Severus gaped down at the boy for a few moments, taking in the extent of his injuries. If anyone had walked in on that moment, it surely would have been quite a sight: the dour, snarky Potions Master frozen in place, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly like a fish with his wand held limply at his side.  He finally got enough control over himself to drop to one knee next to Potter, examining the injuries with both his wand and his eyes.  

This isn’t possible, he thought to himself, but it rung hollow even to him.  He closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath.  Seeing the boy like this was too strange.  He had never looked less like James, but at the same time, it was so easy to think of him as his father without her eyes pinning him to the ground.  Severus quickly conjured a stretcher for the boy, blinking repeatedly as if he expected him to disappear in front of his eyes.  It wasn’t as if he had never seen such injuries before...but Potter?  There had to be an explanation.  One that didn’t involve what was quickly becoming obvious to Severus as he gazed down at the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Be-an-Absolute-Enigma.  Please don’t tell me we’ve all missed something this important.

The darkness was more than welcoming.  The throbbing pain had subsided to a dull ache, which was certainly preferable to the agony he’d been feeling not long ago.  I could get used to this, he thought dreamily.

A sudden, gentle brush against his face broke through his subconscious musings, and he instinctively shied away.  A deep, rumbling voice reached his ears, as if coming from very far away, and he strained to identify it in his muddled state; it was familiar, but as he approached consciousness, the pain returned full force, and he retreated into himself again.  Unfortunately, this time, the comforting darkness had fled, to be replaced with a barred window, raised voices, and the never-ending flow of tears and blood...

Severus sat on a chair next to a cot in the hospital wing, watching the small, raven-haired boy’s chest rise and fall.  Pomfrey had been shocked and horrified at his condition, and kept mumbling about not detecting anything amiss before the Feast.  Clearly, the boy had masked his condition quite well, if he’d been able to slip past Poppy.  

He sighed, already rueing the destruction of his careful plans for the evening, but reached out almost subconsciously to brush the boy’s hair, matted with sweat, from his eyes.  Potter flinched violently away from the touch, and he felt a burning anger wash away his irritation - what had happened to the arrogant, entitled boy he’d taught for the past two years?  Or, more importantly, how had the boy fooled the entire school the way he had?

Severus was the first to admit that he had held a grudge against the boy.  And what of it?  He’s always acted exactly like his father.  All Gryffindor recklessness, vanity from his fame, and no thought whatsoever for others.  He could, hypothetically of course, imagine himself having missed any obvious signs of his abuse, particularly since the boy would probably rather scrub cauldrons for a lifetime than show weakness in front of the Potions Master.  But the rest of the staff doted on the boy.  If he was showing any signs whatsoever, why did no one else see?  

He tried his best to ignore the snide voice in his head whispering that of course no one else saw; no one else was as experienced with abused children as he was, no one else was as familiar with the signs.  But that’s exactly the point!  Where were the signs?  He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated.  Furthermore, how on earth did a child-- any child-- with that kind of a family life end up in Gryffindor, of all places?  As far as he knew, there had never been a single reported case of child abuse against a Gryffindor.  Which would explain why his Head of House never noticed, the voice whispered.  Shut up, he snarled at it.

“Maybe that’s it,” he murmured to himself.  The boy stirred slightly at the sound, but he ignored the movement, suddenly lost in his own thoughts.  Maybe that idiotic courage that their house promotes keeps them from saying anything, for fear of seeming weak.  Maybe they’re too damn honorable to believe that they don’t have to suffer in silence.   If that was true, then who knew how many students had fallen through the cracks?  The boy let out a soft, piteous moan, and he instinctively leaned forward to clasp his hand in his own.  He froze, realizing a moment too late what he’d done, then forced himself to relax.  You’d do this for any other child in his position, he reminded himself.  He hadn’t done it for a Gryffindor before, but that didn’t mean anything; he’d comforted students in the other three Houses without a problem, hadn’t he?  But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the red-and-gold crest on his uniform that made Severus so uncomfortable; it was the hair, the name, everything that reminded him of his old enemy.  He swore silently and pulled back, trying and failing to repress the twinge of guilt he felt when the boy’s hand clenched tighter around thin air.

The cramped space seemed to be getting tighter by the second as he slowly sat up, grimacing.  He hadn’t been locked in his cupboard since his first Hogwarts letter, but he really should have known this was coming after the less-than-ideal way he’d left the Dursley residence last summer.

Harry screwed up his face as he stretched as best he could in the small amount of space he could find, and resignedly flicked a spider off his nose.  He had almost forgotten how many there were in the cupboard, and after meeting the Acromantula colony last year, he was less than thrilled about coming face to face - literally - with their smaller cousins on such a regular basis.  It had been three days since he left Hogwarts, three nights back in the darkness of his childhood bedroom, and far too many missed meals for his liking after being used to the constant supply of food at school.  His trunk had been locked away somewhere, his owl was probably even hungrier than he was, and Uncle Vernon kept turning an ominous shade of purple whenever Harry came near.  It was only a matter of time before something gave way.

A sharp rapping on the door made him jump.

“Up!” snapped Aunt Petunia, and Harry groaned inwardly.  The latch on the door slid open from outside, and he dragged himself out, swaying a bit from hunger as he balanced on his stiff legs.  

Aunt Petunia, looking down her nose at her nephew, turned away.  “Make breakfast for Dudders and your uncle,” she ordered.  Harry felt a blaze of anger, but gritted his teeth and headed to the kitchen and obediently started frying eggs, noting with exhaustion the large list of chores for him posted on the fridge.  He looked longingly at the food on the stove as his stomach growled, but Dudley had already entered the kitchen, leering at his cousin, leaving Harry with no opportunity to steal some food for himself.  Later, he told himself.  Just wait until Uncle Vernon’s gone, and Aunt Petunia’s not looking, and Dudley’s ignoring me... His stomach growled once more, insistently, and Dudley smirked from his seat at the table.  He split the eggs between two plates, quickly added toast, and placed them on the table, one before Dudley and one in his Uncle’s usual spot.  After that, he fled the kitchen, trying to escape his cousin’s taunting look and the smell of the food.  

He immediately headed out into the garden, wanting to do the outdoor chores before the sun made the heat unbearable.  Pruning the roses, painting the shed, mowing the lawn, watering the flowers... It was nearly eleven by the time he finished, and he hurriedly washed the dirt off his hands with the garden hose, cupping some water in his newly clean hands to quench his thirst.  

“Hey, freak!”

Harry groaned quietly and turned off the hose.  He had been expecting this, to be honest.  He swiveled around, fixing Dudley with an exhausted glare as he surreptitiously checked his surroundings.  

“It’s been a while,” the larger boy said with a smirk, cracking his knuckles.  At the sound, several other boys emerged, spreading out in a wide semicircle in an attempt to surround Harry.  “I think we ought to play a little game to celebrate the start of summer, don’t you?” he asked his cronies, who all looked rather smug.  He started toward his cousin, picking up speed as he came closer.

Harry ran.

The boy was twitching and crying out softly in his sleep, tangling himself up in the sheets as he attempted to escape his invisible tormentors.  Severus leaned forward, fully intending to wake him before he managed to aggravate his injuries, and Potter’s body convulsed.  

“No,” he whimpered, twisting away.  “Please...” His chest heaved and his shoulders hunched, as if he sensed the hand reaching toward him.  The boy was silent for a few minutes, and seemed to relax, but then suddenly began shaking even more than before.  “No, Uncle,” he begged, his voice becoming slightly more high-pitched with the start of a new dream.  “Be good...promise...” Potter gripped the sheets desperately, curling up into a ball.

Severus had seen enough.  He shook the boy gently, and those brilliant green eyes flew open, filled to the brim with unshed tears and unmitigated terror, staring at him without comprehension for a few moments before shock registered in his expression.  

“Professor?” he squeaked, pulling away from him slightly.  “What...what are you...?”  He looked around wildly, then winced in pain.  Nervousness flooded the boy’s expression as he realized where he was, and he looked down at himself before groaning and pulling the sheets up to his neck, covering most of his body.  Severus felt a stab of pity; he certainly wouldn’t have felt very comfortable in Potter’s position.  

“Oh,” he said, sounding very young, and Severus glared at the boy, though not as intensely as he usually would.

“Eloquent as ever, I see,” he commented, and Potter flushed.  “Care to explain exactly how you came to be passed out in a classroom with several possibly fatal injuries?”  Why was he being so cold?  If it had been one of his Snakes, he’d be comforting the child, carding his fingers through their hair, or gently encouraging them to let out their tears.  Only you, Potter, could put me in danger of losing my status as the school’s unofficial abuse counsellor.  Potter cringed, flinching away and dropping his gaze.  “I-- it was nothing, sir.”  He bit his lip, and Severus sighed.