Whelp

not moving.

'Dead yet?' the snake hissed.

Surprised, though maybe he was sleeping, and this was just a dream, the boy shook his head slightly. In dreams, he supposed, boys could talk to snakes. 'Not yet.'

The snake's head came up. 'You ssspeak?'

''Courssse. M'not a dog,' the boy said fiercely, though it came out softer than he would have liked; he was just so tired.

'No,' the snake agreed. 'But there are not many men who ssspeak to ussss. Not for a long time.'

'Sssorry,' the boy said.

'Do not be,' the snake told him. It sounded almost amused. Its tongue flickered against the boy's arm, tickling, and then the snake slid over him, its cool skin dry and faintly rough as it rubbed by his cheek. 'I am pleassssed not all of you have passssed.'

'Me, too.'

The snake's head came up again, agitated this time, and it slithered back to the ground. 'I musssst go.'

'No. Pleassse sssstay,' the boy whispered, and reached out to the snake, stretching his arm as far as he could.

'Cannot. A man issss here.' The snake vanished once more into the grass under the shrubbery.

Uncle Vernon, the boy thought, and he closed his eyes against the sudden ache in his chest.

--HPHPHPHPHPHP--

The yard looked empty on first inspection. Severus glanced around at the perfectly trimmed lawn, the freshly whitewashed shed, and the well weeded herb garden and saw no sign of Potter. Anger rose in him again at the antics of the boys out front, and he had nearly turned on his heel to go confront them when he heard a low hissing sound from the far side of the yard.

He had taken two steps toward the sound before he recognized it, and froze. Dread such as he had not felt in six years wrapped its coils around his chest and squeezed tight enough to cause actual pain. Parseltongue. He would never forget that sound. The only Parselmouth he knew was gone, however, destroyed by a mere child, so after another moment's hesitation, wherein he berated himself for cowardice most unbecoming, he continued across the yard.

The sound of snake language stopped abruptly, but Severus kept moving towards its origin. The only person who could possibly have uttered the speech was the object of his search, after all.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to find, though the words and behavior of young Dursley and his cronies had unsettled him. Perhaps Potter was playing out here, or performing some chores, like weeding. Severus was positive that chores were good for building character, especially for the son of James Potter, who would need all the character he could get. Whatever he was expecting, however, the sight that met him when he rounded the corner of the shed took his breath away, and he had to fight to regain it.

The hero of the wizarding world lay in a crumpled ball of skin and bones, barely covered by a threadbare, ragged shirt crusted with filth. One of the boy's legs was so swollen from calf to toes, but around such stick-like bones, that it was simply obscene. His face was smeared with blood and dirt, and his mouth was parted around pitifully chapped lips as he drew each rattling, obviously painful breath.

And the smell! Merlin!

Severus brought a hand to his nose to cover the stench. As he did, he noticed what his gaze had skittered over before, a neck rubbed raw and bleeding from a length of chain latched to a black rope, which was, in turn, attached to the side of the shed.

You mean the dog.

The true horror of the little hooligan's words staggered the Potions Master, and he had to turn his face away.

When he looked again, rage bloomed inside him at the daring, the sheer nerve of these Muggles. How could they get away with this, this monstrous behavior?! And to Lily's son! A feral sound formed in his throat, and he knew he had only minutes before his much vaunted self-control snapped like a broomstick in a hurricane. In two great strides, he was crouched alongside the boy, snapping the leash off the collar and hurling it away from them. The damned collar itself would need to be removed with more care, as it had been fastened too tightly and had dug deep into the boy's skin. Wand out, he waved it over the child, who had not yet moved, and performed the first of the many healing charms he expected to need to before the day was out. A pain relief potion from his pocket was next, helped down the child's throat by gentle strokes with his long fingers along the abraded skin. Then, at last, a sleep charm, to make the boy easier to move.

Once done, he sat back on his heels.

Now what?

Dumbledore had left this to his discretion -- a neat way of being able to deny culpability, Severus realized -- which still allowed few options. St. Mungo's was out of the question, of course, for the Boy Who Lived. The publicity alone would stir an outcry against Muggles of all kinds. He could take the boy to Hogwarts and rely on the assistance -- and the discretion -- of Madam Pomfrey. But though Severus knew the medi-witch well enough from his own school days, he was not absolutely sure of her loyalties. Did Dumbledore trust her? Should he?

Or he could heal the boy himself. Severus was a fair medic, as one must to be more than a rank amateur with potions, and he was well versed in traumatic injuries, even those of the mind.

Decided at last, Severus eased the boy up as gently as he could, positioned what looked like a broken forearm