Severus mentally castigated himself the entire way through the castle, with a brief stop at the Hospital Wing to inform Madam Pomfrey that Harry was safe and unharmed. Well, as safe and unharmed as he could be, with Severus snapping at him like that. Shame burned in his stomach as he finally made his way into his quarters and leaned against the door for a moment, head resting against the cool wood.

What was wrong with him? He'd never reacted this way to another student. Not even the Weasley twins, infuriating as they always were. Lectures, detentions, even trips to the Headmaster's office, but grabbing a student and shaking him? Even in this, Potter, it seemed, had to be unique.

Rubbing his forehead, Severus retrieved a headache potion from the bathroom and downed it in one quick swallow, grimacing at the taste but relaxing a bit as his headache began to recede. He knew he should talk to Potter sometime soon, but for now, leaving the boy alone was probably his best bet. His shoulders sagged in shame as he recalled the look of fear trembling on the boy's face behind the mask of rage. He'd scared an eleven-year-old child, an eleven-year-old abuse victim. Son of his childhood nemesis or not, that was reprehensible.

"You're damn right that was reprehensible," an unfamiliar voice said out of nowhere. Severus jumped in shock, wand falling into his hand, but there was no one around.

"Great," he muttered as he threw himself into his favourite armchair. "Now I'm hearing things."

"No, I'm very real, Severus," the voice retorted. "Look here. In the painting."

Jaw dropping, Severus looked at the massive painting of Salazar Slytherin, the Founder of his House, over the fireplace. The painted figure winked at him.

"You're...you've never talked to me before," Severus stammered, feeling uncomfortably like a first year, his face flushing.

"I've never had need to before," Salazar said, leaning against the edge of the frame. "You're being an idiot, Severus. I don't know why, but it stops now."

"I didn't mean to..." Severus fumbled to a stop. Why was he justifying himself to a painting? he thought irritably.

"If you aren't very, very careful, you're going to end up with another Dark Lord on your hands," Salazar said, ice creeping into his tone. "And it's not going to be because of his upbringing, although that plays a part in it. It's not even going to be your foolish Headmaster this time. It will be because of you. The boy was entrusted to your care and this is how you repay him? By breaking into his mind, attempting to steal his secrets, and then laying hands on him? Are you trying to resemble his abusers?"

"How do you kn-" Severus attempted to break in, but Salazar was on a roll, cold fury emanating from every painted line.

"He has more secrets than you know, than you will ever know at this rate, and unless you start thinking, you are going to end up with a very damaged, disillusioned child who has learned that he can expect nothing from the people who are supposed to take care of him and keep him safe. Sound familiar?"

"Yes," Severus whispered, thinking of the man he had followed for years. The Dark Mark itched on his arm, drawing painful attention to itself.

"Then use your mind for once, I know you have it, you wouldn't have been Sorted into my House without it," Salazar said acerbically. "Fix things."

"I don't know how," Severus admitted, dropping his head into his hands and wishing that he could take another headache reliever.

"Then you'd better find out how," Salazar said, grim-faced. "Or you're going to regret it."

And with that, the man was gone, stepped into another painting, leaving a very confused and distressed Potions professor behind.

Harry tossed and turned, alternately shivering and over-heating by turns as the blankets wrapped themselves around his slight, sweaty body. Nightmares tangled together in his brain, snippets of memory and flashes of horror combining. A monster's fist coming at them, a flash of brilliant green light, and the cruellest laugh any of them had ever heard (save, perhaps, Tom who immediately shoved that memory away).

Finally, Tom sat up with an explosive sigh, raking his hand through the sweaty spikes of hair, and decided sod it, sleep was overrated anyway.

The common room was utterly deserted at this time of night. Millie was presumably still tucked safe in her bed, and any of the older years were also sleeping. Curled up in a blanket from their bed, Tom sat, staring into the flickering yellow and orange flames and wishing desperately that life would properly align and make sense.

Growing up, the system had always assumed that if someone knew about the abuse, really knew, without Uncle Vernon's threats and Aunt Petunia's veiled verbal daggers, things would turn up all right, they'd be taken away, life would become happily ever after. Tom had always known that life didn't work that way, but even he had fallen prey to the fantasy. Harmless enough, wasn't it? It's not like it would ever come true.

Only now people did know, people who'd never even met the Dursleys. And their reaction was...lackluster, to say the least. Tom sneered, dislodging the blanket from his lap momentarily as he bent to prod at a log in the fireplace. It sputtered angry sparks at him, and he ignored them, settling back into the safe confines of the sofa.

It was worse than lackluster. Apathy, while painful, was easy to handle. Not so this. A morass of prickly anger. Pomfrey was angry at them, but he'd seen the shame glimmer in her eyes. She'd been caught off guard, unwilling to believe an eleven-year-old was capable of hiding injuries to such an extent.

Snape, though...Tom sighed. None of them knew how to handle their Head of House anymore. He had thought that the man was decent, that though he was not kind, not permissive like some of the other Heads of House, he at least was not like Uncle Vernon. And now, how could he be sure of that anymore?

I'll handle him if you like, Echo interjected into Tom's musings. Tom internally turned, seeing the boy standing there, inside. His eyes still bottle green and perfectly blank. It was like staring into a doll's face, so calm was his expression, and Tom had to suppress an atavistic shiver, lest the new alter interpret it as dislike. Not that he would care, Tom was sure. He didn't care about anything, that was the problem.

If you're careful, Tom finally answered reluctantly. Echo nodded, smiling placidly.

"Time to go back to bed," Tom muttered aloud, standing and pulling the blanket tight around himself. He didn't notice the painting over the fireplace, where Salazar Slytherin's eyes tracked his every movement, a worried frown creasing the painted features.

Despite their exhaustion, sleep was a long time in coming.