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2024-12-13
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2025-05-31
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Left Behind

Summary:

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.

Notes:

Hello, hello! I admit I got a bit carried away with this one—sorry for the length! Amazingly, I already have at least one more chapter planned. Hope you enjoy!
This is response for a challenge found on potions and snitches

Chapter Text

The summer sun blazed down as Harry sat hunched in the backseat of the Dursleys' car, his forehead pressed lightly against the smudged window. The heat from the upholstery had seeped through his thin, oversized shirt, but he barely registered it. His head still throbbed from where Dudley had shoved him into the wall earlier that morning, leaving a dull ache that refused to fade. His ribs protested with every shallow breath, a lingering pain from his uncle's latest outburst— they were likely broken.

Outside, the streets rolled by in a muted blur, accompanied only by the steady hum of the car's engine. Harry didn't bother asking where they were going; he knew better. Years of silent lessons had taught him to avoid attention, to blend into the background. The cost of stepping out of line was always swift and unforgiving. Vernon's fist had delivered that lesson with brutal clarity just days ago, sending Harry sprawling into the corner of the kitchen. The sharp pain in his side and the dull throb in his ankle ever since confirmed the damage.

He shifted slightly, careful not to move his left leg too much. The sharp, searing pain in his ankle reminded him of how he'd twisted it trying to dodge one of Vernon's kicks. He'd hidden it as best as he could, limping only when he was sure no one was looking. Still, it hurt fiercely now.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the passing scenery, his hands gripping his knees tightly to keep them from trembling. He didn't need to see the scowls on his aunt and uncle's faces or hear their occasional grumbles to know how unwelcome he was. This summer, like all the others, was just another exercise in survival. He couldn't let them see how much he hurt. That would only make things worse.

Petunia sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her back unnaturally straight and her lips pressed so tightly together they all but disappeared. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, deliberately avoiding any glance at Harry through the rearview mirror. Dudley lounged in the backseat beside Harry, noisily crunching on a bag of crisps, crumbs spilling onto his shirt with every bite. Harry's stomach twisted painfully; the last thing he'd eaten was the crust of bread Petunia had thrown his way the night before.

The car jerked sharply around a corner, and Harry was thrown against the door. He bit back a gasp, his ribs flaring in protest, and held his breath to keep the pain from showing. Dudley let out a snicker, clearly amused, while Vernon kept his focus on the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel.

The narrow lane they turned onto was lined with small, run-down houses. Their windows sagged in warped frames, and front gardens were overrun with wild weeds and grass that reached the knees. As they passed a warn down park, Harry caught sight of two children perched on a rusted swing set. They sat close together, their heads bent in quiet conversation, the faint creak of the chains swaying in the breeze adding to the stillness.

Harry frowned. This wasn't a neighborhood the Dursleys usually visited. It was too far removed from the manicured lawns and spotless sidewalks of Privet Drive. He straightened slightly, wincing at the pull in his back, and tried to glimpse where they were heading.

The car came to a jerky stop in front of a weathered brick building, its exterior marked by decades of neglect. The once-red bricks had faded to a dull brown, their surfaces chipped and cracked in places where vines had begun to creep upward. Several of the windowsills sagged, their peeling paint curling like dried leaves. Above the rusted iron gate hung a crooked sign, its letters barely legible beneath layers of grime and fading paint: Little Haven Orphanage.

The gate itself creaked softly in the wind, one hinge hanging slightly loose, while weeds poked up stubbornly through the gravel path leading to the front steps. Despite its tired appearance, the building stood solid, its tall, rectangular shape giving the impression that it had seen worse days and survived them all.

Vernon shifted into park with a loud thunk, his grunt breaking the uneasy silence that had filled the car. He twisted halfway in his seat, his bulky frame making the motion awkward, and fixed a hard glare on Harry. "Out."

Harry blinked, momentarily disoriented. "What?"

"I said, get out!" Vernon snapped, his face flushing as his impatience boiled over. "This is where you'll be staying from now on."

For a moment, Harry thought he must have misheard. He stared at Vernon, then glanced at Petunia, seeking some explanation, some reassurance. She clutched her purse tightly in her lap. Her gaze remained fixed out the windshield, her lips still pressed into a flat line. She didn't look at him, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Her detachment felt colder than the words themselves.

"You're leaving me here?" Harry's voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. His throat felt tight, his chest constricting as he tried to make sense of what he'd just heard. His words sounded small and fragile, almost drowned out by the quiet hum of the car engine.

Vernon's face darkened with irritation. Without another word, he shoved his door open and climbed out. The car rocked slightly under his weight as he stomped around to Harry's side, his features twisted in disgust. The back door creaked loudly as he yanked it open, the sound slicing through the stillness.

"We've had enough of you, boy," Vernon barked, his meaty hand closing around Harry's arm like a vice. Harry winced as a sharp burst of pain shot through the bruised flesh beneath Vernon's iron grip. His uncle hauled him out of the car with little care, nearly making Harry lose his balance as his injured ankle protested fiercely.

"You think we'll keep putting up with your freakishness? Think again." Vernon loomed over Harry, his bulk casting an imposing shadow. He shoved him forward, away from the car, leaving Harry stumbling as he struggled to steady himself. His heart pounded in his chest, the realization sinking in like a lead weight. They were really abandoning him here.

Harry turned back toward the car, his eyes darting between Vernon and Petunia. "You can't just—" he started, but the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to scream, to demand an answer, but Petunia's gaze remained glued forward, as if she couldn't even hear him. Dudley smirked through the open window, a mocking wave of his chubby fingers making Harry's stomach churn.

"Enough!" Vernon barked, cutting off Harry's stammered protest. "You're lucky we didn't leave you sooner." Without warning, Vernon shoved Harry forward, his hand pressing hard against the boy's shoulder. Harry's balance gave way beneath the sudden force, and he stumbled onto the cracked pavement, his injured ankle buckling painfully. He caught himself on the edge of the gate, biting back a cry as fresh waves of pain flared through his side and leg.

Vernon reached back into the car and pulled out a small, lumpy pillowcase. Without a word, he tossed it at Harry's feet, where it landed with a dull thud. Dust puffed up around it as the worn fabric settled over whatever was inside.

"That's all you're getting," Vernon sneered, his face red with disdain. "You ought to be grateful for that."

Harry stared at the pillowcase, his chest tightening. The faded pillowcase sagged slightly under the weight of its contents, but he didn't move to pick it up. Instead, his eyes darted to Petunia, who sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her gaze fixed firmly out the windshield. She still gripped her purse tightly in her lap, her knuckles white against the straps, refusing to look at him. In the back seat, Dudley waved lazily, his smirk wide and mocking.

"Wait!" Harry croaked, his voice cracking as panic rose in his chest. "What am I supposed to—"

"You're someone else's problem now!" Vernon snapped, cutting him off. His bulk loomed over Harry for a moment, then he climbed back into the driver's seat with a grunt. The door slammed shut behind him, the sound final and deafening in the stillness.

The engine roared to life, and Harry stood frozen as the car lurched forward. Dust and gravel kicked up from the tires, stinging his eyes as he watched the Dursleys drive away without so much as a backward glance. Dudley's mocking grin remained burned into his mind long after the car disappeared around the corner, leaving only the faint hum of the engine fading into the distance.

For a long moment, Harry didn't move. His ribs ached with every shallow breath, and his ankle hurt fiercely, but he ignored the pain, his focus on the pillowcase at his feet. Slowly, he crouched down, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries, and picked it up. The pillowcase was heavier than he'd expected, the contents shifting awkwardly inside, but he didn't bother looking at what was in it. Whatever Vernon had given him, it wouldn't be much.

Turning his attention to the building in front of him, Harry's stomach sank. The orphanage stood like a relic of neglect, its brick walls streaked with grime and weathered by years of disrepair. The windows were obscured by dull lace curtains, and the front door hung slightly ajar, swaying faintly in the breeze. The air around it was thick with the faint smell of mildew and overgrown grass.

Harry tightened his grip on the pillowcase, its rough fabric digging into his palm as he limped toward the gate. His heart pounded in his chest, and his ankle pulsed with every painful step, but he forced himself forward. Pausing outside the gate, he glanced back down the empty lane, hoping for something—anything—but the road remained silent. With a weary sigh, he stepped through the gate, his legs trembling beneath him.

The gravel path crunched faintly under his worn trainers, the sound unnervingly loud in the stillness. He placed his hands on the cool iron bars, their chill seeping into his sweaty palms, and pushed the gate open. Its hinges groaned, shattering the silence that hung heavily over the empty yard. It was just him now, standing before the building, the street behind him as empty as if the world had vanished the moment he crossed its threshold.

Harry sighed and stared up at the tall brick orphanage. Its aged façade loomed over him, the faded red bricks streaked darker in places from the recent rain. The windows glinted faintly in the pale light, some slightly ajar to let in the cool air. From within came muffled sounds—voices rising and falling, laughter ringing out, and the occasional sharp thud of hurried footsteps. The building felt alive with activity, even though the yard around him was deserted. The patchy grass underfoot, still damp from earlier rainfall, clung to his trainers as he shifted his weight.

He lingered for a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edges of the pillowcase in his hand before taking a deep breath and stepping forward. The large wooden door stood slightly ajar, its paint peeling in places. Pushing it open, he was met with the low groan of old hinges and the immediate warmth of the interior. The air carried a blend of scents—something freshly baked mingled with the faint, sharp tang of cleaning supplies. His stomach clenched with hunger, the smell of food drawing his focus as his trainers scuffed against the worn, uneven floorboards.

Inside, the sound of children reached him more clearly. Laughter echoed distantly down the hall, interspersed with quick, uneven footsteps racing over the wooden floors. A blur of movement caught his eye as two boys darted past an open doorway, one shouting something unintelligible while the other gave chase. Across the entryway, in a far corner, two girls sat cross-legged, their heads close together as they whispered. Their eyes flicked toward Harry briefly, curiosity in their glances, but they quickly turned back to their conversation. The rest of the children seemed oblivious to his presence, too absorbed in their chatter and games to notice the stranger standing awkwardly near the door.

Before Harry could decide what to do next, a door farther down the hall swung open with a soft creak. A woman emerged, balancing a tray of mismatched mugs in her hands. She was plump, with a kind face framed by streaks of gray in her curly hair. Her apron, checkered and slightly smudged, bore traces of flour and faint stains, evidence of time spent in the kitchen. She paused mid-step when her eyes landed on Harry, her expression shifting as she took him in. Her brow furrowed slightly, not unkindly, as curiosity and concern appeared on her face. For a moment, the tray wobbled in her grasp before she steadied it.

"Well, hello there," she said warmly, her voice carrying the kind of comfort that came from years of looking after a bustling household. She carefully set the tray on a small side table and wiped her hands on her apron, a practiced gesture, before stepping toward him with a welcoming smile. "You're a new face. What's your name, love?"

"Harry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Harry," she repeated with a nod, her tone kind and steady. "I'm Mrs. Fields. I'm the cook around here, and I help keep the house running—and an eye on the children when the Director's busy. Been here more years than I can count." She paused, tilting her head slightly. "How long have you been with us, then?"

"I just… just got here," Harry admitted, glancing over his shoulder at the door as though expecting the Dursleys to return. It was an irrational thought—they had made it clear they were done with him—but the sting of their abandonment was still fresh and raw.

Mrs. Fields's eyes softened as she took him in, noticing his tense posture and the way he clutched his side. She didn't ask questions, though, only giving a small nod as if to say she understood more than she let on. She gestured down the hall with a practiced ease, her voice taking on a practical tone.

"Well then, you'll want to meet the Director right away," she said. "She's the one in charge and will get you sorted. Come on, now. I'll take you to her." She started down the hall, glancing back to make sure he was following. Harry stopped briefly before shuffling after her, the sound of his trainers faint against the worn floorboards as he walked into the unknown.

Harry followed her, clutching the pillowcase Vernon had thrown at him. The hallway was lined with faded photographs and a scattering of children's drawings pinned to the walls. The scent of floor polish lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the more lively sounds of the orphanage—a mix of laughter, running footsteps, and occasional shouts echoing from around the corner.

As they walked, a swarm of children rushed past them, weaving through the corridor, their noise and laughter filling the air. A boy with unruly brown hair clutched a wooden airplane, its propeller spinning wildly as he zoomed it through the air, narrowly avoiding Mrs. Fields. Behind him, two younger girls chased after each other, their giggles bouncing off the walls as they darted into a nearby room. A group of older kids huddled near the far end of the hallway, whispering conspiratorially over a deck of battered playing cards.

Mrs. Fields barely glanced at them as she led Harry down the hall, her pace brisk. He tightened his grip on the pillowcase, his eyes darting between the unfamiliar faces. Most of the children barely noticed him, too absorbed in their games and chatter to pay attention, but a few cast him curious glances before turning back to their own activities.

At the end of the hallway, Mrs. Fields paused in front of a door with a polished brass plaque that read: Director Julia Blackwell. She knocked twice on the wood, the sound crisp in the quiet corridor, then pushed the door open without waiting for an answer.

Inside, the office was surprisingly bright and welcoming. A large window framed by cheerful, patterned curtains let in the afternoon sunlight, which warmed the room and highlighted the shelves crammed with books. An overflowing potted fern in the corner sprawled out like it had been growing there for years. Behind the desk sat a tall woman whose silver-streaked hair was neatly pinned back, though a few loose strands framed her kind, open face. Her eyes, a warm hazel, lit up when they met Harry's, her expression immediately soft and approachable. She leaned forward slightly, her posture relaxed, as if to make it clear he was welcome.

"Mrs. Fields," the woman said with a small smile. "And who do we have here?"

"This is Harry," Mrs. Fields said, stepping aside to let Harry shuffle in. "He's just arrived."

The Director stood and stepped around the desk, her heels clicking softly on the wooden floor. She knelt slightly to meet Harry's eyes, her expression calm. The way she looked at him made it clear she wanted to ensure he felt seen. "Harry," she said gently. "I'm Julia Blackwell. I run things here. It's nice to meet you."

She stayed crouched, studying him for a moment longer. His guarded posture hadn't eased, but his eyes flicked to her briefly before darting away again. She could tell he was wary, perhaps trying to figure out if she was someone he could trust. That kind of caution wasn't uncommon, but in Harry's case, it seemed ingrained—like something he'd learned the hard way.

"You can call me Julia if you want," she added kindly. "I know all of this is new to you, but we're not strangers now." Her words hung there for a moment, leaving him space to respond, though she wasn't surprised when he stayed silent. She stood slowly, giving him his distance, and tucked her hands into her pockets. There was no need to rush him; Harry clearly wasn't the kind of boy who responded well to pressure.

Straightening fully, Julia stepped back behind the desk, her chair sliding slightly as she moved it into place. She glanced at him again and gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk. "Why don't you sit down?" she offered calmly. She lowered herself into her seat and waited as Harry hesitated as he slowly approached.

Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, nodding but unsure of how to respond. His mind was buzzing with thoughts—how long he'd be stuck here, what was going to happen next, and, most urgently, how he would get back to Hogwarts. He doubted anyone here would understand if he tried to explain, so he stayed quiet.

He finally sat down, though he perched on the edge of the chair, his posture stiff, as though bracing himself for the next thing to go wrong. Julia studied him for a moment, her gaze flicking over his thin frame and the way he held himself so tensely. It was hard to miss how uncomfortable he was, and she wondered how much of that discomfort came from physical pain.

"Harry," she said again, her voice calm and soft. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, just to understand what brought you here. Is that all right?"

Harry waviered, his gaze darting toward the door as if he might make a run for it. He didn't want to relive the last few hours—or the summer—but there was something in the way she asked, gentle but firm, that told him he didn't have much of a choice. After a moment, he gave a reluctant nod.

"Good," Julia said, leaning forward slightly, her hands resting neatly on the desk. "Let's start simple. Can you tell me how you came to be here today?"

Harry swallowed hard, his throat dry and scratchy. He avoided her gaze, fixing his eyes on the scuffed toes of his trainers. "My aunt and uncle… they brought me," he said quietly. His voice faltered as he added, "They—um—they just left me outside and drove off."

Julia's expression remained calm, but there was a slight pause in the way her hands, still resting on the desk, shifted ever so slightly. "I see," she said, her voice steady but carrying an undertone of curiosity. "Your aunt and uncle, you said? Did they tell you why they brought you here or say anything before they left?"

Harry glanced up briefly, his face tense and uncertain, before dropping his gaze back to the floor. "They said they didn't want me anymore," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "That I was… someone else's problem now."

Julia's gaze softened at his words, though she kept her composure. "I'm sorry to hear that, Harry," she said after a moment. Her tone didn't pity him, but there was a quiet understanding there, as if she wanted to offer some semblance of safety in the wake of what he'd just revealed. "You're not anyone's problem, and you're safe here. I promise."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Julia nodded sadly. It was a story she had heard before, but it was never easy to hear. "Thank you for telling me that," she said gently. "And before you came to live with your aunt and uncle, where were you? With your parents?"

Harry became quiet. He didn't like talking about his parents—not because he was ashamed, but because it always felt like explaining a wound that had never really healed. "They're dead," he said finally. "They died when I was a baby."

The Director watched him steadily, her voice quiet and sincere. "I'm very sorry to hear that. It sounds like things haven't been easy for you."

Harry didn't answer. He wasn't sure what to say. The truth felt too big, too strange for this moment.

Julia reached for a notebook on her desk and opened it to a fresh page. "How old are you, Harry?"

"Eleven," he replied, almost automatically. Then, realizing the date, he added, "Well, twelve in a couple of weeks."

She nodded and jotted this down, her pen moving swiftly but neatly. "Your birthday is coming up, then. What day is it?"

"July 31st," Harry said, glancing at the floor. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had cared about his birthday, and he doubted this year would be any different.

Julia's eyes flicked up from her notebook briefly, a small smile touching her lips. "That's not far off. We'll have to see what we can do to make it special."

Harry blinked, unsure how to respond to that. He tightened his grip on the pillowcase in his lap, not allowing himself to hope for anything.

"What's your full name, Harry?" she asked, her tone steady and matter-of-fact.

"Harry James Potter," he said quietly.

Julia wrote it down in her notebook and continued. "And your aunt and uncle's names?"

"Vernon and Petunia Dursley," he replied, his tone flat. Just saying their names made his stomach clench, memories of their cruelty flashing in his mind.

She nodded again, her pen moving smoothly across the page. "Do you know their address? Where they live?"

Harry wavered briefly before answering. "Number Four, Privet Drive. Little Whinging. That's in Surrey."

"Thank you," Julia said, her voice calm and steady. "And what school do you go to, Harry?"

His stomach twisted at the question. This was what he'd been dreading. "Um…" He fumbled for an answer, his thoughts racing. Could he lie? Would she believe him if he told the truth? Either way, it felt like a trap.

"It's… a boarding school," he said finally, avoiding her gaze. "Far away."

Julia's pen hovered over the page as she glanced up at him, her expression curious but patient. "Do you know the name of the school?"

Harry swallowed hard, feeling his cheeks heat. "Hogwarts," he mumbled, hoping she wouldn't ask for details. Most people had never heard of it, and those who had thought it was a joke.

To his surprise, she didn't press him. She simply wrote the name down, her face thoughtful. "All right. Thank you, Harry."

He shifted uneasily in his chair. Something about the way she was writing everything down made his skin crawl, though he couldn't put his finger on why. Julia closed the notebook and set it aside, her expression unreadable.

"Well," she said calmly, "that gives us a good starting point. I'll need to record a few more details for our files, just to make sure everything is in order and you're properly cared for. We'll talk more once you've had some time to settle in and see the doctor."

As she spoke, her thoughts turned to the next steps she'd need to take. Anytime a child was abandoned at the orphanage, it was protocol to contact the authorities and file a formal report. Harry's situation, especially given the obvious neglect and abandonment, would likely prompt an investigation. Still, there was no need to alarm him. He was already nervous, and she didn't want to make things harder for him. For now, she'd stick to gathering the necessary information and let the rest unfold as required.

Julia's eyes remained on Harry, noting how still he sat, his body tense and unmoving. Most children shifted or fidgeted under uncertain circumstances, but Harry seemed to have locked himself in place, as though moving might bring some unseen consequence. The slight wince he gave when his sleeve brushed against his wrist didn't escape her notice, nor did the overly cautious way he adjusted his posture.

The signs were clear—he was likely hiding injuries. That alone was reason enough to have him looked at by a doctor, though she suspected there was much more beneath the surface. Whatever had brought him here wasn't just neglect; it was something far more complicated, and she would have to tread carefully to understand what he needed.

Julia leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. "Harry, I know this might feel overwhelming, but you don't need to worry. We're here to help you, not to hurt you. Do you understand?"

Harry stiffened, shifting uncomfortably. "I'm fine," he said quickly. "Really."

Julia straightened, her expression kind. "I know you might feel nervous, but it's important. The doctor here is very kind, and he'll just make sure you're doing well. If there's anything you'd like to tell me before then, though, I'm here to listen."

Harry shook his head, his stomach twisting. He couldn't tell her about the bruises, the aches, or the sleepless nights in the cupboard. What would she think? What could she even do?

Mrs. Fields cleared her throat gently. "Why don't I bring Harry to the kitchen for a bit? Get him something to eat before his appointment?"

"That's a fine idea," Julia agreed. "Harry, we'll go over the rest of the intake process after you've had some time to settle. Does that sound alright?"

Harry nodded again, too tired to argue, and followed Mrs. Fields out of the office.

As they walked back down the hallway, Harry's mind churned. He couldn't stay here—not when September was coming. His heart ached at the thought of never returning to Hogwarts, never seeing Ron or Hermione again. How would he even get back without his wand or the rest of his things? Would Dumbledore come looking for him? Did anyone even know he was here?

Lost in thought, Harry almost didn't notice when Mrs. Fields set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him at a small table in a corner of the kitchen. She patted his shoulder gently before bustling off to stir something on the stove.

Harry stared at the bowl, his reflection wobbling faintly in the broth. He didn't know how, but he had to find a way back to the wizarding world. Whatever it took, he wouldn't let this be the end of his magical life.

Mrs. Fields returned after a while, wiping her hands on her apron as she noticed Harry hadn't touched his soup. With a sigh, she pulled out the chair next to him and sat down, the old wooden chair creaking under her weight. She placed her hands on the table, leaning slightly toward him.

"Harry," she said gently but firmly, "you know that soup's not going to eat itself."

Her words broke through Harry's daze, and he blinked, looking up at her for the first time since she'd left. There was no impatience in her expression, only a steady warmth that felt unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Slowly, he picked up the spoon, his hand trembling slightly, and lifted it to his lips. The broth was simple but warm, the taste settling in his stomach comfortably.

"There you go," Mrs. Fields said, nodding approvingly as Harry took another spoonful. "This place doesn't have much, but we try to make sure no one goes hungry, at least." She gestured vaguely to the kitchen around them, its mismatched pots and pans hanging on the walls, some dented and scratched but clean and carefully organized. The worn counters bore the marks of years of use, but they were scrubbed spotless.

Harry glanced up shyly. "Do the kids help out? Like, with the cooking and everything?"

Mrs. Fields smiled, her hands resting on the table as she answered. "They sure do, but most of the work goes into the garden out back. We grow all sorts of things—vegetables, herbs, even a few fruit trees. It makes a big difference when you're feeding this many mouths. The kids love being part of it, especially in the spring when everything's growing."

"You grow all that?" Harry asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

"We do," Mrs. Fields said with a nod. "Costs are high, and donations only go so far. The garden keeps us going, and the kids like to help. There's always something to do out there—watering, weeding, planting. It keeps them busy and gives them a bit of pride when they see what their hard work can do. We've got tomatoes, carrots, lettuce, beans, cucumbers... and plenty of other bits. It's a lot of effort, but it's worth it."

Harry nodded slowly, his thoughts turning over the idea. It was strange to him—working together like that to grow food. It sounded... different. Good, even.

"And inside," Mrs. Fields continued, "we've got a playroom. It's seen better days, but the kids make do. Board games, puzzles, and a few toys that have been patched up more times than I can count. We don't have much that's new, but they have fun all the same."

Her gaze softened as she looked toward the doorway, where the faint sounds of children laughing and playing filtered through. "Then there's the library. Now, it's not what you'd call fancy, but it's my favorite spot in the whole place. Shelves full of old books—some of them older than me! The kids love it. They'll pile in there on rainy days, sprawled out on the floor with their noses in a book."

"Books?" Harry asked quietly, finally meeting her gaze. "What kinds of books?"

"Oh, all sorts," Mrs. Fields said with a fond smile. "We've got adventure stories, mysteries, some silly ones that make the kids laugh. A lot of them were donated years ago, but they're treasures if you ask me. The kids say the big shelf is cursed, though. Wobbles every time someone tries to grab a book from the top row. I reckon it just needs a good fixing."

Harry spooned the last of the soup into his mouth, the warmth settling in his chest as he listened. The way Mrs. Fields spoke about the place—it didn't feel like an institution. It felt like a small, patched-together family, and for a moment, that thought made the ache in his chest a little easier to bear.

Mrs. Fields noticed his empty bowl and smiled. "That's better. A full stomach helps, doesn't it. She stood, gathering his bowl and spoon with practiced ease. "You're going to be all right, Harry. It might not seem like it now, but you've landed in a place where we'll take care of you. We might not have much, but we have plenty of love and care to go around."

Carrying the dishes to the counter, she paused to rinse them off in the small sink before turning back to glance at Harry. He still sat quietly, his eyes fixed on the table, as though unsure what to do next. Mrs. Fields wiped her hands on her apron and moved toward the stove, her attention shifting to the bread she'd pulled from the oven earlier.

She reached for the loaf, unwrapping it from its cloth covering and testing the warmth with her fingertips. "Wait here, love," she said, slicing two thick pieces with practiced precision. The knife glided through the soft interior, and steam curled into the air, filling the kitchen with its comforting aroma. She placed the slices on a plate and returned to the table, setting it down in front of Harry with a small smile.

"Fresh out of the oven," she said. "Eat up now. We'll have you fattened up in no time."

Harry hesitated, then picked up a slice. The bread was soft and warm in his hands, the crust slightly chewy. He took a tentative bite, the simple taste filling his mouth mingling perfectly with the lingering flavor of the soup. As he ate though, his shoulders remained hunched, cautious, as though expecting someone to reprimand him for eating too much or too quickly.

Unnoticed by Harry, Dr. Winslow leaned in the doorway, silently observing. He was of average height and slightly lean, his frame suggesting a man who spent more time moving about than sitting behind a desk. His hair was dark brown with streaks of silver all throughout, was cut short but a little uneven, as if he'd trimmed it himself without much concern for neatness. A pair of round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing warm hazel eyes that held a keen attentiveness. His face was lightly tanned, weathered more by long days outdoors than by age, with faint crow's feet at the corners of his eyes that deepened when he smiled. His expression was serious but gentle, his eyes fixed on Harry. He noticed the stiffness in the boy's posture and the faint tremor in his hands as they clung to the bread.

Dr. Winslow had seen children like this before, though not often, and he preferred to keep it that way. Harry wasn't just neglected; the stiffness in his posture and the way he shrank into himself suggested something worse. Bruises were probably hidden beneath the too-big clothes, and Dr. Winslow's jaw tightened briefly at the thought of what might have caused them. He couldn't fathom the cruelty it took to leave a child in such a state.

When Harry was halfway through the second slice, Dr. Winslow cleared his throat softly. The sound made Harry's head snap up, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Dr. Winslow stepped into the room slowly and pulled out the chair across from Harry.

"Hello," Dr. Winslow said, warmly as he sat down. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his posture open and nonthreatening.

Harry stared at him for a moment before nodding faintly, his hands tightening slightly around the bread as if he was afraid it would be taken away.

"I'm Dr. Winslow," he said, his sharp eyes softening as he studied Harry up close. "I'm here to make sure you're all right. That's all—just making sure you're doing okay."

Harry didn't respond, his posture remaining guarded, but he didn't shrink away. Dr. Winslow took a moment to observe him further—the bony wrists sticking out from frayed sleeves, the sharpness of his collarbones beneath the loose shirt, the faint hollowness around his cheeks. It was a picture Dr. Winslow wished he didn't recognize, but it wasn't new to him.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you?" Dr. Winslow said, his voice soft—barely above a whisper and more a statement than a question.

Harry picked at his bread, tearing off small pieces and chewing slowly, though his stomach still felt knotted. As he finished the last bite, his hands drifted to the plate, fiddling with the few crumbs that remained. His fingers moved restlessly, as if unsure what to do now that the food was gone.

"Here you go, Harry. This will help." He spoke with a calm steadiness, the kind of reassurance that came from years of working with vulnerable children.

Harry took the glass, sipping it carefully, his eyes fixed on the table. Dr. Winslow sat back down and observed him quietly, noting the way Harry's small, sharp movements betrayed his unease. After a few moments, Dr. Winslow leaned forward slightly, his hands resting loosely on the table.

"Mind if I check your pulse while you're sitting here?" Dr. Winslow asked, trying to keep this as normal as possible to keep Harry calm.

Harry glanced up briefly, then down again, and after a long pause, he nodded faintly. Dr. Winslow reached across the table, his touch careful as he wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist. The boy's skin was cool, almost cold, and his bones felt far too prominent. Dr. Winslow's thumb pressed gently, counting the rapid, uneven beat beneath his fingers. It was a pulse he'd felt before—too fast, too unsteady, one of fear.

"There we go," Dr. Winslow said softly, releasing Harry's wrist. "Not so bad, right?"

Harry didn't respond, only shrugging slightly as his hands returned to the lap of his oversized shirt. Dr. Winslow leaned back in his chair, his sharp hazel eyes scanning the boy more closely now. He took in the gauntness of Harry's cheeks, the way his clothes hung off him like a second skin, and the faint tension in his shoulders. There was no doubt in Dr. Winslow's mind that this boy had endured more than neglect—there were signs of pain, the kind that came from someone who had learned to live with discomfort as if it were normal.

Harry's gaze shifted to the small, lumpy pillowcase sitting nearby. He didn't even know what was inside it—hadn't dared to look yet—but for some reason, he felt an unexpected protectiveness over it. Maybe it was because it was all he had left, the last connection to anything familiar, even if it came from the Dursleys. After a brief pause, he asked quietly, "Where can I put my stuff?"

Mrs. Fields straightened from where she'd been leaning against the counter, her kind eyes softening further. "You can leave it here with me, love," she said gently. "I'll keep it safe for you. No need to worry about it right now."

Harry nodded, his fingers twitching slightly as his eyes lingered on the pillowcase. Mrs. Fields stepped forward, picking it up with careful hands and setting it on the counter near the sink. "I'll keep it right here for you," she said gently trying to reassure him. "Whenever you're ready for it, just let me know."

Dr. Winslow observed the exchange silently for a moment before addressing Mrs. Fields. He straightened slightly, his focus shifting. "Lila, would it be alright if I take him to the patient room for a bit? I'd like to examine him more closely to make sure things are in tip top shape."

Mrs. Fields smiled at Harry. "Of course, Elliot. Poor lad could use a proper check-up."

Dr. Winslow turned his focus back to Harry, his posture softening as he met the boy's cautious gaze. "What do you think, Harry? Does that sound all right to you? We'll take it slow, nothing to worry about."

Harry hesitated, his hands curling slightly into fists where they rested on his lap. He glanced at Mrs. Fields, her steady smile giving him a small measure of reassurance, and then back at Dr. Winslow. After a moment that felt longer than it was, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

"Good lad," Dr. Winslow said with a gentle smile. "We'll go nice and easy."

Dr. Winslow led Harry through the hallway, his steps slow to match Harry's pace. Just off the main entranceway, he stopped in front of a door with a small, neatly printed label: Patient Room. He pushed the door open, flicking on the light to reveal a small but welcoming space.

The room was clean and practical, with a padded examination table in the center, its white paper cover freshly replaced. Along one wall stood a row of cabinets, their surfaces spotless but well-used, and above them, bright posters with cartoon characters cheerfully explained the importance of washing hands and eating vegetables. To the side, there was a comfortable-looking couch with a knitted blanket draped over the back, and next to it, a sturdy wooden chair.

Dr. Winslow gestured toward the table as he stepped aside to let Harry in. "Hop up on the table for me, Harry," he said kindly. He closed the door gently behind them and leaned against it briefly, giving Harry a moment to adjust to the space.

Harry obeyed, stiffly climbing onto the table and sitting with his legs dangling just above the floor. The paper beneath him crinkled softly when he moved.

"This is my little corner of the orphanage," Dr. Winslow said with a faint smile, his hazel eyes watching Harry carefully. "I'm usually here Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I come in whenever I'm needed. So, if you ever want to talk, or need anything else, you just let me know. That sound all right?"

Harry nodded, though his shoulders were still tense, his gaze fixed somewhere near the floor.

Dr. Winslow stepped forward, grabbing a clipboard from the counter and flipping through a few blank sheets. "Good, good," he said, glancing back at Harry. "Now, I'd like to take a look at you, just to see how you're doing. Can you take off your shirt for me?"

Harry froze, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His breathing seemed to quicken slightly, and for a long moment, he didn't move. Dr. Winslow set the clipboard down and stepped back, his posture relaxed and nonthreatening.

"No rush," Dr. Winslow said gently. "Take your time. I just want to make sure everything's okay. That all right with you?"

Harry swallowed hard, his fingers loosening slightly from the table. After a long hesitation, he reached for the hem of his shirt slowly. Tugging it over his head, he finally placed it on the table beside him, keeping his arms crossed over his chest as though shielding himself.

Dr. Winslow's expression didn't change, though his eyes lingered on the bruises scattered across Harry's ribs and shoulders, their edges faded to yellow and green. The boy's frame was painfully thin, his skin pale and marked by scars that looked far older than the bruises.

"Thank you, Harry," Dr. Winslow said softly. "You're doing great. I'm just going to have a quick look, all right?"

Dr. Winslow rolled a small stool over from the corner of the room and sat down before Harry, positioning himself slightly lower than the boy to ease the tension in the air. He kept his voice calm as he looked up at Harry.

"I'm going to start with the bruises, all right? Let me know if anything feels too tender, and we'll go slow."

Harry gave a faint nod, though his shoulders stayed hunched, his gaze fixed somewhere over Dr. Winslow's head. Dr. Winslow leaned forward slightly, moving slowly as he examined the bruises scattered across Harry's chest and shoulders. The fading yellows and greens spoke of injuries that were healing but still painful. When his fingers brushed a particularly dark spot near Harry's collarbone, the boy flinched, his body stiffening.

"Sorry," Dr. Winslow murmured, pulling his hand back slightly. "That one looks like it's still sore. We'll leave it alone for now."

Harry gave a small nod, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly.

Dr. Winslow continued his work, his fingers gently tracing over the outlines of older scars and fresh bruises. He didn't comment on them, but his heart tightened with each mark he cataloged. Moving to Harry's side, he paused as he noticed the uneven rise and fall of the boy's ribs, his frown deepening slightly.

"Next, I'm going to check your ribs," Dr. Winslow said softly. "If it hurts, let me know. You don't have to hold it in, okay?"

Hesitating, his jaw tightening, but eventually nodded. Dr. Winslow began carefully pressing along Harry's ribcage, starting from the top and working downward. His touch was light but methodical. When he reached the lower ribs on Harry's left side, the boy winced sharply, sucking in a quick breath.

"Here?" Dr. Winslow asked gently.

Harry nodded stiffly, his hands gripping the table harder.

Dr. Winslow pressed slightly further, feeling the subtle misalignment beneath his fingers. His face remained neutral, but he made a mental note of the damage. "You've got two broken ribs," he said gently, meeting Harry's wary gaze. "They're not displaced, which is good, but they'll need time to heal. I'll wrap them up after we're done to help with the pain and keep them stable."

Harry didn't respond, his gaze flicking to the floor. Dr. Winslow picked up the clipboard from the counter, jotting down a few notes before setting it aside.

"Now, Harry," Dr. Winslow said softly, "I need to take a look at your back. If anything feels too sore, let me know right away. This will only take a minute."

Harry tensed again but nodded after a moment, shifting slightly to give Dr. Winslow better access. As the doctor moved behind him, his sharp eyes took in the scars and welts crisscrossing Harry's pale skin. Some were old, faded into silvery lines, but others were fresher—angry red marks shaped unmistakably like the buckle and strap of a belt. A few were still open, faintly raw at the edges.

Dr. Winslow's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. A cold fury simmered beneath his calm demeanor, his hands steady even as his mind churned. No child should have marks like these—marks that told a story of pain inflicted deliberately, cruelly. The sheer injustice of it burned within him, but he forced himself to push it aside, knowing Harry needed care. "I'm going to put something on these cuts to help keep them clean, all right? It might sting a little, but it'll help."

Harry nodded again, though he flinched slightly when Dr. Winslow began. The antiseptic cream was cool against his skin, and Dr. Winslow's touch was as gentle as possible. He worked carefully, spreading the cream over the open wounds and placing fresh bandages over them. The boy didn't say a word, but his tension was palpable, his small frame rigid as Dr. Winslow continued.

"There we go," Dr. Winslow said softly as he secured the last bandage. "That's the worst of it. You're doing great."

Harry let out a shaky breath but didn't respond. Dr. Winslow moved back around to face him, his expression calm but thoughtful. "Let's get those ribs wrapped up now," he said, retrieving a roll of bandages from the cabinet. He sat back down on the stool and carefully wrapped the bandages snugly but gently around Harry's torso.

"This will help support everything while your ribs heal," Dr. Winslow said. "It might feel a little tight, but it should help with the pain."

Once he was done, Dr. Winslow leaned back slightly, giving Harry a small, reassuring smile. "You've been very brave, Harry. We're almost done."

He reached for the thermometer and held it out. "Open your mouth for me, please."

Harry obeyed, holding the thermometer under his tongue as Dr. Winslow made another note on the clipboard. When it beeped, Dr. Winslow checked the reading. "A little low, but nothing to worry about," he said, setting the thermometer aside.

Finally, he grabbed the reflex hammer and tapped Harry's knees gently. "Reflexes look good," Dr. Winslow said with a small nod, setting the tool aside.

Dr. Winslow set the reflex hammer down and leaned slightly back on the stool, giving Harry a small, encouraging smile. "All right, Harry. We're almost done here. I'm just going to check a few more things, and then we'll wrap up. Sound good?"

Harry nodded faintly, still clutching the edge of the table.

Dr. Winslow retrieved an otoscope from a nearby tray. "I'm going to check your ears now. It might tickle a little, but it won't hurt." He moved gently, tilting Harry's head slightly to get a clear view of each ear canal. "Everything looks fine here," he said after a moment, setting the tool aside. "Let's check your eyes next."

He grabbed a small penlight and held it at the edge of Harry's vision. "Look straight at me, Harry," he instructed gently. As the beam of light moved back and forth, Dr. Winslow watched Harry's pupils respond. "Good. Nothing unusual there. Now, open wide for me—I'll check your throat."

Harry obeyed, opening his mouth slightly as Dr. Winslow used a wooden tongue depressor and the penlight to examine the back of his throat. "No swelling or redness. That's good news," Dr. Winslow said with a small smile, setting the tools aside.

After making a few more notes on his clipboard, Dr. Winslow said, "Last thing before we move on—deep breaths for me. I'll listen to your lungs and heart."

He picked up his stethoscope and warmed the metal end briefly with his hand before pressing it lightly against Harry's chest. "Breathe in… and out," Dr. Winslow said gently. Harry followed the instructions, though his breaths were shallow at first. "A little deeper if you can," Dr. Winslow encouraged gently. "There you go."

He moved the stethoscope to Harry's back, listening carefully to each inhale and exhale. After a moment, he pulled the stethoscope away and nodded. "Your lungs sound clear, which is good. Heartbeat's a little fast, but that's to be expected right now."

Setting the stethoscope aside, Dr. Winslow straightened and gave Harry a reassuring smile. "All done with that part. You're doing great."

Harry reached for his shirt, moving carefully to avoid jostling the bandages around his ribs. He tugged it over his head, wincing faintly as he adjusted it over his shoulders. Once it was settled, he looked down at his hands, his posture still guarded.

Dr. Winslow watched him for a moment before leaning slightly forward on the stool. "Harry, how's your vision? Any blurriness or trouble seeing things far away or up close?"

Harry looked up briefly, surprised by the question. "No, it seems fine," he said quietly, glancing at Dr. Winslow and then back down.

Dr. Winslow looked at Harry thoughtfully, his expression neutral. "That's good to hear. Still, once you've settled in here, we'll do a quick eye test just to make sure everything's as it should be. It's always better to double-check."

Harry gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

Dr. Winslow waited a moment before speaking gently. "Do you have any other injuries I should know about? Anything hurting or feeling off?"

Harry hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly against the edge of the table. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, but then he spoke, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "My ankle... it's not good."

Dr. Winslow nodded calmly, keeping his expression neutral. "All right, Harry. Let's take a look." He rolled the stool slightly closer, motioning to Harry's foot. "Can you take off your shoe for me, or would you like me to do it?"

Harry paused again before shaking his head slightly. "You can do it," he mumbled.

Dr. Winslow leaned forward, his hands steady as he unlaced Harry's worn trainer and eased it off his foot. Setting it gently to the side, he rolled down the boy's sock, revealing a swollen, discolored ankle. His brows furrowed slightly as he carefully cradled Harry's foot, examining the injury.

"This must hurt quite a bit," Dr. Winslow said softly, almost conversational. "You're very brave for not crying out. I've seen grown-ups in tears over less."

Harry looked up briefly embarrassed, but he didn't say anything.

Dr. Winslow gently probed the ankle, his fingers moving carefully to avoid causing unnecessary pain. When he pressed along the joint, Harry flinched slightly but didn't pull away.

"I'm afraid this looks like it's broken," Dr. Winslow said after a moment gently. "We'll need to get an X-ray to see exactly what's going on with it. For now, I'll wrap it to keep it stable, and we'll get you set up with a proper brace or cast once we've had a closer look."

He reached for a roll of bandages and began wrapping Harry's ankle with steady hands. Each layer was snug but not too tight, ensuring support without causing discomfort. As he worked, his thoughts grew darker. How could anyone allow a child to end up like this? The sight of Harry's injuries, combined with the boy's silent acceptance of them, filled him with a simmering anger. He kept his focus on the task, determined to offer Harry some relief and a sense of care he so clearly needed.

Harry stayed silent, watching intently as Dr. Winslow secured the bandage. When he finished, Dr. Winslow leaned back slightly, his warm hazel eyes meeting Harry's.

"You've done really well today, Harry," he said, offering a small reassuring smile. "I'll make an appointment at the hospital tomorrow for an X-ray. Until then, I want you to stay off that ankle as much as possible."

Dr. Winslow stood and moved to a small storage cabinet near the corner of the room. Pulling it open, he reached inside and retrieved a pair of child-sized crutches, their metal frames slightly scuffed but in good condition.

"Lucky for you, I keep these around," Dr. Winslow said as he adjusted the crutches to match Harry's height. "We've had more than a few kids come through here with sprains or minor fractures, so these come in handy."

He brought the crutches over and set them against the table before turning back to Harry. "Let's get you set up on these. Have you ever used crutches before?"

Harry shook his head, looking uncertain.

"That's all right," Dr. Winslow said gently. "They're pretty easy once you get the hang of it. I'll show you how."

He guided Harry off the table, steadying him as he helped the boy balance on one foot. Dr. Winslow then handed him the crutches and demonstrated how to position them under his arms, adjusting them slightly for comfort.

"Now, the trick is to let the crutches take the weight, not your hands or arms," Dr. Winslow explained, demonstrating as he spoke. "You want to swing your good foot forward and let the crutches do the work."

Harry gave it a try, wobbling slightly before finding his balance. He moved awkwardly at first, but Dr. Winslow stayed close, offering encouragement as Harry took a few cautious steps.

"There you go," Dr. Winslow said with a nod of approval. "You're getting it. Just take it slow, and remember to keep your weight off that ankle. It'll take some practice, but you'll be moving around just fine in no time."

Harry glanced up at him, a flicker of gratitude in his wary expression. Dr. Winslow smiled, patting the boy's shoulder gently. "You've been brave today, Harry. Let's get you back to Mrs. Fields so she can help you settle in."

Dr. Winslow stood, removing the sheet of notes from his clipboard. He carefully folded the paper in half, then again into quarters, and slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket. His motions were methodical, ensuring the paper was secure before he returned the clipboard to its spot in the cabinet. He glanced at Harry, ensuring the boy was steady on his crutches before reaching for the light switch.

"Let's head back," he said gently, his words calm and reassuring as he flipped off the light. The room dimmed, and the faint creak of the door filled the air as Elliot closed it softly behind them.

The hallway was quieter now, the earlier hum of activity subdued as children's voices drifted faintly from another part of the orphanage. Dr. Winslow walked at Harry's pace, keeping close but giving the boy space to navigate the crutches. Harry moved cautiously, the soft tap of the crutches against the worn floorboards marking their progress. Every so often, Elliot offered a word of guidance or encouragement, ensuring Harry felt supported without overstepping.

As they neared the kitchen, the familiar aroma of something savory wafted through the air, mingling with the faint scent of baking bread. Dr. Winslow opened the door for Harry, stepping aside to let him enter first.

Mrs. Fields looked up as Dr. Winslow and Harry entered the kitchen, her hands pausing mid-wipe on her apron. A warm smile spread across her face as she took in the sight of Harry, now balancing on crutches. "There's my brave lad. Looks like Elliot's taken good care of you," she said cheerfully, though her eyes flicked toward Harry's bandaged ankle with concern.

Harry offered a small nod, his gaze drifting toward the counter where his pillowcase sat. Mrs. Fields followed his line of sight and moved toward it, lifting the makeshift bag with care.

"Your things are right here," she said, holding the pillowcase up. "I've kept them safe for you. I'd imagine it's tricky carrying anything with crutches, so how about I take this up for you?"

Harry hesitated, his grip tightening slightly on the crutches. After a moment, he nodded. "Okay. Thanks," he said softly.

"Not a problem at all," she replied, tucking the pillowcase securely under her arm. She gestured toward the doorway. "Come on now, let's get you to your room. I'll help you settle in, and maybe you'll meet some of the other kids before dinner."

Dr. Winslow gave her a small nod, and their eyes met briefly. Though unspoken, the look between them conveyed an understanding—this boy needed more than just medical care. As Mrs. Fields guided Harry toward the stairs, she glanced back over her shoulder. "Take care, Harry. Remember to take it easy on that ankle," Dr. Winslow said with a smile before turning back to clean up.

Mrs. Fields led Harry down the hallway, where the muffled sounds of children laughing and playing filtered through. A boy dashed past, clutching a wooden plane, while a younger girl trailed after him, giggling as she tried to keep up. Another child peeked around the corner, their curious gaze darting to Harry before disappearing just as quickly.

"They're good kids," Mrs. Fields said as they approached the staircase. "A bit lively, but they mean well. You'll warm up to them."

The wooden staircase creaked under their weight as they ascended, Mrs. Fields keeping her pace slow to match Harry's careful steps. The bannister's paint was worn and chipped, but it felt sturdy under Harry's hand.

"We try to make it as welcoming as we can," she said, glancing back at Harry. "You'll be in the boys' dormitory—room's got six bunks, and you'll be with some of the older boys. They're a good bunch—mostly."

Harry didn't respond, focusing on navigating the stairs without misplacing his crutches. Mrs. Fields waited patiently at the top, her free hand resting on the bannister until Harry reached her side.

The hallway upstairs was quieter, with doors painted in faded pastel colors lining both sides. Mrs. Fields stopped in front of a door near the end, its pale green paint scuffed but intact.

"This one's yours," she said, pushing it open and stepping aside to let Harry enter first.

The dormitory was simple but orderly. Six bunks were arranged neatly against the walls, each with a small set of drawers tucked beneath the lower beds. The bedding was mismatched but clean, with a mix of worn quilts and colorful sheets. The window near the far wall let in soft light, and Harry noticed a bunk by it that had already been made up.

"That one's yours," Mrs. Fields said, nodding toward the bottom bunk by the window. "Closest to the window so you can get some fresh air. Figured that'd be a good spot for you."

Harry moved slowly toward it, his crutches clicking softly against the wooden floor. Mrs. Fields followed, setting the pillowcase down on the bed. "You can take your time unpacking. It's not much, I know, but we do our best to keep things comfortable."

Harry glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the empty bunks and the small personal touches scattered about—a few books stacked on a bedside drawer, a pair of worn trainers kicked under another bed. It felt unfamiliar but not entirely unwelcoming.

Mrs. Fields gave him a moment before speaking again. "The boys will be back up here later, but for now, you've got some time to settle in. Come down for dinner when you're ready, and maybe you'll feel up to meeting a few of them then."

Harry nodded faintly, his grip tightening on the crutches as he looked down at his pillowcase. Mrs. Fields offered him a small, reassuring smile. "If you need anything—anything at all—you just let me know."

Mrs. Fields stepped out of the room, quietly pulling the door closed behind her. The latch clicked softly, leaving Harry alone. Her footsteps receded down the hallway, fading into the background of the muffled sounds of distant laughter and activity elsewhere in the orphanage. The dormitory was still now, a quiet space that felt far removed from the rest of the building.

Harry took in his surroundings, his gaze shifting over the simple room. The light from the window was faint but steady, its glow stretching across the floorboards and casting uneven patterns along the walls. The air was clean, carrying the faint scent of recently washed linens, but the room still held an unfamiliar quality that made him uneasy.

After a moment, Harry tightened his grip on the crutch, bracing himself as he pushed off from the wall. The movement sent a sharp pang through his ribs, but he grit his teeth and carefully hobbled toward the bed. His injured ankle flared with pain as his weight shifted, a reminder of just how much worse things could feel if he wasn't careful. Each step took more focus than he wanted to admit, and by the time he reached the bed, his breaths came shallow and quick.

He lowered himself onto the mattress cautiously, leaning heavily on the crutch for support. The fabric of the quilt was coarse under his hand, and the frame creaked slightly under him as he sank down. A sharp jolt from his ankle made him wince, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of the mattress before he let out a measured exhale. He leaned forward slightly, easing the pressure on his ribs, and finally allowed his shoulders to relax a fraction.

The room felt even quieter now, the sounds of the orphanage beyond the door barely audible. Harry glanced at the pillowcase sitting on the bed beside him, its contents a mystery that he wasn't quite ready to face yet. For now, he stayed still, focusing on the steady rhythm of his breathing and the effort it took to keep his body from hurting more than it already did.

His eyes landed on the pillowcase beside him again, its fabric wrinkled and faded from years of use. Earlier, he had pushed aside any thoughts of what might be inside, but now it occupied his mind completely, a nagging curiosity he couldn't ignore. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against the rough material as he pulled the pillowcase onto his lap. The knot at the top was sloppy, tied in a rush, leaving the fabric uneven and bunched at odd angles.

He worked at the knot with his fingers, pulling at the uneven twists of fabric. The material resisted at first, as if tied tighter than he'd thought, and his frustration grew. His mind, however, was far from the task in front of him. Did Uncle Vernon even bother going into my trunk? The question loomed larger than he wanted to admit, igniting a flash of irritation. The thought of his uncle pawing through his things felt invasive, but even more troubling was the idea that his belongings might not even exist anymore.

What happened to it? His chest tightened as the possibilities came unbidden. What if they threw it out? Or worse, burned it? A wave of anxiety crashed over him at the thought. His wand, his schoolbooks, his robes—everything that tied him to the world he truly belonged to. The few personal belongings he had managed to keep through years of neglect and cruelty could all be gone in an instant. The knot gave a little under his fingers, but he barely noticed, his thoughts spiraling.

And Hedwig. His hand stilled for a moment as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down. Hedwig was smart. She hadn't been in her cage when Uncle Vernon had forced him in the car, thank Merlin. She'd been out hunting, staying in the woods overnight like she sometimes did. She'll be okay. She has to be. The words repeated in his mind like a mantra. She was clever, resourceful—she'd always come back before. Maybe she'd find him… she always does.

He pictured her snowy wings cutting through the air, her sharp eyes sweeping over the ground below. If she could find him, he might be able to send a letter to Ron, Hermione, or someone else who could help. But as the thought crossed his mind, doubt quickly followed. How would she know where to search? How far away was he? The uncertainty gnawed at him, leaving him no closer to an answer.

With a sharp exhale, Harry refocused on the pillowcase and finally loosened the knot. He pulled the opening wide and peered inside. A sinking feeling hit him as he reached in and began pulling out the contents one by one.

First, a potato—its skin dusty and uneven, with faint sprouting eyes that hinted at how long it had been ignored. Harry turned it over in his hands, baffled by its presence. He stared at it for a moment, then set it aside, shaking his head at the absurdity. Next, he pulled out a single sock, mismatched and full of holes, its stretched fabric worn almost threadbare. He let it drop onto the bed with a quiet thud before reaching back into the pillowcase.

The next item was a baggy, threadbare shirt that smelled faintly of mothballs, the faded fabric crumpling limply in his hands. It was much too large, more like something Uncle Vernon might have discarded than anything Harry would ever wear. He wrinkled his nose at the faint, stale odor clinging to it before tossing it onto the growing pile.

He continued rummaging, his fingers brushing against objects that felt equally useless. A bent spoon came out next, its handle twisted awkwardly, followed by a faded handkerchief with frayed edges and a shoelace so old it seemed ready to snap at the slightest pull. Each item felt like another layer of Vernon's mockery, and Harry's frustration mounted as the pile of junk on the bed grew.

Finally, he reached the bottom of the pillowcase, his hands brushing against its coarse, empty fabric. He paused, his gaze shifting to the small collection of useless items spread out before him—a potato, a sock, a bent spoon, and scraps of cloth and string. His chest tightened as he realized there was nothing else. No wand. No schoolbooks. No photo album. Nothing magical. Nothing useful. Nothing that mattered.

He let out a frustrated breath, tossing the pillowcase onto the bed beside the pile. His disappointment flared as he stared at the pathetic assortment. It was as though Uncle Vernon had gone out of his way to remind him of how little he deserved in his eyes. Harry rubbed his temples, trying to push the frustration aside, but it lingered, leaving him feeling more isolated than before.

He reached for the items and stuffed them back into the pillowcase quickly. Once everything was back inside, he set the bundle on the floor beside the bed and lay back, careful not to jostle his ribs or ankle. The mattress was firmer than he expected, the quilt scratchy against his skin, but he was too drained to care.

Staring up at the ceiling, Harry tried to push away the tangle of thoughts crowding his mind. The faint creak of the building settling filled the room, mingling with the muffled sounds of children somewhere below. His fingers gripped the edge of the quilt tightly, his heart aching with the unfamiliarity of it all. He didn't belong here—not in this orphanage, not in this room.

Harry closed his eyes, frustration bubbling inside him. How had things gone so wrong? Just weeks ago, he'd been surrounded by magic, by people who finally cared about him, by the possibility of a real future. Now he was stuck here, in this Muggle orphanage, injured and cut off from the world where he truly belonged.

How was he supposed to get back? He couldn't just show up at King's Cross without a plan, without someone to explain this to. Could he tell the director? He tried to imagine the words coming out of his mouth. I'm a wizard, and I need to get back to my school where I learn magic. It sounded ridiculous. The Statute of Secrecy practically screamed at him not to do it. But then again, surely other orphans had gone to Hogwarts before. They couldn't all have had someone like Hagrid to guide them.

And if this was where he was supposed to spend his summers now, she'd need to know, wouldn't she? How else could he explain disappearing for months at a time? Should he go tell her now? Maybe she'd at least have some idea of what to do, or who to contact. But what if she didn't believe him? Worse, what if she thought he was lying and caused more problems? He rubbed his forehead, the questions crowding his mind like a swarm he couldn't fend off.

He hated this. He hated the uncertainty, the helplessness, the not knowing where to start. Everything felt so impossibly big, so out of his control. For all the magic he'd learned in his first year, none of it seemed to matter now.

The faint creak of the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. His eyes snapped open, his heart racing for a moment before he saw two boys step into the room.

The taller one, with sandy-colored hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose, stopped a few feet from Harry's bed. "Hey," he said casually. "What happened to your foot? Looks like a nasty break."

The shorter boy, broader with messy dark hair, rolled his eyes and leaned against the bunk nearest the door. "Don't ask him that right off the bat, Luke. It's rude." He looked at Harry with a smirk. "But yeah, what happened?"

Harry shifted. "I tripped," he said vaguely, his voice barely above a mumble.

"Tripped," Luke repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's all? Looks like more than a trip to me."

"Ease up," the shorter boy said, nudging the taller one lightly. "I'm Eddie, by the way. And the chatterbox over there is Luke. We're in here too."

Harry gave a small nod. "I'm Harry," he said simply.

Eddie plopped down on the bunk across from Harry, elbows on his knees. "So, Harry, are you one of those quiet types?" he asked, grinning slightly. "Or are you just tired of people sticking their noses in your business already?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the directness. "I don't know," he said, unsure of how to respond.

Eddie laughed softly. "Fair enough. I'd probably feel the same if I were you."

Luke wandered closer, glancing at the crutches leaning against the wall. "Mrs. Fields tell you about dinner yet?" he asked. "She'll send someone up to drag you down if you don't show. Trust me, it's better to go on your own."

"Yeah, she mentioned it," Harry said, his grip tightening on the quilt. The idea of sitting at a table full of strangers made his chest tighten, but so did the thought of someone coming to get him.

"Well, don't worry about where to sit," Eddie said, leaning back on his hands. "You can sit with us. I mean, unless you want to sit with the little kids. They're loud. And sticky."

Luke snorted. "And sticky," he repeated. "Seriously, though, it's better to stick with someone at first. Some of the others…" He trailed off, glancing at Eddie.

Eddie shrugged. "Let's just say they're not all as charming as we are."

Harry managed a faint smile at that. "Thanks," he said quietly.

Eddie pushed himself up and stretched. "Well, we'll leave you to it. Just don't wait too long to head down, or the pudding will be gone."

Luke nudged him on the way to the door. "Don't scare him off before he even meets anyone."

Eddie rolled his eyes. "I'm not scaring him. I'm telling him the truth. They always eat the pudding first."

At the door, Luke glanced back. "See you in the dining room, Harry. If you need anything, just ask."

The door creaked shut behind them, and Harry was alone again. The faint sound of their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving the room in silence once more.

Harry sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at his hands. The brief encounter with Luke and Eddie lingered in his mind. They seemed friendly enough, but their easy camaraderie only made him miss Hogwarts all the more. He thought of Ron and Hermione, of Hagrid and even Professor McGonagall. The familiar halls of the castle, the warmth of the common room fire, the rustling pages in the library—all felt worlds away.

He let out a heavy sigh and reached for his crutches. Maybe a bit of freshening up would clear his head. Standing was still difficult; his ribs ached, and his ankle throbbed with pain. But staying where he was felt even worse than the physical strain.

Navigating the hallway, Harry realized he had no idea where the bathroom was. The corridors were quiet now, the earlier sounds of play replaced by distant murmurs and the occasional creak of the old building. As he moved carefully along the worn floorboards, he became acutely aware of his rumpled clothes. He hadn't changed since... well, he couldn't quite remember when. Another sigh escaped him. What a fine mess he'd found himself in.

Just as he contemplated whether to continue searching or head back, a gentle knock sounded on the open doorway behind him. Turning, he saw Julia smiling kindly at him.

"There you are," she said softly. "I thought you might be up and about."

Harry offered a faint smile in return. "I was just looking for the bathroom," he admitted.

"Of course. It's just down the hall, third door on the left," she said, pointing the way. Then she tiled her head slightly, her eyes taking in his appearance. "Do you have everything you need? Toothbrush? Clean clothes?"

He looked down for a moment, not wanting to admit how little he had. "I... don't really have any of my things," he finally said.

Her expression softened further. "I thought that might be the case. Come with me for a moment."

She led him to a small linen closet nestled between the bedrooms. Opening it, she pulled out a neatly folded set of clothes—a plain t-shirt, a soft flannel shirt, and a pair of trousers that looked about his size. "These should fit you well enough," she said, placing them in his hands. "They're donations, but clean and in good condition."

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely.

She retrieved a small toiletry kit from a shelf. "Here's a toothbrush, some soap, and a comb. There are towels in the bathroom. If there's anything else you need, just let me know."

He nodded appreciatively. "I really appreciate it."

She rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's no trouble at all. Now, off you go. Dinner will be in about half an hour. Take your time."

With that, she left him to his own devices. Harry made his way to the bathroom, grateful for the moment of solitude. Inside, he leaned the crutches against the wall and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His hair was even messier than usual, sticking up in all directions. There were smudges of dirt on his face, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose. He looked as tired as he felt.

Turning on the tap, he let the cool water wash over his hands before splashing his face repeatedly. The sensation was refreshing, and he felt some of the day's tension ease away. He carefully removed his glasses, rinsing them gently before setting them aside to dry.

Changing into the clean clothes was a small comfort. They were a bit big, but far better than the soiled outfit he'd been wearing. Folding his old clothes into a bundle, he resolved to ask if there was a way to wash them.

As he combed through his unruly hair, he couldn't help but think about how different this was from Privet Drive. The Dursleys would never have offered him anything without a sneer or a cutting remark. Here, people were... kind. It was unfamiliar territory.

Harry put his glasses back on and really looked at his face in the mirror. His cheekbones seemed sharper than they should be, and his skin looked pale, almost sallow. He now understood the concerned looks the doctor had been giving him. Way too skinny, he thought grimly. No wonder they were all tip toeing around him.

He sighed, grabbing the comb and running it through his hair, though it did little to tame the mess. Still, it made him feel slightly more presentable. He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush Julia had given him, the minty freshness contrasting with how out of place he felt. After packing up his things, he tucked the bundle of his old clothes under his arm, gripped his crutches tightly, and made his way back into the hall.

He stopped and glanced around, realizing with a sinking feeling that he wasn't entirely sure where his dorm was. The hallway stretched ahead of him with identical doors on both sides, none of them standing out as familiar. With a sigh, he hobbled to the nearest one, opening it just enough to peek inside.

"Not this one," he muttered, closing the door quietly and moving to the next.

The third door finally revealed the familiar bunk room. Letting out a small breath of relief, Harry stepped inside and made his way over to his bed. He set the bundle of old clothes and toiletries down carefully and sat for a moment, catching his breath. His ribs ached faintly, and his ankle irritated him, but at least he'd managed to find his way back without anyone noticing how lost he'd been.

The faint sound of a bell ringing reached his ears. Dinner. His stomach growled, reminding him he'd only eaten that bowl of soup today. Harry stood, bracing himself on the crutches, and made his way back out into the hall. The orphanage was beginning to feel a little less like a maze, though it was still far from familiar.

The closer he got to the dining room, the louder the hum of voices became. The chatter of kids, the clatter of plates and cutlery, and the faint smell of something warm and savory filled the air. Harry stopped outside the doorway momentarily, his nerves returning in full force. Sitting in a room full of strangers wasn't something he was used to, and the thought made his chest tighten.

He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself, but before he could take another step, a voice called out.

"There you are!" Luke appeared in the doorway, grinning. "Thought you might've gotten lost."

Harry managed a small smile. "Almost did."

"Well, come on. We saved you a spot," Luke said, motioning for him to follow. "Don't worry, Eddie's keeping the pudding from the sticky kids."

Harry chuckled despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He followed Luke into the dining room, where Eddie was already seated at a table toward the corner. He waved Harry over, pointing to the seat beside him.

"Better hurry. Pudding's not going to last forever," Eddie said with a grin.

Harry lowered himself onto the long wooden bench with care, propping his crutches against the side of the table. The smells of dinner—mashed potatoes, roasted chicken, and something vaguely sweet he couldn't identify—were overwhelming. His stomach growled again, though the knot of nerves in his chest kept him from digging in straight away.

Plates of food were already set along the long table, with large serving dishes placed at intervals, allowing everyone to help themselves. Luke handed him a plate and nudged the basket of rolls closer. "Start with this," he said, grinning. "Mrs. Fields always makes extras."

"Thanks," Harry muttered, taking a roll and setting it on his plate. He broke off a small piece, nibbling at it while his eyes darted around the room.

The table was alive with noise and activity. Younger children clustered at one end, their laughter and chatter constant as they reached clumsily for the dishes and jostled one another for space. Sticky fingers grabbed rolls and slathered butter on them with more enthusiasm than accuracy. At Harry's end of the table, the older kids were quieter but no less lively, their conversations about sports, school, and jokes flowing easily. The adults sat at the head of the table, Mrs. Fields and Julia talking softly as they watched over the group.

Eddie leaned forward across the table and grinned at Harry. "Don't mind the stares," he said. "New kid always gets a bit of attention."

Harry shrugged, tearing off another piece of the roll. "I'm used to it," he said flattly. Attention from strangers wasn't new, but it was rarely the good kind.

"Well, if anyone gives you trouble," Luke said, leaning over to nudge Harry's shoulder, "just let us know. Eddie's great at making people regret it."

"Damn right," Eddie replied with mock seriousness, popping a piece of chicken into his mouth.

Harry managed a faint smile, though his appetite still felt distant. He took a small bite of mashed potatoes, their warmth oddly soothing, but the tension in his chest kept him from eating much more. He wasn't sure why he couldn't eat properly, even though his body clearly needed it.

At the head of the table, Mrs. Fields quietly observed Harry. Her sharp eyes didn't miss the way he carefully pushed food around on his plate, taking only the smallest bites despite the growls of his stomach that were audible even from her vantage point. He handled the utensils delicately, like he was afraid of drawing attention to himself or taking more than his share. The way he glanced at the others at the table, gauging their reactions as if he might be scolded for eating too much, tugged at her heart.

"He's barely touching his plate," she murmured to Julia, leaning closer to keep the conversation private. "It's like he doesn't believe there's enough for him—or like he thinks someone's going to take it away."

Julia sighed, crossing her arms as she followed Mrs. Fields' gaze. Her expression softened, though a flash of anger lingered beneath her calm exterior. "I'm not surprised," she said quietly. "After what the police told me, it's no wonder he's like this. His relatives… they've been charged with abandonment, neglect, and abuse. The officer said they're even considering removing their other child. It's horrible."

Mrs. Fields' brow furrowed deeply, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Poor boy," she murmured. Her voice dropped lower, tinged with disbelief. "If they didn't want him in the first place, why take him in at all? What a cruel thing to do—to treat a child that way."

Julia shook her head slowly, her jaw tightening. "I don't know. It's disgusting, really. If they'd left him at the start, maybe he could've been placed with a family who wanted him, who would have loved him."

Mrs. Fields didn't answer immediately, her gaze lingering on Harry. He was nudged by Luke, who said something that made Eddie laugh, but Harry's response was subdued—a small nod and a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He hunched over his plate slightly, his posture defensive, as though he didn't believe the lightheartedness around him applied to him.

"It's a shame he ended up here this way," Julia continued after a moment quietly. "But at least he's here now. He's away from them." She glanced toward the table where Eddie and Luke sat with Harry, their chatter a constant effort to draw him out of his guarded shell. "I'm glad those two seem to have taken him under their wings. Considering where they've come from, it's no wonder they sought him out. They've been through similar things, and I imagine they see a bit of themselves in him."

Mrs. Fields nodded, though the lines of worry etched into her face didn't fade. Her eyes returned to Harry, watching him carefully. He moved a piece of chicken around his plate with the tines of his fork, almost absently, as if eating were more a chore than a relief. Despite Luke and Eddie's efforts to include him in their conversation, Harry seemed to hover on the edge of their easy camaraderie, like he wasn't sure he belonged there.

"We'll have to take it slow with him," Mrs. Fields said gently. "He's not going to open up overnight. He'll need time—and patience."

Julia nodded. "And consistency," she added. "He needs to know he's safe here, that no one's going to hurt him or take anything away from him."

Meanwhile, Harry's focus drifted to the rest of the table. He watched as the younger kids laughed and argued over who got the last roll, their faces smudged with butter. The older ones passed plates of food back and forth, their conversations weaving seamlessly through the meal. It was so different from what he was used to—being ignored at the Dursleys' table, treated like an afterthought. Here, everyone was included, and it felt strange, almost uncomfortable, to exist without conflict.

"You doing okay?" Luke asked suddenly, pulling Harry back to the present.

Harry nodded quickly, though his grip on the edge of his plate betrayed his nerves. "Yeah. Just… tired."

Eddie snorted. "Get used to that. This place has a way of wearing you out, but it's not all bad."

"Especially when there's pudding," Luke added, pointing down the table to where Mrs. Fields was placing bowls of custard and fruit. "Better save some room."

As dinner wrapped up, the once chaotic noise of the table began to subside. Plates were scraped clean, bowls of custard and fruit were passed around, and the younger children's laughter turned to sleepy giggles. Harry managed to eat a little more, though not enough to truly satisfy the hunger gnawing at him. Still, he didn't want to draw attention to himself by asking for seconds, so he pushed his plate away and folded his hands in his lap.

"You didn't try the pudding," Luke said, nudging him lightly as he took another spoonful of custard.

"I'm fine," Harry replied quietly. Eddie glanced at him, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face, but he said nothing.

The younger children were ushered off first, some of them protesting that they weren't tired, while others rubbed their eyes and clung to Mrs. Fields as she gently guided them toward the staircase. The older kids lingered, pulling out a battered box of board games from a nearby cupboard.

"Harry, you coming?" Eddie asked, holding up the lid of a well-worn Monopoly box.

Harry shook his head. "No, I think I'm just going to go up to bed," he said, reaching for his crutches.

Luke looked like he wanted to protest, but Eddie elbowed him. "Suit yourself," he said, giving Harry a small grin. "But you're missing out. I'm about to destroy him."

"You wish," Luke shot back, grabbing the box and heading toward the table with the other kids.

Harry managed a faint smile as he stood, his ribs and ankle protesting as he did so. He made his way back to the dormitory, the sound of the other kids' laughter fading as he climbed the stairs. By the time he reached his bed, the room was quiet and softly lit by the soft glow of the moon through the window.

To his surprise, a neatly folded set of pajamas was laid out on his bunk. They were plain but soft, and far nicer than anything the Dursleys had ever given him. Harry quickly changed into them, the fabric unfamiliar but comforting against his skin. He climbed into bed carefully to avoid aggravating his injuries.

Just as he reached to take off his glasses, he heard the soft creak of the dormitory door. He turned his head to see Julia stepping inside, a gentle smile on her face as she approached his bed.

"Hey, Harry," she said softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing with everything."

Harry hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the edge of the quilt. "I'm fine," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Julia sighed inwardly, recognizing the practiced response. "I'm glad to hear that," she said warmly. "I know today has probably been a lot—new place, new people, all of it. But if there's anything you need, anything at all, you can always let me know."

Harry nodded, not meeting her eyes.

She continued gently. "We've arranged for you to go to the hospital tomorrow morning after breakfast. Dr. Winslow will be here to take you. They'll check your ankle and make sure it's healing properly. Does that sound okay?"

Harry glanced at her, his expression guarded, and nodded again. "Yeah. That's fine."

Julia smiled, though she couldn't help but notice the weariness in his eyes. She stood, smoothing the edge of the quilt as she did. "All right. I'll let you get some rest. But remember, Harry, my door is always open if you ever want to talk—about anything."

He looked up at her then, his expression unreadable, but he managed a quiet, "Thanks."

Harry woke the next morning to the soft snoring of the boys in the other bunks. The gentle rhythm of their breaths filled the room, broken only by the occasional creak of a bunk as someone shifted in their sleep. The pale morning light filtered through the window beside his bed, casting faint, uneven patterns on the worn floorboards. For a moment, Harry stared at the underside of the top bunk, his mind heavy and slow, as though it hadn't quite caught up to where he was. Then it hit him—this wasn't Hogwarts. Nor was it Privet Drive. The orphanage.

Carefully, he shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over. A sharp protest came from his ribs as he moved, making him wince. His ankle hurt faintly, though the dull ache had become familiar by now. Harry reached for his crutches, which leaned against the bedpost, and gripped them tightly as he pushed himself upright. The worn quilt slid from his lap, and the coolness of the air brushed against his skin. He adjusted his balance, feeling the strain in his arms as he maneuvered carefully.

The hallway outside was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old floorboards under him. It felt as though the entire building was still holding its breath, the calm of early morning stretching out around him. The faint scents of wood polish and something vaguely floral lingered in the air, remnants of whatever cleaning had been done the day before. Harry shuffled along slowly, the soft tap of his crutches echoing faintly in the otherwise silent corridor.

Reaching the bathroom, Harry leaned his crutches carefully against the wall before turning to the sink. Cold water splashed over his face, jolting him fully awake. He lingered there for a moment, letting the chill clear the last remnants of sleep from his mind. Glancing up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. His reflection was pale, his cheeks hollow and his hair a wild mess that seemed beyond taming. He frowned slightly, running a hand through the unruly strands before picking up the comb Julia had given him. He tugged it through his hair a few times, but the effort only seemed to make it stick up in different directions. He let out a quiet huff of frustration but ultimately gave up.

Grabbing his toothbrush, Harry brushed his teeth slowly, appreciating the refreshing, minty taste. It was comforting, even grounding, to do something as straightforward as cleaning up. When he finished, he wiped his face with a towel, the soft material far better than the coarse ones he'd been used to at Privet Drive. The routine made him feel slightly more like himself, though the unfamiliar surroundings and everything else on his mind lingered just out of reach.

Once he was ready, Harry collected his crutches and made his way into the hallway. The quiet of early morning had begun to lift, faint sounds of stirring from other rooms breaking the stillness. From downstairs came the aroma of cooking—warm and rich, carrying the promise of something satisfying. His stomach rumbled softly, urging him forward. Slowly, he descended the stairs, each step accompanied by the faint creak of the old wood beneath his weight.

The smells grew stronger as he neared the kitchen: bread, something sweet, and the unmistakable savory scent of frying sausages. The warm air enveloped him as he stepped into the room, where Mrs. Fields was bustling about, tending to a pan on the stove. Her presence filled the kitchen with an ease that Harry found oddly comforting. She looked up as he entered, her face lighting up with a welcoming smile.

"Good morning, Harry. Up early, are you?" she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"Morning," Harry replied softly, hovering by the door. After a moment, he added quietly, "Can I help with anything?"

Mrs. Fields shook her head and waved him off with a firm gesture. "Not a chance, young man. You've done quite enough just making your way down here. Now, come sit yourself down, and I'll get you something proper to eat."

Harry hesitated, glancing at the stove. "I don't mind helping," he started, but the look she gave him stopped him mid-sentence. Her arched brow and hands on her hips left no room for argument.

"Sit," she said firmly. "The only thing you need to do right now is eat."

Reluctantly, Harry made his way to the table and eased himself into a chair, leaning his crutches against the wall beside him. Mrs. Fields turned back to the stove. In moments, she ladled steaming oatmeal into a bowl, adding a generous drizzle of honey and a sprinkle of raisins before setting it in front of him.

"There we go," she said, sliding the bowl closer. "Now, eat every last bit of that. You're much too thin, and I won't have you just picking at your food like you did last night."

Harry looked up at her, his brow furrowed. "I wasn't—"

"Oh yes, you were," she cut him off, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from him. "I saw it plain as day. You barely ate a thing, and that's not going to fly here. You need your strength, and I won't have you going hungry under my roof."

Harry stared at the oatmeal, then back at her. "I wasn't trying to—"

"I know, dear," she said softly. "But habits like that won't help you now. You've been through a lot, and I imagine eating might not feel easy. But you need to eat as much as you can. Every bite helps."

Harry looked down at the bowl, his face flushing slightly. He picked up his spoon and took a small bite. The oatmeal was warm and sweet, the honey adding just enough flavor to make it comforting. He chewed slowly, glancing up to find Mrs. Fields still watching him.

"Good," she said with a nod as he took another bite. "It doesn't have to be quick, but it does have to be all of it." She got up to go about her tasks, but still kept her watchful eyes on Harry.

Harry worked his way through the bowl under her watchful eye. The warmth of the oatmeal spread through him, and though he still felt out of place, there was something grounding about the routine of eating a meal that someone had made for him—just for him.

As Harry finished the last spoonful of oatmeal, the sounds of stirring upstairs grew louder, signaling the rest of the house waking up. One by one, children began trickling down from their rooms. The younger ones arrived first, their hair mussed and their steps unsteady as they rubbed their eyes. They murmured sleepy greetings as they shuffled past the kitchen toward the dining room, where the long table was already set with breakfast. Some leaned against each other, still half-asleep, while others perked up at the sight of the steaming food waiting for them.

The older kids followed soon after, more alert and lively. Their chatter filled the hallway, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clatter of plates and utensils as they found spots to eat in the dining room. The lively hum of activity carried on in the background as Harry stayed seated in the kitchen, watching the bustle from his spot at the table. He felt a pang of something he couldn't quite place—something between unease and fascination. The easy chatter of the other kids reminded him a little of the Gryffindor common room, though this was distinctly different.

Luke and Eddie entered together, their conversation already in full swing as they stepped into the kitchen rather than heading to the dining room with the others. Luke's sandy hair was still damp, as though he'd splashed his face to wake up, and Eddie's dark hair stuck out at odd angles. Spotting Harry, they grinned and waved in his direction, grabbed plates, and settled into the chairs beside him at the small kitchen table.

"Morning, Harry!" Luke called, his grin wide and easy.

"Hey," Harry replied quietly, managing a small wave back.

The two boys made their way over, plates in hand, and slid into the seats beside him. Luke sat to his left, balancing his plate on the edge of the table as he reached for a roll, while Eddie took the seat on his right, biting into a sausage as he settled in.

"Didn't see you much last night," Luke said, nudging Harry lightly with his elbow. "You went up pretty quick after dinner."

"Yeah," Harry said, shifting slightly. "I was just... tired."

"Fair enough," Eddie chimed in, cutting into his sausage with the edge of his fork. "This place takes some getting used to. First couple of nights, I thought I'd never sleep."

Harry glanced at him curiously. "How long have you been here?"

"Me? Couple of months now," Eddie said between bites. "Not so bad once you figure out the lay of the land. Mrs. Fields runs a tight ship, though. Don't cross her."

Luke snorted, shaking his head. "He says that, but he's the one who always pushes his luck. Like the time you tried to sneak out pudding for later and got caught."

Eddie grinned, unabashed. "Worth it."

Harry couldn't help but smile faintly. Their banter was easy, natural, and it drew him in without demanding too much of him.

"What about you?" Luke asked, turning his attention to Harry. "How are you holding up? Place making any sense yet?"

Harry shrugged, glancing down at the table. "It's... different," he said carefully. "Not really sure where anything is yet."

"Don't worry about that," Eddie said with a wave of his hand. "Stick with us, and we'll make sure you don't get lost. Except maybe on purpose. Keeps things interesting."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. He's just trying to scare you. You'll figure it out soon enough."

"Yeah, it's not as confusing as it seems," Eddie added, grinning. "Just a bunch of creaky floors and doors that stick."

Harry nodded faintly, unsure of what to say. The sounds of breakfast filled the kitchen—spoons clinking against bowls, bursts of laughter from the younger kids, and Mrs. Fields calling out reminders for everyone to clear their plates. Luke and Eddie continued their banter, occasionally nudging Harry to join in. He gave short quiet answers the novelty of sitting among peers rather than being ignored or ridiculed still sinking in.

Eddie leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two legs as he gestured with his fork. "You know, there's a spot behind the tool shed where the old man keeps the extra firewood. Great place to hide if you want to avoid chores."

"Or get caught and end up with double," Luke added, smirking. "Don't listen to him, Harry. He's got the worst luck."

"Hey, I'm still here, aren't I?" Eddie shot back, grinning before shoving the last piece of sausage into his mouth.

Harry listened, half-smiling as their easy banter continued. His eyes wandered around the room, taking in the way the other kids interacted. The younger ones were starting to perk up, some giggling as they smeared jam on their toast, others whispering conspiratorially over their bowls of cereal. The older kids were more subdued, focused on their plates or sharing quiet jokes. It was a far cry from the tense, silent breakfasts he was used to with the Dursleys.

Mrs. Fields bustled around the room, her presence a steadying force as she encouraged the younger children to finish up and reminded the older ones to rinse their plates. She glanced at Harry now and then, her expression warm but watchful, as though she were trying to gauge how he was settling in. At one point, she even paused briefly, pointing to her eyes and then playfully gesturing toward Harry with a slight grin, as if to remind him that she was keeping an eye on him making him smile. A real smile.

As the meal wound down, Harry found himself feeling a little more at ease. Though he still didn't fully relax, the unfamiliar environment didn't seem quite as daunting with Luke and Eddie beside him.

By the time breakfast was winding down, the kitchen was filled with the warm hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of plates. Harry looked up as Dr. Winslow appeared in the doorway, his coat neatly buttoned and his hands tucked into his pockets.

"Good morning, Harry," Dr. Winslow said with a friendly nod. "Ready for our trip to the hospital?"

Harry nodded, pushing his chair back and standing carefully. Mrs. Fields fussed over him for a moment, straightening his collar and reminding him to bundle up before he left. With a final nod of approval, she waved him toward the door.

Dr. Winslow pulled the door open with a warm smile, stepping aside to let Harry pass. Harry hobbled forward, his crutches clicking softly against the floor. But as he reached the doorway, he froze, his breath catching.

Standing on the doorstep was a tall man dressed in an impeccably tailored black overcoat, its crisp lines emphasizing his lean frame. Beneath it, he wore simple but sharp Muggle attire—a dark suit with a stark white shirt that contrasted with his pale complexion. His jet-black hair hung to his shoulders, framing a face that was as severe and unreadable as Harry remembered. His dark eyes fixed on Harry sending a chill through him.

The man's hand was raised, as though he had been about to knock, but now he stood still, his gaze locked with Harry's. The air seemed to thicken, the warm sounds of the orphanage behind Harry fading into an oppressive quiet.

Dr. Winslow glanced at Harry and then at the man on the doorstep, his friendly expression faltering. "Ah—" he began, but whatever he was going to say was lost on Harry.

The crutches wobbled slightly under Harry's grip as he stared, unable to process the sight before him. The man's presence here made no sense. It was impossible. And yet, there he was.

"Professor Snape?" Harry whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Chapter 2

Notes:

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

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Another chap! Enjoy!

Chapter Text

The late afternoon light stretched through the castle's high windows, casting uneven bands across the worn stone floor. The corridor leading to the Headmaster's office stood silent, its usual movement absent in the heavy stillness of summer. Dust floated through the warm light, undisturbed by students or the brush of robes. The torches along the walls burned low, their glow barely needed against the daylight.

Severus Snape moved through the corridor, his footfalls harsh against the ground. Without the usual activity—students hurrying to class, portraits shifting and whispering, the steady thrum of staircases adjusting—the castle's vastness felt more pronounced. The corridors, built to accommodate the constant flow of bodies, now stretched empty before him. Even the portraits remained still, their usual murmurs absent. A few figures, usually quick to comment, watched him pass without speaking. Only a suit of armor gave a faint, metallic creak as he moved beyond it.

He had not changed since returning. His clothing, still the Muggle attire from earlier, carried the scent of the orphanage—stale wood and cheap disinfectant clinging to the fabric. The pressed shirt, stiff when he first put it on, had wrinkled slightly, the weight of his overcoat heavier than before. There had been no time to focus on such things. There had been no reason to stop.

The stone gargoyle loomed ahead, its carved wings drawn tight against its back. The ridges along its spine were smoothed by time, and a faint mark near its jaw—almost imperceptible unless one knew to look—remained from a decades-old spell that had knocked it from its place. It had always looked the same, standing firm against centuries of students pausing before it, their nerves obvious as they muttered the password.

Snape slowed.

His anger had not faded during the walk from the gates, but neither was it as focused as it had been in the moment he left. The Dursleys—vile, contemptible creatures—deserved his fury. That was easy. It was the anger directed elsewhere that unsettled him. Dumbledore had known what they were, had chosen to leave the boy there anyway, had allowed this to continue year after year. Yet Snape had never asked, never questioned beyond what little Albus offered, because it was easier to assume the old man had it under control. Because it was easier to believe it wasn't his concern.

And now he had seen for himself.

He curled his fingers into his palm, the stiffness in his knuckles a reminder of how long he had kept them clenched. There had been nothing to react to—no confrontation, no opportunity to unleash the anger tightening in his chest. He had spoken to the doctor and the director, observed the boy, gathered what he needed. And yet the anger remained.

At them.

At Albus.

At himself.

His pulse was steady as he exhaled, yet his hand felt tense at his side, as if still expecting the confrontation that had not come. He would not give Dumbledore the satisfaction of thinking this was some kind of revelation. He would not stand in this hallway like a student working up the nerve to knock on a professor's door. He had come to deliver his findings, and Albus would listen.

Snape did not hesitate.

"Lemon Drop."

The gargoyle shifted, stone grinding against stone as it moved aside. The stairway behind it spiraled upward, its steps worn smooth from centuries of passage. The enclosed walls bore faint lines from where repairs had been made, old fractures fused back together, the magic woven deep into the structure.

He stepped forward, letting the staircase carry him upward. The movement was steady, unfaltering, its pace never changing. His hands remained at his sides, his expression unreadable. There was nothing left to consider. His words had already been chosen.

At the top, the door stood slightly open. A sliver of light stretched into the hallway, broken by the flickering glow of firelight from within. The familiar scent of parchment and wax filled the space, joined by something sharper—the unmistakable traces of cooling tea, the faint bitterness of lemon mingling with honey.

The brass handle bore faint scratches along its edge, a sign of years of use, polished but never fully smooth. The heavy wood, though reinforced with protective enchantments, carried shallow impressions where countless knocks had worn against it. The usual sounds—the scratch of a quill, the soft creak of a chair, the hum of enchanted instruments—were absent.

Severus pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside.

Albus sat behind his desk, a quill forgotten between his fingers. The shifting patterns from the windows stretched across the polished wood, catching in the silver strands of his beard. Books stood in their usual uneven stacks, but today, they seemed less like familiar tools and more like silent observers, pressed in around him.

Severus crossed the space without slowing, the fabric of his coat shifting as he stopped before the desk. His posture remained rigid, his expression unreadable, but the atmosphere around him carried the force of something barely contained.

Albus straightened slightly, his fingers brushing the wood beneath them. "Have you delivered Harry home, Severus?" There was no uncertainty in his voice. The answer was already known.

Severus scoffed sharply, his expression twisting with contempt. "Do not insult me with empty questions, Albus," he said, his words cutting through the stillness. "If you require proof, check the wards you trusted so completely. No, Potter is not there, because his so-called family"—his lip curled with the word—"decided they were finished with him." His hands clenched at his sides, his breathing sharp, controlled. "They cast him off. Left him at a Muggle orphanage without hesitation."

Albus blinked once, the shift barely perceptible, but the color had already drained from his face. "An orphanage?" The words left him as though they carried something bitter, something difficult to force out.

"YES, AN ORPHANAGE!" Severus roared, his voice shaking the very air between them. The force of it sent loose parchments fluttering across the desk, a silver instrument rattling before toppling over and rolling to the floor with a hollow clang.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms so hard they might have drawn blood. His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest rising and falling with barely contained rage.

"But do you think that was the worst of it?" he snarled, taking a step forward. His shadow stretched over the desk, over Dumbledore, swallowing the flickering light from the fireplace.

His fingers twitched, aching to lash out—to grab one of the delicate, spinning devices littering the office and shatter it against the wall, to snap something, anything, beneath his hands just to match the fury clawing through him. He loomed over the desk, his presence towering, overwhelming, his black robes shifting as he moved like the gathering of a storm.

His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Before they abandoned him, they broke him."

Dumbledore's fingers tightened around the arms of his chair. "I placed him with blood relatives," he said, the words slow, deliberate. "The protections—"

"Protections?" Severus spat, his lip curling. "You mean the wards? The ones meant to shield him from external threats? And tell me, Albus, what use were they when the danger came from inside the very house you forced him into?"

Dumbledore's jaw tightened. "The Dursleys swore to me they would provide for him."

Severus let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And you believed them? You placed the son of James Potter—the boy you knew Petunia loathed—into her care and hoped she would rise above her own hatred?"

Dumbledore remained silent, his fingers steepling, but Severus saw the faint flicker in his expression—doubt, guilt, something creeping in through the cracks.

"They broke his ankle, Albus," Severus continued, his voice razor-sharp. "His ribs. He could barely walk when I found him—left there like rubbish on a doorstep, bruised, bloodied, discarded."

Dumbledore's grip on the chair whitened, but he did not speak.

The words seethed from Severus' lips, each syllable laced with raw fury. His fingers twitched again, and this time, he could not stop himself—he slammed his hand down onto the desk. A paperweight jumped, clattering to the side, and another stack of parchments slid onto the floor, but Severus didn't so much as glance at them.

"And his back—" His voice faltered for the first time, breath ragged, his fury warring with something colder, something worse.

He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, his shoulders rising sharply before he forced the words out. "Covered in welts. From a belt," he spat, his hands curling into fists again, shaking at his sides. "Some old, some fresh. Some still bleeding."

Dumbledore closed his eyes. His fingers, still gripping the chair, trembled slightly before he released them, laying them flat against the wood.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick. The air in the room felt suffocating.

Severus' voice dropped lower, quieter—but it was no less lethal. "Do you understand now?" he said, every word dripping with fury.

His lip curled, his black eyes burning as he took another step forward, the desk now the only thing keeping him from closing the space entirely. "Do you see what your trust in 'family' has done?"

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. The usual warmth in his expression was absent, replaced by something dark, something unreadable.

The light from the window cast deep lines across his face, and for the first time, his age truly showed. His hands trembled as he folded them together, the skin taut over his knuckles, whitening under the strain.

"I truly believed they would care for him," he murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, but not from weakness—no, there was something breaking beneath those words, something that even he could no longer deny.

"I thought…" His eyes, so often filled with knowing, with certainty, wavered. "That whatever resentment they might have felt toward his parents, they would not extend it to an innocent child."

Severus let out a sharp, vicious bark of laughter, the sound harsh and biting. His face twisted with something darker than contempt, something closer to hatred than Albus had ever seen from him.

"You thought?" he repeated, his voice laced with venom. His fingers twitched at his sides, his hands curling into fists, and for a fleeting moment, it looked as if he might strike something—anything—just to release the fury writhing beneath his skin.

"You—thought?" he spat, shaking his head in disbelief. "You put that boy in the hands of monsters, and you thought they would love him? That they would care for him because of blood?"

His voice was raw, guttural, as if forcing the words from his throat physically pained him. His breath came in uneven bursts, his body taut with unchecked rage. "You were supposed to protect him!"

Albus's fingers dug into his own hands, his shoulders slumping forward under the weight of it all. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

"I did not know," he said, the words quiet but heavy. A confession. A failure laid bare.

"Because you did not care to know!" Severus roared, his voice cracking under the force of it. His breath was unsteady, his chest rising and falling in short bursts. "Because it was easier to believe in your precious ideals! Because facing the truth would have meant admitting that you—"

He cut himself off abruptly, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw visibly clenched. His nails dug into his palms, his entire body shaking with fury so intense it burned through him like wildfire.

Albus shut his eyes for a long, long moment. When he opened them, something hollow had settled into his expression. Something fractured, something lost.

"I failed him," he whispered, his voice carrying none of its usual authority. "I failed Lily. I failed James. I—" His breath hitched. He swallowed hard, as if even he could not bear to say it.

Severus exhaled, a slow, trembling breath that did little to calm the rage simmering beneath his skin. But the fire was cooling, giving way to something colder. Something sharper.

"Yes," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "You did."

The silence that followed was unbearable. The walls of the office seemed to press in, the space between them suffocating, unmoving. The air was thick with everything unspoken, everything that could not be undone.

Albus slowly lifted his head, something grim hardening in his features. "We must act now," he said, his voice steadier, but lacking the conviction it once held. "The orphanage is no place for him either. We will find another arrangement—immediately."

"No," Severus said, his voice sharp, decisive. "We cannot move him yet."

Albus's brows drew together, a deep furrow creasing his forehead. "Why?"

Severus took a breath, willing his thoughts into order. "There is a Muggle trial concerning the Dursleys," he said, his voice clipped. "He may be required to testify or be otherwise involved. If we take him away now, it will only complicate matters."

Albus stiffened. His fingers, which had only just begun to relax, curled tightly together once more.

"A trial?" he repeated, his voice unreadable.

"Yes," Severus said sharply. "Given his condition upon arrival, the authorities had ample cause to investigate. The Dursleys' neglect has been exposed, and the legal process has already begun." His expression remained cold, but there was something else lurking beneath it—something bitter. "While I care little for Muggle proceedings, interfering now would raise questions. If we act too soon, we risk placing him under further scrutiny."

Albus's fingers drummed lightly against the wood of his desk, his face unreadable as he processed this. "How long before it concludes?"

"That remains uncertain," Severus admitted. "But until it does, he stays where he is. Moving him too soon could jeopardize the case—or worse, bring him unwanted attention." His jaw tensed, his irritation barely concealed.

Albus exhaled, dissatisfaction evident in the way his shoulders shifted. "And once it is over?"

"We relocate him," Severus said, his voice clipped, decisive. "But we will not force him into another situation he cannot tolerate. He will need choices—within reason, of course."

Albus's gaze sharpened. "I assume you have taken precautions in the meantime?"

"Naturally," Severus bit out. "I have placed wards around the orphanage. They will hold. No one will reach him unnoticed." His fingers curled slightly at his sides, the only outward sign of his unease. After a moment, he added, almost as an afterthought, "However, there are… other concerns."

Albus's eyes narrowed slightly. "What sort of concerns?"

Severus hesitated, then shook his head. "Not something to be addressed now." His voice was flat, final. But after a brief pause, he conceded, "There was an incident. We will discuss it further momentarily."

Albus held his gaze, waiting, but Severus did not elaborate. After a long moment, Albus let the matter rest—for now. Instead, he shifted, his expression contemplative. "The Weasleys?"

Severus let out a sharp laugh, short and humorless. "They have enough to manage without adding another mouth to feed. Do you truly think they could take in him?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "No. Not that they wouldn't try, but their resources are stretched thin as it is."

Albus nodded in quiet agreement, his fingers steepling as he considered another possibility. "Perhaps Minerva—"

"No." Severus cut him off without hesitation. "Potter needs more than an occasional guardian. He needs stability, consistency. Minerva is devoted to the boy's well-being, but she is also a professor. She cannot take him in."

Severus moved across the room in quick, restless strides, arms locked tightly across his chest. His jaw twitched as he thought, his frustration evident. The fire in the hearth snapped and flared, the only sound filling the space as he worked through the problem.

Albus remained silent, watching as Severus sorted through the options on his own. He had already steered the conversation where it needed to go—now it was only a matter of seeing if Severus would reach the right conclusion himself.

"Putting Potter in another Muggle home is out of the question," Severus muttered, irritation still raw in his voice. His fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeves as he spoke. "He would be just as vulnerable there as he is now."

Albus gave a slow nod. "Indeed."

Severus's fingers tapped against his arm, his pacing slowing. "And there are no relatives on his mother's side left."

"No," Albus confirmed. "None who would take him."

Severus came to a halt, his eyes narrowing. "What about Longbottom's grandmother?"

Albus lifted an eyebrow. "Augusta?"

"She's strict, but she's raised a wizarding child before," Severus pointed out. "And she wouldn't be foolish enough to coddle him. She has resources, status, and unlike most, she understands the dangers at play." His voice was clipped, measured, but there was an edge to it—he was trying to solve the problem, and the lack of options was grating on him.

Albus sat with the suggestion for a moment, then shook his head. "While Augusta is certainly capable, she has made it clear that she will take no other wards. She believes herself too old to raise another child."

Severus let out a short breath, his lip curling. "How convenient."

Severus paced again, his movements sharp. His fingers curled against his arms as he considered the next possibility. "Perhaps an older student's family," he said after a moment. "Someone from a respectable background who would understand the responsibility."

Albus tilted his head slightly. "Which family would that be?" he asked, his tone mild. "The Malfoys?"

Severus's lip curled, his expression twisting in open disgust. "You know very well I meant a proper wizarding family, not them." His breath left him in an irritated hiss. "Bones?"

Albus shook his head. "Amelia is dedicated to her work in the Ministry. She barely has time for her niece as it is. Adding Harry to her care would only make him a secondary concern."

Severus muttered something under his breath and turned toward the fire, the tension rolling off him in waves.

Albus let the silence stretch, then spoke again, his tone lighter, almost casual. "Of course, there are those within Hogwarts who could provide such structure. A familiar face, a firm hand…"

Severus's back went rigid. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"A professor, perhaps," Albus continued, maddeningly calm. "Someone capable of setting boundaries while also ensuring Harry's protection."

Severus's shoulders jerked, his breath coming hissing through his nose.

"Perhaps even someone who has already shown a remarkable ability to… correct his missteps."

Severus spun so fast the air shifted around him. His eyes burned with fury as he took a step forward. "If you are suggesting me, you are out of your mind."

Albus remained seated, hands folded, his expression unreadable. "Am I?"

Severus closed the distance between them in two strides, his glare seething. "You cannot be serious." His voice was low, but no less dangerous for it. "After everything—you would dare suggest that I take him in?"

Albus met his rage with infuriating composure. "Why not?"

Severus barked a laugh, harsh and humorless, the sound cutting through the room like a blade. His breath shook with the sheer force of his rage.

"You ask why?" His boots struck the floor hard as he moved forward, his hands slamming onto the desk with a crack that sent the delicate instruments atop it rattling. His fingers curled, nails digging into the wood as if sheer force alone could keep him from lashing out at the nearest breakable thing.

"You left him there, Albus." His voice was low, burning with fury that had been building for years, festering beneath every word, every decision, every carefully chosen excuse. His shoulders rose and fell, his breath ragged as he glared down at the man before him.

"You placed him in that house, turned your back, and let them destroy him. And now—" His hands trembled with the effort it took to keep them where they were, to not seize one of the delicate silver contraptions cluttering the desk and send it flying. "After all of it—after everything—you have the audacity to stand there and tell me I should be the one to fix it?"

Albus met his fury without flinching. "You yourself said that Harry requires stability, structure, and someone who will not coddle him. Someone who understands the dangers he faces." His voice did not rise, did not waver. His hands remained folded neatly before him, but there was something behind his gaze, something knowing.

"And you, Severus, have spent more time watching over him than nearly anyone else."

Severus recoiled, his breath escaping in an unsteady exhale, as though the words had landed a physical blow. His fingers dragged against the desk before he shoved himself upright, turning his back on Albus with a jerking movement. His steps carried him away in short, violent bursts, like he meant to put as much space as possible between himself and the conversation.

"No." The word was guttural, torn from him with an edge that barely masked the loathing beneath it. "You do not get to make this request."

His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles going white. His robes snapped around him as he turned back, eyes burning with fury.

"Not after what you've done to him. Not after what you've done to me."

Albus did not rise to meet him. He remained still, voice level. "I expect nothing," he said, his tone as calm as if they were discussing a matter far less damning. "But I do ask you to consider the alternative."

Severus's breath came hard and fast, his chest rising with each barely contained exhale. The silence between them stretched, thick, unbearable. He wanted to throw the words back in Albus's face, to spit his refusal, to strip the suggestion apart until nothing remained of it.

But the words stuck in his throat.

Because the alternative was worse.

The thought sickened him.

His fingers twitched, curling against the fabric of his sleeves before he turned sharply on his heel, his glare burning into the stone beyond the window.

Severus stayed by the window a moment longer, his hands clenched behind his back. The grounds below were still, the castle quiet, but his mind remained fixed on what had nearly happened. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to push the lingering fury into something controlled. When he turned back to Albus, his expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders had not eased.

Without a word, Severus reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, battered book. He tossed it onto the desk, the impact making the ink bottle rattle.

Albus picked it up, turning it over in his hands. The cover was plain, worn, unmarked by any title or inscription. He ran a finger along the spine, his brows drawing together. There was a faint hum beneath his fingertips, subtle but unmistakable. This was no ordinary book.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Something Malfoy left behind," Severus said, his voice clipped. "He came to take Potter."

Albus's gaze sharpened. "To take him?"

"Yes," Severus said shortly. "He went to the orphanage. I don't know how he found him—likely through his Ministry contacts—but he came with every intention of leaving with the boy. Fortunately, I arrived first."

Albus's fingers tightened around the diary. He did not need Severus to elaborate; the implications were clear. "And Harry?"

"He never saw Malfoy," Severus assured him. "I got him out before they crossed paths. I returned him once Malfoy was gone, after ensuring the orphanage was warded." His eyes flickered with disgust. "But Malfoy did not leave empty-handed. Since he could not take the boy himself, he left that behind instead." He nodded toward the book.

Albus studied it again, his expression unreadable. He could feel the way the magic inside it pressed outward, subtle but insidious, waiting. It was not a passive enchantment—this was something designed to be engaged with, something that would lure an unwitting child into opening its pages.

"Do you know what it does?"

"Not yet," Severus admitted. "I cast protections before handling it, but the magic inside is unmistakable. It's not passive, Albus. It's meant to be used—meant to be found. And in a place like that…" He sneered. "It would not have taken long before some child picked it up."

Albus exhaled, setting the book down carefully, though his fingers remained over it. "A backup plan, then. If he could not take Harry, he would leave something behind to reach him another way."

Severus nodded once. "And he does not know I interfered. As far as he is concerned, Potter was simply not there when he arrived. No doubt he believes he was moved by Muggle authorities."

Albus said nothing, his focus returning to the book. Its magic was restrained, but he could feel it waiting, coiled beneath the surface like something alive. A protection charm had been placed over it—Severus's work, no doubt—but it was a temporary barrier, something to prevent immediate harm rather than neutralize whatever was inside.

Carefully, Albus drew his wand and traced the air above the diary, unraveling the protections layer by layer. The instant the last barrier fell, the change was immediate. The magic within the book flared, and a whisper of invitation curled through the air, a silent beckoning. His fingers twitched where they rested against the cover, and he became acutely aware of an unnatural pull, something urging him to open it, to take up a quill and write.

He did not.

Instead, his grip tightened, his magic pressing back against the influence wrapped around the diary. He turned the book over, inspecting the inside cover. The pages were blank, but there was something deeply wrong about them. He traced a hand over the parchment, feeling a distortion, a hollowness beneath the inkless surface, as if the book was not truly empty but merely waiting for a response.

The magic pulsed again, subtle but insistent. Write, it urged. Just a word. Just a name.

Albus's expression darkened. He snapped the book shut and held it between both hands, feeling its resistance, the way it strained against his magic like a living thing protesting restraint. This was no ordinary enchanted object. This was something vile, something crafted with intent.

He did not know yet what it was, but he knew it could not be left unguarded. With swift, precise movements, he raised his wand and layered his own protections over it, magic weaving tightly around the cover, sealing it shut with barriers even the most curious hand would struggle to break. He would study it further in the safety of his own quarters, where no unsuspecting child could stumble upon it.

Only when the last ward settled did he set the book down, his fingers lingering over it.

"We will find out exactly what this is," he said at last, his voice quiet but firm. "And we will ensure that whatever Malfoy intended, it does not come to pass."

He turned the diary once more in his hands, feeling the dormant energy beneath the cover. The magic within it was waiting, patient, as though it had all the time in the world. He did not know its purpose yet, but whatever it was, it had not been meant to sit idle. It was designed to be found, to be used. And if it had reached Harry's hands…

Albus tapped a thoughtful finger against the desk, his eyes distant. "Then he may not act again so soon. If he believes Harry is already lost to him…"

"He will not stop," Severus cut in. "Malfoy may have withdrawn for now, but if he could find the boy, others will as well. And unlike Malfoy, not all of them will attempt to take him through proper channels." His eyes darkened.

Albus sat back slightly, his fingers laced together as he studied Severus. "You are certain he cannot be moved before the trial?"

Severus did not hesitate. "I am."

Albus exhaled, gaze dropping for a moment, fingertips pressing together as he fell into thought. The fire crackled softly, its glow catching the edges of scattered silver instruments, but neither of them paid it any mind. The silence that followed was deliberate, a pause just long enough to invite further discussion without demanding it.

Severus did not take the bait.

Albus made a quiet sound—acknowledgment, consideration—before he spoke again. "It is a delicate matter, finding the right arrangement."

Severus's expression did not change. "I'm sure you will manage."

Albus hummed, the picture of contemplation. "Yes. Though I imagine the best solutions are often the simplest ones."

Severus let out a slow breath, his fingers curling against the fabric of his sleeves. "I can feel you circling, Albus. Do get on with it."

A small smile flickered across Albus's face, gone as quickly as it came. "Circling? I would never."

Severus gave him a flat look.

Albus inclined his head slightly, watching him with that infuriating calm, as though Severus had already answered a question he had yet to ask.

Severus's patience frayed. "No."

Albus merely lifted a brow. "I haven't said anything."

"You didn't have to." Severus's voice was clipped, his irritation threading through every syllable. "I know that look, I know that tone, and I know precisely where this conversation is going."

"Do you?" Albus said lightly, as though he were merely indulging idle speculation.

Severus's grip on his sleeve tightened. "You are a meddlesome old man with far too much time on his hands."

Albus only smiled again, folding his hands over his desk. He did not argue. He did not press. He simply waited, letting the silence settle once more.

Severus scowled. "Whatever you are plotting, leave me out of it."

Albus did not so much as blink. He only sat there, silent, the weight of his gaze speaking more than words ever could.

Severus's patience snapped.

With a quick turn, he strode toward the door, his robes cutting through the air behind him.

"Severus."

He did not slow.

"I only ask that you think on it."

Severus wrenched the door open, his grip white-knuckled against the wood. He cast one last glare over his shoulder. "You will not have to wait long for my answer," he bit out. "It is the same as it always is."

"Conniving old fool," he muttered under his breath. He yanked the door wider, the hinges groaning in protest, but the sound barely registered over the pounding in his head. Without another word, he stormed into the corridor.

The castle halls were quiet in the deep hours of summer, but the silence did nothing to temper his rage. The torchlight flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that stretched and twisted as he passed. He barely noticed. His mind burned too hot, each thought snapping violently at the next, spiraling with every step.

"The sheer audacity. 'Why not?' he asks. Why not? Because it is madness. Because it is completely, utterly absurd."

He took the stairs two at a time, his breathing coming in short spirts, his jaw aching from how tightly he was holding it. The torches along the lower corridors flickered in his wake, their flames disturbed by the force of his passing, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were a tangled mess, each one burning hotter than the last.

Albus knew what he was asking. He knew what he was forcing Severus to consider. And yet he had said it so simply, as though the idea wasn't completely deranged.

Severus turned sharply at the landing, his fingers twitching as though they itched for his wand, for something to do with the raw fury rolling through him.

"Potter under my roof. Potter in my home. Again."

The words felt impossible even as they left his lips.

As if it had not already happened. As if he had not already had the boy in his home, in his care, watching him sit stiffly on the edge of a chair as though expecting it to be pulled out from under him. As if he had not already healed him. Had not seen the scars, the bruises—old and new—mapping out a story that Potter himself refused to tell.

"After everything—after an entire year of reckless stupidity, of arrogance, of constantly flouting every rule placed before him? And I am to welcome him? To provide for him? To teach him in ways beyond the classroom? He barely tolerates my presence in lessons, and Albus expects him to—what? Obey me? Trust me?"

The words spat out like venom, but they rang hollow.

Because it was not true, was it? Not anymore.

Not after watching Potter grip his crutches too tightly, shoulders drawn in, waiting for a punishment that never came. Not after seeing the way he hesitated before taking the clothing Severus had given him—not as though ungrateful, but as though unworthy.
Had anyone ever given the boy basic needs before?

Not after watching him nearly collapse after Apparition, expecting anger, expecting cruelty, when Severus had done nothing but steady him.

Not after seeing the way the boy had stood in the orphanage, silent as a stranger defended him more fiercely than he himself believed he deserved.

"And as if he would want this arrangement. As if he wouldn't fight it with every ounce of his insufferable stubbornness. As if the mere suggestion wouldn't have him running in the opposite direction."

Would he?

Would he really?

Because Potter had let him heal him. Had let him touch the bruises on his ribs, the welts on his back. Had let him—without flinching, without recoiling, without questioning it.

As if no one had ever done it before.

Severus turned another corner, the downward spiral of stone steps leading him deeper into the castle's belly. The air cooled as he moved closer to his domain, but it did nothing to settle the fire raging inside him.

"And of course, of course, Albus knows exactly what he's doing."

Of course he does.

Albus had not known. Severus was certain of that much. When he had been sent out, the instructions had been simple—retrieve the boy and ensure he returned to his family safely. Albus had not anticipated what Severus would find when he arrived.

But Albus had known enough. Enough to make sure Severus was the one to go. Enough to suspect that sending anyone else would not have yielded the same result. The excuse—you were the closest one—was a pitiful attempt at misdirection, one Severus had seen through immediately. If convenience had been the true concern, there had been any number of others who could have handled the task just as efficiently.

No, Albus had sent him.

Not because he had known Potter would no longer be at Privet Drive. Not because he had known about the bruises, the scars, the quiet way the boy had studied him as though measuring the risk of speaking at all.

But because, on some level, Albus had wanted Severus to see whatever there was to be seen. Had wanted him to return with more than just the boy.

He had gone expecting defiance, expecting petulance, expecting the same insufferable arrogance that he had associated with the boy from the moment he first laid eyes on him.

Instead, he had found something else entirely.

And by the time Albus finally spoke the words—by the time he made his request—it was already too late. Severus had already seen. He had already understood.

"He wouldn't have suggested it if he didn't already know my answer. He knows I cannot refuse, no matter how much I wish to. He knows I will not stand by while the boy is left unprotected again."

Because he wouldn't.

Not now.

Not after watching Potter's hands tighten around the crutches in the orphanage doorway, as if bracing for another dismissal. Not after hearing Dr. Winslow speak of authorities, of charges, of years of neglect ignored by the world at large.

Not after seeing the way the boy flinched when spoken to too harshly.

Not after realizing that every single moment of defiance, every reckless choice, every rule Potter had broken—every single one—was not from arrogance, not from entitlement, but because he had learned early that no one was coming to save him.

That if he did not act, no one would.

Severus's teeth clenched, his jaw tightening painfully. His anger did not come from the suggestion itself—it came from the inevitability of it.

Albus had set the pieces in place before Severus had even stepped into his office.

He reached the entrance to his quarters, pushing through the heavy wooden doors with more force than necessary. The air was cool and still, his own domain untouched by the heat of summer. His hand flexed at his side, fingers aching with tension he could not dispel.

"I should refuse. I should tell him exactly where he can shove his manipulations."

But he wouldn't.

Because the moment the words left Albus's lips, the moment he had suggested that Potter needed more than a temporary home, Severus had already known what the outcome would be.

Because the boy had already been in his home.

Had already relied on him.

Had already looked at him with something closer to uncertainty than outright hatred.

Had already allowed him to heal wounds that no one else had.

Severus let out a slow breath, steadying himself against the unavoidable truth.

"He cannot fall through the cracks."

Not again.

The thought made his stomach turn, and he shoved it away violently, stepping into his office and shutting the door behind him.

The fire was still burning low in the hearth, casting a steady glow against the walls. The familiar scent of parchment and potion ingredients hung in the air, grounding him.

Severus braced his hands against his desk, staring down at the smooth wood. His fingers dug into the surface.

There was no time for this.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the fury intosomething useful.

Potter's trunk was still missing.

And Lucius Malfoy had already made his first move.

Severus turned sharply, striding toward the tall cabinet at the far end of the fingers found the latch easily, and with a quiet click, the door swung open to reveal rows of neatly labeled potion vials. His eyes flicked over them briefly before landing on the small, familiar bottle—Headache Relief Draught, brewed weeks ago but still potent.

He pulled the cork free with a quick, practiced motion and downed the contents in one swallow. The bitter taste barely registered. The cool liquid burned slightly as it settled, but he felt the relief begin to work almost immediately. The pressure behind his right eye dulled, no longer clawing at his skull with the tension that had been building since his meeting with Albus.

Setting the empty vial aside, he exhaled through his nose and rolled his shoulders once before striding toward the door. He had no time to waste. The boy's trunk needed to be found before someone else—someone with far worse intentions—got their hands on it. He did not trust the Dursleys to have disposed of it carelessly. People like them, who valued their possessions more than their own flesh and blood, would not have simply thrown it away. They would have rid themselves of it in a way that benefited them.

The dungeons were cool as he moved through the halls. He reached the main corridor quickly, emerging into the castle's upper levels. The late afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, stretching golden light across the stone floors. Outside, the grounds were still, the lazy warmth of summer settling over them in quiet hush. The air inside was thick with lingering warmth, but Severus paid it no mind as he strode across the open courtyard, heading toward the Apparition point just beyond the school's protective wards.

Severus stepped out of the castle's wards and Disapparated, the twisting pull releasing him onto the pavement of Privet Drive. The late afternoon sun stretched long, golden lines across the perfectly manicured lawns, the uniform houses standing in their suffocating symmetry. Everything was still—too still. The usual suburban hum of life was absent. There were no children playing, no car engines idling in driveways, no murmurs of neighbors chatting over fences.

His eyes flicked toward Number Four. The Dursleys' home.

It was empty now. Silent. The Muggle authorities had taken them away, arrested for their mistreatment of Potter. Severus had read the report himself, the cold, impersonal language doing nothing to mask the reality of what had happened behind these walls.

He moved toward the house with purpose, stepping up to the door and flicking his wand toward the lock. It clicked open with ease.

Inside, the air was stale. Dust clung to the stillness, undisturbed since the last time someone had walked these halls. The home was in perfect order, nothing out of place. The kitchen was spotless, the sitting room pristine, as if the house itself refused to acknowledge the ugliness that had once lived here.

Severus strode past the neatly arranged furniture and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He already knew where Potter's room had been—the smallest one, the one with a lock on the outside.

When he pushed the door open, his stomach twisted.

It was empty.

Stripped bare.

No bed. No desk. No clothes left behind. No remnants of a child's life, as if Potter had never existed here at all. The walls had been repainted, the carpet freshly vacuumed. The scent in the room carried the harsh scent of cleaning chemicals, artificial and sterile.

They had erased him.

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his hands to remain at his sides instead of curling into fists. He turned, scanning the room for anything the Dursleys might have missed. But there was nothing. No old books shoved into a corner. No stray piece of parchment. No sign that a boy had lived in this space for years.

His jaw clenched. He stepped back into the hallway, his gaze flicking toward the small crawlspace near the floor. He knelt, pulling it open. Nothing. Only a few loose nails and a layer of dust.

He stood swiftly and moved toward the master bedroom, scanning for any evidence that they had kept his belongings elsewhere. But it was as empty as the rest of the house. The wardrobe was full of clothes, the bed neatly made, the drawers containing only the items that belonged to Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

Nothing of Potter's.

As Severus moved back toward the staircase, something made him stop. His gaze landed on the narrow cupboard beneath the stairs. It was unremarkable at first glance, the kind of storage space common in houses like this. But the locks—three of them, all on the outside—stood out.

His fingers ghosted over the metal, his mind already piecing together what that suggested. It was unlikely Potter's trunk had been stuffed into such a cramped space, but he pulled open the door anyway, expecting nothing more than old coats or cleaning supplies.

The smell of stale air and dust greeted him, thick with the scent of a place long undisturbed. The space was barely large enough for an adult to crouch in. His eyes flicked across the inside, scanning for anything of use. A thin, crumpled blanket sat shoved into one corner. Scattered along the wooden floor were a few forgotten, broken toys—a plastic soldier snapped at the waist, a stuffed bear missing its head, a toy car stripped of its wheels. His fingers brushed against the wall, feeling the uneven surface where paint had chipped away.

And then he saw it.

"Harry's Room."

The words were scrawled in faded crayon across the back wall, uneven and childlike.

Severus's breath came slow and steady, though something unpleasant coiled deep in his chest. He had already known—had already put together what this meant the moment he saw the locks—but the sight of those words, written by a boy too young to understand their cruelty, twisted something in him.

His fingers pressed against the frame as he shifted his weight, gaze flicking to the walls again. Scuff marks lined the lower panels where feet had pressed over and over again. Near the threshold, faint scratches dug into the wood—shallow, but repeated, enough to suggest years of wear.

This wasn't storage.

This was where they had kept him.

Severus exhaled through his nose, forcing his expression into something unreadable before stepping back. He shut the door carefully, sliding the locks back into place as though closing off something that had been left exposed for far too long.

Potter's trunk was not here.

But Severus had found something else entirely.

His hands flexed at his sides as he turned away, sweeping through the house with cold efficiency. Each room was given the same scrutiny—closets pulled open, drawers checked, corners searched—but the outcome did not change.

No books. No spare robes. No wand tucked away and forgotten.

Nothing.

The Dursleys had erased every trace of him.

Severus's eyes flicked toward the rubbish bins near the back door, a thought forming and hardening just as quickly. If they had not simply locked it away, if they had not shoved it into some forgotten corner—

Then they had thrown it out.

His thoughts burned, each one snapping at the next as he reached the back door and pushed it open.

The yard was as neat as the house. A small garden lined the edges of the grass, the flower beds weeded and trimmed. A clothesline stood empty, swaying faintly in the warm breeze. The air carried the scent of cut grass and summer heat.

And then—

His steps slowed.

Near the back fence, in the farthest corner of the yard, the grass was scorched. The burned patch stretched outward in jagged patterns, as if the fire had spread in wild, hungry tendrils before exhausting itself.

Severus's stomach twisted as he stepped forward, boots pressing into the dry, ashen soil.

The remnants of Potter's trunk lay in ruin, its charred wood curled inward, brittle where the fire had hollowed it out. The metal hinges had twisted under the heat, their edges warped and fractured. The lock had melted into an unrecognizable lump, sinking into the wreckage. Nearly everything inside had been reduced to blackened fragments.

Ash clung to the earth, thick and uneven, mingling with cinders and what little remained of Potter's belongings. Torn scraps of parchment, burned beyond recognition, lay in scattered heaps. A few charred quills jutted through the debris, their feathered ends scorched away, leaving only thin, fragile spines. Among them, a hardened smear of melted wax bore the distorted remnants of a seal—likely from an old Hogwarts letter.

The acrid scent of smoke still lingered, stale yet persistent, the kind that clung to the air long after the flames had died.

Severus knelt, his fingers brushing against a blackened scrap of fabric still clinging stubbornly to one corner of the trunk. The material crumbled slightly at his touch, its once-distinct texture reduced to brittle ruin. It was all that remained of the boy's school robes.

They had burned it all.

They had taken everything tied to him—every piece of his life—and fed it to the fire.

Severus inhaled slowly, his fingers closing around a piece of broken metal—the ruined latch of the trunk. The edges were rough, the fire having chewed through it until it snapped. He turned it over once, feeling the ridges press into his palm before slipping it into his pocket. His jaw tightened.

This was not thoughtless disposal. They had not simply thrown his belongings away or left them to be found. They had destroyed them. Deliberately. As if erasing his possessions could erase him.

His fingers sifted through the debris, searching for something—anything—that had survived. His mind narrowed on one thing: the boy's wand.

If it had been inside when the trunk was set alight, there would be little left. A wand was not impervious to fire. Wood and core alike would have been consumed, reduced to nothing but charred splinters and the faintest trace of burned magic.

He moved the debris aside, searching methodically, his fingertips brushing through soot and brittle remnants. But there was nothing. No polished holly. No snapped fragments. No sign of the phoenix feather core.

His eyes flicked back to the ruined trunk. The scent of burned parchment still clung to the air, thick and acrid. He reached out again, more carefully this time, shifting aside layers of wreckage.

His fingers brushed against something solid.

He stilled.

It was delicate, its edges curled and brittle beneath his touch. Lifting it carefully, he watched as flakes of ash drifted away, revealing what lay beneath. A photograph—damaged but not entirely lost. The corners had blackened, curling inward from the heat, but the center had survived.

Lily.

She was laughing, her hair caught mid-motion, the faded green of summer stretching behind her. James stood beside her, grinning, his arm lifted slightly, as if he had just reached for her. The movement flickered weakly, the damage slowing its enchantment, but the expression on her face remained unmistakable.

Severus sat back on his heels, staring down at the photograph between his fingers.

It must have been inside a book, protected just enough to survive when everything else had burned. The fire had claimed nearly everything, but not this.

Another fragment lay beneath the ash, barely holding together. He reached for it carefully, brushing away the soot as he lifted it free. The moment his fingers closed around it, part of the image crumbled, disintegrating into fragile flakes. But enough remained.

A winter scene.

Harry, dressed in oversized robes, stood in the snow, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. His arm was raised, a snowball mid-flight in his hand. A few feet away, two boys ducked behind a tree, laughing as they readied their own attacks.

And further back, near the edge of the image—was him.

Severus's breath stalled.

His own figure stood at a distance, just at the edge of the snow-covered courtyard. Watching.

He knew this photograph.

It had been this past winter. The students had spilled into the courtyard after the first heavy snowfall of the year, eager to take advantage of the fresh powder. Severus had been passing through, patrolling the corridors, ensuring no one brought their chaos too close to the castle steps. He had only glanced their way in passing. He hadn't lingered. Hadn't thought much of it.

And yet, someone had captured the moment.

A single frame in time where Harry Potter had laughed in the snow, unaware that the man who had once resented his very existence had been watching.

His fingers curled around the fragile image, his jaw tightening.

He slipped it into his pocket with the other, the brittle edges crumbling slightly beneath his grip. His fingers lingered, pressing against the ruined photographs as if by holding onto them, he could grasp something more—something beyond the ash and loss.

His gaze swept over the wreckage one last time. The ground remained dark with soot, the last remnants of Harry's life here reduced to unrecognizable scraps. Books once read and reread, parchment once filled with assignments and careful notes, clothes once stuffed haphazardly into a trunk—all of it, gone.

Severus let out a slow breath, barely aware that his hands had curled into fists at his sides. His anger burned, twisting hotbeneath his ribs. It clawed at him, demanding action, demanding something. He wanted to tear into something, to unleash all of it, to find the Dursleys and show them what true fear felt like.

But he couldn't.

He wouldn't.

If he let his anger take control, if he allowed it to consume him, nothing good would come of it. It would not help Potter. It would not fix this. It would not undo what had been done. It would only serve to burn everything in its path, just as the Dursleys had burned away the boy's past.

He exhaled again, slower this time, forcing the rage down. The effort cost him more than he wanted to admit.

Instead, he focused on what he could do.

His mind moved quickly, assessing, listing, sorting through the things that had been lost and what could be replaced. School supplies. He would need a full set of books, a cauldron, potion ingredients, parchment, quills. Clothing. Robes, shoes, winter gear—everything, down to the smallest necessity. A wand. That would have to wait. The boy would need to go to Ollivanders himself.

It wasn't enough. The practical things could be restored, but not the pieces of his past. Not the letters, the small trinkets, the photographs. Those were gone.

His lips pressed into a thin line. Perhaps… there was something he could do about that.

He would have to reach out to Minerva, Flitwick, perhaps even Hagrid. The other professors had known Potter's parents, or at least had been present for the boy's lastyearat Hogwarts. There had to be photographs, something tucked away in old staff records, something that could be given to the boy. It would not be the same, but it would be something.

His jaw clenched slightly at the thought. When had he started caring this much?

He had gone from despising the boy's existence to standing in the ruins of his past, silently promising to rebuild what had been lost.

Soft.

He was growing soft.

The realization struck with an unexpectitly. The Severus Snape of years past would not have concerned himself with Harry Potter's well-being, much less his possessions. But now, here he was, standing in a burned-out corner of a Muggle's backyard, mentally drafting a list of school supplies and planning to collect sentimental keepsakes for the child.

His hand flexed slightly around his wand. Perhaps he had changed more than he was willing to admit.

But now was not the time to dwell on such things.

With one last breath, he steadied himself, blocking out the wreckage, the anger, the bitter taste of the past. His grip tightened around his wand.

Then, without another glance at the ashes, he turned sharply and Disapparated to Diagon Alley.

Meanwhile, Harry was back at the orphanage, passing the ball between Eddie and Luke. The three of them had been playing for a while, the steady rhythm of catching and throwing filling the warm summer air. The field was mostly empty, save for a few younger kids kicking at the dirt near the fence. The sun had started its slow descent, casting golden light over the patchy grass.

Eddie had been talking almost nonstop, rattling on about some ridiculous plan involving sneaking into the kitchen for extra biscuits.

"I'm telling you, it's foolproof," he said, tossing the ball up and catching it again. "Mrs. Fields always leaves the tray out to cool before she locks up for the night. All we gotta do is time it right."

Luke rolled his eyes as he caught the ball and passed it to Harry. "Yeah, except you forgot one thing—Mrs. Fields always knows when something's missing. You remember what happened when Tommy took an extra pudding?"

Eddie scoffed. "Please. Tommy's a terrible liar. She caught him because he looked guilty. That won't be a problem for me."

Luke snorted. "Right, because you're an expert at looking innocent."

Eddie grinned. "Exactly."

Harry absently caught the ball, turning it over in his hands as he half-listened to their back-and-forth.

"You'd have to get past the squeaky floorboard in front of the pantry," Luke continued. "And the door creaks. And if she catches you, she'll make you mop the kitchen for a week."

"Worth it," Eddie said without hesitation.

Luke huffed, shaking his head. "You're actually insane."

"Or a genius," Eddie shot back. "Besides, someone has to bring balance to the world. Mrs. Fields hoards the good biscuits."

"She bakes them," Luke corrected flatly. "Because she works here."

"Still hoarding," Eddie insisted. "Why do the grown-ups get all the good stuff while we're stuck with the rock-hard ones from the tin?"

Luke opened his mouth to argue, then paused. "Okay, that's actually a fair point."

Harry felt himself smirk slightly but still hadn't said anything.

Eddie finally seemed to notice. "You're awfully quiet over there," he said, nudging him. "What, are you afraid of getting caught too?"

Harry shook his head, shifting the ball between his hands. "Just thinking."

Eddie raised an eyebrow. "Thinking about how brilliant my plan is?"

"Thinking about how stupid it is," Luke corrected. "And how you're definitely getting caught."

Eddie sighed dramatically. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Luke passed the ball back to Harry and gave him a look. "Harry, please tell him this is the worst idea ever."

Harry glanced between them. He wasn't actually sure what to say—Eddie's plan was ridiculous, but at the same time… well, it wasn't the most reckless thing he'd ever heard.

He tossed the ball up once before answering.

"I mean… if you timed it right, maybe you could pull it off," he said finally.

Eddie lit up. "Thank you! See? Harry gets it."

Luke groaned. "Oh, great, now there's two of you."

Eddie smirked. "Don't worry, Luke, you'll come around. One night you'll be starving, and you'll thank me for my dedication to snack justice."

Harry tossed the ball back to him, the ghost of a smirk still on his face. "Just don't drag me into it when you get caught."

Eddie clutched his chest dramatically. "Where's the loyalty? I thought we were friends."

"I'd like to stay out of trouble for at least a week, thanks," Harry said dryly.

Luke pointed at him. "See? Harry has sense. You should listen to him."

Eddie just grinned. "Nah, I like my way better."

Harry shook his head, tossing the ball back to Luke, but the easy banter between them felt… normal. The kind of thing kids were supposed to talk about. A pointless argument over biscuits, a ridiculous plan that would probably fail, a back-and-forth that didn't carry any consequences.

Like something he was supposed to be part of.

And yet, even as he let himself sink into the moment, passing the ball and listening to Eddie's overconfidence and Luke's exasperation, part of his mind stayed stuck on something else.

He still didn't know what to make of all this.

The Dursleys had always been awful, but this was different. He had always known they didn't want him, that they'd rather pretend he wasn't there. But he never thought they'd actually get rid of him like that—just leave him without a second thought. No yelling, no drawn-out argument, no moment where they reconsidered. Just… gone.

There had been anger at first. Confusion. Something cold curling in his stomach at the way they had abandoned him like it was easy.

But here… here had been different.

For the first time, he wasn't walking on eggshells. No one sneered when he spoke. No one ignored him unless they needed something. No one looked at him like he was a problem they had to tolerate.

He wasn't sure what to do with that.

People noticed him here, spoke to him like he was just another kid. They didn't shove him aside, didn't act like he was in the way. It was strange, being looked after without strings attached, without fear of what would happen if he misstepped. He wasn't constantly on guard, waiting for something to go wrong.

But how long would that last?

Dudley's gang had been like this once. Friendly—sort of. Letting him play along when it suited them. Letting him believe, for short moments, that maybe they didn't hate him as much as Dudley did. Until the moment they turned, just like they always did.

Was this any different?

For the first time in his life, he wasn't completely on his own. And that was—strange.

"Harry?"

Luke's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked, realizing the ball was still in his hands, unmoving. Both boys were watching him now, Luke with mild curiosity, Eddie with something closer to impatience.

"What?" Harry asked, shaking his head slightly.

Luke tilted his head. "You were staring off into space. What were you thinking about?"

Harry hesitated. He could tell them something, make up some excuse, brush it off like it was nothing. But he wasn't used to being asked things like this—not by people who actually wanted to hear an answer.

Would they still want to hear it if they knew what was actually on his mind?

He forced a small smile instead and shook his head. "Nothing," he said lightly, tossing the ball back to Eddie. "Just spaced out."

Eddie caught it, eyeing him for a second before shrugging. "Well, wake up. Otherwise, you're gonna lose."

Harry huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his stance.

But his thoughts lingered.

Not just on the Dursleys. Not just on the orphanage.

On Snape.

Of all the people who could have found him, it had been him. The professor who spent an entire year cutting him down with sharp remarks, watching him with something close to contempt, never missing a chance to remind him how little he thought of him.

And yet—

Snape had been the one to heal his injuries, his touch hd been much gentler than he had ever imagined. Less calous. When Malfoy came, he had reacted instantly—grabbing Harry's arm, pulling him close before Disapparating without hesitation. He had held him up so he wouldn't collpse on the ground.

He hadn't left him behind.

That was the part Harry couldn't quite figure out. Snape could have handed him off to someone else. Could have decided it wasn't his problem. But he hadn't.

He had stayed.

Harry had expected something else—anger, judgment, maybe even satisfaction that he had ended up in an orphanage. Instead, Snape had looked at him with something he didn't recognize. Not sympathy, but something steady, something that didn't shift or waver the way people's opinions of him usually did.

He hadn't known what to do with that. He still didn't.

Harry shifted his grip on the ball, his fingers tightening briefly before he forced them to relax. He didn't understand Snape. He didn't know why the man had done any of it. But something had changed.

Maybe Snape wasn't the person he had thought he was.

Maybe he never had been.

Harry exhaled slowly, glancing toward the horizon where the sky had deepened to orange.

He didn't know what came next.

The dinner bell rang, cutting through the air and drawing the attention of every child scattered across the field. Eddie groaned dramatically, tossing the ball one last time to Luke before stretching his arms above his head.

"Finally," he said. "Thought they were gonna let us starve out here."

Luke snorted. "Right. Because you've never had a meal late before."

Eddie gave him an indignant look. "That's not the point, Luke. The point is, I'm hungry now."

Luke rolled his eyes but started walking toward the building anyway, the others following behind. Harry fell into step with them, hands stuffed into his pockets. The golden light of the evening stretched long shadows across the grass, making the orphanage building seem taller than it really was.

Harry exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he followed them toward the building. Of course. Dinner. That was what came next. Because that was how things worked here—meals at regular times, routines that people actually followed, food that didn't have to be stolen or begged for.

The familiar feeling of hesitation tugged at him as they neared the entrance. It wasn't his place, not really. He wasn't used to this—walking into a dining hall with a group, with people who expected him to be there.

At Privet Drive, he ate alone. At Hogwarts, he sat with Ron and Hermione, but it wasn't like this. The Weasleys had made meals feel like home, but Harry had always been aware of the difference—aware that he wasn't quite the same as them.

Here, though… it was easy to blend in.

"Come on, Harry," Eddie said, nudging him as they reached the doorway. "You're not seriously gonna let Luke and me beat you to the best seats, are you?"

Harry smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."

The three of them stepped inside, the warmth of the dining hall settling around them as they moved toward their usual table. The clatter of plates, the murmur of conversation, the scent of food drifting through the air—it was all so normal.

Harry wasn't sure when he had started to like that. But he did.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Final Chapter! Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Text

The kitchen of the orphanage was warm, the air filled with the comforting aroma of roasting vegetables and freshly baked bread. Mrs. Fields moved about quickly, her sensible shoes shuffling against the linoleum as she bustled between the stove and the counter, her hands never idle. She stirred the pot on the stove, her spoon scraping softly against the metal, her lips moving as she muttered about seasoning. Her gaze drifted to Harry and Severus at the table, her expression softening for just a moment before she turned back to her work.

She placed two mugs of tea in front of them, the ceramic clinking softly against the tabletop. "Here you are, loves," she said, her voice gentle. A brief, warm smile crossed her face before she retreated back to her stove, her humming resuming, a faint, familiar tune that seemed to wrap around the room, filling the spaces left by unspoken words.

Harry wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic, his fingers curling tightly, his knuckles paling as he gripped the mug. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, but the swirling steam seemed to pull him back into his thoughts. The trial was over. It felt like it should have been an ending, but it wasn't. Not really. There had been no dramatic showdown, no pointed fingers or shouted accusations. Just cold facts and final verdicts.

Guilty. The word echoed in his mind. Vernon was sentenced to seven years in prison. Harry could almost see his uncle's face, red with anger, eyes blazing with that familiar disdain. But there had been fear, too. A flicker of it, barely there, but Harry had caught it before Vernon's face hardened into that mask of stubborn pride. Seven years. It felt like a lifetime, but it didn't feel like enough. Not for the years of pain, of fear, of feeling like nothing more than a burden.

Petunia… probation, community service, parenting classes. She was still free. Dudley would still have his mother. The knot in Harry's chest tightened, sharp and painful. Dudley would still have his mother. A mother who chose to look away. A mother who knew, who let it happen. Harry's grip tightened on the mug, his fingers trembling. He didn't know how to feel. Angry, maybe. Confused, definitely. There was relief, too, somewhere beneath the tangle of emotions. Relief that he wouldn't have to go back. But beyond that… nothing felt certain. Nothing felt settled.

His chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. He took a shaky breath, forcing himself to take a sip of the tea. The liquid was hot, almost scalding, but he welcomed the sting, letting it anchor him to the present. His gaze flicked up, finding Severus sitting across from him, his posture rigid, his hands resting flat on the table. Severus's face was unreadable, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes were fixed on Harry, watching him intently.

There was no pity in those eyes, no condescension. Just patience. The kind of patience that didn't push or demand, just… waited. Harry didn't know what to do with that. He didn't know how to handle someone who was just… there. Not trying to fix him, not telling him how to feel, just waiting. It was both comforting and terrifying. He swallowed hard, his throat burning from the tea, his chest aching with emotions he couldn't name.

Mrs. Fields approached, her presence warm and steady. She placed a bowl of soup in front of him, the steam rising in gentle spirals, the aroma rich and soothing. Her hand lingered on his shoulder, her fingers warm and steady. "Eat, dear. You need your strength." Her words were soft, but firm, gently letting him know eating was not an option.

Harry managed a small nod, his voice low, barely more than a whisper. "Thanks." He picked up the spoon, his hand trembling slightly before he steadied himself. The first mouthful was hot, the flavor simple and comforting. It tasted like home, like safety, even though he wasn't sure he understood what those words meant anymore.

Mrs. Fields smiled, her fingers giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before she moved back to the stove.

Harry took a small spoonful, the warmth spreading through him, settling the knot in his stomach, but doing little to ease the chaos in his mind. He knew why Severus was here. He knew they needed to talk about what came next.

But he had no idea what he wanted.

Severus sat across from him, his fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes remained fixed on Harry, watching him with a patience that was starting to feelunsettling.

"The Weasleys have offered," Severus said finally, his voice steady but cautious. "You would be welcome there."

Harry looked up, his fingers tightening around the spoon. "They… they did?"

"Yes," Severus confirmed. "Molly Weasley has already made the arrangements, should you wish to stay with them. You would have a room to share, food, everything you need. They would look after you."

Harry's heart twisted. The Weasleys were wonderful. They had always been kind, always made him feel like he belonged. But that was just it, he felt like he was intruding, like he was borrowing a place that wasn't really his. They already had so much to manage. Adding him to the mix felt… wrong.

Harry looked back down at his bowl, his voice barely above a whisper. "I… don't want to be a burden."

"You wouldn't be," Severus said, his voice firm. "But I understand why you might feel that way."

Harry's head snapped up, his eyes widening. How did he always know? How could Snape see right through him like that?

Severus's expression softened, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back in his chair. "You have other choices."

Harry swallowed hard, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. "Like what?"

"There is Minerva," Severus said, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. "She offered to take you in." He hesitated, his gaze flicking away for just a moment. "Her home is… suitable. Comfortable. She would look after you well."

Harry's chest tightened. Professor McGonagall? She was strict but fair. He trusted her. But… he didn't know her outside of Hogwarts. What would it even be like, living with her? Would it be all rules and silence? Would he have to be on his best behavior all the time? Would he ever feel like he could actually relax?

"She means well," Severus continued, his voice careful. "But her life is… structured. Rigid. I doubt she's had to adjust to a child in quite some time."

Harry's fingers tightened around his spoon. It was a kind offer. But it didn't feel… right.

"There's another option," Severus said, his voice growing more cautious. "The Whitakers. Old friends of Dumbledore's. A magical family. They've offered to take you in as well."

Harry blinked, surprised. "Who… who are they?"

"A quiet family," Severus explained. "Lyle and Eliza Whitaker. They live in a small wizarding village in the North. They've taken in other children before. They're good people. Kind. But they live a secluded life. They keep to themselves. You would be safe there, but…"

"But?" Harry prompted, his chest tightening.

Severus hesitated, his eyes darkening. "You would be isolated. It's a small village. Far from Hogwarts, far from Diagon Alley. You wouldn't see your friends often." His gaze held steady on Harry. "You would be protected, but you might feel… cut off."

Harry looked down at his soup, his thoughts swirling. The Whitakers sounded nice. Kind, even. But the idea of being isolated, of being cut off from his friends, from everything familiar… it felt suffocating.

"There is one more option," Severus said quietly, his voice low, cautious. "You could… come with me."

Harry's breath caught, his head jerking up. "What?"

Severus's shoulders tensed, his eyes fixed on the table. "If you wish," he continued, his words careful and softer than before, "you could… live with me."

Harry stared at him, his heart pounding. "You… want me to live with you?"

Severus's jaw tightened, his fingers curling against the table. "I'm not saying it would be easy," he admitted, his voice low, strained. "But… it is an option."

Harry's mind raced, his thoughts a tangled mess. Snape… wanted him to live with him? The man who had spent all year criticizing him, glaring at him, acting like he was a nuisance? That Snape?

"I… I don't understand," Harry stammered. "Why would you… why would you do that?"

Severus's expression softened, his shoulders slumping just slightly. "Because… I don't want you to feel like you have no choices," he said quietly. "Because I know what that feels like."

Harry's heart twisted painfully. He looked down at his hands, his vision blurring as he blinked quickly. He wasn't going to cry. Not here. Not in front of Snape.

Harry's heart was pounding, his chest tightening as the words sank in. He had never expected this. Not from Snape. The man who had spent an entire year treating him like a nuisance, like an annoyance, like… his father. But this wasn't about James Potter. This was about him.

"You… you don't have to do that," Harry said, his voice unsteady. "I don't… I don't expect you to."

Snape rolled his eyes, leaning back and crossing his arms. "I'm well aware, Potter. I'd have to be mad to think you'd ever expect anything from me." He paused, his gaze steady, almost challenging. "But I'm offering it anyway."

Harry's mouth opened, but no words came out. He stared at Snape, waiting for the punchline, the sneer, the smug remark that would tear him down. It never came. "I… I don't understand."

Snape let out a long breath, his fingers drumming against the table before he stilled them. "Neither do I," he admitted, his voice dry. "And yet, here we are."

Harry blinked, his head spinning. "But… why?"

Snape gave him a pointed look. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps because the thought of you rotting away in this place is somehow even more distasteful than the thought of you underfoot in my home." He arched an eyebrow. "Consider it a choice between two evils."

Harry's lips twitched before he could stop himself. "Wow. You really know how to make someone feel wanted."

Snape's eyes gleamed with the faintest flicker of amusement. "Don't get used to it."

Harry's shoulders sagged, the tension easing just a fraction. "I don't… I don't know what to say."

"Good," Snape said, his voice clipped but not unkind. "Because I'm not looking for a tearful declaration of gratitude. I'm merely presenting you with an option. One that makes far more sense than you languishing in this place."

Harry's eyes flicked to the window, his gaze lingering on the playground where Eddie and Luke were still kicking a football around, their laughter drifting through the open pane. It wasn't so bad here. But it wasn't… right either. It wasn't his. And it never would be.

He looked back at Snape, his chest tightening. "I don't… I don't know if I'd be good at… that. Living with you, I mean."

Snape's expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. "I don't expect you to be perfect, Potter. Merlin knows I'm not exactly accustomed to playing the role of doting guardian. But… it would be an adjustment. For both of us."

Harry looked down at his hands, his fingers twisting together. "I don't know if I can… trust it."

Snape was silent for a moment, his gaze heavy. "I wouldn't trust me either," he said quietly. "Not after the way I've treated you. I won't pretend that I've been… kind. Or even fair. But… I'm trying now. That's the best I can offer."

Harry's chest tightened, his vision blurring as he looked down quickly. "I don't… I don't know what to do."

Severus watched Harry carefully, noting the way his shoulders slumped, the way his fingers twisted together, white-knuckled around the edge of his chair. It was the look of a child teetering on the edge of panic, of someone used to decisions being made for him, not with him in mind.

Severus leaned back, crossing his arms. "You don't have to decide right now," he said, his voice deliberately neutral. "Take the night to think about it."

Harry looked up, his eyes wide, vulnerable in a way that made Severus's chest ache with something uncomfortably close to sympathy. "You… you wouldn't be upset? If I didn't… if I didn't pick you?"

Severus let out a scoff, his lips twisting into something resembling a smirk. "Potter, do I look like someone who's easily offended? If you choose Minerva, you'll have structure. She'll make you do your homework whether you want to or not. The Weasleys would welcome you with open arms, probably smother you with affection in the process. And the Whitakers… well, you'd certainly get peace and quiet."

Harry blinked at him, his mouth opening as if to respond, then closing again, his brow furrowing.

Severus sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly. "You have options. Good ones. Ones that don't include me." His fingers drummed against the table before stilling. "I won't be offended if you don't choose me, Potter. I'd actually be more surprised if you did."

Harry looked down, his voice small. "I don't… I don't know how to choose."

Severus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Merlin, you Gryffindors are dramatic," he muttered. "This isn't a life-or-death decision. It's just about where you'll live. And if you choose one and it doesn't work out, then we'll figure something else out. It's not permanent."

Harry's shoulders relaxed just a fraction, his fingers unclenching from the chair. "Right. Not… not permanent."

Severus watched him for a moment, noting the way his shoulders were still too tense, the way his eyes kept darting back to his bowl, the spoon untouched. "And speaking of not permanent," Severus said, his tone shifting to something more brisk, "I want to see you eat all that soup before Mrs. Fields decides I'm failing at basic human decency."

Harry's eyes snapped up, his mouth parting in surprise. "What?"

Severus's lips curled, his eyes gleaming with dry humor. "You heard me. I'm not leaving this table until I see you finish every last spoonful. And don't even think about trying to shovel it down all at once. I've got time, Potter."

Harry gaped at him, his face flushing. "You… you don't have to… I mean, you don't need to wait for me to eat."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "Clearly I do, since you've been staring at that bowl like it's going to bite you." His expression softened, just a fraction. "Besides, you're hardly the first stubborn child I've had to make eat their dinner."

Harry's cheeks turned pink, his eyes dropping to the bowl. "I'm not stubborn."

Snape's lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Of course not. You're just… selectively persistent."

Harry's shoulders relaxed just a little more, his lips twitching. "I don't even know what that means."

"It means you're stubborn," Snape said flatly. "Now eat."

Harry rolled his eyes but picked up his spoon, taking a small sip. The warmth spread through his chest, easing the tightness that had been sitting there all evening. He took another spoonful, then another, the knot in his stomach loosening with each bite.

Severus stayed where he was, his arms crossed as he watched, his gaze steady but not overbearing. He didn't say anything more, didn't try to fill the silence. He just… stayed.

Harry glanced up, his eyes meeting Severus's. "You're really not leaving until I finish this, are you?"

Severus's lips curled. "Not a chance."

Harry huffed a laugh, the tension easing just a little more. "You're stubborn, too."

Severus's eyes gleamed. "Selective persistence, Potter. I believe that's what we're calling it."

Mrs. Fields stood at the stove, stirring a pot that no longer needed tending, her back to the table but her ears attuned to every word exchanged behind her. A small smile played at the corners of her lips, hidden from view. There was something oddly endearing about the way the two of them interacted, Harry's tentative defiance, Snape's dry humor barely concealing his concern. In their own peculiar way, they seemed to fit together like puzzle pieces.

She glanced over her shoulder, careful to school her expression before either of them noticed. They were still there, Snape, arms crossed, expression severe but softened at the edges, and Harry, shoulders a little less tense, spooning the last of his soup with a begrudging sense of duty.

She hoped he would choose to go with the professor. They balanced each other, whether they realized it or not. Snape's gruffness seemed to bring out a spark in Harry that she hadn't seen before, a glimpse of resilience and spirit that the boy had kept tightly locked away. And Harry… well, he softened the hard lines on Snape's face, made him seem more human.

Harry set his spoon down, the soft clink of metal on ceramic breaking the comfortable silence. "Can I… can I be excused?" he asked, his voice steady but hesitant, his gaze flicking to the window where his friends were still playing outside.

Snape leaned back, his arms uncrossing as he gave Harry a once-over, his eyes lingering on the now-empty bowl. "I suppose," he said, his voice carrying a note of mock resignation. "Since you actually managed to finish all of it."

Harry's lips twitched, the hint of a smile breaking through. "I did eat, you know."

"Yes, miraculously. Though I was beginning to wonder if I'd need to spell the spoon to feed you like a toddler," Snape retorted, his expression unimpressed but his eyes lighter than they had been all evening.

Harry rolled his eyes, pushing back his chair as he stood. "I'm not five, Professor."

Snape's lips curled just slightly. "Then don't act like it."

Harry shook his head, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "Thanks… for the soup," he said, his voice quiet, his eyes flicking to Mrs. Fields before returning to Snape. "And… for everything else."

Snape's expression shifted, something softening just for a moment before his face settled into his usual scowl. "Go on, Potter. Before I change my mind."

Harry didn't need to be told twice. He hurried to the door, his steps lighter, the weight on his shoulders visibly lessened. As he disappeared into the yard, his laughter joined the shouts of his friends, echoing back into the warm kitchen.

Severus watched the door for a moment, his shoulders stiffening as he caught himself staring. He pushed back his chair, standing with a purposeful huff, his fingers brushing imaginary crumbs from his coat.

Mrs. Fields turned just as he moved, her eyes warm, her smile knowing. She crossed the room as if nothing needed to be said, the silence between them carrying more than words. She placed a gentle hand on Severus's shoulder, her touch steady and grounding.

"He's a good boy," she said softly, her voice calm and reassuring. "He just needs someone to see it."

Severus's shoulders tensed under her hand, his eyes flicking to the door as if expecting Harry to walk back in at any moment. "I see it," he admitted, his voice low, begrudging. "That's the problem."

Mrs. Fields's smile grew, her hand lingering just a moment longer before she stepped back. "Not a problem at all. Just means you care more than you let on."

Severus scoffed, his expression twisting in annoyance. "If you repeat that nonsense, I'll deny it."

She let out a soft laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. "Oh, I believe that. But I won't have to repeat anything. The boy already knows."

Severus's jaw tightened, his fingers curling. "He shouldn't have to."

"No, he shouldn't," she agreed, her voice softening. "But he does. And now, he knows he's not alone. That's more than he's had in a long time."

Severus looked away, his eyes fixed on the empty bowl still sitting on the table. "He's got choices. He doesn't need me."

Mrs. Fields watched him, her expression kind but firm. "Maybe not. But he might want you."

Severus's eyes flicked to hers, sharp and guarded. "You seem very certain of that."

She shrugged, her smile unwavering. "I've seen the way you look at him. And the way he looks back."

Severus huffed, crossing his arms. "Then perhaps you need your eyes checked."

"Maybe," she allowed, her tone playful. "But I'm not wrong."

He looked away, his shoulders stiffening. "I won't… I won't force him. He needs to choose for himself."

"And he will," she assured him, her voice gentle. "But it helps to know he's wanted."

Severus's expression flickered, his eyes darkening. "I'm not… good at that."

Mrs. Fields's smile softened. "You're better than you think."

She turned back to the stove, her humming resuming as she moved the pot to the back burner. "Now, Professor Snape, are you staying for dinner, or are you going to hover awkwardly in my kitchen all evening?"

Severus blinked, his lips twitching. "I… suppose I could stay."

"Good," she said, setting a fresh bowl in front of him. "Then you can keep me company while I finish up here."

Severus sat back down, his posture less rigid, his eyes drifting once more to the window where Harry's laughter echoed through the yard. Mrs. Fields turned back to her cooking, her smile widening as she heard Severus's chair scrape against the floor, his presence settling back into the kitchen.

Outside, Harry jogged across the grass, his shoes kicking up dust as he neared the makeshift football field. Eddie and Luke were already there, their faces lighting up as they saw him approaching. Eddie immediately kicked the ball in his direction, a wide grin plastered across his face.

"Oi, Harry!" Eddie called out, his voice carrying easily across the yard. "Thought you were gonna spend all day in there. What'd Snape do, give you a lecture?"

Harry's lips twitched, a small smile breaking through. "Something like that."

Luke jogged over, hands on his hips, his head cocked curiously. "So… how was court?"

Harry shrugged, his eyes falling to the ball rolling at his feet. He gave it a small kick, sending it bouncing back to Eddie. "It was… fine. Boring."

Eddie's eyes widened, his face scrunching up in disbelief. "Boring? I thought court was supposed to be all dramatic and stuff, like in the movies. Didn't they, you know, shout 'Objection!' and throw papers everywhere?"

Harry shook his head, his lips curving slightly. "No. Just a lot of talking. And a judge who looked like he was half asleep."

Eddie snorted, kicking the ball back with a little more force. "Lame. I thought there'd at least be yelling. Guess real life's not like the telly."

Harry gave a short laugh, catching the ball with his foot before passing it to Luke. "Nope. Just people saying things in boring voices."

Luke caught the ball and began dribbling it between his feet. "So… what happens now?" he asked, his voice quieter, more hesitant. "I mean, where're you gonna go?"

Harry's shoulders tensed, the question hitting him square in the chest. "I don't know yet," he admitted, his voice softer. "I've got… options."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up. "Options? Like what?"

Harry glanced back at the kitchen window, where the faint silhouette of Snape's dark figure stood next to Mrs. Fields. He looked away quickly, his chest tightening. "I could… maybe go to the Weasleys'. Or live with Professor McGonagall."

Eddie's eyes widened. "Your teacher? That sounds… weird."

Harry huffed a laugh. "Yeah, a bit."

Luke nudged him lightly with his shoulder. "What about the other guy? The one who brought you back?"

Harry's eyes snapped to his, surprise flickering across his face. "What about him?"

Luke gave him a look, his eyes narrowing. "I saw you two talking. And he keeps coming back to check on you, even when he thinks nobody notices." He kicked the ball to Eddie, who caught it with his knee, bouncing it between his feet. "He doesn't act like he hates you."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Because… Luke was right. Snape didn't act like he hated him. Not anymore. Not in the way he had at school, with his scowls and sharp words. Now… now Snape watched him carefully, like he was waiting for something, like he was actually worried.

"I dunno," Harry admitted, his voice low. "He… offered."

Eddie's mouth fell open. "Snape? Really?"

Harry nodded, his eyes on the ground. "Yeah. Said… said I could live with him. If I wanted."

Eddie's face contorted, his eyes narrowing as he thought it over. "That's… weird. Why would he do that?"

Harry kicked at the dirt, his shoulders hunching. "I don't know. He said… he didn't want me to feel like I didn't have choices."

Luke's face softened, his voice quiet. "You're lucky, you know. Not everybody gets choices."

Harry looked at him, something cold curling in his chest. "Yeah. I know."

They were quiet for a moment, the only sound the faint laughter from the other kids playing by the fence.

Eddie broke the silence, his voice loud and determined. "Well, no matter where you go, we're still gonna beat you at football."

Harry's head snapped up, a laugh escaping before he could stop it. "You wish."

Eddie grinned, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Prove it, Potter."

Harry's shoulders relaxed, his mouth curling into a grin. "You're on."

Eddie kicked the ball, sending it sailing across the makeshift field. Harry took off after it, his heart pounding, his chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with running.

Sometime later, the sun was just starting to dip low behind the trees. Mrs. Fields rang the bell out on the porch, calling the children in from the yard. The sharp clang echoed across the grass. Harry stopped mid-run, one foot planted in the dirt as he turned toward the house. Eddie groaned loudly, slumping forward.

"Dinner already?" Eddie huffed. "I was about to score!"

Harry laughed, catching the ball and tucking it under his arm. "You say that every time."

Luke jogged past them. "Yeah, and he never does."

They tossed a few half-hearted insults back and forth as they made their way across the yard, dust clinging to their trainers and hems. A few of the younger kids raced ahead, already scrambling up the stairs to wash up. Harry followed behind Eddie and Luke, the laughter still lingering faintly as they reached the landing. The washroom was packed, the mirror fogged at the edges and the sink taps dripping as kids elbowed one another for space. Harry rinsed the dirt from his hands, ran a damp cloth across his face, then stepped back to let one of the younger boys in.

By the time he came back down, the dining room was almost full. Mrs. Fields and Mr. Bradford, the director, stood near the side table that seated the staff and guests. Severus was there, seated beside Bradford, his posture upright but not stiff. He had kept his coat off, sleeves rolled just slightly at the cuffs. There was a plate in front of him, untouched for the moment, though a cup of tea sat steaming at his right.

Harry slipped into his usual spot between Eddie and Luke at the long central table. The clatter of dishes and laughter filled the room as bowls of stew, roasted carrots, and rolls made their way down the line. Harry passed plates and scooped modest helpings onto his own, appetite dulled but present. He caught the faint sound of Mrs. Fields's voice at the adult table, low and steady as she said something to Severus, who nodded once, his gaze already drifting across the room.

It landed on Harry.

The stare wasn't sharp or cold, just focused. Intentional. And when Harry shifted slightly, pretending not to notice, Severus tilted his head a fraction and raised two fingers, gesturing at Harry's barely touched stew. The message was quiet but clear.

Harry sighed and picked up his spoon. Eddie noticed immediately.

"Oh no," he said, snickering. "Is that a Snape thing again?"

Harry didn't answer. He took a spoonful of stew and chewed slowly.

Luke leaned over, smirking. "Mate, are you seriously being stared into eating?"

"I'm eating because I'm hungry," Harry said through a mouthful.

"Sure," Eddie said. "And I play for the national team."

Harry rolled his eyes but took another bite. The food was good. Better than it had any right to be after the day he'd had. He looked up once more, and Severus was still watching. But this time, when Harry lifted his spoon again without hesitation, Severus simply looked away and resumed whatever conversation he'd been having with the director.

Eddie didn't say anything for a while. He passed the carrots, reached for a second roll, and chewed slowly as the noise of the dining room rolled around them. Harry was halfway through his stew when he felt Eddie shift slightly beside him. Not the usual jostle or elbow to the ribs—this was quieter, more careful.

Then, without looking up, Eddie leaned in and spoke under his breath. "You should go with him."

Harry turned his head just enough to hear. "What?"

Eddie's eyes stayed on his plate. "Snape. You should go."

Harry hesitated. "Why?"

"He's different," Eddie said softly. "Not like the others that come through here. He doesn't talk down to you. Doesn't pretend to care for five minutes, then disappear." His fingers fidgeted with a crumb on the edge of his plate. "He keeps coming back. That means something."

Harry didn't know what to say. His chest tightened. He'd been thinking the same thing, in pieces, without putting words to it. He glanced across the room, and again, Snape was watching. Not in a pointed way. Just there. Present. He gave the smallest nod, then gestured once to Harry's plate, urging him without a word.

Harry picked up his spoon and took another bite.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe I will."

Eddie didn't respond. He went back to eating, but his shoulder stayed close to Harry's, and the silence between them felt easy.

When the meal ended, the usual chaos resumed. Chairs scraped back. Dishes clattered. Mrs. Fields reminded everyone to stack their cups and wipe down their spots. Luke stood, stretching dramatically.

"C'mon," he said to Eddie, grabbing a tray. "We've got kitchen duty."

Eddie rolled his eyes but stood. "You owe me for trading last week."

Luke snorted. "Please, you begged me."

The two of them moved toward the sink, half-arguing, half-laughing. Harry stayed where he was, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table.

Across the room, Snape had also remained seated. His tea was gone, his plate nearly untouched, but he hadn't moved. His gaze shifted toward Harry, then back to the doorway as a few younger kids ran past. He didn't call Harry over, didn't raise a hand, didn't beckon.

He waited.

Harry stood, his legs unsteady as he pushed in his chair. The dining room was quieter now, the last of the dishes being cleared, kids drifting in and out of the kitchen in small groups. He walked slowly across the room toward the staff table, his steps hesitant. He didn't look at anyone else. When he reached the chair beside Severus, he sat down without a word, letting out a quiet breath as he folded his hands tightly in his lap.

The sounds of running water and clinking dishes filled the background, muffled beneath the weight sitting behind Harry's ribs. He stared down at the table.

Severus turned his head slightly. "You've had time to think."

Harry nodded once. His fingers twisted around each other, tightening and untangling again.

"I have."

"And?"

"I don't know if it's the right choice," Harry said, his voice low. "I still feel... nervous. I keep waiting for it to not be real. For you to take it back. Or change your mind. Or say it's too much trouble."

"I'm not changing my mind," Severus said. "I wouldn't have offered if I was going to take it back."

Harry swallowed and looked up at him. "I want to say yes. Even if I'm still not sure what that means."

Severus didn't answer immediately. His expression didn't shift much, but his posture eased. He gave a small nod.

"You're allowed to be unsure."

"I don't know what I'm doing," Harry admitted. "I don't know how to live with someone and not feel like I'm waiting to be in the way."

"You'll learn. I will too."

Harry exhaled through his nose and looked down again. "You said before that it wouldn't be forever."

"It doesn't have to be. You can stay as long as you choose. If it doesn't work, we find something else."

Harry nodded again, slowly this time. "Alright."

"You'll need to pack your things," Severus said. "Just what you want to bring."

"I can do that tonight." Harry's voice wavered slightly. "You'll be back in the morning?"

"I'll be here early," Severus said. "Before breakfast. We'll leave quietly."

Harry pressed his palms flat on the table, then lifted them, unsure what to do with them. He glanced up once more.

"You're really okay with this?"

"I am," Severus said.

Harry's mouth moved like he wanted to speak again, but nothing came. He closed it and looked away.

After a moment, he asked quietly, "Why me?"

Severus's gaze didn't waver. "Because someone should have done this a long time ago."

The silence after that felt heavy, but not unbearable. Harry looked down at the table, blinking quickly. His throat was tight again, and he pressed his hands together just to give them something to hold.

"I'll be ready," he said finally. "In the morning."

Severus inclined his head slightly. "Then I'll see you then."

Harry gave a small nod and walked into the kitchen to join his friends with the clean up.

As the last of the dishes were dried and stacked, and the clang of cutlery faded beneath the hum of the overhead lights, Mrs. Fields leaned against the counter with a dish towel slung over her shoulder. The kitchen was settling into its usual evening quiet, broken only by the occasional footsteps of a staff member passing through or the faint laughter still floating in from the hallway.

Severus was still at the side table, finishing the last sip of his second—possibly third—cup of tea. He hadn't said much since Harry left to help with cleanup, but Mrs. Fields had caught the way his eyes had followed the boy, and she had noticed the way the lines on his face had eased just slightly after their final exchange.

She dried her hands on the towel and made her way over, giving the table a light knock with her knuckles as she passed.

"Well," she said, arching a brow, "I'd ask how it went, but you're still here and the child hasn't burst into tears, so I'm guessing it didn't go terribly."

Severus glanced at her sidelong. "A ringing endorsement."

She gave him a knowing smirk. "I'm just saying, most kids don't walk back across the room and sit next to someone unless they're at least considering trusting them. Or unless they're plotting revenge, I suppose."

Severus's mouth twitched. "I'm fairly certain it's not the latter."

"Shame," she said, leaning a hip against the table. "Would've made dinner more exciting. Still, I suppose I'll settle for 'reluctant new beginning.' Has a nice ring to it."

He gave a quiet huff of air that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. Almost.

Mrs. Fields tilted her head, eyeing him thoughtfully. "You know, he's going to give you trouble. He'll test you. Not on purpose, but because he doesn't quite believe things can stay good."

"I'm familiar with the concept."

"Thought you might be." She paused, folding the towel neatly. "You've got the look of a man who's about to adopt a stray cat and then pretend it was the cat's idea."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "That is a remarkably specific comparison."

She smiled innocently. "Don't pretend you haven't thought about it. He's practically already sitting on your doorstep. Next thing you know, you'll be buying matching scarves and referring to each other as housemates."

"I will do no such thing."

She held up her hands. "Of course not. Completely unthinkable. Still, if you start packing him a lunch with little handwritten notes, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"

He gave her a dry look, but it lacked any real sharpness.

She stepped back toward the stove, tucking the towel away. "You'll be good for him, you know. And he might just be good for you. Merlin knows you need someone who's not afraid to talk back."

Severus didn't reply right away. He looked toward the hallway where Harry had gone, his expression unreadable, but not cold.

"I'll do my best," he said finally. "That's all I can offer."

Mrs. Fields nodded. "That's usually enough. So long as it's honest."

He stood, reaching for his coat. "Thank you. For the tea. And the soup. And the… unrequested commentary."

She gave him a wink. "Oh, that last one's always included. No charge."

Severus stepped toward the door, pausing once as he glanced back over his shoulder.

"You'll make sure he's ready?"

Mrs. Fields gave a short nod. "He'll be packed. He might pretend he's not nervous, but he'll have gone over those clothes ten times by morning."

Severus gave a quiet hum, then turned and stepped into the hall. As the door swung shut behind him, Mrs. Fields shook her head fondly and turned back to the kitchen.

"Selective persistence," she muttered under her breath, smiling. "Must be catching."