Harry yawns widely as he refills his glass of pumpkin juice. Perhaps breakfast today wasn’t the best of ideas. Right now, an extra hour of sleep sounds lovely.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione inquires, interrupting his reverie. “You look a bit of a mess.”

“Yeah,” Ron says, rousing himself from a mountain of pancakes. “Does it have anything to do with your note last night?"

“What note?” Hermione asks.

Ron hunts around his book bag and produces a rumpled piece of paper. He clears his throat and reads: “Had to go take care of something. Don’t worry, I’m alright.” He looks at Harry. “What did you have to take care of at two in the morning?”

Harry casts a powerful Privacy charm. He waits until he is quite sure nobody is paying attention to them, and then leans forward to clue in his friends. “I went down to see Snape, because I thought Dumbledore was trapped in the Room of Requirement.” He quickly explains his reasoning, and Snape’s ensuing decision to investigate the Room on his behalf.

“Good for Snape,” Ron says, impressed.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “But things didn’t quite work out like we’d hoped. He couldn’t get into the Room, so pretty soon he came back..."

“And then what happened?” Hermione prompts as the pause drags on, accurately guessing that there is more to the story.

“We kind of had an altercation,” Harry says slowly. “Snape got mad at me. It’s a long story. The details don’t matter. But he got really mad at me. He almost hit me.”

“Almost?” Ron interjects indignantly. “What do you mean, ‘almost’ hit you?”

“I mean,” Harry says, embarrassed, “that he was about to thrash me and then he changed his mind.”

“But that's awful!” Hermione says, her eyes round with shock.

“It was awful,” Harry says quietly. “But...he apologized. He felt really, really bad about it. He threw the, um, belt in the fire.”

"He didn’t actually hit you?” Ron verifies.

“No.”

“Merlin,” Ron exclaims. “It’s like Good Snape, Bad Snape with him. You never know which one you’re going to get.”

“He certainly isn’t very consistent,” Hermione adds. “It worries me, Harry, how close he gets to doing things he doesn’t want to do. What if he can’t control his temper one day?”

Harry pokes at his egg, saying nothing.

"Harry," Hermione says, an edge creeping into her voice, "this is the first time something like this has happened with Snape, isn't it?"

Harry reluctantly shakes his head.

"Tell us," Ron orders.

"After I showed you guys the memory with the gun and Snape made you leave, he asked me if I had tried to kill myself.” Harry hesitates. “I told him yes, and he slapped me."

Ron and Hermione exchange glances.

"Yeah, I know," Harry sighs. "I should've told you. But I was embarrassed. And it was just a slap. And he promised afterward that he would never hit me again. I wanted to believe him so badly."

"Technically, he hasn't broken his promise," Ron allows.

"He's gotten pretty damn close!" Hermione snaps.

Ron and Harry stare at her, identical shocked expressions on their faces. Hermione never curses.

"I don't like this," Hermione continues, clearly agitated. "Is this getting to be a pattern, Harry? Snape hits you, or almost hits you, and you just accept it as normal? Because it isn't, Harry. It isn't!"

"I know, Hermione."

She leans forward, poking a finger in his face. "There's no point in trading in your uncle for Snape if they are both going to hurt you."

"It's not that black and white,” Harry snaps back at her. “Can you please trust that I'm not an idiot?"

"I trust you," Hermione says. "That’s not the issue. It’s him I’m starting to doubt.”

"You tell Snape that we are keeping a close eye on him," Ron growls. "If he hurts you, he has us to answer to."

"You don't need to worry. I'm not going to do anything stupid."

"What does that mean?”

"Just that I'm not going to give him a reason to lose his temper."

"He's not much use to you, mate, if you have to walk on eggshells around him."

“I know,” Harry repeats, heavily.

"It won’t do you any good trying to be extra polite around Snape," Ron continues. "First of all, you aren't Percy. And second of all, you never know what's going to set him off. So what's the point of trying to guess?"

“No point,” Harry concedes. But privately, he thinks this is one of those things Ron simply cannot understand. Not with a childhood at the Burrow.

Ron frowns, perhaps reading this on Harry’s face, and switches to a different line of attack. "By the way, you haven’t told us what you did after Snape threw the belt in the fire.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you two scrap? Did you leave? What happened next?”

“We talked.”

“About what?"

"I told him there are worse things he can do to me than thrash me. Which is true. And that he’s the first person, ever, to stop himself or to feel bad about it. Which I know is true.”

"So you tried to make him feel better?" Hermione says, sounding incredulous.

“That's not what I was doing," Harry protests. He stops, reconsidering. "Is that what I was doing?"

"Sure sounds like it," Ron snorts.

"But why would I try and butter up Snape?" Harry demands.

Hermione looks right at him, her brown eyes soft. “Maybe so he wouldn’t hurt you.”

Harry frowns, struggling with this interpretation of events. "That's one way of looking at it.”

"It makes sense," Hermione says, ever-logical. "I'm guessing you used to do the same thing with your uncle, so you thought you'd try the same method with Snape."

"What 'method' exactly?"

"Placation.” At Harry’s blank stare, Hermione sighs and spells it out for him. “You buttered him up so he wouldn’t hit you."

"Maybe I was just being nice to him."

"Perhaps," Hermione says quietly.

Harry scowls, annoyed with Hermione. Now doubt is starting to pool inside him.

"What are you going to do now?" Ron asks, looking anxious.

"I don't know," Harry says grimly. "But I'd better decide quickly. We have Potions today."

***

Harry still doesn't know what he's going to do when they file into the dungeon later that afternoon. He unpacks his books, a tight knot in his stomach, wishing he were almost anywhere else.

A few minutes later, Snape glides into the room. Ron glares at him, Hermione considers him, and Harry watches him. Snape looks levelly at them, his gaze lingering a beat longer on Harry. Then he takes his place at the front of the classroom.

"Today," Snape says in his gravelly voice, "We begin our unit on Healing potions, specifically, an all-purpose Bruise Salve. Instructions are on the board. Begin."

Harry takes out his ingredients, keeping his head down. Snape strolls around the room, murmuring instructions but more often criticism, keeping his distance from Harry. The class creeps by without catastrophe. Harry doesn't look up the whole time, paying attention only to his cauldron and ingredients.

"That was the best Potions lesson ever," Ron says under his breath as they bottle up their potions for marking an hour later.

"Shhhh," Hermione hisses. "He's coming over."

Ron and Harry, as one, hunch over their cauldrons, trying to look insignificant and unworthy of notice.

Snape pauses behind them. Harry holds his breath, old unhappy feelings about Snape swirling within him. He can feel his professor’s eyes boring into the back of his neck. And then, without comment, Snape moves away.

But that's not the end of it--as they head for the door, Snape's low voice stops them.

"Potter. Come here for a moment."

Harry, flanked by his friends, goes up to the front of the classroom.

Snape studies the unfriendly expressions on Ron and Hermione's faces with a certain degree of interest. “Are your surnames Potter as well?”

“No, sir,” Ron mutters.

Harry gives his friends what he hopes is a reassuring look. “I’ll catch up, go on.”

Once the door has shut behind them, Snape flings a Privacy charm at the door. The he uncorks Hermione's pot of Bruise Salve, dips a brush into the paste and offers it to Harry.

"What’s this for?” Harry asks, caught off-guard.

"Your neck,” Snape says quietly. “It is bruised from where I grabbed you last night."

"It is?" Harry says, surprised. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck, and for the first time, notices how tender it is. "Oh. It is."

Snape continues to hold out the brush.

Harry takes a step back. “No thanks.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Snape says curtly. “Take it. It will make you feel better.”

“No,” Harry says. “It won’t.”

And he leaves before Snape can say another word.

***

Harry trudges up the winding stairs to the dormitory later that evening, tired after a tedious couple of hours spent in the library. He’s never going to catch up from the time he missed while trapped in the Room. Another thing to thank Dumbledore for.

He collapses on his bed, telling himself he's only going to rest for a minute. He's not going to think about anything--especially not this mess with Snape--he's just going to close his eyes and drift...

Almost immediately, something lands on his chest. It isn't often Hedwig perches there, and Harry delights in the sensation of her warm body on his. She gives a long, low hoot, and gently nips at his ear.

"What've you got for me?" Harry murmurs, opening his eyes and taking a scrap of parchment from her leg. Maybe it’s from Sirius. Or Dumbledore?

Harry unfolds the letter, and gives Hedwig a farewell pat before she departs for the Owlery. The letter has clearly been spelled to only open for him, and the words appear like inky footprints, one after the other.

Come to my quarters at 9 tonight, if you will.

It is unsigned, but Harry knows who it is from. And it isn't Sirius. Or Dumbledore.

He considers, glancing at the clock beside him. 9:30. Still plenty of time before curfew. Does he want to go? Does he have to go? It's not really an order, is it? More like a request...

Harry hugs his arms across his chest, wishing Hedwig was still with him. If he's honest, he has to acknowledge that he's glad Snape is still reaching out. But does he really have it in him for another go-round tonight? And what if Snape gets mad again?

Harry rubs the back of his neck in thought, an old gesture, and winces as he presses the bruise. Still, Snape had tried to fix things...

Surely talking to the man is better than carrying this knot of worry around inside of him.

***

A few minutes later, Harry slips outside the portrait hole. He is halfway down the corridor when he catches a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye.

“You there! Potter! Come here, I need someone to sharpen my quills!”

Without so much as a pause in his step, Harry wheels around, heading in the opposite direction as fast as he can.

“Potter! Did you hear me?”

Harry is two floors away before he deems it safe to slow down. Then he slips inside an empty classroom and pulls out the Marauders Map. Umbridge isn’t following him—thank goodness—she’s marching back to her office, followed by an inky pair of footprints that appear to be dragging their heels.

“Better than you me, mate,” Harry murmurs, watching the progress of the reluctant footprints.

The coast now appears to be clear, so Harry refolds the map and cautiously pokes his head outside.

Oh. Lovely.

Whether by coincidence or some greater need to disobey Snape, Harry has run straight to the forbidden seventh-floor corridor.

And, now that he is here, he can’t help it. He walks up to the familiar tapestry and leans his cheek up against it.

“Are you in there, Dumbledore?” Harry whispers. “Do you need my help?”

Nothing happens. And yet…there is something in the air. Magic—or power—or some greater force. Some greater emotion.

Harry shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what to do. Listen to Snape and stay the hell away from here? Ignore Snape—the man who almost thrashed him last night—and go fetch Dumbledore? All he has to do, he’s pretty sure, is walk three times up and down the hallway…

Harry turns away from the tapestry. Snape may have almost thrashed him—but he didn’t leave him with the Dursleys for all those years.

***

Not much later, Harry knocks on the door to Snape's quarters.

The door swings open with an ominous creak.

"Hi," Harry says awkwardly, slipping inside and nudging the door shut.

"I didn't think you were coming."

"I was in the library," Harry explains, seeing no need to tell Snape about his little foray into forbidden territory. "I didn't get your note until just now."

"Ah."

A long silence hangs in the air. It feels dangerous, thick with misunderstanding.

"Can we talk?" Harry asks hesitantly.

Snape gestures to the couch, and Harry perches on one end of it. He opens his mouth to begin, but Snape beats him to the punch.

"Are you angry with me?" Snape asks, sitting across from him. "I thought we'd reached an understanding last night."

"We did," Harry agrees. "But after talking to my friends today...well, Hermione thought my reaction to last night was odd. After…you know. Our fight.”

“As did I," Snape points out. "I told you to stop defending me. Of all things! And yet you persisted in saying kind things to me, words that I didn't deserve."

"And I meant them. But after talking to Hermione...I don’t know. Maybe I said those nice things because they were true--but also to calm you down so you wouldn't freak out again." Harry shifts in his seat. “Look, this is what I came down here to say. You scared me last night. I didn't even do anything wrong, and you went completely nuts. And then you confused me even more by being nice when I was leaving. You called me Fawn."

Now it is Snape's turn to look embarrassed. "I didn't know you heard that."

"Well, I did," Harry says. "And when I was falling asleep later, you know what I was thinking? That the belt was worth the nickname." He swallows. "And that's kind of sick, don't you think?"

"I think it's unsurprising, given your upbringing."

"Well, I don't like feeling humiliated," Harry says sharply. "And if I'm honest, that's what I've felt ever since you shoved me against that table. I don't think--I don't think I trust you not to do that again."

"Understood," Snape says quietly. "I know that trust is the most fragile of gifts, Potter. I wish to Merlin I hadn't trampled on yours."

"Me too."

"I'd like you to know that I trust you."

"But you accused me of burning--" Harry stops short, clamping his mouth shut.

"What were you going to say, Potter?"

"Nothing."

"You were going to disagree with me," Snape says sternly. "Weren't you?"

Harry looks carefully at Snape. "So what if I was?"

"My question exactly," Snape answers. "I certainly hope you aren't censoring yourself in an attempt to keep me in good humour. That would quickly prove tiresome."

"I don't mind."

"I meant tiresome for me," Snape replies. "I don't enjoy being surrounded by yes-men, you know. I get enough of that at Death Eater meetings."

"But if we disagree," Harry says, in a very small voice, "you might freak out again."

"So now I'm the savage lion that must be kept tame with nice bits of red meat, is that it?"

"I don't know," Harry says miserably.

“I don’t understand,” Snape says, sounding frustrated, “how you can be scared of me one day—and do nothing to defend yourself when I stand over you with belt—and yet on another day, do everything you can to push my buttons. For Merlin’s sake, you broke my nose.” He looks down at Harry, his eyes hooded. “I wasalways afraid of my father. I never fought back. Perhaps that simplified matters, in a way.”

“When I punched you in the Room, you’d just told me that you were the spy who informed Voldemort about the prophecy,” Harry reminds Snape. “That was different. You pushed me too far and I snapped. Usually I’m a lot more careful.”

“Did you ever…did you ever fight back against your uncle? When he came after you?”

Harry stiffens. Snape just looks at him, eyebrow raised.

“Do you really want to know?” Harry asks, a note of challenge in his voice.

Snape reads something in Harry’s expression that makes him suddenly look very somber. “No. I don’t think I do.” He pauses. “Let’s go back to what we were talking about before. What did I accuse you of burning?”

Harry looks wearily at Snape. “Your photographs. You accused me of burning your photographs. That means you don’t trust me. For you to say otherwise—well, it’s ridiculous.”

“Are you calling me ridiculous?”

“Guess so,” Harry says flatly.

“There,” Snape says in triumph. “You just stopped being ‘careful’ with me, Potter, and nothing terrible happened.”

“This time,” Harry corrects quietly. “Nothing terrible happened this time.”

Snape sighs. “Whether you believe me or not, Potter, I do trust you. And I am going to demonstrate that trust by giving you one of my photographs."

He waves his wand, and the little wooden chest, the source of so much trouble, comes floating into view. "There you are. Take a photograph. Any one you like."

"For keeps?” Harry asks, engaged in spite of himself. “Not a loan to practice my magic on?"

"Yes. And I never expected you to return the photograph of your grandparents."

Harry leans forward, moving to pluck the chest out of the air. But then, slowly, he withdraws his hand.

"What's wrong?" Snape asks.

"Is this a bribe?"

"A bribe? In exchange for what?"

"My trust."

"I do not bribe people."

"Well, then, are you trying to placate me?" Harry asks, echoing Hermione’s words from earlier.

Snape's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"You give me a photo, and I stop yelling at you."

"But you aren't yelling at me."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

Harry looks away from the photographs. "I bet you don't want Dumbledore to know about the belt.”

Snape frowns. “I have no particular desire for him to find out, no. But I’m not trying to buy your silence, Potter.”

Harry looks skeptically at Snape.

"Can I not simply give you a gift?"

Harry broods over this. "I don't know. Can you?"

"Black gave you a very fine racing broom, did he not?"

Harry nods.

"And the Weasleys--they send you hand-knit sweaters every Christmas."

"I know."

"Then why can't I give you something?" Snape says softly, a plaintive edge to his voice.

"It's not a real gift if it comes after a fight," Harry says automatically. Then he blinks, surprised at himself.

"Where did you get that absurd idea?"

"I don't know." Harry pauses. "Yeah, I do. Aunt Petunia."

"What did she do to make you think that?"

"She used to try and buy me off. After fights. Those weren’t…they weren’t real gifts. She was just worried that I would tell a teacher or a neighbor about my bruises."

"And so?" Snape prompts. Then he hesitates. “You don’t have to discuss this with me if you don’t want to, Potter.”

“Now who’s being careful?” Harry asks with a small smile. “No, it’s okay. I can talk about—this.” He takes a deep breath. “When everyone else had left for the day, sometimes she'd help me. You know—when I was in bad shape. She’d feed me. Bandage me. Give me a toy she knew Dudley wouldn't miss."

"How generous of her,” Snape says sarcastically.

"They used to do the same thing to Dudley, you know. They'd keep him quiet with some kind of treat."

"What kind of treats would he get?"

"Oh, you know...a video game. An ice cream. A leather jacket."

"Not like your 'treats' at all."

"No," Harry says glumly. "God, I used to feel so relieved when she'd unlock the door. Then I'd hate myself afterward."

"Why?"

"She didn't like to touch me."

If Harry had been looking at Snape, he would have seen a strange, fierce emotion cross the man's face.

But he's not looking at Snape. He's studying his shoes, his voice low and cold, as he remembers.

"Everything would be all ready on the table, so she'd have to spend as little time with me as possible. She'd yank off my clothes and bandage me up. And while she was doing it--she'd crinkle her nose like I smelled. Which I did. Then she'd walk out, leaving me with the broken toys and the food.”

"And this...treat...was meant to ensure your silence?"

Harry nods. "And you know what the worst part was? She never said a word, ever, while she was mending me. Not once. I could spend hours in the cupboard without hearing a sound and be fine. But her not talking to me--when I was right next to her--it was just --" He looks up at Snape with a troubled expression. “Her doing that to me—that was one of the things that messed me up. More than when she hit me.”

"That woman," Snape says, venom lining his voice, "That bitch was born cruel."

"You hate her," Harry says, surprised.

"Don't you?"

"I--I don't know."

"When we were children, she did her best to keep Lily and me apart,” Snape says bitterly. “She tried to get me in trouble at every turn. That cow was to blame for many of my welts, I can tell you. Oh, yes, Potter. I hate Petunia Dursley."

"I don’t think it helps to hate people.”

Snape is silent for a long time. Then he sighs and looks at Harry. "No. It doesn’t.”

Harry feels suddenly shy. “I’ve never told anyone that before. About Petunia and her—treats.”

“She really was a terrible parent,” Snape drawls, apparently ignoring this confession. “She bribed you both, you and your cousin—and it didn’t work very well, did it?”

“Dudley didn’t seem to mind."

“Oh, I don’t know,” Snape murmurs. “I wonder if your cousin, underneath those layers of blubber, doesn’t loathe her for what she’s turned him into. I know I would.”

“Yeah, but you hate everybody,” Harry says bluntly.

Snape flinches, almost imperceptibly.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You aren’t far wrong.”

Harry chances a look at Snape. “But you don’t hate me, right?”

“Do you really not know that by now, Potter?”

Harry ducks his head. “Sometimes—it’s better to hear it.”

Snape says nothing for a long time.

“Never mind,” Harry says, embarrassed. “I’m not—I’m not fishing for a compliment. It’s just—”

Snape puts up a hand to stop him. “It’s just that you would like reassurance from me after last night. It’s quite understandable. I don’t hate you, Potter. Not anymore.”

Harry frowns, rather unsatisfied with this. “Forget it. I don’t know why I’m still here. I said what I needed to say.”

He gets to his feet. But he doesn’t leave. He just looks at Snape.

Snape considers Harry for a long moment. Then he waves his wand, and the chest of photographs disappears.

“What did you do that for?” Harry demands.

“The photographs will keep,” Snape says. “I’d rather give one to you when you trust that it isn’t a bribe.”

Harry’s frown deepens. “Oh.”

“Now, sit down,” Snape orders. He doesn’t wait to see if Harry obeys, but disappears into his potions store.

Harry sinks back onto the sofa, feeling distinctly annoyed with himself. All those photos of his mum—they were right there—and somehow he screwed it up.

Snape returns with a pot of something small in his hand. He sits down on the couch, rather closer than usual to Harry.

“I thought we’d try the Bruise Salve again,” Snape says briskly.

“Fine.” Harry, rather sullenly, holds out his hand for the brush.

Snape shakes his head. “I will do it.”

Harry, startled, looks up at him. “Really?”

“If you will allow me to,” Snape says, his voice filled with self-recrimination.

“If you want to,” Harry says uncertainly. "Okay."

Snape dips the brush into the paste, and then aims at Harry’s neck. But the position is awkward—and a great glob of it drips onto Harry’s forehead instead.

Harry jumps as the Bruise Salve drips onto his scar.

“Weird,” Harry breathes. “That feels like—I don’t know what that feels like. Weird.”

Snape offers him a handkerchief, and Harry wipes the paste off his scar.

“Does it look any different?” Harry asks, brushing his bangs to the side. “I’ve never tried putting Bruise Salve on it before.”

Snape squints closely at it. “No, it looks the same. This salve doesn’t work on curse scars.”

“They shouldn’t call it all-purpose then.”

Snape raises an eyebrow. “You listened to my lecture in class today.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm. Well, why don’t we try this again. Turn around, I think that will be easier.”

Harry shifts on the couch until he is facing the other direction, away from Snape. After a moment, he tilts his head toward his chest. It is an oddly vulnerable position, like offering his neck up to a vampire. And he can’t see what Snape is doing. He takes a deep breath, sternly telling himself to calm down. It’s fine. Snape certainly isn’t going to hit him now.

After a long moment, he feels something—not the slimy paste—but Snape’s hand, gently brushing the hair away from his nape.

Harry stiffens at this unexpected touch. But he doesn’t move away as Snape dabs the paste onto his neck.

After a minute or two, Snape sets down the brush, the job done.

Harry raises his head, but before he can turn around, he feels Snape’s hand on top of his hair. Harry freezes again. This day is just getting stranger and stranger. Now Snape is smoothing down his hair—over and over again—like one would a ruffled cat.

After a moment, Harry closes his eyes. This is a new sensation—a new experience. And yet it reminds him of something…something he used to have.

And Harry cannot help it. The gesture unarms him—defeats him. He doesn’t know it—but the muscle in his jaw unclenches—the angry lines disappear from his forehead—and he submits to Snape’s rough caress.

“My,” Snape says quietly from somewhere above him, still sleeking down Harry’s hair. “To think of all the time I’ve wasted—and this was the easiest way to win.”

His words rouse Harry. He jerks as if startled, and cranes his head around to look at Snape. “Win what?”

“Nothing.”

Harry turns back around so he is facing Snape. “Why—why did you do that?” He asks, too shaken to leave this question unasked.

“You needed Healing,” Snape says, raising an eyebrow.

Harry just looks at him, unsure of how to respond. Unsure if they are talking about Bruise Salve or about something else entirely. Something much more vulnerable. Something much more bruised.

“Not everyone is like your aunt, Potter,” Snape says quietly.

Harry says nothing. But his brow furrows again, and the muscle in his jaw clenches.

Not all bruises are healed in one night.