Professor Severus Snape stalks through the halls of Hogwarts with an absentminded glower on his face. There are many things he enjoys about being Head of Slytherin House, but this duty is not one of them. Escorting each of his new Slytherins for a checkup with Madam Pomfrey: it is not the task he dislikes so much as the results. Too often, it turns out that a child arrives from home with injuries which require them to spend a night in the hospital wing before rejoining their classmates. Too often there are emotional scars, harder to heal.
It appears that little Elise Venti is one of these. He has had his eye on her since the Sorting Feast last night, and this evening’s tests proved his suspicions correct. One more name to add to his list; he hopes desperately that she will be the only one. On a slightly more positive note, none of the older students he is keeping an eye on have yet felt the need to come see him, although he will be checking in on each of them over the next week. While he has assured them that his office is open – and even welcoming – to them, he knows the effects a summer at ‘home’ can have on their trust in all adults.
He curses to himself. How did he even end up in this position? Bad enough that he is stuck with a teaching career trying to drill Potions into the minds of dunderhead children, worse that he is Head of House, let alone becoming the unofficial abuse counsellor. He doesn’t do nice, doesn’t do approachable or helpful or sympathetic, so why him? Of course, he knows why.
Firstly, most of the children would have been his responsibility anyway – it is an unfortunate truth that the qualities Slytherin most prized are also those that children growing up in such undesirable home environments are forced to develop. While the other Houses are not without their own victims, these skills lead the majority hide in the House of the snakes. Then there is the fact that his spying has accustomed him to picking up subtle signs in body language, and piecing together information from fragments of clues. For various reasons, abused children are rarely willing to openly admit to it, but few can hide the truth from his sharp eye.
Last is the true reason he actively seeks out those requiring his help in this way; even those outside his House. The reason he will not admit even to himself. Of all the staff, he is the one with the strongest determination to find the children, rather than smiling and pretending their problems don’t exist. He is the one who gives them understanding not pity, who knows how to talk to them and what they fear. He knows. At least his damn muggle father was good for something.
As though echoing his thoughts, his eye falls on a lone student turning onto the corridor ahead. What initially catches his attention is the way the boy walks. Another might not have seen it, but to his skilled eye the slight limp is painfully obvious, not to mention obviously painful. He frowns. Though the child is coming towards him, he has wandered far during his musing, taking a circuitous route that does not lead readily back to the hospital wing – where the boy clearly needs to be. While he is almost small enough to be a lost first year, there is a furtive purposefulness to his stride that rings alarm bells in Severus’s mind.
His gaze sharpens as he automatically starts looking for further signs. The boy moves with the stiffness of further hidden injuries, while his shoulders are hunched in a distinctive combination of wariness, fear and defiance. As he gets closer the flickering torches show the dark shadow of bruises circling his wrists and neck, not quite covered by the school robes. Gryffindor, a part of his mind notes in surprise, it has been years since he has seen this in that house. Pacing closer still his eyes travel higher, tracing the bruise along a cheekbone to the painful puffiness around his… eyes; brilliant green and achingly familiar. He comes to an abrupt halt.
“Potter?” Only his habitual monotone keeps the shock and surprise from his voice. His mind can’t comprehend it. Rare enough to see such marks on any Gryffindor, but Potter, of all people; the Boy-Who-Lived, the Golden Boy himself?
The boy startles, freezing for a moment before replying.
“Professor.” His voice is cool, arrogant, and utterly Potter. The long familiar tone sends a wave of anger surging through him.
He drags his gaze away from the burning green eyes, the bruises he had thought he saw on his face gone as though they never were – but of course they never existed, where would Prince Potter get marks like that? No, it was all just shadows and an overactive imagination. His voice is sharp as he regards the bane of his teaching career.
“And where do you think you are going at this time of night? Or do you believe rules such as curfew do not apply to you? I can assure you that this is most certainly not the case.”
Potter lifts his chin defiantly, his whole posture changed and once more familiar.
“I am returning to the Tower, sir. Now, if I may leave so as to arrive before curfew?”
Severus simply snarls, waving a hand in curt dismissal. Glaring after the retreating figure he absently notes that the limp is gone – of course it is, Potters strut, not limp. Or, as in this case, they dawdle. He considers going after the boy, to yell at him or to catch him still out after curfew hits, but is suddenly struck by a wave of exhaustion. No. He has enough to do with his snakes; Potter is not his problem.
Author's Chapter Notes:
And enter Snape.
Mirage