First things first. Severus gently levitated Potter over to the sofa, where he splinted the child's broken ankle and healed it as best as he could. Despite being brilliant at Potions, he was not the best Healer, not by a long shot. The ankle would need a more professional going-over, but at least this would enable him to walk with relatively slight pain. After that, it was a waiting game, waiting for Potter to wake back up, waiting for him to explain what on earth he meant by "they left me" and why he'd been so petrified at the thought of going back, he'd had a full-blown panic attack and broken his ankle.

The boy started shivering in his sleep and Severus Summoned a quilt from the guest room, smoothing the hopefully familiar green fabric over the slight body and returning to his vigil in the armchair. Now that he was alone and the child was unconscious, his recriminations could smash into him full force, and so they did, bowing his head and shoulders under their weight.

He should have thought. He should have reacted calmly, more appropriately. But instead, he'd seen that damned lightning bolt, known what it meant, who it meant, and had gone off like a badly-timed rocket. All he could see in that moment was James, even knowing the child acted nothing like his father. He hadn't even given Potter two seconds to answer his questions before haring off again on his own fury-laced tirade. Small wonder the eight-year-old had had a panic attack and fainted. He'd acted like a bloody monster.

Severus sat there, regarding his hands, for what felt like ages before Potter finally stirred. Those vivid green eyes blinked owlishly before the boy was looking up at him through a watchful, guarded expression.

"Potter, I'm sorry," Severus finally managed to croak out, the words sticking painfully in his throat. "I had no right to treat you the way that I did, and no right to assume the things that I did. I didn't listen to you, I merely reacted, based on my own prejudice, and it was wrong of me."

Harry nodded once, still mistrustful-looking. He picked at a loose thread on the quilt, slowly unraveling it.

"Now, I would like to hear-and actually listen-to why it is not possible for you to go back. Please," Severus added. There. You couldn't get much more polite than that, could you? And he did need to know.

"Not much to tell," Harry finally said. His voice was rougher than before, but perhaps that was due to the fact he was not currently shaking in a corner. "They left me in a supermarket parking lot. They didn't come back."

Severus's eyes widened at hearing it stated so baldly.

"Not like I mind," Potter continued. "They were shit guardians, to be frank with you, sir." He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal yellowing bruises in the shape of fingers on his upper arm.

And now Severus was certain either he was dreaming or the world had just imploded or something. Surely Dumbledore would not have placed the Boy Who Lived with abusive guardians. Surely.

But the circlet of finger-shaped bruises on the child's arm said otherwise.

Which meant Severus had a lot more to deal with than he'd previously thought.

Tom was the one who'd ended up out to answer the git's questions. Of course. Freak was too exhausted from his earlier panic attack to do more than pant weakly in a corner, covered by a stray tatty blanket Blue had draped over him. She was the only one who could get near him when he was like that. Their ankle throbbed, but it was manageable enough that Tom could ignore it. For the most part.

They'd originally planned to not tell Snape much of anything, but after Freak had ended up out and Snape had almost dragged them out the door, Tom saw no point in sugar-coating anymore. The Dursleys were abusive arses and it was time someone knew that. So he had no problem telling Snape they left him at the supermarket and no problem lifting up his shirt to show the bruises left over from the last time Uncle Vernon had grabbed them a bit too hard.

But when it came down to telling Snape who it was that had maintained supposed custody of the Boy Who Lived, the words stuck in his throat. It was embarrassing putting a name to the people who had shoved him around, had hit him, starved him, locked him in a cupboard, done other things under the blessed cover of darkness. Humiliating to acknowledge those people even existed.

And so he couldn't. Not yet. He tried to tell Snape that, but it didn't work. The wizard still wanted to know. Still kept pushing. Prodding. It's important to know. It will help you if you tell. On and on, until Jay grew sick of it, pushed his way out, and told Snape to fuck off.

...Well, that was one way to end a conversation.