CHAPTER 2

Snape cried out at the force of the images pummeling his mind. It was worse than when the Dark Lord pawed through it. Potter’s white aura was much more powerful than Snape could have ever foreseen, and with the boy’s righteous anger to back it up, this was much more than a slideshow of Potter’s life; it was as if Potter was physically assaulting him with each and every memory he forced into Snape’s mind.

Snape tried to cringe way; the invasion was excruciating. But try as he might, he couldn’t stop Potter. The teen tore through his mind, destroying his barriers, toppling walls, going through his Occlumency shields like a wrecking ball, leaving Snape’s mind a complete and utter mess as chaotic sights and sounds ricocheted relentlessly throughout his mindscape. And more than that, they left Snape defenseless and unable to slow, much less stop, the ongoing assault.

It didn’t matter that Snape didn’t want to see the boy’s memories, didn’t want to be subjected to the landscape of the boy’s scattered psyche, didn’t even want to contemplate all that he was being exposed to. Snape felt violated by the indecency of it all. He wanted to scream for it to stop, to push Potter away, to pull his own hair out, anything to make the mental attack cease. But this was wild magic, and there was no halting it; it had to run its course.

And though he might not be able to admit it quite yet, he knew that, on some level, he was responsible for the events of tonight. His years of taunting the boy, of assuming he was just like his father, of not seeing him for the curious young lad he actually was, had been his, Severus Snape’s, mistake. And now, he was paying for that error, and paying well.

As the onslaught continued, the vision of Potter standing before him, white light and fury emanating from him, reminded Snape forcefully of the Headmaster on the very few occasions he’d seen the wizard in a towering, well-earned temper. Snape had never before realized how thankful he should have been to not be on the receiving end of that unleashed wrath; for now, he knew what those who were must have felt like.

He ground his teeth together and gripped the chair arms harder.

There was nothing he could do now but hold on and watch the hideous movie of memories play across the backdrop of his battered mind.

A baby waking up: cold, hungry, and alone. Its head hurt and the child tried to rub at it, but he was too tightly swaddled.

The same baby, alone in a crib, crying forlornly for “mama” and “dada”. But no one came.

The baby, a toddler now, learning to walk alongside another child his age, only to be repeatedly and harshly pushed to the floor while the other child was praised beyond measure.

Birthdays, holidays, a happy family—for all but the boy, the “freak”, the unwanted child who didn’t receive gifts or praise, only orders—fetch the mail, do the dishes, make breakfast, clean the house, go to your cupboard.

The tiny broom closet under the stairs that locked from the outside, spiders spinning their webs all around, with only a tattered rag for a blanket.

Starting primary school, gaunt and pallid, with stick thin arms, protruding ribs, hollow cheeks, and peeling skin.

Being picked on for his too-large, hand-me-down clothes and the funny scar on his forehead.

Feeling ostracized and alone; no friends to call his own.

Back in a kitchen, the boy standing, frozen and shocked, over a cutting board as a knife rose into the air and began chopping carrots of its own accord.

A horse-faced woman, his aunt, shouting, grabbing the boy’s arms, forcing his small hands into a pot of boiling water on the stove.

The boy’s pain-filled screams and the righteous anger on the woman’s ugly face.

A portly man, his uncle, finding out what the boy had done and beating him senseless, leaving the child to crawl—bloodied, bruised, broken—to his cupboard. The ruthless man locking him in.

Young Potter trying to tend to his broken bones and burned flesh with no training and no supplies.

The nauseating hunger and insistent thirst as his relatives ate take-out while he was denied meals, sometimes for days on end.

The shame of having to relieve himself in a bucket in the tiny cupboard beneath the stairs.

The self-blame and self-loathing at being “unlovable”, of being a “freak”, of being the family’s deep dark secret that must be hidden and denied at all costs.

The endless loneliness.

Then, a spark of hope—Hagrid, and being told he was a wizard.

A trip to Diagon Alley, the joy and wonder and excitement of it all. People knew his name. They wanted to meet him, to talk to him, to touch him.

Feeling, for the first time in his life, that he wasn’t a repulsive, untouchable outcast.

And the fear. Fear that it wasn’t real, that it was all just a joke or a dream. The fear that it would be taken away from him.

And finally, finally, Hogwarts. New friends, new experiences. Being famous, but still being accepted. For a time.

Then Draco Malfoy taunting him over his dead parents.

Snape cruelly ridiculing the boy—who looked just like his father—in front of the whole class.

The boys’ schoolmates turning against him, thinking that he was the heir of Slytherin.

Trelawney constantly predicting his death in some horrendous fashion.

Discovering and meeting his godfather in his third year, only to have him taken away again.

Trepidation at finding himself entered into a dangerous tournament, and dread at the impossibility of the tasks that stretched out before him.

Losing his way as his two best friends squabbled, as the Weasley boy wrestled his own jealously and abandoned him during that trying time.

The anxiety at not being able to live up to others’ expectations.

The horror and anguish of battling the resurrected Dark Lord in that grave yard with nothing but his wits and his brains and his Gryffindor courage.

Devastating grief as Potter sought to deal with the death of Cedric Diggory.

The knowledge that Voldemort was out to kill him, while the Wizarding World strove to remain in denial, going so far as to suggest that he was an attention-seeking prat or that he was insane or just trying to stir things up.

Losing more friends over this.

The overwhelming isolation.

The summer holidays filled with beatings and bullying, starvation, derision, and being constantly reminded of his worthlessness.

An overwhelming sense of sorrow crashed hard into Snape, stealing his breath.

The utter grief and responsibility for those who died around him, because of him.

The thoughts of ending it all when it became too much, both countered and strengthened by the knowledge that he would either kill or be killed by the mad wizard in the end.

The guilt.

The terror.

The feeling of never being good enough.

And over and over again, Snape telling him what a worthless, arrogant, rule-breaking, waste of space he was.

And then something else slipped in, something Snape didn’t think Potter meant for him to see.

Draco sticking out his foot, tripping Potter. The boy sprawling across the flagstones, sharp pain ricocheting through his hand and wrist.

Umbridge assigning detention.

Potter at a desk in Umbridge’s pink, vomit-worthy office, jet-black quill in hand. The absence of ink.

Distress etched in every line of the boy’s face.

Umbridge watching with supreme satisfaction.

Abruptly, Snape felt the presence in his mind flee. One minute it was there, and the next minute, both wizards were back in Snape’s office. Cautiously, Snape relaxed his tensed muscles, unclenching his fingers and trying to regain the feeling in his limbs, as well as his composure.

Potter stood across the desk from him, bent over slightly. He was shaking his head and panting, muttering unintelligibly. His aura had dimmed. The potions on the shelves were still. The candlelight ceased flickering. No one spoke.

Snape knew he was going to have one hell of a headache, but he said nothing. He was still in shock. He might have thought that Potter was making it all up, except for the authenticity of what he’d seen and his knowledge of Lily’s sister “Tuney,” not to mention the raw unbridled power behind what Potter had done.

“Are you going to expel me?” Potter spat while looking at the floor, his voice ragged.

“Are you going to curse me?” Snape retorted. He had no doubt the boy was itching to do so.

Silence hung heavy in the room.

Finally, Snape sighed and gingerly pushed himself to his feet. Potter had yet to make eye contact with him. “First,” Snape drawled. “You will have detention with me every night after Occlumency lessons for the next month.” 

Potter gaped at him.

“Second,” Snape said, taking the boy by his uninjured arm and propelling him toward the fireplace, “we will be visiting Madam Pomfrey.”

“What?” Potter said, the panic rising in his voice, “NO!”

Snape snorted and grabbed a handful of floo powder before pushing Potter into his fireplace and stepping in behind him. Together, they stumbled out into the cool, clean air of the infirmary.

“Professor, I don’t…”

“Potter, you will sit on that bed and wait for Madam Pomfrey, or I will stick you to it. And believe me when I say that it will be much more comfortable if you do this of your own free will.”

“How can you call it free will if you are forcing me to do it,” Potter protested.

A door opened and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. “Oh, Severus,” she said as she came out of her office. “Whom have you brought me?”

“The Potter boy.”

“Again?” she chastened. “What is it this time, Mr. Potter?”

Potter sat stiffly on the bed, his mouth shut tight.

The headache was steadily building behind Snape’s eyes. “Poppy, I will have the strongest headache potion you have, if you don’t mind. As for the Potter boy, could you please run a full body diagnostic scan on him, detailing his complete medical history, as well as any past injuries and treatments?”

Madam Pomfrey studied Snape a moment, before nodding her head, and retreating to her office. She returned momentarily, silently handing Snape the headache draught and then turned to Potter, who sat resolutely on the stiff cot, arms crossed, refusing to speak or look at anyone in the room.

“This will only take a moment,” Madam Pomfrey said. “I’m sure everything is just fine, no need to worry.”

Snape harrumphed at that, and watched as Poppy ran a diagnostic sweep over Potter with her wand. As the enchanted scroll began filling with line after line of what Snape knew would be a long list of partially healed injuries, Poppy looked first at Potter, and then at Snape, startled surprise etched in every line of her face.

When she opened her mouth to speak, Snape shook his head, his message clear: This was not the time, nor the place, to discuss what the diagnostic spell was steadily revealing. Pressing her lips together, Poppy scanned the parchment, before re-scanning various parts of Potter’s body to get a better understanding of the more significant injuries. She paused over the boy’s left hand, her eyes flashing in outrage, but again, Snape shook his head, gesturing instead to Poppy’s office. Potter had still neither looked at, nor acknowledged, either of them.

As Poppy gathered the scroll, Snape cast a sticking charm on Potter’s bum so he couldn’t leave. Then, he followed Poppy into her office, shut the door, and cast a silencing charm on it.