As Hermione woke from an hour of light dozing she felt her temple explode with pain. 'Oh, why did I sleep?' she chastised herself, 'I know it only makes the pain worse.' She listened carefully for a few moments and, hearing only muffled snoring, she slunk downstairs and beheld what was becoming an all-too-familiar scene. Shattered dishes and debris littered the floor and furniture. The blue and cream striped couch, now graced with permanent toffee-colored alcohol stains, cradled her father. As usual, he was covered with the regurgitated breakfast he had demanded his child prepare in the middle of the night.

Starting with the glass and garbage strew about, Hermione willed her father not to wake up. She worked quickly and silently, repeating her newfound mantra, 'I'll be back at Hogwarts soon.' Having sicked up herself the first time cleaning up vomit she forced herself to ignore the urge this time; her legs were still bruised from that mistake.

"Nee-nee," a small, sleepy voice whispered from behind the banister, "You okay?"

Immediately shushing her eleven year-old sister, Hermione admonished, "Go back upstairs. Stay out of sight!"

"Ok, Nee-nee," came the soft reply, "I love you." And Hermione wearily started making lunch.

........................................................

Draco fetched blankets, towels, and water, and desperately tried to ease Severus' suffering. It scared Draco to see him shaking and twitching. This had been the second time father used the Cruciatus on his professor, and Draco was painfully certain it would not be the last.

The boy washed his teacher's face tenderly and righted his robes. He bundled the trembling man in a warm blanket and murmured comforting words and apologies all the while.

'You're such a horrible, spoilt brat!' Draco heard screaming in his skull. 'If it weren't for you messing up all the time and getting punished, Professor Snape would not have to endure this agony! It's your fault this happens!'

Draco thought back to when Severus had first noticed something was dreadfully wrong that past winter, and snapshots of the holiday flittered through his consciousness. A hand to his throat, lifting his slender frame off the floor, gagging, choking for breath.

"How dare you disobey me, Draco!"

When his father used his wand hand to cast Lacertus morsum, a nasty curse that made the recipient's muscles tighten and spasm all at once, the boy had fallen onto the stone tiles with a sickening thud. As Lucius used his feet to kick and the snake's head tip of his cane to slam into Draco, his son had begun to wail and cry. At this, his father became stronger and more forceful. As the tow-headed teenager drifted into unconsciousness he felt hot breath lick his face as it said,

"Your cry-baby stint has earned you a meeting with me every day of your holiday. Except Yule."

Draco remembered feeling relieved and surprised at those last two words until Lucius hissed, "On Yule I will grant you two."

Draco was snapped out of his reverie when a slightly strengthened Severus whispered, "Come, let me heal you, my child."

As Draco slid over, the gentle question came, "What did he do to you this time?"

The fair-haired boy cringed inside and out, then heard, 'Why does he care?' asked incredulously in his head.

Severus began the difficult task of extracting information from his battered student. He was inclined to order the boy to strip down to knickers; he no doubt had marks over most of his body again. Severus squelched his impatient streak for the moment and listened as Draco stuttered and mumbled through an explanation.

It bothered Severus that with each explanation, Draco began, "I . . ." The boy always described what he had done to deserve the punishment - in Lucius' eyes. It was usually something very minor, such as being late to breakfast or spilling pumpkin juice; not that even severe misbehavior would warrant this type of treatment.

Severus noted that Draco was comparatively better this week than he'd been just after school ended; Young Master Malfoy only had one broken bone, and the bruises and welts were confined to his back and feet.

Draco almost smiled as he said, "Father only punished me twice this week!"

Severus fished out the pertinent potions to heal Draco's wounds as he whispered, "I've been trying to think of a way to get you out of here, Draco, but I can't think of any that wouldn't . . . take me away from you."

The young Malfoy know what would happen if his professor took action against his father: an informed Lord Voldemort would kill him - that is, if Lucius didn't kill Severus first. It wasn't as if Wizarding authorities would reprimand Lucius anyway, he was too . . . influential. Lucius had simply taken this opportunity to retain yet another marionette to abuse.

"Professor!" Draco said incredulously, looking into his professor's eyes, "You've done so much already! Every time you come here to heal me you get tortured and I can't thank you enough . . . I -" As Draco's timid voice trailed off he straightened his back and averted his eyes. "I don't want you to come again, professor. I'll be fine sir, and I'll see you at Hogwarts in September."

How Draco. Severus only sighed and, without another word, pulled the boy into his arms, sending strength and stabilizing energy through the embrace.

Fiora popped in and said, with a bow, "Lunch is served, Master Malfoy, sir." Severus promised he'd be back and apparated away, leaving Draco very much alone.

.......................................................

As Harry trudged exhaustedly down the stairs at five in the morning to water the flowers, weed the garden, dust and sweep the downstairs rooms, he was startled into alertness. Not only was his lazy Uncle Vernon awake, he was sitting at the dining table - waiting for Harry. He had a grisly grin on his face and as he took in Harry's wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression he began to chuckle evilly. His left hand, resembling an over-ripe tomato with five fleshy roots growing out, moved to pat something that had been blending in with the woodwork of the table: his thickest leather belt.

Harry's chest tightened as the words, "W- What did I do, sir?" escaped his lips.

Uncle Vernon lumbered over to his nephew and spat, "What did you do, boy? What did you do? You lived!"

As Vernon left he tossed over his shoulder; "You won't have meal privileges today, and don't even try stealing anything. I'll be watching you." At the edge of the stair he boomed, "Now get to work!"

He had taken the belt with him, and Harry hoped the little act had just been a ploy to scare him. 'Yeah, that's what it's got to be, right? I only get beat with the belt when I've done something destructive with my magic.'

He set to work on his tasks, and by the time he started breakfast he was desperately hungry. All he'd gotten to eat the previous day were bread crusts at breakfast, before the madness had started. However his uncle had already looked about for him twice, both times catching Harry's eye and grinning. Harry noticed the man had dressed, with his favorite leather belt cinching his disgusting belly fat.

So Harry served the Dursleys and waited to clear the table, forcing his mouth to stop watering and his stomach to stop gurgling.

At the end of the meal, Vernon piped up, "Petunia, Dudley, I have a surprise for you." He produced a one hundred pound note and a pair of tickets to the circus. "I am treating you to a Mummy/Dudders day out to eat sweets and buy treats! Get dressed, and you aren't to come back 'til every penny is spent!"

Dudley raced up the steps, shaking the china, and Petunia planted a sloppy kiss on her husband's bloated lips before hurrying after her son.

Vernon grinned, "And we're having a special day together too, boy. Clear the table!"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," came the standard reply.

As his uncle ran the soapy dishwater in the sink, Harry thought for a moment he'd gone mad. 'Uncle Vernon's helping me with my chores? Maybe he is capable of understanding what I went through yesterday,' Harry thought.

Then Harry noticed the water from the tap was steaming. Reading his mind, the elder Dursley spewed, "The water has to be hot to kill all the germs, Potty. You wouldn't want Dudders to get sick, would you?"

Harry tried to was the dishes gingerly, but his burly uncle was standing right behind him griping in his ear, "Scrub, Potty. Really scrub!" Only it sounded to Harry like, "Ssskerrubb," like Vernon was chewing the word up and spitting it out. Harry forced himself to plunge his fiery hands into the boiling-hot water over and over, willing himself not to cry out or even flinch.

Vernon was not satisfied with this lack of reaction, apparently. As soon as his wife and son shouted thank-yous and good-byes, Vernon ran more scalding water into the sink, snatched Harry's arms just below the elbows, and sank his forearms into the biting fluid. As Harry struggled and eventually let pained gasps out of his mouth, Vernon relaxed and let go his grip.

"Stick out those dirty hands, boy!" was yelled as Vernon took off his belt.

"These are the hands that steal from my family!" And he viciously whipped the battered palms ten times rapidly in succession.

"These are the hands that do magic - you've even managed to get yourself in trouble with your people, you stupid, worthless piece of rubbage!" Ten more.

Harry was told to turn his hands over and his uncle continued berating him and beating his knuckles whilst the boy-who-lived's eyes rolled around dazedly in his eye sockets. Harry heard each resounding smack; with each his mind flashed a snippet of another beating. His first real thrashing at the age of four when he'd been upset because he had no Christmas presents. The tree had mysteriously caught fire. And another - when Harry had burst all of Dudley's balloons at the part with one frustrated glare. And another - when Harry had let the snake out at the zoo and Dudley had been trapped in its habitat.

Harry came back to the present, screaming as he was knocked into the wall with a vicious belt slap across his left cheek. "Are you even listening to me boy?"

More thrashes came to Harry's side and arms. "Yes, sir!"

"Go put some garden gloves on and trim the bloody hedges. And not one sound, Potty boy, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

Vernon proceeded to drag a lawn chair out front and sip pims as Harry struggled painfully with the clippers. When Harry finished the hedges with a sigh of relief, Vernon directed sweetly, "The edging, too, Harry dear." After another sweaty hour, Harry was allowed to go back in the house - to make lunch for one, of course.