“Girl!” A shout in the night.

The sound of a door slamming. She awakens from a light sleep at her desk.

“Get down here, girl. Right now!”

Achingly, the withering form of the slight student creeps down the stairs.

“Yes, fath-…uhm…sorry, sir. Yes, sir! I’m sorry, sir!”

“Quite right,” comes the increasingly menacing voice of the man she had called daddy a few short months ago. He grabs his daughter roughly by the chin and croons, “How could my little schnookums call me father when she’s now mum of the house?”

Shortly after the start of the summer holidays, Hermione’s mum had been in a horrible accident. Hermione had stood strongly with her father throughout the calling and funeral, greeting those who came as politely as she could. Mr. Granger hadn’t uttered a sound, however. His look, rather than grief, was that of constant rage and disappointment, especially when he gazed upon his eldest daughter. His wife had rushed out to get Hermione a ‘welcome home’ gift, and had never returned. After the funeral came the drink to the once kind-hearted family man. Now Hermione shook perceptibly each time he drew near.

As his wild-haired daughter reached out to take her father’s hat and coat, something she had always warmly done for him since she was big enough to drag the coat behind her, he struck her.

As she was backhanded, hard, across the right side of her cheek, Hermione lurched sideways and caught the side of her head on the banister.

As her sheer form burst onto the floor in a heap, Mr. Granger spat, “I’m not a bloody child you ugly little tramp! I can take care of my clothing myself. Get up!” with a kick to her side he continued raging, “And make me some breakfast. Now!”

Hermione scrambled and scratched to disentangle herself from the floor before another kick followed. As her remaining long fingernails bent backward and broke, she hastened a respectful, “Yes, sir,” from her lips before she allowed the lump of forbidden tears to affix itself firmly in her throat.

....................................................

Meanwhile, across the great divide between the muggle and wizarding worlds, a regal, two-story dark wooden door creaked into action as a disheveled, grey House Elf, Fiora, bowed.

“Master Snape, sir. Please come in, sir.”

“Ah, Severus. Always a pleasure,” the elder Malfoy hissed behind it, voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. As Severus nervously sidled into the grand entrance of the Malfoy estate, a more-than-harsh, “Close that bloody door, Fiora! You’re letting the disgustingly hot air pour in!” rang through the hall.

In a dim, upstairs room – a room locked, cramped and cold – Draco heard the front door close. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. Professor Snape would help him. “I will find some relief this night,” he dared to whisper into the darkness.

“Tegere,” intoned the silver-haired Lucius Malfoy at the foot of the spiraling stair, securing the manor from prying ears and eyes, and Severus tensed. Lucius swept over to Snape, stopping millimeters from the taller man’s face.

“What are you prepared to do to keep your nasty spying secret safe today, Snape?”

“Whatever you wish…Master Malfoy,” Severus forced himself to utter.

Lucius really was the sickest bastard imaginable, next to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, naturally. He took much pleasure in tormenting the stoic Potions master who had called this evening.

‘Severus brought this upon himself,’ Lucius mused savagely. 'How dare he pry into family affairs?'

Professor Snape had noticed something amiss directly after the end of the Christmas holiday that year. Draco was the first to leave the Great Hall’s festivities on the eve of returning to Hogwarts, and Professor Snape, never one for giddy reunions, had already been stalking to corridor. Severus had noticed Draco looking particularly dejected and had walked up behind the boy to offer comfort, putting a black-robe clad arm around the young Malfoy’s shaky shoulder. Draco had leapt away from the touch, a quiet, but unmistakable, grunt of pain escaping the boy’s lips. Young Mister Malfoy quickly and deliberately forced his facial features to register shocked surprise, rather than shocked anguish.

He gave his head-of-house a nearly-perfect grin and said, “You startled me, professor!”

Severus was, for once, speechless.

Draco had thought, ‘Does he suspect?’ before hastening a, “How was your holiday, sir?”

Other members of Slytherin House permitted themselves to slide into familiarity with Severus, but never Draco. The Malfoy household taught its members to behave. . . formally.

Severus was still nearly gawking at little Draco, but became calculatingly cool and replied, “Passable, Draco, and yours?”

“Great! Thank you, Professor Snape.”

After another awkward silence, Draco continued, “Well, um, good night then, Professor Snape, sir!” and quickened his pace to the Slytherin Common Room.

Severus was still as he regarded the boy, who was trying desperately not to limp as his Slytherin robes shrank out of sight. The professor knew he could easily relive an encounter nearly identical to it, if he probed his own pensieve. An encounter between Professor Dumbledore and he when Severus had been in his fifth year.

At the manor on that balmy summer night, Snape had only had a split second to prepare. As he finished the words, “Whatever you wish, Master Malfoy,” a shrill cry of,

“Crucio!”

had left Lucius. All Severus could hear was Malfoy’s tainted, maniacal laughter and feel the pain that coursed through his body in unnatural waves. As always, Snape did everything possible not to cry out. He had trained himself well during his own childhood, but no wizard or witch could outstand the Cruciatus without vocalizing the floods of raw, seething agony ripping through every vein, muscle, and bone.

As Draco heard his favorite professor cry out, he felt hot salt tears drip off his chin. Draco knew crying out only strengthened his father’s resolve to hurt his victim. Once Lucius Malfoy was out of breath from laughter, he let Severus out of the unforgivable and slammed him onto the cold, stone floor.

The magical lock on Draco’s door was let slip as his father heaved, “Draco, get down here and clean up this bloody mess!”

Lucius swept out of the room, muttering, “Finite tegere,” lifting the protective spell from the Malfoy Manor. Draco muddled down the stairs as best he could, and even though his professor was undoubtedly in much more pain than he, Severus still breathed in and said, “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

As the two broken wizards made their way to a safer part of the mansion, each thought of the first night this happened, a month prior. The day school term ended. The day Severus confronted Lucius about Draco’s treatment. The day Lucius revealed Draco had willingly told his father about Snape’s treachery rather than face the Cruciatus and a dose of Veritaserum. Of course, Draco hadn’t recalled the painful encounter due to strong memory charms his father cast upon him. This was the day Severus Snape lost much power in his own life, only to give more to the dark side he now sourly detested.

..............................

In muggle Surrey, dementors had attacked Harry Potter. After an amazing show of skill and sheer power, Harry defeated them. He drug his massive cousin back to Number 4, Privet Drive, slammed the front entryway door behind him, and was informed by swift owl he was expelled and must attend a hearing for the transgression of use of underage magic. Lovely. Over the next few moments, during a rapid succession of confusing owls, the Dursleys learnt far, far too much about the wizarding world to be healthy for Harry James Potter.

As Harry’s explanations and the letters finally made sense to the overgrown brute of an Uncle, Vernon surmised: Harry is set to have a trial where the wizard govern-whatzits will decide if they will snatch his wand, banish him from school, maybe even imprison him. 'Delicious!'

After bellowing at Harry to go to bed, Vernon further assumed that the boy no longer had anyone on his side; he was in trouble with the law. He was helpless, and would definitely rot in that Azkawhooie wizard prison if he dared to use his wand again. Vernon realized he could finally give the boy the treatment he deserved.

As Hermione woke from an hour of light dozing she felt her temple explode with pain. 'Oh, why did I sleep?' she chastised herself, 'I know it only makes the pain worse.' She listened carefully for a few moments and, hearing only muffled snoring, she slunk downstairs and beheld what was becoming an all-too-familiar scene. Shattered dishes and debris littered the floor and furniture. The blue and cream striped couch, now graced with permanent toffee-colored alcohol stains, cradled her father. As usual, he was covered with the regurgitated breakfast he had demanded his child prepare in the middle of the night.

Starting with the glass and garbage strew about, Hermione willed her father not to wake up. She worked quickly and silently, repeating her newfound mantra, 'I'll be back at Hogwarts soon.' Having sicked up herself the first time cleaning up vomit she forced herself to ignore the urge this time; her legs were still bruised from that mistake.

"Nee-nee," a small, sleepy voice whispered from behind the banister, "You okay?"

Immediately shushing her eleven year-old sister, Hermione admonished, "Go back upstairs. Stay out of sight!"

"Ok, Nee-nee," came the soft reply, "I love you." And Hermione wearily started making lunch.

........................................................

Draco fetched blankets, towels, and water, and desperately tried to ease Severus' suffering. It scared Draco to see him shaking and twitching. This had been the second time father used the Cruciatus on his professor, and Draco was painfully certain it would not be the last.

The boy washed his teacher's face tenderly and righted his robes. He bundled the trembling man in a warm blanket and murmured comforting words and apologies all the while.

'You're such a horrible, spoilt brat!' Draco heard screaming in his skull. 'If it weren't for you messing up all the time and getting punished, Professor Snape would not have to endure this agony! It's your fault this happens!'

Draco thought back to when Severus had first noticed something was dreadfully wrong that past winter, and snapshots of the holiday flittered through his consciousness. A hand to his throat, lifting his slender frame off the floor, gagging, choking for breath.

"How dare you disobey me, Draco!"

When his father used his wand hand to cast Lacertus morsum, a nasty curse that made the recipient's muscles tighten and spasm all at once, the boy had fallen onto the stone tiles with a sickening thud. As Lucius used his feet to kick and the snake's head tip of his cane to slam into Draco, his son had begun to wail and cry. At this, his father became stronger and more forceful. As the tow-headed teenager drifted into unconsciousness he felt hot breath lick his face as it said,

"Your cry-baby stint has earned you a meeting with me every day of your holiday. Except Yule."

Draco remembered feeling relieved and surprised at those last two words until Lucius hissed, "On Yule I will grant you two."

Draco was snapped out of his reverie when a slightly strengthened Severus whispered, "Come, let me heal you, my child."

As Draco slid over, the gentle question came, "What did he do to you this time?"

The fair-haired boy cringed inside and out, then heard, 'Why does he care?' asked incredulously in his head.

Severus began the difficult task of extracting information from his battered student. He was inclined to order the boy to strip down to knickers; he no doubt had marks over most of his body again. Severus squelched his impatient streak for the moment and listened as Draco stuttered and mumbled through an explanation.

It bothered Severus that with each explanation, Draco began, "I . . ." The boy always described what he had done to deserve the punishment - in Lucius' eyes. It was usually something very minor, such as being late to breakfast or spilling pumpkin juice; not that even severe misbehavior would warrant this type of treatment.

Severus noted that Draco was comparatively better this week than he'd been just after school ended; Young Master Malfoy only had one broken bone, and the bruises and welts were confined to his back and feet.

Draco almost smiled as he said, "Father only punished me twice this week!"

Severus fished out the pertinent potions to heal Draco's wounds as he whispered, "I've been trying to think of a way to get you out of here, Draco, but I can't think of any that wouldn't . . . take me away from you."

The young Malfoy know what would happen if his professor took action against his father: an informed Lord Voldemort would kill him - that is, if Lucius didn't kill Severus first. It wasn't as if Wizarding authorities would reprimand Lucius anyway, he was too . . . influential. Lucius had simply taken this opportunity to retain yet another marionette to abuse.

"Professor!" Draco said incredulously, looking into his professor's eyes, "You've done so much already! Every time you come here to heal me you get tortured and I can't thank you enough . . . I -" As Draco's timid voice trailed off he straightened his back and averted his eyes. "I don't want you to come again, professor. I'll be fine sir, and I'll see you at Hogwarts in September."

How Draco. Severus only sighed and, without another word, pulled the boy into his arms, sending strength and stabilizing energy through the embrace.

Fiora popped in and said, with a bow, "Lunch is served, Master Malfoy, sir." Severus promised he'd be back and apparated away, leaving Draco very much alone.

.......................................................

As Harry trudged exhaustedly down the stairs at five in the morning to water the flowers, weed the garden, dust and sweep the downstairs rooms, he was startled into alertness. Not only was his lazy Uncle Vernon awake, he was sitting at the dining table - waiting for Harry. He had a grisly grin on his face and as he took in Harry's wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression he began to chuckle evilly. His left hand, resembling an over-ripe tomato with five fleshy roots growing out, moved to pat something that had been blending in with the woodwork of the table: his thickest leather belt.

Harry's chest tightened as the words, "W- What did I do, sir?" escaped his lips.

Uncle Vernon lumbered over to his nephew and spat, "What did you do, boy? What did you do? You lived!"

As Vernon left he tossed over his shoulder; "You won't have meal privileges today, and don't even try stealing anything. I'll be watching you." At the edge of the stair he boomed, "Now get to work!"

He had taken the belt with him, and Harry hoped the little act had just been a ploy to scare him. 'Yeah, that's what it's got to be, right? I only get beat with the belt when I've done something destructive with my magic.'

He set to work on his tasks, and by the time he started breakfast he was desperately hungry. All he'd gotten to eat the previous day were bread crusts at breakfast, before the madness had started. However his uncle had already looked about for him twice, both times catching Harry's eye and grinning. Harry noticed the man had dressed, with his favorite leather belt cinching his disgusting belly fat.

So Harry served the Dursleys and waited to clear the table, forcing his mouth to stop watering and his stomach to stop gurgling.

At the end of the meal, Vernon piped up, "Petunia, Dudley, I have a surprise for you." He produced a one hundred pound note and a pair of tickets to the circus. "I am treating you to a Mummy/Dudders day out to eat sweets and buy treats! Get dressed, and you aren't to come back 'til every penny is spent!"

Dudley raced up the steps, shaking the china, and Petunia planted a sloppy kiss on her husband's bloated lips before hurrying after her son.

Vernon grinned, "And we're having a special day together too, boy. Clear the table!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," came the standard reply.

As his uncle ran the soapy dishwater in the sink, Harry thought for a moment he'd gone mad. 'Uncle Vernon's helping me with my chores? Maybe he is capable of understanding what I went through yesterday,' Harry thought.

Then Harry noticed the water from the tap was steaming. Reading his mind, the elder Dursley spewed, "The water has to be hot to kill all the germs, Potty. You wouldn't want Dudders to get sick, would you?"

Harry tried to was the dishes gingerly, but his burly uncle was standing right behind him griping in his ear, "Scrub, Potty. Really scrub!" Only it sounded to Harry like, "Ssskerrubb," like Vernon was chewing the word up and spitting it out. Harry forced himself to plunge his fiery hands into the boiling-hot water over and over, willing himself not to cry out or even flinch.

Vernon was not satisfied with this lack of reaction, apparently. As soon as his wife and son shouted thank-yous and good-byes, Vernon ran more scalding water into the sink, snatched Harry's arms just below the elbows, and sank his forearms into the biting fluid. As Harry struggled and eventually let pained gasps out of his mouth, Vernon relaxed and let go his grip.

"Stick out those dirty hands, boy!" was yelled as Vernon took off his belt.

"These are the hands that steal from my family!" And he viciously whipped the battered palms ten times rapidly in succession.

"These are the hands that do magic - you've even managed to get yourself in trouble with your people, you stupid, worthless piece of rubbage!" Ten more.

Harry was told to turn his hands over and his uncle continued berating him and beating his knuckles whilst the boy-who-lived's eyes rolled around dazedly in his eye sockets. Harry heard each resounding smack; with each his mind flashed a snippet of another beating. His first real thrashing at the age of four when he'd been upset because he had no Christmas presents. The tree had mysteriously caught fire. And another - when Harry had burst all of Dudley's balloons at the part with one frustrated glare. And another - when Harry had let the snake out at the zoo and Dudley had been trapped in its habitat.

Harry came back to the present, screaming as he was knocked into the wall with a vicious belt slap across his left cheek. "Are you even listening to me boy?"

More thrashes came to Harry's side and arms. "Yes, sir!"

"Go put some garden gloves on and trim the bloody hedges. And not one sound, Potty boy, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Vernon proceeded to drag a lawn chair out front and sip pims as Harry struggled painfully with the clippers. When Harry finished the hedges with a sigh of relief, Vernon directed sweetly, "The edging, too, Harry dear." After another sweaty hour, Harry was allowed to go back in the house - to make lunch for one, of course.

As Hermione prepared chicken and chips for the midday meal, a plate slipped through her shaky fingers.

“Hermione,” a groggy voice barked, “Get me a gin!”

The new mum of the house pulled the half-empty gin bottle from the refrigerator, poured it into a tall, thin glass with the single, prescribed ice cube, and carefully carried it to her father.

“What time is it?” he grumbled.

“Half past one, sir.”

“Why in the hell isn’t lunch on the table yet, you beastly girl? Your sister must be starving. Cecily!” he called up to her.

A bob of tousled strawberry blonde hair poked out from between the banisters. “Yes, Daddy?”

“Are you very hungry, darling?” he asked gently, although both girls caught the menacing undertone.

The youngest faltered, stealing a glance at Hermione; Hermione stood leaning away from their father, one arm grasping the other across her body as if to shelter her very soul. “No, Daddy. I’m hardly hungry yet.”

The man sat back looking almost disappointed as he snapped, “Quit fannying around and finish up!”

As the three sat down to lunch a swift breeze bounced through the kitchen window. It was soon followed by a tufted tawny school owl with haunted silver eyes. Hermione caught the letter expertly in one hand as she was accustomed to doing at school. For a moment her heart warmed with remembrances of the notes and small packages her mother always sent throughout the year. As Hermione’s gaze met her father’s her heart turned to steel springs, tensed and waiting to snap. She hastily tucked the letter into her back pocket and trained her eyes on the dry piece of chicken currently gracing her plate.

Her father picked up his glass of gin and hurled it in Hermione’s direction. Cecily let out a small scream as it shattered on the wall directly behind her sister’s head.

“Well . . .” came the father’s growl.

“Yes, sir?” came the teary-eyed girl’s usual response.

A pause, and as Hermione reluctantly lifted her head to gaze upon the fury, it roared, “Get me another glass of gin your daft little witch!” And leave the bottle.”

Hermione jumped up, and as her bare, pale feet tried to escape the shards of glass a more-than-insistent, “And right quickly, girl!” caused her to side-step.

The glass hungrily chewed on her feet as she quickly maneuvered around the kitchen to fulfill the command.

A second owl buzzed her head as she poured the gin. She moved to snatch up the falling letter from the great grey owl but, to her surprise, the feathered being alighted on her sister’s chair and dropped the letter in Cecily’s lap.

Hermione had wished Cessy would be invited to Hogwarts, but she honestly had not expected it. Her sister was very different from herself; she had never excelled at school and did not seem to have the inner spark with which Hermione had been born.

Mr. Granger held out one hand to take the letter from Cecily and snapped his fingers at Hermione with the other. “Drink!” He opened the letter after taking several gulps of the crystal poison. “Just Hogwarts nonsense, sweetums. Nothing to worry about. Daddy wouldn’t send you away.”

Hermione silently willed her sister not to utter a response.

“But . . .” began Cessy, with her head down submissively, “But I want to go, Daddy.”

“You will not be going Cecily.” He turned to his eldest. “And you’re getting blood all over the floor you nasty girl! What is the matter with you?”

“Sorry, sir,” Hermione intoned as she forced herself to begin cleaning the floor.

Cecily unwisely began to wine, “But Daddy, I want to go with Hermione. Please let me just try it. Just for one year, pleeeeease?”

“Silence, Cecily!” Mr. Granger yelled. It was what Hermione had feared. Her father was going to be violent with her sister now, too.

“That’s not fair! Why does she get to go and I don’t?” Cecily pouted.

“Fine then, both of you will stay home.”

Hermione’s head swirled with fuzz, her stomach lurched and she sicked up all over the floor. She instinctively crawled further away from her father, but she wasn’t quick enough. She sprawled onto her back after a heavy boot connected with her shoulder.

“And you,” the father grumbled, turning to his youngest daughter, “You can forget about that so-called school. If it hadn’t been for her going to that bloody school your mother would still . . .”

He began to break down, but downed the rest of the fifth of gin instead.

“It’s not Hermione’s fault, Daddy. If you’d have driven mum to get the gift like she asked . . . but you told her to take a cab –“ Cecily was cut off as she received her first ferocious smack across the face.

Hermione rushed to get between the two, her collar bone screeching with white-hot pain. Her father picked her up and threw her into the larder cupboard, jamming a kitchen chair up under the handle. Hermione struggled to push the door open, but to no avail.

The now raging, drunk man roughly turned his youngest over his lap and began to smack her bum. It was loud and hard, but Hermione was thankful that was all he was doing at the moment. As the girl’s protests grew louder, Hermione realized the situation could escalate quickly.

“Be quiet, Cessy. Just take it,” Hermione called from inside the dank, dark space.

“Shut up you little witch!” came her father’s reply. As he moved to pound on the larder door, Cecily made a run for it. She slammed face first into the glassy floor as he caught her shirt. Her father pounded on her back with his fists as she wailed. Picking up a wire whisk he assaulted her with it as she curled up protectively into a ball. Suddenly, he stopped, inwardly horrified with himself. He stomped out of the kitchen and, with a jingle of keys, the door shut and a car squealed out of the drive.

....................................................

Draco ran down the regal mahogany stairs, cursing the potions for not working more quickly. It was the first time he’d been beaten on the soles of his feet, and the gashes seared with each step.

“You’re late again, Draco,” gushed his mother, as her son’s bright eyes turned to lead.

“Yes, Draco, we’ll deal with that after lunch,” said Lucius.

As Draco forced himself to take a few bites of his meal, a wise choice considering Draco never knew how long he’d be confined to his room without meals after a punishment, a familiar barn owl settled on the vast windowsill. After a nod from his father Draco rose, took the letter, and scanned it before handing it over.

“Ah yes, it is that time of year again. We’ll go to Diagon Alley after we take care of your punishment.”

Draco cringed, and the rest of the meal was eaten in stony silence.

In Draco’s bedroom it was uttered, “Take your shirt and trousers off and lie on the bed. I’ll allow you undergarments, this time.”

“Thank you, father.” Draco immediately complied as his father transfigured a thick strap from a spare bit of string. Taking a few practice swings at the bedpost, Lucius prompted, “Tell me why I must punish you.”

Draco hated every bit of the punishments, but this part always proved particularly demeaning. He began, “When I am late to a meal, I show disrespect and contempt to my elders. Please punish me, father, to teach me respect.”

The reply having been satisfactory, Lucius began beating his son’s legs. He knew from the look of things Severus had applied healing potions again. The senior Malfoy allowed this because he rather liked having a blank slate on which to work; it allowed him to see the immediate results of his current handiwork.

Lucius mercilessly his the exact same spot several times in a row, waiting for his son to involuntarily convulse from the strain of keeping in his cries before moving a few inches down to a new target. After all the flesh on the back of Draco’s legs was aching to the bone and purple welts disguised the skin his father told his to turn over.

Draco was particularly horrified the times his father beat the front of his body; not only did he have to watch each lick as it crashed down on him, he had to keep his face in a stoic, emotionless state. Draco forced his mind to retreat to the Slytherin dungeons as his father repeated his treatment on the front of the boy’s legs.

“Stand up, Draco,” came the command, “And hold out your arms, palms up.” The strap disappeared as his father held up his cane, holding it by the snake’s head. Draco concentrated on making his horribly throbbing legs obey as his father brought the thick stick down on his forearms. Draco fell to the floor, but immediately picked himself up and held his arms out again. After countless blinding strokes his father turned and swiftly left the room, stating, “We leave for Diagon Alley in five minutes. Do not be late!”

...........................................

“Clear the table and do the dishes, boy. I trust you are able to run the hot water yourself this time?”

Harry knew what this meant. “Yes, sir. I can do it myself, Uncle Vernon.” Harry allowed himself to inspect his raw hands as the water made the blisters and welts and even angrier shade of red. He worked quickly as he felt his Uncle’s presence hovering in the room.

His thoughts wandered. What time did a circus begin? 1:00, 2:00, later? It seemed odd that Dudley and Aunt Petunia would become his saviors . . . or would they? Would they watch? Join in?

Harry shook his dark, shaggy head, trying to rid thoughts from his mind. It dawned on him to utilize his Occlumency training in order to calm himself; he cleared his mind and pictured nothingness as his hands throbbed with every movement, grasp, and stinging touch of scorching water. Finished, he took a shaky deep breath and turned round. His uncle had the belt off. The slack end was wrapped around his hand; the buckle-end was swaying by his side.

“Take your clothes off.”

Harry stood, speechless, like a statue. He was going to be beaten, naked, with a heavy silver buckle. Uncle Vernon had beaten him before, many times, but never with the buckle end. And he always did it over whatever Harry happened to be wearing.

“Are you deaf as well as daft, boy? Do as I say!” Harry wanted to protest; noticing his uncle’s face had already turned a pale purple, he decided against it. He began attempting to unbutton his shirt with trembling, swollen fingers.

“Ooh, do ickle Potty Boy’s fingertips have boo-boos?” his uncle mocked. “I don’t have all day, boy!”

‘Can I stall ‘til the others arrive?’ Harry wondered. However as Vernon began to advance hastily, Harry decided against this course of action as well. He lifted his shirt over his head and, with a glance into his uncle’s eyes to silently plead against it, took his socks, shoes, and trousers off as well.

Vernon inched closer and in a sickening tone breathed, “Everything, boy.”

“Uncle Vernon, please –” Harry was punched in the eye and as he fell his last remaining shred of clothing was whisked off.

“Lie on the table.”

Harry threw himself on the cold wooden monster, hoping to cause himself the least amount of shame possible.

“You have always been an embarrassment to our fine family, boy.” Harry tried to listen; perhaps he could reason with his uncle if he listened. “You’ve always been a freak, scaring away dinner guests, clients, family members. I can finally give you the punishment you deserve now I don’t have meddling magic buggers to worry about cursing me.” The massive oaf’s tone and volume took a menacing dive. “You have no one, you know. You are all alone, just as you deserve, you pathetic son of a bitch!”

Before Harry could utter a word, the first stroke came. Harry felt as if he had a hot poker boring into his skin. Vernon was not careful when aiming; he struck his nephew all over, save hi head. Harry learnt long ago to keep still; his Uncle grew even angrier if he struggled. After a few moments, though, Harry could take it no longer. His uncle was hitting him full force and Harry could tell the buckle was now wet with his blood. The boy put a hand back to try to stop the pain in his thin, brittle back and heard a sickening crack as the buckle struck his right arm. He rolled to one side and to his horror his uncle pinned him on his back, striking his front now. Harry writhed as the silver serpent struck every inch of his front.

Vernon stopped. “Clean up, get dressed, and move all your things back to your cupboard. Leave the bed. Dirt belongs on the ground, so that’s where you’ll sleep,” and he spat directly in Harry’s face.

Harry laid deathly still as Vernon stalked up the stairs. Breathing meant a million shards of searing lightening scored his chest. Yet he knew he couldn’t just lie here, nude, on the literally bloody kitchen table. Harry cleared his mind and screamed at himself inside his head, ‘Stop feeling! It doesn’t hurt. Stop it! Stop it!’ He gritted his teeth and, with a punctuated yelp, got down from the table. He crumpled on the floor; his feet just wouldn’t support him. ‘As few movements as possible, and quit being such a stupid, crying sod!’ Harry cleaned the blood off the kitchen surfaces with his shirt, then dressed. It took some time to crawl to the stairs and haul himself to Dudley’s spare bedroom on his hands and knees, pack, and push his trunk down the stairs. He was thoroughly grateful his uncle did not protest when the heavy trunk thudded down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a loud crash.

As Harry dragged himself into the familiar, loathed, cramped space he felt as if here were being sucked back in time, to when he was ten and had no hope – none whatsoever. In a way, this was worse. He had tasted happiness and freedom, albeit in small doses, but as he drifted into an exhausted, fitful sleep his lingering though was,

‘It would have been better not to have known hope than to have it beaten out of me.’

Hermione’s chest ached with sympathy for her poor sister. The older girl vividly recalled how betrayed and alone she’d felt the first time her father had taken out his rage on her.

“Cessy . . . Cessy? Just take deep breaths, ok? He’s gone now; you know he won’t be back until late tonight.”

The sobbing continued, punctuated with great gasping breaths and whinging. “How could he do that to me, Ne-Ne?”

A bevy of responses flooded Hermione’s mind. ‘Should I tell her it’s because he was drunk – like that’s an excuse? That he’s grieving and his way of coping is lashing out? That Cecily had incensed him by intimating mother’s death was his fault? That he hated her now, too, because she’s a witch?’

In the end, Hermione simply stated the obvious: “He does the same to me.” She waited, hoping for a favorable response. When one was not forthcoming, Hermione continued, “Cessy? Can you move? If I can get out of here, I can help you clean up.”

It was silent for a few moments, and just as the girl in the larder opened her mouth to call to her sister again, the chair was removed and the door swung open.

“It’s the magic, isn’t it? The letter, boarding school . . . He doesn’t want me to be like you.” Cecily declared this opinion with an unfamiliar sneer.

Hermione faltered as she looked at her sister’s back, the younger girl having turned away. She was dialing the phone.

“Hallo, Daddy? I’m so sorry, Daddy! I don’t want to leave you and I don’t want to go to that wretched school . . . No, I don’t want to be like her! . . . Oh, Daddy, I know you didn’t mean it.”

Cecily held out the phone. Hermione took it, gaping. She’d tried and tried to apologize to her father, to make up for her mother’s death, but he’d never relented with her. Maybe now he would? A smile nearly graced her lips as she held the receiver to her ear.

“I’m coming home. That kitchen best be clean when I get back or you’ll get more of the same. And pour me a Double Scotch Neet.”

The tone went dead as Hermione slouched to the floor, holding her shoulder. She felt as if a dementor was hovering, sucking energy from her solar plexus. Slowly, she crawled round the kitchen, picking up glass and wiping up blood.

She heard the entrance door slam. “Daddy!” Cecily squealed, and Hermione wondered if she’d get slapped. Instead she heard, “Sweetheart! I’m so sorry, Cessy. Are you all right, then?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you want some ice cream?”

“Sure, Daddy!”

Hermione shrank back as heavy footsteps approached. “Where the hell’s my Scotch?”

The crouching girl could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, for a long moment. She was stunned, hurt, baffled – to say the least. In the last several minutes the part of Hermione that hoped her father still loved her had expired.

Her father shoved her out of the way with his foot, poured a tall Scotch, and set out the ice cream. Hermione remained covering in a corner while her sister and father shared a large bowl of Neapolitan with chocolate syrup. As the man kissed Cessy on the forehead and prepared to go at the pub, Hermione found her small voice, having reasoned out a plan.

“Sir?”

“What!” he exclaimed exasperatedly.

“May I please go to Hogwarts this year?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I want you here? To see your pitiful, ugly little face and rat’s nest of hair every day? Good riddance to yeh!” And with that, he was gone.

Cecily helped Hermione compress and bandage her shoulder and chest, clean the glass out of her feet, and put on clean clothes. This was all done with a tense silence settled on the girls.

When Hermione had been taken care of, Cecily looked up at her bewildered sister and, with a sigh, said, “I can’t lose both parents, now, can I? I mean, I’ve got to do what I can, don’t I?” Hermione just stared in the girl’s direction, looking bewildered. “Hermione, do you forgive me?”

And although Hermione scarcely understood Cecily’s motivations and felt a growing hostility toward her sister, she wasn’t keen on alienating the only relative who still seemed to care.

“Of course, Cessy. I forgive you. And I love you.”

“I love you too, Ne-Ne!” the girl cried, giving Hermione a light hug so as not to hurt her. “You know you can’t tell anyone, don’t you? They’ll take me away, and then . . . and then . . .”

“I won’t tell anyone, Cessy. As long as he doesn’t hurt you again, ok?”

“He won’t. I know he won’t. Thank you, Ne-Ne.”

The sisters said their good-nights. Hermione waited until she was certain her sister slept, then packed a bag with her school books, robes, and potions equipment.

She reached the road and, without looking back, stuck out her wand hand.

To the driver of the Knight Bus she said, “The Burrow; Arthur Weasley, please.” She dropped most of her remaining sickles into the till and braced herself for a long, painful ride.

..............

Draco was measured for the finest robes, gifted with monogrammed gold quills, and outfitted with brand new accessories for all his wizarding studies. Every child that passed the Malfoy duo went green with envy, glaring at Draco and cursing his unparalleled good fortune.

As Lucius and Draco entered Flourish & Blotts, lanky raven hair clothed in the sleekest of black robes slid behind a tall bookcase to observe. As the hunched shopkeeper rounded up Draco’s fifth year spell books, Lucius waved a hand indicating Draco should carry them. The spy noted Draco took them carefully, grasping them with his hands in an awkward manner. Lucius turned and sneered at the child.

Abruptly, he snatched the volumes from his son’s hand and commanded, “Hold them properly, Draco!”

The boy glanced up at his father’s face, paled, and held out his arms – palms up. Lucius forcibly dropped the heavy stack into his son’s grasp. The spy noted Draco’s neck wavered very slightly as an irrepressible shiver flew up his spine.

Severus showed himself as the Malfoys prepared to pay. He knew Draco was hurting; he needed to come a bit closer to discern if an immediate visit was necessary.

“Severus,” the older of the two saw the professor first, “What a coincidence. Draco and I just finished purchasing new potions equipment, didn’t we, Draco?”

“Yes, sir.”

With brief eye contact Severus caught glimpse of a look he’d seen all too frequently. Draco’s eyes were vacant, as if his irises had been replaced by portent storm clouds.

“You should join us for dinner this evening, Severus. Say eightish?”

Draco shuddered and shook his head, trying to forbid his beloved professor from taking more damage on his behalf.

When the professor realized he’d been staring at the broken boy in front of him, his eyes snapped back to Lucius. “I’d be delighted.” With a curt nod it was settled.

“Come, Draco, you have studying to do,” drawled the senior Malfoy. Severus sighed, watched the two walk toward Knockturn Alley, then rushed back to his lab to replenish the vials he knew he would need, for himself and for Draco.

.........................

“Draco, you are to go to your room and study chapter one of each of your new texts. You will be tested after dinner.”

Draco scurried up the stairs. Very gratefully he dropped his heavy books from his deeply bruised arms. “I have four hours to read and memorize . . . roughly 200 pages of material,’ he thought with a grimace. The boy perched on the edge of his massive, antique desk chair, keeping hard wood away from his aching thighs. ‘At least I’ll have a potion or two before I’m beaten for giving wrong answers.’

He cracked open his History of Magic, year 5 book to read about the Medieval Sorcerer’s Uprising of the 14th century when panic gripped his throat. After dinner . . . Professor Snape . . . father wouldn’t – test- him in front of his professor, would he? ‘Surely not!’ Draco tried to convince himself, but quickly forced his concentration on studying.

A half past seven Draco rose and tried to get his stiff muscles to spring into action. He washed and dressed carefully, taking time to gently clean the dried blood from his legs and arms. Favoring his darkest green dress shirt and longest black robes in case the bleeding started up again, Draco regarded himself in the mirror.

“I will not scream. I will not cry. And if Professor Snape is made to watch, I will not look him in the eye.”

A sharp ‘pop’ and Fiora announced, “Master Malfoy demands Young Master’s presence in the dining room. Young Master is to bring his books with him, carried properly, sir.” With a hurried sympathetic look, the elf vanished with another bright ‘pop.’

The door chime rang and Narcissa shrilled, “Fiora! Greet our guest!” Draco kept his head down as he rushed from the staircase to the dining room. He stood, holding the tomes as they licked his tender arms, awaiting further instruction.

“Ah, Severus, always a pleasure,” Professor Snape was greeted. Being alone, Draco did not suppress a violent tremor this time. These ‘visits’ always began with that sickeningly suggestive phrase.

“Place the books on the receiving table, Draco. We don’t need them just yet.”

Narcissa took her seat; the men, in pecking order, followed. What seemed to Draco like an elaborate dance began. After a sumptuous meal during which the boy and the teacher at very little, the prima ballerina was icily excused with, “I know you’re tired, Narcissa. You may feel free to retire.”

Lucius led his two marionettes into the library, instructing Draco to bring his schoolbooks. The professor moved to assist Draco but was rejected with a rigid, terrorized shake of the head.

“Draco, I trust you’ve had sufficient time to study the required material.”

“Yes, father,” came the shaky, required response.

“Bring me the books, then stand in the middle of the rug.” Lucius summoned red wine for himself and Severus, explaining, “I thought it wise to give Draco a head-start on his work this year, considering his abysmal grades last term.”

Draco had received four Outstandings and two Exceeds Expectations.

“I’m sure you will be of use, Professor Snape.”

The pas de trios ended, and Draco’s solo began. The boy felt very much in the spotlight, very uncomfortable, and he was attempting to quell the rush of dread taking over his stomach.

“Let us see, hmmm . . . yes. Draco, give me the name of the most influential wizard in the coup of 15 June, 1324.”

‘He’s starting with History. Perhaps I have a chance!’ Draco hoped.

“Avril Mapes, sir,” he answered triumphantly.

“Hmmm . . . too easy a question I see.” Draco’s face fell. He knew he couldn’t win. Lucius continued, “Give me the date for the Battle at Vervigny.”

“1327, sir.”

“The date, you imbecilic scamp, not the year.”

Draco had to guess, “18 January, sir?”

“Wrong!” the word rang out from his father’s chest.

“Luc— Master Malfoy, this material is only tested at Hogwarts after a week of lecture and homeworks . . .” Severus protested.

“Expelliarmus!” was cast unexpectedly, as Severus’ wand flew to Lucius.

“Come here, Draco," the dark wizard commanded. When the boy stood in front of his father he was backhanded with digits full of exquisite rings. Draco hardly reacted; this was nothing in comparison. The professor, however, was incensed. He knew his student was beaten frequently, viciously, but he’d never seen it take place.

“Lucius, how dare you –” Severus was cut off as the Cruciatus was again thrust upon his figure.

This was something Draco had never seen. It was awful; worse than he ever could have imagined. His professor’s eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth was frozen in a silent scream, and every muscle was rigid and twitching.

“Father, please, stop!” Draco begged, and Lucius released the horrid spell.

“But I wasn’t finished yet, Draco. You’ve spoilt my experience,” the wretched wizard practically pouted. “You don’t like seeing your precious professor hurt?”

Draco looked at Professor Snape, lying curled up on the floor. As Severus came back into awareness he heard, “I have a good two minutes of Cruciatus itching to escape. You choose, son: you, or him.”

The boy felt empowered and terrified at once. When he was locked in his room, listening, he always wished he could take the pain on behalf of his solemn caretaker. On the other hand what he had just seen made him fear for his sanity. Could a child take this curse?

Severus was attempting to push a, “No!” from his parched throat when the boy answered, “Me. I’ll take it, sir.”

Lucius was surprised, a bit impressed, actually, though he’d never admit it to his son. “Very well, foolish child. Crucio!”

Draco immediately cried out, great, gasping, nearly ethereal screams were thrown from the pit of his soul. Thoroughly exhausted from the torture curse, Severus cursed himself that he did not have the strength to move.

When Lucius concluded the unforgivable, he set a strong ‘Enervate’ on the two. “Take your place, Draco, and we’ll continue with your test. Unless you’d rather continue with the Cruciatus?”

Draco scrambled back to the center of the carpet as quick as his shattered body allowed. He glanced at Snape, but had to do a double take; the man had tears coursing down his cheeks. Draco felt guilty; he figured his professor must still be in an amazing amount of pain from the curse to actually cry.

“I think we’ve had enough history for now. Let us move on to Potions. Oh, look, your professor’s aching to quiz you,” Malfoy taunted at Snape. “Severus, would you be so kind?”

Professor Snape cleared his throat as he waved away the offered book.

“I assure you, Master Malfoy, I am very well acquainted with the text.” This was said as acidly as any words he’d ever uttered. He focused on his student, trying to strengthen the boy’s spirit with a connection through the eyes. But Draco would not meet his gaze.

‘He’s going to make Professor Snape beat me,’ Draco realized.

“Draco, why would it be detrimental to add too many doxy eggs to a concoction with lacewings?”

“Lacewings must bind around each egg to form a compound. Additional doxy eggs would prove toxic, sir.”

“Very good, Draco,” Severus said, giving a rare bit of praise.

“Very easy, Severus. Do better next question, or the boy will pay for your insolence,” insisted Lucius.

“Explain the importance of moondew in draught of sorrow’s past.”

Quietly, “I don’t know, sir,” came from Draco’s direction, as Lucius Accioed a thick, crooked cane to rest on Snape’s lap.

“Go over to your professor, remove your robes, and bend over,” Lucius directed his son.

Severus stood, the hated instrument clattering to the floor. He’d been caned innumerable times as a child and could never bring himself to even touch the thing. “I will not, Lucius!”

“Watch yourself, Severus. You will do as I say; a caning will not kill Draco, but disobedience will kill you.”

Draco said in a small voice, “Please, Professor Snape, sir, punish me so I may learn competence in my studies.”

“Or perhaps you’d rather watch the boy under the Cruciatus again, Severus?” Lucius drawled.

That sealed the deal. Severus steeled himself and picked up the miserable cane, hitting Draco solidly, but not hard enough to really hurt.

“Harder,” came the execrable demand. Severus complied, striking a bit harder. “I’m getting impatient, Snape! Hit his as hard as you can, or I’ll do it myself!”

Draco gave a hushed whimper, signaling Severus that his father taking over the punishment was the last thing he wanted. The teacher grit his teeth, knowing his student was moments from a hideous beating by his father if he couldn’t muster the strength the do this. After three full-force lashes, Lucius relented.

The professor’s eyes stayed trained on Draco as ‘Master Malfoy’ insisted question after question be asked. Severus couldn’t believe how emotionless his student could make himself. The boy barely blinked or sighed as he was beaten thoroughly by the potions master.

Lucius deemed it was time to move through the other subjects, and gave Severus the choice of who should ‘punish Draco,’ as he put it. Severus did not hesitate to keep control of the cane; at least if he continued to wield it, Draco wouldn’t be beaten senseless. The elder Malfoy, ever intent on upping the ante, had further directions for his pitiable son.

“Remove your clothes, Draco. All of your clothes.” When Draco hesitated, his father bellowed, “Come here!”

Draco, masking the pain and moving proudly as required at all times, approached his father and braced himself to be backhanded again. His face now bleeding copiously, the boy was bid to do as he was told. Draco blushed furiously from cheek to ears, then forced a glazed, unfocused look into his eyes to distance himself from the deep humiliation. Standing in the spotlight, he gave one wrong answer after another then, unable to concentrate in the slightest.

Lucius succumbed to rage, even though his son’s blood now glittered up and down the cane from the thrashing.

“This has been an enjoyable evening, Severus, but it’s getting late.”

Lucius herded the aghast man out the door.

Thrusting the professor’s wand back into his hand, he growled, “I will summon you when you are welcome to return.”

As the manor door was slammed in his face, wards up and impenetrable, the professor fell to his knees, wretched, and wept. He hadn’t been able to heal Draco this time; instead, he caused his haggard pupil more pain. He forced himself to leave when Draco’s screams could plainly be heard from within, vowing to find a way for the boy to leave this house

...........................

The listless, shivering form of a battered boy stirred, and found itself ensconced in brittle darkness. He moved to find a light, unsure of just where he was or what had happened. A searing pain tore through his wand arm as he attempted to reach out. It all came roaring back to him: the dishes, the kitchen table, and his cupboard. He vomited, spilling acid weakly from his mouth. His shirt was stuck to his chest and back with dry blood making his skin crawl with discomfort. He carefully removed it to alleviate the itchy, burning sensation. He reached up with his unbroken arm and turned on the light, gasping in horror at his torso. It looked like he’d been on the receiving end of a stampede.

Harry attempted to find a more comfortable position, but since his entire body was incomprehensibly bruised and lacerated and he was lying on a frigid cement floor, he gave up and cleared his mind instead. ‘Float away, hover above, deny the pain,’ he repeated inside his mind until he had an empty feeling behind his eyes and all his pains had faded into an intense, throbbing ache.

Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard someone stir upstairs. Hastily he turned out the light, noting it was still black as pitch outside.

‘Stay upstairs, go back to sleep,’ he wished upon the overhead, unknown creature. Well, not completely unknown. The steps were much too heavy to come from bony Aunt Petunia. ‘It must be Dudley, or—' And as the words ‘Uncle Vernon’ ran through his mind, his heart rate soared and he painfully wrapped himself, good arm hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

Harry began to whimper and react to phantom blows as visions of the afternoon raced, like a film, over the insides of his eyelids. This halted when thuds came thundering down the stairs. The boy scrambled backward, pressing his seething back into a corner, emitting a high pitched squealing sound not unlike that of a horrified toddler.

The footsteps stopped outside his cupboard door. Harry froze; he didn’t breathe, whimper, or even twitch. The latch loosened, and the door seemed to move in slow motion.

As moonlight began to pour in, Harry’s cousin blabbered, “Boo! Hey, Potter! Nice and cozy?” Dudley gave Harry a playful kick, but when the curled-up boy’s only response was to draw a breath with a hiss and utter a low moan, Dudley switched on the light.

Harry heard a gasp as Dudley stumbled backward. “H-Harry? What in bloody hell happened?” When Harry’s only response was to look at Dudley, then cast his eyes upward as if to say, “It was him,” Dudley disappeared. Harry heard him rustling about in the downstairs loo. He allowed himself to relax a fraction, thoroughly relieved his stupid, gargantuan cousin was the one who’d loosened the gate to his parcel board dungeon.

Dudley returned, carrying a handful of aspirin and a large cup of water. “H-Here H-Harry, it’ll make you feel better.”

Harry eyed the pills, took three, and swallowed them with huge gulps of water. “Thanks.”

“You should keep the rest down here, in case you need it,” Dudley said shakily. “Can I get you anything? A blanket or a pillow, perhaps?”

“No, if Unc—” he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “If your father saw, I’d be in even more trouble.” Harry tried to shift his position and find a place to hide the pills.

Dudley realized his skinny cousin’s arm was fractured as it fell at a strange angle. “Oh, Harry, you’re really hurt! Do you need to go to hospital? I could get mum, she might help you . . .”

“No!” Harry said, louder and more forcefully than he’d intended. You’ve done more than enough, really. You should go back to bed now; I don’t want . . . anyone to wake up.”

Dudley motioned ‘one minute’ with a raised pointer finger, and stealthily returned with a large brace. “Remember when I hurt my arm at rugby? This really helped.” Dudley awkwardly helped Harry get it on and adjusted. “And Harry? I’m really, really sorry,” he said quietly as he backed out of the cramped space.

“Thanks, Dudley,” Harry said sincerely, an amazed look on his face.

Dudley sighed and began to close the cupboard door.

As an afterthought, he queried, “What did you do?”

The overgrown boy was left thoroughly puzzled when Harry emitted a low, hollow chuckle and drawled, “What did I do, Dudley? I lived.”

A raven haired boy was overcome with hysteria as the dungeon door at No. 4, Privet Drive was latched firmly shut.

Hermione stumbled off the Knight Bus to rest eyes on a pitch-dark Burrow. In answer to knocking she was accosted with a slap-happy Pidwidgeon. Exhausted, she settled down on a pile of rags in the barn and fought herself to sleep.

“Hermione? I didn’t expect to find you here, child.” Arthur Weasley was surprised, to say the least. He knew Molly had sent an invitation the evening prior, but they’d planned to collect Hermione from her home. After all, #12 Grimmauld Place couldn’t exactly be reached traveling the Tube.

Hermione sat up quickly, too quickly, and was startled by the sharp pain that shot from her chest to her neck.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked a concerned Father Weasley.

“Sorry. Yes, sir. I’m fine. I was just startled, sir.”

Arthur hadn’t remembered Hermione behaving so formally, but chalked it up to sleepiness. “Good. But you shouldn’t have traveled alone, dear. Did Molly mix up the directions in the post?”

Hermione thought fast. Did they send an owl to invite her? “I’m not sure, sir. Sorry.”

“Quite all right. We’re happy to have you. Ron and Ginny have been tormenting one another endlessly; they’ll certainly benefit from your company . . . Are you set, then? We’ll have to apparate; have you ever?”

Hermione had no idea where they were going, or what it would be like to apparate; she nodded anyway. “I’ve never apparated, but I’m ready, sir.”

“I’ll have to put my hands on your shoulders and hold tight. You’ll feel pressure, but we’ll be there in an eye blink. All right?”

Although the last thing she wanted was for someone to push down on her shoulders for the pain; the last thing she wanted was for a middle-aged man to hold her close for the fright, she picked up her bag and did as she was told.

Stifling a gasp – she would not betray her sister – Hermione endured the splitting pressure and found herself in a dark, comfortably decorated residence swimming with assorted witches and wizards. Molly dropped her activities to make a beeline for the girl.

“Hermione, darling, you’re early! I’m so glad to see you!” Arms opened wide, Hermione knew she couldn’t shun them. The big squeeze hurt so much, Hermione nearly cried out. As she shied away, the carrot-topped witch caught sight of her forehead.

“Oh, my, what happened there, dear?”

“I – um- tripped and hit my head on the- the banister.” ‘Damn!’ thought Hermione, ‘I’ll have to come across more convincingly than that to keep Cessy’s secret.’

Luckily, Mrs. Weasley was too distracted to notice the fib. “Oh, you poor dear! Severus!”

Hermione’s eyes went wide. Surely she didn’t mean –

“Yes, Molly?” came the clipped response from the darkly clad potions master.

“Hermione here’s got a nasty bump. Could you get her a potion?”

“Certainly,” he agreed, eyeing the much changed girl. My, she looked different. Thinner, first off, and her hair was limp and dirty; her clothes were mussed as well. Where was the smart appearance she always presented? Her stance and eyes were the most peculiar, however. She was hunched, curled a bit to one side, and her eyes were dark, spark-less.

“Come along, Miss Granger,” he bade her, robes swirling toward narrow steps. She followed meekly and bowed her head to cover her frightened face. Where was she and who were all these people? She wasn’t about to ask; what if it had been in the letter?

Snape stopped abruptly in front of a dark, carved wooden door. He motioned his student in.

“Have a seat, child,” he muttered calmly as he rifled through a worn cabinet. Taking out the basics, he turned and noticed the girl was perched awkwardly, visibly trying to sit up straight. What was she hiding? Best to tread lightly . . .

“May I examine your face, Miss Granger?” he asked nonchalantly.

Her eyes shot to his, “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” was her submissive reply.

She fought back her cumbersome locks, suddenly mortified a professor would see her looking so frazzled. Especially this professor. She stilled herself, admonishing her body not to flinch as the lights brightened with a flick of Snape’s wand. He gasped, noting the bruises along her cheekbone as well as the scabby mess on her forehead.

“How did this happen?”

“I tripped and hit my head of the banister, sir. Quite stupid of me.” She forced a chuckle, but silenced when a turn of his head and narrowed eyes revealed he wasn’t buying it.

“And your cheek?”

She looked down, caught off guard. Her mouth opened, the closed, searching for a story. “It’s embarrassing, sir. My little sister,” she began. Might as well blame her, given the reason for all the lying was Cecily’s request. “She really can be a nuisance, sir. She slapped me.”

“Ah,” he sighed, relieved. He didn’t need another broken child to look after. She was probably disheveled from the travel and apparition.

“Close your eyes. This will sting a bit.”

Before he could begin, a soot-laden envelope attacked him from the floo.

“Excuse me,” he coughed, turning his back to read the letter emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.

It was Hermione’s turn to be concerned. When her professor turned back round, his normally pasty complexion was positively white, his electric eyes vacant. He applied the potions distractedly and gave her a clinical explanation on when and how to use them.

He dismissed her then, and when she turned in the corridor to thank him he was already pouring a shaky tumbler of firewhiskey. She shuddered and hurried down the stairs, forcing a smile onto her dry lips. It turned genuine as she realized the crowd was clearing and moving into an adjacent room. Snape brushed past her as Mrs. Weasley crooned, “Better, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. And thank you, Professor Snape, sir.”

He waved his hand over his shoulder as Molly continued, “The Order’s meeting is about to begin. Ginny will show you to the room you’ll share.”

Hermione spent the next several hours chit-chatting and lounging about, reveling in the break from never-ending chores and blinding fear. She awakened next morning feeling wonderful, apart from the grinding agony along her collarbone. She’d tried using the potions there but they hadn’t done much. She wondered where all the adults had gone as she tucked in to her first hearty breakfast in ages.

…………………………………………

Draco awoke to a frightened Fiora tending to his injuries. He found himself lying in a heap on the floor where he’d been deposited several hours before.

Downstairs an unusual blue-grey owl swooped in the expansive bay window. Lucius opened the letter embellished with the Hogwarts seal.

Master Malfoy,

I am pleased to inform you that your son, Draco Malfoy, has been chosen for advanced study at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. If you allow, he is to apparate from Malfoy Manor with me at your leisure. Please indicate your acceptance/rejection of this opportunity via this owl to Severus Snape.

Respectfully,

Professor Snape

Lucius chuckled. Either Snape thought him an idiot or was vying for attention. He penned:

Snape,

You are cordially invited to dine at Malfoy manor tomorrow evening. Shall we say eightish? You may apparate with Draco at that time if a satisfactory agreement can be reached.

Master Lucius Malfoy

The owl gone, Lucius decided to play with his son. “Draco!” he was summoned, as the lock slid from his door.

“Yes, father?” came from the youth stumbling down stairs.

“What do you know about this?”

Draco took the parchment from his father’s albino talons. He read it, painstakingly careful not to show his extreme excitement. Either Professor Snape had devised a plan to get him out or he really had been selected as a top student. Either way, he was ecstatic.

“Nothing, sir,” he answered.

“Do you want to go?”

This was a dangerous question, but Draco knew the perfect answer this time. “I will do as you wish father.”

Lucius regarded his son, the answer was decidedly Slytherin. “Too right you will. Study chapters two today.”

That evening after dinner the grim ritual was repeated; it just hurt a great deal more this night. All of the wounds from the day before were pried open, and the cane was replaced with his father’s serpentine staff. He who wielded it was imminently more vicious than the gentle potions master as well.

…………………………………………

Harry awoke as earth-shaking steps tumbled overhead. He was a spooked animal as he clawed himself into a spiral of protection. Again, the door opened, but a meaty hand grabbed by him by matted hair this time.

“Not a word, boy!” his Uncle Vernon hissed. “Nobody’d believe you didn’t deserve it anyway. Only retarded little freaks need punishing like that, eh, Potty boy?”

Harry was thrown back in his cell as the warden turned the key. He heard breakfast noises and when the front door slammed his mind was allowed to wander again into oblivion. Dudley kindly forced food and more aspirin on him; apart from that his day crawled by, interspersed with fits of seething pain and restless sleep.

When blackness again gave way to light, Harry was relieved to hear the family leave. He’d feared another ‘Mummy/Dudders Day’ since it was the week-end.

Dudley ran back inside, shouting, “I’ve forgotten my cap!” He whispered to Harry, “We’ll be gone all day,” as he unlocked the cupboard.

Harry took the opportunity to clean himself and change clothes. As he crumbled onto his upstairs bed, he heard several loud intrusions into the house.

“Lower your wand there, Harry. We’ve come to take you away. What good will it do in the wrong hand, anyway?” Mad-Eye was eerily perceptive.

“Professor Moody?” Harry blinked.

“What happened to your wand arm? And your face?”

“My fat bully of a cousin knocked me down the stairs,” Harry lied easily. He couldn’t tell anyone what really happened – he knew Dumbledore would insist he come back here next summer no matter the circumstance; if Vernon found out he’d told . . .

And what if his Uncle was right . . . what if they thought he deserved it? He was already in trouble with the Ministry; no doubt many wizards were already convinced he was a menace.

At any rate, Moody seemed to accept the excuse. “Broken is it, then?” Harry nodded. “We’ll get you some Skele-Heal when we get to . . . where we’re going.”

Harry was breathless with the effort of staying on his broom by the time the party arrived at #12, Grimmauld Place. Left in the ‘Kid’s Room,’ the strain of the past few days overcame him; he snapped and yelled at his friends. When Hermione began to whimper, his anger quelled and anxiety about the hearing took over. He spun around as a familiar voice broke the silence.

“My, my. Gryffindors do have a propensity for injury, don’t they? Take on another dragon?” Not gaining the expected response from the normally plucky bunch, Snape proffered a potion.

“Moody said you needed Skele-Heal, Mr. Potter. Your wand arm, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said hesitantly. He hoped Snape wouldn’t ask to see it; his arm was covered in bruises and open sores.

The professor walked over to him swiftly causing both Harry and Hermione to flinch and cower a bit. “Hold out your arm,” Snape directed plainly. When the boy hesitated he took Harry’s hand, which had been covered by his enormous shirt-sleeves, in order to extend his pupil’s arm forcibly.

“What on earth happened to your hand, Potter?” It was covered with weeping blisters. “Moody said nothing about a burn.”

Harry weakly held up both hands and said, “Cooking accident.”

Snape scowled, left, and returned with the proper ointment. Harry felt instantly relieved as Snape gently massaged the greasy potion into his hands. He didn’t protest as the potions professor murmured a healing spell over his forearm, causing the bones to align.

“Two capfuls morning and night, Mr. Potter.” He waited patiently for the boy to choke down the dose of bone-mending potion before turning to the girl.

“You have sufficient potions to share with Potter, Miss Granger?”

She looked up at him with distant, startled eyes. She still looked unkempt and shaken beyond reason.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” she timidly responded.

With a nod, he departed. They were terrible liars, but he had preparations to make before his dinner engagement.

Dragging a heavy backpack, Draco slid down the grand staircase at Malfoy Manor. He’d spent the entirety of his time since last evening’s ritual concluded pouring over the third chapter in each of his textbooks; that is, once he was able to move. He’d nearly lost hope he’d be allowed back to Hogwarts early as his father hadn’t mentioned it again.

He crawled through the parlor toward the dining room, far too weak and with too many broken bones to walk. He was dreading being commanded to stand in the middle of the rug - he knew he wouldn’t be able to and that would start the beating before the first question was even asked.

The bells chimed and Fiora went running for the entrance hall. Draco pushed himself out of sight. Knowing his father would follow to greet the guest, he crouched beside the giant china cabinet.

“Ah, Severus, always a pleasure,” drifted from the front hall.

Draco felt infinitesimally relieved and finally succumbed to the intense physical pain. He wept, cowering in the darkest corner of the dining room.

His mother frolicked in to take her mark on the stage. He daren’t wish she would comfort him; indeed when she heard him and approached she hissed, “Draco, you idiot child, be silent and get up at once! You know what will happen if your father sees you!”

He hated himself when this admonishment thickened his sobs. Narcissa stepped back as her husband and guest entered.

“I don’t know what to do with him, Lucius!” Narcissa proclaimed indignantly.

The man strode over, gripping his staff like a club. As he swung heartily the serpent’s head connected with Severus’ back; the professor had thrown himself over Draco and forced a vial of liquid down his throat. He’d worked most of the day on a strong mixture of three healing potions that would be extremely fast-acting. Before stalking up to the Malfoy’s door he’d uncorked it and held it at the ready, not knowing what he’d find. One who’d been a double-agent for years only survived by anticipating the very worst. Unfortunately, he had found it. He was glad he’d had the foresight to include Skele-Heal in the mélange of draughts.

Once Draco swallowed Severus clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth and pulled him to a standing position, on tenterhooks to know if his voluminous robes had hidden the prohibited action. Swaying, Draco leaned against his protector, basking in the attention and care.

“Keen on taking a beating tonight, Severus? That can be arranged,” Lucius smirked. The dinner was played out according to the high-society script.

After dessert Lucius ordered, “Draco, books. Go to the library and wait.”

The boy was thrilled to be able to walk again, and ambled down the corridor to take his place in the spotlight. He cast a sharp hearing charm on himself, suspensefully hoping to hear his father give permission for the stay at Hogwarts.

“What’s this rubbish, Snape?” his father asked cruelly as a piece of parchment rustled.

So his father didn’t think the offer was genuine. ‘Why would he?’ thought Draco scathingly. ‘I’m not smart enough to be chosen for such a programme.’

“I would like to tutor Draco in advanced potions,” Professor Snape responded. “He has quite an aptitude for –”

The man was cut off as Lucius cast “Crucio!”

Draco fought himself not to run into the next room, wand drawn. He knew that would only make the situation graver.

The professor did not cry out, and the curse ended with a warning.

“That was a reminder, Snape. Do not treat me as an imbecile. What are you willing to sacrifice to take Draco?”

“Whatever you desire, Master Malfoy.”

Lucius cast cold eyes on Severus, who still hadn’t succeeded in puling himself from the shiny marble tiles.

“You will join me for dinner every night until school begins. And I will expect absolute obedience from you, Severus. I can promise you our times together will become much more congenial.”

“Yes, Master Malfoy,” Severus sighed from behind hooded eyes.

“Until the school term, I may summon Draco at any time.”

Severus got to his feet, meeting Lucius’ gaze. “Once a week, only.”

“Twice.”

“Not on consecutive nights.”

“Fine.”

Draco’s ears grew hot. They were like auctioneers, bargaining for his life.

Severus took a steadying breath, then added, “I want all holidays spent with me until the boy’s seventeenth birthday.”

Lucius was incensed. How dare he ask this! The elder Malfoy was about to set another curse on the Potions Master, but reconsidered. Severus was highly intelligent. He must have more to offer.

“What are you offering?” he quizzed.

Severus smirked this time. “My house elf. I believe you’re short one?”

Lucius sat back in his throne-like chair, calculating. House elves were extremely valuable, and he still rued the day that insufferable Potter brat tricked him out of Dobby.

“I accept. The summoning rule for you and Draco will stand for each school break. Beckon the elf.”

“I want an Unbreakable Vow first,” Snape sneered.

“Don’t trust me, eh? Narcissa!”

Moments later the dutiful wife curtsied into the dining room and performed the binding magical contract. Her mouth popped open in surprise at her husband’s agreement, but she knew better than to question him. Lucius cast Obliviate after, never taking chances with his wife’s fidelity.

Once the bewildered house elf was bonded to the Malfoy family, Lucius tested his son and exploited Snape’s loyalty. Draco was beaten viciously, mercilessly. By Snape. Because Lucius demanded it.

However this wasn’t enough for the sadistic Malfoy. Lucius seemed to take pity on his son, bidding Fiora to bring a glass of wine for Draco. Severus attempted to get the boy’s attention, signaling him not to accept it. But Lucius swooped in between them, lifting the glass to Draco’s lips. He even cradled his son’s neck, supporting him as he drank deeply.

More tears fell from gray, puffy eyes. The beaten boy was overwhelmed; his father had never shown him any kindness. This gesture filled his heart with hope. Could it be that he was loved after all?

Lucius guided his son to sit on the chaise to his left. Draco’s face exploded into a bright smile; he’d never sat as an equal when they had callers. He looked to his professor, wanting to share this magnificent moment with him.

Severus’ brow was furrowed, eyed shadowed with worry. Draco looked back to his father, who had a smug look on his lips, amusement glittering in his frigid eyes.

“Tell me what Veritasserum does, Draco.”

Grey eyes went wide as an automatic answer spilt from Draco’s mouth.

“It forces the drinker to tell the truth,” he answered back.

“Do you want to go with Snape?” Lucius queried.

“Yes.”

“Did he speak with you about the letter?”

“No.”

Lucius paused. “Hmmm . . . Do you want to spend all your holidays with him?”

“Yes.”

The elder Malfoy snorted at his son’s simple tastes. Snape Manor was a shack compared to the Malfoy abode, and the man spent most of his time in the school dungeons!

He scoffed, “Have you no pride in the Malfoy name?”

It was meant as a mocking rhetorical, but the potion overrode the critical discerning function in Draco’s mind. He answered, “No.”

Lucius halted, narrowing snake-like eyes at his son. “How do you feel about carrying on the family name?”

“I am ashamed,” fell from Draco’s mouth, and he shook with terror.

Lucius rose from his seat. “Then I will have to work very hard to teach you to respect it!”

Master Malfoy, cold and cunning even when torturing another, found himself genuinely enraged and out of control. He swung his staff with all his might, connecting with Draco’s skull. Silver snake fangs tipping the scepter tore at the boy relentlessly. Severus was spelled with Petrificus Totalus as soon as he left his wing chair. Lucius berated his son as he set curse after curse on the boy.

When Draco had nearly lost consciousness and was covered in blood, Snape was released from the body bind.

The professor advanced. “You’ve gone too far this time, Lucius. You’ll be in Azkaban if I take him to St. Mungo’s!”

“You’ll be signing over your life if you do that,” terrorized Malfoy. He set the same curses on Severus as he had Draco, ending with excruciating minutes of Cruciatus.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lucius grinned down at Snape. “Get him out of my sight!”

With a vicious kick to the injured boy’s side, he sauntered from the room and out the mansion door.

The two were left alone while Severus fought to muster the strength required for apparition.

...........................

The boy-who-lived drew his covers tightly around his chin, feigning sleep as a thin figure invaded his shared room at #12 Grimmauld Place. He’d gone to bed directly after dinner, professing exhaustion. In truth, he just wanted to lie comfortably and be left alone. He was tired of questions and evading the truth; he was even more tired of worrying whether he’d convinced everyone.

But he couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes a variety of disturbing images from his past flickered on the grey lids. His room-mates, the Weasley brothers, made soft sleeping noises.

Harry fought the urge to collapse into a ball and hide as the figure moved closer. Cursing his poor sight he held his breath, reminding himself where he was. He wanted desperately to believe no-one would harm him here.

“Wait! I know that hair!’ He relaxed at the thought, now only curious as the rising panic abated.

Hermione snuck quietly to his bedside stand, though not as silently as he could. Having to steal the majority of one’s meals for ten years tended to hone skills of stealth. He peered through squinting eyes as she emptied four capfuls of Skele-Heal into a glass. Harry was gripped with worry as she limped awkwardly from the room. She was walking far differently than she had during the day.

So she had a broken bone – or several. Why hadn’t she told anyone? ‘I didn’t tell anyone about most of my injuries either,’ thought the boy. Restless, he waited for silence to settle over the house before creeping down the steps to settle into the parlor’s softest armchair. Lying in bed wasn’t really agreeing with him anyway, no matter the position too many wounds and bruises had pressure put upon them. Temporarily relieved in the new position, Harry’s mind drifted back to Hermione. When she’d told him about her sister hitting her, tripping and falling, it didn’t add up. No eleven year old girl would leave four large finger-shaped bruises causing a black eye. And he seriously doubted a simple trip would cause a nasty cut like the one on her forehead. There had to have been force behind the fall.

That would make Hermione like him – hurt by a caretaker . . . but she wasn’t like him! She was the brightest witch of her age. She never got into trouble, of her own volition, at least. No one had ever doubted her sanity or her intentions. She was quite normal – as a muggle and a witch. There would be no need to teach her a lesson or punish her . . .

Harry’s ruminations were interrupted when a sharp crack could be heard outside. He froze, crystal-green eyes trained on the entrance. The front door swung open and a slender man stumbled in carrying an enormous bundle. He set it down heavily, and when it moaned Harry though the voice was familiar. Snape closed the door and immediately collapsed. Harry knew he shouldn’t be seeing this; Snape was a very private wizard and he surely wouldn’t do anything in the dead of night he wanted noticed by anyone.

But as seconds turned into minutes and neither moved or made a sound apart from clearly pained wheezing, Harry decided the time for discretion had passed.

The boy got up and slowly approached the professor and his charge, whispering, “Professor Snape, what can I do to help?”

Snape’s companion drew a loud breath like someone possessed. He cowered from Harry, who suddenly realized this was Malfoy. Anger began to rise in the raven haired boy but as he came closer and saw the blood coursing down Draco’s face it dissolved. Draco’s retreat hadn’t been from malice, but from rabid fear.

Snape shifted and dropped several vials on the floor. “For Draco. I – I can’t manage the stoppers.”

Draco choked and sputtered as Harry poured eight potions down his throat.

Severus directed, “Cast Ferula on the wounds. He’s losing too much blood.”

“I- I can’t cast, sir – the decree . . .”

“Use my wand.”

Harry took it, astonished, and stopped the flow of blood. He turned to the professor. “What do you need, sir?”

“Just an Enervate,” he whispered, clearly loathing his helpless position.

Harry obliged, and Snape groaned as he moved to get up. When the clearly agonized man stooped to gather a semi-conscious Malfoy, Harry stepped in.

“Please allow me, sir. You’ve done so much for me today –”

Harry paled slightly at the scathing look he received. “Very well, Mr. Potter, you may save the day.”

‘That was mild,’ Harry thought, carefully picking up a surprisingly light Draco. He followed Snape up to his bed chambers and laid Draco on the bed, trying to help him get comfortable. He knew all too well how the other must be feeling. The Potions Master was already extracting ingredients from his cabinet, making a right mess of things. He was frantic, dropping bottles and muttering to himself. Severus’ knees buckled and he fell to the floor.

“Professor, please rest a moment.” Harry pulled Snape up and guided him into the chair by the fire.

Snape weakly protested, vacantly panting, “I’m out of – I’ve run out – I have to brew –”

Harry looked upon the formidable man. What had reduced him to this? After several moments, Snape recovered his wits.

“Mr. Potter, I trust you can be discreet about this. I don’t know what I can promise, but if you –”

Harry interrupted, “I believe I understand the situation, sir, and I will keep this silent from those who might protest.”

Severus regarded the boy and tried to put on his usual stern demeanor. “Yes, well, I am grateful. Go back to bed.”

Harry wanted to protest, but he was afraid to disobey a direct order. Closing the door behind him, he heard the professor gagging; he felt the floor tremble as the man attempted to walk again and stumbled. There was no way the professor could work in this condition. It was Harry’s turn to sneak into the girls’ room.

“ ‘Mione? You still up?” he whispered into the blackness.

“Harry? Yeah, but why —” Had he seen her stealing the potion?

“Shhh! Come with me.”

Hermione stood stiffly, bidding her aching body to comply. She followed Harry as he led her down the dark, narrow corridor. When he stopped outside Professor Snape’s door, Hermione grabbed his shoulder exclaiming, “No, you can’t!” in a hushed tone.

At her touch Harry let out a pained, “Ah!” and she quickly took her hand away. Before she could question him, another cry of pain stopped her; this one came from within the professor’s room. As Harry opened the door she could smell the blood and sweat. The stench that hung in the air was as tangible as a nightmare’s worth of raw fear. Professor Snape huddled on the floor and Draco Malfoy lay still on the grand bed.

Hermione was extremely puzzled. “Harry, what —” She was cut off by Severus’ harsh words from the floor.

“Potter! Get out! I thought we had agreed this matter would be kept in confidence!”

The man looked up at Harry with wounded eyes, clearly afraid. This shocked both students: Professor Snape, scared? Harry took in the aura about the professor’s eyes, and he knew, at least partially, what the man had suffered that evening. He’d seen it in many nightmares on visages of innocents and Death Eaters alike. He had gazed upon his own haunted eyes the night the graveyard claimed Cedric.

“Forgive me, professor, but you are in no fit state to brew tonight. No one could be after suffering the Cruciatus.” Harry took an instinctive step back, waiting for the undoubtedly crisp reply.

Hermione shuddered as the professor’s eyes flickered toward her, suspicious and untrusting.

Severus measured his words carefully. He could not risk any details and retain his tenuous grasp of control over the situation. Yet Draco needed help and none other in the house of the Light would offer it to a Malfoy, he knew.

“How did you know about the curse?” the professor asked.

“I’ve suffered it as well, sir.” Harry did not want to admit to the visions; they always made him feel insane.

Both Hermione and Severus gasped at this information; Harry had told no one he suffered as much after the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

Harry trudged on. He wasn’t sure why he felt so compelled to help Draco and the professor, but his empathy was unbearably strong. But no matter.

“Please allow us to assist you, sir. You’re worried about confidences, but Hermione and I will trade our secrets for yours. Wizard’s Promise.”

“Meaning?” the terse professor questioned.

“We both need your assistance. More potions and bone-setting spells,” Harry answered nonchalantly.

Hermione was aghast. He had seen her! ‘But perhaps I can fool the professor,’ she thought.

“Harry, I don’t know what you’re on about –” she began, but the boy was having none of it.

As his dead stare turned on her, he threatened simply, “I saw you, Hermione. I know. Now do you want to help or not?”

“Yes,” she readily agreed. Malfoy and Snape were by far two of her least favorite wizards, but she could never turn her back on one ailing. Besides, the prospect of receiving proper care for her injuries was enticing.

“Very well,” whispered Severus, resigned. Hermione sprang to life as she followed the precise directions of the potions master, Harry preparing the ingredients by her side.

They worked until sun-up, when Severus ingested the four potions necessary to combat the cruelest curst. Draco slept fitfully the entire time, although it was evident the sacrificed potions of the night prior had done much to cure him.

The Gryffindors watched as their professor rose and took a regal position in the adjacent armchair.

He cleared his throat and said, abstractly, “Thank you both.”

After an awkward silence, Hermione broke in. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate being permitted to work so closely with you.”

“Yes, well . . .” he trailed off, then looked cryptically at Harry. “Mr. Potter, I vaguely recall you and Miss Granger expressing the need of assistance.”

Harry glanced over to his left at his friend, whose eyes were on the floor. After a quick look to the right to ensure Draco still slept, he quietly began.

“Yes, sir. If you would be so kind, I believe I have broken ribs, sir.”

“Caused by . . .?”

“I was bullied, sir.” Harry hated this excuse, but it was better than Uncle Vernon killing him.

“I see,” Snape drawled. “I will need you to come a bit closer and remove your shirt.”

Harry froze. “My shirt, sir? But you healed my arm through my sleeve.”

“You arm contains no vital organs. I must be quite precise when working with ribs,” Severus explained evenly.

“Oh.” Harry paused, then put on his best masked smile. “I’m probably just overreacting, sir. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll just be getting breakfast then.”

He turned to go. Hermione stiffened as the word “Potter” was bellowed. Severus strode to the boy, speaking lowly into his ear. Hermione heard the words “Miss Granger” and “embarrassed.”

She blushed until Harry looked at her quite seriously and said, “No.” He wanted her to stay. Perhaps Hermione would open up if he showed his wounds. Besides, if Snape could know, so could Hermione.

The girl had to turn away as he slowly removed his shirt – not from embarrassment, but from horror. Harry’s flesh was a solid mesh of bruises, welts, and scab-ridden skin.

Harry looked at both the professor and Hermione, expecting looks of disgust. He assumed that was indeed what they felt since both pairs of eyes were averted. Harry hung his head.

Severus stepped up and ran his wand gently across each rib; they were all clearly visible. When he came to a fracture he muttered the incantation tonelessly.

“I will brew more pain elixir and wound potion today, Mr. Potter. I assume your injuries cover your entire body?”

Harry shamefully nodded, refusing to meet Severus’ eyes. However, he was shocked into looking when the professor continued speaking.

“You never need to remain in such pain again, Harry. I will always help you.”

Severus meant it, but never would have said as much if he wasn’t sure it would result in brief eye contact. He performed a powerful, silent “Legilimens;” he wanted to know who had done this. Although he couldn’t take revenge on Lucius, he could exact it on Harry’s abuser. He caught his breath as he took in the kitchen scene; a snapshot of humiliation and horror filled his mind. Harry looked away, and Severus quickly turned to Hermione.

“What assistance do you require, Miss Granger?”

Hermione began her act, launching into statements against herself. She concluded saying, “I’m such a klutz, sir. I hurt my neck as I fell.”

Snape regarded her, then said, “And you did not divulge this information previously because . . .?”

Hermione took her turn at hanging her head, though it seemed a mocking gesture to Snape.

“Arrogance, sir. I thought I could handle it myself.”

Severus nodded once, knowing he’d get no more from either of them. Hermione’s excuse was clearly a lie; she couldn’t perform charms away from Hogwarts even if she knew the correct incantation, and no-one would choose the pain of a broken bone out of something as petty as arrogance. Not to mention she’d projected an overt manner of meekness and submission since she’d arrived at the protected house – no sign of arrogance shone in her blank eyes.

Hermione tugged her high-collared night dress more tightly around her throat, suddenly feeling exposed. Severus modestly, seamlessly transfigured her sleeping costume into one sans collar. Her collarbone and chest were shiny, purplish-black around the break, and all colour of bruises dotted her visible neck, chest, and upper back. She drew her arms around her torso protectively and stood, shivering, head reeling as Professor Snape approached and mended her collarbone.

“I will brew more Skele-Heal as well, Miss Granger. And of course you will be given more wound potion to heal your other injuries.” He tried to look her in the eye, even getting down on her level as he said, “I will always help you as well, child. Do not hesitate to ask.”

She refused to relent, eyes fixed on the wall as she parroted, “Yes, sir. Thank you, Professor Snape, sir.”

Severus sighed and taught them the Fidelus Charm, each in turn casting it to ensure secrecy, although he could not tell how much they grasped of his and Draco’s situation. He hated to keep these discoveries to himself, but Draco’s life was at stake.

The Potions Master dismissed the students, and after checking on Draco he set to work preparing yet another huge batch of healing potions.

Hermione and Harry descended the stairs together, exhausted but feeling wonderful now they had gotten their most painful injuries mended. Both were pleased with themselves over the potions they’d brewed, and were warmed by a newfound kinship.

They sat together at the dining table and were halfway through toast and jam when Ron grumbled in.

“Harry! Where the bloody hell were you all night?”

Harry didn’t look up. More lies – great! “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well you were asleep when I got in,” Ron countered.

Harry humphed. “I woke up.”

“What woke you?” Ron asked.

Harry failed to answer, his mind slipping back to puzzling out how Hermione had gotten hurt.

Hermione snapped, “Can’t you just let him eat in peace, Ron?”

Ron flushed and glared at her. “Whinging again, ‘Mione? Why don’t you go back home and cry to mummy?”

“I hate you, Ronald Bilius Weasley!” Hermione screamed as she knocked over her chair and ran up the stairs.

“What’s got into her,” Ron asked. “I was only joking – she should know that.”

“I dunno,” Harry replied, “But I intend to find out.”

Harry again entered the girls’ room where Hermione was sobbing pitifully, curled round herself, face pushed into a pillow. He went to her, wrapping gentle arms round her shoulders in comfort. Immediately, he stumbled backward when she let out a gurgling scream like a strangled kneazle. Her whole body convulsed as she spun to face him, covering herself in blankets.

Snape was annoyed when the two children had run up the stairs and slammed doors, but as he heard the scream he was alarmed. Hastily, he left his work station and peered into the room down the hall. Harry had sunk to his knees next to the far, navy-blue wall and was speaking quietly.

“It’s all right, Hermione. I’m sorry I startled you.”

Harry had been where Hermione was. She’d gotten spooked; she was probably re-living some horrible act right now. He didn’t know what to do. She rocked back and forth, breaths coming in little gasps.

A crowd was starting to gather in the corridor. Snape told them the kids were arguing and shut the door, remaining in the room. Hermione’s eyes shot to him and she threw herself from the bed, hiding under a desk like a wounded dog.

Harry began again. “It’s just Professor Snape, ‘Mione. He’s helping us. He’s just taking a break from brewing our healing potions, right Professor?”

Snape took his cue from the boy. “Yes, Harry, they’re coming along.”

He sat in the high-backed chair next to the doorway, making himself appear less threatening. Slytherin contained outcasts and the children of cruel Death Eaters – he’d seen his share of trauma.

“Take a deep breath, Miss Granger,” he began. She did. “Three more. Now let your shoulders drop. You are safe here.”

He led Hermione through more steps to calming and grounding, leading her back into present consciousness. She slowly unfolded herself from her lair, stunned.

“I need to check the potions,” he muttered as he inched out the door. Harry was impressed. How did Snape know how to do that? And he’d never seen the professor so attentive and kind before.

“Wha- What happened?” the girl asked hollowly.

“You just got spooked is all,” Harry said reassuringly. “You got upset at breakfast when –”

“When Ron talked about my – my –” and she was in tears again. Harry stayed put this time.

“What is it, Hermione? Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

It came out as a hoarse yell. “Oh, Harry, my mum’s dead! She died at the start of summer!” Tears renewed, and Harry kept vigil with his friend, know a quiet presence was preferable to stark loneliness.

Meanwhile, Snape worked furiously on five potions at once. Noticing how filthy his robes had become, not to mention how hot he was, he worked with dress shirt sleeves rolled up, barefoot in black trousers.

Draco’s eyes flickered open and he was bemused by the sight of his professor dressed casually. Confusion turned into happiness as he remembered the Vow. He was free! Well, nearly, but that was more than enough. Not wanting to disrupt the Potions Master’s work, he snuggled deeper under the olive-green velvet coverlet and dozed.

When he woke properly, Severus sat by the fire, head rested on one hand while the other held a glass of fire-whiskey.

“Professor?”

Severus’ head shot up. “Draco, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, professor. I don’t know how to thank you.”

Severus’ head dropped back into his hands. He couldn’t imagine how Draco could look past what he’d done. Half the boy’s wounds he had inflicted himself. Draco would never have to face that evil son-of-a-bitch again if he weren’t so unethical . . . selfish . . .

“I’m certain you don’t feel fine, Draco. Once the fresh batch of potions settle I’ll assist you with the topical applications.”

The boy wanted to ask where they were. He knew they weren’t at Hogwarts; he’d been in Snape’s private chambers there. He was certain the professor would have a lab at the Manor; he wouldn’t be brewing in the bedroom. Perhaps it wasn’t safe for him to know – he’d heard other voices in the house. ‘Wait!’ he thought. A memory stirred. Who had given him all those potions last night? Everything was so fuzzy. What do you need, professor? Enervate . . . He knew that voice – Harry Potter! But what in the hell was he doing in the same house as Potter? And why wasn’t Potter at home for the summer?

‘I must be at headquarters for the Light!’ he discerned. ‘Will I get the chance to work with them against the Dark Lord?’ he wondered. A grim voice in the back of his mind gave a response. ‘A Malfoy – trusted by the Light? You really are as stupid as father says!’

Snape fussed over the potions, wanting to escape a conversation for a bit. There was much he needed to say, but where to begin? He readied clean bandages and cloths for the wounds. Placing a cooling charm on the appropriate potion, he set to work on the boy.

“Can you sit up comfortably, Draco?”

Snape was hoping his caning didn’t leave the marks he’d feared. Draco heard this question as an order, being conditioned to mask pain.

“Yes, sir,” he replied as he forced himself to a sitting position, fire ripping through his backside and the backs of his legs, trying to keep his expressions neutral.

“Draco! It’s obvious this is hurting you. Lie back down,” Snape exclaimed.

Draco slumped; he had failed. “I’m sorry, sir,” he whispered.

“You’re sorry?” Snape repeated, incredulously. This was his chance. “I am the one who sorely needs to apologize, my dear boy. I – I did this to you. I caused this pain. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I do hope you’ll let me continue to help you.”

“You did this to me because he made you, professor. He would have done worse,” Draco countered.

Snape looked ashamed. “I’m not so sure he would have last night, Draco. He seemed," he cleared his throat, "Revitalized – watching me beat you.”

“Even so,” Draco said with a choppy breath, “I’d rather have one who cares about me doing it than one who hates me and gets sick pleasure from it!”

Snape smiled, faintly. At least his new charge didn’t despise him. “Can I clean you up now?” he asked of Draco.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Draco answered in awe, looking up at his protector with great grey, soulful eyes. Once the cleansing was finished, potions and bandages had been applied, he relaxed. Severus checked the clock – 7:00. He still had to bottle several potions and fetch Draco dinner. He really wanted to check with Granger and Potter and give them new potions. He grimaced as he recalled all the bruises and welts on Potter – he needed the wound potion almost as badly as Draco.

Severus went to the kitchen to gather a quick meal, not noticing when Mrs. Weasley bustled into sight.

“I’ll have dinner on the table shortly, Severus,” said Molly, amused.

Snape spun around, “I’m going out this evening. I hope you don’t mind if I take a few things to my chambers.”

“Not at all, Severus. Help yourself.” She chuckled as she set the knives to chopping dinner preparations. “Oh, and Severus, did you hear the next meeting’s been set for ten in the morning?”

“No, I hadn’t,” he said curtly. “Thank you, Molly.”

Upstairs, Draco gave a start as knocking peppered the door.

“Professor Snape, sir? Professor?” Harry’s voice was soft; he didn’t want to wake Draco, not fore entirely unselfish reasons.

“Maybe he’s out,” Hermione whispered.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, I’ve finished brewing,” Snape announced, coming up the stairs.

Hermione took the tray from the professor. “You won’t be joining us for dinner, sir?”

“No, I have a prior engagement,” he replied coolly, and muttered a password before ushering them in. Casting silencing charms, he bottled and labeled quickly. Time was ticking.

Hermione turned to Draco. “I’m glad to see you’re awake,” she said politely. “Is this for him then, sir?”

Snape nodded without looking up, neglected hair swaying over gaunt cheeks. Hermione set the tray next to Draco, fussing with the covers.

The professor turned to Harry with a vial of wound potion. “I believe you have some injuries you’ll not be able to reach. Would you like assistance?” he asked matter-of-factly. Draco looked up from his food. Potter was hurt, too?

Harry faltered, “Er, well, um . . .” He looked to Draco.

“I haven’t got all day, Mr. Potter!” Snape snapped.

Deciding he’d rather get rid of the pain than save some pride, Harry nodded.

“Thank you, sir.” He removed his shirt quickly and buried his head in his hands. Harry shuddered; the potion master’s light, tender touch was unexpected. The boy whisked his shirt back on and searched for something to say to banish the awkwardness.

“You should tuck in, Malfoy. You could afford to gain a few kilos, mate.”

‘Mate?’ Draco puzzled. 'And how does he know I’ve become thinner?' He decided that, under the circumstances, he’d best be civil. He was grateful to Potter for giving him the draughts.

“Uh, thanks, Potter. For last night.”

‘Malfoy, thanking someone?’ Harry mused. “No, problem; you’re surprisingly light.”

What the hell did weight have to do with administering some potions? “What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco asked, more harshly than he’d intended.

Snape turned round, finished bottling and labeling. “Mr. Potter carried you up here last night, Draco,” he said casually.

Hermione laughed as Draco hid his head. The tray didn’t survive the wave of blankets. Hearing the crash, Draco jumped out of bed, totally ignoring the lingering pain and stiffness. He picked up food and broken glass with imprecise, tremulous fingers.

“I’m sorry, Professor Snape, sir. I’m so sorry, I’m so stupid! I’ll clean it up, sir!” He was close to hysterical.

“Draco, stop!” Snape commanded, and the boy let shards of a teacup slip through his fingers. “You’re cutting your hands on the glass.”

“I’ve gotten blood on the coverlet! I’m sorry! I’ll clean that too, sir,” Draco looked up at Severus pleadingly as the man swirled from the room. Draco stood, having to steady himself with the bedpost.

As Snape returned with towels, Draco quietly spoke, gaze downcast. “Please punish me, sir, to teach me not to be careless.”

Hermione and Harry’s mouths dropped open.

Draco continued, “But please, sir, could Harry and Hermione leave first?”

Snape groaned, face pained and angry. He passed out the potions. “You two may go, I need to deal with Draco.”

Hermione tried to protest, but she was nudged firmly out the door.

“Now, Miss Granger!” Snape hissed.

Once alone in the girls’ room, Harry voiced both students’ concern. “You don’t think Snape would really hurt Malfoy, do you?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Harry. He can be really cruel sometimes.”

“But then why did he give him all those potions to heal him?”

Hermione blew a frazzled, errant strand from her face. “Guilt? Anyway, if he wasn’t going to, you know, punish him, why would he make us leave? And he did say he had to ‘deal with Draco.’ Maybe we should tell someone.”

“We can’t,” said Harry.

“And why not, Harry James Potter? I know you hate Malfoy, but you can’t seriously want him hurt!”

“It’s not that, Hermione. Don’t you remember the Fidelus Charm?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Besides, I don’t think even Mrs. Weasley cold muster much concern for a Malfoy. I mean, look how his father treats Mr. Weasley.”

The girl sighed. “Right, so what can we do?”

They sat in silence, pondering. Harry was the first with an idea. “Well, Snape said he was going out for dinner, right?”

“Right.”

“So we could sneak in and check on Malfoy then.”

“But there’s a password, Harry.” Hermione always thought of every detail. “And if Draco opened the door someone might see him.”

“Well, I could wait for Snape to get back and try to check on things then,” Harry offered.

“That sounds great, Harry. Do you, er . . . do you want me to wait with you?” She hoped he didn’t; the idea of sitting in a dark parlor waiting for a potentially abusive man to get home scared the wits out of her.

“No,” he replied. “You need your rest.”

She let out the breath she’d not realized she was holding, and shortly they were called to dinner.

Draco braced himself for what he was certain was coming. The professor was basically his guardian now; he would have to tend to disciplinary matters.

Severus silently went to the trembling boy and cleaned his cuts, bandaged his hands. He righted the tray and its contents with Reparo. This worried Draco even more; part of his punishment should have been cleaning up. Would that make the beating worse?

Severus had retreated to the easy chair, nursing a glass of cool liqueur. So the boy was, indeed, afraid of him. What he’d done had caused more than just physical damage. The professor was rendered speechless; numerous times he’d helped students cope with violence, but he’d never been the perpetrator.

Draco piped up; he couldn’t stand the waiting.

“Where do you want me, sir?” he inquired.

Severus gave a natural reply. The boy was still recovering from grievous injuries.

“Lie back down on the bed.”

Draco blinked, squeezing his eyelids together tightly, and clenched his teeth. He lay face-down on the bed, placing a pillow under his hips. When his father thrashed him lying on the bed, this was the proffered position.

The professor grimaced. “No, Draco, I want you to lie comfortably.”

Painfully, the boy sat up. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand.”

Severus had hoped the child would come to the correct conclusion on his own; he really didn’t want to discuss punishment when the very idea made him nauseous with guild. It looked like it was unavoidable, however.

“I’m not going to beat you, Draco,” he said simply.

“Oh.” Draco relaxed. “But then what is to be my punishment?”

Anger flashed through Snape’s countenance. Lucius was a right foul bastard! “You spilt some food, my dear boy. No harm done. You should never be punished for such frivolous reasons. And I want to be very clear. Even if you do misbehave and I must devise a proper punishment for you, I will never, ever beat you. Not under any circumstance; do you understand?”

Apparently, Draco did not. “But I got blood on the coverlet,” he dutifully pointed out.

Severus took a deep, steadying breath. The lingering understanding would have to wait. For now, he’d best get across the immediate. Casting Scourgify on the stains he went over to Draco, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I am not going to beat you, my child. You will not be punished for spilling the tray or getting blood on the bed. Now, in a few moments I must leave. This room is password protected. You cannot leave the room, make noise, or answer the door. You understand you have many enemies here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Eat your dinner and when you feel up to it - I’m sorry, but I suggest you study the fourth chapter in each of your texts. You did magnificently answering questions from chapters three.”

As Snape Accioed the proper tomes to rest on the bedside table, Draco’s mouth widened into a big, goofy grin at the praise he’d just received. It vanished when, upon thinking back to the night prior, he suddenly realized where the professor was headed.

“Do you want me to come with you?” the boy asked frankly. “I could take some of it for you. You don’t deserve –”

“Absolutely not!” Snape roared. “It’s out of the question! Now promise me you’ll stay in the room and keep quiet. Both our lives could be in danger – well, further danger – if you disobey.”

“I promise, sir,” Draco agreed earnestly.

The professor apparated away. Draco obediently choked down a few bites of dinner before cracking open chapter four in History of Magic.

……………………………………………………………

After a rather raucous dinner at Grimmauld Place, Harry and Hermione forced themselves to be social. Lounging in the boys’ room they talked with the Weasleys, batting around ideas as to what would be discussed at the order’s meeting the following morning. The abused souls mostly listened; Ron, Fred, and George could keep up a lively conversation by themselves quite easily. During a lull, Ron clumsily tried to apologize to Hermione.

“What’s got into you, Hermione?” he asked.

“Why are you such an insensitive prat, Ronald?” she screeched back. But she noticed that dumb, innocent look on his face and knew he was trying to make things right.

With a sigh, she said, “Harry could you explain, please?”

He told the others what he knew, which wasn’t much, and Hermione wilted under the consequent acts of sympathy.

Sniffling, she made a plea. “Ginny, boys, could you do me a favor? Could you not tell your mum just yet? It’s just that, I miss mine so much, and I don’t think I could take the attention right now.”

Everyone seemed to agree, and the girls went off to bed. Hermione shot Harry a warning look as she left, and he nodded. After a bit of Wizard’s Chess he excused himself to get a midnight snack.

Once out of reach of prying eyes, he retreated to the parlor. He stood sentinel next to the slowly extinguishing flames, watching amber shadows play over the walls. He let thoughts wash over him like so many acid raindrops, most more caustic than cleansing. He was grateful to be at the safe house; it was more important to him at the moment he was safe from his family than any other entity.

But he was angry that no one had come for him sooner. If they had, the dementors would never had come and he wouldn’t be facing banishment from the only world from which he’d ever felt acceptance. Order members had been watching the house on Privet Drive; surely they had seen him slaving about the lawn all day, hiding in the bushes for a short reprieve. They must have heard all the shouting. They had to have seen the bruises on his face. What the hell did they think was going on? He knew they would have reported to Dumbledore; this solidified his mistrust in the old man. The only adult who’d offered him real help in the situation was Snape!

‘That’s just potions out of obligation. He doesn’t really care,’ the nasty little voice in Harry’s head said. But the professor had said he would always help. ‘With potions, medicine, stupid!’ the little voice hissed.

James and Lily’s poor son’s shoulders hunched dejectedly as the voice reminded him how pathetic and worthless he was. It morphed into Uncle Vernon’s timbre as distant memories flew through his psyche.

There was the brutally cold, snowy day when his lunch came right back up at school. He’d only gotten meal privileges a handful of times over the Christmas holiday and had stuffed himself the first day back in the cafeteria. Aunt Petunia had to leave a brunch to pick him up, and he’d cried the whole trip home while she screamed at him about what his uncle would do. He was six years old. ‘Should have known better than to eat all that,’ he thought. He’d missed out on more meals because of it; the rest of the week had been spent recovering from the subsequent punishment in his dark cupboard.

In third form he’d actually gotten to go to school regularly while his uncle’d been on an extended business trip. He blossomed under the attention he received from his honey-blonde teacher and brought home an excellent report. He’d fervently hoped he would finally please his guardians, but to no avail. Dudley had whined about the ‘stupid freak’ doing better than he, and Vernon had whipped Harry in front of his cousin, calling him a show-off. After that he’d been sure to do poorly in the majority of his classes, even at Hogwarts.

Hogwarts! The first summed he’d been forced to return to Privet Drive it seemed his uncle had been saving rage all year. Not that it was unexpected, but going from school hero to house-elf was quite a shock. The first few strokes of the belt nearly tore him in half. Since then he made sure to keep his pain tolerance up throughout the school year.

As his mind plunged deeper into disconcerting remembrances, Harry pushed his back deeper in the cushy chair, trying to protect his body from shadow punches and ghost strokes.

When a sharp snap echoed outside he nearly knocked the chair backward with a violent flinch. The warmth of the fire softened his limbs, and his ears perked up to the sound of someone scrabbling with the front latch.

Harry cautiously opened the door; Snape struggled to remain standing on the stoop. The boy reached out to support him, but the professor jetéd back, his glare wild and raw. Terrified, Harry lurched away as well and fell over the café table. Snape made his escape and battled his way up the stairs. With an overwhelming sense of dread the boy followed, remembering his mission. Once he got up the stairs he saw the Potions Master had uncharacteristically left the door ajar. He slipped in and shut it behind him, setting eyes upon the professor. The man was rifling through his cabinet, swearing profusely. Seemingly unable to find the desired item, he plucked a book from a high shelf, checked the contents, and opened it. He moved to ready his work station, caught sight of Harry, and promptly retreated to the bathroom, locking himself in.

The raven topped face gawked until the heap on the bed whimpered.

“Draco? Are you all right?” Harry stepped closer, checking for new injuries the best he could.

“Me?” Draco whispered. “I’m fine. It’s the professor I’m worried about.”

“You mean he didn’t, you know, hit you or anything?”

The young Malfoy’s mind was elsewhere, wondering what his father could have done this time. He gave a distracted reply. “What? When?”

‘Funny answer,’ thought Harry. He said, “After we left, earlier this evening.”

“Oh, no, he didn’t.” Draco said. ‘Although I deserved it,’ he thought, but didn’t utter that part aloud.

“Good.”

“Good? Why do you care, Potter? I would have thought you like to see me in pain.”

“Never,” Harry declared in a steely tone, “Would I wish that on anybody. I know how it feels.”

Malfoy thought back to the night he’d seen Harry shirtless. “Yes, I suppose you do.” Who’d have guessed the two of them would have anything in common?

He scuffled with the sheets to get out of bed and shuffled over to the table. “Internal Injury Healing Draught,” he muttered. “This must be serious!”

Making his way to the professor’s barrier he whispered, “Professor, are you all right?”

“Go back to bed, Draco,” was the stern, rumbling reply.

“But I want to brew the potion for you.”

There was no further response, so Draco chose to assume he had permission.

Harry slid a chair behind him as he nearly collapsed in front of the table. He pulled Draco right back up again when a pained hiss evaporated from the blonde’s teeth.

“He did beat you, didn’t he?” insisted Harry.

When Draco blanched, he had his answer. But Malfoy met his eyes. “It’s not what you think, Potter. Now are we gonna brew this bitch or what?”

Once again Harry found himself preparing ingredients for a complex potion. He didn’t bother to tell his partner he was perfectly capable of brewing said potion alone; he didn’t want to blow his cover. Teachers had a way of demanding competence once a student displayed it; he couldn’t afford that if he had to return to the Dursleys.

The shower ran for a very long time as they were preparing the cauldron’s contents. Finally, Severus erupted from the lavatory, hair sopping wet, shaking, wrapped in a dark robe and towels. Without a word, he dove headfirst onto the bed.

Once the Internal Healing Potion cooled, Draco tentatively approached the professor.

“Sir? Are you awake?”

Severus jumped up, gathering his robe tighter about him. He surveyed the room, searching for threats.

“What’s Potter doing here?” he asked distractedly.

“He helped with the potion, sir. It’s finished.” Draco held out the vial.

“Didn’t I tell you to go back to bed?” Snape smirked, deeply grateful to have the draught straightaway. Draco didn’t catch the levity of the question.

“I’m, sorry I disobeyed you, Professor Snape, sir.” The boy began to shut down, tense up.

Severus caught his hand, patting it abstractly. “I’m pleased you disobeyed me, foolish child. I was teasing you. Stop worrying!” He was in a rare mood this morning. He took the potion bottle, gathered some clothes, and returned to the bathroom.

Harry busied himself cleaning up the narrow hardwood table. He ignored the sobbing coming from the lavatory, didn’t flinch when a pained yell reverberated from behind the closed door. He knew he shouldn’t be hearing this.  There was no Death Eater meeting the previous night; he would have felt it. Did Voldemort give private audiences?

Snape slammed the door open, stomping half-dressed into the room. Harry couldn’t believe what he saw. The man was scarred; every inch of his skin had raised, white marks snaking round in criss-cross patterns. A hideous bruise shone over his shoulder blade, and his right arm hung limply at his side. Harry’s fingers went automatically to his scar as he gazed upon the Dark Mark.

“I can’t even get a bloody shirt on!” Severus shouted, enraged.

There was a polite knock at the door. “Severus? Everything on the up and up?” asked Mr. Weasley.

Severus pulled a face. He’d forgotten the silencing charm. “Yes, Arthur. A bit too much firewhiskey last night.”

Weasley chuckled, and the sound was intensely surreal to Harry’s ears, given the situation.

“I see,” said the eerie voice from beyond the door. “You’re coming down soon, I trust? Everyone’s pouring in.”

The professor had entirely forgotten about the Order’s impending meeting. Glancing at the clock he noted he had quarter of an hour to collect himself.

“I’ll be right down, Arthur,” he sighed, and cast the neglected silencing spells, strengthening them so they’d linger after he’d gone.

“Dislocated shoulder, sir?” Harry timidly inquired.

A defeated nod was given in response. Harry noticed it was the professor’s wand arm; he wouldn’t be able to repair it himself. He certainly didn’t trust the man and, after Draco’s admission, didn’t really feel inclined to help him. ‘He did fix our ribs,’ Harry’s conscience griped.

“I can fix it for you if you’d like,” Harry ventured.

“It’s too complicated a spell to do with another wizard’s wand,” Snape informed him.

“I meant the muggle way, sir.”

Snape digressed. “That would be helpful, Harry.”

“It’s really going to hurt, though. You might want a pain potion first, sir.”

“There isn’t time. And I assure you, I can handle the pain, Mr. Potter.”

“Right.” Harry directed him to lean against the wall and forcefully maneuvered the limb into socket. He was a bit cowed that Snape didn’t make a sound or even quiver.

“Masterful, Potter,” Draco vociferated. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Necessity,” Harry deadpanned darkly.

Doing up a myriad of buttons, Snape turned back to the sinister-haired child. “How are you doing on potions, Mr. Potter?”

“I’ve got plenty of Skele-Heal, sir.” Harry didn’t elaborate.

“And the others?”

“I’m out of the others, sir.”

Snape inwardly groaned. The boy was entirely too humble for his own damn good!

“And you were planning on telling me this when . . .” He waited expectantly for the boy to finish his sentence.

“Er – When you asked, sir? I don’t mean to be cheeky, sir,” he sped up, trying not to sound insolent. “I just – I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Yes, well, please keep me informed. There’s no reason for you to go without. In any case, I had planned to ask if you three could handle making your own potions this time round. You’ve proved yourselves a competent team with more complex potions for me as of late.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure we can manage,” Harry replied. Was this a compliment from the great bat?

“Right, then. I’ll be in Diagon Alley most of the day once the Order’s meeting finishes. The password to this room is Sangtus Specialis Plurimus. Repeat.”

“Sangtus Specialis Plurimus,” intoned Harry, this time impressed with himself.

“Good. Be certain no one sees you enter, and especially that no one sees Draco. If anyone spots you – and they’d better not, Potter – tell them Hermione’s tutoring you in potions. The silencing charms will remain intact all day. Only the two of you are allowed, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Severus had finished dressing, and sat close to Draco on the bed. His face was resigned and sorrowful. “Draco, you need to study today. Chapters four, five, and six will be tested this weekend.” Catching the boy’s fallen face in strong hands, he softly reassured, “I don’t think it will be as bad this time, my boy. Chin up.”

With that, he stalked confidently from the room. Harry knew he needed to get back to the others; they’d be pestering after him again, and it was really late this time.

“I’ll be back in a bit to brew, Malfoy. Want me to bring up some breakfast?”

“No,” Draco whispered, eyes glassy and staring, unfocused, at his pile of books.

Harry waded conspicuously through the downstairs crowd to grab a few bites of bread. Molly was shooing the remaining adult wizards into the drawing room. Hermione was waiting for him in the far corner of the kitchen.

“Harry! Is everything all right? I saved you some breakfast.”

“Thanks. Should we trot upstairs to listen with the others?” The word 'listen' was mouthed only; Mrs. Weasley would be furious if she found the remaining Extendable Ears.

“They’ll fill us in. They never find out anything new anyway.” She shut the kitchen door, and made sure no one was lurking about. This was actually a perfect time for a private conversation; everyone else in the house was otherwise occupied.

“What’d you find out?” she asked.

“Well,” Harry began, mouth half full of bangers and mash, “Snape is beating Malfoy, he as much spelled that out. He’s making him study and take tests this summer as well.”

“Was Draco is a bad state?” she asked, fear biting into her chocolate eyes.

Harry pondered a bit. “No, actually, he was better. We spent all morning brewing a really difficult healing potion for the professor.”

“Another healing potion?” Hermione remarked. “Where does that man go?”

“I dunno. My only guess is Voldemort.”

Hermione had begun to pace, clenching and unclenching her fists in frustration. “Well, whatever it is, he deserves it! Evil, greasy, son of a vampire!”

“Malfoy doesn’t seem angry about it, though. He just seems scared,” Harry pointed out.

“I’d be scared, too. I mean, it scares me to be living in the same house as Snape, let alone the same room. And he’s giving him tests? Like school tests?” She had to admit she was a bit intrigued; summer tutoring would be an asset . . .

“Yeah, he told Malfoy to study three chapters for a test this weekend.”

“Three? That seems an awful lot. What subject?”

“Potions, I’d suspect,” Harry drabbled a bit of egg trying to get out the ‘pect.’ “Sorry,” he snorted.

Hermione hadn’t even noticed. She was thinking aloud. “Maybe I could help him study.”

“I’ve got the password. We have to go up there; Snape wants us to brew our own potions while he’s out shopping today. Apparently he’s too busy to do it himself.”

He elaborated on his short discussion with Malfoy while plowing through toast. He ignored the painful protests coming from his stomach. He knew he shouldn't eat so much at once; he'd probably sick it all up, but, Merlin, he was hungry all of a sudden!

Hermione’s face was set, resolved. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Harry gulped down some juice and hurried after her. Checking for onlookers and finding none, he muttered the annoyingly long password, and the two interrupted Draco’s studies. Books were thrown open all over the bed, and innumerable scraps of parchment lay in his lap. After the door was closed, the three just stared at one another for a moment.

Hermione spoke first. “How are you feeling, Draco?”

“Like you care, Granger,” he spat, turning back to his Transfigurations text.

She tried again. “I’d like to help you study. What subject will you be tested on?”

“Tell your little girlfriend everything, do you, Potter?” But this was said without any real malice, and Harry knew it, too. Draco was glad for the offer. He begrudgingly continued, speaking quietly. “It’s over all my subjects, chapters four through six.”

Harry turned from the bookshelves, where he was having trouble locating the instructions for the necessary potions. “Well it’s not as if he can grade you over the summer, is it? I mean, I know he’s the strictest professor at Hogwarts, but —”

“You think Professor Snape’s making me do all this?” Draco laughed for the first time since the holiday began.

Harry flushed, agitated. “Well who is, then?”

Draco’s laughter stopped abruptly. He shook his head and chased fresh memories away, a shiver running down his spine. He adeptly changed the subject.

“What potions are you looking for?”

Hermione and Harry exchanged perplexed looks as Draco fished himself out from under the papers and bedding. After Harry had the instructions in hand, Draco returned to the bed where Hermione now perched, perusing the Potions text.

“How far have you got?” she asked, hoping he’d accept her help.

“I’ve got notes on the fourth and fifth chapters of everything. I’m starting on chapter six in Transfiguration right now,” he explained, passing over the parchments.

“Wow, Draco, these are really comprehensive,” she balked, looking through them. “Our tests at Hogwarts never go into this much detail.”

“Your point?” he sniffed.

“Perhaps you’re wasting time copying all this. You should be concentrating on main points, not memorizing every word. No exam is this detailed.”

“This one is, Granger. Listen, if you want to help, quiz me on the chapter four stuff. If I haven’t got that down by now, I’m in trouble.”

Her first few questions were fairly general, but Draco kept insisting on more and more difficult ones. He knew each answer until they moved on to fifth chapter material. As soon as he failed an item, he got very ruffled.

“Damn! Bloody hell! Let me see that!” He snatched the offending bit of parchment and read through the scribbles, hitting himself squarely in the forehead with each word.

“Draco! Stop it!” Hermione cried.

She was met with a glare, but he did stop. He copied the bit of forgotten information ten times, then passed the page back to his study partner. Hermione scowled at him, brow furrowed.

“You want me to keep going?” she asked skeptically.

“Yeah, I’ve got to know this stuff.”

The girl leant closer and lowered her voice. “What’s at stake, Draco? What happens if you don’t know it?”

He just stared at his hands.

“We’re really concerned, Draco. Is there anything we can do to help?” she continued sincerely.

His heart ached, unused to such attention. He briefly wondered why his own friends never treated him this way, before the grim reality of the situation washed over him.

“No, there’s nothing anyone can do,” he said bitterly. “Professor Snape’s really trying, though. I mean, he got me out and all.”

“Out?” Hermione repeated.

‘Shite! I said too much!’ Draco chastised in his head. Covering, he said, “You’d better go help Potter before he blows himself up.”

Hermione gave him a reproachful look, but scurried over to the cauldrons as expected. Harry happily relinquished control, his bevy of sleepless nights taking their toll. He abruptly lay on the floor to try to sleep. Draco sighed and cleared the books from the bed, turning down the blankets. He walked over to a nearly asleep black mop and held out a hand.

Harry half opened one eye and sulked, “D’ya mind? I’m trying to sleep.”

“How many of your ribs were broken? And you think I’m letting you sleep on the floor?” came the sarcastic reply.

Harry thought better than to come back with what he was thinking; ‘This plush carpet is a luxury compared to the cement cupboard.’ Draco pulled Harry up, motioned to the bed, and spread his books on the floor.

“Professor Snape’s bed?” he gasped in mock horror. “He’ll chop me up and make a stew!”

Draco was not, however, amused. “He'll do nothing of the sort. Just take your shoes off first. Really, you two are way too hard on him.”

Hermione spun round, the early morning’s fury reignited. “How can you defend him? He beats you, for Merlin’s sake!”

“You don’t know the first thing about it, Granger!” He was practically foaming at the mouth.

“What’s there to know? Did he, or did not hurt you so badly you can scarcely sit?”

All three of them jumped as the door slammed. Hermione’s startle was decidedly more pronounced than the boys’ though.

“Good afternoon,” Snape drawled, casting Engorgio on several packages he’d been carrying.

“Professor,” Draco began, “I was trying to tell her . . . I mean, I didn’t tell her anything, but I . . .”

“You can tell her whatever you wish, Draco. The truth, if you so desire. I’m certain Mr. Potter and Miss Granger would conceal the knowledge with another Fidelus Charm.”

They both nodded. Draco took a deep breath and began to elaborate.

“You asked me about the test I have to take. Well, it’s from my father. I get . . . I get in, uh, trouble if I get an answer wrong.” He hesitated.

“What kind of trouble? And what does this have to do with –” Harry jerked his chin at Snape, who gracefully left the room to give the trio some privacy.

Draco continued haltingly. “When I get an answer wrong I’m – I’m punished. Sometimes father makes the professor punish me.”

“You mean beat you, don’t you?” Harry asked, with an edge to his voice.

Draco nodded inappreciably.

“But why doesn’t Professor Snape stop him?” Hermione asked, eyes brimming with unspilt tears.

“Why do you think I’m here? The professor sacrificed a lot to get me out of the manor. Where do you think he goes every night?” Draco said, forbidden emotions creeping into his words.

“You mean it’s your father that curses the hell out of him? We though it had to be Vol — You-Know-Who,” Harry ventured.

Quietly, shamefully, Draco admitted, “He takes it so I don’t have to.”

“That’s disgusting,” Harry muttered.

“I know,” Draco agreed. “I’m a bloody coward!”

“Not you, Draco, your bastard father!” Harry’s volume rose with the final words.

“Well, we’re discussing Master Lucius, I see,” Snape said, returning with a tea tray, which he quickly replicated to suit three. He transfigured a dining table and chairs from the pile of books and quite forcefully told the students to eat.

“You’ll all be carried away at the first stiff breeze.” he declared, and tended the healing potions while starting up his own batch.

“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.

Harry was thrilled to take in Hermione’s lilting, sonorous breath when he stealthily nudged open the girl’s chamber door, centimeter by centimeter. She finally appeared peaceful and relaxed. ‘I haven’t seen her so calm since . . . before I was chosen fourth champion.’ As he allowed the earthy door to burrow itself closed again, a blush settled over his cheeks, and he smiled – a true, genuine, un-forced expression.

“Asleep after all?” Snape whispered. Harry’d not heard his approach, but was equally quiet as he startled, leaping backward. He forced a faint laugh.

“Didn’t see you there, professor.”

“You’re nearly as easy to startle as Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. Shall we?”

Harry had to wonder at this night. Two in the morning, drinking warm Butterbeer and filling up on pasties and teacakes with his worst enemy while the greasy git hummed – yes, hummed! – and brewed the most complicated potion imaginable.

Snape noticed the silence near dawn. Harry was curled near the end of the bed, palm glued to his scar, while Draco lie kitty-cornered across the length of the mattress. Both pale faces held pained, worried expressions. ‘At least they’re asleep.’ With a deft swish and flick, both boys were covered with soft blankets, pillows fluffed.

After a few more painstaking hours of dicing, measuring, diluting, and simmering, Severus reluctantly woke Harry and shooed him off to breakfast.

Casting ever stronger silencing spells at quarter to two, the professor took a steadying breath. He’d finally finished the brand new concoction.

“Draco!” he scolded sharply, “Wake up, you lazy child! You’ve slept through breakfast!”

The boy woke with a start, trembling.

“I – I’m sorry, Professor Snape, sir!” he whined, groggy yet alarmed.

“Stop whinging and get up!” Snape commanded, removing his belt. Draco’s eyes widened timorously. Focusing on the dreaded instrument, he didn’t notice as the professor grit his teeth and swallowed sickeningly.

“Remove your trousers and bend over the bed, Mr. Malfoy.” It was a ghost of a statement, barely forced out of the surly mouth.

Draco did as he was told, inner monologue twisting and twirling. ‘You’re so stupid! Late for everything. You know better than to whine. You deserve this!’ The nasty little voice in his head was adamant, unrelenting.

The thrashing was far from the worst he’d experienced, but his heart took it harder than any before. Professor Snape had always told him how good he was and had never raised a hand to him – outside of the abhorrent dinner charades. Draco vowed to win back his godfather’s pride.

Abruptly, Severus ended the beating and retreated to the lavatory, muttering. Draco hadn’t been told otherwise, so he stayed put; at any rate he wasn’t yet ready to pull rough cloth over the crimson skin.

When the professor finally emerged from the loo, his face was entirely veiled, completely unreadable.

“Get cleaned up and dressed, Draco,” he called over his shoulder just prior to exiting the room.

The sound of a piano pealing precursively from a distant room in the baneful manor sent a slight chill up the professor’s weary spine as he descended the inadequate stairwell.

The kitchen was a bit crowded for Severus’ liking. Tonks sat stirring her tea with an idle twitch of a lazy pointer finger, scowling at the morning edition of the Prophet and cursing under her breath. Lupin sat cross from her, steaming chocolate in his hand, decidedly not scowling at his days old news, rather, furtively glancing at the metamorphagus’ latest teal-and-silver striped hair.

Another couple sat in the corner; Hermione’s head rested on Harry’s shoulder as he untangled one of the many knots in her hair. They were reticent, but not quite as sullen as usual. When they noticed the professor’s presence, a plate laden with enough food to feed the entire Weasley family was pushed his way.

The scene could have been cheerful, familial, to a casual observer. To Severus, it was misery barely harnessed; frightened souls clinging to one another like moss to the north side of the Whomping Willow.

He dropped to plate off beside his – Draco’s – bed, and took a moment to ponder the last time he’d actually slept.

“Eat, then study,” he droned, not looking at the tear-stained face. He was at the Leaky Cauldron in thirty seconds flat.

……………………………………………..

“Sangtus Specialis Plurimus,” intoned Hermione, shortly prior to tea. She’d been disappointed to miss the prior evening’s revel, so she volunteered to fetch a fresh batch of skele-heal from the professor’s room. Draco hardly acknowledged her entrance, as he was dreadfully intent on memorizing chapter six in the Potions text.

Hermione stood awkwardly for a moment, contemplating an opening line. She decided on pleasantries.

“Lunch not to your liking, Draco?”

His breath caught. “No, it was fine. I should’ve eaten more, but I, er . . .” His thoughts dropped off a cliff. After a few seconds of rather blank staring, Hermione interjected.

“Do you need anything, Draco? Is something wrong?”

Another blank stare followed, then, quietly, pensively, “I’m fine, thanks, Hermione. I mean, I’ll be fine. Dinner tonight at the m-manor and I know I’m in trouble.”

Sympathetic eyes and countenance drifted to sit beside the shaken boy on the bed.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl soothed protectively. “I’d forgotten that was coming up this evening. Would you like help studying?”

He would, however since he’d just been punished, he surmised the professor would be cross if he was found with company. ‘The last thing I need is another lashing before tonight’s ordeal.’

So the reply to Hermione was a polite, “No, you’d better go. I’m just finishing up.”

“We’ll be here for you when you return, Draco.”

He nearly smiled.

She passed Professor Snape in the corridor, but he didn’t seem to notice.

………………

Severus paused outside his Grimmauld Place door, resolved to do as he must.

Fiercely flinching as the door to his sometime cage was thrust open, Draco’s fear was palpable. Snape did not look toward the boy, rather, immediately after reinforcing the charms for privacy, began shouting.

“It is the middle of the afternoon and yet you are still in bed. Laziness I will not tolerate. And look at all the food you’ve wasted! Get up!”

Snape transfigured a thick birch rod and mentally repeated the mantra, ‘It must leave marks. It must leave marks!’

Draco fought not to cry out.

All too soon, the pair of wizards was dressed regally and ready for a – formal – evening out.

Just prior to apparating, the professor hissed, “Keep your head down. Do not act surprised.”

They were whisked away to Malfoy Manner.

……………………………..

After Fiora nervously greeted the pair, Snape dragged Draco in front of him and violently shoved the boy. Lucius raised a quiescently pleased eyebrow at the scene as his son’s face met the stony floor.

“Lazy snot,” Severus seethed menacingly. “Get up!”

Head reeling twofold, the young Slytherin scrambled to his feet, glazed, hesitant grey eyes schooled at the marble beneath boots.

A chilling voice, one that never failed to inspire terror in his heir, countered, “Beginning to see my way of it, old friend?”

“Most assuredly.”

……………..

Draco stood ramrod straight, cradling his schoolbooks, throughout the lengthy dinner affair. He was rather glad he was not expected to eat anything. The previous ‘exams’ had been harsh enough with the professor on his side. Now . . . But he wouldn’t give internal voice to all the ‘what ifs’ of the night to come. He would survive it; he always did.

At one point, when his father and Professor Snape began to show signs of inebriation, he thought Narcissa glanced at him with something akin to concern in her eyes. Upon pondering this flitting of comfort, however, he realized she was most likely checking her appearance in the brass mirror over his shoulder. He was careful not to peer in the direction of the dinner party after that.

The intricate, wrought iron and crystal chandelier swayed in slow motion, giving the dining quarter’s current inhabitants an eerie, iridescent glow. Mouths framed in put-upon laughter shattered in wrinkled recognizance as the boy, blonde and proud at school, withered like so much cabbage in a drought. Everything on the move, it was; but in what direction?

Blood-red merlot snickered as it slapped the insides of men’s goblets; being led by its imbibers to the diseased study.

Draco’s impossible performance began.

He answered the first several extremely difficult questions correctly. Unnerved, Lucius announced Draco would be punished for his supposed misbehavior at school. The frightened child took note his father relaxed as he commented appreciably at his son’s already marked skin. Of course, this did not save the boy from the impending blows.

The moment the elder Malfoy was lasciviously engrossed in his rampage, Severus rose and fetched the man’s darker than red wine. Did he tip a hidden vial into the glass?

Handing the flushed, frenzied man his liqueur, Snape purred, “Why don’t you let me take over, old friend?”

Severus produced a rare, wry smile as Lucius swallowed his bait, right down to the last drop.

In a moment, the room’s candles glowed brighter, the moon shown more solidly, and the very walls held their breath.

“Refill my wine, Lucius,” Snape dared.

Draco was awestruck! Never would his father, Lord of the Manor, do any such thing. That was what house elves were for! Was Snape trying to anger him? To cause more brutality? ‘Have I been so disobedient Snape wants father to kill me?’

But his father mechanically rose and fulfilled the request. Snape checked the cheerful grandfather clock, then began spouting off orders furiously.

“Draco, get dressed. I’ve brought your wand. Take it, Draco! Lucius, kneel before me.”

Once Lucius knelt in front of Severus, they grasped right hands. Draco thought this looked like . . . but it couldn’t be!

More commands came. “Lucius, you will answer, ‘I will,’ to each of my statements. You will do exactly as I say.”

Robotically, Lucius spoke, “I will.”

“Draco, place the tip of your wand over our hands. Lucius,” Snape took a deep, steadying breath, “You will relinquish your parental rights to me and name me sole guardian of one Draco Malfoy.”

“I will.”

A wispy reed of brilliant flames wound its way round the pair’s hands. Draco looked up at Severus with tears gleaming in crystalline eyes. This entire ordeal was beginning to make sense . . .

“Draco, place the tip of your wand over our hands. Lucius,” Snape took a deep, steadying breath, “You will relinquish your parental rights to me and name me sole guardian of one Draco Malfoy.”

“I will.”

A wispy reed of brilliant flames wound its way round the pair’s hands. Draco looked up at Severus with tears gleaming in crystalline eyes. This entire ordeal was beginning to make sense . . .

……………………………………………

During the impromptu ceremony, Draco focused on how very shaken the professor appeared. The boy had never seen Severus behave in such a fashion: voice higher pitched, hands fairly shaking, nervous beyond measure.

Severus elicited from Lucius vows of secrecy against Voldemort and the promise never to summon nor torment son and godfather again. He also arranged Lucius’ certain death; the loyal Death Eater would refuse to yield his heir unto the Dark Lord’s service.

Once guardianship scrolls were signed and authenticated, Snape obliviated not only Master and Mistress, but the house elves as well. All traces of the highly illegal potion were eliminated.

The newly liberated pair apparated to Hogsmeade directly after Severus was satisfied with the erasure of evidence. He was having quite the difficult time dampening his anxiety; so difficult, in fact, he supped half a calming draught upon appearing in the balmy, wizarding town’s square. Hastily, godfather pulled son through rarely trodden paths before departing again to the secrecy of Grimmauld Place.

Draco, under a disollusionment charm, crouched breathlessly, painfully, on the far side of a lone holly bush while Severus requisitioned the Potter family cloak. So flushed was the professor’s face, Harry feared he’d have a heart attack. With the help of the Fidelus pair, the not-quite Malfoy arrived unnoticed again in silenced chambers.

“I can’t - How did you – What was that? You’re brilliant! Thank you, thank you, sir!”

Draco stopped shouting and sunk to the floor with a grimace when the professor shot a warning glare in his direction. Hermione, eyes wide and overwhelmed, automatically selected and handed a pain potion to the floor dweller.

Draco looked to Snape for approval, and was surprised to receive it. A bit relieved from the elixir, the boy began again, carefully, formally. “I apologize for my outburst, sir. What can I – I mean, what may I tell them, sir?”

Draco nearly burst with excitement when the professor replied, “For now, let us simply say Draco shall never be forced to endure his father’s violence again. He shall reside with me.”

In a voice akin to a strangled augurey, Hermione forced herself to say, “That’s wonderful, Draco.” She was happy for Draco, but her own situation seemed at once acutely more dismal.

As for Harry, he’d not stopped watching the professor, who was gathering healing necessities with trembling hands.

“And you, sir?” Harry queried.

“What, Mr. Potter?” Snape spat.

Harry was startled at the ferocity in the reply, but this did little to dampen his concern. After all, he was the one who waited up each night for the nocturnally tortured man.

“Are you well, professor? Is there anything you need?”

Severus only grunted, then turned to Draco. His plan could not have gone more perfectly, but he still worried he’d missed something. He also chided himself for not coming up with this solution much sooner, and he hated himself for what he’d done to his beloved godson.

“We need to tend your injuries now, Draco.”

A look that leaked shock and confusion came over the excited boy, still too stunned to have moved from the comfort of the carpeted floor.

“But – but, sir, wouldn’t that negate your punishments this afternoon as well?”

Severus blanched as the boy continued, quite a bit softer, now, “Those were well deserved stripes, sir.”

Snape’s glare flickered quickly to the others in the room. Obviously pondering motivations, Harry was grinding his teeth. Hermione simply burst into tears and ran out of the room.

Pressing down his fear, Harry asked his newest confidant, “Will you be all right if I leave you with - ” He gave a sideways glance to Snape, “If I leave, Draco?”

Mr. Malfoy, however, seemed to have not a clue about the connotation. “Of course! Go after her!”

With a short nod to Malfoy, Potter fled the uncomfortable, puzzling situation without a glance at his professor.

A heavy sigh passed through Snape’s lips as he sank to the floor next to his godson.

“Draco, why do you think your father trusted me so readily today? Has he done so in the past?” he queried, hoping Draco would work it out on his own.

It took a few moments, but the proverbial lumos lit the boy’s mind. “He trusted you today because of the way you –” Draco almost said ‘beat me,’ but he wasn’t certain he was correct, and did not want to risk angering the professor again through such an accusation. He settled on finishing by saying, “ – by your manner toward me.”

“Good,” the elder man said with a firm nod. “Therefore, do you think I wanted to – do what I did prior to dinner?”

Draco searched for the correct answer. Looking into Severus’ eyes at the desperation, hurt, and remorse there, he wasn’t fearful as he replied, “No, sir.”

“Correct. Now, let us see to your healing before Miss Granger has a complete breakdown, shall we?”

……………………………………………

Hermione was barely containing her fury by viciously picking threads from the hem of her frayed jeans. Harry stepped into the room cautiously.

“I wish I had new clothes. What I brought with me is utter crap. I’m sick of it, Harry!” Such venom she put into these words, in lieu of the true cause of her emotional turmoil.

Harry cleverly closed the door and waited for sparks to roar into licking flames.

She continued, never taking her eyes from the fabric. “Of course, that’s a right stupid, petty worry, now, isn’t it. I’ve been the spoilt brat all along, never asking if you needed anything. How do you do it, Harry? How have you done this all these years? Living like this? And you handle so calmly what’s happening with Draco while I’m a total mess!”

She finally looked up with a frantic, haunted gaze. Harry didn’t know which inquiry answer first; or, truly, what she was asking.

He chose to address the most recent situation. “I think there’s something behind Snape’s behaviour. The man is a Slytherin, Hermione, and Draco isn’t upset.”

“There you are again! So calm.” She took a deep breath, concentrating on the in and out. “Will you find out for me?” She failed to keep a desperate, near whinging, tone from her voice. “I can’t go back in there!”

“Of course,” Harry replied, rather relieved to have been handed an escape route. “Will you be all right while I go? Do you want me to get –”

“No,” she dismissed, “I’ll be fine on my own and I want to know what’s happened. If Snape’s hurt him in earnest, I’ll finally have someone on whom I can take out my frustrations!”

……………………………………………

“Come in, Mr. Potter.” Professor Snape put on an exasperated tone after instantly removing several layers of silencing charms.

Harry suddenly realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. Luckily, he wasn’t left long to wonder.

“Do you trust me, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked after some very efficient, complex wand-waving.

Utterly confused, Harry glanced at Draco, who gave him a reassuring look, nodding emphatically.

“Erm – yes, sir,” was Harry’s nearly certain reply.

“Undoubtedly you wonder why I ask. You can no longer be a part of this situation until you have mastered Occlumency.” Snape quickly continued when Harry’s face fell, “Fortunately, if one trusts a wizard accomplished in the field, one may be taught through Legilimency in a matter of moments. You must allow me to enter all parts of your mind so I may assist you in erecting a strong barrier.”

Harry was quite obviously very nervous about accepting this help.

“May I learn, sir?” Draco asked urgently.

“Certainly, Draco. Would you prefer me to teach you first?” Professor Snape suspected Harry would easily acquiesce after seeing Draco’s success.

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!”

Harry retreated to discuss the situation with Hermione, who was eventually convinced to witness the demonstration. Of course, she would also have to decide whether to consent to the Occlumency plan, or to remain ignorant of the true circumstances.

Harry could easily guess the outcome of the situation.

It seemed all were in for another spectacularly late night.

Harry retreated to discuss the situation with Hermione, who was eventually convinced to witness the demonstration. Of course, she would also have to decide whether to consent to the Occlumency plan, or to remain ignorant of the true circumstances.

Harry could easily guess the outcome of the situation.

It seemed all were in for another spectacularly late night.

……………………………………………

Hermione watched skittishly while Draco and, eventually, Harry received the quick, yet somewhat superior, course in Occlumency. By the time three sets of eyes were upon her, waiting for her decision whether or not to trust the professor, she had some semblance of a plan in mind.

“Professor,” she began quietly, “Might I speak with you alone?” She simply could not concentrate, could not pay attention to her own intuition with Harry and Draco in the room. Added to that, the matter of trust was between herself and Snape; she did not want to have an imperfect result.

“Certainly, Miss Granger. I believe I know of an old office that should suffice.”

Once inside the warded office, the conversation quietly continued.

“Sir, what exactly have do you know – about me?”

“In what context, Miss Granger?” Snape answered, rather coolly.

Hermione’s eyelids fluttered as she took a choppy breath, deciding to be bravely blunt, even though she felt much more like a Hufflepuff than a Gryffindor as of late.

“What have you discerned regarding my situation?” There. The proverbial bludger was on his side of the pitch now.

The professor studied her for a moment, then began, placidly, “Miss Granger, you claimed you sister slapped you. I did wonder how large your younger sister might be, considering the strength behind the blow. You’ve not offered explanation for your other injuries, which, as Mr. Potter has pointed out, are remarkably similar to marks from being viciously thrashed with a strap.” He paused for effect. “Now, what do you truly wish to know?”

Throughout the extremely matter-of-fact, abrupt speech, Hermione had grown rather more pale, and although she was relieved he’d not figured out the whole story, it made her all the more apprehensive when he did discover the memories constantly assaulting her soul.

She whispered, “Will you tell?”

“Fidelus, child. Surely we’ve been through this.”

“Yes, but – ”

“Hermione, I made a promise, both by my word and with my magic.” Not one he wished to, but Severus was rather accustomed to doing things he’d rather not. “No-one shall know unless you deem it so.”

He paused, listening carefully to the questions she wasn’t asking.

“You don’t trust me because I hurt Draco, correct?”

Jaw jerking jarringly, she could not answer.

The professor thought for a moment, then asked, “Miss Granger, have you ever told a friend something you knew might upset him, but would help in the long-term?”

“Ye-es, but –”

“As an example, Miss Granger, do indulge me. You shall find the same premise in my actions. If you do not, after granting to me your trust, find my actions of late honorable, I shall remove any of the experiences I may view during the Occlumency tutelage to penseive vials which you make keep.”

“Why do you wish to teach me?” The emphasis she placed on that last pronoun spoke clearly of her own frame of mind.

The professor had a surprisingly simple answer.

“You wish to know.” He began, simply. Pursing his lips, he continued. “Everyone on our side would do well to learn Occlumency, at any rate, however considering your – friendship – with Mr. Potter –”

At this, Hermione predictably blushed sever shades of vermillion.

Snape cleared his throat. “Considering, he could be in yet more danger should the Dark Lord search your mind.”

“What I’ve already seen could harm you as well?” A realization and statement as much as a question, it was.

The tense manner in which his answering, affirmative nod was frighteningly indicative of the urgency of the situation.

“Right, then.” She’d made her decision. She’d never been known as a coward, and wasn’t about to begin. It was in the pursuit of knowledge at any rate. However, Hermione also knew she desperately needed more help. She had no means to conduct research at present, and others were bound to notice very soon.

…

“Legilimens,” he whispered, and began navigating through an inordinately complex mind. Early memories he found, yes, up to last year, but he had to travel far away, through a darkened corridor of the mind’s eye, to reach some recognizances sheltered by a murky, oily bubble. Here were the beatings, yes, but there was also a tumult of blurred visions which burst into clarity as Hermione began to shout, “Please! Please!” repeatedly.

“You took my wife from me, you filthy little scag, and you’ll damn well do all her duties!” echoed in Severus’ ears.

The professor quickly finished the barriers, which had taken shape as thick, cream-coloured marble walls complete with gothic, vaulted ceilings in the girl’s mind, and pulled away.

“What did you do to her?” Harry hissed, surprised and not a little dismayed. “Hasn’t she been through enough?”

“It wasn’t his fault, Harry,” Hermione gasped weakly, moving away from them all into a corner of the professor’s chambers. She accepted a calming draught from Draco’s outstretched hand. He did not meet her eyes.

“Did it work, at least?” she asked.

“It did,” the professor affirmed in a voice a bit too kindly for its maker.

“Worth it, then,” she whispered, drifting off to sleep in the cradling, worn armchair.

The professor cast Calefacio to warm her, and another silent spell that caused Hermione to clutch her stomach in her sleep. He plucked two thick tomes from his shelf, seated himself at his desk, and absentmindedly suggested Harry fetch some tea.

……………………………………………..

“Did it work, at least?” she asked.

“It did,” the professor affirmed in a voice a bit too kindly for its maker.

“Worth it, then,” she whispered, drifting off to sleep in the cradling, worn armchair.

……………………………………………..

Soon as Harry left the room, Draco hesitantly crept closer to the professor, who closed the tome he was currently reading.

“If I can help, sir, I’d – ”

“No!” Snape said quite ferociously as he turned, quick as lightening, to the boy. He immediately regretted doing so when Draco recoiled. More softly, he continued, “That is . . . kind of you, Draco, but the answer is no. Perhaps you could . . . cover Miss Granger?” It seemed for a moment as if he would say more, but didn’t. He waited until Draco was far enough from the desk to read anything lying upon it, then went back to work.

……………………………………………..

The professor and Draco were both startled violently as Hermione awakened, screaming. She refused another calming draught, expressing rabid hunger.

Draco took up the abandoned chair and fairly stared at the professor, wanting so to have his suspicions … Actually, her realized he fervently wished them to be denied. He acknowledged he was beginning to feel a sort of kinship with Granger, and Potter as well. Since his new guardian was – not encouraging, exactly, but certainly condoning the interactions, he was not going to curb them. Unless bid to do so, of course.

“Do stop staring and do not even contemplate asking, Mr. Malfoy!” Snape’s excessively gruff tone yanked Draco from his musings.

When Snape turned precipitously, Draco could see the professor was affected emotionally nearly to the point he’d been the evening they’d brewed the internal healing draught.

Snape took all he’d been working on, thrust it in a lower drawer of his wardrobe, then warded the entire piece of furniture.

“Dinner shall be served shortly,” he announced in a quite condescending, terse manner just prior to wrenching the door open and slamming it shut.

……………………………………………..

Even though both were occluding quite efficiently, Severus could read the fledgling couple as deftly as any proverbial book. It was quite clear Potter was concerned but rather unable to reason out the entirety of the situation, and that Hermione was trying much too hard to be cheerful.

…

Hastily, the professor gathered a plate of leftovers, deposited it in front of Draco, and left without a word to apparate a moment later.

…

Recognizing Hermione wished to speak of anything but her own situation, Harry broached a subject he’d been staunchly disregarding.

“The hearing’s tomorrow,” he said, just above a whisper.

Instantly, Hermione focused, offering copious comfort and sympathy.

…

Upstairs, Draco cleaned his plate, his worries flitting between the spectre of upcoming punishment and concern for his newest friend.

……………………………………………..

Next morning, once Harry had left for the Ministry, Hermione hesitantly knocked on the professor’s door. When nobody answered, she breathed a sigh of relief, shyly intoned the password, and let herself in. She was rather startled as she set eyes on a snoring professor Snape, quite soundly asleep at his desk. Draco motioned for her to be silent and quickly shut the door.

After an awkward moment, Draco declared the professor was unlikely to awaken if the conversed quietly, and Hermione filled him in on Harry’s hearing. If possible, Draco was even more indignant than she. He described innumerable times pure-blooded children used magic at home with no consequence. They agreed this was just another of the ministry’s ploys to deny the continued existence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

At the first lull in their conversation, Hermione brought up the subject in which she held the most interest with Draco – the circumstances which had brought him to live with the professor on a seemingly permanent basis.

After a lengthy pause, Draco glanced at his guardian, swallowed, and said, “Perhaps it would be best if we wait for Professor Snape to be involved in the explanation. I would not wish to . . . misspeak.”

Hermione grudgingly accepted this, although it only fueled her suspicions of abuse. She glared at a somewhat more quietly sleeping Snape, and, for the first time, noticed the titles of a few of the open tomes strewn about the grand desk. She noted that many of the books that bore the Hogwarts Library seal she’d never lain eyes on; one in particular caught her attention: ‘Medicinal Potions: Detrimental Interactions in Rare Treatments.’ Ever in her highly agitated state, it took mere seconds for the girl to puzzle out the plan.

“He was gone until five this morning,” Draco murmured.

Hermione’s awareness snapped back to Draco as he finished the statement, but she hadn’t comprehended it.

“What?” she asked, dazed.

“He was gone until five in the morning.”

After a moment, Draco continued, “I think he’ll begin brewing soon,” and he hesitated.

Very carefully, earnestly, he finally reassured the shaking form beside him, “I know he’ll help you.”

Hermione promptly broke down sobbing.

Snape awakened, startled violently, and was about to say something extraordinarily harsh out of embarrassment. However, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Stalking to the loo, he looked almost sheepish as he scrubbed his face, only to find drool on his chin.

Draco tracked the professor’s movements with a beseeching look upon his visage. Severus shrunk the books, folded the parchments, and fit everything he’d been working on into hidden pockets of the robes he donned. Snape ignored Draco’s pleading countenance, opting to hand the boy a Calming Draught, then a handkerchief, before rolling his eyes theatrically and leaving again.

Hermione refused the draught, but calmed, claiming she was only startled.

The pair passed a quiet morning reading – Hermione devouring Draco’s textbooks, simultaneously worrying she’d no means to purchase her own, Draco perusing anything but school texts.

Harry returned, triumphant, and Draco shooed Hermione off to celebrate with the greater household. Snape returned a few hours after, and proceeded to unshrink what looked like hundreds of galleons worth of potions ingredients. As he began brewing, his mood seemed greatly improved, to Draco’s relief. He decided to speak woth the professor at the first lull.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Draco?” quite kindly, for a Snape.

“Hermione asked about my … situation … while you were out, and I was uncertain what to tell her.”

Running stained fingers through long, lank locks, the professor sighed. “As I’d assumed she would, at the first given chance. What do you wish to tell her?”

“Well … most everything I may, which I know does not include mention of the potion. I don’t really know what that was anyway.” He hoped for more information on that, himself.

“I think a nearly true account of events will suffice. We shall act as if the first agreement of custody, which truly hinged upon the servitude of my elf, was agreed upon at the mere prospect of summer tutelage, and the more recent, full release of your person to my care was due to the sacrifice of my servant. Passable?”

“Yes, sir. But what if she figures out the truth?”

“The entire situation will again be contained with Fidelus,” the professor assured, although he did not sound entirely convinced of his own assurance.

“Right.”

After more brewing, Draco got up the nerve to ask his other question.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Draco?” delivered in a manner not so congenial this time.

“Sorry, sir. Never mind.”

Snape gave the boy, who’d ducked his head in shame, a withering look. He procured a Firewhiskey for himself and a butterbeer for his charge, before pulling a chair to the bedside.

“Out with it.” He thrust the drink into Draco’s trembling hands.

“Am I – I mean to say when – am –” Draco took a deep, shaky breath, and started again. “When am I to be punished, sir?”

Snape gave him a blank stare, knocked back the remaining crimson liquid, and after checking the potions, began writing furiously at his desk. Draco fought off a panic attack.

……………………………………………..

The piano was playing a lively, major-keyed tune at full strength, with a violin and flute accompanying it, sans players. Every few minutes, Tonks would flick her wand at the trio and change up the tune, never looking away from Remus. Albus and McGonagall conversed quietly in a corner sharing tea, while Snape sat near enough to where he should be paying attention. He wasn’t. The younger Weasleys were in full blossom, making such a racket Molly feared the muggles on the street would hear through the silencing charms. She’d not the heart to squelch any gaiety, however; this was her Harry’s night to rejoice.

Extra candles and torches were lit all over the downstairs of Grimmauld Place in a dazzling array of colors. Order members wandered in and out all evening, at Molly’s request. All of Grimmauld’s sometime inhabitants rejoiced over the outcome of Harry’s hearing. An even greater feast that what was normal was gleefully shared by all – even the boy-who-lived ate a lion’s share.

…

Draco found himself wishing the silencing charms kept out noise as well as they kept it in. He was quite accustomed to crushing loneliness during summers at the manner, but that was always rather overshadowed by pain and panic. He also couldn’t recall a time his friends had celebrated within earshot at the Malfoy Mansion. Just as he succumbed to heavy guilt – really, the professor had sacrificed so much to keep him here he’d absolutely no business feeling anything but gratitude, Hermione peeked in holding a plate of cakes and pies.

“I’m sorry, I can’t stay. I couldn’t think of an excuse if anyone . . .” She stopped as she noticed tears glistening in her ally’s eyes.

She began again, “Draco –”

But he cut her off.

“Go!” He hadn’t meant to be so forceful. Quieter, “You’re right. We’re so close to start of term, it’d be a shame for anyone to get suspicious. The professor . . .” He shook his head. Holding up the plate, he said, “Thanks, now you should go.”

She smiled thinly and left, vowing to return as soon as possible.