The Fires of Winter by MagnificentAndStrange

The room is cold. It is always cold in the dungeons, no matter the fires burning under the cauldrons laid out along the narrow tables. The boy is silent, he has been silent for most of the year, even outside of the enforced quiet of the classroom, even when he does not know that Severus is there, watching him and those that would do the boy harm.

It is in his nature to take measure of his enemies, to study his allies, to never let something go unnoticed. But this, this has gone unnoticed for too long. Severus looks now at this small dark-haired boy whose eyes do not meet his own, whose thin exposed arms show the jagged lines of a hundred angry scars. There are so many of them, they are a forest in winter, innumerable branches stretching out, leafless, and haunting. He has been a fool, Severus knows, to think he could close his heart but not his eyes to this child. His bitterness, his hatred is what caused him to miss the all too obvious signs.

The boy is trembling, his bare lower arms are so thin, alien in what he has done to himself. His black hair falls forward, shielding those eyes that will not look at Severus. The candlelight in the room flickers, Severus can see their breath in the air. Outside, faraway, other students are likely enjoying the snow, the coming festivities, all he can see are bare trees and the nearness of death.

It is so near, it is almost in this room. How much blood had the boy lost over the years, how deep had he cut to leave so much damage? There are scars over scars, skin so pale Severus thinks he can see the bones underneath. What can he say to this breathing skeleton to fix things? But it is the boy who speaks first, green eyes still on the ground, candlelight obscuring his glasses so the lenses are shadowed, the face kept still, watchful as Severus’ own.

“Are you going to tell?”

Severus knows what he should say, as a teacher he is under obligation to alert the headmaster, Madam Pomfrey, McGonagall, and the boy’s guardians. But instead he reaches out, pale fingers touching the boy’s wrist lightly, seeing how the child shrinks very faintly at his motion, how he holds himself too still. Severus turns over the arm, there are cuts on the outside of the arm as well, not as many, not as visible, but still there is a web of violence there.

“What has happened to you?” Severus asks quietly and his voice is gentler than it has been in a long time.

The boy raises his head and looks at him, fear and longing and shock all passing across his delicate features. And Severus knows that no one has ever asked. Those that might have seen would have thought it a disturbing behavior, a twisted act of self-loathing and not thought further beyond blaming a child for the agony he carries.

“I did it,” Harry says softly, looking away again and staring at the stone floor, “it’s my fault.”

“No,” Severus responds instantly, “it is not.”

He has his own scars carefully laced along the pathway of his ribs, has marked his pain upon himself to claim control over terrible memories. When he learned to occlude he could fully separate from the emotion and the blade he used grew rusty even as he found other ways to hurt himself. He has never been good, he has never been loved nor unafraid of love. He didn’t think he would survive to see someone so like him. But this boy is good. He is quiet and sad and full of light in the way that it hurts an occlumens eye to see his soul so bared. He is the braver one of them two. He has not yet shut out kindness, he has not yet closed his heart.

“You do not feel safe,” Severus states more than guesses and Harry shrinks into himself, sleeves hiding the marks, so many marks. His face is not James’ face, nor Lily’s, it is a strange pale shape, drawn in sorrow, luminescent along the eyes, the hair wild like night. It is himself Severus sees, his child self, his pain.

“I don’t know,” The boy whispers, but his eyes hold secrets behind his glasses, his arms folded close to himself, although it must hurt the recent cuts there.

They watch one another, cold air seeping into the dimly lit room. Both of them are trembling faintly for different reasons. They are winter, all darkness and bone-white skin, surviving on air that knives into them at each breath. Severus has always known this about himself, but it is devastating to see it in someone else, in the very child he has vowed to protect.

Harry’s eyes meet his own, he is tired and afraid, his eyes are green glass held up to the light, a green so vivid they seem unreal. Only one other had eyes like these, she is gone. What is left of her is here, standing before him, eyes green as the leaves in spring.

Severus does not move for a long time, his black robes blending into the shadows, pulling the room’s darkness into himself, quieting the part of him that is rage and hatred and longing to destroy what has brought the boy to this. If those that raised the boy knew and did nothing, if they caused the child to hurt himself in such a way…he can not allow his mind to imagine their deaths, for already some part of him is planning vengeance. It is his way. He knows he is not a good man, he will never atone for what he has done in the past. Silently, he summons a cloth and a healing potion, watching the child startle wildly as the objects fly toward them.

Such a small boy really, so thin, so quiet. How long will it take for harshness to replace the wistful gleam in the child’s eyes? Severus was already so embittered at this age. He does not know how to fill his heart with people, he has never known. The boy will be the same way, he will lock himself away from others. Already he has seen how Harry fades into a crowd, grows distant from those that would be his friends. He cannot allow the child to become like him.

The healing potion is a thick salve, warm to the touch and mild enough that it will not sting. Still, the child is afraid to be touched, calming only when Severus touches his arms and shows hesitance not of the scars but of what Harry is comfortable with. This is a boy who does not know how to refuse, who goes along with every harebrained scheme presented to him because he doesn’t know how to say ‘no’ or ‘stop’. No one has ever told him he could. Severus does not need more than that knowledge gauged from the boy’s trembling pliancy beneath his hand to know that there are abuses this boy has endured that he does not know how to heal.

Rage fuels him, he contains it, feeds it as a controlled wildfire, lets it scorch his insides, burn through his mind. He will kill whoever has done this, whoever has made this child turn a weapon unto himself, made a child believe that death was the better option. He will kill the one who has made the boy’s body and spirit their dominion. Severus knows, he knows in the way Harry does not meet his gaze, in the way Harry looks outward, as if the classroom walls were not there, as if he is dying. He does not touch the boy’s arm any further, he pulls away until there is distance between them. The cuts on Harry’s arm are raw and red and they are the only color in the room except for the boy’s eyes and the candles burning in time with Severus’ own anger.

He will not show his fury, he will not allow it control over him. It is of him, searing, vicious, pain and anger fused but he will not reveal any emotion that will frighten the child. He will not approach him without his consent, he will not be the reason behind another scar on the boy’s wrist.

“I don’t know what you want,” the child whispers,

Severus shuts his eyes for a moment, gathering the edges to himself, the fire and the cold, the pain marking his own body, climbing his ribs like a ladder to his heart that is not sure how to open after all this time. He opens his eyes, he meets Harry’s gaze that is so ready to trust him, so afraid of what will happen if he does.

“I want to keep you safe,” Severus replies finally, voice hoarse.

Harry stares at him, seems to see into Severus and there are no masks between them, there cannot be. The boy must know the burning, the cold, the terror and pain tying the framework of Severus’ soul together. He must know so he can know the resolve behind Severus’ words, that everything he has left is connected to protecting Harry, that he will not abandon the child nor let harm come upon him.

Slowly, Harry extends his arms, sleeves pulled back, all mangled skin and thin bone. Years of violence have carved themselves into this child but they have not destroyed the hope buried underneath, kept hidden for so long that it is barely there. But it is there, it is there for him and Severus will not break this fragile trust.