“Who do you live with, Harry?” asked a subdued Draco, after primly chewing and swallowing the last bit of his cucumber and butter tea sandwich.

“Uh, my aunt and uncle; my mum’s sister,” he replied, curious.

“So it’s your uncle then?” the smallest Malfoy continued.

“Uh, erm . . .” Harry took a large bite of biscuit to buy time and nearly choked. He thought Draco just might understand, but after seeing how disgusted Hermione and the professor were after he revealed the marks, he didn’t want to risk anything. He glanced at Hermione; she stirred her tea without meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Harry responded finally.

“You bloody well do, too,” Draco said haughtily.

Harry turned round, searching for an out. “Won’t you have some tea, professor?”

Snape was starving, but he wasn’t about to enable a change of subject. The children would feel much better if they could discuss their experiences.

“No, I took tea at the Leaky Cauldron,” he said, not turning from the potions.

“Nice try, Potter,” Draco smirked. “Come on, I told you mine. Besides, we’ll be casting Fidelus.”

Harry heaved a sigh, clanking his tea cup down shakily onto its saucer. “Fine! The answer is yes. Can we please discuss something else?”

“Certainly,” Draco obliged, and shifted toward a wide-eyed Hermione. “What about you, Granger? Is it your da?”

She forced herself to laugh. “I’m just clumsy, Draco.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “You were quite the lummox when you danced perfectly with Krum.”

She peered at him, eyes squinched. On the one hand, they were using the charm, so no-one could tell. But teachers were bound to report child abuse, weren’t they? Snape could probably weasel his way out of the spell with a slippery tonic.

“I’m clumsy when I’m tired,” she amended.

“Right,” Draco snorted, but let the matter drop.

Shortly, Snape announced the healing potions were ready for bottling. Hermione sprang up and skittered over to do the work. She shrank away from the professor whenever he made a sudden movement, and the fear was not lost on him. He graciously granted her some relief and moved to check the boys’ injuries.

“We need to check you wounds, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded and removed his shirt while Snape vanished the tea things and distransfigured the books.

It pained Snape to see the state of Harry’s body. “You have been neglecting your potions. Several of these are on the verge of infection,” Snape said, with a tone Harry assumed betrayed revulsion. “This will sting. Do you want a pain elixir first?”

Harry gave a cockeyed grin and said, “I assure you I can handle it, sir.”

Snape’s mouth turned into a wry, near-smile as well. “I’m sure you can, my boy, but you needn’t.” He plucked a small vial from Hermione’s station and handed it over.

“Drink,” the potions master instructed.

As Harry’s body swing with the motion of swigging the potion, Draco looked over the bed at his back.

“What did he use?” Draco asked simply.

“Er – belt buckle,” Harry admitted, blushing.

“That’s awful, Harry!” the appalled girl proclaimed. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice caught, and she shuddered at the thought of the first time her father whipped her with a belt. He hadn’t used the buckle end, though.

“Metal really hurts,” commented Draco before returning to his studies.

Harry felt so . . . heartened, full of light and warmth. They’d looked at him with innocent eyes, concerned eyes. ‘Perhaps I’m not such a freak after all!’ The conversation had progressed so normally, naturally. ‘I guess beatings are normal for us,’ he thought remorsefully. But at least he had allies now; they understood, they really did, and that mattered more to him than anything ever had.

Snape cleaned the visible wounds, and once Harry had changed into a pair of Draco’s shorts, he watched the blonde boy shake as the professor removed bandages from his torso.

“These are looking much better, Draco,” Snape murmured kindly.

After the application of healing salves, the professor turned to Hermione; she was presently trying to hide behind a rather large cauldron to escape the scrutiny of her medic.

“Miss Granger, I’d like to check your progress as well. I would prefer you acquiesce to a more thorough examination after witnessing you friend’s lack of vigilance.” The potions master was trying to be diplomatic.

“I’m fine, sir. It’s not necessary.” She neglected to look up from her work. She really was still hurting; she couldn’t bend well with her mending bone, and she knew some of the welts on her legs and back were badly inflamed.

After a disapproving glare, the professor dropped, “Then I shall have to insist on Pomfrey or a healer,” from his lips, knowing the effect the threat would have.

She spun round then. “You can’t!” She started to protest, but decided she’d rather not argue with Snape; it was useless anyway. “Fine. But I’m not taking my shirt off!”

“I would never suggest that, Miss Granger. Change into short pants and a – a—”

“Tank top?” Harry offered.

“Yes, a tank top,” Snape repeated, the words sounding very foreign coming from his mouth, as if he chewed them up and expelled them with a sneeze.

“I haven’t either, sir,” she said quietly.

“Surely you’ve something appropriate in your school trunk,” he replied, thinking she was being difficult.

“I – I haven’t got my trunk, sir,” she admitted slowly. “I forgot it,” she added trying to cover.

The professor graced her with a cynical glare, and transfigured an appropriate outfit. Holding out the clothes as one might a dirty nappy, he pointed to the loo.

She took an inordinately long time changing, cursing the decree for the restriction of underage magic. A concealment charm would’ve come in handy just then.

Eventually, she ventured out, feeling very uncomfortably on display. As soon as Harry set eyes on her, he was overcome with rage.

“Blasted mother-fucking piece of shit! I’ll kill him!” Harry had continued to hope Hermoine’s injuries were the result of clumsiness. However, he knew very well what belt lashes looked like.

Hermoine was startled, but relieved she had such vocal support from her best friend. She would have smiled if she weren’t feeling mortified as well.

Snape prepared fresh linens. “Can you clean them yourself?” he asked gently.

“I’ll try sir” she said eyes bleary.

She tried to stay silent in the bath, but she couldn’t when trying to twist to reach her back and the thigh on the side of the break. She crumpled on the floor, jumping at a knock.

“Hermoine?” Harry called softly, “I’m coming in, ok?” He just wanted to comfort her, help her in some way.

“I can’t do it, Harry. I can’t stand it,” she admitted wearily.

“Do you want me to- you know…” he asked his tongue turning to cottony wool. “Or I could get Snape, or Ginny,” he added quickly.

“No!” she certainly didn’t want Snape’s frond-like fingers all over her and Ginny couldn’t know.

“Would you?” she asked sheepishly, holding out the damp cloth. She shivered as he started on her back, gently moving the scanty top around to get at each sore. Harry’s cheeks were burning fiercely. She wept as she bent over the side of the tub so he could clean the back of her thigh.

Snape cleared his throat as the boy finished. He held out a potion and waited, convinced supervision was the prudent course of action.

As Hermoine changed back to normal clothes, it was Harry’s turn. It took nearly an hour to finish, so Snape settled amended his plans. He’d have to wait until late that night to begin his concoction. After the secrecy charm, the two were sent down to dinner.

The professor sat heavily by the fire, gulped aged scotch, and occluded with all his strength, attempting to block his memories from even himself. Despite his efforts, a thought did manage to finagle itself in.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something Draco.”

“Yes, sir?”

“How did you know I was a spy?”

Draco’s upper lip began to sweat, and fireflies tumbled around in the pit of his stomach. “I was eavesdropping, sir. I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t been for my insolence, this wouldn’t have happened. You know I’ll accept any punishment you think proper.”

Severus really didn’t want to dole out a punishment for eavesdropping; after all, it was one of his own essential skills as a spy. But he also didn’t want to spend half the night arguing with the boy about it either. Lines never hurt anyone right?

“Very well, Draco. Once your hands heal completely, you may write lines. I will not eavesdrop.”

“Yes, sir. How many times sir?”

Severus was again engrossed in occlusion, feeling slightly sniggered.

“How many? Oh yes. Five should be sufficient.”

Draco braced the professor’s neck with a pillow and covered him with a throw.

He woke the professor at quarter to eight. As soon as Severus left for hell, Draco took the bandages off his left hand and took out the special quill he’d always used for writing lines. When his father was away on business or trips, he sometimes had to do lines for punishment. Of course, Lucius always gave him another hearty round of consequences upon his arrival back to the manor.

Draco tuned out the searing pain in his hand and worked endlessly. He discarded many pages because he kept smudging the words. Notes for study could look dreadful but this couldn’t. He was frustrated by his inadequacy; perfection was the rule, even if his hand was still stiff from misuse. Not that left-handed writing with a quill was ever simple. Especially not this quill.

He finished around two in the morning and was worried when the professor still had not returned. He occupied his mind brushing up on transfiguration.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Harry was pleased when the professor walked in of his own accord.

“Harry? Haven’t I told you to stop doing this yet?” Other than a limp, the man seemed nearly jovial.

“No sir, you haven’t,” the boy replied. “You’re looking well tonight, Professor.”

“I’m feeling well, my boy. Did you want to come up anyway?”

When the boy hesitated, Severus took it as a refusal. “No, of course not. I appreciate—”

“Please, sir, I would like to come up. I was just a bit surprised at your, uh, state is all,” Harry interjected quickly.

Severus felt stupid. “Ah. Come along then.”

‘Brilliant!’ Harry thought, ‘I’ve already spoilt his good mood.’ As Snape walked by, Harry smelt the unmistakable, pungent odor of red wine mixed with other drinks.

Soon as the wards were up, Draco gushed, “Professor Snape! I’m so glad you’re back. I was worried it got really bad tonight!”

“On the contrary, my boy, Lucius seemed quite amused I showed up to dinner knackered. We drank and talked like the old friends we once were.”

“That’s wonderful, Professor!” Draco drew a deep breath for the first time in hours.

Snape took some anti-inebriation potion and solemnity once again ruled. “Did you study, Draco?”

“Some, sir. I think I’m ready.” He glanced at Harry awkwardly, but decided he’d rather not get in more trouble by delaying turning in his task. “I’ve finished my lines, sir,” he said as he tugged out a thick packet of parchment from under the books, handing it over with the still bandaged hand.

“What’s all this, Draco?” the potions master asked alarmed, trying to recall the foggy scotch-colored conversation of the early evening. “Didn’t I tell you five?”

“Yes sir. I double-checked to be sure all five hundred were there. I can check again,” the fair haired boy proclaimed, taking back the stack.

“Child, I meant five,” Snape said emphatically, holding up one hand worth of knobby fingers.

Draco’s face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll start over.” He threw all that work onto the dimming fire and took out a fresh piece of parchment.

Snape stared at the fire, watching discolored ink disintegrating into to ash.

“Where did you get red ink, Draco?”

He turned to look at the boy, huddled on the bed with a grand jet-black quill. No pot of ink graced the covers.

“What is that?” Snape shouted, pointing at the offending quill. It looked like something horrific hid seen in Lucius’ hands as a boy.

Draco was taken back. “My – my quill father gave me for lines.”

“Give me that!” he yelled, breaking it swiftly in half and thrusting it into the fire. After a fierce incendio was cast, the quill imploded emitting brilliant crimson fumes.

“Finite incantatem,” the professor cast over the boy’s hand, breaking the concealment charms he knew were stuck there. The back of Draco’s hand was a mangled mess, with curvaceous old scars raised and overlapping. Gleaming with fresh blood read, “I will not eavesdrop.”

“Oh, Draco, my poor child. I never meant this,” Severus breathed, filled with sorrow. “Five times - normal ink. I didn’t intend to punish you in the first place but I….” he trailed off. He’d been having a relatively pleasant time all evening while Draco ripped his hand open again and again. In what seemed a never-ending task of cleaning and patching up, the professor took care of the wounds and bandaged the hand gently once more.

Harry had been watching all this in wonder. He felt badly for Draco, but was learning more and more about Snape. He could be kind, gentle, caring. What a pleasant surprise!

“Butterbeer anyone?” the professor asked, attempting to re-capture his fleeting cheer. But he frowned again. “Draco, when did you last eat?”

“Our tea, sir.”

“Damn! I meant to bring you dinner. You must be famished. I’ll be right back.” Then as an afterthought, “Harry do you think Miss Granger’s still awake?”

Harry didn’t want to get her in trouble, but he didn’t think Snape’s intention was punitive. “Probably, sir. We don’t sleep much these days.”

“Right. Why don’t you invite her in?” the professor suggested. He hadn’t entirely innocent reasons for the impromptu celebration, he had to brew, and the kids could keep one another busy. 

Snape would not admit, even to himself, that he truly did not want to be alone with Draco at the moment.