Harry paced the dormitory as he watched the clock tick slowly towards impending doom. His fellow Gryffindors were at dinner. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he was hungry. The only thing he could feel was the gnawing sensation of acid eating at the lining of his stomach, and the edginess and unease that accompanied the prospect of his second detention with Snape.

As he walked towards Snape’s office, he recalled the looming silence that had hung between himself and Snape when Harry came out of the healer’s examination room. The indecipherable look in Snape’s eyes chilled him, and yet he couldn’t quite identify what it was. Not anger, not loathing; more like cool calculation mixed with determination. Whatever the case, Snape made no comment to Harry, merely escorted him back to Hogwarts and dismissed him.

Arriving back at Gryffindor tower, he had forestalled Ron and Hermione’s questions by saying that he’d been to St. Mungo’s to clean bed pans. That had earned him a remark of disgust from Ron. Hermione, however, had given him a disconcertingly penetrating glance which made him feel edgy and nervous, like she knew more than he’d told her. He had waved off further conversation with the excuse of being exhausted and had headed to bed. Much to his surprise, a warm dinner of rolls, turkey, and pudding had been awaiting his return. And although he hadn’t eaten much of it, the little food he had consumed had helped him to fall asleep faster than he’d done in weeks.

Now, though, as he arrived at Snape’s office, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding. Yesterday had been a reprieve, and he presumed that Snape had now fully cleared his conscience of knowledge of the boy’s ordeal by having seen to his treatment. The fact that Harry was no longer in constant pain was something he supposed he should thank the man for, but that thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

At 6pm, and not a moment sooner, Harry knocked on the door to Snape’s office. The door sprang open revealing a moody looking Snape sitting behind his desk. Harry braced himself for the wizard’s snide remarks.

Snape threw a black, leather bound book with well-thumbed, dirty-edged pages on the desk in front of him. “Do you know what that is, Potter?”

“A book,” Harry retorted, unable to help himself. He felt edgy and ready for a fight.

“Your impertinence does not impress me, Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek.”

Harry gritted his teeth and felt the loathing for Snape well inside of him.

“Incidentally, Potter, this is not just any book. It is enchanted to be opened and read by me, and me alone. It happens to contain some highly confidential information, which is of no concern to you.” Snape cleared his throat before continuing. “This book,” he said, reaching for an identical one next to it, only brown instead of black, “is new. It has not yet been bound to an owner.”

Harry watched as Snape set the book on the desk nearest to where Harry stood.

“Place your hand atop of it,” Snape commanded.

Harry didn’t move.

“Now, Potter, I haven’t got all day.”

Reluctantly, Harry placed his hand, palm down, on the book’s leather cover.

With a complicated wave of Snape’s wand, and yet another indecipherable incantation, Harry felt the brown leather heat beneath his skin. Golden light emanated from the cover, encasing his hand. It was like sitting in the sun too long on a hot summer’s day. Slowly the golden light receded and Harry knew, without being told, that this book was unequivocally and irrevocable his, and his alone.

“The book is to remain in your possession at all times and accompany you to your detentions with me until I say otherwise, understood?”

Harry nodded, picking the book up from the desk and holding it in both hands. He felt both connected to it and drawn to it as he had no other worldly possession. The nearest thing to it was his Firebolt which felt like an extension of his body, but in a different way than the book.

“The text you write will remain visible until you’ve finished writing on that page, or until you tap the page twice with your finger, in which case it will promptly disappear. Drag a finger over any page and it will show you the text line by line. Tap the page three times and it will show you the whole page.” Snape paused. “Do you think you can remember all that, Potter?”

Harry gritted his teeth. He hated being talked down to. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, then follow me.”

Harry followed Snape into an antechamber attached to Snape’s office that Harry had never seen before. The room was spacious, though bare, and at the moment, contained a single desk and chair, quill and ink, and a decanter of water with a crystal goblet. The walls were bare, there were no windows, and there was nothing to look at. The only way into the room was through Snape’s office. Harry feeling of foreboding increased ten-fold.

“You will spend tonight’s detention, Potter, writing in your book. You will record the events that I witnessed in your mind in complete and excruciating detail.” Harry felt Snape’s eyes bore into his, though he did not try and enter his mind. “Leave. Nothing. Out.”

Harry felt sick to his stomach. What did Snape intend to do with this essay?

As if reading his mind, Snape continued. “As long as you do precisely as I ask, the essay will remain your own. Defy me, and I will make you read it aloud to me.”

Harry swallowed, studying the malice in Snape’s expression. “How many…” Harry’s voice came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How many pages does it have to be?”

“As many as it takes,” Snape snapped. He whirled around, his robes billowing behind him. “I have important work to attend to. You are to stay in this room until you are finished. You may bolt the door behind me if you wish.”

The door shut firmly behind Snape, and Harry noticed the old-fashioned locking mechanism on the back for the door. Out of spite and a desperate need for some control over the situation, he threw the bolt in place, and then spelled the door shut for extra measure. Then he paced the room angrily.

What the hell did Snape mean by making him write down what had happened to him? Snape had already seen it all in his mind anyway. Harry cringed at that memory and felt the familiar sensation of rage and nausea well up inside of him before he forced it back down. He wanted to throw the crystal goblet at the stone wall, followed by the decanter and the ink well. He wanted to hear them shatter, see their remnants scattered across the floor. But none of those things would get him out of this detention any sooner. He’d have rather done lines than this, though the memory of Umbridge’s I will not tell lies sent a faint shudder down his spine, and had him rubbing his scarred hand unconsciously.

He flopped down in the chair and pulled the book towards him. Just touching it made him relax. It filled him with a sense of calmness that was akin to stroking a beloved pet. Dipping the quill in the ink well, he held it over the page and waited. How was he supposed to begin? Perhaps he should title it first.

Dudley’s Going Away Present he scrawled across the top. Shaking his head, he scratched that out. Miraculously, though, every time he tried to scribble over the words, the book spit the ink back at him, leaving his original title in place.

“Fine,” he said, dipping the quill back in the ink well, “be that way.”

The Summer Before My 6th Year At Hogwarts

He doubted he’d ever forget when it had happened, but adding the time reference allowed him to put off the inevitable a little longer. He clenched his hand around the quill and forced himself to buckle down to the task at hand.

It was nearing 9pm on Friday and I was at the park. Sitting on a swing. The only one that Dudley’s gang hadn’t yet managed to break. I was wondering who was assigned to guard duty that night, and where they were likely camped out, underneath an invisibility cloak, watching me.

Harry stilled, wondering not for the first time, what had happened to the witch or wizard who was supposed to be watching out for him. Surely if they had been there, they would have intervened. Was it Mundungus again, shirking his duty for some pressing business deal? Or maybe it was his squib neighbor, Mrs. Figg, who couldn’t perform magic and was too old to intervene on her own. But surely she had some means to call for help.

I should have been suspicious when Dudley came up to me, alone, in the park. He was never without his gang. And he seemed particularly cocky. Like he wasn’t afraid of me and my wand for once. I was so stupid for not realizing he was setting me up.

Harry seethed, wanting to snap the quill in two, but then he’d have to ask for another from Snape, which was the last thing he wanted to do.

We took that damn shortcut through the woods between Magnolia Crescent and Privet Drive. I should have seen it coming. I was such an idiot.

Harry rubbed his temple. What time was it anyway? He looked around the room for a clock. There wasn’t one. It didn’t really matter. Snape would not let him leave until he finished, even if it took him all night. He sighed loudly, and rewet his quill, though it was not yet low on ink.

We were in the clearing near the big oak tree when it happened. I was keeping Dudley a step ahead of me so I had time to react if he decided to start a fight with me. But all at once…

Harry squeezed his eyes shut against the images in his mind. He didn’t want to put this in writing. He wanted to forget. He wanted to erase it from his mind forever.

Dudley’s gang jumped me from behind. They had been hiding in the shadow of the big oak tree. I should have known they’d be there. I should have looked. I should have…

Harry felt the anger swell within him. He wanted to kill Dudley. With his bare hands. He scratched the parchment using the quill with more force than was necessary.

If it had just been Dudley, or even Dudley and one of his friends, I could have taken them. I could have gotten my wand and hexed them six ways to Sunday. But there were five of them.

Harry’s hand was shaking and his heart was pounding. Cold sweat clung to him like morning dew on a piece of grass.

One of them had me by the hair and some others grabbed my arms. They pushed me to the ground, onto my stomach. The one holding me by the hair smashed my face into the dirt. Another one did a knee drop onto my kidneys. I felt the air burst from me like a popped balloon. I couldn’t breath.

Harry blinked, trying to clear his swimming vision.

I tried to curl into a ball, but they grabbed my legs and held me outstretched. The other two still had my arms and I couldn’t move at all. Then one of them stripped me of my shoes and pants.

Harry cringed and found it hard to breath.

And skivvies.

Harry trembled as he kept writing, kept remembering: the way they’d held him down, the taunts they’d yelled at him, the hot tears of pain and rage and humiliation that had streamed down his face. Nausea swelled within him at the memory of how they’d taken turns, using him. The echo of his screams reverberated in his mind, screams of confusion, then rage, then fear and pain, then of begging for mercy.

Sweating and bleeding and writhing from the pain, they’d let him go, but only for an instant. In the next second, blows rained down on him from all directions. Kicks to his head and back and legs. Their malicious cackling and insults reverberated in the night. Harry had curled in on himself in a ball, mewling like a newborn kitten, while the abuse continued.

I didn’t even reach for my wand. What kind of idiot doesn’t reach for his wand?

He remembered waking up and studying the sticks and stones and leaves that lay amidst the dirt in front of his face. The way the moonlight filtered through the clouds and reflected off the tree branches. The pain in every part of his body. The humiliation of everything that had happened. And the burning, endless desire of wanting nothing more than to die, right then and there, alone on the forest floor.

Severus Snape sat in his office studying the missive before him. It had arrived ten minutes after he’d set Potter up in the antechamber. He’d read it as many times since then.

Professor Snape,

With regards to the student you brought to my attention last evening, the injuries he suffered were consistent with the description of events you gave me earlier in the day. It seems he attempted some remedial healing spells on himself which, while not fully treating his injuries, at least kept them from worsening.

In the course of my examination I found the following: two cracked ribs on the right side and three on the left, severe bruising to the left lung and to the right and left kidneys, hairline fractures on his left cheekbones, cranial contusions, torn cartilage and swelling in his right knee, cartilage damage from a dislocation of his right shoulder (which he managed to pop back into place of his own accord), and tissue damage (tears) accompanied by intermittent bleeding in the expected location.

I am pleased to inform you that I was able to remedy all of the aforementioned ailments. I imagine he will be much more comfortable overall, and since elimination will be less painful, I anticipate his eating habits will improve. In addition, per your request, he is now cleared to play Quidditch. You didn’t mention if he’d attended any practices prior to your visit, but I imagine it would have been exceedingly painful to ride a broom in the condition he was in.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if there is anything further I can do for you.

Sincerely,

Marcus Thompson, Healer,

St. Mungo’s Trauma Division

Snape tapped his fingers restlessly on the desk and checked the clock once more. Potter had been in the antechamber for over an hour. Snape wished, not for the first time, that he was not the one to discover Potter’s secret. As selfish and self-serving as that might be, he did not care to examine the memories and feelings that the images in Potter’s mind brought to the forefront, involuntarily dredging up Snape’s own beleaguered past.