It was finally December and the castle had been dressed up for the month for Christmas. Aside from quick meals in the Great Hall, Harry hadn’t had much time to admire and enjoy the decorations. He’d been kept busy with classes, homework, and finishing up his detentions with Snape.

He was finishing up his final detention, scrubbing the final cauldron. The detentions hadn’t been that terrible. It had been a long two weeks, but he’d only had to clean cauldrons, tools, and jars and Snape had mostly left him alone. There was always some insulting comment from Snape at the start, but that was all.

He dried the cauldron and lifted it onto the stack to the side of the wash basins. He was turning to clean up when the towers of cauldrons toppled over. Unable to get out of the way quick enough, he was hit by the falling cauldrons with one catching him hard above the eye. He felt the skin split and the blood start flowing immediately. The impact of the cauldrons knocked him backwards and to the floor. He slammed into a cabinet filled with the spare jars, bottles, and vials.

He looked up, dazed, as the cabinet shook before burying his face in his knees and throwing his arms over his head as the jars began to fall. Glass rained down on and around him, shattering. He gasped and cried out as shards of glass cut him and pierced into his skin.

It seemed to last forever and pain was ringing through his body from the numerous injuries.

“Potter!”

He jumped at the shout and raised his head to look at Snape with wide eyes, his face covered in tears and blood.

“What in the hell did you do, you imbecile?” Snape yelled, making Harry flinch. He tried to start pushing himself away from Snape to escape his rage and any potential violence, but hissed in pain and stopped after putting his hands on the floor only to have glass push into his palms. “Potter, do not move,” the professor growled.

Harry flinched again as Snape stormed towards him, angrily waving his wand to banish the glass from around Harry.

“Alright, up, Potter. Get out of the storeroom,” Snape said, reaching out to grab Harry’s arms to help him up. Harry involuntarily yanked away from Snape’s unexpected touch, thinking the man was going to hurt him. He saw Snape’s eyebrows come together and he frowned, but he didn’t comment on Harry’s reaction. “Come on,” he said and reached out to Harry again.

Realizing Snape was just going to help him up, he allowed the man to find spots on his arms without glass to hold and pull him to his feet. He groaned and hissed as all movement jostled the glass in his back and arms. Snape slowly guided him out of the storeroom and back to the classroom. He looked down at his hands to see he was shaking. It registered that blood was stinging his eye and he instinctively raised his hand to wipe the blood away, but Snape stopped him, gently grabbing his wrist.

“Think, Potter,” Snape said quietly. “We don’t want glass in your eye, do we?”

Harry just blinked dumbly, his brain fighting to keep up.

“Let me see,” Snape said and Harry raised his head, meeting the professor’s eyes. He watched Snape’s wand come up and touch his forehead where he knew he had a huge gash from the cauldron. He felt the magic stitch his skin back together. “Hands.”

He raised his hands, palm up. Snape grasped each wrist and, using magic, carefully removed the glass pieces from his hands and sealed the cuts, leaving behind pink lines.

“Remove your shirt, Potter. I must see your back.”

Harry’s eyes widened and he instantly began to panic as he pictured his scarred back. Snape couldn’t see that, no one could. He started shaking his head.

“No, no, I’m fine, I’ll go,” he said shakily.

“Potter, don’t be stupid. You are covered in glass that needs to be removed, but I can’t do that with your shirt on,” Snape said snappishly.

“No, I can’t, it’s okay,” Harry argued weakly.

“I can remove it with magic, if that is the issue,” Snape offered.

“That’s not it. I…I just can’t…I…I don’t want…” Harry stuttered, trying to find what to say or do to get out of the situation.

“Potter, get a hold of yourself. You need treatment so push through your childish embarrassment,” Snape said, sounding more irritated. “I am going to remove your shirt so I can see your injuries.”

Before he could argue again, his shirt was banished and Snape was turning him around. He stiffened and let his eyes fall shut as he felt Snape still and the man’s hand tighten ever so slightly on his shoulder. In the suffocating silence, he started trying to find something to say, a way to explain. He couldn’t let anyone, especially Snape of all people, know the truth of his life with his relatives.

“I—” he didn’t get a chance to say anything.

“Shut up, Potter,” Snape said, his voice low and tight.

Harry obeyed, a little grateful for the chance to collect himself and think. He felt Snape remove the glass from his back and shoulders and arms. He wrung his hands together as the professor healed his back. Once healed, he felt Snape step back. He didn’t move for several seconds, still unsure what to do or say. Eventually, he turned and met Snape’s eyes again. He frowned at the pull he felt in his mind and the short scene that played in front of his eyes.

A younger version of him was shirtless and crying while Snape grasped his upper arms, looking at him with what seemed to be a gentle, sympathetic expression.

“Let me help you,” Snape said to the younger Harry who looked at him with teary eyes.

“Why?” young Harry whispered.

“Because you deserve it,” Snape said and the scene ended, leaving behind a sharp, pounding pain in his head.

“I…I can explain,” Harry attempted, but stopped when Snape held up a hand.

“Do not even try, Potter,” Snape said. “I know abuse when I see it.”

Harry shook his head again. He wasn’t abused. That’s not what it was. It was just punishment when he acted out. “That’s not—”

“Stop,” Snape said firmly. “It’s abuse and I will not listen to any other explanations or excuses you have come up with over the years. I assume it’s your relatives, likely your uncle in particular?”

Harry swallowed thickly, continuing to twist his fingers together. He didn’t know what to say. He’d hid it for so long, he never imagined what he would do if someone found out. He didn’t believe anyone would ever find out.

“I also assume no one knows?” Snape said but Harry still didn’t speak.

He was terrified, embarrassed, and confusion was joining in at Snape’s calm, almost kind behaviour. This was not the Snape he knew. Snape was angry and despised him. Snape would never act like this, especially not when he finally had proof Harry was disciplined, not worshipped, by his relatives.

“Potter,” Snape said and Harry looked at him again. “Let me help you.”

Harry frowned, the vision he’d just had flashing in his mind again. “Why?”

Something changed in the dark eyes. “Because you deserve it.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue and he didn’t look away. As they gazed at each other, he felt an odd pulse in the air around them and a pressure in his already pained head.

Harry winced as the two Chasers body-checked each other so hard one of them was knocked off their broom. If anyone had thought the last Quidditch match was brutal simply because it had between Gryffindor and Slytherin, they were currently being proven wrong. This match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff was just as vicious. Three players had already been taken out and they had only been playing for about an hour.

He leaned on the railing of the stands, watching the match with a faraway mind. It had been a couple days since his disastrous last detention with Snape. He’d been able to avoid the man since then, horrified that Snape found out about the Dursleys and confused by the image he’d seen and Snape’s seemingly kind and understanding reaction to the discovery. He didn’t know what to think.

He tracked the moves of one of Hufflepuff’s Chasers only to have his eyes meet Snape’s. He tensed, uncomfortable, but he didn’t look away. There was some other emotion he was feeling, but he couldn’t identify it. He recognized it as the vague feeling he’d felt during the few, strange visions he’d seen around Malfoy and Snape. He still couldn’t explain those visions either. While they were accompanied by head pain, it wasn’t his scar. It was like a headache, like he had been straining his mind too hard.

He couldn’t explain any of the things that had been happening lately.

He finally pulled his eyes away from Snape and refocused on the match just in time to see Ravenclaw’s Keeper take a Bludger to the side of the head, knocking him to the ground, out cold. He cringed at the blood pooling on the ground, visible even from up in the stands.

With the Ravenclaw Keeper out, Hufflepuff quickly wracked up points. After another fifty minutes, Ravenclaw managed to catch the Snitch, but still lost to Hufflepuff’s major lead.

“Let’s just wait for the crowds to thin out,” Harry said to Ron and Hermione who nodded in agreement. He mostly just wanted a break from the suffocating students and castle. It was exhausting being constantly surrounded by rage and hate and confusion. The school felt dim and dark and heavy, becoming such a weight on everyone inside.

Still leaning on the railing, he watched everyone cross the pitch and file back into the school. He felt a tiny ball of relief at finally being alone for the first time with Ron and Hermione without having to be concerned about who was around.

He looked back out at the now empty pitch only to have a flash of him, Ron, and Malfoy flying around, tossing a Quaffle and laughing. He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose at the pounding pressure in his head. After about a minute, the pressure lessened slightly and he opened his eyes again.

The short visions were happening more often. What was going on?

“Harry, are you alright?” Hermione asked, stepping up to stand beside him with Ron, also leaning on the railing.

He didn’t respond immediately, wondering if he should tell them about the things he’d been seeing. He also wondered if they should talk about the things going on in the castle. They knew things were wrong, but they had never discussed it.

“I’m fine, but I’ve been…seeing things,” he admitted.

“Like with Sirius?” Hermione said and he pushed through the pang in his heart.

Harry shook his head, folding his hands together over the railing. “No, nothing like that. I’m not really sure what it is.”

“What’ve you seen?” Ron asked.

“It’s been like short flashes of…moments, almost like memories but they’re not things I remember ever happening,” Harry said.

“Does anything else happen?” Hermione asked.

“My head hurts. Not my scar,” he added hurriedly, “but my head feels like there’s a pressure, sort of like a headache.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of anything like that, but I can do some research, if you’d like,” Hermione said.

Harry smiled at her. “Thanks, Hermione.”

Severus Snape sat in front of the fireplace with a sigh, a glass of wine in one hand. He stared into the flames, contemplating many things, but mostly his last interaction with Potter. He hadn’t seen the boy since that day until now at the Quidditch match. The lack of interaction was all the better for him given his intense confusion.

Things had been odd, to say the least, inside the school that year. Students and staff alike appeared to recognize it, but seemed powerless to do anything about it. Rivalries between students had increased, seriousness among the staff had intensified, and anyone that had strong negative feelings about someone else found those feelings to be all-consuming.

He, like everyone else, assumed it was a result of the fear and pressure everyone felt at Voldemort being back and rebuilding his army, accelerating the war. That, however, did not explain the day with Potter.

He remembered feeling intense rage at the boy for causing such damage and then irritation at both his stupidity about moving and his refusal to follow instructions to remove his shirt. But, then, he’d seen Potter’s back. Underneath the mess of glass were dozens of scars, all different in cause, severity, and age. He hadn’t been able to do anything for some time as his mind fought to understand what the markings meant. He finally made himself move and begin healing the injuries from the glass.

He couldn’t believe it. Harry Potter was abused and severely at that.

When he heard Potter start to repeat some lie he’d likely come up with in the past, he couldn’t let the boy continue. He dealt with abused Slytherins every year and never let them feed him their lies and excuses. He had no interest in hearing such things, not after spending his entire childhood spewing the same phrases.

However, it was the end of the interaction he couldn’t get out of his head. He should’ve sent the boy to McGonagall or Pomfrey, let them deal with it, but he had felt something. A strange feeling had washed over him with a sense of déjà vu and a pressure in his head.

Instead of sending Potter away, he offered to help and even…comforted the boy by telling him he deserved to get help. Even with his Slytherins he never displayed such emotion. He kept himself distanced and indifferent, offering them only the practical necessities. He didn’t know what had come over him to treat Potter in such a way, especially considering he despised the boy all these years. A simple discovery of abuse didn’t erase the years of hate.

But, in that moment, that’s exactly what happened. For a moment at least, it was like a wall lifted and he forgot that he hated Harry Potter. Once the boy left, though, the hatred and rage returned, especially when he went to examine the damage done in the storeroom. In that moment, it was as though he had never discovered Potter’s secret and the boy had just been the menace he always was.

He sipped his wine and just let his mind wander, wishing the flames could provide some insight.

“Mr. Potter, how can I help you?” Snape asked a twelve-year-old Harry. 

Harry stood outside the Potions classroom, looking sad and uncomfortable and fiddling with his bag strap on his shoulder. “Sir, would you mind if I just sat in here for a little bit? I need to get away from everyone and no one will look for me here.” 

Snape considered Harry before pulling the door open and gesturing for Harry to enter. Harry gave a smile and slipped past Snape, dropping into his usual spot from class. He dropped his bag, folded his arms on the desk, and rested his chin on his arms with a sigh. 

“Might I inquire why you are using my classroom as refuge from the Hogwarts student body?” Snape asked casually. 

Harry glanced up with just his eyes, not moving his head. “What happened at the Dueling Club, remember? Everyone’s looking at me like I’m about to curse them or something, as though I’m evil because I can talk to snakes.” He huffed. “I didn’t even know it was really a thing or a big deal. I can’t tell when I’m doing it.” 

Snape hummed. “I see. And your friends?” 

“Think I’m the some-number-of-greats grandson of Salazar Slytherin. They’re not scared of me, but they do keep looking at me like I’m a bloody experiment or something.” 

“I see.” 

Harry glared up at the professor. “Is that all you’ve got to say?” 

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I was unaware you were looking for advice. I thought you just wanted a place to hide.” 

Harry sighed. “Well, yeah, but…” He paused, biting his lip. “Are they all right?” 

“I know nothing about Salazar Slytherin’s lineage,” Snape said. 

Harry raised his head, sitting up. “No, not that. I don’t care about that.” He picked at a burn mark on his desk. “Am I evil?” 

“I’ve known much evil in my life and you, Mr. Potter, are as far from evil as one can get,” Snape said nonchalantly as though the conversation were perfectly normal. 

Harry’s eyes lightened up. “Really?” 

Snape just nodded. 

The smile he had gained was brief as it fell from his face when he clearly thought of something. “Dumbledore said—” 

“Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Potter, and please, do not quote that man to me,” Snape said and

Harry looked at him curiously. “There are some matters on which we disagree.” 

Harry nodded in understanding. “So, being a Parselmouth doesn’t make me evil?” 

“No, Mr. Potter. In fact,” Snape said, giving him a small smirk, “I would say it makes you quite a remarkable young man.” 

Harry smiled widely.

Harry sat up in bed, pain shooting through his skull and his vision swimming. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, and even a little sick. He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes, hoping the pressure would push the pain away.

What in the hell kind of dream was that? It definitely wasn’t a normal dream, but it wasn’t a Voldemort dream either since his scar wasn’t hurting.

“Harry?” he heard Ron say, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s…it’s just a headache,” Harry said. “No, not Voldemort,” he added quickly.

“Is there anything I can do?” Ron asked.

“No, thanks. I think it’s starting to go away,” Harry said and he was being honest. The pain had seemed to lessen and was feeling more mild as time passed.

He pulled his hands from his eyes and put his glasses on. He looked at Ron who still appeared concerned.

“I’m okay,” he said. “It’s pretty much gone now.”

Ron nodded slowly, obviously not completely convinced. “Do you know what caused it?”

“Not completely. It may have been this dream I had, but I don’t know.”

“Dream?” Ron repeated with a frown.

Harry nodded. “If that’s what it was, I’m not really sure. It was weird and different from any dream I’ve had before.”

“What did you dream?” Ron asked.

“It was second year. I was hiding in the Potions classroom after the Dueling Club thing. Snape was there and we were talking. We…we were…pleasant, like we liked each other, and he…helped me,” Harry said and looked at Ron. Both of them had eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Ron, I think it was…a memory, but I don’t remember anything like that ever happening. It couldn’t have. Snape and I have always hated each other.”

Ron frowned, clearly thinking. “Let’s tell Hermione. Maybe she’ll have an idea.”

Harry nodded and quickly got ready for the day. They were fairly quiet as they headed down to the Great Hall, both thinking about Harry’s dream.

Harry was startled out of his thoughts when Colin Creevey almost crashed into him. The younger Gryffindor had his head bowed and was rubbing his temples. He dropped his hands and looked up at the near collision.

“Oh, sorry, Harry,” Colin said. “Need to watch where I’m going. I’ve just got this killer headache.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed at the younger boy’s comment. Before he could ask, Colin was darting around him.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he said. “See you later.”

Harry watched him go, spotting a hand rub a temple again. It had to be a coincidence. People got headaches all the time. It didn’t mean anything.

“Harry, look.”

Harry turned to Ron who was staring at the wall. He stepped down and gazed at the wall, shocked. The entire area of paintings, about fifteen of them, was still. Not a single painting was moving like they should be. He moved back so he could see more of the wall only to see something even more shocking.

"Ron," he said and pointed to a painting high up on the wall.

“It’s…it’s empty,” Ron said in disbelief.

Whatever the painting was supposed to be, it wasn’t there anymore. It was a black canvas in a frame.

“That’s impossible,” Ron whispered.

Harry looked around and spotted other students that were also stopped and pointing at paintings. He was able to see several still pictures and a few more that were blank. Confusion and panic filled everyone’s faces.

“Come on,” Harry said quietly, tugging on Ron’s arm. They resumed walking and joined Hermione once in the Great Hall.

“Good morning,” Hermione said, her tone pleasant but her expression grave.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

Hermione glanced around as though to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. She leaned in close to Ron and Harry. “I may have an explanation for what you’ve been seeing and your headaches.”

Harry’s eyes widened and his heart began to beat faster.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense, but it’s still strange and very concerning,” Hermione rambled.

“Hermione, just tell us,” Ron said.

“First, I have to tell you something,” Hermione said, her eyes dropping to the table as Harry and Ron looked at her curiously. “I’ve been experiencing the same thing as you, Harry. I’ve been seeing things, too, and getting headaches with them.”

They both gaped at her.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Ron asked.

She looked at them with teary eyes. “It only just started, but I thought I was crazy. Seeing things no one else can is not a good thing.”

Harry nodded slightly, understanding completely. “What did you find?” he asked, trying to distract her from her distress.

“Right,” she said, sniffing and swiping away the one tear that had escaped. “I don’t know how it could have happened, but the only explanation I could find is a Memory Charm.”

“Like what happened to Lockhart?” Ron said.

Hermione nodded. “There are different types of Memory Charms. The one Lockhart used was a Memory Erasure Charm. The one that explains our experiences is a Hidden Memory Charm,” she explained. “It’s used to help deal with trauma typically and is meant to be temporary. Because it hasn’t been removed, it’s wearing away.”

“But I’ve been seeing things from years ago,” Harry said. “Can it last that long?”

Hermione shrugged. “There are holes in the theory. It typically can’t last years, headaches aren’t commonly associated with it, and I can’t explain how or who would have cast it on us. It’s the closest thing I could find though.”

Harry sighed. They had an explanation, but it didn’t fully explain. Plus, there was Colin and everything else happening in the castle.

There was something else, something they were missing.

The room was quiet except for scratching quills and rustling paper. Sixth year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws were sat in Transfiguration class, each working on their newly assigned Human Transfiguration project. They had each been given an object or species that a witch or wizard could transform into. They had to research everything about how to make such a transformation successful while also exploring potential complications.

Harry was in the middle of jotting down notes from the text on the general concept of Human Transfiguration when a low groan made him look around.

“Mr. Stobey, is there a problem?” McGonagall said, staring at the black-haired boy sternly over her glasses.

“No, I’m sorry, Professor,” Stobey said and Harry frowned at the boy massaging his forehead. “It’s just a headache.”

“Perhaps a visit to the infirmary?”

Stobey shook his head. “No, I’m alright, Professor.”

McGonagall hummed and returned to her work. Harry also turned back to his notes, but he couldn’t help glancing at Stobey again. His eyebrows crinkled in concern as he saw Stobey had dropped his head into his hands, pressing on his eyes. The boy blew out a shaky breath before pushing himself to his feet.

“Professor, I think I…I think…”

“What, Mr. Stobey?”

Harry frowned at how much Stobey appeared to be swaying. He saw McGonagall’s raised eyebrow morph into an expression of worry.

“Mr. Stobey?” she said, slowly getting to her feet.

“I—” Stobey was cut off by his own cry of pain where he slapped his hands to his eyes only to collapse to the floor in an unconscious heap. Students gasped and cried out in shock, and McGonagall hurried to Stobey. She did some quick observations and waved her wand before conjuring a floating stretcher and placing Stobey on it.

“Class is dismissed,” she said and rushed from the room without even making sure everyone was leaving.

Harry watched her disappear and then turned to Ron and Hermione. If he hoped they would have an explanation, he was proven wrong by the fear filling their faces.