward. "What's the deal with your school, anyway? Teachers track you down when you're out sick?"

Harry shrugged, forcing a casual tone. "It's a boarding school. They keep tabs on us pretty closely. I guess someone noticed I wasn't at my relatives' place anymore and sent him."

Luke narrowed his eyes. "That still seems a bit intense."

Harry didn't have an answer for that, so he just focused on his food.

A few seconds of silence stretched before Eddie's eyes dropped under the table, and his frown deepened. "Alright, never mind the teacher—where are your crutches?"

Harry froze for half a second before shifting his foot slightly under the bench. "Oh. Uh, turns out my ankle wasn't as bad as they thought."

Eddie frowned. "What? You could barely stand this morning."

"They checked it out at the hospital," Harry said, keeping his voice casual. "Took some X-rays, and I guess it wasn't as bad as it looked. Just a fracture, not a full break. They said I didn't need the crutches anymore."

Luke's skepticism didn't fade. "So you just walk in here like it's nothing? No brace, no limp, just 'oh, never mind, guess it was fine all along'?"

Harry forced a shrug. "I mean, it still aches a bit, but yeah. Maybe it looked worse than it was because of the swelling or something."

Eddie huffed, shaking his head. "Doctors get paid way too much to be that wrong."

Luke leaned back, arms crossed. "Guess that means you can carry your own food now."

Eddie grinned, shoving the bread basket toward Harry. "Yeah, no more special treatment for you."

Harry rolled his eyes, but the easy banter helped ease the tension. As the conversation shifted, he let out a quiet breath, relieved that they didn't push him further.

Around them, the usual lunchtime noise filled the room—kids laughing, younger ones making a mess, the occasional loud scrape of a chair as someone got up for seconds.

Luke glanced toward the other end of the table, where two of the younger kids were engaged in a quiet but determined struggle over the last slice of bread. "We are completely surrounded by chaos."

Eddie shrugged. "That's why we sit here. Close enough to grab seconds, far enough from the disaster zone."

Eddie grabbed another roll, tearing it in half before slathering it with butter. "See, this is why you sit near me," he said, grinning. "Quick access to seconds before they're all gone."

Luke scoffed, scooping another spoonful of soup. "Like I need you for that. If anything, I slow down so you take the heat for going back first."

Harry sat at the table, listening to Eddie and Luke argue over whether the soup was edible, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Snape had left not long ago, promising to return in a few days, but Harry wasn't sure what that meant for him in the long run.

For now, he was here. Safe. At least, as safe as he could be. But that wouldn't last forever.

The Dursleys were gone—out of his life in a way he never expected. The orphanage had taken him in, but Snape had made it clear that this was temporary. And beyond that? The Ministry was circling. Malfoy had already tried to claim him. That wouldn't be the end of it.

Harry stirred his soup absently, his grip tightening on the spoon. He had spent so long just trying to survive that he had never really thought about what came after. But now, he had to. He couldn't just sit and wait for someone else to decide for him—not again.

Maybe he could live with Ron. That would be fun. Ron had told him about his house, about his brothers, about the chaos of it all. Harry had never been anywhere like that, never had a place where he belonged the way Ron did. He could picture it—warm, noisy, crowded in a way that didn't feel suffocating. But was that even possible? He had no idea how things like that worked.

Then, just as quickly, his mind shifted to Snape's house. He hadn't seen much of it—just one room, lined with shelves, books, and strange jars. It had been quiet there, calm in a way he wasn't used to. He had never been anywhere like that either. But why was he even thinking about that? That wasn't an option. He shook the thought away, confused by it.

So where else?

The truth settled in his chest like a stone—there was nowhere else. No family. No home. No one waiting for him.

He stared down at his soup, suddenly aware of how lukewarm it had become, the steam that had curled from the bowl now barely visible. The hum of the dining hall faded into the background, the clatter of dishes and conversation blurring together.

Luke nudged him, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Oi, you zoning out again?"

Harry blinked, shaking off the thoughts for now. "Just thinking."

Eddie smirked. "Dangerous hobby."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh and took a bite of his soup before it got any colder. Whatever was coming, he didn't have the answers right now. He didn't even know where to start looking for them. But at least for tonight, none of that mattered. For tonight, he was here.

The dining hall was still filled with conversation as Luke and Eddie finished their lunch, but Harry was barely paying attention. His mind felt distant, pulled in too many directions, though he couldn't quite pin down why.

Luke nudged him again, this time with an elbow. "We're heading outside to play. You coming?"

Eddie smirked. "Yeah, no crutches means no excuses."

Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "I think I'm just gonna lay down for a bit."

Luke raised an eyebrow, but didn't question it. "Alright. See you later."

Eddie shoved the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and grinned. "Your loss."

They left together, their conversation already shifting to something else as they walked out. Harry stayed at the table for a few more moments before standing up and making his way upstairs.

The dormitory was quiet when he stepped inside, the hum of the orphanage muffled behind the closed door. Sunlight streamed through the window, cutting across the wooden floor in long, soft lines. He walked to his bunk and sat down, letting out a slow breath as he rubbed his hands against his jeans. His gaze landed on the small stack of folded clothes at the foot of his bed, the ones Snape had given him.

For some reason, he couldn't stop looking at them.

They were nothing special—just simple, practical clothes. But something about them made him pause.

He reached out, fingers grazing the fabric before he picked up the top shirt. It wasn't new, but it was clean. Folded neatly, not shoved at him, not tossed aside like something unwanted. Snape had given them to him without comment, without expectation. Just left them there, like it was a simple, obvious thing to do.

Harry didn't know why that meant anything.

He had spent his whole life wearing whatever scraps the Dursleys didn't want, clothes meant to remind him that nothing belonged to him, that he was an afterthought. But this—this had been given to him, not because someone was obligated, not because it was convenient. Just because.

He let the shirt rest in his lap, running his fingers over the fabric. It didn't make sense why it mattered so much, why this small act stood out more than everything else that had happened in the last few days. Maybe it wasn't even about the clothes. Maybe it was about what they meant.

Shaking the thought away, he refolded the shirt carefully, smoothing the fabric before stacking it with the others. One by one, he put them away in the bottom drawer of his bed, lining them up neatly. It was unnecessary, but he took his time anyway.

When he was finished, he sat back against the mattress, staring out the window. The sky was clear, the warmth of the afternoon sun stretching across the rooftops. Somewhere downstairs, voices carried through the halls, kids calling to each other, laughter echoing through the old walls.

He turned onto his side, letting his eyes drift to the window. The sunlight had shifted, casting longer shadows along the floor, marking the slow passage of the afternoon. He didn't know what came next—not tomorrow, not even later today. For now, though, there was nothing to do, no one to answer to. Just the quiet of the dormitory, the steady rhythm of voices beyond the door, and the space to breathe. That was enough.