He began to suspect something was wrong when he passed Minerva and the Gryffindor Know-It-All in the hallway outside the transfiguration classroom. Minerva had her back turned to him, so it was impossible for him to read the emotions on her face. She did, however, lean forward slightly and her neck was bent. He could imagine her sharp eyes intent on Granger's face.

He could see Granger, and saw her hands twisted together in front of her, her teeth biting her lower lip and her whole demeanor tense. He couldn't determine whether it was sadness or anger that was marring her features, or perhaps both of them in equal measure.

Clearly, something had upset Granger greatly. Not that it was difficult to upset a Gryffindor, mind, they got worked up over the smallest things... But this was different. He studied Granger again, slowing his stride until he was right in front of the pair and could observe Granger's every twitch. She had a crease between her eyebrows and her eyes were slightly puffy. There was a kind of fevered determination burning in her over-bright eyes. Something he ought to recognize.

It was righteous anger. How... Gryffindor-esque. It was the same proud toss of the head he had often seen in Lily when someone (usually he) was being treated badly.

And in Granger's case, she would only feel that way about one person.

The Brat-Who-Lived, with Lily's green eyes.

---

"Potter looks a bit.. peaky today."

He sneered, of course, and glanced over at Minerva. She feigned interest in her food (though he knew she loathed kidney pie) and simply shrugged. She knew he had seen her with Granger earlier.

"Why do you ask, Severus?" she said casually.

Now it was his turn to shrug and look at his food. He wasn't particularly fond of kidney pie either.

"The brat has detention with me tonight. I imagine he will do everything possible to get out of it."

Minerva glanced at him, suddenly looking more like a young girl than the respectable woman and Deputy Headmistress she was.

"I imagine the stress of the year is getting to him. After all, he has his OWLs in less than two month."

"A wonder he's even here to take them, after all the idiotic, life-threatning situations he gets himself into," Severus said venomously.

Minerva just looked at him with a knowing half-smile, not unlike the Headmaster's.

"Mr. Potter has been serving an unusual amount of detentions with the High Inquisitor this year," she said, ignoring his earlier statement.

"It has obviously done nothing whatsoever to help his behavior," he spat. He knew he was getting closer to whatever it was Granger had discussed with her earlier. But what could it have to do with the repulsive toad seated three seats to the left of him?

"It appears she disapproves of him publicly announcing You-Know-Who's return. In fact, she has employed some rather archaic methods to make him keep silent."

A faint roar sounded somewhere, far off, but Minerva kept going.

"Miss Granger came to speak with me earlier today. Apparently, Harry did not want to... burden me with any of his problems. But Miss Granger was afraid he would be permanently injured unless someone did something. Soon."

The roar continued, making it impossible for him to concentrate.

"What did she do, Minerva?" he ground out, in a voice very much unlike his own.

"Why, Severus, I didn't think you cared," she said slyly. "Perhaps you should ask Mr. Potter yourself."

He stared at her for a moment, then burst out of the Great Hall. The roar rang in his ears, and he realized he was panting. He could not even name the feeling he was experiencing, only that it was making his chest feel constricted and his sallow cheeks burn.

In his mind's eye, he saw Granger's face of this morning, and knew. Righteous anger.

---

Potter slid timidly into his office at three minutes past seven and he gave the boy a sharp reprimand. Then he saw the hand. Or rather. He saw one hand. Potter held his right hand hidden slightly behind his right thigh, enough to hide it. He probably thought he was drawing attention away from it, but he was in fact doing the exact opposite. It was the first thing his eyes were drawn to.

"Potter." The boy looked up from the floor to the collar of his shirt. "What are you hiding? Stolen goods, a stink-bomb perhaps?"

The brat shook his head and his face tensed. He didn't argue but simply lifted his hand palm up. It was empty.

He snorted, and the boy dropped the hand. This time, he had time to see the back of it. It was red.

He moved so quickly Potter did not have time to react.

I must not tell lies glared at him. The cuts were deep and recent and he knew from his extensive reading on the Dark Arts that they had been done with a blood quill. Archaic indeed.

The roaring was back.

Stupid proud Potter with his round glasses and Lily's eyes and her cheekbones and lips and...

Disgusting toad who had made him break his promise.

Potter stared at him silently, his hand still held out before him, just as he was still gripping it in his.

"Leave Potter!"

The brat scurried out the room and left him standing there, dazed.

He had thought he had protected that insufferable brat. But he had not. For surely, he would have noticed something like this. He may not like children, and particularly not this child, but surely he would have noticed someone hurting a child. A wave of cold washed over him and he wondered if there were other bleeding cuts on other hands he had failed to see.

And he wondered if Lily would be ashamed of the man she had begged to protect her son if she was not there, if she would be disappointed in him.

He was, after all, not such a protector. He had not done the one thing he could have done to redeem himself.

He went to his desk and sat and saw I must not tell lies flash before his vision.

---

"Good evening, Dolores."

Her office was pink and fluffy and disgusting.

She answered him in her high, girlish voice and he felt his guts clench.

This time he identified the feeling immediately. Righteous anger.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Ronald Weasley was thinking.

It wouldn’t be fair to him to say it wasn’t something he did often, because Ron frequently thought about Quidditch, homework, chess, his Mum’s latest letters (not that he would admit that to anyone) and Hermione’s bum (he wouldn’t admit that to anyone either) but he rarely thought in the deep, introspective way he did now.

However, in the instances when he did, the thoughts were nearly always centered around one Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, one-third of the Golden Trio, his best mate.

Sometimes (often) he was jealous of his mate for his fame, his Quidditch skills and his money. Other times he didn’t think any bloke could have a better mate. And sometimes, he worried.

Ron Weasley knew he wasn’t the most perceptive of men. In fact, he distinctly recalled Hermione accusing him of having “the emotional range of a teaspoon” and he was clever enough to realize that he missed things that Hermione and Harry took for granted. Hermione was a girl, it made sense for her to understand feelings and stuff, but Harry, even though he tried to act normal, picked up a lot of things Ron missed. He was more suspicious than Ron, less trusting… More twitchy-like.

Since Ron didn’t understand it, he put it down to Harry simply being a bit different than himself, and accepted it.

However, with the latest developments, Ron wasn’t sure he could do that anymore.

See, Harry never complained.

Not about real things, that was. He heartily joined Ron’s complaint chorus over homework, Snape and Divination assignments, but when it came to other things… Real things, he was quiet.

Ron could remember Harry’s face that first Christmas, as if he couldn’t quite believe there were presents for him of all people!

And that time when he, Fred and George had broken him out of prison (the Dursleys) and Harry had refused to say anything about what had happened.

Things like that got a man thinking, it did.

Add to that Umbridge and her detentions and Ron was not quite sure what the picture taking shape before him was showing, but he knew one thing. He didn’t like it.

It wasn’t normal to be tortured in detention and refuse to tell someone about it. Ron knew that if his mum found out, she’d go spare. She’d rush up to Hogwarts, wand in hand. But Harry didn’t seem to think so.

Even now, after Umbridge had mysteriously disappeared, after storming into the Great Hall mumbling about quills, lies and pink kittens, Harry refused to see that the detentions had been wrong.  Whenever Hermione tried to bring it up (with Ron standing by as… As moral support. Quiet moral support), Harry changed the topic or simply stormed off.

So Ron sat thinking in the common room, going through the facts, trying to treat it as a complex chess problem. His eyes fell on Harry, who was sprawled in an armchair across from him, feet dangling. More specifically, his eyes fell on Harry’s shoes. Harry’s threadbare trainers, and the big toe he could almost see peeking out on the right one.

When Ron Weasley played chess, he could sometimes see each move before him, exactly as they would be played over the course of the game. He supposed that was why the Sorting Hat had considered him for Ravenclaw, before deciding he lack the drive. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that.

He did the same now, only he was playing a real life game. First, he needed the library. Then his mum. And Hermione. And finally (he gulped) Snape.

Hermione Granger was the brightest witch of her generation.

Everyone said so.

They also called her kind, and gentle, caring and protective. Brave was also tossed around a lot, along with “know-it-all” and annoying and, when it came to her mother, pretty. And good. Above all, good.

A good girl.

Hermione was all those things, to be sure, but the labels annoyed her all the same. She was so much more than that, so much more than a female shell housing an obedient spirit.

Hermione knew in her mind that she was far more than a stereotypical good girl, and she sometimes thought that if people saw past their preconceived notions of her, they’d be frightened.

And they’d be right to be.  

Hermione Granger was, after all, the brightest witch of her generation. And if she could choose an epithet for herself, it would be… cunning. Or ruthless.

She sometimes thought she would’ve made an excellent Slytherin.

HPHPHP

In the end, it was so simple she was surprised she hadn’t come up with it earlier. Umbridge was a petty, mean-spirited woman, but she was clever enough and had enough power to be truly dangerous. She was, in short exactly the sort of person who should never be given any authority whatsoever, not even over somebody’s cat.

Why was it that those most ill-suited for ruling wanted it the most?

Had she been a muggle (or a man!), Umbridge would have made an excellent evil dictator. She’d fit right in with Stalin and Pol Pot. Or perhaps not. She was content to hide in the shadow of someone else, claiming her actions were on behalf of them. She was the sort of character that thrived on having someone to step on. And she wasn’t content with just stepping on someone, no, she wanted to ground them into the dirt, crush them beneath her heel until nothing remained.

On a purely personal level, she offended Hermione with her pink, frilly cardigans and her disdain for learning. But that wasn’t the main reason she was so eager to get rid of her. No, that she could have endured. But she could not stand idly by while that woman tortured Harry.

Harry, who already bore far more than his fair share, and did so in silence.  Harry, who never thought about himself but always about others. Harry, who wouldn’t hesitate to speak up for a friend, but who would rather die than save himself.

Literally.

Hermione wanted Umbridge gone, and she wanted her gone now. And in the end, it was simple.

It only took a few concerned talks with McGonagall in front of Snape for him to understand that the ball was in his court, and for him to act. She supposed McGonagall would’ve been able to handle Umbridge as well, but with Snape, she knew it would be painful. And Hermione was not (always) a merciful woman.  She had long ago put the puzzle pieces together, and while she might not know the exact reason for Snape’s protectiveness of Harry, she could make an educated guess or two. And the reasons didn’t really matter in the end, the result did.  And what a result it was.

Hermione would’ve made an excellent Slytherin but those traits, much like Neville’s bravery, only came into play when someone rather than herself was at stake.

Harry did his best to avoid thinking about his ho… The Dursleys. In fact, he spent most of his time at Hogwarts blessedly free of them and preferred to pretend that they didn't exist. When he was little, he'd use to imagine a different family. He didn't even imagine his parents, just… Another family. Perhaps even an orphange. His Pretend Family wouldn't be like his parents would've been (probably, Harry thought) but they'd be… Normal. Not Dursley Normal but average. They'd feed him three times a day. He'd have a room. Someone to give medicine when he was ill. The sorts of things most normal… average… families did.

Harry was so sure he'd find his Pretend Family at Hogwarts, or at least that he would be able to convince the headmaster to let him stay there even during holidays. The Dursleys didn't want him anyway, and he wouldn't be in the way or cause any trouble if he got to stay, really!

Harry'd imagine it, during rare spare moments his first year. How he'd sit in the comfy chairs in the Gryffindor common room and play wizard's chess with himself (maybe he'd even get good enough to beat Ron one day!) That he'd help Hagrid with the school gardens, or tend to Professor Sprout's greenhouses. He imagined that he would have to cook for himself, but if they gave him access to the kitchens, he'd manage that just fine, he really would.

After the debacle with Quirrell and the Philosopher's stone, Harry stopped imaginging his long, lonely, undisturbed holidays at Hogwarts. No matter what he did, he was never ever going to leave the Dursleys.

Things became very clear all at once. There was no need to imagine living somewhere else than with the Dursleys because living with them kept his friends safe. And Harry would do anyhing to keep his friends safe.

Once Harry saw the bigger picture, he could be… not happy…not content… but at peace with the fact that he had to live with the Dursleys. With Aunt Petunia's constant demands, Uncle Vernon's heavy hands and Dudley's Smeltings stick. With hand-me-down clothes several sizes too big, and a limited diet and endless chores.
His friends were safe and that was all that mattered. What was physical discomfort next to that?

---

"It seems there was more of Hufflepuff in you than anyone would've thought," came a voice from behind Harry.

He startled and pivoted, but of course, it was only Snape. He scoffed at his reaction. Honsetly, who else would it be?

"What?" he replied cleverly.

"I've been considering your… situation. How we came to be here. And I was reminded of an incident in my first years of teaching. A Hufflepuff third year was removed from her… unsuitable guardians. And she was angry with us, because she knew her guardians were not up to par, but staying with them allowed her to protect her younger sibling. The Headmaster told me then, that when such things occur in Hufflepuff, it is nearly always a similar story. 'Everyone believes the defining trait of Hufflepuffs to be loyalty,' I believe he said, 'but it's not. It's love and the ability to put a loved one's need above one's own.'"
Snape looked vaguely uncomfortable with the emotional declaration, even though it was only a quote.

"Does that sound familiar?"

Harry shrugged. He still wasn't used to this new Snape, who initiated contact and shared personal details of his life. Who didn't sneer or mock him at every opportunity. The only thing that made it bearable was the fact that Snape seemed almost as uncomfortable with the situation as he did.

Snape was still looking intently at Harry, obviously expecting a verbal answer.

"Eh… I… I never thought about it like that. I mean… It just didn't seem like such a bad thing. My friends would be… safe and it wasn't like the Dursleys were that bad…," he trailed off.

Even a few months with Snape had taught him the Professor did not appreciate Harry's view of his life with his aunt and uncle.

Snape's face had fallen into a familiar pinched expression, teeth clenched and nostrils flared. It had happened very frequently in the first weeks of Harry's removal from the Dursley household, but pewtered off after a while.

"You…eh, alright, Professor?"

Snape visibly composed himself, and said "No, Potter. Harry. I'm angry. "

"Oh. I'm so…"

"Don't apologize. Angry with them, for what they did," the Professor snapped before Harry could even get the word out. He shook his head and seemingly made a decision.

"It burns me up, what they did. And since you are not yet at the point where you feel anger, I'm feeling it for you. You deserve someone who is angry for your sake."

Harry stared. And stared some more. Finally, a shy smile, one that seemed oddly childish, broke out on his face.

"Thanks."