“I don’t have any injuries.”

Snape paused. He had expected any form of evasion, of lies, but not outright denial. “Potter,” he said slowly. “There are scars on your back that were deliberately inflicted. You must have some recollection of how they came to be there.”

“You’re wrong,” Potter said, in a strange tone that didn’t sound like the boy at all. “There are no scars. I don’t have any scars.”

“Potter…”

“Leave me alone,” the boy said, a note of agitation creeping into his voice. “Leave me alone.”

“I will not,” Snape said sharply. “You and I will discuss this, now. How did you come to be injured, Potter?”

Potter clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. His lips moved, forming inaudible words.

“Potter! Cease this childish behavior at once!” As soon as the words had left his mouth, Snape felt foolish. Potter was a child, one who’d been pushed beyond his abilities to cope, and snapping at him would solve nothing.

Snape got up from his chair and approached the bed. The boy had curled up into a ball, rocking back and forth in a manner that reminded Snape of patients he’d seen in St. Mungo’s mental ward. People who weren’t aware of anything but their inner demons.

He reached out and laid a hand on Potter’s shoulder. He could feel every single one of the boy’s bones.

“Potter.”

The boy continued rocking.

“Harry.” Strange, how easily the name passed his lips. “Look at me.”

Snape felt a tremor under his fingers as the rocking ceased. The boy sat very still, then all of a sudden his muscles spasmed, his legs shot out straight, his fingers curled into claws. Snape yanked his hand back as if burned.

The boy threw his head back, and those hooked fingers came up and dug into his cheeks, scratching, clawing.

“No!” Snape stepped forward and grabbed the boy’s wrists. “Potter-”

The child’s eyes snapped open, white and pupilless. A scream came out of his mouth, an angry, grating sound.

Do not touch!

A sudden pain flared in his hands, and Snape let go of the boy’s wrists. His palms were red and blistered where they had been in contact with Potter’s skin.

The boy laughed. The sound held no mirth, only spite and malice, of a kind Snape had witnessed in only one man.

Severus…

Someone gasped behind him, and from the corner of his eye, Snape saw that Pomfrey had stepped out of her office. The nurse had clapped both hands in front of her mouth, staring at the thing in her hospital bed.

You cannot evade me forever, Severus.

Snape took out his wand. “Leave the boy alone,” he said. His own voice sounded strange in his ears. “Leave him.”

You are giving orders now, my young friend?

On the shelves along the walls, the glass vials began to shake and tinkle like live things. A crack appeared in the window behind the bed, and the torches in their mounts flickered wildly. The glass that had contained the nutrient potion toppled off the nightstand, shattering into a thousand pieces.

You are ordering me, Severus?

“I am,” a voice said next to him. Snape turned his head and saw Dumbledore standing there. He had no idea when the Headmaster had entered, or if, in fact, the doors to the infirmary had opened at all. “I am ordering you, Tom,” Dumbledore said, and there was an aura of raw power around him, so strong that Snape nearly averted his eyes.

You! the voice screeched, while Potter never moved his lips. Go away! Go away and die, old man! I am not afraid of you!

“Ah, but I believe you are.” Dumbledore raised a hand, his palm turned towards the boy on the bed. “I believe you are very much afraid, Tom.”

Why do you call me that? The voice cackled as the torches in the room flickered and died. I am Harry, I am your chosen boy. This is who I am, old man.

“Do not play games with me, Tom,” Dumbledore said, still quite calm. “I’m telling you to leave us. Now.”

I could kill them all, Dumbledore! I could kill him, your redeemed little traitor! Do you want to see? Do you want me to demonstrate?

The boy was suddenly in front of the bed, his feet never quite touching the floor. He raised a bloodied, twisted hand towards Snape.

“Protelo inimicum!” Dumbledore shouted.

White light surrounded them, and Snape watched as it engulfed the boy, as if invisible hands had grabbed the child and were trying to shake the life out of him. Potter screamed silently, his hands clutching his throat. Something dark dripped down from his nose; blood, Snape realized.

“Protelo!” Dumbledore extended his hand towards Potter, who was shaken harder.

“Albus,” Snape grabbed the man’s shoulder, “you’re killing him-”

“Protelo!”

The boy was thrown back on the bed, and the white light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. Potter lay there limp as a ragdoll, blood dripping from his nose and trickling down the sides of his mouth. The glass vials had stopped tinkling. Somewhere in the background, Snape could hear Pomfrey’s harsh breathing.

He noticed that he was still clutching the Headmaster’s shoulder, and let go abruptly. Dumbledore seemed to have sunken in on himself the moment the white light disappeared. He looked old, the lines on his face harsher in the semi-darkness than Snape had ever seen them.

Snape watched as he slowly, hesitantly stepped towards the bed. Shoulders hanging, he stood there for a moment in silence before he carefully extended a hand towards the boy.

“Harry…”

Dumbledore’s fingers brushed gently over the boy’s brow, coming to rest in the middle of his forehead.

“Harry, please wake up.”

The child stirred and moaned. Dumbledore began stroking the tousled black hair, talking softly as one would to an injured dog.

“Wake up, Harry, it’s all right, it’s over…”

The boy opened his eyes, looking confused and frightened. “W-wha-”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” the Headmaster whispered.

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He sniffled and brought up a hand, wiping snot and blood across his mutilated cheeks.

“Don’t, Potter.” Snape surprised himself by speaking up. He summoned a bowl of water and a soft cloth from a nearby table, brushed past the medi-witch who hadn’t moved and walked up to Potter’s bed. “You’ve had quite the nosebleed. Let me clean you up.”

Ignoring the fact that he was being watched by both Pomfrey and Dumbledore, Snape dipped the cloth into the water and began to dab the blood off Potter’s face, careful to avoid the deep cuts left by the boy’s fingernails. The blisters on his hands stung, but Snape continued without paying any mind to the pain.

Potter’s eyes sought and found Snape’s. “What – what happened?”

“He was back,” Snape replied; there was no sense in lying to the child. “Professor Dumbledore forced him to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice had grown firmer again. “I never meant to hurt you.”

The boy sniffed.

“It was not your fault, Harry,” Dumbledore said, perching on the boy’s bed. His usual kindly expression had returned, and he reached for Potter’s hand, patting it gently. “You did nothing wrong.”

“He’s… he’s inside me,” Potter whispered.

Dumbledore exchanged a look with Snape. “Harry,” he said. “We’re here to help you.”

“You can’t.” The boy’s eyes filled with tears again. “There’s nothing anyone can do. They-they tried...”

“Who did?” Snape asked immediately. “What did they try?”

Potter was crying silently, but gave no reply. At that moment, Pomfrey seemed to have returned to her usual brisk self, and came bustling over.

“Headmaster, Severus,” she said, frowning at them. “Harry’s had an obviously traumatic experience. I must insist that you postpone any questions you have until after he’s rested. Here,” she summoned a vial of Calming Draught, uncorked it and handed it to the boy. “Drink this, dear. It’ll make you feel better.”

Potter swallowed the draught without protest, wiping his eyes surreptitiously. Dumbledore handed him a large, embroidered handkerchief which he pulled from one of his many pockets.

“Here,” he said. “You may keep it. I daresay I have too many of these; my great-uncle Ravus left me about four dozen.”

“Thanks,” the boy muttered, not looking at the Headmaster as he took it. If Albus had hoped to make him smile, he was disappointed.

Meanwhile, Snape had finished cleaning the worst of the mess from Potter’s face, and made room for Pomfrey so she could begin applying a healing salve to the cuts. Potter just lay there and let it happen; from time to time, he looked at Snape, as if to reassure himself of something.

“Could I speak to you, Severus?” Dumbledore said softly. Snape nodded, although for some strange reason he wished he could have stayed.

It wasn’t right, that a child should injure himself and be thrown across a room, simply because he happened to… what? Have the Dark Lord poking around in his mind?

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, and Snape turned to follow him to Pomfrey’s office, not without giving the boy on the bed a short, silent nod. I’m not leaving for long.

Dumbledore closed the door behind them, and Snape felt himself reminded of the conversation he’d had with Pomfrey in this very room earlier that day.

“Headmaster,” he said. “Poppy shouldn’t be left alone in there.”

“This won’t take long,” Dumbledore glanced at the door. “I’ve placed a tracking charm on Harry alerting me to his… state of mind. I’ll know if Poppy is in danger.”

“That is how you knew earlier,” Snape stated, and the old wizard nodded.

“Yes. I had hoped that my intervention would not be necessary, but…” He sighed deeply. “Severus, I must admit that this is a worrying development.”

Snape could have rolled his eyes at the ridiculous understatement. “Yes, Albus, the fact that the Dark Lord is alive and possessing one of my students does raise a certain concern.”

As usual, Dumbledore ignored his sarcasm. “I’m not entirely sure if “alive” is the right expression…”

“Does it matter?” Snape asked sharply. “He speaks and acts through Potter. He uses Potter’s powers to perform magic. He’s threatened to kill. I don’t believe that metaphysical questions of life after death are of any importance at this point.”

“I’m not sure I agree, Severus, but you’re right, of course. Or first concern at the moment must be Harry.”

Snape didn’t point out that he had never actually said this. “What do you have in mind, Albus?”

“We need to find out what happened,” Dumbledore replied. “We need to know how long this has been going on.”

“Potter won’t speak about it,” Snape said. “He claims he has no memory of sustaining the injuries to his back.”

“It’s possible that he does not remember exactly what happened; the event may have been too traumatizing for him to recall it in its entirety. But I don’t believe that speaking to the boy will do us much good.”

“You said yourself that Legilimency would be too dangerous…”

Dumbledore nodded. “And so it would. I may be capable of defending myself against Tom’s attacks, but not without doing irreparable damage to Harry’s mind. I believe we need to resort to another way of gaining access to Harry’s memories.”

“Extraho memoriam,” Snape stated after a pause.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “I think that’s our best option at the moment.”

Snape said nothing. Extraho memoriam was a highly controversial spell, one which many wizards would count among the Dark Arts. The Ministry had put a ban on it, allowing its use only under very special circumstances. Snape could not imagine that even the present situation would strike Fudge and his brain trust as enough of an emergency to use the spell on a minor.

Not that they didn’t have a point. To steal someone’s memories while they were sleeping, taking advantage of their vulnerable, open minds to access their thoughts by force… Snape had to admit that the idea was chilling.

“You realize that the consequences will be highly unpleasant if anyone finds out,” he said.

Dumbledore smiled. “Not if we ask Harry’s permission.”

Snape blinked. He’d never heard of Extraho memoriam being performed with the victim’s knowledge, and he couldn’t imagine anyone willing to expose themselves in such a way. “Ask his permission? Potter’s a child, Albus. He doesn’t understand.”

“Oh, I believe you underestimate Harry. And I trust in your powers of persuasion to help him see that this needs to be done.”

“My powers of… why would I be able to convince Potter?”

Dumbledore gave him one of his infuriatingly knowing looks. “My dear boy, it’s obvious that Harry trusts you. He looks to you for comfort and guidance.”

Snape glared at the Headmaster. He did not do comfort and guidance, as Albus very well knew. Perhaps he did provide guidance – his Slytherins, well, all students in fact, were in dire need of it – but he was no sentimental fool who cuddled first-years and attended birthday parties in the common room. Well, not if he could help it.

“Severus,” Dumbledore put a hand on his arm. “I’m only asking you to explain to the boy that we’re trying to help him, and that we need to see his memories. You would do the same for any of your Slytherins.”

Angry though he was at Dumbledore’s manipulations, Snape had to agree. “My students have no reason to distrust me,” he said stiffly.

“I know, my boy. You do an exceptional job of caring for your House. As I said before, I’m glad Harry can rely on your protection.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Snape said curtly. “After he’s rested.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore smiled. “Now, as for tonight…”

“I’ll remain in the infirmary,” Snape cut across him. “Poppy should not be left alone.”

“I’ll ask Minerva and Filius to cover your classes tomorrow,” Dumbledore said, and from his tone, Snape could tell that there was no arguing with him on the matter. “You don’t have to do this on your own, Severus.”

Snape gave no reply. There was a child next door whom he had promised to protect, and it unsettled him deeply, knowing that there was very little indeed he could do to help Harry Potter.