Pain.

That was the first thing Harry became aware of as he drifted between consciousness and the abyss. Deep, bone-deep agony, stretching through every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of his being.

His body felt heavy, sluggish, as if it no longer belonged to him. His mind was fogged, trapped in the lingering haze of pain and exhaustion.

Something was touching him no, moving him.

Harry's breath hitched as the sensation pulled him further from unconsciousness. His instincts screamed danger, and sheer panic surged through him. His body was too weak to fight, too battered to move, but his mind still burned with the fear of Bellatrix's cruel laughter, her whispered threats, the curses that had torn him apart over and over again.

He tried to flinch away from the touch, tried to push himself up, but a sharp voice cut through his confusion.

"Potter, be still."

Harry froze.

That voice.

Not Bellatrix.

Not the Death Eaters.

Snape.

The realization sent a fresh wave of panic through him. He forced his bleary, unfocused eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear the haze of unconsciousness.

The dim light revealed a stone-walled room, much warmer than the cold, damp dungeon he'd been held in. The heavy scent of herbs and potions filled the air, and the bed beneath him a real bed, not the filthy stone floor of his prison felt soft, almost unfamiliar.

He wasn't in Malfoy Manor anymore.

Harry's gaze snapped to the man beside the bed, his black robes stark against the dim surroundings, his sharp features unreadable as he set down a vial of something dark and foul-smelling.

Snape.

Memories crashed over Harry in a torrent Bellatrix's torture, Snape's unexpected intervention, the way he had stared Bellatrix down and forced her to leave. The last thing Harry remembered was Snape touching his shoulder just before everything went dark.

Now he was here.

With him.

Harry's breath came faster, heart pounding as he tried to sit up. Pain flared instantly, dragging a strangled gasp from his throat.

Snape's hand shot out, pressing against his shoulder, holding him down with surprising gentleness.

"Don't be foolish," Snape said coolly. "You are in no condition to move."

Harry shook his head, his mind still clouded with confusion and fear. "Where" His voice was barely more than a rasp, his throat raw from screaming. "Where am I?"

Snape studied him for a long moment before answering. "A secure location. Away from the Dark Lord's reach."

That wasn't good enough.

"Where?" Harry demanded, though his voice was weak.

Snape's dark eyes flickered with something unreadable. "It is not your concern, Potter."

Harry clenched his jaw, but before he could argue, Snape turned away and retrieved the vial he had set down earlier.

"You need to drink this," Snape said, holding it out. "It will help with the damage Bellatrix inflicted."

Harry stared at the vial. He recognized it a strong healing potion, the kind that knit together deep wounds and restored lost strength. But it was coming from Snape.

A Death Eater.

A man who had tormented him for years.

A man he still wasn't sure he could trust.

Snape's patience thinned. "If I intended to kill you, Potter, I would hardly have gone through the trouble of dragging your half-dead body out of Malfoy Manor."

Harry swallowed hard. His throat was so dry it hurt. He was barely holding himself together his muscles screamed with pain, and his head throbbed like he'd been hit with a bludger. Every inch of him ached.

The potion would help.

But it was Snape.

Harry met Snape's gaze, trying to find some sign of deception, some hidden motive.

Snape sighed impatiently. "Potter, take the bloody potion before I decide you're not worth the effort."

Harry hesitated for only a second longer before snatching the vial from Snape's hand. He sniffed it cautiously, half-expecting something bitter and toxic, but it smelled just as he remembered from past injuries.

Still, as he brought it to his lips and drank, he never took his eyes off Snape.

The effect was almost instantaneous. The burning pain in his chest eased, the deep wounds across his ribs and arms stitched themselves together with a faint, tingling warmth. The exhaustion in his limbs lessened slightly, though he was still unbearably weak.

Harry lowered the empty vial, his breath still ragged.

Snape folded his arms across his chest, watching him. "Better?"

Harry didn't answer.

A heavy silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, unspoken questions.

Finally, Harry found his voice.

"Why did you save me?"

Snape's expression didn't change.

"The Dark Lord requires you alive," he said simply. "It would be… inconvenient if Bellatrix got carried away and killed you before he had the chance to extract the information himself."

Harry's stomach twisted. That made sense. That was the most logical explanation. Snape was a Death Eater, after all. He was just following orders.

And yet…

There had been something in the way he had spoken to Bellatrix, something in the way he had intervened. If Snape only cared about Voldemort's orders, why had he been so quick to remove him from Malfoy Manor?

Why was he helping him now?

"Right," Harry muttered, his voice dripping with distrust.

Snape's dark eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't press the issue. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the door.

"You need rest," Snape said over his shoulder. "I suggest you take advantage of it while you can."

Harry watched as Snape disappeared into the shadows, the door clicking shut behind him.

He was alone again.

Harry exhaled shakily, his mind racing, his body still aching.

He didn't trust Snape.

Not yet.

But he wasn't dead.

And as much as he hated to admit it, that meant something.