Harry stirred, the heaviness in his limbs a dull reminder of everything he had endured. The familiar scent of the Burrow filled his senses, bringing with it a wave of comfort he had nearly forgotten. His body ached, but the pain was distant, muffled by layers of warmth and soft blankets.

He blinked his eyes open, taking in the dimly lit room. A soft murmur of voices drifted through the slightly ajar door. He could make out the worried tone of Mrs. Weasley and the steadier voice of Hermione.

With great effort, Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, grimacing as the movement sent a sharp sting through his ribs. The sound must have carried because the voices stopped abruptly, and a moment later, Hermione stepped into the room, eyes wide with relief and concern.

"Harry," she breathed, rushing to his side. "You're awake."

"Yeah," he croaked, his throat dry. He swallowed and tried again. "How long?"

"Two days," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You were in bad shape when Snape brought you back. Madam Pomfrey did what she could, but you needed rest more than anything."

The mention of Snape made Harry's mind reel. The last thing he remembered was the cold stone walls of his prison, the whispered words of his former Potions Master, and then the sensation of being Disapparated away. He frowned. "Snape…"

Hermione nodded. "He risked everything to get you out."

Before Harry could respond, the door creaked open further, revealing the imposing figure of Severus Snape. His dark eyes flickered over Harry with his usual unreadable expression.

"Potter," Snape said, stepping into the room. "You look as reckless as ever."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And you look as pleasant as ever."

A ghost of a smirk played at Snape's lips before he held up a small vial. "Drink this. It will help with the residual effects of the Cruciatus."

Harry hesitated before taking it from Snape's outstretched hand. He met the man's gaze, searching for any trace of malice or deception, but found none. Slowly, he uncorked the vial and drank.

"I did not go through the trouble of saving you for you to waste away in stubbornness," Snape muttered.

Over the next few days, Snape became a constant presence in Harry's recovery. He checked in regularly, bringing more potions—some for pain, others to strengthen Harry's magic after his ordeal. Though terse and often exasperated by Harry's stubbornness, Snape's actions spoke louder than his words. He ensured Harry ate proper meals, personally overseeing the brewing of his medicinal potions, and even adjusted his pillows when he thought Harry was asleep.

One evening, Harry awoke to find Snape seated in a chair beside his bed, reading a worn potion textbook. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows over his tired features. Harry watched him for a moment before rasping, "Didn't take you for a nursemaid."

Snape barely looked up. "Trust me, Potter, I have no great desire to play one. But someone needs to ensure your reckless nature doesn't finish what the Death Eaters started."

Harry managed a weak smirk. "Touching."

Snape sighed, closing the book. "Get some rest, Potter."

For the first time in a long while, Harry obeyed without argument. He wasn't sure what came next, but for now, he was safe. For now, he was healing.