“Riddikulus,” Snape whispered, pointing his wand at the specter of Cedric Diggory.

As the apparition vanished, he turned to the other boy, curled up on the floor in the fetal position, head buried in his hands. He squatted down beside him. “Potter,” he whispered. “Harry. Look at me.”

“Make it stop,” the boy moaned, “Please make it stop.”

“Harry,” Snape murmured again, “It was just a boggart. It’s gone now.”

“No, it’s not,” Harry lamented. “It never goes away. I hear her, all the time…”

“Hear who?” Snape asked, sitting back on his haunches.

Harry fisted his hands into his unruly locks of hair. “My mother. Begging Voldemort. For my life.”

“You hear Lily?” Snape gasped, a shudder going through him.

“Yes!” Harry cried. “When the Dementors are near.”

Snape closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to remain calm. “There are no Dementors here, Potter. It was just a boggart. Now, let’s get you back where you belong.” Snape unwound the boy’s fingers from his hair and helped him to his feet. Potter wobbled precariously and Snape was forced to put an arm around the trembling boy to keep him upright. “Potter, you’ll be the death of me yet,” he muttered as they made their way to the fireplace.

Snape flooed them both directly to his refuge; he was the only one who could access it. Glancing briefly at the picture of the woman as he entered the room, he led Potter to the couch. The boy crumpled onto it, his trainer-clad feet on the floor, his head between his knees, hands once again fisting in his hair.

“Potter,” Snape said, standing over the boy and feeling at a complete loss. He was used to the teenager who was quick to temper, reckless, eager to disobey orders. Not the one who trembled at the slightest sound or movement. That was Neville Longbottom, not Harry Potter.

The image of Diggory’s body, coupled with thought of Lily’s screams, was enough to disconcert Snape, much less Potter who had lived through it. Snape quashed the urge to reach out and rest a hand on Potter’s shoulder; it was not in his nature to offer physical comfort. “I’ll be right back, Potter,” Snape said as he headed for the potions storeroom.

He returned two minutes later to find Potter sitting in the exact same position, hands still wrapped tightly in his raven hair. Sighing, Snape untangled Potter’s fingers once more and tipped his chin up. The boy’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, his lips tightly compressed.

“Drink this, Potter,” Snape said, pressing a vial to the boy’s lips. “It will make you feel better.”

When Potter didn’t respond, Snape took the boy’s fingers and wrapped them around the crystal vial, enclosing both the vial and the boy’s hand in his own. Then he guided Potter to drink the potion, which, thankfully, the teenager did. Snape watched as Potter shuddered, his eyes coming back into focus. Potter took one look at Snape, groaned, and fell back on the couch, an arm thrown over his face, his cheeks flaming.

“Just kill me now,” Potter muttered, reminiscent of the first night he arrived.

“You do seem to have a death wish, Potter,” Snape replied, “But tonight is not your lucky night.”

Potter grimaced but said nothing.

“Before you lose yourself to a night of dreamless sleep, there are a couple of things we need to take care of.”

Potter groaned.

“You will need to be vertical for this discussion, Potter,” Snape informed him.

 Harry sat up and stole a glance at Snape through the unruly black locks that hung over his eyes. He expected to see a livid, unforgiving wizard on the verge of chastising Harry for his stupidity. Instead what he saw was even more daunting. Professor Snape looked a cross between contemplative and shaken.

“Now,” Snape said, sticking his hand into his pocket.

Harry flinched, waiting for Snape to pull out a wand and hex him.

“Care to tell me why you did not keep one of these with you at all times as I instructed?” Opening his palm, Snape let the two dice-size red cubes clatter across the coffee table between them. They came to a stop and glistened eerily, blood red reflections dancing across their polished surfaces.

Temporarily distracted by the sight of the identical objects, Harry asked, “Are they the same?” At Snape’s sardonic expression, he clarified, “I mean, yours isn’t any different than mine? You could use yours to alert me if you were in trouble?”

“Theoretically,” Snape answered dryly. Skewering Potter with a stern look, he said, “Now answer my question.”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. He glanced out the windows. The clouds were gray and stormy, the wind lashing at the grass and trees. “I don’t have a good answer,” Harry said, not meeting the penetrating gaze of his potions master.

“You don’t have a good answer?” Snape parroted, his voice pitched high with disbelief.

Harry didn’t have to look up at Snape’s face to know he’d find an incredulous expression there. Famous Harry Potter admits he doesn’t have a good reason for breaking the rules. “I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans.

When no speech was forthcoming, Harry glanced up to see Snape looking at him quizzically.

“It won’t happen again,” Harry added, quickly grabbing one of the blood red cubes and stuffing it his pocket. It was oddly warm, and its weight was reassuring.

“Good,” Snape said.

Harry watched from the corner of his eyes as Snape picked up the remaining cube and returned it to the pocket of his robes.

“And I have your word, Potter, that you won’t wander off again, regardless of whatever idiotic notions cross that feeble mind of yours?”

Harry nodded, clenching his teeth to prevent himself from saying something that would only irritate the potions master further.

“Now, take off your shirt,” Snape demanded.

Harry stilled, his eyes going wide. “My shirt?” Harry asked, his voice slightly above a whisper. There was only one reason he’d ever been told to remove his shirt.

“Yes, that abominable piece of fabric that you insist upon wearing inside out.”

“What for?” Harry breathed. Images of Uncle Vernon’s purple face looming over him, spittle flying from his mouth, his nostrils flaring, his belt slapping against the open palm of his hand…

Harry heard Snape heave a deep sigh, laced with impatience. “The wounds on your back still require tending to. Unless you are proud of your scars, Potter, and would like to display them for your fans…”

“No,” Harry choked out. “No scars. No fans.” Harry removed his school robe, breathing deeply as he did so to try and calm his racing heart. Snape was not Uncle Vernon.

“That’s good to hear,” Snape murmured, pulling out a white jar from an inside pocket of his robe.

 Snape watched as Potter pulled off his shirt and balled it up, throwing it to far end of the couch.

“On your stomach, Potter,” Snape directed, unscrewing the lid and wondering what it was about that T-shirt that bothered the boy so much. Snape shook his head and returned his attention to the boy’s back. Meticulously, he worked the cream into Potter’s pale skin, watching the scars glow faintly before fading to a lighter shade of pink. Another week of treatment and they should be nearly invisible.

“Accio Cruciatus Cloak,” Snape murmured, deftly catching the black silk fabric and handing it to Harry. He watched as Harry sat up and slipped on the robe, fingering the cool, soothing material. Snape nodded in satisfaction; the cloak truly was one of Dumbledore’s more useful strokes of genius.

Snape stood, picking up the crumpled T-shirt and shaking it out. A picture of the Triwizard Cup glimmered back at him, a souvenir for the champions. Harry had looked startled when Snape had grabbed the shirt, but then looked away. Snape shook his head.

“Why did you wear this T-shirt, Potter?” Snape asked. “Clearly it upsets you.”

“It was the only thing that was clean,” Harry mumbled.