Somewhat to his relief, Snape returns from his office storeroom to find that Potter has picked himself up from the floor and seated himself on one of the benches beside the laboratory workstations. His elbows are propped up on his knees and his hands are cupped around the back of his neck, but his breathing is quiet, no puddle of tears gathering on the stone floor below him.

He looks up as Snape approaches and grimaces, a kind of apology in his expression.

"Sorry I carried on like that, Professor," he says, passing a hand over his eyes. "I haven't been sleeping well for awhile. When I'm tired, everything feels—different. Bigger, somehow."

Snape is intimately familiar with the phenomenon but he does not say so, turning his back on the boy to unpack the case of potions he has brought into the room with him. He lines the bottles up in a neat row on the table behind him, beside a clean folded flannel, and turns back to Potter with his wand in hand.

"Relax, Mr Potter," he says, as the boy stiffens as soon as he catches sight of the wand. "I do not intend to perform Legilimency on you. I propose a bargain instead."

"Bargain?" says the boy warily.

"I assume you did not visit the hospital wing when first you arrived at school for the same reason—whatever it might be—that you do not want the Headmaster apprised of your condition. Am I correct?" Potter nods and he continues. "Then I will mend your injuries myself as best I know how, on two conditions. The first being that if I find you are damaged beyond my competence to heal you, we will go to Madam Pomfrey straightaway and with no argument. The second being that if I am to keep this from the Headmaster, I will require you to answer my every question truthfully and completely. Is that understood?"

Potter shifts uncomfortably where he sits. "I appreciate it, sir, but you needn't bother, really. The bruises will go away—"

"Like they always do?" Snape interrupts, with a curl of his lip.

Potter blushes again, looking away.

"No arguments from you, Potter. Either you accept my terms, or I summon the Headmaster directly. I need hardly add that it is against my better judgment not to do so anyway—"

"All right!" says Potter hastily. "I mean, yes, sir. Thank you."

"Take off your shirt, then."

Potter freezes. "What?"

In reply, Snape reaches out, seizes Potter's sore shoulder, and gives it a firm wrench, which has Potter emitting a high-pitched whimper. "I shall need to see what I'm dealing with, if I'm to deal with it properly."

"Right," Potter says, sounding resigned, and sets about removing his jumper and tie. Snape turns back to the row of corked bottles when Potter begins to unbutton his shirt, already sufficiently uncomfortable with the forced intimacy of the situation to not wish to add to it by watching the boy undress.

He opens a vial of bruise salve and turns back around, only to nearly drop the bottle when he catches sight of Potter's torso. Potter catches his eyes, then looks away, abashed.

"Tell me, Potter," Snape breathes, when he is again able. "Your uncle. Did you rape his daughter?"

"What?" Potter says, looking stunned.

"Kill his dog? Steal his life-savings, burn his house to the ground, anything that would remotely justify this level of damage? I ask only as a curiosity, I assure you—Dumbledore would no doubt insist I save your neck no matter what atrocities you committed. I am merely interested whether there was any glimmer of a rational motive behind this."

To his surprise, the faint hint of a grim smile plays at the corners of Potter's mouth. "He thinks I tried to kill his son."

"Did you?"

"Dolores Umbridge was trying to kill me. Dudley got in the way."

"Hmmph," is Snape's only audible comment, though he is aware, distantly, that a soupcon of unexamined emotion, strongly flavored with outrage, is beginning to simmer in his gut. He shoves it to the back of his mind. "You have cracked ribs," he diagnoses. "Does it hurt when you breathe?"

"Every time I move," Potter admits, pressing a hand to his side and wincing.

Snape takes a seat on the bench opposite him and regards the brilliant explosions of purple and blue decorating the ribs of the boy in front of him.

"Talk," he says, "whilst I work. It will take your mind off the pain."

"Talk about—gyah! About what?" Potter winces as Snape puts a hand to his third rib and presses slightly.

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Snape snapped. "How you come to be in this condition, of course."

"Well," says Potter, appearing to consider the matter for a moment as Snape runs his wand over the affected area in a diagnostic pattern, "I reckon the worst of it comes from being hit by a car. That was day before yesterday."

Snape stills suddenly, his eyes darting up to meet the boy's. "A car."

"Yeah. Yes, sir. Oh, sorry, I forgot. Cars are like—well, like carriages, a bit, only they—"

"I know what a car is, Potter, I am a wizard, not a troglodyte. Were you on foot at the time or in another vehicle?"

"I was in my uncle's driveway," the boy admits with obvious reluctance. "He—it wasn't going very fast, I mean."

"You may as well abandon the pretense that your uncle will not feature in this conversation sooner or later," Snape says idly, completing the diagnostic scan and reaching for the pot of salve. "Unless you wish me to believe that your aunt is capable of summoning enough force—"

"She's capable of summoning a frying pan," Potter mutters darkly.

Snape scoops a quantity of the salve from the pot. "Hold your arm out straight," he says, and begins to smear the ointment over the most colorful areas. "Hit you with a frying pan, did she?"

"No," Potter admitted. "Not since I was—" He breaks off and looks away.

Snape works in silence for a few minutes, spreading the herbal paste in a thick layer across the blue and purple bruises, giving the boy and himself both a moment to consider what they next wish to say. There is a question Snape does not want to ask, but the longer he waits, the more certain he is that asking it is necessary.

"Last year," he says finally, "during our Occlumency lessons, I saw a number of your childhood memories."

Potter does not reply, but Snape can feel his muscles tense beneath his hands.

"I saw your cupboard, and...your cousin's treatment of you, rather a lot of enforced fasting, and sundry other incidents that can only be ascribed to outrageous neglect on the part of your aunt and uncle. But I never once saw them lay a hand on you. Not so much as a slap or a shove. How," he says, smearing the last of the ointment on and wiping his hands on a flannel, "do you account for that, Potter?"

The boy blinks. He appears to be deep in thought. "I'm not sure, honestly. I just.—I really didn't want you to see it, that's all. So I sort of—you know, shoved it all to the back of my mind."

Snape stares at him for a long moment; then, feeling suddenly overcome by infinite weariness, shut his eyes.

"Shoved it all to the back of your mind," he repeats, covering his face with his hands and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tell me, Potter. What—precisely—do you think Occlumency is, if not the art of hiding your thoughts where others cannot find them? I thought you lazy and undisciplined; I had no idea you were, in fact, brain damaged. You could have closed your mind to the Dark Lord if you had been half as motivated to do so as you were to keep your relatives safe from retribution!"

Potter looks up at him, startled, his eyes wide.

"I just never thought of it like that," he says quietly. "I just didn't want anyone to know about the bad parts."

Snape glares at him, disbelieving. "You didn't want me to see the bad parts."

Potter shrugs and nods.

"Potter, the parts you did allow me to see contained enough abuse to spoil and embitter ten childhoods."

The boy narrows his eyes, looking as though Snape has just presented him with a complex logic puzzle. His voice is quiet, tentative, and he drops his eyes again before speaking.

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't blame you being upset with me."

"I am not upset with you, Potter!" Snape says loudly, startled and incredulous.

Potter blinks at him. "You're yelling at me, sir."

"I—" Snape stops, considers, and feels his shoulders sag.

The boy makes a fair point. If he isn't upset with Potter, why does he feel this way—as though he could snap a strong man's neck with his bare hands, and would dearly like to try? Why does the thought of Potter, unable to defend himself from base, brutish Muggle violence make him tremble, as though in fury or loathing? What is Potter to him, but a tool? What does it matter if the boy spent his summer in pain and fear, so long as he lives long enough to defeat the Dark Lord?

What is it to you if Lily's son is in pain? whispered a sly voice at the back of his head. She was only your best friend, your one defender, loyal to you even after you sold her to your master. You got her killed—you're the reason Harry's looking at you like that—as though he doesn't think he deserves to be touched unless he's being struck.

"Why have you shielded your uncle from reprisal for his crimes?" asks Snape abruptly. "Do you imagine you deserve his treatment of you?"

Potter averts his eyes. "I don't think I deserve it exactly. I know my uncle is a little—irrational."

"But you clearly think the abuse you have endured is somehow acceptable," Snape interjects, summoning the bandages that wind themselves like a corset around Potter's torso. "It is not acceptable. It is outrageous, and Vernon Dursley deserves to be in prison at the very least. Do you not see that?"

Potter squirms uncomfortably. "He's put up with a lot over the years. He's scared of me, I think—of what me being in his house could bring on his family." His eyes darken. "And he's not wrong to be scared. The moment I turn seventeen the wards will fail, and after that—Voldemort might kill them all, just on the off chance it might upset me. That's a lot to risk for a freaky kid you don't even like. I'm sure he thinks he'd be better off if he'd never let me out of my cupboard." Potter's eyes grow distant. "He probably would."

Snape's hands tighten on the bandages. Potter gasps as he cinches them tight. "Do not defend him to me, Potter. It is highly distasteful."

"I'm not defending him!" Potter protests. "I just—I can't help seeing it from his perspective." He sits quietly for a moment. "You heard about the Dementors last summer, didn't you?

"I did," Snape replies, now turning his attention from the boy's ribs to his shoulder.

"Uncle Vernon wanted me out of the house then. And you really can't blame him for that, I did almost get his son worse than killed. But Dumbledore sent a Howler to remind my aunt about the blood wards, and she said I had to stay." The boy hisses in pain as Snape handles his shoulder, checking whether it is dislocated or merely strained. "I—I think," Potter continues, in a slightly choked voice, "that she and my uncle must have made a bargain or something while I was away last year. That she wouldn't interfere with anything he did to me, as long as he didn't kill me or kick me out. Not that she ever interfered much before, but it was never quite as bad when she was around..."

"So by your own admission, he has been hurting you for years, long before the incident involving your cousin last July?"

"Nothing bad, really," Potter says hastily. "Mostly he just let Dudley at me. He could always lock me in the cupboard without food if he got really angry. He hardly hit me at all until I went to Hogwarts."

Snape stops what he is doing to stare at the boy. "Potter, are you even listening to the words coming out of your mouth?"

Potter frowns. Snape stands, sighing, willing some of his frustration to dissipate. "Stand up. I need to fit you for a sling."

"I don't need a sling," Potter says quickly.

"You do if you intend to play Quidditch this year," Snape tells him in a voice of forced calm.

"I can't go about wearing a sling, people will think—"

"What will they think, Potter?" Snape seizes the edge of the counter and leans in to face him. "That you narrowly escaped death or permanent disability because your magic makes your uncle nervous? What is wrong with you, boy? This—farce of yours cannot continue!"

"Why not?" Potter shouts, leaping to his feet as well in a move Snape is sure must have caused him pain. But he doesn't flinch. "Listen, sir, I don't mean to be rude, because you've done a lot for me and I appreciate it, but I know you hate me. So I don't see how it can matter to you what happens to me, as long as I live long enough to kill Voldemort."

They stand there, glaring at each other, both breathing hard. The sound of his own thoughts issuing from his own mouth appalls him slightly, both because they are heartless and because he sees now, in a moment of shattering realization, that they are no longer true.

If they were ever true.

"You still haven't explained why the prospect of letting the Headmaster in on your little secret fills you with such horror," Snape says when he is once more in control of his voice.

"Yes I did—" Potter starts.

"Not in any language spoken by human beings, Potter," Snape cuts him off. "Tell me again, this time with less babble."

Potter stares at him, then speaks in a clipped voice, as though reciting a speech.

"My aunt's house the only place in the world Voldemort can't get to me. If I go anywhere else, he'll try to kill me, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way. My uncle may hit me sometimes, but Voldemort will do a lot worse, so between the two risks, I choose him."

"There's more to it than that," Snape insists. "You said that you think the Headmaster already knows—"

"I don't know that," Potter says shortly. "But you said yourself that it isn't easy keeping secrets from him. If he does know—and he let me stay there anyway—well." Potter draws a long, shuddering breath, and in a blink the defiance that had borne him to his feet is gone. He looks very young to Snape, suddenly. "I wouldn't blame him. Everyone looks up to him—he has to make hard decisions. But all the same, I don't want to know about it. It would—make things harder."

A moment later, his speech ended, he sinks down on the bench again, as though he no longer has the strength to hold himself up. Snape stands looking down on him, feeling oddly overwhelmed.

"I owe you an apology," he says brusquely after a few second have passed.

Potter looks up at him, eyes wide.

"You were—sincere, I believe, in apologizing earlier for your behavior last term. I did not believe you could possibly mean it. I know now I was mistaken."

Potter eyes him warily. "What made you change your mind, sir?"

"What you have told me here today—what I have seen—" Snape cuts himself off, his hand balling into a fist again. "No one as arrogant I have always thought you to be could possibly have endured all that you—" He stops again, finding his voice rough. "And you think you deserve it," he finishes in a whisper. "Don't argue with me, it's written all over your face. You've come up with explanations and reasons that sound very nearly logical, but all it means is that you don't think your uncle deserves anyone's anger. You don't think you deserve anyone's help."

The boy's face is an open book, and just now it tells the tale of a child on the ragged edge of hope.

Snape rubs a hand over his face, feeling that he himself is nearing the end of some invisible tether. He sits again abruptly, reaching for the bruise salve, and reaches out to dab the bruises on the boy's neck and face.

Potter, who had been gazing at the floor, glances up just as Snape lifts his hand. He flinches violently, raising an arm to shield himself and ducking his head.

A furious wave of heat seems to crash over Snape, but he controls it, remaining perfectly still with his hand poised in mid-air as Potter, blushing, unfolds himself and sits up straight again. Snape waits until he is sure that the boy has collected himself, then reaches out and begins to dab the salve over the bruises with the gentlest touch he can muster.

He works in silence for awhile before speaking again. "You are operating under a certain misapprehension that I wish to correct," he tells Potter, not meeting his eyes.

"What's that, sir?"

"Albus Dumbledore," says Snape, "loves you. Yes, Potter, I mean that. I would know, I've endured years of hagiography from him on the subject of his favorite boy. And even if he had no particular regard for you at all, he is at his fiercest and most formidable when it comes to the safety of his students. He would move heaven and earth to keep you from harm." Potter is very quiet, and Snape adds, "And you ought to let him."

The boy recoils at that, twitching away from Snape's hand. "I—Professor, no, I just told you—"

"You are not rational on the subject, Potter, or you would have seen by now that the dilemma you have created for yourself is a false one. You think that by subjecting yourself to the physical agony of your uncle's abuse, you spare yourself the emotional agony of seeing your friends come to harm. This is not the case. Other arrangements can be made. And they will be made, the moment we are done here."

"What—no!" Potter jumps to his feet again and begins to back away. "You can't—sir, please, what about our bargain?"

"I am cancelling it," Snape replies evenly, standing up but not advancing on the boy. "I understand your fears, but they are unfounded. You must trust my judgment on this."

"I'll deny it all," says Potter, sounding desperate. "I'll reapply the glamor."

"He will see through it in a moment," says Snape, trying his best to sound patient.

"No—Professor, please don't do this." To his horror, Snape sees that the boy's eyes are filling with tears. "I know you don't like me, but I'll do anything, I swear, I'll scrub out every cauldron you've got—"

"Potter." Snape feels suddenly very tired. "I would no more regard your wishes in this matter than I would believe a person under the Imperius curse insisting they wished to drink poison. I told you before: I have been entrusted with your safety, and whatever you may believe of me, it is a charge I take seriously."

"Sir–"

"Would you prefer I dealt with the matter myself?" Snape spits, suddenly unable to control himself. "You may at least rely on the Headmaster to subdue your uncle through civilized means. I, on the other hand, would consider myself bound by no such restrictions."

The boy stares at him, honest confusion troubling his eyes. "But why?"

"You wouldn't understand," Snape says, himself again. "Enough of this. Albus should be in his office at this hour, we will speak to him immediately."

"I won't go," says Potter at once, with a furious flare of his nostrils. "I'll fight you all the way down the corridor."

Rather to his own surprise, Snape finds himself, not sneering, but smiling in genuine amusement. "I have no doubt that you would."

And then, careful to keep a non-threatening distance between them, Snape strides past him to the fireplace, where he seizes a handful of floo powder and tosses it into the flames.

"Albus," he says, "I need you here."

Then he straightens, and turns back to the boy, who has sunk, white faced and trembling, to the bench again, where he sits with his head bowed.

And waits.