Dumbledore steps out of the fire a moment later, a look of cheerful inquiry on his face. It is rare for Snape to summon the Headmaster to the dungeons, normally preferring the greater privacy of Dumbledore's highly warded office for their conversations. But he is not so eager to force his will on Potter as to subject either of them to the scene that would arise if he were forced to stun the boy and levitate him through the halls.

"Good morning, Severus," says Dumbledore, brushing ash from his resplendent purple robes. "To what do I owe the nearly unprecedented honor of this invitation?"

Snape lifts a hand and indicates the bench near the back of the classroom where Potter sits, still shirtless, though he has turned so that his injured side is facing away from them. Dumbledore's gaze follows his gesture. He lifts his head when he catches sight of the boy—a rare expression of surprise, coming from the most inscrutable man of his acquaintance—and shoots a quick look back at Snape, who merely arches an eyebrow in reply.

Dumbledore turns toward the boy, taking a step forward. "Harry?" he says quietly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Professor," says the boy in a flat voice.

"I am sorry to contradict you, but I have been here less than a minute and I can already see that is not the case."

Potter shrugs, but otherwise does not move.

"Potter," Snape calls, "if you cannot bring yourself to be forthcoming with the Headmaster, I have no objection to explaining the matter myself."

Potter tenses—then turns his head, just long enough to glare at him. From where Snape is standing, he can just see the edges of the massive bruising on his face; Dumbledore, however, is in a position to see more clearly.

And even if Snape hadn't known that, he would still have been able to tell the moment when Dumbledore caught sight of the boy's injuries by the way his back straightens, how the expression of mild concern on his features hardens for a brief instant into something harsh and furious.

Four long strides bring Dumbledore sweeping across the classroom floor to where Potter sits, hunched miserably in on himself.

Snape watches from behind his desk as Dumbledore stands over the boy for almost a minute of complete silence, studying him with a look of absolute concentration that soon has Potter squirming. Then Dumbledore sinks down on the bench Snape has recently vacated and rests his hands on his knees, still gazing at the boy.

When he speaks, it is in a calm, slightly weary voice that belies the rigid tension of his back and shoulders.

"Harry," he says. "Look at me, please."

Potter winces slightly. The words recall to Snape the way their own conversation had begun an hour ago—with him throwing the boy against the wall, demanding the same thing of him in a snarl. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

"Please," Dumbledore says again, and Snape reflects that, whatever his own failures, there is at least no way the boy can mistake that plea as a threat.

Potter does not lift his head, but he does look up at the Headmaster through the fringe of his dark hair, and this seems to satisfy the man.

It occurs to Snape that the greater part of courtesy would probably be to absent himself from this conversation, to go and wait in his office until Dumbledore calls for him. But he does not stir.

Earlier, Potter raised a question that Snape suddenly realizes he very much wants to know the answer to, though he is not certain what he will do with the answer when he has it.

And Dumbledore seems not to mind his presence. He is, in fact, so intent upon Potter at the moment that Snape would suspect he has entirely forgotten that there is a third person in the room, if it weren't for the fact that Dumbledore would never forget any such thing.

He watches as Dumbledore reaches across the space between the benches to catch one of Potter's restless, fidgeting hands in his own, squeezing it tightly for a moment, then releasing it. Both the boy's hands still after that, resting motionless on his knees in an apparently unconscious mirror of Dumbledore's own position.

They sit so long in silence that Snape actually begins to worry that the Headmaster is too overcome to speak. But then he sighs, and a fraught moment seems to pass; when he speaks again, his voice is steady—too tender to be called businesslike, but, all the same, slightly brisker than before.

"Well, Harry," he says. "I begin to wonder if, every time we meet from now on, I shall have to begin our conversation by apologizing to you for some disastrous error of mine."

Potter lifts his head by a fraction of an inch. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Arthur Weasley suggested at the beginning of last summer that members of the Order should make the occasional unannounced visit to your relatives' home during the summer, to ensure your safety and well-being. I dissuaded him from this idea, believing that if your aunt and uncle were obliged to endure a steady stream of visitors from the wizarding world, life at their house would be even more uncomfortable for you than it has been in the past. So the guard over you was limited to the same peripheral patrols as last summer, and we contented ourselves that if you were in any difficult, you would notify us by owl post, or lack of it."

There is nothing accusing in the brief silence that follows, but the boy sounds almost guilty when next he speaks.

"They made sure I wrote every three days, just like Lupin and Moody told me. I had to show them I was sending the letter out with Hedwig. They always read it first."

Dumbledore shuts his eyes briefly, then opens them again. "I must confess that scenario did not cross my mind. Or rather, not in a way that encouraged me to entertain it as a serious possibility."

A long silence follows. Then Potter blurts out, "So you—you didn't know, sir?"

Dumbledore gazes at him thoughtfully. "I knew, of course, that your relatives have always been ungracious towards you and resentful of your presence. Likewise, I knew that your uncle was furious after the Dementors attacked you and your cousin last summer. But while I suspected he would do everything in his power to make you miserable, I did not believe he would dare to harm you." He gives a small, rueful smile. "To be frank, I thought his own sense of self-preservation would prevent him giving into any temptation of the kind."

"He wouldn't really think about that," says Potter. "I don't think the magical world is really real to him, most of the time. It's usually just me and my...freakiness."

"Actually," says Dumbledore, "I was not alluding to consequences from the wizarding world at large. I was referring to the fact that under-age wizards are permitted to do magic out of school in order to defend themselves. I—assumed, perhaps wrongly, that you would remember this if your uncle ever became dangerous, and protect yourself."

"I was defending myself last summer and I nearly got expelled," says Potter, sounding bitter. "I never know which side of me the Ministry's likely to be on, so I didn't think I'd better risk it for anything that wasn't a matter of life and death."

Dumbledore nods soberly.

"Would you mind," he says, after a moment, "describing to me how, precisely, you came by your injuries?"

Potter hesitates. "Which ones, sir?"

Snape, strangely attuned to nuances in the boy's speech now that he is attempting to listen with Dumbledore's ears, winces at this, knowing how much it will convey to the Headmaster.

But Dumbledore's expression remains one of quiet concern, betraying no hint of fluctuating emotion. "The, ah, greatest portion. I can hardly imagine he merely struck you, to cause so much damage."

"A couple of days ago he sort of—um." Potter flushes brilliantly. The bruise salve is already beginning to do its work, leaving more unblemished skin to display the reddening. "Bumped into me with his car. It might have been an accident, I don't know. I was cleaning out the garage when he pulled in, and—well. I think maybe he thought it would be funny."

"Funny," Dumbledore repeats. If Snape were not studying his face as intently as he is, he might easily have missed the way Dumbledore's nostrils flare ever so slightly. "I see. And the rest of it?"

Potter has half turned away to gaze out a window. "It was all just normal stuff. How he always is, just a little—more. He'd—shove me a little harder than usual, or use the back of his hand instead of—" The boy's mouth twists; he shakes his head once and grows quiet.

"That," says Dumbledore, sounding weary, "would seem to answer my next question, which was to inquire whether anything of this nature had occurred prior to this past summer."

Something in the way Potter hesitates, then draws himself up, suggests to Snape that the next words out of his mouth are likely to be some kind of reassuring lie. He cuts the boy off before he can open his mouth.

"Mislead the Headmaster," Snape says in a warning voice, "and I will present him with a pensieve record of our conversation to supply the deficiencies of yours."

"I wasn't misleading him, sir," Potter retorts. "Anyway, I don't think there's much left to figure out, is there?" He looks back at Dumbledore. "It was never—quite like this, before."

"Not so bad, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"But he has hurt you before."

Potter shrugs. "I guess. I mean, yes, a bit, sir. Nothing I couldn't handle, though."

"I see." Dumbledore adjusts his spectacles. "I assume that your uncle was punishing you, at least in part, for the danger he felt you exposed his son to last summer."

"He was really angry about that, yeah. But I think it was a lot of stuff, really."

"No doubt," said Dumbledore, in a quiet voice.

"Sir," Potter says, "how did you know it was my uncle? I know you said—but, I mean, did you—"

Snape finds himself speaking up almost before he knows what he is going to say. He can see the thought running through the boy's mind, the suspicion that will become a conviction if it is not arrested.

"Potter, I figured it out the moment I laid eyes on you," he drawls in most derisive voice. "It wasn't exactly a feat of deductive brilliance."

Dumbledore neither looks at nor interrupts him, merely lifts a hand that silences him instantly.

"I have always known that your uncle possessed the capacity for violence—being an ill-tempered, physically imposing man, with a special prejudice against you, it would have been absurd to suppose otherwise. But I give you my word, I had no inkling that he had, or would, ever dare to act on his worst impulses with regards to you. Clearly I underestimated what his fear and anger would lead him to do, and for that, I am—more sorry than I can say."

Potter speaks in a rush, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "I just wondered if you figured it was worth it, so long as I stayed safe from Voldemort."

"Oh, Harry." Dumbledore raises a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. Snape wonders if it unnerves the boy as much as it does him to see Dumbledore so clearly out of sorts. "No. Never that. Though I suppose I cannot blame you for thinking it." He lowers his hand again and turns all the force of his steady gaze on Potter. "As much as it pained and disturbed me to know that you were unhappy and neglected in your aunt and uncle's care, I did allow you to endure it because I believed that to make any alternative arrangements would put your life at risk. But I would never have allowed them to lay a hand on you, not for any consideration. And if you truly believed I would, then I have failed you more profoundly than I ever thought possible."

A tightly wound coil of tension inside his chest seems to relax as Snape listens to Dumbledore speak. Not that he is surprised—it is no more than he suspected. But the assurance is strangely good to hear, nonetheless.

"I didn't really think that, Professor," Potter says earnestly, and to Snape's surprise he realizes that the boy is upset—not for himself, but for Dumbledore. "Honestly. It crossed my mind, but I was just being stupid."

"Then may I ask," says Dumbledore, "why you never told anyone before now? I believe I can guess why, but I would rather hear it from you."

"Well." Potter looks uncomfortable. "It was just never that bad before. I wasn't about to crack up over a knock or two. But I knew you wouldn't like it, and I didn't want—please, sir," he says, leaning forward, "you aren't going to take me away from them, are you?"

Snape cannot resist a derisive snort at that, but neither Potter nor Dumbledore looks at him.

"Because I don't want to go to the Burrow," the boy continues, "or anywhere else that might make Voldemort come after my friends. It's just one more summer, and I promise, if he ever does anything like that again, I'll—I'll jinx him or something."

To Snape's consternation, Dumbledore does not deny the boy immediately. He sits, looking thoughtful, before speaking.

"Certainly, times being what they are, it is advisable to take advantage of every possible protective resource at our disposal—"

"Albus, you cannot be serious!" Snape says, before he quite realizes what he is doing. "They might have killed him! He cannot possibly—"

"Severus." Dumbledore turns to look at him for the first time since crossing the room to sit with the boy, and there is a look of mild understanding on his face. "Hear me out, please." He turns back to Potter. "While I do believe it would be a good idea to make use of the wards at your relatives' house for as long as possible, I cannot permit you to carry on there precisely as you have done in the past. For one thing, I do not really believe that, should your uncle attack you again, you would defend yourself with all necessary force. That is no negative reflection on your character, Harry, merely an acknowledgment that you have lived with ill treatment for so long it may not be in your power to distinguish between tolerable rudeness and unacceptable brutality."

Potter flushes, but, Snape notices, does not bother to deny this. "What should I do then, sir?"

"For the moment, I believe you should go to the hospital wing. While I see that Severus has tended your injuries admirably, there may still be more Madam Pomfrey can do for you. And I promise you," he raises a hand to forestall the protests the boy is clearly about to make, "the details of this conversation, and your visit there, will be treated as confidential. I hope you will want to confide in your friends, but I will not force you to do so before you are ready. In the mean time, please leave the matter of your living arrangements for next summer to me. I promise to keep you fully informed of my progress."

Dumbledore stands then, and, perhaps more out of habit than willingness to comply with directions, Potter stands with him.

"You can take the floo to the hospital wing, Potter," Snape tells him curtly. "The powder is on the mantle."

Potter glances at him, and Snape finds himself taken aback by the gratitude he sees there. He averts his gaze back to the Headmaster, who is looking attentively at Potter, as though waiting for him to say something else.

"Professor," says Potter. "Were you going to—is my uncle going to—to get into trouble over this?"

"I frankly fail to see why you should care," Snape cannot resist telling him, the acid in his voice not entirely directed at the boy.

Potter shoots him a look over his shoulder. "You would. Sir."

"I do intend to have a conversation with your aunt and uncle, Harry," says Dumbledore, a new, graver note in his voice. "I trust you understand the necessity of that."

Potter does not reply. The look on his face seems to say that he doesn't understand it, but can guess what they will say if he admits this.

"I do not intend to do them any permanent damage," Dumbledore says, his voice light, but no one is fooled.

"It's just..." Potter drags a hand back through the untidy mop of his hair. "Any time anyone's ever done magic around them, they've come off the worse for it. Like with Dudley's tail and the Ton-Tongue Toffee, and blowing up Aunt Marge. I just don't think it's—going to help anything, if they feel like they have any more reasons to be afraid of me when I go back."

"Potter, they do not deserve, nor does the Headmaster require, any intervention from you."

"It's all right, Severus." Dumbledore puts a hand on Potter's uninjured shoulder—carefully, slowly, Snape notices, and the boy does not flinch this time. "I only mean to speak to them, Harry. I promise you."

Potter nods. "I, uh. Guess I'll go on to the hospital wing then."

"Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Don't forget these." Dumbledore points his wand at Potter's discarded shirt, jumper, and tie. They fold themselves into a neat bundle, and float into Potter's outstretched hand. "I will be along to see how you are in a little while."

He walks with Potter up to the fireplace, and takes down the box of floo powder, holding it out long enough for the boy to gather a handful.

"Thank you," he says, again touching Potter's shoulder, "for talking frankly to me, Harry. I understand how difficult it was."

Potter swallows tightly, then nods. A moment later he disappears in a burst of green flame.

Snape and Dumbledore stand together in silence for a moment after the boy has gone, Dumbledore lost in thought, Snape watching him for some clue what he means to do next.

"Thank you, Severus," he says at last, startling him. "For looking after him."

Snape doesn't bother to sneer since Dumbledore isn't looking at him. "The boy needs a bloody keeper."

Dumbledore darts a keen glance at him. There is something behind it that Snape finds disturbing, but it is gone in the next instant.

"I wonder," Dumbledore continues, musingly, "if you would care to accompany me on a call to Surrey?"

Snape looks over at him, startled.

Then smiles.

"Certainly," he says.