Severus waited patiently for a response, but none seemed forthcoming; Potter wouldn’t meet his eyes, and didn’t exactly seem inclined to continue the conversation.  

“Potter,” he repeated, forcing his voice to become gentler.  “How were you injured?”  See?  I can be perfectly pleasant, even to you.

The boy glanced up at him, gripping the sheets tightly, then suddenly relaxed, the fear draining from his face.  Almost instantly, it was replaced with a much more familiar look.

Potter grinned, a bit impishly, and leaned back against the headboard.  “Picked a fight with some kids in the neighborhood.  Five of them.  Still beat the pants off ‘em, though.”  His voice was unconcerned and slightly arrogant, making him almost indistinguishable from his sire.  

Severus stared, completely thrown.  This...this was how he’d always seen the boy, wasn’t it?  This was the boy, the brat he’d always had to deal with in class.  So why did the cocky stance seem wrong, somehow?  More worryingly, why didn’t he seem like he was lying?  Potter can’t lie.  But I don’t believe him, not at all.  Either he was losing his touch or the boy was a much better liar than anyone had ever imagined.  

“Really, Potter?  Just what I’d expect,” he said snidely, his mind working as he watched a flicker of relief cross the boy’s face at his professor’s apparent acceptance of the story.  Severus fixed him with a serious gaze.  “Nothing to do with your Muggle relations, then?”  He knew he was taking a risk - if he was wrong, this would certainly be more than uncomfortable for both of them - but he couldn’t deny the looming suspicion he’d felt since finding Potter in that classroom.  

With difficulty, Harry held back a whimper of fear.  No.  No, no, no.  He can’t know.  He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t he--

He carefully rearranged his expression into one of scorn, the effort effectively blocking his thoughts.  “Potion fumes getting to your head, Professor?”  He snorted in derision, breathing a bit more slowly in an attempt to soothe his nerves.  Can’t tell, whispered a small voice deep in his mind, and he shuddered as he continued.  “I just told you it was a fight.”  Rolling his eyes, Harry tried to ignore the suspicion in the Professor’s eyes.  Don’t show anything, he warned himself.  Let him see what he wants to see.  It was a defense he’d learned early on; no one suspected anything if they saw all they were expecting, so he’d quickly learned to read people and turned their expectations to his advantage.  For his teachers in primary school, he was the odd little boy who got in trouble for fighting with his cousin.  At Privet Drive, he was the freak.  For most of his Professors, he was the Boy Who Lived.  And for Snape, he was the arrogant braggart.  It worked well.  Not even Snape had ever been able to see past it.

To be honest, part of him wanted to tell, if only to see the shock on the Professor’s face.  But he couldn’t.  The remembered pain was too strong; most of him simply could not go against the training he’d received, the lessons that had been beaten into him with belts and fists.  Those memories bubbled up inside him, and he embraced them, taking the anger he had felt then and transforming it into the derision on his face.  But still, a tiny, beaten down part of him was tentatively reaching out, pushing gently at the walls Harry had put up around him.

It took all of Severus’s restraint to keep his mouth from hanging open and his eyes from bulging out.  What is that infernal boy up to?  He knew Potter was lying, but the child in front of him didn’t seem to show any sign of dishonesty.  Or did he?

He leaned forward, analyzing the boy.  Potter’s nose was turned up slightly, and he had a hint of a smirk on his face-- but was that anxiety in the depths of those green eyes? Was it weakness from the injuries that made the boy’s hands shake, or fear of being discovered?  A wave of doubt seemed to crash over Severus as he watched the Gryffindor, neither of them moving a muscle.  I’m certain that I’m right, but what if I’m not?  I haven’t exactly been a good judge of the boy, now have I?  

“Potter.”  The boy glanced at him for a moment, then deliberately averted his gaze, the perfect embodiment of nonchalance.  Severus closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself.  “Harry.”  

That worked a bit better; Potter jerked slightly, the arrogant smirk fading from his face.  Severus took this as an improvement and continued.

“Harry, please.”  The boy’s eyes stretched wide with shock; he had surely never expected to hear such a gentle tone from the Potions professor, never mind a ‘please’.  “Tell me the truth.” 

“Tell me the truth.”  

The request chilled Harry to the bone, and he automatically flinched away from the very idea.  He closed his eyes, shivering, and was instantly lost in a memory.

“Tell anyone, boy, and this won’t even compare to what I’ll do to you,” the voice snarled.  Harry whimpered from where he cowered on the floor, trying to drag himself away, but the belt whipped through the air again and he cried out as the buckle tore through his skin.

“Uncle, please, I won’t tell, I’ll be good, I won’t tell!”  His voice cracked, and tears leaked down his flushed cheeks.  “I’ll be good,” he whimpered again, and his arms gave out; he sagged against the floor, welcoming the coolness of the tile floor against his battered body.  Cruel laughter erupted from behind him, and he gasped for air as a booted foot slammed into his ribcage.  

“Damn right you will, freak.  I won’t have that...that abnormal behavior in my house.”  His uncle’s voice was serious and menacing now, and Harry could barely restrain a sob.  “You’ll behave yourself, or else.  And you will not tell.”  The last three words were each punctuated with a blow, and Harry screamed aloud, begging for the pain to end.

Damn.  The request clearly hadn’t gone as well as Severus had planned.  He reached out, shaking the boy gently; Harry was curled in on himself, his head buried in his knees, trembling.  The touch only made the boy tighten his grip around his legs, so Severus began gently rubbing his back, murmuring to him softly.  A high-pitched keening sound emitted from deep in Harry’s throat, and Severus realized that he wouldn’t be getting any information out of the boy, not tonight.  He sighed and gently pried the boy’s hands away from his legs, manoeuvring the boy gently so that he was seated normally, with his head tilted back.  Does he even notice what’s going on?  Or is he too far inside himself to care?  He quickly summoned a Dreamless Sleep potion and poured it into the boy’s mouth with practiced ease, stroking his throat gently so it would be easier to swallow.  After a few moments, the small body relaxed, no longer shaking and attempting to curl back into its defensive pose.  

He pulled the sheets carefully over the boy, part of him marvelling at the thought that he, of all people, would be putting Harry, of all people, to bed.  Even in sleep, the child shied away from physical contact, making Severus’s heart ache.  What had happened to the boy, to warrant such fear?  Severus had to actively force himself not to berate himself again about not noticing.  He glanced at the clock:  three in the morning.  He let out a sigh and grabbed a quill and some parchment; he had some arrangements to make for the following day.

Severus left the sleeping boy in the infirmary and hurried to his office.  He had arranged to have a substitute take his classes for the day, but he had a very important meeting to attend.  He sat down, and within a few minutes, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he said, and one of his third-year Snakes entered.

“Mr. Nott.  Sit down.”  While his words were short, his tone was somewhat less strict than he would normally use even with his Slytherins, and the young man sat obediently.  

“What did you need from me, Professor?”

Severus leaned forward.  “I take it that I do not need to remind you of the circumstances surrounding your first year?”

Nott flushed, averting his eyes.  “No, sir.”  

The professor nodded.  He had nursed the boy back to health himself after the Sorting, and in all his years, he had never seen a case of abuse as...unpleasant... as that one, a fact which he had not hesitated to inform the stricken boy of after he was healed, during one of their many therapeutic sessions where Severus attempted to heal the deep psychological scars that the boy had suffered.

That is, he had never seen a case that bad until the previous night.

“I’m sorry to say that I believe your record has been broken.”

Nott looked confused for a moment, but then, several emotions flashed across his face in quick succession; shock, horror, disgust, then finally settling on a mixture of concern and understanding.  

“I’m sorry to hear that too, Professor,” the Slytherin replied quietly.  “Is there anything I can do?”

Severus eyed the boy, seemingly still debating.  “Perhaps.  But not yet.”

When Harry awoke, he lay for a few moments in confusion, trying to remember where he was.  What had happened?  He remembered walking with Ron and Hermione, then getting into an argument and storming off...and then...

Harry sat straight up in the hospital bed, feeling wildly around for his glasses.  They suddenly appeared in front of his face, and he grabbed at them, hardly registering the long-fingered hand that held them.  With the round frames safely perched on his nose, he looked around, suddenly blanching when he saw Snape in the chair next to his bed, watching him with a hint of...bemusement?

“Um...good morning, sir.”  Harry’s memories were starting to rush back now, and he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear.  Snape saw that?  All of it?  Wait, when did I even fall asleep?  Was he here?  His face burned at the idea, and he stared intently at a miniscule hole in the sheets.  

“Good morning, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes bugged out, adding yet another question to his mental list:  since when did Snape call him by his first name?  Since yesterday, when he saw you panicking like a baby and almost giving secrets away, snarled a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like a certain, very large man with a moustache and a loud, menacing voice.  That thought brought on a wave of melancholy as he watched the professor warily.

Severus couldn’t deny that he had rather enjoyed the look of helpless bewilderment that had crossed the boy’s face upon hearing the civil, even pleasant greeting from the Greasy Bat of the Dungeons.  It’s nice to see that I’ve kept up appearances, he thought, barely restraining a smirk.   

“I trust you slept well?”  Better, at least, than you must have since you acquired those injuries.  

“Fine,” the boy replied quietly, his face flushing a bit.  Severus waited a moment, and when Harry didn’t seem inclined to go further, he continued.  

“Harry, I don’t know what you intend to gain by hiding what happened to you.”  The small face softened slightly, and the boy bit his lip, worrying it between his teeth.  Does that mean he’s opening up a bit?  Maybe?

He sighed quietly, weighing his options, and finally decided that the boy was almost there.  Steeling his nerves, and leaned forward to put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  The effect was immediate; Harry flinched backwards, away from the touch, and squeezed his eyes shut.  Small hands clutched, ever more tightly, at the sheets, and he whimpered softly.  Severus froze, his hand stretched toward the child, and waited.  He hadn’t expected a reaction like that.  A reaction that violent...usually indicates a long history of abuse.  Merlin, child, what have they done to you?

After a few moments, one brilliant green eye slowly opened, the terror slowly fading from its depths.  Moving very slowly so as not to startle Harry again, Severus leaned back in the chair and deliberately placed his hands in his lap, where the boy could see them.  

“It’s okay,” he said quietly, though fury was welling up in him, not at the boy, but at his obvious mistreatment.  “I won’t hurt you.”

A strange mixture of horror, humiliation, and relief took him over as he watched the Professor.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  He knew it wasn’t Uncle Vernon, he knew he wasn’t back at Privet Drive, but he had still reacted, and that was just as bad as telling.  Harry’s face burned and he looked away at the Professor’s words, embarrassed that he needed to be comforted that way, but he felt a hard, emotional lump in his throat, and was grateful for whatever he could get to diminish it.  

“Please don’t tell,” he whispered feebly.  His eyes were prickling with tears.  “It’s not a big deal, really, I can handle it.”  To his horror, the tears overflowed then, and he swiped angrily at his eyes with one hand.

“Tell me what happened.”  Harry cringed.  He didn’t say...

“Only if you promise you won’t tell anyone.”  He was fully aware of how much he sounded like a petulant child, but he couldn’t find the strength to care.  He heard a sigh, but still didn’t look at Snape.  

“Pott-- Harry.  I promise to do nothing with the information that will not benefit you.”  There was a hint of exasperation in the man’s voice, and Harry glanced up at him doubtfully, understanding the meaning:  Snape would tell 'for his own good', so Harry could get help, not that it would work.  He watched the man warily; Snape was pinching the bridge of his nose, as if to ward off a headache, which usually meant he was nearing the end of his patience.