“Don’t you even dare come out of that cupboard until you look halfway presentable! Do you understand boy?” he shouted.

But Vernon Dursley did not wait for the answer. He slammed the door of the cupboard shut, not even caring that he had just smashed his nephew’s left hand. He simply kicked the arm back in the cupboard and savagely slammed the door for the second time, then went away muttering to himself about lazy freaks and how he would finally teach them to show some respect.

The dust falling from the wooden stairs finally settled on the starved, semi-conscious, cramped body of Harry Potter, but he was far too gone to even notice. He was cradling his left arm to his chest. The pain close to unbearable, he felt as if he were going to be sick. His fingers were throbbing and he could not move them. He knew that his hand was broken, it had been for at least two weeks.

Once again, summer had all but started well for Harry Potter.

When his uncle picked him up at King’s Cross station at the beginning of the summer holidays, he had done nothing to hide his depression, but with his last ounce of self-preservation he had kept the death of Sirius a secret, hoping that the Dursleys would never find out.

Weeks after he had come back “home” from Hogwarts, the loss of Sirius was still a heavy weight on his shoulders and he felt like he could not breathe, as if the guilt he felt - misplaced as it was - was a real physical illness devouring him alive from the inside out.

His friends had told him and told him again and again that it had not been his fault, but he just knew that if had not gone berserk and stormed to the Ministry of Magic, Sirius – even reckless and deranged as he was or looked – would still be alive. Sirius Black had been killed because his beloved godson had put him in position to be.

So, the very simple truth was that Harry Potter – the Boy-Who-Lived, or really, the Boy-That-Refused-to-Die, it all well depended on allies or enemies – could not even stomach the idea of thinking about his Godfather.

Let alone speaking of his death.

But even if he had actually felt like talking to someone about it, he’d never discuss the matter with the Dursleys. Not ever.

The previous summer had been bad enough, as it was, but the fact that he had a godfather looking out for him somewhere in the world had at least given him some respite from his uncle’s more creative taunts, huge leather belt and punches.

Of course he had been starved, employed as a full time maid – never ever talk about house-elves with the Dursleys! -, slapped, mistreated and beaten by his cousin, but until the Dementors he had survived far better than he had expected, and he knew that it was the Dursleys’ fear of Sirius that had saved him from anything worse.

That is until Headmaster Albus Dumbledore - after taking no interest whatsoever in Harry's home life in the previous 14 years – decided to write a touching letter to Harry's relatives informing them of his godfather’s demise and asking them to please be even kinder than usual to their grieving nephew.

The letter had arrived three days after the beginning of the holidays, just a couple of days after Moody and Lupin had encouraged his uncle, in a public place, to be kind to the boy. Dumbledore’s letter wreaked havoc: as if Moody’s warning had not been an affront enough!

They could not believe the freak dared tell them lies, how could he be so ungrateful after all they had done for him?

His aunt had not said more than ten words to him since then and her husband had been so deeply outraged by the idea that the resident house freak had dared complain to someone about his treatment at the Dursleys, that he had beaten Harry to a pulp each day and tripled his workload, while only giving him scraps of food (usually leftovers) once every couple of days.

Harry had desperately tried to tell them that he had not been complaining to anybody at all, that the Headmaster had only meant well, but his uncle had punctuated every word coming out of his mouth with a harder slap to his face and another swing of his belt and Harry had given up trying, simply accepting his fate.

He did not dare use his magic to defend himself. He did not want to risk being expelled again and, after all, deep inside, somewhere in his bleeding heart, Harry simply knew that he deserved it. He deserved being punished for killing Sirius, and even for unknowingly leading Cedric Diggory to his death. He had not killed them with his hands, but he was a murderer nonetheless.

He would have gladly taken his own life, but that would not be enough, would it? It would be too easy. He deserved to suffer more than that.

‘And you would not be allowed to die before defeating Voldemort, anyway’ the little voice of wisdom spoke into his pain addled brain.

It had to be so, because it was the only way that Harry was able to accept the way his life was like. There had to be, there had to be a reason for him being orphaned and abused all his life long, he must be deserving it, his uncle must be right.

In the end Harry allowed himself to thank whichever deity was watching over him that his cousin was away with some school friends and not at home with his parents.

September 1st 1996

Arriving at Hogwarts was like coming home.

Harry immediately felt better, even though he was still hurting quite badly from his uncle's beatings.

He had been lucky enough that he had managed to buy medicines, both muggle and wizard ones in Diagon Alley and at King's Cross before boarding the Express. Nothing fancy, but they would help until he was fully healed.

‘I'm at Hogwarts now, they cannot touch me here'

Not that Hogwarts had ever been any safer than Privet Drive, but Harry liked to think otherwise.

Here - at least - he had a chance to try and defend himself -- 'Sure, look at how successful you were last year' -- but no, no, he would not indulge in those kinds of thoughts. It had been his promise to Remus, just before he left on a mission for the Order and Harry wanted to keep his promises.

Dumbledore hat not given him permission to join his friends at the Burrow that summer, after all Voldemort was still on the loose, and even though the Headmaster was sure the Dark Lord was not keen on reliving the experiences of the previous June at the Department of Mysteries, he still wanted to stay on the safe side.

But unless Harry admitted being abused by his relatives -- not that he would ever do that -- there was no way for him to escape, so he had accepted Dumbledore's decision without any outward fussing.

Actually, he was almost relieved that he wasn’t allowed to go. The Burrow would be so full of people, so full of life that it would be too much for him to stand.

He missed Ron and Hermione, of course, but deep down he felt like they could not really understand him this time. Even if they loved him dearly, just like a brother and sister, this was something entirely different from the war between the Light and the Darkness. This was no battle, it was something so personal, something whose roots were buried so deep inside Harry that only someone with a similar background would be able to understand.

How could they comprehend the depth of the hurt and fear that Harry felt?

Ron and Hermione were sympathetic, would do anything for him, this he knew, but they were already doing so much. How could he add to the burden they were carrying?

Moreover, how could he explain his pain, his guilt, his feelings of helplessness to someone who had grown up in a happy family, surrounded by love and by the knowledge that they would always be loved no matter what they did?

It was nothing short of a miracle that they had not given up on him yet, because Harry knew that he was different from them, and that he was as unlovable as they came.

In the end Harry had contented himself with the day he had been allowed to spend with Remus in Diagon Alley, while he did his shopping for the new school year.

At first he had been afraid that Remus would be angry with him for killing Sirius, but Remus had not even let him begin to speak. He had hugged him tightly -- so tight that Harry almost screamed from the pain in his ribs -- shushed him and told him that it was not his fault, it really wasn't.

Harry had not believed him for a second, but he did not want to upset Remus any further: he was already too pale and his appearance was even more haggard than usual. To tell the truth, he looked positively ill and Harry could not help but worry about him, so he had promised everything that Lupin asked of him. He had promised that he would not feel guilty, even promised that he would try and be happy.

FLASHBACK

August 30th 1996

The last night he spent at Privet Drive had been the worst of Harry's life, physically at least.

He was sure that being hit by Avada Kedavra had to hurt a lot less than being hit by Vernon Dursley. And as for Crucio… 'Crucio hurts a lot at the beginning,' he mused 'but the aftermath isn’t too bad… nothing can keep up with Uncle Vernon'.

Before leaving him half-conscious in the cupboard for the upteenth time that summer, Vernon had given him, once again, his personal goodnight wishes:

“Don't you dare come out of that cupboard until you look halfway presentable!”

The problem was, Uncle Vernon wasn’t joking.

He could not even send for help, since his post was being searched by the Dursleys. During the summer he had only been allowed to write to the Order twice a week, but he had been forced to write all the letters in advance, when he could still use his hands properly.

Now he had to find a way out, he knew that he could not wait for the Order to come to the rescue; he would be dead long before that. He had to get back to Hogwarts; he had to get back home.

The next day he was due to meet with Remus in Diagon Alley, there was no way that he was going to miss his only chance at freedom.

In the end Harry Potter - feverish and bloody, not even fully conscious - knew that he only had one possibility to save himself, that he had to appeal to the one thing that he knew would work, the only thing that had saved him in the past, even though it would be like admitting all over again that Uncle Vernon was right, because he knew, from the pain he felt and from the way he could not move his limbs, that he should be dead already, if it were not for the Freak Thing.

And now, before he fell asleep and entered the Land of Nightmares where, like every night, he would once again meet Sirius and Voldemort, he had to hope that his freakiness would work and save him again.

August 31st 1996

Chatting with Remus made him feel better.

After their admittedly emotional encounter at just outside the Leaky Cauldron, Harry and Remus had switched to happier subjects, talking a little, but mostly enjoying the mutual company in silence.

The thought of Sirius was still heavy in their hearts, but Harry really could not talk about it yet, he actually did not think he would ever be ready to, but it seemed that Remus' situation was hardly better: Harry had buried his feelings as deeply as he could at the bottom of his heart and of his mind, while Remus wore them on his face, in his troubled eyes, but they were just two faces of the same coin and neither was ready to share their pain.

Remus had been the best companion Harry could have hoped for. He had followed the younger boy like a shadow, but hadn’t crowded him. He offered his advice whenever asked for, but allowed Harry to choose his own clothes and other items as he preferred. And when they had visited Gringotts, he had waited outside.

Harry could only be grateful for the freedom and privacy he was being granted in the short interim between his prison sentence in Privet Drive and the upcoming school year -- which would probably turn out to be just as stifling -- for this one-day stay in Diagon Alley.

At the beginning, when he spotted Remus waiting for him in front of the pub, Harry had been afraid that the werewolf would notice that something was off with him, but once again his freakiness proved true to tradition and Lupin did not sense anything amiss, he did not even smell his fever.

Or maybe Remus was really a bit off himself, too. Harry could almost feel the pain radiating off the last living Marauder.

Of course Harry felt better than he had in months today, but this time his injuries had been so bad that not even the Freak Thing had been enough to heal him completely.

This was the first time that it had happened and - had the werewolf been as sharp as usual – Remus should have perceived his “condition” immediately.

Losing Sirius had been hard on him, and Harry could not avoid feeling guilty all over again; another sin to add to his already long list of crimes.

At any rate, even though he looked well and he had rosy cheeks ('But maybe that's the fever'), Harry’s left arm and hand were almost no use, and the right hand hurt so bad that he could hardly stand to touch anything. But no bruise was showing, no scar was marring his skin - apart from Voldie's and Um-bitch's that is - and his other wounds did not hurt so much anymore. Harry, once again, deemed himself lucky that Remus was not crowding him and could thus not see how hard it was for him to even touch the softest of materials.

Once at Hogwarts he would be able to eat better and he would heal faster.

Among books, clothes and other school items he had even managed to purchase a few pain and healing potions, Remus being happily distracted by a friendly witch at the counter. He wanted to down one immediately, just to quell the dull pounding in his head, but he had to consider himself lucky that he had ever managed to acquire the potions, so he could manage for another couple of hours, until they were back at the Leaky Cauldron, where they’d spend the night.

In the end it was just before they parted for the night that he found enough courage to ask Remus a question that had been spinning in his head for weeks. Voicing it actually made him queasy, but he needed to know: what had really started the war between the Marauders and Severus Snape? He knew the outcome already, but he needed to comprehend how it began.

Remus had been deeply shocked and unsettled by Harry's question, but he assumed that he did have a right to know, after all, so the werewolf sat heavily on the soft bed Harry was already in and started to tell the story or, at least, the part that he knew.

When Remus went to bed, he left a deeply upset Harry Potter behind.

August 31st 1996

11:45 pm

Dear Professor Snape,

I apologize for invading your privacy and looking into your pensieve. I am sorry. I really am.

I am also sorry for the way I am writing this letter, I know it is not stylish, but I cannot write very well and I just wanted to be sure that you would at least read my message before tearing this parchment into shreds or burn it or whatever else you do with your unwanted mail.

I know I should have apologized before, I know it now. But before… it was too difficult, it would not have been a very sincere apology. There were too many things I needed to understand, to take in.

I wanted to believe that it was your fault that Sirius died, I wanted it so much it hurt, but it is not your fault.

And it is not an excuse for what I did in your office. I know you are not going to forgive me, I certainly do not deserve it, especially since you hated me even before my idiot actions, so I am sure there is little hope for me. But, selfish as it is, I just need to get it off my chest.

I am sorry that I watched your memories, I had no right to, but I did not do it for the reasons you believe, I did not do it because I am an arrogant Gryffindor or out of stupid curiosity.

I did it because not knowing was driving me mad, more than Vol- a scratched word- the Dark Lord ever could.

But what I saw was worse than anything I expected. I cannot tell you why, but it was. And I swear I never told anyone what I saw and never will I tell. I only tried to discuss it with Sirius - in general terms - but now he is d- another scratch on the parchment - no more.

I don't know why they did what they did, but I apologize for it, I apologize for James Potter, because he was my father and for Sirius Black because he was my Godfather.

Yours faithfully

Harry James Potter.

He had hoped that he would start to sleep better once back at Hogwarts, but his sleep patterns had not improved at all and now he would have to watch the canopy above his head for another our and half, at least.

The nightmare had been bad. – ‘When aren't they?’ -- It was Sirius, Cedric and then Voldemort all over again, with just an added pinch of the Dursleys for seasoning: they had been accusing him, cursing him and laughing at him. But it had been a real nightmare at least, not a vision from old Voldie, so the pain had only been in his mind, remembered pain. There wasn’t any lingering tremor in his limbs and he could still think clearly.

‘But the remembered pain was bad enough’, he mused, lightly caressing the scar on his right arm, the one the blood for Voldie’s brand new body had come from. The skin was still oversensitive there and the wound had actually re-opened more than once during the summer, when he had visions from his mad foe and felt the after-effects of the curses he had so magnanimously bestowed upon his followers.

Scars and wounds from so called Dark Magic were the only things that his own Freak Thing would not cure. He had often thought about it, in the moments when his mind was suspended in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, and would allow him to indulge in the morbid thoughts of his consciousness that would otherwise be banned during the day.

This time there was no blood from his arm, but the thought did not make him feel any better. Moreover, he was still hurt badly because of his Uncle's farewell gift: although he was still taking pain potions every morning and evening, every movement was difficult and painful. During summer he had often wished his relatives had not locked and hidden his trunk away. He had been able to smuggle his more precious items into his stifling bedroom, but whereas the invisibility cloak and the wand had been easy to hide under the loose floor-board under his bed, there had been no space to hide the ample stack of anti-cruciatus potions he had been supplied with before leaving Hogwarts the previous June.

After the total failure with the Occlumency lessons, Sirius’ death, and his own yearly near death encounters with Voldemort his dreams – ‘Nightmares, that is’ – had become totally uncontrollable. His connection with Voldemort, even though his counterpart did not seem to be aware of it yet, had become even stronger than before. Or, maybe, it was Voldie who had become more powerful than he had been in ages. Either way, Harry had started seeing glimpses of revels and feeling the viciously aimed curses that the Dark Lord would throw when angered enough, with alarming frequency; Madam Pomfrey had been worried that they would take their toll and make serious damage to his nerves. Since there was nothing else that seemed to work well enough and he had to leave Hogwarts for the summer holidays anyway, the matron had decided to at least provide him with means of caring for himself.

She had actually hoped that the familiar environment would help him deal with the whole situation better, settling his emotions a bit, making his mental shields a bit stronger but, as usual, things had turned out differently. Pity that the potions had been snatched away from him before he could even try and take them out of his trunk and pity that the damage inflicted on him by his uncle whenever he dared wake him or another family member with his screams in the night had been way worse than a little bit of Cruciatus.

Not that the visions of Voldemort had been his only plague: regular nightmares, like the one that had just woken him up, had accompanied him like faithful, exuberant dogs all summer long. ‘Anti-Dursleys Potions and silencing charms, that’s what I need’.

As things were, his limbs had been trembling a lot during the holidays, even in the short periods when he had had a little respite from his uncle’s beatings; the trembling had actually slowed him down while doing his chores, thus earning him even more punishments, either from Vernon’s hands or from Petunia’s ever swinging frying pan. Apart from the obvious consequences on his daily life (or survival) Harry had been afraid that the damage would become permanent, so although the Freak Thing had saved him once again and the tremors had all but subsided, he had wanted to stay on the safe side and had been swallowing his potions twice a day for the last few days.

Now, even after being at school for almost a week, he was still running a fever and his head pounded in synch with his heart. The mild muggle fever-reducers and aspirin he had purchased in London before boarding the Hogwarts Express were nothing but a short relief between pain potions. Harry was afraid that if his health did not improve soon, his friends would force him to go to Madame Pomfrey and he wanted to avoid it at all costs, even if this meant brewing the potions he needed on his own, in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom or in the Room of Requirement.

His first Quidditch practice had been a living, agonizing, nightmare. Flying, balancing on the broom and trying to catch the Snitch with only one good hand had proved nearly impossible. His friends had thought that he was improvising, or trying some new move, but he knew he would not be able to keep on for long in a real match. He still could not move his left hand and wrist at all, the fingers were stiff and unresponsive and truth be told he could not even feel his little finger, let alone flex it. Then there was the dizziness from just standing for a few minutes.

Soon his friends would realize that he was not feeling well and if he knew them well enough, they would take matters into their own hands, and drag him to the infirmary or even – 'Merlin forbid!' – to Dumbledore himself.

Ron and Hermione were more than suspecting already, but as much as it pained him - almost like an added physical pain - he was trying to keep them at a distance. This was one thing he was not ready to speak about yet. He knew the two other Gryffindors thought that it was still about Sirius and were just giving him time and space. Maybe, in a sense, it was. But it was also so much more, wasn’t it?

Harry felt torn. And guilty. Torn that he could not speak with Ron and Hermione, guilty that he was not grieving enough for Sirius. Was he being too selfish? He was wallowing in his own pain, while he should be mourning the man his stupidity had killed. HIS own stupidity not Snape’s, not Dumbledore’s, and certainly not Sirius’. He had played right into Voldemort's hands. He had made it easy for him to lure Harry to the Ministry of Magic. How would his best friends judge him for his foolishness?

They had approached him more than once, at King’s Cross, on the train, every morning and every evening, if their eyes could pierce his soul… they would be able to see through his back by now. He hated it. And he secretly craved it, because as misplaced as it was – ‘I don’t deserve it! I am a freak!’ – it was proof enough that there was someone caring for him in the world. ‘How pathetic am I?’

It was finally Friday, the last day of the week and he was so tired that he didn't know how he could make it through the day’s lessons. Especially Potions. This would be the third Potions lesson of the week and the first two had been so bad that he did not know how to survive the third one. ‘If this is actually going to kill me, please do it now.’

It seemed that his heartfelt apology to his professor didn't have the desired effect: Snape seemed to hate him more than ever and even though in the previous school years. Harry would have given everything he had - 'not that I have much' - to have Snape ignore him, now that willful avoidance on part of the professor was a reality, he would rather have that he took points from him, than snarl at him even and dissect him with that nastily skilled tongue of his. ‘Gods! Slap me! Do it! Do it!’

It was as if he were not there at all, instead. The professor would not even look at him and to Harry, the little worthless freak, it was way worse than a slap on the face. The last lesson of the week was running true to tradition and was as bad as the previous ones.

Potter thought that he was ignoring him, but nothing could have been more far from truth. He, Severus Snape, had certainly not given the arrogant spoiled Gryffindork any chance to spot him looking at him, but he had never really let him out of his eye sight.

Truth be told, he did not need to look at him at all. There was enough gleaming metal and polished glass in the classroom so that he needn’t look at his students to know what they were doing.

And it seemed Harry, The Brat Potter, was as much out for trouble, as he was out for Potter’s blood.

Merlin! How he hated the boy. If the brat hoped his pathetic, false apology was going to get him any favors, he’d divest him of the thought fast enough.

First of all, it was obvious that the inseparable trio was not so inseparable any longer. Secondly it was even more obvious that the brat was hiding something. He could see it from his rigid posture, from his pale face… and he certainly did not think it had anything to do with the deceased mangy mutt, Sirius Black. No, Potter was in trouble and he had been hiding something all week long, that he was sure of. He could read it on the brat’s face and it was his duty as a professor to find out what was wrong with him, wasn’t it?

Snape watched once more as Potter’s, slightly distorted, countenance mirrored on the nearest cauldron. He lacked coordination, seemed to be favoring his left arm, and the look of concentration on his face was too forced. He could almost sense the tension in his frame every time he was within close proximity of him. The brat was even ignoring Draco Malfoy's smirking face and taunts. A fight maybe? Something to hide… a glamour maybe?. But he would soon know.

He had been planning it for days. And he knew just the ideal potion to teach the brat a lesson. Cordem Obscuro.

Lovely Draught indeed. “Today we will be brewing a very ancient draught.” The students were watching him with baited breath. Or fear, which he undoubtedly preferred. In both cases, they were silent for once and it was more than all right with him.

“The ingredients are on the board”, a lazy swing of his wand. “This potion is rarely brewed nowadays, but when you will drink your own batch, assuming it doesn’t kill you,“ -- ‘A feat in itself’ -– “you will experience something you never felt in your life.”

“You will be muggles for five minutes.”

Shocked gasps from his audience. And there was Granger again, her hand straight up. “Five points from Gryffindor for interrupting, Ms Granger.” He snarled, ignoring Weasley’s outraged mumble. Potter seemed oblivious, for once.

“As I was saying, before the unrequested interruption, this something you have never felt.”

“Even though you could only access your powers a few years ago – and some of you obviously still cannot –” he went on “still your magical core was always part of you, your magic was simply dormant”.

“This draught will take your magic away entirely, for exactly five minutes. It will be enough for you to feel what it would be like to be a muggle, magicless and at the mercy of your enemy. And I certainly do not need to tell you how much more dangerous a simple spell is compared to this potion..” ‘And you, Potter, will experience it in first person.’

“Now start! You will test your potions before the end of second period. You have plenty of time to complete your assignment.”

Harry, head low on his cauldron, was busy cutting ingredients and stirring the boiling potions. He would get full marks for this potion, even if it killed him. He ignored his pounding head and pain in his hands. The right one was still working well enough and, if he breathed carefully, the throbbing in his ribs from bending on the cauldron would be nothing but dim ache. He could do this, he could brew this potion right. He would show Snape. And the potion, a miracle in itself, was bubbling happily, its color a deep burgundy, just as it should be.

Ten minutes before the lesson was over, he cleared his throat and put a stop to the students’ useless effort. “Enough!” he hissed. “Either you did it or you botched it. Fill two vials. Keep one and bring the other to my desk, for further evaluation. Then clean your cauldrons.”

Severus Snape did not usually think of himself as a lucky man, but this time he had been… blessed. The cheeky brat had actually managed to brew the potion on his own. Thus giving him the weapon he had been hoping for. ‘Let’s see what you have been hiding Potter!’

“Potter!”

Harry’s head shot up. His eyes overly bright and wide behind the glasses. What was going on? Why call on him right now? He had actually completed his assignment. He really had. It must be one of the times when his Gryffindor heart went on holiday, because he truly was terrified.

“Uncork your vial and drink the draught. I’m sure it won’t damage your little undeveloped intellect any further than it already is.” Potter kept watching him, good. He would swipe that arrogant disrespectful glare from his face.

“Drink it Potter, I have other activities planned for the rest of the day.” He snarled at the boy.

‘It will just be for five minutes, nothing will happen, Ron and Hermione are here, they won’t let me get hurt’

Harry swallowed convulsively. His mouth was so dry that he doubted he could open his lips wide enough to let the potion trickle into his mouth. He had a bad feeling about this. A really bad one. He could not drink it. ‘Please, don’t let me be powerless at Hogwarts. Not here, please.’

“Professor, I- I…” he stammered.

“Drink it Potter.” Snape slammed his hand on the desk, all semblance of patience gone. “Now!”

Harry watched his hand with a strange detachment. It slowly uncorked the vial and even more slowly moved it to his lips. His lips drank the vile tasting liquid.

Nothing happened.

He watched Snape.

Nothing happened.

He stared once more.

Then the pain hit. Blinding, ferocious pain.

Harry howled. There was no other way to describe the screams coming out from his throat. His hands trying to claw at the cauldron in front of him. But it was too much, too much hurt, he felt something being ripped inside. His eyes were still open, because he simply could not summon enough force to close them.

He saw the look of horror on Snape’s suddenly white face. Someone was screaming. ‘Is that me?’

His world tilted to the side. Then he realized that he was falling.

Severus Snape watched Potter drink the potion. For a few seconds nothing happened, but he knew the draught would take at least ten seconds to have any effect. Then it started.

The air around Potter started to shimmer. Potter started to scream. He could not believe what he was seeing. He thought that nothing could ever surprise him again, but Potter was proving him wrong one more time.

He could not tear his eyes from the lithe howling figure. Potter seemed to be fighting the potion. ‘No. His magic is fighting.’

He was screaming and still watching him in the eye. ‘Don’t look at me like that!’

But their eyes were locked for the longest time. And then Potter finally lost his battle and slumped forward, partially on his now empty cauldron, his head lolling on the side. Glasses askew.

Hell broke loose.

“Don’t touch him!” he barked “Class dismissed. Everyone outside now!”

He did not even look at the students, his tone of voice had been enough to give them goose bumps.

They left the classroom hurriedly. A few girls were crying and had to be led outside, but everyone moved as fast as they could. Not even Malfoy and his cronies dawdled. In less than 30 seconds the room was empty save for two students, Potter and himself.

The only two students who had not moved at all, still as statues, were Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.

Snape forced himself into action, but his eyes would not wander from the still frame of Harry Potter, who was now whimpering like a mortally wounded animal. ‘This is not how the potion is supposed to work’ -- but the potion had been brewed correctly, of that he was positive. ‘What has been Potter been up to this time?’

From the look on their faces it was obvious that Granger and Weasley were at least as shocked as he was. Which meant, should he ever have needed a reminder, that there was no time no lose. Snape started to bark orders.

“Granger! Go to the Headmaster! Tell him to wait for us in the Infirmary! Now!” Hermione, shell-shocked, seemed torn between throwing herself at Harry and fainting, but she was too sensible; she scurried away, tears in her eyes.

“Weasley! Close your mouth and fetch your Head of House!” he bellowed. Ron watched him, his face chalk white, his eyes dilated with shock as well. He did not utter a single word, but he turned on his heels and run as fast as he could towards McGonagall’s office.

For once Snape could do nothing but admire their loyalty to Potter.

Immediately after the two students left, he threw himself into the fireplace, calling for Poppy Pomfrey to come to the classroom immediately, not even waiting for an answer before turning back and going to Potter.

He did not want to touch him, but he had to move the boy. He approached him as carefully and delicately as he could. Potter flinched when he touched him, but did not move otherwise. He took him into is arms, gently, as if the child was made of fine china, and slowly turned him while lowering him to the ground, his head securely held by the crook of his right arm. ‘Merlin. What have I done?’

Potter was not unconscious, although Snape very much doubted that he was coherent enough to understand where he was, or what had actually happened to him. Anyway – judging from the low whimpers he was emitting – the professor thought it would actually be better for Potter to be totally out of it.

‘Poppy, where the hell are you?’

The matron should have arrived long ago. Snape hoped that she had not left Hogwarts for some errand in Hogsmeade.

The Potions Master had some knowledge of the healing arts himself, of course, one simply could not become a master in the art of brewing without an at least basic knowledge of healing. And Snape’s knowledge, in part because of personal curiosity and even more because of his position, certainly was more than basic; still he could see that Potter’s state was too grave for him too risk anything without Pomfrey.

Potter was now sprawled on the floor, with Snape holding his head and back securely, to prevent him from trashing as well as to protect him from the cold seeping from the stone floor.

With the boy safely ensconced in his arms, Snape could finally try and assess Potter’s condition.

He was so pale that Snape could see the veins under his translucent skin, he had deep, dark circles around the eyes, as if he had not been sleeping for weeks, and was in fact so skinny that he seemed to be swimming inside his small for his age robes.

But this was not what was worrying Severus Snape: the child – because not even Snape had another way to describe him now – was burning with fever, his brow was clammy and shiny with perspiration, breath coming too fast and not deep enough, and he was trembling. He hoped it was just the fever.

Snape could feel the heat emanating from the small body. They had to lower his temperature as soon as possible.

Moreover, even though he could not see any open wounds – not with the teen so bundled up in his robes -, Potter still seemed to be in a great deal of pain and was feebly trying to move away from him.

He had to try and calm him down, they would not be able to fully ascertain was what was wrong with Potter anyway, if they did not manage to rouse him.

Whatever Potter had been hiding had been revealed by his potion, but the potion in itself could not wreak such havoc. The damage had already been there. And Madam Pomfrey would not be able to use anything but general healing methods until they did find out how Potter had managed to hide his ailment.

So he kept his voice as low and soothing as possible.

“Potter can you hear me?”

No reaction.

“I know you are awake Potter, breathe deeply and try to focus.”

Still no reaction.

He tried to talk to the boy for a little longer, his voice as whispery and soft as silk. Only very few people had ever heard this kind of voice from Snape.

“Potter, breathe… breathe slowly… in and out… in and out…” he went on like that for a while.

Again “Open your eyes, Potter, you are almost there… keep on breathing deeply…”

The boy seemed to be listening too him now, his trashing had subsided a little and he was actually breathing better, but it was not really a conscious response, it was way more in the likes of the reaction of a kitten to being petted.

He was just reacting to the sound of his voice.

He could go on talking like this for hours, but it would be totally useless. It was obvious that Potter was too much out of it to respond to coaxing. Unwilling as he was to resort to tougher methods – in this case - he had to.

“Come on boy, snap out of it!” his deep voice boomed in the empty classroom.

Potter’s response was instantaneous: he desperately tried to break free, fighting the arms that were holding him down, his whimpers suddenly turning into a low toned desperate muttering.

“Potter calm down! Calm down!”

Potter slight but wiry frame was much stronger than he expected, but was no match for Snape. He could have stopped his movements with little to no effort, especially from his higher leverage, nevertheless he did not want to inflict further damage to the boy. Some freedom of movement might even help the boy calm down.

But Potter – if ever possible - surprised him once again: as soon as his arms were free, he did not try to move away at all, the boy simply tried to curl himself up into a ball, no more aware of his surroundings that he had been before.

Then Snape finally saw his hands.

His left arm was being cradled to the chest, as if in an attempt to protect it with the right one, but with meagre results: the wrist was obviously broken and set at a wrong angle, although Madam Pomfrey would be able to heal it with little effort, but the hand… the left hand was a total mess, terribly swollen and mangled, the fingers set in a claw-like grip and nevertheless twitching every few seconds.

‘Nerve damage’

The right hand was pathetically trying to shield the impaired left one, but it was doing a rather poor job of it and Snape could clearly see that the palm was somehow red and blistered, as if it had been burnt. He did not really know if it was that Potter could not stand to have his left hand touched, or if it was just the right hand, which hurt too much to touch anything. Either way he could not fathom the pain thechild must be in and he certainly could not make out how he had made it through his first week at school.

Potter was now a rocking human ball, laying half on the floor and half on his lap, and he was still muttering broken words.

He was a man who prided himself on his cool head and, above all, his cold heart, but he was not as insensitive as he liked - or wanted others - to believe. He definitely was not a nice man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not a nasty one either, although he did a fine job in showing the contrary.

Most of all he was a mistrustful man who had been taught the hard way by his past choices and experiences that what could not touch him would not hurt him either. Feelings – apart from anger or hate, which merely fuelled him – were a dangerous nuisance and he kept them to a distance. Children – this one especially - were the worst kind of nuisance ever, but he could not condone any form of physical violence on them. Who could ever want to watch a child suffer like this?

‘You did’

‘No!’

He discarded the though with rage. His potion would merely have taught the boy a valuable lesson if he hadn’t already been injured so badly.

But a fleeting thought was nagging at him… what about his harsh words and behaviour towards the boy who was obviously not spoilt nor pampered at all?

He pushed the thought away, behind the strong walls in his mind. There would time later to ponder on the matter, now he had a more pressing issue at hand.

He bent forwards and tried to decipher the mumbled and whispered sounds coming from Potter:

“I-I’m sorry… No… please… U-Uncle I’ll do it… please no more… sorry Uncle Vernon… please… hurts… please s-stop… Uncle Vernon… W-won’t do it again… p-promise… sorry, sorry…”

Snape moved back abruptly.

‘His relatives’

He had found out Potter’s secret, at last, but his so long awaited triumph over Potter suddenly tasted like saw-dust.

As soon as he had seen the wounds he had known that it had not been an accident: the boy was daft and clumsy, just… Gryffindorish, but there was no way such lesions could ever come from an accident. Someone had intentionally hurt the boy, and it was painfully obvious that Potter’s predicament was neither a novelty nor a one-time occurrence.

Still they – ‘No… I’ – had missed it.

This was not what he had been expecting, and he would certainly have preferred the boy to be the spoiled, pampered and coddled brat he always assumed him to be.

Hell, anything would be better than this.

An event of such magnitude to go unnoticed by his fellow professors, even Dumbledore, was not truly unexpected. People seldom notice things they do not want to see, after all.

But he, of all people, he should have seen the signs from the beginning. Now that he knew what to look for, they were as plain as the nose on his face, and his nose was not small to begin with.

He was the spy, the sharp examiner of the human mind, the skilled Legilimens, faces and eyes were nothing but an open book to him!… How could he so severely misjudge the situation?

For Merlin’s sake! This was Harry-I-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve-Potter! A Gryffindor!

Yet the answer was so plain and simple, wasn’t it?

‘Later, you can think about it later!’

Now to the task at hand.

He carefully cradled Potter’s face in his large hand and applied just enough pressure to turn it towards himself. There was merely a sign resistance. After the first few instants, when it was clear that the probing hand was not there to hurt him, the boy even leant into the warm comforting touch. The eyes were tightly shut but – to Snape’s surprise – there were no tears leaking.

He started speaking again, his voice once more smooth and encouraging, soothing Harry’s fears, while his thumb was slowly drawing calming circles on the boy’s temple.

“Potter, calm down, your uncle is not here, you are safe now, you are safe.”

He did not long how long he kept repeating the litany to the boy, but Harry finally stopped trembling and – albeit fractionally - relaxed into his arms.

The green eyes slowly opened and the disoriented boy gazed at him for a fleeting instant before lowering his eyes in a mixture of shame, confusion and Merlin knew what other emotions.

“Pr’fess’r…” he slurred, then tried again “what happened?”

Before Snape had a chance to answer the question, the fire glowed green and a flustered Madam Pomfrey entered the classroom and posed the same question.

“Severus what happened? I was in Hogsmeade for an emergency and was warned by the alert-spell that there was an emergency at Hogwarts”.

She had not been able to recognise the student in Severus’s arms yet, since he had his back turned to the fire, but when she stepped aside and took the situation in, she just gasped and let herself fall to her knees beside Snape, her left hand instantly running to Harry’s forehead while she quickly fetched her wand and started moving it over Harry Potter’s shivering form.

‘Everything hurts'

Harry heard words being spoken to him, but he could not acknowledge them.

Everything hurt so badly.

‘I have to do something… yes… I… what is it…’

Thinking was too difficult, he could not concentrate enough to break the haze of pain surrounding his mind.

His instincts kicked in.

Yes, he was in danger, he always was.

He had to run away, he had to move and hide, stay away from the blows that were going to come.

They always did.

He had to fight the pain and run.

‘Run, Harry, run’

But someone was speaking to him. He could not really make out the words, but the sound was soft and soothing, something he had not heard very often.

The sound promised peace and gentleness, even painlessness, maybe.

And he was so tired, so very tired.

He could not resist the temptation. Rest, finally rest in a safe place…

His instincts were screaming at him not to lower his guard, but the pain dulled everything and he could only hear the soft promise of respite.

His awareness was dimming once again, slurred thoughts drifting away, the pain still nagging at him, but no longer prominent.

“Come on boy, snap out of it!”

The promise of peace was broken, the flames of pain scorching.

‘Run, Harry, run’

Too late.

It was always too late.

The words were angry, their promise the one of painful retribution.

His fault, always his fault.

‘I am the worthless freak’

He prepared for the angry blows to come. He tried to make himself as small as possible.

‘Please, don’t let me be seen!’

But the hands touching him were gentle again.

The flames slowly became less intense and he found he could breathe again.

It still hurt like mad, but the pain was no longer predominant.

The voice was there yet again. A voice he knew. Could he trust it?

He willed the fog in his mind to clear. An eternity later he could finally hear the words he had longed to be told for fifteen years.

“Potter, calm down, your uncle is not here, you are safe now, you are safe.”

He relaxed. And he suddenly became aware of his surroundings. His eyes were closed, but he could perceive light around him. Smells of… potions. Someone was holding him.

Someone whom the voice belonged to.

Yes, he knew that voice.

But its timbre itself belied the kind words it was delivering, because there was no way that voice would ever tell him anything without being hurtful. No way for it to tell him that he was safe.

‘Professor Snape’

Harry forced his eyes open and found himself looking into deep concerned black eyes.

He could not look into those eyes.

“Pr’fess’r…” he slurred, then tried again “what happened?”

Before Snape had a chance to answer any of the two questions, the matron took charge of the situation. He would normally refuse to being ordered around like a freshman, but he found that – just for this time – he did not feel like defying her. He had done enough already.

Potter’s eyes were half closed, but he was certain that the boy was still awake. He was watching Pomfrey’s movements warily, but it seemed that he – as well - deemed it wiser not to interrupt the matron. Or maybe he did not have the strength.

Either way the boy was silent and Snape was thankful that he did not have to answer his questions yet.

The matron brisk voice interrupted his train of thoughts. She looked unusually concerned and Snape knew immediately that the situation was even worse than he had surmised.

“Severus, we have to move him to the Hospital Wing immediately. He is severely hurt and his magic is almost totally depleted.”

“Depleted?” What had the brat been up to?

“Yes. Now don’t dawdle and follow me, you can explain later… and try not to jostle him too much.”

"Severus, we have to move him to the Hospital Wing immediately. He is severely hurt and his magic is almost totally depleted."

"Depleted?" What had the brat been up to?

"Yes. Now don't dawdle and follow me, you can explain later... and try not to jostle him too much."

The short trip to the Hospital Wing was blessedly uneventful.

Snape had filled Madam Pomfrey in on the events of the previous minutes (although it seemed that hours had actually passed since Potter had drunk the fateful draught); strangely she did not comment or reprimand him for his actions, but her glare spoke volumes and he knew he was in for a lecture as soon as her worries about Potter would be assuaged. ‘Not that you don't deserve it this time... but I am afraid that there will be little left for her to scold, after Dumbledore is done with you', the baleful nagging voice in his head suggested, before he could suffocate the thought.

Snape held Potter while flooing from the Potions classroom to the Infirmary, quickly following a troubled Madam Pomfrey.

The Potions Master had actually been afraid that Potter would give him a hard time, before allowing to be moved, but Potter had not fussed at all, even though even the slightest shift in his position had to be extremely painful.

As soon as they reached the Hospital Wing Madam Pomfrey directed Snape to what she referred to as "Potter's bed" then rushed to her office to fetch an array of potions and salves that she hoped would help restore the boy to good health.

Snape stood beside Harry's bed, waiting for her return, making sure that the boy would not fall off the bed or get himself into trouble - ‘further trouble, that is' - before the matron came back, even though the boy had not said a word or moved a limb since he had cautiously picked him up from the cold dungeons' floors a couple of minutes before. Before, Snape had thought that he might have fainted again, but the boy's eyes where open, albeit dulled, and his breathing was too erratic: it was a telltale sign of pain even though no other sound was coming from the boy; Snape had to wonder how high Potter's pain threshold actually was.

It was another thought for later.

Madam Pomfrey came back just as Dumbledore entered the Hospital Wing.

He was slightly out of breath and was wearing a travelling cloak on his otherwise brightly coloured robes, Minerva McGonagall fast on his trail. Dumbledore must have been at the Ministry or at Grimmauld Place, Snape reckoned, otherwise he was sure the Headmaster would have been waiting for them in the Hospital Wing long before their arrival.

The Headmaster took in Harry's broken form in a glance and looked sharply at the Potions' Master, his eyes - for once - not twinkling at all. Snape wondered how much he knew already, he assumed McGonagall must have summoned him back, after Granger had not been able to find him in his office, and told him what she knew. Admittedly not much, but surely enough to know how foolish Snape had been.

Dumbledore immediately went to Madam Pomfrey and the two began talking fast and too quietly for McGonagall and Snape to understand. But the Gryffindor's Head of House did not seem to be interested in the conversation at all; she was looking at Potter with tears in her eyes and Snape could see her longing to touch the boy, take his hand maybe, but she was obviously afraid of hurting him. So she just ran her hand through his hair, gently caressing his forehead.

Potter had seen her hand moving towards him and wearily followed her movements with his eyes, but did not react further. After a few tense seconds he seemed to relax slightly more into the pillows. McGonagall must have felt it as well, because she continued her soothing motion. She did not try and talk to the boy. Maybe she did not trust her voice not to break, or maybe she just thought that sometimes actions speak louder than words.

Anyway, it was odd, seeing her like that. Snape would not be able to explain if he found stranger that she would allow anyone to see her so upset or that she would show her motherly affection for a student so openly. That she loved all her students dearly was not really a secret for the other professors, but she showed it rarely, preferring to hide behind her sternness and austerity.

He moved towards her, but Madam Pomfrey was faster than him, she and Dumbledore came back and the matron - none too gently - shooed them away.

"Severus, Minerva, please go and wait outside. There's no need to crowd Mr Potter, the Headmaster and I will take care of him."

Snape did not really want to go, somehow he felt like he had to stay - ‘Out of duty, of course!' - but he certainly did not want to say it aloud, it would be a... weakness on his part and weakness did not sit well with Severus Snape. He hoped that Minerva would act true to tradition and try to go against Pomfrey's orders. He was not disappointed.

"Poppy, I actually believe it would be better if I remained here..."

"Not at all Minerva. And you Severus, don't look at me like that. I know both of you very well and I know what you are trying to do. And I tell you that you are going out of my ward right now, willing or not willing. Out!"

The briskness of the mediwitch was a clear sign that Potter was doing even worse than Snape had feared. She did not usually show a sunny disposition, but this was a bit too vigorous. She was unmistakably worried and Dumbledore was backing her up fully, his face way too sombre for Snape's liking. As much as he loathed Dumbledore's sometimes smug expression and twinkling eyes, this was far worse.

The two Head of Houses knew that they had been bested and quickly left the Hospital Wing, but did not go further than the small hall just outside Poppy Pomfrey's domain. 

McGonagall sat on the hard wooden bench, looking extremely interested in the pattern the stone tiles designed on the floor, while Snape was idly looking outside of the window. Both of them were lost in their thoughts.

Surprisingly enough, though, Snape was the first to break the heavy silence.

"Weasley and Granger?"

She did not raise her head. "Back in the Tower. I told them that Harry... Mr Potter... would be okay soon and that they had to tell the others that everything was fine. They will report that he is just spending the day in the Hospital Wing as a safety measure. I had to promise that I would let know something as soon as possible. I hope I convinced them not to come here."

"Will they follow your advice?" Snape sneered.

"I hope so. For Harry's sake... they would."

The uneasy silence was back. Minerva raised her head and looked at Snape. She could see how tense he was just from his countenance. Severus Snape was never fully relaxed - she almost could not fathom a stress-free Snape - but sometimes, if you knew him well enough and you knew what to look for... one could notice when he was even more strained than usual. It was in the way he kept his shoulders and back ramrod straight, or how his normally unemotional face would blank to the point of becoming a mask. Just like now.

Dealing with Snape was always difficult, dealing with him when he was like this was almost suicide. Well, she was a Gryffindor after all. That's what Gryffindors were made for. And while she half wanted to slap him for what he had done to Harry - and slap hard, mind you! - on the other hand she was positive that he had not wanted to hurt the boy like that.

"How are you Severus?" she asked mildly, her voice a bit strained and weary. But caring nonetheless.

He spun on himself so quickly, that had he been anyone else he would certainly tumble to the floor.

"Me? Are you daft or what Minerva?" he exploded "I'm not the one you should ask!". The mask had fallen and emotions were back for a second, but she could not decipher them fast enough and, anyway, Severus truly was a master at hiding himself. She frowned, but her gaze stood fixed on the man's face.

"I worry for all my students, Severus," She answered calmly "and Harry is in safe hands right now."

"I stopped being your student a long time ago, so save me the platitude." Snape sneered, his voice dripping sarcasm. What was she playing at? He was not in the right mood for her games.

"Didn't you want to say that you never really one of mine?" she retorted.

‘Trust Minerva to be blunt' The message was painfully clear. McGonagall had not been kind to him during his own school years at Hogwarts. Indifferent at best, sometimes - maybe unintentionally - cruel.

She had loved her Gryffindor students though, and - troublesome as they were - the Marauders had been her favourites. The apple of her eye. She could never stay angry with them long enough. They could do no wrong, could they? He had always been the one to blame.

Severus felt the old rage well up inside him until it was a huge lump of anger in his throat. She may think it was nothing but the old grudge of a teen-ager but he had never really forgotten. That schoolboy was still hidden somewhere deep inside him. Merlin! He had been no saint, nor would he ever be, but four to one had nothing to do with fairness either. How dare she bring up the issue now? Was she trying to make a point? He was not them!

‘Are you sure? Is what you did any better than the pranks James Potter pulled on you?'

He stalked forwards, his robes billowing behind him even in the restricted space of the hall, reaching the Transfiguration professor in mere strides, another burning retort on his lips.

"But, I prefer to think that you were a rather late one." She deadpanned.

He deflated and let himself fall on the hard bench beside her, closing his eyes in the hope of staving off the impending headache he felt beginning. ‘Why didn't she change the bloody seats into armchairs? She teaches Transfiguration for Merlin's sake!'. It was a rather stupid thought, but the only one that came to his mind. He had to gather his wits quickly: letting himself be baited like this would not bring any good.

"That was low, Minerva". He replied smoothly.

She gave him a strange look. She knew she had been provoking him, but it was high time that her colleague finally made up his mind and admit that there might be people worrying for him as well.

She sighed. She had postponed this discussion for too long, they should have talked openly and buried the hatchet years before: she had been wrong and should have said so. On the other hand Severus was as stubborn and unapproachable as they came and she had never found the right moment. Or she never wanted to. It was too late anyway.

When he had been a student, she had not been capable of seeing behind his facade. She had not seen the real Severus Snape, the poor and desperately lonely boy, she had seen what he had wanted everyone to see: the self-sufficient young man, the death-eater-in-the-making-attitude, the perfect Slytherin. There had not been an evil intent in her behaviour towards the skinny dark boy, but she certainly had not cared enough to try and support this particular student like she should have.

Even though she was Head of the Gryffindor House, she was first of all a teacher and she had duties towards all the children and there was no denying that had Severus been a Gryffindor she would have treated him differently, she would not have been so indifferent. She had vehemently denied it with Albus, at the time, but he had been right. Had Severus been a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw he would never have become a Death Eater. Character had nothing to do with it, it was a simple matter of acceptance: if he had felt wanted and appreciated... he would not have turned to Lucius Malfoy and his sidekicks.

She should have handled things differently. The Marauders... if she had just put a stop to their pranks when it was time, that awful night at the Shrieking Shack would never have happened. But those boys had been so charming that she could never stay angry with them long enough. She scolded them, gave them detentions, but she did nothing to actively stop them. She could have done more. She should have done more. And Albus had been just as bad. It was easy to like those boys, much easier than liking Severus Snape, in any case, and whenever she had been too lenient with them, she had told herself that they were just pulling pranks, that they were only boys, that no real harm was being done. If she only had known how wrong she was. The strings of ifs was too long.

In the end things had come to an edge at the Shrieking Shack and then everything went downfall from there. It would not have been possible to expel Black - as he fully deserved - without dooming Remus Lupin. Remus' safety had been their only worry at the time and Albus had done all he could to keep things low-keyed and not alert the Ministry, which meant that the whole affair had to be secreted. It had been the final straw for Severus. They saved the wolf, but lost the snake.

Severus Snape had become a Death Eater soon after leaving Hogwarts.

When Severus had understood how foolish he had been and gone to Dumbledore, she had been all against giving him a second chance, she did not think that he deserved it, but Albus had been adamant about it.

She had been so stupid, hadn't she? Even though he really did not need to, Albus had explained it to her patiently, telling her that everyone was worthy of a second chance, even Severus, especially Severus, because he had really never had one in the first place. Sure, he had been daft and immature, he had chosen the easy way instead of the right one, but what had they done to help him, to show him that there was a right way? They had given him nothing but a cold shoulder. And his family had been even worse.

It had still taken her months, if not years, to understand her mistakes, though.

Minerva McGonagall had been in Order from the beginning. She was a strong and brave witch, but she almost never took part in battles, she usually was the one who stayed behind at Hogwarts or at Headquarters and took care of the practical matters which everyone else - Albus included - usually overlooked. It was hard work behind the curtains, but not less important for the Order. She was Albus' right hand and did for the Order what she usually did for the school.

In those first months, short after Severus' change of heart, when the Headmaster was out and Severus was summoned, she was the one who would wait for him to come back. She did not like her task and made no pretence to the contrary.

Finally, just a couple of weeks before Lily and James Potter would be killed, Severus had been summoned. It was not unusual, Voldemort called him at least two or three times a week at the time, even though the meeting were rarely longer than three hours. Anyway, it was a stormy night, cold and rainy and Minerva could not help but feel uneasy. Cats don't like water, after all. Albus was in London and she and Poppy Pomfrey were the only two people in the castle aware that Snape was out. And he was quite late.

It was not until well after three in the morning that the wards signalled his return. She rushed out towards the Forbidden Forest, uncaring of the rain, and what she saw made her blood turn cold: Severus was slumped against a tree, barely conscious and covered in blood. It was not the first time that he came back battered and bruised, but the Dark Lord, as he called that monster, had never gone so far before. It was two days before Madam Pomfrey could be sure that Severus would survive without permanent damages. On the same day he was summoned again and although he was not fully healed yet, he had gone without any afterthoughts or hesitations. It was the bravest thing she had ever seen and from then on Severus Snape had a special place in her heart.

But she had never told him, although she knew that her changed attitude towards him had not gone unnoticed. Their relationship had become less and less bitter, then respectful and now - in-between the usual bickering - even friendly, but the shadow of the past still stood between them like a solid wall.

‘It's now or never' she thought.

"Severus, really. We have been colleagues - if not close friends - for over fifteen years now and I know for sure that you are not as bad as you would like us to think. Can you really believe that I would not worry for you?" she asked quietly.

Had she been her usual self, stern and sure of herself, he would have dismissed her words easily, even scorned her. But this thoughtful side of hers, which was usually well hidden behind her prim Gryffindor attitude, was something different and he could not deny how much Minerva's behaviour towards him had changed during the years they had spent at Hogwarts and in the Order. Still...

"You do choose the strangest of times for your... acknowledgment, if that's what this is." he drawled, his eyes still closed, despite his headache having flared up all the same. But he would not drink the pain reliever he had in his pocket. Not in front of her. It was bad enough that he had allowed the conversation to progress so far.

She stood up.

"No, it's not strange at all." she retorted "I certainly waited long enough". He did not answer, but she could say that he was listening intently. Suspended judgement.

She went on "Don't you see that it's the same story all over again? We have to stop it this time."

"I really don't know what you are talking about." But he knew very well.

It was the very same thought that he had been trying to suffocate since he had almost killed the Boy-Who-Lived. Less than one hour before he had been Minerva and the Marauders all in one person and his revenge had been much more bitter than he expected. He had expected the tangy flavour of victory and tasted the sourness of guilt instead.

"Sure and I am the next Minister of Magic." She scoffed, her temper raising. "Are you two really so different now that you've seen behind the mask?"

"We have nothing in common, Minerva... we are as different as night and day."

"And what are night and day if not the two halves of the same day?" she answered. "I made a mistake back then, Severus, and you took the brunt of it. Don't make the same mistake I did."

"You give yourself too much credit." he replied angrily. "You certainly were not the worst that happened to me." He snapped, then shut his mouth, as if he had said too much. He was having a hard time controlling his temper. She had no right to talk to him like that. Not now.

"But I was part of it. As were the Marauders and all the others... if only we had been more supportive..." she trailed off.

"You can't rewrite history with what ifs." He struggled to maintain his demeanour.

"I know. It's too late now. But not for Harry. We can still help him."

"Like you did with Umbridge last year?" He lashed out. Oh it felt good.

McGonagall turned red and he waited for her temper to explode. But he was sorely disappointed. She went back to the bench and sat down slowly.

"I failed him. He wanted to tell me and I did not listen. I knew that she was mistreating him, I just did not know how badly. I was too busy and I- I did not want to show favouritisms. How could I be so stupid?"

He sighed and finally admitted "We all made mistakes." He thought of the memories he had seen in the boy's mind during Occlumency.

"Yes we did. How long have those Muggles been hurting him? And he never told us. You were too prideful, Severus, what is he? Afraid? Ashamed? The final result is the same, a deeply hurt boy."

Before he could say anything, the doors of the Hospital Wing opened and a weary looking Dumbledore came out.

"He will live."

Before he could say anything, the doors of the Hospital Wing opened and a weary looking Dumbledore came out.

"He will live."

Severus Snape stood up. Minerva McGonagall simply closed her eyes and leant her head against the stone wall, releasing a deep sigh, as if she had been holding her breath for a very long time.

Dumbledore turned to the Deputy Headmistress and quietly asked:

"Minerva, our young Harry is out of immediate danger, but he cannot be left alone. Would you mind staying with him for a while, while Poppy is otherwise occupied?"

She nodded and immediately made her way to the Hospital Wing. She was sure that Dumbledore had been telling the truth, but she also knew a dismissal when she heard one. As usual Dumbledore had managed to hide his purpose without a direct lie. Not that she was eager to listen to this particular conversation. Not at all.

Snape wondered if Dumbledore would prefer to move their discussion to his office, but the Headmaster did not seem inclined to. He looked old and tired and Snape felt a pang of regret.

Dumbledore was certainly far from perfect: he could be terribly annoying, was more devious than any Slytherin, more sentimental than any Gryffindor and his usual cheerfulness (not to say his inane passion for muggle candy) combined with those infuriating twinkling eyes was more than enough to drive him mad most of the time. Still, Severus respected him immensely and as time passed by the Headmaster had become more of a father figure to him than his real father had ever been. If pressed hardly enough - nothing sort of an Unforgivable, that is - Severus Snape would maybe privately concede that he might tentatively harbour something akin to affection for the old wizard.

The older man took the seat McGonagall had vacated and looked at him straight in the eye. Snape expected the usual circumlocution, but Dumbledore surprised him by hitting the nail square on the head.

"So, Severus, was it worth it?" There was no anger behind the words, just the weariness of someone who had tried to avoid this outcome for years and ultimately failed, as well as the disappointment a father would feel towards his gone astray son.

"You know it wasn't." This time there was no hiding, not even in the tone of his voice. He owed it to Dumbledore, at least. But how could he explain to someone like the old wizard what he had been feeling? His revenge sounded nothing but petty and childish now. Could he admit that his resentment for the Potters (the brat and his dead father) had been so deeply ingrained in him that he totally misunderstood the boy's letter of apology and that the ensuing rage had brought him to plan his revenge as soon as he had noticed that something was off with the boy? The potion he had had the class brewing should only have revealed what Potter was supposedly hiding under a badly applied glamour charm, the usual love bites and other hormone driven marks that the students tended to sport during their last years of schools. It was just a prank, no worse than any other prank pulled by the Marauders or the Weasley twins. ‘But you are a teacher now..." Minerva had been right.

The problem was not the way he had chosen to exact his revenge, the problem was that he had thought to exact it at all.

They were both silent for a couple of minutes. Snape waited for the verdict to fall.

"You know, Severus, it is most strange that sometimes the outcome of our actions turns out to be the opposite of what we wanted to achieve."

"Albus, I did not..." he tried to interject. He would explain. But the elder wizard stopped him with just the barest wave of his hand.

"Yes, I know. You did not mean to do harm. Or at least not physically. You promised to protect the child many years ago and I know you keep your word. But you did want to harm his pride, which I am sure he did not deserve either. And I am disappointed."

"I..." but Dumbledore once more cut him off.

"You don't need to tell me Severus. I know very well what you held of the boy and I can only hope that this whole debacle made you change you mind about him, at last." There was no hint of satisfaction in the tone of his voice. The price had been too high.

Snape nodded. It seemed that Dumbledore had more to say and it was apparent that he would not be allowed to speak before he was done.

"At least something good came out of this whole ordeal." He sighed and turned to watch the tense younger wizard still sitting at his side.

"Something good?" Snape spat the words angrily. How could anything good come out of it? Was Albus going nuts? But he restrained himself.

"Well, yes Severus, something good. Or would you rather we had never found out about Harry's plight?" Dumbledore quietly asked.

"Of course. And maybe we could have found out years ago, if anybody had ever taken a couple of minutes to actually check on the boy instead of relying on a squib babysitter!" The words escaped his lips even before his brain registered with whom he was speaking or what he was saying. He had not meant to lash out. Albus was not infallible and he could not know that those muggles were abusing the boy. But Albus had been the one to insist that none approach the Dursleys in the past years - not that he would ever do it, mind you! - and the thought of the abused child that Potter had been... was... wouldn't leave his mind.

"I apologize, Albus. That was out of line." Snape quickly added. Albus was not the only culprit in the whole mess, after all. They had been Potter's teachers for years and had not noticed a thing. And he had seen the boy's memories first-hand, during those hopeless Occlumency lessons. He had dismissed the disturbing images he had seen as mere episodes in an otherwise happy childhood, but there had been too many of them and he should have known better. Dumping the fault on Albus shoulders alone would be unfair as well as highly hypocritical on his part. But Dumbledore seemed to excuse his outburst.

"No, Severus, you are right, as was Minerva in that fateful night. I should have checked on the child, but I wanted to believe I had given him the best possible childhood. Even after Mrs Figg told me that Harry did not look happy and looked too small for his age, I believed that he would still be better off with his own family than with an adoptive one. Then there were the blood wards. I could not overlook that..." he trailed off, obviously overwhelmed by guilt.

"He cannot return there, the blood wards won't be of any use if his own relatives kill him. If his aunt hates him enough, they might even fail before his seventeenth birthday as it is." The Potions Master stated. When had he become so protective of Potter?

"No, he won't get back there. Ever." The Headmaster agreed "But we need to find a suitable place for him."

"The Weasleys?" Severus suggested.

"They certainly love Harry and would gladly adopt him, but I am not sure it would be the best solution and..." the Headmaster trailed off.

"And?" Snape pressed.

"And I am not sure that it would be what young Harry actually needs."

"Pardon?" Snape sounded sceptical.

"Harry has spent a lot of time at the Burrow, but although it is now painfully obvious that he has been abused for years he never trusted the Weasleys enough to tell them that anything was wrong. I am sure he loves them dearly and they certainly love him back, but he did not confide in them. Not even his best friends knew of this. And none of them noticed anything amiss."

Severus nodded. Granger and Weasley had been acting sort of protective towards the Potter boy all week long, but he was sure they had been at least as much surprised as he had been after finding out the child's injuries. "He needs someone just for himself, especially after this."

Dumbledore acknowledged his assumption with a sigh.

"Lupin?" he suggested.

"It would be temporary at best... as a werewolf he would never be able to get custody of Harry."

Snape was aware of what the Headmaster was not saying: if they did not find a proper guardian for Potter soon, he would became a ward of the Ministry.

And then there was the matter they had not discussed yet, but which Severus knew to be foremost in their minds: Potter's incredible display of power.

They would have to find out what Potter actually did to protect himself. It looked like a glamour at first sight, but after seeing the condition the boy was in after it was forcefully removed by the potion... no, there was no way Potter would have been able to function all week long if that inexplicable shield did not have any intrinsic healing power. Then there was the issue of his depleted magic. The potion was designed to render the drinker magicless, but just for a short span of time. Once the effect was over, the magic was also restored in full. But Potter's had been almost totally depleted. Had it been the fight against the potion or was the glamour's pull on his powers so strong that there was almost nothing left? They had to find out as soon as possible, but not before they took care of the practical matters: they had to find a guardian for Potter as soon as possible or they would lose him anyway.

"Are you sure there are no other relatives?" he inquired, pensively.

Dumbledore shook his head. "At the time we could not find much. The Evans family line is a blur. We were just lucky that we knew Lily had a sister and our researches did not go further. There was no time."

"I knew Lily as a child," Snape admitted "we were... neighbours... but I never saw any relatives visiting the family."

Dumbledore stood.

"I have my job cut for me, then."

The Headmaster's eyes were riveted on Snape and he knew instantly what his job would be. He was in charge of The-Boy-Who-Lived. No more words were necessary.

The Potions Master entered the Hospital Wing swiftly, his robes billowing behind him, his stride purposeful, now that he had a aim to pursue again and his face grimly set in a scowl.

He certainly did not like what was expected of him, but he was no stranger to duty and would fulfil his obligations in the best possible way, even though it meant interacting with Potter and possibly even resuming their Occlumency lessons.

Pomfrey and the Headmaster had hidden the boy well. The door of the room Potter was in was charmed to look like a closet. And it actually was one. Unless you knew exactly what you wanted to find and concentrated enough whilst opening the door. Only then would the wards grant you access.

The sight that greeted him left him speechless tough: Minerva never-less-than-prim-and-proper McGonagall was perched on the side of Potter's bed, smudges of tears on her face, tenderly carding the teen's ever unruly dark hair, while gently caressing his cheek with the other hand.

She did not raise her head or otherwise acknowledge his presence, but quietly stated:

"He had nightmares." As if it explained all.

Severus thanked Merlin that her voice was steady, at least. Her disturbing emotional distress seemed over. But she surprised him once more.

"Did you know that I used to baby-sit him?"

Snape was too astounded to reply. He had not known her well at the time Harry was born and their relationship had been... strained... at best. She had not become Minerva yet, she had still been more of the professor that he had loathed during his school years than the formal but understanding colleague she was now.

"They were virtually alone, you know? James's parents were dead by then, as were Lily's. She never wanted to leave the baby with her sister... that's how I knew that it was wrong leaving Harry with the muggles..." she trailed off "anyway, it was not easy for Lily when James was not at home, and Remus and Sirius...", she did not mention Pettigrew, he noticed "well, Remus and Sirius were about as reliable as Harry himself, although I take it that they did not wet their nappies."

Snape had to snort at the image of Lupin and Black taking care of an infant. She laughed a little as well.

"I had no family of my own and I always cared for Lily, so I tried to help her with the baby. I guess I was a sort of honorary grandmother. I visited her as often as I could and sometimes Lily came here to Hogwarts herself. He was such a lovely baby, Severus, and there's so much I could and should have done for him."

"You did what you thought would be best for him." It felt strange, trying to console a distressed Deputy Headmistress. He had always hated emotional displays.

"Maybe." She conceded. "Anyway, I did spend a lot of time with the little devil, especially in the weeks before James and Lily went into hiding. Hiding was their last resort and things were strained for a long time before that. The tension was almost palpable and Lily was so young: sometimes she was so worried about the future, about everything really."

She sighed. "Harry was a sensitive child and felt the emotional upheaval of his parents; he threw temper-tantrums or he would not sleep... all those things little children do when they are upset. I tried to help as much as I could, I could hide my emotions better than Lily, and Harry would calm down faster. I just needed to hold him and stroke his hair."

Snape was once more wordless. He distractedly thought that it was becoming the trend of the day.

He moved towards the bed to have a better look at Potter. McGonagall stood up and finally looked at Severus.

"Poppy gave him a strong sleeping draught, but could not use Dreamless Sleep, she said it would interfere with the other potions."

"I had guessed as much."

"Yes, she said you would. There was an emergency in Hogsmeade and she had to go. She said that Harry is not in any danger, unless he tries summoning his magic."

"Did she say how long will it take for his magic to be fully restored?" he enquired.

"A couple of days. He is not to try anything, Severus, especially that shield of his that Poppy mentioned." She shook her head. "I can't believe that he has been hiding this for so long." She made an ample gesture with her hand towards Harry's sleeping form.

"Me neither, actually. Is there anything else I should know?" - before you go get a stiff drink - he barely restrained himself.

"Poppy will explain it later, you know how bad I always was with potions, but she said she has taken steps to prevent him from being able to concentrate enough to perform any magic. She thinks he may heal faster in this way."

"I think I know what she used, but it has some undesirable after effects. Did she mention..."

McGonagall cut him off. "Yes, she did. She said Harry will be highly emotional until the potions wears off."

"Which is highly undesirable. A sane Potter is bothersome enough, an emotional one is bound to be maddening." He scowled.

McGonagall's glare turned icy enough to rival with his own. "Severus!" It was a clear warning.

"I beg your pardon, Minerva." He grunted out.

She just nodded at him haughtily. It seemed that the Gryffindor Head of House was herself again. "That's not all Severus." She went on. "I do believe that Poppy welcomes this kind of aftereffect. She believes it might help Harry express his feelings."

"Wonderful." he mocked.

"I am afraid I have to agree with you," she admitted "Harry has been plagued by nightmares the whole time and I cannot understand how this could be good for him. He already has enough nightmares as it is." She mused. "When I arrived Harry was trashing in the bed and Poppy could not quiet him at all." She was almost ranting.

But Severus Snape found that little casual piece of information very useful: Pomfrey had not been able to give Potter's mind any respite from his nightmares, still McGonagall's touch had been enough to calm him immediately. Did he remember her somehow? He knew that he still remembered the night his parents had been murdered. What else was hidden in the mind of the Boy-Who-Lived? Everything could be important. They had much to achieve and too little time.

McGonagall went towards the exit without his prompt. She was either too perceptive or Albus had forewarned Pomfrey that Severus would be in charge and she had passed the information to Minerva as well. Either way he was glad that she was going without putting up a fight.

She turned one last time towards the Potions Professor. "Please take care of him."

Severus took a chair and moved it near the bed.

He sat down, smoothed the wrinkles out of his robe and threw a surreptitious glance at the boy.

Everything seemed ok. Until he saw the boy's face. He was awake.

Severus took a chair and moved it near the bed.

He sat down, smoothed the wrinkles out of his robe and threw a surreptitious glance at the boy.

Everything seemed ok. Until he saw the boy's face. He was awake.

Severus Snape, feared Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, felt his mouth go dry.

So it begins. It was between him and Potter now.

The silence stretched itself between the two of them and Severus knew it was his turn to move. But this was a game he was not sure to win. He did not even know what the prize would be. Or the price.

The boy was waking up way too soon, much sooner than he had expected and he warily thought that he needed more time: he did not even know the true extent of the boy's injuries and McGonagall's emotional and limited résumé certainly had not allowed him to work out an adequate plan of action yet. And he badly needed a plan. His whole life was based on well thought and executed plans. He did not like improvising.

In his branch - potions as well as his other "employment" -  improvisation was nothing more than a suicide attempt.

After a few seconds he finally made up his mind and looked at the ill boy again and he realized that maybe he would be granted a little more time: Potter was not wearing his usual silly glasses and he could see his eyes well, they were dull and glazed as if the boy were not really awake, but had simply been disturbed by the commotion in his room. If he was indeed so high on potions as Minerva had hinted at and as tired and feverish as he himself had seen just a couple of hours before, then the boy should be sleeping a bit longer at least.

He held himself still, almost holding his breath, and - as he had hoped - Thanks Merlin! -, the boy slowly closed his eyes and dozed off again.

I have no time to lose now.

He quickly went to Pomfrey's office. There was a small note pinned on the table, stating that she had to go back to Hogsmeade for some emergency in the neighbourhood and would be back as soon as possible.

How convenient. So convenient that it looked almost too easy. And Albus certainly was not above tampering... Anyway, at least he would not have the resident Matron hovering over him, even though he could have done with a short briefing on the brat's conditions. He snatched Potter's file from Pomfrey's pristine desk and he read it fast, trying to gauge the boy's health as quickly as possible.

But there was too much. Too many serious injuries. What had this child been subjected to? That he was even alive denoted a ferocious defiance. The-Boy-Who-Lived, indeed.

And even more astounding was that he had managed to act with a semblance of normalcy for so long.

He went back to Potter's room and silently resumed his position near the bed. He needed time to digest the results of Madame Pomfrey's scans.

The damage the boy had endured at the Dark Lord's hands (or mind) was bad, but nothing they could not cure with potions and healing charms easily enough. It would maybe take a little longer than usual, but it would not be a problem. 

The damage inflicted by the muggles, on the other hand, was appalling. It had been a massacre.

No, torture.

He mentally amended, because it was clear that it had not been a single event, the abuse had been ongoing and systematic. Some of the injuries must have occurred years before, when he was only a small child, a toddler even. Broken bones seemed to be a normal occurrence for Potter, since one arm alone had been broken three times at least. The scan on the other arm had not provided a clear result since it was the bone that Pomfrey had had to re-grow a couple of years before. Natural frailty? The boy's own recklessness?

Snape strongly doubted that. It was true that the brat had almost broken his neck playing Quidditch once a week during the previous 6 years, but he had come out of it with sound bones most of the time. No one with natural bone frailty would ever survive his daily escapades on the Firebolt. Not to speak of his yearly escapades with His Evilness himself.

He had to acknowledge the truth and finally open his eyes: The Boy Who Lived had been abused since he was a toddler and none of them had noticed. They mistook his reluctance to go home for the holidays for arrogance and conceit, while the boy had just been afraid to face another summer of pain.

Merlin! He had been hating the brat ever since before he gad even been born, but he would never allow any child to suffer such mistreatment from their family. Not even Potter. And it was not as if Potter himself had done anything to hide the abuse. Not the physical abuse, of course, that had been well hidden. Way too well.

But the other signs had been there: defiance, fierce independence, reluctance to turn to adults as well. As well as the desperate fight to cover his memories during Occlumency. They had been monumental fools.

He now had to admit that even though Potter had actually wanted to learn Occlumency he would not probably have succeeded in any case. How can you learn to shield your mind and hide your innermost feelings, while your whole being is desperately trying to hide one single set of memories?

Not that he had tried too hard to teach him, really.

It was a painful admission, but Severus Snape was not the kind of person to hide behind stupid excuses. Although if he would go to great lengths not to have to admit of ever being wrong to anyone else, he had learnt from his own mistakes not to lie to himself, at least, and the price he paid for this hard won knowledge had been way too high.

The pure and simple truth was that they had wronged the boy and he had done so more than all the other teachers put together. He had been blinded by his hatred for James Potter and had exacted his revenge on Potter's son.

Not that the brat had not deserved most of the punishments he had received, but he had gone out of his way to pick on him. He had punished him in the worst possible way, thus dooming a relationship that was turning out to be essential for the demise of the Dark Lord.

Potter certainly had his faults - and many of them, mind you! - but he was the one who had failed, because he was the teacher. And now they had to start over and Severus very much doubted that any of them would ever be able to forget the past. Not after last year.

He squashed the not too faint glimmer of guilt he felt towards the boy and went back to the file.

The worst damage had been healed already, but some of the injuries were too grave and too old to be cured at all. The burns on the right hand had been treated and  - although the skin would be tender for a week or so - there would be no long lasting damage.

The left hand was another matter though. According to the file, Pomfrey had tried everything she could think of, but it was obvious that Harry would not be able to fully use the hand ever again. The hand had been crushed for the first time some two months before and the nerves had been damaged too badly. Maybe if the boy had not been submitted to Cruciatus it would have been possible to do something more, but magical and muggle damages put together on a two months time span were simply too much, there was nothing left to work on. According to the file, Madame Pomfrey hoped to give Harry back at least 30 percent of mobility on that hand. A couple of fingers, at the best. Not much but better than the alternative, he guessed, the wrist had at last been set properly and would be fine in a couple of days.

He knew that he would be the one to have to break the news to the boy and he certainly was not looking forward to it. On the previous day, some evil part of him - the one which still held James Potter and Sirius Black accountable for everything bad that had ever happened to him - would have been pleased to inform the spoiled and pampered brat that from then on there was something in his life which would not be perfect ever again, but he now loathed to have to tell an abused child that his hand would never be the same again.

How can you tell a 16-year-old something like that?

Carefully.

He sighed.

The other bruises and cracked ribs and assorted wounds were well on the way of mending, even though the boy would be quite sore for a while. The sooner magical means were applied, the sooner they worked. A whole summer was much too long a period for any injury to remain untreated.

Almost out of his own volition Snape put his hand on Harry's forehead to check on his temperature. The boy had been burning with fever just a few hours before, but now he was only slightly warm and he breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief. Harry's wounds had become infected and the fever alone could have killed him off easily. The infection had probably set in a few days before Potter returned to Hogwarts, maybe going to Diagon Alley with Lupin had been the final straw... they would never know; anyway Snape knew enough about healing to recognize that an infection deriving from untreated broken bones or any other internal wound, if left untreated, could kill in a very short span of time. Potter had been walking on a very fine edge.

It was still a miracle that he had survived.

Snape had to wonder if he really had. Madame Pomfrey's file was nothing but accurate and he knew that the boy was not in danger of dying, not anymore, but he found - to his dismay - that he was far more worried about his mental health than his physical welfare. How much of the brat's behaviour was the result of his heritage and how much the result of his abusive upbringing?

It was clear that he would not be able to interact with Potter normally. He had to take Pomfrey's blasted potions into account (and he was absolutely sure now that Pomfrey had wanted Potter to be as emotional as possible) and go with the tide. The boy's mind on a good day was almost as tangled as his hair and today was not a good day.

Still... the boy had managed to function more or less coherently since he had arrived at Hogwarts, even after everything that had happened in the past years and culminating in the mutt's death. No, Potter was not the goody naïve Gryffindor everyone saw. Or wanted to see. That was the starting point.

He would have to reign in his temper and take baby steps until he found the truth about the boy's hidden power and everything else that had transpired in the last day.

He took Potter's right hand in his much bigger one and quietly inspected the palm. Instead of the angry burn he had seen before now there was a new layer of pink and tender skin. The skin was still slightly inflamed, but he knew that it would look like just like regular skin in about 12 more hours. Just to make sure that Potter would not manage to hurt himself in the meanwhile, he carefully dabbed the hand with the salve Madame Pomfrey had left on the nightstand. Once he was satisfied with the job, he gently turned the hand over to inspect the rest of it. The reddened scars on the back immediately captured his attention. They looked inflamed and angry and had a matching hue to the ominous scar marring the boy's forehead. Dark Magic.

The lines were a bit blurry, but still readable. "I will not tell lies".

Umbridge.

He fell back on his chair heavily, Potter's hand still carefully ensconced in his own, inexplicably enraged by the sight of the scars and their meaning.  He had heard rumours about the abuse perpetrated during the Toad's detentions, but he had never seen it first hand.

He breathed deeply to calm himself a bit and gently lowered the hand on the coverlet, adjusting the beddings as precisely as he would stir a precious potion.

Anyway, Potter seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough and he decided to let him slumber a little bit longer: they had a lot to accomplish and little time to do so, but the boy needed to rest as well.

He busied himself with the latest potions journal (rubbish!) and kept a vigil eye on Potter, it was actually no longer than an hour later that Potter started to show signs of discomfort.

Since the potions Madame Pomfrey had administered would last for eight more hours at least, it could only be a nightmare.

The boy's movements were sluggish at first, then he started to trash more violently, whimpering a little and getting tangled in the sheet covering him. The left hand seemed to be twitching and spasming without control and Snape hurried to try and calm the boy down, before he could damage himself.

But as soon as the Potions Master gently touched Harry's shoulder, the boy awoke with a start, jerking away and unconsciously trying to get out of Snape's reach.

The movement was so sudden that Potter managed to get off the bed and squeeze himself in the narrow corner between his bed and the wall before Snape could even think of trying and restrain him. He did not really seem aware of his surroundings and he was panting heavily, curled on himself, his hands in the same protective stance he had shown in the classroom earlier.

Snape did not dare think how much the sudden move must have hurt and wondered how it were possible, that a sixteen-year-old boy could make himself as small as a cat.