Bright flashing pain.

Distant laughter.

Hands, fingers pressed into his sides, gripping, bruising, taking.

Hot breath in his ear, whispering things he just as well preferred not to hear. Whispers of beauty, of exquisiteness, whispers of promise.

All spoken calmly while ignoring his increasingly frantic screams for mercy.

Blood painting their fingertips, his lips, their cocks. Blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, from the palms of his hands, lines on their backs, and from the dark tinged hole between his legs.

This was the present that Severus Snape found on his doorstep at Spinner's End one late July evening.

This was the mess he was given to fix.

It was a warning and it was a promise.

. . .

Several hours later and Severus had still not finished healing the boy who had been dropped off so unceremoniously on his doorstep. The boy—the bane of his existence—Harry bloody Potter.

Bloody was certainly an apt description; the boy was covered in it, and more kept appearing just whenever Severus thought he had gotten the last of it. It was little wonder that they were both exhausted now.

Who? Was the question at the forefront of Severus's furious mind. He didn't ask why. There were too many people who had reasons to hate the child, hate the boy who had ended their versions of life.

What was easy enough to answer too; whoever had attacked him had used their fists, cocks and their magic to beat the boy into submissive unconsciousness. From the damage on the lad's rectum alone, Severus would wager a guess that engorgio had been used, and a bit too excessively, if his healing skills had anything to say about it.

He had tested the boy's blood and discovered leftover remnants of several dark lust potions, mixed alongside several blood replenishing potions.

But no pain relief potions and no memory spells. Whoever had done this had wanted the boy to remember it and do so to the full extent of his ability.

. . .

"Who's th-th-there?" The question was asked from cracked lips, around a parched tongue. Wildly darting green eyes made contact with dark amber ones.

"It is only Professor Snape." Spoken calmly, using every bit of cunning he knew to make his voice sound soothing.

A harshly expelled breath of relief was the child's response. Trembling limbs, but no tears. Not yet.

"Here, sip some water," he instructed, holding the cup up to the boy's lips gently; just enough to wet the lips, wet the tongue and wet the throat; pulling away to let that settle, before doing it again and repeating slowly.

"You—You found m-me?" A more normal voice, if one could ignore the frightened sound contained within it.

"Someone left you on my doorstep."

Severus watched Harry turn his head and nod, blinking furiously.

"Harry, I need to know."

Who hurt you so hideously? It wasn't necessary to voice that part. They both knew what he was referring to.

"D-D-Death eaters," spoken after a painfully long pause, just barely audible to Severus's own delicate ears.

"Did you see their faces?" He didn't want to ask, didn't want to make the boy relive anymore than necessary—any at all, really. If he could wave his wand and make it all go away, he would.

But he couldn't.

"F-Fenrir," a sob accompanied that admission, and Severus placed a hand on the boy's shoulder to inform him that he wasn't going anywhere. "L-Lucius Malfoy," a sob wracked hard through the child's body and Severus sat down on the bed next his huddled form. "Dr-Dra-Dra," the lad stuttered out, turning his head into Severus's darkly clothed side and sobbing out forcefully, unable to speak the words necessary to condemn his condemners.

"Draco?" It was Severus's turn to whisper. His godson did this? Fury flowed through him with an almost numbing level of strength.

Nodding against his ribs made Severus forget himself as he gathered the teenager up into his arms, wounded soul and all.

"Dr-Draco," the small fifteen year-old finally stated softly, more into Severus's chest.

The trembling hadn't stopped, but in fact had gotten worse.

"Were there any others?"

Weren't those three bad enough?

"B-Bellatrix," the boy opened terrified eyes and looked up into his own pained ones. "Bellatrix," the word was gasped out hysterically, accompanied by clutching fingers and barking cries of horror, of misery.

"That bitch," Severus whispered in angrily dawning understanding.

The warning was for him.

Voldemort knew he was a traitor.

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think to say. It didn't make it any better, even if it was true.

Quiet sniffles were his only response as he continued to hold the boy tightly in his arms.