Harry lay in bed, unable to sleep. Snape was snoring softly, asleep before Harry for once, it seemed. He couldn't get the overheard words out of his head. They rang constantly like an urgent call, telling Harry to pick up and listen.

I do not want ...

Do not want to see Potter end up like me.

Like me. Like me.

How? How did Snape not want Harry to end up like him? The thought baffled Harry, and as he lay on his side, staring out the window with its enchanted stars, just visible between the curtain that Snape insisted stayed closed as much as possible, Harry frowned. And then there was that other thing Snape had said ... that sentence that stuck a lump in Harry's throat and struck fear into his heart. Yet in that far back region of his stomach where the fear lay, so too lay relief. Whether Snape was talking about himself when Harry caught onto the second half of the overheard conversation, Harry did not know, but Snape's mention of knowing what it was like for your family not to care had etched itself in Harry's memory. Somehow he didn't think it would be unlikely for Snape to have had a bad family. The man was a mess, whether he tried to hide it or not. The way he was in class suggested he only knew how to rule through fear, rather than respect. The students who didn't like him were intimidated into submission. He worked under no other tactic. Harry had always thought he was just cruel, but now, he couldn't help but wonder if there was another reason.

Perhaps fear was the only kind of respect that Snape had ever known. Perhaps he had feared his own family, as Harry (however much he hated to admit it) feared his own. Thankfully, however, Harry had seen other good examples of leadership, and learned from them. But if Snape hadn't ... if Snape had been terrorized by his family just as Harry had (and given the overheard words, it was the only scenario Harry could think of that fit all of what he had overheard), then his teaching style and overall approach to people made sense. It was a piece of the puzzle, and startling though it was, it fit well with all the other clues. Abused, though. Snape? So rigid ... strong, dominating. But hiding behind all of it ... maybe there was a history Harry hadn't ever suspected.

... don't want to see Potter end up ... (Like me. But how, Professor?)

The thought pervaded his senses once again. It was the water seeping through the cracks in the rock face, and it hit Harry's heart, cold and unexpected. The rock face was beginning to crumble at those words, those words that could mean any number of things. Bitter. Jaded. Cruel. Maybe Snape didn't want Harry to become like that. But Harry had a sense that it wasn't just that that Snape had meant. It breaks you, he had said, after all.

Harry was pretty sure Snape meant that whatever had happened in his childhood (those moments, those horrible, nameless series of events that made Snape who he was ... bitter, jaded, cruel) had had a large part in bringing him here. To Oak Tree. But why was Snape here?

Anxious thought after anxious thought bombarded Harry, and he felt the gripping arms of fear on his chest, squeezing his breath from his lungs. Snape was onto him. Somehow, some way, Snape suspected something about Harry's home life. And he was worried it would break Harry.

Because he knew from experience?

If Snape suspected Harry's home life was bad, Harry could not help but feel that it really must be.

Furthermore, what was Harry supposed to be trying to avoid? How could he make sure he didn't end up like Snape, if he still didn't really know how or why he had ended up here? How could he knew what he had to avoid becoming, if he didn't know what Snape had referred to?

He lay awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling. Thinking.

What if it is too late? What if I have already failed?

***

After a long time, Harry got up. Snape was still sleeping, and the rest of the ward was nearly empty. It was still a long time before breakfast, and Harry sat down in the dining area. A few healers were bustling about, preparing the ward for the day. They said their morning greetings, asking Harry how he was, as per usual. He said fine every time, and his years of convincing people that he was definitely paid off. They did not notice the troublesome thoughts stirring beneath the surface.

Harry couldn't get rid of the thought that he had failed, somehow. That if Snape had started to suspect that the Dursleys weren't good to Harry, then he'd messed up. That was rule number one, always. Don't tell. Never tell. The cupboard is a secret. Everything is a secret. If anyone asks you got a bicycle for Christmas ... some video tapes ... a toy race car ...

I'll be in my room, pretending I don't exist.

Don't exist.

What does Snape know what does he know what if he finds out what if he find out about the cupboard what if he doesn't understand and he actually he knew I was listening so he's hoping that I'll confide in him and then he's going to tell everyone everyone everyone will know I can't - I can't. Everyone will know I fought off Voldemort but can't fight Vernon.

The recollection that the contract wouldn't let Snape tell anyone outside of Oak Tree without Harry's consent wasn't something Harry recalled at the moment. His head was spinning and he was scared and his arms were burning and he couldn't take it.

All he wanted was to hurt himself, because he deserved it for letting his facade slide, for thinking he could relax and not fear someone finding out.

Mechanically, he got up out of his chair.

Make it stop please just stop this stop this pain -

His hands were clenched tightly and his eyes were starting to feel like they were going to bug out and his chest had become a vacuum, no air no air no air no air -

"What should you do next time you feel like hurting yourself?"

I don't know, Richard I don't know -

Talk to someone, don't be alone, don't be alone talk talk talk talk

Harry stood before the phone in the hallway, the area empty and the buttons staring him in the face.

Hermione's number. Hermione's number.

He typed it in with numb fingers, and he picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Um, is Hermione there?"

Stupid idea it's too early she's asleep you're a terrible friend for waking her you don't deserve her help -

"Oh, this must be Harry," said an older, vaguely familiar female voice on the line. Hermione's mother.

"Yeah," Harry said, his voice shaking. A breath.

"I'll go get her for you. Just a mo'"

"Er, thanks, Mrs Granger."

"Anytime, Harry."

He heard the phone set down for the time being.

Thank you. Thank you.

"Hi, Harry," said a tired sounding voice on the other line. "You're awake early. Something on your mind?"

"Sorry, did I wake you up?" muttered Harry. Stupid stupid stupid. "I'll call back -"

"Wait - it's fine, Harry," said Hermione on the other line, obviously having heard the shuffling of the receiver in Harry's nervous hand. "I told my parents to get me if you call. No matter when."

"No ... no matter when?" Harry asked, shocked.

"Well, yes," said Hermione as though it was obvious.

"Oh. Erm, thanks."

"No problem. That's what friends are for. So, what's on your mind?"

Harry sighed weightily, sinking down into the chair by the phone.

"Kind of hard to explain. I don't know. I just need to talk to someone."

"Hard to explain, yeah, I get you on that," said Hermione. Then, adding in a rather disgruntled way, "words never quite seem to be enough when it comes to emotions."

"Yeah, one area where books kind of fail, huh?"

She sniffed haughtily and gave a resigned yes.

"So, um, what's been happening around your house lately?" Harry asked, seeking distraction.

Hermione, adept as she was, caught on.

"Oh, nothing much of interest," she said, the sound of pots being moved in the background bleeding through from her end. "I planted a garden though. Dad thought it would be fun. Normally they're so busy because they work so much, Dentists, you know ... but this year they thought, well, why not? So we planted beans, and carrots, and ..."

Harry listened, feeling his heartbeat slow down as Hermione chattered on about the garden, glad that he could give her advice on weeding due to his many years of experience himself. It was like he had dipped into the forgotten well of information inside of him, the things that he had learned without realizing it, and like lifeblood it started to circulate as he told her the best way to prune vine type plants. It brought his body back to earth, he could start to feel his fingers and toes coming back to life, and the painful rubber band around his chest loosened as the lifeblood from the well circulated, reminding him of who he was and that he still held some semblance of control if he could remember that wild bluebells grew from tubers and if you wanted to get them out of a flower bed you had to dig those up too.

It wasn't much, but it was enough to remind him that he had some control, and so when he said goodbye to Hermione after thirty minutes of aimless chatter and the promise of a visit soon, the world was the right size again. The floor didn't seem too far away and the light that was shed was no longer too harsh.