Striding down the halls of the school towards the dungeons, Snape manages a few harsh glares at unsuspecting students, but otherwise moves at a pace fast and uninterrupted until he reaches his rooms.

“Serpent’s tongue,” he mutters at his door, barely giving it time to open before bounding in and fetching a small glass from one of his cabinets. He clangs around in a cupboard, swearing under his breath until he sees a small, almost empty bottle of Firewhiskey. Not even enough for a merry night in, he thinks, but pours the remainder of the bottle into his glass anyway. Marching over to his armchair, he sinks into the cushions and swills the drink around in his glass before taking a sip. His thoughts too were swilling in his head, sloshing up against his skull like waves against a cliff.

What on Earth just happened, Severus? That boy can’t keep out of harm’s way for an hour. What’s he going to think of you now? Yes, you vowed to look after him, but not to the point that he could be put in danger, let alone your safety, Severus. You never think about yourself.

He takes another long drink from his glass.

Foolish! That’s what you are. What if the Dark Lord tries to see into his mind again? You know he can’t occlude! Forget about what Potter thinks of you, what would the Dark Lord think if he saw what you did for his nemesis this evening?

He shudders, thinking how his body would cope under hours of the Crutiatus curse. It wouldn’t, he decides. Then his mind is on Harry again.

Somebody has been hurting the boy. Either that, or he has been inflicting the damage on himself, but neither scenario is good by any means.

He realises that he still has not mentioned the boy’s injuries to him. Well, when exactly have you had a chance to do so, Severus? Hmm? Perhaps during the time you were at each other’s throats? Or, perhaps when he was throwing you across the room? Or even when you were saving him from suffocating? 

He remembers that feeling of helplessness when his mother would go out and return later than expected. He remembers the clock ticking and the worry growing. He remembers thinking, is she going to come back? He remembers the sinking feeling as he contemplated living in a house with his father and nobody else. Nobody to stop the occasional fist from flying. Nobody to stem the blood. Nobody to cool the tension. Just two people, stubborn and determined to win, bashing heads without a mediator.    

His thoughts go back his mother and how her touch helped him so much when he had similar attacks to Harry’s. Her presence made everything that little bit better. A small part of him realises that Harry has never really had that feeling before...but the thought is buried as soon as it surfaces. Feeling on edge, he remembers the calming draught he’d put in his pocket earlier and doesn’t hesitate to pop the lid off and down it in one.

Moments later, his body relaxes, his face grows more content and his thoughts begin to regroup and gain a semblance of order in his otherwise chaotic mind. Taking another swig of Firewhiskey to wash down the bitter taste of the potion, he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, thinking.

What did the boy mean? Who is him? 

His mind keeps telling him, it’s probably just the mutt. Golden Boy is missing Black, but after everything that has happened and everything he has come to witness, he gets the feeling he is being deliberately naive. Truth be told, he knows he must get the boy to open up, but the impending conversation scares him – it seems that whatever the outcome, he will have to radically change his views on Potter, and that in itself makes him nervous.

*

The next day, Harry is awoken by the click-clacking of heels in the infirmary.

“Now, Mr Potter, your vital signs are good and you’re looking a bit better,” Madam Pomfrey says, eyeing him sceptically. It takes all her willpower not to quiz Harry on his injuries. No Poppy, you know what Albus said. Severus is dealing with it...but he’d better start dealing with it soon before the poor boy closes himself off completely. She sighs. “I’d like to keep you in for a day or two more for observation. You’re still too pale and too thin, so here,” she takes a vial from her apron and thrusts it at him, “take this now, and I’ll give you another in a few hours.” As soon as the vial is empty, Poppy gauges the hostility in Harry’s expression and leaves him be.

He moves stiffly in the bed, his popping joints like the sound of splitting chopsticks. He can’t help but think about what happened with Snape the previous day, and he finds himself momentarily entertaining the absurd idea that Snape was concerned.

What he did...it was beyond his duty, Harry thinks. He hates me...he didn’t have to do it. He could’ve just left me there...he could’ve waited for Pomfrey. His mind does a somersault, bouncing off his skull. But...he can’t hate me. No one would ever do that for someone they hate...would they? He shifts backwards in the bed, propping himself up with a pillow. Thoughts flash past his eyes, but with a quick and violent shake of the head, he decides it is simply not possible. Snape is Snape! He’d rather drink newt eye fluid than be around me...No, he doesn’t care about me. He was probably just worried what Dumbledore would say if he’d left me to die.

His reverie breaks when the sound of squabbling alerts him to the infirmary door and a shock of red hair greets him, followed by a tight, painful lunge-of-a-hug from Hermione that makes him hiss.

“Blimey, mate! What ‘appened to you?” Ron says, noticing the faded, but still visible bruising around Harry’s face.

“We had to ask Professor McGonagall where you’d gone! You just disappeared. Then McGonagall said you were in here, but that we couldn’t see you!” Hermione adds.

Realising how exposed he is, Harry sinks into himself, eyeing his friends warily. Part of him is happy they’ve bothered coming to see him, but the other half – the bigger half – realises that as soon as his friends know half the story, they’ll want to know all the story, and as soon as they know all the story, they’ll ask questions...and when the questions come, everything is real. He doesn’t want it to be real. He doesn’t want any of this.

“I...I...I just...” Harry’s mind is racing faster than he can speak, but his words are colliding in his head.

“Come on, mate, we’ve been worried sick!”

Harry frantically searches his mind for something...any explanation that won’t result in more questions, but as soon as he thinks up a pathetic excuse about detention and exploding cauldrons, the infirmary door swings open, making them all – especially Harry – jump from their skins. 

“Mr Potter had hypothermia, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger,” a Scottish voice calls from the doorway, “nothing out of the ordinary, but he must be kept in until he is better.” When Hermione looks to Harry’s face and the leftover bruise, McGonagall answers her question before she’s even asked it. “Mr Potter had a bit of a fall too when he started feeling unwell,” she glances quickly to Harry and Harry’s mind starts to race, wondering what she knows. Does she even know anything? No, she can’t do. No one knows...“But never mind that, I expressly told both of you that Mr Potter was not ready to receive visitors – thankfully I had the foresight to realise that, as per usual, when I expressly tell you not to do something, you go and do it anyway, especially when Mr Potter is involved.” Her reproachful look makes Ron stare at his shoes. Harry feels inexplicably guilty. McGonagall strides towards his bed, getting ready to usher Ron and Hermione out.

“We...we...er...just brought Harry some work to catch up on, Professor. That’s all!” Hermione stutters. She digs into her back and pulls out a small pile of papers, leaving them at Harry’s feet on top of the blanket. McGonagall frowns, seemingly torn by something.

“While that is a decent thing to do, my orders were clear and certainly not without reason. I suggest you leave your friend to rest now. He will undoubtedly be released soon enough.”

Ron looks to Harry, raising his eyebrows in a comic apology.

“See you soon, mate.”

“Bye, Harry!” Hermione gives his hand a quick squeeze. “Feel better soon!”

As McGonagall sweeps them out of the infirmary, Harry catches her eye, shooting her an anxious, quizzical look. McGonagall’s stern expression slips for a moment, offering Harry a reassuring smile and a nod in return, leaving him deeply and utterly confused.

*

Harry drifts in and out of sleep through boredom more than anything. Time seems to weave in and out through his consciousness and all he sees when he wakes from his longest nap of the day is the darkness from outside. He can hear the jostling sound of people walking and talking and laughing in the castle, but it’s so faint that it blends into a murmur. Pushing himself up, he crosses his legs and simply sits in the middle of the bed, rubbing his eyes and waiting for the groggy feeling to subside. 

Glancing to his right, he sees a small trolley and figures that it must be his dinner. Dinner in the Great Hall must have just finished then, he surmises. Reaching for the trolley, he lifts the cover on the top and sees what looks like a shepherd’s pie. He watches the steam rising from it in wisps and realises somebody has charmed it to keep it warm. His stomach grumbles as the smell climbs through his nostrils and for a second he actually thinks he wants it. He actually thinks he may eat it. Picking up the fork, he leans in and scoops up some potato. He lets the potato hit his tongue and rolls it around, but no quicker has the fork left his mouth does he realise it wasn’t a good idea. He manages to swallow it, but only through sheer determination not to have to spit it back out. At the thought of anything else hitting his taste buds he cringes. In fact, just the sight of it makes him feel sick.

Obviously I wasn’t hungry after all. 

He pushes the trolley as far away from him as possible, but the smell, oh the smell! Every time he breathes in, it’s like someone is trying to force food down his throat. He drags his hands down his face in frustration – mainly with himself.

I can’t even handle a bloody smell!

He puffs out a breath in annoyance. Keeping his ear out for Madam Pomfrey, he clutches the side of the bed and pushes himself up into standing position – this time, thankfully, his legs hold. Shuffling awkwardly towards the trolley, he picks up the plate of food and heads unsteadily towards the toilet. It’s all he can do not to gag when the shepherd’s pie slides sluggishly off the plate into the bowl. Scrunching up his nose, he turns away when he flushes it down, not willing to watch it roll around in the water.

I’m never eating shepherd’s pie again, he thinks, glad at least that Madam Pomfrey wasn’t around watching him eat it.

When he steps out of the bathroom, however, he spots a pair of eyes and the tell-tale hair of a Malfoy by the infirmary door, hiding poorly in the shadows.     

“You know, I’m not an idiot,” he says, stopping and looking Malfoy dead in the face. The blond boy steps into the light, pretending not to be hiding at all.

Moving slowly back to the bed, Harry almost reaches it but his knees begin to wobble and before he knows it, he’s dropped the empty plate and is making a desperate grab for the trolley to hold himself up.   

“Am I going to have to catch you again, Potter?” Malfoy says, but there is little malice behind it.

Harry ignores him, instead dragging his feet two more steps until he manages to shuffle back onto the mattress.

“I know what you just did.”

Harry’s eyes widen momentarily, morphing quickly into a look of indignation.

“And let me guess, you’re going to tell on me.” He rolls his eyes weakly.

“Remind me never to do anything nice for you again,” Malfoy retorts.

“What are you talking about?”

Malfoy’s lips tighten and form a line. “It doesn’t matter. I take it you haven’t thought any more about my apology.”

“You’re only going to go back to being a git again when I get out of here, so what’s it to you if I don’t accept it?”

A feeling of unease flows through Malfoy’s body – he’s tried to work out the answer to that himself, but to no avail. “Whether you believe it or not, I wouldn’t have apologised if I didn’t mean it. I think even you can work that out.”

When Harry doesn’t say anything, Malfoy decides to takes the seat by his bed.

“What are you doing?” Harry looks at him like he’s just transfigured into a house elf. “W-w...Don’t sit down – why are you sitting down?”

Malfoy laughs. “Because, Potter.”

There’s a pause and Harry just looks at him, mouth agape, waiting for an explanation that obviously isn’t going to come.

“Because what? Are you here just to wind me up? Look, Ron and Hermione have already been thrown out by McGonagall –”

“I know, Potter, but I am here on Professor Snape’s say-so, and I will stay here until you accept my apology.” Malfoy smirks, folding his arms and settling himself comfortably in his seat.

“W-why don’t you just tell Snape you said sorry and then leave? I know you don’t want to be here.” Harry looks warily at Malfoy and crosses his legs again.

“Why don’t you just accept my apology?”

“W...h...That’s...that’s not even...”

“Oh, come on Potter! I may be harsh, but I’m not evil! I certainly didn’t want any of...of...of this.”

“And you think I did?!” Harry yells, glaring daggers at Malfoy.

“No...look...ugh, I don’t know why I’m bothering. I’ve already apologised and explained everything so take it or leave it.” He shoots up out of his chair and heads for the door. “Oh, and if you’re still in here tomorrow, I’d set an alarm for dinner because it’ll be cold if you sleep through it again.”

And then it clicks. Malfoy did it. Remind me never to do anything nice for you again, he’d said. The warming charm... 

Damn.

“Malfoy, wait!” 

The blond boy stops in the doorway and turns to face him. Harry hasn’t got the right words to say and he inwardly fights with his own mind over what would and what wouldn’t be appropriate.

“Er...you can sit down...if you want.” The infirmary is quiet for a moment, both boys wrestling with their own thoughts.

Without a word, Malfoy stalks back to the chair and sits. An awkward moment comes and goes, Harry fidgeting with his hands and Malfoy just staring at him.

“So, where do your followers think you are?” Harry asks. Malfoy looks at him strangely. “Well I assume you didn’t tell them you were here...”

Malfoy shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “They know I’m here...they just don’t know I’m here seeing you. I told them I needed some dreamless sleep. Not a bad excuse when your friends have a combined mental age of eight.”

“At least we agree on something,” Harry says holding back a smirk.

“So, what happened to your face? Weasleby didn’t get revenge, did he?” Malfoy scoffs, but gauging the sudden change in Harry’s posture, he knows he’s hit a nerve.

“Nothing. It’s just a little bruise, that’s all.”

“Hardly, Potter. Have you actually seen it yourself?”

“Just leave it alone, Malfoy.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

“I must’ve walked into something when I was parading around outside, no thanks to you! Okay? Satisfied?” Harry replies indignantly.

Malfoy looks sceptical. “You’re lying.”

“Y...What?” Harry splutters.

“You’re lying. I’m a Slytherin, I can tell a liar from a mile off.”

Harry clenches his jaw. Just leave it. What’s it to him anyway?!

“I’m not lying! Ask McGonagall, Dumbledore,” Harry says defiantly, “I walked into the...the Whomping Willow.”

“Is that what you told them? Potter, if I know you’re lying, they do too. They aren’t that naive.”

Panic starts to bubble in Harry’s stomach when he realises that, as much as doesn’t want to admit it, Malfoy is right. They must at least know something is up. Pomfrey is a medi-witch! She must’ve seen what I look like...And Snape, he’s been here all along! They all know something...but no one’s said anything. The realisation hits Harry like a tonne of bricks. No one has said a thing. They...they couldn’t care less... 

“Cheer up, Potter,” Malfoy says, noticing Harry staring distantly at the blanket in front of him. “At least you’ll have your fan club sending the special Potter boy presents if you’re in here much longer,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Harry scoffs under his breath. “There’s nothing special about me. I don’t know why people think there is.”

“You’re targeted by the Dark Lord and you think there’s nothing special about you? God, Potter, you’re more dense than I thought.”

Harry shoots him a glare. “If you’re just going to sit there and insult me –”

“Oh, give it up, you know I’m right,” Malfoy says, cutting him off.

“Believe it or not, being Harry Potter seems to get me more enemies than friends. You should know.” Harry sighs deeply and Malfoy frowns at how depressing it sounds.

“Look, Potter, I know we’ve never seen eye-to-eye, but you can’t pin it all on me. If you weren’t so snotty to me when we first met –”

“Me snotty to you?” Harry looks at him, flabbergasted, going slightly red in the face. “Maybe if you weren’t so up yourself when we first met –”

“Alright! Alright, there’s no point in arguing about it now. Anyhow, Pomfrey will murder me if you have a heart attack while I’m here,” Malfoy mutters. 

“A year ago I’m sure that wouldn’t have crossed your mind,” Harry says, but he instantly regrets casting such a low blow. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well...” Malfoy says pursing his lips, “my fa...” his voice shakes. He clears his throat and repeats louder, with more force, “my father might have had something to do with that.”

Harry snorts. “Imagine if you’d managed it – killed off the Boy-Who-Lived...even just delivered me to Voldemort. Daddy would’ve been proud.”

“Yeah right,” Malfoy says sarcastically. “No doubt he’d have taken credit for it. We don’t all come from families that worship our every move, Potter. And, as proved, being related by blood isn’t synonymous with unconditional love.”

“Never thought I’d hear that coming from you.” Harry sighs, realising how right Malfoy is, and thinks back to his own family situation. “I’m not even sure unconditional love exists, Malfoy. Blood means nothing.”

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Potter. Besides, you seem to be forgetting a lot of people. Professor Dumbledore, Granger, Weasleby? Merlin, at least you have a family to look out for you, even if they are muggles.”

Harry’s expression is solemn. “Yeah.”

Malfoy sends him a deeply scrutinizing look that makes him feel as though he’s being read like an open book.

“You never mention them,” Malfoy probes. Harry tries his best to look confused, but he knows exactly where the conversation is going and he doesn’t like it one bit. “Don’t look at me like that – I know we don’t talk, but I’ve been around you long enough to know you don’t go on about them like most people do about their families.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not much to say.” Fixing his eyes to the wall ahead, Harry refuses to meet Malfoy’s gaze which only makes him more curious.

“You’re lying again.” 

Harry sighs still looking at the wall. “There’s a well known muggle saying that goes, if you’ve not got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

“What did they do, feed that bloody owl of yours to the neighbour’s dog or something?” Malfoy snorts.

“Given the chance I’m sure –” Harry starts, but cuts himself off with a shake of the head.

“They sound charming...”

Pretending not to be bothered, Harry shrugs awkwardly, making his tender back twinge. “So they aren’t the nicest of people; thought it’d make you happy that they don’t fawn over me.”

Silence descends on the room. Harry mentally berates himself for saying anything at all. What are you doing? Do you want Malfoy to go telling everybody? Rumours will spread and then what? They’ll laugh at you. They’ll all laugh.

Malfoy breaks the silence. “What are they like then?”

“What do you mean, what are they like? They’re...a muggle family.”

“Well they must’ve done something to piss you off.”

“And you think I’d tell you?” Harry says, raising his voice and trying to stare Malfoy down.

“Sorry for asking –”

“What’s with all the interrogation? Hoping to hear something juicy to tell everyone? Feel like humiliating me again?” The colour floods Harry’s cheeks as anger bubbles underneath his skin, though he’s not sure who it should be aimed at. “You know what? So what if they don’t like me! So what if they don’t want me there!”

Sucking in a breath, Malfoy pulls up his sleeves feeling the hairs on his arms stand to attention.

“Potter –”

“Y-you think I’m ashamed of that?”

A tingling sensation washes over Malfoy’s body and he cautiously begins to stand. “Potter, calm down or I’ll have to get Pomfrey.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head vigorously, “I’ll be calm when you get out.” His jaw clenches like a vice, his heart thunders in his ears and all he can feel is a rapid beating in his chest.

The trolley begins to rattle on its wheels and the pieces of broken plate on the floor clink together.

“Just calm –”

“I said leave!” Harry shouts, and the trolley shoots at rocket speed across the room, smashing into the loudly into the wall...just as the infirmary door swings open.

“What is all this racket?!” Madam Pomfrey says curtly, but upon seeing the flush in Harry’s cheeks and sensing the magical tension in the room, she quickly comes to the conclusion that Malfoy has outstayed his welcome. “Come, Mr Malfoy, I don’t think it’s wise that you stay any longer.”

Studying Harry with a frown, Malfoy heaves a sigh when he gets no reaction, not even a quick sideward glance in his direction. He nods to Madam Pomfrey and leaves without a word. 

* 

“Severus, I had to give him an array of potions to calm him down and keep him from seriously damaging anything. He refused to even look at me. You need to speak with him and soon –”

“Yes, Poppy, I know!” Snape is exhausted and irritable, recovering from yet another bout of restlessness. It was strange, not as bad as the first time, but enough to cause him discomfort. He certainly isn’t in the mood for company.

“The boy needs help. We don’t know exactly what’s been going on, but you saw him. You saw what I saw...”

Snape turns away, focusing his attention on the thick layer of dust covering his bookshelves. When he says nothing in return, all he hears is her marching feet before Madam Pomfrey pins herself to his side, eyes stern and voice clipped. 

“Severus, you can’t deny it, you saw it! Somebody has been hurting him.”

“Yes! And the Headmaster thinks it should fall on me to sort this mess out! I am at my wits end with him. I am not the only person available to help, so why me exactly?” 

“Severus Snape, do not pull that one with me!” She doesn’t back down. “Do you not think that Mr Potter has thought that exact same thing his entire life?”

For once, Snape finds himself hard-pushed to answer, that feeling of guilt rising again in his gut.

“I will speak with him,” he says tersely. Pomfrey looks sceptical. “I will! Time is all I ask for.”

Madam Pomfrey takes a step back and puffs out a loud breath. “Thank you, Severus.” Seeing no reason to linger, she click-clacks to the door. Snape interrupts her footsteps.

“I will also have another word with Mr Malfoy.”

She nods, though his attention is back on his bookshelves again, his fingers trailing through the dust. “You are a good man.” She sees him tense, his fingers frozen in one place. “Goodnight, Severus.”

*

The next morning, Severus uses all the energy in his body to swing his legs out of bed. It’s 6:15am and although he only has two classes today, everything seems to weigh heavier than normal. He fell asleep with Harry Potter invading his thoughts and he’s awoken with those same thoughts deeply embedded in his brain. Grunting to himself, he shuffles his way to the shower, hoping the hot water will drown everything out. He thinks that maybe if he makes it too hot, the heat will draw his attention away from the drama surrounding him.

Fifteen minutes later, stepping out of the shower, a scowl is fixed to his face – a fitting accompaniment to the glowing redness of his skin.

His morning goes by with a frustrating slowness akin to running in sand. By 7.30am he is clean and dressed, sitting in his chair with a second cup of tea. He is aware, on word of Poppy, that Potter would be released from the infirmary today, meaning he will undoubtedly be in Potions. The thought of seeing Potter in class causes mixed emotions to bubble in Snape’s stomach.

7.40am – Snape’s thoughts wander from Harry Potter to Draco Malfoy. He needs to talk to Draco, to ask him why he was in the infirmary in the first place. He decides to track him down before speaking to Potter – to Snape, the day seems like the kind of day that needs to be eased into, and at the moment he considers Draco Malfoy, or at least their impending conversation, as the lesser of two evils.

*

Snape stalks down the halls to McGonagall’s Transfiguration classroom, waiting outside to catch Draco on his way out. As the students mill out of the room, he snorts to himself at the clear arms distance they keep between him and themselves when they notice his ominous presence towering over them.

Seeing the familiar shock of blond hair, he clears his throat loudly. “Mr Malfoy, a word.” There is no room for argument as Snape turns, marching back towards his quarters.

“Sit down,” he says as they enter his rooms. Snape himself doesn’t sit, preferring to stand menacingly in front of Draco. “You told me you’d apologised to Potter.” Draco sucks in a breath to speak, but confusion quickly knits his brow.

“Do not play dumb with me, Draco. There is no one else here to play to, so I expect the truth.” Snape’s dark eyes bore into the boy in front of him.

“He never accepted it. I just wanted to...well I went to clear things up.”

“And you never thought to clear it with me first? Or even Madam Pomfrey?”

“How was I supposed to know he’d go mental on me?!” Draco says, agitated.

“Do not raise your voice to me.” Snape’s posture shifts from threatening to deadly. “When I told you to go and apologise, I did not say Mr Potter had to accept your apology. Nor does an apology usually result in the recipient needing potions to calm him down.”

“But I didn’t –”

“What did you say to him?” Snape interrupts, his eyes never straying from Draco’s face, but to his surprise, he sees no guilt.

“Er...I...” Draco racks his brains. “I don’t know. We were being civil, surprisingly.”

“So the conversation must have turned at some point.”

“Er...um...”

“Think, Draco.”

“Er,” Draco looks away, searching his brain and then it all falls into place again. The prickling sensation. The sudden anger. The Defensiveness. “It was his family! That’s right. He doesn’t speak about them much – I asked him about them.”

Snape frowns. His family...a sore spot. An image of Harry’s damaged back involuntarily flies past his eyes, and a thought resurfaces – the notion that his family might mistreat him. But no, absurd, he thinks. The Dursleys have a son of their own; they could never do such a thing.

“Hmm.” Snape looks away, staring pensively at nothing in particular. “I suggest you stay away from Mr Potter at least until he has fully recovered.”

I thought he already had, Draco thinks, but answers with a simple, “Yes, Sir.”

“Okay. You may go to lunch.”

Draco stands, heading out and giving Snape a vague nod.

“Oh and Draco, Potter will be back in class this afternoon for Potions and I would appreciate your cooperation. No antagonising him. He is easy to bate and I don’t want a scene in my class.”

“I won’t if he doesn’t, Professor,” Draco quips, but Snape’s glower promptly stops the smile forming on his lips.

“No, Draco. If he does, you will rise above it. Do you understand?”

Draco’s face hardens and his mouth forms a confident line. “Yes, Sir.”

“I don’t have to remind you that, with your mother away and your father somewhat indisposed,” Draco recognises that as code for in Azkaban, “you will be spending the Christmas holidays here at the castle. The last thing I need is to be picking up the pieces again after another pointless quarrel between the both of you.”

“How can we fight if he’s at home?” Draco says, looking confused.

“Though I am perplexed as to why, Mr Potter also spends his holidays here.”

“Right,” Draco says, his mind going back to his and Potter’s conversation. “Well, with relatives like that...”  

Snape eyes him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, they hate him.” Snape’s gaze lingers and Draco begins to feel uncomfortable. “I mean...he hates them too, but...I mean...he says they don’t like him and that there’s nothing to say about them and that, well, he mentioned a muggle saying, but I can’t remember it and –” His rambling ceases when Snape walks briskly towards him.

Dipping his head to Draco’s height, Snape looks the boy directly in the eyes. “You speak of this to no one and you keep out of trouble today, am I clear?”

Draco nods, Snape’s sudden change of mood catching him unawares.

“Go to lunch.” Opening the door of his quarters, Snape lets Draco out and abruptly slams the door behind him. Sinking into his armchair, his mind reels as Draco’s words resound in his head.  

They hate him.

Suddenly, all the unlikely notions he’s come to consider and then cast aside don’t seem so absurd anymore.