“Potter hides food.”

Draco was sitting in the stuffed armchair in Snape’s den, eating oatmeal biscuits and sipping on a glass of pumpkin juice. Until a moment ago, the boy had regaled Snape with stories of his first flying lesson and how he’d outflown everyone else, despite the inferior quality of the school brooms. The sudden change of subject came as a surprise.

Snape frowned. “What do you mean, he hides food?”

Draco took another sip of juice. “He has a secret stash under his bed. Puts something in it almost every time we get back from the Great Hall. He doesn’t think we know about it, but it’s starting to smell.”

Snape remembered that he’d seen Potter slip something into his pocket during the Welcoming Feast.

“Did you speak to him about it?” he asked Draco.

The boy shook his head. “He’s weird about food.”

“‘Weird’?” Snape repeated. Talking to eleven-year-olds could be worse than pulling teeth from a Hungarian Horntail.

“He’s always hungry, but he never eats much. And he sometimes throws up after dinner.”

Snape frowned. He’d dealt with eating disorders before, but this didn’t sound like your common case of teenage bulimia. Why would Potter squirrel away food under his bed? Not that he was the first student to smuggle food into the dorms, but Draco made it sound like an ongoing habit… one Potter was hiding from the other boys.

Not that it was the only ‘weird’ thing about Potter’s behavior. A week had passed, and the wizarding world had yet to hear more than five words from the Boy-Who-Lived. All Potter ever did was mumble “yes sir”, “no sir” or “I dunno sir”. Snape hardly saw him talking to his classmates, or do much of anything, in fact. The boy seemed to merely… exist, content to breathe, take up space and eat occasionally.

“Do you think it did something to his head?” Draco asked, pulling him from his musings. “The curse, I mean. Do you think he’s bonkers?”

It was unsettling, hearing his very thoughts come so bluntly from Draco’s mouth.

“Potter is your Housemate, Draco,” he said, more sharply than before. “I expect you to treat him accordingly.”

“I don’t mind if he’s a little…” Draco waved a hand in front of his face. “He’s okay. He needs to go clothes shopping, though. Those rags of his look worse than Weasley’s.”

Snape could not, in all fairness, reprimand Draco, for the boy was right. He’d caught a glimpse of Potter in the common room, wearing a frayed black jumper that hung off his small frame like a sack. When he’d visited the first-year dorm the night Goyle got sick, he’d seen Potter’s pajamas, if one could call them that: a baggy gray t-shirt, its collar ripped, and a pair of faded trousers large enough fit a boy twice his size.

“Money is a privilege, Draco.”

“Yes, Uncle Sev,” the boy replied, but Snape could see that he was being humored.

Draco’s next question caught him by surprise. “Do you think I could invite Potter over to the manor some time? Maybe for the Christmas hols?”

Snape stared at his godson. Sometimes the boy’s aristocratic manners made him forget that Draco was only eleven years old, after all. The thought of Potter and his godson, playing Gobstones in Draco’s room while Lucius entertained the Death Eaters for dinner… Merlin. “I’m not sure that would be wise, Draco.”

“Why? We could play Quidditch together. He’s a really good flier, almost as good as me. Hooch said so, too.”

“Madam Hooch, Draco.”

“Yes, Uncle Sev. So, could I?”

“Draco…” Snape sighed. “I thought Vincent and Gregory were going to visit you?”

“Yeah, but…” Draco shrugged. “They’re kind of… immature, you know?”

Snape was careful to keep a perfectly straight face. “Oh?”

“Yeah…” Draco pulled a face. “They still build dens with their bedsheets and pretend they’re dragon hunters. Potter doesn’t talk much, but he’s more grown-up.”

Snape had to admit that he was surprised. He wouldn’t have expected his godson to take a liking to the silent, withdrawn boy.

“You should discuss this with your father, Draco. Perhaps something can be arranged.”

“Wicked!” Grinning, Draco snatched up another biscuit.

Snape watched his godson and made a mental note to inform Dumbledore about Potter’s possible visit to Malfoy Manor. If Lucius agreed, precautions would have to be taken.

###

“Potter, to my office.”

The boy glanced up, and for a moment, Snape saw fear in the green eyes. Then he lowered his head again, hiding behind his hair as usual.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, getting up from the armchair he’d curled up in.

The rest of the common room was suspiciously quiet as Snape walked to the door, Potter in tow. Usually, a visit to the office boded no good for the student in question. Snape could almost feel the curious eyes following them, although no one was stupid enough to actually ask what Potter had done.

The boy stayed two steps behind him the entire way; only the dragging of his sneakers on the stone floor let Snape know that he was still there.

He opened the heavy wooden door and let Potter pass, sighing inwardly as the boy shuffled in like a prisoner into his cell. Merlin, but he was small. Snape had noticed this before; most of the first-year girls had an inch or two on the child, never mind the boys. Somehow, however, his stature had never seemed quite so… slight in the classroom. If Snape had encountered Potter in Diagon Alley, he’d have thought him eight or nine, at the most.

“Sit,” he ordered the boy, nodding at the chair that stood in front of his desk. Usually, he had miscreants stand while he lectured them, but intimidation was not the purpose of this visit.

Snape took a seat behind his desk, watching Potter as he perched on the very edge of the chair, his hands clutching the fabric of his school robes. The boy’s nails were bitten to the quick.

Snape reached under his desk and took out a cardboard box, which he set down in front of the boy. Potter glanced up and again there was that flash of fear in his eyes before he lowered his head.

“Is this yours, Potter?” Snape asked.

Potter nodded once without looking up.

“A verbal answer, if you will.”

“Yes, sir.” Mumbled, barely intelligible.

Snape opened the box and flicked his wand at it. The contents soared out and lined up on an old towel Snape had put there for this very purpose. Potter was watching warily from beneath his shaggy fringe.

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Potter?”

No reply, but then, Snape hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

“Let’s see…” he began, turning to the items on the towel as if they truly interested him. “Two brown apples… mouldy sausages… stale bread crusts… this may have been a piece of treacle tart once… and this, if I’m not mistaken, is a piece of the Yorkshire pudding that was served two nights ago?”

Snape looked back at the boy. A faint blush had crept up from Potter’s collar and was slowly spreading across his cheeks, but no other reaction was forthcoming.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Potter, these are all remnants from dinners served in the Great Hall at some point. Why, may I ask, are you hoarding them under your bed? Surely you’re aware that these items are spoiled and no longer fit for human consumption?”

Potter mumbled something Snape didn’t quite catch.

“Speak up, boy,” he ordered sharply. “And look at me.”

Potter raised his head. “They’re still good, sir,” he repeated.

“Potter, are you trying to be funny?”

The boy’s eyes widened a fraction. “No, sir.”

“These… things,” Snape jerked his wand at the food on the towel, “are spoiled. The bacteria growing on them may be harmful if ingested. Are you trying to give yourself food poisoning, boy?”

“N-no, sir.”

They weren’t getting anywhere here. Snape sighed. “Potter, why are you hiding food? Students have never gone hungry at Hogwarts. Surely three meals a day are enough for you.”

Potter nodded quickly, then remembered that he was supposed to give verbal replies. “Yes, sir.”

“Then why do you feel the need to keep a secret stash under your bed?”

“I… I.” Potter trailed off, but Snape said nothing, waiting for the boy to speak up again.

“I dunno, sir,” Potter muttered finally, shrinking in on himself as if he wished for the chair to swallow him.

“Not good enough,” Snape snapped. “What you are doing is unhygienic and potentially dangerous, if you were actually planning to consume these at some point. I want to know why you felt compelled to breed mould and fungi in your dormitory.”

“It’s… just in case.”

“In case of what, Potter?”

The boy shrugged helplessly. “In case I need it. If… if there isn’t any.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at the boy. Potter wasn’t lying or playing games; no eleven-year-old, not even a Slytherin, could act that well. The child was genuinely worried that Hogwarts’ seemingly endless supply of food might one day just stop.

“Potter…” Snape waited for the boy to look at him. “Have you gone hungry before?”

The blush was back, spreading furiously across the pale cheeks. “D-dunno, sir.”

Oh, he did know. The merest brush of Legilimency against the child’s unprotected mind proved as much. Hunger was a central part of Potter’s life, and he knew all about its various stages, the dull ache, the painful cramps, the hollow emptiness accompanied by dizziness and aching limbs.

Snape did not probe beyond these very basic impressions. What he’d seen and felt was enough to disturb him. A healthy child’s mind bubbled with unconnected thoughts and emotions, occupied with everyday matters like homework, a new quill, their favorite pudding for dinner. Potter’s thoughts… his brief glimpse had shown Snape a dark wasteland, desolate and lonely.

This wasn’t right.

“May I go now, Professor?”

It was the first thing the boy had ever said without being asked. Snape looked down at the child’s anxious face, and knew that he would accomplish nothing by forcing the matter… not here, not now.

“You may.”

Potter jumped up and almost ran to the door.

“And Potter?”

“Sir?”

“The Standard Book of Spells, page 121. It’s called the Stasis Spell and will keep food from spoiling.”

Potter paused, his hand on the door handle. “… thank you, sir.”

With that, he was gone, his dark school robes wipping out of sight. Snape leaned back in his chair, regarding the pitiful collection of stale and crumbly food on his desk.

This would have to be done very carefully.