Hermione’s chest ached with sympathy for her poor sister. The older girl vividly recalled how betrayed and alone she’d felt the first time her father had taken out his rage on her.

“Cessy . . . Cessy? Just take deep breaths, ok? He’s gone now; you know he won’t be back until late tonight.”

The sobbing continued, punctuated with great gasping breaths and whinging. “How could he do that to me, Ne-Ne?”

A bevy of responses flooded Hermione’s mind. ‘Should I tell her it’s because he was drunk – like that’s an excuse? That he’s grieving and his way of coping is lashing out? That Cecily had incensed him by intimating mother’s death was his fault? That he hated her now, too, because she’s a witch?’

In the end, Hermione simply stated the obvious: “He does the same to me.” She waited, hoping for a favorable response. When one was not forthcoming, Hermione continued, “Cessy? Can you move? If I can get out of here, I can help you clean up.”

It was silent for a few moments, and just as the girl in the larder opened her mouth to call to her sister again, the chair was removed and the door swung open.

“It’s the magic, isn’t it? The letter, boarding school . . . He doesn’t want me to be like you.” Cecily declared this opinion with an unfamiliar sneer.

Hermione faltered as she looked at her sister’s back, the younger girl having turned away. She was dialing the phone.

“Hallo, Daddy? I’m so sorry, Daddy! I don’t want to leave you and I don’t want to go to that wretched school . . . No, I don’t want to be like her! . . . Oh, Daddy, I know you didn’t mean it.”

Cecily held out the phone. Hermione took it, gaping. She’d tried and tried to apologize to her father, to make up for her mother’s death, but he’d never relented with her. Maybe now he would? A smile nearly graced her lips as she held the receiver to her ear.

“I’m coming home. That kitchen best be clean when I get back or you’ll get more of the same. And pour me a Double Scotch Neet.”

The tone went dead as Hermione slouched to the floor, holding her shoulder. She felt as if a dementor was hovering, sucking energy from her solar plexus. Slowly, she crawled round the kitchen, picking up glass and wiping up blood.

She heard the entrance door slam. “Daddy!” Cecily squealed, and Hermione wondered if she’d get slapped. Instead she heard, “Sweetheart! I’m so sorry, Cessy. Are you all right, then?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Do you want some ice cream?”

“Sure, Daddy!”

Hermione shrank back as heavy footsteps approached. “Where the hell’s my Scotch?”

The crouching girl could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed, for a long moment. She was stunned, hurt, baffled – to say the least. In the last several minutes the part of Hermione that hoped her father still loved her had expired.

Her father shoved her out of the way with his foot, poured a tall Scotch, and set out the ice cream. Hermione remained covering in a corner while her sister and father shared a large bowl of Neapolitan with chocolate syrup. As the man kissed Cessy on the forehead and prepared to go at the pub, Hermione found her small voice, having reasoned out a plan.

“Sir?”

“What!” he exclaimed exasperatedly.

“May I please go to Hogwarts this year?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You think I want you here? To see your pitiful, ugly little face and rat’s nest of hair every day? Good riddance to yeh!” And with that, he was gone.

Cecily helped Hermione compress and bandage her shoulder and chest, clean the glass out of her feet, and put on clean clothes. This was all done with a tense silence settled on the girls.

When Hermione had been taken care of, Cecily looked up at her bewildered sister and, with a sigh, said, “I can’t lose both parents, now, can I? I mean, I’ve got to do what I can, don’t I?” Hermione just stared in the girl’s direction, looking bewildered. “Hermione, do you forgive me?”

And although Hermione scarcely understood Cecily’s motivations and felt a growing hostility toward her sister, she wasn’t keen on alienating the only relative who still seemed to care.

“Of course, Cessy. I forgive you. And I love you.”

“I love you too, Ne-Ne!” the girl cried, giving Hermione a light hug so as not to hurt her. “You know you can’t tell anyone, don’t you? They’ll take me away, and then . . . and then . . .”

“I won’t tell anyone, Cessy. As long as he doesn’t hurt you again, ok?”

“He won’t. I know he won’t. Thank you, Ne-Ne.”

The sisters said their good-nights. Hermione waited until she was certain her sister slept, then packed a bag with her school books, robes, and potions equipment.

She reached the road and, without looking back, stuck out her wand hand.

To the driver of the Knight Bus she said, “The Burrow; Arthur Weasley, please.” She dropped most of her remaining sickles into the till and braced herself for a long, painful ride.

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

Draco was measured for the finest robes, gifted with monogrammed gold quills, and outfitted with brand new accessories for all his wizarding studies. Every child that passed the Malfoy duo went green with envy, glaring at Draco and cursing his unparalleled good fortune.

As Lucius and Draco entered Flourish & Blotts, lanky raven hair clothed in the sleekest of black robes slid behind a tall bookcase to observe. As the hunched shopkeeper rounded up Draco’s fifth year spell books, Lucius waved a hand indicating Draco should carry them. The spy noted Draco took them carefully, grasping them with his hands in an awkward manner. Lucius turned and sneered at the child.

Abruptly, he snatched the volumes from his son’s hand and commanded, “Hold them properly, Draco!”

The boy glanced up at his father’s face, paled, and held out his arms – palms up. Lucius forcibly dropped the heavy stack into his son’s grasp. The spy noted Draco’s neck wavered very slightly as an irrepressible shiver flew up his spine.

Severus showed himself as the Malfoys prepared to pay. He knew Draco was hurting; he needed to come a bit closer to discern if an immediate visit was necessary.

“Severus,” the older of the two saw the professor first, “What a coincidence. Draco and I just finished purchasing new potions equipment, didn’t we, Draco?”

“Yes, sir.”

With brief eye contact Severus caught glimpse of a look he’d seen all too frequently. Draco’s eyes were vacant, as if his irises had been replaced by portent storm clouds.

“You should join us for dinner this evening, Severus. Say eightish?”

Draco shuddered and shook his head, trying to forbid his beloved professor from taking more damage on his behalf.

When the professor realized he’d been staring at the broken boy in front of him, his eyes snapped back to Lucius. “I’d be delighted.” With a curt nod it was settled.

“Come, Draco, you have studying to do,” drawled the senior Malfoy. Severus sighed, watched the two walk toward Knockturn Alley, then rushed back to his lab to replenish the vials he knew he would need, for himself and for Draco.

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

“Draco, you are to go to your room and study chapter one of each of your new texts. You will be tested after dinner.”

Draco scurried up the stairs. Very gratefully he dropped his heavy books from his deeply bruised arms. “I have four hours to read and memorize . . . roughly 200 pages of material,’ he thought with a grimace. The boy perched on the edge of his massive, antique desk chair, keeping hard wood away from his aching thighs. ‘At least I’ll have a potion or two before I’m beaten for giving wrong answers.’

He cracked open his History of Magic, year 5 book to read about the Medieval Sorcerer’s Uprising of the 14th century when panic gripped his throat. After dinner . . . Professor Snape . . . father wouldn’t – test- him in front of his professor, would he? ‘Surely not!’ Draco tried to convince himself, but quickly forced his concentration on studying.

A half past seven Draco rose and tried to get his stiff muscles to spring into action. He washed and dressed carefully, taking time to gently clean the dried blood from his legs and arms. Favoring his darkest green dress shirt and longest black robes in case the bleeding started up again, Draco regarded himself in the mirror.

“I will not scream. I will not cry. And if Professor Snape is made to watch, I will not look him in the eye.”

A sharp ‘pop’ and Fiora announced, “Master Malfoy demands Young Master’s presence in the dining room. Young Master is to bring his books with him, carried properly, sir.” With a hurried sympathetic look, the elf vanished with another bright ‘pop.’

The door chime rang and Narcissa shrilled, “Fiora! Greet our guest!” Draco kept his head down as he rushed from the staircase to the dining room. He stood, holding the tomes as they licked his tender arms, awaiting further instruction.

“Ah, Severus, always a pleasure,” Professor Snape was greeted. Being alone, Draco did not suppress a violent tremor this time. These ‘visits’ always began with that sickeningly suggestive phrase.

“Place the books on the receiving table, Draco. We don’t need them just yet.”

Narcissa took her seat; the men, in pecking order, followed. What seemed to Draco like an elaborate dance began. After a sumptuous meal during which the boy and the teacher at very little, the prima ballerina was icily excused with, “I know you’re tired, Narcissa. You may feel free to retire.”

Lucius led his two marionettes into the library, instructing Draco to bring his schoolbooks. The professor moved to assist Draco but was rejected with a rigid, terrorized shake of the head.

“Draco, I trust you’ve had sufficient time to study the required material.”

“Yes, father,” came the shaky, required response.

“Bring me the books, then stand in the middle of the rug.” Lucius summoned red wine for himself and Severus, explaining, “I thought it wise to give Draco a head-start on his work this year, considering his abysmal grades last term.”

Draco had received four Outstandings and two Exceeds Expectations.

“I’m sure you will be of use, Professor Snape.”

The pas de trios ended, and Draco’s solo began. The boy felt very much in the spotlight, very uncomfortable, and he was attempting to quell the rush of dread taking over his stomach.

“Let us see, hmmm . . . yes. Draco, give me the name of the most influential wizard in the coup of 15 June, 1324.”

‘He’s starting with History. Perhaps I have a chance!’ Draco hoped.

“Avril Mapes, sir,” he answered triumphantly.

“Hmmm . . . too easy a question I see.” Draco’s face fell. He knew he couldn’t win. Lucius continued, “Give me the date for the Battle at Vervigny.”

“1327, sir.”

“The date, you imbecilic scamp, not the year.”

Draco had to guess, “18 January, sir?”

“Wrong!” the word rang out from his father’s chest.

“Luc— Master Malfoy, this material is only tested at Hogwarts after a week of lecture and homeworks . . .” Severus protested.

“Expelliarmus!” was cast unexpectedly, as Severus’ wand flew to Lucius.

“Come here, Draco," the dark wizard commanded. When the boy stood in front of his father he was backhanded with digits full of exquisite rings. Draco hardly reacted; this was nothing in comparison. The professor, however, was incensed. He knew his student was beaten frequently, viciously, but he’d never seen it take place.

“Lucius, how dare you –” Severus was cut off as the Cruciatus was again thrust upon his figure.

This was something Draco had never seen. It was awful; worse than he ever could have imagined. His professor’s eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth was frozen in a silent scream, and every muscle was rigid and twitching.

“Father, please, stop!” Draco begged, and Lucius released the horrid spell.

“But I wasn’t finished yet, Draco. You’ve spoilt my experience,” the wretched wizard practically pouted. “You don’t like seeing your precious professor hurt?”

Draco looked at Professor Snape, lying curled up on the floor. As Severus came back into awareness he heard, “I have a good two minutes of Cruciatus itching to escape. You choose, son: you, or him.”

The boy felt empowered and terrified at once. When he was locked in his room, listening, he always wished he could take the pain on behalf of his solemn caretaker. On the other hand what he had just seen made him fear for his sanity. Could a child take this curse?

Severus was attempting to push a, “No!” from his parched throat when the boy answered, “Me. I’ll take it, sir.”

Lucius was surprised, a bit impressed, actually, though he’d never admit it to his son. “Very well, foolish child. Crucio!”

Draco immediately cried out, great, gasping, nearly ethereal screams were thrown from the pit of his soul. Thoroughly exhausted from the torture curse, Severus cursed himself that he did not have the strength to move.

When Lucius concluded the unforgivable, he set a strong ‘Enervate’ on the two. “Take your place, Draco, and we’ll continue with your test. Unless you’d rather continue with the Cruciatus?”

Draco scrambled back to the center of the carpet as quick as his shattered body allowed. He glanced at Snape, but had to do a double take; the man had tears coursing down his cheeks. Draco felt guilty; he figured his professor must still be in an amazing amount of pain from the curse to actually cry.

“I think we’ve had enough history for now. Let us move on to Potions. Oh, look, your professor’s aching to quiz you,” Malfoy taunted at Snape. “Severus, would you be so kind?”

Professor Snape cleared his throat as he waved away the offered book.

“I assure you, Master Malfoy, I am very well acquainted with the text.” This was said as acidly as any words he’d ever uttered. He focused on his student, trying to strengthen the boy’s spirit with a connection through the eyes. But Draco would not meet his gaze.

‘He’s going to make Professor Snape beat me,’ Draco realized.

“Draco, why would it be detrimental to add too many doxy eggs to a concoction with lacewings?”

“Lacewings must bind around each egg to form a compound. Additional doxy eggs would prove toxic, sir.”

“Very good, Draco,” Severus said, giving a rare bit of praise.

“Very easy, Severus. Do better next question, or the boy will pay for your insolence,” insisted Lucius.

“Explain the importance of moondew in draught of sorrow’s past.”

Quietly, “I don’t know, sir,” came from Draco’s direction, as Lucius Accioed a thick, crooked cane to rest on Snape’s lap.

“Go over to your professor, remove your robes, and bend over,” Lucius directed his son.

Severus stood, the hated instrument clattering to the floor. He’d been caned innumerable times as a child and could never bring himself to even touch the thing. “I will not, Lucius!”

“Watch yourself, Severus. You will do as I say; a caning will not kill Draco, but disobedience will kill you.”

Draco said in a small voice, “Please, Professor Snape, sir, punish me so I may learn competence in my studies.”

“Or perhaps you’d rather watch the boy under the Cruciatus again, Severus?” Lucius drawled.

That sealed the deal. Severus steeled himself and picked up the miserable cane, hitting Draco solidly, but not hard enough to really hurt.

“Harder,” came the execrable demand. Severus complied, striking a bit harder. “I’m getting impatient, Snape! Hit his as hard as you can, or I’ll do it myself!”

Draco gave a hushed whimper, signaling Severus that his father taking over the punishment was the last thing he wanted. The teacher grit his teeth, knowing his student was moments from a hideous beating by his father if he couldn’t muster the strength the do this. After three full-force lashes, Lucius relented.

The professor’s eyes stayed trained on Draco as ‘Master Malfoy’ insisted question after question be asked. Severus couldn’t believe how emotionless his student could make himself. The boy barely blinked or sighed as he was beaten thoroughly by the potions master.

Lucius deemed it was time to move through the other subjects, and gave Severus the choice of who should ‘punish Draco,’ as he put it. Severus did not hesitate to keep control of the cane; at least if he continued to wield it, Draco wouldn’t be beaten senseless. The elder Malfoy, ever intent on upping the ante, had further directions for his pitiable son.

“Remove your clothes, Draco. All of your clothes.” When Draco hesitated, his father bellowed, “Come here!”

Draco, masking the pain and moving proudly as required at all times, approached his father and braced himself to be backhanded again. His face now bleeding copiously, the boy was bid to do as he was told. Draco blushed furiously from cheek to ears, then forced a glazed, unfocused look into his eyes to distance himself from the deep humiliation. Standing in the spotlight, he gave one wrong answer after another then, unable to concentrate in the slightest.

Lucius succumbed to rage, even though his son’s blood now glittered up and down the cane from the thrashing.

“This has been an enjoyable evening, Severus, but it’s getting late.”

Lucius herded the aghast man out the door.

Thrusting the professor’s wand back into his hand, he growled, “I will summon you when you are welcome to return.”

As the manor door was slammed in his face, wards up and impenetrable, the professor fell to his knees, wretched, and wept. He hadn’t been able to heal Draco this time; instead, he caused his haggard pupil more pain. He forced himself to leave when Draco’s screams could plainly be heard from within, vowing to find a way for the boy to leave this house

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

The listless, shivering form of a battered boy stirred, and found itself ensconced in brittle darkness. He moved to find a light, unsure of just where he was or what had happened. A searing pain tore through his wand arm as he attempted to reach out. It all came roaring back to him: the dishes, the kitchen table, and his cupboard. He vomited, spilling acid weakly from his mouth. His shirt was stuck to his chest and back with dry blood making his skin crawl with discomfort. He carefully removed it to alleviate the itchy, burning sensation. He reached up with his unbroken arm and turned on the light, gasping in horror at his torso. It looked like he’d been on the receiving end of a stampede.

Harry attempted to find a more comfortable position, but since his entire body was incomprehensibly bruised and lacerated and he was lying on a frigid cement floor, he gave up and cleared his mind instead. ‘Float away, hover above, deny the pain,’ he repeated inside his mind until he had an empty feeling behind his eyes and all his pains had faded into an intense, throbbing ache.

Harry wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he heard someone stir upstairs. Hastily he turned out the light, noting it was still black as pitch outside.

‘Stay upstairs, go back to sleep,’ he wished upon the overhead, unknown creature. Well, not completely unknown. The steps were much too heavy to come from bony Aunt Petunia. ‘It must be Dudley, or—' And as the words ‘Uncle Vernon’ ran through his mind, his heart rate soared and he painfully wrapped himself, good arm hugging his knees tightly to his chest.

Harry began to whimper and react to phantom blows as visions of the afternoon raced, like a film, over the insides of his eyelids. This halted when thuds came thundering down the stairs. The boy scrambled backward, pressing his seething back into a corner, emitting a high pitched squealing sound not unlike that of a horrified toddler.

The footsteps stopped outside his cupboard door. Harry froze; he didn’t breathe, whimper, or even twitch. The latch loosened, and the door seemed to move in slow motion.

As moonlight began to pour in, Harry’s cousin blabbered, “Boo! Hey, Potter! Nice and cozy?” Dudley gave Harry a playful kick, but when the curled-up boy’s only response was to draw a breath with a hiss and utter a low moan, Dudley switched on the light.

Harry heard a gasp as Dudley stumbled backward. “H-Harry? What in bloody hell happened?” When Harry’s only response was to look at Dudley, then cast his eyes upward as if to say, “It was him,” Dudley disappeared. Harry heard him rustling about in the downstairs loo. He allowed himself to relax a fraction, thoroughly relieved his stupid, gargantuan cousin was the one who’d loosened the gate to his parcel board dungeon.

Dudley returned, carrying a handful of aspirin and a large cup of water. “H-Here H-Harry, it’ll make you feel better.”

Harry eyed the pills, took three, and swallowed them with huge gulps of water. “Thanks.”

“You should keep the rest down here, in case you need it,” Dudley said shakily. “Can I get you anything? A blanket or a pillow, perhaps?”

“No, if Unc—” he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “If your father saw, I’d be in even more trouble.” Harry tried to shift his position and find a place to hide the pills.

Dudley realized his skinny cousin’s arm was fractured as it fell at a strange angle. “Oh, Harry, you’re really hurt! Do you need to go to hospital? I could get mum, she might help you . . .”

“No!” Harry said, louder and more forcefully than he’d intended. You’ve done more than enough, really. You should go back to bed now; I don’t want . . . anyone to wake up.”

Dudley motioned ‘one minute’ with a raised pointer finger, and stealthily returned with a large brace. “Remember when I hurt my arm at rugby? This really helped.” Dudley awkwardly helped Harry get it on and adjusted. “And Harry? I’m really, really sorry,” he said quietly as he backed out of the cramped space.

“Thanks, Dudley,” Harry said sincerely, an amazed look on his face.

Dudley sighed and began to close the cupboard door.

As an afterthought, he queried, “What did you do?”

The overgrown boy was left thoroughly puzzled when Harry emitted a low, hollow chuckle and drawled, “What did I do, Dudley? I lived.”

A raven haired boy was overcome with hysteria as the dungeon door at No. 4, Privet Drive was latched firmly shut.