“Have you ever gone camping, Potter?”

“Camping?” Harry asked. “Er, no. My relatives said that was something only uncivilized people did.” Harry looked up quickly, afraid he might have said the wrong thing. But Snape didn’t seem perturbed.

“They would,” Snape mused, bringing a forkful of sausage to his mouth. “Never had a bonfire then, either, I suppose?”

Harry shook his head. Where on earth was Snape going with this conversation?

“After dinner, you may change into jeans and a sweatshirt. Bring everything you wish to dispose of from your previous place of residence.”

Harry nodded. He was worried about what sort of punishment Snape was going to inflict upon him for running away earlier that day. He paused from pushing his food around and looked up in the vain hope that Snape might have forgotten.

“Potter, rearranging the food on your plate is not going to convince me that you’ve eaten it. We are going to discuss your actions today, and starving yourself will not improve the situation, I assure you.”

Grimacing, Harry forced himself to eat. The meal was quite good, even if his stomach squirmed with nerves. As cruel as Uncle Vernon had been, Harry always knew what was coming. But Snape was an enigma. Harry was sure the man had once hated him. Now he didn’t know what to think. Harry found the uncertainty equally unsettling.

As soon as his plate was clear, Harry went to his bedroom to change. His back was aching more than ever. It had been since morning, but he’d stoutly ignored the warning signs it had been giving him the last few days. He removed his shirt and bent his arm at an awkward angle to feel the welts. He sucked in his breath at the pain. One welt in the middle of his back felt particularly hot to the touch—too hot. As a wave of dizziness assailed him, he sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d been dizzy on and off all day; he wanted to believe it was just low blood sugar from a lack of food. Then again, he wanted to believe a lot of things. Unfortunately, his life had never been that simple. Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled a sweatshirt over his head and steeled himself to face his former nemesis.

Snape observed Potter as the teen trudged toward him carrying the same rubbish bag he’d arrived with five days ago when the boy had been dropped off on his doorstep, Lily’s will in his hand. The word guardian swam unbidden in his mind, Lily’s looping script demanding something of him he not only wasn’t ready to be, but something he wasn’t sure he ever would be ready for.

“Sir?” Potter asked, standing uncomfortably beside the fire.

“Have a seat, Potter,” Snape said, gesturing toward the lounge chair opposite his.

Potter sat on the edge of the lounge, his back rigid. Together, though clearly both in their own worlds, they watched the flames dance in the stone fire pit.

Snape reached down beside him and lifted a bottle of Butterbeer. With only the word “Catch” as a warning, he tossed it to Potter. Firelight glinted off the brown glass as it sailed through the air. With the reflexes of a Seeker, Potter reached up and caught it effortlessly.

“Thanks,” Potter mumbled before popping the cap and taking a deep swig.

“While you dispose of those things,” Snape said, gesturing towards the rubbish sack, “you can tell me about your relatives.”

Potter swallowed and lowered the bottle. His expression was one of wariness. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Snape said silkily.

Snape watched as Potter dug into the rubbish sack, grimaced, and pulled out an oversized lime green T-shirt. “They hated magic,” he began, balling up the shirt in his fists. “And, like you,” Potter said with a challenge in his voice as he tossed the shirt onto the fire, “they hated me because of who my parents were.”

The two wizards stared at each other a moment before Snape spoke. “I never hated your mother,” he said evenly, determined not to rise to Potter’s bait. “As for your father, I had good reason, as you well know.”

At Snape’s arched eyebrow, Potter had the good sense to look abashed. Snape watched as the memories that Potter had seen in the Penseive in Snape’s office played across the teen’s expressive face. Deflating as quickly as he’d risen to taunt Snape, Potter said, “Sorry about that, sir. I never meant... I shouldn’t have...” Potter shook his head. “Just... I’m sorry. And I’m sorry, too, for the way my father treated you.”

Snape studied the boy a minute longer before saying, “Apology accepted. Now, about your relatives...”

Taking another fortifying sip of Butterbeer, Potter continued. “They never wanted me. They were afraid of witches and wizards, I can see that now. But I didn’t know that then. I didn’t even know I was one,” Potter proclaimed, reaching into the bag and grabbing a pair of oversized jeans and some socks, which he promptly threw on the fire. The flames were first dampened by the onslaught of material, and then leapt with abandon as the fabric took light, sending sparks and the scent of singed cotton into the air. “Sometimes things would happen, especially if I was scared. Like the time my cousin Dudley and his gang were chasing me and I ended up on top of the school. I didn’t even know how I got up there, but Uncle Vernon was furious. That was the first time he... he...”

Snape raised an eyebrow in question.

Potter bowed his head. “The first time he hit me with his fists.”

Snape felt his hackles rise. “And his belt?”

Potter shook his head. “No, he’d been using that for a while by that point.”

Snape gritted his teeth. “Was it your uncle that choked you?”

Potter looked up, surprised. Subconsciously he rubbed at the bruises on his neck before looking down at his feet. “Yeah,” he mumbled.

Seething inside, Snape asked, “And what was your offence?”

“My cousin stole some food,” Potter said, pulling out a tattered pair of overly large trainers and chucking them into the fire. “I got blamed for it.” The shoe leather hissed and spit and an acrid scent suffused the night.

 “Did he ever abuse your cousin?”

“No, never,” Potter said, fishing some more things from the bag and adding them to the blaze.

“I see,” Snape said, fury growing with every image that danced across his mind—his own father and Potter’s uncle equally interchangeable. “And where was your dear aunt in all of this?”

Potter shrugged and reached for some more of Dudley’s old clothes. “She didn’t care. Her only concern was that I cooked the meals and cleaned the house and tended the garden. As long as the beatings didn’t interfere with my chores...” Potter shrugged again, and then winced at the movement.

Snape studied him closely, but Potter didn’t look up. The teen was watching the fire consume the memories of his childhood.

After a moment, Snape asked, “How did your cousin treat you?”

“Dudley?” Potter snorted. “He was a git. When he and his friends weren’t beating me up, they were beating up some other neighbourhood kid.” Potter reached in and grabbed another handful of garments, hurling them angrily at the growing inferno.

Snape felt his blood pressure rise. In a quiet but deadly voice, Snape hissed, “And you told no one?”

Potter raised defiant eyes to his professor. “Who should I have I told?” After a moment, Potter added, “I tried once. I told a primary school teacher. Well, she noticed the bruises on my arms actually. Social services paid a visit, but my aunt and uncle convinced them I was an accident-prone kid who liked to make up stories for attention.”

Snape noted Potter’s involuntary shudder at the memory. “And I presume you paid dearly for that?” Snape asked, though he already knew the answer.

Potter nodded and finished off his Butterbeer. Snape tossed him another.

“Why didn’t you tell someone at Hogwarts?”

Potter looked up with a haunted expression. “I wanted to. But my uncle threatened that if I breathed a word to anyone, he’d pull me out of Hogwarts faster than I could say ‘go’.”

“I see,” Snape breathed, anger stirring every protective instinct he’d ever had. He would make the Dursleys pay for what they’d done to the boy—if not for himself, then for Lily.

Snape waited for Potter to throw the last of his former meagre belongings onto the fire, followed by the rubbish bag itself. “Feel better?” Snape asked.

“Loads,” Potter responded, watching the remnants of his life with the Dursleys turn to ash. “Does this mean,” Potter asked tentatively, “that I won’t have to live with them again?”

“Certainly not,” Snape replied. “Where you will live has not yet been decided, but I can assure you it will not be with your vile relatives.”

Potter heaved a sigh of relief and drained his second Butterbeer. He seemed to consider something a moment before speaking. “Sir, about today...”

“Yes?” Snape prompted.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” Snape said, feeling the familiar Potter-induced annoyance flare inside of him. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you? Did you even think...”

“I said I was sorry,” Potter interrupted, piping up as well.

“And you think those two words are enough to absolve you of all responsibility for your actions?”

“No... I mean...” Potter clenched the empty bottle of Butterbeer tightly in his hands. “I just thought...”

“You didn’t think, that was the problem. You never think about the consequences of your actions. You just do the first thing that pops into your head, regardless of the rules and restraints that have been put in place for your protection!”

“I...”

“Tell me, Potter, how many times did you break the rules at school?”

“Sir, I...”

“How many other unqualified, underage wizards do you know who took on a mountain troll all on their own? And then went in search of the Philosopher’s Stone?” Snape paused. “None? What about brewing Polyjuice Potion and breaking into the Slytherin Common Room? Or facing untold risks in the Chamber of Secrets?” His ire rising, Snape continued. “No? What about going after Sirius Black—a man suspected of wanting to kill you? And let’s not forget the highly dangerous tournament designed for much older witches and wizards.” At Potter’s glare, Snape added, “To top it off, not only did you fly all the way to London on thestrals of all things, but you did so to confront none other than the Dark Lord himself!”

“I asked you for help,” Potter interrupted defensively. “And you did nothing!”

“Nothing?” Snape hissed. “I verified that your Godfather was indeed safe and sound, and when you did not return from the Forest, I alerted the Order.” At Potter’s mutinous glare, Snape added, “What exactly did you expect me to do, standing there in front of Umbridge? You could have come to me before breaking into her office, but instead, you left with me no choice but to make you look like the fool you were being!”

Potter was about to interrupt but Snape cut him off.

“Your blatant disregard for your safety, as well as the safety of others, astounds me, Potter.”

Potter jumped to his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and turned on his heel to stalk back toward the house.

“Sit down, Potter, I’m not finished.”

Potter stopped and glared angrily at Snape. Reluctantly, the sullen teen sat back down.

“And then today,” Snape persisted, “you ran off without a single thought for what could have happened. I was moments away from summoning the entire Order to search for you.”

Snape saw Potter blanch in the firelight.

“I’d have thought, after the debacle at the Ministry, you’d have learned your lesson about charging heedlessly into danger without a moment’s forethought.”

Potter looked away, his jaw and fists clamped tight.

Snape shook his head in frustration. “What is it going to take to get through to you, Potter? The Order has spent countless hours in a futile attempt to ensure your safety, and you throw it in their faces every chance you get.”

Potter continued to stare defiantly into the fire.

Pushed beyond endurance by Potter’s refusal to take responsibility for his actions, and exasperated by the boy’s seeming indifference, Snape snapped. “How many more people that you care about are going to have to die before you learn?”