He’s the last one to pass through the gate to platform nine and three quarters. He knows this because parents are waving and crying, and the attendants are closing the doors. Pulling his suitcase behind him, he runs as fast as his legs will carry him, almost flinging himself at the train.

“Better late than never, son...I suppose,” the attendant grumbles at him, taking his suitcase. Harry apologises profusely and gets onto the Hogwarts Express. As he takes a seat in an empty cabin, panting to get his breath back, not once does his mind wander to Ron and Hermione. With the way he’s feeling now, he can’t bear to look at them, to have them see him like he is – nervous, exhausted and angry. So angry. Angry at himself. Angry at the world. Before he got through the gate, he’d already decided to keep his distance, at least until he was able to unpack and jump in the shower. He missed the shower so much.

It’s dark outside, black clouds covering the sky. Leaning his head against the window, he closes his eyes in the vague hope he might be able to nod off, but as the rain beats down on the windows he’s reminded of his journey to Hogwarts last year. As the image of a dementor crosses his mind, he opens his eyes with a start. 

He’s never felt safe, not even in the presence of his friends or Dumbledore. While Voldemort still exists in the world, he’ll always be at risk – it’s only now that this fact has started to depress him. Just knowing what he’ll have to go through to feel at ease, like a normal boy, gives him the shakes. He’s already lost so much. 

Gazing out into the darkness, he thinks of Sirius, he thinks of his parents dancing in the mirror of Erised, he thinks about the fragility of life – all things a young boy shouldn’t have to think about.

He can’t remember much from his early life as a child; but as memories go, his fifth birthday is scarcely far from the forefront of his mind and, though faded around the edges, there’s little he doesn’t remember about that day. 

They were whispering as he stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“He’s not ours!” Uncle Vernon hissed at his wife. “We don’t have to do anything for the boy! Those...those freaks put this burden on our doorstep four years ago. He may be your sister’s spawn, but he’s a freak just like the rest of them. We keep him alive; that’s all that was asked of us. We have our own son to take care of.”

“Well, we can’t just let him walk around the house all day. People will talk!” Petunia said through gritted teeth.

“Him even being in this house...my house...it makes me sick to my stomach, but I know how to keep the boy reigned in,” Vernon said, menacingly. “God knows, if he’s anything like his father, he’ll need some old-fashioned discipline.” Harry’s eyes widened at the mention of his father. Even at that young age, he could feel the pangs of sorrow tug at his heart. “Leave the neighbours to me.”

That was the first day of the rest of Harry’s childhood. Everything went wrong from that day – the first time Vernon Dursley took the extra precaution of locking the door of the cupboard under the stairs, leaving Harry to scratch and scream until he collapsed in exhaustion.

The next day, the entire neighbourhood were talking about the boy the Dursleys were bravely raising as their own – their deeply disturbed nephew; the one who couldn’t be trusted around normal people.

“Anything from the trolley, Love?”

*THUD*

Harry’s head bounces off the window pane at the sound of a voice. He turns to her, blinking away the tired droop in his eyes.

“The trolley, can I get you something? A chocolate frog?”

“Uh, no thanks. Not hungry.”

“Are you okay? You’re looking a bit peaky?”

He feels it too.

“Yeah. Fine, thank you. Just a little tired.”

“Well, we’ll be arriving soon, then you can get a proper night sleep,” the woman says with a smile before closing the sliding door and moving down the train.

How long was I out of it? Harry thinks. He realises he’s just spent the whole time staring blankly out of the train. He knows he was thinking of something, but he can’t place it and he’s not terribly sure that he wants to. I’ve missed the whole journey.

Sometimes, he loves that feeling. He can’t help but smile that, even though he’s not at Privet Drive, he hasn’t lost the ability to lose time when he wants to. Wiping his hand over his face, he prepares to close his eyes and zone out for the rest of the journey, when the cabin door slides to one side with a tremendous whoooosh and Hermione glares at him, a sheepish looking Ron peering over her shoulder.

“We thought you’d missed the train!” she sharply says, advancing on Harry. “Why didn’t you come and find us?” She reaches out to hug him, not noticing when his whole body goes rigid in her arms.

“Yeah, mate. We were worried. Thought you’d decided not to come back this year,” Ron says, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips.

Harry searches his head for excuses, reasons, anything that can explain why he didn’t make the effort to find them, other than; I just want to be alone right now. That won’t go down well at all.

“I-I just didn’t want to make a fuss. I was late and...and I figured I’d see you both when we got there anyway.” His body visibly relaxes when he sees them both smile slightly, having believed him.

They share stories of their summers, Harry getting away with saying, “Oh, you know. The usual.” They seemed to understand. For the last twenty minutes, the cabin was rife with idle chat – Harry even pitched in a comment or two, but mainly settled for nodding along. Though he really wasn’t looking forward to seeing them before he was psyched up enough for the school year ahead, he’d forgotten just how easy they were to listen to. He’d forgotten how good it felt to be thinking about someone else’s life and all their exploits instead of his own. Over the summer, he’d forgotten a lot of things.

He’s too tired to unpack tonight. All Harry wants is to feel clean and to sleep without worrying all the time. Even the threat of the Dark Lord doesn’t stir up as much worry and bile in his stomach as the thought of his uncle ‘teaching him a lesson’ at all hours of the day. Time was never an issue. Whether 3am or 2pm, punishment was copious and frequent, safety non-existent.

As the water hits his back, Harry stretches into it like a flower yearning for sun, catching every ray. He waves his hand through the wisps of steam, relishing the warmth in the knowledge that, of all the places he could be right now, at least no one will come and bother him in the shower.

“Took your time, mate,” Ron says light heartedly as Harry finally leaves the bathroom. Harry manages to muster a fairly convincing laugh before Ron pushes past him and runs a shower for himself.

His mind wanders to thoughts of a warm, comfortable bed – unlike the one he has in Little Whinging – one without lumps and springs knotting up his body.

No one can sleep in a bed like that, not even Ron, and he can sleep anywhere – bed, floor, grass, stairs!

When his body relaxes into the mattress, he feels like he’s floating on a cloud, so much so that his body can’t take it any longer and without a fight, he drifts off.

His sleep is fitful, the covers twisting around him as his arms flail at random intervals. Stories seem to play out in his head, altered truths, memories his mind has broken into pieces and seemingly stuck back together in the wrong order. One minute he’s twelve years old, the next he’s fifteen and he feels more terrified than he did when he was younger. Sometimes, he wakes up feeling ashamed of this. Other times, he wakes in such a mess that he can’t really remember anything, just that he’s been dreaming, and without warning, his body lurches forward in a fit to dispel whatever painful, dark feelings his body is harbouring. It’s rare that he ever sleeps the whole night through, but when he does, he wakes with a clear head and it’s a feeling worth savouring.

Tonight is one of the bad nights. He’d expected it, but there was nothing he could do to stop it – sans not sleeping at all.

It’s past midnight and the school grounds are quiet. The sound of snoring can still be heard, but through the walls it’s more like a soft purring. Ron, however, isn’t snoring. He’s too preoccupied watching his friend in the bed across from him. He watches Harry toss and turn, limbs jerking out awkwardly and he doesn’t know what to do. He hopes it will pass, that he won’t have to intervene and wake him up, but when a small moan escapes Harry’s lips and Ron catches a glimpse of his face, pained, brow coated in sweat, he can’t bear to let it go on any longer.

He starts calling out, even before he’s approached the bed, thinking, if I woke up in the middle of the night with someone standing over me, I’d probably have a heart attack.

“Harry,” he says softly, “Harry, mate. Wake up.” Getting closer to the bed, Ron raises his voice. “Harry...” Harry continues to shift in his bed, fingers curling into his palms. “Harry!” Ron barks, but as his hand touches Harry’s shoulder, the covers are thrown from the bed, and a fly-away fist collides with Ron’s face.

“Oww!” Ron tumbles back onto the floor, cupping his nose. It’s bleeding, but thankfully not gushing. Ron being Ron, he tugs at his t-shirt and lifts it up, pressing the fabric to his face to stem the blood flow. Looking up, he’s startled when he sees Harry’s form sat upright in the bed, staring off into the distance.

“Bloody hell, Harry!” he says, and he’s going to carry on, but Harry doesn’t react, doesn’t even look at him. “Uh...hey?” Ron gets up and cautiously waves his free hand in front of Harry’s face, feeling his own anger recede when he sees the sadness in his friend’s eyes.

Eventually, Ron’s waving hand catches Harry’s attention and he looks Ron dead in the eyes, confused and ever so slightly swaying.

“What...what are...why are you...I...I missed the...the...” his voice drifts off.

“The feast? Yeah, but you looked exhausted. ‘Mione told me not to wake you... You alright? You were scaring me a bit...”

“Yeah. Yeah m’fine...” he just about manages to slur before letting his eyes fall closed again and flopping back down on his bed.

“Harry?” Ron says, but it’s no use, he’s asleep again.

He wakes in the morning with the sun trying desperately to pierce the curtains. Rubbing his eyes, he blinks a few times – he doesn’t feel rested at all, but then again, he wasn’t expecting to, not on his first night back. Stumbling out of bed, he realises just how hot and sticky he is and heads for the shower again, but as he turns the water on, something deep in his gut makes him feel guilty, like he’s taking the shower for granted.

This is silly, he thinks, shaking the thoughts from his head, everyone has to shower. Just because I wasn’t allowed before...it doesn’t mean I can’t now. It doesn’t.

But even reasoning with himself doesn’t quell the guilt.

He’s barely in there for five minutes before he shuts off the hose and gets out to get dressed. Ron’s still asleep, completely oblivious to the fact he has Potions in an hour. Harry, on the other hand, knows full well what his first class is and he’s dreading it much more than usual.

There was barely a day that he could keep his emotions in check over the summer. Every little thing had a big impact, and this in turn had an even larger impact on his uncle’s punishments. Professor Snape, though less threatening than his uncle, has always had a way of twisting the knife just right and since Harry’s head is fighting chaos at the moment, he has the added worry that he’ll make a complete fool out of himself in class.

That’s all I need, to give Snape and Malfoy more ammunition...

Checking his watch again, he realises he should probably wake Ron.

“Hey, Ron, get up,” he says, giving him a forceful shove.

“Mmm...ge’off...” Ron mumbles, so Harry opts for a different technique.

“Ron, you’re late for Potions!” he yells and suddenly Ron flips upright like a switch blade.

“I-I’m what?!” he panics, kicking off his duvet.

Harry laughs heartily, the first time he’s properly laughed in months.

“You think that’s funny? I’m gonna have nightmares for weeks now.” It’s only when Harry gets a proper look at Ron that he notices it.

“What happened to your nose?” He’s honestly confused.

“You happened to it.” Ron gets out of bed and wanders into the bathroom, checking his face in the mirror. “You don’t remember?” Harry’s face contorts.

“Wait, I did that to you?”

“Yeah, you were asleep at the time...well, you weren’t...but you sort of were...”

“Oh. Uh, sorry Ron, I don’t...It wasn’t intentional...I don’t even remember doing it.”

“Well, I’m not surprised. You did seem a bit out of it.” Ron inspects himself closer in the mirror. “Gave me one hell of a shiner though,” he laughs, “I’ve never had a black eye before. Makes me look...rugged...” he drifts off, admiring his injury.

Harry’s not listening; he’s too busy looking at his knuckles, trying to recall the moment he hit out, but he’s not sure that he wants to remember what happened.

“Dumbledore asked about you...at the Feast I mean.”

“The Feast! I slept right through it!” Harry says, only just noticing how hungry he is.

“Yeah, I told Dumbledore you were asleep. He seemed okay with it.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You looked like death. Hermione said to leave you...didn’t we already have this conversation?”

Harry was about to say something, but his watch caught his eye again. “Never mind that, Ron! If you don’t hurry up, we are gonna be late for Snape!” Ron’s face fell and he quickly gathered up some clothes and shut the bathroom door behind him.

Several minutes later, there’s still no sign of him.

“Come on, Ron!” Harry shouts through the bathroom door. And with that, the door swings open revealing a scruffy looking Ron, hair mussed up, robes hanging off his shoulder and, much to both of their surprise, a fresh trickle of blood descending from one nostril.

“Ron, your nose.”

He wipes it on the back of his hand, visibly paling at the sight of the blood. If there is one thing he was thankful for last night, it was the darkness – it meant he couldn’t see the blood.

“Here,” Harry says, holding out a wad of tissues. Blood doesn’t bother him anymore. “We’ve got to go; he’ll have you in detention for a month...he’ll have me in detention all year.” Picking up their books, he tugs on Ron’s robes, pulling him out the door. Harry almost runs the whole way there, practically carrying a sick-looking Ron on his arm. By the time they get to class, Harry is panting and Ron looks about to collapse, the blood from his nose now dripping from the sodden tissue and down his arm. Ducking in, they take their seats, sighing with relief that Snape doesn’t appear to be there yet.

“Where have you been?” Hermione hisses, “Ron! What have you done to your –” but she doesn’t have time to finish before Snape appears from behind them.

“Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, you’re late,” he says as coolly as ever, marching to the front of the class.

How does he know?

“Five points each from Gryffindor.” A sigh reverberates throughout the room as the Gryffindor students shoot Ron and Harry a glare.

Snape whips round to look at his students and eyes Ron’s pale, bloody face with a hybrid of frustration and amusement.

“I see it’s you, Mr Weasley, who left the trail of blood into my classroom. You’ll clean that up after class.” Stepping forward, he places a hand on Ron’s head, forcefully tipping his head back and pulling out his wand. Ron panics, gripping the table hard with his fingers tips. The Slytherins giggle at the small whimper that escapes Ron’s lips. “Unless you want to end up with your nose double the size it is now, I suggest you calm yourself, Mr Weasley!” As Snape raises his wand, Ron closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath.

“Nasa-cortalis.” Much to Ron’s surprise, at the flick of Snape’s wand, the bleeding stops.

Letting go of Ron’s head, Snape puts his wand away and stalks back to the front of the class.

“He’s one to talk about big noses,” Ron mutters under his breath and Harry sniggers despite himself. Hermione just looks irritated.

“Turn to page 242.” Snape folds his robes across himself, knotting his arms together. “Read through the instructions carefully. Once you have done so, collect your equipment and begin brewing. Anyone seen neglecting their potion will be kept back after class. Go.”

Nobody needs to be told twice by Snape. Minutes go by and, as if by clockwork, the room suddenly erupts, filling with the sound of screeching chairs, clunking potion bottles and the faint murmur of people talking amongst themselves. The entire class are milling around, collecting books and squabbling over who gets the brand new pieces of equipment and who has to use the old, rusty ones.

As Ron tries to get up, he’s immediately accosted.

“Nice eye, Weasleby. What happened, trouble with the boyfriend?” Malfoy smirks and swaggers off to a cauldron. Ron’s too queasy, so he doesn’t retort, but Harry can barely resist the urge to hit Malfoy in the nose.

Seeing that he’s still a bit unsteady on his legs, Harry leads Ron to an empty cauldron before finding his own – and it’s just his luck that the only cauldron left is right next to Malfoy.

Just keep quiet and he’ll leave you alone.

He takes some of his ingredients and begins preparing the daisy roots for the potion.

“Surprised you even bothered coming back this year, Potter,” Malfoy spits out. “Didn’t think you’d have much to come back to.”

Ignore him; he’ll get bored with you soon.

Harry continues chopping his ingredients, maybe a little more violently than necessary. Malfoy does the same, but keeps talking, his voice now a quiet, menacing whisper.

“No family, no friends, I’m surprised Weasley and Granger still put up with you.”

Harry stops chopping, swallowing back the emotion rising inside him.

“It won’t be long until they leave you too. It was you who gave Weasley the black eye?”

“It- it wasn’t like that –”

Snape looks up from his desk, eyeing them both suspiciously, but they don’t notice.

“Won’t be long ‘til you snap at Granger too. Then who’ll you have?”

Harry goes back to his potion, but can’t concentrate. He can feel himself getting overwhelmed, flustered almost. He expected anger, the urge to lash out, but he inwardly cringes at the painfully sad feeling trying to tear out of his body. He literally has to blink back the heavy feeling behind his eyes.

Malfoy casually throws a handful of ingredients into his cauldron, watching Harry out the corner of his eye. “People are always worse off for being around you. Face it, Potter. By the end of this year, you’ll be alone.”

I already feel alone.

Harry keeps his eyes on his cauldron, hanging his head as much as he can without drawing attention to himself. Unbeknownst to him, Snape is still watching, though he can’t quite make out what’s being said over the murmur of other students.

Malfoy scoffs. “Even your own parents left you.”

Harry doesn’t expect it when the flood gates open. He doesn’t expect it when the tears spill from his eyes like water from a burst dam. He tries to hide it, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Malfoy’s still talking, but everything’s started buzzing and all Harry can think is, I need to get out of here. I need to get away, now.

Feeling a wracking sob building in his chest, his breaths quicken and even Malfoy shoots him a quizzical look.

I can’t do this, not in front of all these people. Not here.

Before his brain can convince him otherwise, he finds himself blurting out, “Professor!” instead of a sob, though his voice sounds choked and pained. Hermione is busy concentrating, but Ron looks over at him. Harry keeps his head ducked into his chest, pretending to work, waiting for Ron to look away.

Snape stands up and strides over to Harry. “What is it now, Mr Potter?” Snape says slowly, giving Malfoy an unmistakeable, get back to work, glare. For once though, Snape looks uncomfortable. He’s seen Harry’s face, though the boy is looking down at his cauldron, but he doesn’t mention it. He can’t.

“I need to – can I be excused, Professor. I-I need to get some air,” he says hastily.

“Look at me when you’re talking to me, Potter.” Snape doesn’t know why he says it. It just makes it more awkward, looking into those eyes.

Harry looks up at Snape, but can’t hold his gaze. He’s ashamed of himself, now all he wants to do is let it all out, but he’s not in the right place at all. “Please, Professor. I ha...I have to...to g-go...to get out...of here,” he pleads through shaky breaths.

“Pull yourself together, Potter!” Snape hisses at him, but Harry can’t. He honestly can’t stop.

Surely even Snape isn’t stupid enough to think I’m doing this on purpose...

“Professor, I...”

“Fine, as you wish, go. But you’re to come back tonight to finish your potion,” he says, sternly.

“Thank you, Professor.” And for the first time in his life, Harry actually means it. Rushing for the door, he bolts into the corridor, a curious Severus Snape watching as he goes.

One day back and he’s already creating drama, Snape thinks, but his gut tells him there’s something going on. Something more than just teenage hormones.

“Ron! Did you find him?” Hermione says, sounding sufficiently panicked.

“No. I’ve checked everywhere, even got Neville to help, but it’s like he’s disappeared.”

“What about Hagrid? Maybe he went to see –”

“Hagrid was at the lake; says he hasn’t seen Harry all day.”

Hermione lets out an angry huff. “I could strangle that rotten Malfoy! I bet it was all him.”

Feeling inexplicably edgy, Snape finds himself strolling the corridors between classes, trying to work off some of the energy coursing through his veins. Black cloak trailing behind, he rounds the corner, stopping short when he spies the two Gryffindors locked in a heated discussion, both looking anxious and flustered. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of Ron, dripping wet from head to toe.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Harry like that before...I mean, he seemed fine before potions.”

“And he doesn’t just skip classes either. I mean, Merlin knows Divination isn’t exactly crucial, but he’s never missed a class before. He wouldn’t.”

So Mr Potter isn’t attending lessons accordingly? No doubt Sybil didn’t even notice, Snape thinks as he listens in.

“When he comes out of hiding, he’s got some explaining to do. Look at me, I’m soaked!” Ron whines, peeling his robes from his skin. “Bloody weather.”

“Well, that’ll teach you to go out without a coat, Ronald.”

“Look, maybe we’re just missing him along the way,” Ron offers up, “he’s probably looking for us too. We should just stay in one place.”

Hermione sighs. “Alright. We can sit in the common room until Herbology,” she says, leaving no room for argument. Ron follows her as she strides down the corridor, books tucked safely in her folded arms.

Wherever Potter is, he had better not feel inclined to miss our meeting later. I will fetch him myself if I have to...

At dinner, Snape’s eyes scan the room, his gaze lingering on the Gryffindor table. Through a sea of bobbing heads, he cannot for the life of him pick out Harry.

Miss Granger and Mr Weasley seem agitated. Does the boy not put everybody through enough?

Something snaps in the back of Snape’s mind – an involuntary cascade of puzzle pieces waiting to be put together.

Nobody has seen the boy since his odd outburst in the middle of my class. He is foolishly neglecting his little friends...but no.

Shaking the thoughts from his head, he checks the time and excuses himself from the table.

Hopefully he will not be so foolish as to skip the rest of his lesson this evening, he thinks as he sweeps down to the hall towards the Potions lab. 

The faint light of a half-moon seeps in through a tiny window in the corner of the room, giving it a silver glow. Sat at his desk, quill in hand, Professor Snape silently scribbles out numerous lesson plans, filling time before he’s forced to sacrifice his evening of freedom for the nuisance child, but his concentration wavers as he finds himself distracted by the loud, incessant ticking of the clock. This, and the sorry sound of rain beating against the castle walls seem to take precedence over his work and he finds that he can’t think beyond the noise.

Restless. That’s what he is.

Restless mind.

Restless hands.

Busy, tapping, restless feet.

For a moment, he muses that someone’s put something in his tea. Though, at first, the feeling is no more than an irritating sugar rush, it takes one tick of the clock for his body to quickly flood with anxiety – an intense feeling of dread washing over him.    

Taking him by surprise, he’s perplexed. Each of his fingers begins to rattle at its own separate pace, and his arms; they don’t know whether to hide under the desk or to wrap protectively around him. It’s as though his limbs are being controlled by an emotion he can’t decipher. The only part of himself he still has power over is his brain, and it’s telling him to be objective and to think; to be forceful with his body and to tell his arms to stop fidgeting...

...And they do. When he puts his mind to it, they reluctantly stop their shaking and jerking, though Snape can still feel them trying to tear away again. But he, his own rational mind, doesn’t feel scared. His entire body is telling him to worry about something, but he has no idea what that something is, he just knows that it’s bad.

Getting his arms under control, he tries to focus his attention on his shaking knees, using all his energy to stop them from knocking together, but with the anxiety comes nausea.  A deep set sickness that creeps up his throat and he has to bite down his jaw to get it to end. Focusing all his energy on this, he finds that his arms have freed themselves again, trembling like they’re freezing cold.

Pushing up from his desk, he swallows thickly and motions to the tiny cupboard at the end of the room. He clings to the walls, feeling his body quaking under his own weight. Searching his stores, he picks out a tiny blue vial labelled - anti-convulsant, but he can barely keep it steady in his hands to take out the stopper. Frantically trying to keep himself still, the vial slips like sand through his fingers and breaks almost clean in two on the stone floor.

It’s only as Snape curses under his breath and reaches back into the cupboard for more that he notices the stillness of his limbs. His hands are no longer shaking, his arms no longer trying to get away from his body. Releasing his vice-like grip on the wall, he exhales as his sturdy legs keep him upright. And he feels fine. As though nothing has even happened. So much so that he can’t help wondering if he was dreaming – that he fell asleep at his desk and managed to sleep-walk in a subconscious fit of panic.

Trying to do potions in your sleep, Severus? You must think of other pastimes.

In the end, he puts it down to a funny turn. After feeling edgy all day, he had a feeling it might amount to something bigger. Too many fumes in the first year class this morning...Didn’t wash my hands after touching the Scurvy Grass. Anything can explain it, so he decides, for the most part, not to dwell.

Stalking back to his desk, he tucks all the papers into a drawer, settles back into his seat and glances up at the clock. Only then does he remember the reason he’s in his Potions classroom to begin with. Potter.

Waiting in silence, he again becomes distracted by the relentless ticking, made even more unbearable by the fact the rain has stopped – so everything is about the clock. The damn clock. Still a little rattled, he can’t help but peer down at his hands, watching as his fingers drum noiselessly on his arm.

As a haunting chime rings out into the air, Snape looks to the door and purses his lips.

Late again, Potter, he thinks. Idiotic boy.

When Snape hears a hard rapping on the door about ten minutes later, he’s not angry. He sees this as an opportunity to relieve some of the strange pent up energy that’s making him so on-edge. Lips quirking upwards, he can’t decide whether to stay at his desk and glare at the boy as he enters or to be standing directly in front of the door when he opens it.

Give the boy a fright; that should teach him a lesson. Thinking he can just wander in whenever he feels like it...he can spend the rest of his evening feeling on edge too, see how he likes it.

Shifting from his seat to the door, he calls out a curt, “Come in.”

Snape positions himself in front of the door, putting on his darkest glare, and as the door swings open, he takes a confident step forwards, locking obsidian eyes with...

“Merlin, Severus! You scared me half to death!”

The expression washing from his face, Snape jerks backwards, just as surprised to see Professor McGonagall getting her breath back outside his door as she is to see him so close.  Stepping aside, he allows her to come into his room and watches as she clasps her hands together, her knuckles turning white. Her brow is knitted together – nothing unusual – but the deep-set lines on her face seem more prominent.

“Uh, my apologies, Minerva. I was expecting somebody else.” 

“I know you were, Severus. I hope you don’t always greet the boy like that, he’s nervous enough as it is.”

Jumping to defend the boy again, typical.

“I expect my students to be punctual,” he drawls.

“Yes, well that’s why I’m here, Severus. I’m afraid Mr Potter won’t be coming to your detention tonight.”

Snape’s eyes visibly darken, but before he can grind out a response, McGonagall’s worried gaze takes him by surprise and she continues. 

“Poppy has him in the infirmary.”

As McGonagall strides down the hall, there is no doubting that she expects Snape to follow. It’s with reluctance that he slams the door of his classroom and falls into stride with Minerva; spurred on only by his own curiosity.

The journey to the infirmary is silent, but for the echoing steps of their own feet. Some of the older students still remain in the halls – their curfew not for another half an hour – but their chattering soon stops as the two professors’ steam past them, exuding purpose and importance.   

Snape’s mind wanders, conjuring up ideas as to what the boy might have done to himself now. It doesn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he’s probably gone and taken some skiving concoction made by the Weasley twins.

Menaces. Both of them. Potter’s probably lying in bed with Poppy pawing over him. I wouldn’t put it past him to do something so drastic to escape detention.

He scoffs to himself, earning a deeply displeasing look from the woman on his right.

Walking in from the quiet halls, Snape can’t help but frown at the sudden eruption of chaos behind the infirmary doors. He watches as McGonagall races up to Poppy by Harry’s bedside, but Poppy simply waves her away and goes back to frantically seeing to the child.  

As Poppy rounds the bed, Harry is suddenly in full view, and despite his usual reserve, Snape feels himself visibly pale at the sight of the boy’s sickly blue skin. And there’s something very perturbing about the speed at which Potter’s chest is rising and falling.

Having peeled off his wet clothes and spelled him dry, Poppy proceeds to clothe Harry in something loose-fitting before conjuring some thin blankets and wrapping his fidgeting body. It’s then that she spies Severus standing at the door.

“Oh, Severus, thank goodness you’re here. We need some warming potions. I haven’t had to use mine in such a long time; their potency has clearly diminished,” she says, frantically drawing a breath. “They’re barely working at all.”

But Snape doesn’t move, too shocked by the sight of Harry’s shivering frame mumbling and convulsing in the bed.

“What happened?” he manages to ask tersely, keeping the bite in his voice.

“I’ll explain when you get back. Right now, the boy needs our attention,” Poppy says firmly.

After receiving a nod from McGonagall, Snape replaces his cold mask and marches to the fireplace ready to floo to his dungeons. 

He’s awake, but not lucid.

Shifting in the bed, his movements are sluggish, yet sudden. When he starts trying to rid himself of the blankets, Poppy shoots into action again, pulling the covers back over him in an effort to keep him warm, but Harry still manages to struggle weakly against her.

His mind is a mess, like some tremendous tidal wave has ripped through his brain, but all he can think is hot, so hot. The shivering should tell him otherwise, but everything feels fuzzy. He doesn’t know where he is or where he’s supposed to be. He can’t place what he’s feeling or what he should be feeling. It’s like he’s hidden in a box and someone’s shaken him too hard, ignoring that he’s clearly labelled fragile.

The floo bursts with colour as Snape strides out. “Here,” he says handing Poppy the warming potion and trying to keep his composure as he’s forced to look at the boy up close. 

He looks...small... Brainless boy.

Snape’s body stiffens, gathering back his usual feeling of indifference – solid stone once more.

Insufferable child can’t go five minutes without causing trouble for someone, just like his father.

Again, Harry fights off the covers, pushing them down past his waist and mumbling something unintelligible.

Poppy frowns. “Harry? Harry, listen to me. I need you to drink this. You’ll feel better, OK?” She doesn’t know why she’s saying it; it’s obvious he doesn’t understand, but perhaps she’s trying to reassure herself. Removing the stopper from the vial, she lifts his head and brings it to his lips, but finds herself leaping back as his loose limbs jerk outwards.  

“Severus, Minerva, please...help me hold him down,” she says, a note of sadness in her voice.

There’s nothing either can do about the violent shivering, but Professor McGonagall sighs and takes hold of Harry’s legs, pushing his knees back down into the mattress to still him. Snape quickly grabs Harry’s wrists, pinning them to his sides – noting that he can actually feel the cold emanating from his frozen hands. For a moment, the boy’s glazed eyes flip open and stare, unseeing, at Snape.

“...Nrghh...off...nggh...”

Snape can feel the weak pull under his grip as Harry tries fruitlessly to wrench himself away. Quickly, Poppy pours the vial into Harry’s mouth and sets about getting him to swallow. They watch as the shivers slowly settle down to a small tremor and McGonagall is the first to breathe a loud sigh of relief, slinking down into the chair by Harry’s bed. For a short time, all eyes are set on Harry as a welcome silence washes over the infirmary – but all too quickly the silence is broken. 

“So, is anyone going to explain?” is Snape’s curt request.

Professor McGonagall looks up at Poppy, knowing she can always read her face.

“It’s OK. There’s nothing more you can do here, Minerva. You can use my office.”

In the office, McGonagall takes a seat and waits for Snape to do the same, but instead he stands there, glaring down impatiently. 

“Severus, I won’t do this with you looking at me like that. Now, sit down.” He still doesn’t move. “Severus Snape. Sit. Down.” It’s the glare that does it. He remembers it well from his own Transfiguration lessons all those years ago. She may be over two decades older now, but she still knows how to intimidate. Feeling like a student again, Snape sighs and drops down into the chair, knowing full well that he looks like a petulant child, but hardly caring.

“So what has Potter managed to do to himself this time?” he sneers.

Much easier to slate the boy when you’re not looking at him in the hospital wing.

“Now Severus, I think you should listen to the story before you judge.” 

Anxiously wringing out her hands, she begins.

“We found him about an hour ago, sitting outside in the rain.”

Brainless Gryffindor.

“When we found him, he was shivering and mumbling to himself; looking completely lost. He couldn’t even stand up. Severus, the boy was almost blue!”

Snape awkwardly looks away, noticing how much just talking about it is upsetting her.  

“He was sat under the Whomping Willow.” It’s here that Snape’s interest is piqued. “We just assumed he’d worked it out and managed to reach the base knot. I soon found out, when young Mr Malfoy got too close, that the tree was working perfectly well and was indeed still active. Thankfully, Mr Malfoy is fine, just a bump on the head.”  

Gritting his teeth, Snape indulges her. “And why, must I ask, was Mr Malfoy with you?”

Silly question, Severus, he thinks.  As if I do not already know.

“It seems he decided it would be funny to use the Confundus charm on Potter, for his own entertainment, forgetting that such actions rarely come without consequences.”

Growling under his breath, Snape sighs. “I suppose a talk needs to be had with Mr Malfoy.”

Foolish boy.

“More than a talk, Severus. Potter could’ve been killed! I know young Draco’s situation has changed some-what since his father was taken to Azkaban, but that is no excuse. Poppy says that Mr Potter has managed to contract a severe case of hypothermia. Do you know how serious that is?”

Unfortunately, Snape does. Running a hand through his hair, he slumps back in the chair, only now beginning to understand the grim seriousness of the situation.

Draco Malfoy almost killed The Boy Who Lived; the boy I vowed to protect. 

“We only found him because Mr Malfoy finally grew a conscience. When he told me what happened and we found Mr Potter under the tree...” she drifts off, shaking her head. “Perhaps this may put an end to their silly little feud.”

For a moment, they sit in silence; McGonagall trying to stem her worry and Snape berating himself for doing nothing about the incident between the two boys in Potions.

It’s only through chance that Snape glances out of Poppy’s office and spies none other than Draco Malfoy standing sheepishly in the corner by the infirmary door, eyes fixed on Harry’s body. 

“It seems we have the opportunity to speak with Mr Malfoy now,” Snape says absently as McGonagall peers out of the office at a wide-eyed Malfoy. He doesn’t seem to have noticed them. 

“Minerva, I assume you’d like to be present in this...discussion? You are Potter’s Head of House after all.”

“Yes, thank you Severus,” she says, steeling herself for the up and coming conversation.

Standing and smoothing down his robes, Snape adjusts his posture and sharply calls, “Mr Malfoy, in here now,” his stoicism never faltering.

They sit in a triangle; Snape and McGonagall side-by-side and Malfoy directly in front of them. The way two sets of eyes bore into his, he can’t help but think of it like an interrogation. Neither professor speaks at first. McGonagall isn’t sure she trusts herself to stay calm. Snape’s lips are drawn in a straight line, but the cogs in his head are turning as if he’s picking over his words.

The lack of noise makes Malfoy fidget. There’s something truly menacing about distant footsteps and thick, angry breaths with nothing in between. 

“Look, I can explain –” he chokes.

“You will not speak unless you are spoken to,” Snape shoots back with an ice-cold glare. “Do you have any idea what you have done? Your family may no longer work under the Dark Lord, but you have very nearly succeeded in doing what the Dark Lord failed to do all those years ago –”

“Professor, I didn’t m–”

“If you interrupt me once more, I shall seal your mouth shut myself.” Draco’s eyes flash as though to challenge his Head of House, but quickly shrink back into his head as Snape’s expression darkens. “Do. Not. Test. Me. Mr Malfoy. You are very lucky you got to Mr Potter when you did. Very lucky indeed.”

Locking eyes with her student, McGonagall sighs and sinks further into her chair. “Perhaps, you could explain to Professor Snape exactly what happened,” she suggests watching Malfoy’s shoulders sag.

“OK, very well, Mr Malfoy, from the beginning. I want wheres, whens and whys. And do not even think about lying to me.”

Expelling a defeated breath, Draco begins. 

Sitting on a stone bench outside the castle, Harry squeezes his eyes closed, taking in the soft, chilling breeze and the low murmur of students changing classes inside. He suspects that he must have been outside for hours judging by the thick black clouds rolling in and the sudden coolness of the air. 

White knuckles gripping the bench, he barely feels the first drop of rain as it hits the frames of his glasses.

After his swift exit from the Potion’s lab, he was hit with a rush of memories and all the feelings that came attached. Setting himself down outside on the bench, he allowed his body to bend in on itself and simply let go, safe in the knowledge that everyone would still be in class. Squeezing his arms around his torso, he fought past a wave of nausea as the tears cascaded down his cheeks. Afterwards, he felt empty.

Now, still rooted to the secluded spot he’s occupied since the morning, feelings are creeping their way back under his skin – into his head – and part of him wishes he could be numb forever.

He subconsciously brings a hand up to rub his scar, only then registering the cold rain hitting his skin and hanging precariously from the tip of his nose.

“Hiding, are we, Potty?”

Harry inwardly groans.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” he says over his shoulder through gritted teeth.

“Why would I want anything from you?” Draco sneers pulling up the hood of his cloak.

As usual, Harry pays him no attention, intent on watching the rain as it comes down hard from the sky. A shiver runs down his spine, but he’s not sure if it’s because of the water dripping from his hair down the back of his neck, or the knowledge that Draco Malfoy is still stood somewhere behind him, probably donning an ugly smirk.

“Your little friends are worried; running round the castle like pathetic little house-elves. Maybe I should give them something to worry about.”

At that, Harry’s grip tightens on the bench. “Just leave me alone, Malfoy,” he croaks.

“You look a bit tense, Potter...Petrificus Totalus!”

“Protego!” Harry’s on his feet in seconds, staring daggers at his opponent. “What the hell is wrong with you? Can you not go one day without being a total git?”

“What’s wrong, frightened you’ll lose?” Draco’s eyes flash something wild and he raises his wand slightly as if anticipating an attack. “Mummy and daddy not around to defend you?” 

Immediately, Harry’s features harden. Sucking in a deep breath, he shakes his head against the wind whistling in his ears; neither willing nor prepared for this fight.

“Better than being locked up in Azkaban,” he growls and turns on his heels, heading towards the Quidditch pitch. Three steps into his trek, his ears barely register the distant shout of Confundo that rings through the air. His thoughts twist suddenly, jumbling up; a feeling like someone’s spilled hot coffee on his brain and is now trying to wring it out in their hands.

Draco stands there and watches as Harry sways on the spot. Moments later, he scoffs as Harry – now fascinated with the rain – sticks his tongue out all the way, trying desperately to catch the falling droplets on his tongue. As Draco moves back into the building, a smirk plastered firmly on his face, Harry drunkenly squelches through the mud, deciding he wants to touch the big tree.  

Draco’s eyes remain on the floor, not wanting to see the furious look on Snape’s face. 

“You think it’s brave to strike when another wizard’s back is turned?”

“No, but...I saw him and it seemed...it was...I thought he’d just...wander around and make friends with the trees,” Malfoy says, waving his hand in the air, “I didn’t know this was going to happen!”

McGonagall finally jumps in, creaking forward in her chair. “So you admit that you went out of your way to find and deliberately attack a fellow student?”

“...Potter deserved it,” he says to his feet, knowing it’s a lie.

“And since when do you have the right to decide what Mr Potter does or does not deserve? I suppose when you look at him now, you believe that he deserves to look like that?” she says, her tone severe and strict. Amid his own seething anger, Snape is momentarily stunned; he hasn’t seen her so irate in a long while.

Malfoy gulps and continues to keep his attention on the purple woven carpet. Abruptly, Snape stands and snaps, “Come here.” For a moment, Malfoy is sceptical. “Now,” Snape barks and there’s barely time for Draco to move before Snape steps forwards and pulls him up by his collar. Ignoring the boy’s yelps and protests, Snape drags him out into the infirmary and begins heaving him towards Harry’s bedside. 

Getting closer to Harry, Draco pales to a new shade of white. Though warmed up, Harry’s body still shivers lightly under the covers and the odd, faint whimper escapes his lips. Noticing Draco’s discomfort, McGonagall feels that, despite her urge to let the boy suffer as a consequence of his foolishness, she has to step in.

“Severus,” she warns, giving him a disapproving look. Snape simply grunts before releasing his hold on the boy’s robes.

“You will come back and apologise when Mr Potter comes around. If he comes around,” he adds gravely for effect, but only serves to remind himself of the truth – that Harry’s still not completely out of the woods. “Go back to your dormitory. We will speak about punishments tomorrow.”

And Draco gives a sheepish, “Yes, Professor,” before hurriedly escaping the infirmary.

Quietly, both professors make their way back to Poppy’s office and drop into their chairs, looking thoroughly exhausted.

“Mr Malfoy must be the only person ever to leave the infirmary looking sicker than when he came in,” Snape muses out loud.

McGonagall sighs, glancing briefly at Snape. “He did seem very shaken by Potter’s appearance. I do not doubt that this was an accident, Severus, but whether he meant to cause harm or not, Mr Malfoy has been very reckless with his magic. I trust you will discuss it with him?”

Snape nods. “Though I assume you too will approach Potter on his truancy? It seems he neglected to go to any of his afternoon classes.”

Ungrateful little...   

“I shall be having words with Mr Potter when he’s better...he has been strangely quiet of late... I should like to know what he was doing outside all afternoon.”

Indeed...

Lost in their own thoughts, they’re suddenly alerted when a loud moan reverberates throughout the infirmary, followed by a strangled cry. When they see Harry, face tightened into a grimace with what look like tears falling fast from his eyes, neither knows what to do.

“N...no...please...nghh...me...lone...st-st-stop...”

Poppy looks lost. “He opened his eyes, but...but didn’t seem to know what was going on. I was talking to him, but it’s like he doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Surely the Confundus should have worn off by now?” Snape says brow furrowed.

“He’s severely hypothermic. I can’t tell for sure, but this might be less to do with the charm and more down to his condition. Look,” she says, waving a hand in front of Harry’s face, “his eyes are open, but he’s unseeing. I don’t even think he’s truly awake. I don’t know what to do! He should be out of the worst danger by now, but he needs to stay calm.”

“C-can you not give the boy a calming draught?” McGonagall stammers.

“I cannot. His breathing was bad when you brought him in. I don’t want to do anything to compromise that.”

“Draught of Peace,” Snape blurts out, staring up at Poppy. “It should calm him down, but it’s not a respiratory depressant and it won’t induce sleep. In essence, his current condition as severe as it is, it should simply wear him out.”

Without a word, Poppy scurries to her Potions store and picks out a vial.

“...ge’off...le...le’go...”

Professor McGonagall can barely look. They watch as Harry attempts to hide his face, but finds his arms unwilling to cooperate, so instead he tries to turn and bury his head in his pillow, and Snape finds himself moving forward to stop the boy rolling out of bed. Instinct. It surprises even himself.

“OK,” Poppy says running back, “please, Severus, hold his head still.” Snape places a firm hand on Harry’s head and uses the other to open his mouth. Harry moans even louder, trying to twist away, but Snape simply tightens his grip.

“Down the hatch,” Poppy mumbles. Some of the blue liquid seeps out of the corner of Harry’s mouth, but Snape simply tips Harry’s head back further until the boy manages to swallow.

Almost instantly, his body relaxes into the bed and with half-open eyes, he stops struggling. It’s like the energy has been sucked out of him like blood through a needle.

No energy to move.

No energy to speak.

No energy to think.

No energy to hold up the glamours anymore...

As Harry stills in the bed, the room is filled with the sound of relieved sighs. However, the brief moment of relief is cut short as, even in the dim, artificial light of the infirmary, Snape sees a change in the boy’s face. 

“...Severus...” Poppy says shakily, eyes fixed on Harry. Snape’s brow furrows deeply, but he doesn’t say a word.

Slowly, Harry’s pale complexion begins to change; the ghostly white fading, only to be replaced by a sickly purple-grey that seems to bleed through his skin. As the colour reaches his right eye, it blackens like smudged charcoal. His lips, now dry and chapped, begin to split and scar as though they’re lined with tiny, vertical paper cuts. At the sight of Harry’s rapidly yellowing jaw, Poppy lets out a disbelieving breath and looks once more to Snape, her eyes begging for an answer to the many questions buzzing through her head. 

There is no answer.  

Snape’s legs feel heavy, as though he’s spent hours standing on his feet, when in reality, mere seconds have passed. For a brief moment, his mask cracks as he watches the dirty colours grow over one another on Harry’s skin, weaving and layering, blending and swelling.

In his life, Snape has managed to remain stoic through everything from the deaths of the people around him, to Death Eater attacks on happy and innocent muggle families, but now, he can feel his carefully constructed guise corroding at the edges. Everything’s wrong here. The whole damn situation is wrong.

He starts as a shaky breath to his left reminds him that Minerva is still in the room, and by her expression and the slight quiver of her lips, Snape can tell she too is struggling to remain calm.

Clearing his throat, he sucks in a breath and takes charge.

“Minerva, fetch the Headmaster.” Her wide eyes show no sign that she’s heard him. Swiftly, he turns his body and places himself in front of her, breaking her focus. “Minerva, leave this to Poppy and I. Please fetch the Headmaster.”

Without a word, she strides shakily to the infirmary door, pausing once to glance back and worry over the small boy in the bed. When the clacking of McGonagall’s heels fades down the hall, Snape runs a hand through his oily black locks and releases a low and troubled sigh.      

He watches as Poppy peels back the covers on the boy’s bed, untangles him from his shirt and begins noting down the injuries. The list is so long. She pauses, taking in the state of Harry’s body and trying hard not to imagine just how he’s managed to end up this way.

“He’s just a child, Severus,” she says out of nowhere, eyes still fixed on the bruises. Snape doesn’t speak. At this moment, there is nothing in the world to say – nothing even remotely right. As he steps up to the bed once more, he says nothing as Poppy’s fingers carefully brush the stray fringe from Harry’s face. He says nothing as her fingers trace the outline of the thickest bruise. He says nothing, but Poppy’s words are fast rattling through his mind like a throng of Cornish Blue Pixies.   

A child, he thinks. He’s a child. Just a child.

And behind his stoic mask, he can’t fight off the sharp pangs of guilt for harbouring so many ill-thoughts of the boy.

Control yourself, Severus, his own mind admonishes. The boy doesn’t exactly make it hard for you to dislike him.

“...everus? Severus?”

Hearing his name, he blinks and clears his mind, opting to feel nothing instead of thinking everything at once.

“I’ve checked his front; I need help turning him,” Poppy says, her hands already resting softly on Harry’s naked shoulder.

“Of course.” Tugging the rest of the blanket out of the way, Snape takes a firm hold of Harry’s legs and lets Poppy count...1...2...3.

A split second is all it takes. An unintelligible sound from Poppy’s lips as she stares in horror at the sheets. Red. Deep, rose red.

“Hold him still, Severus,” she says, her stern voice cracking in the middle.

Keeping Harry on his side, Snape moves a hand towards the boy’s back, and he carefully begins peeling the sticky, bloodstained shirt from his body. 

The things you get yourself into, Potter...reckless Gryffindor through and through, his mind murmurs gravely – not yet ready to relinquish the strong sense of loathing he’s felt for so long.

Dropping the sodden shirt to the floor, Snape does his best to remain calm when he sees the gashes littering the boy’s back; some still bleeding, others old and crusted black. The scarring is the worst and Snape finds himself wondering just how old they are.

When Poppy returns with the Blood Replenishing potion, her shock is tangible and Snape finds himself having to take charge once more – taking the potion and administering it himself. He spells new sheets onto the bed and quickly cleans Harry’s wounds, ordering Poppy to fetch him the equipment, if only to get her out of the room to allow her a moment to compose herself.

When Snape has finished and Harry is settled back under the clean covers, the silence in the infirmary hits the professor’s ears like a new kind of bliss; warm and consoling, like nothing has even happened. If not for the boy in the bed and the nurse at his side, he might even think he imagined it.

“I’d better fetch the bruise salve,” Poppy says, her voice empty and devoid of any emotion.

“Do not apply it until the Headmaster has seen. Perhaps he might be able to shed some light.” 

As Poppy sidles out, Snape frowns, surveying the damage for himself, paying particular attention to Harry’s face. Though not irreparable, he realises that the damage is likely to take weeks to fully mend. The boy’s back doesn’t even bear thinking about.

The energy needed to cover up such injuries...Merlin. If nothing else, Potter, you are certainly adept at glamour charms. 

The click of the infirmary door stirs Snape from his thoughts.

“Severus, my boy, what has happened? Minerva can barely speak,” Dumbledore says, striding forwards and kicking out his robes.  

“It appears that,” he takes a breath and falls uneasily back into indifference, “Wonder boy here has run into trouble, as usual.”

Dumbledore halts at Harry’s bed. His hand moves of its own accord to cover his mouth and conceal a gasp.

“We have got the hypothermia under control, for now, but it will take...everything else...far longer to heal, Headmaster.”

“But why has this happened in the first place, Severus?”

“Spent too much time out in the rain,” Snape says casually, but Dumbledore’s scrutinising eye makes him crumble. “There was an altercation with another student and Potter was hit by a Confundus charm. We’re unsure as to how long he was outside before we found him.”

Dumbledore peers down at Harry and slowly moves a hand through the boy’s hair.

“Which student?” he asks, though he’s already worked it out.

Snape sighs and simply says, “Mr Malfoy,” before slumping down heavily into a chair next to Harry’s bed. 

“And the bruising?”

“I have my suspicions,” Snape says edgily, “but we cannot be sure until he wakes up.”

With that, Dumbledore rests his hand on Harry’s head for a moment, before turning and heading for the infirmary door. He comes to a halt with his hand on the door knob.

“You will inform me when he wakes?”

“Of course, Headmaster.”

For a moment, Dumbledore looks hesitant like he’s not sure whether or not he should leave. Shaking his head, he opens the door and steps into the corridor, but just as the door is about to close behind him, he pops his head back into the room and looks Snape in the eyes.

“You know, my boy, perhaps there mightn’t be so much hostility between Harry and Draco if your contempt for Harry wasn’t so obvious. You know Draco looks up to you...it’s only natural he’d want to follow in your footsteps. Think about it, Severus.”

And with that, he shuts the door behind him and Severus is left in his chair feeling conflicted. 

A short time later, Snape is still sitting in his chair, drumming his long fingers on his knee. A look of tired contemplation sits uncomfortably on his face, etched on his brow like wood grain.    

Is he trying to tell me this is my fault? Outrageous. Completely out of the question. The man’s going senile in his old age.

Snape’s eyes wander warily to the face of the child lying still in the bed.  After Poppy was called away by Dumbledore, she gave care of Harry – after a stern warning – over to him. In his hand he holds a small jar of bruise salve and finds himself wondering whether it will be enough. Loath to admit it, he’s genuinely frightened to even open the jar, worried that the pop of the lid will wake the boy and he’ll have to deal with the situation himself.

You are Severus Snape for goodness sake...the children are supposed to be frightened of you, not the other way round.

Without another moment’s thought, he scrapes his chair back louder than necessary and twists the lid off the jar allowing the satisfying pop to sound through the room.

If he wakes up, you call Poppy. I’m sure she will understand.

Taking a step closer, he peels back Harry’s sheets with one hand and looks at the boy’s naked chest, patched in colour. Taking a breath, he scoops a handful of salve into his hand and smoothes it onto Harry’s skin in one swift motion. His stomach drops as Harry’s body jolts at the cold hitting his body.

Just call Poppy. Just do this and call Poppy. Do this, call Poppy and then she can do the rest. Bloody Potter. When did you become so nervous, Severus?

Moving his hand back to the boy’s skin, he begins gently rubbing the cream in and then waits for the rest to absorb before pulling the covers back up. Harry’s back would be too dangerous to touch at the moment what with the state it’s in. The only other reachable part is his face.

The quicker his face is treated, the more likely it is to repair fully.

“Facial damage,” he muses quietly to himself, “The little Potter fan club will be devastated. Can’t be having that,” he sneers, dipping his hands back into the jar of salve.

With a face full of indifference, he smears it on Harry’s chin, thinking to himself, this, I am sure, was not in my list of teaching duties. But before his mind can think of more scathing remarks, he freezes, noticing the boy’s eyes flinch as he touches a particularly heavy area of bruising. Sighing to himself, Snape continues with the salve, but jumps again as another flinch hits Harry’s face.

...that’s enough for today, Snape thinks, putting the lid back on the jar, but just as he is about to fire call Poppy, a small voice permeates the stillness in the room.

“P-p...prof’ser?”

Snape watches from the doorway as Dumbledore – whom he’d quickly fire-called at the sound of Harry’s voice – speaks quietly to the boy. Poppy is hovering, unasked questions dripping from her tongue. 

He’s not going to talk, Headmaster. He didn’t speak for the entire ten minutes it took you to get here, so he sure as hell isn’t going to speak now.

Minutes later, as expected, Dumbledore shakes his head sorrowfully and leaves Harry’s bedside.

“He will not speak to me, Severus. For once, I am lost.” Dumbledore’s eyes look back at Harry, who is sitting up in his bed, staring at nothing in particular.

“Stubborn brat, just like his f –”

“Severus, I urge you not to finish that sentence.”

Snape sighs, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “What exactly do you expect me to say, Headmaster? Potter and I have never seen eye to eye –”

“Exactly, my boy. If there is one thing you can do, Severus, it is provoke a response from this child.”

Immediately Snape’s hands fly up. “No. Absolutely not.” Without a thought for the boy sitting in the bed only metres from him, Snape loudly exclaims, “He is not my problem and this is not my burden.”

Dumbledore turns and sees nothing but a small flinch flicker past Harry’s face. For a moment, Dumbledore looks to the ground, exhaling loudly through his nose. When he looks up, his eyes are clouded with disappointment.

“Harry is not a burden, Severus.” Sighing, Dumbledore motions to the infirmary door and both men leave the room to carry on their discussion. “Do you remember when you were brought to me, Severus?”

Snape begins to pace back and forth in the corridor, but says nothing.

“I will never forget that day. I don’t know what Harry has been through to have put him in the state he’s in now, but you cannot disagree that this situation bears a striking resemblance to your situation all those years ago.”

“Potter’s life and my own could not be any different,” Snape spits.

“That is not what I’m saying, my boy. I just mean that when you were brought to me, you needed somebody to talk to...to confide in. The only person you would talk to was me. Perhaps that is what Harry is going through now. Perhaps you can help. I am not certain, but it doesn’t hurt to try.”

Snape stops pacing and shifts uncomfortably. 

“For Lily?”

That was it...Dumbledore’s magic card. Just one mention of her name and Snape would do just about anything.

Straightening up, Snape’s only reply is, “I’ll think about it,” before he sweeps down the corridor, back to the dungeons for a long, hard think.

“He is not my problem and this is not my burden!”

Harry’s insides jolt.

It’s only Snape. He can’t hurt you. It’s only Snape. He can’t hurt you, his mind keeps saying, but this isn’t the first time he’s been called a burden and all it does is remind him of the summer; of the loneliness; of his Uncle. He begins to panic, wondering what they know. They must know something, they’re not idiots, they must be suspicious. He feels a lump form in his throat and swallows thickly to try and dislodge it.

When Snape and Dumbledore leave the room, Harry isn’t even curious as to why, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. Harry isn’t stupid. He knows that they must have seen his body...his hurt and damaged body...but Dumbledore hadn’t said anything about it. He skirted around the subject, but otherwise acted as though Harry looked normal and wasn’t a mass of purple bruises. This only served to anger Harry more!

Even when it’s right in front of him, the old man still can’t see it, he thinks, and for the first time in his life, he feels resentment towards the man who has acted like a grandfather to him for years. The resentment is short-lived, however, when his mind starts concocting reasons why Dumbledore might not have mentioned anything.

Maybe he is a coward, he thinks bitterly.

Maybe he doesn’t want to face this just as much as I don’t.

Maybe he was just trying to spare me the awkwardness of explaining.

Maybe he is giving me time to do it on my own.

Maybe it is for my own good...

But truth be told, whatever Dumbledore’s reasoning, it still hurts.

Harry sighs when Dumbledore doesn’t come back into the room. Maybe he just doesn’t care as much as I thought, he thinks, but quickly shakes that notion from his mind. Scooting up the bed, he moves to get comfortable, sitting up straight and leaning his sore back against his pillows. For a long time, his mind clouds and everything is blank. Time skips past, but Harry doesn’t notice. Nor does he notice the dark eyes scrutinising him from the doorway.

Lily.

No matter what happens, it always comes down to Lily.

Watching from the infirmary door, Snape is forced to think of Lily whenever Harry’s green eyes flash and flit around the room. All Snape knows is that he can’t let her sacrifice be in vain.

“Potter,” his voice drawls. Harry barely moves. Despite the situation, Snape can’t help but feel irritated.

“Potter,” he says a little louder. Finally, Harry’s eyes flicker towards him, quickly flitting back to the wall when, for a second, their eyes meet.

Snape walks to Harry’s bedside, but doesn’t sit down. The air was tense to begin with, but now, as neither party speaks and Harry can feel the cold glare of the potions master on him, the silent stillness in the room is almost unbearable.

“What do you want?” Harry snaps, eyes looking blankly ahead.

“What do you want, Sir,” Snape corrects, keeping his temper in check, “and it would serve you well if you didn't speak to me in that tone in future, lest you want multiple detentions when you’re finally permitted to leave this place.”

Silence descends again.

“Potter, you know more than most that my patience is not to be tested. You know why I am here. It’s the same reason Madame Pomfrey was here and the same reason Professor Dumbledore spent his morning talking to you. Explain.”

Snape doesn’t miss the fearful expression that washes over Harry’s face, yet still the boy doesn’t move.

“Explain what?” Harry’s voice trembles and he bites down hard on his lip to stop it.

Snape opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. The reality of the matter is, there’s no starting point. No place to begin. Jumping right into the source of the boy’s suffering is liable to do more harm than good, he thinks. Even with Dumbledore’s abundance of faith in him, Snape isn’t sure he’s up to the job of confronting these particular demons. On what planet would I be the right choice for this?! The thoughts snap through Snape’s mind like fireworks.

Just by being in the infirmary, he has thrown himself into the situation much further than he’d anticipated. For Lily, he thinks, but at this moment in time, her name sounds hollow in his mind. No, this is not for me to do. Just get him to talk, then call the Headmaster and he can take over. Severus Snape would never admit it to himself, but he’s scared. Quelling the feeling of rising guilt, he settles on a plan of action. Avoidance.

“Explain to me why you were out of the castle when you were carelessly hit by the Confundus.”  

That got Harry’s attention. Shaking his head, he looks up for a moment at the Potions Master and Snape falters slightly at the defeat in the boy’s eyes. 

“So this is my fault? Wait,” Harry half heartedly scoffs, “of course it is.”

“You haven’t answered my question, Potter.”

“And I’m not going to either.”

Snape leans in closer, making sure he is blocking Harry’s line of vision. A stray lock of hair falls across Snape’s eye. “Your defiance is not going to get you anywhere, Potter. The sooner you realise this, the better.”

“Go away. I didn’t want to talk to anyone this morning and I sure as hell don’t want to now.”

“And yet you are,” Snape drawls.

“Just get out!” Harry shouts, his voice cracking. Snape retaliates, voice equal in volume and intensity. 

“I, Mr Potter, have taken the time out of my day to be here, to speak to you, though I find your presence insufferable at the best of times, and I certainly do not appreciate my efforts being disparaged! Now, you listen to me! This is not the way I would ideally be spending my time, but I am here nonetheless. I suggest you start recognising the lengths other people go to for you before somebody has to drill it into that ungrateful head of yours!”

Snape straightens up, out of breath after his outburst. Harry didn’t so much as flinch, but Snape is unnerved at the sight of silent tears crawling down the boy’s cheeks.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter!” Snape says, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

Harry violently wipes at his eyes, frustrated by his own weakness.

“Get a hold of yourself, Potter!”

Only now does Harry become aware of the tears. He wipes at them angrily, feeling ashamed like his sense of pride is escaping with every tear shed.

“Enough with this pathetic display of drama,” Snape sneers, “Believe me; we’ve all had enough of it for one day.”

Each word in Harry’s ear feels like a punch to the gut. All he can think is burden. Burden, burden, burden!

“Please, just go,” he chokes out, turning his body away from the professor.

This time, Snape doesn’t need to be asked again.

Hours after Snape leaves, Harry wakes from a long, but fitful sleep. For a moment, he forgets where he is, but the off-white colour of the walls reminds him and he sighs deeply, his body visibly deflating in the bed. Rolling onto his back, he flinches and stares at the ceiling, huffing with frustration as the corners of his mouth are seemingly pulled down by gravity, preventing even the barest hint of a smile from appearing on his face.

Not that I have much to smile about, he thinks sullenly to himself, but it wouldn’t do to frown all the time, else people would worry and then they would start asking questions. Harry hates when they ask questions.

He can’t hear Madame Pomfrey, so he concludes that she must be replenishing her stores. The infirmary is strangely quiet, though the distant sounds of student footsteps walking up and down the corridors can be heard if he strains his ears. Time ticks on and he slowly becomes more and more aggravated by boredom. There is nothing he wants more at this moment than to get out of bed. Sitting up, he takes a breath and swings his legs over the side. The first step is easy. He pushes himself up onto his feet and immediately feels better for it. However, having spent the past couple of days in bed, his legs have turned to jelly...though he doesn’t notice until he tries to take his next step.

With a thump, he lands bottom first on the floor and hisses with pain. “Damn it!” he growls at nothing in particular. He doesn’t expect the sudden sound of feet hitting the floor and he certainly doesn’t expect the arm that curls around his chest, pulling him upwards. As he is shoved back onto the bed, he stiffens at the sight of the blond boy in front of him.

“What do you want?” he grinds out. Malfoy steps away from Harry, biting his tongue.

“I came to...” fighting a battle with himself, he stands straight and begins again, “I came to apologise, but you were asleep. Madame Pomfrey told me to keep an eye on you while she went to get more supplies. Lucky me. Not sure what she expected you to do in your sleep but –”

“I take it Snape sent you to do this?” Harry interrupts, not believing that Malfoy would ever do it off his own back.

“I’m a Malfoy. Nobody tells us what to do,” Malfoy snaps. Harry’s anger flares.

“So, what? You’re here to rub it in a bit more? To curse me again?” he says sternly. “Well you’ve picked the best place to do it. I’m already in a hospital bed and Madame Pomfrey will be back any time soon, so have at it! You couldn’t possibly make this situation any worse than it already is.”

“That’s the problem with you, Potter, you’re a drama queen. It was a Confundus charm, not a death sentence.”

“You have no idea.”

Malfoy raises an eyebrow at this.

“Your false apologies mean nothing to me and I don’t want you here, so why don’t you just save yourself the trouble and leave.” Harry crosses his aching legs on the bed and sets his eyes on the wall ahead once more. Malfoy shifts uncomfortably on his feet.

“Look, Potter, when I did the Confundus I didn’t know that you’d go and do something stupid like that. I thought you’d get a bit confused and make an idiot of yourself.”

“Oh, come off it, Malfoy!” Harry shouts, his head whipping round to look Malfoy square in the yes. “You’ve had it in for me since day one!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Potter! If I’d wanted to kill you do you not think I’d have done it by now? It’s not as if I haven’t had the chance!”

“How do I know that? Why should I trust what you say when you’ve done nothing but try and make me miserable?”

“Because you didn’t see yourself when you were brought in here! I had to see...” Malfoy takes a deep breath and calms himself down. “I had to see you. I saw when they brought you in here. I saw the look in Pomfrey’s eyes when she watched you being carried in. Potter, I don’t mind saying that I don’t ever want to see that look again. I...I don’t have the constitution of my father, okay? You can take my apology or leave it, but I am sorry.”

Malfoy stands still, looking to the floor, while Harry’s eyes seem to bore into the blanket beneath him. When Harry doesn’t speak, Malfoy quietly sighs, wondering why it bothers him so much that Harry won’t accept his apology. When the infirmary door closes behind Malfoy, Harry can’t help but hang his head in shame. Just another thing to feel guilty about, he thinks. Little does he know, the same thing is running through Malfoy’s head as he stands outside the infirmary waiting for Madame Pomfrey to return. 

Half an hour passes and Malfoy hasn’t left his post outside the infirmary door. He slouches against the wall and eventually allows himself to sink to the floor, the cold stone sending a small shiver up his spine. So distracted by his own shoes, he doesn’t notice the black cloaked figure striding down the corridor towards him.

“Up, Mr Malfoy!” Snape’s voice cuts into the quiet like a dagger through a bed sheet and Malfoy jolts with surprise. Scrambling to his feet, he dusts down his trousers and stares up at Snape who is looking at him with a look of disappointment and unease.

“You’ve apologised to Mr Potter?” Snape barks curtly.

“Yes, Sir,” Malfoy replies, feeling small.

“And his reaction?”

“As expected.”

Snape sighs, looking down for a moment before locking his eyes back on Malfoy. 

“Very well. Go back to your dormitory and stay there until dinner,” he says and Malfoy nods before skulking off down the corridor.

Standing outside the infirmary, Snape is feeling unusually nervous. Keep your anger in check, Severus! But the boy holds an ability to rile him so easily that, at the time, he finds he cannot help matching the boy’s tone and volume. The difference is, you are an adult, he says to himself and decides to repeat it in his head like a mantra.

You are an adult. He breathes. You are an adult. He breathes again. Sucking in one, long, deep breath, he repeats it out loud this time, “You are an adult!” And with that, he opens the door of the infirmary, finding himself staring at the boy’s back. He strides in, closing the door behind him. The slight twitch of Harry’s head as the door clicks shut tells Snape that the boy is, indeed, awake. Other than this, Harry makes no move to acknowledge the presence of the professor – a decision that only irritates Snape to the point of repeating his mantra again in his head.

“Mr Potter, I suggest we forget about what happened before,” he grinds out, though it pains him to do so. Harry remains still, lying in the bed, facing the other way.

“I would appreciate it if you gave me the courtesy of looking at me when I’m talking to you.”

When Harry makes no effort to move, Snape stalks angrily round the other side of the bed, coming face to face with the boy. To his surprise, his eyes are closed.

He’s asleep. Typical, he thinks, his face inches from the sleeping boy’s. Without thinking, Snape sighs grumpily, a warm spicy breath hitting Harry in the face like a fist. The boy’s eyes snap open, startling Snape, before all hell breaks loose. 

Without thinking, Snape sighs grumpily, a warm spicy breath hitting Harry in the face like a fist. The boy’s eyes snap open, startling Snape, before all hell breaks loose.

A sharp intake of breath. An ungraceful swing of a fist. Knuckles colliding with nose. A pulse of blue light sending Snape across the room to hit the wall with a thump.

It only takes seconds for Harry to realise what he’s done. His hand throbs, his breaths are quick and his energy is even lower than before. The professor was inches from his face...now he is slouched, groaning on the infirmary floor, blood trickling from his nose. Oh God.

“Professor! Professor, are you alright? I’m sorry!”

Harry grunts as he pushes himself upright, and quickly scrambles out of bed. One step towards the professor, however, and he’s on the floor again, legs giving way beneath him. He tries to push himself into sitting position, but his eyes glaze, and with an exhausted sigh, the world spins on its axis before closing around him.

Blinking to clear his vision, Snape wipes the blood from his nose on the back of his hand. Potter hit me! He hit a professor! Wait until Dumbledore hears about –

But his thoughts are interrupted as the unconscious boy on the floor swims into his sight. Damn it, he thinks, but just as he is about to move to check the boy over, a gasp from the infirmary door startles him.

“Severus Snape!  What on Earth!” Madame Pomfrey circles the bed, stopping by Harry’s limp body. She waves her wand over him and sighs. “Poor boy is exhausted. Did he do magic? I told him not to do magic.” When Snape doesn’t reply, she finally looks at him, taking in his appearance. “Severus, why are you on the floor? What happened to your nose?”

“That blasted boy happened to it!”

“The boy is unconscious, how could he possibly –” she trails off, scooping her arm under Harry’s body. “Well don’t just sit there, Severus, give me a hand!”

Using the wall as a support, Snape drags himself into a standing position and once again wipes his nose on his sleeve to stop it from dripping. Waving Poppy away, Snape puts a meaty arm under Harry’s body and lifts him far too easily back onto the bed. After taking the opportunity to apply a layer of bruise salve on the boy’s back and neck, Poppy pulls the covers over his body and adjusts his pillow. When Snape makes no move to leave the infirmary, she cannot help but shoot him a quizzical look. Snape is too busy casting a scrutinising eye over the boy to even notice.

“Poppy, could you leave us?” he asks after a long moment, barely glancing away from Harry.

“What good could that possibly do? He isn’t awake,” she says, genuinely confused.

“I would like to be here when he wakes up. We have some things to talk about,” he sneers through habit more than anything.

“Severus Snape, this is my infirmary and I will not have you harassing my patients!”

“Poppy, I assure you I will not harm the boy! I merely have a few questions for him and I do think it may be harmful to him if I do not find the answers.”

“Did he tell you something? Something about his injuries? You must tell Albus if –”

“I know nothing more than the Headmaster already knows,” he interrupts. He tells himself he isn’t even lying. He doesn’t know anything. He may have some bubbling suspicions, but...no, the brat has probably been itching to hit me since first year; he just needed an excuse. But however adept at lying Severus Snape is, he is not convincing himself.

Poppy’s face is deathly stern.

“If you so much as pluck a hair from Mr Potter’s head –”

“I will do no such thing,” Snape replies, moving to the chair at Harry’s bedside and sitting himself down.

“Okay, but you will let me know when you are finished. He is not properly healed yet and it won’t do to exert him. Today is proof of that.” Poppy sends Snape one last warning glance before exiting the infirmary.

There is a strange silence when the door clicks shut behind her. As Snape looks at the scene before him, he frowns. There are lines etched in the boy’s face that shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t even look peaceful in sleep, Snape notices, but quickly berates himself for thinking it.

For all the patience he lacks in class, Snape sits in the chair for over an hour, simply waiting. Only after that hour does he begin to feel agitated. He sighs loudly, as if hoping the boy may wake to the noise, but he has no such luck. Looking away from Harry for the first time in minutes, he looks down and notices his hands shaking. He has noticed it a lot recently. The small bouts of trembling in his extremities; the abrupt mood swings; the waves of nausea that creep up on him. Thankfully, nothing has been as bad as the night he was expecting Harry for detention.

For a moment, he is so focused on himself that the movement in the bed fails to catch his eye. It is only slight, but Harry’s face draws in on itself causing the lines in his skin to deepen. It is only at the sudden sob of pain that Snape tears his attention from his hands and realises there is something wrong. Harry’s arms jerkily release themselves from the bed sheets and tense up so hard that they begin to shake uncontrollably.

Snape’s eyes widen and he gets up, intending to call Poppy, but then he hears it. The words are only quiet, but the silence of the infirmary means he can hear everything.

“N-nnngh...no...leave m’...” Harry murmurs, as the fidgeting in the bed grows more violent.

He’s having a nightmare, Snape realises. For a moment, Snape makes no move to do anything, hoping that the nightmare will just fizzle out like most of his do. It is only when Harry begins clawing at himself, dragging his nails down the skin on his cheeks, that Snape knows he should wake the boy up.

He moves to touch Harry’s shoulder, to shake him, but the crusty dried blood feeling in his nose reminds him that, before he does anything, it wouldn’t do any harm to restrain Harry’s arms.

Grabbing the boy by the wrists, he pins them down to the bed and quickly calls out to him.

“Potter!”

A little louder this time.

“Potter!”

The boy struggles harder, his breathing suddenly loud and erratic.

He’ll have a panic attack at this rate!

Gripping Harry’s wrists tighter, Snape pulls him into an upright position, watching the boy’s head loll to the side, still lost in the dream. Holding the his wrists together with one hand, he grabs Harry’s chin and swiftly pulls it up so they are face to face. He sucks in a deep breath.

“Mr Potter!” he bellows and Harry’s eyes widen to the size of bludgers. He tries to pull away, but Snape still has his wrists in a firm grip.

“W-w-what’s going on?” Harry stutters, catching his breath and trying to take in his surroundings. “W-what are you d-doing here?!”

Snape quickly lets go of his wrists, causing the boy to fall backwards in his bed. Forcing himself back into sitting position, Harry moves as far back from Snape as he can, before pinning him with a look of pure scepticism. Snape ignores the look and huffs, settling himself back down in the chair. Harry’s eyes watch his every move.

“You were having a nightmare, Mr Potter. Would you have preferred I left you to it? It looked as though you were enjoying yourself,” Snape sneers sarcastically, but he regrets it when he sees Harry’s face twist peculiarly, and seconds later, the boy is retching over the side of the bed.  

Merlin, this boy...Snape thinks, though he is not sure of his own emotions.

Awkwardly, he stands and quickly moves to the infirmary door, “I will fetch Madame Pomfrey –”

“No!” Harry says, coughing and struggling to get his breath back. “I’m fine now. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine, Mr Potter. Madame Pomfrey will want to know.”

“What? That you can’t handle a bit of vomit?” Harry doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but he has to say it. If Madame Pomfrey came, she’d make him take a calming draught and then he’d have to relive it all over again.

Snape spins on his heel and strides back to Harry’s bedside.

“I can assure you, Mr Potter, that I would not have survived the most part of my life if I could not handle the sight of various bodily fluids.” He quickly rounds the bed, muttering a swift scourgify at the vomit-covered floor, and sets himself back down in the seat. “I believe you have some explaining to do.”

“There is nothing to talk about,” Harry says, looking at his feet.

“Do you take me for an idiot, Mr Potter?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, Sir.”

“I did have some questions about what happened this afternoon, but it seems my curiosity is more interested in what happened this evening.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. I just had a bad dream.” Harry doesn’t look Snape in the eyes.

“And what exactly did you dream about?” When he gets no answer, he snaps. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Potter!”

The flinch he witnesses from the boy in the bed would normally make him happy, but today he’s not sure how he feels about it. When Harry’s eyes meet his, he notices the fear that glitters in them. He steels his features, calming himself down before continuing.

“Was it the Dark Lord?” Snape asks, figuring that to be the only thing that could affect the boy so intensely.

A slight pause.

“Yes. Yes, Professor.” Harry’s eyes sink back into his lap, hoping that Snape doesn’t realise he’s lying. 

“You are hiding something.”

Harry turns his head completely away from the Professor.

“Mr Potter, I am trained in deception, and I can tell that you are not telling me the truth –”

“What do you care anyway?!” Harry says, whipping his head round to meet the black orbs of Professor Snape. “I had a bad dream about Voldemort!” Snape flinches. “Just leave it at that!” Harry feels like the walls are curling in around him. Like there is nowhere to run.

Shifting in his seat, Snape takes a moment to compose himself and remembers Poppy’s warning about over exerting the boy.

“Okay. If that’s the way you want to play it, Potter, I will go back to what I originally wanted to discuss with you.”

There is a moment of silence as Snape thinks about what he is going to say. Harry can hear nothing but his own breathing, and it makes him nervous.

“You performed accidental magic this afternoon. You hit me in the nose. I would like to know why.”

Harry fiddles with his hands – something that doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Today, Mr Potter.”

“I...you startled me,” he says feebly.

“Mr Potter, my presence cannot be that alarming that it warrants an attack. Not to mention that accidental magic only occurs during times of intense need. Why did your magic feel the need to attack me?”

“I thought you were someone...I thought...” as if battling with himself, Harry draws a hand over his forehead and visibly deflates in the bed with a sigh, “you just made me jump. I’m a jumpy person. I have to be...you have to be on guard when you’re The Boy Who Lived.” He laughs weakly to himself. “I’m sorry I hit you, Professor. It wasn’t deliberate.”

Though Snape does not accept the apology, Harry feels slightly better for saying it.

The air grows tense as minutes go by without either of them saying a word.

“Madame Pomfrey tended to your bruises while you were sleeping. She will be back shortly to do it again, I’ve no doubt.”

Surprised, Harry looks at Snape from the corner of his eye.

This is Snape, he doesn’t do small talk. What’s he playing at?

Not willing to join in whatever game Snape is trying to involve him in, he sits in silence hoping that the Professor will leave.

Instead, Snape sits backward in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. Having had enough of the silence, Snape exhales loudly and addresses Harry in the bluntest way possibly.

Avoidance did not work as planned, so perhaps directness might.

“Mr Potter, however much I would like to think the contrary, you are not an idiot. The Headmaster is anxious to know how your injuries came about and I am sure you have not forgotten that you are yet to divulge any information regarding the state you are in.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it –”

“Enough of this melodrama. You will have to talk about it. When you are ready, the Headmaster will be there for you, though I suggest you get ready sooner rather than later, else people’s patience with you might just run out. Merlin knows you test my patience enough.”

Harry’s face grows hot with anger. “I don’t need to talk to anyone. You can’t make me talk about it!”

“On the contrary, Potter, there are several ways to make you talk.”

“Why do you have to be such a git all the time?!” Harry blurts out, his chin quivering with rage. “I just want to forget about it! Okay?”

“Forget about what?”

“About him!” he screams. “A- about...” Harry’s face quickly drains of any colour and he finds himself hunched over the side of the bed again, painfully coughing up bile, but nothing else. He can barely feel the tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Snape is surprised. He didn’t think he could trick the boy.

But he is tired. His guard is down. Hardly an accomplishment, Severus, he admonishes himself. Look at him. This could never be called an accomplishment.

A strange feeling of guilt washes over him as he eyes the boy, watching him try to gain control of himself, but obviously not willing to show his weakness to his most hated Professor. Standing up, Snape walks around the bed and stands in front of Harry who has his head bowed, trying to catch a breath.

“You said him. Who is he?” Snape asks in a low whisper, schooling his expression.  

Harry says nothing, but Snape can hear the grating sound as the boy tries to suck some air into his lungs.

“Mr Potter,” he says, noticing the boy’s chest rising and falling faster than it should, “who is he?”

Seconds later, Harry’s head whips up, red-faced, his eyes full of panic. When his hands begin to grab at his chest and his throat, and a strangled sound escapes, Snape realises that the boy seriously can’t breathe. He remembers a similar scene from when he was a child. He remembers the feeling of never being able to catch a breath. He remembers wondering if he would die.

Where is Poppy when you need her? he thinks, realising that this is something he is going to have to deal with. After a deep breath, his mind instantly reverts into healer mode.

Rushing into Poppy’s storeroom, he finds the calming draught, but realises that it won’t help until the boy’s airways are opened again. He pockets the draught and remembers something his mother used to do for him. He cannot believe he is about to do it for someone else.

Climbing onto the bed, he sits behind the boy, taking him under the arms and manoeuvring them both so that Harry’s back is against his chest. To stop the boy from clawing at himself, he holds Harry’s arms to his sides and begins speaking into his ear.

“You need to calm down, Potter. Feel my chest behind you. Try to feel it rise and fall. Feel it and match it,” he says, closing his eyes, willing the boy to listen to him. “You need to breathe, slowly, calmly, like me. Feel me breathing. Now try it. Feel it and move with it.”

Hearing himself repeat his mother’s words takes him back to the times her embrace meant the world to him. It was those times that he really felt the world had a place for him. The more he thinks of her, the calmer his voice becomes.

“Feel my breathing. Breathe like me. That’s it. Breathe. Let the air in. Breathe. Breathe. That’s it.”

As he repeats himself, he feels Harry’s arms stop struggling. He feels the juddering breaths subside. He hears the air flow freely in and out of the boy’s lungs. When their breaths fall in unison, Snape opens his eyes again. For a long moment, they sit in quiet relief.

“Better?” Snape finally says.

Harry can do nothing but nod.

Moments later, though Harry barely registers it, Snape is fire-calling Madame Pomfrey.

“She will be here momentarily,” he says gruffly in Harry’s direction, “get some rest.” Snape watches as Harry wordlessly sinks down into his bed, but as he leaves the infirmary, he doesn’t miss the whisper of a thank you that reaches his ears just before the door closes behind him. 

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. 

The clock chimes in Snape’s quarters, signalling the end of lunch, not that he has been able to eat anything. He gets up, heading automatically for his Potions classroom, but seeing nothing along the way. He tries to block out the thoughts that keep returning and to focus on Potions, but every footfall echoes Poppy is right, Poppy is right, Poppy is right off the castle walls. He knows now more than ever that, despite himself, he is going to have to talk to the boy sooner rather than later and – although it fills him with a great deal of discomfort – he decides the best time will be after his Potions lesson.

He pauses outside his classroom door, listening to the inane chattering of students from inside. Part of him wonders just how he is going to get through the lesson when his mind can’t focus on anything it should be focusing on. Taking in a deep breath, he smoothes out his robes and does the only thing that comes naturally to him. Throwing the door open, he storms in, robes billowing, with a scowl drawn firmly across his features.

“Today,” he says, “we will – Longbottom, cease your fidgeting before I decide to take points! – we will not be doing any practical brewing. Since last year’s essays were consistently poor, we will spend some time concentrating on theory. I will not, however, be wasting my time standing here talking to myself for the entire lesson. I am more interested in what you know.”

As he’s speaking his eyes catch a shock of unruly raven hair. The boy isn’t paying attention, instead scratching words onto his parchment, not even looking up once. He averts his eyes, focusing his attention on Draco Malfoy instead who, thankfully, is staying quiet.

Start as you mean to go on, he thinks, hoping that Draco won’t go back on his word. 

“So, for this lesson, I will give you the name of three ingredients and I expect you to write as much as you know about each including what potions they can be used in and what effects they have. There will be no talking and no conferring. Your ingredients are boomslang skin, fluxweed and – Mr Longbottom, write these down! That goes for everybody – and hellebore.”

The entire class sit gawping at him, expecting more, so Snape growls under his breath.

“Get to it!” The sound of rustling parchment and scratching quills fills the room. Snape takes his seat behind his desk at the front of the class and immediately berates himself for not bringing any papers to grade or anything else to occupy him. Instead, he is left to survey the class and drown in his own thoughts.  

Harry’s eyes scan the parchment in front of him. There’s no way he can concentrate with that man in the room, knowing what the man knows and how easy it would be for him to let something slip.

Fluxweed...what is fluxweed used for. I know this.

But no, his mind isn’t going to work.

Every passing second, his heart bounces out of time, becoming more and more anxious that the people around him are scratching away at their parchments, but his is undeniably blank. Every scraping of a quill sets his teeth on edge. His eyes flick around the room, just for a moment, and he sinks back into his chair as he notices that even Ron has managed an entire paragraph and is still writing away.

Pressing his quill into the parchment, his hand is poised to write in the vague hope that something will just pop into his head. He looks up hoping to find inspiration on Snape’s shelves, but his gaze is stolen as Snape’s dark eyes pierce his own. At first glance, the man’s face is stoic and indifferent, but the tell is in the tiny wrinkle set between his eyes; Snape is thinking, contemplating.

Harry visibly and audibly gulps. Snape looks away.

“Alright, mate?” Ron drags Harry’s attention from the front of the class. Harry nods emphatically and looks back to his parchment. “Why was he looking at you?” Ron says, confused. Harry has to think about it.

Snape knows something’s happened to me. I don’t want him to know, but he does know, and he still doesn’t give a damn. Why was he looking at me? Probably just making sure I don’t tell anyone about the other night. He’s probably trying to think of a way to keep me quiet about it.

Harry’s jaw clenches. He feels a tiny bubble of anger growing in his belly and he realises that, yes, it does anger him and upset him that Snape knows – he must know – that something is wrong, but he, just like everybody else, is more than willing to turn a blind eye.

They won’t turn a blind eye when I wind up dead, Harry thinks, or maybe they will.

“Harry?” Ron whispers, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry’s jaw tightens further. “Because he’s a git.”

The scratching of quills comes to a halt.

Apparently, that was too loud.

Snape looks at him with an unreadable expression. The Slytherins fill with glee, looking to their head of house expectantly. All except Draco Malfoy, whose expression is a mixture of shock and unease.

“See me after class, Mr Potter,” Snape says in his deadliest voice, but secretly he realises it will give him the perfect opportunity to speak to the boy alone.

Harry grits his teeth and looks down at his parchment.

“Fine, Sir.”

He knows his Slytherins expect more – that punishing the Gryffindor Boy Who Lived was almost always a given in his classes – but Snape can’t do it. Yes, the blatant disrespect would usually drive him up the wall, but he could detect a modicum of fear in the boy’s voice. It quickly dawns on him that perhaps this is what the boy wants. He wants to create an argument, wants to cause a scene and to get everything back to normal, back to when his hated potions professor wasn’t being half-way nice to him. Possibly even back to the point when Harry didn’t need help in the first place.

Snape remembers his conversation with Draco and inwardly sighs. Taking his own advice, it seems that he, too, will have to rise above everything.

“Back to work. I want to hear nothing but quills on parchment,” he says curtly.

The Slytherins deflate at the anticlimax of the whole situation. 

Sitting at his desk, Harry dwells on the previous situation. Snape could have been harsher, but Harry dreads the idea of another one to one with him.

Bastard couldn’t give a damn about me. No one does.  

His head churns over the events of the past few days.

Dumbledore knows. Snape knows. Pomfrey knows...they all know. Of course they do. They all saw...how can they not know? But I’m here to kill Voldemort. That’s all I’m here to do and if I can still do that, what does it matter what happens to me elsewhere? As long as I’m still alive, I’m useful. I’m a tool. I’m The Boy Who Lived now, but what about when Voldemort’s gone? What if I fail?

The question lingers on his mind and a thought surfaces.

Maybe it would be better if I did.

A tidal wave sloshes behind his eyes as the realisation hits: he is no one. He will be no one when Voldemort is gone, and he will be no one if he fails. He is no one to everyone and that’s the way it’s always been. 

It is moments until the class is over and Snape is stalling. He has to dismiss the class and collect in their assignments, but the sooner he does that, the sooner his uncomfortable conversation with Harry will have to happen. His muscles are tense and he can feel his furrowed brow deepening as the seconds tick on. His rigid posture is matched perfectly to the fidgeting boy at the front of the class.

As the clock passes the hour, Snape realises he cannot make everybody else late for their classes, and quickly stands at his desk.

“Time is up. Finish your sentences and bring your parchments to me, then you may leave.” The room erupts into noise and as students pack away their things, milling about the classroom and putting their assignments on his desk, Snape finds it difficult to keep an eye on the boy. Peering through the crowds and seeing Harry furiously stuffing his books into his bag, Snape calls loudly to him over the sounds of people shuffling out of the room.

“Potter, I said stay behind!”

When Harry doesn’t answer, Hermione gives him a nudge, but he shrugs her off, packing the last of his books away.

Snape’s gaze narrows as Harry looks up and stares him dead in the eyes, face full of anguish. Furiously, Harry tugs the zip over his rucksack, slings it over one should and bolts for the door.

Snape’s wand is out within a matter of seconds, but the crowd of students leaving the classroom is too big for him to shut and lock the door with accurate aim.

“Come back here, Potter!” Snape shouts, rounding his desk and purposefully storming through the crowd after the boy. Turning down the hall, he just catches a glimpse of Harry’s hair rounding the corner. “Potter,” he snaps, his voice echoing down the hall, stopping students in their tracks.

Gaining on him, Snape strides faster and faster, each footfall hitting the stone floor with an almighty thud.

He is but steps behind the boy when he hears running and whispering coming up behind him.

Granger and Weasley. Just great, he thinks.

Watching the students around him jump out of the way, he quickens the pace again, and the boy is almost within reaching distance. At this point, Snape has almost forgotten the reason he wants to speak to the Harry in the first place.

Only now noticing the crowd that’s formed behind him, Snape turns and snaps a quick, “Get to your classes!” at them. “That includes you, Granger,” he says, seeing a bushy lock of hair failing to hide around the corner, “and take Weasley with you too. Five points from Gryffindor for spying.”

Pushing forward in the now empty corridor, he bellows in his deadliest voice, “Mr Potter! Take one more step and you will serve detention with me until you graduate from this school!”

Harry keeps going...and going...and going.

Snape keeps walking...and stepping...and quickening the pace.

One extra long stride.

A swipe of the hand.

Fingers catch the back of Harry’s jumper, yanking him to a halt.

Snape grabs him by the arm, spinning the boy round to face him, but the reaction is not what he expects. 

Harry’s ashen face shakes with pent up emotion as he twists himself free and furiously shoves Snape backwards with both hands.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouts, stepping away from Snape. “Don’t you dare touch me! You have no idea!”

Snape, now a mix of startled, confused and livid, takes a menacing step towards Harry’s shaking wreck of a form. “Mr Potter, I suggest you explain yourself or –”

“Or what?” Harry cries, verging on hysterical. “I don’t want to talk to you or anybody! I know my place. I know why I’m here, okay? I have a job to do and I’ll do it, but not for you or anyone else! I don’t owe anything to anyone! When I came here, I thought – I thought this was it, this was my new home. I thought I’d be happy here!” His voice cracks, but he powers through. “Instead, I’ve be taken from one shit world and thrown into another!”

A tear teetering on the edge of his eye, Harry swallows thickly, drops his head and begins to walk away. For a moment, Snape hesitates, not sure if he is the best person to follow or not, but when the boy takes a sudden turn out of the castle, Snape’s mind is made up. He vowed to protect Lily’s son, and that is what he will do.

Storming out of the castle, Harry makes his way down the green towards the Whomping Willow. The sky overhead seems to grumble and as Harry’s pace quickens, so the clouds unleash a torrent of rain that hits the ground with the sound of white noise. He doesn’t realise he is being followed until, in true Snape style, a low voice startles him from behind.

“Mr Malfoy told me about your family.”

That’s all it takes to stop Harry in his tracks. He doesn’t turn around. His shoulders hunch as the rain soaking his hair trickles uncomfortably down the back of his neck. From the outside, he is frozen, but his insides are clenching and churning like grating cogs in an old machine. His heart pounds so hard that he can feel it bouncing under his skin. A squelch in the grass behind him tells him that Snape is standing a stride or two away, and he can only squeeze his eyes closed and hope that Snape’s notorious impatience comes to his aid and the professor issues more detentions before leaving him well alone. But as the silence drags on, Harry doesn’t hear retreating footsteps – Snape doesn’t move an inch. Instead, the rain roars in Harry’s ears and he considers running until his legs can’t take anymore.

He can’t know anything. He doesn’t know anything. I haven’t told anyone. He’s lying. He’s lying.

“There’s,” he swallows hard to dislodge the lump in his throat, “there’s nothing to tell.” Rain drips down from his fringe onto his cheeks. There is another squelch in the grass.

“Potter, look at me.” But Harry isn’t sure he can look at him even if he wanted to. One look, dead in the eyes, and Snape will know he’s lying.

Malfoy said it himself, he’s a Slytherin, they can tell liars from a mile off. Oh God, please go away. Please, Snape, leave me alone. Please.

Harry looks to his feet and then to the grass in front of him, and soon his feet begin moving again. He walks and stumbles his way forward, shoulders hunched from the cold and arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

Another squelch in the grass behind him, and then another.

“Potter, I do not want to ask you again.” Snape’s voice is authoritative as usual, but somehow softer. Though he is obviously being deadly serious, there is no malice in his words. “You cannot run from this forever.” 

Harry slows down, his heartstrings pulling him from the inside out. He comes to a stop, so much of him wishing to set the story straight, to rid himself of the misery lurking beneath his skin, but the shame of it all keeps the words from coming out.

There is a moment of silence and momentarily Harry’s head lolls forward as he clenches his fists to hide the obvious tremble. Snape thinks he’s done it, thinks he’s managed to get Harry to understand. Taking another step behind him, Snape holds out a tense hand, hoping to come across as reassuring. His fingers brush Harry’s shoulder, but on contact, the hairs prickle fiercely on his arm and a strange and sudden despair washes over him, down his body and out again through his boots. The sensation, though fleeting, was akin to what he had felt the night he’d been expecting Harry for his detention.

“Potter –”, Snape gasps.

“No.” Harry instantly takes off, running towards the Whomping Willow, feet slipping in on the wet grass.

Snape’s legs move before he consciously realises he’s following the boy. Seeing where he’s heading, Snape shouts, “Potter, stop!” as he gets ever closer to the willow tree. Despite his soaking wet cloak and the mud being kicked up by his boots, Snape runs faster, and reaches a hand out in front of himself. Unlike Harry, he manages to keep steady on the sodden grass, so within moments, he’s close enough grip Harry’s sleeve and yank him backwards. As Snape loses his grip, the force of it causes Harry to slip to the floor, but he quickly scrambles to his feet again. Snape, however, makes a grab for Harry’s collar.

He twists the boy round so they are face to face, but Harry can’t meet the man’s eyes. His hands grapple with Snape’s, panting as he tries but fails to undo the man’s tight grip.

“Stop this at once, Potter!” Harry pays him no heed, trying to break free as his breaths quicken. “There is no more running! No more getting away from this! You have to talk to –”

“No!” Harry wails, still pulling away from Snape. “No, no, no! You don’t understand! He’ll kill me! Murder me! What will happen to the wizarding world then?”

At that, Snape’s grip momentarily loosens. There was more revealed in those few words than he cared to imagine. No, Snape did not know the extent, but the boy’s words were clear. He was frightened of his family.

Nobody should be that frightened of their own flesh and blood. Snape knew that all too well.

Twisting free, Harry’s anguished face turns away as he heads, once again, for the Whomping Willow. As he reaches the perimeter of the tree, noticing Snape advancing on him, he dashes underneath the canopy, and to Snape’s astonishment, the tree barely moves.

“If I’m going to die,” Harry says quietly, sitting down and leaning against the trunk of the tree, “I’d rather be off’d by Voldemort than him.” His voice is almost drowned out by the rain, but Snape heard everything. He does not want to imagine who him is, but he has a fairly good idea. Snape watches as a cold shiver works its way through Harry’s body.

“Potter, you need to come inside,” he says warily as he slows the pace and approaches the tree.

Harry looks to his lap, his breaths coming too quick, and the odd tear spilling from his eye and mixing with the rain.

Irritation sparks in Snape as he is ignored. “This is silly!” he says, straightening up and striding towards Harry, “You’re coming insi –”

*Thwack!*

The willow, whilst dormant before, creaks into motion, a thick branch sending Snape flying backwards and another branch protectively curling around Harry’s waist.

Snape sits up on the muddy grass, groaning, and for a second he can’t fathom what has just happened. Picking himself up, he waits for his eyes to focus again, and watches in awe as the tree seems to hug the boy. As he steps forward, he can almost feel the tension emanating from it.

Harry’s eyes are downcast, but Snape can see his chest heaving. The boy’s hands are trembling. Another step towards the tree and Snape suddenly finds himself having to duck in order to dodge another branch. The tree is so alert that he doesn’t even think he could get close enough to reach the knot without risking his own head.

But the boy is suffering, Snape can see it. Perhaps I’ve pushed him too far? But no, he quickly dismisses that idea when he thinks back to all the boy has withstood in the past.

The rain drips from Snape’s lank hair, but to him the rain may as well not exist. His focus is on nothing but the boy in front of him, the boy that seems to be changing in his eyes every moment he looks at him.

“You need to speak to somebody!” Snape says sharply and loudly. “Professor Dumbledore needs to hear it.” Harry begins fiercely shaking his head. “The sooner you tell somebody, the sooner they can do something about it –”

“Don’t! Don’t you even dare make out like this is me, like I’ve not done anything to stop it! I’ve told people. If you think they’d want to even get involved, you’re as deluded as I was.”

Snape stands, silently, shocked by the sudden raw emotion in Harry’s eyes as they steal his gaze.

“To stop what, Potter?”

Harry goes rigid. The tree instinctively tightens its hold on him.  

“Wha...you...Stop it. You know what. Stop messing with me.”

“No, I don’t know. Say it. Whatever it is, say it.”

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not play me for a fool, boy.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Hit a nerve?” Snape drawls, though his voice is tinged with apprehension.

They stare, neither relenting, both sticking to their guns. Snape thinks briefly that perhaps he’s pushing too hard again, but decides that any reaction is a good one, considering how quiet Harry has been about everything.

With a gulp, Snape continues, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “You can hide from this now, but it will catch up with you, and the longer you leave it, the harder it will crash down on you when it does.” Harry drops his gaze, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “You more than anybody should know when somebody is doing wrong by you. Imagine if somebody else was in your position, whatever position that may be. What advice would you give to them?” Snape is spurred on by Harry’s silence. “What if it was Granger, or Weasley? What if somebody else was in your shoes?”

“But they aren’t! And that’s the point! In case you’ve forgotten Snape, these are my shoes, my stupid shoes and they make me completely different to anybody else! My entire situation is different.”

“Potter, look. Yes, you have certain responsibilities that others do not have. Though I am loathed to admit it, you have more on your shoulders than any teenager should have and I do not envy you that, but right now, right here in this moment, you are a child, and you, like any child, deserve to be treated properly, and I am starting to suspect you have been treated otherwise.”

A moment passes and Snape notices that the rain has eased. Though he cannot get close enough to gauge the expression on Harry’s face, he can see the boy is struggling to hold his lips in a straight line.

When Harry speaks, his voice is small, and his eyes remain downcast. “At least the Dursleys are honest,” he says, taking a deep breath. “They hate me. I don’t like it, but it’s easier than being here and knowing everyone is lying to me.”

“Potter, know this.  It will not be made better by you hiding away and catching your death out here. You need to come inside.” He takes a slight step forward, but the creaking of the tree stops him in his tracks. With a deep breath, he adds, “Madam Pomfrey should not be pleased to see you back in the infirmary so soon.”

A long silence stretched between them as Harry’s thoughts wage war with each other, and Snape fights the urge to try his luck and pull Harry out of the tree’s grasp himself. Losing his patience, Snape says seriously, “Do you want to get sick again?”

All of a sudden, the tree relinquishes its grip on Harry, uncurling from his waist and restoring itself to its original shape. Shakily, Harry stands, using the tree trunk to steady himself. Snape edges towards him and the tree, surprisingly, does not move, almost as if it is allowing him access to the boy. A few cautious steps forward and Snape straightens himself up. He reaches a hand out to take hold of Harry’s arm, but Harry shrugs him off, and the tree groans out a warning. Silently, they walk away from the willow and towards the castle. Snape stays a step in front of Harry, but keeps track out of him from the corner of his eye. Harry keeps his eyes downcast the whole time, refusing to look up once, choosing only to follow the direction of the Potions professor’s shoes.   

As they step back into the castle, Snape scowls at the few students in the corridor, who quickly scurry away, and they walk through the halls in the same silence as before. Though his face tells no tales, the cogs in Snape’s head are in overdrive, for he hadn’t thought ahead of getting the boy indoors. So many directions to walk, so many paths to steer the boy down...but Snape has a feeling that each will lead to his door eventually. Dumbledore will make sure of that. 

The air is thick with bottled emotions and words unsaid and Harry’s fingers tremble despite himself. As he follows behind Snape, he tries to take his mind off of the situation by focussing on the back and forth motion of Snape’s robes as he marches forth down the hall. He counts to twenty swooshes and then his eyes momentarily flick upwards as they round a corner. Harry knits his brow with anxious confusion.

“W-where are we going? I thought you’d be taking me to Dumbledore’s office?” He can’t keep his voice from rising in pitch as he suddenly feels doubly apprehensive.

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter. And do you not think you had best be warmed up first? The last thing you need is hypothermia again. And nor do I.”

Harry slows down, dropping further behind Snape. “So why aren’t we going to the hospital wing?”

Snape stops mid-corridor and turns to face him with a look of indifference tinged with impatience on his face. His voice, however, is unusually soft. “I think Madam Pomfrey has seen enough of you for the year, let alone the term, don’t you?”

For a moment, Harry searches the professor’s face, watching as Snape’s wet hair drips occasionally onto his long nose. He isn’t sure whether he should feel grateful or not to Snape for not taking him to Dumbledore, but he quickly reminds himself that Snape hasn’t taken him to see Dumbledore yet. He frowns solemnly at the thought and a cold chill rattles through his bones. He knows Snape is right, that he can’t run forever, but he isn’t ready – doesn’t know if he ever will be – and the thought of rejection, or repercussions, of spilling it all and then being forced back with his family again...he can’t do it. But then he takes in the person in front of him, his most hated professor, and his mind feels overwhelmed. Here, before him, is the man that he thought hated him, soaking wet, cold, probably in a small amount of pain after being attacked by the Whomping Willow. All for him.

As Snape turns back and begins marching again towards the dungeons, Harry follows telling himself it is only because he does not want to get sick again. The one thing he is thankful for is the lack of other students roaming the corridors. He realises, at this point, that it must be lunchtime, but he isn’t hungry at all.  

It’s dark in the dungeons as Harry walks with Snape, the only light coming from the odd flickering candle on the wall. Momentarily, through the haze of what has just happened and what is yet to come, Harry’s mind wanders. He begins to wonder whether Snape is the way he is because he spends all his life in the dark. As a cold chill creep up his spine, he realises just how depressing it must be to live in such a place.

Snape comes to a sudden halt and Harry, lost in his own thoughts, nearly careens right into him. As Snape mutters a word under his breath, a door swings open and he curtly orders Harry to enter. Harry’s mind races, unable to think any longer about anything else other than what he is entering into. The door to Snape’s quarters closes behind him with a bang and, somehow, everything becomes both real and unreal simultaneously. Barely having time to take stock of the place, two vials are promptly thrust under Harry’s nose.

“Take the warming potion first, followed by the calming draught –” Snape says.

“I don’t need to calm down,” Harry replies tersely, but the croak in his voice betrays him and Snape’s brow furrows as he looks at Harry as he would at a potion that isn’t behaving as it should.

Perhaps I should calm down. Maybe it will help me control myself a bit...Harry thinks before conceding and downing the potions one after the other.

Snape is still scrutinising him with that look and Harry soon feels uncomfortable.

“I think I’d like to go back to the tower now, Sir.” He is surprised at how small his voice sounds.

“Sit, Mr Potter,” Snape replies as though he didn’t hear Harry at all.

“Sir,” Harry says, closing his eyes and exhaling to keep himself from saying something out of turn, “I would very much like to leave.”

“Sit.”

“What for?” he asks, his tone more petulant than intended.

“Sit down and you will find out.” Snape’s deep voice leaves little room for argument.

Looking at his professor warily, Harry takes a seat on the sofa, leaning forward, his bottom barely on the cushion as though he is ready, any minute, to bolt for the door. Snape’s robes billow as he moves towards an old armchair directly opposite the sofa. As he sits down, the chair creaks ominously and it suddenly becomes apparent just how deathly quiet Snape’s quarters are. They sit in unsettling silence and Harry puts the empty potion vials on the coffee table, the clink of glass on glass permeating the thick air.

As Harry’s form sits tense and defiant on the sofa, Snape’s eyes never wander from the boy’s face.

Potter is not himself, Snape thinks, that much is evident. He is too pale, too withdrawn. He is aware I know he’s hiding something. And the worst thing Snape notices is that Harry’s green eyes hold none of the zest for life that Lily’s ever did. Snape’s gut twists in discomfort.

“What is going on with you, Potter?” Snape asks seriously, cocking his head to the side. Harry keeps his gaze averted, squeezing his hands between his legs to hide the slight trembling. His lips remain closed. “I expect an answer. You are clearly not yourself.” Harry still stays quiet, hoping that Snape will just let him go when his patience runs out. “Potter, it seems that the Headmaster’s soft approach has not had the desired effect, so I will be blunt. You returned to Hogwarts with a number of very serious and very questionable injuries. Your injuries are old – most were in a state of healing by the time we discovered them, though the sight was still far from pretty. What caused them?”

Harry’s body goes rigid. He looks up, momentarily stunned by Snape’s directness. Everybody else was so evasive. No one ever said what they meant, but Snape was different, always had been. Harry mentally berates himself for not being prepared. Even just the thought of the professor’s question makes him feel queasy. He sucks in a breath, thinking of an answer, a lie, anything to take Snape’s attention away from what he’s hiding, but his mouth dries out and suddenly speaking is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do. Snape’s eyes remain on him, blinking occasionally but otherwise the professor’s gaze never falters.

Snape changes his position in his chair, leaning forward with a calculating hand on his chin. His voice drops a few decibels. “Would it be more fitting if I ask who?”  

Harry tries to ignore the question, even though his heart begins boxing against his ribcage. His eyes flit wildly as he attempts to quell the sick feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to talk about anything anymore. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. Even licking his parched lips is impossible. His eyes suddenly flit past Snape’s intense gaze and are dragged in. For a moment, it feels impossible to rip his attention away and all he can see is impatience mounting behind Snape’s dark orbs. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor,” Harry manages.

“You know exactly what I mean. You cannot expect to be seen looking like you’ve been ravaged by a werewolf and have people turn a blind eye.”

Harry’s eyes flash. “Why not? They always have before, why not now?”

“Are you honestly that dim-witted, or do you enjoy being intentionally dense? Nobody is turning a blind eye now. You owe many people an explanation, least of all myself after your display this afternoon!”

“My display? You think –” Harry rips his hands from between his legs and runs one through his damp hair. He shakes his head vigorously and a quiet, sad laugh escapes his lips. “You really are blind, Professor. You all are.”

“If that is so, Potter, enlighten me. Explain,” Snape implores, dragging out the last word to drill it into Harry’s head.

Harry snaps his mouth closed, furiously puffing a hot breath through his nose. He doesn’t want to explain, he just wants the professor to leave him the hell alone. I’m doing just fine, just fine! I don’t need this...I don’t need any of them. I’ve been fine without them all this time, Harry thinks, but a little voice in the back of his mind questions him. Have you really been fine, Harry?         

The room is still. Snape doesn’t even blink. To Harry, it seems the only thing moving is his heart as it bounces painfully inside of him. Suddenly Snape stands, his robes curling around him in a smooth motion as he marches back towards the door.  

“If you refuse to talk to me, there is little point in you inhabiting my quarters any longer,” Snape says, pulling the door open. For a moment, Harry feels a glimmer of hope – he’s letting me go!  – but it is quickly dashed. “Come. I will take you to the Headmaster’s office.”

“Wait, what? No! You can’t make me go.”

Snape stalks towards him. Harry scoots back in his seat. “There are plenty of ways I can make you go, Potter,” he says slowly. “Now, you have a choice, you speak to me or the headmaster. As I told you, you cannot run from this. I will not allow you to. Whatever it is, it is obviously causing you distress, so the decision is yours.”

When Harry doesn’t move, Snape takes this as his answer. He won’t be taking Harry to see the headmaster, not tonight – Dumbledore asked him to help and he will do his utmost to do it and to do it right. Keeping his temper in check, however, is proving to be difficult. He isn’t a patient man at the best of times and his feelings about Harry are conflicting too...on the one hand, the boy’s face reminds him of everything he lost in his youth, but on the other hand, when he looks closer into those green eyes, he sees the person who made him the closest to happy he’d ever been. The eyes may be vacant at the moment, but Snape knew she was still in there somewhere.

Snape moves back to his seat and sits pensively on the edge.

“At least answer me this, Potter. I know somebody hurt you. Did you get in a fight with a muggle gang...or was it someone closer to home?”

Harry isn’t stupid. There is something knowing in Snape’s voice and he feels his chest tighten. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s eyes are unblinking, wide as saucers. His breaths quicken.

What does he know? How does he know?

“You said he’d kill you.”

“Yeah, well. I was upset. Exaggerating,” Harry says erratically. The empty vials on the coffee table rattle.

“So he won’t kill you,” Snape says evenly, “he’ll just get the belt out.”

Harry’s eyes snap upwards. “No, that...that’s not even –”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Potter –”

“You don’t know what you’re –”

“Who is he?” Snape presses vehemently.

“Leave it alone!”

“Who is he?”

“No one, alright!” Harry shouts, standing abruptly from his seat just as the vials shatter, the sound of breaking glass splitting through the tension. Harry’s fingers curl into fists as he stands there shaking with emotion. At first, Snape’s eyes look murderous, but they quickly soften, much to Harry’s shock and surprise.

Snape can feel his own temper wavering inside of him. He tries to keep calm, but it unravels so easily when Harry is concerned. He has to keep reminding himself of his suspicions as to why Harry is behaving as he is – only then, and with a deep breath, can he relax and re-gather his patience.

“Potter, sit down and calm down. You must have known this conversation would happen eventually. This is not the kind of thing any professor at Hogwarts can just ignore. Somebody has been hurting you,” Snape says and waves a hand to stop Harry from interrupting, “physically injuring you, Potter. Abusing you. A child.” He ignores Harry’s flinch. “There is no excuse for it.”

Harry looks down at his feet. A lump forms in his throat and he feels his eyes prickle. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but keeps his eyes looking anywhere but at Snape. He already knows it’s wrong, so why does hearing it make him feel so damn unhappy?

“Why are you protecting him?!” Snape says forcefully.   

Harry sniffles and gulps, still keeping his gaze averted. He knows Snape is speaking the truth, and all he wants to do in that moment is spill it all and hope to finally shed some of the weight making his heart heavy. But then reality sets in.

What happens when they stop believing me? What happened if they don’t believe me in the first place? It’ll be straight back to the Dursleys again, Harry thinks miserably and shudders. He doesn’t think he could handle that.

“May I go back to the tower now, Sir?” Harry asks quietly. Snape’s eyebrows knit together as his face takes on an expression of pure disbelief.

“Have you listened to a word I’ve –”

“My friends will be wondering where I am,” he replies blankly, keeping his eyes downcast. The sudden sweeping motion of a cloak startles him.

“Forget about your friends, Potter, and focus on yourself for a change!”

Snape’s form is suddenly bearing down on him. The man’s words don’t even register in his mind and before he can help himself, he recoils, pushing his body as far back into the chair as it will go as if to avoid a blow. The vision of Him flashes in front of Harry only for a split second, but it’s enough to rip the air from his lungs.

Snape steps back, shocked at the reaction. There is no doubt in his mind at that point. Harry’s reaction tells him two things – that the boy had lived with the abuse long enough to become accustomed to it and that he expected it.

It takes Harry just seconds to recognize what he’s done. His eyes lock together with Snape’s, and the man’s expression scares him. Harry knows that in his actions he’s just admitted more than he ever wanted to, and to Snape of all people. The full realisation of what’s he’s inadvertently revealed comes crashing down on him like a barrage of bludgers. Painful. Suffocating. Like a startled deer, Harry bolts for the door, leaving a stunned Snape in his wake. 

He runs blindly. It doesn’t even enter his head where he’s running, but his feet seem to know where to take him. His chest heaves, but he puts his all into just making sure his legs keep moving. Not once does he even check if he’s being followed, but at the frantic speed he’s running, he’s sure Snape wouldn’t be able to keep up. Leaving the dungeons, he notices briefly that there are a few people milling around, but he runs so fast that their faces are a blur. He vaguely notices his breaths coming out in loud wheezes, and begins hoping it just sounds louder in his ears than it does to everyone else. He slows down when he reaches Gryffindor Tower, just enough to mutter the password and slide through the portrait as it opens up.

Like a blinkered horse he bolts through the common room, completely unhearing as someone calls his name. With legs like jelly, he takes the stairs two steps at a time until he reaches his room. When he gets inside, he comes to an abrupt halt. There’s no one there, he is thankful for that, but in the silence he can hear his rapid breathing as the air grates up and down his windpipe like sandpaper. Taking a wobbly step towards his bed, he goes to sit down, but ends up sliding onto the floor next to it instead. One hand flies to his chest as the other grips the knee of his trousers as if just holding on to something can give him some control over the situation, but the tighter he grips, the worse it seems to get.

He tries to calm down, tries to think of anything to get his breathing back to normal, but his chest constricts painfully and the more he tries to make it better, the more panicked he gets that it’s not working.

“Harry?” a voice calls, but it sounds so far away. “Harry!” someone calls again, this time louder but still muffled as if someone has stuffed cotton wool into his ears. His heavy head feels like a dead weight on his shoulders until a hand tilts his chin upwards and, through the blur of tears in his eyes, he notices Ron’s red hair and concerned face staring at him. The sight of his friend grounds him. Still struggling, Harry reaches out for Ron’s shoulder – anything to grasp hold of – in an effort find a modicum of calmness within the turbulent tides of his emotions.

“Calm down,” Harry hears Ron say. “Come on, catch your breath.”

“Is he alright?” another voice says, and Harry’s eyes flicker to the doorway where Neville is standing looking even more nervous than usual. Busy trying to keep Harry’s attention, Ron waves Neville off.

“That’s it mate, settle down,” Ron says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder like Harry is squeezing his own. Slowly, but surely, Harry finds his breaths coming slightly easier. Finally he is able to focus on something other than just his breathing.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles between hitches.

“S’alright. What happened?” Ron asks tentatively. Harry merely shakes his head and stares at the floor between his legs, trying to take in as much air as possible. He can’t look at his friend. Ron’s question is too probing and yet too ambiguous. How on Earth can he answer it? Why would he want to? At Harry’s silence, Ron tries again, “You can tell me, y’know.”

“Jus’ –” Harry tries, but shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to talk about it. If he can help it, he’ll never talk about it to anyone, ever. However, as Harry’s gaze flits wildly about the room, he realises in the midst of his settling panic that his one comfort, stowed carefully away in his rucksack, is nowhere to be seen – in fact, his rucksack is missing. His chest tightens further as his eyes snap up to meet Ron’s concerned face. “My bag,” he chokes, “my bag! Where is it? I had it. I had it before...didn’t I? I’m sure I did. I must have! I’d never have left it.” 

“We’ll find it, mate,” Ron reassures him, giving Harry’s shoulder a squeeze, but Harry violently throws his hand off, shaking his head and looking madly around the room.

“No! You don’t understand!” he tries to shout but it comes out as more of a pathetic wheeze. “Sirius!” Motioning onto his knees, Harry crawls across the room, looking under the beds as Ron looks on. “Sirius”, Harry keeps muttering.

“Harry, sit down, yeah? Whatever it is, we’ll find it.” Ron carefully wraps a hand around Harry’s upper arm and frowns when he flinches away from him. Expelling a loud breath, Harry slumps back against the wall and runs a hand through his messy hair. “Sirius,” he says once more, and finally Ron can’t take his friend’s devastated expression any longer.

“You’d better get McGonagall, he’s not making sense,” Ron says, looking over his shoulder at Neville. As Neville scuttles out of the room, Ron turns his concerned gaze back to Harry whose hands are now gripping his hair in frustration. “Sirius”, Harry says again, his breaths coming too quickly again. His eyes are pleading for Ron to understand, but Ron simply doesn’t, he can’t. Through all the panic, all Ron can think is that his friend is finally losing it. The stress of the war, of Voldemort, and a life being watched and hunted, has broken his brain.  

*

It doesn’t take long for a flustered McGonagall to arrive with Neville in tow.  

Taking one look at Harry sat back on his haunches, McGonagall’s eyebrows knit together. “Mr Potter,” she says questioningly, gazes flicking briefly to Ron who looks equally as puzzled, “what on Earth is going on?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, sucking in a loud breath as he tries to calm down.

“Harry,” Ron urges, but Harry keeps his mouth shut, eyes still working the room. “His bag’s gone missing. I don’t know what’s so bad about that but–”

“How can you say that? It’s my bag! It’s got my stuff in it, and I’ve lost it! I need it!” Harry snaps.

McGonagall closes the door behind her. “Calm yourself, Mr Potter, there is no need to work yourself into a state. I am sure we will recover your bag. It is not irreplaceable, so it is not the end of the world.”

You have no idea, Harry thinks.

“I just –”. He looks to the floor shaking his head before fixing his gaze with McGonagall. “Sirius, he gave me something...I just...it’s all I have. I can’t lose it, Professor.”

Oh Merlin, it’s gone. The mirror could be anywhere. I’ve lost it for good. Remus is going to kill me! His thoughts flit between being worried that Remus will discover how careless he’s been, and being irrationally upset that, even though Sirius is dead, he has lost the thing that kept them close. Harry hates that he can’t tell them about the mirror – he just can’t stand the thought that Remus might find out. The man has already lost his best friend. I can’t even keep hold of a mirror!

McGonagall’s eyes soften and Harry finds himself having to look away.

“Somebody will hand it in, Potter. Don’t worry too much. In the meantime, I’m sure Mr Weasley and Mr Longbottom here wouldn’t mind sharing their texts with you.” The boys nod, Ron clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder, offering him a glimmer of a smile. “I will ask the professors to keep an eye out and see if Miss Granger will do a quick scan of the halls for you. Is that satisfactory?”

Harry sighs and nods. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You are sickly pale, Potter. It is probably a result of your worry, but you will go and see Madame Pomfrey if you feel unwell, is that clear? You have already had your share of sickness this year, I’m not sure Madame Pomfrey could take it if you had another extended stay with her.” At McGonagall’s smirk, Harry can’t help but smile.

“Yes, Professor,” he says, pulling himself into standing position and brushing himself down.

Opening the door, McGonagall looks at Ron, giving him a nod, before leaving the boys to their thoughts.     

“There’s nothing else you can do, mate,” Ron says quietly, “they’ll find it. When has Hermione ever failed at anything?” he half-laughs and smiles broadly when Harry joins in. “Come on, let’s play exploding snap or something.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighs, trying to put his missing bag to the back of his mind. His last piece of Sirius is in that bag. The idea of it being lost for good...the thought is inconceivable. “You playing, Neville?” 

The boys settle down, Ron and Neville concentrating hard on the game. Harry doesn’t win once, his brain too fervent on straying to thoughts of Sirius, the contents of his bag, and worst of all...to Snape. He’d almost lost it completely in front of the man. Harry could give credit where it was due, Snape was a good actor – he almost had him believing the git cared about him. Then again, years of being a spy don’t come without picking up a few tips in deception. The man didn’t even follow him.

No, he doesn’t care about me. Can’t believe I even thought he could.

“Alright Harry? It’s your turn,” Ron says, bringing Harry back from his reverie.  

“Sorry, guys.”

*

After finding Hermione and sending her off to look for Harry’s bag, McGonagall retreats from Gryffindor Tower. Moving with her usual rigour, she doesn’t notice Snape until they collide, in a flurry of robes, with a thump in the corridor.

Ignoring McGonagall’s flustered mutterings as she straightens herself, Snape tugs his cloak back into shape and puffs out a breath of hot air.

“Do watch where you are marching, Minerva!”

“I believe you also collided with me?” she retorts, tone clipped, receiving nothing in return but a loud harrumph. “What brings you here, Severus? Surely this is enemy ground for you,” she says, only half seriously.

“Hmm. Much to my irritation I am here to find Potter. We had a minor altercation and he left before we reached a conclusion,” Snape says, giving away as little as possible. 

“Ah, yes, I did suspect something other than just a missing bag had got Mr Potter in such a state. I should have suspected it was you.” Snape’s brow crinkles momentarily, but he quickly schools his features again. McGonagall frowns and lowers her voice. “I thought, after everything that’s happened, you’d have re-thought your petty grudge against the boy?”

“I am doing what the headmaster has asked of me,” Snape snaps. “Potter is difficult.”

McGonagall smiles slightly and purses her lips, looking at him over the top of her glasses. “He is a teenager, Severus. They’re always difficult.” She sighs and the smile falls. “I am worried for him.”

“Yes, well...” Snape pauses, unsure of how to go on. “I assume the boy’s little tantrum is over now?”

“Severus,” McGonagall chides. “It was hardly a little tantrum.” 

Snape looks to the floor and makes a show of brushing off his robes again. “Hmm. Well, no harm done.”

“No harm done? Severus, I have never seen him in such a way. He had calmed down by the time I reached his dormitory, but by Mr Longbottom’s recollection of the incident, Mr Potter was having some sort of panic attack. I wasn’t going to pry, but honestly, what on Earth was this minor altercation about?”

“That’s precisely the point, Minerva, I have no idea what it was about. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Did you speak to him about the...his...the injuries?” McGonagall hedges.

“...in a roundabout way, yes. I felt we were getting somewhere and then he ran.”

“Getting somewhere? Did he say anything? How did it happen?”

Snape sighs loudly, sounding more and more frustrated by the second. “I simply do not know. He didn’t say much, but what he did say has only raised more questions that I do not feel it is prudent to divulge at the minute.”

“Severus, I am his head of house! I should know if –”

“Be that as it may,” Snape interrupts, “that meddlesome old fool has assigned this arduous task to me, so I will do as I see fit which, at the moment, involves not succumbing to speculation or spreading notions I do not know for certain to be true.” At McGonagall’s terse face, Snape continues, “I will, however, say this. Somebody has been hurting the boy and it is somebody he knows. I suggest you keep a close watch on him.” With a menacing growl he adds, “I must have a word with the Headmaster.”

Sensing the agitation in Snape’s voice, McGonagall’s face sets into a deep and troubled frown. “Do be gentle with him, Severus.”

“You would not be saying that if you witnessed what I have witnessed today.” And with that, Snape sweeps passed a confused McGonagall in a flourish of black material.

*

The march down to Dumbledore’s office does nothing to quell the uncomfortable feeling dwelling in the pit of Snape’s stomach. Muttering the password, he tries to muster some visible semblance of objectivity and stoicism – not difficult considering he’s had to do it all his life – and climbs the stairs to the headmaster’s office. As he takes each step, it crosses his mind more and more that nothing good can actually come of this visit.

Either the headmaster will confirm my suspicions, and then I’ll have to deal with the aftermath of that revelation, or he will dash it completely out of the water meaning Potter and I will be back to square one.  Neither thought fills Snape with joy.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he raps quickly on the door, and on Dumbledore’s orders steps through.

“Severus, my boy, to what do I owe this pleasant albeit unexpected visit?”

Snape’s eyes narrow and he shoots Dumbledore a look as if to say, you know exactly why I’m here. When else do I turn up unannounced?

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle softly and he motions for Snape to take a seat. “Have you made any progress with Harry?”

Snape hesitates. Has he really made any actual progress?

“We have...spoken,” is all he decides to reply.

“And?” Dumbledore urges, leaning forward at his desk. 

“I have my suspicions, Headmaster. Tell me, what do you know of the Dursleys?”

A fleeting look of confusion passes Dumbledore’s features. “They are a typical muggle family. Vernon, Petunia, and their son, Dudley.”

Snape slowly puffs a warm breath through his nose. “And what of their characters?”

“I really cannot say. They are a close-knit family – not perfect, but what family is?”

“Albus!”

“Whatever is this about, Severus?”

Snape stands abruptly from his seat and begins pacing the room. “Before allowing the muggles to take him, what did you know about them?”

“Severus, really, this is...” Dumbledore starts, but falters when faced with Snape’s impatient look suddenly staring him down. “Well, they were, perhaps, a little rough around the edges, but they had a son of their own, my boy. They loved him, spoiled him rotten. That is the love I wished for Harry. That is the reason he was placed in their care.”

Snape stops pacing and runs a tense hand through his lank locks. “Did anybody ever check on the boy while he was there?”

“It was unnecessary; he was meant to grow up a normal boy with a normal childhood –” Dumbledore explains, but stops mid-sentence when a realisation hits him. His voice drops to a whisper. “Severus, what are you saying?”

“At the moment I am saying nothing, Albus. If this is true, I --” Snape starts pacing again. “In a decade, an entire decade, nobody checked on him?”  

Dumbledore sorrowfully shakes his head. “Severus, I admit I had my reservations, but –”

“You had concerns, but you did nothing? You left him there, and what, brushed your concerns aside without as much as a second thought?”

“Says the man who has spent the last several years tormenting the poor boy,” Dumbledore retorts, eyes flashing, but he quickly sighs, realising how unfair he is being. “Severus, yes I had my concerns, but nothing that would warrant my interference. I told that family I would leave them be until Harry was ready to come to Hogwarts. I knew they were not the best kind of muggles, but Petunia is Lily’s sister. Harry is Petunia’s nephew. They are family, Severus. I never believed he could truly come to any harm with them.”

“Yes, Albus, but you and I both know that sometimes family does not mean a thing.” Snape grits his teeth.

“Did they hurt the boy, Severus?” Dumbledore asks seriously, rising from his desk on weary legs.

“I can’t be certain,” Snape replies sharply, clenching his jaw and reigning in his frustration. For the first time in his life, living secretly under the wing of the headmaster, Snape is starting to doubt Albus Dumbledore’s wisdom and rationale.

“Please, Severus, find out.” Dumbledore’s words are clipped and Snape realises he, too, is trying to hold back some kind of emotion, but whether anger, sadness, concern or a cocktail of all three, Snape can’t tell, he is too busy settling down his own mixed emotions. As Dumbledore sits back down behind his desk, head in his hands, Snape takes that as his cue to leave. With a curt nod, he heads to the door, but pauses on the threshold.   

“I hope, for Lily’s sake and yours, that my suspicions are wrong.” And with that, he swiftly makes his exit, his words lingering in the room as he leaves a remorseful Dumbledore in his wake.   

Harry wakes in the morning with a sense of dread weighing down his limbs. Hermione, after much searching last night, could not find his bag, and he is torn between an unrelenting desire to find Professor McGonagall again, and the realisation that, to stop Lupin from finding out about him losing the mirror, he should really calm down and not make McGonagall so suspicious. After all, since when would Harry Potter be worried about a bag of missing textbooks?

As it happens, neither idea wins at this present time; bed is the only place Harry really wants to be. Tangling himself further in his sheets, he curls into foetal position and breathes a loud, hot sigh into his pillow. As far as he can see, the advantages of staying in bed considerably outweigh the disadvantages.

I’ve lost Sirius’ mirror, he thinks, and that is devastating enough.

I lost control in front of Snape of all people. Pathetic, that’s what you are, Potter, his mind says, taking on the voice of the Potions Master.

I’ve lost my bag with my books and my homework in it and I have double potions in... 

He opens one eye and squints until he can just about see the time on his clock.

...half an hour.   

Harry groans. Yes, bed seems the better option, so he closes his eyes hoping that, just for one day, the world might forget he exists. It is only as he is lying there, half asleep, that he realises how quiet his dorm room is. Realising everyone must already be at breakfast, he frowns at the impeccable timing of his stomach as it grumbles. Rubbing his belly, Harry tells himself to sleep off the hunger, after all, he has no plans of moving anywhere so he doesn’t need the energy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries to forget everything and make the most of the quiet.

*

He’s sat on a chair in the middle of a black room. There are no doors or windows, not even a light, yet he can still see for a short distance in front of him. His arms and legs are bound, tied tightly to the chair. He sees no one, but he knows he’s not alone in the room. His eyes dart around and his heart begins to pound as he realises he is trapped. The room is small, and its colour seems to draw all hope from Harry’s mind. And he’s afraid, so afraid, but he doesn’t know why. Through the fog that has settled in his head, Harry tries to reason with himself, to tell himself that he’s faced far worse than a dark room before – his entire life might as well have been a dark room with the amount of time he was forced to spend inside his cupboard – but nothing can quell the churning feeling inside his gut that something about this room has the power to undo him.

“Hello?” he says shakily, and what he gets in return is neither a face nor a voice. Instead, there is a noise behind him, like tiny feet on a linoleum floor, which sounds as though it is getting closer by the second. Moments later, Harry feels it, an animal, sniffing around his feet, and when it looks up, he realises he is staring into the wild eyes of his animagus godfather.

“P...Padfoot?” Harry whispers and, for a moment, his fears disappear because here he is, the man who will take him away from the Dursleys, who will stand by him when he defeats Voldemort, who will take care of him out of love. And all Harry wants to do is touch the dog’s head, to ruffle his fur and scratch behind his ears. And then he wants Sirius to stop messing about and transform back to his normal self so that everything will be okay again. But he doesn’t, and it isn’t.

The dog sits for a moment, staring up at him like he’s waiting for something – and then Harry hears an ominous boom. Padfoot stares into the black.

“Sirius?” Harry says, but the dog bolts and Harry yanks at his ropes, forgetting that he is tied up. He wants nothing more than to follow Padfoot, but each tug against the restraints burns his skin. Letting out an angry groan, he feels his eyes growing wet and he doesn’t realise until the dog has disappeared into the black that he is crying. “Sirius, c-come back.” His voice is thick with a new sense of loss. “Sirius!” he shouts into the blackness, but his desperate cries go unanswered.  

Another ominous boom reverberates off the non-existent walls, and then another. Each one resembles a stomping hippogriff, but Harry knows better. He swears he can feel the entire room shaking beneath him as the sound closes in on him. In a matter of seconds, Harry’s heart rate doubles and he knows what is coming even before it does. Squeezing his eyes together, he tries to ignore it, tries to pretend this isn’t happening to him, whatever this is. And then the stomping stops and the room is dead with silence. As he breathes, he can smell something acrid – a smell he remembers vividly, a smell that he has prayed to Merlin he would never smell again. Startled by a hand touching his knee, his eyes fly open and he lets out an involuntary scream at the large, purpling face that grins only inches from his own. Uncle Vernon. The man’s hand shoots out, grabbing him by the chin and Harry’s eyes are wet and wide with fear.  

“Back so soon, boy?”

Harry shudders and his uncle’s hand quickly shifts from his knee and grabs at his hair, pulling it taught. Harry yelps and menacing laughter fills the room. His uncle’s breath is almost sickening, but every attempt to shift his head away results in a violent tug and Harry can hear the odd ping of hairs being pulled from his scalp. Uncle Vernon says nothing more, and this is enough to set the fear of Merlin into Harry’s already frightened bones. When his uncle’s expression changes and a smirk plays upon his lips, Harry recognises the look.

“No,” he whispers, his voice almost completely gone to fear. As soon as he speaks, the world suddenly speeds up. A hand races towards him and his uncle’s flat open palm whips across his face with so much force that his nose starts to bleed instantaneously. As quickly as he’d arrived, Uncle Vernon rounds Harry’s chair and seems to disappear into the blackness. Harry is left reeling, the blood from his nose colouring his lips and dripping down the back of his throat, making him cough. He blinks away the tears, trying to clear his vision.

Again, something makes a sound behind him, but his neck won’t turn enough to see. He can hear some kind of commotion and he wants to ask who’s there but, after what’s just happened, he can’t seem to get the words out. It’s only when he tries to wriggle himself free enough to see behind him that the ropes seem to give. With a pull, his hands and feet come loose from the chair. Frantically untangling himself, he jumps up from his seat and turns around towards the noise, but no one is there. Moving closer to the sound, Harry slowly rounds the chair and finds himself staring down at the broken shard of Sirius’ mirror. His whole body shakes; he’s found it! Part of his misery lifts and he almost sobs at the sight of it just lying there so innocently right in front of him.

And then he sees it. Something in the mirror moves. He reaches down to grab it, hope rushing back to him. “Sirius? Sirius, you’re alive, you’re –”

But as he picks it up, the face inside it is his own. And behind him, Uncle Vernon sneers.

From behind, a meaty hand covers his mouth and another pulls him backwards by the waist. The mirror slips from Harry’s grasp and, as he is pulled away, all he hears is the sound as it hits the floor and shatters.

Time lapses. Harry finds himself face down on the floor. He’s not sure if he feels nothing or if he’s feeling everything at once. Between the mirror shattering and finding himself here, he remembers nothing. Some part of him is telling him not to move because the pain will only remind him of things he’d rather forget. Another part of him is saying, stop pretending! Get up and make it better, Harry. Only you can make it all okay again.

But he doesn’t. He wants to. Oh, Merlin, how he wants to get up, but the fear of Uncle Vernon hiding in the shadows keeps him firmly stuck to the ground. Once again, his eyes seem to spill without his consent. He’s crying and he doesn’t want to admit why. The wave of emotion crashes over him and he feels like he’s drowning in the deluge. His breaths come in short gasps and it’s all he can do not to sob. From his position on the floor, he draws in his arms and covers his face, crying almost silently into his hands. To anyone else, his shuddering shoulders would be the only sign of his turmoil. In his mind, he's not even sure he feels anything, but his body takes over completely.

At that moment, a voice sounds throughout the room, distant, as if bleeding through the floor.

“You’re pathetic, Potter.” The deep voice is easily recognisable. “What a dire excuse for a wizard you are. And to think, your mother died for you. This is the mockery you make of her sacrifice?”

Harry covers his ears, shaking his head and burying it in the floor. He closes his eyes. It’s all a nightmare, just wake up, Harry! Wake up, wake up! He says to himself. Wake up! Bloody wake up!

Now Ron’s voice fills the room and Harry isn’t sure how much more of this place he can take. But Ron’s voice is louder, not distant and whispery like Snape’s.

“Wake –”

He feels somebody shove him.

“ – up!”

As Harry opens his eyes, he is blinded by the light in the room. He immediately wretches over the side of the bed, but nothing comes up. He brings his hand to his face, feeling for blood, but there’s nothing there. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he turns over and jumps at the sight of Ron staring down at him.

“Sorry, mate. You were moaning in your sleep, not to mention we have Potions in ten minutes.” Ron looks pale, though not as pale as Harry.    

“Nrgh,” Harry groans, feeling even sicker at the thought of seeing Snape. After that nightmare, he doesn’t want to see Snape ever again. He buries his head under his pillow and murmurs, “Not got m’books.”

“So you’ll share mine. Come on, Harry, he’ll be worse if you don’t turn up.”

Harry thinks about it. He can’t go back to sleep again unless he wants to throw himself into an even worse panic. He wonders how bad he might have been had Ron not woken him up when he did. 

Maybe double potions with Snape and a classroom full of students is better than a detention with Snape alone. With how he is feeling, he isn’t sure how well he would cope being alone in a room with Snape. He can only hope that the man has decided to drop the Whomping Willow incident. Snape’s words from his dream echo in his head – you’re pathetic, Potter. That is the Snape he knows and loathes, not the one from the night before who pretended to care. Forget Snape and his stupid games, Harry thinks, ignore him until he leaves you alone. He’s not the only one who can pretend.    

In a matter of seconds, Harry is out of bed trying to steady himself on wobbly legs. Taking a deep breath, he tells Ron he’ll be ready in a minute and goes to the bathroom to change his clothes. Once dressed, he leans heavily on the sink and bows his head. He exhales loudly, as if trying to expel his terrible nightmare in one breath. As he plants an expression of fake cheer on his face, he exits the bathroom, and for the first time ever in his life, he finds himself wishing that Voldemort was the centre of his dreams again.