“You weren’t at the feast,” Snape says to him once they are tucked safely away in his quarters.

He shakes his head, but doesn’t speak.  The night has drained him more than he thought possible, and there is a sick feeling in his gut that it isn’t over yet.

Not by a long shot.

“What made you decide that a Deathday party was more preferable than going?”

He sighs and looks at his hands.  The bruise paste that Snape applied when they first got back here is tingling across his neck and back.  It turns out that Filch had slammed him into the wall before choking him, but he doesn’t really remember that.  

“I told my friends that I wanted to go because I had promised Nick,” He whispers.

“But?”

He sighs again and absentmindedly reaches up with his shoulder to wipe at the tears trying to escape his eyes.  

“Halloween is when my parents died.  Halloween is when I got shoved into the Dursleys’ care.”  

His laugh is every bit as bitter as Snape’s current expression.

“Halloween is when I had to learn to forget what it was to be loved.  When I had to forget what hugs felt like, or a full belly, or--,” His throat closes off with phlegm and all that comes out is a sob.

Snape moves to sit next to him again but doesn’t say anything.  

He scoots closer, and Snape has a hand on his hands, and there’s nothing to stop the tears from coming out now.  

“You know what, sir?”  His voice is thick with tears.

“What, Mr Potter?”  Snape’s voice is very very calm.

“You’re the first adult to hug me when I needed it for a really really--,” He swallows convulsively.  “--Long time,” He finishes with a ragged gulp.

He is trembling again, and he knows Snape can feel it, but the admonishment he expects to hear never comes.