The air is thick with bottled emotions and words unsaid and Harry’s fingers tremble despite himself. As he follows behind Snape, he tries to take his mind off of the situation by focussing on the back and forth motion of Snape’s robes as he marches forth down the hall. He counts to twenty swooshes and then his eyes momentarily flick upwards as they round a corner. Harry knits his brow with anxious confusion.

“W-where are we going? I thought you’d be taking me to Dumbledore’s office?” He can’t keep his voice from rising in pitch as he suddenly feels doubly apprehensive.

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter. And do you not think you had best be warmed up first? The last thing you need is hypothermia again. And nor do I.”

Harry slows down, dropping further behind Snape. “So why aren’t we going to the hospital wing?”

Snape stops mid-corridor and turns to face him with a look of indifference tinged with impatience on his face. His voice, however, is unusually soft. “I think Madam Pomfrey has seen enough of you for the year, let alone the term, don’t you?”

For a moment, Harry searches the professor’s face, watching as Snape’s wet hair drips occasionally onto his long nose. He isn’t sure whether he should feel grateful or not to Snape for not taking him to Dumbledore, but he quickly reminds himself that Snape hasn’t taken him to see Dumbledore yet. He frowns solemnly at the thought and a cold chill rattles through his bones. He knows Snape is right, that he can’t run forever, but he isn’t ready – doesn’t know if he ever will be – and the thought of rejection, or repercussions, of spilling it all and then being forced back with his family again...he can’t do it. But then he takes in the person in front of him, his most hated professor, and his mind feels overwhelmed. Here, before him, is the man that he thought hated him, soaking wet, cold, probably in a small amount of pain after being attacked by the Whomping Willow. All for him.

As Snape turns back and begins marching again towards the dungeons, Harry follows telling himself it is only because he does not want to get sick again. The one thing he is thankful for is the lack of other students roaming the corridors. He realises, at this point, that it must be lunchtime, but he isn’t hungry at all.  

It’s dark in the dungeons as Harry walks with Snape, the only light coming from the odd flickering candle on the wall. Momentarily, through the haze of what has just happened and what is yet to come, Harry’s mind wanders. He begins to wonder whether Snape is the way he is because he spends all his life in the dark. As a cold chill creep up his spine, he realises just how depressing it must be to live in such a place.

Snape comes to a sudden halt and Harry, lost in his own thoughts, nearly careens right into him. As Snape mutters a word under his breath, a door swings open and he curtly orders Harry to enter. Harry’s mind races, unable to think any longer about anything else other than what he is entering into. The door to Snape’s quarters closes behind him with a bang and, somehow, everything becomes both real and unreal simultaneously. Barely having time to take stock of the place, two vials are promptly thrust under Harry’s nose.

“Take the warming potion first, followed by the calming draught –” Snape says.

“I don’t need to calm down,” Harry replies tersely, but the croak in his voice betrays him and Snape’s brow furrows as he looks at Harry as he would at a potion that isn’t behaving as it should.

Perhaps I should calm down. Maybe it will help me control myself a bit...Harry thinks before conceding and downing the potions one after the other.

Snape is still scrutinising him with that look and Harry soon feels uncomfortable.

“I think I’d like to go back to the tower now, Sir.” He is surprised at how small his voice sounds.

“Sit, Mr Potter,” Snape replies as though he didn’t hear Harry at all.

“Sir,” Harry says, closing his eyes and exhaling to keep himself from saying something out of turn, “I would very much like to leave.”

“Sit.”

“What for?” he asks, his tone more petulant than intended.

“Sit down and you will find out.” Snape’s deep voice leaves little room for argument.

Looking at his professor warily, Harry takes a seat on the sofa, leaning forward, his bottom barely on the cushion as though he is ready, any minute, to bolt for the door. Snape’s robes billow as he moves towards an old armchair directly opposite the sofa. As he sits down, the chair creaks ominously and it suddenly becomes apparent just how deathly quiet Snape’s quarters are. They sit in unsettling silence and Harry puts the empty potion vials on the coffee table, the clink of glass on glass permeating the thick air.

As Harry’s form sits tense and defiant on the sofa, Snape’s eyes never wander from the boy’s face.

Potter is not himself, Snape thinks, that much is evident. He is too pale, too withdrawn. He is aware I know he’s hiding something. And the worst thing Snape notices is that Harry’s green eyes hold none of the zest for life that Lily’s ever did. Snape’s gut twists in discomfort.

“What is going on with you, Potter?” Snape asks seriously, cocking his head to the side. Harry keeps his gaze averted, squeezing his hands between his legs to hide the slight trembling. His lips remain closed. “I expect an answer. You are clearly not yourself.” Harry still stays quiet, hoping that Snape will just let him go when his patience runs out. “Potter, it seems that the Headmaster’s soft approach has not had the desired effect, so I will be blunt. You returned to Hogwarts with a number of very serious and very questionable injuries. Your injuries are old – most were in a state of healing by the time we discovered them, though the sight was still far from pretty. What caused them?”

Harry’s body goes rigid. He looks up, momentarily stunned by Snape’s directness. Everybody else was so evasive. No one ever said what they meant, but Snape was different, always had been. Harry mentally berates himself for not being prepared. Even just the thought of the professor’s question makes him feel queasy. He sucks in a breath, thinking of an answer, a lie, anything to take Snape’s attention away from what he’s hiding, but his mouth dries out and suddenly speaking is the most difficult thing he’s ever had to do. Snape’s eyes remain on him, blinking occasionally but otherwise the professor’s gaze never falters.

Snape changes his position in his chair, leaning forward with a calculating hand on his chin. His voice drops a few decibels. “Would it be more fitting if I ask who?”  

Harry tries to ignore the question, even though his heart begins boxing against his ribcage. His eyes flit wildly as he attempts to quell the sick feeling in his stomach. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to talk about anything anymore. He tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry. Even licking his parched lips is impossible. His eyes suddenly flit past Snape’s intense gaze and are dragged in. For a moment, it feels impossible to rip his attention away and all he can see is impatience mounting behind Snape’s dark orbs. 

“I don’t know what you mean, Professor,” Harry manages.

“You know exactly what I mean. You cannot expect to be seen looking like you’ve been ravaged by a werewolf and have people turn a blind eye.”

Harry’s eyes flash. “Why not? They always have before, why not now?”

“Are you honestly that dim-witted, or do you enjoy being intentionally dense? Nobody is turning a blind eye now. You owe many people an explanation, least of all myself after your display this afternoon!”

“My display? You think –” Harry rips his hands from between his legs and runs one through his damp hair. He shakes his head vigorously and a quiet, sad laugh escapes his lips. “You really are blind, Professor. You all are.”

“If that is so, Potter, enlighten me. Explain,” Snape implores, dragging out the last word to drill it into Harry’s head.

Harry snaps his mouth closed, furiously puffing a hot breath through his nose. He doesn’t want to explain, he just wants the professor to leave him the hell alone. I’m doing just fine, just fine! I don’t need this...I don’t need any of them. I’ve been fine without them all this time, Harry thinks, but a little voice in the back of his mind questions him. Have you really been fine, Harry?         

The room is still. Snape doesn’t even blink. To Harry, it seems the only thing moving is his heart as it bounces painfully inside of him. Suddenly Snape stands, his robes curling around him in a smooth motion as he marches back towards the door.  

“If you refuse to talk to me, there is little point in you inhabiting my quarters any longer,” Snape says, pulling the door open. For a moment, Harry feels a glimmer of hope – he’s letting me go!  – but it is quickly dashed. “Come. I will take you to the Headmaster’s office.”

“Wait, what? No! You can’t make me go.”

Snape stalks towards him. Harry scoots back in his seat. “There are plenty of ways I can make you go, Potter,” he says slowly. “Now, you have a choice, you speak to me or the headmaster. As I told you, you cannot run from this. I will not allow you to. Whatever it is, it is obviously causing you distress, so the decision is yours.”

When Harry doesn’t move, Snape takes this as his answer. He won’t be taking Harry to see the headmaster, not tonight – Dumbledore asked him to help and he will do his utmost to do it and to do it right. Keeping his temper in check, however, is proving to be difficult. He isn’t a patient man at the best of times and his feelings about Harry are conflicting too...on the one hand, the boy’s face reminds him of everything he lost in his youth, but on the other hand, when he looks closer into those green eyes, he sees the person who made him the closest to happy he’d ever been. The eyes may be vacant at the moment, but Snape knew she was still in there somewhere.

Snape moves back to his seat and sits pensively on the edge.

“At least answer me this, Potter. I know somebody hurt you. Did you get in a fight with a muggle gang...or was it someone closer to home?”

Harry isn’t stupid. There is something knowing in Snape’s voice and he feels his chest tighten. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry’s eyes are unblinking, wide as saucers. His breaths quicken.

What does he know? How does he know?

“You said he’d kill you.”

“Yeah, well. I was upset. Exaggerating,” Harry says erratically. The empty vials on the coffee table rattle.

“So he won’t kill you,” Snape says evenly, “he’ll just get the belt out.”

Harry’s eyes snap upwards. “No, that...that’s not even –”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Potter –”

“You don’t know what you’re –”

“Who is he?” Snape presses vehemently.

“Leave it alone!”

“Who is he?”

“No one, alright!” Harry shouts, standing abruptly from his seat just as the vials shatter, the sound of breaking glass splitting through the tension. Harry’s fingers curl into fists as he stands there shaking with emotion. At first, Snape’s eyes look murderous, but they quickly soften, much to Harry’s shock and surprise.

Snape can feel his own temper wavering inside of him. He tries to keep calm, but it unravels so easily when Harry is concerned. He has to keep reminding himself of his suspicions as to why Harry is behaving as he is – only then, and with a deep breath, can he relax and re-gather his patience.

“Potter, sit down and calm down. You must have known this conversation would happen eventually. This is not the kind of thing any professor at Hogwarts can just ignore. Somebody has been hurting you,” Snape says and waves a hand to stop Harry from interrupting, “physically injuring you, Potter. Abusing you. A child.” He ignores Harry’s flinch. “There is no excuse for it.”

Harry looks down at his feet. A lump forms in his throat and he feels his eyes prickle. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but keeps his eyes looking anywhere but at Snape. He already knows it’s wrong, so why does hearing it make him feel so damn unhappy?

“Why are you protecting him?!” Snape says forcefully.   

Harry sniffles and gulps, still keeping his gaze averted. He knows Snape is speaking the truth, and all he wants to do in that moment is spill it all and hope to finally shed some of the weight making his heart heavy. But then reality sets in.

What happens when they stop believing me? What happened if they don’t believe me in the first place? It’ll be straight back to the Dursleys again, Harry thinks miserably and shudders. He doesn’t think he could handle that.

“May I go back to the tower now, Sir?” Harry asks quietly. Snape’s eyebrows knit together as his face takes on an expression of pure disbelief.

“Have you listened to a word I’ve –”

“My friends will be wondering where I am,” he replies blankly, keeping his eyes downcast. The sudden sweeping motion of a cloak startles him.

“Forget about your friends, Potter, and focus on yourself for a change!”

Snape’s form is suddenly bearing down on him. The man’s words don’t even register in his mind and before he can help himself, he recoils, pushing his body as far back into the chair as it will go as if to avoid a blow. The vision of Him flashes in front of Harry only for a split second, but it’s enough to rip the air from his lungs.

Snape steps back, shocked at the reaction. There is no doubt in his mind at that point. Harry’s reaction tells him two things – that the boy had lived with the abuse long enough to become accustomed to it and that he expected it.

It takes Harry just seconds to recognize what he’s done. His eyes lock together with Snape’s, and the man’s expression scares him. Harry knows that in his actions he’s just admitted more than he ever wanted to, and to Snape of all people. The full realisation of what’s he’s inadvertently revealed comes crashing down on him like a barrage of bludgers. Painful. Suffocating. Like a startled deer, Harry bolts for the door, leaving a stunned Snape in his wake.