Chapter Thirteen

To Be Loved

Harry awoke to a murmur of hushed voices speaking just beyond the periphery of his consciousness, their soft, muffled words reminding him strangely of Parseltongue. Despite their quiet tones, each muted hiss, sigh and whir of their whispered conversation prompted a new sliver of hazy awareness to spark within Harry's slumbrous mind, his sluggish thoughts sharpening. Turning his head toward the voices, he struggled to make sense of them, eyelids squeezed tightly together and forehead creased with strain.

It wasn't until one of the voices spoke in something more than a whisper that Harry finally realized who was speaking.

"Goddamnit, Albus! I am fine, I assure you! Poppy has absolutely no call to keep me here at all, let alone overnight. I am perfectly capable of tending to my injuries without her assistance!"

"Severus, the wounds on your hands are nearly as severe as Harry's. Poppy merely wishes to monitor them throughout the night to be sure they're healing as they should and I must say I agree with her," replied another voice – Dumbledore's, Harry realized. The Headmaster was speaking just as softly as he had before, despite Professor Snape's abrupt increase in volume, but his tone was firm, almost chiding as he continued. "You've simply too much on your plate right now, my boy – taking care of your own burns as well as Harry's, all the while helping him recover from this morning's procedure and all the emotional trauma associated with it. No, Severus. No. You will stay here for the night – you and Harry. Poppy will release you both in the morning if she is satisfied that your health has improved."

"Headmaster, please reconsider. You, more than any other, know that I am more than proficient in dealing with this type of–"

"That is my final word on the matter, Severus," Dumbledore interjected, his voice louder now, his tone brooking no further argument.

Eyes still closed in feigned sleep, Harry breathed out a tense, shallow breath while he tried to absorb the meaning of the professors' rather intense conversation. It was obvious that Professor Snape had somehow become injured – that much was easy to work out – but Harry had no clue how or when that could have occurred. The last thing he remembered this morning before succumbing to Madam Pomfrey's Twilight Sleep Potion, was his professor holding him while he – once again – broke down like a damned baby, sobbing uncontrollably and clinging to the man's robes.

Harry cringed mentally as he recalled just how pathetic he'd been. And it was something like the third time he'd behaved as such in just the last thirty-six hours. Good God! His emotional outbursts were becoming a horribly embarrassing habit!

Shaking off his mortification about his latest outburst – at least for the time being – Harry searched his memory, trying to recall if he'd seen some kind of injury on his Potions Professor before he'd fallen into unconsciousness. He was sure he hadn't, so in the heavy silence now presiding over the room, Harry replayed the conversation he had overheard in his mind over and over, looking for some clue that could shed light on what might have happened to Snape.

It was then he remembered Dumbledore specifically mentioning Snape's hands as being injured. And hadn't the Headmaster referred to those injuries as burns?

Just as a thread of dreadful comprehension began to unfurl itself inside Harry's mind, his heartbeat speeding up in alarm, an encumbered sigh stole through the pervading silence. The weighty breath was soon followed by Professor's Snape's now tempered voice.

"Did you go to see her?"

"Yes," replied the Headmaster.

Silence resumed once more and it was all Harry could do not to open his eyes and demand to know who this 'her' was because he was now pretty certain he knew exactly how Snape's hands had become burned. And if he was right... well... let's just say that whoever this woman was, she must have been – at least for a time – in much worse shape than either Snape or himself were presently.

"And?" Snape pressed, his voice once again climbing in volume, a hint of urgency coloring his tone. "Should I expect a visit from an Auror this evening?"

Another heavy sigh punctuated the tense atmosphere and Harry could tell by the sounds that followed it – the swish of thick fabric and the soft creak of a chair adjusting to an added weight – that Dumbledore had moved from a standing position to sit in a nearby chair. After a few more seconds of strained silence, the Headmaster responded to Snape's anxious question.

"No, Severus. You needn't worry about the legal repercussions of your indiscretion. As luck should have it, I arrived just in time to head off the Magical Law Enforcement officer dispatched to the scene. It required a fair bit of quick thinking on my part to come up with a plausible explanation for what had occurred there, but in the end, I was able to sufficiently satisfy all of his concerns."

"And how exactly were you able to explain away my Necromantic magic?" Snape asked, his words spoken more softly this time. It was obvious that his earlier anxiety had been lessened by the Headmaster's assurances.

"Fortunately," Dumbledore replied, "the Ministry still lacks the ability to properly distinguish Magics not generated from a specific spell. I explained to the kind officer that the raw burst of magic the MLE detected coming from inside the house was accidental magic and nothing more – just your everyday magical outpouring from a troubled youth in the midst of dealing with a family misfortune."

"A family misfortune?"

"Oh, I spun him a tale about Mr. Potter experiencing grief over an unexpected death in his family – a niece of Vernon Dursley's who I explained had just recently lost her battle with Leukemia. I believe the officer was still a bit suspicious concerning the sheer level of magic discharged at Harry's residence, but ultimately the lie seemed to do the trick. I also mentioned that an Obliviate would need to be cast on the deceased girl's mother whom I explained was staying with the Dursleys and who had – most unfortunately – witnessed Harry's magical outburst. After warning the officer that the poor woman was suffering from grief-induced hysteria and that she was nearly beside herself with despair and confusion, he seemed only too happy to let me handle things when I offered."

Silence followed the Headmaster's words again but this time, Harry feared that the thundering of his own heart against his ribs might shatter it at any moment. Gritting his teeth with the effort not to breathe too heavily, he clenched his bandaged hands into fists beneath his sheets and tried to think, desperate to sort through the maelstrom of frantic thoughts racing around his brain.

The sheer shock of hearing the Headmaster's lie about the unlawful magical outburst in his house was nearly enough to cause him a panic attack, but what was most disconcerting, the thing that made his chest tighten with fear and his stomach roil with sickening dread, was what must have really occurred at Privet Drive... and what Professor Snape had to do with it.

Bloody hell! What in the name of Merlin was Snape even doing at Privet Drive to begin with? Did he go there to confront the Dursleys on his behalf? And if he did... and it had led to him using his Necromantic powers... did that mean that his professor had...? Had he actually...?

"So you Obliviated the bitch?" Snape hissed, the venomous words wrenching Harry from his spiraling thoughts.

"I did, Severus," came the Headmaster's quiet response. "Certainly you must realize I had no choice."

Harry sucked in a muffled gasp as the horrifying truth became clear to him at long last. The woman they were speaking about was not some made-up grieving relative of his uncle's. No – it was Aunt Petunia. Of course it was her. Who else could it possibly be? So that must mean that it was his aunt who had been on the receiving end of Snape's Necromantic magic...

...which means... Oh God!

"Obliviation is akin to showing that woman mercy, Albus," Snape whispered harshly, the words sounding stiff and forced as if spoken through gritted teeth. "After committing such unspeakable acts of torture against an innocent child, she should be given no choice but to remember the experience of having her own life forcibly taken! She doesn't deserve to forget what I did to her!"

"And what did you do to her, Severus. I know it wasn't a spell. If it had been, that Magical Law Enforcement officer would not have been so easily swayed by my cover story."

"She didn't tell you?"

"No," Dumbledore replied, sighing wearily. "Petunia was in shock when I found her, I'm afraid, balled up on her sofa in the fetal position and muttering to herself."

Harry felt his throat tighten and his breath hitch, an image of his aunt in such a state lighting up the darkness behind his closed eyelids. He could feel himself trembling now, his skin hot and cold with sweat and shock and fear, but he clamped down on his body's reactions, not wanting his wakefulness to be discovered just yet.

"Severus?" Dumbledore pressed. "Tell me what you did to her."

There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence in which the very air seemed to have become stagnant, the seconds slow to progress, lethargic and burdened. Just when Harry thought he could endure no more, his throat burning with the effort not to cry out from sheer stress, Snape finally spoke.

"I... I... I st-strangled her, Albus!"

The stammered words, choked out in a rush of trembling breath, were followed by an anguished, gut-wrenching sob.

Unable to pretend any longer, his heart in his throat now, Harry opened his eyes and slowly pushed himself up to a seated position. His eyesight was no more blurry than it usually was – which he supposed was a good sign after the optic nerve procedure he'd just undergone – but the familiar bleary film clouding his vision remained, as did the thin, dark ring girding its edges. Even with his poor eyesight however, Harry was able to spot the source of those quiet cries of pain in an instant. Grabbing his glasses from the table beside his bed, Harry quickly put them on but regretted it almost immediately, the image in front of him – now in slightly sharper focus – causing his heart to clench.

Snape was sitting in a bed opposite Harry's own on the other side of the Hospital Wing's private room, his body slumped over and his face buried in his hands – both of which were wrapped to the wrists in thick white gauze. Silently, he wept into those cotton bindings, his body shaking with soft tremors.

Beside him, in a straight-backed wooden chair, sat the Headmaster. He had an arm around the professor's shaking back and his eyes were cast down, staring at some nondescript spot on the featureless white bedspread covering Snape's lower body. The elderly wizard seemed to be lost in a moment of empathy, his already lined face appearing more furrowed, heartbreak and regret visible on each and every one of the deep grooves contouring his visage. With a heavy sigh, the man removed his hand from Snape's back and placed it onto a shuddering shoulder. Then he lifted his gaze, the sorrowful blue eyes halting their ascent when they found Harry's.

For a long moment, they simply held each other's gaze, their eyes locked in a soundless exchange that seemed to be steeped in soul-wrenching despair... or perhaps it was guilt... or some profound, mutual anguish that lived within the hearts of all pained souls. Curiously though, Harry found that the longer that blue gaze held his own, the more his panic – so acutely felt seconds ago – lessened, replaced by some emotion yet undefined and without a proper name.

In fact, if someone were to have asked him in that moment what it was he was feeling, what weighed heaviest on his mind, Harry wasn't certain he would have been capable of giving a clear answer.

Before he had opened his eyes to the scene in front of him now, he would have said he was feeling fear – all-consuming, soul-crushing fear. He had been terrified out of his mind the instant he realized what his professor must have done to his aunt. But it was an irrational fear, ill-defined and lacking any logical origin. He wasn't afraid of Professor Snape, that was for certain. How could he ever be afraid of the man who had helped him so much over the last couple of days? And he wasn't fearful over the welfare of Aunt Petunia either, not after all the horrible things she had done to him over the years. No, his fear had felt more like a product of... instinct – instinct borne from years of being told he was the root of all evil in the natural world, a worthless, vile freak that made bad things happen and caused others to suffer.

Harry had instinctively felt fearful because, irrational though it was, a part of him had automatically assumed that whatever had happened was his own fault.

But now, as he shifted his gaze from those kind, sympathetic blue eyes of the Headmaster to a darker pair, whose swollen, red-rimmed lids had just opened and were now locked with his own – now he just felt...

Calm... grateful... protected...

Cared for.

And as his professor's anguished gaze continued to fix upon his own, Harry realized with more and more certainty what should have been obvious from the start, but had nevertheless taken time to sink in: Professor Snape had done all of this for him.

The man had sought out Harry's aunt with the sole purpose of punishing her, of exacting revenge upon her for hurting him. Although it was true that Harry's heart clenched in moral discomfort at the thought of the man going so far as to commit murder on his behalf, he couldn't help the rush of love and warmth that swept through him knowing Snape had done it because he cared for Harry... cared for him so much in fact, that he was willing to set aside his own sense of moral code in order to punish his abuser. And based on the man's breakdown just moments ago, he was now suffering great emotional remorse and guilt as a result of his actions. Despite the unconventional and rather twisted nature of this form of protectiveness and compassion, and as complicated as the aftermath of his actions had become, it still didn't change the fact that Snape had done this all for Harry.

He'd risked everything for Harry.

But that wasn't all, was it? Snape hadn't just left Aunt Petunia to what was arguably a well-deserved fate. No – he had used his Necromantic magic to bring her back. Perhaps he did it so that she would have no other choice but to remember the attack, to forever live with the memory of those horrific moments of pain and terror. After all, the professor had said as much when he expressed his disapproval of the Headmaster casting an Obliviate on her. But Harry thought there might have been another reason why he had brought Aunt Petunia back to life. Maybe her resurrection – just like her murder – was done for Harry's benefit. Maybe Snape did it hoping to spare Harry from feeling any guilt over the matter. Perhaps he knew that Harry's first instinct would be to blame himself and sought to prevent that inevitability.

Whatever the reason, Harry was grateful. Not because he particularly cared one way or another what fate befell his cold-hearted aunt. Harry had long since come to realize that his own heart had hardened to her, that at some point during his years enduring her weekly torture sessions, he had grown incapable of feeling real compassion or love for her – just as she was incapable of feeling it for him.

No, he was grateful because, thanks to the Headmaster's clever cover-up story, there was now no evidence of Snape committing a criminal act of violence and therefore, the man was not in danger of being carted off to prison.

Which meant... Snape wouldn't have to leave him.

Because right now, even after all the horrible details he'd overheard and all that he'd gleaned from their heated conversation, the idea of Snape not being around to care for him and guide him through the uncertain future looming ahead of him, was the most frightening thing he could imagine.

"Thank you," Harry choked out, his voice quavering. Tears were gathering in the corners of his eyes now, but he paid them no mind, glistening green orbs never leaving black ones.

Snape let out a harsh breath, his features twisting into an expression of deep pain and self-reproach. He shook his head, a lone tear sliding down his flushed cheek. Raising a bandaged hand, he wiped the wetness away and spoke, his voice raspy and weak.

"No. No, Harry, you should not be thanking me for... for such things. I should not have done it." Another tear fell, this one ignored. "But... but I couldn't bear the thought of her... of her hurting you like that... and getting away with it. I'm sorry, Harry."

"I'm not," Harry answered, his voice stronger now. "I mean, I'm sorry that you're suffering... that you feel bad because of what you did to my aunt, but I'm not sorry that you did it. No really."

Harry's gaze slid away from Snape's and settled on Dumbledore's whose blue orbs held more than a touch of surprise at hearing Harry's words.

"It's not because I wanted Aunt Petunia to... I mean, I didn't ever wish for her to..." Harry began, eyes still locked on the Headmaster's as he tired to find the right words. He shook his head and swept a hand across his eyes again, starting to get annoyed by their incessant tearing. "Professor Dumbledore, I'm not saying I'm happy to hear what happened to Aunt Petunia. It's not that. It's just..."

Pleading green eyes then snapped back over to black ones, hoping the sincerity of his gaze could communicate to the man that which his unclear stammering could not. When Harry encountered nothing but confusion swimming within those dark depths, he tried again.

"It's just that... no one's ever done anything like that for me before, Professor. Not ever. I've never had an adult in my life that felt compelled to help me... or protect me... defend me. I've never experienced that before but now that I have, I can't say that I regret what happened because I don't. It feels so good to finally be... to be..."

"To be loved."

The Headmaster's heartfelt words put an abrupt end to Harry's rambling speech. Now at a loss for words, Harry stared at the Headmaster, his throat tightening with emotion and his body growing rigid with tension. The words the man had spoken were exactly what he had been trying to convey of course, but now that they had been voiced aloud, and in front of the man he was so quickly coming to care so deeply for, Harry suddenly felt terror barrel through him – a terror worse than anything he'd experienced upon learning of his aunt's ordeal.

Unable to look back into those glistening black orbs lest he see some sort of disgust or rejection, Harry dropped his gaze to his lap, familiar feelings of shame, guilt and embarrassment at having his heart so revealed, at feeling so vulnerable and exposed, swelling inside of him.

"Severus, Harry, if you'll excuse me, I must take my leave now," Dumbledore said, fracturing the awkward silence. "I suggest you both get some rest."

Eyes still fixed on his lap, Harry heard rather than saw the elderly wizard stand up from his chair with a muffled groan and walk with measured steps to the door leading out to the main room of the Hospital Wing. With a click, the door was opened and after a pause, the Headmaster spoke again.

"Madam Pomfrey should be along later to administer both your medications and to re-dress your bandages. She has also asked me to convey to you that a house-elf will deliver your dinner at six. Now then, I have some business to attend to this afternoon but I will return later this evening to check on the both of you. And Severus..."

Another pause, its significance somehow holding more weight than the words preceding it. Harry felt the air come alive with some unknown expectation, as if the atmosphere surrounding them had become electric, charged with a static, yet unseen anticipation. Holding his breath, Harry waited for the man to voice the rest of his statement, his teeth finding his lower lip and biting down softly.

"Yes, Albus?" Snape asked, his anxious tone leading Harry to believe his Potions Professor was experiencing the same feeling of heady suspense that he was.

"I expect you to do as Madam Pomfrey instructs so that you may heal quickly. After all, a guardian needs to be in good health if he is to properly take care of his ward."

Forgetting his unease at the Headmaster's earlier statement, Harry's head shot up, perplexed emerald eyes settling first on Snape's confused ones before darting over to the Headmaster's knowing ones. The blue orbs were twinkling madly and the man's wrinkled face was now spilt in two by a wide, satisfied smile – both a rare sight ever since the Goblet of Fire had named Harry the fourth Triwizard Champion.

"Guardian?" Snape replied, shock evident in his flustered tone. The man's ebony eyes were as huge as galleons as they snapped over to Harry's and then back to the Headmaster's. "Albus, I... I don't underst–"

"Yes, Severus, guardian. You didn't honestly believe I would permit Petunia and Vernon to retain custody of Harry after learning of their treatment of him, did you? No, my dear boy, Harry is in dire need of a new guardian – one who will be there for him through the troubled times that lie ahead... one whom Harry trusts enough to care for him and protect him... to guide him and mentor him as his Necromantic abilities continue to grow and mature. And above all else, he needs a guardian who loves him and whom he loves in return...

"He needs you, Severus."

Chapter End - To Be Continued.

A/N: Again... so sorry to keep you all waiting for this update. Hopefully, the long wait won't lessen your enjoyment of it though! :)

By the way, as a special treat to all you patient readers, I will be posting the first chapter of a new three-part story of mine called Whirlwind very shortly after I post this. It's a Snarry and it's rated M, so if that's not your thing, don't bother reading it. But for those of you who do enjoy reading Severus and Harry in a romantic capacity, please check it out and tell me what you think! :)

Please Review.