"I don't believe you," Harry told him, and in a flash, he had the door open, and was running down the corridor and far, far away.

"Damn," Snape snarled, and before the boy got more than a dozen steps, he was out of his chair and heading after him. He'd thought briefly of locking the door before Harry made it through, but he knew that was more likely to make the boy panic than anything. Still, he should have put himself between Harry and the door, to cut down on the possibility of the boy bolting. In this state of mind, Harry was liable to get himself into trouble.

Just before he left the office, he remembered something, and went back to his desk to grab the packet of photos he had promised to show Harry. He meant to keep that promise, even if Harry thought he was an evil bastard who wasn't actually trying to help him.

As he chased after the boy, he reflected on what exactly had gone wrong. He had needed to ask this series of questions a number of times before, and though there were differences in each child he tried to help, there were many similarities in their cases as well, one of which was almost an automatic reflexive denial of any problem. He was actually rather amazed that Harry had not accused him of making everything up whole cloth, including the injuries he'd had healed at the Infirmary at the beginning of the year. In his experience, children who were neglected and abused -- and he'd dealt with plenty in his tenure as the Slytherin Head of House -- were some of the least trusting and most paranoid people in the world. Severus had been one himself, so he was fairly confident of his interpretation.

But he had the unofficial testimony of his Legilimency of the Dursleys themselves. He certainly had not seen everything they had done to Harry, but he had a pretty good basis to charge them with a number of crimes against the child. What he really needed was for Harry to collaborate what Severus had seen in their minds, with his own words.

For the next quarter hour, Severus trailed after the boy, all the way to the owlery. His leg -- despite having been mostly healed from his run in with that thrice-damned three-headed dog -- was aching fiercely by the time he reached the top of the West Tower. The owlery was cold and drafty this November evening, as the weather this past week had turned particularly nasty. Frost rimed the grounds every morning, and turned the surrounding hills a dark, steel gray.

In the frigid owlery, Severus immediately cast a warming charm on his clothes as he peered around for the boy. In the dark, one little dark haired boy in dark robes was not easy to spot. But one white owl was, and Severus honed in on the bird, recalling that Harry had one like it.

Half turned from the door, the boy was standing quite close to his owl, stroking her feathers gently. Severus, however, could see the lines of tension running through him as if they were painted on, in every jerky movement of his hand, in every hitched breath, and even in the cant of his head. Severus was going to need to approach the subject of his abuse much more slowly than he had previously considered. From the candidness with which the boy wrote his essay, Severus had thought he was ready to talk about his home life. Clearly, he was not.

Or . . . perhaps he could only talk to his owl about it. Harry's soft voice was barely more than a whisper, but Severus had not been a spy for nothing. He picked out the boy's words over the low murmurs of owls settling and the rustle of feathers.

". . . supposed to do, Hedwig. They always knew when I told anyone anything. Was always worse after. This was before I had you, you know, but I got locked in for weeks, once, after the school nurse made a fuss. She said . . ." He shook his head and ran a hand across his face. Wiping away tears? "I just . . . I don't think I can go back to the cupboard again. God, I was so hungry . . . And where would you go? I can't ask you to stay locked in that stupid little cupboard with me." Seemingly talked out, the boy sighed and rested his head on his arm, which leant on the perch Hedwig was standing on.

But Severus had heard enough. "Harry," he said quietly, so as not to spook the boy.

Harry spooked anyway, rearing back. His green eyes were luminous in the dim chamber. "Please," he begged. "Please, sir, just leave me alone."

"I can't do that," Severus told him, again and moved a step closer. He took it as a small victory that the boy did not back away fearfully as he had half expected. "You are my responsibility, just like the rest of my Slytherins. I need to make sure you are all right."

"I'm fine!" Harry swallowed and repeated in a quieter voice, "I'm fine, sir. Honest."

Severus nodded slowly, and took another step. "Right now you are, yes."

"I'm fine all the time. Just . . . you don't know me, or anything about me! Don't pretend you do."

"All right. I won't. You have told me a few things about yourself, however, and I'll make whatever presumptions I care to from that." Harry had no knowledge of what Severus had seen in his relatives' minds, and Severus did not mean to tell him so, not now at any rate. He paused, reached into a pocket of his robes, and pulled out the packet of photos, but did not hold them out. They made perfect bait. "I brought those pictures of your mother; you ran out of my office so quickly, you didn't get a chance to see them."

Harry licked his lips, and stared at the packet as if it were Merlin's wand itself. Such hope shone on his face that it made Severus heart sick. "I . . . I can still see 'em?"

He inclined his head very slightly. "Yes, of course. If you come downstairs, back to my office. I am certainly not going to stand about in the cold, with mouse carcasses underfoot."

Ostentatiously considering the offer, though Severus knew what the boy would say, so clearly was it written in his eyes, Harry's gaze flicked from the packet of photos to the door to the owlery, to Severus' face, and back to the photos. Finally, as if he had needed to be persuaded, he said, "I just . . . just want to look at the pictures, all right? No . . . no other stuff. I don't want to talk about any of that, erm, what-all you said before."

"Very well." Slowly, like a tiger creeping up on its prey; he would go very slowly with this boy. "Come along then." He retreated from the owlery, knowing Harry would follow.

---

Back in his office, Severus sat behind his desk and rubbed his leg surreptitiously while Harry warmed his hands by the fireplace. Damned dog. He knew the boy had seen him limping, but he refused to acknowledge any such thing, since the bloody canine was meant to be a secret.

With a wave of his wand, he moved the chair the boy generally sat in so it was on the same side of the desk as he, so they could look at the photos together. It was not that he did not trust the boy not to damage them, but Severus wanted to make sure he could explain them, lend context if necessary as they perused them.

When he called the boy over, Harry took in the seating arrangement without comment, his body tight with barely contained expectation. As Harry seated himself, Severus removed the photos -- many of them Muggle made, with no movement or life to them at all, but no less precious for that -- from the packet and placed them on the surface of his desk.

The top one depicted a young Lily and Severus sitting, both cross-legged, out in the Evans' backyard by their old oak tree. Her long red locks had been caught by a swirl of breeze and teased into her eyes. She had one hand up, trying to tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her lips were quirked into a tiny smile as she regarded Severus, whose face, like always, had been half hidden by his own hair.

"This one was taken by her father," Severus said by way of explanation. "We were about ten years old at the time."

Harry reached out, and did not touch the picture, but ran his fingers just over the surface of the paper instead. His mouth was slightly agape, as if he were startled to see his mother and professor together, despite what Severus had told him on Saturday. "Where is this?"

"Her parents' back yard." He pointed at the lower left corner of the picture. "The house is just off there. We didn't spend much time at her house, but sometimes." Severus hesitated then continued, wanting to -- needing to -- build up a rapport with this boy. "Her parents were very kind. They encouraged me to come over whenever I liked."

Harry glanced up at him, though he kept his head bent, the result being he looked through his lashes, like he was too shy to look at him head on. "Did she ever go to your house?" he asked softly.

Severus shook his head.

"Why?"

For a long moment, Severus debated telling the boy to mind his own business, but then, wasn't he minding the boy's? "My parents were . . . not kind like hers."

Harry nodded almost sagely, and returned his gaze to the picture.

Severus lifted that picture away to reveal the next, this one a wizarding photo, but just of Lily. She was crouched by the lake at Hogwarts, picking up stones and weighing them. "First year," Severus offered. Lily had borrowed the school camera so she could show her parents what Hogwarts was like, and Severus had taken this picture of Lily for them, but kept it for himself instead. They had enjoyed a picnic lunch that brisk autumn day, just the two of them, alone together for the first time since they arrived at Hogwarts. His throat tightened with the memory. "Fairly soon after we'd arrived. Late September, maybe."

"What's my Mum doing?" Harry asked, his voice subdued, as if he realized how much this trip through memories cost his professor.

Severus managed a slight smile. "Lily liked skipping stones along the surface of the water, any water. The lake, here, or the pond near where we grew up. Even along the river, though that posed more of a challenge. She was always looking for the perfect skipping stone."

With a little smile of his own, Harry's fingers again made that abortive movement to touch the photo, as if he could not help himself. But then, he probably had no memory of ever being touched by his mother, and his instincts called out for him to reach for her now. "She's awful pretty."

"Yes," Severus agreed. "She was."

When Lily stood, rock in hand, and faced the camera, Harry's breath caught. "Her eyes . . . my eyes are just like hers."

Severus nodded in silent agreement.

They looked through several more of the photos, but it was getting late. Also, Severus wanted to hoard what bait he had, to lure Harry to come to speak to him more in the future, so he wrapped up this session, telling the boy to go to bed.

For the first time, Severus caught a real spark of rebellion in Harry's eyes, and he imagined Harry wanted to call him out on his promise and rail about the unfairness of it all. But the spark was extinguished fairly quickly as Severus raised an eyebrow at him. Severus had promised pictures. Just not all the pictures. Thus, Harry acquiesced without saying anything more than, "Yes, sir. Thank you for showing me these."

"You're welcome, Potter. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Severus watched Harry go, not surprised to see his faithful Baron appear next to him like a guard dog as he went out the door. Drawing a deep and even breath, he carefully returned his most prized possessions to their paper sleeve before locking them away once more. Just looking at her hurt, though less so than the last time he had indulged in such a maudlin activity. Perhaps because he shared them with her son.

---

The next few days passed swiftly, as they usually did this time of year, once the students finally settled into their routine. With the first Quidditch match of the season approaching, Slytherin versus Gryffindor, none of the Quidditch team -- especially their youngest and newest member -- had time for much of anything but practicing. Thus, Harry had not returned to Severus' office to look at pictures, though he mentioned at the end of class on Friday that he would like to, if he could, come back over the weekend to see more of them.

"Possibly," Severus told him with a casual air, though he knew he'd let the boy come look at photos whenever he wanted. "Do you not need to catch up on your classes because of Quidditch?"

"Oh, no, sir. Captain Flint's been making sure I got all my work done. Said you'd skin him and me, if he let . . ." Harry winced as if he'd just realized what he was saying, and looked away quick. "I didn't mean to say that."

But Severus only smirked at him. "I daresay Mr. Flint is right. Good for you for keeping up in your studies."

From the expression on the boy's face, you'd think Severus had handed him the moon, instead of a tiny compliment. "Th-thank you, sir."

"Go on with you, now. I believe Mr. Flint has a practice scheduled in about fifteen minutes, does he not?"

Harry jumped from his seat and nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!"

The next day was the first game of the season, and Severus made sure all his Snakes were suitably enthusiastic and ready to root for their team. He also made sure all the players had breakfast. Unmoved by attacks of nerves that made many of the players want to skip the meal, Severus insisted they eat. Quidditch matches early in the year had been known to go on for hours, through lunch and sometimes dinner, and he wanted no one fainting in the air from lack of food. Since both Harry Potter and the Gryffindor Seeker -- a Kenneth Towler or Towelboy or something -- were new to their teams, it was likely to be a long match as both of them settled into their roles.

At precisely half ten, Severus led the Slytherins down to the pitch, where he left them with their prefects while he went to sit in the Professors' stands. The team had gone ahead an hour before, to suit up and go over last minute strategies and pep talks. Several of Potter's friends amongst the First Years had made a banner which read, POTTER FOR PRESIDENT. One of them had charmed the paint to change color from silver to green and back again. Quite clever, those wee firsties.

At five to eleven, the teams marched onto the field. Potter, Severus noted, looked a trifle pale, but had a firm grip on his Nimbus 2000. He knew when the boy caught sight of the banner, as Potter took a half step back and then gave a wavering smile and stood straighter. Severus shook his head. Quidditch players were all alike.

Down on the field, Rolanda Hooch was giving her pre-game talk, which was usually some iteration of "Play fair," and which Slytherins inevitably translated to "Don't get caught." As usual, she eyed Marcus Flint a little more closely than the Gryffindor captain. Severus sneered at the blatant prejudice.

Then she gave a loud blast on her silver whistle. Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor -- what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too --"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."*

Naturally, the announcer was a Gryffindor -- no chance of prejudicial commenting there -- and a friend of those blasted Weasley boys. And so, naturally, his commentary focused almost exclusively on the Gryffindor team and their possession of the Quaffle, their accuracy with Bludgers, their Seeker's attention to finding the Snitch. No matter that the Slytherin Seeker was clearly the better flier, with a better eye and on a far better broom.

Severus was disgusted by McGonagall's one-up-manship attitude, evidenced by her choice of commentator. He was aggravated. Annoyed. Peeved, even. He let none of that show on his face, however, in true Slytherin style, and attempted to enjoy the game regardless. And he would have succeeded, too, if someone had not nearly killed Harry Potter in the middle of it.

Gryffindor had scored once, much to the dismay of one quarter of the fans watching, when the Snitch was spotted for the first time. Potter sped towards it, going into a steep dive. He inched ahead of Towelson, who had also spotted the little ball of gold. Then, in a move that was obviously choreographed, the Weasley menaces planted themselves directly in Potter's path, angled so he would have to pull a hard turn at top speed or else careen into one of them. Potter nearly couldn't make the turn in time, and the end of his broom was clipped by one of the red haired oafs, spinning him briefly out of control.

Flint automatically complained to Hooch, but she shook her head, not allowing a foul shot, despite the clear violation.

Damned anti-Slytherin bias.

Another Bludger flew dangerously close to Potter's head when it happened. The boy's broom -- a perfectly fine, well-designed, brand new, top of the line Nimbus 2000, as his purse strings well knew -- gave a heart-stopping lurch. At least, Severus' heart nearly stopped when he saw it. Potter was high enough in the sky that not everyone was watching his every move. But then, not everyone was Severus Snape, who had made an oath to protect the boy, Slytherin or not. Thus, not everyone gasped as Harry grabbed hold of his broom with both hands, and wrapped his legs tight around the end of it, with a look of pure panic on his face.

The broom bucked again, nearly throwing Harry off. More gasps were heard as more people noticed the boy and broom zigzagging through the air, the latter making violent jerks as if actively trying to send the boy into a free fall above the pitch. Meanwhile, the broom went higher and higher, to where a fall would be more likely to be fatal. Suddenly the broom rolled over, and over again, like a barrel, then gave a powerful jerk. Harry was now hanging on by one hand, dangling over the pitch and scrabbling to get back up.

So someone else, besides Severus, must have been watching the boy very closely, because someone was hexing the broom. Someone powerful with Dark magic.

A feral growl came from Severus' throat. No one messed with his Snakes.

He began chanting a counter curse, keeping his unblinking gaze on the boy and the broom. Whoever was cursing the broom would need maintain that continuous eye contact, too. And hopefully some other Professor -- he could not imagine a mere student would have the know how or experience with such Dark magic to know how to counter it -- would discover the malfeasant and bring him down. All Severus could do was try and mitigate the curse; he could not banish it entirely.

He heard screams around him as more people realized their bloody savior was in danger of dying. Above him, Harry managed to latch onto the broom with his other hand at last -- no thanks to the two Weasleys, who flew in underneath him, as if to catch him if he fell, but offered no other assistance.

And then, Severus smelled smoke.

Fire!?

Quirinus Quirrell lurched against him from behind, screeching about being on fire, of all things. As Severus fought to regain his balance, he lost sight of Harry for a mere second, the space of a heartbeat, or as long as it would take for his to stop completely. When he was upright again, he looked to the sky, fearing the worst.

Instead of being quite dead, the imp hurtled toward the ground, right side up finally, on a broom completely under his control, and nearly went for a tumble a few feet above the earth. He clapped his hand over his mouth as if he were going to be sick, and when he hit the ground, he landed on all fours. He coughed -- rather inelegantly, truth be told -- and out of the Brat Who Lived to Give Severus Heart Failure's mouth popped the little golden Snitch.

Merlin's Balls.

Severus' scowl was just this side of a smirk, in light of Slytherin's victory. The boy couldn't even play a simple game of Quidditch without making a spectacle of himself.

But at least he wasn't dead.

And Severus had yet another piece of damning evidence to stack against one stuttering, blundering DADA professor.

If only Dumbledore would listen this time.