Harry kept closing his eyes and then opening them slowly, trying to pretend it was all a dream, but every time he closed his eyes he just found himself closer to the dungeons.

What would Snape do? Harry didn’t even know. He’d gotten distracted, earlier, that was all, now Harry was really going to be in trouble, for lying. Snape hated liars, Harry could tell, and he had lied. Him, not Dudley or Uncle Vernon, he had lied and now—

Now Hermione and Neville would know. And they would hate him. And Harry almost freed himself then, almost ran back to the common room where he could go to sleep and not let them ever know, but Hermione grabbed his other hand and helped Neville tug him.

When they finally did arrive, it was Neville who knocked on the door, so fiercely that Harry was again surprised. He kept banging with the flat of his hand until Snape threw the door open, his face angry.

“Longbottom! Granger!” he snarled, and Harry pulled one last desperate pull against Neville’s grip. That’s when Snape saw him. “Potter. What do you think you’re doing, banging on my office door at this hour?” Then Snape saw his eye, and his face turned ugly. “What have you done to yourself, you stupid boy?”

“I haven’t—“ Harry started, but Hermione burst in.

“Please, Professor, it’s very important, and Harry won’t go to Dumbledore so we brought him here. We’re very sorry about the time, sir, but—“

“Get inside,” Snape hissed, and Harry found himself making a beeline for the chair he always sat in while Neville and Hermione hovered nervously on either side of him.

“Sit,” Snape said impatiently, and two other chairs appeared. The other two sat, and Snape fixed them all with a look. “From the beginning, please.”

“Well,” Hermione said shakily, “Me and Neville waited for Harry to get back so we could talk to him—“

“That sounds like the end, Miss Granger. I specifically asked for the beginning. Unless you are too mentally incompetent to understand my meaning—“

“My father thought something was funny when Harry got dropped off at Neville’s this summer,” Hermione said quickly, as if trying to prevent Snape from getting too mean with his words. “Actually, he didn’t think Harry got dropped off at all, that’s what he thought was funny. Neville lives at the end of a really long road, so he looked out of the window and he couldn’t see any car lights. And then, in the fall I started to get a little suspicious, because of his arm and how little he eats and everything. So, so I decided I would talk to him about it, but I didn’t know quite how to approach it. And then with the attacks—I just lost track of it, and it never seemed the right time to talk. But, but then I did talk to Harry and he told me his uncle hates him—“

“I did not,” Harry said.

“You said he hated magic, it’s the same thing,” Hermione replied. “And then I was so worried about him over break that I decided I would talk to him first thing when we got back, and then he was caught at the end of the train so I talked to Neville about it—“

“A-a-and I said I was w-w-worried a bit as well, s-s-so we said we would talk to Harry b-b-back at the common room,” Neville stammered out, and Harry patted the boys hand gently. Neville’s stammer only really came back when he was nervous, angry, or dealing with Professor Snape, but it always rattled the boy and made him even less sure of himself. “B-b-but then you took him to your office at d-d-dinner, and we waited for him to come b-b-back—“

“And when he did he looked all pale and worried, and Neville tried to cheer him up a little, except Neville’s jokes aren’t very funny—“

“They are so!”

“That one was a bit weak, Neville, you have to admit—“

“Miss Granger, if you would continue?” Snape interrupted, and Hermione blushed.

“Sorry, Professor. So, we were talking to him when I brought up that we were both worried about him, and I told him I’d done some research on child abuse—“

“I’m not abused,” Harry repeated, but Hermione ignored him again and this time it was Neville patting his hand.

“T-t-that’s when his eye got all d-dark, sir. And, I asked Harry if they d-d-did it to him, and he d-d-didn’t answer so I thought, I thought that we had to show someone, so we took him out of the c-c-common room—“

“And Harry said he wouldn’t go to Dumbledore, so we brought him to you—“

“And t-t-t-that’s how we got here, sir,” Neville said, and the three waited in tense silence as Snape surveyed them all, finally looking only at Harry.

“Come here, boy,” Snape snapped, and Harry got up slowly and walked to the opposite side of the desk. When he go there, he focused his eyes at the ground, telling himself that Snape probably wouldn’t hit him, not in front of Neville and Hermione. He was surprised, then, when he felt Snape remove his glasses careful, then prod at his bruise gently.

“Does that hurt?”

Harry looked at the man briefly, then ducked his head and nodded.

“Do you have any other injuries?”

Harry swallowed, then licked his lips and nodded again.

“Where?” Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the man had ignored him and instead cast a muttered spell which made his limbs start to glow again. Harry wondered if it was because the potion was still in his system or if the spell simply did the same thing as the potion. But then, why use a potion if you had a spell? Harry almost asked, but he didn’t want to test Snape’s temper now.

“What kind of spell is that, Professor?” Hermione asked with interest as Snape looked him up and down.

“A trigger spell, Granger, now shut your trap.” Hermione’s mouth clicked shut audibly, but then another question tore itself out of her.

“What’s it triggering, sir?”

“A potion, Miss Granger. Now, for the last time, be quiet or I shall eject you all from my office and Potter can go to the Infirmary.” Hermione stayed quiet this time, and Harry almost thanked her. He had his answer, at least.

Snape seemed to be cataloging all the glowing spots on his front, which weren’t many, Harry knew. Mostly what had shown up earlier, what hadn’t healed. Bruises on his arms from being pulled about, really. Then Snape gently turned him around.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as he heard a low intake of breath from behind him.

“Longbottom, Granger, you’ll have to wait outside,” Snape said.

“We’re not l-l-l-leaving,” Neville said stubbornly. “Harry n-n-needs us.”

“Longbottom, if you do not leave right now—“

“They—don’t yell at him, sir, please. He—they can stay,” Harry said, then he kicked himself. It was bad enough when Dudley saw, what would happen when they did? Snape just sighed behind him.

“Fine, Potter. Remove your robe and your shirt.” When Harry hesitated, Snape’s voice became menacing. “Now, Potter.”

“But I—“

“Now.”

Harry reluctantly slid his robes from his shoulder and started to fold it with shaking hands. Hermione looked lesss certain of herself here, and Neville looked stubborn but scared. Harry tried to smile at them, but Snape snapped at him.

“Quickly, if you please, Mr. Potter. Some of us don’t have all night.”

Harry undid the buttons of his shirt and shrugged that off too, careful to show his back only to the professor. Unfortunately, this meant that he was facing Hermione and Neville, and he couldn’t quite make eye contact. He ended up staring at Neville and Hermione’s shoes.

He knew what Snape would see. He had seen it himself, looking over his shoulder in the mirror to see the extent of the damage.

He’d never been hit with a belt before. It seemed too calm for Uncle Vernon. He normally just pushed him around a bit—violence of opportunity, really. The broken arm, it had been an accident, because his Uncle wasn’t any good at premediation. If Harry was good and kept out of his way, he was fine except for a few knocks into walls and little things like that. Even if Harry did something, Uncle Vernon dealt with it the easy way, just a couple punches, nothing Harry couldn’t handle. This had been a whole different playing field from anything that had happened before.

He’d waited like that in his cupboard, his knees to his chest, for what seemed like forever before his uncle came home and threw open the door. He’d just stood there for a moment, angrier than Harry had ever seen him, his chest heaving up and down and his face an ugly, dangerous purple. He had grabbed Harry then, by the arm, and silently dragged him out of the house, through the snow (he hadn’t been wearing shoes or socks, his feet had nearly frozen off) to the old garden shed in the back corner of the yard. His uncle had taken off his belt, still too angry to speak, and hit him until he seemed satisfied Harry had learned his lesson.

“If you ever touch anything in my house again, you worthless little freak,” his uncle had hissed into his ear as he pulled Harry back to the house, “I’ll kill you.”

Harry had pushed Uncle Vernon too far, finally. When they arrived back at the house, Harry had gone, shaking, to his cupboard, where he lay on his stomach crying the whole night while Aunt Petunia served Christmas dinner and Dudley stuffed his gob. The next day he’d been up and working around the house as usual. But something had changed. Uncle Vernon was a little more smug and Aunt Petunia didn’t seem to know that anything had happened, because she took it upon herself to punish Harry and withheld his food for the rest of the week.

There were eight lines, Harry knew, going across his back horizontally. Just eight, even though it felt like eight thousand. He could feel Snape’s anger as a gentle finger touched all eight of them.

“Accio Comfrey Balm,” Snape said, and Harry could hear something whoosh behind him as he paid attention to Neville and Hermione’s shoes. Neville’s shoelaces were all knotted, he noticed, while Hermione’s shoes looked like they’d been shined. Harry could see, though, on the tips of them, the faint splatter pattern from when Neville had dropped his ink bottle and it had exploded all over their shoes. He flinched as something cold and smooth started to be spread over his back.

“What did you do?” Snape asked, and Harry swallowed.

“He didn’t do anything!” Neville said angrily. “It’s not his fault!”

“That is not what I was implying, Mr. Longbottom,” Snape snapped. “What did your cousin do, then, Mr. Potter?”

Harry swallowed again. “He just—he didn’t like the computer.”

Snape snorted. “One of those Muggle contraptions, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How does his not liking it equate to you being beaten bloody?”

“He wanted a new one, so he smashed the old one and told Uncle Vernon I did it. It was really expensive.”

Hermione made a small noise, and Harry knew that even though he’d tried to shield his back from them, they could probably see everything. He snuck a quick look up, then looked down.

Hermione looked like she might burst into loud, un-Hermione like tears as she looked at him. Neville, on the other hand, looked like he might throw up. He was clutching the arm rests on his chair fiercely, as though that could fix everything, and he had averted his eyes and was trying to take deep breaths.

Harry wanted to shrink down to nothing and was kicking himself for telling Snape to let them stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after he let the silence go for a minute. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“Then why did you, you foolish boy?”

“I just—I don’t know,” Harry said in a very small voice. “Just—what I said before, I guess.” He didn’t want Hermione and Neville to know he wanted Snape to love him. He was their hated Potions Master and nothing more, not to them, they wouldn’t understand.

Snape, wisely, kept silent about that. “I see.” He seemed to have finished with the cream, and he handed Harry his shirt over his shoulder. Harry slipped it on and started to button it, then pulled his robe on and sat back down.

“What do we do now?” Neville asked softly.

“We have two options,” Snape said. “One, Potter goes to the headmaster and tells him everything—“

“No,” Harry said.

Hermione, however, seemed to finally realize something. “You’ve known all along.”

Snape looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“You knew all along that Harry was getting hurt and you didn’t say one word.”

“Miss Granger—“

But Hermione would hear none of it. “You—you just let him keep going back! You just kept letting him go back there when you knew!”

“Miss Granger!”

“You’re—you’re the worst person I’ve ever met! You just sent a little boy back to those horrible people and, and you left him there all alone when he could have gotten killed! I thought you were decent after the Stone last year, but you’re worse than they are! You just let him—“

“Hermione, stop it,” Harry said. “That’s not how it was.”

“It’s evil and horrid and against the law and I’m telling Dumbledore!”

“Hermione!” Harry said again, louder this time. “You’re not listening, you don’t understand!”

“What don’t I understand, then?”

Snape looked at her coldly. “I do not hit children, Miss Granger, though I am very tempted to start now, so it is more than personally insulting to be compared to those despicable Muggles. And no, I have not always known, though I have known for a long time.” He paused and looked at Harry. “Do they know of your…whereabouts before your start at Hogwarts?”

“He lived in the street,” Neville said, and when Harry looked at him, flabberghasted, Neville blushed and looked at his knees. “You—you talk in your sleep, sometimes, and after what happened at the train station last summer I just put it all together. I didn’t—no one else knows, not Dean or Ron or Seamus or anyone. I told Hermione, though, because she was worried.”

“What happened at the train station last summer?” Snape asked, and Hermione responded, her obsession with being the first to answer outweighing her anger with Snape.

“Harry saw this homeless lady and her son and we went over and gave them money and she told us we were good kids,” Hermione said, and she looked at Harry. “Did—did you know her? From before?”

Harry shook his head. “I just—I know what if feels like. When they just walk right past you and pretend you aren’t there. You start to feel like you don’t really exist at all, because if you existed then people would take notice and help, and they don’t. So I just—I let her exist for a minute.”

“His relatives—“ Snape snarled the word “—left him on a street corner. It was by mere luck that I found him in October and brought him to Hogwarts. I found out shortly after that.”

“So that’s why Harry trusts you,” Neville said softly.

“Yes. That’s why Potter trusts me. And I—“ here Snape leveled a look at Hermione, laying emphasis on his words, “—will not break that trust without permission from Potter.”

“It’s against the law to do that,” Hermione said. “To not report abuse. I checked.”

“Muggle laws,” Snape said. “Things operate differently here, Miss Granger. Child abuse is rare in the wizarding world. Purebloods are so internally linked that they children have recently become rather sickly and weak. Parents are too concerned for future heirs to do anything damaging, so the Ministry has a lax stance on it. Do you really think that Potter would live after the owl arrived notifying them they were under investigation?” Hermione shook her head slowly, with wide, frightened eyes. “Sometimes doing what is right cannot be what is legally required. Sometimes situations require more judgement and a gentler hand.”

“But—you just let him go back. For Christmas, after his arm.”

“I did not just let him go back. I tried to convince Potter to tell the headmaster—if anyone could remove Potter from their custody without a fuss, it would be him—and when he refused, I took measures to insure that I would be immediately informed of any harm.” Here Snape sent a glare to Harry. “That did not go as planned.”

“So—so what do we do?” Hermione said, seeming to accept the explanation.

“We do nothing.”

“What?” Hermione screeched.

“We do nothing, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter and I—“

“No,” Neville said staunchly. “Harry’s my best friend. I want to help.”

“Me too,” Hermione said.

“I—“ Harry said quietly.

“We shall discuss this at another time,” Snape said. “Mr. Potter will be getting a bit groggy from the balm. I advise you take him to the Gryffindor common room. Potter!”

“Yes, sir?” Harry said sleepily. The room had started to go fuzzy, and his head felt all muddled, but his back didn’t burn. At least there was that.

“Remember—tomorrow, after dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” He felt Neville help pull him to his feet and lead him out, but he turned back, his tired mind making his tounge loose.

“D’you still like me?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter. Now go to bed.”

“D’you—d’you really still like me?”

“Yes, Potter. Now, bed.”

Harry let himself be brought up to bed, then, and his dreams were filled with a smiling Snape and a Harry without bruises and their castle and their cat and their life.

It was almost worth it, Harry thought right before he drifted off.

Almost.