Truth's Like Blood Underneath Your Fingernails by ChoicesWeMake

It’s not very often that Severus Snape has to pause and steel himself to enter a place, gather his thoughts, prepare his mind. He’s usually consistent enough he doesn’t have to think about his movements, his facial tics. His spying may be years out of purpose, but habits like that, thought patterns like that, something sharpened into instinct - that doesn’t leave you.

Yet, with all the instincts at his beck, he’s standing inside the carved gold wings of a phoenix, feeling at a loss. Again. And sod it all, if it wasn’t Potter’s fault. Again!

He’s not sure where he’s standing, whether Dumbledore knows anything of what’s been happening, but his wager is that Dumbledore certainly doesn’t know the extent of it. The man would have done something if he did, no doubt at all in Severus’ mind. Dumbledore may be doing his best so far to keep open minded and uninvolved, but if Severus knows anything about the man he knows Dumbledore would not consciously sanction approval for his Golden Boy to live with abusive relatives. Bitterness tinges Severus’ thoughts. He’ll tell him. It will be Dumbledores’ responsibility to deal with it all after this, and the man will no doubt count it a privilege.

He moves forward, muttering about fire red phoenixes and dramatic entrances and having to sit in front of the Headmaster’s desk like some errant schoolboy, while in the back of his mind is still a long, blank sound where his plan of action should be. It leaves him feeling detestably wrong-footed as he steps into the inner sanctuary of Dumbledore’s office.

Dumbledore is sitting behind the desk - of course - over some papers. He looks up as if he’s expecting Severus, though, which makes Severus’ lips purse in irritation.

“Ah, Severus.”

“Headmaster.”

“Come, now, my boy.” The man motions to a seat in front of him, the barest hint of a smile upon his lips. “It’s only us, here.”

“Albus, then.” Severus concedes, taking a seat. Already, his insides are jittery with impatient for this to be over.

The Headmaster steeples his fingers, eyes backlit with a blue sparkle.

“Don’t tell me this is about the loo in the third - “

“No.”

“Ah.”

“Potter.” Severus bites snidely. Of course. Why does it seem like everything now is about Potter?

Albus’ face changes; understanding. He leans back a little, eyes on his Potions Master.

“I would hope, Severus, that at the least you would treat him as any of the other Slytherins in your house. No one could have predicted such a sorting, but -“

Severus is already shaking his head, voice tight. “This has nothing to do with Potter being in my house - Albus - “

Dumbledore is waiting, face curious and wary. It’s unsettling for something to leave Severus pausing for words. More often they come, hot and scathing and tumbling - but now, he’s not sure where to start. The bruises? The malnutrition? The belt welts?

“I’m sure you were informed of Potter’s catastrophe in flying class, his first,” Severus allows himself, feeling a wash of fresh indignation again at the sodding nerve of the boy. But when he glances up, Dumbledore’s eyes are warm with affection.

“A minor commotion.” He dismisses, and then his voice turns light and fond. “Although I hear the boy’s got his father’s talent.”

Severus’ jaw tightens incrementally. He’s staying focused, he is. This isn’t about Potter and his bloody broom.

“Poppy examined the boy afterward, as a result of the scuffle.”

“Severus, I’m sure any injuries our Harry sustained -“

Severus growls. “What Poppy discovered in her examination, is that our Harry had multiple abrasions from his crash landing - ”

He cuts himself off, not having figured out how to phrase it yet. When he doesn’t say anything else, Albus speaks again.

“That is to be expected, Severus, but I fail to see -“

Severus’ voice is finally even, detached as he lists them off. “As well - the boy had - contusions covering his body, perhaps a week old. Suspicious number of cuts and bruises, and was dangerously underweight.”

Albus’ blue, blue eyes are searching, trying to understand, not wanting to.

“Scarring, Albus.” Severus says stiffly, shoves away the images that are there, always right there, bony back, red welts, hitched shoulders, arms pinned upward like a sacrifice. “Scarring on his back, not badly, but - his relatives - it was obvious, his reactions when confronted…”

Severus pauses just a moment; for a moment, there’s silence like after you’ve dropped something in water and are sitting watching the ripples dimple outward.

“No,” Albus drops the word faintly, shaded with grief and he looks for one minute, just as stricken as Severus thought he’d be. Quick, like an impulse, Severus' desire to lessen the blow, to somehow soften the news, but it’s gone just as quickly, and when Albus speaks, his voice is low, grim and steely.

“Severus, are you sure of this?”

Severus stiffens, feeling a flash of resentment at the question, pictures still pushing at the back of his mind. Yes, he’s bloody sure.

“I of all people have no reason to concoct such a story, Albus, you know my feelings on Potter -“

“No, Severus, don’t take it so. I am only… the Dursley’s may not be the most warm people, perhaps not the most welcoming upbringing for the boy, but I was certain Petunia- “

“Petunia Ev-Dursley is spiteful.” Severus says contemptuously. “You underestimate her if you think her and her oaf of a husband incapable of such action.”

“Not uncapable, perhaps, but I had surely trusted unwilling.”

Severus sits, his back straight, arms folded in front of him.

“A miscalculation, obviously.”

“So it seems.” Albus ponders, slumping back.

Well. All in all, Severus has done his duty, and merlin’s beard, is he ready for it to be done. He prepares to rise.

“You will take care of the necessary changes to be made? I’m sure you’ll want to keep it under radar of the Ministry, if possible, quiet. The boy will need to be informed, but I had thought you might want to speak to him personally.”

“Changes, Severus?”

“Of course.” Severus grits in irritation. “Potter’s living arrangement.”

This is going to take longer than he thought if Albus wants to hash over all the details with him. He honestly doesn’t care where or who the boy goes to, as long as it’s not his deplorable - merlin, Petunia..

“Severus,” There’s regret in his voice, and it’s the look on his face when Severus glances up that stops Severus’ thoughts in their tracks. Is Albus… ? No. Not possible.

“Severus, there are blood protections–“

Severus tries to school his own face into something not quite so obvious as the disbelief he feels. He remembers this, briefly, a meeting of the Order after the - deaths, about a baby and muggles and cautionary preemptive protections, bound with powerful blood spells, a deeper magic only briefly touched on in the group. He remembers hearing it. He remembers exactly how much he didn’t care, the way the words fell dead and searing on his ears, how they seemed to float in and right out, exactly how much they didn’t matter in the shadow of the unimaginable loss that faced him, the chaos slowly descending on his life.

But this, this…how ironic, that he would be forced to fight for the boy now, be the boy’s advocate - to Dumbledore, of all people! Something rears up in him, screaming against the confines of the corner he’s being pushed into. He is not Potter’s defender, and how dare his hand be forced! Dumbledore is the hero, the one at the forefront, the one close to Potter, and while he knows enough of the man to know he’s a brilliant strategist and rarely predictable, the Headmaster is a Gryffindor. Noble impulses and all that rot. This is not how the man is supposed to react.

“It appears I haven’t made this clear.” Severus says, slow, abrupt, cold. “Headmaster, the boy’s been beaten. Deprived of food. A case of lawful neglect, probably more, if someone cared to actually ask the boy. Are you insinuating you’ll do nothing with this knowledge?”

“I’m sure if I talked to Petunia -“

Severus can’t help the snort that comes out. “Petunia, who dared to do all this - and she must have known you would discover it! Are you so confident in your ability to maneuver her? If you were successful in the first place, we would never be here.”

“There is more to this than just Harry, Severus,” Dumbledore is shaking his head, eyes dimming unfathomably. “The situation is delicate.”

He softens, gentle for a moment. “I know Harry. He won’t let this harden him.”

“Harden, perhaps not.” Severus says cooly. “Mark him for life? Mold him, in ways? He won’t be able to help it. If it escalates, it is not impossible the boy will end up damaged, physically, permanently - we have no way to know, just now, the extent to which Petunia is willing to go. It is possible, intentionally or not, that she could end up killing him. The boy is far too important a symbol -" He pauses to sneer his disdain for good measure at the idea, “to let that happen.”

Dumbledore nods, weary. “Yes. Something…something will be done. I don’t know what, but I promise you, Severus.”

“I am not the one in need of your oaths, Headmaster.” Severus rises.

“Severus,” Dumbledore’s voice makes him pause on the way out. There’s nothing, nothing and then - so very, very quiet, “Take care of him for me, my boy.”

Severus makes no acknowledgement, only stills before sweeping out, because he’s not going to be Dumbledore’s stand-in, not going to be some kind of mentor figure to the arrogant little cretin, that’s Minerva’s jo - well. Dumbledore can still damn well take care of his own sodding Golden Boy. He’s sweeping down the corridors, footsteps stalking, robes whipping silky, thinking about Dumbledore’s reactions, and getting more and more irritated he does.

No one is acting how he expects them to in this scenario, and he’s tired of it. People are easy, tedious, predictable.

He still has the boy to deal with tonight, and a detention to supervise for Draco before that.

He is so over this day.

Harry's calculated everything just right.

At least, he thinks so. Not that he's trying to hide anything, but the thought of baring his back in a room full of classmates makes him shudder against the vulnerability of it. Not every face is friendly - Malfoy's been more of a prat than ever in the last few days since the flying incident. Harry's trying to be careful about saying and doing around him, but the other boy seems to need to pick a fight, and Harry will never back away from it, not after what Malfoy's done. Nearly all the first years have noticed now, and it's something like war in the air every time they walk in on each other, other mouths silent waiting for one of them to make the first pronged comment.

Harry is honestly tired of it, that constant, careless edginess that was all he ever knew at the Dursleys. He avoids Malfoy as much as he can, and hopes the crackling tension will at least fade in it's intensity as time goes on.

The dorm is quiet now, though. He’s waited, and he should have enough time before anyone comes back. The rooms are empty, and Harry tries hard to feel like he's not sneaking as he draws the small canister out from under his mattress and slips onto the bed, resisting the urge to draw those heavy curtains around him. But this is the one place he doesn't have to stash and hoard and hide - in fact, most of the other kids, and, well, some of the adults - are remarkably, flippantly generous about things.

Harry keeps his pinched, squeezed, pretty-much-empty tube of toothpaste and a brush he's had since he was nine in his trunk, because of the way it makes something mean and ashamed curl inside to see it sitting out on the counter in the loo next to the other boys' shiny plastic, full-bodied ones. But this, he fingers the jar, this he has. He hasn't used it until now - he forgot yesterday night, thoughts tied up in knots around his first detention that evening.

Turns out Snape decided he was "unavailable" last night, so he scheduled Harry's first detention with Filch. Harry had felt a sliver of relief at not having to face Snape so soon, but Filch! Stringy gray hair and malice in his eyes, and Harry's never liked the man. He did it anyway, did very nasty little job that Filch piled on him, cackling and watching with pinpoint black eyes, and Harry had a thought he never could have predicted: even detentions with Snape might be better than this.

Tonight, he'll get to find out.

Malfoy had a detention already with Snape, just before dinner, so Harry's not expecting Snape to be in a stellar mood, and he knows he makes an awfully convenient target for the man.

He's fingering the jar, turning to pull up a corner of his shirt, when his eyes catch on the door, and it's sliding open. He freezes.

Why. Why is always Theodore Nott? Why can't it be easy-going, blow-it-off Blaise? Blaise would be able to make him feel lighter about this, would be able to brush it away. Harry could be sure it wouldn't matter, wouldn't change anything for Blaise, but Nott is stopped still and staring at him with uncomprehending dark eyes and Harry wants to melt straight back into the bed.

"Hey - Nott," Harry swallows.

"Potter." He takes an airy step, his voice blade light and casual. "What are you doing here?"

Harry snorts, his heart still racing.

"They're my dorms, too, Nott." Harry tries to sound amply crabby. His fingers slink awkwardly over the covers, trying to find a surreptitious spot to rest the tin still clutched in his fingers.

"What's that you have?" Nott's eyes are sharp, voice peeved.

Harry pauses. He knows he's not a convincing liar, and he has no idea how he's going to explain this bruise balm without compromising himself.

"It's mine," he says stiffly, defensively.

"I wasn't implying you stole it, gargoyle brain.” Nott’s eyebrows rise imperiously.

"I-it's just something-" Harry bites his lip, and curls his arms deliberately away from it.

"I'm testing a cream for Madame Pomfrey," he says finally, glaring at the other boy, daring him to challenge the lie.

He doesn't. He looks at Harry with narrowed eyes for a long, suspended moment. Then he turns and walks to the loo without a word. Harry can hear him rustling around in something and then the water on as the door swings shut behind him. Harry curses silently. He's got to do it now, got to take the chance before the other boys all walk back in.

Glaring one last time at the elegant blank wood of the loo door, he turns away, swipes the cream from the bed. His shirt jerks over his head, and he winces just a little, shivering as cool fingers of air slide over his back.

He doesn't waste any time, scooping the cream - ugh, it really does smell nasty, and his nose wrinkles - but then he's rubbing it, warm and thick on his skin and it sort of melts into the bruises. He can feel it working already, and he lets his fingers fall for a moment, and breathes out, marveling. It’s just as poignant and powerful as he remembers from yesterday’s Hospital Wing - he definitely needs some of this to take back to the Dursleys. Arching a little, he twists his torso and arms trying to reach places on his back before giving up and slathering it over his side. Would that nurse - medic witch? - would she give him more if he asked? But it probably costs something. He could try to work for her some, maybe -

He could just take it.

But the thought jars him wrong, for some reason, and he can't remember the last time taking something he needed felt like stealing. He could ask about working for it first… but if that doesn't work, Blaise might have an idea of how to - no. He won't involve his friends in this. They might know the castle better, but Harry knows Blaise puts up with a lot already for the way he stands so easily by Harry's side every day. He doesn't ever talk about, but Harry knows what it's like to be on the receiving side, and he knows the looks.

Harry still doesn’t have a good grasp on the murky politics that seem to influence his house, but he does know that Blaise's family is in a position that means that nobody confronts Blaise outright; he's got too much weight for that, and he's using most of it to try and protect Harry, of all things. Harry snorts a little. No, he'll leave Blaise out of this, out of his trouble, as much as he can - because no matter what Harry does, he always seems to end up somewhere he'd never wish somebody he likes.

"I think you missed a spot."

Harry jerks, fingers fisting compulsively as he wrenches around.

It’s Nott, of course; hair freshly wet and that friendly arrogance hanging about him like clinging mist from a shower.

Harry’s so confused he can feel his bones locking into place as his brain clicks over and over, fruitlessly trying to direct him. He’s never dealt with anyone, adult or kid, ever knowing about…well, about this, not right out like this, never anything more than Harry hinting to see if anyone would notice, nothing other than the well-placed guesses of that one teacher so far back and nothing ever came of that… It’s like his mind is stuck blinking “error”, trying to guess the other boy’s next move. Will he even care at all? No one back at Privet drive certainly would. Blaise - he doesn’t know how Blaise would react, but it would be safe. Safer than Nott. Nott’s been amiable, but he’s so abstruse. He’s got all these sharp edges, some unexplainable darkness to his eyes sometimes, and he keeps himself so far above everyone, but he knows now, Nott knows -

Harry’s braced for sneers, visions of the other boy smashing the canister into Harry’s back or under his own feet, grinding it uselessly into the floor.

All that happens is Nott’s tone, exaggeratedly patient, when he says “Well?”, and Harry flinches, just a little, his eyes twitching upward. The boy’s hand is there, hovering in the air.

It takes Harry a moment to realize what he wants, a split second of hesitation to decide. Nott doesn't move, not a finger, there's just the sound of Harry's speeded breathing, and suddenly he realizes Nott came up toward him from behind and Nott's seen his back. There's nothing really left to hide, is there, as much as his brain is trying to convince him otherwise.

Harry flushes, and it's shame that finally prompts him to shove the bruise balm into Nott's waiting hands. He tenses miserably as he bares his back, looking away, because it’s no use pretending now. He’s been waiting for Nott to turn on him since the moment the boy peeked out from between his curtains that one nightmarish night, and he’s never understood why Nott hasn’t. The other boy has no reason to keep Harry’s secrets, but now, this will be the push over the edge, once he realizes what Harry really is. Will he tell Blaise? Will Blaise hate him, too?

Not that - anything but that. Harry’s never had anyone like him, no one like Blaise, before. If he loses that, he’s not sure -

Cool cream and soft fingers, and Harry startles, the unexpected touch making his breath catch. His eyes are wide when they fly over his shoulders, but Nott is looking away steadily, not meeting his gaze, as he spread it thick and gentle, soothing the tenderized skin in patches on Harry’s back where Harry hadn't managed to reach.

It's over in a moment, and Harry hears the lid screw back on an it drops beside Harry.

"I know bruise balm when I see it, Potter. And it's not a new, untested product."

Harry's face is burning, burning, bewildered as he turns to face him, but Nott isn't finished. The air around him cools with Nott's stare.

"If you're going to lie to your friends, at least do it well."

"'M always been a bad liar. I can't help it," Harry mutters, reaching for his shirt and pulling it back over his head, feeling a little more himself now that he’s fully clothed.

When he glances up, Nott's got an odd look on his face, lips tipping in a barely-smile and eyes prodding, curious.

"No," He says as he meets Harry's gaze, still smiling faintly. "I don't think you can."

He turns as if to leave, and Harry gnaws his lip.

"Theodore!" He has to ask, he just - "You're not…you're not going to say anything."

Nott's lips curl, into something more like a sneer this time. "I've told you before, Potter. I have better things to do with my time than gossip about Harry Potter's private life.”

It’s not until Harry is walking to detention, going over and over it in his head, trying to understand, that something Nott said stops him in his dragging steps, realization slowly dawning. If you’re going to lie to your friends…Harry’s not sure if Nott realized what he was implying with that statement, but Harry honestly can’t find any other explanation for his behavior. Theodore Nott considers him a friend.

And Harry can’t help it if his steps are just a little bit lighter after that.