Potter was not unconscious, although Snape very much doubted that he was coherent enough to understand where he was, or what had actually happened to him. Anyway – judging from the low whimpers he was emitting – the professor thought it would actually be better for Potter to be totally out of it.

‘Poppy, where the hell are you?’

The matron should have arrived long ago. Snape hoped that she had not left Hogwarts for some errand in Hogsmeade.

The Potions Master had some knowledge of the healing arts himself, of course, one simply could not become a master in the art of brewing without an at least basic knowledge of healing. And Snape’s knowledge, in part because of personal curiosity and even more because of his position, certainly was more than basic; still he could see that Potter’s state was too grave for him too risk anything without Pomfrey.

Potter was now sprawled on the floor, with Snape holding his head and back securely, to prevent him from trashing as well as to protect him from the cold seeping from the stone floor.

With the boy safely ensconced in his arms, Snape could finally try and assess Potter’s condition.

He was so pale that Snape could see the veins under his translucent skin, he had deep, dark circles around the eyes, as if he had not been sleeping for weeks, and was in fact so skinny that he seemed to be swimming inside his small for his age robes.

But this was not what was worrying Severus Snape: the child – because not even Snape had another way to describe him now – was burning with fever, his brow was clammy and shiny with perspiration, breath coming too fast and not deep enough, and he was trembling. He hoped it was just the fever.

Snape could feel the heat emanating from the small body. They had to lower his temperature as soon as possible.

Moreover, even though he could not see any open wounds – not with the teen so bundled up in his robes -, Potter still seemed to be in a great deal of pain and was feebly trying to move away from him.

He had to try and calm him down, they would not be able to fully ascertain was what was wrong with Potter anyway, if they did not manage to rouse him.

Whatever Potter had been hiding had been revealed by his potion, but the potion in itself could not wreak such havoc. The damage had already been there. And Madam Pomfrey would not be able to use anything but general healing methods until they did find out how Potter had managed to hide his ailment.

So he kept his voice as low and soothing as possible.

“Potter can you hear me?”

No reaction.

“I know you are awake Potter, breathe deeply and try to focus.”

Still no reaction.

He tried to talk to the boy for a little longer, his voice as whispery and soft as silk. Only very few people had ever heard this kind of voice from Snape.

“Potter, breathe… breathe slowly… in and out… in and out…” he went on like that for a while.

Again “Open your eyes, Potter, you are almost there… keep on breathing deeply…”

The boy seemed to be listening too him now, his trashing had subsided a little and he was actually breathing better, but it was not really a conscious response, it was way more in the likes of the reaction of a kitten to being petted.

He was just reacting to the sound of his voice.

He could go on talking like this for hours, but it would be totally useless. It was obvious that Potter was too much out of it to respond to coaxing. Unwilling as he was to resort to tougher methods – in this case - he had to.

“Come on boy, snap out of it!” his deep voice boomed in the empty classroom.

Potter’s response was instantaneous: he desperately tried to break free, fighting the arms that were holding him down, his whimpers suddenly turning into a low toned desperate muttering.

“Potter calm down! Calm down!”

Potter slight but wiry frame was much stronger than he expected, but was no match for Snape. He could have stopped his movements with little to no effort, especially from his higher leverage, nevertheless he did not want to inflict further damage to the boy. Some freedom of movement might even help the boy calm down.

But Potter – if ever possible - surprised him once again: as soon as his arms were free, he did not try to move away at all, the boy simply tried to curl himself up into a ball, no more aware of his surroundings that he had been before.

Then Snape finally saw his hands.

His left arm was being cradled to the chest, as if in an attempt to protect it with the right one, but with meagre results: the wrist was obviously broken and set at a wrong angle, although Madam Pomfrey would be able to heal it with little effort, but the hand… the left hand was a total mess, terribly swollen and mangled, the fingers set in a claw-like grip and nevertheless twitching every few seconds.

‘Nerve damage’

The right hand was pathetically trying to shield the impaired left one, but it was doing a rather poor job of it and Snape could clearly see that the palm was somehow red and blistered, as if it had been burnt. He did not really know if it was that Potter could not stand to have his left hand touched, or if it was just the right hand, which hurt too much to touch anything. Either way he could not fathom the pain thechild must be in and he certainly could not make out how he had made it through his first week at school.

Potter was now a rocking human ball, laying half on the floor and half on his lap, and he was still muttering broken words.

He was a man who prided himself on his cool head and, above all, his cold heart, but he was not as insensitive as he liked - or wanted others - to believe. He definitely was not a nice man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not a nasty one either, although he did a fine job in showing the contrary.

Most of all he was a mistrustful man who had been taught the hard way by his past choices and experiences that what could not touch him would not hurt him either. Feelings – apart from anger or hate, which merely fuelled him – were a dangerous nuisance and he kept them to a distance. Children – this one especially - were the worst kind of nuisance ever, but he could not condone any form of physical violence on them. Who could ever want to watch a child suffer like this?

‘You did’

‘No!’

He discarded the though with rage. His potion would merely have taught the boy a valuable lesson if he hadn’t already been injured so badly.

But a fleeting thought was nagging at him… what about his harsh words and behaviour towards the boy who was obviously not spoilt nor pampered at all?

He pushed the thought away, behind the strong walls in his mind. There would time later to ponder on the matter, now he had a more pressing issue at hand.

He bent forwards and tried to decipher the mumbled and whispered sounds coming from Potter:

“I-I’m sorry… No… please… U-Uncle I’ll do it… please no more… sorry Uncle Vernon… please… hurts… please s-stop… Uncle Vernon… W-won’t do it again… p-promise… sorry, sorry…”

Snape moved back abruptly.

‘His relatives’

He had found out Potter’s secret, at last, but his so long awaited triumph over Potter suddenly tasted like saw-dust.

As soon as he had seen the wounds he had known that it had not been an accident: the boy was daft and clumsy, just… Gryffindorish, but there was no way such lesions could ever come from an accident. Someone had intentionally hurt the boy, and it was painfully obvious that Potter’s predicament was neither a novelty nor a one-time occurrence.

Still they – ‘No… I’ – had missed it.

This was not what he had been expecting, and he would certainly have preferred the boy to be the spoiled, pampered and coddled brat he always assumed him to be.

Hell, anything would be better than this.

An event of such magnitude to go unnoticed by his fellow professors, even Dumbledore, was not truly unexpected. People seldom notice things they do not want to see, after all.

But he, of all people, he should have seen the signs from the beginning. Now that he knew what to look for, they were as plain as the nose on his face, and his nose was not small to begin with.

He was the spy, the sharp examiner of the human mind, the skilled Legilimens, faces and eyes were nothing but an open book to him!… How could he so severely misjudge the situation?

For Merlin’s sake! This was Harry-I-wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve-Potter! A Gryffindor!

Yet the answer was so plain and simple, wasn’t it?

‘Later, you can think about it later!’

Now to the task at hand.

He carefully cradled Potter’s face in his large hand and applied just enough pressure to turn it towards himself. There was merely a sign resistance. After the first few instants, when it was clear that the probing hand was not there to hurt him, the boy even leant into the warm comforting touch. The eyes were tightly shut but – to Snape’s surprise – there were no tears leaking.

He started speaking again, his voice once more smooth and encouraging, soothing Harry’s fears, while his thumb was slowly drawing calming circles on the boy’s temple.

“Potter, calm down, your uncle is not here, you are safe now, you are safe.”

He did not long how long he kept repeating the litany to the boy, but Harry finally stopped trembling and – albeit fractionally - relaxed into his arms.

The green eyes slowly opened and the disoriented boy gazed at him for a fleeting instant before lowering his eyes in a mixture of shame, confusion and Merlin knew what other emotions.

“Pr’fess’r…” he slurred, then tried again “what happened?”

Before Snape had a chance to answer the question, the fire glowed green and a flustered Madam Pomfrey entered the classroom and posed the same question.

“Severus what happened? I was in Hogsmeade for an emergency and was warned by the alert-spell that there was an emergency at Hogwarts”.

She had not been able to recognise the student in Severus’s arms yet, since he had his back turned to the fire, but when she stepped aside and took the situation in, she just gasped and let herself fall to her knees beside Snape, her left hand instantly running to Harry’s forehead while she quickly fetched her wand and started moving it over Harry Potter’s shivering form.

‘Everything hurts'

Harry heard words being spoken to him, but he could not acknowledge them.

Everything hurt so badly.

‘I have to do something… yes… I… what is it…’

Thinking was too difficult, he could not concentrate enough to break the haze of pain surrounding his mind.

His instincts kicked in.

Yes, he was in danger, he always was.

He had to run away, he had to move and hide, stay away from the blows that were going to come.

They always did.

He had to fight the pain and run.

‘Run, Harry, run’

But someone was speaking to him. He could not really make out the words, but the sound was soft and soothing, something he had not heard very often.

The sound promised peace and gentleness, even painlessness, maybe.

And he was so tired, so very tired.

He could not resist the temptation. Rest, finally rest in a safe place…

His instincts were screaming at him not to lower his guard, but the pain dulled everything and he could only hear the soft promise of respite.

His awareness was dimming once again, slurred thoughts drifting away, the pain still nagging at him, but no longer prominent.

“Come on boy, snap out of it!”

The promise of peace was broken, the flames of pain scorching.

‘Run, Harry, run’

Too late.

It was always too late.

The words were angry, their promise the one of painful retribution.

His fault, always his fault.

‘I am the worthless freak’

He prepared for the angry blows to come. He tried to make himself as small as possible.

‘Please, don’t let me be seen!’

But the hands touching him were gentle again.

The flames slowly became less intense and he found he could breathe again.

It still hurt like mad, but the pain was no longer predominant.

The voice was there yet again. A voice he knew. Could he trust it?

He willed the fog in his mind to clear. An eternity later he could finally hear the words he had longed to be told for fifteen years.

“Potter, calm down, your uncle is not here, you are safe now, you are safe.”

He relaxed. And he suddenly became aware of his surroundings. His eyes were closed, but he could perceive light around him. Smells of… potions. Someone was holding him.

Someone whom the voice belonged to.

Yes, he knew that voice.

But its timbre itself belied the kind words it was delivering, because there was no way that voice would ever tell him anything without being hurtful. No way for it to tell him that he was safe.

‘Professor Snape’

Harry forced his eyes open and found himself looking into deep concerned black eyes.

He could not look into those eyes.

“Pr’fess’r…” he slurred, then tried again “what happened?”

Before Snape had a chance to answer any of the two questions, the matron took charge of the situation. He would normally refuse to being ordered around like a freshman, but he found that – just for this time – he did not feel like defying her. He had done enough already.

Potter’s eyes were half closed, but he was certain that the boy was still awake. He was watching Pomfrey’s movements warily, but it seemed that he – as well - deemed it wiser not to interrupt the matron. Or maybe he did not have the strength.

Either way the boy was silent and Snape was thankful that he did not have to answer his questions yet.

The matron brisk voice interrupted his train of thoughts. She looked unusually concerned and Snape knew immediately that the situation was even worse than he had surmised.

“Severus, we have to move him to the Hospital Wing immediately. He is severely hurt and his magic is almost totally depleted.”

“Depleted?” What had the brat been up to?

“Yes. Now don’t dawdle and follow me, you can explain later… and try not to jostle him too much.”