Eight by Lily Elizabeth Snape
Past Featured StorySummary: Harry is eight years old and is sent to live with Snape. Will Snape ever lighten up enough to notice Harry's problems? Abused!Harry, Guardian!Severus, No slash.
Categories: Parental Snape > Guardian Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Dumbledore, McGonagall, Original Character, Other
Snape Flavour: None
Genres: Angst, Drama
Media Type: None
Tags: Child fic, Snape-meets-Dursleys
Takes Place: 0 - Pre Hogwarts (before Harry is 11)
Warnings: Abusive Dursleys, Alcohol Use, Physical Punishment Spanking, Neglect
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 21 Completed: Yes Word count: 37901 Read: 305300 Published: 20 Aug 2006 Updated: 13 Aug 2009
Chapter Five by Lily Elizabeth Snape
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: I own none of the Harry Potter ideas or characters or plots, or anything else thought up by the amazing author of the series. I’m making no profit of any kind from this story.

I hauled myself out of the room fast as I could manage. I was afraid he’d kick me while I crawled; Uncle Vernon had done that a few times and my chest always hurt for ages after. But he didn’t, and he was letting me wash up first. When I got left in the cupboard too long and this had happened, Uncle never gave me that opportunity. He just started in straight away.

I drew some cold water in the bath. While it filled I tried to wake my legs up; they buzzed with that unsettling, prickish feeling. It was a trick getting into the bathtub; I slipped and made a loud noise as my head hit the tile. Any one of the Dursleys would have screamed at me for the racket, but the Snape man didn’t say anything. He really was being very kind to me, and I felt guilty I’d dreamed bad things about him.

I stayed in the water a bit too long, and my teeth were chattering as I dried off with my shirt. I wrapped it round my waist since all the towels had been used to clean up vomit, and ran back into the room where I slept. After I dressed I steeled myself, then plucked the object I hated most in the world from the back of the lowest dresser drawer. I knew I had to do this; it would be insolent not to.

He was sitting at the rotting kitchen table as I entered. He looked sick or something, and was staring at nothing in particular. It took him a few moments to look up, and as soon as he did I put my head down and held out the nasty thing for him to take.

His demeanor turned instantaneously to fury; his eyes could have glowed red and he wouldn’t have appeared any more upset.

“Where did you get that . . . thing?” he seethed, spitting in my face as the ‘th’ sounds came from his teeth.

“It was a . . . present, sir,” I said reluctantly. Even I knew Uncle Vernon was being downright evil when he’d given it to me for Christmas two years back.

“That’s a damn lie!” He grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me, repeating, “Where did you find it?”

I knew anything I said would make it worse, so I just stood and took it, my head beginning to throb as it got shook around. He stopped and grabbed the belt from me, holding it up close to my face.

“You know what this is for, don’t you.” he stated in a quiet, menacing tone.

I gulped. “Yes, sir.”

His mouth turned to a snarl, and he began trembling, his breathing shallow and fast.

“Go on, then, James! Tell me what it’s for so I’m certain why you brought it.”

Why had he called me James? Who was James? I knew I had to answer, though.

“It’s – it’s for w – whipping, sir.”

He reeled backward, his head jerking around like someone had attached it to a string. The man looked round frantically, like he expected to see blood dripping down the walls or something. Was he going mad right before my eyes?

As suddenly as it began, he stopped thrashing about and tuned in on me again.

“Why did you . . . why would you . . . You evil, scathing little beast!”

He swung the belt at me, catching me on the arm. I stood still; as I’d been painstakingly trained to do during a beating. But he didn’t keep it up; his grip loosened and the belt tumbled the floor, him dropping to his knees next to it.

“Go,” he said, in more of a moan. I was shocked; why would he tell me to go when my punishment had only just begun? He was not pleased with my hesitation.

“Go!” he repeated at a much greater volume. I turned tail and ran up to the room, getting back in the corner.


I’d made another huge mistake. I couldn’t believe I’d hit the boy. Doing so had ripped me out of my nightmarish reverie. I thought I’d pitched that nasty strap long ago, with everything else that belonged to my loathsome father. What Harry had done was definitely something the illustrious James Potter would plot. There I was, ready to talk rationally to the boy, and he seized the opportunity to heckle me by dredging up an item that turned my stomach to lead. Had it been in the closet? Or had he snuck into my room, or the cellar . . .

But no matter what he’d done, he didn’t deserve to be hit.

The gravity of my reflexive action sank in. I’d hit him with that belt, in this house of all places. In my father’s house. Where my father had hit me with it until my voice was hoarse from screaming. ‘I am not my father! I will not become my father!’

I picked up the awful instrument to bury it in the bin when I noticed the buckle. Instead of tarnished, pock-marked brass it was shiny silver. It wasn’t the same one that had laid contact on my bare skin thousands upon thousands of times. But then where had he gotten it? And why did he bring it down?

I will remain calm. I will talk to this child. I will not let my temper get in the way of caring for Lily’s son.’

“Child! Come back downstairs now,” I called up to him, fetching the strap from the floor.

He came down promptly with his sparkling green eyes downcast, and when he saw me holding the thing he matter-of-factly placed his hands on the table top. Stepping out from the furniture and arching his back, he was perfectly poised for a proper thrashing. ‘The belt was given to me because he thought I was going to beat him!’ I had so much to learn about parenting. Had I really been that awful to him?

“Stand up, child. There’s no need for that.”

Slowly, he did as he was told, looking at me with a mix of wonder and confusion. I motioned to the belt, about to ask him to explain more about it, and the confusion was replaced with fear. He held his hands out, turning the palms upward, and shut his eyes tightly. My apology wasn’t going very well.

Picking him up, I noticed he was very, very light, and bony. I plopped him on the table so I could talk with him eye-to-eye, and he yelped as the wood contacted his trouser seat.

“What is it, Harry? Did that hurt?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be quiet, I promise!” he whimpered pitifully.

He was squirming on the hard surface, so I knew he was definitely in pain. The settee would be a more comfortable place to have our discussion. Putting him back down on the floor, I grasped his tiny hand awkwardly and led him the few steps to the negligible receiving room. Maybe he shouldn’t be sitting at all. I’d have to check for injuries soon; if he’d given that reaction he probably needed treatment.

I stood him beside me, and he threw himself over my lap. Now he thought he was going to get smacked. What in Merlin’s name had been done to this child?


I am so lucky! I’m only getting a smacking!’ He was in the process of taking my trousers down, but that was to be expected. As soon as he got them down, though, he did something odd. He gasped. He pulled my shirt up, too. Was he going to hit me there as well? ‘Wouldn’t be the first time someone did.’

But then he picked me up again, holding me like a wailing babe, and laid me over the back of the divan. He walked away, and I heard the cellar door open. Maybe I wasn’t getting away with a smacking. What was he going to get? He hadn’t gone to the kitchen, so it wasn’t my belt. A cane, maybe? ‘I hate the cane!’ It made you bleed ever so much quicker than anything else. Before I had time to properly panic he was back, and a cold liquid was being applied to my skin with a cloth.

Oh no, not that!’ Uncle Vernon had done this once! He’d put this cream on my welts that smelt like Aunt Marge and it felt all cool at first. But then, it got hot, and set my skin aflame. I remembered how my wounds had hurt way down deep, and the awful sensation had lasted hours.

I started to scream; I couldn’t help it. The man stopped at my noise, and he talked low to me.

“Hush now, boy. It will only take a minute to start working.”

Was that supposed to make me feel better? I stopped screaming, though, because he’d told me to be quiet. After he’d smeared the fearsome stuff all over my back, bum, and legs, he pulled up my knickers and faced me to him.

“There’s no need to cry, child.”

He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it over.

“Wipe your face, now. Blow your nose.”

When I was done he proceeded to put the stuff on my face, chest, arms, and legs, too. Afterward, he gave me a little glass bottle.

“Drink it all down.”

It must be the oil Aunt Petunia made me take when I was bad.’ I really didn’t want to swallow it; the times I’d had it before my stomach cramped and the fishy taste lingered all night. I wasn’t about to argue, however, and I was pleasantly surprised. It tasted like sweaty socks and burnt cinder, much better than castor oil.

He looked at me kindly. “Good boy. Now let’s get you into some nightclothes so you can rest for a bit before breakfast.”

I was so puzzled. My bruises and cuts had stopped hurting, and the hot sensation hadn’t come. My muscle aches were fading, and all the places where I’d broken bones were feeling comfortable as well; they usually throbbed when the weather was stormy. What had he done?

I began to relax in spite of my fear that any moment my whole body would be sizzling. He carried me up the stairs and dressed me like a small child. It took him a while to work the buttons, and he pulled my hair trying to get the shirt over my head, but I wasn’t about to complain. I couldn’t remember a time when someone had carried me, held me close, or dressed me. Was I dreaming again?

The pajamas were wonderfully soft! The skin underneath them felt strange, and when I looked, my scabs were gone and my skin was white all over! He had used some kind of magic to take all my hurts away. I wanted to thank him, but I knew better than to speak out of turn.

“Are you ready to get some sleep?” he asked. Taking stock of the morning, I decided I really must be dreaming! I’d gotten in trouble twice, made an awful mess, and hadn’t gotten any chores done since early the day before. Now the man was healing my bruises and letting me sleep during the sunlight hours?

“Yes, sir,” I answered. What else could I say?

I went over to my place by the hearth and laid my head on the stone pillow.

“What are you doing, boy?” he demanded. Uh, oh. What had I done now?

“I’m sorry, sir! Did you want me to sleep in the corner?” I got up quickly and headed toward the spot I’d served my punishment.

“No!” he shouted, and I stopped mid-step, cowering a bit. He sighed a big sigh, and asked more quietly, “Is that where you’ve been sleeping?”

“Yes, sir.” I looked at my feet. I couldn’t even be a good boy when I was asleep.

“Come here, child.” I headed over to him; this was real, and I didn’t think I’d get off so lightly this time. He put his hands on my shoulders, and for a brief moment I thought I’d be shaken again. He only looked in my eyes, sadness shrouding him like the cloak he always wore.

“Harry,” he began, “Why didn’t you sleep in the bed?”

“The bed, sir? I – erm, I know the bed is not for me.”

He scrunched up his forehead. “Why would you think that?”

“I’ve – I’ve never slept in a bed, sir.”

The End.


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