He wishes they had never gone to the Death Day party.  He wishes he was in his bed, covers over his head, darkness pressing down on every side . . .

Except it already is.  Filch’s hands are around his throat, and his toes aren’t even skimming the ground, and black spots are dancing in his eyes and a far off angry roar is growing louder and louder.

And he is on the floor, coughing and spitting out bile, and the angry roar is still there and he squints upward to find that it is Snape.  A Snape so angry that there is colour in his cheeks, and in turn, Filch seems to have lost all his righteous fury as he stares down the angry head of Slytherin.  

“You will never again touch a child of Hogwarts in this manner if you wish to continue your existence,” Snape spits, shoving Filch into the wall with much the same force that the man had choked Harry with.

Snape’s words are so quiet, and Harry realises that they are the only ones who can hear him.  The rest of the throng of students around them look completely lost.

And then Snape is helping him up, gently touching his fingers to the bruises around Harry’s neck.  

He can’t help but flinch, but Snape’s glance of loathing at the crumpled man beside them is enough to assuage his guilt for doing so.

And the throng of students is breaking up, and Snape’s hand is gently--but firmly--around his arm, pulling him away when suddenly somebody shouts behind them.

“But my cat!  He killed her!”  Filch screams, suddenly brave without Snape staring him down.

“Really, Argus?”  Snape turns, but doesn’t let go of Harry.  “The Boy-Who-Lived killed your cat?” He scoffs and they continue walking.