Snape flung open the door, relishing in the thud it made as it bounced off the wall. He vaguely recalled his own father doing the same thing. “How dare you disrespect me in front of my associates,” Snape seethed aloud, all of his venom directed at the insufferable brat.

Potter, who had been shoving his meagre belongings into a pillowcase, turned to face him. Instead of cowering in the face of Snape’s rage, the obstinate teen squared his shoulders. “I didn’t ask to come here, I didn’t ask you to take me in, and I certainly didn’t consent to being held prisoner here,” Potter responded, anger flashing in Lily’s green eyes. He grabbed the pillow case with a flourish, holding it tightly in his good hand.

“Prisoner,” Snape sneered. “You call being fed three square meals a day, being required to do no chores whatsoever, and being offered clothing that actually fits you, a prisoner?” Snape watched with satisfaction as Potter’s conviction faltered.

“Guardian or not,” Snape snapped, “Dumbledore has entrusted me with your well-being until an appropriate placement can be found for you.”

“The Weasleys…”

“Are not an appropriate placement,” Snape retorted, “and I will not tolerate being disrespected in my own house.” Snape stepped forward, closing the space between the two of them. His anger grew at Potter’s silent defiance. “You have two seconds to explain your behaviour downstairs or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Potter interrupted. “Kick me out on my arse? Don’t bother, I was just leaving,” Potter said as he flung the pillow case over his shoulder and made for the door.

In less than a second, the bedroom door banged shut and Snape was nose to nose with Potter. On instinct, he had slammed the boy against the wall, holding him in place with rough hands on the boy’s shoulders. The impulse to throttle some sense into the insolent teen was overwhelming. As he raised one hand off the boy’s shoulder, Potter flinched and turned away, exposing the purplish yellow fingerprint bruises on his neck.

Snape froze, images and memories assaulting him from all directions: Potter flinching away from an innocently raised hand, himself as a boy cowering before his inebriated father’s fist, the brown stains on Potter’s too-large clothing, the brown stains on the sheets of his boyhood bed, Potter’s over-the-top apology for breaking the glass and injuring himself, the way he had tiptoed around his father so as not to set off his temper, the way Potter paled and stepped back when asked to take off his shirt, the excruciating pain of his father lashing him with a belt.

Snape took a deep breath and stepped back from Potter, dropping his hands to his sides.

“Perhaps you’d like to tell me the real reason you don’t want to be fitted for new clothing.”

When Potter did not respond, Snape said, “No? Well then, let’s get this over with. Take off your shirt so I can measure you.”

“No.”

Sighing, Snape said: “I know about the scars on your back, Potter.”

Snape expected Potter to ask him what the hell he was talking about. He expected an immediate denial. He did not expect the haunted expression that crossed the teen’s face.

“How did you… I never told anyone…”

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Not even Weasley or Granger?”

Potter shook his head.

Snape watched him closely. “It was an educated guess on my part, Potter. Your behaviour indicated that something was amiss.”

Potter looked away.

A few moments passed in uneasy silence before Snape spoke again. “Your uncle?”

Potter nodded.

“I see. I may have some potions that will lessen the scarring.”

Potter glanced up at Snape. “Were you serious about the clothes?”

“The new wardrobe? Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering if that was a ruse to confirm your suspicions,” Potter muttered.

Snape scoffed. “Hardly. You need new clothes, and I am prepared to have you fitted properly. You’ll also need new footwear from the looks of it. And when was the last time you had your vision checked by a qualified opti-wizard?”

“Er...” Potter stammered.

Snape shook his head in disgust at the Muggles who had raised the boy. Lily must be rolling over in her grave.

Potter stood rooted to the spot, watching Snape nervously.

“Here,” Snape said, tossing Potter the charmed tape measure. He stepped over to the desk and fumbled in its drawers, extracting a piece of parchment and a quill. He tapped both items with his wand. “Take these too,” he said, handing them to Potter. “They will record your measurements. Bring them to me when you are finished.”

With that, Snape left the room and shut the door behind him, leaving Potter to his task, and pondering all that had just happened.