Harry was outraged; he’d shown Snape his memories out of anger and to prove a point—that he was NOT the spoiled brat that Snape always claimed he was. It had been a rash decision born out of a sense of injustice and anger, leaving little room for thought about the consequences. He hadn’t considered what Snape would do with the knowledge once he had it.

He’d been forced to go to the hospital wing, against his will, for the entire world to see his humiliation. He wasn’t oblivious to the fact that the charmed parchment had continued to fill, and fill, and fill. His cheeks flushed in shame. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, only to be abused by his relatives and treated like a house elf.

The second he heard Madam Pomfrey’s office door close, he made to jump off the bed. No way was he sticking around for this discussion. But try as he might, he could not move. His bottom was stuck to the cot. Snape, he seethed in disgust. Leave it to that vile man to use what he’d found out against Harry. Well, what had he expected? Sympathy? Harry scoffed at his own foolishness. The day Severus Snape showed Harry Potter sympathy was the day hell froze over. Cursing loudly, he kicked out, noting that he could move everything but his bum. He contemplated making a run for it, mattress and all.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Potter,” Snape said, exiting Madam Pomfrey’s office alone and walking toward him.

Harry looked up into the inscrutable eyes of his loathsome professor. He opened his mouth to shout some obscenities at the git, when a vial of potion was shoved into his good hand.

“Drink half of it now, and the other half in 20 minutes.”

Harry clasped the potion stubbornly. He was not going to drink whatever Snape had handed him. It was probably toxic.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Don’t be daft, Potter. As if I’d poison the headmaster’s Golden Boy. Now drink up, it’s the strongest pain-relieving potion I have.”

Hesitantly, Harry raised the ampoule to his lips. He sniffed, smelling a hint of mint, and was that lilacs? He tipped the vial back and swallowed.

“As soon as Madam Pomfrey and I are finished speaking with the headmaster, we will tend to your injuries.”

Harry choked and sputtered, coughing to clear his lungs. “The headmaster?” Harry rasped.

Snape gave Harry a look that plainly said he was lacking a brain if he thought this could go unreported. Then, much to Harry’s dismay, Snape swept from the infirmary, the scroll listing Harry’s injuries clenched tightly in his hand.

Minutes crawled by as Harry lay stuck to the damn hospital bed, his mind wandering aimlessly. At least the pain was gone, for now anyway. He wasn’t fool enough to think it wouldn’t come back. He wondered if Madam Pomfrey was with Snape and the headmaster at the moment, or if she was still in her office, documenting the state he was in. Either way, she hadn’t come to check on him again.

And what would happen now? Would they finally let him leave the Dursleys’ for good? Maybe he could live with the Weasleys. Perhaps he could stay at the castle over the summer. Some of the staff stayed, he knew. Or, at least, he thought they did.

 He yawned and stretched as best he could. The sky outside the windows was dark, and he pondered how late it was. He wondered if his friends were worried about his absence.

“Severus,” the headmaster welcomed. “What a pleasant surprise. Do come in. Would you like a lemon drop?”

Snape scowled. “No thank you.”

“What can I do for you this evening?” Dumbledore inquired, shifting an instrument on his desk out of the way, so as to have a better view of his colleague.

“How much do you know about the Dursleys?” Snape asked without prelude, his expression set in an impenetrable mask.

“Excuse me?”

“Potter’s relatives. What do you know about them?” Snape insisted.

“Well,” Dumbledore replied, stroking his beard. “They are Muggles, of course, and Harry’s only remaining relatives. Why do you ask?”

“I was under the impression,” Snape said carefully, “that the boy was treated like a prince. Coddled, spoiled, his every whim and desire met.”

Snape remained unreadable as the headmaster studied him. He wanted to know how much Albus knew about the boy’s upbringing.

“Ah,” Dumbledore replied. “I presume you saw something during Occlumency lessons?”

Snape nodded curtly.

“Well, I must say, Severus, I have told you before that his childhood was very different from his father's. Though I dare say you didn’t believe me at the time.”

Snape waited, silently, for the headmaster to continue. This was a game of strategy and wits, and he wasn’t going to give in first.

The headmaster sighed in resignation. “Have a seat, then, Severus, and I will tell you what I know.”

Snape averted his gaze, loathe to let the headmaster see any hint of his thoughts on the matter.  

 “You know why I placed the boy with his relatives. The blood wards were the strongest protection I could give Harry. Even so, I knew his life would not be easy. His relatives fear magic, and if I am correct, they believed that if they raised Harry with no knowledge of our world that, perhaps, he could be prevented from discovering his true nature.” Dumbledore paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Snape clenched his jaw, his patience running thin.

“As you know, we have been watching Harry for years. Mrs. Figg played an important role in verifying the boy’s well-being. She reported, as did other sources, that the boy attended Muggle schools, was made to do chores around the home, and did not appear to get along with his cousin.” Dumbledore shuffled some papers on his desk before continuing. “He spent much of the summers outdoors and alone. It appears that he was often not included in family outings, being left with Mrs. Figg during these occasions.” Looking tired, Dumbledore asked, “Does that answer your question, Severus?”

A slow, blinding fury was building inside of Snape. Did the headmaster honestly believe, with all of his power and sources of information, that this was as far as it went? Was the seemingly omniscient wizard truly ignorant of what Potter had endured?

“No, Albus, it most certainly does not,” Snape snapped. He was inwardly pleased at the taken-aback expression on the headmaster’s face. “Are you telling me that no one noticed the numerous injuries that Potter suffered?”

“Injuries?” Dumbledore asked. “Harry was an active child, of course some minor bumps and bruises were to be expected.”

Snape stood abruptly, his hands splayed on headmaster’s desk, his eyes alight. “What of his emaciated appearance, Albus? His extensive bruises? His broken bones?”

Dumbledore rose to his feet as well. “What are you talking about, Severus?” Dumbledore demanded.

Snape studied the headmaster critically. “I will need the Pensieve to show you.”

Without a word, Dumbledore summoned the magical device from Snape’s office to his.

With the stone basin now lying on the desk between them, Snape used his wand to pull strands of memory from his temple, being sure to reveal only what the boy had shown him regarding the Dursleys and Umbridge. He saw no reason to implicate himself in the poor treatment of the boy; he would have to remedy that on his own.

“After you,” Snape invited, following Dumbledore into the Pensieve. Snape didn’t need to view Potter’s memories again. Instead, he scrutinized the headmaster, watching the old wizard’s face for signs of a reaction. What he saw there made him want to close his eyes. Horror and regret marked his mentor’s already lined face, and in the time it took to view what memories Potter had bequeathed him, Albus seemed to age ten years.

Back in the headmaster’s office, Dumbledore slumped in his chair. “I didn’t know,” he said weakly, his eyes glassy. “I knew they weren’t ideal, I knew they were not the most affectionate of people, but I never would have guessed…” The old wizard dropped his head into his hands, “Dear Merlin,” he uttered in despair.

Snape remained standing, feeling awkward at Dumbledore’s emotional display. He’d seen the wizard furious before, enraged even, but he’d never seen the man look this devastated. The only positive in the situation was that the headmaster truly had been ignorant; for the alternative would have been unforgivable.

“What is to be done, Headmaster?” Snape stated, more than questioned.

Dumbledore lowered his hands and sat up straighter in his chair, shaking his head as if to negate the truth. “First, we must heal the boy. He is our priority.”

“And the rest?” Snape demanded.

“I will turn the memories over to the appropriate authorities. The Dursleys will be prosecuted accordingly.” Dumbledore paused and stroked his beard. “Although…”

“Albus...” Snape said in a dangerous voice.

“His aunt needs to stay in the home. Harry needs the protection afforded by the blood wards.”

“You aren’t seriously considering sending him back there!” Snape thundered.

Dumbledore looked resigned. “He must, Severus.” At Snape’s look of outrage, the headmaster raised a hand. “Protections will be put in place.”

Snape’s let his skepticism show.

“He will not be left there alone. We will find someone suitable to stay with him for the duration of his stay,” Dumbledore said.

For now, Snape would accept that. Clearing his throat, he addressed the next pressing issue. “And Umbridge?” he asked, sure that the headmaster was aware of the danger the alarming object she had in her possession posed to the students. How had the depraved witch even acquired such a dark object? “What of her?”

Dumbledore sighed. “That is a bit trickier. Clearly, she cannot be allowed to continue using a Blood Quill on our students.”

“Not to mention it’s highly illegal,” Snape fumed.

“That it is, my boy, and with good reason. And while I would prefer to have her removed from the school entirely, I highly doubt Fudge will cooperate. You and I will need to put our heads together on this one to come up with a suitable solution, Severus.”

“Agreed,” Snape responded, his teeth gritted.

“Where is Harry now?” Dumbledore asked.

“He is resting comfortably in the hospital wing,” Snape answered.

“Has Poppy seen to his injuries?”

“Not yet,” replied Snape. “We were waiting to speak with you to decide how to proceed.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Poppy did run a comprehensive set of diagnostics on him though,” Snape informed, tapping the scroll he held against his palm. In a quieter voice, he added, “And I gave him the strongest pain elixir that I brew.” Dumbledore raised his eyebrows at Snape’s admission, much to Snape’s satisfaction.

“I am afraid to ask, but is it that bad then?” Dumbledore inquired, his voice grave.

Instead of answering, Snape lifted the scrolled parchment that detailed all of Potter’s injuries, past and present, and held it out to the headmaster.

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, seeming to steel himself, before accepting Snape’s offering. His expression became shuttered, but Snape knew from the slump of the older man’s posture and the trembling of his hands that the weight of guilt on the headmaster’s shoulders was immense.

“Please summon Poppy, Severus.”

Nodding, Snape stepped to the floo and called the medi-witch, who joined the two wizards promptly, her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line.