This sotry is being re-done from the very beginning, with some small changes being made. First and foremost, this is now a Werewolf!Harry story. I kind of had that in the works for this story from the beginning, but wasn't sure how to include it in the story. So, I decided to re-do everything from the very beginning, and go from there. Hope y'all enjoy, and any feedback you might have would be greatly appreciated! Hopefully this version doesn't suck quite as much as the last one seemed to :)

Rating: PG-13 Warnings: Slash, Harry/Severus, Werewolf!Harry, Nice!Snape (kind of), Mentor!Snape

Severus Snape, Potions Master and resident Potions Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was the one to find the boy.

It wasn't that he had been looking -- far from it. In fact, he had been attempting to escape from the countless brats that now crowded the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast -- even his Slytherins had been getting on his nerves lately, something that didn't usually happen. Thank Merlin for Draco -- he, at least, was his normal surly self.

It was as he was hurrying down the deserted hallways of Hogwarts, toward the relative safety of his Dungeon rooms, that he spotted a lone backpack outside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, causing his steps to slow and a frown to pass over his normally expressionless features.

He wasn't sure when the tradition of placing one's belongings outside of the bathroom before going in had been introduced, b ut he was sure that it had had something to do with a muggle. Didn't it always?

His frown now morphing into a scowl, the Potions Professor stalked over to the bathroom, throwing the door open wide with a snide remark posed oon the tip of his tongue, ready to berate whatever foolish child had chosen to break the rules ALREADY and skip the Welcoming Feast. That remark, however, died on his lips at the sight he was greeted with.

Severus Snape did not like Gryffindors. He harbored a pathalogical hatred of them, truth be told. And it was not something he had any desire to change, or "fix" as Albus was wont to say. After all, he had so many oppurtunities to torture the pathetic little Gryffindorks, why would he ever want to LIKE them?

So no, he did not like Gryffindors, and he likde Harry Potter even less. The boy was pretentious, spoiled, haughty, and loved for simply being born. The boy was currently carving himself up like a jack-o'-lantern.

A large kitchen knife grasped in his hand, Harry slashed at his arm a couple more times, before dropping the knife from suddenly nerveless fingers and bringing his dangerously long nails up to claw at his lightning-boltshaped scar, sobbing uncontrollably as he attempted to claw out the curse scar decorating his smooth forehead.

Blood covered his clothes, all of which seemed to be his own -- obviously the boy had been at this for quite some time, perhaps since he had first gotten off the train.

Potter hadn't been at the feast -- not that he could remember. He'd thought it odd at first, but had simply put it down to special treatment for the boy. After all, the boy's god-mutt HAD just died.

He should have paid closer attention. He should have realised that something was off in the way that the other two-thirds of the "Golden Trio" barely even noticed their friend's absense.

It wasn't that he cared for the boy -- never that. Quite frankly, it was a reflection of his own age, that he could miss something so simple. He had to be on the top o fhis game, especially now that the Dark Lord had returned and his job as a spy had once again been re-instituted. His very life depended upon his ability to notice even the smallest discrepencies in the world and people around him. And yet, he had missed so much just this evening alone.

Drawing in a sharp breath, Snape slowly made his way toward the dark-haired boy, footsteps as quiet as he could possibly make them. He need not have bothered -- the boy seemed oblivious tohis surroundings, his entire being focused upon tearing out the flesh on and around his curse scar.

His mind may have been getting slow, but his body was not. In a flash, Snape had his arms around the boy, the knifekicked away and out of reach as he struggled with the now furious boy, those deadly nails now trying to gauge out the arms that held him captive.

"You don't understand! You have to let me go! If the scar isn't there, then I don't have to see it, I don't have to watch them die, I don't have to watch them at all! I don't care about helping them any more, goddammit, I just want it to stop! Please! I don't want to feel it anymore. I don't want to feel HIM, I don't want to feel them, I don't want to feel! You have to let me do this, please!"

More than the boy's words, it was the frail frame in his arms that gave Snape pause. They boy was thing -- dangerously thing, to the point of being unhealthy. His cheeks were thin and pale, his green eyes seeming too vibrant and large in his small face.

Potter hadn't aged nearly at all, in all the years that he, Snape, had known him. THe boy was the same height, the same weight -- perhaps a bit thinner. He wasn't just small for his age; he had the look of one who was malnutrtioned, like some of the first year students that he got in his Slytherin House. It was slightly frightening, to see it in James Potter's son.

Tightening his arms around the now still child in his arms, Snape allowed himself a small sight of relief. They boy had been in no danger of escaping, but he had been rather frightened of the boy harming HIMSELF.

No, frightened wasn't the right word. Not at all. Rather, it was that he had been ... what had he been? He certaintly didn't care for the brat -- a couple of visions and he had a total and complete mental breakdown. Witnessing a couple of people being hurt, perhaps even dieing, and all of a sudden he was some kind of basket case. No, he hadn't been frightened for the boy. Then ... what was it? What was this strange tightening in his chest, as he stared down at the slight form of the only remaining Potter?

Lips thinning into a small, straight line, Snape slowly stood with the boy still cradled in his arms, noting with no small amount of surprise that the bo y seemed to have fallen asleep. Unonscious described it bett, really. And after all of the blood he had lost, it was no great surprise.

And so it was that Severus Snape, hater of all things Potter and Gryffindor, found himself carrying the Boy Wonder through the hallways of Howarts, into his own Dungeon rooms, carefully skirting around any and all ghosts and painting that he could possibly avoid, and glaring those that could not be avoided into frightened submission.

THey still remembered when he had ripped the painting of Rodney Snape -- his centuries past ancestor -- into unrecognizable shreds durring his 7th year. The screams had been audible from the Quidditch Pitch, over the roar of fans attending the final game of the season.

They would mention neither hide nor hair of this. They knew better.