Harry was listening to the notes Hermione had taken in Transfiguration via an audio charm that Hermione had placed on them when there was a knock on his open door.

“Mr. Potter,” Snape said, “the headmaster would like a word with you.”

Harry stood up from the table in his room where he was working.

“No need to get up, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “I am happy to speak with you here. How have you been doing?”

“Fine,” said Harry automatically.

“Professor Snape tells me that Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have made good use of the Floo in your room.”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a smile. “Ron brings me dessert and Hermione brings me homework.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Dumbledore said. “Please, have a seat.”

Harry sat and heard Dumbledore do the same.

“I have some news that might interest you, Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice had taken on a more serious tone. “Your uncle was arrested today by a select group of Aurors who specialize in Wizarding child abuse cases. They are under the strictest orders to keep your case confidential. In fact, as head of the Wizengamot, I picked them myself. Rest assured, Harry, that your uncle will be prosecuted to the full extent of Wizarding law, and will likely spend the rest of his life in Azkaban.”

Harry felt a trickle of ice-cold fear race through his blood. Uncle Vernon in Azkaban?

“I dare say he won’t be able to trouble you any longer, Harry,” Dumbledore said, putting a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry flinched at the unexpected touch. He supposed he should be happy at hearing this news; indeed, Dumbledore was expecting some response.

“That’s great,” Harry choked out. But all he could think of was how much Vernon Dursley hated witches and wizards and how his uncle was going to kill him for this.

“Furthermore,” Dumbledore continued, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s distress, “Professor Snape has been able to provide enough information from your memories that you shouldn’t even have to testify in the trial.”

Harry forced himself to nod. Dumbledore spoke as if he were handing Harry a gift. Yet, fear was gnawing at the base of Harry’s spine and he felt sick. This was bad; this was worse than bad. Uncle Vernon would be sooo angry, and Harry would be the one who would pay for this. Everything that went wrong was always his fault, and Harry knew Uncle Vernon wouldn’t be the only one coming after him; Dudley and Aunt Petunia would be, too.

“Excuse me,” Harry said, “I need to use the loo.” Harry bolted from the table as fast as he could, given that he had to count the steps to the bathroom, and locked himself inside, trying to control his breathing. He felt the hysteria coming on, the panic. Vernon was going to kill him. And Vernon was going to succeed this time. Harry just knew it.

Snape stood in the doorway to Potter’s room, watching the teen’s reaction to Dumbledore’s words. Instead of relief crossing the boy’s face, a look of utter terror seemed to grasp him. Snape frowned; Vernon Dursley wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. What was Potter worried about?

By the time Potter bolted for the bathroom, looking as though he was ready to vomit, Snape knew he’d need to intervene.

“Headmaster,” said Snape, “it’s getting late. I can answer any questions Potter may have.”

Dumbledore nodded, pushing up from the table. “Thank you, Severus. I am not as young as I once was. An early night would be welcome.”

Snape nodded and saw Albus to the fireplace before heading back to Potter’s room.

Snape knocked on the door. “Harry?”

There was no answer.

“Harry, answer me, or I am coming in.”

Still no answer.

“Alohomora,” Snape said, entering to find the Potter boy sitting on the closed toilet, his head in his hands, swaying. “What is it, Harry?”

“He’s going to kill me,” Potter said, his voice barely a whisper. “He’s going to kill me for this.”

Confused, Snape said, “Who’s going to kill you?”

“Uncle Vernon.”

“Your uncle has been removed from Privet Drive, Harry. He won’t be returning there. He won’t be able to lay a hand on you ever again.”

But Potter just shook his head, repeating his assertion.

This was not logic speaking, but some form of childhood trauma, and Snape wasn’t sure how to get through to the boy.

“He hates magic,” Harry said. “He’ll never forgive me for this. He’ll make me pay. He always makes me pay. Even when it’s not my fault. Even when it’s not magic,” Potter said, a shudder running through his body.

Snape wouldn’t mind Covey’s softer touch for the boy right now, but she’d returned to her apartment to take care of a few things. Snape reached into his robe and pulled out one of the vials of calming draught he’d taken to carrying with him at all times in case Potter needed it. “Drink this,” he said, handing it over.

Potter obliged, and Snape relaxed a little.

“It’s getting late. Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

Potter shook his head.

“Alright, then. I have some essays to mark. Why don’t you come sit in the study with me and you can help.”

Potter’s head came up. “Sir?” he asked, clearly confused.

Snape smirked. “Surely you know enough now to be able to mark first year essays,” Snape replied.

Snape took Potter’s arm and led him to a comfortable chair in his study.

“I’ll be right back,” Snape said. He returned shortly with a stack of essays, which he set on an end table next to Potter. Then he handed the boy a warm glass bottle.

“Butterbeer?” Potter asked.

“Yes,” Snape replied. “Covey fancies them.”

“Thanks,” the boy said, opening it and drinking deep.

“Now,” Snape said, picking up the top essay. “I shall endeavor to read this tripe and you can tell me the errors in their thinking.”

Snape wanted his opinion? Harry paled at the thought. Was this some sort of trap? But when Snape began to read, he nearly spat out his butterbeer. The snide inflection and mocking tone in Snape’s voice as he poked fun at the ludicrous and often senseless essays were quickly becoming hilarious.

“The properties of water in potion,” Snape droned, “are to add water to the potion.” Snape paused. “So very astute, wouldn’t you say, Harry? And you wonder why I call you all dunderheads.”

Harry laughed. “I see your point, sir.”

“Indeed,” Snape replied, continuing. “Water comes from the ocean and it can be purified by boiling.” Harry heard Snape take a sip of something. “This one,” Snape stated, “is clearly Muggleborn. We needn’t boil water to purify it; a simple spell will do.”

“Were you Muggleborn, sir?” The question slipped out, and Harry quickly stilled, wondering if he’d overstepped some boundary.

“Half-blood,” Snape replied. “Muggle father, witch mother, raised mostly Muggle. My father hated magic quite as much as your uncle does, though he was somewhat less violent in his anger.”

Harry nearly choked on his butterbeer again at that pronouncement. Snape was abused as a child, too? It explained a lot, Harry reflected. He wished he could see Snape’s face.

“Are your parents still alive?” Harry asked.

“No.” After a long silence, Snape added, “In the beginning of my seventh year, my father shot my mother with a gun, and then himself.”

Harry gaped. His mind was reeling. “I am so sorry, sir,” he finally uttered.

“Don’t be, it was a long time ago.” After a pause, Snape said, “Shall we continue?” He cleared his throat. “Water is an essential ingredient in potions that need to sit overnight so they don’t dry out.”

The way Snape read, it made it sound as if the first year was talking about a dead toad desiccating in the hot sun. Harry snorted.

“Really,” Snape said, “is it too much to ask for a little forethought?”

“Were we that stupid?“

In a deadpan voice, Snape replied, “Do you really need to ask?“

Harry laughed. He finished his butterbeer and tried to set the bottle on the table beside him. He felt Snape take it from him and muttered a quick thanks. Then he slid down in his chair a bit and laid his head back against it. He found that it was rather pleasant to listen to Snape’s deep voice and his acerbic wit when it wasn’t directed at him.

The professor did have a point; seen from a teacher’s perspective, these essays really were dreadful. Harry yawned and closed his eyes, a small smile on his face, as Snape continued to read the abominable essays.

“Harry. Wake up, laddie.”

The soft feminine voice drifted in his ears as a hand shook his shoulder. Startled, Harry jerked awake.

“Yer fine, Harry, tis just me, Covey, aye? Sevvie is here too.”

“Sorry, I must have fallen asleep,” Harry said.

“You should be,” Snape said. “The first years would be insulted.”

Harry was confused for a moment before he remembered that Snape had been marking essays and realized Snape was teasing. Actually teasing.

“I’m surprised they didn’t put you to sleep, too,” Harry said around a yawn.

After a beat of silence, in which Harry was sure some unspoken communication was occurring between his Potions master and his healer, Covey said around a smile, “They did. I found ye both here, snorin’ away.”

Snape groaned and muttered something that sounded like, “Insufferable witch,” at which Covey laughed.

“Come on, ye two, both o’ ye ta yer beds.”

“And bossy, too,” Harry heard Snape mutter.

Harry got to his feet and felt Covey’s warm hand lightly grasp his, offering assistance to his room should he need it. He held on as far as his door frame. “I’ve got it from here, thanks,” Harry said.

“Aye,” Covey replied. “Sleep well, Harry. I’ll see ye in the morn’, ken?”

“Yep,” Harry said. “Good night.”

Harry spent the morning with Ron and Hermione, catching up on the week’s gossip, discussing classes, and playing a rousing game of wizard chess with Ron. They were going to Hogsmeade later in the day and promised to bring Harry lots of chocolate from Honeydukes. As Harry no longer had healings on Saturday, it had been decided that it would be best for his Muggle therapists to come to the castle while most of the students were at Hogsmeade. And so it was that Harry was sitting at the table in his room with Dr. Roland and Dr. Marsha.

“How have you been doing?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“Okay,” Harry said.

“Any more memories?” “Dr. Roland asked.

Harry shook his head. He’d told them the ones he’d had so far, or the bits and pieces of them.

“What about nightmares?”

“Always,” Harry said. And more than they knew. Of course there were the ones about his relatives, but Voldemort played into many of his night terrors as well.

“Dreams are often a place where we process our hopes, wishes, and desires. And in nightmares, we often face the things we are afraid of.”

“That sounds about right,” Harry replied.

“What else is going on?” Dr. Roland asked.

“My uncle was arrested for abusing me,” Harry volunteered.

“How does that make you feel?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry said. The truth was, he felt terrified and ashamed and confused. “I know I should feel relieved, but I know how angry he must be. And he was arrested by wizards, which just makes it worse because he hates magic. So he’ll blame me. He always blames me. I just can’t get it out of my head that he’s going to make me pay for it.”

“Well, Harry, based on your past experience with your uncle, it makes sense that you would fear his anger and retribution,” said Dr. Marsha.

“Professor Snape keeps telling me that he can’t hurt me anymore,” Harry said. “Why am I still so afraid of him?” he asked in a whisper.

“The abuse started when you were very young,” Dr. Roland said. “You feared him because he hurt you. Even though your body aged, your primal fears began when you were still small, and they were continually reinforced throughout the years. Now suddenly you are being told that the threat is no longer present, but your body and mind are still on high alert.”

“In other words, Harry,” Dr. Marsha added, “you need to learn a new normal. And that takes time.”

Harry sighed. “I think the other reason I am so afraid is that I still have to go and live there for part of the summer.”

“Why is that?” Dr. Marsha asked.

Harry paused. While Snape and Covey had told his therapists some things about the magical world, they had not been told everything. “There is a reason I must spend at least two weeks there every year, preferably more. As you know, there are some things I can’t tell you, and this is related to one of them.”

There was silence for a moment, then Dr. Roland spoke. “When do you need to return there?”

“I usually go mid-June and stay until the end of July. Then I go and stay with one of my friends for the rest of the summer.”

“And there is no alternative?” Dr. Roland asked.

Harry laughed bitterly. “I wish. But I understand why I must stay there for that time. Still, it won’t be easy. I imagine it will be a little better with Uncle Vernon gone, but Aunt Petunia and Dudley will still be there, and they aren’t much better.” Harry fidgeted with a quill on the table. “They might even be a lot worse with Uncle Vernon gone.”

“Was your aunt also arrested for child abuse?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“No,” Harry said with a sigh. “For the same reason that I must return there every summer, she also can’t be arrested. She has to be there too.”

 “What about your cousin?” Dr. Roland asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything about him. I have been assured that I won’t have to go there alone, so that should help.”

“Who will go with you?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe one of my friends. Maybe a house-elf.’

“A what?”

Harry smiled. “House-elf. They are magical creatures. They are about this tall,” Harry said, gesturing with both hands, “with these huge eyes. They are generally very loyal and very hard working.”

After a short pause, Dr. Marsha said, “I see.”

Harry doubted she did.

“So what scares you most about returning there?” Dr. Marsha asked.

“The memories, I reckon. Flashbacks, panic attacks. And how they treat me. It’s not always obvious to someone outside of the family.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” Dr. Roland asked.

“Well, if you didn’t know them, you probably wouldn’t pick up on a lot of it. But my aunt has this really cold look, and when she gets it, I try and stay away from her. And Dudley, he has this, ‘I’m going to get you’ look and this other, ‘I know what happened to you’ look. And it’s not always the words they say, but the way they say them. Their tone of voice. It triggers something in me, and makes me feel, I don’t know, wrong-footed somehow.”

“Can you say more about that?” Dr. Roland inquired.

Harry rubbed at the space between his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “It’s like I’m this worthless little kid again. Like nothing I can ever do is good enough. Or right. Like I’m tainted somehow.”