Work Text:
The cottage was quiet when Harry padded down the stairs, tugging his too-large pajama top closer around himself. He still wasn’t used to having a place where the floorboards didn’t creak under every step, or where the kitchen wasn’t locked with a padlock. The cottage smelled faintly of tea and potion ingredients—comforting now, because it smelled like Severus. Like home.
“Sit,” Severus said without looking up from the simmering cauldron at the stove. His voice was soft but still held that cutting clarity that used to make Harry flinch. Now it only made him sit down at the table, grinning faintly when a plate of toast and eggs appeared with a flick of Severus’ wand.
“Thanks, Dad,” Harry said quietly.
The corner of Severus’ mouth twitched. He pretended to ignore it, but Harry knew he’d heard, knew he liked hearing it.
Their rhythm had been steady for nearly two years now. Potions lessons mixed with summer chores, long talks when Harry woke sweating from nightmares, afternoons where Severus actually set aside work to read with him. Harry had told him things he never thought he’d admit about the Dursleys—about cupboards, belts, and days without meals. Severus never pressed too far, but always listened, always helped him sort through the memories until they hurt less.
It was safe here.
Or it had been.
The floo roared later that morning, spitting out Draco Malfoy in a neat swirl of green robes. He looked around the cottage as though he’d stepped into a hovel.
“Godfather,” Draco drawled, straightening his sleeves. “I trust you’ve kept my room tidy?”
Harry blinked. His room?
Severus clasped Draco’s shoulder, something warm in his eyes Harry rarely saw directed at anyone else. “Welcome, Draco. You’ll be sharing with Harry. I trust you’ll both make do.”
Harry forced a smile. He wanted to say something—anything—but Severus was still looking at Draco with that rare softness.
That night, Harry shifted uncomfortably in bed as Draco unpacked his trunk with deliberate slowness.
“Funny,” Draco muttered, setting his books on the desk they now had to share. “I thought Gryffindors slept in towers, not in other people’s homes.”
Harry swallowed. “This is my home.”
Draco’s lips curled. “For now.”
The words stung more than Harry wanted to admit. When he tried to tell Severus the next morning, the man only hummed distractedly and asked if he’d finished his reading. He didn’t notice Draco’s smirk from across the table.
For the first time in two years, Harry felt the ground under him tilt.
The cottage had grown louder since Draco arrived. Harry noticed it most at night, when the other boy’s trunk creaked open and closed, when books shuffled against wood, when Draco muttered charms under his breath that filled the small room with light Harry hadn’t asked for.
It was strange, sharing. He’d shared with Dudley before, but Dudley’s room had never felt like his. This one had, until Draco stepped in with his fine robes and sharper tongue.
“Don’t touch my things,” Draco said on the third night, sliding his wand case into the drawer Harry used for socks.
Harry blinked. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Just making sure. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
Draco smirked, leaning back against his pillows. “The look of someone who doesn’t belong.”
Harry rolled over without answering.
Meals had been the worst. Harry was used to breakfast with just him and Severus—quiet, comfortable, sometimes even warm. Now Draco filled the space with chatter, stories about Manor banquets and Quidditch teams Harry had never seen, little digs tucked between every sentence.
“…and of course, Father says the Cannons are hopeless. Only people without taste would support them.”
Harry’s fork scraped against the plate. He didn’t look up.
Severus stirred his tea. “Draco, eat your eggs.”
Draco obeyed but shot Harry a sidelong glance, satisfied.
Harry waited for Severus to catch it. He always caught things—shifts in Harry’s voice, the way he picked at his food when he was upset, even the flicker of a nightmare before Harry woke. But this time Severus only reached for the Prophet.
The silence after was heavy in Harry’s chest.
-
By the end of the week, Harry had stopped trying to say anything. The first time, Severus had only murmured, “Draco is adjusting. Give him patience.” The second, he hadn’t seemed to hear at all, lost in some potion notes while Draco sat across the room smirking.
So Harry kept quiet. He folded in on himself, hiding the same way he used to under the cupboard stairs—small, silent, hoping no one would notice.
Except Severus always had noticed before.
Now, Harry wasn’t sure.
The room felt smaller every night. Draco’s trunk spilled clothes and books across the floor, creeping toward Harry’s side like ivy. Harry tried to keep his own corner neat, folding his shirts, stacking his spellbooks. It made no difference—Draco found ways to invade.
One evening, when Harry reached for the desk to start his summer essay, Draco slid in front of him with a casual sway of his shoulder.
“Excuse me,” Harry muttered.
Draco didn’t move. He leaned one elbow on the desk and pushed Harry lightly back with his other hand. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise—just enough to make Harry stumble a step.
“Oops,” Draco said, lips curling. “Clumsy.”
Harry’s stomach knotted. He grabbed his parchment and moved to the bed, scribbling notes on his knees instead.
The next morning, Harry was halfway out the bedroom door when Draco’s arm shot across the frame, blocking him.
“Ladies first,” Draco drawled.
Harry ducked under quickly, face hot, wishing Severus had been there to see. But when he reached the kitchen, Severus only glanced up from his paper.
“You’re late,” he said mildly, tapping the tea pot.
Harry sat down, silent, as Draco slid gracefully into the chair opposite.
That night, when Harry finally started to drift in bed, a sharp thud rattled the frame. His eyes snapped open. Draco had kicked the side with his heel.
“Stretching,” Draco said innocently when Harry glared. Then he rolled over, pulling the covers high.
Harry turned his face into the pillow. He wanted to tell Severus. He wanted to whisper the way he had about the cupboard under the stairs, about Dudley’s fists. But Severus hadn’t noticed. Not once.
So Harry stayed quiet. The silence pressed on his chest, heavier than the blanket.
For the first time since he’d left Privet Drive, the cottage didn’t feel entirely safe.
The days blurred into a rhythm Harry didn’t like. Draco filled the air with chatter and sideways smirks, Severus answered with patience Harry thought should have been his, and Harry shrank smaller in the gaps between them.
He stopped sitting down at breakfast. The first time, he’d mumbled something about not being hungry and slipped outside before either of them could press. He sat in the garden, knees tucked up, pretending the buzzing bees made the hollow in his chest quieter.
By the third skipped breakfast, Severus only remarked, “You’ll regret it when your stomach aches later,” without looking up from his notes. Draco smirked into his orange juice.
Afternoons had once been the best part of summer. Harry and Severus would brew small practice potions together, side by side, Severus correcting his grip or tapping the back of his hand when his stirring faltered. Now Draco stood at the workbench instead, his tone bright and clever, his wand flicking with practiced ease.
Harry drifted outside more often, sitting under the crooked willow until the sun dipped low. He traced lines in the dirt with a stick, thinking about how Severus hadn’t once asked why he wasn’t brewing anymore.
When Severus finally opened the back door one evening, a sliver of light falling across the grass, Harry’s heart leapt. Maybe he’d noticed.
“Come inside,” Severus said, voice even. “You’ll ruin your eyes out here after dark.”
Then the door clicked shut again.
The couch became his refuge after that.
-
One night, when Draco’s pointed sighs and the thumps against his bed frame made Harry’s skin crawl, Harry crept down the stairs, dragging his blanket with him. The sofa cushions dipped beneath his weight, scratchy but blessedly quiet.
He lay there staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the faint crackle of the fire Severus had banked earlier. For the first time in weeks, no one shoved his books, blocked his way, or smirked when he fell silent.
Harry pulled the blanket tighter. He didn’t want to go back upstairs.
But part of him still waited, small and desperate, for footsteps on the stairs. For Severus to notice, the way he always had before.
The cottage stayed silent.
By the second week, Harry hardly recognized himself.
He avoided the kitchen unless he was sure Draco was gone, slipping in to snatch a piece of fruit before hurrying outside. He let chores pile up, not from rebellion but because every time he walked past the potions lab, Draco’s laughter echoed out and twisted in his chest.
At night, the couch became routine. He pulled the blanket tighter, breathing shallowly when he heard footsteps upstairs, then relaxed when they faded again. Severus hadn’t noticed. Or if he had, he hadn’t said.
Draco noticed, though. He noticed everything.
“Sleeping downstairs, Potter?” he whispered one evening as Harry bent over his essay at the desk. Draco leaned close enough that his breath stirred the parchment. “Afraid of the dark, or just afraid of me?”
Harry kept writing, jaw tight.
Draco chuckled. “Pathetic.” He shoved Harry’s quill hand just enough to smear ink across the page, then straightened as if nothing had happened.
When Severus returned from the storeroom, Harry sat stiff in his chair, blotting at the mess with trembling fingers.
“Moody again, I see,” Severus said dryly, glancing at the ruined parchment. “If you’re going to sulk, do it after you’ve finished your work.”
Harry swallowed hard, throat burning. “Yes, sir.”
Draco smirked into his book.
The more Severus missed, the more Harry folded inward.
He stayed longer outside each day, curling into the grass with his knees to his chest, staring at the horizon until his eyes blurred. Sometimes he thought about running — not far, just into the trees, far enough to breathe without Draco’s shadow. But he always came back. The cottage was still his home. Or it had been.
When Severus finally cornered him one evening, Harry’s chest clenched.
“You’ve grown difficult lately,” Severus remarked, arms crossed. “Snapping answers, wandering off, ignoring meals. This behavior is beneath you, Harry.”
Harry opened his mouth, but the words tangled in his throat. He wanted to say, It’s not me. It’s Draco. Don’t you see? But Severus’ expression was already weary, already decided.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbled instead.
Severus nodded curtly and returned to the laboratory.
The hollow inside Harry widened.
It happened late one afternoon, when storm clouds pressed low over the cottage. Harry sat hunched at the table, copying lines of text onto parchment. He was slow today, tired from another restless night on the couch.
Draco lounged nearby, flicking his wand to make sparks dance. His voice broke the silence.
“You know,” he drawled, “you’ve been moody for weeks. Father says children who sulk deserve discipline.”
Harry didn’t look up. “Shut up, Malfoy.”
“Touchy,” Draco said, grin sharp. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Didn’t your godfather say once that you’d been hit before? Bet he’s considering it. Bet he’s just waiting for you to act out one more time.”
Harry froze. His quill trembled in his hand.
“That’s not true,” he whispered.
Draco shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it be? You’ve been stomping about, ignoring him. You think he’ll put up with that forever?”
Harry’s chest squeezed. He shook his head, harder this time. “He wouldn’t.”
Draco’s smile was thin and cruel. “We’ll see.”
That evening, Severus found Harry outside instead of at supper. His patience was thin, worn by the stormy weather and a misbehaving cauldron.
“Harry,” he snapped, voice sharp. “How many times must I tell you not to wander off at meals? Come inside at once.”
The tone was nothing compared to what Harry had heard from Uncle Vernon, nothing compared to the Dursleys’ fists and belts. But Draco’s words echoed mercilessly in his head: Bet he’s considering it.
Harry’s breath hitched. His legs moved before his mind caught up.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted, stumbling backward. Then he turned and ran—past the willow, past the garden, into the dark tangle of trees.
Severus’ voice followed, clipped and irritated: “Harry!”
But Harry didn’t stop. His chest burned as he plunged deeper into the shadows, heart pounding with the old, raw fear he thought he’d left behind.
Branches clawed at Harry’s arms as he ran, the ground uneven beneath his feet. When he finally tripped over a root, he stayed down, chest heaving, palms stinging from the fall.
The forest pressed in around him, damp and dark. He pulled his knees tight to his chest and rested his forehead against them, trying to breathe.
He didn’t mean it like that, Harry told himself, voice shaky in his own head. He just wanted me to come inside.
But Draco’s sneer bled through the thought. Bet he’s considering it.
Harry dug his fingers into his shins until it hurt. He didn’t believe Draco. Not really. Not at first. But then Severus had snapped, and the sound of his voice—sharp, cutting—had hooked into something old inside him. Something that remembered slamming doors, Uncle Vernon’s shadow, fists raised high.
And suddenly, Harry wasn’t so sure.
The night deepened. The storm broke overhead, soft drizzle dripping through the leaves. Harry shifted under the roots of a great oak, pulling his thin jacket tighter. His blanket was still on the couch, back at the cottage. Back where Severus was.
He pressed his face into his knees, hot tears spilling before he could stop them. He’d cried like this before, silent and shaking in the cupboard, terrified of being heard. Only this time, there was no cupboard, no Aunt Petunia to hiss at him to shut it. Just the empty woods, swallowing the sound.
“’M not bad,” Harry whispered hoarsely. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”
The words broke off. He couldn’t finish.
By midnight, the shivers had set in. Damp clothes clung to him, and his teeth chattered. He tried to imagine Severus finding him, wrapping the old wool blanket around his shoulders, muttering that he was a foolish child. That picture had always been enough before, after nightmares or dark thoughts. But tonight, the picture felt out of reach.
What if Draco was right? What if Severus had finally tired of him?
Harry curled tighter, eyes squeezed shut. The woods creaked and sighed, unfamiliar and threatening. He clutched his knees until his nails bit into his skin, rocking ever so slightly, the way he used to in the cupboard when no one was there to hear.
He didn’t sleep. He just endured, hour after hour, waiting for dawn—or for the footsteps that never came.
(Severus POV)
Severus stood in the doorway, rain-laden air curling damp against his robes. He had only meant to summon the boy inside—Merlin knew he’d neglected meals too often these past weeks. His patience was fraying, worn thin by long hours of brewing and Draco’s ceaseless chatter.
“Harry,” he snapped, sharper than intended. “How many times must I tell you not to wander off at meals? Come inside at once.”
For a heartbeat, Harry only stared at him, wide-eyed, quill-stained fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt. Then—
“I’m sorry!” Harry gasped, stumbling backward. And before Severus could form another word, the boy turned and fled.
Severus froze, momentarily stunned. He’d seen Harry storm off before, sulking when a correction stung his pride or when a task proved too difficult. But this—this was different. The boy’s flight was wild, panicked, as though Severus had raised a wand instead of his voice.
“Harry!” Severus called, stepping off the stoop. His boots sank into the damp grass. “Do not be ridiculous. Come back this instant.”
The only answer was the crack of branches, the sound growing fainter as Harry plunged into the trees.
Severus’ jaw tightened. Foolish child. Always so quick to dramatics, so quick to assume slight where none was meant. Still—something in his chest twisted, uncomfortably reminiscent of the night two summers ago, when Albus had deposited Harry into his care. The same wide-eyed fear. The same flight from shadows only he could see.
Severus stared at the dark tangle of forest for a long moment, rain beginning to bead on his shoulders. He could fetch the boy now, he supposed, drag him back inside and demand an explanation. But exhaustion whispered otherwise. The woods behind the cottage were tame, and Harry would tire quickly. By morning, surely, he would slink back on his own.
With a soft, irritated sigh, Severus turned back toward the cottage. The door closed behind him with a final click, leaving the forest to swallow the boy’s retreat.
The cottage settled into its familiar silence as night drew on. Draco had retired early, his door shutting with irritating precision. Severus lingered in the laboratory until the potion he’d been tending reached its final stage, the soft green simmer soothing the tension in his shoulders.
By the time he extinguished the lamps, the clock on the mantel read near midnight. He paused at the foot of the stairs, debating whether to check the boys’ room. Draco was no doubt asleep, and Harry—Harry had a pattern. When sulking, he slipped down to the sitting room, burying himself in a blanket until sleep claimed him.
Severus allowed himself a small sigh. Children. Always drama. At least the boy would be where he could keep an eye on him.
He crossed to the couch, already picturing Harry curled there, hair sticking up in all directions, blanket twisted about his shoulders. He’d mutter something about being fine, Severus would arch a brow, and by morning the matter would fade.
But the couch was empty.
The blanket lay folded neatly at one end, untouched. The cushions were cool beneath Severus’ hand.
His brows drew together. Strange. The boy always dragged the blanket with him, even in summer, as though warmth alone could keep the night away.
Severus straightened slowly, eyes narrowing toward the window. Beyond the glass, the forest loomed, black and quiet beneath the dripping rain.
The twist in his chest returned, sharper this time. He told himself Harry was likely upstairs after all, perhaps hidden under the bed with his blasted essay, sulking in true Gryffindor fashion. He told himself that.
But the empty couch gnawed at him long after he climbed the stairs.
(Harry’s POV)
A thin grey light seeped through the branches when Harry finally uncurled from the roots of the oak. His whole body ached — arms stiff, legs cramped, back sore from the damp earth. His clothes clung to him, heavy with dew, and every breath came out in a shaky puff of steam.
He hadn’t slept. Not really. He’d dozed in scraps, jerking awake at the sound of owls or the snap of a twig, his heart hammering each time as if Uncle Vernon’s hand were about to wrench the cupboard door open.
Now, in the pale dawn, he felt hollowed out.
He rubbed at his arms, trying to work some warmth into them. His fingers were red and stiff. He thought longingly of the couch — the scratchy blanket, the fire crackling in the grate, the soft creak of Severus’ chair nearby. But then Draco’s voice slid through his head again: Bet he’s considering it.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut.
Maybe Draco had been lying. Maybe he hadn’t. Severus had snapped — sharply enough to make Harry’s chest seize with old panic. Sharp enough to make him run.
What if Severus was tired of him? What if he’d realized keeping Harry was a mistake?
A crow cawed above, startling him. He wrapped his arms tighter around his knees. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
But as the sun climbed, hunger gnawed at his stomach, and the chill cut deeper. He buried his face in his arms, torn between fear and longing.
The cottage wasn’t far. He could be there in minutes. But his feet wouldn’t move.
Not yet.
(Severus POV)
Sunlight slanted across the kitchen table as Severus poured himself a cup of tea. The morning was quiet in the way early summer mornings often were: birds trilling faintly, leaves stirring in the breeze, the faint aroma of wet earth seeping through the open window.
He glanced toward the stairs, expecting, as usual, to see Harry’s tousled hair peeking over the banister or to hear the scuff of his small feet padding toward breakfast.
Nothing.
Frowning, Severus rose, placing his cup down carefully. He checked the boys’ room first. Draco slept peacefully, sprawled across his bed, trunk neatly closed. The window was open, but the air inside was warm.
Then Severus checked the couch. Empty. Blanket folded neatly at the end, untouched.
A tight knot formed in his chest.
He’d been irritated yesterday, yes — the boy’s sudden flight, the sulking, the wandering off at meals — but this was different. This wasn’t Harry being moody. This was Harry… gone.
He moved to the doorway, peering toward the edge of the garden. Nothing. The dew-damp grass glistened in the early sun, unbroken except for his own footprints from yesterday. No small footprints of Harry, no signs of where he might have slipped off.
Severus’ lips pressed into a thin line. A part of him wanted to scold, to call out that sulking and running was unacceptable. But the tighter, sharper part — the part that had spent two years learning every twitch, every tremble of that boy — prickled with unease.
Harry wasn’t here.
Not on the couch. Not in the garden.
And for the first time, Severus felt that sharp, unwelcome panic creep in.
He should have noticed. He should have stopped it. He should have…
“Harry,” he murmured under his breath, voice low and tight. But the wind carried nothing back.
The boy had vanished into the dawn.
Severus barely spared a second glance at the cottage as he strode to the door. His robes flapped around his knees, damp from the morning dew, but he barely noticed. His mind was focused entirely on Harry—where he could be, and whether he was safe.
“Harry!” he called sharply, voice carrying through the quiet morning. No answer came.
He grabbed his cloak from the peg and tucked his wand into the inside pocket. The cold air stung his cheeks, but he didn’t slow. The garden ended abruptly in forest; the trees loomed, dark and tangled. Every shadow seemed to twist with possibility, every rustle of leaves a threat.
“Harry!” he called again, sharper this time, running between the trees. His boots sank into mud, leaves and twigs snagging at his robes.
Severus scanned the forest floor, hands trembling slightly as panic pressed against the edge of his composure. He wasn’t used to this—losing control, letting worry drive him like this—but Harry’s absence left him no choice.
Branches whipped against his face, and he ducked under low limbs, following faint depressions in the damp earth. Each one could be a footprint. Each one could be Harry.
“Come on, Potter,” Severus muttered through gritted teeth, voice low but urgent. “Where are you?”
The forest was silent except for the distant drip of rain from the previous night. And then — a rustle.
Severus froze, eyes narrowing. “Harry?”
A small movement among the roots of a gnarled oak caught his attention. His heart seized, throat tightening. He sprinted the last few feet, forcing the underbrush aside with long strides.
There, curled against the roots, shivering and pale, Harry’s arms hugged his knees, eyes wide and frightened. Severus’ chest clenched in a way he hadn’t thought possible.
“Harry,” he whispered, and this time his voice held no irritation, no reprimand — only sharp, consuming relief.
Harry flinched at the sound, unsure if this was another punishment, another scolding. But Severus knelt slowly, holding out a hand, not touching, just offering safety.
“I found you,” he said softly. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”
For a moment, Harry didn’t move. Then exhaustion, fear, and longing collided, and he allowed himself to collapse against Severus’ side, shivering.
Severus wrapped his cloak around them both, pressing him close enough that the boy’s small body trembled against his own. Outside, the forest remained vast and shadowed, but inside that circle of warmth and weight, Harry finally let himself breathe.