Damage control by Riddletobien

It was the last class of the day. Although the dungeons were usually quite cool, it seemed the warmth of summer had sunk in. Or perhaps merely the day’s heat at the end of August. Humidity was high. The fires lit beneath twelve cauldrons in closed quarters added to the stifling air.

Next to him Neville had droplets of sweat on his cheek as he set up his ingredients in the right order. Harry had decided to start on the brew despite not being done with preparations. He was slow today, just as he was in the beginning of the week.

Neville’s tie was loose. Harry had rolled up his sleeves a little, only baring his lower arms. The upper arm should have only the barest bluish hue by now but still… their teacher had eyes like a hawk.

The little aches there had stopped; only his shoulder didn’t let him forget, that due to his own lack of restraint, it had been a rough last week at the Dursleys.

With class halfway, Neville was frowning at the dark hue of his Tired Muscle Ointment, but Harry’s wasn’t even near the same colour as his classmates. He placed it on Snape's desk, who was blessedly not there but pacing. He was not expecting much from this grade.

Walking back he noticed Hermione was already finishing up her journal notes for the potion and had the ingredients set out for the next one. Malfoy gave him a gleeful smile as he looked pointedly at Harry’s workstation. The Slytherin was starting on his next brew.

He sighed. He might as well rinse, the note-taking part just wasn’t happening today. He had to keep in mind: this was all good for something, for Auror training. Standing over his cauldron, he grimaced into the sink when his moves caused another lash of pain, knowing the alcove hid him from curious eyes.

Usually he stayed well clear of Vernon in the last week before school. When he was little primary education had provided a steep learning curve for this strategy. One time a kindly inquisitive teacher wondered about his hobbled gate to his uncle. It enraged Vernon - not unlike that time he’d blown up marge. The lesson had stuck.The brewing today required almost no force the whole of the double course: dicing and sliding of mostly plant parts. No dead animals needed to be torn into pieces this time, which was a relief.

It was the scrubbing afterwards that hurt. The substance at the bottom of the cauldron refused to budge in the sink. How had the others done this? Well he couldn’t check now because he’d been the slowest of the group. And there was still one potion to go.

The overstretched muscles ached deeper. His breaths became heavy as his chest tightened with each scrubbing of the cauldron. He bit his lip. It wasn’t clean yet, but he couldn’t ignore the worsening flares. His fingers tingled now as well. Feeling quite miserable, he put the cauldron on one of the drying hooks above, still a bit dirty, and turned for the stack of spare ones. Armed with one under his good arm, he snug back into his bench.

Neville looked at him in concern and shoved a pile of squeezed dung beetles towards him: he’d prepared more for Harry to use.

He inclined his head in thanks and got to work on the first step of whatever this was - he couldn’t be bothered to read the potions name: watering and lightening the cauldron to a boil was the point now, then adding beetle parts slowly.

He quickly switched to using only his left hand. He knew he was holding himself stiffly. Great job, he thought with gritted teeth: all these years of experience with the fallouts of Vernon's temper and he was making the rookie mistake of pushing through over-stretched muscles. He wished Neville would stop sending him worried looks, which any Slytherin would smell out.

And yes there he was. Back at his desk, Snape’s gaze drew up to regard him, to follow the tightening of his jaw apparently. Harry gave a hard stare - but the man didn’t budge.

“Stay after class, Potter.”

He had a half finished potion at the end; most classmates had finished both assignments. Students cleared out and Harry kept standing, feeling nerves flutter at the thought of what this could be about.

“Your shoulder,” Snape said when they were alone, and Harry felt like his lungs weren’t drawing any air. A statement, but really a question.

He had to shrug despite the little knifes of pain that brought. “Did a lot of gardening.”

Snape twirled towards his desk to scribble something on a spare bit of someone’s homework, which he tore off. Still turned away, he brandished his arm to put the note on harrys left hand, finding the palm blindly.

The man’s head was bend away still, as if avoiding him. “A note for Madame Pomfrey," Snape clipped off. “You will go to the hospital wing. She will put your shoulder to rights.”

He clenched his hand around the bit of paper. He’d been silent too long: Snape turned back to look him over.

“Thank you, I will,” he murmured, studying the familiar handwriting.

He could tell this annoyed the man, somehow. Then he said:

“Remove your cloak.”

“Huh?” He looked up, taking his bag from a nearby desk. The man’s eyebrows went up when he just stood there, perhaps too rigid, struck numb again. “You told me to go-”

“And then you lied,” Snape interjected. Wait - he had? “That tells me you are hiding something.”

An upwards gesture of the man’s hand and his bag dropped again, a dull thud resonating against the stones; next his cloak shivered around him, and slid off.

“What the hell… “ As he looked down at them in a kind of stupor Snape demanded:

“Show me your bad arm.”

“No.” He ground his teeth. “Sir, I’m going to the hospital wing now. I don’t want you to-“

“Too bad that you don’t, in fact, intend to go,” Snape snapped as Harry's tie moved with magic, then his blouse dropped. He was blessedly wearing a faded grey t-shirt underneath. But that meant-

Too late.

He tensed; his shoulder scolded him for it. Snape was bending sideways to study the bruising. He had to close his eyes to hope for calm; Snape would just interpret this as hatred, or revulsion.

This close it didn’t matter that the hand-shaped patters had dulled or had not. It showed either way.

Well, this would just have to be a stupid little household thing gone wrong. He got stuck, in what ? All of it was one colour by now surely, only the most recent showing? Why hadn’t he checked last night whether the old ones had faded right?

“Tell me what happened here,” Snape said slowly, the not-question Harry had still been half-sure he wouldn’t care to ask. Not this Professor, and certainly not of Harry.

His heart slamming in his throat, he loosened his shoulders completely - down, down, it was only the going up part that hurt at the moment. Oh, is that all you want to know? Now for a story that felt real, so not a tidy one; reliving the moment that didn’t happen.

“It’s stupid. Last week, I was gardening. I was in the shed, putting the lawn mower away but things started to fall off the racks. I wasn’t hit, but I- it was a mess and I knew my uncle would want me to clean up.”

He caught Snapes gaze a second, he absolutely had to appear uncaring about it, despite the risk. “So I did. Only, it’s so full in there and I was jamming things back and…”

“And you tripped.” He was being mocked.

“No, well…. It was my uncle's spare tire that struck me, and I got stuck. Then I made it worse by pulling my arm back hard.”

Snape straightened slowly during the rambling, having sunken into some kind of reflection, only brushing his thumb over his fingertips. “And the earlier bruises, the discolouration?”

Snape said it softly, but in his eyes the wheels were turning, unpacking an enigma.

Harry turned away with a muttered “fuck.”

Snape either didn’t hear the curse, or didn’t care, as he said with a bit of bite: “The detail you put into that explanation…”

He kept himself still, only turning back when the silence held.

“… is how I know you can do better on those notes, Potter.”

He huffed, feeling his mouth twitch despite the situation. “Sure.”

The man continued in lecture-mode, yes lecture-mode was good. “What you do manage to finish during class, you don’t report adequately. If you did so, your marks would improve.”

He led out a breath, finally feeling like he’d stepped back on steady land. He nodded. So this was his point. “Yes, sir.”

“It’s not all a race, despite how some of your year mates make it appear.”

His lips twitched again; Hermione would be one of those. Heartening to see that Snape's focus was still on his favourite subject.

“Ah,” Snape said in a tone that implied he’d fallen into a trap, somehow. “Relief, hm?”

Adrenaline flared up again. “Well, I’m glad the grade is not all about speed, yes. Thanks, I will eh- work on that. I’ll just get to this then, right?” He gestured with the little piece of paper.

“First the truth, Potter.”

He clenched his jaw again.

“It was your body language. Thought you’d weasel your way out again? It takes more subtlety. And no student fools me.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, sir’. He was staring at nothing. This jumbling of his blood pressure was getting tiring.

Snape walked a few paces as if to study him from a different angle, then whirled back.

“How about… Who did this?”

He shrugged, then had to gasp a breath when is muscles complained again. Snape was noting this clearly. He felt a kind of rage, quite unlike the regular annoyance. But rage wouldn’t help him.

He raised his brows at the man, finally meeting the stare head on. “Punishment, sir. You know me…. Trouble with authority.”

“And so he put you to rights, your uncle; thus the damaged arm .”

“Yes,” he clipped off after a some time of resisting, refusing this whole conversation. But Snape was clearly in this element now; the glistening eyes would try to catch each little drop of family drama from his hated pupil.

This was precisely why he always avoided a roughening-up at the end of the summer, playing meek for the last few days. It hadn’t worked this time. He’d miscalculated. He thought Vernon wouldn’t care if he argued with Dudley. He’d kept his distance before. A lesson for next summer. It was possible to predict some of Vernon's behaviour, but not all of it.

“Is this a regular occurrence for you, when you are at home?”

Snape would laugh about this. He would rub it in. Then he would tell the Slytherins. They would all have a nice chuckle about it.

The rage bled through his pores it felt like, vaporising around him like magic. And indeed he felt a warmth shimmering like a layer over his skin. He picked up his clothes, his bag, not bothering with the clothes at his feet .

“You know what, fuck this."

”Potter!” Snape snapped when he was halfway to the doorway.

He twisted, still walking but backwards now. “Fuck you Snape! I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

He turned away again and he was running now… He was long past caring about points, about repercussions. What did they matter in comparison to this whole year of ridicule in front of him?

A spell flew against the stones, making the ancient archway flare yellow for a moment. He skidded to a halt, prodded at the entrance where the vast door stood open: an invisible blockade. He huffed. “I want out,” he said in a final tone.

“That little rant just cost you a long Saturday afternoon with Filch.”

A sound of glass tinkling, smashing. Perhaps that was him. He took a few deep breaths. He was glaring at the free air beyond the spell now.

“I don’t care. Sir.”

“First, I want an explanation for these… hysterics,” Snape snarked. “And you will look at me and address me as befitting a Hogwarts Professor.”

He squeezes his eyes, then turned around to glare. “It’s non of your business, sir,” he tried for a light tone all the same.

The man’s brows raised. “What 'satisfaction'?”

Wasn’t there diner now, didn’t the man need to go do something? He balled his fists, feeling the need to slam one into that hated face and see how that looked.

His voice shook. “I’m not doing this.”

“Oh? I will gladly hand the conversation over to professor McGonagall, in that case.” He turned to the door as if to do just that.

This made him sag onto a nearby desk. “I’m not talking to her either. Sir.”

“You have bruising in several stages along your arm, indicative of repeated use of force, you have muscular damage to the shoulder clearly, seeing how you wrestled through clean-up.”

Shit how could Snape have seen that? Apparently he’d been too certain his sense of being watched would alert him to the man.

“As I am tasked with students welfare, this is not something I can ignore”

Tasked. He scoffed and swung out his restless legs against the wood behind him. All of a sudden Snape cared about that?

In front of him the man appeared to be wishing for calm. “Its Minerva, Pomfrey or me. No? I have the honour? Call me surprised. Then out with it. What. Else.”

Right, Snape saw him like a potion: his damages needed cataloging in the event a cure was needed. It wasn’t about gloating. It was clinical. And he was right to guess Harry wouldn’t have gone to Pomfrey. She’d see right through him, make him talk to Dumbledore…

Clearly, resisting this so much only told Snape he wanted to hide the … punishment. When in fact, they could be logically concluded from his errant behaviour this summer, which his uncle still drew out of him. Something Snape was familiar with: he’d probably be praising his uncle. And it was too late to deny all of it anyway, so perhaps with Snape’s attitude, this would be contained to a week of student gossip - and no pitiful gazes from the staff.

“Right. Nothing much. This was an exception, I guess, because I was out of line.”

Snape was studying him like he was a puzzle to figure out. Again he had to remind himself of the metaphor of a potion: nothing personal about it this really. He’d already put the man on alert by desolving into angry cursing earlier.

He sighed, suddenly quite weary of it all. He willed his face to blank more, although he’d never been good at that. He needed to approach this differently. “It’s alright, sir,” he said softly, knowing Snape had to hear the truth in that. “It’s not a problem. I get that you need to… check this isn’t something serious.” He gave a nod to the stony facade. “And so you have.”

“Why is it ‘alright’ as you put it ?”

“I know what you’re getting at.” He raised his brows. Say it, the word that’s always given only trouble before, but it wouldn’t now - don’t give it power. “Abuse. It’s not, we just don’t get along. They can be quite… callous. But I’ve learned to avoid it mostly.”

“Elaborate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, you’ve seen. My uncle has these fits. I usually predict them, I couldn’t this time.”

Snape leaned back, appearing relaxed - of course he would be in his element with this interrogation.

“What made him angry ‘this time’?”

“Ehm…” He shouldn’t appear to leave much out. “When I don’t do my work properly, he slaps me around a bit.” He resisted a painful shrug. “We have these moments where he gets fed up with me.” There, that ought to be relatable. “Or my aunt, she lets me know I’ve done something wrong.” A frying pan came to mind and he scratched the phantom pains at the back of his head.

“But this,” he pulled out his injured arm, “is about the only thing he’s done this summer. Just bruising.”

Snape was scanning the shelves on the other wall, then walked towards them to extract a specific bottle with an unfamiliar light brown hue.

Walking back he gestured for Harry to sit on one of the desks in the front. He did so, which put him higher so Snape could, it turned out, treat his arm.. With salve from his own stock.

More weird: His hold was quaintly gentle as he lathered the bruises in quick, doctor-like strokes then murmured something that made the skin feel warm and tight.They did look large indeed, the ones that had almost faded overlapping in ages, and a bit gruesome, with last weeks shape clearly fat-fingered. So he looked away, not letting the memory interfere.

“You are being deliberately opaque, Potter. I asked what precisely made him have a ‘fit’ this time.”

He followed the application of the soothing salve with his eyes, feeling at the onset of panic but willing it down. “How much will you enjoy the answer, sir?” Who will you tell this to later?

The man stopped. Slammed down the jar. “What part of this made you think I enjoy our little heart-to-heart?”

No use asking, he realised: he could tell you anything, the mask was without expression. You just couldn’t see beyond. It figured: Voldemort and Dumbledore couldn’t either, or one of them at least. Just as well Snape find out: he didn’t care. He may or may not twist the knife later with the Slytherins, but many those childhoods didn’t seem so genteel-bred either. Aside from Malfoy. And unless he’d manage to somehow Obliviate the man, some of his home life was out now. He’d turn it into a tough win then, something…

He went to watch the shelves of all the students brews yet to be graded.

“I got into an argument with my cousin. My uncle got angry over it.”

“Over what?”

He scrambled to find anything other than the actual reason Vernon dragged him forcefully to his room. He couldn’t very well be arguing over trimming hedges… Three seconds was already too long for Snape apparently:

“Why does it not surprise me that you are thinking up excuses again? Look at me, Potter.”

The fingers rubbing the salve were distracting: the salve was cold but the man’s palm was surprisingly warm.

He rolled his eyes at the ribbing. As usual he wanted front seats on how Harry Potter was taken down a peg. He met the man’s dissecting focus with a glare.

“Go on. If you lie, I will know.”

“It was about food.”

Growth spurts had to be at fault for his unrelenting hunger pangs this season. But he made it sound sullen, spoiled - confirm the man’s notions of him.

Snape was finished and vanishes the remaining salve from his fingers with a twist of his wrist. Went to lean back on his desk again.

“As in, taking seconds?”

As fast as his wry smile burst forth he smothered it. Shit: the potions master straightened, and Harry caught the fleeting impression that he was disturbed.

“Yes, I get competitive with my nephew…” as I attempt to fill my empty stomach. “He’s on a diet you see, so he snatches stuff from me.” It had the advantage of being partly true, true enough for a legilimens. There, done.

With his arms folded, Snape appeared to be settling in for the long haul. “Then what happens, Potter.”

He shrugged, scoffed inwardly at another burst of pain.

“He pulls me from the table.” He used to throw me in the cupboard, but that was before Hogwarts you know ? “Then he pushes me towards the stairs.” He’s beaten me on bad days, but that was before he knew what magicians can do with a wand. No scars from that.

“No seconds.”

“What? Oh, yes that’s right.”

“Hm. Clearly no firsts either.”

He scrubbed his hair back. How…? Great time to slip up and lose control of the conversation. With this man, spy, it was all about subtexts - like that tiny ounce of bewilderment in his voice when he couldn’t immediately grasp the meaning of seconds.

Damage control. He frowned. “Not like that-”

“Tut tut, I sense a lie again.” Some anger bled through now. “Don’t insult me, Potter. You will be truthful about this: either we will discuss this or I can still make an appointment with your Head of House for later today, if you insist on refusing. And I will discuss the outcome of that talk with Minerva afterwards.” When Harry just sat, numb with it all, Snape moved as if to leave.

“So. Tonight at seven, then. I happen to know she will be available then.”

He looked down. “No, I will explain. They don’t like magic you see. And they took me in when they didn’t really have to. So they’re a little harsh sometimes. I eat fine most days.”

“Most days. What is the longest you’ve gone without food?”

Harry scowled. “What is this, an interrogation?”

Snapes fingers were stroking the bottle idly. “Perhaps.”

The anger came back to shake his limbs. “I’m done with this. It’s none of your business. Sir.” His wits were dulling: he was now repeating himself.

“You’ll find that the health of Hogwarts students is in fact my business.”

He forced a chuckle. “You don’t care. So you don’t get to demand anything.”

Snape sighed. “Humour me. Or I will have to make a call on the safety of your home situation, which will require an interrogation of your uncle.” He let that sink in, then said: “With truth serum, perhaps.”

He gaped. “You’re not serious.”

Snape tilted his head, openly curious now, or perhaps it was his way of encouraging more talk.

He sucked in a breath. That had been a mistake. He was appearing much too invested in this whole thing. This was about setting the right tone. He twisted his mouth into a smirk, imagining he was Malfoy. “Fine by me. Serves him right.”

“I’d rather not, as it will involve the ministry.”

He winced. “You said this was 'about' the only thing. So. What else?”

“Boy, you’re a pitbull,” he muttered below his breath.

"What did you just say?"

“I said, you’re persistent.”

The desk was strangely calming to hit softly with his still-dangling legs. “Stop that. I give you one more chance at an explanation Potter, then I will be hauling your uncle here.”

He shuddered. An event that couldn’t be imagined ahead of time. He spoke to the stone ceiling. “Nothing much sir. You do understand that your asking about all the times they were pushing me around a little. I can’t think of anything remarkable. Just a lot of chores which I needed to do just right.” He tilted his palms upwards, daring to meet the black eyes. So?

“And if we were to take a look at your chest, or back, were I to find any more bruising there?”

A pull in his chest. “No, sir.” Just old scars.

“Hm. Something else?”

The lightness of tone… Snape only used it when he sensed something dubious going on in his classroom. It was meant to give the perpetrators a false sense of security. And he’d been using it for this whole conversation, he thought dully.

Being able to use his arm properly was a concern, sure, but this… He shook his head at the walls. “No.”

“Eyes on me, Potter.”

Dissuade. Be party truthful.

“I still have a scar I guess, from an old accident.” One scar didn’t warrant the bother of a look.

They were belt scars, and they didn’t look pretty he knew from that time Ron had conjured a mirror in the changing rooms; by holding it up while looking in the other mirror at the same time, he saw the white lines where the skin had healed badly.

Snape had tilted his head again. “I will be taking a look then, since apparently this is a difficult question. Lift your shirt. This isn’t optional.”

His nostrils flared. He wanted to tell the man was out of line now, but Snapes eyes were set in the manner of someone determined to see things through. “Fine, this is ridiculous but I see you’ve turned into Moody so…”

Snape merely raised a brow, not calling him out on his cheek.

The scars were quite faded nowadays, and anyway he didn’t have a choice, so he raised his shirt. Warm humiliation flamed his stomach. He looked away as Snape took his time studying his unremarkable belly, then his back. For this he drew the shirt upwards with a flicker of his wand.

The belt only happened when several factors combined in a day, so it wasn’t a regular occurrence: first he'd clumsily break or damage something during cleaning - this had happened only rarely as he grew older; Petunia would have a personal connection to said object - for example a vase Vernon had got her - so she would start cursing him and around that time Vernon would walk in from a bad day at work. One time he’d broken nothing but Vernon had, in a drunken mood, and it was enough for his hands to start itching that his eyes found Harry’s.

Luckily that was a one time thing: afterwards when Harry had sat in his cupboard, unable to lie on his back since it was all bloody and torn up, Vernon apparently had decided to limit the drinks to the late evening hours. So, there was a theme of moderation here.

The silence had gone on too long. “May I?” Snape asked behind him.

“W-what do you mean?”

“Touch your back, to feel how disrupted the skin is.”

To what end? He jerked a nod.

He still shivered as Snape's fingers trailed the lines, or whatever they were - perhaps he’d underestimated this. No clearly he had: he could only see his back and then not well, and it looked about fine, aside from some patterns. Although he now remembered that Ron had carefully twisted one of his hands behind him to let him feel the damage, Ron’s eyes had been so round then, yes the belt had caused ridges…

Well damn it, it looked worse than it was: the belt hurt for an hour or two, he’d sleep on his belly a few days and that was it.

“I bet…” he whispered but he couldn’t go on. He somehow didn’t think Snape enjoyed any of this: it wasn’t in his body language.

“Yes?” Snape said stiffly, then continued. “These scars are too old for salve to work.”

His shirt was put back, the blouse and cloak followed. He didn’t bother with the blouse, just fastened the cloak.

He froze when Snape went around him and crouched on one knee to regard him. He had to look up for this. His expression held disgust. Business as usual, then.

His hands shook, so he placed them in his pockets.

Snape shook his head once. “I don’t know why you choose to keep this secret,” he said with annoyance.

His hands clenched, invisible now. “How many times do I have to say this, sir? It wasn’t really a problem! It hurts for a moment, sure, then it’s fine after a few days. And it’s rare the times that happens. My uncle he even… avoids me nowadays, it’s all much easier now that I have a wand to threaten them with. And since I’m only save during summer if I stay there, and I can call it a home, I’m not going to-

“A belt, I take it?” Snape cut into his ramblings.

How did he guess? Did Filch have a belt in his repertoire, or something? “Yes.”

Snape's lips were a thin line, his face looked haggard. How annoyed could he be that Harry decided a little pain once in a while weighted up against the vast advantage of a safe hideout in summers? Not to mention that there was no one to complain to before he’d attended Hogwarts.

He was still kneeling there, looking as if he’d been forced to taste a badly made potion.

“I will discuss new arrangements with the Order for next summer. As much as it gratifies me that you decided not to complain about something like you usually do when things don’t just bend your way-"

“What the hell-“

“Silence, Potter!”

Snape drew himself up again, scowling. “This is not the right way to deal with your uncle.”

He stood as well. “Why not, sir?”

Wasn’t it pathetic that he felt hurt by that hateful stare? Perhaps Snape was right: How much of a kicked puppy was he, that the little bit of care-by-duty Snape showed him, had made him all fuzzy inside? He was furious now. “The chosen one might break before we’re through using him for the war effort, that it? In that case I would have been damaged goods long ago.”

Snape had been rubbing his forehead but stood alert at that. “When did it start?”

“Nothing started! And I believe we’re done discussing this, I told you all the precious Order needs to know!”

Snape crunched his hands into fists in a sudden move and Harry moved his face backwards a little.

Disgust and surprise warred in Snape's eyes as his mouth dropped open slightly, taking in the move, before his posture relaxed again, in a clear attempt at calm.

He felt his face contort when his stomach burned worse than during all the previous moments with something he couldn’t put a word to, his jaw trembling.

No, this wasn’t like that, like he expected to be hit… Snape had drawn the wrong conclusion, it was just the tension in the air making him jumpy.

The potion's master slowly shook his head, as if saying: I can’t believe how traumatised you are.

He squeezed his eyes shut to block it out.

“I’m going now,” he croaked.

“Yes. Take the note to Madame Pomfrey for the damaged shoulder. I will know later tonight if you have not.”

Snape went silent then, but he heard no clack of footsteps receding.

He kept his eyes closed as if he could just wish away a monster under the bed. With how severely this whole thing was taken out of context, he mused, it didn’t bare contemplating how Snape might explain this to other Order members.

“Whom will you tell? Just professor Dumbledore, right? Actually I can tell him myself.”

“I think not.”

He opened his eyes again to scowl at nothing. “If I say I’ll do it, I will do it. You can check that afterwards as well.” You paranoid bastard.

“You are harbouring under a delusion, Potter. That you can comprehend your situation. But you are a child.” He held up his hand for silence, and Harry slumped back. “Therefore it’s up to an adult to give a proper analysis. Now go.”

He turned and fairly ran out the door.

After dinner he tapped the office at the back of the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey didn’t ask many questions after she perused the note, just functional ones about his arm, bless her. She gave him a few potions, Snapes potions they had to be but he cut that thought off: one was a muscle loosener, and one a strengthener. He also swallowed just a spoon of Skele Gro, for which apparently he had to stay the night. Ron and Hermione were allowed to sit with him until curfew, and it felt good to have them here not asking questions, just playing exploding snap.

After they left and he was about to nod off behind the privacy curtains, Snapes voice came to him through waves of sleep. He was on full alert next, urging his ears to hear more of the whispered conversation between Pomfrey and Snape. But it was too soft to make out.

A third voice joined in, and he jolted as he realised it was Dumbledore. He sounded sad, but again he couldn’t hear him.Just a minute later though, an argument started and the whispering became more clear:

“-to leave this for next summer, Severus.”

“No. At some point Grimmauld could get compromised - it is after all the ancestral home of all Blacks, perhaps more might come knocking now that its heir is gone.”

“And so, you mean to say we will have to make Harry’s home situation more safe, in that case.”

“As a fall-back option aside from other safe-houses, yes. I propose a meeting with all Potter’s summer guards to explain the situation, Potter’s… difficulty with his relatives.”

Harry sat up in horror - his shoulder complained at the sudden move.

“Well,” Snape went on musing after a beat. “Alastor, Kingsley, Nymphadora, and Lupin. I’d rather we dismiss Mundungus at this point, he is no longer trustworthy.”

“Agreed. So, it is time for a night cap I believe. I will call upon young Harry tomorrow morning, Poppy, I assume he will have breakfast here?”

“Yes, I will check his arm afterwards, then he can go.”

“Excellent.”

“Headmaster?” Snape.

“Tomorrow evening, Severus. You will inform us on Harry’s circumstances, and I will have a strategy ready by then..”

“Certainly.”

His lungs felt like glass was stuck in a few places. Snape was going to tell them all, everything. Including the people who would become his seniors were he to get into the Auror program. They would know, and they would never see him the same way again.

He heard the meeting come to a close, wanting to but somehow unable to let himself be heard, to protest this ultimate breach of his privacy.And then the adults were gone, and silence snug back in along with darkness.He knew this was Snape, all around bully - so how could he feel so betrayed?