Rating: PG-13 (T)

Spoilers: 1-5

Genre: Drama/Angst 

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. I’m just playing around with the characters and places JRR Rowling created for us.

Beta: Barbara

1.

Harry didn’t know how much time had passed since that fateful day when he had woken to see a rather large group of Death Eaters encircling his bed with wands in hand – all pointed at him steadily and mercilessly. He was lost both in time and space, he was somewhere out of this world, of the REAL world, the living people’s world: out of the world of sunshine, warmness, laughter and hope. Losing hope was the gravest thing had ever happened him, he felt dead already and he really didn’t know whether to embrace this feeling or fight it.

He was dying in a dark pit of death without clothing, meals and just with minimal water, beaten and abused in every way from day to day and he gave up.

He gave up.

Why should he fight anyway? Sirius was dead and his mother’s family had cast him out once and for all. He had no place to go. He had no protection left in this world. Dumbledore, after making so many mistakes with Harry, let him return to the Dursleys who finally had got rid of him for good.

‘While you can still call home the place where your mother’s blood dwells, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort...’ Dumbledore told that in the end of the last year, right after Sirius’s... but it didn’t matter now. He would die and that was it. Dumbledore made his final mistake when he didn’t recognise his so-called family’s strong hatred and anger, which finally had caused this situation: Harry in Voldemort’s captivity waiting for the Dark Lord to kill him.

It would be the best of the possible choices, Harry thought bitterly. He had no family, no support remained and he really didn’t want Dumbledore’s care any more. In reality he didn’t want to see the old fool either. Dumbledore had always wanted him to survive. ‘My priority was to keep you alive.’ Was his survival worth of the fuss? He hated his life. Survival, being alive were not as important as being loved – even for a short time...

He curled into a ball and cried without tears.

He hated Dumbledore. And as the time went by, he realised that he hated Dumbledore more than he hated Snape or Malfoy. Only his hatred towards the Dark Lord surpassed that hatred. To the Headmaster, he was nothing, just a piece in his puzzle, just a pawn in his war-chess, and however strongly the man had stated that he cared for Harry, the boy couldn’t help, but smirk at that statement. Caring for – it should mean more than just ‘keeping alive’, shouldn’t it?

Of course, Voldemort had been the first to notice that he, Harry couldn’t call 4 Privet Drive his home any more, that the magical walls and wards had crumpled into nothingness, not that pitiful excuse of a wizard, Mundungus Fletcher, who now, probably, lay dead somewhere near his ex-home, perhaps under a car. Or more likely, he hadn’t been there, of course, but he had been out selling stolen cauldrons to unsuspecting witches. Even Mrs Figg would have been a better guard than that idiot, but it didn’t matter now.

He would die. Thank God, he would die via pains and beatings and curses, but without any more fear, because even the fear had left him somewhere in the way... And Harry understood just now that fear is a vital part of life, that without fear life was unbearable, that without fear he was already dead, a living dead. Voldemort, apparently, still didn’t know about the prophecy’s precise content, because if he had known, Harry would have been killed already. From time to time, Harry had played with the thought of telling him, to finish this pitiful and painful comedy called life.

It was a pity that Snape couldn’t see him like that. The disgusting man would be so pleased – and Harry wouldn’t care if he was seen weak and dying, Snape would have his pleasure. But Snape hadn’t come in the past days (weeks?) and to tell the truth, somewhere inside, Harry was grateful. He would die in peace without a last glimpse of the yellow-teethed, greasy, filthy potions git.

Harry reprimanded himself immediately when next time the door swung open and Snape stood in the frame. Speak of the devil... it was his thought that summoned the git here. But he didn’t open his mouth: it was completely dry from the lack of water, and the slowly clotting blood on his lips shut it even more. He tried to swallow, but it was a stupid idea: his aching throat made a tentative movement, which only caused his lungs to churn and a dry, painful cough to shake his body. Blood came again as he coughed, and he couldn’t move his hand to sweep it away: his left was broken and the right was caught under his body.

“Some good curse, Severus. Something spectacular,” Harry heard Voldemort’s voice and time seemed to stop for a minute. He tried to prepare for the possible blow. It didn’t come.

“Is he conscious, my Lord?” Snape’s tone missed its general nastiness and harshness; it must be because of his master, Harry smirked to himself. A good servant had to lick his master’s boots, didn’t he?

“Why do you want to know that, Severus?” Voldemort’s tone was soft, but in a very unpleasant, slimy way, which made Harry shudder.

“It’s rather useless to waste a good curse on somebody unconscious, Master,” the same, sly, slimy, nauseating tone as the ‘master’. Harry now transferred his whole hatred from Dumbledore to Snape again. ‘Waste a good curse’! As Harry’s anger began to rise in his chest, his coughing grew harder.

“He is coughing,” Voldemort noted the obvious.

“It means nothing, Master,” Snape said humbly. “He could be uncon...”

“Enough. Cast that curse, now!”

Harry was surprised for a moment. Surely, Voldemort couldn’t believe that Snape was only stalling for time, could he?

Well, why not? This second thought stopped Harry’s racing mind. Notwithstanding their mutual hatred and disgust, Snape was still a member of the Order. Had he come to save him? Honestly, Snape had never wanted to kill him before. But since that unfortunate accident with his pensieve... Harry wasn’t sure now how to react or what to expect next. It was best not to hope. Snape wouldn’t save him. At least the man’s worst memory would remain secret for ever...

“Crucio!” Snape yelled, and Harry’s body tensed as he waited for the blow to hit him.

It didn’t come, however. He sensed a slight, passing pain, but it wasn’t too serious, it didn’t even reach the level of the weakest curse of the past days. What had happened to Snape? Surely, the man hated him enough to cast a normal, full-grown Cruciatus on him!

“What was that, Severus?” Harry heard the surprise in Voldemort’s voice. “First, I wanted to see something spectacular. Second, I thought you’ve already learnt how to cast such a curse properly!”

“I have, my Lord,” Snape bowed, Harry could see it from the corner of his eye. He cringed watching the disgusting submissive manner in which his teacher behaved. “But I think the boy need a little... nudging. He probably had became too injured to feel the cast curses. I have a potion...”

“Why don’t you cast an Enervate, then?” Voldemort asked bored and pulled out his wand.

“Because you wanted to see something spectacular, my Lord,” Snape bowed again and Harry suddenly wanted to spat in his face. Slimy greaseball!

“Oh,” Voldemort smiled and pocketed his wand again. “Then do it!”

When Snape stepped up to him and knelt down, Harry struggled to keep himself away from the man he loathed so strongly. But he couldn’t really move: he just shuddered and rolled on his back instead of moving away. This move, apparently, was the most stupid thing he could have done: now Snape could freely slip an arm under his back and lift a tiny bottle to his mouth. Harry tried to turn his head from the vial, but his neck hurt, and he hissed.

In an instant Harry could see that the vial was uncorked and perfectly empty, then Snape’s half-embrace became stronger around his chest, the vial touched his lips and a sudden tug showed Harry that the Portkey functioned well. The last thing he heard was Voldemort’s angry yell, which faded away, as the world was whirling away around them.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Harry was pressed entirely against Snape, and he couldn’t help but shrug with disgust as he smelt the odour of sweat on the man. His common sense tried to tell him that it was only the nervousness Snape felt in Voldemort’s presence, but his hatred didn’t want to accept it. The man was filthy, and he had to touch his uncleanness until he decided to put Harry down.

At least he hadn’t sprawled on the door when they arrived.

“Severus!” Harry heard the Headmaster’s voice, while Snape slipped his second hand under Harry’s knees so that he was lying in his arms like a child. He grunted in protest, but nobody seemed to pay attention on his reactions. “Is he alive?”

“Barely,” the man snapped, this time his voice was the usual guarded and cold, instead of that slippery one, “and he needs medical help. Immediately.”

Harry felt as the man’s grip strengthened around him and he began to walk away, followed closely by the Headmaster. He felt as they descended the spiral staircase (so they had arrived to Dumbledore’s office, Harry realised) and passed the gargoyle, but they almost fell over Moody who was standing in front of the office’s entrance.

“Oh, Severus, so you’ve found the young Potter!” he said contently. Harry through his blurred vision could see him smile, but with the smile on his face his expression was more frightening.

Snape just nodded and stalked away. Dumbledore stopped Moody and called after them.

“We have some things to discuss. We’ll see you later in the Infirmary.”

Snape nodded again, and Harry could hear “Come in, Alastor, I think it changes quite a lot of things...” and the voices faded away.

“Harry, are you awake?” Harry almost fainted as he realised it was the git, who asked the question. Harry? Why on earth was he Harry to him? His surprise wasn’t too visible, apparently, because Snape continued to speak to him. “Potter, Harry, can you hear me? We’ll be in the Infirmary in no time. You can rest there. Everything will be all right.”

Oh, the usual lie. Nothing would be all right, of course. Nothing. Ever. Harry struggled to keep a little more distance from the man, but his movement just made Snape press him against himself even more.

“You’ll survive,” Snape said and this sentence finally was able to give Harry enough force to croak some words.

“I don’t want to,” but his tone betrayed him. He sounded too much like a snivelling child rather than the determined man he wanted to sound like.

“I’m sorry,” Snape blurted out suddenly and moaned as he arranged Harry in his hold again. “I’m so sorry. It was my fault.”

The apology somehow hushed Harry into a daze.

Snape was sorry? What for? If anything, his capture wasn’t HIS fault. Well, Sirius’s death, Lupin’s firing, five years of being ridiculed and thoroughly humiliated were the git’s fault. But this situation... was more his aunt’s sin since she was the one who had finally renounced him. And his uncle’s since he had decided to punish him properly for the last years – and for things that weren’t really Harry’s fault. Well, the punishment hadn’t been more than some forceful slaps on his face, but his feeling of being beaten and rejected combined with being humiliated in front of Dudley boiled his blood enough to lose the last home-like emotions he ever had towards the Dursley house.

While these thoughts crossed his mind he felt as Snape laid him cautiously on a bed, shouting for Madam Pomfrey, and he sensed as his ridiculous excuse of clothes were stripped off from his slim body, softly, and a damp, warm towel touched his skin to remove the clotted blood, the filth, the salt of sweat. Some minutes later, another towel joined the first, and Harry let himself enjoy the warm touches, the first touches that didn’t cause harm and pain for days.

“He’s half asleep, Severus. Can you bring here those pyjamas on the other bed over here?” Pomfrey’s voice was tense, but warm, just like the towels. Joints crackled as somebody stood up, and Harry could smell the fresh odour of a newly ironed pyjama top as the man pulled it on over Harry’s head, and the bottom caressed his abused legs and thighs. And he was lifted again and placed down to another bed.

“I think we should send that sheet to the trash,” Madam Pomfrey was speaking most definitely about the sheet Harry was laid on previously, but he didn’t care: somebody was tugging the light, fluffy blanket around him, and the downy pillow under his face almost swallowed his head. He snuggled into the bed’s embrace, and he still noticed tentative fingers touching his face and smoothing locks from his forehead, but he couldn’t wake up any more...