I used to try hard to please them, you know. When I was little, I thought that if I just tried hard enough then they might be happy with me, maybe even treat me like they treated Dudley. I used to daydream sometimes about them giving me Dudley’s second bedroom, and new toys and clothes, and then me and Dudley would be like brothers.

I used to try really hard to not be freaky, but it was hard because I wasn’t really sure what it was that I was doing. Did you know I didn’t know my name was Harry until I stayed with Mrs. Figg for the first time when I was almost four? And I didn’t know I had a birthday until I went to school. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you that.

Harry looked back at what the quill had written. He was not really sure where that had all come from. He had not thought about his old daydreams in years. He used to dream about someone coming to take him away from the Dursleys too, some long-lost relative, or someone who would come and say it had all been a mistake and they had been searching for him for years. It had seemed a bit like that when Hagrid had come and told him he was a wizard, but then he had still had to return to the Dursleys every summer. But those kinds of daydreams had not come until he was older; his first dreams had been about the Dursleys loving him.

Harry was not sure what possessed him to actually give the letter to Snape that night after dinner. He could hardly believe he was handing this over to his potions professor, a page so full of ammunition for taunting. But somehow, he seemed to have landed on a track that was carrying him along faster than he could process everything that was occurring. He was not entirely certain where it was taking him, but he realized that he did not want to stop things. It was frightening, but it was almost as though some small part of him was beginning to trust Snape.

xxXxx

“Freak,” Aunt Petunia hissed at him. “You’ve never been anything more than a freak.”

“How could you think we would ever love you like we love our Dudders?” Uncle Vernon added.

“He’s the perfect son; he’s never turned his teacher’s hair blue.”

“You’ve cost us quite a pretty penny over the years, boy!”

“Do you know how much it costs to feed and clothe a worthless burden like you?”

Harry, it’s time to wake up now.

“No, I tried to be good!” Harry protested feebly.

“Well you should have tried harder,” Aunt Petunia sniffed.

Harry, it’s ok, it’s just a dream.

“You never even could perform your chores properly; couldn’t even earn your keep!” Uncle Vernon exclaimed.

Harry, wake up for me, please, it’s time to wake up now.

“You’re just a worthless FREAK!”

Harry!

Harry opened his eyes to see Snape standing over him. He flinched backward slightly at the threatening shape, then relaxed as Snape stepped backwards slightly and he recognized where he was and who was with him.

Snape sighed quietly. “Would you care for a game of draughts?” he asked.

Harry nodded mutely and followed Snape into the living room.

xxXxx

The next morning, even Snape was beginning to feel the toll of the many sleepless nights in a row. He wondered how Harry, still just a teenager -- a child really, was still functioning; he suspected that he had been having consistent nightmares even before Snape began noticing.

After Snape had gotten Harry ready for the day, Harry spoke up. “Sir?” he asked. “Do you think we might be able to reduce the bindings a little earlier today than we have the other days? Then I could feed myself breakfast?”

Snape shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Reducing the binding to stage one is the most difficult step; it would be most unwise to attempt it too early. We should give it the full four days. I do not want to risk you returning to a stage six.”

Harry looked disappointed, but he nodded in understanding.

Snape observed Harry throughout breakfast. He was quiet and reserved for the duration of the meal, and only ate about a third of his food, which was a slightly smaller portion than usual. Snape had continued to pile Harry’s plate at each meal with what he considered a ‘normal’ portion for a boy of his age, hoping that the teenager might be able to finish it at some point. Now, however, he was beginning to wonder if Harry might need to take a nutritional supplement, or perhaps an appetite enhancer, to help him get his appetite and body weight to a healthier range. But Snape was worried about more than just his physical health when he saw how listless the boy seemed that morning. He accepted his food meekly just by opening his mouth, chewing it mechanically, and merely shook his head slightly when he was full. And as Snape gently cleaned the excess oatmeal away from his lips, he simply sat and stared at his plate.

When they finished eating, Harry silently followed Snape out into the living room, where they sat in their usual seats, Harry studying the floor.

Snape studied Harry for a moment before saying, “You seem unusually subdued today, Harry. Is something bothering you?”

Harry shrugged. “Just tired, I guess.”

“I can understand that, certainly. You are sure that nothing else is bothering you?” He paused, gathering himself, then said, “I do not mind discussing it, if something is. It is ok to tell me.”

Harry looked up, surprised. An echoing chant of ‘worthless freak’ and ‘annoying burden’ had been circling through his head all morning, but it faded a bit now as he met Snape’s obsidian eyes. He felt a lump forming in his throat, and he blinked. Oh no. Not now. He hadn’t cried in years, so why now? And in front of Snape, no less. He tried to choke the tears back, but a sob rose unbidden in his throat and escaped, issuing from his mouth as a pathetic hiccough. He closed his eyes in shame, but after a moment he felt a hesitant arm around his shoulders, and the floodgates opened. He began sobbing, turning into Snape’s shoulder to hide his face.

He wasn’t even sure why he was crying really, but at some point he became aware that he was mumbling words into Snape’s robes.

“...tried so hard to be good… I thought if I just tried harder… Why didn’t they… couldn’t they…”

His throat closed over the last word. He couldn’t say it, that word he had longed to hear for so long in his childhood -- before he realized how foolish it was to hope for such things.

But Snape seemed to understand. He felt his chest rumble deeply beneath his cheek as he spoke.

“It was them, Harry, not you, never you. They refused to see how wonderful you are. They chose to refuse to see the real you, instead they only saw the image they had made up of you.”

“But how can you say I’m wonderful!” Harry exclaimed wetly. “You’ve hated me all these years, too.” He swiped at his cheeks but did not move from Snape’s embrace.

In that moment, Snape came to realize just how badly he had hurt an already wounded boy these past few years. Harry had come to Hogwarts already injured, wanting to trust but afraid, wanting nothing more than a little affection and a little acceptance, and he had ground him under his heel.

Snape sighed heavily and rubbed Harry’s back lightly. “I, too, was blind to the real you. I only saw that you looked like your father and I placed the burden of my childhood grudges on you, but wrongly so. And I am truly sorry for that, Harry. But I have changed, and I do see how wonderful you are now, Harry. You are a bright, curious, hard-working boy, with a beautifully innocent spirit. I regret that I did not see it sooner.” And in that moment, Snape realized just how true his words were. Somehow, his mission to protect, and then to save, Harry Potter had turned into something more. He cared for him.

Harry sniffled. “But if you changed, why can’t they change?” He looked up at Snape again, meeting his eyes with his green ones, bright with tears. “Do you think they ever will?”

Snape did not know what to say. How could he answer such a question from this hurting boy? “I wish that they could, Harry,” he finally whispered.

xxXxx

A little while later, Harry sat in a chair pushed back from the kitchen table, his face cleaned of his tears. Snape stood in front of him, his wand raised.

“Are you ready?” he asked. At Harry’s nod, he began incanting, waving his wand over Harry’s arms. After a minute or two, he stopped and frowned, glaring at Harry’s arms. He resumed, changing his pattern subtly.

After a moment, Harry’s eyes widened. His forearms were slowly inching their way towards each other. “Sir?” he squeaked out, his voice quavering.

Snape saw what Harry was indicating and began chanting furiously, tracing sweeping arcs and circles with his wand. After several tense minutes, Harry’s forearms halted their progress, and Snape’s incantations became whispered and melodic, entrancing, and his wand movements graceful and almost dance-like.

Minutes later, he stopped and sat heavily in a chair, running one hand through his greasy hair. Harry gave him a small smile and wiggled his hands, which were now free, his arms bound only at the wrists.

One corner of Snape’s lips twitched upwards just slightly. “It appears we were successful, eventually. How are your hands?” He stood back up and reached for them, inspecting Harry’s palms. “A bit chapped,” he said, answering his own question. “I will fetch the cream.”

Harry nodded. “Will I be serving my detention tonight then?” As much as he loathed Snape’s detentions, he did not want to risk the fragile rapport they had begun to build between them. He did not want to appear ungrateful or as though he were shirking responsibilities or punishments.

Snape, however, smirked at him. “I think we can forego your detention. I do believe this whole ordeal has been quite punishment enough.”

Harry gaped at him, but nodded.

Snape’s expression turned slightly more stern as he added, “I do, however, expect you to spend at least a couple of hours after lunch each day studying and working on your assignments. You have a bit to catch up on.”

xxXxx

After Snape had left, Harry once again found himself staring for a long time at the blank piece of parchment before him. It was slightly easier, he thought, being able to write it out rather than say it, but it was still scary. Finally, he decided that he need not give this letter to Snape, if he did not want to. But as he began delving into the years he had spent with the Dursleys, he was thinking more and more about the things he had experienced there, and he had discovered that it was almost cathartic to have it written on the parchment, as though he were extracting a poison from his soul.

Eventually, he set his quill to the paper, and began to write, albeit rather clumsily.

xxXxx

Harry did not have the courage to give Snape his letter until the next morning before breakfast. He was feeling a bit more energized, having slept all the way through the night before without waking once or having any dreams he could recall. He supposed he had been too exhausted to dream.

He had not originally thought he would give Snape the letter, but once again, he felt a sense of inevitability about it. And as much as it terrified him, and even pained him at times, he had to admit there was some tiny part of him that felt relieved to tell someone the secrets he had been keeping for years.

Snape accepted the letter with a small nod, setting it aside at first to read after he had finished eating. But when he saw how restless and nervous Harry was, he decided it might ease his discomfort just a bit if he started reading it now, ending the suspense. He picked it up and began reading it as he finished his breakfast, carefully maintaining an impassive expression and relaxed posture.

Uncle Vernon has always smacked me around a bit, for as long as I can remember. Even Aunt Petunia gets an occasional slap in. They’ve always made me do all the housework and chores, and I just got smacked a bit if I messed them up at all. I got locked in my cupboard if I did something freaky though. And they usually left me in there when they left the house, unless they wanted me to do chores while they were gone.

But one time when I was 7 I think, or maybe 8, they found me out of my cupboard when they got home. I don’t remember how I got out, actually, I just remember I was hungry. They found me in the kitchen eating a banana. Uncle Vernon was so furious. He said I’d stolen from them and they couldn’t trust me anymore.

So when they went out after that, they always left me tied up to something. Uncle Vernon even brought handcuffs home from somewhere, and he would keep the key in his pocket. Usually they'd just handcuff me to part of the frame of my cot. It wasn’t so bad though, really, it just got a little boring.

That next summer, Uncle Vernon caught me taking a break in the shade one time when I was supposed to be mowing the lawn. He got pretty mad. Then he had me build them a taller fence for the next few days, and he got out the old lead line they used sometimes when my Aunt Marge brought her dog Ripper with her to visit. When he had me mow the lawn again the next week, he cuffed my ankle to the lead line. But he only did that a few times that summer, and I guess he got bored of it later, because he never did it again.

By the end of the letter (more of an accounting, really) it had become quite a struggle for Snape to keep the anger from his face and body language. The Dursleys were monsters. Even if they had never laid a hand on Harry, the level of abuse and neglect, the degradation, was horrific. And Snape had not missed the switch from present to past tense. Since he highly doubted that the abuse had ceased, he wondered how it had escalated from there.

As he led Harry into the living room once more, he contemplated a mystery that had been niggling at the back of his mind for a week and a half, since the day of Harry’s potions incident. Harry had been surprisingly panicked at the idea of his arms being bound, and he had some idea of why now.

After they had both settled, Snape began, “First of all, I am very proud of you, Harry, for telling me about this. I know that could not have been easy.”

Harry looked quite surprised, and his face flushed a bit at the compliment.

He looks as though no one has ever told him they are proud of him, Snape thought as he looked at Harry’s wide eyes and glowing face. Then again, he thought, I suppose it is likely that no one ever has.

“I am guessing that, given your history with your relatives, your situation with the fune ad servendium was especially difficult. Do you think that is true?” Snape asked.

Harry shrugged, his happiness fading. “Maybe,” he said quietly.

“Do you think that is why your nightmares have been more frequent?” Snape suggested, trying to help the child to open up.

But as much as Harry had enjoyed Snape’s compliment and desired to do something else to earn such praise, he could not seem to bring himself to open up any more that day. He was too embarrassed, too ashamed of his own weakness.

After a long while of trying to gently encourage Harry into talking, Snape began to suspect that the issue behind Harry’s reticence was his shame, his embarrassment, even his feelings of isolation. Harry would likely know of no one else who was mistreated by their family -- it was so difficult for him to wrap his mind around the idea that it was not his fault, that there was nothing he could have done about it, particularly when all around him he saw loving families.

Snape sighed inwardly, steeling himself. He supposed he had known all along, on some level, that he would eventually tell Harry about his own childhood, but it did not make the moment of revelation any easier.

“Harry,” he hesitated. “I would like to show you something.” At Harry’s nod, he twisted around in his chair a bit awkwardly, so that his back was facing Harry, and pulled the back of his sweater up around his shoulders, mentally thanking Merlin that he had not yet put on his robes. He waited just a couple of seconds after hearing Harry’s gasp before he turned back around in the chair, straightening his sweater as he did so.

For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence as each tried to gather their thoughts, neither meeting the other’s eye. Then Snape said quietly, “I just want you to know you are not alone in this, Harry.” When he saw Harry nod, he rose, readied himself quickly for the lab, and left his quarters.

xxXxx

Although Snape knew that Harry had written something that morning, he did not receive a note again that night. He elected not to push the boy, wondering if perhaps they were moving a bit too quickly. He thought he likely had quite a bit he was trying to process, and it was not coddling him in any sense to give him some time.

That night, he woke once again to the monitoring charm he had set up in Harry’s room. (Harry’s room? When did it become Harry’s room?) He hurried down the hall, opening the closed door to find Harry in the midst of the most violent-looking nightmare he had witnessed yet.

“Harry,” he called gently, trying to find some part of the teenager to hold onto amidst the flailing limbs. Harry’s screams and moans were only partially muffled by his hands, and the pitiful sound he was emitting wrenched at Snape’s heart -- an organ he had not even realized had begun to thaw. Eventually, Snape managed to touch Harry’s back, and he began rubbing small circles. When Harry flipped back over, he just managed to escape having his hand trapped beneath him.

“Harry!” he called again, a bit louder. He was not even sure Harry could hear him. Finally, after an internal debate, he reached over the teenager and pinned his arms, resting one leg on the bed and gritting his teeth as Harry began kicking at his stomach.

“Harry, everything is ok, you are safe, you are at Hogwarts, you are safe, no one is hurting you, it is time to wake up, you are safe…”

It took several long minutes, much longer than any of the previous nightmares, before Harry finally woke. He flinched violently back from Snape at first, and Snape released him and moved back towards the edge of the bed. But before he could stand back up, he suddenly found himself with an armful of sobbing teenager as Harry threw himself at his professor.