Human Shield by Timorous

It was the first, and what Harry was thinking would be the last, detention with professor Snape for the year. Not that the man didn’t dole them out plenty, but usually he easily passed Harry off onto another teacher or Filch. After last year, he assumed the man would be more heavy handed in using that policy.

Tonight was no different than the normal detention served with the potions master, the usual line of cauldrons set to the side for him and Snape already seated at his desk looking over some first year papers.

Snape hadn’t grown kinder, no, the man hated him as usual, but since last year he was more quiet, and he addressed Harry less often. In Harry’s opinion it was great, a perfect tradeoff, the sixteen year old had enough issues as it was, not dealing with his teacher ridiculing him was one less thing on the long list of miseries.

In fact, scrubbing away at cauldrons was just what he needed. Three quarters his way into the first one his mind went blank and all that occupied Harry was the repetitive movement of pushing the scouring pad back and forth and sloshing in some hot water. The first one was finished; the layers of first years’ mistakes now cleared away from the large, communal pewter cauldron.

Harry seized it and hefted it into a decent position to carry before bringing it over to the table where the rest of the cauldrons were kept. Only two other large ones were used in the classroom, all of them shoved under the table, while the top was covered in the smaller, much more manageable, personal cauldrons.

Harry carefully set it down and surreptitiously glanced over at Snape to make sure the man wasn’t going to say anything about how Harry handled his “fine and delicate” instruments. As Harry tried to get the cauldron under the table without making sounds which would get Snape yelling at him, he couldn’t help but feel that his current item was far from being delicate. However, that didn’t matter, Snape would find any reason to remind him of how “arrogant”, “foolish”, “idiotic”, and etc. he was. When he was eleven and desperate for the approval of adults, Snape’s diatribes had hurt, and on occasion sent the neglected child to bed in tears.

Harry however was far away from the little boy who was more used to being called “freak” than he was “Harry”, and who had so desperately looked forward to finding a world more accepting than the one he had grown up in. So what if a hatefully sneered “Potter” had replaced the word “freak” in meaning? Harry was practically an adult, he didn’t need someone like Snape to make him feel like he wasn’t worthless. Besides, the last five or so years had proven that Snape was more interested in destroying Harry’s sense of self-worth and happiness than he was in being honest, fair, or even just not completely blinded by hatred.

Harry shook his head, returning to the next cauldron, this one small and much easier to manage. His scrubbing was a little more intense until his mind drifted back into the motions and the nice scent of lemongrass which seemed to have soaked into the grime of this particular cauldron. Prodbacterum potion, essential in medical surgeries or for certain wizard illnesses, if, of course, Harry had to guess at what had been made in the current cauldron he was cleaning.

Snape let out a scoff and Harry tossed a look back at the man and saw the potions professor cross something with particular vehemence on the essay or test he was grading. Harry relaxed a little, glad that Snape’s anger wasn’t directed at him for the moment.

The thought reminded him of the rather dismal occlumency lessons which had gone on last year. Harry could blame the man for much of the lack of progress, but the part in him which had been told from childhood that bad things or failure were his fault told him that it was probably Harry’s inability and lack of focus. Maybe it was both, who knew? All thinking about those occlumency lessons did was bring up a pit of anger, grief, and pain which Harry preferred to ignore.

All the same, if they’d been successful or not, Harry regretted looking in the pensieve. Snape thought for whatever reason that Harry would want to laud it over him, or that it was most harmful to the potions master. Instead it had crushed a small part of Harry’s childhood. His father had been a bully, as had his beloved godfather. He had once been proud to be like them and now he wasn’t so sure. In some ways Harry was worse than them, because he was responsible for both their deaths, and a good many others.

Harry held back a sigh and bent to his work, wishing he could forget and maybe start over his entire life. At least orphan Harry whose parents died in a car crash had been guiltless in it all, his only fault was being a miserable little freak.

This last thought caused Harry to jerk his hand forward with more strength than he meant and the scouring pad caught and the heel of his hand scraped over it. He held back a hiss of pain and only took a moment to inspect the damage. It was weeping blood, but it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t scab over soon enough. He returned to scrubbing.

Being so much smaller this cauldron was finished sooner than the other. Harry stood up, holding back a groan at the way his knees ached, and walked over to the table. He arranged it on the table, making sure it was put away properly. As his eyes roved over the table, trying to remember the difference between iron and cobalt, he saw a strange object on the table. Haphazardly setting the cauldron down, he peered at it.

In large, capital print it read DECCAN BLAST, the tube however was rolled so that anything else it might have said was obscured. Harry blinked, glancing back at Snape. The man’s head was bent, quill rapidly moving and the sounds of the parchment being figuratively attacked still issuing forth. Harry turned his head back toward the strange item and considered it.

He stood on tippy toe and tried to see if he could see any other writing on it. However, it was tucked away back in the corner.

“What are you gawping at, Potter? An errant spider catch your dull-witted attention?”

Harry snapped his head away, too curious to be mad at Snape’s words. The professor was now looking up from his work, face twisted in an irritable scowl, and black eyes boring into Harry.

“No, no sir, just…” he trailed off, not quite sure what to make of it.

For some odd reason it was familiar, but not from the world of magic, rather it reminded him of something very muggle, something Uncle Vernon was associated with.

“Just what?” the potions professor snapped.

Harry turned back to the object and was about to reach out and grab it when something in his gut made him freeze. He quickly drew his hand back, frowning as he tried to remember. A chair scraped against the flagstone and the sharp click of Snape’s boots approached.

“Well, well, Potter, what has grabbed your ape-like attention?” Snape said irritably, obviously unhappy to have been interrupted.

Harry stook a step back, eyes glued to the item. The annoying tug of something forgotten but remembered lost wasn’t leaving him alone.

Snape followed his gaze and he frowned. He reached out.

“Sir, you shouldn’t touch that,” Harry said, bringing to mind a memory.

One of Vernon’s customers, a man who represented a mining business, had shown them to Harry, among other explosives used in his business. Harry had been brought along by circumstance, the house was being fumigated (something blamed on Harry) and Petunia had brought Dudley to an amusement park. When the man had heard from Vernon that Harry was a criminal boy, rather than being put off he seemed to find Harry more interesting and had talked to him while Vernon tried to track down a missing shipment in the inventory.

What a muggle item like that was doing here however was a mystery to Harry.

“And why shouldn’t I touch it, Potter?” Snape said, voice filled with loathing as he reached out and grabbed the tube.

“Because sir, it is an explosive.”

Snape, who had already grabbed it and had twirled it in his fingers to read the further lettering below the capital print, froze. Under the name was a warning.

“Quite right, Potter,” Snape’s tone was quiet and no longer as angry as before.

“I believe it’s called a slurry explosive, but it would need something to set it off.”

Snape glanced over at him with a look of surprise. It was quickly veiled and the man was walking back toward his desk. With a flick of his wand the essays on his desk disappeared and he was able to set the tube on the now clear area.

“Did you bring this here, Potter?” Snape asked, voice low and quiet with anger.

Harry blinked in surprise, taken aback at the suggestion.

“Is this an ill thought out prank?” Snape continued as Harry hadn’t responded immediately, “because I can assure you that in comparison to the Weasleys’ antics, this is not to be taken nearly so lightly.”

Harry’s confusion was doubled and mixed with indignance. Was Snape accusing him of trying to bomb the school? Another part of him was focused on the tube, something felt wrong and he couldn’t figure out what. They should leave the room though, or do something.

“Tell me Potter, did you consider the consequences of this? Of who could be killed or injured?” Snape’s voice rose and he continued his diatribe.

Harry zoned the man out partially, focused on the explosive. He recognized a charm, one Hermione had used endlessly last year at the DA club to help stave off Umbridge’s efforts. It was a deferment charm, usually paired with another spell which would be activated after the deferment charm had either been disturbed, passed a certain amount of time, or whatever parameter the caster chose to use and had the ability to create.

“Professor,” Harry said, but Snape continued to talk over him, his angry speech not to be interrupted.

Harry figured that they didn’t have much time, and Snape wasn’t likely to hear or listen to what Harry had to say. He had to try though, he doubted he had the ability to manhandle the professor to safety.

“Are you listening, you insolent brat?”

Harry frowned, and he realized that the spell had moments before it expired. He looked up at his professor and their eyes met for a moment. Snape’s went wide as he recognized the steel in Harry’s which meant an action which he would not approve of. Snape drew his wand, but Harry had already moved, slamming into his teacher and knocking him away from the table.

He heard the sound of the explosion for a moment, and felt heat that was followed by a brief pain, and then Harry was unconscious.

Severus knew that he viewed everything Potter did as an estimation of how the boy valued Lily’s life. To Severus the teenager’s actions always seemed to prove that the boy held Lily’s sacrifice in no esteem, in fact he seemed to flaunt it. Emotional, wasteful, willful, stupid, the boy seemed to do everything within his power to prove how unworthy he was of Lily’s last gift to the world.

Especially now, the boy seemed to have reached a new low, having brought what was essentially a bomb into the school to what? To destroy Severus’ classroom and supplies in a ridiculous ploy to get revenge for the death of the mongrel Black? To play a deadly joke on his classmates?

And as Severus expounded on the sheer idiocy of this, of the consequences, the boy didn’t even seem to be listening. Then Potter raised his head with a willful look in his eyes which Severus was all too familiar with. He drew his wand, expecting the boy to do something absolutely stupid.

Potter did, the boy tackling him. Severus felt a cocoon of magic, heard the concussive blast of the explosive and then the harsh crack as masonry fell around them. Whatever spell Potter had cast acted as a bubble, the stones not falling on them. Blinking, Severus realized that Potter was not near him. The small protective bubble surrounding him was barely larger than him and his view out of it was obstructed by the stone and wood beaming which had collapsed on top of it.

The boy was outside of the protection of whatever spell had been cast, it was unusual too, one Severus couldn’t pinpoint. He waved his wand to dispel it, panic threatening as he realized that Potter was most likely dead, and if not dead yet, soon to be from whatever injuries he had received. Why the brat had taken time to protect Severus and not himself was inconceivable.

He frowned as the spell stayed up. This wasn’t normal magic, and as he was recalling, Potter hadn’t had his wand out. Wandless magic? Highly unlikely. Accidental magic? More probable, but for Potter to have felt strongly enough about Severus' survival to conjure such a strong show of magic seemed even more improbable than the boy suddenly becoming a master at wandless and speechless magic.

He countermanded the boy’s magic with a stronger spell and it finally dissipated. The masonry groaned as its support left and Severus cast a room wide feather light spell. If Potter was somewhere under the stone he would now not be suffering from the weight of the rock.

“Lumos” he muttered.

A small light erupted from his wand and illuminated the darkened room. Dust clung in the air, floating like a heavy fog. Glancing up, he saw the magical wards which held the lake at bay, the rock having collapsed totally. Little light filtered through the hazy lake water from above, it was early fall and the day had been quite overcast.

“Point me Potter.”

The light split, one hovering in the air and the other moving down until it disappeared under a slab of stone. Its light was barely visible.

Severus trudged over, climbing over the larger pieces of stone and tossing the smaller, now feather light ones, out of the way. He reached the area and lifted up the stone. Potter was alive somehow, chest jerkily rising and falling.

His face was coated with blood and he was unconscious. What had the fool child been thinking? Sacrificing himself like that for Severus?

He waved his wand over, a simple diagnostic being cast, and found that Potter’s rib cage had been practically crushed, most of his ribs broken or fractured. His leg, along the femur, had also broken. Severus spelled the leg back into place, grateful that Potter was unconscious so he wouldn’t have to deal with him squirming. The ribs were a more tricky matter, internal damage had been done, things which Severus did not have the ability to heal. He could fix some, but not all without endangering the teenager further. With another spell the ones he felt confident in healing were back in place.

He summoned his patronus and sent it in search of Dumbledore. For now, Severus was just going to have to wait for someone to come to them, he couldn’t move the boy on his own without possibly killing Potter.

Kneeling, he tried to see if there was anything else he could do. There were severe burns on the boy’s back, blood leaked from his ears, and Merlin knew what else. He felt a weight settle on his chest.

Severus’ immediate dismissal of a muggle item, assuming it was uninvolved with magic, had led to severe circumstances.

Potter’s eyes blinked open. They were the same shape and color of Lily’s, the boy’s glasses gone, and in this instance glazed over.

“Potter, can you hear me?” Severus asked, even though he knew that more likely than not the boy’s hearing was shot for the moment.

The boy frowned before mouthing the word “dad”. A beat passed, the boy spoke this time, the word “mum” issuing from his lips. He blinked rapidly and his eyes settled on Severus. A hand flopped out, weakly grabbing at Severus’ robes before clenching onto them.

The Grey Lady appeared, rising from the floor. Her eyes were on Potter.

“Please, get Madame Pomfrey.”

Severus had had little interaction with the ghosts of Hogwarts, in both his student and teacher days, they were beings unsatisfied with dying and unwilling to accept death. He had accepted the fact of death long ago and they merely caused him disdain.

The Grey Lady did not heed him, instead kneeling next to Potter and reaching a translucent hand out. Her fingers passed across the boy’s forehead, not quite touching.

“He is close to death.”

“I bloody well know that,” Severus hissed, anger overcoming him, “and if you don’t want him to end up like you, you’ll get Madame Pomfrey!”

The Grey Lady fixed him with a cold gaze before rising, disappearing through the ceiling. Severus let out a sigh, praying that the past witch would do as he’d asked.

Looking down at Potter he saw that the boy’s eyes had closed and his chest had stilled. He let out a curse, placing his hand against the boy’s heart and feeling nothing. Immediately he tapped at the boy’s lungs, executing a spell which would force them to work, and then bent to the muggle skill of chest compressions.

Dumbledore arrived a minute later, behind him was Madame Pomfrey.

The boy was whisked away, Severus following and hoping that all his efforts of the last fifteen years had not been for naught.

In the hospital wing Madame Pomfrey swept them to the side, with nothing but a promise that muggle maladies would be simpler to fix.

Dumbledore was eyeing Severus with a grave look as they stood at the far end of the empty room.

"What happened, Severus?"

It was quiet for a moment, the lack of noise, the absence of action or the need for it leaving Severus with an abundance of adrenaline which was slowly dying down.

“A muggle, device, a bomb,” Severus explained.

Dumbledore’s eyes widened, surprise and shock in them.

“The wards are all that is holding the black lake at bay, Filius or Minerva perhaps-”

“Both are there, quite a few wards were breached, and I’m afraid with the Dark Lord’s return many were certain it was an attack from him. But a muggle explosive? How?”

Severus opened his mouth to answer, intending on implicating Potter, though he was starting to think that the boy was innocent. There was a sharp, alarmed cry that sounded through the Hospital ward. The sound of glass crashing and then a moment later-

“Severus! Help!”

He barely spared Dumbledore a look, the slight nod of permission, and he sprinted in the direction where Poppy had disappeared to.

Potter was thrashing on a bed, eyes rolled back, chest bare as Poppy struggled to keep him on the bed. It only took Severus a moment to realize what was going on before he was surging forward, hands reaching out to hold the boy down.

“Merlin,” Poppy gasped, flourishing her wand so that a sheet on a bed adjacent to them lifted up, twisting into ribbons before gliding over Potter’s limbs and tightening.

The boy didn’t stop jerking, but he was now secure. Severus took a step back.

“I need these potions,” Poppy said, a parchment shooting toward Severus.

He caught it, briefly looking it over and realizing that there were a few that would not be in Poppy’s stores. He strode toward Poppy’s office where her floo was, and entered. Minutes later the floo stirred to life and he reappeared.

Approaching the area where Potter was at, he was surprised to see that Poppy was absent. Then his eyes were drawn to the rest of the Hospital wing. Students were filing in, most slytherin, and all injured. Poppy was handling them, attempting to sort them by severity of injury. Severus turned to one of the students, a prefect.

“Ms. Tate, what happened?”

The blonde haired adolescent was trembling, her left arm held closely to her side, but she was helping manage a few first and second years. The girl looked up in surprise at his voice, but quickly schooled her features into something more composed.

“The ceiling came down in parts of the dungeon, I don’t know how, a lot of students were hurt.”

Severus felt his stomach turn, anger spiking, but his concern more prevalent. It seemed Potter’s prank had cost more than his classroom. Yet was Potter even the culprit?

“Severus!” Poppy called, causing him to turn away from the sixth year and look to the medwitch, “I need your help.”

“Is anyone stuck down there?” he asked the prefect, needing to make sure no student would die.

“I don’t know, but Professors McGonagall and Flitwick are getting students out.”

Severus gave a nod before turning away and going over to Poppy. The woman was gesturing for an unharmed Theodore Nott to bring the unconscious first year in his arms over to a bed. Once the child was settled, Poppy started working on them.

“Mr. Potter needs more attention, I’ve managed the internal injuries, but he has a good deal more bones which need mending, and there is something wrong with his magical core, he seems to have exhausted it.”

Severus felt indignation rise at having to tend to the Golden boy while his students, children he’d promised to care for, were neglected. Poppy seemed to sense his reluctance. She looked up at him sharply.

“The rest of the children seem to be in a much less critical condition than him, besides,” she said, glancing up as Pomona burst into the wing, bringing with her a few more students, “Professor Sprout will be helping me.”

Severus gave a curt nod, eyes casting about the room one last time, before he turned and headed toward where Potter was still strapped down. The sixteen year old was no longer struggling, but his body still shook, and his brow was creased with pain, sweat streaking through the grime of blood and dust. The din from the rest of the wing was unimaginably loud. Severus, with a flick of his wand, cast a mufflato and the noise died down immediately to a faint murmur. In the quiet, Potter’s labored breathing was painful to hear.

For a moment he was merely an onlooker, his thoughts attempting to smooth themselves over. He was tempted to just blame Potter, he always was. His role was easy, hating the boy hadn't been hard, and it had too often slipped from acting to a real performance; some days it wasn’t for the Dark Lord and his position as his spy.

The boy let out a soft whimper of pain and Severus was spurred into action. He rolled his sleeves with quick hands, his wand drawn. He looked down at the boy, nearly a man by law, and rolled his wand between his fingers. The cool wood was reassuring as always. To the side, a running diagnostic spell was still in place, a piece of parchment scribbling and rescribbling numbers and words which reflected the teenager’s condition.

A few bones still needed to be splinted, and, as Severus peered closer, a frown crossing his face, the boy was indeed suffering from magic exhaustion. It seemed his little act down in the dungeons had been hard on his magical core. Guilt stirred in Severus.

Correcting the bones was easy, however it was harder to watch as the boy squirmed and whimpered in his sleep from the pain. The chart showed that Poppy had already administered a mild depressant, but much more would be dangerous considering the boy’s state of magic. It also meant skelegrow was out of the question for now. Potter’s recovery, Severus realized with a twinge of sympathy, would be quite dependent on how quickly his magical core recovered.

Eyeing the various vials which were carefully set out on the tray near the boy’s bed, Severus grabbed one filled with a pale yellow potion. He spelled it into the boy’s stomach. That would hopefully ease the strain on his magic and help it start to recover.

All that was left, that is the things which Severus could address, were the many abrasions and contusions which littered the boy. He grabbed the healing salve he had brought and took the lid off. First he cast a cleaning spell, then he began to gently apply the salve with his fingers. It took time, and it wasn’t until a good deal later that he straightened from his position and inspected his work.

The teenager was strangely thin for one his age, ribs showing like bars pressing against his skin. The smaller injuries he’d just addressed were slowly closing and healing. A shirtless Potter painted a curious image, the boy’s forearms, neck and face tanned to a point of looking like he’d spent his summer all day outdoors, yet the rest of him was extraordinarily pale. A farmer’s tan, usually an indication of hard labor outdoors.

Eyes sweeping the rest of the boy’s body, he found that most of it was incongruous. His hands were callused, the fingernails in terrible condition and rough like how Professor Sprout’s often were. The child had also always been quite short for his age, even now Miss Granger had an inch on the teenager.

With a lazy curiosity he looked to the diagnostic. It would only show recent injuries, but it was easy enough to change it to something which would go back farther. With a flick of his wand, he watched the parchment stretch and grow, black lettering more than doubling. The idiotic boy’s many quidditch injuries were present, as were the ones which had been inflicted by his many escapades. However, there were others, ones less easily explained away. Severus frowned.

Turning, he left the curtained area. He had almost forgotten about the noise, and he winced as it returned. Even more students had come, though many had small, artificial injuries which were no doubt excuses to see their fellow classmates or to learn more of the commotion.

Severus saw a crying second year, seated on a bed, clutching at their wrist, and he sprang into action.

It was early morning by the time all of the children had been sorted, Pomona taking it upon herself to set up sleeping quarters in the great hall as all of the Slytherin common room and surrounding area were unsafe, and much of the Hufflepuff area was as well. Thankfully a majority of the injuries were quite superficial, and the most injured child was still Potter.

Glancing about the ward, Severus was displeased to see that Draco Malfoy was lingering, had been since this had started, attempting to help. At first Severus had assumed it was because the boy’s girlfriend, Ms. Parkinson, had been injured. But even after she’d been healed and turned to the great hall, the boy had lingered. There was something about the boy’s nervous steps, the way he held himself.

“It would be best to rest for the night, Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco startled, wide eyes turning to Severus and flashing through a set of emotions which only increased his suspicions.

“Uh, yes, professor,” he replied, the boy frowned, looking a little overwhelmed, “you don’t think the explosion killed anyone?”

The tone, the specificity of the question; Severus felt resignation fall on him heavily, his anger was reignited as well. The boy was well aware, at least by now, how dangerous his ridiculous ploy had been. Casting his eyes about the ward, Severus saw that Poppy was checking all the children over a second time, the rest of the occupants were asleep or unconscious.

“How exactly did you acquire such a muggle item?”

The question caused the boy to blanch, a hiccough escaping as his mouth gaped, opening and closing.

“You’ve just managed to nearly murder your entire house without even coming close to Dumbledore, so tell me Draco,” he drawled the boy’s name, “how exactly did you come by this?”

Draco nervously licked his lips, shoulders tensing before they sagged with defeat.

“A ravenclaw, Killian Mavity, his dad is a muggle and…” the boy trailed off, taking in a shuddering breath and clutching at his arm for self-comfort.

Severus felt his anger swell, before his own exhaustion and the boy’s clearly manic remorse prompted him to wait until later.

“We will be discussing this,” he said severely, drawing the boy’s gaze to his own, “for now go to sleep, I’ll have time for you after I make sure the castle doesn’t fall apart at your ridiculous theatrics.”

The boy curled into himself, foregoing a verbal response and walking away. Severus watched him leave before approaching Poppy. The medwitch thanked him for his help, which he brushed off, before his mind went to the uncomfortable results of his diagnostic.

“Madame Pomfrey, have you ever done an in depth diagnostic of Potter?” he asked casually.

Poppy’s lips thinned, face paling slightly. It took her a moment to be able to answer.

“I have,” she replied curtly.

Severus held back a labored sigh, tonight was one of many discoveries.

“Does Professor Dumbledore know?”

She looked so sad, eyes darting away before she gave a small nod of her head.

“He does.”

Severus turned, leaving the hospital wing. Another discussion for later, one more difficult than his one with Draco. For now though, he desperately wanted to check on his portion of the castle, the bit which had been home to him since he was eleven.

At the entrance to the dungeons, he couldn’t help but feel some trepidation. Entering, and proceeding toward the common room he was happy to see that Minerva and Filius’ work had gone so well.

In the common room stood the two teachers, Minerva carefully reassembling the fireplace while Filius attempted to capture an escaped fresh water murtlap. The creature let out a loud, annoyed hiss, before scuttling away from Filius’ outstretched arms. As the half goblin teacher dashed after it, he saw Severus.

“Professor Snape!” he proclaimed, looking a mixture between surprised and exhausted.

Minerva turned at the exclamation and gave Severus a wan smile.

“It’ll be back in shape soon, Severus,” she said, as if reassuring him.

“I came to offer assistance.”

Minerva waved a hand, “we’ll be done here shortly, make sure the children are safe, or for Merlin’s sake get some rest, we all need some.”

Severus gave a nod of his head before turning on his heel and walking out. Sleep sounded wonderful, but some things needed to be addressed, sooner rather than later. It was necessary to inform Dumbledore of the source of this “attack” and to bring up Potter's predicament.

Checking the hospital wing, all he found was dimmed lights, Poppy making rounds, her face haggard and drawn. It was down in the Great Hall that he found Albus, the man soundlessly pacing down the rows of students, blue eyes gently watching them. Severus quietly approached, and then inclined his head in a way to indicate that he needed the man’s attention.

They walked to the end of the hall, Albus taking a seat at one of the teacher’s chairs, transfiguring it into a plush armchair. Severus merely took a seat opposite of him, drawing it away from the table.

“Mr. Malfoy can be thanked for our arduous evening.”

Albus gave a slow nod, taking in the information.

“Do we need to worry about this happening again?”

Severus took in a breath, weighing the likelihood that Draco would prove to be a danger. The haunted look the boy now carried with him, like a wild animal being chased down by a hunter.

“I will speak with him.”

It wasn’t necessarily an answer, and Albus’ brow furrowed with concern, however he didn’t press for more.

“There is something else I needed to ask you about.”

“Yes?” Albus’ clear, blue eyes, even now not reflecting the weight of his curse, peered at Severus benignly.

“I did a diagnostic history on Potter, I found signs of abuse, they go back a long way. Mrs. Pomfrey indicated that she had spoken with you about this. Did you know Petunia would allow, possibly even commit, such a thing?”

Albus’ face fell, a shadow crossing it, and his lips thinned into a soured frown.

Severus felt something break, a long tendered trust, a belief in Dumbledore which had led him to have faith in the man. It had been tested by the revelation of Potter’s planned demise, so meticulously laid out by Dumbledore. But who could argue with prophecy? Allowing abuse however, it was too much.

“You really care nothing for him, do you?” Severus whispered, confounded.

“That isn’t true,” Albus argued, voice husky with emotion.

This was what Lily’s sacrifice amounted to: a child meant to die before ever reaching adulthood, one apparently unloved and abused because-because why?

“Why?” Severus asked.

“His safety, the wards needed to be kept in place. Better a few missed meals than death.”

“A few missed meals?” Severus said incredulously, “it is much more than a few missed meals!”

Albus gave him a reproachful look at his raised voice, and despite knowing he held the high ground, Severus felt guilty. He ducked his head, trying to understand how it excused it, how a child, Lily’s child, could have been so fully ignored, treated no better than a sacrifice.

“It helped him, Severus, it gave him empathy and understanding, it has allowed me to grow close to the boy,” Albus argued.

Severus felt disgust roll through him. Albus couldn’t excuse this. And yet, what was to be done? Within the next year or so the Dark Lord would strike, Potter’s sacrifice would be needed, and what better way to prepare the child for it than to destroy any sense of self-worth he could have had?

Severus stood up, trying to come to terms with this. Without a word, he left the Great Hall and headed back to the hospital wing, Albus slumped miserably in his armchair.

There in the wing it was quiet, the injured children healing and sleeping, Poppy uncomfortably asleep on a chair next to a first year’s bedside. At his nearly silent approach, Poppy still stirred, eyes glancing over him. He gave her a nod and she let her eyes slip shut.

Severus approached Potter’s bed, brushing the curtains to the side before closing them. The boy was shivering, Severus having forgotten to pull any covers or blankets over him. He wondered, idly, as he manually grabbed the sheets and tucked them over the boy, if the child had ever had someone do this. He thought of his own childhood, and how even his mother had at least on occasion done this for him.

He pulled another blanket over the sixteen year old, wondering at how Lily would have cried. She’d always talked about being a mother, about caring for and raising a child, about cherishing it.

Severus wondered what she would do seeing this. He reached a hand out, fingers carefully brushing at the boy’s fringe of hair. Impossible situations were asked of him, his whole life. He couldn’t help Harry, not at the cost of his position as a spy, as horrible as Dumbledore’s claim had been, the boy’s overall safety could not be assured if Severus did not hold Riddle’s trust.

He pulled his hand back, guilt and regret filling him. Drawing away, he vowed to help the child suffer as little as possible, to at least not suffer half so much as he already had.