Harry was distracted from his breakfast by the sound of an owl screeching. He looked up, half-expecting to see Hedwig back from Egypt before he remembered that he’d told her to stay with Ron. Harry winced. He regretted doing that now, since he’d realised Draco and Snape weren’t actually going to do anything to Hedwig, which was what he’d feared originally. It wasn’t like he could tell her to come back, either. He was stuck without her for the rest of August.

 

Two owls ended up flying in through the window; one for Draco, and one for Snape, which had a copy of the Daily Prophet. Snape handed a couple of knuts to the barn owl and unrolled the newspaper. Harry shivered slightly as Sirius Black stared back at him from the front cover. He couldn’t believe he still hadn’t been caught yet. They had the Muggles looking for him, and everything!

 

“Who wrote to you, Draco?” Snape asked, setting the newspaper to one side after a cursory scan of its contents.

 

“Pansy,” Draco said, sliding a finger under the envelope’s wax seal and taking out the letter within. Harry went to continue with his breakfast, but he noticed Snape didn’t carry on eating. Instead, his eyes were focused closely on Draco with a strange intensity. Harry frowned. He’d only seen that look on Snape’s face when he was trying to puzzle out something about Harry’s childhood that he hadn’t quite put together yet. Something about that letter had to be important, then.

 

Harry's eyes also drifted to Draco, just in time to see his face change. The small smile he’d worn while opening the envelope abruptly vanished, and was replaced by a scowl. His cheeks flushed to a dark pink and his eyes became oddly glassy.

 

Draco’s lips twisted downward and there was a sudden flash of white light between his hands. He violently swung out his arm, flinging the letter away, and kicked his chair back so it clattered to the ground before storming from the room. Snape muttered an oath under his breath and followed him. He was surprisingly swift and managed to grab onto Draco’s shoulder before he got too far away from the kitchen. He pulled the boy into the living room, out of sight.

 

Harry, who was frozen in place, became suddenly aware of the fact that he wasn’t breathing and did his best to inhale, even though his chest felt horribly tight. He didn’t like how Draco could just explode like that. Harry was very attuned to his uncle's body language, and almost always knew when Uncle Vernon's violent, raging side would pop out, so he could get out of the way in anticipation. Harry didn't know Draco well enough yet to be able to predict when he'd lose it, and that put Harry on edge.

 

What had been in that letter? It had obviously been the thing to upset Draco…

 

No one came back to the kitchen, and Harry became aware of ragged breathing in the living room that sounded a bit like sobbing. He considered going in to check what was happening, but Harry was fairly sure his presence would just make things worse. Instead, his eyes drifted to the sink. Draco’s letter was lying on the floor nearby. The edges were singed and blackened - Draco had to have done that, presumably with accidental magic. He must have been really angry, then…

 

Harry bit his lip, glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming back in, and got to his feet to go and pick it up. He doubted anyone would explain what had just happened unless he looked into it himself, after all. Harry had just wrapped his fingers around the parchment when a sharp, fiery sensation shot through his hand. It was the same red-hot pain you might get from touching a hot stove. Harry hissed and yanked his hand away, cradling it close to his chest. He examined his fingers, which had turned red and shiny with a newly formed burn. What was that?

 

Not wanting to get hurt again, Harry squatted down and stared at the letter on the ground without touching it. The writing was just about legible.

 

  Draco,

 

  I don’t know how many ways I can tell you this - stop contacting me. Don’t owl me, don’t floo me, I want nothing to do with you. The rest of us in Slytherin feel the same way. Greg and Vince would tell you themselves, but they aren’t as gifted with the written word, so consider this a message from all of us. 

 

  None of us are your friend anymore, so you need to stop writing. Nothing is going to change our minds, so don’t bother. We don’t want anything to do with a Malfoy. If you value the lives of your post owls, you’ll stop sending mail.

 

  Pansy Parkinson

 

Harry finished reading the letter and had to make a conscious effort to shut his mouth, which was hanging open. Had Draco really fallen out with Pansy Parkinson? She was his biggest supporter after Crabbe and Goyle!

 

But from the sounds of that letter, Crabbe and Goyle weren’t speaking to Draco, either. Harry was half-certain that Vince and Greg were their first names, after all. Harry wondered what on earth could have possibly happened to cause a massive falling out like this. Things had seemed perfectly normal between them all at the end of his second year…

 

It was so quiet in the kitchen that Harry was able to hear Draco’s voice with perfect clarity. “It’s just not fair!”

 

“It isn’t,” Snape said so softly that Harry had to strain his ears to hear.

 

“It’s - I didn’t d-do anything! None of this is my fault!” Draco’s voice had a choked quality to it that let Harry know he was certainly in tears. As Harry felt horribly uncomfortable whenever someone started crying, he began to sidle towards the back door. Somehow, he got the feeling that if Draco knew he was hearing all of this, all hell would break loose. Harry slipped outside and leaned against the wall of the house.

 

He stood there for a long time, staring at the overcast sky and thinking about what he’d overheard. He couldn’t help but think that Draco had really been through the wringer recently. Parents in prison, friends not talking to him… He abruptly remembered Draco’s shouts from the other day, when they’d been arguing in the kitchen after Harry had shoved him. My life is a wreck, Severus! 

 

Harry shook himself. This was steering dangerously close to ‘feeling sorry for Malfoy’ territory, somewhere Harry refused to stray. It didn’t matter if he was marginally more tolerable these days, or if Harry occasionally found himself enjoying their games. He was still a nasty git.

 

A nasty git who was having a pretty difficult time, though. Harry could at least give him that.

 

He was interrupted from his musings by the sound of the kitchen door loudly squealing open. Harry jerked his head around and saw Snape watching him.

 

“He’s gone upstairs to spend some time alone,” Snape said before Harry could ask after Draco. “Are you alright?”

 

“Er - yeah,” Harry said, surprised he’d even bothered asking. “Is he?”

 

Snape hesitated for a few moments before responding. “He will be, with time.” He sighed heavily. “You’re rather lucky to have the friends you do, Harry. I’d advise you to never take them for granted.”

 

Harry nodded. He doubted that would ever happen, anyway. He’d never had a friend before Ron and Hermione, since Dudley had spent their entire childhood beating the stuffing out of anyone who dared to so much as smile at Harry. Even if they occasionally got on his nerves, he would always be grateful to have Ron and Hermione.

 

“Is Pansy really done with him, then?” he asked.

 

“I believe so, unfortunately.” Snape turned sharply to look at Harry, frowning severely. “How do you know of that letter’s contents?”

 

Oops. Harry grimaced. “I… er, I caught sight of some of it.”

 

“Caught sight of it, did you?” Snape gave him a highly disapproving look, which quickly devolved into one of suspicion. “You didn’t happen to touch the letter, by any chance?”

 

“Er…no?” Harry made the stupid decision to try and hide his hands behind his back, which Snape immediately noticed. He grabbed Harry’s wrists in a tight grip and yanked them forwards, turning his hands over to examine Harry’s palms. The burn was still visible on Harry’s right hand, and had started to throb slightly. Snape’s scowl developed into an all-out glare.

 

“For heaven’s sake, Potter!” he snapped. “The Parkinsons curse their stationary against non-recipients. Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

 

“It’s just a little burn!” Harry protested, failing to hold in a hiss of pain as Snape jabbed his wand into Harry’s hand, drawing it into a circle around the burn. The swollen skin seemed to deflate and returned to its regular colour, and some of the soreness faded. Snape gave him a piercing look, his eyebrows furrowed with annoyance.

 

“Look, I’m sorry I looked at his mail, okay?” Harry said, trying to tug his hands away. Snape didn’t let go, and kept glowering at him. “I wouldn’t normally, I was just worried because he stormed away like that, so -”

 

“That is not what I have an issue with!” he snapped. “My problem is this continual insistence on hiding injuries!”

 

“I wasn’t hiding it -”

 

“Then why did you hide your hands behind your back when I asked you?” Snape demanded.

 

Harry felt his cheeks flood with heat. That was pretty damning.

 

“It wasn’t me hiding things like that, I just didn’t want you knowing I read his letter!”

 

“And perhaps I’d believe that if not for this very concerning pattern of behaviour!” Snape said irritably. “You keep doing this, Harry! You somehow come to some injury, or have an issue, and you won’t tell me about it! You even go so far as to lie to me about it when I ask!”

 

“I don’t do that -”

 

“Oh, yes you do,” Snape retorted. “Are you forgetting about how you hid the cut on your arm from me last week, even after I asked? Or, perhaps, your broken glasses from yesterday? And yes, I did notice Draco was the one to bring that up to me, not you! Or, of course, those bruises?”

 

Harry finally yanked his hands away and clenched them into fists. “That’s different, and you know it!”

 

“And that’s not even the end of it!” Snape said angrily. He was devolving into an all-out rant, Harry realised with no small amount of displeasure. “You constantly put yourself into dangerous situations! You ran away -”

 

“And that was your fault!” Harry shouted.

 

“But what of your behaviour at Hogwarts?” Snape said, crossing his arms. “Fighting mountain trolls, flying cars into trees, taking on basilisks… why do you consistently refuse to ever go to an adult with an issue?”

 

“Because I can’t!” Harry shouted. “Whenever I go to people, no one listens to me! No one! Professor McGonagall certainly didn’t care when I told her someone was after the Philosopher's Stone, Professor Lockhart tried to Obliviate me when I told him about the Chamber, and my aunt and uncle couldn’t give a damn about anything I do! Why the hell should I bother?!”

 

Harry’s chest was heaving by the time he’d finished his rant. The annoyance faded from Snape’s face, and was replaced by a look of genuine concern. “I see.”

 

Harry hugged himself with his arms, feeling very miserable all of a sudden.

 

Snape sighed. “I don’t want to shout and row with you over this.”

 

“Oh, well you’re doing a bang-up job of that,” Harry muttered, scowling at him.

 

“All of this ends now,” Snape said firmly. “If you have an issue with a Dark Lord or a possessed diary, be assured that I will, in fact, listen to you. For your part, I insist that you tell someone if you’re injured in any way.”

 

“You won’t listen to me,” Harry rasped, his voice oddly ragged. “No one listens to me. No one ever cares.”

 

“I care,” Snape said fiercely.

 

“Why?” Harry bellowed. “I just don’t get it! You’ve changed everything about how you treat me practically overnight, and I don’t understand what’s happened to you!”

 

Harry expected Snape to give some vague answer, or deflect away from the question as he’d done whenever Harry had asked him why he cared before, but Snape simply stared at him for a few heartbeats before beginning to speak.

 

“I made a promise when you were very young,” he said, turning away from him to look at the fence. “That I would protect you from harm. I have done a terrible job of it, and I’m doing what I can to remedy my mistakes in retrospect, especially now that I have fully realised how mistaken my assumptions of your character were.”

 

“So you pity me,” Harry muttered, feeling even more miserable. “You found out about the Dursleys and you feel sorry for me or something, and that’s why it’s all changed.”

 

“I do not pity people,” Snape said irritably. “Potter, I will not lie to you. It was mainly my discovery of the abuse you endured that prompted this change in my perceptions of you, but these changes are not ones borne of pity. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I am justifiably horrified by the treatment you have suffered?”

 

“I haven’t suffered anything -”

 

“Don’t do yourself a disservice and downplay the disgusting treatment you’ve been subjected to,” Snape growled. “The Dursleys were horrible to you. But I do not pity you for it - as a matter of fact, I admire how well you’re faring in life despite your childhood. Still, Harry, no one is able to carry all of these things alone, even you. I am simply offering you help that you deserve and need.”

 

“But why you?” Harry whispered. “I just don’t get it…”

 

“Perhaps it would be easier if I showed you.” Snape turned around and headed towards the kitchen door. “Follow me.”

 

Harry followed Snape as he walked through the house and out of the front door, feeling more and more curious with every passing moment. Where was Snape taking him?

 

Snape didn’t say a word as he led Harry through the narrow streets of Cokeworth. They’d been walking in silence for about five minutes when Snape stopped outside of a white-painted house with large rose bushes lining the driveway. Even though it wasn’t too far from Spinner’s End, the area felt completely different. The houses weren’t too much bigger, but they lacked the general air of neglect that Snape’s area possessed, and the whole area felt far more hospitable.

 

Snape gestured to the house before them. “This is the house where your mother grew up.”

 

Harry inhaled sharply, and turned to look at Snape, who looked rather wistful. He pointed towards the window on the top left. “That was Lily’s bedroom, up in that corner. She had the walls painted yellow.”

 

Harry strained his eyes to look through the window. The curtains were open, and he could just about make out white-painted walls in the room beyond.

 

They’d painted over his mother’s bedroom walls. Something about that made a deep, resounding sadness ache in Harry’s chest. He closed his eyes, and tried to imagine a yellow bedroom. His mother would have lots of pictures up, Harry decided. Maybe a potted plant on her windowsill. He pictured the red-haired woman from the photographs waving at him out of the window, or tending to the rose bushes in the front drive, pausing to give Harry a quick, warm smile…

 

But then he opened his eyes, and Lily was nowhere to be found. Harry felt his shoulders droop.

 

“This seems like a nice place to have lived,” he said softly.

 

“Lily did like it here.” Snape turned to look at him, expression conflicted. “Do you recall me mentioning my own home life was - less than ideal?”

 

Harry slowly nodded, unsure of where this was going.

 

“Mr and Mrs Evans were very kind to me,” Snape said. He turned his head away and didn't look at Harry while he spoke. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the house. “Their home was a refuge when things with my father became too intolerable. They were generally good and decent people, and were simply there when I needed somewhere to go. They didn’t have to do any of that for me, but they did. I owe them and your mother a debt I can never repay for that kind of support.”

 

Snape at last looked at Harry, but his face was impossible to read. “This is why I care, Harry. Because you deserve somebody who does. Because Mr and Mrs Evans helped me when I needed it, and you’re their grandson. Because you’re Lily’s son, and I forget that too often. Even just common human decency from one person raised in less than ideal circumstances to another. All of that means something to me, and I want to help you. Not out of some sort of pity, which I hope you can at last see. Now, can you please just let me?”

 

Harry gave him a jerky nod, a strangely choked sensation building in the back of his throat.

 

“Thank you,” he eventually managed.

 

“I don’t want your thanks,” Snape said a little sharply. “I just want you to try and rely on someone. Can you do that for me?”

 

“I’ll try,” Harry promised, and he truly meant it.

 

“It’s imperative that you do, Harry,” Snape said sternly. “If you keep refusing medical treatment for injuries and lying to me when you get injured, I will have to start punishing you for it.”

 

Harry sighed and gave him an exasperated look. “Really?”

 

“If nothing else will impress upon you how serious I am about this, then yes,” Snape said, eyes narrowing. “Someone has to give you what you need, even if you don’t particularly desire it.”

 

“I understand,” Harry grumbled. As annoying as it was, he did sort of get where Snape was coming from.

 

“I’m just not used to letting other people help me.” Harry admitted. He steeled himself. “Erm… you can probably guess that my aunt and uncle weren’t the most sympathetic people. If I was hurt or injured or anything, they’d just tell me to stop whining and get on with it, so I did. And - and you were right when you thought they didn’t take me to the doctor before. They never did when I was ill, they’d just lock me up in my - er, room, until I sweated it out. And that obviously was pretty miserable, so I don’t like telling people when I’m not well, especially since before there was never any point because no one would care…”

 

He took a deep breath in. That was the first time that Harry had knowingly and willingly confided in Snape about the Dursleys without being forced or prompted, and he felt oddly tense about it. He waited to see how Snape would react.

 

“I see.” Snape was watching him very closely, now. His eyes felt piercing. “Thank you for confiding in me.”

 

“Yeah.” Harry rubbed his arms, which had broken out with goosebumps.

 

“If it means anything, I won’t be angry when you come to me,” he added. “If you’re injured, I can heal it easily. If you’re sick, you certainly won’t be locked up in your bedroom, either. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

 

“I know you wouldn’t, but it’s sort of instinct at this point to just deny,” Harry admitted.

 

“I understand. These habits take time to unlearn, I’m aware.”

 

“Yeah.” Harry sighed and stared at his shoes. They stood in silence for a little while, listening to the gentle rustle of the bushes in front of the house. A question bubbled up in the back of his mind, and Harry blurted it out before he could stop himself.

 

“But how long does it take, in the end? When did that stuff stop being so difficult for you?” he asked. Immediately after the words left his mouth, Harry wanted to smack himself in the forehead. God, what a stupid thing to ask Snape! He was obviously going to flip…

 

But Snape didn’t scowl, or glower, or shout. His face became oddly drawn, but to Harry’s shock, he actually answered the question. “It’s hard to pinpoint an exact moment where things became easier. I was a very angry young man, and I took this out in ways I deeply regret to this day, but some of that anger has faded with the years and with distance from the situation. There will always be certain things that bring back the bad memories, though, no matter how much time passes." He hesitated for a moment before subtly nodding to himself. "Alcohol, for me. I refuse to touch it.”

 

“Really?”

 

Snape nodded. “It’s the biggest association I have with the unpleasantry of my upbringing, so I prefer to stay away.”

 

Like me and cupboards, Harry thought, remembering the incident where he’d essentially talked himself into an anxiety attack over Snape’s cupboard under the stairs. Cupboards and wardrobes and other small, dark spaces were what Harry associated most strongly with the nasty parts of his childhood. He wondered if things would always be that way…

 

Snape didn’t expand further on his own experiences, but Harry had heard more than enough to fill in the gaps. He remembered a fair few occasions where Uncle Vernon had been significantly rougher than him after coming home late from work drinks with alcohol on his breath. From the sounds of things, Snape’s father had probably had something of a drinking problem…

 

Harry truly couldn’t believe Snape had told him all of that, but the confession was strangely powerful. Some of the lingering mistrust he felt towards the man seemed to simply melt away, and Harry looked at him with renewed perspective.

 

Snape really did understand.

 

“Thank you, sir,” he said. Harry didn’t say what for, but he got the sense Snape would get what he meant.

 

Snape nodded, and inclined his head in the other direction. “Shall we head back? I’d rather not leave Draco alone for too long at the minute…”

 

“Right. Good point.”

 

“Don’t read his mail again,” Snape warned, his voice becoming stern again. “You won’t like the consequences from either one of us.”

 

Harry cringed. “Sorry.”

 

They walked in silence for a few moments, until Harry dared to hesitantly look at Snape. “What’s she so angry about, anyway? Same for Crabbe and Goyle. They’ve always all seemed joined at the hip to me.”

 

“Appearances can be deceiving.” Snape regarded him thoughtfully. “You’re muggle-raised, so you won’t know too much about all of this, but there can be complicated politics entrenched in the relationships between old pureblood families. Weasleys and Malfoys despise each other on principle for events that happened centuries ago which no one can remember, certain families like the Greengrasses are friends to all and close to none, and money and power seep their way into the relationships of everyone involved, including children.”

 

“Oh. Erm, okay.” Harry just felt more confused now.

 

Snape grimaced, picking up on this. “I’ll try and put it more simply. Many people are severing ties with Draco because his parents are in Azkaban, and because the Malfoy family name has lost much of its power. People no longer want to be associated with him as the child of criminals because they think it will reflect badly on them and damage their reputations.”

 

Harry frowned. “But Draco didn’t do anything!”

 

“Precisely his point,” Snape said with a shake of his head. “But he cannot extricate himself from familial ties. People who Draco previously thought were friends are now shunning him because of his parents’ incarceration.”

 

“That’s horrible,” Harry whispered, feeling pity stir in his chest again. Damn it, he did feel sorry for Malfoy now! How ridiculous was that?

 

“It is rather unpleasant,” Snape said. He sighed again. “Does this give you any insight into why Draco has been so angry these past few weeks?”

 

“A little,” Harry admitted. He was all too familiar with anger after what he’d been through himself, but at least he knew he still had his friends to help him through it. He couldn’t imagine how awful it would have been to deal with Snape finding out about the Dursleys and losing all his friends in one fell swoop…

 

“Perhaps give him a bit of space today,” Snape suggested. “I’m sure you’d rather avoid a confrontation, and I’m not sure if he can control himself -”

 

“I’ll leave him alone,” Harry agreed quickly.

 

He had fully intended on following through on this. Harry didn’t particularly enjoy fighting with Draco on a good day, and on a day like this, when he was so clearly in pain, it just seemed cruel to not give him a break. When they returned to Snape’s house, however, Harry had occasion to talk to Draco far sooner than he’d meant to.

 

Harry had gone upstairs to the loo while Snape went into the kitchen, fully expecting his room to be locked off. Surprisingly, the door was wide open. Despite himself, Harry lingered on the landing, and looked through the open doorway.

 

Draco had his face buried in a pillow. The whole room looked significantly messier than it had earlier that morning; Draco’s belongings were scattered all over the room, like he’d been digging for something, and the floor and desk were littered with crumpled up bits of parchment. There were several snapped quills surrounding an inkpot on the desk. The infamous necklace was lying on the pillowcase next to Draco's head.

 

For a moment Harry thought the other boy was asleep, but Draco promptly dispelled that theory when he lifted his head. He must have noticed Harry. Draco’s eyes were red and puffy - he’d obviously been crying. His face twisted into a scowl when his eyes locked with Harry’s. “Oh. It’s you.” 

 

“I’ll get out of your hair, sorry,” Harry said, taking a step backwards.

 

“No. I could use some input, actually,” Draco said angrily, shoving himself upright. “Have I committed a crime, Potter?”

 

“Um. No?”

 

“Exactly!” Draco hissed, slamming his hand against the desk. “So why, pray tell, am I being treated like a criminal?!”

 

“Er… I don’t know,” Harry said rather awkwardly.

 

“Neither do I!” Draco shouted. “Seeing as all of Britain has decided that my entire bloodline is evil, maybe the Ministry of Magic should get this whole sorry affair over with and throw me to the Dementors already! After all, I’m Draco Malfoy. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve engraved my bloody name onto a cell in Azkaban in preparation for my arrival!”

 

“Um,” Harry said ineloquently, his brain fizzling as he tried to reach for the right words that he just didn’t have. Eventually, he came up with the slightly pitiful, “I don’t think you’re evil.”

 

Draco’s eyes flashed with icy fury. “Oh, what high praise! I’ve got the admiration of the darling Boy-Who-Lived, have I? Not evil, what a compliment! Is my Order of Merlin in the mail, Potter?”

 

“You’ve really not done anything,” Harry said, ignoring the biting sarcasm. “People shouldn’t blame you for stuff you didn’t do. It’s unfair.”

 

A look of deep, intense pain twisted Draco’s features. He snatched up a half-written letter from the desk, took it between his shaking hands, and tore it clean in two with a noisy rip.

 

“This is fucking ridiculous!” he shouted. The letter was torn into quarters, and the shredding sounds continued to punctuate Draco’s shouts as he ranted. “How are you the only one who doesn’t think I’m a Death Eater in training? The world’s gone barking mad! Harry fucking Potter is the only one on my side, and meanwhile my own bloody friends just abandon me at the first sign of trouble. Can you even imagine how that feels?! You hate me! I’ve known them since I was in nappies, and you’re the only one who can do me the courtesy of treating me decently? If you of all people can see that it’s not my fault, why can’t they? Why do they suddenly hate me?!”

 

Draco’s voice was hoarse and shaky with pain by the end of his rant, and Harry felt something uncomfortably sympathetic stir in his chest. Moments later, rapid footsteps ascended up the staircase, and Harry could have collapsed with relief. It was Snape, presumably drawn in by the shouting. Harry never thought there would be a day where he was grateful for Snape swooping in to intervene with something, but here he was.

 

Snape quickly assessed the situation, eyes darting between Harry’s slightly panicked expression and Draco’s agonised, heartbroken face. He took Harry by the shoulders and firmly moved him in the direction of the staircase.

 

“Downstairs,” he ordered. Harry nodded, and turned his head away just as Snape wrapped an arm around Draco and started murmuring something to him, the exact words inaudible.

 

Harry hurried downstairs, sat down on the sofa and heaved a loud sigh. There was nothing else for it but to admit it; he did feel sorry for Draco. This was going to be a problem.

 

This was all bloody Snape’s fault! Harry had been staunchly determined that even with all of the enforced time together, he would still continue with the Malfoy-hating, but the old hatred had just slipped away without him even realising it. Harry certainly didn’t like him, and definitely still disliked him, but every time he tried to conjure up the mindless loathing of before, it just wasn’t possible. He kept thinking of the evening games, and the slightly violent but fun football matches, and Draco’s tearstained face as he tore up that letter…

 

He knew too much about the Draco behind the mask of Malfoy, and it had changed the way Harry saw the other boy.

 

“For God’s sake,” Harry muttered, running his hands over his face. He wanted to take his mind off these new, complicated feelings. Harry needed a good distraction. As he looked up, he noticed a book, open on Snape’s coffee table. He walked closer, curious.

 

And then Harry saw the title. ‘CHILD NEGLECT’, written across the top of the page in bold, black letters. Harry flinched backwards, his mouth going dry. Snape was reading that stupid trauma book again, apparently.

 

The corner of the page was folded. This chapter hadn’t been dog-eared before.

 

But Snape had bought that book for Draco. It had been here before Harry had even arrived at Spinner’s End. This had nothing to do with him, right? So why was Snape suddenly reading about child neglect when he hadn’t been before?

 

  “They neglect that poor nephew of theirs terribly, don’t they?”

 

  “I didn’t realise you were experiencing medical neglect there…”

 

  “Would your actual guardians buy you anything outside of basic necessities? I doubt it, considering they don’t even provide the bare minimum…”

 

Harry stepped back, feeling slightly sick. The page hadn’t been dog-eared before, and now it was. He couldn’t stop thinking about that, and he definitely couldn’t rationalise this being about Draco… no, Snape was using this trauma book and reading about Harry. 

 

Something nasty squirmed in Harry’s stomach. Snape was doing something for his sake again. He thought Harry was neglected.

 

Harry’s general rule of thumb was to deny the facts, and do his best to push away any thoughts that what the Dursleys did was wrong, but after his conversation yesterday, he knew he couldn’t escape the reality of the situation. Not after finding out about that War Orphan’s Stipend. Harry found he just couldn’t get past that. The Dursleys had money, and they didn’t spend it on Harry. They could have, but they didn’t…

 

Harry had always thought that the neglect - if that was what this was, if that was the word Harry dared to use - hurt more than the punches and the slaps. It always had. The ill-fitting clothes, the untreated illnesses, the lack of food, the lack of kind words, of hugs. It was so stupid, why did Harry care about that?

 

  “Petunia doesn’t even touch him, have you noticed?”

 

Sometimes, Harry used to wonder if he had a disease, and that was why they wouldn’t come near him. When he was too young to understand that his relatives wanted nothing to do with him, and he’d try to hug his aunt and uncle like Dudley did, he’d always be shoved away and given a disgusted look. Harry hadn’t been able to understand why, and a part of him still didn’t understand. He’d try and try to be good, but nothing made them happy. They were always just so angry…

 

Why? Why wasn’t Harry good enough for them? Why wasn’t he worthy? Why, why, why -

 

“Harry?”

 

He jerked his head around. Snape was standing in the doorway, looking worried. “Are you alright?”

 

Harry nodded mechanically and shakily inhaled past the knot in his chest, which was terribly difficult to do. He felt a bit lightheaded. “Yep. Great. Fine, completely fine.”

 

Snape made an exasperated noise. “That question was more of a courtesy. Tell me what’s wrong. Draco again?”

 

“No, not that,” Harry said quickly. “He didn’t say anything rude to me, actually. He was just sort of ranting.”

 

“Yes, I caught the tail end of that.” Snape sat down in his usual chair, and Harry was suddenly struck by how utterly exhausted he looked.

 

“Are you alright?” Harry asked a little nervously.

 

Snape looked briefly stunned by the question. He let out a hoarse chuckle. “I’m managing, I suppose. So, what’s your issue, then, if not that incident with Draco?”

 

Harry’s eyes flicked to the book again, and he bit down on his cheek. Snape, who was annoyingly attuned to Harry’s body language, tracked where his eyes had darted. He stared at the open book, and his lips briefly thinned. “Ah. You noticed my reading.”

 

Harry stared at the floor. He didn’t know what to say, and his chest was hurting quite badly by now.

 

“There’s a lot about your background that I don’t yet understand, Harry, and I’m trying to expand my knowledge,” Snape explained. “You could read the book sometime, if you’d like? It’s quite insightful.”

 

“I can’t,” Harry said, feeling oddly panicked. “I can’t, no, I can’t -”

 

“No one is forcing you.” Snape said quickly, flicking his wand. The book flew back onto the shelf, out of sight. “Take a deep breath. It’s fine.”

 

“Right.” Harry tried to loosen the tightness behind his ribs with a shuddering breath, feeling furious with himself. This was so stupid. It was a bloody book! What was it about a book that was making him freak out? What was wrong with him?

 

“It gets easier,” Snape said softly. “All in due time, Harry.”

 

He nodded mutely. Harry had to trust that Snape was telling him the truth, because the prospect of always feeling this way was unbearable to contemplate. He knew he’d come quite far as it was, from that lonely boy in the cupboard to someone with friends and a place to escape Privet Drive, but there was still so much more Harry wished for. There were still so many things about the Dursleys affecting him which he wanted to be rid of, and he didn’t want to wait. Harry needed to know that it got better. He wished it could all be better now, actually…

 

“Would you like to do something?” Snape asked, disrupting Harry from the spiralling. “How does a game of chess sound? Perhaps today is the day you’ll finally beat me.”

 

“But what about Draco?” Harry asked, glancing towards the open living room door. “Don’t you need to go back up to him?”

 

“Draco will come down when he’s ready,” Snape said, summoning the chess board. “He wants to be alone right now.”

 

“Should he be?” Harry asked softly, staring at his shoes. Thoughts of Draco’s pained shouts were mixing together with the memories of his own horribly lonely childhood. The idea of leaving someone alone when they were that upset, even when that someone was his greatest rival, pained Harry a little.

 

“Draco needs time to process what has happened without feeling forced to put on a front of indifference,” Snape explained, setting out the chess pieces. “He needs a bit of time to himself. As desirable as it would be, these things can’t be fixed easily. It’s yet another thing which simply takes time.”

 

Harry nodded. “Right.”

 

“Onto the chess, then,” Snape announced. Several of his pieces saluted him. “Perhaps we should swap sets. Since I’ve been so thoroughly thrashing you, I’m a tad concerned your pieces are developing suicidal tendencies.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Harry grumbled. He glared at his chess set when they all tried to hurry over to Snape’s side of the board, and roughly shoved them back into position. “Stop it! I’ll have you all court marshalled for this!”

 

Snape raised his eyebrows. “I doubt your army could survive that drop in numbers.”

 

“Stop converting my pieces to your side!” Harry said, glaring at him. “I’m going to beat you this time, you know. I’m prepared.”

 

“Ah, Gryffindor optimism.” Snape smirked. “So fun to crush.”

 

Despite the insults being tossed, Harry couldn’t help but smile to himself as he moved the first pawn. He knew Snape was just trying to distract him, but it was working, so he certainly wasn’t going to complain. He focused hard on the chess game, and Snape’s rather eloquent jibes that accompanied their playing, until the tension in his chest eased and the book faded from his mind.

 

It was really quite nice to not be left to deal with his sadness alone now. Harry couldn’t put into words how much he appreciated that.