CHAPTER 12

Harry sprinted from his primary school playground all the way down Magnolia Crescent. He continued running as he made a left on Azalea Lane, and then a right down Privet Drive.

They were somewhere behind him – he could hear their taunts and angry shouts – but he was smaller, faster. Even so, Harry was getting more winded by the second, and was beginning to wheeze with every pounded step. He hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, just a half piece of toast and a bit of egg that he'd stolen off his family's discarded plates when they'd left him to the dishes.

Harry was weakening, and he knew it. There was no way he would make it all the way to Number 4 – it was still two blocks down near the very end of the road.

So he ducked into the small, wooded park on the corner of Privet Drive and Ivy Lane. Gasping for breath, he dashed a few yards through the trees and carelessly tossed his backpack into the dry leaves carpeting the autumn ground. Harry was desperate to hide himself as he scrambled into the massive, hollowed-out yew.

He loved this tree like an old friend, for it had protected him on countless occasions. The entrance hole wasn't large, which meant that once he was inside there weren't many things (or cousins) that could get to him. The hollow of the yew was snug enough to keep him warm, and if he leaned just so against a certain portion of the inner trunk, he could almost pretend it was a pair of strong arms embracing him. He'd fallen asleep many times wondering if that was what a hug from his father would have felt like.

And now, as Harry frantically scrambled into the hollow's tiny entrance, he prayed that the tree would protect him again. His heart pounding and a terrible stitch in his side, he tried to catch his breath as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the inside of the trunk.

Within moments he heard Dudley and his gang come pounding down the street, and he couldn't help tensing. Although they were many yards away, he covered his mouth so they wouldn't hear him breathing, just in case.

"Where'd he go?" Dudley huffed.

"We're going to beat that little turd into the ground!" Dennis yelled menacingly.

"Yeah, he can't talk to you that way, Big D!" Malcom, of course. He'd probably lick the bottom of Dudley's trainers if he thought it would make Dudley like him more.

As their footsteps pounded away, Harry felt himself relax. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, chuckling at Dudley's expense. All Harry had to do now was stay in his tree until his fat cousin lost interest – which would probably be soon if there was much more running involved. Harry thought he even had a chance at making it home in time to prep and cook dinner, if the other boys quit searching for him within the next hour or so.

If I do a good job and don't burn anything tonight, maybe Aunt Petunia will even let me have a little! Not a full plate like theirs, but maybe just enough to fill a salad plate. His stomach growled at the very thought, and Harry couldn't help smiling in anticipation.

"Hey Dudley, wait! I see your old backpack!"

And just like that, Harry's luck turned. The smile melted off his face and he thought he felt his heart practically jump into his throat.

"The green one with the broken strap and a hole in the bottom, right? Isn't that the one he uses?" It was Piers, the boy almost as nasty as Dudley himself.

Oh God, Harry thought, his heart slamming into overdrive and making the blood pound loud enough in his ears that he almost missed Piers' next words.

"I think he's in the park!"

No! Harry thought in terror. My backpack… How could I be so stupid?! Why didn't I drag it into the tree behind me? Mum, Dad, if you're watching, please don't let them find me! Please!

But as he sat cowering, hugging his knees to his chest, it was only a matter of time before they realized where he was. Within a matter of minutes they had him surrounded, kicking at the hollow tree and screaming curses.

Harry buried his head in his knees and rocked himself back and forth. "They can't get me in here," he chanted. "They can't get me in here. They can't get–"

"Do you hear him?" Gordon sniggered. "The little freak thinks he's safe."

"I could probably get him," Piers announced, the cruel anticipation clear in his voice. As the skinniest among Dudley's gang, Harry knew that Piers did indeed have the best chance of slithering into the hole. But as thin and bony as Piers was, Harry was smaller – and the entrance was still a tight fit, even for him.

Harry's stomach flipped as he heard Piers drop to the ground. "They can't get me," he whispered in a toneless cadence as he pressed his face into his bony knees. His panic made the words come out fast and fearful, but he tried to be brave in case his parents were watching. "They can't get me they can't get me they can't get–"

"Keep telling yourself that, Potter," Piers sneered from the other side of the opening. The boy's face was twisted into a look of forbidding excitement, and he grunted and groaned as he tried to wiggle the top half of his body into the hole.

Panicking, Harry immediately flattened himself against the rear of the tree, his fingers digging into the thick layer of dirt beneath him. As Piers successfully shoved one shoulder through the opening and reached for him, Harry simply reacted. Throwing the handful of dirt into the other boy's face, he knew he'd hit his target when Piers screamed and awkwardly attempted to scrub the dirt from his eyes.

"God dammit! I'm going to kill you, Potter!" And he was true to his word. With a new vigor born of rage, the boy reached his arm as far as it would go in an effort to grab Harry. His fingertips brushed against the frayed hem of Harry's oversized jeans, and Harry snatched his leg away as he attempted to scoot farther into the hollow. The movement was too quick however, and Harry's precarious position faltered. In a moment of terror, Harry felt Piers' fingers wrap around his ankle.

"I've got him!" The other boy cried triumphantly. "Pull me out! Pull me out!"

Harry kicked frantically at Pier's hand, but it was no use against the skinny boy's vicelike grip. He felt himself being unceremoniously dragged from one of the only places he'd ever felt safe, and he tried not to weep in fear. Flipping awkwardly onto his stomach, Harry frantically grabbed for the entrance's woody edges and held on for dear life.

But it was no use. One of the boys – Harry didn't know which – kicked him hard enough in the stomach to take his breath away and make him release the tree. He was immediately set upon, and he curled into a ball to protect himself from the continuous, brutal blows. After moments that felt like hours, the gang grew tired of Harry's resistance, and flung themselves upon all four of his limbs.

Harry threw his body against the many hands holding him down, trying ferociously to break away from their vicious grip. A whimper escaped him as Dudley approached, and an evil grin appeared across his cousin's pudgy features. The smirk on the bigger boy's face proved that he was well-aware of the fact that he could do whatever he wanted to Harry without fear of retaliation. This was going to be the best game of Harry Hunting he'd ever played…

As Dudley clambered on top of him, Harry desperately tried to buck him off. But when his cousin held him down with his full, immense weight, Harry's ribs felt like they would snap in half. Struggling to draw breath, he realized in terror that he could sooner push a high rise building over than he could toss his massive cousin off him.

The first punch across the face jerked Harry's head so hard, he worried it was going to come clean off his shoulders. His glasses flew from his face to land somewhere in the grass, and when his blurry, terrified gaze flicked back up to Dudley, and a numb corner of his mind registered how much his cousin was enjoying himself. Harry was chilled to his very bones when his cousin cocked his fist – and laughed.

"Dudley! D-Dudley, wait–"

But Harry's head was whipped to the side once again as his cousin threw another brutal punch. Bleeding from where his teeth tore the soft flesh inside his cheek, Harry almost choked on his own blood when Dudley pounded his face again… And again… And again, until Harry could no sooner remember his own name than he could remember how many times he was hit.

Dazed by the throbbing pain, the taunts and jeers echoed above Harry as though they were funneled through a long tunnel. An enormous bulk was crushing his ribs, preventing him from drawing breath. His head was spinning and his body was screaming for air, but all he could manage were shallow pants that stung his bleeding mouth and torn lips.

Suddenly the enormous bulk moved from on top of him, and Harry gasped a deep, ragged breath into his lungs. Muzzy and disoriented, he turned onto his side, and the earthy smell of dirt and grass filled his nose.

He couldn't seem to remember how he'd ended up on the ground. In fact, he couldn't seem to remember much of anything other than a vague, burgeoning sense of panic.

All he knew was that he was being hunted, and the pack of snarling, laughing beasts were surrounding him, snapping at his heels. Harry tried to get away, but felt as though his body was being sucked into a swamp of deep molasses. He crawled away as if his life depended on it. But the harder he struggled, the more sluggish he felt.

"Big D, look! He thinks he can get away!"

Big D… The name swirled at the edges of his consciousness. I know that name… And as sudden as a bolt of lightning, it hit him. His breath caught in his throat as the memory slammed back into place, leaving a headache in it's wake that felt as though his skull had been broken like an egg thrown against the floor.

Dudley!

A boot against his back shoved him once more into the dirt, and Harry was too weak to do more than struggle feebly.

"Where do you think you're going, freak?" A voice growled from above him. Harry received a rough kick to the gut to flip him over. Curling into himself as he clutched his stomach and gasped for breath, Harry suddenly wondered if the many blows to the head were causing hallucinations.

Because instead of Dudley, it was Draco Malfoy that stood above him, surrounded by his gang.

"Look at him glare at you, Big D," Dennis sneered. "He obviously hasn't had enough."

"Yeah," Malcom chimed in. "He needs to be taught who his betters are!"

"Don't worry, boys," Malfoy smirked haughtily, unbuckling the thick leather belt at his waist. "He'll be very well acquainted with who his betters are before the night is through." Harry's heart leapt into his throat, his pulse roaring in his ears as a fierce wave of nausea threatened to make him sick.

"NO!" Harry screamed, crab-walking backwards as Malfoy sauntered towards him, his heavy belt hanging open and an arrogant thumb hooked into the waistband of his trousers. "Stay away! Don't come near me!"

But his terror only seemed to excite Malfoy, and he grasped Harry by the roots of his hair, wretching his head backwards so Harry was forced to look him in the eye. Bending low, Malfoy shoved his face into Harry's vision, close enough that Harry could feel his vile breath fan across his cheeks as he murmured, "I'll do whatever I fucking want to you, Potter. And there's not a God damn thing you can do to stop me."

Malfoy's wand was in his hand. With a hissed incantation, thick vines exploded from the earth beside Harry, spraying him with dirt. They wound tightly around Harry's wrists and ankles, pinning him to the ground. Overtaken by panic at being bound, he struggled against his bonds fiercely enough to make blood well where the thick woody vines dug into his tender skin.

Malfoy and the others laughed at Harry's obvious terror, and when Malfoy began to unbutton his pants, Harry let out a petrified scream.

"NO! Oh God, please – DON'T–!"

"ENOUGH!"

The gang stilled at the command, turning their heads as one to gaze behind them. Harry sagged in relief. Although he couldn't see the man, he'd know that voice anywhere. Unfortunately, it seemed, so did Malfoy. The two boys spoke at the same moment, one petrified and the other jovial.

"DAD!"

"Father!"

Harry's confused gaze shot toward Malfoy. Father? But that wasn't Lucius…

The other boys parted to let the man through, suddenly subdued and respectful. He came to a stop a few paces from Harry, dressed head to foot in black with equally hair casting the planes of his angular face in shadow. Feeling a relief strong enough to make him dizzy, Harry still continued to struggle like a wild animal caught, and the panic at being trused at Draco's feet threatened to overwhelm him.

"Dad – help me!" He pleaded as he thrashed within his bonds. "PLEASE!"

There was a long, stunned silence, before the other boys broke into bemused laughter. But Harry's gaze never left Snape's. The dark, flinty eyes narrowed upon his own, and he raised a sardonic brow as he turned his gaze on Malfoy and murmured, "How hard did you hit him? He seems…" His eyes flicked back to Harry, "Confused."

Harry went very still. "What…? Dad – no..."

Malfoy snickered, paying no heed to Harry's murmured words. "You must admit, Father: he wasn't very bright to begin with."

The other boys broke out in scoffing laughter yet again, but Harry couldn't hear them over his growing horror. "No, no – wait! DAD!"

Snape cocked his head, a look of amused repugnance on his face as he studied Harry on the ground before him. Harry felt as insignificant as a wriggling bug larvae, for all the emotion he saw in the man's dark gaze.

"Potter, why on earth would you be under the impression that I'd want anything to do with you, when I have Draco here instead?" He stepped over to the silver-haired youth, placing a proud arm around the shoulders of the young, smirking Slytherin. "He's all I've ever wanted in a son – haven't I made that abundantly clear over the years?" Then, dismissing Harry entirely, he turned to Malfoy and murmured, "Finish up here and come home. Your mother is cooking dinner. And…" He glanced once again at Harry, who was still spread-eagle in the dirt at his feet. "Try not to get too dirty, hmm? You know how much that annoys your mother."

"Of course, Father. I'll be careful. See you at home."

And without so much as a glance at Harry, Snape turned on his heel and walked back the way he came.

"Dad! Wait – please!" Harry screamed, tasting the salty warmth of the unbidden tears teeming down his face. "Please don't leave me! DAAAD!" Straining his neck to lift his head from the ground, he watched Snape's retreat through the gap in the multiple pairs of legs surrounding him, until they closed around him enough that he could see no more.

His father never looked back.

Harry's wide, tear-filled gaze flicked up toward Malfoy, who was staring down at him with a mix of amusement, satisfaction – and eager anticipation. As he began to undo the top button of his trousers, Harry started screaming.

"Keep screaming for me, Potter," Malfoy muttered in a revolting echo of his cousin Dudley. "It makes it more exciting for me."

. . . . .

Harry awoke drenched in sweat, his heart pounding and his chest heaving with fear. Flinging the cloying bed sheets from his tangled limbs, he shot from the bed as if the devil himself was chasing him.

He stood panting in the quiet room with his hands in the air, spinning one way and the next, ready to fend off an unseen attacker. It was a dream… It was only a dream, Harry thought as he attempted to calm his frantically racing heart. But no matter how many times he repeated the mantra, he was still afraid to move from his combative stance.

Pull yourself together! he ordered himself. Malfoy isn't here, lurking in the shadows like some monster waiting to pounce. He's… he's in the Slytherin common room, probably sleeping. Not here, and not with… with Dad…

His body was in motion before he'd even considered moving. Snatching his wand from his small bedside homework table, Harry dropped to his knees before the trunk at the foot of his four-poster and muttered, "Lumos." Thanks to his father's insistence on organizing his belongings the night before, Harry found what he was looking for with relative ease, and a wave of gratefulness washed through him.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

Adrenaline still coursed violently, viciously through his veins. Harry's hands continued to tremble enough that he was forced to place the map on the lid of his trunk to see the tiny labeled dots. Immediately scouring the Slytherin common room, he saw with relief that the dot labeled "Draco Malfoy" was there, sitting completely still alongside the other sixth year Slytherins in the boy's dormitory.

Harry dropped his head heavily into his shaking hands, both his mind and his body refusing to calm. He knew that sleep would not be coming to him again that night. Dragging a breath deep into his lungs to ease his queasy stomach, he reached for the map, intending to take it back to bed where he could keep an eye on the small, Slytherin dot until sunrise. But with his trembling hand still hovering in the air, sudden movement near the snake dormitory gave him pause.

His father.

He watched the tiny dot pace the entire length of his personal quarters, only to turn on its heel and repeat the motion. He thought of his father far below in the bowels of the castle, torn between his anger from earlier that night, and a childish yearning to be comforted after a horrific nightmare.

His eyes were drawn once again to his father's anxious, uneasy movement, and suddenly the decision was easy.

With map in hand, he made his way once again to the small homework table beside his bed. Quietly opening the drawer, he pulled the Vanishing Box from where he'd placed it earlier that night. He then removed a bit of parchment and a muggle ballpoint pen – which he'd had the foresight to ask Lily for the night Snape had gifted him with the box. Although it was happening sooner than he'd anticipated, Harry knew that at one point he would be writing to his father while sitting in bed. A muggle pen was much easier to use than quill and ink, and he was grateful that Lily had some on hand, preferring their ease and convenience to the traditional wizard writing tools.

Climbing back into his four-poster, Harry sat cross-legged as he settled everything around him. He set his wand – still lit by the muttered, "Lumos," – atop one of his pillows, then laid out the map where he could see it. But as he readied the parchment on the wooden lid of the box, Harry found that he was both nervous and afraid. How would his father react to hearing from him, after their last explosive encounter?

He hesitated a moment longer, but with a rush of Gryffindor courage, put pen to parchment and started writing.

.:HP::SS:HP::SS:.

Snape had accepted his lot in life many years ago. He was fully aware that his fate lay within these stone walls – fortifications that were at once his salvation and as his prison.

On the night before the first class, that typically meant brooding by the fire in a cushioned armchair. With a glass of fire whiskey in hand, Snape would usually spend long, sleepless hours staring into the flames, contemplating both his twisted fate, and the incoming dunderhead students that he would be forced to waste his time attempting to teach.

Tonight however, he found that he was unable to sit still. Sustaining a frantic stride as he paced his small quarters, he continually ran his swollen fingers through his hair in agitated worry.

Perhaps it was the public speech that Dumbledore gave at dinner, warning staff and student alike that the Dark Lord was on the rise. As if we didn't already know. As if the articles in the Daily Prophet giving us the grisly details of missing and murmured families–

Coming to an abrupt halt, he closed his eyes and breathed a deep, troubled sigh. Who was he kidding? This wasn't about Dumbledore or The Daily Prophet. If he were completely honest with himself, he knew exactly what – or who – was causing this anxiety.

His son. Always, Harry.

He continued pacing.

The boy was a damned menace to himself! He allowed his curiosity and nosy inquisitiveness to lead him into perilous territory, especially where Draco Malfoy was concerned. Was his son determined to bring down his Slytherin rival at any cost, even if it meant his own safety? Was it so very hard to simply ignore Draco?

Yes, he thought, slowing as he ran a hand over his face with another sigh. Of course it was hard. Drifting backwards in time and considering the boy's sperm donor (for that was all he was at this point), Snape knew firsthand that it was damn near impossible. But this was fast becoming more than just a school boy rivalry. For Harry it was literally life and death. Why does my stubborn, mulish son refuse to see that?

Unconsciously clenching his hands into fists at his side, Snape welcomed the pain that felt like shards of glass grinding within his knuckles. The jolting ache helped foster the anger that Snape knew he would need this year. As much as he hated fighting with Harry, he would use whatever tactics necessary to keep his son alive. Even if the boy ended up hating him before the year was through, it didn't matter – as long as he survived.

But the vision of his son standing before him earlier that night suddenly drifted through his mind, and Snape's fists began to loosen. Harry, bloodied and beaten, his eyes filled with both fury and… Snape had missed it before in the shock of seeing his son's blood covering every inch of his front. But now, thinking back, there had also been a hollow, hard-won acceptance in his son's eyes. As if when all is said and done, he expects to die…

NO!

The anger came back tenfold. A wild, all-consuming rage seared Snape's very soul and threatened to burn him away to nothing. Recoiling from the anguish that the thought of Harry's death provoked, his cloak billowed out behind him as he spun on his heel and went immediately for his desk, where the bottle of fire whiskey lay discarded. But as he reached for the lower drawer he stopped mid-stride, for the runes engraved on the lid of the Vanishing Box sitting atop his desk began to pulsate with light.

Between the shock of hearing from his son and the pain still radiating through his hands, he fumbled and dropped the box when he attempted to lift it from the table. Growling impatiently, he lowered himself into his work chair and scooped the box off the floor, running his swollen fingers over the glowing runes before he carefully raised the wooden lid.

Inside he found a simple piece of parchment. Removing it carefully from the container, he unfolded it before reading, "I'm sorry about earlier. You were right – I stuck my nose where it didn't belong. I'm trying to be the son you want, but feel like I'm failing miserably. At this point you'd probably be happier with Draco instead of being stuck with a hardheaded Gryffindor like me, huh?"

Snape was surprised by the note, to say the least. He knew from personal experience that Gryffindors tended to hold grudges. McGonagall gave him the silent treatment two or three times a year when she accused him of "crossing the line" with one of her students. Snape enjoyed those weeks immensely, for he made no secret of the fact that he thought the cat to be one of his more annoying colleagues.

But even Harry's mother, his best and most cherished friend throughout his childhood, had been known to quit speaking to him for weeks at a time when she was really and truly angry with him.

However, as flabbergasted as he was by Harry's willingness to reach out, Snape was even more concerned by the self-censuring tone of the missive. What could have possibly happened to make him think that I was anything but proud to call him my son? Surely a fight couldn't abuse him of that notion…?

His throbbing fingers made gripping the quill an arduous task, and his normally neat writing was clumsy and awkward as he wrote his reply beneath Harry's message. "Although I do not argue the fact that you are indeed a hardheaded Gryffindor, I cannot EVER imagine a scenario where I would choose to have Draco as my offspring. In fact, the thought is quite horrifying. How in Merlin's beard could you think that I am not proud to call you my own? You, and you alone, are exactly the son I want – hardheadedness and all. And why are you not asleep?"

After sending his note, it was less than a minute before Snape received a reply, consisting of a single word: "Nightmare."

Harry didn't say much, but it was enough. "Would you like to come down and talk?"

The next message was a little longer in coming, as if Harry was unsure what to say. But when he finally sent his reply, it was yet another one-worded answer: "Yes."

"Use the cloak."

Harry knew perfectly well where his personal quarters were, having visited them frequently over the summer. Snape had even linked his handprint to the obsidian stone that marked the entranceway and taught him the string of Latin enchantments to unlock the rooms in case he wasn't there. But as he waited for his son's arrival, something else occurred to him.

"Dobby," he called softly. As he knew would happen, the house elf arrived a moment later with a soft pop!

"Yous be calling Dobby, Master Snape?"

"I did, yes. Would you mind bringing a small tray of food for Harry?"

"For Harry Potter, sir? Oh yes, sir, of course! Anything for Dobby's friend Harry Potter, sir. Harry Potter is a great wizard, so noble, so kind–"

"Dobby," Snape growled impatiently.

"Yes, sorry sir. Dobby will be back in a moment, Master Snape!" However, by the time the glowing green orb appeared a few minutes later notifying Snape of Harry's impending arrival, there was a veritable feast laid out on the small kitchen nook table. I should have known, Snape thought with a roll of his eyes.

But as he turned to greet his son, he was shocked by the state in which he found the boy. A fine sheen of sweat covered Harry's pale face, and his wide eyes held barely hidden traces of panicked terror.

"Harry, what–? Merlin's beard, you're ice cold!" After casting a clumsy but forceful warming charm on the boy, he placed a protective arm around his thin shoulders and ushered him toward one of the armchairs next to the fire. "Plus habent teporis," he muttered, aiming his wand in the direction of the hearth, and the flames immediately tripled in size, popping and crackling in their oversized enclosure. But even with the extra heat, Snape could feel Harry trembling beneath his grasp. Forcing the boy into one of the cushioned chairs, he summoned the thick, chunky blanket that he used on especially chilly nights.

Tucking the knit coverlet around his son, Snape found that he had a difficult time slipping into the detached, clinical mode that normally came so readily to aid him situations such as these. Snap out of it! He commanded himself, trying hard not to jump to any horrific conclusions. Think! Assess the circumstances. Severe pallor... Shallow breathing… Trembling which is not alleviated by a warming charm… And then it hit him. Of course! Hastening to the table overflowing with food and drink, he found the magically heated pot he was looking for. Placing a few more heaping spoonfuls into the thick liquid, Snape was suddenly grateful for the ridiculous little house elf that worshipped his son.

"Harry, drink this," he commanded, hurrying back to the boy's side and forcing the hot mug into his frozen fingers. He sank slowly into the matching armchair across from Harry only when the teen brought the mug to his lips. Pleased to see his son's trembling ease within seconds of swallowing the liquid, he quietly asked, "Better?"

"Yeah," Harry muttered, staring into the cup instead of meeting Snape's probing gaze. "Hot chocolate?" he asked, still staring down at the rich, brown liquid.

Snape settled back into his chair, suddenly very keenly aware that for some unknown reason, his presence was both comforting and unnerving the boy. "Indeed. One thing the wolf got right – chocolate eases emotional distress quicker than any spell or potion."

"This is a lot more bitter than the chocolate he gave me."

"Correct again. I added an especially powerful blend of dark chocolate in order to enhance its soothing properties. When using chocolate to treat a bout of emotional upheaval, the darker the chocolate, the more calming the effect. Judging by the dusky color in your mug, I believe this particular blend has an especially high percentage of cacao."

The boy nodded in acknowledgement, raising the cup to sip at the thick liquid once more. But Snape was quick to notice that Harry still refused to meet his gaze.

"Harry," he murmured. "Look at me." His son's uneasy green gaze flicked toward him, but only for a second before quickly looking away again. Snape could think of only one thing that would cause a dream that affected his son this badly.

"I thought you no longer had any problems Occluding? Perhaps what happened on the train and our heated conversation afterward was enough to–"

"No," Harry muttered, staring into the fire before them. "This wasn't like that. I wasn't inside Voldemort's head… I was… trapped inside my own, I guess." He was quiet for so long that Snape thought he would say no more. But as he was about to ask, Harry started speaking again. "It was an old memory – something I haven't thought about in a long time. There was this hollow tree… I found it one night when I was six or seven. Uncle Vernon had come home that day especially drunk and bad-tempered. He didn't like the way I was washing the dishes after supper… I was having a hard time since Dudley had pushed me to the ground earlier that day, and I think my wrist was sprained or something. It was all bruised and swollen, but Uncle Vernon didn't care – he was just looking for a reason to go after me, I think. He started taking off his belt, and I… I ran. I don't even know why – it wasn't like I hadn't gotten the belt before…"

At this, Harry fell contemplative and silent. His words chilled Snape to the very core, igniting a rage within him so fierce, he wanted nothing more in that moment than to bring the filthy muggle back from the dead just so he could hear the bastard beg for death once more. He yearned to kill the muggle filth slowly… painfully… relishing every pitiful moan and scream of torment. But knowing that his fury would do more harm than good to his son in this moment, Snape forced himself to stay silent on the matter.

After a long minute Harry seemed to shake himself, and he continued talking. His voice was blasé and detached, as if he were speaking of something no more significant than the weather. "Anyway, I found this hollow tree, and I stayed there all night. When I finally went home the next day, I got the beating I was supposed to get the night before – and then some. Aunt Petunia had to keep me out of school for two weeks before the bruises faded. But I didn't care. That tree… Well, it was like my own secret place. It was huge and ancient, and for some reason that made me feel safe. Like... the world could end, but that me and that tree would keep on living.

"The entrance was hidden among the big, gnarly roots, and it was small enough that I knew no one could follow me in. All those times without food ended up helping me. Funny, right? I used to talk to Mum and Dad in that tree, pretend that they could hear me – I had no one else to talk to, and I was just a stupid kid.

"One day after school, Dudley and his gang were chasing me – they called it Harry Hunting, it was a game they played – and I… I ran to my tree, thinking that I would be safe there. But I made a dumb mistake, and of course they found me. Piers – that was one of Dudley's friends – he was tall and skinny. Not as small as me, but skinny enough that he could reach in, and… Well, my stupid pants were so big – they were old hand-me-downs of Dudley, you know? Piers was able to grab the hem of my jeans… I threw dirt in his face to try and get away, but that just made him angrier. They dragged me out and… Dudley had an especially good time wailing on me. He was so big, I didn't stand a chance fighting him off. I don't really remember much, to be honest."

There were tears leaking from Harry's eyes, dripping off his chin and onto the blanket wrapped around him, but Snape didn't think the boy noticed. His eyes were faraway, as if he could clearly see the awful scene playing out before him. But he continued speaking in that cold, detached voice, and Snape's heart continued to tear painfully in two. "In the dream… wh–when I came to, it… it wasn't D-Dudley that was on top of me… It-it was Draco. And he… He used magic to pin me down, and… H-he started un… unbuckling his belt…"

Oh dear God, Snape thought in horror, suddenly understanding exactly what had caused such a desperate reaction in his son. "Harry," he said, trying to interrupt so the boy wouldn't have to relive such a vile memory.

But the teen spoke over him, as if he couldn't stop – as if the words were like poison that needed to be purged from a festering wound. They came fast and hard now, like the tears pouring from his eyes. "He undid his t-trousers, and it was obvious what he wanted–"

"Harry, stop."

"It was j-just like over the s-summer, with D-Dudley. I w-was begging–"

"Harry–"

"B-begging, but it just s-seemed to excite him even m-more. Then–" And at that moment, Harry's eyes met Snape's own – and held. What Snape saw within their tortured depths made him want to claw his own beating heart from his chest.

But Harry continued, not knowing how his words ripped at his father's soul. "Then you were there. I… cried out for you. I pleaded f-for your help. B-but I… I wasn't your s-son. Draco was. Y-you both h-hated me, and… and…"

Snape went ice cold. "Please…" he whispered, unable to tear his gaze away, knowing what Harry was going to say before the words were even spoken. "Please Harry, don't."

But it was as if his son could no longer hear him. His voice was strong and clear, his words slitting open Snape's heart like a poisoned blade, and the pain was just as great. "You left me. You knew what was going to happen – you knew. But you chose him, and you left me all alone."

Snape felt the prickle of prediction in his words, and the truth of Harry's accusation assailed his every nerve like a thousand Crucio's. The looming inevitability of Dumbledore's death; the horrifying truth of the Unbreakable Vow; the entire Malfoy family's ghastly circumstance; the precarious, crumbling cliff edge that Snape was forcing his innocent family to traverse; and Harry… Dear God, my son…

It was suddenly too much to bear alone.

Rebelling against the inescapable future, he moved on pure instinct. Grasping his son, he hauled Harry roughly against his chest and buried his face in the mop of messy hair at the boy's crown. Forcing words past the ragged lump in his throat, all Snape could say was, "I'm sorry, Harry. God forgive me, I'm so very sorry."

Initially Harry struggled against his touch, pushing roughly against Snape's chest to free himself from any physical contact. But after a long moment of Snape's repeated, tearful apologies, he collapsed into the older wizard's embrace with an agonizing cry. Snape held his son in a protective embrace as Harry clung fiercely to the front of his robes, as if afraid he would be swept away if he dared to let go. Sobs wracked Harry's body, and as Snape tightened his hold on the boy, he suspected these tears were many weeks in coming. It took long minutes for the two of them to get their raw emotions under control.

Harry finally pulled away with an embarrassed look as he scrubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands. Glancing nervously up at Snape through his fringe, he murmured, "I'm… I'm sorry… I don't… I'm not really sure where that came from."

"Harry," Snape replied seriously. "You don't need to be sorry.I'm your father – you are supposed to come to me when you're upset."

Harry shrugged, obviously attempting to inject some levity into the situation. "Yeah, but… it was just a nightmare. I'm too old to come crying to–"

"No," Snape interrupted, perhaps a bit harsher than he intended. Harry stopped, staring up at him with wide eyes. Snape took a steadying breath to calm himself, then continued, "You are never too old. You will always – always – be my son."

The color rose a little higher on Harry's cheeks. But as embarrassed as the boy was, there was no denying that he was pleased by the words.

Rising suddenly, Snape went to the laden kitchen table and filled a large plate with food. Using his wand, he hovered it over to Harry to save his hands the discomfort of carrying the heavy tray.

"What's this?" Harry asked in confusion.

"Consider it a late dinner," Snape murmured as he lowered himself back into his chair. At Harry's bewildered expression, he explained, "Did we not just discuss this? I'm your father. Don't think I didn't notice that you only ate treacle tart at the feast."

The boy stuttered defensively before hotly replying, "That was only because–!"

"Harry," Snape interrupted softly, drawing him up short. "I know. It's alright. Eat."

Harry watched him for a long moment before his face finally relaxed. "Ok."

They sat in companionable silence, the crackling of the fire and the soft tinkle of silverware against the platter the only sounds filling the room. Snape was pleased to see that Harry ate most of what was on the plate before him, and waited until the boy was clearly finished before asking, "Is this the first time you've had a nightmare since your experience this summer?" The comfortable atmosphere evaporated instantly, and when Harry seemed ready to immediately refute the question, Snape warned in a silky tone, "Don't lie to me."

Harry glared accusingly at him for a long moment. But with a deep sigh and a resigned look taking its place, he finally admitted, "No. I had nightmares over the summer, too. But they seemed to go away in Lily's Tower, and I thought I was done with them after that. This one was… definitely the worst."

Snape nodded, deep in thought but not surprised by Harry's admission. I should have seen it, he thought harshly, placing all the blame at his own feet. I should have realized his mind would be weakened… And in that moment time stopped altogether, and something truly, horribly frightening occurred to him.

"Harry," he breathed. When trusting, questioning green eyes connected with terrified black, he did not hesitate. "Legilimens."

He slipped into Harry's mind as though there were no barrier at all, and Harry's torment was as clear as though it were Snape's own. He looked down upon a scene that churned his stomach and almost made him retch: Harry, spread-eagle and beaten bloody, pinned to the ground by large, magical vines. His wide, terrified eyes were locked on someone that Snape couldn't see, his neck muscles straining beneath the skin to keep whoever it was in his line of vision. A group of boys stood above him like a pack of wolves, jeering down at their helpless prey. And there was Draco, staring down at Harry with a cruel, hungry look in his eye as he continued to undo his trousers. Snape's horrified gaze was drawn toward the retreating figure that Harry was struggling so fiercely to see – and with a jolt as the pack of wolves moved just enough, he realized it was him.

At that moment, Harry was able to purge him from his memories with a tremendous mental shove, and Snape was suddenly staring at the panting, sweaty visage of his son sitting in the armchair across from him. Harry was pale once again, soaked to the skin with sweat – and absolutely enraged.

"What the fuck, Dad?!" he yelled, jumping to his feet.

But Snape didn't respond. Instead he was silent, horrified and completely consumed not only by what he'd seen – but also by what it signified.

It was like their failed Occlumency lessons all over again. Only this time the stakes are much higher. It's not just Harry's sanity that's at risk – it's his very life. If the Dark Lord realizes what Dumbledore is teaching him…

"Dear God," Snape breathed, and a fear the likes of which he'd never known settled deep into his bones.