Whelp

A man was holding him and had him wrapped in a blanket that had the moth ball smell. The man's eyes were closed at first, and almost hidden by a curtain of long hair as dark as his own. His mouth was moving and it took a moment for Harry to realize that the man was just saying his name, over and over. Even before he finished that thought, the man's eyes opened wide and stared at him.

The boy wasn't allowed to look at people's faces, so he averted his gaze immediately, and the man didn't yell at him for the mistake. He struggled to get out of the blanket, so he could get back on the floor -- he knew people weren't allowed to touch him like this, and he certainly wasn't allowed on a couch. But everything hurt so much, he only managed a gasp before dizziness overtook him.

The man tightened his hold, which hurt even more, but he would not cry! Crying only made everything worse. Uncle Vernon said so, even though Dudley was allowed to do it when he didn't get a third pudding. He stopped struggling, though, since the man seemed to want that.

'Harry?' the soft voice said.

'Y'sir?' he whispered back, feeling his way over teeth and tongue. Aside from the snake, he'd not spoken to anyone for days, not since . . .

'Thank, Merlin.' The man rocked back onto his heels and continued, 'I'm going to take you upstairs now, all right? To a bed where you'll be more comfortable, and we'll see about these injuries. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.' He didn't know where he was, and wasn't entirely sure he wasn't dreaming.

The man rose, and Harry had to bite his lower lip to keep from crying out. He tasted blood, warm and thick, mixed with the remnant of a bitter fluid on his tongue. He swallowed convulsively and felt another little jolt. This one brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away, furious.

'It's all right, Harry, just a few more steps. It's all right,' the man said, and his voice was smoother now, soothing.

Then he was laid out on a soft, dry surface -- the bed? -- and overhead he could pick out a light blue ceiling and blurry white shapes that might be clouds if he squinted. He lay very still as the man removed the blanket, and didn't even flinch when his clothes disappeared, too, but kept his eyes on the clouds. It hardly occurred to him to wonder why he didn't have to pull his shirt over his head to remove it.

He was cold now, though, and shivered and tried to wrap his arms around himself, which set off another wave of pain. He turned his head just in time to avoid puking on himself. The vomit, water with flecks of blood and a yellow syrup, dribbled onto the bed instead.

'Sorry, sir,' Harry rasped when he could get a breath to do so. 'M'sorry.'

'Easy,' said the man, and his hands took hold of his shoulders and rolled him onto his side. One long, slender finger gently swabbed inside his mouth, clearing it of the yucky taste. 'It's all right.'

Harry closed his eyes, too tired to even thank the man.

'Harry,' the man's voice urged. 'Stay awake now.'

But he didn't want to and felt himself falling back into the welcoming dark.

----

When Harry succumbed to sleep once more, Severus debated using a potion to wake him and keep him alert. Despite a miraculous recovery as a result of the boy's own magic, Severus did not like the glassy, dilated look of Harry's eyes, nor the shivers that wracked the pitifully small frame, despite multiple warming charms on the air, bed and blankets. But he finally decided against it, at least for the moment, since it would be much easier to work on the boy and clean him up if he was asleep.

As it was, Severus didn't dare use a calming draught or pain relief potion, as he didn't know how much of the Reviver potion the boy had ingested. Enough of that one, combined with either of the other two, could be fatal in such a small body. He cleaned the vomit away with a wave of his wand.

Over the next few minutes, Severus set up several monitoring charms, for respiration, heart beat, temperature and level of consciousness, then began the long process of healing the boy. He started with a diagnostic scan, which left him faintly nauseous as the list of injuries and illnesses went on and on . . . Then he Accioed two more potions before just ordering Dappin to bring him his medical box, where he kept a good supply laid in. Being a Death Eater for two years, and then a Death Eater-Turned-Spy for another two, even before the Dark Lord's disappearance, had its benefits. Other than professional healers, he had set more bones and healed more burns, contusions and curses than any other six wizards in Britain combined.

Three Scourgifies later, and the boy still stank of offal, and his skin was dark with filth, but his cuts were cleaned out, at least, and treated with a potion to speed healing. He next summoned a basin of warm water and a pile of soft cloths, and began to wash the boy. The water turned gray after only a few rinses, so he banished it and summoned more. He scrubbed behind the boy's ears -- which looked like they'd never heard of soap -- and between all his fingers and toes, and everywhere in between. He could count each rib, front and back, and shook his head at the obvious signs of prolonged neglect and malnutrition. Not just this one atrocity, then.

Once finished, Severus banished the basin, water and cloths as he decided what to tackle next. He frowned over the broken fingers, left arm and the ankle with torn ligaments. All three injuries had started to heal on their own, no surprise with youngsters, but none of them had been set properly first. The bones would need to be re- broken first, and the ankle . . . well, he'd have to be very careful with that one, or the boy would be left with a limp, regardless of how much he magicked it.

With a soft sigh, Severus cast a charm to put the child into a deeper sleep, so the pain of what he was about to do would not wake him. He applied a numbing salve to the hand, then waved his wand with a muttered spell -- one he had not cast since his Death Eater days -- and the bones snapped and rearranged themselves, ready to be set. He did so carefully, grimacing over the lack of flesh on the hand. He could feel each strand of tendon, and the child's fingers were like tiny twigs from a bird's nest. After charming the bones whole again, still unwilling to use more ingestibles like Skele-Gro, he continued his work methodically, the arm next, then a salve for sunburn. Another salve for the rash on the child's bottom, and one for the various bug and spider bites that littered his body. An ointment for the bruising on back, legs and face, then a triple casting of Contagio Inverno to eliminate various infections. He wrapped the ankle in a soft, flexible bandage, not willing to take on such a task without resting well first.

Harry was breathing more deeply now, and his dark lashes flickered against pale pink cheeks. So innocent he looked, so tiny. As if he were only three or four years old instead of seven. But only