For Severus, the entire scene seemed to unfold in slow motion.

The front door creaked open and his scuffed, black boots stomped into the empty entryway, leaving a trail of dry dirt on the sterile floor. His wild, dark eyes darted rapidly around the room, studying every element from the tacky "Welcome" sign above the doorway, to the colorful knickknacks positioned meticulously on the shelf, to the pale, pink threads of a handwoven quilt draped across a wooden bench, and finally to a cupboard door under the staircase that had been left wide open. And though framed pictures of a smiling family lined the halls, there was clearly no happiness trapped inside those walls. It felt as if cheap perfume had been used to cover a rotting, rancid stench. The effort to conceal the truth was evident, but the warm colors and kitschy decor failed to mask the eerie chill within.

There's something horribly wrong here. He knew that, even before he moved beyond the cupboard door and noticed the vile splash of red in the center of the dented, beige wall. Below it was a slick pool of blood, so dark that it almost appeared black. And trailing across the floor, causing him more horror than anything else, were the crude, scarlet streaks signifying that a fresh body had just been dragged down the hallway.

All the blood. He could smell it. It stung his nostrils, and the metallic taste settled on his tongue. He searched for the familiar mop of black hair. But there was only more blood.

Damn it. Where's boy? What in Merlin's name happened here?

Severus turned away from the gore. There was an open doorway several feet down the hall. His long, ebony cloak billowed gracefully behind him as he turned the corner. He entered the next room and his blood began to boil.

In the kitchen, surrounded by muggle appliances and a sturdy wooden table, Harry Potter was sprawled across the linoleum floor, eyes barely opened a crack, as blood gushed from the back of his head. He let out low moans of pain. His head hung limply, bobbling from side to side as if it might snap from his body at any moment. Vernon Dursley was muttering at the child to be quiet while he attempted to haul the boy to a door that led to a fenced yard.

That son of a bitch…

He stomped forward; his eyes trained on Dursley.

It was clear when the fat man in the unflattering wool sweater noticed the intruder inside his home. His beady eyes, grew wide as he spotted the dark, intimidating man with his teeth bared, quaking at the entrance of the kitchen. The squeak of Harry's body skidding against the floor ceased as Vernon released the boy's arms.

"What are you doing in here? You can't just come into my home!" The muggle screeched, his voice an equal mixture of fear and irritation.

That fucking son of a bitch…

Something inside Severus snapped.

He launched himself forward, crashing into the solid mass. He heard a deep oof as the pig's body thudded hard against the floor. He heard the distant tinkling of quaking dishes inside a china cabinet. He heard a growl of rage, his own growl. Without hesitation, he buried his fists into the mound of flesh before him.

Then spatters. Smears. Blood. But it wasn't enough.

He smashed the man's pudgy nose flat, felt the rush of adrenaline as the man's eyes bulged with pain. But it wasn't enough.

His fingers curled deep into the man's sweater, lifted him from the ground, and slammed him back down in quick succession. Again, and again, and again, the fat man's body collided with the ground. His face was a mass of flesh and tears and blood, but Severus eyes were glazed over. He could barely register the other man's distorted features.

He only saw Harry.

He saw Harry stumbling around the apothecary trying to tend to his own injuries. Slam. Harry sobbing in the Potion's classroom in the midst of a panic attack. Smash. Harry holding the gun. Bang. His emaciated body. Crunch. The fear in his eyes. The pain. Him shaking. Sobbing. Fractured. Harry lying in a pool of blood only a few feet away.

Vernon had completely stopped fighting. His swollen eyes were beginning to flutter. He was losing consciousness. But it still wasn't enough. Severus wasn't satisfied.

Every groan of pain from the man should have made him feel better, but it didn't. Each blow only brought him closer to reality, and reality… Well, it was hell. It had always been hell for him. And all his rage, pent up from long before he'd even met Harry Potter, couldn't fix that. It had never fixed anything.

Killing him won't change the past.

The realization gave him pause. There was nothing he could do to quell the explosive anger in his gut. Nothing. Nothing would ever be enough.

The world started to come into clearer focus then. His fists dropped limply at his sides. His dark eyes stared down at the pitiful excuse for a man. He was left with only the knowledge that he would never be able to get justice for Harry. He could stay here, kill Vernon slowly, and burn the house to the ground, and it still wouldn't change a damn thing. Just as killing his own father hadn't really made a difference in the end. Revenge didn't make the hurt go away. He knew that. Years later, he was still the same empty, angry little boy he'd always been, still running from a past that was always on his heels.

Severus wiped his bloody knuckles on his robes and stood up, feeling shaky. He shot a look at Vernon, who'd finally passed out, and shot an obliviate spell at him. Vernon would live, but he would never remember that Severus had been there. It would appear as if he'd fought with Harry and Harry had won. No one would ever know about the little bleeding boy who lay dying on the kitchen floor. They would have no idea where he'd gone. Maybe that was for the best.

Vernon and Petunia would never report the incident. How could they? Vernon would still remember the injuries he'd inflicted upon his nephew. Even he wasn't foolish enough to believe there would be no repercussions for trying to kill the child. If Dumbledore ever entered that house, he'd pull the violence straight from that man's mind. So, the fat oaf would stay quiet.

Severus bent down, his knees quaking, his breaths coming in quick bursts, and placed a trembling hand on the boy's shoulder. His eyes darted over the child's withered body, stopping to rest on each bright spatter of blood; there were so many. The boy's eyes were firmly shut. His circular glasses were shattered, and they rested crookedly on his broken nose.

Severus knew that Harry needed a healer. Badly. The amount of blood pouring from the back of his head was startling. Severus guessed he had a concussion, multiple fractures, maybe even internal bleeding. He placed two of his long fingers against the boy's neck, feeling for a pulse. It was a bit weak, but it was there. He was alive.

Severus placed a freezing spell on Harry's body, to avoid disturbing the boy's injuries. He slid an arm under the boy's stiff, brittle legs and placed another one carefully behind his back, hoisting him into his arms and apparated.

Severus did everything he could to help Harry. He emptied jar after jar of bruise balm, skelegrow, healing salves, pain potions. He stopped the blood flow from his wounds, cleaned the gore and grime away, and gave him water.

The boy would live. He was sure of it. But that didn't quell the churning feeling in his gut. Could Harry ever truly be okay? Not physically, but mentally. He'd been through so much.

Severus shrank down in a chair beside Harry and buried his head in his hands. What the hell was he supposed to do now? He couldn't go to Dumbledore. That much was clear. The old man had proven that he couldn't be trusted. He was too concerned with the war, and therefore, his judgement was clouded. He would have to leave the man in the dark. He'd let the old wizard believe that Harry was safe with the Dursleys. The boy would be much safer here.

He hadn't been back here in years, as it held no pleasant memories for him, but he knew they would be safe there. After he had turned spy for Albus, he had used the location as a meeting place during the war. The older wizard had assured him that the wards around the home were very strong. None of the Dark Lord's followers, nor the Dark Lord himself, were even aware that he owned the shabby little cottage in Spinner's End. While he knew it was their best option, the dusty remnants of his childhood home did not bring him any comfort. Too many memories hid themselves in the dirty, dank crevices, taunting him at every turn.

But the house wasn't important right now. Harry was the only thing on his mind. He stared down at the boy-who-lived, trying to decide what the hell he was supposed to do now.

Severus stayed that way, watching over the child, his mind racing, until he heard a low, pained moan. It was nearly black in the room, the sky had gone dark hours ago, so Severus lit his wand and let the light cast shadows across the child's gaunt face.

"Mmmmm," Harry groaned, stirring slightly.

Severus was on his feet in an instant. "Harry?" He crouched down low beside the boy, settling a light hand on his arm. "Harry, it's Professor Snape. You're going to be okay."

"Owww."

"You had a serious concussion, but I've given you the strongest pain potions that your body can handle," he explained as calmly as he could.

The boy's eyes flicked open for a moment and then he clenched them closed tightly. "Too bright," he mumbled. "Hurts."

Severus cursed and dimmed his wand, holding the light further away.

"Harry," he began. "Do you remember what happened?"

"What," the boy said dumbly, his fists still pressed firmly against his eyes.

"You pressed the amulet," Severus explained slowly. "Do you remember why?"

"Oh," Harry said, his voice suddenly distant. "Mmm Uncle," he slurred.

Severus held his breath patiently, waiting for the boy to continue.

"Gonna kill me and," Harry paused, finally opened his eyes and he squinted up at Severus. "make it look like suicide."

Severus sucked in a breath, clenching his fists even tighter.

"Told me no one would question it… Cuz I'm crazy," he rasped.

I should have killed that blasted muggle. Screw the consequences.

"You're not crazy," Severus said earnestly, trying to keep his anger at bay.

Harry didn't respond. His eyes were drifting closed again, and he appeared to be fighting sleep.

Severus decided that now clearly wasn't the time to interrogate him. He could find out more details later. "It's going to be okay," he told him. "Just rest."

Harry seemed relieved to hear this, and his features quickly slackened as he settled back into slumber.

Severus watched for a moment as the boy's chest slightly rose and fell with each breath, thankful for the proof that he was alive. Severus knew that if he'd arrived at the Dursley house even minutes later, Harry wouldn't have survived.

His eyes traveled back to the small dots lining the inside of Harry's arms. Though these injuries should have been no concern in comparison to the far more serious internal bleeding and concussion, Severus had spent hours of the day just staring at these dots. The little puncture wounds stood out in various shades of green and purple, some of them so faded they were barely visible, but Severus knew what they meant. They were self-inflicted. Harry had done this to himself.

Severus had never felt so powerless. He wasn't sure how to help the child. No amount of his potions or his spells could prevent that kind of pain.

Hi everyone. I'm sorry that this chapter is so short, but I've been struggling with writer's block as well as not having a lot of free time to write. I'm so thankful for the readers that have stuck with me, and I apologize for not updating more regularly. I have an outline for how I want this story to go, but there are some scenes in between that are still somewhat unclear to me. If any of you have any suggestions about something you'd like to see in the story, please let me know, and if they will fit well with what I have planned, maybe I can incorporate some of your ideas.

Please leave me a review and let me know what you think!