The clock chimes in Snape’s quarters, signalling the end of lunch, not that he has been able to eat anything. He gets up, heading automatically for his Potions classroom, but seeing nothing along the way. He tries to block out the thoughts that keep returning and to focus on Potions, but every footfall echoes Poppy is right, Poppy is right, Poppy is right off the castle walls. He knows now more than ever that, despite himself, he is going to have to talk to the boy sooner rather than later and – although it fills him with a great deal of discomfort – he decides the best time will be after his Potions lesson.

He pauses outside his classroom door, listening to the inane chattering of students from inside. Part of him wonders just how he is going to get through the lesson when his mind can’t focus on anything it should be focusing on. Taking in a deep breath, he smoothes out his robes and does the only thing that comes naturally to him. Throwing the door open, he storms in, robes billowing, with a scowl drawn firmly across his features.

“Today,” he says, “we will – Longbottom, cease your fidgeting before I decide to take points! – we will not be doing any practical brewing. Since last year’s essays were consistently poor, we will spend some time concentrating on theory. I will not, however, be wasting my time standing here talking to myself for the entire lesson. I am more interested in what you know.”

As he’s speaking his eyes catch a shock of unruly raven hair. The boy isn’t paying attention, instead scratching words onto his parchment, not even looking up once. He averts his eyes, focusing his attention on Draco Malfoy instead who, thankfully, is staying quiet.

Start as you mean to go on, he thinks, hoping that Draco won’t go back on his word. 

“So, for this lesson, I will give you the name of three ingredients and I expect you to write as much as you know about each including what potions they can be used in and what effects they have. There will be no talking and no conferring. Your ingredients are boomslang skin, fluxweed and – Mr Longbottom, write these down! That goes for everybody – and hellebore.”

The entire class sit gawping at him, expecting more, so Snape growls under his breath.

“Get to it!” The sound of rustling parchment and scratching quills fills the room. Snape takes his seat behind his desk at the front of the class and immediately berates himself for not bringing any papers to grade or anything else to occupy him. Instead, he is left to survey the class and drown in his own thoughts.  

Harry’s eyes scan the parchment in front of him. There’s no way he can concentrate with that man in the room, knowing what the man knows and how easy it would be for him to let something slip.

Fluxweed...what is fluxweed used for. I know this.

But no, his mind isn’t going to work.

Every passing second, his heart bounces out of time, becoming more and more anxious that the people around him are scratching away at their parchments, but his is undeniably blank. Every scraping of a quill sets his teeth on edge. His eyes flick around the room, just for a moment, and he sinks back into his chair as he notices that even Ron has managed an entire paragraph and is still writing away.

Pressing his quill into the parchment, his hand is poised to write in the vague hope that something will just pop into his head. He looks up hoping to find inspiration on Snape’s shelves, but his gaze is stolen as Snape’s dark eyes pierce his own. At first glance, the man’s face is stoic and indifferent, but the tell is in the tiny wrinkle set between his eyes; Snape is thinking, contemplating.

Harry visibly and audibly gulps. Snape looks away.

“Alright, mate?” Ron drags Harry’s attention from the front of the class. Harry nods emphatically and looks back to his parchment. “Why was he looking at you?” Ron says, confused. Harry has to think about it.

Snape knows something’s happened to me. I don’t want him to know, but he does know, and he still doesn’t give a damn. Why was he looking at me? Probably just making sure I don’t tell anyone about the other night. He’s probably trying to think of a way to keep me quiet about it.

Harry’s jaw clenches. He feels a tiny bubble of anger growing in his belly and he realises that, yes, it does anger him and upset him that Snape knows – he must know – that something is wrong, but he, just like everybody else, is more than willing to turn a blind eye.

They won’t turn a blind eye when I wind up dead, Harry thinks, or maybe they will.

“Harry?” Ron whispers, pulling Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry’s jaw tightens further. “Because he’s a git.”

The scratching of quills comes to a halt.

Apparently, that was too loud.

Snape looks at him with an unreadable expression. The Slytherins fill with glee, looking to their head of house expectantly. All except Draco Malfoy, whose expression is a mixture of shock and unease.

“See me after class, Mr Potter,” Snape says in his deadliest voice, but secretly he realises it will give him the perfect opportunity to speak to the boy alone.

Harry grits his teeth and looks down at his parchment.

“Fine, Sir.”

He knows his Slytherins expect more – that punishing the Gryffindor Boy Who Lived was almost always a given in his classes – but Snape can’t do it. Yes, the blatant disrespect would usually drive him up the wall, but he could detect a modicum of fear in the boy’s voice. It quickly dawns on him that perhaps this is what the boy wants. He wants to create an argument, wants to cause a scene and to get everything back to normal, back to when his hated potions professor wasn’t being half-way nice to him. Possibly even back to the point when Harry didn’t need help in the first place.

Snape remembers his conversation with Draco and inwardly sighs. Taking his own advice, it seems that he, too, will have to rise above everything.

“Back to work. I want to hear nothing but quills on parchment,” he says curtly.

The Slytherins deflate at the anticlimax of the whole situation. 

Sitting at his desk, Harry dwells on the previous situation. Snape could have been harsher, but Harry dreads the idea of another one to one with him.

Bastard couldn’t give a damn about me. No one does.  

His head churns over the events of the past few days.

Dumbledore knows. Snape knows. Pomfrey knows...they all know. Of course they do. They all saw...how can they not know? But I’m here to kill Voldemort. That’s all I’m here to do and if I can still do that, what does it matter what happens to me elsewhere? As long as I’m still alive, I’m useful. I’m a tool. I’m The Boy Who Lived now, but what about when Voldemort’s gone? What if I fail?

The question lingers on his mind and a thought surfaces.

Maybe it would be better if I did.

A tidal wave sloshes behind his eyes as the realisation hits: he is no one. He will be no one when Voldemort is gone, and he will be no one if he fails. He is no one to everyone and that’s the way it’s always been. 

It is moments until the class is over and Snape is stalling. He has to dismiss the class and collect in their assignments, but the sooner he does that, the sooner his uncomfortable conversation with Harry will have to happen. His muscles are tense and he can feel his furrowed brow deepening as the seconds tick on. His rigid posture is matched perfectly to the fidgeting boy at the front of the class.

As the clock passes the hour, Snape realises he cannot make everybody else late for their classes, and quickly stands at his desk.

“Time is up. Finish your sentences and bring your parchments to me, then you may leave.” The room erupts into noise and as students pack away their things, milling about the classroom and putting their assignments on his desk, Snape finds it difficult to keep an eye on the boy. Peering through the crowds and seeing Harry furiously stuffing his books into his bag, Snape calls loudly to him over the sounds of people shuffling out of the room.

“Potter, I said stay behind!”

When Harry doesn’t answer, Hermione gives him a nudge, but he shrugs her off, packing the last of his books away.

Snape’s gaze narrows as Harry looks up and stares him dead in the eyes, face full of anguish. Furiously, Harry tugs the zip over his rucksack, slings it over one should and bolts for the door.

Snape’s wand is out within a matter of seconds, but the crowd of students leaving the classroom is too big for him to shut and lock the door with accurate aim.

“Come back here, Potter!” Snape shouts, rounding his desk and purposefully storming through the crowd after the boy. Turning down the hall, he just catches a glimpse of Harry’s hair rounding the corner. “Potter,” he snaps, his voice echoing down the hall, stopping students in their tracks.

Gaining on him, Snape strides faster and faster, each footfall hitting the stone floor with an almighty thud.

He is but steps behind the boy when he hears running and whispering coming up behind him.

Granger and Weasley. Just great, he thinks.

Watching the students around him jump out of the way, he quickens the pace again, and the boy is almost within reaching distance. At this point, Snape has almost forgotten the reason he wants to speak to the Harry in the first place.

Only now noticing the crowd that’s formed behind him, Snape turns and snaps a quick, “Get to your classes!” at them. “That includes you, Granger,” he says, seeing a bushy lock of hair failing to hide around the corner, “and take Weasley with you too. Five points from Gryffindor for spying.”

Pushing forward in the now empty corridor, he bellows in his deadliest voice, “Mr Potter! Take one more step and you will serve detention with me until you graduate from this school!”

Harry keeps going...and going...and going.

Snape keeps walking...and stepping...and quickening the pace.

One extra long stride.

A swipe of the hand.

Fingers catch the back of Harry’s jumper, yanking him to a halt.

Snape grabs him by the arm, spinning the boy round to face him, but the reaction is not what he expects. 

Harry’s ashen face shakes with pent up emotion as he twists himself free and furiously shoves Snape backwards with both hands.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouts, stepping away from Snape. “Don’t you dare touch me! You have no idea!”

Snape, now a mix of startled, confused and livid, takes a menacing step towards Harry’s shaking wreck of a form. “Mr Potter, I suggest you explain yourself or –”

“Or what?” Harry cries, verging on hysterical. “I don’t want to talk to you or anybody! I know my place. I know why I’m here, okay? I have a job to do and I’ll do it, but not for you or anyone else! I don’t owe anything to anyone! When I came here, I thought – I thought this was it, this was my new home. I thought I’d be happy here!” His voice cracks, but he powers through. “Instead, I’ve be taken from one shit world and thrown into another!”

A tear teetering on the edge of his eye, Harry swallows thickly, drops his head and begins to walk away. For a moment, Snape hesitates, not sure if he is the best person to follow or not, but when the boy takes a sudden turn out of the castle, Snape’s mind is made up. He vowed to protect Lily’s son, and that is what he will do.

Storming out of the castle, Harry makes his way down the green towards the Whomping Willow. The sky overhead seems to grumble and as Harry’s pace quickens, so the clouds unleash a torrent of rain that hits the ground with the sound of white noise. He doesn’t realise he is being followed until, in true Snape style, a low voice startles him from behind.

“Mr Malfoy told me about your family.”

That’s all it takes to stop Harry in his tracks. He doesn’t turn around. His shoulders hunch as the rain soaking his hair trickles uncomfortably down the back of his neck. From the outside, he is frozen, but his insides are clenching and churning like grating cogs in an old machine. His heart pounds so hard that he can feel it bouncing under his skin. A squelch in the grass behind him tells him that Snape is standing a stride or two away, and he can only squeeze his eyes closed and hope that Snape’s notorious impatience comes to his aid and the professor issues more detentions before leaving him well alone. But as the silence drags on, Harry doesn’t hear retreating footsteps – Snape doesn’t move an inch. Instead, the rain roars in Harry’s ears and he considers running until his legs can’t take anymore.

He can’t know anything. He doesn’t know anything. I haven’t told anyone. He’s lying. He’s lying.

“There’s,” he swallows hard to dislodge the lump in his throat, “there’s nothing to tell.” Rain drips down from his fringe onto his cheeks. There is another squelch in the grass.

“Potter, look at me.” But Harry isn’t sure he can look at him even if he wanted to. One look, dead in the eyes, and Snape will know he’s lying.

Malfoy said it himself, he’s a Slytherin, they can tell liars from a mile off. Oh God, please go away. Please, Snape, leave me alone. Please.

Harry looks to his feet and then to the grass in front of him, and soon his feet begin moving again. He walks and stumbles his way forward, shoulders hunched from the cold and arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

Another squelch in the grass behind him, and then another.

“Potter, I do not want to ask you again.” Snape’s voice is authoritative as usual, but somehow softer. Though he is obviously being deadly serious, there is no malice in his words. “You cannot run from this forever.” 

Harry slows down, his heartstrings pulling him from the inside out. He comes to a stop, so much of him wishing to set the story straight, to rid himself of the misery lurking beneath his skin, but the shame of it all keeps the words from coming out.

There is a moment of silence and momentarily Harry’s head lolls forward as he clenches his fists to hide the obvious tremble. Snape thinks he’s done it, thinks he’s managed to get Harry to understand. Taking another step behind him, Snape holds out a tense hand, hoping to come across as reassuring. His fingers brush Harry’s shoulder, but on contact, the hairs prickle fiercely on his arm and a strange and sudden despair washes over him, down his body and out again through his boots. The sensation, though fleeting, was akin to what he had felt the night he’d been expecting Harry for his detention.

“Potter –”, Snape gasps.

“No.” Harry instantly takes off, running towards the Whomping Willow, feet slipping in on the wet grass.

Snape’s legs move before he consciously realises he’s following the boy. Seeing where he’s heading, Snape shouts, “Potter, stop!” as he gets ever closer to the willow tree. Despite his soaking wet cloak and the mud being kicked up by his boots, Snape runs faster, and reaches a hand out in front of himself. Unlike Harry, he manages to keep steady on the sodden grass, so within moments, he’s close enough grip Harry’s sleeve and yank him backwards. As Snape loses his grip, the force of it causes Harry to slip to the floor, but he quickly scrambles to his feet again. Snape, however, makes a grab for Harry’s collar.

He twists the boy round so they are face to face, but Harry can’t meet the man’s eyes. His hands grapple with Snape’s, panting as he tries but fails to undo the man’s tight grip.

“Stop this at once, Potter!” Harry pays him no heed, trying to break free as his breaths quicken. “There is no more running! No more getting away from this! You have to talk to –”

“No!” Harry wails, still pulling away from Snape. “No, no, no! You don’t understand! He’ll kill me! Murder me! What will happen to the wizarding world then?”

At that, Snape’s grip momentarily loosens. There was more revealed in those few words than he cared to imagine. No, Snape did not know the extent, but the boy’s words were clear. He was frightened of his family.

Nobody should be that frightened of their own flesh and blood. Snape knew that all too well.

Twisting free, Harry’s anguished face turns away as he heads, once again, for the Whomping Willow. As he reaches the perimeter of the tree, noticing Snape advancing on him, he dashes underneath the canopy, and to Snape’s astonishment, the tree barely moves.

“If I’m going to die,” Harry says quietly, sitting down and leaning against the trunk of the tree, “I’d rather be off’d by Voldemort than him.” His voice is almost drowned out by the rain, but Snape heard everything. He does not want to imagine who him is, but he has a fairly good idea. Snape watches as a cold shiver works its way through Harry’s body.

“Potter, you need to come inside,” he says warily as he slows the pace and approaches the tree.

Harry looks to his lap, his breaths coming too quick, and the odd tear spilling from his eye and mixing with the rain.

Irritation sparks in Snape as he is ignored. “This is silly!” he says, straightening up and striding towards Harry, “You’re coming insi –”

*Thwack!*

The willow, whilst dormant before, creaks into motion, a thick branch sending Snape flying backwards and another branch protectively curling around Harry’s waist.

Snape sits up on the muddy grass, groaning, and for a second he can’t fathom what has just happened. Picking himself up, he waits for his eyes to focus again, and watches in awe as the tree seems to hug the boy. As he steps forward, he can almost feel the tension emanating from it.

Harry’s eyes are downcast, but Snape can see his chest heaving. The boy’s hands are trembling. Another step towards the tree and Snape suddenly finds himself having to duck in order to dodge another branch. The tree is so alert that he doesn’t even think he could get close enough to reach the knot without risking his own head.

But the boy is suffering, Snape can see it. Perhaps I’ve pushed him too far? But no, he quickly dismisses that idea when he thinks back to all the boy has withstood in the past.

The rain drips from Snape’s lank hair, but to him the rain may as well not exist. His focus is on nothing but the boy in front of him, the boy that seems to be changing in his eyes every moment he looks at him.

“You need to speak to somebody!” Snape says sharply and loudly. “Professor Dumbledore needs to hear it.” Harry begins fiercely shaking his head. “The sooner you tell somebody, the sooner they can do something about it –”

“Don’t! Don’t you even dare make out like this is me, like I’ve not done anything to stop it! I’ve told people. If you think they’d want to even get involved, you’re as deluded as I was.”

Snape stands, silently, shocked by the sudden raw emotion in Harry’s eyes as they steal his gaze.

“To stop what, Potter?”

Harry goes rigid. The tree instinctively tightens its hold on him.  

“Wha...you...Stop it. You know what. Stop messing with me.”

“No, I don’t know. Say it. Whatever it is, say it.”

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not play me for a fool, boy.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Hit a nerve?” Snape drawls, though his voice is tinged with apprehension.

They stare, neither relenting, both sticking to their guns. Snape thinks briefly that perhaps he’s pushing too hard again, but decides that any reaction is a good one, considering how quiet Harry has been about everything.

With a gulp, Snape continues, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “You can hide from this now, but it will catch up with you, and the longer you leave it, the harder it will crash down on you when it does.” Harry drops his gaze, his mouth drawn into a thin line. “You more than anybody should know when somebody is doing wrong by you. Imagine if somebody else was in your position, whatever position that may be. What advice would you give to them?” Snape is spurred on by Harry’s silence. “What if it was Granger, or Weasley? What if somebody else was in your shoes?”

“But they aren’t! And that’s the point! In case you’ve forgotten Snape, these are my shoes, my stupid shoes and they make me completely different to anybody else! My entire situation is different.”

“Potter, look. Yes, you have certain responsibilities that others do not have. Though I am loathed to admit it, you have more on your shoulders than any teenager should have and I do not envy you that, but right now, right here in this moment, you are a child, and you, like any child, deserve to be treated properly, and I am starting to suspect you have been treated otherwise.”

A moment passes and Snape notices that the rain has eased. Though he cannot get close enough to gauge the expression on Harry’s face, he can see the boy is struggling to hold his lips in a straight line.

When Harry speaks, his voice is small, and his eyes remain downcast. “At least the Dursleys are honest,” he says, taking a deep breath. “They hate me. I don’t like it, but it’s easier than being here and knowing everyone is lying to me.”

“Potter, know this.  It will not be made better by you hiding away and catching your death out here. You need to come inside.” He takes a slight step forward, but the creaking of the tree stops him in his tracks. With a deep breath, he adds, “Madam Pomfrey should not be pleased to see you back in the infirmary so soon.”

A long silence stretched between them as Harry’s thoughts wage war with each other, and Snape fights the urge to try his luck and pull Harry out of the tree’s grasp himself. Losing his patience, Snape says seriously, “Do you want to get sick again?”

All of a sudden, the tree relinquishes its grip on Harry, uncurling from his waist and restoring itself to its original shape. Shakily, Harry stands, using the tree trunk to steady himself. Snape edges towards him and the tree, surprisingly, does not move, almost as if it is allowing him access to the boy. A few cautious steps forward and Snape straightens himself up. He reaches a hand out to take hold of Harry’s arm, but Harry shrugs him off, and the tree groans out a warning. Silently, they walk away from the willow and towards the castle. Snape stays a step in front of Harry, but keeps track out of him from the corner of his eye. Harry keeps his eyes downcast the whole time, refusing to look up once, choosing only to follow the direction of the Potions professor’s shoes.   

As they step back into the castle, Snape scowls at the few students in the corridor, who quickly scurry away, and they walk through the halls in the same silence as before. Though his face tells no tales, the cogs in Snape’s head are in overdrive, for he hadn’t thought ahead of getting the boy indoors. So many directions to walk, so many paths to steer the boy down...but Snape has a feeling that each will lead to his door eventually. Dumbledore will make sure of that.