Broken. Worthless. Useless. Freak. Good-for-nothing.

The words became ingrained into Harry's very soul each year he spent with the Dursleys. Even Hogwarts' welcoming arms did little to dispel the darkness gathering around his heart. How could it? No one saw him as he really was. Dumbledore saw him as his "golden boy." The students saw him as the boy who lived, some sort of miraculous savior that could wave his wand and chase off the darkest of specters, the Dark Lord Himself.

Only Snape saw him as he truly was. Oh, Harry snapped back like was expected, puffed up with anger, shouted at the man once or twice. But deep down, he felt a quiet sense of contentment. Here was a man who knew. Who knew what a worthless, pathetic freak he was. Who knew that the Dursleys were right about him. Who knew that he should have died that night with his parents.

So each night before he went to sleep, whether he was at Hogwarts or at the Dursleys, Harry would whisper a thank you to Professor Snape. Thank you for ensuring I remember my place, he would say under his breath, honest gratitude underlying the words. He would remember the word burned into his back by Uncle Vernon when he was thirteen. "Freak." It was nothing more or less than the truth.

When Voldemort was finally defeated, at the beginning of Harry's seventh year, all he could feel was empty. The halls filled with silence when he passed the jubilant students, the sort of silence filled with awe, respect, wonder. Nothing he actually deserved. It made him feel sick to his stomach. He turned away from their whispers, their adulant gazes. For weeks, he spent all of his spare time in the dungeons. Snape, at least, had not changed. Oh, outwardly, he had a bit. A little more respect in those sibilant harsh tones. But Harry knew it was only an act. That Snape still knew. Despite this "accomplishment," the freak lived on.

But not for much longer. Harry's lips curved into a weary smile as he climbed the steps to the Astronomy Tower. It was mind-numbingly cold at the top, an icy wind blowing around the eaves. But then how could it not, it was the first day of Christmas break.

He'd wanted to stay at Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione had tried to argue with him, but he merely said that he'd rather be by himself this holiday break and they'd finally, reluctantly agreed. Letters addressed to them were stacked neatly on his bedside table. Hopefully, they'd actually get to read them.

Harry sat down at the edge, dangling his feet over. The wind threatened to topple him, but he refused to let it. That wasn't at all what he had in mind for his death. For that, he retrieved a knife from his cloak pocket. It was a six-inch hunting knife, one he'd picked up in a Muggle shop before returning for his final year. He'd had an inkling then that it would all be over with, sooner rather than later. And he'd been right.

Undoing his cloak clasp to let it fall carelessly to the stones behind him, Harry pushed up both of his shirt sleeves, revealing the white skin beneath, already goose-pimpled with cold and criss-crossed with old, faded scars already--relics of his time spent with the Dursleys.

"One for Voldemort," he said aloud and drew the knife down his left arm in one quick slash. Blood welled up in thick red drops. The chill in the air was such that he barely felt the sting.

"One for the Dursleys," Harry forced himself to continue, making a parallel slash down his left arm. His body was already starting to go a bit weak--he'd cut deeper than he'd realized he could, and he smiled weakly at the thought. At least there was something he couldn't muck up, right?

"One for Snape," he said, and switched arms. It was hard to hold the knife in his blood-slicked left hand, but he managed. This slash was even deeper. "For always knowing the truth about me."

"One for Harry," this mark was sluggish, shallower than the others, and he hissed in disappointment. "One for the freak," he said and let the knife drop off the edge of the Astronomy Tower, lost to darkness, wind, and a few faint flurries of snow.

Harry slid backward, falling into the soft tangle of his cloak. Blood spilled onto his face, still surprisingly warm. He flicked his tongue out to taste it. It was surprisingly metallic. He'd almost thought it would taste evil...evil like he was. Like he had to be.

"Potter!" a shout filled his ears and he frowned in confusion. No. Damn it, no, no one was supposed to find him. Not yet. There was still a chance he could be saved.

He looked up and saw Snape's face looming above him and did the man look scared? Worried? Harry tried to reassure the Potions professor that it was okay, he was just taking care of his freakishness, his worthlessness, but the words wouldn't come.

"I will not let you die, Potter," Snape's voice filled his ears even as something clamped around both arms, and Harry surrendered to the darkness encroaching upon his vision.

When he opened his eyes, he found that he was in the Hospital Wing.

No...A low-pitched murmur of despair escaped from his throat, and Harry slumped back against the pillows. No. It couldn't be. He'd finally had it all planned out. Everything. The knife, the tower, the letters, it was time to finish it. Time to rid the world of his uselessness.

But no, someone had clearly found him. Had stopped him. Harry looked around, eyes wild, before his frantic gaze finally lit upon the person dozing by his bedside.

Severus Snape.

For a moment, his mouth rounded in a perfect O of shock. Of all the people Harry could have expected to rescue him, Snape wasn't even on the list. Snape understood him, didn't he? Snape was the only one who didn't hold an over-inflated opinion of Harry's value. Snape was the one who understood what the Dursleys knew, too. Harry was a freak, that was all. A worthless, useless freak.

But if Snape knew that, why had he saved Harry? Harry's brow furrowed as he pondered the options. Perhaps Snape simply couldn't stand to see a potentially useful tool be 'thrown away,' for lack of a better word. Harry was worthless, but he did have a scrawny set of well-honed muscles and he had technically defeated Voldemort. He was sure if he put his mind to it, he could be directed to kill other dark creatures or wizards/witches.

Perhaps Snape thought Harry hadn't suffered enough, either. Not nearly enough to make up for all the deaths that had occurred during this War. Harry accepted that suffering as his due, but he knew it wasn't nearly enough.

At that moment, Snape stirred and Harry found himself holding his breath, praying the man would stay asleep. Maybe then he could remove the IV from the back of his hand (and why did he have one, anyway? Surely IV's were a Muggle thing--he'd certainly never had one in the Hospital Wing before), tear off the thick white bandages that covered both arms, and finish the job. Quickly, before Snape woke.

The hope was dashed however when Snape opened his eyes and said wearily, "I already know what you are thinking, Potter, and no, you cannot go off and try again. For one thing, the Hospital Wing is now spelled to disallow any attempts at self-harm. Not to mention, you're stuck to your bed."

"Hey!" Harry exclaimed in outrage, flushing when he tried to move and realized that was indeed the case. "I'm fine, sir, let me go."

Snape snorted, an acerbic sound that made Harry flinch.

"Right," he said softly. "You're so fine, you trekked all the way up to the Astronomy Tower in freezing temperatures to attempt suicide. What kind of fool do you take me for, Potter?"

"I don't...sir," Harry managed to croak out, feeling like the worst sort of person. "But you didn't need to stop me, Professor," he challenged. His arms still throbbed and burned behind their thick antiseptic-smelling covering.

"Yes," Snape said. His eyes seemed to fix Harry to the bed, like a beetle on a card. "I most certainly did."

Harry felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes, frustrated ones, angry ones, and he blinked them back hastily. He couldn't stop himself from uttering the next words, however, the ones that made Snape freeze as if he'd been turned into stone.

"But I thought you understood, sir! I thought you understood I was a worthless freak!"

"What on earth ever put that particular thought in your head?" Snape inquired sharply. Harry turned his face away, pressing it hard into the slightly scratchy surface of his pillow.

"It's...just the truth, Professor," he finally answered, sounding like a bewildered child. "Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia know it. And...you, well, you treat me a bit like they do...like I should be treated. I hate how everybody else treats me, bloody fawning over me, or acting like I'm some kind of hero. I'm not. I never was."

"What do you mean your uncle and aunt know it?" Snape questioned, and the whole story of Harry's childhood came tumbling out of his mouth. Things he had thought he would never tell anyone, but somehow managed to spill to the black-robed man sitting so austerely by his hospital bed. When Petunia had nearly hit him over the head with a frying pan. Dudley bullying him. Uncle Vernon's constant angry tirades, the lash of his belt against the boy's back. Missing meals. Being locked outside, or locked in the shed when it rained, like an ordinary dog. Having his fingers burnt just because he'd dropped a piece of toast. When Dudley tried to bury him in the back garden and Uncle Vernon had only laughed and then scolded Harry for making a mess. By the end of it, Snape was actually carding his fingers through the boy's hair in an awkward attempt to soothe him, and Harry was laying there in shock.

"You are not worthless, Harry Potter," Snape said sternly. "You are not a freak, you are not useless. And I am--sorry that my behavior towards you has ever enforced that. You...are not your father," the words sounded strangled. "You should not have had the mantle of celebrity thrust upon you from babyhood, but that does not and will not ever mean that you are worthless. Do you understand, Potter?"

Slowly, Harry managed to nod. He didn't really, not yet. But maybe in time...maybe in time, he would.

And he knew he'd like to try.

Madam Pomfrey judged Harry fit to leave the Hospital Wing only two days before the end of the break. She clearly didn't want to even then, but Harry was chafing to be let out of the restrictive aura of the Hospital Wing, and Professor Snape agreed with him. The somber, medical chamber was no longer having a soporific effect on his mood. It was time for him to be moved. Harry had expected that he would be released to Gryffindor Tower, but considering the circumstances under which he had ended up in the Hospital Wing knocking on death's door in the first place, he supposed he should have realized that wasn't going to happen. Instead, Professor Snape informed him in tones that brooked no disobedience, he would be taking up resident in Snape's spare room for the remainder of the holiday and possibly continuing into the new term if his mental heatlh continued to concern the professor.

Harry had swallowed hard and agreed.

Now he found himself wishing that he hadn't as the professor led him into a small, oval-shaped chamber that was clearly his new accommodations. A bed took up most of the space, spread with a blue-and-green coverlet, but there was also a small wardrobe to one side and a slightly battered desk. The carpet was plush beneath his feet, a welcome respite from the chill that seeped from the dungeon walls.

"You will remain here until dinner," Snape told him. "This door will remain open. The same charms to prevent self-injurious behavior have been placed over this room, as a precaution. You may take a nap, study, or read anything of your choosing. If you do not have anything you wish to read, you may come and knock on my study door and I will show you to my personal library, where you may choose one book from the shelves I say are acceptable. Is that understood, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered softly and found himself gently propelled into the room. Snape disappeared down the dimly lit hallway, but Harry had the sense that he was listening, waiting to hear if Harry had another breakdown. There had been an embarrassing amount in the past few weeks. All the repressed sadness and grief and anger had just exploded from his mind--as if the suicide attempt had been enough to purge him of the numbness, to open himself up to past wounds...and Merlin, were there a lot.

The first time he had burst into noisy, braying sobs, he had expected Snape to scoff at him or turn his back. To leave the Hospital Wing or scold him for being a sniveling brat. Instead, the Potions professor had awkwardly gathered him up, mindful of the bandages that covered some very painful healing wounds, and simply held him, letting him sob into the man's black-robed shoulder. It had been a brand new experience for Harry, who had never been allowed to properly cry before. Who had never been allowed even the smallest measure of comfort with his relatives since he was very, very small. Aunt Petunia had tried to treat him decently for a while, but that ended as soon as his first burst of accidental magic occurred and her worst fears were realized.

Professor Snape had known Aunt Petunia, a fact that had shocked Harry. He'd known she was a vindictive nosey old bat, known the petty cruelties she was capable of, and told Harry in no uncertain terms that absolutely nothing that any of the Dursleys had done was his fault or deserved in the slightest bit. Harry still didn't know what to make of that. Old habits did not die hard, particularly when they had been learnt with your own tears and blood. But he'd promised the man he would try to understand and he supposed in time, maybe he would.

For now, though, he flopped on his new bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, much like the bed in his dorm. He actually appreciated the color scheme in here more than the garish red and gold. Blue, green, cream, and the wood of the desk and wardrobe made for a soothing palette.

The bandages on his arms chafed against his still-healing injuries, but he knew better than to pick at them. The charms tended to think he was making another self-injurious attempt and brought Snape rushing to find him. It was extraordinarily embarrassing to explain he'd merely had an itch, so Harry had trained himself to ignore it as best as he could. Snape could have put some sort of balm on them, to lessen the itch, but he refused for now, saying that the healing marks were a good reminder to Harry not to ever let himself get so low again.

He hadn't realized two hours had passed until Snape gently rapped on the door with his knuckles and informed him that it was time for dinner. Flushing, Harry scrambled off the bed, nearly falling when his toe caught against a loose thread in the carpet. He righted himself though with a minimum of flailing and carried on past the professor, whose mouth was twisted in a smirk that Harry suspected held in the man's laughter.

"You will not ever return to the Dursleys," Snape informed him over dinner, when he'd just taken a bite of mashed potatoes. Startled, Harry coughed them out inelegantly all over the tablecloth.

"What do you mean, sir?" Harry finally managed to sputter out, taking a long drink of pumpkin juice to soothe his abraded throat.

"You are seventeen, correct?" Snape questioned him. Harry nodded. "As such, you are of age in the wizarding world and can leave regardless. But I wanted to make that particularly clear in your case, Mr. Potter, because I believe that you would return anyway, to serve as their put-upon house elf if they so demanded. Am I wrong?"

Reluctantly, Harry shook his head.

"Precisely," Snape stated, taking an almost savage bite of his roast beef. "And thus, I assure you, I will not allow you to return to the Dursleys."

"But..." a weak protest crossed Harry's lips before he could stop it. Snape arched one eyebrow at him.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"If you're ordering me around...then...then aren't you doing the same thing? In a way? Sir?" he fumbled his way through the minefield of how he felt, feeling more and more like an incompetent git.

To his surprise, Snape merely looked thoughtful.

"You have a point, Mr. Potter," Professor Snape acknowledged. "Very well, I propose a deal. You stay with me until break ends and possibly a bit after, you attend Mind Healing sessions with both me and a licensed Mind Healer for the rest of the school year, and we shall come back to this conversation. How does that sound?"

Dumbfounded, Harry could only nod. He felt like his professor had been replaced by some sort of strange boggart. It couldn't possibly be the real professor Snape, could it? Even knowing how the man could act with his guard down, how his opinion of Harry had changed, it was a shock experiencing it like this. The man cared. About him. The worthless freak.

As if he'd read the boy's thoughts (and perhaps he had), Snape pointed his fork at him.

"And you will never refer to yourself as a worthless freak again," he said sharply. "You are not worthless, Harry. You are priceless."

"Priceless," Harry repeated softly to himself and grinned. He liked the thought of that.