Walk the Shadows

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Hours later, at Potter's bedside, Severus had cause to kick himself, again, for his rash offer. The boy lay quite still. Unresponsive, even when manhandled so he could be forced to drink potions. Not so much as a twitch, Poppy told him, since Severus had doused him with the potion for his eyes.

For a few agonizing moments, he worried he'd inadvertently poisoned the boy with some kind of nerve toxin. But it was the kind of worry not based in reality, and he went over the potion and its formulation in his head three times before he was satisfied that he was not -- directly -- to blame for the boy's current state.

Indirectly, however. . . .

Part of his offer to take the boy in was undoubtedly due to the guilt gnawing at his insides, the feeling that he should have done more -- or less! -- to prevent what the Dark Lord and his two chief lieutenants had done to him. And he hated guilt, hated it with a passion unmatched by any other, except perhaps for his hatred of Sirius Black, no matter what he'd told Potter during their imprisonment. He was just not the type to engage in self-flagellation. If he could assuage his guilt by helping the brat, so much the better.

Sighing, Severus resigned himself to the task once again, and stood.

Poppy materialized at his elbow. 'I can cancel my trip,' she said, again.

Severus shook his head and he leaned over the bed and gathered the thin child to his chest. Dead weight, like there was nothing inside. No one home. He straightened with Potter in his arms. 'No. We'll be fine. You have family to see to.'

'Severus . . . are you sure this is a good idea?' Her look of concern was directed as much at him as it was at the boy, and he was warmed by it, briefly.

'No,' he admitted. 'But it will have to do.'

She nodded, reluctantly, and he carried the hope of the Wizarding world to his quarters, in the form of a broken child.

After placing the boy on a bed he had conjured earlier, on a room only recently spelled into being, Severus stood back and took a good look at Potter . . . Harry. He supposed if he was to have the care of the boy, they might as well be a bit more informal. He wouldn't put up with any disrespect, however! None of his cheek . . .

Closing his eyes briefly, Severus drew a slow breath. He had no reason, at the moment, to be angry with the boy. And he couldn't very well vent his own inchoate rage, with Lucius and Voldemort, on their victim, no matter that the boy had been an easy target for him in the past.

Poppy had done well, he realized, in healing Harry's physical body . . . at least what he could see outside of the light blue hospital pajamas. Thin pink scars lined his arms, but looked like they would fade well enough with time. Rather than assume, however, he lifted the pajama shirt and checked Harry's stomach,. And was glad to find most of the scars there, too, would fade. A couple looked nastier than the others, probably Bella's work. He'd have to get a potion for those.

As for the boy's mind . . . well.

First things first. Food, water, sleep. Plus clothes, shelter, a place of safety. The rest would come in time.

Without thinking, he smoothed the pajama top back over the boy's skin, then brushed an errant strand of dark hair out of the boy's eyes. His fingers traced the lightning scar on Harry's forehead, and he shook his head. So much pain, here.

Was he doing the right thing? He had no idea, really, how to make the boy all 'better,' or even if anything ever could. But if they were to win the war, they needed their chosen warrior to be up to the fight. Hating himself for thinking of the boy as a pawn – for that's what he was, pure and simple, just like Severus himself – he knew he had to do what was best for Wizarding kind, not necessarily what was best for Harry.

'Come back to us, child,' he whispered, cupping the boy's head lightly in his palm, potion-stained thumb stroking circles on his temple. 'I know you don't want to, but we need you out here.'

There was no response. Not that he'd expected one, truly, but it have been nice to be pleasantly surprised for once.

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In the darkness of the cupboard, Harry floated adrift, silent as the moon. He was alone here, just the way he liked it. Nothing and no one could touch him. Even when he felt tingles on his flesh, he knew it was just spiders, not the other. Spiders spinning their webs, minding their own business, and not intending to let him know they were there. He had no problems with spiders.

There was no pain here, and the feeling was welcome. For years, day after day, paid had been part of his body, of his life. Here, he was comfortable, and comforted. After some long while of restfulness, he could even hear someone's voice, soft and oddly sibilant, whispering to him that everything was all right, that he was all right, and that nothing would hurt him anymore. He wanted so much to believe the voice that when it whispered that it could take care of him, if only he would let it, he could not find it in himself to refuse.

'Just let me in,' the voice whispered, and promised safety, and warmth and caring, such as he had never known.

'No hurting,' Harry whispered back.

'No hurting,' the voice agreed. 'Safety, my dear, sweet boy. And love.'

He was not worthy of love, had never been. As far back as he could remember, back to where the cupboard and darkness began, no one had ever spoken those three little words to him before, the words he longed to hear . . . I love you. And he knew he was nothing, worthless, despicable and a freak, but still . . . he wanted so much to be loved.

A long time passed, how long, he couldn't say and he didn't care, really. But finally, he gave in to the soothing, slippery voice, lifted away the last barrier and allowed the presence inside.

And for a little while, there was peace.