Truth's Like Blood Underneath Your Fingernails by ChoicesWeMake
Summary: It is late in the evening, but Severus Snape is finally ready to sit back in his chair beside a steaming cup and contemplate. Because Merlin's beard, is there a lot to contemplate. He finally lets himself feel the emotions churning mutedly inside him as he stares into the flames hissing in his hearth. Nothing that happened today is what he expected, and he is not prepared, not at all prepared, for a Potter in his house...
Categories: Teacher Snape > Professor Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Blaise Zabini, Draco
Snape Flavour: Snape is Angry, Snape's a Bully, Canon Snape, Snape is Stern
Genres: Angst, General, Hurt/Comfort
Media Type: None
Tags: Alternate Universe, Slytherin!Harry
Takes Place: 1st Year
Warnings: Abusive Dursleys, Bullying, Neglect
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 9 Completed: Yes Word count: 27444 Read: 40874 Published: 31 Jan 2018 Updated: 28 Mar 2018
Chapter 9 by ChoicesWeMake
Author's Notes:
Oh my gosh, guys!! This is it! I can't thank ya'll enough for reading and commenting! While I've always meant to leave this ending rather ambiguous (partly to leave it open for a sequel, fingers crossed!), I hope it's satisfying all the same ^-^
"You're late, Potter."
Harry's eyes dart toward the figure seated at the desk. The man isn't even looking at him, just scribbling on some papers, but his eyes have narrowed all the same.
"It wasn't my fault," Harry mutters, fingers clenching into his sides.
"Speak clearly, Potter!"
Harry works at loosening his jaw, the words grinding out. "I said, I'm sorry, sir."
"You're an abominable liar, Potter, but you can trust you will be very sorry by the time I'm done wi-" Snape's head comes up and he stops abruptly. He rises tersely to his feet, towering, dark and imposing as ever.
"What do you mean by coming in like this, Potter?" He hisses.
The corridors are quiet as Harry hurries through them, torchlight glinting off stones and shadows in that fluttery, eery way they have, and Harry's paying just enough attention to notice the shuffle of footsteps meeting him as he comes around the corner.

"Potter!" Malfoy snarls, startled.

Harry straightens warily, eying the other boy. "I don't have time for this, Malfoy - detention, remember?"

"I don't know if I reca-" Malfoy says silkily, eyes mocking. "Oh, wait, yes. A week's worth, wasn't it? Awfully long time…"

"Well, since you've already had yours, maybe you can tell me what to expect." Harry shoots back. "Have fun earlier, did you? Leave any cauldrons for me?"

Malfoy reddens - not a good look on his pale features - but smirks. "Oh no. I've got it under the table that the Professor's got something special planned for you."

"What's that, Malfoy?" Harry bites, feeling his jaw tighten.

Malfoy shrugs, far too smug for Harry's comfort. "You better get going if you want to be alive to find out!"

Harry growls and shoulders past him, teeth gritted, only to hear a shout and feel his feet jerk as he tries to move forward again, stopped still at the top of the last flight of stairs.

"Tut, tut, Harry-bear!" Harry hears Malfoy crow gleefully behind him. "Never turn your back on an armed opponent!"

"I'll remember that!" Harry says, furiously trying to rip his shoes from the ground. Desperation is starting to tinge the edge of his tone, and he can't help it. "Let me go, Malfoy! I'll be late!"

"Why, yes, Potter. You will."

Frantically, Harry twists around as Malfoy walks backward down the corridor, facing him and snickering all the way.

"Malfoy!" He tries to sound threatening, but seconds later the boy's figure fades, and Harry's left alone in the corridor.

It's unlikely that any one else will be coming along; this late at night, most people have settled down for some studying or last minute fun with friends before curfew starts in a few hours. He'll have to fend for himself, as always…muttering a curse, Harry finally remembers the wand he's carrying. Wizard, you idiot! You have magic - well, use it! He draws it from his back pocket, but he's at a loss how to undo whatever spell is keeping his shoes glued to the floor. Unfamiliar words are shooting through his head as he tries to grasp one that might be helpful…wingardium leviosa, he's been practicing and he's pretty good at that one now…

"Nice one, Harry. You'll die here alone but at least you know how to lift a feather!"

His sigh is loud and irritated and just makes the space seem even more empty. He closes his eyes. He just needs to keep a level head. He's got out of trouble before, think! What could he - oh.

Idiot. Idiot!

Harry tugs a foot out of his shoe. It comes slowly, feeling weighted, like something sticky and stretchy is trying to hold it inside his trainers, but it comes. He gets one socked foot out and feels a thrill of relief, wasting no time working on the other. It takes even more effort coming out, and Harry centers his body in an attempt to get all the pulling power he can in his upright position.

"Come on!" He grunts, and with one last, urgent tug, it's free - and suddenly, he's toppling, rolling, sharp pain on a back still smooth with bruise balm, and his face slams into the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

Well. At least he landed halfway upright.

Gasping, dazed, he catches his breath slowly and he pushes himself up, hands gripping the wall until the hallway stops spinning. His cheek is throbbing, he's pretty sure there's a small cut somewhere on his forehead, and his nose feels like it just survived one of Dudley's head-on punches. He closes his eyes, trying to push down a wave of nausea.

Ok. He can do this. Good as new, negative a pairs of shoes…his only pair of trainers. Blast, he'll have to find a way to get those - but later. Right now, he's got a detention to serve and a Snape to face.

He sucks his breath in suddenly. Oh, he's - he's definitely going to be late. Curse Malfoy!

Panting slightly, Harry pushes off the wall and stumbles forward, trying to ignore the fact that the world, quite unfairly, is still insisting on keeping itself tilted slightly off kilter.

Snape's office is just around the corner, he's got to - detention tonight is going to be unpleasant enough, but if he's late? If he's late to his first detention with Snape?

Harry sighs. Treat it like one of his evenings at the Dursleys. One of his harder evenings...

He can picture himself faltering, facing his Aunt just inside the clean white door of Privet Drive #4, aching and feeling like a bruised piece of meat after a round with Dudley and gang, dirt under his nails, blood across his shirt sleeve where he carefully wiped his nose so it wouldn't drip…his aunt's cold, dismissive gaze, chores still unfinished and an evening ahead of -

Alright. This isn't helping.

He bangs on the door - a little louder than he meant to. Whoops. The elegant iron fixtures, the soft, rich grain of the wood - he remembers it from the last time he stood in front of it, the way he'd studied it in silence, trying to work up his nerve. He's less nerves and more determination this time, and he lets the stubborn thudding in his chest firm him as Snape's voice calls sharply, "Come!"

Harry does, keeping his posture stuff. This is a mission, reconnaissance, and he won't let himself forget it. Malfoy, shoes - Dursleys - they're all behind him. Snape might think he's here for detention, but Harry has one purpose in this room right now, and he shakes his head, scolding himself. Stay focused! Hard to do while his head is still swimming, but isn't that just his luck?

Well, it's not like he hasn't handled worse before.

Snape's keen, barbed observation will take much more effort to subvert than the doltish and dimwitted Dursleys, but Harry will stay low and take his chances, spy it out for the next time. Whatever it takes, however long, his parents will end up back where they belong, tucked in the chest pocket of his too-large flannel shirt, right next to Harry's heart.

If he has that when he goes back to the Dursleys, he can make it through anything they thrown at him. Invincible with the knowledge that, somewhere, once upon a time, there were two people, with smiles like blue skies and hearts brave like sunshine, and once upon a time, they loved him. He feels warm every time he thinks of it, feels the thought curling quiet and content, humming inside him. That's enough, for him, for now. Just that...

"You're late, Potter."

Harry's eyes dart toward the figure seated at the desk. The man isn't even looking at him, just scribbling on some papers, but his eyes have narrowed all the same.

"It wasn't my fault," Harry mutters, fingers clenching into his sides.

"Speak clearly, Potter!"

Harry works at loosening his jaw, the words grinding out. "I said, I'm sorry, sir."

"You're an abominable liar, Potter, but you can trust you will be very sorry by the time I'm done wi-" Snape's head comes up and he stops abruptly. He rises tersely to his feet, towering, dark and imposing as ever.

"What do you mean by coming in like this, Potter?" He hisses.

He seems inordinately offended about something, and Harry looks down over his robes, scanning them for what could make Snape look so taken back. They're a bit ruffled, but seem to be in proper order. His….oh. Would Snape care that he came to detention without his trainers? Is Harry in socks so utterly revolting? It strikes him funny and his lips twitch up before he wipes the thought from his mind and scrabbles for an answer, feeling his flash of humor replaced with tendrils of annoyed resentment. If Snape's favorite little prince would quite taking them…! But Snape will never accept that answer. Harry knows better than to complain - Snape won't believe him any more than his Aunt would, and then he'd be in double trouble for "lying" and whatever else Snape cooks up. He'll just have to take responsibility and brace himself for the tirade that follows.

Ugh. Why can't this detention just be over?

"I…lost them. Sir."

"Lost what, Potter!"

What it Snape's game? He must just like making Harry spell things out. Especially embarrassing things.

"My shoes," Harry snaps.

Snape's eyes flit to the tips of Harry's sock-toed feet, blinking, like he hadn't seen them before. His eyes harden, and he leans forward, although Harry notices he doesn't step out from behind the desk toward Harry.

"If this is an attempt to gain pity or get out of your detention, Potter-"

"What? No," Harry protests. Why would Snape think that losing his shoes would get Harry out of detention?

Snape's dark eyes spear into him, and he straightens back up. Harry wishes Snape would sit at the desk. He looks so much less dramatic and severe when he's sitting down.

"I would surely hope not." Snape says. "Because it won't get you anywhere."

His eyes go so still and cold Harry shivers, just a bit, whether from the look of them, or Malfoy's words that are suddenly ringing in his head.

"He's got something special planned for you…"

"Go clean yourself up, Potter." Snape averts his gaze, sneering. "I'm going to have to spend the next hour looking at your face, and I'd prefer it to be worthy of manifesting the respect a Slytherin should show their Head."

Snape grasps his wand and gracefully summons a rag, which hurls right into Harry's shoulder. Brow knitting, Harry catches the rag and walks toward the tiny copper sink that Snape gestured him to, tucked against the wall right outside the entrance to…what looks a lot like the potions classroom closet, except bigger, and more counter space.

Harry glimpses himself in the mirror above the sink and catches his breath. Oh.

Well. He does look a bit like he got chased down by Dudley's thugs, doesn't he? Blood is oozing from the small cut he can barely feel on his forehead. Head wound. Looks worse than it is. But there's also a thin shadow, just turning into a bruise, right across his cheekbone where the side of his face hit the wall, or maybe a stair on the way down, Harry can't quite remember. And blood is flaking, just starting to dry, smeared across his upper lip, which he realizes is stinging, and under his nose. How could he have not noticed that he had a bloody nose?

So. That's what Snape was disgusted about.

With a little sigh, he turns the water on and uses the rag to scrub bluntly across his face. Maybe when he gets back to the dorm, that bruise balm stuff would work on his cheekbone, too? He winces when he brushes the rag against it harshly.

Better. Maybe Snape can stand to look at him now.

On the other hand, Harry snickers to himself, Snape can hardly stand to look at his face whether it's clean or not, so -

"Is something amusing, Mr. Potter?"

Yes. Harry straightens. "No, sir."

Snape looks like he's trying to decide whether to press the issue of why Harry would come to detention with a bloody face and no shoes or leap to the easy, believable conclusion - that he did it simply to spite his Head.

"Sit." Snape points to the chair.

Blast.

Harry walks over and slowly lowers himself onto the stern wood seat, wondering when his actual punishment is going to start.

Snape doesn't ask him about his face or his shoes.

He doesn't ask him anything at all; he just stands there, glowering down at Harry like he's a potion that went exploded for no logical reason.

Harry pushes down an urge to squirm and wishes the man would just speak.

"Draco has brought it to my attention that you've been preying on him. Picking fights." Snape says finally, eyes daring Harry to lie.

Oookay. That wasn't what Harry was expecting, but fine. It doesn't really matter what excuse Snape wants to use to maul Harry over.

"Has he?" Harry says lightly, words dripping. "Well. Far be it from me to contradict Draco."

Snape, if possible, looks even more threatening, eyes hissing, body drawn tight and taut like he's keeping himself from lashing out and Harry swallows, shrinking back into the chair a little. Curse his mouth, always spilling stuff without his permission! It's just that the Dursleys don't catch most of his insults and he hardly thinks about it, but Snape - he should be careful about pushing a man with so much power over him. Any more than he already has. Clever enough to find the most creative ways to hurt Harry, and dangerous enough to act on it in the ways that will make Harry most miserable - no, Harry has known from the beginning that this would not be a man he wants to provoke.

So much for that.

He suppresses a tired snigger and he's exhausted, suddenly, worn out of Snape's games. He slumps a little. Alright. He knows what Snape wants.

"Yeah, okay. Yes, sir. I've been picking on Draco, 'cause I think he's a stuck-up, spoiled twat who's even more used to getting his way than Dudley, and has only slightly more brains!"

"The truth, Potter," Snape says through his teeth, tone derisive. "And if you speak of another student like that again, you won't be happy with the consequences."

Harry's almost too caught up to notice it, the again - if he speaks like that again, like he's not going to be punished for what he's just said, like this whole conversation isn't just another excuse to heap more punishment on Harry, even after he's going to get one for being late. Because Harry's just a glutton for it like that.

"The truth?" Ha. Would that he could, spit it all out in the man's sneering, scorning face. "You don't want the truth, sir."




"You don't want the truth, sir."

The boy's mouth twists as he says it, and he seems certain, more certain than Severus has ever seen him before. That alone makes him want to contradict it, wants to make him shake the boy with every inch of rage that he's stuffed down since Potter walked into the room, but he doesn't. He doesn't, because he realizes suddenly, with the harsh, instant feeling of someone who has abruptly noticed they're on the edge of a precipice, that the boy is right.

Ever since Potter walked into the room looking as careless and jaunty as a London street cat fresh out of a fight, he's wanted very much to believe that Potter came waltzing in like that on purpose simply to spite his face. And in fact, he's been rather annoyed with the part of him that's been holding out - or even worse, noting how confused the boy seemed when he pointed it out, spouting out about missing shoes like a complete nincompoop instead of using his "injuries" to try to get out of detention like he should be doing. Never mind the fact that they are probably his own fault.

You don't want the truth, sir.

He is getting closer and closer to realizing it; the truth is nowhere close to the picture that he's constructed, that he clings to.

You don't want the truth, sir.

No. He doesn't, does he?

Doesn't want the truth about the scars on Potter's back or his shadowed comments thrown out so flippantly in the Hospital Wing.

Doesn't want the truth about the confusion and resentment so prominent every time Severus questions him.

Doesn't want the truth about exactly what Potter thinks Severus might do to him every time he steels himself from flinching back - oh yes, Severus sees it.

Doesn't want the truth about why Potter is so scraggly looking and young and tired, with still enough spirit to fearlessly call out Draco Malfoy to his own godfather.

Doesn't want the truth about why Potter dragged himself into detention late tonight, bracing, face bloodied and limping just slightly, and expecting his House Head to take no notice of it.

To take no notice, or to not care...

And when he looks at his face again, it's not a younger version of James Potter that he sees - the boy has just as many similarities to an certain young Slytherin outcast than to the golden Gryffindor prefect, and he doesn't even want the truth about that.

Well. Far be it from Severus to play into a Potter's expectations of him.

On the other hand, he can't quite bring himself to messy his hands with emotions any more than is absolutely necessary.

All the cruel, necessary replies springing to his lips about eleven-year-old boys claiming to have command of the truth, or that Potter wouldn't know truth if it hit him in his ridiculous excuse for a face, or does Potter really want to know the truth about things? - are just sitting there, reluctant to fall from his lips, quivering on the fringe of a comeback.

He hasn't missed the fact that the boy's eyes are darting over to one of the tiny draws built into his desk every now and then. What…?

Ah, yes. The picture. That is where he put it, isn't it?

In the long silence, the boy turns his gaze on Severus, unperturbed, his eyes far too honest and green and - curse it all to hell -

Before Severus can think his actions thoroughly through, he's slid open a different, larger drawer - stacked under a mountain of his articles and research papers and a few student's essays on top, he draws it out from when he had it in his hands that morning after the sorting.

When he holds it out flat, the boy leans forward, face frozen like his world has stopped, and when he finally does speak, it’s not to Severus.

“Mum,” he breathes, reaching out, his small, hesitant fingers shaking with restrained eagerness. He's melted, all soft edges and vulnerability, and looks so fragile in this moment, no trace of his earlier bravado and rebellion and hot glares.

Severus’ jaw tightens so hard and suddenly it twinges.

Potter’s fingers are still in midair when they curl back, and Potter sucks in a breath, darting a look at Severus through his fringe. Raw longing, suspicion, but mostly that great big sense of hope, and Severus doesn't know why he's aching.

“Can - I -“

“Don’t be a dolt, Potter!” Severus snaps, voice rough. “Would I have brought it out if I was adverse to your grubby hands touching it?”

Potter looks unsure for a moment, and obviously Severus is going to have to spell it out for the simple-headed nitwit. Steeling his features, he puts the picture down on the desk and slides it toward the boy, whose gaze follows it unequivocally, as if incapable of tearing his eyes away from it for a minute. The awe in them subtly erases wary lines that Severus had barely noted by the boy’s forehead and eyes, making his face look rounder and much more childlike, those eyes lit with a shy sort of unguarded wonder - merlin his eyes!

“Well, Potter? I will be happy to set it right back into my collection if you are too idle to move a finger to pick it up!”

“No!” Potter’s breathing quickens as he shoots out not one, but both hands and brings it to him, cradling it carefully in his palms.

“No, I - please,” He says, staring at the moving picture like he could drink it, absorb it right into his beating heart through his eyes. “Sir,”

The boy is mumbling words dazedly, overwhelmed, bewildered, deeply grateful, still a bit leery, apparently at a loss for words, but still spitting them out anyways.

“Shut up before I do something drastic, Potter.”

The boy swallows his last word, inevitably a sir or a please, Severus doesn’t bother to decide which.

“Yeah,” Potter whispers finally, still sounding breathless.

“Do you need an invitation?” Severus says cooly, pulling some of his essays over and flicking imperiously at his quill pen.

“To what?” The boy questions, finally raising his gaze reluctantly from the picture.

“To leave, Potter!”

“Oh. No.”

Severus is pretty sure both of them are ready to escape the room, which has filled with entirely too much emotion in the air for Severus to be comfortable, hanging like heavy, clingy clouds on a perfectly good day.

The boy inevitably looks crushed, though, and Severus thinks it might be the first time he's ever seen that look on a student when he's offered to let them leave his office. Wilting, the boy puts the picture back on the desk, his fingers lingering on the edges of it like he can't stand to quite pull them away.

"Right," He says, dejected. "Right -"

"What are you doing?" Severus snaps.

Confusion. "I'm…leaving? Sir?"

Severus leans forward. "And take all of your possessions with you."

Potter glances around, then at his schoolbag. Idiot.

"All your possessions, Potter," Severus says, annunciating as clearly as he can while pushing the picture back into the fingers of the boy who never really let it go.

He can see the moment the boy's face changes, and he jerks his head up towards Severus, startlement in his eyes, and dawning understanding, and then, such a strong surge of emotion through those familiar orbs that Severus looks away, reluctant to even attempt to identify it. Potter slides the picture off the desk and slips it securely into the pocket of his jeans, under his robes. One hand stays there, resting over it gently.

"I believe you've been issued an offer to leave. I won't ask again."

Potter rises from his chair and starts for the door, the most foolish little grin sitting on his face, but when he gets to it, he turns, hesitating as if he remembered something.

“My detention, sir?”

How grossly Gryffindor, reminding a Professor of a detention after he’s let you go. Cringe-worthy, really, but Severus can’t help the way his voice, while still stiff, softens just the littlest bit.

“Detention served, Potter.”
The End.
End Notes:
The title for this story is borrowed from the lyrics of the song Looking Too Closely by Fink, which really fit Severus in this fic well, I think. Please give it a listen if you want to, you won't be disappointed!
Also, I have a one-shot companion piece to this that involved Harry and bullying and I'm pretty fond of it, but the lack of Snape in it barred me from posting it on this site. If you're interested, look me up on AO3 with the username, Choices_We_Make and check it out!


This story archived at http://www.potionsandsnitches.org/fanfiction/viewstory.php?sid=3468