Secrets

Clean, white light filtered into his consciousness. He could feel warmth emanating from somewhere. Wiggling, he adjusted his position, feeling the soft cocoon of blankets that covered his form. Groggily, the boy who lived opened his eyes to see fire dancing in the hearth. He had no idea where he was.

Terrified, Harry sat up, only to feel a severe pain course through his body. Clutching his chest, he collapsed into the pile of blankets, struggling to breathe. “Where am I,” he wondered, “and what happened to my cupboard?” His deep green eyes opened again, and he began to look around the room. The colors were soft and muted. There were no windows. “What kind of house doesn’t have windows,” he thought. Staring ahead, he noticed a small table in front of him. On it were piles of books, newspapers, and his glasses. Desperate to see the details of his surroundings, Harry reached for his glasses. Gasping in pain, he ceased trying. Instead he lay there, wondering how he had come to be in this completely unknown place. The last thing he remembered was being thrown into the cupboard after one of his punishments.

Suddenly, Harry was snapped out of his thoughts by a sound of movement coming from somewhere in the room. He listened, panicking as the steps seemed to come closer to him. Frightened, he tried to make himself as small as possible, knowing that if he tried to run away, he wouldn’t make it.

“I see,” a familiar voice said, “that you’ve finally decided to join the living.” A hand held out his glasses. Gingerly, Harry reached out to grab them. When he put them on, his fears were confirmed. The mysterious man was none other than Snape.

“Why am I…I mean…what happened…” asked Harry in a small, confused voice.

“Circumstances did not permit you to be with your relatives any longer,” replied Snape.

“But I…where…how…” he stuttered.

“Things being things, you have been readmitted to Hogwarts.” Harry’s heart soared. “That is,” Snape continued, “contingent on your behavior. There are certain activities that you are no longer permitted to engage in.” As abruptly as it had risen, Harry’s heart fell into a heavy lump in his stomach. There was no way.

“I can’t just…stop, though, can I,” asked Harry, trembling.

“Fool boy,” Snape snapped. Harry flinched, and seemed to curl in upon himself. “Obviously,” he proceeded, “you are not expected to be ready to attend classes tomorrow. However, you have gotten lucky, in that the winter holidays are among us.” When Harry didn’t reply, Snape walked closer to him, and tried to look him in the eye. Harry averted his gaze until he was staring at his stomach.

“Harry,” the professor spoke, “you can trust me. I intend to help you.” His heart nearly broke when he saw how fast Harry responded to any kindness. The boy looked up into his eyes, full of hope.

“There are rules, though,” said Snape. “For instance, you must be open with me. In order for me to help you heal, I need to know what hurts.” Nervously, Harry nodded. “Also, I need you to share your emotions with me. I believe that you did what you did because you needed to cope somehow. However, you must learn to cope without any sort of…assistance of that type. Agreed?”

The boy nodded slowly, his eyes wide with fear. Nothing that Snape had said had sounded like much of a choice to him. He kept his eyes on the professor, worried that something might happen.

“Right, then, Harry, drink this,” said Snape, handing him a potion. When Harry hesitated, he continued, “it’s not poison, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’ll help you relax and sleep while I try to figure out the most effective way of dealing with your…issues.” Harry took the bottle and drank. The face he made when the bitter potion touched his tongue made Snape smile. Expectantly, the boy looked at him. Snape merely returned the gaze, waiting for the potion to take effect. He watched as Harry became relaxed, as his eyes began to flutter. The boy’s breathing grew slow and regular, and soon, he was asleep. Snape covered him up with a blanket.

Part of Snape felt complete, just sitting here, watching the black haired boy sleep. He knew, though, that this wouldn’t help anything. He had to figure out a way to help Harry cope with his problems on his own.
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When Harry awoke, the first thing he noticed was the smell of bacon. Someone was frying bacon. He opened his eyes, taking in his surroundings. At first, he forgot where he was, but then he remembered that wherever he was, he was with Snape. Slowly, he sat up and peeked over the sofa to see a strange site.

Snape was whistling. And cooking. And wearing an apron. Had Harry not been so weak, he would have burst into an uncontrollable laughing fit. As it was, he felt a grin spread across his face. He never thought he’d see his surly potions teacher cooking. He became startled, however, when Snape turned his head to check on him.

“I’ve made some food, if you’re hungry.” Snape continued to cook, now moving on to frying eggs and pancakes at the same time. Harry’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen this much food and been permitted to eat it. When he made no effort to move from the sofa, Snape looked over again and said, “well, you’ll have to get up to eat, Harry, I’m not a house elf.” Hurriedly, Harry got up and nearly ran to the table. When he got there, he began to regret it. Suddenly, he felt faint and dizzy.

“I told you to come get food, Harry, not to exhaust yourself doing so,” Snape admonished, placing a plate full of food in front of him. The potions master watched in awe as the boy began to eat, chewing slowly and savoring each bite. Snape hadn’t been sure how much food to make. He knew that most teenage boys could eat a house if they were permitted to; however, he also knew that Harry had been starved for quite a while. He hoped the boy would have the sense to stop eating before he made himself sick.

Apparently, however, moderation was not a word that Harry was familiar with. Snape supposed that it was due to the lack of proper nourishment that he ate like he would never see food again. Finally, after Harry was about to start on more food, Snape took his plate away from him and said, “You’ll make yourself sick if you keep eating like that.” Harry merely nodded, and watched Snape move around the kitchen.

Snape rather liked his kitchen. It was clean, it was rather large, and it allowed him a certain autonomy. His thoughts and work were interrupted by a very small voice.

“Sir,” said Harry, looking nervous, “where is your um…” he stopped talking.
“Where is my what, Harry,” asked Snape.
“Your…um…bathroom.” He blushed.

Resisting the urge to laugh, Snape directed the boy to the restroom and left him there. It made him sad that the boy was so apprehensive about asking simple questions. It wasn’t as if he could have known where the bathroom was. He had to ask. Snape dried the last dish and sat down on a chair to read. After ten minutes, he became worried, and went to check on the boy.
He found that the bathroom door was closed. He leaned against it and could hear nothing on the other side. He stood there for a moment, contemplating opening the door, but not wanting to disturb Harry. Hesitantly, he knocked. There was no answer. Snape had no choice but to open the door.

Harry was curled up in a ball, crying. The room smelled of bile, and Snape realized that the youth had probably vomited. He walked into the room, cast a cleaning spell, and looked at Harry.

“I…I’m sorry,” the boy stuttered.
“Why?”
“Because I got sick. I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have fed me.”

Snape was stunned. Obviously, Harry had eaten too much and gotten ill. It was not uncommon amongst those who experienced malnutrition. He shook his head sadly and moved to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Harry flinched abruptly.

“Please…no…I’m sorry…please don’t hurt me,” Harry begged.
“Harry,” Snape whispered, “no one’s going to hurt you.” The boy began to rock back and forth, shielding his head with his hands.
“I’m bad, I know. I didn’t mean to.” He seemed to be delirious now.


The potions master stared in disbelief, seething with anger on the inside. He wanted to hurt whoever had done this to this boy. Harry might be sixteen, but part of him acted like a scared child. He felt useless, like there was nothing he could do to help the boy. Abruptly, he reached down and scooped him up in his arms and walked to the living room sofa. Harry squirmed initially, scared that he would get hurt. Once they were settled on the sofa, Snape began to stroke the boy’s head and rub his back.

“It’s ok, Harry,” he spoke soothingly, “no one here is going to hurt you. You aren’t bad. It’s ok. You’re at Hogwarts. You aren’t at home. No one is mad at you for getting sick after breakfast. It happens. You’ll just eat later, but we’ll make sure you don’t eat so much.” After talking to the boy for a few minutes, Snape noticed that he had stopped struggling and instead had snuggled into his arms. He had not, however, ceased crying.

“Harry, I need you to talk to me, to tell me what’s going on inside your head. It’ll help.” He continued to stroke the hair of the boy who lived, listening to his ragged breathing, internally hating the blasted muggles that had been Harry’s guardians. A whimpering voice broke the silence.

“I need it,” the little voice said.
“Need what?”
“My bag.”
“You don’t need that, Harry,” soothed Snape.
“I think I do,” cried the boy.
“Why do you need it?”
“It keeps me from remembering,” he cried softly.
“Oh, Harry,” said Snape, petting the black haired boy, “I know it hurts to remember, but you can’t go on hiding from your past this way. It’s not healthy; it’s not safe. You could accidentally give yourself too much and die, or you could contract some sort of disease. It’s just not safe.”
“But it hurts to remember,” muttered Harry.
“What do you remember,” asked Snape. He wondered if maybe Harry would open up to him.
“And I feel sick without it,” the boy said, evading his question.
“How do you feel,” asked Snape, suddenly worried about withdrawal symptoms.
“My head hurts. I can’t eat.” Internally, Snape laughed at that one. The boy was hardly what one would call well fed. “And my heart races, I get scared.” Without comment, Snape continued to pet the boy, wondering if there was anything that he could do to ease the physical symptoms of withdrawal. He could probably give Harry potions for the headaches, or even give him a strong sleeping draught to get him through the worst of it. Part of him knew, though, that he shouldn’t. The boy needed to experience withdrawals, so that he wouldn’t be tempted to use any sort of intoxicant again. He needed to be conscious so that Snape could help him work through his fears, his pain.

The older man looked down at the mess of a boy in his arms and sighed. What the boy needed was love.

Later that night, Snape found himself pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He had weakened in his resolve and given Harry a weak sleeping draught. The boy had been exhausted, trying valiantly to hold his head upright, as if he might miss something if he fell asleep. Snape had been able to coax the boy to eat a small bowl of soup, which he had immediately expelled. The older man had settled with getting him to eat a few crackers, which he did not lose.

He flopped down on a chair and sighed. His eyes rested on the sleeping Harry Potter laying on his couch. Many thoughts raced through his head. He felt strangely attached to the boy, and he couldn’t figure out why. Furthermore, he felt the need to take out some revenge upon the boy’s guardians. He couldn’t tell if this impulse came from his mixed feelings concerning Harry or if he was merely acting the way he would with any child. He decided that it was probably just anger on behalf of his student, and that he’d react similarly regardless of who that student was.

“At least,” he thought, “that’s what I’m going to tell myself.”
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His dreams that night were disjointed, as usual. They did, however, have one dramatic difference. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was present in nearly every vignette. Sometimes the boy laughed, sometimes he cried. In every scene, though, he needed Severus, needed his love, his help, his guidance. He wasn’t sure he could handle that. In his dreams, he was free to care for the boy, converse with him. In life, there were expectations to be met, ideas and personas to be upheld. While in dreams, Snape could dote upon Harry Potter, in life, such an idea was forbidden. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t love the boy. In his dream, though, Harry reached out for Snape’s hand. Snape pulled him into his arms, containing him in a strong embrace. The look of love shone in Harry’s emerald eyes. He bent down to kiss the boy.

Then he woke up. Something seemed amiss, though he didn’t know what. With an air of urgency, he crawled out of his soft, warm bed and threw on a dressing gown. Quickly, he walked into the living room, to see Harry curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth. Tears rolled down the boy’s face. The room was dark; the only light came from the flames flickering playfully in the fireplace. The orange light made Harry look gorgeous, catching on his hair and warming his skin tone. Snape shook the thoughts out of his head and walked over to the boy. Harry seemed to sense his presence, because he started trembling. He reached down to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Harry,” he whispered, “it’s me.” The boy looked up, eyes red and puffy from crying.
“What’s wrong, Harry?” When the boy didn’t answer, Snape pulled him into a snug embrace. Suddenly, the boy became full of energy.
“I need it,” he cried. “At night the memories come back. You don’t understand, or maybe you do, but it’s so hard to remember.” He crumpled into Snape.
“What do you remember that’s so hard,” Severus asked.
“There’s so much noise, so much. Sometimes, I don’t know who I am. Some days, I forget my name. I’m only ‘it’ or ‘boy.’ Actually, I’m ‘boy’ on a good day.”
“I know who you are, though,” whispered Snape.
“And then there’s the pain. I don’t understand the pain. I try and try to be good, try to do everything perfectly, and I never get anything.” Harry choked out a pitiful sob.
“What does it take to be good, Harry?”
“Perfection. I don’t know. Doing everything correctly. Remembering to put the right ingredients in when making dinner. Cleaning the bathrooms properly,” he answered.
“What happens if you don’t do one of those things properly,” asked Snape.
“Then you are stupid, worthless, useless, and no one ought to put up with you,” answered Harry, with an eerie speed. Snape allowed that statement to sink into his consciousness for a moment without saying anything. He could recall feeling a similar way at certain times in his life. It seemed that no matter what he had done, he wasn’t good enough. It had been horrible.
“What happens, though, Harry,” he asked. “Say you forget to do a dish, drop it, even. What happens?”
“Punishments,” whispered a sobbing and shaking Harry.
“Well, no one needs to be perfect. I suppose we all got in trouble at some point as a child.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Harry began. “When I did something wrong, I would lose food privileges. I would be thrown into the cupboard, and not let out, not even to…”
“It’s ok, Harry,” said Snape, sensing an oncoming panic attack. He stroked the boy’s back, trying to help him relax. He needed to know that he could talk about these things, needed to know that he could deal with his memories without drugs.
“It’s not ok,” Harry yelled. “It’s my fault, it’s all my fault. I did everything wrong, I made them hurt me. I made them do things to me. If I had just been good, if I had just responded to their needs faster.”
“It’s not your fault, Harry. You couldn’t have stopped it,” replied Snape.
“But I should have been able to. They never did anything bad to my cousin. He must have done everything right. I just deserved it is all. He never got tied up, never got hit, never got…” his voice trailed off.

After that, the pair just sat. Harry cried, remaining curled up against Snape. Severus stared into the fireplace, wondering if Harry would ever be ok, if he would ever be capable of trusting anyone fully. The parallels between Harry’s childhood and his were uncanny. Certainly, Severus hadn’t responded to his circumstances in the same way that Harry had. He hadn’t turned to drugs. Eventually, Severus had even learned to trust others, though he couldn’t recall how long it had taken him to regain that ability. There were some days, of course, that he still didn’t trust anyone. He thought everyone was out to get him.

Looking down, Snape realized that the boy had fallen asleep. Rising carefully, he moved to place the boy back on the sofa. As soon as he let go, however, the boy emitted a soft whimper. His eyes fluttered. Severus realized that he probably wouldn’t sleep long tonight. As he walked out of the room, he heard a small voice barely whisper a request.

“I…don’t…I don’t wanna be alone…”

Snape smiled, walked back to the sofa, and looked at Harry. He wasn’t sure how to go about this. Two people couldn’t very well sleep in the living room. The sofa wasn’t big enough for that. Severus certainly didn’t want to sleep in his chairs, although they were quite comfortable for an afternoon snooze. Finally, he decided that there was really only one place to sleep. Carefully, he picked up the boy and carried him into his bedroom. Gently, he laid Harry on the large bed and covered him with blankets. Removing his robe, Snape crawled into bed with him, being careful to keep his distance. Harry, however, snuggled right up to Snape like a small kitten. Drowsily, Snape stroked Harry’s hair. He wondered what, if anything, this meant. He turned his head to look at the small creature curled up against him and smiled. The boy’s face was calm, his eyes closed. There was even a faint smile on his face. He looked positively beautiful and at peace. When Snape was sure the boy was asleep, he leaned over and planted a small kiss on Harry’s forehead. Then, he lay back to dream.