Harry James Potter stands in the bathroom at Kings Cross Station staring into the mirror. He grimaces; he looks just about as bad as he feels. His face is thin and pale beneath the sunburn – even more so than normal – while dark bags reveal his many sleepless nights. Not that he can actually see much of this past the black eye and other bruises mottling his features. The rest of his body isn’t much better and as for his ankle, well, he doesn’t think it’s broken…

He looks terrible, but he’s not worried about what people will say at school. After all, it’s not like anyone has noticed before. Not Mrs Figg; not his teachers, at primary school or Hogwarts; not his friends. Well, except for once. When he was six, his teacher Miss Kallen had questioned him about some of his bruises, then talked to his aunt. He flinches mentally. That was when his uncle taught him about tattling to strangers; it was not a lesson he ever wants repeated. No, better to pretend that nothing is wrong; until, maybe, he can believe it as they all seem to. He sighs, it might be safer, but it still hurts that they don’t care.

He bends to splash some water on his face, wincing as he bumps his hip against the sink, the contact sending the bruise spread across his side throbbing. He shouldn’t have that bruise. In the past, he had always been able to avoid the worst of his Uncle’s blows; his foot or fist stopping just before touching him, finding some sort of barrier. Since Hogwarts he had realised it was his magic, protecting him; last year, he learnt to cast the Shield Charm properly. But this summer his magic had failed him. He could feel it building, knew what shape it needed to take, but it couldn’t escape. Without his wand, it was trapped useless within his skin.

It wouldn’t normally have been too bad – he’d gotten good at avoiding his uncle over the years – if it hadn’t been for that fiasco at the World Cup. After the incident surrounding the Death Eaters and Dark Mark Dumbledore had decided it was too dangerous to risk the precious Boy-Who-Lived staying at the Weasleys', so back to Privet Drive it was. Uncle Vernon was not too pleased to have him back for an extra almost two weeks; for once something Harry agreed with. Unfortunately, his uncle chose to express this displeasure to him personally, painfully and often.

A muffled announcement over the station PA system drags him out of his thoughts and causes Harry to reflexively check his watch, noting that it is almost eleven. He takes one more look in the mirror then straightens, ignoring the twinges from various injuries as he squares his shoulders and heads for the door. That was summer, and summer is now over. Now it is time to head back to Hogwarts; Harry-the-useless-freak doesn’t belong there, only Harry-the-Boy-Who-Lived. That is who they want to see.

Professor Severus Snape stalks through the halls of Hogwarts with an absentminded glower on his face. There are many things he enjoys about being Head of Slytherin House, but this duty is not one of them. Escorting each of his new Slytherins for a checkup with Madam Pomfrey: it is not the task he dislikes so much as the results. Too often, it turns out that a child arrives from home with injuries which require them to spend a night in the hospital wing before rejoining their classmates. Too often there are emotional scars, harder to heal.

It appears that little Elise Venti is one of these. He has had his eye on her since the Sorting Feast last night, and this evening’s tests proved his suspicions correct. One more name to add to his list; he hopes desperately that she will be the only one. On a slightly more positive note, none of the older students he is keeping an eye on have yet felt the need to come see him, although he will be checking in on each of them over the next week. While he has assured them that his office is open – and even welcoming – to them, he knows the effects a summer at ‘home’ can have on their trust in all adults.

He curses to himself. How did he even end up in this position? Bad enough that he is stuck with a teaching career trying to drill Potions into the minds of dunderhead children, worse that he is Head of House, let alone becoming the unofficial abuse counsellor. He doesn’t do nice, doesn’t do approachable or helpful or sympathetic, so why him? Of course, he knows why.

Firstly, most of the children would have been his responsibility anyway – it is an unfortunate truth that the qualities Slytherin most prized are also those that children growing up in such undesirable home environments are forced to develop. While the other Houses are not without their own victims, these skills lead the majority hide in the House of the snakes. Then there is the fact that his spying has accustomed him to picking up subtle signs in body language, and piecing together information from fragments of clues. For various reasons, abused children are rarely willing to openly admit to it, but few can hide the truth from his sharp eye.

Last is the true reason he actively seeks out those requiring his help in this way; even those outside his House. The reason he will not admit even to himself. Of all the staff, he is the one with the strongest determination to find the children, rather than smiling and pretending their problems don’t exist. He is the one who gives them understanding not pity, who knows how to talk to them and what they fear. He knows. At least his damn muggle father was good for something.

As though echoing his thoughts, his eye falls on a lone student turning onto the corridor ahead. What initially catches his attention is the way the boy walks. Another might not have seen it, but to his skilled eye the slight limp is painfully obvious, not to mention obviously painful. He frowns. Though the child is coming towards him, he has wandered far during his musing, taking a circuitous route that does not lead readily back to the hospital wing – where the boy clearly needs to be. While he is almost small enough to be a lost first year, there is a furtive purposefulness to his stride that rings alarm bells in Severus’s mind.

His gaze sharpens as he automatically starts looking for further signs. The boy moves with the stiffness of further hidden injuries, while his shoulders are hunched in a distinctive combination of wariness, fear and defiance. As he gets closer the flickering torches show the dark shadow of bruises circling his wrists and neck, not quite covered by the school robes. Gryffindor, a part of his mind notes in surprise, it has been years since he has seen this in that house. Pacing closer still his eyes travel higher, tracing the bruise along a cheekbone to the painful puffiness around his… eyes; brilliant green and achingly familiar. He comes to an abrupt halt.

“Potter?” Only his habitual monotone keeps the shock and surprise from his voice. His mind can’t comprehend it. Rare enough to see such marks on any Gryffindor, but Potter, of all people; the Boy-Who-Lived, the Golden Boy himself?
The boy startles, freezing for a moment before replying.

“Professor.” His voice is cool, arrogant, and utterly Potter. The long familiar tone sends a wave of anger surging through him.

He drags his gaze away from the burning green eyes, the bruises he had thought he saw on his face gone as though they never were – but of course they never existed, where would Prince Potter get marks like that? No, it was all just shadows and an overactive imagination. His voice is sharp as he regards the bane of his teaching career.

“And where do you think you are going at this time of night? Or do you believe rules such as curfew do not apply to you? I can assure you that this is most certainly not the case.”
Potter lifts his chin defiantly, his whole posture changed and once more familiar.

“I am returning to the Tower, sir. Now, if I may leave so as to arrive before curfew?”

Severus simply snarls, waving a hand in curt dismissal. Glaring after the retreating figure he absently notes that the limp is gone – of course it is, Potters strut, not limp. Or, as in this case, they dawdle. He considers going after the boy, to yell at him or to catch him still out after curfew hits, but is suddenly struck by a wave of exhaustion. No. He has enough to do with his snakes; Potter is not his problem.

Severus growls to himself as he watches the new fourth year students scurry to gather their potion ingredients. What is it with the Headmaster and his idiotic insistence on pairing the Slytherin and Gryffindor students? Especially in his class! Really; the one subject more than any other where inattention and mistakes – not to mention active sabotage – can be catastrophic. Keeping an eye on his first year students earlier in the week was bad enough, but this class, with Potter and –

"Longbottom!"

Eyes across the classroom snap to look at him while the Gryffindor boy jumps, dropping the entire handful of malachite – crushed, not powdered, he notes – into his cauldron. Severus waves his hand, wandlessly extinguishing the fire underneath but it is already too late. Even as he strides across the classroom, the potion is bubbling and foaming, turning a dangerous green. The Potter boy looks back down at the cauldron he had been stirring moments before just as the potion erupts, surging upward and drenching his arm. Vanishing the ruined potion before it can do any further damage Severus comes to a stop in front of the two Gryffindors.

"Potter, give me your arm."

The stubborn boy just pulls away, frowning. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

Severus doesn't say anything, but his glare shouts louder than words. Am I the Potions Master here or not? Without giving the boy a chance to protest further his hand lashes out to grab his wrist, holding it firmly despite the boy's violent flinch. Dragging Potter's arm towards him he pushes the now-dry sleeve aside to inspect the damage.

He stares. Potter's arm is before him, smooth and unblemished, no sign of a potion burn marring his pale skin. It's not possible. Longbottom, despite his impressive record, is hardly the first student to cause such an explosion, nor is Potter the first to be caught in one. He knows what he should be seeing.

He blinks, and suddenly the burn is there, red and angry across the inside of the child's arm. But this view is no more possible than the last. Where previously the skin was pale, now it is mottled sickly green and yellow, interspersed with patches of livid purple. The sight is not unfamiliar – nor the feel for that matter – but not on perfect Potter!

He blinks again and his racing heartbeat slows. This is what he is supposed to see. Yes: potion burn. No: unsettling bruises. He really must double check the potion ingredients he allows students to use; he can't afford to have fumes giving him hallucinations like that.

Realising he is still holding Potter's wrist, he quickly pulls a jar of cream out of his pocket and spreads it thickly over the burn, dropping the arm as soon as he is done.

"Potter, the cream should counter any magical effects of your foolish accident. Pack up your things and see Madam Pomfrey for the burn. Longbottom," he turns and sneers at the trembling boy standing next to his half-melted cauldron, the familiar action calming him further. "Clean your area; you have once again managed to earn yourself a zero for today's work. You may then spend the rest of the lesson rereading the chapter in the textbook, since it obviously failed to penetrate your thick skull the first time. Ten points from Gryffindor for disturbing the class."

"As for everyone else," his eyes rake across the watching students around the rest of the classroom, "your potions should be at a rather delicate stage at this point. Unless you wish to join misters Longbottom or Potter, you would be advised to attend to them."

Severus stalks back to his desk as the room bursts into motion. He doesn't like this. His instincts are telling him something that his mind says can't possibly be true. Yet he hasn't survived for so long as either a teacher or spy without trusting those instincts. He knows what he would do if it was one of his snakes, but… Potter? Surely not.

He scowls as he watches the boy quickly gather his books. He knows that there is something wrong. It is just possible that he is mistaken about the bruises he thought he saw, but combined with their meeting in the corridor two days ago, and all the little clues he has noted subconsciously over the years… He makes a decision.

"Potter." His voice snaps out across the room, stopping the boy in the doorway. "Tell Madam Pomfrey to give you my special diagnostic." He sneers. "Given Longbottom was involved, one can only imagine just what side effects might manifest. And it would never do for something to… inconvenience… the precious Boy-Who-Lived."

Potter nods curtly and leaves, and Severus can only hope that he will obey his least favourite teacher's orders. He supresses a sigh. It is done; Poppy will know what to look for. If his instincts are wrong, Potter will never know about his suspicions. If they are right…

Poppy Pomfrey looks around her empty and organised infirmary in satisfaction. Just the way she likes it. She snorts to herself; not that it will last long, working in a school full of children with dubious control over both their magic and themselves. The start of a new year is always the busiest time of year for her. Between bodies reacclimatising to the school environment, students playing with magic again for the first time in two months, and the results of the inevitable revival of rivalries, it is sometimes a wonder she has time to think.

Of course, then there are the other injuries. Her smile fades as she returns to her office. Severus is the one who usually brings those students to her, the students whose injuries predate their arrival back at school. She has never understood how families can hurt one of their own in such ways, but year after year the students walking through her doors show it happens. With a bit of time she can heal their bodies just fine – although she has seen a couple of particularly bad cases over the years – but the physical injuries are often the least of their problems. So she does what she can and informs Dumbledore, and leaves it to him or Severus or the St Mungo’s mindhealers to help solve the other issues.

Poppy’s musing is interrupted by a chime announcing someone entering the hospital wing. Leaving her office, she smiles in exasperated amusement at the sight of a familiar dark-haired fourth year hovering in the doorway.

“Mr Potter, what a surprise, come in. Not yet a week into the new school year and you already require my attention. I hope you are not planning on making a habit of this?” A blush spreads across his cheeks as she leads him over to sit on a nearby bed. “Let’s see; the dementors have left since last year, Quidditch hasn’t started yet, it is much too early in the year for one of your famous stunts, and you don’t appear to have any unusual physical additions or alterations, so what did you do to yourself? Not another altercation with Mr Malfoy I hope?” Harry just shrugs, his downturned face now crimson.

“Potions accident. No big deal. I was stirring when it exploded and my arm was in the way. Professor Snape already neutralised the potion, but he sent me to you for the burn.”
He pauses for a moment, then continues. “He also said something about his special diagnostic; to test for any leftover magic?”

Poppy smiles brightly as she summons a salve from the storeroom. “Well, let’s just start with the burn, shall we?”
She hisses slightly as he raises his sleeve to reveal red blistered skin, slightly shiny from the counter-potion. She is impressed once again by his level of control given how painful it must be; impressed and slightly worried. But as she carefully smooths on the salve, her thoughts are distracted by a more pressing issue.

What is this test Severus told him to ask her for? She knows that there are various spells for discovering potion residue but she is not familiar with them; the few times they have been necessary they have either required a visit to St Mungo’s or Severus has completed them himself. Her mind flicks back to her earlier thoughts. Really there is only one diagnostic that Severus in particular regularly asks from her, the one he helped design for his Slytherin students at the start of each year. The one to test for… She stops, shocked at the direction her thoughts have taken. Surely he can’t mean that test; not for Mr Potter. Not the one for physical abuse.

As she carefully screws the lid back onto the jar her mind starts working again, examining the evidence. Severus does not have any definite proof, else he would be taking more direct action. But after watching over his snakes, his instincts for this sort of situation are the best of anyone in the school. If what they are telling him is strong enough to overcome his vendetta against the boy, she too should pay attention. Thinking back, she remembers the various irregularities she has noticed over the years. By themselves they are not enough to raise concerns, but in light of current suspicions…

She nods to herself. If the test shows there is nothing to worry about then he will never know the true purpose of the spell, to be angry or embarrassed, and she will confirm with Severus later just which diagnostic he meant. But if there is, she can only hope that it is a new development and not something she has missed for the last three years.

Keeping up her friendly smile she turns back to the boy, raising her wand.

“Mr Potter, just sit still for a moment and I will do that extra test Professor Snape requested. You should feel a slight tingling.” She waves her wand carefully, a faint glow lighting around the boy as she picks up the roll of parchment that appears before her.

Half-frowning in confusion, she looks down at the black ink spreading to form words in neat columns. The burn she has just treated is not listed, of course, it lacks the harmful intent the spell searches for. But what it does say… bruises, sprained ankle, malnutrition, all of it; how did she not see it when he walked in?

Her eyes flick down to the list of past injuries and with practiced ease she picks out the ones she herself has healed in the past; schoolyard fights, his yearly escapades, even the occasional Quidditch injury. There are too many of these, particularly for only three years, but it is the remainder of the list which causes her heart to sink. Bruises, welts, occasional burns and broken bones, row after row going back years and painting a horrible, inescapable picture. Her first thought is “Merlin, that poor boy!” Her second, “Why couldn’t Severus have been wrong for once?” Then a third sweeps both of them away; “How did we not see?”

Looking up from the list, mind reeling, she freezes, staring at the sight before her. The boy sitting on the bed is not the same one who entered the room earlier. Oh, it is the same hair, the same eyes and lightning bolt scar, but this child is thinner, with a dark bruise spread across one cheek, the other side of his face mottled with faint patches of yellow where older bruises have not yet healed. Her breath catches as she looks lower, seeing similar marks clustered around his throat. Stunned by the third shock in as many minutes, she can only be glad that her training gives her a poker face to rival Severus’ own.

She lowers unseeing eyes to the parchment again, trying desperately to control her mind so she can think. The boy is clearly wearing glamours as so many with similar injuries do, but appears unaware that she can now see through them. His body language is relaxed, completely at odds with the normal reaction displayed by students visiting her in such a state.

She grips her wand tighter, itching to start healing the boy, but she holds herself back. Normally in this sort of situation her actions are clear; heal the student, send them to sleep, then go report to Dumbledore and let him fix the rest. But this is Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. It will be almost impossible to keep such a revelation secret, and the last he needs right now is a scandal; not to mention other safety concerns. And the child will have questions, questions that will be difficult to answer.

It goes against her ethics to let an injured student – or teacher, or anyone else for that matter – leave her Infirmiry unhealed, but for once there are greater concerns. She refocuses on the list, reading through it once more. The child’s injuries, while they must be uncomfortable, are not severe enough to require immediate action; even the ankle should not sustain further damage being used for a few more hours. Yes; his glamours should hold him for the next little while, Dumbledore needs to know first.

Realising she has been silent too long she looks up at the boy.

“Mr Potter, you are free to go to your next class now however I would like you to return after dinner, eight o’clock perhaps. I will need to run the diagnostic scan
again, just to make sure there are no delayed reactions.”

She keeps a close eye on his body language as he nods then turns to leave. He shows no sign of resentment, that she should have seen his injuries and healed them, but also no sign of relief that they escaped apparently undetected. She winces as she picks up his slight limp, forcing herself not to call him back so she can heal it. Just a few more hours.

Returning to her office she collapses into her desk chair, face in hands, struggling to keep her breathing deep and even. She needs a moment – just a few minutes – to get herself back under control, to face the truth she has uncovered. Then… then she must tell Dumbledore.

“Glamour charms. A type of illusion placed on yourself or another to alter your appearance…”

Harry scowls as he listens to his teacher’s smooth drawl. It’s not fair. They already dealt with Snape in Potions this morning, why does he have to be covering their Charms class too? Yet here he is, sweeping up and down the rows of mirrors, lecturing them about the mechanics of glamour charms. And of course, every time he turns in his direction Snape seems to glare at him, his sneer ratcheting up a notch – a feat impressive even for him.

He had thought this would be a fun lesson. After all, consider the possibilities of being able to change your appearance to someone else. An image fills his mind of Malfoy trying to explain that it wasn’t him who earned that detention. For that matter, he doesn’t even have to look like someone in particular; just… not Harry Potter. He could walk into a room without everyone turning to stare. He could walk down a corridor without being followed by a trail of whispers. He could be normal.

“... Well? Get to it.”

Drawing his mind back to the task at hand, Harry looks speculatively at his reflection. So, how to change it? Well, people always say he looks just like his father with his mother’s eyes, so what if… Recalling the pictures of his parents in his album he considers the most obvious change first. Hair. What if it is longer than usual but laying flat for once; and red, bright and fiery, less orange than the Weasleys’? Nodding at the mental image he turns his attention to his eyes. He can’t do anything about the glasses, but they will work just as well for what he has in mind anyway. Instead, he focuses on the colour of his eyes. He imagines brown bleeding into the iris, mixing with the green until they form just the right shade of hazel. Deciding that he has made enough changes for a first try he raises his wand – quickly correcting himself when he automatically points it at his reflection’s face rather than his own – and focuses on his new appearance.

“Obscuro.” He feels the magic spray out of his wand and settle over him. The spell works perfectly; and his mind echoes with the distorted memory of familiar voices. You look just like your mother – mother – except for the eyes, of course, you have your father’s eyes – father’s eyes. He feels a sudden pang. If he’d had a brother – or a sister – would they look like that?

A loud snort makes him look over at Ron, the sight driving all melancholy thoughts from his mind. Somehow, instead of hiding his freckles, his best friend has managed to turn them bright green. They clash rather nicely with his hair. Their eyes meet and they burst into laughter, clutching their sides as Hermione watches in mingled amusement and exasperation. Regaining control Ron releases his spell, checking out Harry’s own attempt.

“Got it already? Not bad! You could almost be another Weasley looking like that.”

Harry grins, then turns away, only his reflection seeing his expression fade to a wistful smile. Almost a Weasley.
Almost, but never quite. Pushing the feeling away, he concentrates and slowly starts dismantling the glamour again. As he releases the last of it he jumps, surprised by the feeling of his magic snapping back into place. It is as though a muscle has relaxed, one that has been clenched for so long he doesn’t notice until the pressure is gone.

Harry freezes. Is it supposed to do that? Normally if he actually feels his magic when releasing a spell something is about to go dramatically wrong. A minute later he releases his held breath in relief. Nothing seems to have happened, so what was it? Following well-practiced procedure he turns to ask the girl next to him.

“Hermione…”

She looks over from her own practice and gasps.

“Harry, your eye!”

Panicking, he turns back to the mirror and examines his reflection critically. His eyes are back to the familiar bright green; slightly bloodshot from lack of sleep, but not really noticeably. The swelling around his left eye has mostly gone down, the bruising at that lovely stage where the purple is starting to fade to green and yellow. All in all, pretty much what he expected to see.

“What?” he looks at Hermione, confused by her reaction.

“Mate, you have a black eye.” It is Ron who replies, Hermione temporarily struck speechless.

“Yeah, so? Looks like it’s healing fine.”

“Um, you didn’t have it, like, ten minutes ago.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, then quickly lowers it again as the muscles pull. What is with his friends? Is this seriously the first time they’ve looked at him in the last four days?

“What is happening here?” Harry jumps as Snape appears behind them, glowering darkly. “Am I incorrect in supposing that this is Charms class, during which you are supposed to be practicing your glamour charms? As the three of you are still currently sporting your usual… distinctive… appearances, I can only assume that you have not yet mastered the charm. In which case I can see no reason for you to be standing around chatting, unless you are attempting to make up for the social time you will miss joining me in the dungeons tonight. If you wish to keep your evening, you would be advised to save any further discussion until after class. Am I understood? Five points each from Gryffindor.” His gaze rakes across them, narrowing when it lands on Harry. “Mr Potter, stay behind after class, I need to speak to you.”

Biting his tongue Harry turns away, pausing only slightly as he catches Hermione’s we-need-to-talk-later Look. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Snape twitch his wand, a cool wave of magic rushing over him and clinging to his skin. The feeling is familiar, just like… a glamour?

He peers into the mirror, noting that his appearance has changed again. The most obvious difference is that the bruises are gone, replaced by smooth, slightly tanned skin. But that is not it, there is something more. He looks closer. His eyes are the same as always – the same shape and brilliant green – as is his unmanageable black hair. But his face is different; his jaw is the wrong shape, and his nose. He realises that what everyone has said for years is wrong; now he looks just like his father. He curses quietly to himself. For whatever reason, Snape is clearly trying to hide his bruises – although why he would bother to do it now – but is this really what he sees when he looks at him? Not Harry, not even the Boy-Who-Lived, but a copy of James? And coming from Snape, he knows that it is not a complement.

Fifteen minutes later Severus glares the last of the students out of the classroom – Granger and Weasley, predictably. Sending the scattered mirrors to stack against the wall, he turns to the remaining student.

“Potter, follow me.”

Striding through the corridors Severus glances covertly at the face of the boy trailing along behind him. James Jr., his childhood enemy once more. But now that he knows it is a mask – a mask that he himself placed – he can’t help but notice the differences; and remember what is now hidden. Harry Potter has never seemed both more and less like his father than he does at this moment.

“Where are we going?” He glares, and “Sir,” is added belatedly. The professor just sneers at him.

“I am sure that after three years of out-of-hours excursions you are able to navigate your way around the castle. Although perhaps I am incorrect, since I clearly recall instructing you to go to the Hospital Wing several hours ago, yet you appear to have been unable to find it.”

“I did go!”

“Well? And?” Why the dunderheads need everything spelled out for them… Potter glowers and Severus can almost read his thoughts from his expression. Why do you care? He cares because it’s his job to do so, damnit. Because, despite appearances, he is human and capable of feeling responsibility and concern. Because, if nothing else, it makes him look bad if students are running around injured from his class.

Potter rolls his eyes, clearly choosing cooperation as the quickest way to end the conversation.

“She put another cream on my burn and it’s fine now. Then she did that special test and told me to come back after dinner so she can do it again. Happy?”

“Watch your tone Potter.” His mind is buzzing, only half his attention on composing an appropriate rejoinder. “Of course she would have to run the diagnostic twice. After all, it would be just like the great Harry Potter to wait to show any symptoms until after he has been checked.” The child is a puzzle, but it is as though the final edge piece has just snapped into place, the centre of the picture steadily filling itself in. Ignoring the presence of the boy beside him he focusses on the facts.

Potter must have been wearing glamours; this term at least, although his behaviour suggests that he has required a similar disguise in the past. And they must be strong ones at that; that no one noticed them despite all the attention he gets as the Boy-Who-Lived – and come to think of it, he never did react to his fame the way he was supposed to. But what happened to them? Something occurred between Potions class this morning and when he approached the trio in Charms. For that matter, surely he would have noticed at the start of the class if something had been wrong. So what could possibly have happened to the spell while the boy was in the middle of class supposed to be learning… oh.

He feels the sudden urge to hit himself for his stupidity. Of course. This was the first practical class on glamour charms. Unless he was reading ahead – which given Potter is unlikely, particularly if he needed them before this year – or had asked Miss Granger for help – statistically also highly unlikely for someone in his situation – until today he did not consciously know how to cast a glamour, certainly not with the evidenced level of skill and detail. Therefore, it must have been accidental magic. Severus firmly pushes away the memory of some of his own experiences with that power. And of course the problem with accidental magic is that it works only with the subconscious. Once a witch or wizard has learnt how to cast a type of spell consciously the reins of control are passed over, any existing accidental spells failing.

For most children, this means a rapid decrease in incidents of moving objects, involuntary colour changes and other such simple mishaps. But for others – several of his snakes included – it means the loss of protection, the revelation of painful secrets. Given his experience and the nature of the lesson, he should have kept an eye out for such an occurrence among the other students even if he didn’t suspect Potter.

Pushing aside regrets for past actions his mind turns to practicalities. So it seems the boy did visit Poppy, but she left his hidden injuries unhealed. Still, she told him to come back later, that she’d run the abuse test again. He turns it over in his mind. He and Poppy have had to work together for many of his students, as well as several from the other Houses; he knows how she thinks in these situations. She saw. He growls to himself. The very fact that she did see yet did nothing is itself a confirmation of the seriousness of the situation. It means she feels that dealing with how he came to acquire the injuries is more important than healing the boy immediately, and that the nature of the injuries themselves is clear enough to prompt action without first getting verbal confirmation.

Knowing her, she will be talking to the Headmaster; informing him of the situation and discussing possible solutions, ready for a confrontation with Potter himself later this evening. Flicking his wand, he sends a message asking Minerva to meet him in the Headmaster’s office. Unfortunately, the failure of Potter’s disguise in Charms requires them to move up their timetable.

Double checking that the Potter boy is still following, Severus stalks into the Headmaster’s office. He sneers at the man smiling benignly from behind his desk, wordlessly rejecting the proffered sherbet lemons.

“Ah, Severus. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, and that of… James?”

“Potter junior not senior. The fourth years were practicing glamour charms today.”

“In Charms, I assume?” Severus glares at Albus’ raised eyebrows, not in the mood for the Headmaster’s whimsy.

“No Albus, in Potions. Yes in Charms; Filius was inconsiderate enough to require me to cover his class, as you no doubt already knew.”

“I find myself rather confused as to why you require my assistance in dispelling what appears to be a correctly performed simple charm; and why you feel it so urgent as to interrupt my meeting with Poppy.”

“It is not Potter’s charm…” Giving up he turns to look at the other occupant of the room, glad to see the mediwitch is already present as predicted. Meeting her eyes he glances pointedly at the boy standing to one side then raises an eyebrow. She nods slowly in reply, then flicks her eyes towards the Headmaster and gives a small shake of her head. So. She is here to tell the old man about Potter but hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet. They had both wanted to avoid the issue coming into the open in this way but it seems that even in this Potter has to complicate things. Releasing his irritation in a sigh, Severus turns back to the Headmaster.

“I believe we are both here about the same issue. I have asked Minerva to join us; perhaps it would be best to wait a few minutes until she arrives.” Albus nods in assent, and an awkward silence fills the office; two of the occupants wondering what the meeting is about, the other two wishing they didn’t already know.

Thankfully, it is only a short time later that the door opens to admit the Gryffindor Head of House. Her stride falters as she enters the office, taking in the tense atmosphere and the identity of those present.

“What in Merlin’s name has Mr Potter gotten into this time?” The boy in question turns to look at her and she gasps in surprise at the sight of the once-familiar face. “James? But… how…?”

Severus growls in frustration – alright, so his spell ended up closer to the father than the son, but surely not by that much - and dispels the glamour, eliciting another gasp as the boy’s fading but still colourful bruises are revealed.

Gathering herself, Minerva turns a stern gaze on the school’s mediwitch. “I hope, Poppy, that this is what you are about to explain?”

Severus glances at the child under discussion – confusion clear in his posture – then takes a step forward, gathering everyone’s attention.

“I am the one who brought this issue to Poppy’s attention. Several times this term I have noticed… anomalies in Potter’s appearance and behaviour which raised certain questions. When he was required to visit her for a potions accident I asked that she also complete an intentional injuries scan.”

He looks at her expectantly and Poppy hands a piece of parchment to the three teachers.

“These are the current injuries the scan showed, and those for the three years since Mr Potter started at Hogwarts.”

Silence fills the room as they read through the list, expressions becoming increasingly serious as with each line a picture is built up of a childhood far different to the one they had assumed.

“My boy, why didn’t you tell us?” At the Headmaster's question Potter speaks for the first time since entering the office, his clearly long-pent anger bursting out of him.

“Why should I? It’s not like you’ve noticed or cared before. Not you, not anyone.”

“Before…” Minerva’s voice is faint, the implications of his statement slowly sinking in.

Harry sneers; the expression which is so commonly seen on Severus himself looking disconcertingly out of place on the younger face.

“Really Professors? Are you that blind, or are you just thick? This,” and he gestures at his bruised face, “is hardly unusual for this time of year.”

“Watch yourself Potter.” Severus’ voice is sharp, but he is speaking reflexively, his mind busy. Another puzzle piece is sliding into place; it appears the boy did not realise his magic had created glamours to hide the injuries. Severus has trained his instincts to latch on to any sign of others hiding a secret, but Potter never thought it was a secret so did not display the reactions that would raise alarms. He shudders as a thought occurs to him. How must the boy have felt, thinking that they could see his hurts but did not care enough about their ‘saviour’ to try to help him?

Lost in his thoughts he is only half-aware of Poppy as she steps forward to explain.

“Minerva, according to the scan, such… incidents… have occurred over at least the last eight years.” She holds up a rather longer piece of parchment and shocking the teachers into silence as this new piece of information is absorbed. “As for your question, Mr Potter, it is not entirely their fault they didn’t know. Until now your injuries have been hidden by glamours; even I could not see through them until I knew what to look for.”

He looks at her in confusion, anger still tingeing his voice. “I didn’t notice any glamours… Besides, what did you expect? After all, you knew about the cupboard.”

“What cupboard?” Severus pulls his attention sharply back to the conversation, not liking the tone and context of the boy’s statement.

“The cupboard my first Hogwarts letter was addressed to of course.” Once again he is looking at them as though they have missed something obvious. Severus glances at the Deputy Headmistress beside him for her response.

“Mr Potter,” Minerva returns her student’s look with a matching one of her own, “the letters are automatically addressed to each students’ current sleeping place, so what in Merlin’s name are you talking about?”

“Just that, Professor. My bedroom for the first ten years with the Dursleys; more commonly known as the cupboard under the stairs!”

Severus is in shock. Lily’s child – any child – living in a cupboard! Minerva rocks back as though struck, her face paling before flushing red. Startling the others who had been watching the argument, she spins around to glare at Dumbledore.

“Albus! I told you…”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Harry tunes out the adults as they start to argue. Keeping half an ear on their conversation – he really was left on the Dursleys’ doorstep? – he focuses most of his attention inside. He is not sure what he is feeling at the moment. Embarrassment; that they have seen and commented on his weakness. Anger; that they didn’t notice before. Anxiety; over what will happen next. Fear; of what the Dursleys will do when they find out. And hope; carefully contained, that help has come at last. From within the maelstrom of emotions he draws his Gryffindor courage, steeling himself to ask the necessary question; the question that will set him free or shatter his fragile trust.

“Professors, you asked me why I never told you and I said because no one ever cared before. Now you know, what are you going to do about it?”

The room seems to hold its breath, everyone turning expectantly towards the headmaster. Dumbledore looks old, his eyes serious without their twinkle as he holds Harry’s gaze.

“Mr Potter, I do not yet know the best solution to this situation, though I will ensure everything is organised in plenty of time before the end of the year. But I promise you, I will not let this continue.”

It is not a proper answer, but Harry still smiles, relief spreading through him. At last, someone sees. Someone believes.