Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a magical castle, at a place called Hogwarts, in the middle of Scotland, Harry J. Potter was an enigma.

Enigma was a nice word for ‘freak’, a synonym if you will.

The boy was not at all what he should have been when he passed through the gates of Hogwarts. He was smaller than all the rest, would have been deemed invisible if not for the scar marking his forehead and right brow. He did not make eye contact, and he did not speak. There was no excitement, there was no nervousness, there was no emotion at all behind that cold mask of Harry Potter’s scarred face.

When, after a ten minute stall, the Sorting Hat shouted: ‘SLYTHERIN!’, they ought to have known the world would never be the same.

People gave excuses for the odd boy. Perhaps he was getting used to magic. Perhaps he missed his Muggle relatives. Perhaps he was simply adjusting. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps they were all wrong. When their precious golden boy did not get better, when their holy miracle child stayed weird and discomforting and generally freaky, the adults at large decided it was high time to intervene. They sat him down. They lectured him. They tried to figure out what was — wrong — with this child.

“Don’t you have anything to add to this, Mister Potter?”

“Don’t you want to learn magic, Mister Potter?”

When his Potions professor and Head of House glared at him out of all others and sneered, ‘Ah, yes, Harry Potter, our — new — celebrity,’ Harry had merely stared past him as he did all adults.

“Are you mute, boy?”

“Don’t you dare disrespect me!”

“Look at me, Potter!”

The man’s vitriol didn’t even reach the boy from wherever he was hidden deep, deep down in that safe corner of himself, safe in his husk of thin skin and bird—like bones.

Harry did not speak.

He did not cast spells.

He made no magic at all.

The adults held conferences and meetings and appointments; and over his ducked head, they fought, a mudslide of arguments that spewed across ancient corridors. Potter was stressed/over—scheduled/over—dramatic/no — depressed/no — in need of attention/no — in need of discipline/in need of rest/in need/his fault/his fault.

The giant man with a big bushy beard and sad doe eyes cried, “I tried ter tell ya’, Pr’fess’r, there’s somethin’ wrong wit’ poor ‘Arry.”

Hagrid was not wrong.

The hero worship quickly changed when they realised their hero was not what they wanted or expected. He was not like James, he was not like Lily. The Slytherins didn’t like him because of his name, and the others didn’t like him because he was a Slytherin. He was a disappointment to one and all.

Harry Potter spent his first days at Hogwarts in a daze. He shuffled from class to common room to Great Hall with dull green eyes, neither hearing nor speaking, neither seeing nor feeling. Their disapproval and hatred did not affect him; he was far too used to it at the Dursleys’. He was indifferent to their whispers and mockery and judgement. At least they weren’t hitting him… At least they weren’t starving him… At least… It could always be worse.

At least they did not know what the Dursleys did.

They did not know what horrors had left scars upon his body; they did not know what nightmares controlled the arrangement of his atoms. He was not a ghost, or an apparition, like the other kids whispered; he was merely a cage, a corset of bones housing a separate monster, a human host for a Darkness no one knew the name to.

Sometimes he could not sleep because he lived in terror of releasing the Other in the night. Sometimes tears like saltwater leaked down his face without his noticing, in the middle of the strange classes with the strange names — Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Sometimes he vomited for no reason, thick black bile, like tar pulled up from his depths.

Even when he held completely still, there were a lot of things happening inside his small, fragile body, and whatever it was — whatever demon or darkness or freakishness — none of it was any good.

“You listen to me, Harry Potter…”

“Just speak, Potter!”

“What’s wrong with you, Potter?”

Harry Potter never brought his wand to class and he never opened his textbooks and he hadn’t cast a single spell.

Another word for enigma: a problem.

Harry wasn’t stupid — okay?

He knew who he was.

Well, he didn’t know—know, because he was only eleven, but he knew who he was when he was with people, or when they were looking at him and putting him into a category in their minds. That category certainly didn’t match the supposed persona of ‘The Boy Who Lived’ — the one that Ronald Weasley grinned at, the one that Hagrid reverently described, the one that people pointed at and whispered about. Harry wasn’t certain who that boy was, but it certainly wasn’t him.

Who was the boy who was not smiling, who wouldn’t talk, who wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes?

Who, even if he was between two other kids, kind of still looked like he was standing alone, because his fellow Slytherins were standing a little apart from him?

Were his clothes too big? Patched and dirty?

If his parents hadn’t died for him and he hadn’t survived a murder attempt from a madman, would anyone even remember his name?

Harry had been around long enough to spot the kids who had it easy. Dudley came to mind. So did that blond prat called Malfoy. They were used to having friends. They usually had a mum and a dad, or at least a parent who wasn’t dead, and those people who were meant to care most in the world never hit them. Nobody whispered about them behind their backs. Nobody avoided them in the hallway.

And they’d get by just fine in life because they had money or smarts or people who loved them. And then there was him, that one freak, that skinny disheveled kid who never got anything right, and sat alone in places like the Great Hall, and drew all the time, or got chased around the playground, and got called mean names—

badboy—freakboy—badboy—freakboy

—Because that was his lot, that was just the way it was, what else was there?

Most wouldn’t know what that was like — none of the professors here at Hogwarts did, that was for sure. It was as if they expected him to be happy — so charming and brave — to be grateful over arriving at a place where magic ran rampant. And a shameful part of Harry was grateful, a little. He really was trying to follow the rules. He was trying to go where he was supposed to go when he was supposed to go there and sit like a good boy even though he didn’t say anything because his throat was filled with nails. He was trying to follow the rules because to not follow the rules meant to risk: going back.

If he let his guard down for just a minute, he almost (sort of) liked Hogwarts.

Of course the castle was safe and of course the freakishness they called ‘magic’ was beautiful.

But sometimes Harry couldn’t breathe in this damn place; his chest felt full of sand. He couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps he’d spent too long in the cupboard, in the dark and in the cold. Maybe he’d never be able to understand the clean sheets, the sweet—smelling soaps, the piles of food in the Great Hall, warm and abundant.

Yes, the castle was safe and the magic was beautiful — but it was also wrong.

And no one seemed to understand that. The really messed up part to Harry was that once he started showing the freakishness all those years ago, he could never not be a creepy freak, because his whole body was now a scarred battlefield and nobody liked that on a kid, nobody could love that, and so all of them here, every one of these magical freaks, were screwed, inside and out. All of them, without even realising it.

They didn’t understand.

None of them seemed to know what it felt like to every day, every fucking day, be so lonely, so dirty, so freakish that this black hole inside was going to swallow him down.

And swallow him, it did.

Harry had been pushed around for as long as he could remember, mocked and belittled and beaten down, so it should not have been so terrible. No, it should have seemed normal. Almost acceptable. But perhaps that shameful part of him, secret and traitorous, had hoped — maybe, just maybe — that this magical place would be different.

Harry was wrong.

The first time it happened at Hogwarts, no one knew.

When they shoved him, or mocked him, or hexed them with their freaky magic, that familiar darkness churned and rose within him in warning, in threat. When his fellow Slytherins had left him at the bottom of a staircase, pushed and tripped down, Harry knew it was bad, so very bad, when that familiar buzzing rose in his ears, and the corners of his vision faded to black. He could feel his internal music starting, an entire orchestra of chaos swirling within his chest. The pressure in his brain began to fight with the pressure in his body, and— oh no, oh no.

The freak of a boy had to find a way to release all the badbadbad inside of himself. He needed to find a way to make himself smaller and smaller, hidden completely, safesafesafe from everyone else, and he burst through the massive entrance doors and he pelted into the endless green that surrounded the magic castle until there was darkness everywhere all around him. Even inside him.

Aunt Petunia’s voice ringing around and around in his ears, “You stop it! Just stop it, you filthy little freak!”

Harry couldn’t stop it.

The freakishness took control.

His body twisted and writhed, jerking back and forth, while the Darkness consumed him. Changed him. Became him. Fire—like tar created a hurricane of disaster all around a terrified little boy, unable to control himself. The Other had flesh like oil and teeth that glimmered like diamonds and razorblades. It had hungry eyes, eyes with teeth that moved over him, tasting, feasting.

Uncontrollable devastation. Unstoppable destruction.

He nearly levelled a forest, and the monster inside of him — the Other — was still hungry for moremoremore. The grass beneath his feet died at the sound of his first scream. Flowers browned and wilted. Tree leaves faded and fell away. Every plant within his vicinity withered into non—existence.

And just as quickly as it had started, the freakishness was done. The Otherness licked its fangs, left him gaunt, the boy who was once Harry Potter, took all his life and light. The Darkness abandoned him like everyone else did. Like the orphan he was, he laid there — shivering and alone. Like the orphan he was, he cried and wished for better — blood seeping through crisp new robes.

The caretaker, Filch, found him maybe minutes, maybe hours, maybe days later. He stunk of nicotine and kidney pie. He stunk of horror. He said, “Holy mother of Merlin, boy, what’s been done t’ you?”

Harry did not answer.

But: Harry noticed the stars that night. They were like cutouts from a dark cloth, like sparklers against a stone or salt against the sea. For some reason, this last sight mattered to him. Like light in the darkness, hope in the emptiness; the last thing he thought he might ever see before he died on the charred, dead grass.

Severus Snape was having a bad day.

There had been three explosions in one class alone — the third year Slytherin/Gryffindors of course, which wasn’t at all surprising. He had been forced to assign seven detentions, and on the very last day of the week too, when he wanted nothing more than to hide himself away. Then, he had to suffer an Inter—House meeting for an ongoing feud between two very petty Fifth Years, and then he had to sit through a Staff Meeting that truly made him want to drive his wand straight through his own ear.

And now he had to deal with— this.

As if he didn’t have enough going on, just when he was about to turn in for the night, the Headmaster called him to his office for a last minute conversation.

Fucking wonderful.

So yes, Severus was having a very bad day.

When the Floo spat him out in the Headmaster’s office, Severus found that he was not alone — but in fact accompanied by the other three Heads of House, and he was the last to arrive. Severus worked hard on maintaining a simple glare rather than his more furious one.

“Ah,” said Albus, “Thank you for joining us, my boy.”

Not like he had any other choice.

“Sherbet lemon?” Severus’ look of utter disdain was enough of an answer, and Albus smiled to himself (amused, apparently, the mad old coot).

“Albus,” Minerva interrupted sternly, her eyes heavy, her wrinkles more pronounced than usual. “This is hardly the time.”

“Of course you’re right, Minerva,” Albus sighed heavily and waved a hand, “Severus, would you care to take a seat with your co—workers?”

Not moving, Severus nearly growled at the Headmaster. “Albus, I am tired, I possess very little patience, and I have no time for your pleasantries. Just tell us whatever the hell it is you want, so that we may leave.”

Another man — a more normal sort of man — might have regretted sounding so disrespectful to his employer, but Severus was not a normal man and he did not care about much these days. In any case, Albus was more than used to it by now.

“Of course, forgive an old man, Severus. We do so get caught up in all the chit—chat. I often forget you’re not one for small talk.”

Albus smiled.

Severus glowered.

Minerva sighed pointedly.

At this, the old man mercifully moved on. “I have first some information — and then a request for you, specifically, Severus.” Perhaps Albus saw that the Potions Master was about to refuse because he rushed to say, “It’s about Harry Potter.”

Merlin’s sake. When was it not these days?

Severus was cruel to Harry Potter from the outset, and it was well—deserved. Arrogant, selfish, precious Potter — thinking he was too good to respect his teachers, to even speak to them. And yet, somehow, the disrespect was entirely unique, separate from his father’s and yet (almost impressively) even more infuriating. The brat was not what they were expecting, no, not at all — especially after this latest news.

For almost a full minute, Severus could only stare in genuine shock.

It seemed like the Potter brat was shocking him all over the place.

The familiar hatred compelled him to ask, “Why did you feel the need to inform me?”

Albus gave him a sudden and deeply disapproving look, chiding quietly, “You are Harry Potter’s Head of House, are you not, Severus?”

Minerva stiffened at that, obviously still bitter about that, and if Severus hadn’t felt so strongly the same, he might’ve mocked her over it. But as it was…

“It couldn’t have been Potter,” Severus finally said, moving on from his distaste to shake his head in disbelief, “I’ve seen no evidence that Harry Potter possesses any magical talent whatsoever. The boy is as good as a squib.”

“That cannot be true!” Minerva interrupted fiercely, turning to the Headmaster, “Albus—?”

A thoughtful hum, then: “Wild magic, I’d say.”

“Wild magic… that results in that level of destruction? The boy practically flattened the entire Forbidden Forest!”

Filius interrupted with a thoughtful expression, “No one is asking why Mister Potter was even out there at this time of night.”

Severus nearly rolled his eyes into his head, “He was trying to get attention, what else?!”

“I’d hardly say this was attention—seeking behaviour, Severus,” Pomona countered quietly, “it sounds as if the boy was quite upset when Argus brought him in.”

A scornful scoff escaped him. “What does the brat have to be so upset about, anyway?”

“Are there problems within his dormitory or with his dormmates?” Minerva pinned him with a horrible stare.

Severus’ eyes narrowed into black slits. “I’d thank you to keep your nose out of my House, Minerva.”

“I am simply inquiring after Mister Potter’s welfare,” she replied tightly.

“As he is one of my Snakes, it is I who am in charge of ensuring his welfare—,”

“—And what if you’re not?!”

The truth insulted him; it infuriated him.

Severus inhaled a sharp and deep breath through his considerable nose, shoulders tensing and gritting out through his teeth, “I am giving that brat all the blessed care that he deserves—,”

“Severus.” Albus’ tone was stern, and he knew he had pushed the elder wizard (and everyone else) far enough. “It is as you said. The boy is your responsibility, and we cannot deny that something is seriously wrong with him. Therefore, you will be the one to discover whatever is ailing our Mister Potter—,”

“I am hardly the best man for the job,” Severus interrupted with no small amount of bitterness, “All of us know that I cannot stand the boy. I will do my duty to him as his Head of House, but I cannot be compelled to assist him beyond that.”

Albus did not take his blue eyes from Severus’ stubborn face when he said, “Minerva, Pomona, Filius, would you three please excuse us? I think Severus and I need to discuss this privately.”

His co—workers left swiftly and with little fanfare, but Severus glared at Albus with all the heat he could muster. This was humiliating — beyond humiliating, that he should send them out for a lecture as if he was some wayward student in a pique of temper. The moment the door closed, the silence that fell around them was rife with tension.

“I thought you said this was a request.”

“I would’ve liked to treat it as one, but if we cannot… you may take it as an order.”

Severus ground his teeth and spat, “And if I refuse?”

A beat of silence. His mentor stared at him, long and hard, with an expression that spoke of a thousand sorrows, a thousand disappointments. Neither men were willing to give.

Then, finally, Albus said the worst thing he possibly could:

“Do it for Lily, Severus.”

Damn him.

Harry did not die.

A tragedy.

Soon, much too soon, there were adults all around, and he wanted them to just— go. He had lost again. The freakishness had won. It had burnt this time, and he didn’t know why, and he almost wished the Other would’ve burnt him away piece by piece until there was nothing but ash left. He wished the adults would stop talking. He wished the adults would stop worrying.

He wondered why the adults were worrying.

The warmth of a wet cloth. The smear of ointments and salves. The clean scent and gentle press of medicated gauze. The cacophony of voices was mostly gone; there was only one woman now. There had never been anyone to care for the aftermath before. It was… nice. Her hands were gentle, and warm, and she talked to him in a soft, soothing voice.

He wished it was his mother. She was not his mother.

Harry didn’t know where he was, but it was dark beside him, dark all around him. Dark inside him. Overhead: a window. Outside: there was a big black blanket of sky, dotted with thousands of snow—white stars. He liked it there, lots and lots.

“Right when he came in,” a woman said from somewhere far away, “The Diagnosis Charm showed his heart at thirty—three beats per minute and his blood pressure was that of a cold snake. And then, as if hit by a spell, his vitals were fine. It was the strangest thing.”

“And he is stable now?” asked a low drawling sort of voice, one that was almost familiar.

“He’s still rather out of it,” replied the woman. “But his dressings are looking better. He is going to be quite sore for a long while, unfortunately — poor dear.”

“Did you hear him — before,” the man muttered, deep voice very quiet, “What he was saying about pretending to not exist?”

“I…” The woman sounded so sad. “I had to stop listening..."

Harry stopped listening.

The woman was called a 'mediwitch' apparently, she whispered it in his ear when he drifted above the foam. He wondered if she would bring him more pain potion. The Headmaster didn’t want her to, apparently; he heard them whispering when they thought he was asleep. But he wanted those potions, so badly; he wanted to keep himself formless, adrift. He didn’t want to land back in the real world yet.

Whenever he woke, he saw them in his head, in Privet Drive, in the Slytherin dorm, and he tried as hard as he possibly could to black them out, but the heat started up again inside him, the shame, the hate, and there they all were, pushing him down the stairs, shoving him into the cupboard, burning his hands on the stove, tripping him in the corridor, shouting at him, telling him—

badboy—freakboy—badboy—freakboy

The first time it happened — when the Other first possessed him, Harry had been so scared, so frightened, that he’d gone to Aunt Petunia for help. The little boy crashed into her legs and begged her, ‘Please, help me, please make it stop’, sobs rolling from his split lips. Aunt Petunia’s hand snaked between them, groping the air, until she got a good hold on his arm — bruising it without care.

“I’ll tell you right now, you little freak, I won’t ever be helping you. I don’t even want to look at you! What you are, no one will love you. Not in any normal way, do you understand?”

And Harry understood.

He was washed away in an ocean of hurt and shame and anger.

And they let him drown.

When he next regained consciousness, Harry got the sense that he was waking from something. From somewhere. A hazy place, a dark place that he did not know how to return to.

For the first time in months, he felt hungry. He wondered what time it was. His hands drift under the hospital pyjamas a school nurse must have dressed him in, skimming over the bandages there. His skin felt flayed raw and hot, but at least yesterday’s freakiness had moved through him. He was now shiny and pink inside, clean. Empty was good. Empty was strong.

Rain spattered against the window over his head. Angry shadows flew up and down the walls and across the far—away ceiling. The tight screens that shielded him from view suddenly split and a dark smudge of a man stepped into his private space, nearly frightening Harry enough to make him topple off the bed.

He recognised this man, in a distant way one remembered yesterday’s nightmares.

A teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin — Severus Snape, his Potions professor, his Head of House.

Upon laying his cold black eyes upon Harry, Snape’s expression turned into an instant sneer. “Wipe that look of terror off your face this instant, Potter, I won’t do anything to you…”

Harry tried, in vain, to relax.

A little smirk slithered onto his cruel face, “...Unless I’m provoked.”

Well. There was absolutely no chance at relaxing now. He watched his professor like one might a predator, his sore and aching body ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. If Snape noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. He continued on steadily.

“I want it known here and now that I like this no more than you do so I will not hear any complaints, am I understood, boy?”

Harry flinched despite himself at the cruel little name. Snape took this as agreement.

“I have been given the — dubious honour — of discovering what exactly is wrong with you, and believe me, Potter…” Snape stepped in Harry’s space, looming over him, glaring down with his cold and empty eyes, “I will.”

And Harry had one coherent thought: oh fuck.

Chapter Text

Like an angel, Harry was all in white.

It seemed that when the Otherness took over, he’d set the world ablaze, just for a little while, and as the world burnt, so did Harry. Apparently his forearms had to be thickly bandaged, heavy as clubs. His thighs were wrapped tightly, too; white gauze peeking out from the ends of the trousers he’d bought in that place called Diagon Alley.

When he was finally allowed to leave what was called the ‘Hospital Wing’, Harry immediately missed the emptiness, the haze that once filled his mind for the days since arriving at Hogwarts, because now there was no escape. He was here and magic was real and there was no changing any of it.

Hogwarts was going to be seven years of hell.

Harry J. Potter recognised this the moment he stepped off the boat in front of the magic castle that was supposed to mean salvation. He wasn’t totally sure how exactly he knew this, but he wasn’t wrong. In the days that followed the— incident, nothing happened to change his mind, anyway.

Badboy—freakboy—badboy—freakboy.

These words stayed on him like a brand, seared into his flesh and bone. And worse, now when he walked through the cold hallways, he really was a crazy freak, with his nesty hair and his clubby arms and bandaged legs and limp. As if people didn’t have enough to stare at. He had no longer had any reason to ignore the way the others stared at him most of the time. He noticed it now more than ever. Each pair of eyes on him were like little pins and needles pricking at his thin skin.

“Filthy squib,” he heard snickered behind his back, but when he turned to look, no one was looking his way. “Blood traitor! Half—scum!”

It didn’t take Harry very long to understand what these words meant.

As if being magical wasn’t freaky enough, there were some wizards (Pureblooded, apparently) who decided that being magical for generations was a good thing — and not a curse like Harry knew it really was. His House, Slytherin, was really obsessed with that kind of thing, and many of the other Houses didn’t like that about them — most specifically: Gryffindor.

One such Grryfindor was Ronald Weasley, the nice boy with the nice family from the train station, who still looked at Harry sometimes, from across classrooms, or across the Great Hall. This in itself wasn’t so odd, really, since everybody stared at the freakboy that was Harry Potter, but the thing about Ronald Weasley was that he looked— sad. Harry didn’t understand it. Then again, he tended to understand very little.

His relatives always said he was very stupid.

Even though Harry knew they were the stupid ones.

Since the haze had left him, he was forced to actually pay attention in class, even though he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hear about their no—good, dirty magic. He didn’t want to learn about their spells and curses and hexes and all the things that made them all so very freakish. But he did. And he resented it — because anger was better than fear.

On the whole, his professors had no real complaints about him. He was polite and non—disruptive. He did not fool around in class nor did he seek out fights with other students. He simply did not engage. He simply did not speak.

Distantly, Harry wondered how long it had been since he last spoke. He’d always had a smart mouth, a sharp tongue that earned him more beatings than not, and for so long, he’d lived in fear of saying the wrong thing, being too much of a freak, of never having anywhere to go but the cupboard. Aunt Petunia was always telling him to keep quiet, not be a nuisance.

“No one’s interested, freak,” she’d say.

And so, to make himself smaller, to save himself, he got quieter and quieter and then — after weeks upon weeks of a silence that no one noticed — he just stopped talking entirely.

His relatives never seemed to mind; in fact, they were glad of his silence. It was the one thing Harry was good at. But Hogwarts was different. All these people did was demand he make noise, make himself visible, make himself vulnerable for their judgement.

No place was worse for judgement than the First Year Potions class.

As usual, the Gryffindors and Slytherins huddled in awkward lines outside their Potions classroom. Each group shot glares at the other, shuffling and bumping and sneering. The tension was stifling. The door could not open soon enough. Honestly, where the hell was Snape? Harry, who disliked all of them, didn’t bother with any of that House rivalry shite, and so he wasn’t paying any attention when one of the large lumps that Malfoy used as bodyguards tripped him.

Harry stumbled pretty good, catching himself only barely on the wall before hitting the ground. He scratched up his palms enough to sting, jostling the burns under his bandages, but he gave no reaction. It was no surprise when the rest of the Slytherins cackled; this had clearly been planned. No way—

“Nice one, Crabbe!”

—Crabbe (apparently) had thought of it himself.

Harry righted himself and turned his back to the wall, focusing on his shoes, keeping his expression blank — completely disinterested.

Malfoy was pouting at him, mockingly, “What? Don’t have anything to say, Scarhead?”

Harry did not. Then again, he didn’t have much to say ever. In any case, ‘Scarhead’ was rather uninspired in terms of the insults that Harry had received in his short life thus far. He did manage to surprise Harry when he suddenly grabbed onto his bag, jerked it off his shoulder, and threw it to the ground.

“What about that? Does that make you mad, Potty?”

Harry bit his lip and kept his silence. He tried to ignore the sparks of pain tearing across his arms. He kept breathing calmly, ignoring the tingling in his fingers, the orchestra stringing their instruments in his chest. He’d been dealing with bullies for years, and he knew Malfoy only wanted a reaction — and he was not going to get one. No. He was not going to let that prat get to him.

“Oh, come on, Potter,” Malfoy advanced on him, lips smirking, “Why don’t you say something—,”

“Oh, leave him alone, Malfoy.”

Harry startled. He wasn’t the only one. Every First Year in the bloody corridor was taken back at the sight of Ronald Weasley (a proud Gyffindor by all accounts) stepping in to defend an enemy, no, worse than an enemy — a Slytherin.

“You mind your own business, Weasel!” Malfoy shot back instantly, “This is a inter—house matter! And I bet that just stings for you pathetic Gryffindors, doesn’t it? The Boy Who Lived — now lives in Slytherin.”

It was odd, he thought somewhere distantly; the Slytherins were happy to claim the supposed prestige that came with Harry’s name, but they did not want to claim Harry himself.

The smallest boy in Hogwarts risked a quick and cautious glance at the brave redheaded boy from the train, and already he knew what happened next was not going to end well.

“Yea,” countered Weasley furiously, “And I thought you slimy Slytherins stuck together—!”

And of course, just then — the dungeon door swung open with a bang that made everybody jump. It was none other than bloody Snape. His cold black eyes swept over the Gryffindors, sneering at the sight of Harry and Weasley apparently taking on Malfoy together.

Their Potions professor hissed, “What was it you said about my Slytherins, Weasley?”

“Er…” The Gryffindor boy shifted uneasily, flushing as red as his hair, “It’s just… you see… Malfoy was picking on Potter, and—,”

“Is that so?” Snape arched one dark brow, tilting his chin quite like a bird’s when he turned to the blond, “Were you ‘picking on’ Potter, Mister Malfoy?”

Malfoy looked the very picture of innocence, “Of course not, sir.”

The evidence was clear. Harry’s robes were hanging off one shoulder and his bag was on the ground. His notebooks and textbooks were scattered across the dungeon floor. But of course who cared how anyone treated Harry? No one had, and no one would.

“Potter, do you agree with Weasley’s accusation?” Snape’s voice made him tense, made him want to run and never stop. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Harry’s heart pounded wildly within his ears, the prickling on his skin worse now than ever. Snape was staring at him. Malfoy was staring, so was Weasley, and so was every other Slytherin and Gryffindor in the corridor. F—ck this. F—ck them. Harry wanted to speak. He wanted to answer. He wanted to open his mouth. His mouth refused to cooperate.

“Well then. There you are.” Their professor smirked horribly. “It’s as you said, Mister Weasley, we ‘slimy Slytherins’ stick together.”

Harry ducked his head lower. Shameshameshame.

“So. Now that we’ve all been assured of precious Mister Potter’s well—being, it’ll be twenty points from Gryffindor for such unscrupulous accusations.” Their professor spat in his usual sneering tone. “Inside, all of you. Now!”

Harry walked into the classroom, not even bothering to grab his things. It wasn’t like he needed them anyway, just like he didn’t need Ronald Weasley’s help. Not now, not ever. It would only end in trouble, for all of them. The Potter boy sat through the class period, poking at the various ingredients at his workstation, not even looking at his lab partner whose name he didn’t know while they chopped and stirred and brewed. He occupied himself by staring into space, and if Weasley shot him glances throughout class, it didn’t matter.

Very little did.

Harry was soon on his way out of class, shuffling behind everyone else, head down and silent, when:

“Potter. A word.”

His fellow Slytherins chittered.

Harry tensed and stayed when all of his classmates were lucky enough to leave — hoping against hope that all Snape had to say to him really was just — a single word. Though, he wasn’t usually lucky so he didn’t like to get his hopes up.

With a deep sigh, Snape informed him quite unhappily, “I believe it is time we suffered through our first— session. Come through to my office immediately.”

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Very, very hesitantly, Harry followed his professor through the planked door to Snape’s office. It was as grim as his classroom. It was dark and cold, with only a few shafts of white sunlight peeking through a slit of a window atop one of the walls. He had loads of glass jars around his office stuffed to the brim with disgusting things, but the most notable thing to Harry was the massive jar of actual human eyeballs he had on a shelf over the left side of his desk.

To most it might seem a bit terrifying, but Harry kind of liked them.

Snape planted himself at his desk and regarded Harry for a moment with extreme displeasure.

“Sit down, Potter.”

Harry sat and determinedly did not fidget. The boy braced himself for everything that had happened before — the interrogation, the questions, the demands — why won’t you look at us? why won’t you speak? god’s sake, just speak, Potter!

But— there was nothing.

Snape paid no attention to him at all. He graded.

Harry sat in silence, not moving a muscle, hardly even breathing. He waited for something completely terrible to happen, but there was— nothing. If Harry wasn’t so sure Snape was plotting his demise, he’d think that it was almost sort of relaxing to sit because his body was really aching. His arms hurt all the way to his fingertips and his legs hurt all the way to his toes, and all his limbs were so very heavy in their bandages.

He watched Snape.

Snape ignored him.

If Harry should have ever wondered why the man didn’t like him, it didn’t occur to him. Honestly, he didn’t wonder why anyone didn’t like him. He was Harry Potter; that was answer enough.

Finally, Snape did some magic that made a transparent clock hover in the air between them, and with a tone of distinct relief, he scathed, “Hour’s up, Potter. Get out of my sight.”

Harry gladly did just that.

These meetings with Snape continued weekly, and honestly, if he didn’t dislike the professor so much, he might be impressed by his tenacity.

Alas, he did dislike the professor, and so he was not impressed. He did not talk. He just watched those poor eyeballs all the time, anytime he was in Snape’s office. He could watch them for hours and days, turning and wiggling and looking, as if on a mission to scrutinise everyone and everything. He found those eyes so incredibly dedicated to this task that ultimately meant nothing, because it wasn’t like they were getting out of the jar anytime soon, right?

And Snape either graded or just watched him watch them.

It was during his sixth session with the man that he suddenly broke their routine.

Without any warning at all, his professor said, “The Headmaster is under the impression that you need help, Mister Potter.”

Instantly, Harry’s eyes dropped down to look at his trainers, scuffed and full of holes, gently swinging.

“And as much as I personally don’t care one whit, I think it would be in both of our best interests to find out exactly what is wrong with you.”

Good luck, Harry thought bitterly. If he knew what was wrong with him — beyond the obvious freakiness of being magical, he’d know how to stop it. But he didn’t — so he couldn’t. The Otherness was in control, haunting his every step, and there was no changing that — not ever.

All he could do was hope to contain it.

“In my unfortunate experience, all Potters tend to obsess over the sound of their own voices, so I’m curious as to why you do not speak.”

Harry picked at the edges of his bandages and bit hard on his bottom lip.

“Don’t wish to discuss that, then?” Snape asked dryly, his lips twisted into something unpleasant. “Very well, we’ll move on. I’ve received reports from your other professors that you haven’t done a single assignment since your start here. They say you display a deplorable lack of interest in your lessons and you pay no attention in class. In fact, I’ve heard tell that you haven’t used your wand at all.”

Harry thought of his wand, stuffed into his bag, buried beneath his few belongings so it was out of sight — so he wouldn’t have to look at that horrible magic stick that apparently matched the one that murdered his parents. Harry hated magic. He hated it as much as he hated the Dursleys and as much as he hated himself.

“You haven’t done any magic at all, have you, Potter?”

Harry hunched his shoulders, curling them nearly up to his ears. He’d been doing freaky things for as long as he could remember — terrible, terrible things. He tried so hard to bury it down, to crush it, to purge it from within himself, but that had only made everything worse.

“Look at me, Potter.”

Harry didn’t.

“Look at me,” Snape ordered harshly. “Now.”

Very, very reluctantly, Harry lifted his gaze and settled it somewhere on Snape’s face — on his mouth, he decided, so he could see his thin lips form the words when he asked his next question.

“If I were to provide you with parchment and a quill, would you be willing to converse?”

Harry’s detached expression was answer enough.

“I thought not.” Snape replied, looking fairly unimpressed, “Potter, tell me, what was it that occurred on 16 September?”

Harry’s breath caught. He couldn’t tell, couldn’t tell, couldn’t tell.

“Some sort of prank gone wrong?”

The boy startled at that, genuinely surprised. A prank? Why would he play a prank? Why would he ever do what the Other did on purpose?

Eyes narrowing, the professor leant forward slightly in his chair to demand with rising frustration, “Do you remember 16 September, Potter — when you nearly destroyed an entire ecosystem that has existed for the past five centuries?!”

Harry pushed himself as far back into his chair as he could manage, wrapping his skinny arms tight around his belly.

Snape huffed to himself and eased back into his own chair, scowling at him as he said, “I cannot help you, Potter, if you do not speak to me.”

Help; that was a laugh, a bloody joke. Snape didn’t want to help him. No one did.

If anything, his time at Hogwarts had only reinforced that.

Most days, he spent trying to make himself as invisible as he did at Privet Drive, make himself smaller and smaller. The professors still looked at him as if he’d committed some crime he’d never know the name of, and most of the other students regarded him with cool indifference while his fellow Slytherins still treated him with cruel dislike.

Most nights, he fell asleep, curtains pulled taut around his bed, crying silently into his pillow. Every part of him ached, inside and out. He curled his arms around his chest, hugging himself, hugging so tight it almost felt like a real sort of hug. The kind he’d never had but always so badly wanted. But he couldn’t. Because he was bad. He bit hard into his pillow to muffle his building sobs as his fist began to pound his own shoulder in punishment. Badbadbad.

No one had helped him then. They wouldn’t now either, not ever, and Harry was clever enough to know that would never change.

Flying was… wonderful.

Easy; in fact, it was the easiest thing Harry had ever done in his life. It was a bit mad how he almost never took the chance to experience it. Truth was, he wouldn’t have gotten on the school broom at all if that blond prat Malfoy hadn’t stolen something from that Gryffindor boy, the sad one who barely spoke.

He wasn’t sure what had come over him, exactly; he knew magic was bad and dangerous and disgusting, but he was just— so bloody tired of seeing the weaker ones, the weirder ones, get stepped on. And perhaps he saw a bit of himself in that quiet Gryffindor boy, like a distorted reflection, the other side of a coin. And so Harry snatched the broom, kicked off the grass, and then he was— gone.

The freshness of the air on his face…

The swoop of glee in his stomach…

The rush of wind through his hair…

Harry felt like he could fly for years and years and never touch back down. He was far from the world and all of its problems, and up there, nothing could touch him or hurt him. Not the Dursleys, or Snape, or the Other. In the sky, he was free.

After returning the weird glass ball thing, Harry actually felt good about himself for the sum total of about forty—five seconds until Professor McGonagall appeared with a pale face and flashing eyes. Since he arrived at Hogwarts, Harry hadn’t known the Transfigure—something—or—other professor to ever be anything but serious and a bit stern, but he could recognise that sort of look a mile away. Harry knew he was utterly f—cked.

He was going to be caned, he was going to be expelled, he was going to be—

With barely five words said to him, the stern woman led him all the way down, down, down the familiar path to the dungeons where Harry now lived. She’d taken him past the Potions classroom door, past the hidden entrance of the Slytherin common room, and stopped finally at the creepy office of Harry’s least favourite teacher —

Professor Snape.

Yep. Harry was completely dead.

McGonagall knocked and barely waited for a response before she pushed into Snape’s office, still towing Harry along. The second he felt Snape’s eyes on him, Harry quickly dropped his head. Needless to say, his Head of House was not happy to see him.

“Ah, Professor McGonagall.” Snape spoke very quietly, very threateningly, “Has Mister Potter been causing problems again?”

Harry winced and ducked his head lower.

Snape was definitely going to cane him.

“No, indeed.” McGonagall blew Harry’s frightened world apart in just those two words alone. Crisply, she went on, “During the First Year’s first flying lesson, Mister Potter committed an act of chivalry on behalf of one of his classmates.”

Dryly: “How Gryffindor of him.”

McGonagall exhaled harshly through flared nostrils. “I came here to say your Snake seemed quite the natural on a broom, Professor, and I think your Snake will prove quite an asset to your House if given the chance.”

Snape’s upper lip curled in obvious disgust. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“How magnanimous of you,” it was weird, it was like Snape was mocking McGonagall.

The Potions Master was clearly insane, though Harry knew that already.

“Isn’t it just?” At least McGonagall seemed to be mocking him right on back, “Suffice to say, I do not like to see talent go to waste — no matter my House loyalty. In fact, I think you’d be a fool not to put him on the Quidditch team.”

Harry’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t help but jerk his head up and gape at his professor in shock. She thought he should play on a team? She thought he was good enough? He knew he shouldn’t be happy about that, he knew that anything magical was badbadbad, but still, there was this very small, dangerous, part of him that—

“Then call me a fool, Minerva,” Snape’s hissing voice put a sharp and sudden end to Harry’s thoughts, “As I seem to recall a certain rule that states First Years cannot try out for the Quidditch House teams.”

“Oh, be reasonable, Severus,” McGonagall huffed impatiently.

“I am being perfectly reasonable, I allow for no special treatment in my House — not even for The Boy Who Lived.”

Harry felt the coils within his body tightening further and further with every barb thrown back and forth between his two professors. It never ended well for Harry when adults were arguing over him. Never.

Out the corner of his eye, he could see that McGonagall’s already thin lips had practically disappeared with how tightly she pressed them together. “Very well, then. I suppose I can do nothing but l bid you good day, Severus.”

“Yes, good day, Minerva.” Harry had already swiftly turned to follow the Transfiguration professor out the door when Snape drawled, “Potter, you will stay.”

Ohgodohgodohgod.

The office door closed solidly shut. Harry stared longingly at it. He briefly wondered if he started screeching, if McGonagall would burst back in and take him with her? Probably not. He was under Snape’s complete and total authority, apparently, and the man could do anything he liked to him. Anything at all.

“Take a seat, Potter.”

Fighting the urge to make a runner, he did.

Snape regarded him over the end of his big nose for a few silent moments before he said, “So you’ve a talent on a broom, Potter. How — thrilling for you. How proud of yourself, you must feel… And such a shame I’m not allowing you to join the team and show off to your endless horde of fans. What a disappointment for you. What a blow to your ego.”

It was easier to ignore insults than punches; Snape had nothing on the Dursleys.

“You don’t have anything to say about that?” His Head of House waited and waited, and when Harry didn’t respond, he tutted, “No, of course not. You don’t have anything to say about anything, do you?”

At least the man was right about that.

Suddenly, Snape leant forward in his chair so Harry leant back in his, even though they had a whole desk separating them.

“I have a theory, Potter.”

Harry watched bits of dust slowly drift through a shaft of light from one of the many candelabras, and suddenly he decided that he wanted to know exactly how many potions there were lined on the wall behind Snape’s desk. One, four, eight, ten, thirteen…

“I cannot fathom why you’re not speaking to anyone.”

The shelves upon shelves of potions were half—tucked into shadow and it was hard to count any further than fourteen. His eyes strained.

“But I would take a guess that it takes enormous effort on your part.”

For a moment, Harry occupied himself thinking of things that took a lot of effort. Working all day in the garden under the hot sun without a sip of water. Staying awake in the cold after he’d been shoved outside because he spilled gravy on Aunt Marge. Paying attention in class when Dudley kept kicking the back of his chair. Not letting his freakishness loose when a purple—faced Uncle Vernon shoved him against the wall and started screaming.

Those things took ‘enormous effort’.

The joke was on Snape — not speaking was a relief.

“My theory is this: you’ve found yourself in a situation at Hogwarts where many things are beyond your control.”

Harry closed his eyes. If he couldn’t see Snape, maybe he’d just disappear. If he was lucky. Then again, he had never been particularly lucky.

“Sometimes,” Snape continued, unhindered, “When we are in situations where we feel not in control, we do things, especially things that require a lot of energy, as a way of making ourselves feel we have some power. And just about everything you do here is determined by forces outside your control — what time you get up, how often you go to class, even how often you see me. Am I correct in this assumption?”

Harry blinked and actually looked at Snape’s face (his nose this time), surprised at his professor’s sudden understanding, a rebellious tug in his chest that felt a lot like hope. All at once, he was tired. So very tired. Something inside of him sagged, like the threadbare seams of his heart were threatening to give way. Maybe — just maybe, after all this time — someone might understand.

“I imagine you’re quite unused to that.”

There was a shift, a sudden change, in Snape’s voice and black eyes that Harry didn’t like.

“No, you’re used to ruling the roost, aren’t you, Potter?”

Harry understood suddenly just what Snape was insinuating; lump in his throat, chest aching, he went back to counting the potions along the wall. He had to restart. One, three, nine, twelve, fifteen…

“You’re used to your precious relatives catering to your every whim, waiting on you — hand and foot. But you got here and you realised that there were people who had actual authority over you, students who didn’t act like you were better than them. And so now you’re staging a protest. Isn’t that right, Potter?”

The vials of potions blurred together.

Harry opened his mouth to refute this, to argue, but nothing happened. He tried furiously to send commands from his brain to his mouth — willing himself to speak, but… nothing. He wondered if it was possible for his voice muscles to forget how to work if they weren’t used for a long time. Harry closed his mouth, gave up on speaking and counting potions and everything, and with burning eyes, he looked back at the jar of eyeballs.

If Snape was disappointed, he didn’t show it.

For a few minutes, he just watched Harry watch the eyeballs, and the eyeballs did their thing. Harry would rather like to be those eyeballs, brainless, quiet, no one around. What a weird but peaceful life those eyeballs had.

Eventually, when he was dismissed, Harry stood and gathered his bag and walked to the door. He was nearly there when Snape spoke again, and his voice was so quiet that he had to stop walking for a second just to hear it.

“I should’ve suspected that any Potter was too stupid to realise how much power you would regain… if you would just speak.”

Harry closed the door quietly behind him.

Severus did not understand the Potter child — at all.

He contemplated the many infuriating ways the boy had contradicted his expectations since his arrival at Hogwarts, and he hated every single one of them. He thought the boy was completely lacking talent and incapable of magic, but then he nearly decimated the entire Forbidden Forest with wild magic. He thought the boy purposefully rude and disrespectful, but the boy flinched at the slightest raised voice. Then he thought the boy meek and pathetic, and then the boy had flown on that blasted broom like a bloody professional to save the Longbottom fool’s Remembrall.

He never knew what the blasted boy was going to do next.

It was— maddening.

Severus was in bed, tossing and turning with these thoughts plaguing him, when he heard a knocking on his door. He groaned — loud and long, dragging his hands over his face as he dragged himself out of bed. Wrapping his black night robe taut around his slim waist, he grumbled all the way to the door and only stopped when it revealed one of his prefects, Barnaby Lee, standing on the other side.

He looked nearly as unhappy to be there as Severus was to have him.

On the whole, he rather liked Lee; he wasn’t particularly inclined towards Pureblood ideals and he wasn’t overly dunderheaded in his five years of Potions classes, and thus was the reason why he selected him to be a prefect in the first place. But now it was going on two AM, and quite frankly, Severus was pissed. For a moment, he contented himself just glaring.

Lee shifted uncomfortably, “Sir…”

“What?” He groused through his teeth.

“It’s one of the First Years, sir; they’ve had a nightmare and are kicking up a fuss.”

F—cking hell. Bloody First Years.

Whoever decided he was the one to deal with these sort of things? It was times like this that reminded Severus that was not meant to be a caretaker of children, and he certainly did want one of his own.

He never did, not when he was an unhappy child, and not when he had grown into an even unhappier adult. He used to say that — ‘I’d be a terrible father’ — to Lily and later to Lucius and the few others who listened and peopled his youth. Some people are not meant to be parents, and Severus had contentedly considered himself one of those people — which was commendable enough that he recognised it.

And yet, here he was, having to deal with an eleven year old’s bad dreams.

Severus sighed hard and stepped into the narrow tunnel that separated his private chambers from the Slytherin common room, gritting his teeth against the chill now permeating his bones.

“Which?”

“Potter, by the sounds of it.”

Of course it would be a bloody Potter causing havoc, but there was one particular part of that statement that he found surprising.

“Sounds?” Severus inquired.

“Yes, sir. Potter, sir, he’s screaming.”

D—mn it all. It wasn’t worry that struck him in the chest, more like dread. If Potter’s magic lost control of itself again, if Potter was hurt, that would be Severus’ job. Bloody hell, why hadn’t he tried harder in those foolish sessions? Severus hastened his pace, and Lee had to jog to keep up.

It was more or less quiet in the First Year boys’ dormitory when Severus and Lee finally arrived in the proper corridor, parting a curious crowd of upper Year onlookers. One dark look banished them all, and he braced himself for dealing with more Potter nonsense. He stepped into the dormitory. As soon as his youngest Snakes spotted him, they started assaulting him with their irritating little voices.

“He’s off his head, sir.”

“Completely mental!”

“My father will hear about this—,”

“Do we really have to share a dorm with a nutter—?”

“Quiet.” Severus intoned, already thin patience rapidly fraying. “What — happened?”

His godson, as to be expected, took charge. Draco stepped forward and answered, “We were all sleeping when Potter disturbed us with his screaming, no warning at all, nobody even did anything to him. He just started up and wouldn’t stop.”

“It was like he was possessed. He scared the sh—,” Zabini stopped quickly and shot Severus a halfway nervous look, “That is, I mean… he scared the life out of us, sir. Honestly.”

That sounded about right. Harry Potter had a habit of scaring the sh—t out of Severus, too.

Severus huffed impatiently though his nose. “And where is your precious dormmate now, hm? Too embarrassed to face me himself?”

Silent, the group of eleven year olds looked at Potter’s corner of the room where the brat’s bed curtains were still pulled shut — ignoring his Head of House’s presence entirely.

Of all the impertinent, difficult—

Barely biting back a growl, Severus ripped the curtains back and found— an empty bed, sheets churned like wreckage in the center of the mattress. No sign of the brat. One brow arching high, he turned back to the others with the most obvious question written across his severely displeased face.

“He’s under the bed, sir,” Draco was all too eager to tell him.

Severus blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“When Nott tried to wake him up, he freaked.” The blond boy informed him promptly. “He went completely mental and leapt under the bed before any of us could grab him.”

This time Severus really did growl aloud. He crouched low and got onto his hands and knees. Of all the indignities. Barely two months into the school year and already the Potter brat was forcing Severus to lower himself. This was likely some horrible plot, surely a devious little prank to annoy Severus and garner more attention. His face twisted into a snarl at that thought, and so the first glimpse the boy got of him must not have been a very reassuring one — if the sudden flinch was anything to judge by.

Skittish little brat.

Potter had wedged himself into the farthest and tightest corner, curled up into the tightest boy—shaped ball possible. His face and body was an amalgamation of shadow, and all Severus could see was two glinting green eyes, like a cat’s almost, shining in the darkness. How the brat managed to even get himself under there, Severus had no idea.

At least the boy didn’t seem injured. Albus would be pleased. All that screaming truly was only a result of bad dreams, by the looks of it — as if the brat had anything to nightmare about. What did he have to suffer over, anyway? Severus nearly scoffed aloud. Not enough birthday presents that year? Breakfast served a few minutes later than normal?

Disgust made his voice cruel, “Come out of there at once, Potter.”

No movement.

“You will come out of there of your own volition, boy.” Potter flinched again, but Severus took no notice, “Or you will not like what happens next.”

Summoning Charms did not work on humans, but Severus had several alternate spells that would work just as well. Mercifully, it seemed that none of them would be necessary because Potter got himself moving — finally. Severus stretched himself to his tallest height and glared down his nose as the brat unsteadily slid out from under the bed and unfolded himself into standing before him.

As usual, the brat still did not have the respect to look at Severus.

Severus narrowed his gaze and snapped his fingers before the brat’s face, hissing, “Look at me this instant, Potter.”

The boy obeyed, albeit slowly, his gaze settling somewhere near Severus’ mouth.

Good enough, he supposed, For now.

“Have you quite finished with your little show?”

A brief pause, and then the brat nodded just slightly, still not speaking. His entire thin body practically vibrated with nerves.

Severus scoffed wearily. “Do try to contain your usual dramatics, Potter. There’s no need to make such a fuss over a few bad dreams. None of us are entertained, and you’ve disturbed us all quite enough.”

The other boys chittered.

Potter shrunk in on himself even further, hunching his shoulders and ducking his messy head. And yet he somehow managed to irritate Severus further by setting his chin in the typical Potter—style defiance. Severus curled his lip at the sorry state of the boy’s pyjamas. Honestly, were those oversized rags what the Muggle youths considered fashionable now?

Despicable, really.

“And do clean up yourself, Potter. You represent the entire House of Slytherin, and no matter how hard you try, I will not allow you to besmirch our good name. I won’t have any of my Slytherins looking as pitiful as the likes of you.”

The First Years chortled behind his back, but he paid them no mind. Though he didn’t speak, Potter’s face flamed red. Severus almost snorted. Served the brat right, honestly. Perhaps the judgement of his peers would force him to shape up, fall in line.

Severus nodded sternly and his black eyes took a sweep of the dormitory, “Now that Potter’s done with making a spectacle of himself, you may all return to sleep.”

As he left, Severus felt proud of himself.

His job here was finished.

Chapter Text

After another long day of ridiculous magic classes, Harry returned to the First Year Slytherin dorm and found that—

His trunk was missing.

Absent. Disappeared. Just gonegonegone. And no one had access to their dormitory except prefects and the First Year boys. Which meant one of them took it. All of his things — his textbooks, his clothes, his shoes, his wand, his secret stash of food, everything he owned in the world — were gone.

Instantly, Harry felt jangly and loose inside; the freakishness was becoming unchained. He turned tail and raced out of the dorm, along the narrow corridors lined with sconces and into the common room where everything was soaked in green—blue light from the glass ceiling.

Everyone was here at this hour — from First Year to Seventh, doing homework or playing games or socialising or other things kids did that Harry didn’t know how to do.

The boy’s green eyes narrowed in on who he was searching for, his fingers drumming quick against his thigh. He tore off a scrap of parchment and wrote quickly, messily. He wasn’t so good with a quill yet (then again, he hadn’t really tried to be), but he did his best. He walked over to his dormmates — Malfoy and Nott and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle — he held up the scrap. His question hovered in the air between them.

WHERE IS MY TRUNK?

Malfoy arched a platinum brow and glanced at the parchment. Then with a slow growing smirk, he shook his head. “I can’t possibly read that, Scarhead. Didn’t your precious Muggles ever teach you how to write?”

Harry tensed. Malfoy’s voice sounded horrible and loud in the common room that had suddenly gone silent. Students of all ages — from First Year to Seventh — were sitting on the edge of their seats. It seemed that this was an interaction worth watching.

Jaw clenching, he turned back the note and wrote: JUST AS WELL AS YOU WERE TAUGHT TO READ, APPARENTLY. NOW TELL ME.

Malfoy stared at Harry, cold and silent and smirking.

He glanced quickly at his other dormmates. They were watching him closely, waiting to see what would happen next, heads tilting like predators — sniffing out weakness. He already knew none of them would help him.

TELL ME WHERE MY TRUNK IS.

“Remember your manners now. Ask politely.”

WHERE?

“Terribly sorry, Potter. You’re gonna have to open that pathetic little mouth of yours and use your big boy voice.”

The others snorted amongst themselves. Skitters of laughter echoed from around the common room. Harry resisted the urge to flinch. That just made the others cackle louder. Maybe they thought he was afraid of them, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t even afraid of the Dursleys, not really, not when they were so far away, all the way back in Surrey, and they couldn’t get to him here. There was only one person he was afraid of, and that was himself.

Another hurried scribble. JUST TELL ME, YOU PRAT.

His hands were shaking a little, though, as he held it up.

And that, apparently, was enough to make Malfoy laugh.

Sparks went off behind Harry’s blackening eyes and his inside music got very loud. His brain numbed as he walked away from the other eleven year olds. He would have liked to calm down, but he couldn’t, that wouldn’t work, not for him, not once the music got going and the Otherness started. He didn’t want the Other to take over, but something was happening. Some other outlet. Some kind of freakishness to release all this darkness inside him.

Now his skin wasn’t numb but positively itched as he fought, fought, squeezing his eyes shut, gasping for breath, trying desperately to control it, but when he opened his eyes, Malfoy wasn’t laughing anymore.

He was ‘oh, shit’—ing and ducking.

Harry had failed.

The closest empty chairs had hurled through the air — just missing Malfoy and crashing into the stone wall. The other boys scattered with terrified shouts, and the sofa they’d been sitting on skittered back. Their books fell to the ground, undamaged, papers fanning out on the plush green carpet. Too much, too much, it was all too much. The fire in the hearth exploded into a thousand sparks, and the glass ceiling began to splinter with cracks, which was bad, so very bad, but there was nothing Harry could do to stop it.

Malfoy was up now, his hands stretched out, all:

“Calm down, you crazy freak.”

But he said it really softly, as if, maybe, he was a little afraid of Harry now.

And Harry didn’t know why exactly, but this made him feel a bit better — even if he couldn’t control it. His body was vibrating and his chest was heaving, and the chairs were just rising again when Snape showed up.

And then Harry was positively fucked.

“Potter!”

Everything stopped.

With every single Slytherin watching, Snape was upon Harry nearly instantly, hand snatching onto the collar of his robes before he had a chance to cringe away. His freakishness fled and hid away, buried deep within the darkness in his chest.

“Of all the despicable, arrogant—,” his professor’s black eyes scoured him form tip to toe, lips curled into a disgusted sneer, “I thought even the likes of you were above such reckless stupidity.”

Harry was trembling from his spot where Snape loomed over him, his anger radiating a physical heat, nearly making the boy break into a nervous sweat. His voice was a low, menacing whisper, and yet everyone within the common room could hear every single word.

“You thought you could just do whatever you want, hm? Thought you could attack your classmates with no risk of consequences? You’ve made a grave error here, boy.”

Harry flinched at the complete and utter loathing seeping from Snape’s voice.

“I’m aware you’re accustomed to all sorts of special treatment in your relatives’ house, but unfortunately for us both, you’re in my House now, and it is within my power to punish you — however — I — please.”

If he felt dizzy before, it was nothing in comparison to now as the blood fled quickly from his face, cheeks blanching dull white. His darting gaze couldn’t decide whether to focus on Snape’s black hateful eyes or his shaking finger, mere centimeters from his own face.

“I tolerate no rule—breaking, and regardless of any temper tantrums you throw, I allow for no favouritism in my House, so—,”

Snape jerked him around so he was facing his dormmates, face red with humiliation, unable to look at any of their knowing eyes and subtle smirks.

“Apologise to them. Immediately.”

Harry gaped at the ground. He was supposed to apologise — to them. He couldn’t believe it, even though it was hardly surprising at all. How many times had he been beaten by Dudley and then forced to apologise to him for daring to bloody his knuckles? This place wouldn’t be any better than the Dursleys. He should have known. How could things ever be any different?

Snape gave Harry a forceful shake, making him gasp despite himself.

“Now, Potter!”

Harry knew there was no other way out of this. With his head still down, he opened his mouth, tried to speak, tried to find his voice to defend himself — say something — anything. Bloody coward, no courage at all. This was why he wasn’t in Gryffindor, like his very brave parents, who had died because of him. His voice had deserted him. He closed his mouth.

Snape growled over his shoulder. Harry made himself smaller.

“We’ll see about this, then.”

With another forceful movement, Snape had wrenched Harry away, hauled him through the common room and towards the large painting of Merlin that acted as a tunnel entrance to Snape’s personal space. He fairly threw Harry away from himself, as soon as they reached his office, as if he didn’t even want to be near him. It made sense. Aunt Petunia often thought Harry was too disgusting to even touch.

“So. You have nothing to say for yourself, do you?” Snape’s tone was menacing as he stood tall before his desk. “I should have expected that famous Harry Potter thinks he’s too good for something as demeaning as an apology.”

Harry had been apologising his whole life — for everything, for nothing, for his basic existence. He supposed he ought to, for letting the freakiness out, even if it was better than the Other. But he could not — would not — apologise to those posh gits.

“I don’t think you realise how I can make your life a living hell, Potter.” The man crooked his head down, nearly nose to nose with Harry, as his teeth exposed themselves in a full snarl, “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be sorry you ever left your relatives’ loving care.”

‘By the time I’m done with you,’ Uncle Vernon said one night, Harry’s breath disappearing in the tightness of his fingers, ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t die with your worthless parents’. Uncle Vernon had been right that night, and Harry knew Professor Snape would be right now, too.

Harry closed his eyes, raised his quivering chin, and prepared for the worst.

A brief pause, and then a horrible shout: “For Merlin’s sake, I’m not going to hit you, Potter!” Snape swept away from him quickly, not looking at him, but voice still vehement over his shoulder, “Overdramatic little wretch, it’s a wonder you’re not in Gryffindor.”

Harry struggled to catch his breath, the relief making him dizzy, and he swayed for a second.

Snape’s eyes were like blades when they turned back on Harry, piercing and sharp. “Detention — you impertinent brat, for the next month. After a few weeks of scrubbing cauldrons until midnight, we’ll see then if you’re willing to apologise.”

Harry blinked. That was it?

“Now get out. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

Harry bit his lip, hesitating just for a second. He thought of his stuff, all still missing, with no idea where they were. He would be all right for a few days, he’d certainly made do with less, but eventually people would start to notice that he was wearing the same clothes day after day. He would start to smell. And his professors would definitely notice far sooner that he wasn’t bringing his textbooks to class, not to mention his wand — he wasn’t allowed to forget it anymore, McGonagall said—

“What, Potter?” Harry jumped at the sound of Snape’s furious voice. “Why are you still polluting my office with your presence?”

Harry wiped hard at his stupid runny nose. He turned to leave, wiping his clammy palms on his trousers, and only realising too late that he still had the scrap of paper in his hand. Crumpled and balled, it fell to the floor with a quiet rustle, and Harry quickly stooped — not wanting Snape to sneer at him for really trashing his office — but before he could reach it…

“Accio paper.”

The paper shot out from between Harry’s fingers and flew across the office — straight towards Snape. He spun around, terrified, watching his professor hold the ball of paper with two fingers, expression positively gleeful.

“And what is — this, Potter?”

Harry couldn’t speak.

When Snape began opening the paper, he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, ducking his head, refusing to see what happened next. Time lost control of itself; seconds became minutes, minutes became hours. The office was quiet apart from the sound of Harry’s squeaking trainers and Snape’s low breaths; neither of them spoke for a long, long time.

“Potter.”

Harry didn’t move.

“Look at me,” Snape insisted as usual, tone a bit harder.

Harry raised his head, staring somewhere over his professor’s shoulder.

“Did your dormmates steal your trunk, Potter?”

He bit his lip. Considered. Then shrugged, just once.

Snape heaved a deep sigh and bowed his head so his face was hidden by his lank strands of hair. Then, with an order to ‘stay here’, his Head of House swept out of the office and Harry was left in the ensuing silence. He occupied himself by staring at those eyeballs again, and they fixed their multi—coloured gazes on him when he approached, gently clinking his finger on the jar. They wriggled as if happy to see him.

He wondered who these eyes belonged to.

Did Snape collect them himself?

Did he secretly plot to collect them from the students he hated most — particularly scarred, scruffy—headed ones by the name of ‘Potter’?

Harry quickly dropped his hand and stepped back from the jar when Snape returned, and for a while, the professor didn’t move from the doorway, just staring at his downturned head. Harry’s heartbeat was so loud, he was certain Snape could hear it.

“Your trunk has been returned. The perpetrators have been punished.”

Harry jerked in surprise, but there was no other acknowledgement than that.

… What?

“You will not have detention. My prefects informed me that what occurred seemed more resultant of accidental magic, rather than any intentional attack.” Snape cleared his throat, sounding almost awkward. “You gave as good as you got. That is all we will say on the matter.”

Harry slowly turned so they were more or less face—to—face. He had so many questions. Why wasn’t Snape still berating him? Why had Snape suddenly changed his mind? Why wasn’t Snape collecting his eyes for his jarred collection? His voice was of course nonexistent, but his eyes were louder than ever. They beat furiously in their sockets as he squeezed his injured hands together and pain rose through the bandages.

If he understood any of his silent questions, Snape didn’t let on. He merely said, “If they steal from you again, Potter, you are to inform me. I will… handle it.”

Harry was fairly certain he would never understand Professor Snape at all.

Harry, for the most part, didn’t give one single shite about his magic classes at Hogwarts. Mostly he went to them because he was terrified to be kicked out, to go back to the Dursleys’ where it was badbadbad, but— well, sometimes he just forgot to pay attention. He could never remember what class he had next, and even on the rare occurrences that he did, he could never remember where that specific class took place.

So.

Harry wandered.

He didn’t notice much about the magic castle when he first arrived at Hogwarts, but now that he was fully conscious, he had to admit— it was kind of/sort of/a bit cool. The moving staircases. The talking portraits. This place even had ghosts — friendly ones, for the most part. The entire place positively reeked of adventure… not that Harry was interested in that sort of thing, or anything.

“Mister P—P—Potter.”

Harry jumped about a foot, whirling around to find Professor Quirrell staring down at him with a curiously cocked head. As far as getting caught went, this wasn’t so bad. The boy shifted uncomfortably but didn’t feel in danger; this professor didn’t really seem much of a threat. Actually, Harry didn’t have much of an opinion about Quirrell at all, other than he smelt really badly of garlic and his lessons seemed fairly useless — even by Harry’s standards.

He squinted slightly, rubbing at his scar. He had a headache.

“Such a shame P—P—Professor Snape’s not allowed y—you to join the Q—Quidditch team,” said Quirrell commiseratingly, “Eh, P—P—Potter?”

Guileless, Harry shrugged one shoulder. It was a shame, but it wasn’t so shocking. Snape seemed out to get him from the start; it wasn’t so shocking he kept him from playing with the team, no matter what McGonagall recommended.

“Y—You could’ve been just like your father.”

For the first time, something inside of Harry paused.

His father.

All he knew about his father was from the Dursleys, that he was a no—good, lay—about who got himself and his wife killed in a drunk driving accident. Only that part wasn’t true, was it? Since Voldemort was the one who killed them. What else of what the Dursleys said wasn’t true? Harry bit his lip and peeked up cautiously, his face clearly asking for more and more details.

Quirrell’s eyes gleamed slightly. “Oh y—yes, y—your father was ch—chaser for Gryffindor. D—Didn’t y—you know?”

Harry shook his head and stepped closer to the professor, hope sparking like a fire inside of his chest. He was a bit twitchy and odd, but Harry didn’t mind that. He didn’t even mind the fact that his eyes kept darting to his lightning bolt scar. If this man told him more about his dad, Harry would be willing to put up with anythinganythinganything.

“If y—you had any q—questions about your p—parents, I would be happy to take the time to answer them—,”

Harry’s heart was pounding. Saliva was triggered, and he felt a lump the size of Everest rise in his throat. Of course he had questions — so many endless questions that he’d had ever since he could remember. And here, finally, was his chance. He thought he wanted to ask him, he thought he wanted to talk. He felt a humming in his chest, not the bad kind, and he thought it might mean that he had words, maybe, though he wasn’t sure how to order them, or what they would mean, but he opened his mouth—

“Professor Quirrell.”

Harry’s mouth clacked closed.

Both he and the Defense professor turned to find none other than Snape halfway down the corridor, eyeing them strangely. Every muscle in Harry’s body tensed as his eyes dropped his eyes back to the stone beneath their feet. Snape’s lacquered black boots clipped steadily closer until he was just a metre away from them.

“Might I ask if something is wrong?” Snape’s voice was polite, since he was talking to another professor. “Was Mister Potter causing a ruckus in the halls, Professor Quirrell?”

“N—Not at all, S—Severus,” Quirrell rushed the words out, stumbling on the letters even more than usual, “Mister P—P—Potter and I w—were just d—discussing the benefits of br—broomflight.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed for just a second. They hadn’t been talking about that. They’d been talking about Harry’s dad.

“Indeed?” Speaking with that same low drawl, Snape peered from professor to student and back again. “When he should be in — Herbology — by my recollection?”

“O—oh. Yes, of course. C—Come along, P—P—Potter, I’ll take you—,”

Quirrell extended hand towards Harry’s shoulder, not seeming to notice how the boy cringed away, but Snape interrupted before he could even make contact.

“I think — I — will escort Mister Potter to the greenhouses, thank you.”

Professor Quirrell’s face tightened for a moment before dropping back into the nervous innocence he usually maintained. “Y—Yes, of c—c—course, Severus. Good d—day, Mister P—P—Potter.”

Harry frowned, aching with disappointment as the other professor scurried off, taking all the knowledge of his father with him. Snape watched after Quirrell the entire journey down the corridor, his eyes narrowed and face cold. It took Harry all of his strength not to glare up at his Head of House when the man’s attention turned back at him. He focused on frowning deeply at the man’s ear.

Snape simply arched a brow and said, “Come along, Potter.”

Harry went along.

Life with the Slytherins since they’d gotten in trouble for stealing Harry’s trunk had been— unpleasant, to say the least.

If they disliked him before, they completely hated his guts now.

Almost every morning, Harry found his trainers filled with shite, his toothbrush in the toilet, and he once even found an actual — real, love — snake under his pillow. They still shoved him in the halls and whispered cruel names behind his back — just loud enough to be overheard. Some of them had even learnt what was called a Tripping Hex which was used quite obsessively — if hadn’t been so freaky, Harry might’ve been annoyed at their lack of creativity.

Today, he had Potions… with Snape… and the Slytherins… and the Gryffindors.

Bloody brilliant.

Like his life couldn’t get any worse.

As usual, when it came to brewing, Harry was not at all helpful. His lab partner for the day — a smart Gryffindor girl called Granger — huffed in exasperation but continued on with their potion by herself. No matter the huffing and puffing, she seemed to prefer this anyway.

So, on the blank side of his Potions assignment, Harry sketched.

He would draw sometimes, on the back of his homework because he wasn’t allowed to do better than Dudley in school, or in the dark of the cupboard — drawings about flying motorcycles, strange green lights, and giants who looked an awful like Hagrid. He hadn’t drawn since he came to Hogwarts, too lost in the haze, but something about— well, everything, made Harry wish for crayons and pencils and even charcoal like the kind they’d get in art class.

There was something about even bloody Snape that Harry wanted to put on paper.

The nose, definitely, a bit unflattering. Hooked and overly big. Villainous.

He felt better once he was actually sketching. It was a little awkward, drawing while trying to hide it, but it was like his fingers never forgot what to do. Like they had been waiting for him to come back. But, before the nose could even be finished, the parchment was suddenly snatched from under his hands.

Harry froze, stricken in shock, when Snape inspected his drawing with narrowed eyes and a curled lip. “Ah. How fortunate for us that we should have an artist in our midst.”

A few of the other First Years snorted.

Harry glowered at him, eyes on that nose.

Snape just sneered and swept away, but— he kept his drawing.

Ihatehim, Harry thought as loud as he possibly could within his own head, scowling at the Potions Master throughout the rest of class time,Ihatehim, Ihatehim, Ihatehim.

The boy didn’t want to listen when Snape ordered him to remain when everyone else left, but he knew disobeying would just make everything worse. It always did. So, every muscle in his body straining to run, Harry forced himself to stay sitting in his chair. He nervously tip—tapped his dirty, inky fingers against his kneetops, following the rhythm of some song he once overheard from the Dursleys’ telly.

Snape cleared his throat, drawing his attention, so he looked somewhere near the man’s chin. He didn’t say anything, he just slid a large, blank pad of all—purpose paper and a brand new stick of charcoal across the desk between them. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Harry’s fingers twitched, the traitorous little buggers.

“Go on, Mister Potter.”

Snape’s usual brow arched when Harry still didn’t move, stuck on the edge of his chair in terrible indecision. Gnawing his bottom lip, he eyed the man suspiciously. What did Snape get out of this? Was this a gift of some kind? Psh — no, what was he thinking? A gift from Snape? No way in hell. This must be some kind of trade—off, a favour in advance; but what would a man like Snape expect in return?

The uncertainty made Harry nearly sick.

Finally, Snape rolled his eyes, “Take it, don’t take it. It is of no importance to me at all whether you do or not.”

With that, his Head of House ducked his head back over his desk and got back to grading papers — or whatever it was Snape did. Without those black eyes on him, it was easier for Harry to think. It didn’t matter to Snape whether he took it or not; Snape said so himself. Snape didn’t care much about what Harry did — unless it was something wrong. And clearly this wasn’t wrong, or Snape wouldn’t have given it to him. Unless it was a trap?

Damn it.

Harry eyed the charcoal and paper.

Maybe… Maybe it was worth the risk.

Before he could change his mind, Harry’s hand darted out and he greedily clutched the charcoal stick in his fingers. Little sparks of pain shot up and down his forearm. The wounds under his bandages were still tender and tight and would be for a long, long time, but he didn’t care.

He breathed hard.

He worked hard.

His fingers took care of him; they knew what to do. He drew the train. He drew the lake and the forest and the castle. He filled all the white spaces with Malfoy and his bodyguards, madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore and Hagrid, even himself — adorned with new scars. He filled page after page of the sketchpad until he had mapped out a world that made a little more sense.

When he finally looked up, small hands smeared with black, more than two hours had passed, and Snape was watching him with a look Harry didn’t understand.

But all his professor said was, “Better?”

Harry nodded. Better.

From then on, Harry started sketching whenever he was called to the sessions with Snape.

The man more or less left him alone during these hour—long sessions apparently ordered by the Headmaster. Whatever else they were actually supposed to be doing, Harry didn’t know and he didn’t care. He was content to sketch the hour away as Snape ignored him and graded and talked to his prefects and whatever the hell else teachers did. It was… almost nice?

That was, until, the middle of October, when Snape said out of the blue, “You’re failing most of your classes, Potter.”

Everything inside Harry jolted to a stop, accidentally jerking the charcoal harshly across an already ugly rendition of Malfoy’s pointy little face. He tentatively glanced up from his parchment to look at Snape’s ear.

“I have not had a Slytherin fail a single class since my tenure as a professor began at this school, and I am not about to let that change now.”

The boy’s expression immediately turned wary. He had a distinct feeling he was not going to like where this was going… at all. And he was completely correct.

“That being said,” continued Snape sternly, “If you will not speak, Mister Potter, you will do something productive with your time here.”

With a flick of his magic stick — or wand, as the people called it here, his Head of House summoned his bag and began pulling out his textbooks one—by—one, making a massive stack next to Harry’s new sketchbook. Ew, Harry thought with increasing disgust, Homework.

“We both know you’ve a Troll in Potions,” Snape continued, obviously in lecture mode, shooting him a knowingly displeased look, “You put no effort in Transfiguration. You’re Dreadful in Charms. We won’t even discuss your History of Magic grade. Fortunately, Professor Sprout shares that you are surprisingly Adequate in Herbology — Merlin knows why that’s the exception.”

Because gardening was ingrained into him, that was why. He’d been working in Aunt Petunia’s garden since he could walk. In Harry’s opinion, gardening was gardening, magic plants or not — these just happened to bite more than the normal ones. All the other subjects, well… Harry wasn’t good at magic. Every time he did any, it always led to bad things happening — most often bad things happening to Harry.

“I imagine being mute (as you are) makes your Charmwork difficult. Perhaps…” A weirdly thoughtful expression passed over Snape’s usually inscrutable face. “Perhaps you might do better with nonverbal spells. Hm. Something to consider.”

Harry jumped back from the desk when his Charms textbook leapt out of the stack and landed on top of his artwork, flipping swiftly to a crisp white page more than a quarter way through.

“For now, you will read today’s section assigned by Professor Flitwick, and then I shall watch you attempt the conspicuously named: Wand—Lighting Charm.”

With that, Snape left Harry to it. Something horrible welled up in the center of Harry’s chest, but he thought — maybe — if he did this one thing, then maybe Snape would let him get back to drawing in peace. For a long while, he peered at the textbook and tried to read the first paragraph, but all he could see were the words ‘FREAK’ scrawled in big red letters on his homework. He could taste the tang of toilet water in his mouth, feel himself struggling to get free, meaty hands on the back of his neck while Dudley laughed.

His fingers tingled and his chest felt tight.

When he started doing well in school, everything went haywire.

Even worse than before.

“Finished, Potter?” Snape asked, about fifteen minutes later.

Harry nodded, a Slytherin and a very good liar.

“Very well, then.” Snape stood, his robes billowing as he strode around the desk and peered sternly down at the boy. “Magic is entirely about intent, Potter. Verbal spells are only the first step into ordering the magic to do as you bid, but if you can sharpen your intentions, if you have a strong enough control over your magic, you are capable to cast nonverbally for any spell at all. In theory… Do you understand thus far, Potter?”

Harry nodded again, just a little.

“Pick up your wand— you do have your wand, Potter, do you not?”

Harry had actually remembered to bring it with him today so he pulled it out of his bag and dropped it on the desk, not minding that it nearly rolled straight off. Snape pursed his lips — this meant displeased, Harry thought, trying to make a mental catalogue of every expression of Snape’s. Most of them meant ‘displeased’, to be honest.

“Pick it up, I said.”

Harry picked it up, holding it awkwardly, trying desperately to ignore the faint pleased tingle it gave him the second he closed the wood in his fingers.

Snape looked faintly disgusted with him.

Surprise, surprise.

“Have you ever even used your wand, Potter?”

No. Harry shrugged.

“Hm.” Snape regarded him closely. “When you collected your wand from Ollivander — don’t look so surprised, nearly everyone purchases their wands from him — what did he say?”

Harry, obviously, wasn’t going to answer. He just shot a dubious glance Snape’s way before looking back at his feet.

Snape hummed again.

Harry allowed himself to be distracted by his swinging trainers hitting the legs of his chair — thumpthumpthump.

“When you found your wand in the shop, Mister Potter, when it chose you, what did you feel?”

Now Harry’s head snapped up.

Other people— felt what Harry felt that day?

When Harry’s freakishness happened, it never felt good. It felt dangerous and disgusting and badbadbad.

But that day Hagrid took him to Diagon Alley, it was the first time that he could remember it ever feeling— good. Like blood rushing to a previously deprived limb. Like the first clear breath after nearly suffocating. A bit painful, yes, at first, but when he closed his fingers around the wand in Ollivander’s shop, it had also felt so—

Fulfilling.

He had felt— complete.

And then the old man had to ruin it all by comparing him to the same maniac who murdered Harry’s parents. Brilliant. It just went to show: magic was bad. It was all bad, and to even enjoy it, just a little, showed how much of a badboy—freakboy Harry really was.

“Stand up. Magic is not about being lazy, and your slouched posture won’t help matters at all.” With a quiet sigh, Harry obeyed and Snape continued his strict instruction, “Lift up your wand. Extend it from your body and hold your arm at a 130 degree angle— no, further out, yes, like that. Now, concentrate. Call upon that feeling you experienced in Mister Ollivander’s shop, and focus on the incantation, ‘Lumos’. Repeat it in your head.”

Harry wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Magic was badbadbad.

“You must want the wand to light. If the magic doesn’t feel your desire, it will not act upon it. Continue repeating it in your head, Potter: Lumos, Lumos, Lumos…”

Harry didn’t. He tried to pretend that he did, holding the magic stick with a furrowed brow, but perhaps he wasn’t that good of a liar, after all.

Snape just watched him, eyes narrowing, looking even more displeased the longer he stared.

“You do not want it… We shall see about that.”

Then, with a low mutter of words Harry couldn’t hear, Snape engulfed the entire dungeon into perfect pitch—black darkness. It took everything in Harry not to cry out in fright. It was perfect blindness, and even when he stretched out his hands before his eyes, he couldn’t make out a thing. The darkness shouldn’t frighten him; he was used to it, having been stuffed into a dark cupboard for the majority of his life, but he didn’t know this darkness.

This was endless and deep and he was lost in it. His heart leapt into a gallop and he could hear his own quick, gasping breaths filling the suddenly tight, hot air. He couldn’t breathe. He — could — not — breathe.

“Do you want it now, Potter?” Snape’s deep voice in the darkness made him jump.

Ihatehim, Ihatehim. A familiar chorus rose up in Harry. He was panting, the air in his throat burning in the hot air. The darkness swelled now, all around him, pressed in tighter and tighter.

“Feel the magic. Make clear your intention. Lumos, Potter. Think: Lumos.”

Ohgodohgod.

‘Lumos!’ He thought desperately in his mind, clutching two shaky hands around the holly wand, ‘Lumos, Lumos!’

And then, suddenly, light began to bloom. From the tip of his wand, it was as if a sun had been born — white and brilliant and blinding. The magic coursed through him like a blood rush of joy, of completeness, that same feeling when he first held the wand in Ollivander’s shop. It was— magnificent.

Across from him, Snape’s face looked frightening in the near perfect darkness, the scant light casting odd shadows on his eye sockets and mouth. And yet, Harry was not afraid.

“I shall inform Flitwick to give you an ‘Outstanding’ for the day, shall I?”

All at once, the entire dungeon was once more filled with light like nothing at all had ever happened. Harry squinted and half—way covered his burning eyes, struggling to adjust to the sudden change. Snape, bloody Snape, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. Those cold black eyes stayed trained on Harry’s face, looking more thoughtful than displeased.

The magic stick — the wand — was still glowing in Harry’s hand.

“The counter—charm is ‘Nox’. Think it now.”

Harry closed his eyes and thought as succinctly as he could: Nox. Instantly, without any hesitation at all, the bloom of light faded into nothingness. It was so confusing. That hadn’t felt badbadbad; in fact, it actually felt sort of…

“Tell me.” Snape interrupted before he could dare finish that thought. “Why haven’t you used your wand before, Potter?”

The boy could do nothing but shrug. Snape wouldn’t understand. No one in this freak school possibly could.

“Hm. Very well then. We’ve finished the hour so we’re done for the day. Next time, Potter, arrive prepared to actually perform some magic, would you?”

Harry slipped away before Snape could demand a response.

Ever since his sort—of—conversation with Professor Quirrell, Harry couldn’t stop thinking about that green pitch and those massive hoops that he stared at from the windows in McGonagall’s class, Transfigure—something or other. And so, when the very first match was announced, he felt like had no other choice but to go. Perhaps it was masochistic to go to a Quidditch Match when he’d not been allowed to play, but there he went anyway. Perhaps he was a masochist. His pain was better than everyone else’s, anyway.

Or maybe it made him feel closer to his father.

Professor Quirrell had said his dad was a Chaser.

Whatever that was, Harry was determined to find out.

Almost invisible, the boy slipped between squished bodies and dodged stray elbows and ducked under binoculars. The stands were choked with people, not just Slytherin and Gryffindor who were playing today, but from all Houses. For Harry, whose whole world had largely consisted of a three—by—twelve foot cupboard for ten years, it was extremely overwhelming.

Harry wasn’t wearing Slytherin colours since he wasn’t supporting the Slytherin Quidditch team, per se. In fact, the small boy could be found solidly on the edge of the Slytherin crowd, who all sniffed and turned their noses up at him — very Aunt Petunia style. It was a little ironic, maybe only to Harry, that both these Purebloods and his relatives each found reasons to hate him… and each other, actually.

Magic had a very odd way of dividing people.

A whistle blew.

Fifteen players rose in the air.

And then they were off.

Harry watched the match with rapt attention, eyes darting to follow the action — and there was so much action. There were loads of red and green players flying around in brooms, whacking quaffles through hoops and bludgers at each other while two smaller players made tall laps over the field, looking for another tiny gold ball called a Snitch.

Harry soaked the sport in, practically shaking with thrill. It was a bit hard to keep up with the match, but he listened closely to the commentator — another Gryffindor who often said things that McGonagall really disapproved of. At least it was funny though.

“The Gryffindors take the Quaffle — that’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there,” spoke the commentator at a wild pace, “Nice dive around Flint, off up the field and — ouch! — that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger — Quaffle taken by the Slytherins — that’s Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he's blocked by a second Bludger — sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which—,”

“Excuse me?”

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and his head swiveled around to find a freckled, wild—haired girl looking nervously down at him.

“Can I—,” the girl (Hermione Granger was her name) cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable, “—Sit with you, Potter?”

Alarm bells were going off in his mind; alarms but no music. How… weird?

Stupidly, Harry could only stare.

“I don’t have many friends in my House either,” confided Granger very faintly.

Harry wished he knew how to act or what to say or— how to be a person, just in general. Why did being a person have to be so damn difficult? In the end, he just scooted over and looked away — a silent invitation.

Which Granger gladly took with a beaming smile.

Harry stayed very still for a while as she sat beside him, feeling like he was sat next to a foreign predator of some sort. It had been years since he’d last spoken to anyone, much less to a girl — he wasn’t sure if he’d ever had, actually. Unless one counted Aunt Petunia… which Harry did not. Fortunately though, Granger only talked at him once in a while, never seeming to really expect a response, which he was glad for.

That way he could focus on Quidditch.

It was an intensely violent sport, and it was glorious.

Harry — who was disgusted by all magic, or at least needed to think he was — actually sort of/kind of/a bit liked Quidditch.

And it was at that exact moment that he spotted the Snitch.

It caught the sunlight for just long enough to catch Harry’s eye, and then he couldn’t look away. It was floating about twenty feet up, twitching back and forth through the air, just asking to be caught. And yet no one had seen it.

No one but Harry.

He should’ve been out there. He should’ve been the Seeker. If Snape had just listened to McGonagall, if he had just let Harry be bloody good at something, he could’ve caught the Snitch and he could’ve won the match, and— wait. No. No, this was badbadbad. Harry was instantly sick with himself, nearly doubling over with the intensity of it. What had he been thinking?! He couldn’t want magic! He couldn’t!

And then suddenly, with no warnings at all, a horrible scream: “Potter!”

This time Harry really did jump, looking sharply at Granger whose face was stark with terror and was pointing at the sky, no— at the bludger headed straight for them. Granger screamed and Harry gasped as they both leapt out of the way just in time. The wooden stands splintered while the leather ball crashed through, nearly bashing their skulls in.

“Oooo, it looks like one of the bludgers’ been whacked into the stands,” laughed the young commentator, “Watch out, Firsties. Quidditch is not a sport for the faint of heart!”

So not helpful.

Grunting, hands full of splinters, Harry hadn’t even managed to push himself from the floor when he spotted the bludger again. It was coming back! Harry rolled when it shot up through the floorboards, barely managing to escape with his ribs still intact. Granger dug a hand into his robes and yanked hard, pulling him out of the way when the bludger curved back around for another attempt.

“What is wrong with that thing?!” Granger shrieked.

Harry didn’t even have to wonder.

Magic. Magic was what was wrong with it.

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that the Dursleys had ingrained in him a skill of learning to duck quick; otherwise, his brains would’ve been splattered against the Slytherin banner just a second ago. Harry and Granger crawled on their bellies under the seats as the bludger continued pummeling the stands, searching, searching, searching for them.

“Oh no, that bludger’s gone rogue!” cried the still very unhelpful commentator, “Those Firsties aren’t dead yet, are they?”

“Mr. Jordan!”

Harry couldn’t hardly hear them over his pounding heart and raging blood and worst of all — his inside music. It was stirring, stringing and tuning its instruments, chaos ready to be unleashed in defence of its host. Not now, please not now. The boy gritted his teeth painfully, digging his nails into his palms in bloody half—moons to keep it insideinsideinside.

Something out of the corner of his eye was moving — something tall and black and distinctly bat—like — was shoving through the terrified Slytherins nearly as fast as the bludger made its next attack. All the while, Harry and Granger were running out of places to hide, and just as the bludger made one last descent, that bat—like figure swept in between them with a snarl and wand raised, shouting:

“Bombarda!”

The bludger exploded in a firework of green sparks.

It was over. All over. A whistle blew on the pitch — sounding suddenly very far away, apparently calling the match to a halt, but Harry barely noticed over the vision now overwhelming his senses. Standing over them, wand still raised, face still pulled into a snarl, was…

Snape.

Harry could hardly believe his eyes. When the furious professor finally turned to look at them, both Harry and Granger flinched. Snape watched intensely as the two eleven year olds very awkwardly pushed to their feet, brushing themselves off and shaking debris from their equally wild hair.

“Are you all right, Potter?” The question generally was nice but the tone was not — if anything, Snape seemed absolutely feral with anger.

Harry nodded dazedly.

He felt more afraid now than he did when the bludger was after them.

Snape shifted his frightening sneer on the girl beside him, “And you, Granger?”

Eyes narrowed halfway cautiously, the brave girl nodded, “Yes, Professor.”

Snape bared his teeth when he looked back at Harry, scanning him from head to toe with an intensity he couldn’t understand — could barely fathom. The man was seething, though not really talking to them when he hissed, “There will be hell to pay.”

And then, in a swirl of black robes, Snape turned around and disappeared back into the crowd.

Harry stared dumbly after him, all music gone utterly silent, instruments abandoned and decaying. There was no trace of the Otherness to be found — not for miles and miles.

Snape had— saved him?

“I’d watch out if I were you, Potter,” Granger suddenly leant in with a whispered warning, “I think someone at this school is out to get you.”

Chapter Text

Harry didn’t know what to think— about anything.

In the aftermath of — well, the entire Quidditch disaster, he felt more confused about his life than ever. Quidditch had been okay, brilliant even, until that bludger almost bashed his skull in. It was magic, of course. Evil, disgusting, freaky magic. But… Quidditch was magic too, wasn’t it? How could any part of that freakishness be good?

The bludger was jinxed, Granger had insisted in the harried aftermath. Jinxed by who? One of his dormmates? One of the other students? Bloody hell, what if it was one of the professors? He trusted no one, and nothing, and so they were all suspects.

But one professor he was about 70% certain was innocent… was Snape.

Snape — of all bloody people.

That horrible, nasty, downright mean Professor… who punished the boys who stole his trunk and gave him a sketchbook and saved his life.

What the hell was that about?

At the start of their next scheduled session, Harry wondered if he ought to thank the man. It was just good manners, like Aunt Petunia always said; one good turn deserves another and all that. Or perhaps Snape wanted a favour in return? But that didn’t seem right either because his Head of House didn’t treat Harry any differently than he had before the match — not in class or in these sessions.

In any case, Harry decided to keep a close eye on Snape, peeking up at him occasionally over his sketchbook, trying desperately and failing miserably to work the man out. He was a complex puzzle, an equation in need of solving, like the rubix cube Dudley could never solve.

Maybe Snape, too, was an enigma.

At the exact half—hour mark, his Potions Professor cleared his throat and announced, “Today, Mister Potter, you’ll be helping me brew.”

Harry immediately scrunched his nose at that.

Potions was, frankly, awful. At least in the other magic classes, all they expected of him was to wave his wand around and look like he was trying really hard, but in Potions, there were pickled slugs and rat guts and pond slime. Even for Harry, who was forced to do all sorts of menial, disgusting jobs for the Dursleys, it was a step too far.

If Snape registered Harry’s disgust, he ignored it. “You will reattempt the Wiggenweld Potion as you let Granger do your half of the work — yet again. And since you have precisely zero experience at brewing (after nearly two months of Potions classes), you will be under my direct supervision… Lucky you.”

Harry frowned, trying to figure out if that was a joke or not.

Was the Potions Master even capable of making a joke?

Snape arched an eyebrow, stared at the boy for a moment, and then he was billowing away from his desk to the main work table where a massive pewter cauldron awaited. The man waited, strangely patient. The boy sat, thinking hard. He didn’t know how to say ‘thank you’ and he wasn’t sure the man would accept it, even if he did. Maybe… if he just… did this, then maybe Snape would understand what he was trying to say.

No more thank you’s.

No more expected favours.

No more debts.

Still, it took nearly all of Harry’s resolve to drag his suddenly very heavy feet over to the work table. He waited uncertainly a few feet away from his professor, picking at the edge of the table, keeping his eyes firmly on his fumbling feet.

“The instructions are still on the board, Potter. I assume you know how to read?”

Harry felt oddly brave enough to shoot a belligerent scowl somewhere around Snape’s mouth.

“Yes?” The side of the man’s lips twitched. “Very well, prove it to me, Potter. Read it aloud.”

Yea. Harry would not be doing that. Not ever.

No matter how grateful he was for not being crushed into a bloody pulp.

The silence seemed to stretch on and on endlessly before Snape got the point. The man gritted his teeth, clearly displeased again, and he bit out, “Fine. Read it to yourself then.”

Harry obeyed, green eyes scanning the potion instructions for the first time, nose scrunching even further in disgust. He glanced back down at the work table which was already laden with all the necessary ingredients as well as a massive knife. Salamanders. Lionfish spines. Boom berries. Moondew drops. A jar of mucus from something called a flobberworm?

“If you think I will be doing this for you, Potter, you are sorely mistaken.” Snape informed him dryly, though not meanly. “What do you do first?”

Harry’s answer was his action. He set to work cutting the salamanders into even parts before slicing up mandrake and quickly chopping up the dittany leaves. This wasn’t so bad, actually. Aunt Petunia had long ago taught him how to cut correctly, and it was easy once he got back into the swing of it. He’d nearly forgotten Snape was even there until he noticed the man’s expression.

The man’s eyebrow was arched, but not in any mocking way as he had before, it looked almost- surprised, and a bit… impressed?

Maybe.

But probably not.

Draining the salamanders of their blood was a bit gross, but the measurements of that and the moondew drops came easy as maths usually did for Harry. Grinding the lionfish spines wasn’t too hard, nor was smushing the boom berries which turned the entire substance indigo when he added it into the cauldron. He had to stir it a while (following a brief correction from Snape about direction) before he could add the flobberworm mucus which was still disgusting. Overall, the smell of the potion wasn’t too rancid.

There was something soothing about brewing, he guessed, when he didn’t have an evil professor breathing over his shoulder and his fellow classmates tossing shite into the cauldron.

When he reached the second to last step, he paused and glanced up at his professor warily.

Snape cleared his throat and stepped closer to inspect the potion, as though he hadn’t been watching the damn thing the entire time. He gave it a once over and then nodded sternly, “The colour and viscosity appears correct, Mister Potter. But you have one more step, do you not?”

Harry swallowed hard and looked at the chalkboard where Snape had written in tight scrawl: wave wand in a pyro movement over potion.

So much for no foolish wand—waving…

No. Harry shook his head and stepped back from the table. No.

Now, Snape’s brow was arched unhappily. “Cast the spell, Potter. It isn’t hard. I’ll even provide a demonstration for you.”

Nonono. It was one step too far. He’d only cast that one spell because Snape had forced him. He’d only brewed this potion to pay Snape back. But this? No. He would not cast another spell. He wouldn’t make any magic. It was badbadbad.

Snape stared at him, narrow—eyed, for a long and awful moment before sighing heavily, “Come here, Potter.”

Stomach clenched, Harry shot his Potions Professor a desperate look. He didn’t want to be punished, even if he deserved it because he alwaysalways did, but he had really hoped that after saving his life, Snape wouldn’t—

Though his eyes rolled, Snape’s lips pursed into a thin, pale line. “Merlin, boy, you’re not going to be beaten. Take out your wand. Come here and I will show you.”

Harry felt like his limbs were not his own when he pulled out his wand and shuffled over. He physically jumped when Snape’s hand touched his, snapping back into his own body, jolting back to reality. Harry’s body nearly shook from the tension and the fear, his nerves twitching like live wires. Yet Snape’s touch was shockingly warm, not frigid like one would expect of the dungeon bat. Gentle but firm, he closed Harry’s hand around the holly wand, and guided his hand through the movement — an odd, almost sideways Z formation.

“There is no cause for fear, Potter.” Snape’s voice was a cautious murmur, his inquisitive black eyes not on the wand or the potion but the boy. “The magic will not hurt you.”

That was where Snape was wrongwrongwrong.

Magic was badbadbad, and it had done nothing but hurt Harry.

“Try it over the potion. Go on now.”

Harry clenched his jaw and looked away in his silent defiance, but he let Snape move his hand over the cauldron. Criss—cross, up—down, smooth and fast, and then suddenly: magic. Harry gasped slightly, almost soundlessly. It coursed through his body at a rush, just like before, with the Lumos, but better almost. It was different from the Otherness — kinder somehow, less Dark, it didn’t press upon his chest like Other’s did.

The Wiggenweld potion bubbled fiercely, bright green and perfect; the first potion Harry had ever brewed.

“You see, Mister Potter?” Something in Snape’s usually severe face had softened slightly. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light. “That… was magic.”

Yes. Magic. It was… brilliant.

When it finally came time for his bandages to come off, Snape went with Harry to the appointment.

The man didn’t need to. Harry certainly hadn’t asked him to, but… well. Snape went with him. They were silent as they usually were as they walked through the cold winding corridors to the Hospital Wing where Madam Pomfrey waited with a gentle smile. Harry wasn’t sure what to do with that; it was foreign, frightening.

Such gentleness wasn’t meant for the likes of him.

Harry was instructed to put on a paper thin striped robe that crinkled when he moved. It was always chilly in the Hospital Wing, so cold that it made his skin prickle with goosebumps. As he sat on the far back cot, he stared at the glass jars filled with cotton swabs, salves and draughts,
neatly labelled potion vials.

It was a fine distraction for the first few minutes of Snape and Pomfrey talking.

It wasn’t enough of a distraction, however, for when the real shite got started.

Wounds created by one’s own magic were tricky, and Madam Pomfrey had to do this all by hand — very delicate work, she called it. She sat close to him as she got to work, close enough that he could catch her scent: fresh and brittle all at once, like mint and snow. If she noticed his discomfort at her closeness, she didn’t mention it. Carefully, she unwound the gauze from Harry’s twig—thin arm. They make a wet, soft schlick as they were pulled away from his tender flesh, and with a wave of her wand, the old bandages were Banished into the magical abyss.

Harry’s heart beat a little faster and he caught his breath.

He didn’t look down yet. He didn’t want to see.

“Am I hurting you?” The school nurse — the mediwitch — asked.

Harry stared.

Quietly, Snape intoned, “Just nod or shake your head, Potter.”

Harry shrugged; a half—answer.

Snape sighed.

Madam Pomfrey offered a small smile, “I’ll try to be gentler, Mister Potter. Yes?”

It shouldn’t matter so much. Not at all, really. What was another scar to go with all the rest? But… it mattered. She made quick work of the next arm (completely painless), and soon the skin of his arms was prickling, goose—bumped from the cool air in the Hospital Wing.

Ohgodohgodohgod—

The suspense was killing him. He could stand it no longer. He lifted his arms up and forced himself to look. They were both pale and inflamed simultaneously, white and red clashing ugly on his skin. Turning them over, he looked at the shiny, ropy scars rivering from his palms to his elbows. He touched them gingerly. Looking at all the melted flesh made his stomach flip.

The sound of Madam Pomfrey’s voice brought him back, “All right, Mister Potter, now your legs.”

Unwrapping legs took less time than his arms did; probably because they got burnt less. Still, Madam Pomfrey took utmost care to be gentle as she removed the gauze from one leg and then the other, cutting and Banishing away the stained cottony strips. It didn’t hurt, but his skin still twinged at the rush of air on fresh scars.

Done.

They both watched Harry carefully as he sat back up. The soft sheets beneath him twisted. The scars on his legs looked like red continents on a pale sea. Bumpbumpbump as he ran quivering fingers from his knees to the tops of his thighs. It wasn’t a nice sensation.

“There now. Time for the potions. Ready, Mister Potter?”

Harry’s silence was the expected reply.

This time, Pomfrey and Snape worked together so, this time, Harry watched closer. He didn’t think he was afraid of Snape, not really, but he tracked the movements of the man’s hands carefully, just in case. Both the adults poured the potion onto their hands and rubbed it between their palms before getting started. The potion was more of a salve, purple and smelling of honey and wood varnish. Harry wasn’t afraid (he wasn’t), but he still flinched when they touched him.

Snape froze, catching Harry’s eye as he murmured, “Take a breath, Mister Potter, it’s all right.”

It was oddly reassuring.

So Harry nodded, agreeing. The salve had been warmed by their hands, and so it felt very good against his smarting skin. Yes, Snape was right, it was all right.

When they had finished with his arms and legs, Madam Pomfrey instructed him to change back into his clothes behind the curtain. He took care to not look at his body too closely before he covered it all up with clothes upon clothes: shirt and trousers and socks and robes and cloak. That was one good thing he could say for the magical world. They really liked their layers.

When he finally emerged (an eternity later), he found the two adults whispering between themselves, so quiet he could only hear brief snatches. It made Harry frown. They were probably talking about him. He bloody hated that.

“—Prevent any further incidents, but he won’t engage—,”

“—Thought about a mind healer—?”

“—Albus would never—,”

“—What Albus says, you’ve seen him. How could—?”

“—Need to do something to get through to the boy—,”

Spotting him lurking by the curtain, Madam Pomfrey jumped and smiled that bright cheery grin that made his eyes hurt. “You did well, Mister Potter.”

Harry wished he could arch one brow like Snape did, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He cast a glance at the man, but his face was just as impassive as usual.

“You are well on your way in the healing process, but unfortunately we’re not quite done yet. Those scars will itch now that they’re exposed to the air. They might feel tight and rather prickly.”

Harry tipped his head.

He was already feeling that.

Madam Pomfrey passed over a small carton of vials with more of that purple potion. “Thankfully, Professor Snape’s made this potion just for you. It should help with the scarring. You must go to him twice a day so that he can apply it for you; I’m sure he’ll tell you the time and place. You understand?”

He hugged the carton tight to his chest.

He could still feel their hands on his legs, the gentleness of their fingers on the ugliness of himself. He wondered when was the last time he was touched kindly. It had to be weeks, months, probably years. A terrible part of him kind of wanted those hands back, maybe curving around him this time. Hugging him close enough that his head could kind of fall against one of them — Snape or Pomfrey, and he could stay there awhile, breathing them in, no big deal, heartbeatheartbeatheartbeat, just so he didn’t feel so fucking alone.

Humiliating pressure built behind his eyes.

He swiped hard at his stuffy nose, ignoring his trembling hands.

“Your Year should be in lunch right now, Potter.” Snape cleared his throat, saving him yet again. “Shall I escort you there?”

Harry shook his head, mouthing the word, “Dorm.” He took a step towards the big doors. “Dorm.”

Madam Pomfrey looked sad.

Snape was blank—faced as always, simply nodding, “Very well, Mister Potter. Very well.”

Severus had thought perhaps he was getting through to the boy.

In the weeks since their sessions had begun, he felt there had been some… progress. The brat still did not speak, but he mostly gave an answer now — even nonverbally, and he had performed magic, now and then. There had been no more unfortunate incidents between him and his dormmates, at least to Severus’ knowledge. True, Potter wasn’t completing his assignments when Severus didn’t force him to, but he was at the very least paying more attention in classes — even if it always seemed under duress, according to his colleagues.

It was still completely demeaning, Severus thought, to have to practically hold the precious Boy Who Lived’s hand in the most basic of activities, but orders were orders… And if this wasn’t exactly what Albus meant when he said the boy was his responsibility, then he wasn’t going to think about that.

But since the time in the Hospital Wing, the boy had seemed— odd again, and Severus was— concerned about losing... his progress.

To the strangeness. To dissociation. To whatever past haunted the brat.

In the days leading up to Halloween, Severus felt gripped by the need to stop that from happening. The difficulty, however, was that he had no idea how to go about that. Ever since he got this job, he treated his House with courteous detachment most generally. He tended to their clear needs and defended them most viciously, but he did not raise them. He was not their parent, nor their guardian. He didn’t know how to tend to their emotional needs.

What the hell even were emotional needs?

Severus had very little knowledge to draw upon and was therefore forced to improvise.

He remembered the first time he witnessed his father strike his mother. It had fucked him up for weeks. He made himself smaller and smaller, practically invisible in his father’s home. He hid when he heard those familiar lurching footsteps. Always placing himself instinctively between his parents, he avoided eye contact and answered monosyllabically. His mother couldn’t stand it, and it was only when she had lashed out at him that he came out of it.

After all, at the start of the year, the Potter boy had only come back to reality after a good, hard jolt in the Forest. Perhaps that was what the boy required again.

And Severus would be the one to give that to him.

Snape apparently decided to try a new approach.

The man had been in A Mood from the start of Potions class, snapping at everyone left and right, and Harry in particular — even more than usual. Harry couldn’t remember doing anything that might’ve upset the man — then again, he was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything at the start either. Not that it mattered. The Dursleys never needed a reason to hate Harry; and apparently, Snape hadn’t needed one either.

This didn’t bode well at all for their meeting.

The Potions professor didn’t let him draw and he didn’t let him work on homework— he didn’t even force Harry to brew. He was too preoccupied with stalking back and forth before his big desk, pale hands clasping tightly behind his back, his face twisted into a concentrated scowl.

Harry felt nauseous.

His Head of House hadn’t seemed this upset with him for weeks now, and he suddenly doubted his trust that the man wouldn’t hurt him. Did Malfoy and the others make up some story about him? Was he mad that Harry hadn’t said thank you? Did he regret saving him in the first place?

“This cannot be allowed to continue, Potter,” Snape finally announced, stopping just in front of him, seeming ten metres tall.

Harry made himself smaller and smaller in his seat, sweaty hands twisting and twisting in his lap. He didn’t understand. He — did — not — understand.

“You are capable of speech, Potter; indeed, I know this for a fact,” Snape sneered at him, “I had Madam Pomfrey perform a charm to determine just that when we were in the Hospital Wing so do not persist in trying to fool us.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t trying to fool anyone. He wasn’t trying to be badbadbad. Why couldn’t Snape — why couldn’t anyone — understand that?

“In your continual refusal to communicate, you display a shocking lack of regard for everyone around you. I don’t know why you hold such contempt for us — your professors and fellow students. It’s disgraceful, is what it is, Potter; utterly.” Snape somehow managed to step ever closer, positively towering over Harry now as he snarled, “Enough of this— this temper tantrum, Potter. I won’t stand for it any longer!”

Something frightened and horrible was coiling tighter and tighter inside of Harry.

Snape was looking angrier and angrier and—

“Speak!” He roared while slamming both hands down on the desk on either side of him.

Harry was up out of his chair in a second—flat and he scrambled towards the door, a safe enough distance away. His hands closed around the cold handle, but no matter how much he tugged, the door would not give way.

“Let me out.”

The words were mouthed, and because he was facing the door, Snape couldn’t see.

“Let me out, let me out,” he repeated, again and again, first silent and then a whisper and then louder and louder until he was shrieking, “Let me out, let me out, let me—!”

A hand suddenly clamped around his wrist, and Harry wrenched away so fast that he fell back into the door and hit his head — hard — against the heavy wood. Stars instantly exploded across his vision, but that didn’t matter so much because through the starbursts, he saw Snape looming over him and the man was taller and stronger and bigger and—

“Calm down, Potter. Just—,”

Snape reached for him once more, and Harry instantly flinched and threw his hands up over his head. Everything stilled, just for a second. Harry hadn’t even realised his eyes were closed until he opened them and found Snape practically gaping at him, eyes slightly wide, hands in a clear sign of surrender.

“What did you think I was going to do just then, Potter?”

Harry couldn’t answer, he was too busy gulping breath, trying to force the air down hard enough to put out the horrible hurricane building and building within his body.

“Y—You’re so— so horrible. Why would y—you do that?”

This was the most noise he had made in his entire two months at Hogwarts so far. He kept gulping air, only now he was hiccupping, too, and tears were pouring down his face, which was pretty much the last thing he wanted. He swiped at his face angrily, both hands shaking. Bloody hell. Bloody people. Crying in front of Snape, of all bloody people.

“Did you think that was funny?” His bottom lip quivered, to his utmost shame; the words spilling out all over the place, “It—It’s not funny,”

Snape simply stared at Harry, the circles under his eyes like black half—moons. He looked— startled wasn’t the right word, but it was close.

“No, I agree. It’s not funny. I… apologise, Mister Potter.”

The professor’s voice was different now, softer.

“I did not intend for you to cry, I only— no, it does not matter, it was wrong.”

For a moment, they just looked at one another, and in that space of time, Harry saw something really terrible happen. Something passed across his professor’s face, very gently, a sadness, some realisation of Harry that only made him want to cry even harder, because Snape knew, he knew it now, that something happened to him, and loud noises and shouting and threats like that weren’t— good. If he hadn’t been so distraught, he might’ve noticed that Snape even looked a bit ashamed.

“Let—,” the words were barely above a whisper, “Let me out, okay, sir? Please.”

Without a word, Snape’s ebony wand flicked, and the heavy door unlocked with a soft click. Harry didn’t wait a single second. He turned, yanked hard on the handle, and then he was out of the classroom, slamming the door behind him, and peeling away down the hall.

Getoutgetoutgetout.

Just… get — out.

After the last few meetings, after the sketchbook, after the appointment with Madam Pomfrey, after the brewing and the magic, he had thought maybe — just maybe — that Snape was an okay person, and now he reminded himself: people aren’t okay, people aren’t nice, you should know that by now.

Severus… retreated.

That was the only word he could think of to explain what he was doing. Because it really was a retreat, wasn’t it? He’d been waging a war, raining blows not upon a battlement of an enemy or even that of a fully capable and fully deserving wizard, but upon an eleven year old boy. A deeply troubled, deeply traumatised one at that.

Yes. Severus retreated.

He decided to stop calling on Potter and trying to strong—arm him into speaking in class. He cancelled their meetings for the rest of the year and did him the kindness of delivering this news through a prefect. Poppy would apply the salve. He would keep his distance. He did not sneer or snarl or glower. He barely even looked at the boy, freeing him from the weight of his notoriously heavy gaze.

The boy hadn’t spoken again, not since he’d begged and pleaded with Severus for mercy.

If that was what could be described as a ‘break—through’, he would have rather it never happened.

In the days following their last— encounter, Harry Potter looked worse than he had since the Forbidden Forest incident. Severus hadn’t realised how much better the boy was starting to look until he backslid. Now, Potter’s untamed curls looked lank and unwashed, deep purple bruises shadowed the undersides of his eyes, and he looked paler and thinner than when he arrived on the train. He was back to refusing to look at anyone’s face; a mere ghost of a boy, haunting the corridors of Hogwarts like a silent specter of judgement.

Severus tended to keep a vice—grip on his emotions, every single wretched one, but for the first time in a long time, one in particular kept slipping free —

Shame.

He was deeply, deeply ashamed of how he had treated Harry Potter. What a cosmic joke, what a horrible prank — played upon him no doubt by the ghost of James Potter himself. Or perhaps it was a curse, wrought by the woman he loved for the unforgivable sin of killing her.

In the aftermath of such a sin, his whole purpose in life was to protect the Potter brat, and he… he failed in his mission before he’d ever truly started. He did not know what was wrong with the Potter boy, but he knew whatever it was — it was bad. Very bad, indeed. His considerations of what happened to the boy to make him this way were endless, and each more horrible than the last. Something was terribly wrong with the boy because something terribly wrong had happened to him.

And Severus had let it happen.

No, more terrible than that: he had made it even worse.

During the Halloween Feast, Harry sat apart from his fellow Slytherins.

A special meal was being held in honour of the holiday with giant pumpkins floating overhead and hundreds of festive bats swarming along the walls, making more than a few kids dive for cover. Food was served on giant golden platters, and hordes of colourful but weird candy was stacked upon the tables in endless piles.

It was every child’s dreamland. Harry barely paid any attention to it.

It was good that he had the paper and charcoal to keep him occupied. At least now he looked busy, rather than just pathetic. As everyone else talked with the friends or dug into their dinner, he sneaked looks at his own warbled reflection in the spoon, to sketch himself, lightly, faintly. It felt good, his fingers holding the charcoal, feeling his way around his almond eyes, the thinness of his mouth.

He wasn’t sure exactly where he was drawing himself, somewhere at the Dursleys’, in the garden weeding, in the kitchen washing dishes, in the— His brain started to circle, circle, even as his shaky hand kept drawing himself. There were things happening that he didn’t want to think about, not right now. Words were happening, like ‘sorry’ and ‘cupboard’ and ‘otherness’ and ‘hurting me’.

Someone at the Ravenclaw table turned a page of their book. Ronald Weasley at Gryffindor laughed at a joke.

Harry’s self—portrait was accurate. And it was ugly. He stared down at the smudged lines of his hollow cheeks and sello—taped glasses and chapped mouth. His hand shook when he started to draw his scar.

“Don’t look at me with that ugly face of yours, you foul little beast,” Aunt Petunia’s voice hissed in the darkened corners of his mind, “Go cry someplace else.”

Uglyuglyugly.

Suddenly angry, Harry scratched a big X over the drawing before crumpling up the paper and shoving it under his plate.

Bird—quick, Malfoy was up and leaning over the table, yanking the parchment from beneath his plate. Harry’s hands twitched to resist, to snatch it back, but he forced himself to stay still. His face heated up. His fingers curled into fists. No freakishness could not escape today — nononono.

“What is it, Draco?” Parkinson positively vibrated excitement.

“Well, let’s see here.” Malfoy uncrumpled the paper and smoothed it flat. As he scrutinised it, a slow smile spread across his pointy face. “Is this supposed to be you? This is pretty good, Scarhead. I especially like that you X—ed yourself out.”

He showed the paper to the others, everyone leaning in to take a peek, ooh—ing and aah—ing.

“Not a bad idea,” Zabini snorted, taking a merry bite of his kidney pie.

Malfoy cackled, “You erased yourself, Potty, I couldn’t have said it any better myself—,”

“That will be quite enough, Mister Malfoy.”

Snape’s voice was even and clear and it scared the shite out of every Slytherin at the table. Harry’s head snapped up even as everyone else froze, their eyes dropping away from the clearly unhappy expression of their Head of House.

“Return the drawing to Mister Potter.”

Mostly respectfully, Malfoy grumbled, “Yes, sir.”

The blond boy crumpled the paper back up and tossed it in his lap. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. None of this was. Harry promptly stood and ripped the drawing straight down the middle before abandoning it to the floor. Snape’s eyes followed him all the way out of the Great Hall, making his skin itch and crawl.

Harry didn’t want his help.

He didn’t want anything to do with Snape.

Not now, not ever again.

Still stewing in his bright red anger, Harry was halfway down the hallway when he smelt something so very horrible that it actually stopped him in his tracks. It was only after he smelt the stench that he saw its source. Skin a dull grey with a great lumpy body, dragging behind a huge wooden club, was a massive creature. He didn’t know what kind of creature it was — but it was most definitely a monster. A magical one, at that. It towered at the end of the corridor, first peering in and then slouching slowly into the girl’s washroom.

And immediately followed a high—pitched girlish scream.

It would be stupid to go in without any backup, without any weapon, without any bloody plan at all, and Harry J. Potter was nothing if not inclined towards his own self—preservation. But the trouble was: after hearing it barely even a week ago, he knew exactly who that scream belonged to.

Granger.

And so then Harry was running.

He tripped over his own feet as he raced down the corridor and then shoved into the girls’ washroom with a useless yelp of protest. Not that it mattered. He gulped. His wide green eyes trailed upupup to the face of the monster three and a half metres up, his mouth open in a growl, dirty teeth dripping with drool. None other than Ronald Weasley burst in just seconds after, and together, they watched in horror as the huge monster loomed over the now tiny girl.

“Oh no,” Weasley whispered, “Hermione.”

Granger didn’t have time to notice their completely useless presence. She was too busy sliding down the opposite wall, face pale and breathing heavy, looking woozy with fear. The monster was advancing on her, dragging his large club just behind, looking ready to smash her to hell and back. And— no. That was not going to happen.

Not to one of the only people who had been nice to Harry in nearly a decade.

Harry reacted without thinking, snatching onto a nearby chunk of tile and then hurling it as hard as he could towards the other side of the room. The monster skidded to a stop and stupidly tried to figure out the source of the noise, distracted just long enough for Granger to get moving. But, unfortunately, the source of the noise was Harry, and that was exactly who the monster looked at next.

Drooling, glaring, the monster raised his club.

“Oy, pea—brain!” Weasley suddenly yelled from the other side of the toilet, hurling a metal pipe at it.

The monster didn’t even seem to notice the pipe hitting his shoulder, but he heard the yell and turned his ugly face towards Weasley instead, chasing after him with massive thundering steps. That gave Harry just enough time to snatch onto Granger’s sleeve and yank her towards the door, but the girl refused to budge, her hand reaching upupup to point at the monster now blocking their only means of escape.

And worse than that, it was completely freaking out.

The monster couldn’t seem to decide who to smash first and so had decided to smash everything all at once. It was roaring and foaming and cracking its club into the sinks and toilet stalls and almost into Ronald Weasley’s red head, making them all scream in wordless terror. Harry suddenly wished he knew more than that damn Wand—Lighting Spell, that he’d paid more attention in all those strange classes, that he actually knew how to use bloody magic.

But he didn’t.

So they were going to die here.

And then Harry lost all control.

His green eyes blackened: irises, cornea, sclera, all of it — blackblackblack. He felt his bones shifting, twisting, melting within their home of flesh. It was painful, so very painful, and entirely out of his hands. His body chemistry shifted as the Otherness took shape, immediately letting loose its fury upon the other monster.

The Otherness smelt of burnt tar and bright anger. The outside of him was on firefirefirefire and the inside of him was emptyemptyemptyempty. It battered and rammed the creature, senseless in its violence, tearing and biting and flaying it into nonexistence.

Granger and Weasley let out twin screams of terror as they shrank away, huddling close together by the washroom wall.

But even when the other monster was flat on its back, burning out, the Otherness couldn’t be contained. It feasted on the walls and the stone, raging against anything and everything, a black windstorm spinning wildly out of control.

A sudden slamming of a door and the sound of loud footsteps could hardly be heard over the storm.

Maybe there was no coming back this time. Perhaps the freakishness had finally won. There was no use fighting it. Just give in, the Otherness tempted with its slick, oily voice, Just give in forever and ever — amen. And Harry would have, yes yes, if not for the sudden voice through the horror:

“Potter!”

Something within the freakishness of Harry quieted. Amidst the hurricane, he felt something reach out to him and tug him back towards earth, like a tether to light or reality. He held very still, kept very quiet, and he waited to be saved.

“Potter,” came that same voice, loud over the chaos, “Come back to us now!”

Something within Harry recognised that voice — and more than that: trusted it, despite everything. The anger and the fear and the hatred waned, still burning but softer, like a wildfire slowly dying out — even if for only a little while.

“Remember intention, Potter?! Harness your magic and control it. Control it — now!”

All at once, the Otherness was gone.

And with darkness rolling over him like an oily wave, so was Harry.

Once more, Potter was delivered to the Hospital Wing.

He would be more or less all right, it seemed — at least physically. No one could speak to his mental state. At least when the boy finally passed out (magical exhaustion, no doubt), the chaos had stopped. Small mercies. Whatever was left of the troll (and there was very little left) was Banished into oblivion. The washroom was in a terrible state, that not even magic would fix quickly, but honestly, Severus didn’t give a shit.

Granger and Weasley had been sent on their merry way, only after they had asked about a thousand annoying questions about how Potter was and what happened to him and would he be all right and what was that thing and— Severus was tired of dealing with impertinent little brats.

He had other concerns right now.

Severus was… horrified. As a Death Eater, he had seen his own endless number of horrors — large and small, and yet he had ever seen anything like this. It had been— horrifying, truly was the best word he could think of to describe it. To see the boy become that thing, to hear his screams of agony, to know how he must have become it…

None of this was to mention that his leg was throbbing horribly from being bitten by Hagrid’s wretched three—headed dog.

Damn it all.

The Heads of House had once again been gathered in Albus’ office, along with Poppy Pomfrey since she ought to know exactly what sort of darkness her patient was facing. No one knew what to say. How to react. They were all sick. Halloween was the anniversary of the Potters’ murder in Godric’s Hollow, which somehow made this already horrible situation so much worse for them all.

If they had lived, this never would have happened to the boy.

Severus couldn’t fucking stand it.

Her Scottish brogue thick, Minerva was the first to break the tense silence with a very appropriate question:

“What… the fuck is it?”

Albus sighed softly, and Severus nearly winced at this. To hear that man sigh like that… well, it was never a good sign.

“I have reason to believe,” the Headmaster began very quietly, not really looking at any of them, “That Mister Harry Potter has developed a parasitical magical force inside of him, something better known as an Obscurus.”

Poppy nearly gasped, and Minerva paled visibly.

Severus tried to focus on keeping his breathing steady, on keeping his shields high and strong. They were trembling, battered and splintering under the weight of what he’d seen, of what had happened. He thought he knew the depths of guilt when his one true friend was murdered, but in the aftermath, he had vowed to keep her son safe, and failing her in this… it had introduced him to whole new levels of pain.

In the Dark Ages, when wizards were being actively hunted by Muggles, Obscurials happened nearly all the time. Children weren’t meant to hide their magic; to do so went against nature itself. Fortunately, after their society had been divided from the ordinary world, Obscurials hardly had cause to develop at all. And yet…

“How could that be—?” Pomona shook her head in disbelief, “Albus, there’s not been an Obscurial in at least a hundred years!”

“More recent than that, I’m afraid,” Albus said but did not explain.

Which was fine with Severus because he was bloody busy wanting to vomit. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. How could he have missed all the signs? Because he had gone out of his way to purposefully fucking ignore them, that was how. Oh God. Yes, Severus might very well be sick, right here, in the middle of the staff room.

“But— I’m sorry,” Filius started and stopped, glancing apologetically around the room, “But if this is so, how has Mister Potter survived this long? All records indicate that Obscurials always die before their tenth birthdays.”

Severus barely suppressed a horrid choking sound.

“Almost always,” Albus countered, his blue eyes showing no sign of twinkling at all. “But there have been a few — mostly undocumented — cases where a wizard or witch with tremendous latent powers have survived longer.”

“So.” Minerva’s voice was hoarse when she spoke, and it barely sounded any better after she tried clearing her throat, “So— so the boy is powerful enough to survive it, then.”

It wasn’t worded like a question, but everyone turned to Albus for the answer, anyway.

But the grim look on his wrinkled, weathered face was enough of an answer for Severus who sharply looked away. Out the window. Today, the sky was like spillage — grey and heavy, slippery and swirling. It was more suited to polluted Cokeworth than the middle of Scotland. He supposed, ignoring the lump rising in his throat, that it was fitting for news such as this.

“I’m afraid… that even if an Obscurial has survived past their tenth birthday, their nature will slowly poison and kill them.”

Severus sucked in a sharp breath.

Lily… I’m so fucking sorry.

“Oh, that poor boy,” Pomona choked and dabbed her face with her flower—embroidered handkerchief.

Poppy reached out and rubbed her shoulder in weak comfort, looking just as upset as she.

Albus leant forward in his chair, levelling them all with a stare that reminded Severus far too much of the war days. “Our way forward is unclear, but this I do know with utmost certainty: we must not let the Ministry know of Harry’s status. If they find out, they will take him and they will imprison him and I cannot say what they will do to him.”

Severus’ hands clenched tightly on the armrests of his chair, knuckles whitening.

That was not fucking happening. Over Severus’ dead body was anybody taking the boy.

“But what of the other students, Albus?” Filius wondered, taking up the role as The Logical One since Severus was otherwise occupied with not having a complete mental breakdown. “Mister Potter is not in control of the Obscurus, no one is; if he is permitted to remain amongst the student body, how can we keep them safe if — when — another incident occurs?”

“I recognise we must keep Harry contained.”

“But how, Albus?” Minerva pressed.

“I had quite a bit of experience with Obscurials in my day, and one of my contacts in particular is something of an expert. He may have ideas that I do not possess.”

“Containment is all well and good,” Poppy cut in, flapping her hand, sparkling eyes fervent. “Is there truly nothing that can be done for Harry’s sake? He can’t just be a lost cause!”

Albus sighed again. “Many years ago, there were theories that Obscurials could be healed — possibly — by replacing those feelings of alienation and shame, which ultimately created their Obscurus, with a sense of belonging.”

“You mean love,” Severus spoke for the first time since this whole fucking shitshow began.

Every eye in the room turned to him.

It was said with disgust, and it was well—deserved. Love — a preposterous notion. Vile and twisted and wrong. The only thing love ever did for Severus Snape was cause him pain. He imagined this was much the same for the boy called Harry.

“Yes. Love.” Albus confirmed sadly, blue eyes locked on black. “But there is no evidence that is this is possible, or that it can even be done, and so if it can’t—,”

Poppy Pomfrey had been right about many things in her time.

One in particular?

He couldn’t just consider Harry Potter a lost cause, not now, probably not ever.

Severus blurted, “What of Occlumency?”

Once more, everyone looked at him.

Now that he’d said it, he couldn’t let the thought escape, and he spoke faster and faster, eager to prove his theory, plead his case — to fulfill the mission he had already failed: PROTECT THE BOY.

“At its core, Occlumency is a suppression tactic, designed to clear oneself of all emotion — including anger and pain; both of which causes the Obscurial to reach their breaking point and physically transform into the Obscurus. Perhaps… Occlumency could help the boy… contain himself.”

Albus was eyeing him thoughtfully, critically, in that way that always made him want to squirm.

He barely resisted the urge.

Minerva’s stare was just as piercing, “Is this something you can do, Severus? Really do. Because the boy will need you, and we all know how you feel about him. Do you think you are — at your core — capable of saving a boy like Harry Potter?”

As fiercely as he glared at her, Severus knew she was right to be uncertain, to doubt him. Was he really capable of this? Could he put aside his own issues to help this boy, the son of his most hated bully? The boy he had despised since he had learnt of his existence, for his father’s sake as much as his own. Could he save Harry Potter?

He would try until his own dying breath.

Severus swallowed hard, throat spasming convulsively.

“The boy— is my responsibility. He has been, since the start. I don’t care if you all have given up on him — I won’t. I have failed him already. I will not fail him again.”

Without another word, his decision written in stone like a covenant, he shoved himself out of his chair and stalked across the staff room with his robes billowing. His footsteps matched the drumbeat of his heart, determination making a home beneath his skin, burrowing in beside the guilt. Severus had just reached the door when Albus’ voice echoed behind him.

“He may very well be too far gone, Severus.”

He paused and glanced back, for only a moment to say:

“I refuse to accept that.”

Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t been allowed to leave the Hospital Wing yet.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been trapped here — exactly, but it was already feeling like an eternity. They had him sheltered away, white screens like walls blocking him in at all sides — but at least it wasn’t actual prison walls. That would be well—deserved for an ugly freak like him.

Harry hadn’t woken with any new injuries, which he supposed was good, though it was hard to suppose much of anything. He felt… dull. Calm, sort of, but mostly vacant. Like he’d been crushed flat and there was no room left for any emotions at all.

They’d been plying him with all sorts of drugs, he could guess. The mediwitch dug into her bag of tricks and doled out a horde of medicines, his crazy potions, baby blue and depression purple and nap—time grey. He knew they were considering forcing him to drink those sleep potions again, but he didn’t want to. He needed to be awake and aware.

Or else the Otherness could let loose again.

Harry was just plotting an escape attempt when the white screens shifted, and in walked literally one of the last people in the world that he wanted to see:

Snape.

Because of course it bloody was Snape.

Harry sat up quickly, defensively, and all that dullness — all that calm — left him in an instant as he readied himself for some sort of fight.

Casually, his Head of House greeted: “Good morning, Mister Potter.”

Harry couldn’t help but scowl instinctively. He was still so fucking angry at Snape, for terrifying him on purpose, for locking him in, for demanding things he could never give, but most of all — for making him feel so fucking stupid for ever letting himself think he could trust somebody else.

And yet…

There was still that something — something so unsure, something that tugged at his insides, that maybe — despite everything — this was a person he could… rely upon.

Why?

He had no idea.

Harry watched his Potions professor very closely when the man silently dragged a chair to his bedside and dropped into it with irritating grace, heavy robes poofing out at all sides. He wondered, briefly, if that was all on purpose. No one could be that dramatic on accident, right?

Snape blinked at him, apparently content to engage in their usual silent staring contest.

Finally, Harry could no longer stand it.

He raised his hand, pleased it wasn’t shaking anymore, and he mimed until Snape seemed to understand. His Head of House produced a parchment and a quill (bloody quills), and Harry did his level best to write out his question.

HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN HERE?

“Hm,” said Snape, taking in his messy scrawl with a faint but not entirely mean sneer. “You have been here for two days. It is the second of November. Do you recall what occurred on the night of Halloween?”

Frowning, Harry blinked hard.

He remembered pumpkins as huge as boulders and bats swooping over the tables in the Great Hall. He remembered the sound of a girl screaming. He remembered a foul stench like old socks and unclean washrooms, and— yes, a troll. An actual troll. He remembered how very big the creature was and how scared he felt as it towered over him. He remembered the splitting, the cracking, the horrible, terrible sounds of destruction and—

Then nothing. Nothing. Until the Hospital Wing.

“It is all right if you can’t remember, Mister Potter,” Snape said after a quiet moment, his tone oddly… gentle? “Our subconscious can be quite agile. Sometimes it knows when to take us away, as a sort of protection. Does this make sense to you?”

Harry could neither nod nor shake his head.

He wished he knew how to tell Snape that his subconscious was broken, because it never took him away when Aunt Petunia called him an evil little boy, or when Uncle Vernon grabbed his neck and squeezedsqueezedsqueezed.

But that didn’t matter right now, did it? Because now they knew. About his freakishness. Because even in a place filled with freaks, Harry was still the freakiest of all. Oh no. Oh God. Harry felt suddenly stiff with fear, his lungs clenching so tight it was almost impossible to breathe. He gaspedgaspedgasped for air.

What was going to happen to him?

“Breathe, Mister Potter,” Snape leant forward sharply, “Or shall I provide you with another Calming Draught?”

Harry shook his head fiercely but still struggled to catch his breath. It was all too much — the Hospital Wing, Snape’s analysing eyes, the sound of his own ragged gaspgaspgasps. He clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes so tightly shut that they stung, holding his breath and letting it out in slow — so very slow — waves.

When he could breathe like a normal human again, Harry let himself fall back into the real world.

There, Snape was watching him in a way that made him want to crawl out of his very skin. The man seemed cautious, perhaps wary, but also, maybe, a little… concerned? No. That couldn’t be right.

Quietly, he questioned, “Are you quite well, Mister Potter?”

A jerky nod from Harry.

A thoughtful hum from Snape.

Then, after a beat of horrible silence, the boy managed to scrounge up the quill to write out his next question:

WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN TO ME?

After scanning the parchment, the Potions Master’s lips thinned. “To start, I thought perhaps you would like to know that we’ve been able to— diagnose you.”

Wait… what?

The boy’s brow wrinkled just slightly, curious but nervous to show it.

“It’s called an Obscurus.”

Harry tentatively raised his eyes to Snape’s. He’d never known that his — freakishness — had a name, a thing that other people actually knew about. Perhaps there would be something… comforting, a little, knowing that he wasn’t entirely alone. Someone else sneezed on the other side of the Hospital Wing. Harry flinched. The sound rang in the air for a long time before finally growing uncomfortably quiet once more.

Snape cleared his throat into the silence.

“Have you ever heard of that term, Mister Potter?”

When Harry slowly shook his head, Snape hummed. “I will attempt to explain it to you; however, I will have to ask you some questions along the way. Answer as best you can.”

They both knew he wouldn’t answer much at all.

“An Obscurus is a manifestation of repressed power — magical energy — that has gone… bad, shall we say.” Snape’s voice came at him from far away. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘accidental magic’, Potter?”

Harry shook his head again, quicker this time.

“Accidental magic most often occurs around young children who typically have little control over their abilities, and for most, it manifests when they’re angry or scared in the form of summoning toys, flickering lights, growing flowers, eccetera… Has any of that ever happened to you?”

Harry thought of his teacher’s wig turning blue. Teleporting to the school roof during a game of Harry Hunting. Growing back all his hair when Aunt Petunia held him down and gave him that dreadful haircut. He bit his lip to keep all the words in, all the evidence of his horrible freakishness.

“Were your relatives ever — disturbed — by any displays of your accidental magic?”

Nothing. Nothing. Harry could say nothing.

Snape inhaled deeply, as if making a concentrated effort at keeping his patience.

“This would go much easier if you answered me, Potter, for the both of us.” A pause. Then, “At any point during your childhood, did you ever feel ashamed — or even afraid — of your own magic?”

Harry quickly looked back at his lap, feeling both of his cheeks suddenly flush bright red. He couldn’t answer, though his reaction spoke loud and clear.

“Ah… In that case, Potter, did you ever attempt to suppress, or indeed destroy, your magic?”

Another long pause, and the professor was just opening his mouth to continue his line of useless questioning when:

“I can’t.”

Harry’s voice surprised even himself. It was so, so small.

Snape paused for two heartbeats, and then he leant forward in his chair slightly. “What was that?”

Harry cleared his throat, but it didn’t do any good. Now there was no voice left in there at all. He shook his head and shrugged, eyes still on the crispy white blankets of the hospital cot.

“Potter.” The professor’s tone was firm. “Look at me.”

Cautious, very cautious, Harry sneaked a peek through his shaggy fringe.

Snape’s eyes were intense, blacker than outer space or the inside of his cupboard.

The boy quickly looked away.

“What is it you cannot do?”

The boy glanced out the window for a while, like the answer might be out there somewhere. It took a century, maybe, but more words, finally, came out of his mouth.

“I— can’t talk about it, about them. ‘M not allowed, they said— I just can’t.”

Even if all of this was said barely even as a whisper, Snape seemed to hear him.

“I see.”

The way he said it made it sound like he really did see. Snape swallowed a few times, and he crossed both arms over his chest before tapping his index finger to his lips a few times.

“I cannot promise you that we will not talk about them in the future, Mister Potter, because I feel that we must. But for now, we will move on.”

Harry’s entire body nearly shuddered with his sigh of relief.

“Whatever happened with ‘them’ as you refer to your relatives, Potter, it clearly caused you to alienate your magic, and so an Obscurus was formed. It’s become like a parasite within you, and when you become upset — sad or angry, it manifests itself in a violent, destructive manner… as occurred on Halloween with the troll.”

Nervous, completely bloody terrified, Harry smoothed and re—smoothed over the crinkled blankets in his lap, and he wanted to ask the question but he wasn’t sure if his fingers would stop shaking enough to write or if his lips had the strength to form the words. And yet he got his answer anyway.

“Unfortunately… there is no known cure for an Obscurus…”

Of course not. Of bloody course not.

“But.”

Harry’s shaking hands froze.

“There is something called Occlumency,” Snape tilted his head, much like a bird inspecting a worm. His voice was low but quick, and not at all frightening. “It’s a form of mind magic, you’ll not have heard of it either, but amongst other things, it is a method of controlling one’s emotions, learning to regulate. I would like to teach you Occlumency, Potter, in hopes that you can regulate this Obscurus.”

Harry bit his lip. He twisted a loose thread from the blanket, twirling it around and around his index, until the tip turned a bloodless white. It hurt. Everything— hurt. Snape leant forward in his chair, pressing into his space, into his hope.

“If we work together, Mister Potter, I believe we might be able to cure you… Would you like to try?”

Heartbeatheartbeatheartbeat.

Harry could hardly believe the question being asked of him. To be given the chance to cure him of his magic? Of his freakishness? To put a stop to the Otherness, for once and for all? As if he had any other choice. Harry could do nothing but nod.

“Very well, Mister Potter.” Snape almost sounded — pleased, really pleased.

Harry’s hands were still shaking.

“W—What will you do to me?” The words seemed to have come out all on their own.

Snape frowned at once, tiny wrinkles creasing around his black eyes, and Harry wondered briefly how old Snape was. Adult ages were hard to guess at sometimes. The man could be anywhere from thirty to fifty in his mind.

“To you?” Snape repeated, lowly, slowly. “I will not do anything to you, Mister Potter, of this I can assure you. It is as simple as this: I will teach, you will learn — nothing more.”

Harry wasn’t sure if it was safe to believe that.

“That’s it?” His voice cracked; a weak, unreliable thing.

“That’s it.”

“Can you…” It was pathetic, so very pathetic, but he had to know for sure— “Can you promise?”

Snape was quiet for so long, Harry risked another glance up at the man. He didn’t seem mad, or even impatient, just thoughtful… and maybe a little bit sad. Sad for Harry.

Then: “I promise.”

Harry nodded slowly. He felt heavy again — really, really heavy, like his body weighed thousands and thousands of pounds. Even his eyelids weighed a tonne. His heart was tired. His lungs wanted a nap.

“Rest, Mister Potter.”

Harry’s eyes darted up to Snape’s face, somewhere near his ear this time.

“No one will bother you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Harry wasn’t sure why, but he felt oddly— reassured by this. Maybe because Snape was so scary. Surely no one would hurt him when the Potions Master was acting as his guard dog. Very cautiously, he sank back into the pillow and blankets, and he watched while his Potions professor relaxed back into his chair, crossed his legs, and pulled from his voluminous robes a book. He watched his teacher read for a few moments before he glanced up with an arched brow.

“I believe I said to rest, Mister Potter, not to observe me. I assure you, I’m really not that interesting.”

Harry wasn’t so sure about that anymore, to be perfectly honest. But resting did sound rather nice right now (he really was exhausted), and so with a soft yawn, he rolled back over in the cot, and even though it was still morning, he allowed himself to close his eyes. And slept. And slept.

It felt as though they experimented on Harry for weeks, when it really was only a few days.

They did scan after scan with their magic wands, tsking and tutting, murmuring to each other in disapproval. Harry was unhealthy/core corrosive/malnourished/yes — too thin/and — too pale/yes — vitamin deficient/in need of sun/in need of food/in need of potions/in need/in need.

049.00. 049.60. 051.00. 052.10. They stuffed the bag of bones that was Harry with magic and carbohydrates — nutrient potions and kidney pies. 054.00. 55.20. 55.70. 56.00. 56.50.

A very solemn Madam Pomfrey finally released him at 57.30 lbs with a crisp folder filled with papers and pamphlets that held new orders: meal plans, follow—up appointments, magic incantations called ‘positive affirmations’ and ‘deep breathing exercises’ as if that could keep away the Otherness. As if that could save them all.

When he was finally allowed to break free from the prison that was the Hospital Wing, Harry found Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley lying in wait. For him. It nearly scared the shite out of the boy.

Instantly, Weasley pounced, “Hey! What happened to you?”

Weasley was nearly two heads taller than Harry, almost a full foot, and while Harry would usually find this intimidating, there was something about the redheaded boy that was open and friendly and kind. Now, while Weasley wasn’t intimidating, his question was. Harry bit his lip in response, feeling cornered, feeling ashamed, silent again because he didn’t know what to say. They stared at his face, waiting, and Harry stared at his shoes, running away in his head.

The silence was awkward until Granger broke it:

“I think I know.”

Both boys turned to the girl, one wary and one confused. Granger seemed both nervous and pleased by their attention. She tucked a loose curly strand of hair behind her ear, though it sprang right back into place, like the rest of the brown noisy ocean falling down her back. There was so much of it, she couldn’t contain it with braids or buns or pony—tails.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said, “I can explain, if you want…”

Harry could barely force himself to nod through the shock.

When did this girl start calling him Harry?

“After— well, after what happened in the washroom, I decided to do some research in the library. What happened to you seemed a lot like magic so I figured there had to be some precedent for it, see? That’s where I found a book about,” Granger paused, glanced around, and then said very quietly, “Obscurials.”

Harry cringed when Weasley’s eyes went wide with sudden horror, darting from face—to—face. “You mean… Harry Potter is a…? Bloody hell.”

Harry wanted to die. Immediately.

Granger barely took notice of either of them now that she was in lecture—mode. “There are hardly any books on the subject, unfortunately, but I think I understand what it is. And I know you don’t have any control over it, Harry; it just happens when you’re upset or scared, right?”

Harry, very tentatively, nodded. He couldn’t believe he was confessing— he had gone mad, completely and utterly mental. He wondered if all those magic potions turned his brain to scrambled egg. That was the only explanation.

“And you were scared for us, weren’t you?” Granger looked vindicated now, a smile blooming on her young freckled face as she talked faster and faster, “I knew it was something like that! You were just trying to protect us! You weren’t going to hurt us, didn’t I say that, Ron?”

“Yea, you did,” Weasley replied slowly, still eyeing Harry speculatively, “I just can’t believe— I mean, bloody hell—,”

Harry shifted back a step. Or two.

“Ron,” Granger hissed, “Don’t make him feel badly.”

“I’m not!” Weasley turned to Harry, now a bit red—faced, “Er, sorry. It’s just, no one ever talks about Obscurials; it’s practically taboo. I don’t even know how they’re created.”

Granger’s excitement dampened, and she turned very serious when she, too, looked at Harry. “It’s because someone made you ashamed of your magic… didn’t they, Harry?”

Weasley gaped, as if he had never heard of such a thing in his entire eleven years of life.

Harry couldn’t — wouldn’t — answer.

Very softly, very gently, Granger reached out to touch his hand, “You don’t have to be ashamed, Harry.”

Harry wanted to toss off her hand; recoil or flinch or run away.

That was easy for her to say.

So easy for both of them.

Weasley was a bloody Pureblood; of course, his family celebrated his magic — welcomed it — cherished it. Granger wasn’t, though; she was a Muggle—Born (a Mudblood, as the other Slytherins said), which was pretty much what Harry was, but she wasn’t at all like Harry, was she? Her family must have welcomed her magic too, even through their confusion and uncertainty. Her parents loved their daughter enough to love her magic.

Harry, however, was badboy—freakboy— and he was sure magic was the root of all evil… wasn’t it?

“It’s okay, Harry. We’ll keep your secret…” Granger suddenly looked at Weasley, brow furrowed worriedly, “Won’t we?”

“Yea.” Weasley straightened up to his tallest height, at least a head taller than both Granger and Harry. He was every bit of a chivalrous Gryffindor when he said, “We promise, Potter. What are friends for?”

Friends.

For the first time in Harry’s terrible life, the truth was out, and with it, brought many changes in the days that followed.

The first change was perhaps the most shocking (and welcome) of them all. The bullying— stopped. Suddenly. Like, suspiciously suddenly. One day, Harry Potter was being pushed down staircases and the next, they parted so he could pass — safe and sound. There were no more smirks or scowls shot in his direction, no more mockery or shoving, not even a single giggling whisper when his back was turned. He suspected Snape had something to do with it; it was the only explanation.

After all, Harry supposed a freaky little time bomb like him couldn’t be trusted not to blow up on the next kid who shot a Tripping Hex his way.

The second change was also welcome.

The professors backed off. They no longer pressured him to— well, do much of anything really, in their classes of Charms and Transfiguration and Astronomy. They didn’t call on him for questions he wouldn’t answer or snap their fingers for him to pay attention. They left him alone mostly.

Now, they just… watched.

All of them, all of the time.

This was the third change; the least welcome of them all.

In the classes, in the corridors, in the Great Hall — wherever, it didn’t matter where or what he was doing, they were watching him. It wasn’t fascination or curiosity or even disappointment, like when he first arrived at Hogwarts a few months before. Now, when they stared, it was with pity, and it was with wariness.

It made Harry feel worse about himself than it ever had before — disgusting, bad, uglyuglyugly. When his freakishness first started showing, he had been young — really young, and so by the time he was four years old, he understood there was something very wrong with him, and worse than that — that it was too late to change it, that nothing could be done.

Now, the professors understood it too.

Harry was escorted everywhere. A professor or two followed him at a distance, never overly intrusive, but always present, always ready for something terrible to happen. For Harry to make something terrible happen. They were tip—toeing around him. They did not trust him. They did not like him. They were afraid of him.

Now that they knew, now that his most terrible secret was out, he felt hollow inside, but whenever he tried to locate the source of all that emptiness, he couldn’t find it. Not his heart filled with disgust and fear, with magic and this damn castle and his own self. Not his lungs which weighed a tonne or two, both of them filled with mud.

He wondered if the hollowness echoed from his stomach. He was so hungry now, alwaysalwaysalways, and when he was sure no one — not even Snape — was looking, he snagged sausages and boiled eggs and bread rolls to stuff into his sleeves and pockets and even his shoes.

He’d just managed to stealthily sneak a roasted potato into his robe pocket when his fellow Slytherins turned on him for the first time in days.

“Feeling all right, Potty?” Zabini smirked from across the table, “I heard you were stuck in detention all weekend again; got yourself into some trouble, did you?”

“I heard he was stuck in the Hospital Wing,” Parkinson cut in self—importantly, eager to share her own bit of gossip.

Malfoy snorted, “Someone beat you up again, Scarhead?”

Harry fixed his eyes on his plate — the steaming pile of shepard’s pie, the neat rows of green beans, the brownish pool of applesauce.

“It’s not Scarhead, Malfoy. It’s Harry. Harry Potter.”

His voice wasn’t hoarse now. Soft, yes, barely even a whisper, but clear as a bell.

Everybody stopped eating, the air growing tight around the Slytherin table while students of all ages gaped.

“Whoa.” Greengrass gasped slightly, “Somebody’s got a voice.”

Malfoy nodded after a moment, narrowed eyes gazing at Harry.

“Things—,” he said, sipping his pumpkin juice thoughtfully, “—Are about to get very interesting around here.”

Harry’s first meeting with Snape since the— troll incident was scheduled for Monday after class. He could hardly pay attention during the lesson (which wasn’t anything new), his body far too overwhelmed with nerves like pins, pricking him all over. He was a humming ball of tension, sitting in the same old chair in front of Snape’s desk — it was basically his chair now, but the familiarity did nothing to comfort him. He was practically vibrating.

Snape watched him a long time before speaking, “You do not have anything to fear from me, Mister Potter.”

Harry tilted his face up to his, but as soon as he met Snape’s tunneling black eyes, he felt the horrifyingly familiar sting of tears and so he decided to focus on the stupid jarred eyeballs. He felt like he was waking up and going back into darkness, all at once.

“You do not need to worry about your classes or what other people say or anything else right now, Potter. Right now, your only task — is — you. You are here to get better, are you not?”

Which meant: Harry was presently shit.

But he knew that already.

The eleven year old fiddled with his small and scarred hands, picking at the cuticle on his thumb until it stung and bled.

“So, tell me, Mister Potter, how are you feeling?”

Harry scrunched his nose. It was weird that Snape would ask, and it was even weirder than it sounded almost — maybe — sort of — like the man cared to hear the answer. Harry didn’t speak. Neither did Snape. He got the unsettling feeling that the man wasn’t going to say anything until Harry did; he was content to wait in the silence as long as it made Harry talk again. He wanted, very badly, to be irritated about this fact, but considering everything the man was doing for him, he figured he might owe him an answer.

With a sigh, Harry reached for a quill and a scrap of parchment on the desk, but Snape said, “No.”

Damn the man.

Harry’s fringe fell in his eyes when he scowled back at the wall, clenching his fists in frustration.

The eyeballs had paused in the jar, like they were waiting for him to answer too. Their tiny forms wriggled against the glass. Did they like their view, getting to watch Snape working and students walking in and out? Did they ever feel uncomfortable in there, trapped and stared at all day? Did they ever want to come out?

“I don’t trust you.”

He didn’t know why he whispered it. He didn’t know where it came from. He didn’t know why words had formed now or even why it was those particular words. His voice was scratchy from not being used in a few days; he sounded a bit like an ugly, croaky frog.

He wondered if Snape would take the time to report this to the Headmaster.

‘Harry J. Potter spoke in a complete sentence during the scheduled session. Harry J. Potter spoke about not having trust in Professor S. Snape. Harry J. Potter does not usually volunteer to speak; Madam P. Pomfrey calls it Selective Mutism.’

“Hm.” Snape hummed, though he did not look bothered, “That much is clear to me, yes. Truth be told, I don’t think you trust much of anyone, do you?”

Harry shot him a quick glare through his fringe before looking back at his hands. He had to ask, “What happened to your leg?”

Snape arched his brow. “Is this to be a quid pro quo, then?”

Harry had no idea what the shit that meant.

His professor seemed to recognise that because he said, “That is: I will answer your questions, and you will answer mine?”

The boy hesitated… and then nodded.

“Very well, then. I was bitten by one of Hagrid’s foul creatures on the night of Halloween, and now I have a limp. It might take a while for it to heal. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

Not even remotely. But it would do for now…

“My turn.” Snape smirked tightly, and yet it lacked its usual malice when he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Surprised and not at all sure how to respond, Harry just— shrugged.

“With your words, Mister Potter.”

Harry resented that, but he made himself answer very, very quietly, “All right, I guess.”

“Is that so? Do you feel no lingering soreness or—?”

He narrowed his eyes, “That’s more than one question…”

“Ah, but you did not answer the question to my satisfaction,” Snape replied almost smugly, self—satisfied. “I require you to expound before we can move on. So. Are you feeling sore?”

“No.”

“You have no new burns that Madam Pomfrey ought to look at?”

“No.”

Snape sighed, wearily. “I see that’s as far as we’re going to get on that score. Fine. Your turn now, I believe, Mister Potter.”

Harry hesitated again, eyeing his professor to see if it was even worth it. He was fairly sure by now that Snape wasn’t going to kill him, but he still didn’t like to take chances…

“Ask anything, Potter. I said you needn’t be afraid.”

So. Harry asked, “Why did you keep my drawing?”

Snape blinked. Clearly, this wasn’t the question he expected to get. “Beg your pardon?”

“My drawing, from class that one time. You took it. Why?”

Snape cleared his throat and shifted slightly in his seat. Harry frowned a little. His professor looked almost… uncomfortable? But why?

“It’s none of your business,” Snape finally said.

“Yes, it is,” Harry replied quietly, entirely nonplussed, “You said I could ask anything. Besides, it was my drawing.”

“You should not have been drawing in class, anyway, Mister Potter,” he pointed out tightly.

Harry didn’t care so much about that. He shrugged but pressed on, “But why did you take it?”

“It’s not important,” the man said, overly dismissive.

“If it’s not important, then I want it back.”

“No,” Snape gritted through his teeth.

“Why not?”

Harry wasn’t at all sure why he was arguing with a grown adult (with magic) when all of his instincts were telling him to shut up, to surrender, to duck and run for cover. But he couldn’t stop now.

“Because I’ve confiscated it.”

“But it’s mine,” Harry almost growled, getting angry, getting dangerous. The truth was, he had very little that belonged to him, but for Snape to take what he created — on paper that he bought — that wasn’t right, that wasn’t fair. And for the first time, he’s going to say something about it.

“Not anymore.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Can’t I?” Snape sneered, “And why not?”

“Because it’s mine!” Harry repeated furiously. He was even gasping a little now, eyes wild and hands fisting, “It’s mine and you took it! So you have to give it back, just give it back now—!”

“Calm down, Potter—,”

“No!”

“Calm yourself immediately!”

“Why won’t you just give it to me—?!”

Snape suddenly shouted, “Perhaps I’ve destroyed it, you little irritant, did you ever consider that?!”

Harry was struck silent.

The pure vehemence in his professor’s tone made him instantly recoil and drop his eyes back to his hands, completely shutting down. Stupidstupidstupid. What had he been thinking? He wasn’t here. He wasn’t alone with an adult. He wasn’t in danger. The Otherness wasn’t stirring. Nononono.

Snape sighed and covered his face with his hand for almost a full minute before he murmured, much quieter. “I… find myself apologising to you quite frequently, Mister Potter. Please do excuse me. I have a— wretched temper. It gets the best of me, particularly when I’m in the company of—,” he suddenly clamped his mouth shut, wincing slightly.

Harry deflated even further. He could hear the end of Snape’s sentence clear enough: in the company of— ‘little freaks like yourself, wretched idiots who barely know how to speak, useless brats whose name is Harry Potter’. On and on. He’d heard it all before. Harry was so tired.

Snape sighed, yet again. “I kept your drawing because it was good, Potter. You’re quite a proficient artist, especially for your age.”

Er… what? That didn’t sound quite right, but Harry wasn’t going to question him — not aloud, anyway. His raised eyebrows did all the talking necessary.

“It also… reminded me of my— past. I once had a friend who, also, had quite the talent with a pencil and so I kept your drawing because it reminded me of her.”

Harry blinked, shocked at such an honest answer, but Snape only shocked him more with what he said next:

“May I keep the drawing?”

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, with no idea what to say. Snape had just been going on and on about how he confiscated it and it wasn’t Harry’s anymore and all that shite, and now he was asking? The boy felt— whiplashed.

“I was right, Mister Potter, when I said you shouldn’t have been drawing in class, but I confess you were right as well. The drawing was yours. So, I am asking for your permission to keep it. May I?”

Permission.

Harry’s permission.

No one had ever asked for Harry’s permission to do anything before, not once. It was odd and it was— nice. He squinted and studied the man for a long moment before reluctantly nodding his head.

“Thank you, Mister Potter… Now, I believe it is my turn to ask a question?”

Honestly, Harry had almost forgotten they were even doing that, but he nodded anyway.

Snape cleared his throat and continued with his original topic, “How many incidents with the Obscurus have occurred that you recall?”

Harry’s face scrunched slightly at that. Obscurus; he didn’t like the word, not at all. Maybe because it gave what was wrong with Harry an official title, it made it all more real somehow.

“Erm…” Harry went back to studying his hands, answering barely in the softest whisper, “A couple of times. Five— or six? More when I was younger, uhm, it hadn’t happened in a while — ‘til I got here, I mean.”

“A follow—up, if I may?” He waited for Harry to nod before continuing, “From what I’ve seen of your two incidents at Hogwarts, an outburst can make quite a mess. How did you keep from causing severe damage at your family’s home?”

Harry didn’t like that word either: family. He wasn’t exactly sure what a family was, but he knew the Dursleys were not that. Not really, not at all.

“Uncle Vernon,” his throat closed up; he suddenly could not answer — he could not. “Garden shed.”

Snape’s brow creased somewhat. The one hand resting on his desk clenched just for a second before it disappeared back into his over—long sleeve. “And it has always happened when you were either upset… or scared?”

Harry barely managed a nod in answer. He bit his lip and then asked what he’d been wondering for days in the smallest voice he could manage, “Why do you care?”

It was a miracle Snape had superhuman hearing or they’d never be able to hold a conversation… if that was what this was. Something strange flickered across his professor’s face before his words sharpened, glinting like a blade in the scant sunlight.

“I care because you are my responsibility, Potter.” He hissed, sounding oddly angry again, “You are a student at this school and I am your Head of House. It’s my duty to take care of you. That — is — all.”

Harry resisted the urge to flinch at the harshness of his tone, the harshness of his words. Of course that was all. Why would Snape care for any other reason? It wasn’t like the man would actually care about Harry.

Snape’s voice was somewhat gentler when he asked his next question, “How does it feel when the Obscurus—?”

“The Otherness,” Harry interrupted softly.

“Is that what you’ve called it?”

He nodded, just once.

“I see. How does it feel before you lose control to — the Otherness?”

He… wasn’t sure how to answer that. He had never been asked it before — no one had ever cared about the answer before. Mostly, becoming the Otherness hurt. Of course it did. But he couldn’t very well express this weakness to someone he didn’t trust, could he? …He answered as best as he could.

“Everything— everything gets very big.”

Snape didn’t say anything.

“It’s like I was talking about,” he whispered, fighting and forcing every single word out. “Like, everything gets really heavy, right? Like I can’t hold it anymore.”

Maybe it was just too much, everything that he felt. How much he missed his parents, and how he was so angry with them for dying, and how it was all his fault they were dead in the first place. Then there was what he felt about Privet Drive — that place, that really bad house, where those things happened. Badbadbad. Badboy—freakboy. But all of that stuff stayed inside, along with the darkness.

For a moment, teacher and student stared at one another.

Snape said, “Then let’s try to keep it small, shall we? One thing at a time.”

“Small.” Harry tested the word, carefully rolling it around on his tongue. “Small.”

He liked the sound of it. Nothing more than he could hold in two hands at once. Small.

“Now. When one practises Occlumency, Potter, the first step is to clear one’s mind.”

Harry’s expression was dubious with his confusion.

Snape arched a brow, already annoyed. “You must clear your mind of thoughts, emotions, worries, tasks, every inane thing that muddles your little prepubescent brain. Understand?”

“No,” Harry murmured, speaking in a petulant whisper, “It doesn’t make sense; how am I supposed to think of nothing?”

“You’re not thinking of actually ‘nothing’, you’re not thinking. Important distinction. Now try it.”

Snape’s tone was more than a little impatient, but Harry rolled his eyes and tried not to think. Which was stupid. He’d pretty much already decided this was impossible.

“I can’t just not think,” he muttered after a second, “Everyone is always thinking all the time.”

“Not if you are compartmentalising. Not if you are locking your thoughts away. You must separate yourself from the moment to bring yourself into a state of calm. Your Charms quiz exists, but it has nothing to do with you. The ongoing argument with your dormmates is real, but it does not matter. You are separate from it. Do you understand, Potter?”

No. It sounded nice, sure, but he had no idea how that was even possible.

“Merlin’s sake.” Snape dragged a hand over his face. “Just — try it, Potter.”

Harry tried.

It was way easier said than done. He fidgeted. His nose itched. His stomach was growling; he wondered what the Great Hall would have for dinner tonight. His food stash in his trunk was getting sort of rank; he needed to make sure to grab a few more sustainable foods — things that wouldn’t go bad so quickly. Like nuts or granola or even fruit. Fruit might be okay. He really liked apples—

“Concentrate, Potter!”

Right. Concentrating. Concentrate on not concentrating on anything. This was pointless. Harry huffed and shifted on the wooden hard—backed chair, trying and failing to get comfortable. Think of nothingnothingnothing. Was Snape thinking he was a failure? He was going to kick him out. He was going to think Harry was a waste of time — a waste of space, just like Uncle Vernon always said. He’d better earn his keep — had to earn the cupboard, had to earn dinner, had to earn the clothes on his back. He needed to earn these lessons; that way the Otherness couldn’t hurt anyone again.

But he couldn’t. Because he was hopeless and useless and stupid, and there was no point.

Finally, Snape put him out of their misery.

“Enough.” His professor sighed and sounded annoyed, really annoyed, when he said, “I think that’s all we have time for today.”

Had an hour passed already? An hour — 60 minutes, 3600 seconds, and nothing at all to show for it. Failure; that word rang in his ears, over and over: failurefailurefailure. Harry scrubbed at his runny nose when he slid off the chair, grabbed his bag, and headed silently but quickly for the exit.

“Potter?”

The boy glanced back reluctantly, hand on the doorknob, already halfway gone.

“We’ll try again,” said Snape, “Do not give up.”

Those words rang in Harry’s ears for the rest of the day.

Severus was doing his best.

He verbally eviscerated any wayward Slytherins who dared bully the boy. He glared fiercely when any students from other Houses looked at him sideways. He spoke personally to all of the boy’s professors, more or less taking on the massive responsibility of his entire education.

The boy would have peace.

As much as he could provide it.

Severus was determined to create as calm and sheltered an environment as he possibly could for the boy, without actually locking him in. ‘Containment’ would not mean a prison for Lily’s child; the boy still needed to live. He had vowed to ensure at least that. And for it to happen, Severus wanted no more— outbursts, as the Headmaster had taken to calling them.

Not merely for everyone else’s sake — but for the boy’s own.

Severus felt as though he owed this to Harry Potter… at the very least.

In the weeks following the revelation, Severus felt— pulled apart. Wild. Halfway feral, again. As he did in the months following Lily’s murder. He snapped at his coworkers and snarled at his students, even his Slytherins — save one. He hardly ate and drank more than was good for him. He spent hours into the night, pacing — pacing — pacing. He plotted and schemed and swore his vengeance, but Albus said — he always said — no.

‘Not until we have proper evidence, my boy.’

Fuck proper evidence.

What more evidence did they need?

Severus cursed himself for his willful blindness; the refusal to make eye contact, that desperate silence, those repetitive flinches. For so many years, he prided himself on his observational skills; and yet he had failed to see what was right in front of him. He preferred to think the boy arrogant — rather than afraid. Because it suited him better, saved him from guilt and justified his treatment of a little boy whom he mistreated purposefully.

And he wasn’t the first to do so, oh no.

The boy’s family— they had hurt him. Caused him pain. Made him suffer. It was them, he was sure, who were the reason for the Obscurus. Severus wanted to repay their sins in kind. He was looking for somebody to sink his teeth into.

But until they had evidence, Severus would keep busy trying to save the boy… if it was even possible.

Occlumency was— weird.

It was mind magic, and since Harry’s mind was already a certified disaster, he didn’t think things could get much worse. He was wrong. For the past few weeks, Snape had told him the same things over and over again, and the boy had made zero progress. Apparently, Occlumency had existed since the medieval times, and its most basic form was to clear one’s mind — making it blank and empty — which mostly just translated into Snape repeatedly snapping, ‘clear your mind! control your emotions!’

And absolutely none of it made any sense to Harry, no matter how many times his professor repeated himself.

At least there was a routine to it, though.

Snape started every session the same way.

In—out, in—out. Harry was to practise slow, measured breathing (to stabilise his emotions) while Snape applied the purple potions that Madam Pomfrey prescribed to the boy’s arms and legs. It was a good thing the salve didn’t stain his skin purple; he didn’t need to look anymore like a freak than he already was.

Snape always stood while Harry sat, bracing the boy’s right arm with one hand while the other prepared to put on the salve. Today, he warned, “This might sting, Potter — hold still.”

It didn’t sting; it just felt very cold. Harry could handle that. He had handled much worse.

“Good,” commented Snape, in Potions Master mode, taking note of Harry’s tortured skin, “The scars look as though they are healing nicely. A few more weeks, and the salve will no longer be necessary.”

Harry nodded indifferently.

“Are they still itching?”

The boy started to shake his head, paused, and then shrugged. He whispered, “A little.”

“Do they ache?”

“...Sometimes.”

A heavy sigh — so weary. “Do we need to increase the frequency?”

It was shame that made Harry sharply shake his head.

Snape arched a brow. “Are you saying no because you do not want me to apply it more often or because you do not need it more often?”

The boy scowled and looked down at his knees.

“That’s what I thought. You will start bringing me the salve three times a week instead of the scheduled two. I will update Madam Pomfrey, and I will brew a new batch to ensure you don’t run out.”

Harry whispered a ‘thank you’ as loud as he could manage.

As much as he kicked up a fuss, the salves felt wonderful on his wounds — as did the gentle touch. Snape’s hands weren’t calloused, or craggy, so he didn’t scratch at Harry’s sensitive skin with rough palms or fingers. Harry couldn’t help but lean into it every time, when Snape clinically smoothed the salve over his patchy, ropey, ugly scars. It was horrible to admit. Embarrassing, mostly. But there was something so addictive about that gentleness that Harry could hardly understand it.

Was he so truly touch—starved to even take it from Snape?

All too soon, it was over, and Snape took away that gentle touch that Harry craved so badly. But then something even worse happened. His professor drew his hand back, stepped away, and then, so quick that anyone else less hyper—vigilant would’ve missed it, Harry saw Snape wipe his hand on his robes.

Instantly, a lump the size of Hogwarts rose in his throat.

Oh.

But why shouldn’t Snape have wiped his hand after touching Harry?

After all, Harry was dirty and disgusting and wrongwrongwrong.

No one wanted to touch him if they could help it.

Like Aunt Petunia always said, “Don’t you touch him, Dudders, his filth might be contagious.”

In response, Harry felt himself going cold, growing harsh and angry, with no way of stopping it.

“Ready to begin?”

Harry shrugged, tighter now, cold and unhappy.

“Good.” Snape didn’t seem to notice. “Now concentrate, Potter. Clear your mind; I’ll be able to tell if you don’t.”

Harry tried. He really did. For a few seconds. The trouble was, he could still feel the press of Snape’s hand against him, the nanosecond of warmth it gave him. Warmth and comfort and safety. But none of that stopped the flood of shame he felt: how stupid he was, echoing through his whole, scarred, battle—worn body.

“You’re not doing it, Potter,” Snape growled.

“I’m trying.”

“Try — harder.”

Harry nearly threw his hands up in outrage. “How am I supposed to do it if I don’t even know how?”

“Don’t you snap at me,” Snape snapped.

Ugh. Harry scowled furiously.

“Concentrate, I said! Clear your mind! Control your emotions!”

“Stop saying that!” Harry finally exploded, cheeks flaring red in his anger, louder and louder all the time, “It’s not helpful, like, at all! You just keep repeating the same things over and over, and none of it’s changing the fact that I don’t know how to do it!”

Snape glared at him.

Harry glowered back.

“Fine.” His professor finally groused through his clenched teeth. “Let us try another way. You will think small. Focus on your five senses and select one of each to share. One thing you can smell and hear and taste and see and feel. Focus only on those and your breathing — leave no room in yourself for contemplation.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows at that.

“First — what can you smell?”

Harry sniffed likely more dramatically than was strictly necessary, but it did the job. He muttered petulantly, “I smell… clove, from the potion we did during class.”

“Clove is correct. And what do you hear?”

Snape’s voice for one thing. Harry wondered how he was ever going to be able to clear his thoughts when Snape just kept talking to him. It was beyond distracting. But at least it wasn’t stuck on repeat anymore. With a huff, Harry tried to focus, letting himself driftdriftdrift as a silence started, making all the subtle noises that much clearer.

“The fire— in the sconces, it’s crackling, and… water dripping somewhere, leaky faucet?”

“Blasted students don’t know how to properly turn off a tap.” Snape hissed irritatedly under his breath, waving his wand in the direction of the sinks. Then, “And what do you see?”

“The eyes,” of course he saw the eyes, he was always staring at those. “...They’re looking at me, just like I’m looking at them. There’s blue and brown and grey and green… like mine.”

“Taste?”

“Something bitter.” He murmured quietly, lost in concentration. “I bit my tongue… Think it’s blood.”

A brief pause, and Snape asked cautiously, “Are you in pain?”

“No, Professor,” his voice was growing lighter, distant; he felt far, far away.

“Very well. Then what do you feel? What can you touch?”

“My burns… They’re smooth. It doesn’t hurt when I touch them anymore.”

“Does anything hurt anymore, Potter?”

“No.” Quieter and quieter. “Nothing at all.”

His breathing soothed out slowly but surely, so steadily that he hardly noticed.

“Concentrate on those things. Every time your thoughts stray, re—list them in your mind. It should center you.”

It did. Clove, fire, eyes, blood, burns. He quoted these things in his head — over and over, not letting himself stray. In the space between his breaths, in the steady lull between heartbeats, Harry began to feel weight lifting away from him, more and more terrible things disappearing into the silence all around him. Clove, fire, eyes, blood, burns. Clove, fire, eyes, blood, burns.

Harry had wondered if Occlumency would be like the haze that he’d been in when he first arrived at Hogwarts, but this wasn’t like that — no, not at all.

He wasn’t smelling blood and sulfur; the stench of the Otherness. He wasn’t listening to the muffled laughter of the Slytherins walking along the corridor. He couldn’t see their sneering faces, their taunts whispered behind cupped hands. Uncle Vernon was far, far away, his hands could not find him here. He had food in his belly, and his scars no longer hurt. His body was becoming lighter and lighter. He could feel the difference, finally, after days and weeks and a lifetime of fighting.

Clove, fire, eyes, blood, burns.

Nothing hurt.

“Time’s up.”

Harry jolted back to reality, almost falling out of his chair with shock. Had it been an hour again? It hardly felt like any time at all had passed. His body felt loose, but not in any dangerous way — relaxed. His brain wasn’t lost in a fog but calm. Steady. Not dull even a little. His professor was regarding him with a peculiar expression, one the boy hadn’t seen before.

“Well done, Mister Potter,” said Snape, the corner of his mouth twitching, “You’ve just successfully used Occlumency.”

Harry decided to talk — more specifically: to talk to Professor Quirrell.

The idea of being alone with any adult (much less a grown man) was— scary, but he’d been doing it more and more with Snape and nothing— too horrible had happened. Yet, whispered a vicious little voice in the back of his head. Still, he had to do this. For his dad’s sake.

His footsteps were silent as he crossed the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom; he had long since trained himself to be good at sneaking. Besides, the pounding of his heart surely would’ve drowned out any other sound he could make. He wiped his sweaty palms on his robe while he climbed the curving steps to the professor’s office.

Oddly enough, it wasn’t just the professor but the whole office that stunk of garlic, though he had no idea why.

Probably some freaky magic thing.

Harry swallowed hard, once, twice. He could speak. He could do it. His knuckles rapped very lightly on the partly open door. His throat spasmed, and he forced the words out:

“Professor Quirrell?”

The purple turban slipped slightly when Quirrell jerked his head up in surprise. “Ah, Mister P—P—Potter! You c—can sp—peak, isn’t this a p—p— pleasant surp—prise.”

Harry nodded once. He hovered in the doorway of his office, feeling awkward and unsure. He was expecting wariness, perhaps even fear, and yet the professor was treating him so normally. Maybe he didn’t know about the Otherness…?

Quirrell’s turban tipped when he cocked his head. “C—Can I help y—you with s—something? About today’s lesson p—perhaps?”

Harry shook his head and risked a step further into the office. Just a step. That was still safe.
“You talked about my dad, last time,” Harry whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, “You said I could ask questions…”

Quirrell smiled— wide. “C—Certainly, P—Potter. I’d be h—happy to help you — with anything at all. P—Please...” He waved a pale hand towards a chair before his desk, “Take a seat?”

Harry bit his lip. He could do this. He had to do this. Steeling himself, clenching both fists, he took one step—

“There — you are.”

Harry whirled around so fast that he nearly gave himself whip—lash. Snape was standing in the door, face pale and epitome of fury, the venom in his voice nearly palpable in the air. What the—?

“Potter, I don’t know who you think you are dealing with, but I will not allow you to get away with such disrespectful behaviour!”

Harry recoiled from his Potions professor, though he couldn’t help but gape. What had he done now? He didn’t understand! He thought— it didn’t matter what he thought. Snape had clearly turned on him — yet again.

“Excuse us, if you will, Professor Quirrell.” Snape continued smoothly, his expression stoic. “Mister Potter apparently thought he could skip out on a detention he owes me.”

Detention— what?

Professor Quirrell was barely able to respond before Snape took hold of Harry’s shoulder and marched him out of the office, down the stairs, and only once they were out of the classroom, was he mercifully released.

Now that they were out of ear—shot, Snape murmured, “You will keep your distance from Professor Quirrell when possible, Potter.”

Harry ignored that. He was a little too irritated with something else at the moment. “So what? Now I don’t have detention?”

“No, you don’t have detention. Don’t be ridiculous. I merely used that as an excuse.”

Bloody hell.

Harry exhaled hard through his nose and clenched his hands once more into fists. Dread had quickly shifted into anger, and he demanded through a whisper, “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Every time I’m trying to talk to Professor Quirrell, you show up.”

“Do I? What a strange coincidence.”

Harry would’ve snorted if he hadn’t been so frustrated. He didn’t really believe in coincidences, not where a Slytherin was concerned at the very least. But before he could launch into any sort of rant, Snape cut him off by demanding:

“Why are you rubbing your scar?”

Harry hadn’t even realised he was until the man pointed it out, and he curled his hand back into his sleeve defensively. “I guess I’ve a headache, all right? Is that a crime now too, sir?”

“Don’t you dare cheek me, Potter. I am still your Head of House as well as your professor, and you owe me your respect.”

“Why?” Harry challenged lowly, amazed at his own daring — where had all this stupid, angry courage come from? “No adult has ever earned my respect, so why should I give it to them?”

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, Potter, but whatever it is, it must stop — immediately.” Snape had stopped by now to lecture him, his tunnelling black eyes scouring him from head to toe critically. “Do you not have friends, Potter?”

Harry flinched slightly at this sudden question, not answering because he truly didn’t know how. He thought of Ron and Hermione; were they his… friends? He had no idea. He didn’t have enough experience to be able to tell.

“I’ve seen you with Professor Quirrell quite a few times this term, Potter. You might consider making connections with your fellow Slytherins instead,” Snape commented, forcibly bland, “It would hardly kill you to get to know them.”

The mention of the other Slytherins knifed him. His House didn’t want him. His Head of House didn’t want him. Nobody wanted him.

“Why do you care?” Harry grumbled, more bitter than he meant.

“If Professor Quirrell has taken an unusual interest in you—,”

“Like you have?”

Snape inhaled sharply, warningly. “Potter.”

It was embarrassing, more humiliating than anything that had happened so far, but Harry couldn’t stop it, it all came tumbling out in a hot rush. “No. You’re just doing your duty, right? Well, maybe Professor Quirrell just wants to talk to me because of me! But I guess you can’t understand that, right? I mean, who would want to be near me when I’m such a disgusting little freak? Not you, right? You wiped your hand after you touched me.”

Harry had struck Snape utterly and completely silent for a good ten seconds while the man’s face turned first white and then red before he hissed, “I had just applied numbing salve on you, that was the only reason I wiped my hand — do not get it twisted, Potter!”

Harry didn’t want to hear this, he couldn’t be allowed to believe this, but when he tried to leave, Snape snatched onto his shoulder and held him in place. No matter how hard Harry tried to pull away, Snape just gripped him tighter — but never to the point of pain.

“And you are not a ‘disgusting little freak’, Potter, you will never say that again. If this is something your family told you, it — was — a — lie. Understand? You must understand.”

Harry didn’t understand. Because Snape was wrong — it wasn’t a lie, was it? There were so many things wrong with Harry, obviously and actually. But what did he want Snape to say? ‘There are so many things wrong with you, Potter, it repulses me.’ No. Nonono. He didn’t want that at all.

The sound of footsteps startled them both. They turned to look just as a group of Gryffindors — Weasley and Granger included (his friends?) — rounded the corner, chatting merrily until they noticed their least favourite professor. The eleven years olds quickly skidded to a halt with nervous looks on their faces.

Weasley called tentatively, “All right, Harry?”

Harry nodded, shook loose, and then left Snape standing in the hallway, alone.

Chapter Text

Since the whole troll disaster, Granger and Weasley had kind of/sort of/a bit become Harry’s— friends. This was most shocking because Harry had never had friends before. Not ever. But the two Gryffindors had attached themselves to his sides with no signs of ever leaving, and Harry— liked that. Perhaps there were some things one couldn’t experience without ending up best mates, and it seemed accidentally murdering a twelve—foot mountain troll was one of them.

Anyway.

Some didn’t fancy them being friends, both Gryffindors and Slytherins, and so they met up where and when they could. Most days, they huddled together in random places after classes to eat snacks and do homework — or generally muck around, as he and Weasley mostly did, to Granger’s sincerest chagrin.

“You got an E again, Hermione?” Weasley groaned miserably, pouting as the girl reviewed her grades from the week. “Bloody hell.”

“I would’ve liked an O,” Granger tucked the parchment into her folder with a little frown. “Though I’m starting to worry that’s not possible with Professor Snape.”

“I’d bet it is for his Slytherins,” Weasley ribbed Harry, “Right, mate?”

Peeking up from his book (Quidditch Through the Ages, very fascinating, would recommend), Harry could only shrug. He could neither confirm nor deny this since he hardly ever actually did the homework, and when Snape made him brew during their sessions, the man more or less just muttered it was adequate or made it disappear with a sneer. Not overly communicative, was Snape.

At this, Granger gave him a very concerned look. “Don’t you ever finish your classwork, Harry?”

Harry shrugged again and made some vague motion with his hand that communicated — not so much.

The girl fretted, “Oh, but Harry, how are you ever going to pass First Year if you don’t do any of the work—?”

Harry blinked. He… hadn’t thought about that. Brainless not to have considered it, true, but he really hadn’t. He’d been too distracted with the Otherness and Snape and trolls to contemplate flunking out of the freak school that was Hogwarts. While Harry suffered this realisation, Weasley went on instant defence.

“Oh, leave off.”

“What? I’m bringing up a very good point!”

“Says you!”

“Of course says me, and anyway, I also say that Harry needs to focus on his studies or—,”

“Stop pestering him, Hermione!”

“I’m not pestering him!”

Harry flushed at all the attention — the fussing done on his behalf, even if it was kind of/sort of/a bit nice.

Weasley rolled his eyeballs so hard, it was a miracle they didn’t pop out of the sockets. “Ignore her, Harry. Besides, I’ve got something much more important to discuss.”

“Let’s hear it then,” Granger exhaled hard through her nostrils.

“Haven’t you two noticed that Snape’s got a limp now?”

Just then, the three all turned to watch Harry’s Head of House, yes, limping across the courtyard with the usual scowl on his face. Snape glanced at the trio, at the boy, at the book the boy was holding, and Harry tensed, rigid with nerves that he was going to get in trouble again — for no reason — again. But then Snape simply sniffed, looked away, and kept limping on.

Harry frowned, thoughtful.

Granger exhaled in quiet relief.

“Told you he was limping.”

“So what?” Granger countered. “Maybe he’s stubbed his toe or sprained his ankle; it’s no business of ours. And before you go making a fuss, don’t forget that Professor Snape has done a lot for Harry.”

Harry squirmed at that. He didn’t like to remember how indebted to the man he was.

“Dunno how I’d possibly forget that,” Weasley murmured grouchily, “Honestly, I dunno how you stand being round that git so often, Harry.”

“Oh, you can’t call professors ‘gits’, Ronald!”

Harry snorted at the utterly appalled look on Granger’s face.

“Why not?! That’s what he is!” Weasley replied indignantly before turning back to the other boy, “I don’t envy you, mate.”

Harry hummed indifferently, closing his book to push another chunk of cheese towards Ron’s scraggly pet rat.

He didn’t want to talk about Snape, not at all. He hadn’t spoken to his professor since their— discussion? argument? —in the hallway a few days ago. The man was just too confusing to even think about. Why didn’t Snape want him talking to Quirrell? Could it be possible that he really wasn’t wiping off Harry’s touch? Did he really mean it when he said Harry wasn’t a disgusting little freak? Probably not. The eleven year old had long ago learnt that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

He needed to change the subject.

Harry garnered up the courage to whisper, “What’s his name?”

Neither Granger nor Weasley were shocked to hear him talk so much anymore. Or, at least, they were making a concerted effort not to look shocked. Which was basically the same thing.

“What?” Weasley blinked, caught off guard at the turn of the conversation. Then, “Oh! You mean, Scabbers!” The redhead practically shoved the rat in the other boy’s face, first proud and then a bit embarrassed, “He’s not much to look at, I know, but… he’s mine.”

“He’s nice,” Harry offered in reply.

Weasley looked chuffed, so at least there was that.

Maybe Harry could be good at this ‘friends’ thing, after all.

Alas, Weasley could not be put off the topic of Snape for long.

“As I was saying,” the boy leant in, whispering quickly, “There’s something off about that man, I’m telling ya. His limp happened on Halloween too! It’s not like the troll got him or we would’ve seen, but something else did.”

“He was bitten by one of Hagrid’s creatures, Snape told me,” Harry answered lowly.

“Hmph, probably with good reason…”

“Honestly, Ron, why would anything want to bite Professor Snape?”

“Because he was doing something he shouldn’t, obviously! Don’t be thick, Hermione. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

Granger looked positively affronted at this, and she straightened up self—importantly. “Did you forget that Professor Snape was the one who saved Harry and myself during that Quidditch catastrophe… or are you too thick to recall that?”

Harry blinked back and forth between the two scowly faces, both apprehensive that his two friends (?) might be fighting again and also fascinated because it was the nicest fighting he had ever witnessed.

Weasley looked a bit put out by her argument, but he managed to wrangle up a retort, have no fear. “Yea, well, maybe he was the one to hex that Bludger in the first place.”

Granger rolled her big eyes.

Even Harry had to arch his disbelieving brows at that.

“He could’ve!” Weasley insisted, “And then he decided to save you guys— because he was worried he’d get caught by Dumbledore or he wanted the fame for rescuing The Boy Who Lived or something…”

“He’s a professor, not a madman — or a killer. Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t let him work in a school, if he was. I know he’s not very nice, but he’s not evil.” Granger rolled her eyes yet again before turning to Harry, “Anyway, he’s your Head of House. Don’t you think we can trust him?”

Honestly, Harry wasn’t at all sure what he thought about Snape these days.

Another week had passed, painfully.

Each day that passed sucked more and more life out of Severus. Between his classes, Head of House duties, and reports with Dumbledore, he felt run ragged, a rubber band pulled too taut, liable to snap and kill ten. Not to mention he’d been battling a horrible migraine for days, chugging Pepper—Up Potion after Potion in defence.

By Friday, the thought of going to the Great Hall to be surrounded by even more of the juvenile morons — of his own free will, for even a single meal — was simply too much to fathom.

So, Severus retreated to his own privacy, glad for it — until he spotted Potter sitting folded up outside his office door. He was instantly perplexed. They had ended on rather a bad note last time, and thus he hadn’t expected the boy to search him out. The boy leapt up as soon as he heard Severus’ echoing footsteps against the stone, looking as cautious as Severus himself was.

For a moment, they simply regarded one another.

Then, Severus questioned, “What are you doing here, Potter? I do not believe it’s time for one of our scheduled sessions.”

The boy scuffed his shoe against the ground, a non—answer.

“It is lunchtime.” He spoke slowly, as if speaking to someone particularly dunderheaded. “You ought to be eating lunch.”

Potter shrugged.

“What does that mean?” Severus mimicked the brat’s unhelpful shrug, rather rudely — in all honesty.

The boy merely stared.

Severus sighed wearily. “Come inside, then.”

He waved off his wards to grant both him and the problem that was Potter entry into his office.

On his way to his desk, he asked over his shoulder, “Are you not now friends with those two Gryffindor idiots? Why are you not eating lunch with them?”

“They’re Gryffindors,” now it was Potter’s turn to treat him like he was a dunderheaded.

How utterly disrespectful.

Severus arched a brow, “And…?”

“And they’re eating lunch at the Gryffindor table… Slimy snakes aren’t welcome there.”

“Ah.”

The boy did have a point. Severus himself had once been friends with one of the Brave Lions that made up the Gryffindor cohort, and he knew how difficult it was to toe that particular line. The Slytherins wouldn’t approve, and the Gryffindors wouldn’t like it. Typical Potter — always choosing the hardest path to tread.

Severus took a seat and organised the stacks upon stacks of parchment on his desk, asking distractedly, “Was there something in particular that you required?”

Potter took a seat in his usual chair, folding his small hands neatly in his lap. He didn’t answer.

“Well, since you’re here, you might as well work on some homework — which I know for a fact that you’re very behind on.” Potter shot him such a despairing look that Severus instinctively sneered. “Well, what was the purpose of your arrival then? Use your words, Potter.”

The little brat huffed and propped an elbow so his cheek could rest upon it, keeping his silence for longer than Severus would like but not as much as he had for the past few months. “I wanted to speak to you.”

Severus hummed at this. From the reports he heard from the other professors, the boy still didn’t talk in their classes at all — neither offering to answer questions or taking part in group activities, but he was no longer silent completely. He had occasionally spoken to his fellow Snakes, and Severus had also overheard him speaking to those two dunderheads he called friends. Even if it was only ever in a timid whisper.

At least the boy was talking at a semi—normal volume around Severus. Perhaps that meant that the boy was beginning to— trust him. And if not trust, then at least be reassured that Severus was someone to rely upon. After his disgraceful behaviour the boy’s first two months at Hogwarts, he had much to make up for.

“I have to wonder, Potter, do you speak most often to me?”

Potter considered this before shrugging and nodding at the same time.

How odd. Severus sighed and pinned him with a serious stare. “Well, you’ve heard Madam Pomfrey’s prognosis: you are much too thin as it is. You cannot just skip lunch.”

“You are.”

“I’m an adult.”

“Does that mean people somehow require less food when they get old?”

Severus’ eyes narrowed. The boy was feeling especially cheeky today, apparently.

“Old. Precisely how ‘old’ do you think I am?”

Potter appeared to think about this for a moment and, indeed, about to answer when he noticed Severus’ forbidding face. The boy — wisely — kept his trap shut.

“Very well,” Severus said darkly and there with a quick motion of his wand, two trays of food appeared — one before him and one before Potter. “Now, we both shall eat.”

Thankfully, the boy quickly tucked in — so that wasn’t a battle he had to wage. If he had been forced to spoon feed The Boy Who Lived, Severus wasn’t sure if he would ever recover.

“How did you magick food?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Potter shrugged a little, voice going quieter when he asked, “How’d you magick food to appear out of nowhere?”

Even if it was an absurdly stupid question, it was surprising enough that the boy was asking any questions about magic at all. Severus felt it necessary to encourage any and all interest in the subject; maybe then the boy could stop fearing it so much.

“I did not ‘magick’ food out of nowhere. Magic has rules, Potter, like science has rules.”

The boy looked dubious but eager for him to continue.

So he did. “It is one of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration which you will learn about when you’re in Seventh Year. It means that you can’t create consumable food out of nothing, it’s not possible. Our lunches here were merely summoned from the House Elves who had already made the food in the kitchens.”

The boy looked disappointed by this, but all he answered with was a short little, “Oh.”

Severus pursed his lips, not wanting the conversation on magic to end on a bad note. “Do you have any other questions about magic?”

Potter shook his head and continued eating his broccoli, open—mouthed, lips smacking. A disgusting practise. Severus thought himself quite noble for not saying so.

After a few minutes of surprisingly comfortable silence, the boy said, “I haven’t talked to Professor Quirrell anymore.”

Severus arched a brow. Mainly, his question now was: why? Why would the boy tell him this? Was he looking for kudos? Or was he merely attempting to appease his frightening professor? No… this boy was a Slytherin; he had something up his sleeve.

“Congratulations on being able to follow instructions. You have shocked me quite thoroughly.”

The boy glowered.

Severus was amused.

“I’ve stayed away from him as a favour to you,” Potter said graciously, looking almost smug — the little brat. “But now I haven’t had a chance to ask him questions like I wanted to, so now I get to ask you.”

“Do you?” Severus drawled.

“Mmhm.” Potter answered through an over—large mouthful of lamb. Merlin, but the boy’s manners were horrid. “Did you know my parents?”

Severus froze mid—bite. It was as if everything in his body — his organs and his blood and his brainwaves — screeched to a halt. No. No. He would not talk about… her, he could not— even the mere thought, the mere mentioning of her, might tear him completely to shreds. He had only survived these past ten years because he never spoke of it aloud, but if he did now — if he did with her son—

Potter’s quiet voice echoed loud in the office, “Sir?”

“Perhaps…” Severus swallowed convulsively — once, twice. “We ought to play our game again, Mister Potter.”

His brow wrinkled slightly, “You mean that Quid Prom Que thing?”

Rolling his eyes, Severus was helpless against the snort that escaped him. “Quid Pro Quo. And yes. For every question of yours, I get to ask one as well.”

Potter barely hesitated before agreeing; this, to Severus, seemed like progress.

“So.” The boy prodded after a moment. “Did you know my parents?”

I knew them better than anyone you’ve ever met. But he couldn’t say that. He felt as though he was dragging each word up from the trenches when he replied, “I… did. We were in the same Year. We shared many classes together throughout our tenure at Hogwarts.”

Potter leant forward in his chair, green eyes sparkling, giddy and eager, the most he had ever seen of the child. “Were you close — you know — were you friends?”

Yes and no and everything in between.

“They were in Gryffindor, and I was in Slytherin,” was all he offered.

It wasn’t — exactly — a lie. It was a non—answer. It was an obfuscation. It was a misdirection. As a spy, those were the only things that kept him alive. They were only things that kept him alive now.

The boy looked faintly disappointed but generally handled it well.

Now, it was Severus’ turn, and he knew he needed to use this time wisely — to get proper evidence, like Albus kept harping on. Though he also knew he had to go slow with this, he could not risk scaring the boy off too soon. Gaze on his food, he started innocuously enough.

“What is your favourite subject at Hogwarts?”

Instantly, the boy’s nose scrunched. He didn’t answer.

“There must be at least one of the subjects here that you can somewhat tolerate — magical or not.”

Potter grumbled again, glancing at the jar of eyeballs to Severus’ right, staring at them as he often did. What the boy’s fascination with them was, he had no idea.

“Come now, Potter,” he pressed, “You know the rules of the game.”

“I guess Herbology isn’t too bad.” Potter finally answered, if a bit begrudgingly. “And I guess I’d like Potions more if—,” he stopped suddenly, clamping his mouth shut.

Severus arched a dangerous brow. “If… what, Potter? Do finish your sentence.”

He knew exactly what was coming. He knew what all the students at Hogwarts said about him: he was a nasty, greasy git of a professor who lived to make all of their lives miserable. His Slytherins were typically an exception to this worldview, though he had never treated any of his Snakes as bad as he had Harry Potter.

“Mister Potter. Answer — now.”

Potter sighed heavily and confessed, “If it didn’t involve so much magic.”

Severus blinked, surprised. That was… unexpected. Of course it was bad that the boy still had such a negative view of magic in all of its forms, and really, he supposed he ought to prefer that the boy liked magic more than his nasty Potions Professor. And yet he was quietly — oddly — relieved the boy didn’t seem to hate him so much.

“I see.” Severus cleared his throat. “Perhaps in time, that will change.”

Potter shrugged, biting his bottom lip. Then, suddenly remembering it was his turn, he burst, “My dad played Quidditch?”

“Is that intended to resemble a question?”

Groaning, Potter rolled his eyes. “Yea. Professor Quirrell said he was a Chaser. He was good, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was Chaser. He got the position in our Second Year…? I cannot recall. In any case, yes, your father was a— very good Quidditch player,” which the arrogant bastard never ceased bragging about.

Something inside of Severus soured at the unfortunate turn of this conversation. Complimenting James Potter was not something he signed on for. Even praising something so small as his skill in a silly game played on broomsticks made him feel faintly vomitous. He set down his fork; he had thoroughly lost his appetite.

At least Potter Junior looked pleased.

Still, perhaps it was the leftover bile that made him ask, “When did you first discover you had magic?”

Potter paused for an instant, jolting like a scratch in a record, before whispering, “Three, maybe.”

“That’s quite young. Impressive. Do you recall what it was?”

The boy was holding himself very still, as if to escape notice; his face cool and still and transparent as glass. He looked— nervous, angry… ashamed, yes, that too. “I laughed too loud. The lightbulbs burst, and flowers grew through the floorboards.”

Lily would have loved that. Severus could almost picture it. A little boy with his mother’s eyes, honestly not much smaller than the boy before him, giggling so wonderfully that the whole world had no choice but to react — accidental magic as natural as the wind and the water and the earth. And then, that little boy was punished. In what way, he could only imagine.

“A perfectly normal display,” he felt compelled to say, but when he spoke next, he made sure to do it with caution, “Although, I can imagine your family didn’t find it quite as… ordinary.”

Potter’s lips pressed tight. Then, snidely, he asked, “Is that intended to resemble a question?”

Severus, despite himself, despite the entire bloody situation, smirked. “I suppose not. Your turn, I think?”

Immediately: “Did my mum play Quidditch, sir?”

Ha. “No. She was quite wretched on a broom, as I recall.”

Potter’s green eyes rounded in surprise. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Severus answered, still smirking somewhat. “She tended to be quite clumsy, from what I remember, especially when we were young. She could barely keep her balance on her own two feet, it translated quite roughly when on a broomstick. She was a disaster.”

Potter laughed. It was— loud and bright, and it reminded him so sharply of Lily that it stole Severus’ breath away. He’d barely regained it again when he forced himself to ask:

“How did your family react when you made magic, Potter?”

The boy’s face — once so full of life — instantly turned moon white.

Severus leant closer, voice low but insistent. “You must tell me, Potter, only then will I be able to help you. What did your family do to you?”

Instantly, the boy began shaking his head — over and over and over. “I can’t… No, I don’t need your help, I don’t want—! Sir, please don’t make me,” he was practically begging again, pleading with him — and Severus couldn’t stand that.

“Enough.” He cut in quickly, before the boy could spiral any further. “I will not force you, for now. But one day, Potter, and soon, I will have to find out.”

“I know. I—I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, almost impossible to hear, “I know I’ve broken the rules—,”

The boy was looking smaller and smaller in his chair, shoulders hunched in tight and close to his ears, fingers tugging at his fringe as was his nervous habit. Severus’ lips pressed into a fine line at the sight, and his shriveled black heart (whatever was left of it) panged painfully against his sternum. He made sure his tone was soft and low when he spoke next.

“It’s all right, Mister Potter. It’s all right; take a breath.”

The boy obeyed. Then he offered a weak smile and turned back to his food, clearly more subdued than before, but he did not flee.

Progress.

Harry jerked awake with a ragged gasp, bile rising and threatening to choke him where he sat. He had no memory of his dream — only that it had been horrible. Horrible enough to make him vomit. The boy instantly hurled away the blankets and somehow managed to stumble through the bed curtains into the First Year washroom without tripping. He just barely made it to the toilet before he lost the battle with his stomach.

It was a universal truth that throwing up was just straight awful. It never tasted as good coming up as it did going down. When he’d finished, he was gasping and groaning and staring at last night’s carrots swirling in the horrible stew. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat again. Then, because he was the unluckiest boy in the world, his belly churned again, and another wave of sick sent him lurching back over the toilet. He choked and gagged his way through it, nails pressing into his thighs, waiting desperately for it to just— end already.

It felt like forever.

When the angry sea in his stomach finally settled, he tumbled back into the tile floor with a ragged gasp. He cupped his dizzy head in his hands and fought to catch his breath, to silence the orchestra now playing full volume in his mind. Nononono. The Otherness stirred awake, taunting him with each heartbeat. Just—stop! Make it small— he needed to make his world small again. Five senses, like Snape said, he needed to identify them.

Come on, think of your five senses, damn it.

What did he smell? A bathroom. Enough said.

Hear? His own harsh breathing, and in the dorm: someone turning over their sleep. Plus Malfoy snoring — because that prat did snore, no matter how many times he denied it.

See? The floor tiles, five horizontal, six vertical, all marbles black.

Touch? The sweat on his brow — which he wiped off on the holey, oversized shirt that used to be Dudley’s.

Taste? He tasted bile— he needed to fix that.

When he flushed the toilet, the sick that swirled away was pitch black.

Harry lurched to his feet out of the bathroom stall and dizzily caught himself on the bathroom sinks, the cool porcelain a relief to his feverish skin. He chugged water from the tap, but still the taste of his own weakness lingered so he went through the motions of brushing his teeth. Brushingbrushingbrushing until his gums bled, and then he just scrubbed harder. Dark red soon dribbled down his chin, transforming him into a hungry vampire ready to suck the life out of anyone who made him too angry or too upset or too— anything.

Maybe that was what the Otherness — the Obscurus — really was.

Maybe he was one of the undead. Vampires were pale, cold, and skinny like him. Maybe they secretly hated the taste of blood, hated the way they made people scared, hated graveyards and coffins and the freakishness that drove them. And maybe they would lie about needing help until someone drove a stake through their heart.

Were vampires real in this world?

Why not?

A monster like Harry existed; why shouldn’t a vampire or a troll or a Headmaster who stared mysteriously from the front table exist too?

Harry was running late.

It wouldn’t be such a big deal to miss a magic class, not really, but— it was Snape’s class, and Snape would notice if he was late. He would notice and make comments and give him a lecture and make him do extra brewing again, and God knew what else. Snape was just unpredictable enough to be a nuisance. All of this to say, it was turning into rather a big deal.

For once, none of this was even Harry’s fault.

He wouldn’t have been running so far behind if his alarm hadn’t been turned off. Or his boots hadn’t been filled with mud again. Or his book bag (with all of his textbooks) hadn’t gone missing.

He was being messed with; he knew this. He wasn’t stupid, but he had no choice to simply deal with it — what other choice did he have? He definitely wasn’t going to tell Snape — no matter how much the man scolded him for losing his textbook. It didn’t feel so much like bullying as it did just annoying, anyway.

Plus, he wasn’t a rotten snitch.

Halfway through the dungeons — almost to the Potions classroom, Harry spotted his bag slumped innocuously against a random door wall. He debated briefly just leaving it, but then he considered what Snape would say if he showed up without any of his books, and he heaved a weary sigh of a man a hundred years older. Still grumbling in irritation, the boy jogged over but hesitated just before actually picking it up… Again: he wasn’t stupid. He gave it a few idle kicks, just in case something freaky jumped out or there was a hex attached somehow.

Nothing happened… not at first.

No, but it was only a few seconds later when two hands collided into his back and shoved— hard.

Harry stumbled and tripped over his own feet, skidding gracelessly onto the ground and scragging up his palms. But that was the least of his problems. He spun back around just in time to see Zabini give a mocking wave and a smirking smile before the bigger boy flicked his wand and slammed the door shut.

Oh nonononono.

Harry instantly hurled himself at it, shouting his defiance even as he heard the lock turn.

“Let me out!” He shrieked, screaming the same words he had not even a month ago, “Let me out!”

Zabini’s laughter reverberated through the solid door and echoed hauntingly as he ran down the corridor.

Harry nearly broke into pieces, then and there. “Zabini, please! Open the door! Open the door, it’s not funny, you bastard! Please—!”

Closed in, locked in, trapped (yes, again), all around him — darkdarkdark, just like his cupboard, the walls were closing in, he was suffocating, he was in his cupboard—

Something behind him… moved.

The hair rose on the back of Harry’s neck.

There was something in the darkness with him.

The boy turned very slowly, keeping his back pressed to the door, fingernails digging into the old wood. His lungs were filled with mud, no room left for oxygen, suffocating him from the inside out.

This was badbadbad.

The room that he’d been locked in more or less seemed rather ordinary, what one would expect from an abandoned classroom in a centuries old castle. Dust mites hung in the air. Shadows leered in odd shapes against the wall. Most of the furniture was covered in massive white sheets, giving the entire place a ghostly feeling, apart from the large wardrobe against the wall opposite.

It… rattled.

Harry crushed himself against the door. Not for the first time, he wished for magic — magic that would protect, not destroy, but he didn’t know any of that. So he was left defenseless when the door… slowly… very slowly… creaked open. And out of it came the most unexpected thing:

Uncle Vernon.

Harry could only gape as his loathsome uncle emerged from the wardrobe with hatred seeping from his very pores. The man was dressed in a suit, tie loose, like he was coming home from work at Grunnings, and by the stench of him — heavy with alcohol, it had been a very bad day. His face was already red, on the verge of turning purple, which meant he was already furious. And at who? Harry. Who else?

“You—You can’t be here…” Harry couldn’t comprehend it, he couldn’t understand, couldn’t make sense of it, “Y—You wouldn’t! Why are you—?”

“Why do you think, boy?!” Uncle Vernon boomed, making Harry flinch, head hitting the door hard enough to rattle both the wood and his brain. “You let those freaks find out! You broke rule number one: you told!”

“No!” Harry insisted, the breathy words tumbling loose from his lips, “No, I didn’t, I swear, Uncle, I didn’t tell them anything—!”

“You always were a little liar, and a freak to boot — too much of a freak even for this freak school!” Horror—horror—horror. “So they called me to come get you.”

“W—What?” Harry shook his head, again and again and again. “No. They— they wouldn’t.”

Snape wouldn’t!

…Would he?

“We thought we were free from the likes of you, we were glad to see the back of you! But now you’re coming back— and you’re gonna pay for that, boy.”

Uncle Vernon was advancing now, and there was nowhere to run. Harry, frozen in terror, rigid with dread, knew well enough to accept his fate. Uncle Vernon’s massive hands descended, a phantom memory of a blow hard enough to kill but for magic, and Harry was down.

“You freak!” Vernon thundered overhead, spraying Harry with spit. “You ruin everything, you ungrateful piece of trash!”

“I—I’ll do better, Uncle Vernon, I promise!”

“Better? Better, will you?!”

Stomping feet. Kicking feet.

“Yes, yes! Please!” Harry sobbed, voice growing hoarse, making himself smallersmallersmaller.

“What sort of return have we got for our good deeds? Nothing but trouble — over and over!”

Over and over, Harry tried and failed to escape the nightmare surrounding him, but it was no use. He covered his head, his belly, his most vital parts, tortured by memories, by fear.

“Ungrateful wretch! We ought to have sent you packing years ago! Ruining our family, ruining our lives! Not worth the dirt you’re lying in!”

All five stages of grief at once, pummelling him, pounding him into the stone: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance; a vicious circle — spinning, spinning, all out of control.

“You couldn’t have done us a favour and died with your worthless freak—parents, could you? Or maybe — they just died to get away from you!”

The words terrified more than the man, the greatest horror of all.

Suddenly someone was grabbing onto his shoulders and yanking him up. Harry barely registered the big black robes and Snape’s furious face before he hurled himself at the man. There were no thoughts, no hesitations, only terror, and Snape was bigger and stronger and he had magic. He could protect him. He had once. He could do it again.

Every muscle in Snape’s body had tensed in Harry’s embrace, rigid and shocked — maybe even disgusted, but right now, Harry didn’t even care. He only clung tighter. And then, within the next second, Snape was gripping onto him too, returning the embrace with equal vigour.

“Potter, it’s all right!” Snape shouted above him, shaking him, clutching him, “It’s not real! Do you understand, boy? That man is not real!”

Harry could hardly see through the tears searing down his face, each tear boiling and burning his skin.

“You’re a sickness!” Uncle Vernon’s voice rose to a fever—pitch behind him, “A disease on this family and on this world!”

Harry was helpless against the urge to look back, but he only caught a glimpse of his uncle’s furious purple face before Snape stopped him. The man instantly put a hand on the back of Harry’s head and forced him to hide his face against his chest.

“Fuck’s sake,” Snape growled like a beast, “Enough.”

Vernon roared, “We’d all be better off—!”

“Riddikulus!”

There was a massive cracking noise, followed swiftly by a whoosh as Snape used his wand to banish the noise and the nightmare and all that was horrible. Uncle Vernon was gone, Harry thought, but he couldn’t be sure. He was too frightened — too busy hyperventilating — to look back, gasping and panting, out of his wits with terror. He felt sick with leftover fear, like he might actually vomit right onto Snape’s shoes, which would just be icing in the damn cake.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Snape had seen! Snape had heard!

Now what? Now fucking what?

Under his ear, Snape’s heart was pounding hard, and his hand hovered awkwardly over his shoulder, “It’s— okay.”

“Snape…” Harry’s voice was little more than a croak.

“It’s okay, Potter.” Snape repeated, more firmly.

His entire body shook with the effort it took to stay standing, his heartbeat so very loud in his ears. He could hardly hear his own voice over it, “He said— you heard him say—”

“What he said wasn’t true, Potter. You understand?”

Harry didn’t know how to respond. It was like he didn’t even know how to breathe anymore. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true. The words escaped him in a breathless rush, “Why did—? How was he here—?”

“He wasn’t. Do you understand?” Snape crouched down, suddenly eye—level with the boy as he explained, “That— was magic. A magical creature, to be more precise, and it takes the shape of whatever you fear most. A manifestation of one’s personal horrors, called a Boggart.”

Harry’s face crumpled, and he concentrated on not crying again. That was the last thing he needed. A Boggart — a physical representation of one’s greatest fears. Honestly, what the fuck? Why was the magic world like this? How could such a thing even exist? Ohgodohgod.

Though — strangely enough, beyond the indignation and horror and fury, Harry found it within himself to be… surprised. Uncle Vernon was— his greatest fear? Really? It seemed almost laughable in the face of— the Otherness. His freakishness. But perhaps his greatest fear hadn’t been Uncle Vernon at all; it had been what he said—

And the fact that Harry feared all of it was true.

“Potter. Potter!”

Harry jumped when a hand cupped his chin and tilted his face upward, realising suddenly that Snape had been calling him for quite a while. Snape’s black, tunnelling eyes darted between Harry’s, very cautiously. He hadn’t removed his hand from his face, and something traitorous and very childish forced Harry to lean further into that touch.

“Potter, was the Boggart your uncle?”

Harry wasn’t sure why he nodded, just slightly, silent apart from his gasping breaths.

Snape exhaled slowly, though it sounded a bit shaky.

Harry could relate, even if he didn’t fully understand.

“Did he often treat you that way?”

Harry couldn’t answer, you see, he was busy listening to his inside music. The orchestra was playing out of tune, off tempo, cymbals crashing and strings whining. The Otherness shivered to life, woken by the racket no doubt, its tar—like presence spilling all over the place. Goodbye… Goodbye…

“Don’t drift. Don’t you dare drift away from me, Potter.”

But Harry was already fading, slipping away faster and faster. The Otherness was calling to him. Promising such sweet things. To let go, just for a while. It had failed him then, with Uncle Vernon or the Boggart or whatever it was, but his very special brand of freakishness would be called upon now — to find retribution, to give Harry a bloody rest. Give in? Yes. Give in.

“No.” Snape growled and caught Harry’s chin between two fingers, cradling him. “Look at me, Potter. Look — at — me.”

Harry did. His eyes were swollen and red; his expression one of pure agony.

The Otherness hadn’t gone away. If anything, being buried had only made it stronger and angrier. It opened its Pandora’s box inside Harry’s chest and crept up into his head. It didn’t want to just watch from the shadows now: it wanted to attack.

A hint of panic entered Snape’s tone, “Potter, listen to me, you have to Occlude, you must relegate your emotions—,” but no, no, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, “Breathe, Potter. Breathe!”

Snape was suddenly grabbing him, sudden enough to make Harry cry out, but that didn’t stop the man from yanking him close, Harry’s back pressing hard against Snape’s chest.

“Feel my own breaths. Repeat after me: in — out, in — out.”

Harry tried, but he knew it would be so easy to give into it. Once the anger and terror had consumed him, it opened his skull and ripped out the wiring. It screamed holes in his brain and puked blood down his throat.

But he knew — giving in, even a little — would mean losing what little progress he had gained. He took deep breaths, closed his eyes. In — out, smell. Herbs, potions, the warm scent of clove in the air. In — out, hear. His own pounding heart. In — out, taste. Something bitter: adrenalin. In — out, see. His shaky knees, struggling to keep him standing. In — out, touch. Snape’s hands, warm, calloused, gentle. The Otherness slowly but surely receded, and Harry crumpled — would’ve hit the ground had Snape not leapt forward to catch him.

“That’s good, Potter, good. Keep Occluding…” His tone darkened after a moment, “Potter, I need you to tell me who did this to you.”

Harry blinked, slightly dazed, still fighting to come out of it. And despite the haze settling over him, he knew he would not tell. Not ever. Saying things like this, tattling, snitching — whatever you’d like to call it, it only led to more harm than good. He shook his head and sealed his lips firmly shut.

Severus gave him a hard, knowing look. “When I came looking, I found the door locked from the outside. I know you didn’t just stumble upon this. Tell me and I can help you. Was it Blaise Zabini?”

Harry closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at that imploring face.

“Potter, Zabini cannot be allowed to get away with it.”

Nonono.

Snape sighed heavily but seemingly gave in for now. “Do you need the Hospital Wing?”

He breathed, “No, sir.”

“I’ll excuse you from the rest of today’s classes. Ought you to go to your dormitory and rest?”

Harry recoiled physically from the very idea — going back there, with them, when they could do it again. Did they have another Boggart? How did they get the first one? Did they catch it? Did they set it loose? How did it even work—?

“No. No, I see that will not suit.” Snape peered at him, long and hard, before murmuring, “I don’t suppose… my office would—?”

Harry nodded immediately, sharp and desperate.

“Very well. Come along, Potter.”

Snape turned to go, and Harry tripped over himself to keep up. He latched a hand onto the man’s sleeve, fearful, desperate, to be separated from the one person who had saved him — again. In his eagerness, he’d fallen partly into his side, barely catching himself, but he just held on tighter now with both hands. Snape froze and glanced down for just a second — at Harry’s trembling mouth, his white—knuckle hands, his watery eyes, and just when Harry began to fear the man was going to shove him off, Snape only nodded.

He said, very gently, “Stay close, Mister Potter.”

Harry did just that.

He numbly let his professor guide him all the way down the corridor, past the Potions classroom (empty now), to his office, and finally to the chair that Harry pretty much considered his own now.

Snape set him down, not stepping away until Harry managed to pry his own fingers loose from the death grip he had on his professor’s robes. They ached from how tightly he’d been holding onto the man, a dull throb to match the stinging of his eyes. He felt wrung out as he sat there, his entire body sore and tired; like if he closed his eyes, he might sleep for a thousand years. But he couldn’t do that — no — not when he’d only see Uncle Vernon plastered on the backs of his eyelids.

Snape backed up a few feet, and interestingly enough, he didn’t move to sit behind his desk as usual but instead sat in the other visitor’s chair, parallel to Harry’s own. He inspected the boy for a few moments.

“Do you require a Calming Draught?”

Harry shook his head and drew his legs up, crushing his thighs tight to his chest.

Neither of them spoke for a good long while.

Then, Snape informed him, “When you did not arrive on time for class, I thought perhaps you had decided to skivv, as the other students like to say. When the half hour mark passed, I began to grow— concerned. It wasn’t until Mister Zabini also arrived late with such mischief on his face that I knew something had gone awry. I only regret it took me so long to locate you.”

Harry offered a weak head shake. It wasn’t Snape’s fault. Snape had helped. Saved him — again. He could only imagine what Weasley would say about this development.

“Potter. It’s time.”

Harry very slowly looked up from his kneecaps.

“It’s time we talk, Potter, about how your family treated you.” Snape’s usual dour expression was somehow worse than ever as he said, “I have seen the evidence with my own eyes, Potter; you can’t be afraid of letting me find out now. I already have.”

Harry’s eyes went wide and he rapidly shook his head, back and forth and back and forth, his heart suddenly pounding like a funeral march. He didn’t want to be hearing this. He wanted to cover his ears with his hands and make this all go away.

“This has gone on long enough.” Snape tried to reason with him, “I need to know what went on in that house to make the Obscurus develop, Potter. Something happened— and no amount of ignoring it is going to make it go away. Indeed, it might only make it worse.”

The boy had made himself very small, wrapping his arms tight around his belly, hunching his shoulders in. He whispered harshly, “You don’t know that. You can’t know.”

“But I do, Potter. From experience.”

Harry shot him a desperate look from under his fringe. From experience… What did that mean?

Snape exhaled lowly, seeming to dredge up the words from deep inside himself when he confessed, “I, too… suffered from the hard hands of a man in charge of me. But I spoke of it to no one, and like a poison, it rotted me from within.”

Harry couldn’t breathe. “You’re— like me?”

Something in Snape’s expression looked really, very fragile. “Yes. A bit like you.”

The eleven year old had never met anyone like him before. Not ever. It was strangely wonderful, just as it was tragic.

He watched warily when Snape leant forward slightly in his seat. “So, I propose an alternative. If you don’t wish to tell me, then perhaps you can show me.”

Harry blinked through sticky lashes, confused and showing it. His voice was thick. “W—What do you mean?”

“If you permit it, I will use something called Legilimency — it’s another kind of mind magic, a sort of opposite of Occlumency where I can navigate through the layers of your mind to decipher your thoughts, feelings, and memories—,”

Harry leapt to his feet and retreated a few steps, suddenly overcome with panic, “You’re going to read my mind?!”

Snape sighed hard. “That is not what it is. Did you not listen to my description at all?”

“Yea, I listened, and it sounds a lot like you’re going to read my mind!”

Snape gave him such a look that tore through all his defenses, and his next words only made it worse:

“Potter. Just — trust me?”

Trust. Everything in life always went back to trust, didn’t it? If he lived by any sort of code at all, it was that Harry didn’t trust anyone. People had only let him down, time and time again — hurting him, betraying him, shunning him. Distrust had served the eleven year old well so far… But Snape was like him, he said, and he had saved him so many times now.

Maybe, just this once, he could trust someone.

“Does it hurt?” Soft. Weak. Pathetic.

But Snape didn’t seem to think so. His voice remained flat, though calm. “It can be, when used aggressively, but I will not do so. I swear it.”

Harry nodded slightly, eyes briefly darting to the eyeballs beside Snape’s desk, searching for distraction, for reassurance, for— he didn’t know what.

“It can be a jarring experience, so I will not stay in your mind for long. Close your eyes. Think of how they treated you, bring these thoughts to the forefront of your mind, and I’ll see all that I need to.”

Harry obeyed. He slowly closed his eyes and tried to think of all the horrors that had led him here. It wasn’t difficult to recall, but it hurt to remember. It took no time at all.

“Good. Now, open your eyes.” When he obeyed, he found Snape’s ebony wand aimed straight at his face, with barely any time to prepare when the man incanted, “And— Legilimens.”

It was a kaleidoscope of tear—soaked memories, a blood rush of horrors, unspooling out between them — out of his hands, out of his mind.

“We’ll stomp it out of you, freak!”

The curtains changed colour, his hair grew back overnight, a shattered plate made whole — a slap across the face, glasses jarred, eyes stinging. Badboy—freakboy.

“Get in there! I don’t want to have to look at your ugly face!”

Shoved in the cupboard, locked in, punished, forgotten — days at a time: no food (curled in on himself in pain), a bucket in the corner (the stench of his own waste suffocating him).

“I bet your mum died to get away from you!”

Harry Hunting — chased down, pinned down, punchkickhitdiediedie as Dudley’s laughter rang in the air.

“You keep that freaky shit quiet or you’ll be sorry you were ever born!”

A chain to hold him down, a gag in his mouth, locked in the garden shed as the Otherness raged on and on.

“Why can’t you ever learn, you little beast?!”

Harry could learn. Freakishness was evil. Harry had freakishness. Harry was evil.

“This will teach you.”

And then two small hands were pressed onto the hot stove.

“Little bastard, this is all your fault!”

A promotion lost, a tire popped, a dinner burnt — yourfault, yourfault, yourfault.

“Should’ve drowned you at birth, boy, or else finished the job once we took you in!”

Uncle Vernon’s hands around his throat, tight, not tight enough, growing tighter and tighter, squeezesqueezesqueeze.

All it once, it was over. The spell released him with a push, having chewed him up and now spitting him back out. Both Harry and Snape were panting in the aftermath, his professor gaping at him with wide, horrified eyes. Harry flinched from that stare and turned pale, all the blood draining from his face while he gazed at his shoes. He could hardly look up, he couldn’t bear peering into Snape’s eyes and finding only — disgust.

Ohgod.

Of course he’d be disgusted.

Uncle Vernon’s voice rang in his ears, “Too much of a freak even for this freak school!”

Harry crumbled. Tears broke free. He careened forward, protecting his belly as he hunched over his knees, gaspgaspgasping again.

Very quietly: “Potter…?”

Harry ignored him. He was afraid if he said anything — even a single word, he would break completely. He was shaking his head, shaking his head, shaking his head — nononono.

“What they did to you— it was wrong, Potter. So very wrong. But none of that’s your fault, don’t you see?”

Roar of ocean, swirl of tornado. He was being swallowed.

Snape’s boots took a tentative step closer, but Harry jerked back and cried, “No! No, stay away, don’t touch me!”

The man’s hands instantly extended, palms up, surrendering, but it wasn’t enough. Hands like that had only ever caused Harry pain, especially once they realised exactly what he was.

“Just— tell me what you need from me, Potter. Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help!” Harry sobbed brokenly, voice echoing against the cold stone walls, “I don’t need you!”

“I know.” Snape countered, strangely soft. “But I’m here anyway.”

He was right. He was here. And he would finally get everything he wanted to hear.

“You want to know what the Otherness feels like? Exactly as I deserve!” Harry snarled, hurting and angry and suddenly vicious, “Are you happy now? You finally see… now you see what a freak I am!”

“No,” Snape murmured, “I’m not happy.”

Harry crushed his fists into his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the tears, and then, through trembling lips, a strangled cry: “Why do I have to be such a— freak?!”

Snape startled, maybe, about as much as a man such as Snape could startle. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear: you are not a ‘freak’, Potter. You’re just like every other magical child — magic that is good and natural and pure.”

“But the Otherness—,”

“—Only developed to protect you, because they forced you to hide your magic. You did nothing wrong.”

Another sob was torn free of Harry, gut—wrenched, a horrible sound, like he was being tortured.
“How can you say that—? Don’t you understand? Didn’t you see—? I’m a monster!”

“They’re the monsters. Not you. Never you.” Snape’s voice did something funny then, hitching, catching, cracking, “You were only a little boy.”

“No, no, I was bad! I deserved to be punished!”

The entire world went silent to hear Snape say: “That wasn’t punishment, Potter… That was abuse.”

Harry recoiled. Abuse. That was filthy and wrong, even more so than Harry himself. Abuse — no. Abuse was harm against somebody who didn’t deserve it, and he deserved every fucking bit of it!

“I ruined their family,” Harry choked out.

Snape growled, “You — did — not.”

“I did!”

“How could you — an eleven year old boy — possibly have ruined their family? Tell me how.”

“I—I cursed them,” Harry was bewildered at having to explain — why couldn’t Snape just get it? “Because I didn’t like them, because I’m—I’m bad… with my freakishness— my magic,”

Every unfortunate event, every turn of misfortune, every bad thing that ever happened, all of the blame was placed on Harry’s frail, thin shoulders, and Snape saw every bit of it. Yet his professor gave him the saddest look he had ever seen.

“Magic doesn’t work like that, Potter.”

Harry’s breath caught, his head cloudy and his ears full of cotton.

“It doesn’t?”

“No.”

Harry sat there, done with his crying and done with the Otherness, his body full of that worn, washed—out feeling that came from crying too much, and he didn’t know how to feel. About Snape. About magic. About the Dursleys. About himself.

“Then… why didn’t they want me?”

His professor was silent, equally pensive. He just stood by Harry’s side, staring grimly past him, before very slowly, he raised a hand and settled it gently on his shoulder. Snape, for once it seemed, had no answers for him.

Severus could take no more.

The moment — the very instant — he was assured of the boy’s wellbeing under Poppy’s care, Severus was storming the castle. His body was revving up in that familiar dangerous way, his rapid breath coming in gasps. His robes billowed and his steps echoed while he charged past the gargoyle and up the staircase to the Headmaster’s office. He strode in without any warning, any prelude, venom already dripping from his lips with:

“How fucking dare you.”

Albus sat upright in his throne—like chair immediately, wrinkles pulling taut though his grandfatherly voice remained mild, “You sound troubled, my boy—,”

“Do not ‘my boy’ me,” Severus hissed through gritted teeth, bared like a predator, “Tell me now, Albus, no more delaying the inevitable. I want no more games or tricks. No more secrets, old man. I want the truth: did you know?”

Something in Albus’ expression had shifted. “Did I know what, Severus?”

“What else? That Potter was being abused! Did — you — know?”

For a moment, they merely appraised one another.

Quietly, Albus asked, “Would I have left him there if I knew?”

Severus scoffed. “That’s not an answer. I know too well to let you spin your web of words around me. Did you send the boy there — knowing what would happen to him?”

“Severus, don’t be absurd—,”

“They didn’t just shame him for his magic, they tried to beat it out of him!”

Albus sat up somewhat straighter in his chair. “Did Harry tell you this?”

“I saw it in his mind! That’s as good as a confession, Albus, and you know it… A little boy. Your golden child. The precious Boy Who Lived, they beat him, and yet these past weeks, I have seen no guilt in your face.”

“You wish to speak of guilt, Severus? Of course I feel guilt. After my history, after my experience, you think I wished this would happen to the poor boy? Of course not!”

“Only because he’s a liability for you now.” Severus drew back from him, though he still spewed his venom with equal fervour, “He cannot be your perfect child soldier. How you disappoint, Albus. First, Tom Riddle, then me, who knows how many other abused boys you’ve left slip under your notice, but I had thought at least the fucking boy hero of the wizarding world would be safe!”

The Headmaster was on his feet now, thundering: “Do not accuse me of overlooking those who need me, Severus—!”

Severus felt the power of Albus’ own anger in the room like static electricity, like the charged air before a lightning storm, darkening the space around them, but it did not stop him. He stalked forward, relentless, voice pitching very, very low.

“What did Petunia say? When you brought the boy to them, the night Lily— the night the Dark Lord died?”

For the first time in years, Albus would not meet his eyes. He spoke his next words like a holy confession, a sinner praying — not for mercy, but for understanding.

“Petunia did not say anything. I’m afraid… I gave her no chance… indeed, no choice either. I left Harry on the doorstep with a letter, explaining all that I could.”

And not for the first time tonight, Severus could not believe his fucking ears. His anger was fierce and all—consuming, making him almost feral again, his body coiled and ready to strike, nearly trembling with the ferocity of it. It was so real, so palpable, it loomed like a physical entity between them.

“You… left him. In the cold. On a doorstep. You forced him into the arms of those who didn’t want him for ten fucking years. That is crime enough, but tell me: why did you never check on him?”

Albus’s eyes glinted like razorblades. “Why didn’t you, Severus?”

“I’m not his guardian!” Severus roared, trinkets and baubles trembling with the weight of his fury, “I admit that I have failed that boy, as I have for many others, but not to this extent! You — abandoned him there and you left him to rot. You are responsible for what’s become of Harry Potter, Albus!”

“Let us not forget why Harry was in this position in the first place, Severus.”

He recoiled with a gasp he couldn’t contain, genuine horror written across his face. “You would throw the prophecy in my face, Albus?”

Albus withdrew now, too, with something very like regret carved into his face, if this great wizard, the leader of the Light, was even capable of it. “No… No, I would not.” Quietly, he said, “Truly, Severus, I had thought… Petunia Dursley would be able to look past anything she might've held against the boy. For Lily's sake.”

Severus grimaced but remained silent for just long enough to garner some courage to say:

“Was I?”

The following silence was heavy.

Severus closed his eyes and tried to breathe as evenly as he instructed the boy: in — out, in — out. His Occlumency shields had been no damn good, all of his emotions brought to the fore, boiling over the surface. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He had to be strong. He had to be stable. For the boy. Only once his shields were crystallised and gleaming, ten metres deep, did he feel in control again.

“What would you have us do now, Severus?” Albus asked once his eyes had opened.

“We are both complicit, you just as much as I, but it is Petunia who broke that boy’s magic, her family who hurt him so deeply. We must seek the only thing we can.” Severus breathed the word with a manic glint to his eye, “Retribution.”

Chapter Text

Retribution was where Severus well and truly thrived.

It was a simple part of his personality — an asset or a defect, no one could ever agree. Whatever it was had served him well during his Dark days, living in service to a vengeful master who thrilled in the horrors conjured by Severus’ creative mind. Gifted, the Dark Lord had called him, the first ever to do so — it was little wonder he’d been so easily coerced to serve. What a damn fool he had been. A fool, and a vengeful one.

In recent years, Severus had attempted to mitigate his so—called ‘gifts’ and more— Dark inclinations, but now… now, it was almost enough to make a grown man giddy to allow his imagination to truly run wild with reckless abandon.

His plots and schemes acted as lullabies, soothing him to sleep, calming him even during his most vicious bouts of temper, because… soon. Soon, the boy would be avenged. Soon, there would be justice. Soon, he could not feel as though he had failed Lily so completely.

Yes, thought Severus — almost happily, Retribution.

Severus had an endless list of punishments constantly brewing within his mind, each more dreadful than the last, personalised and unique and so exquisitely torturous without ever qualifying as Unforgivable. Technically.

Unfortunately, Severus was starting to worry his idea of retribution… differed… from Albus’.

Day after day when he spoke of consequences to inflict upon horrible Tuney and her whole horrible family, Albus continually told him that he had it all taken care of; that Severus should, instead, focus his attentions on the boy himself. And the poor little brat needed it, Severus could admit.

So, for now, Severus sought retribution elsewhere.

Any bullying would not be tolerated in his House, but to knowingly trap a fellow student in with a Boggart was beyond even the wretched norm — that was psychological torture. These little eleven year old bastards weren’t Death Eaters. Not yet.

Not if Severus could help it.

He bloody well knew it was Blaise Zabini who was behind the Boggart incident, fucking obviously, eleven year olds weren’t clever enough to trick him (Slytherin or not), but he went through the motions of due diligence and followed through on an actual investigation — fruitless, it may be. He knew other students were in on it, and he could even guess at who — though Zabini wouldn’t dare incriminate his co—conspirators.

Unfortunately, Albus was against punishment without proof, the old bastard.

So, for now, Severus set his sights on Zabini. The little brat got an appropriate series of detentions with Filch (mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, etcetera etcetera), but it did not feel like enough — not nearly enough to ensure such behaviour wouldn’t be repeated.

Severus wondered if he needed to remove the Potter boy from his dormitory. He feared isolating the boy as much as he did leaving him open to attack.

It had been a long while since the Snakes of Hogwarts were so divided, perhaps even further back than Severus’ own tumultuous school years in the ‘70s. He endeavoured to keep a closer eye on the little miscreants, but they were not Slytherins for nothing, and he knew if they wished to bypass him, they would figure out a way in the end. He let loose another round of lectures, scathing enough to leave the whole lot of them blistered for a few weeks at the least.

It had been enough for a while.

For the whole month of November, his Snakes were on their very best behaviour, minding their business and keeping their noses clean.

But then— November ended.

Despite Harry’s years—long certainty that the world would end should anyone ever find out the truth, life continued (pretty much) as usual.

It was… weird.

For weeks after the Boggart incident, Harry had been terrified that everything would change. He was worried that Snape would treat him different, look at him different, think he was something different — even worse than he was. But Snape continued on as he always had — brisk, curt, but overall gentle, and if not kind, then courteous — all of which was more than Harry could ever hope for, really.

Overall, things had been… good, yea.

They didn’t talk too much more about the Dursleys; mostly because Harry refused to discuss it, and for now, Snape seemed content not pushing him any further. He wasn’t sure how long that would last, but he hoped the information bought him more time — if not forever. They continued their Occlumency sessions like normal, as well as their ‘Remedial Potions’ lessons, even if they usually covered a lot more than just Potions.

What Granger had said had lit a fire under Harry’s arse, in some ways. He realised that he couldn’t afford to fail. He couldn’t be kicked out of freak sch— that is, Hogwarts. He needed to stay here, no matter the cost, where there were friends and safety and… Snape, too. He needed to keep the hell away from the Dursleys, and if that meant actually doing the homework, then… that was what Harry would have to do.

His efforts had consequences — the good kind (this time), and towards the end of November, he got his very first Outstanding.

And as luck would have it: it was in Potions.

“But are you sure that’s the proper stirring method? I don’t think the textbook says to do it that way.” Granger fretted over his shoulder as he worked, “No, Harry, that’s one too many anti—clockwises, oh no…”

Harry wasn’t too bothered as he continued stirring, feeling oddly— capable. Personally, he had no bloody idea what was in the textbook (he hadn’t opened it once); he was just repeating how he’d seen Snape do it… That seemed the best way to earn Snape’s approval, at any rate.

“Oh, Harry…”

Hair frizzier than ever, poor Granger was still rapidly approaching a mental breakdown.

Harry decided that a good friend would try to reassure her. So… he tried his best. “Erm…” He awkwardly patted her shoulder, whispering, “It’s gonna be— fine. Probably. Most likely.”

The girl did not look reassured. Shocking.

Meanwhile, Snape was lurking through the rows of tables. The Potions Master inspected each cauldron with his usual distinctive sneer, making mean pronouncements of every potion he found lacking. Granger was close to hyperventilating by the time their professor reached their table with narrowed eyes. He checked over their potion: the colour, the viscosity, the clarity, all with a low grumbling ‘hmm’.

Then: “Shall we test it?”

Longbottom in the corner emitted a frightened squeak.

Snape shot the poor Gryffindor a malevolent sneer but didn’t pay him any further mind. He simply dipped a tiny ladle into the pale blue potion and poured the smallest amount onto nearby writing supplies. Instantly, a quill began to quiver and then rise — as if weightless, defying gravity in the air between them.

Granger practically shook with the success.

Snape quirked a brow at the pair, which Harry had started to understand generally meant: “Well done, I’m not completely unimpressed by you”. It was quite the feat. Majorly impressive, actually. Especially when he added—

“Outstanding.” Snape nodded at the pair, though his gaze lingered on Harry when he added, “And five points to Slytherin.”

Points. He’d earned bloody points. And it felt— good?

Harry had to look down to hide his smile, pride clutching at the edges of his heart. But it was because his head was down that he missed the ugly look that crossed Malfoy’s face, there one second, gone the next.

At his side, all was well with Granger again. She sighed with a happy roll of her eyes, “No points for Gryffindor, I suppose, but an Outstanding is wonderful enough on its own. Well done on the extra stirs, Harry, I admit that was quite clever of you.”

Harry shrugged, blushing, shy now. He poked at the still hovering quill, making it bob funnily in the air — rather like a fish. “How do you think we make it stop levitating?”

“I know just the spell!”

And with a flick and a swish, the quill dropped gracelessly and yet somehow managed to land perfectly in Granger's school bag.

The girl beamed. “Isn’t magic wonderful?”

“Yea,” answered Harry, realising the truth even as he whispered, “Yea, I think it really is.”

Snape called him to stay after when class was dismissed. This wasn’t so out of the ordinary so he wasn’t concerned — even if Granger and Weasley looked as concerned as ever. Both of his friends sent him strained yet pitying smiles as everyone quickly grabbed their belongings and broke for the exit.

Only once the door had closed solidly behind them, Harry felt safe enough to ask louder, “I didn’t know today was one of the sessions?”

“It is not,” Snape replied simply. “I merely kept you because I wanted to— commend you.”

Harry waited for something terrible to happen, but… nope, nothing. “…What?”

“Yes, on a job well done. Your brewing practise quite paid off today.”

Harry blushed, suddenly overcome with shyness. “Erm… well, Granger did all the hard work, sir.”

Snape arched his brow — like usual. “I would have noticed if she had. Your part in the potion was admirable. Thus, I am… saying ‘well done’.”

Honestly, Snape looked as awkward as Harry felt. What possessed his Head of House to say any of that, he had no bloody clue. He felt desperate to dispel it so he shrugged a bit uselessly and said:

“I’m not good at magic.”

The awkwardness immediately disappeared from Snape’s face, replaced by something much more intense — almost insistent.

“Certainly, you’re good at magic. You merely do not know how to channel it.”

Harry’s expression was dubious.

“You are a very powerful young wizard. In fact, I don’t think any of us knows just how powerful you can be, Mister Potter, but when we do discover it, I believe it will be a sight to behold.”

Harry left with that same small smile on his face, growing and growing, like a spark building to a wildfire. But some fires were stomped out quicker than others. He’d barely made it to the staircase out of the dungeons when an annoyingly familiar voice called:

“Oi! Potter!”

Harry froze mid—step. It was Malfoy, with his bodyguards, along with Nott and— Zabini, which had the boy instantly on guard. Suddenly he wished to have his professor-escorts again, but they’d backed off when Snape reported he was making good progress at controlling the Otherness. What he wouldn’t give to see McGonagall’s stern face right now…

“What?” Harry managed to grit through his teeth, quiet — very quiet, but still heard, still threatening.

None of the Slytherin brood looked bothered. He hadn’t spoken with any of his dormmates since the Boggart thing, and they had seemed just as okay to ignore his existence as he was for theirs. What the hell had changed?

“Well done on the points in Potions today,” said Nott rather pleasantly, “We were quite impressed.”

Harry stared. He was a boy of few words, and he wouldn’t waste any of them.

Especially when Zabini was among them.

“Well.” Malfoy said suddenly, nudging Zabini, hard. “Go on.”

Notagain—notagain. Harry wished he remembered if he put his wand in his bag this morning. They wouldn’t get the best of him again, no; he’d blast them to hell and back, no mistake. And yet, violence apparently wasn’t on the agenda today.

Zabini sighed, the very picture of reluctance when he said, “I’m sorry about what I did, Potter — locking you in the room with the Boggart. I thought it would be funny, but I see now it was really mucked up. I apologise.”

Harry blinked… once, twice, three times. Zabini was… sorry? No. That didn’t seem right.

“When we heard what he did to you, Potter, we knew we couldn’t let it stand.” Malfoy insisted seriously, his expression clear and open. “When spell comes to curse, Slytherins must stick together.”

It took everything in Harry not to snort in disbelief. He replied with a stiff whisper, “You didn’t think that before when you lot were using magic against me.”

“No.” Malfoy acknowledged, sharing a look with the others, “And that was… wrong… of us.”

“I think we were just jealous of you,” Nott added in with a put—upon wince.

The blond boy shot Nott a look that Harry couldn’t understand before agreeing, “Yes. Maybe. In any case, perhaps now we can be friends, Potter?”

Malfoy extended his hand, and Harry eyed it cautiously.

Snape’s voice flooded his memory, ‘You might consider making connections with your fellow Slytherins instead.’

So. Harry forced himself to shake Malfoy’s hand.

“Brilliant.” The blond boy grinned before explaining in a much warmer tone, “Well then, you know friends have to forgive friends. Don’t you forgive Zabini, Potter?”

Harry stared. After the life he’d lived, with the Darkness constantly slithering inside him, he wasn’t the sort to forgive and forget. He would keep the peace for his own fucking safety, no use making a scene like some— Gryffindor, but if there was anything that could be said about this boy, it was that he had a long memory. On some inner scorecard, he would keep a record of every insult and slight they had dealt him, and he would forget nothing.

Slowly, the boy nodded.

“Let me try to make it up to you,” Zabini went on amiably, lighter now that he’d been ‘forgiven’. “Why don’t you sit with us, Potter?”

No fucking thank you.

Since Halloween, Harry had made it a point to avoid eating in the Great Hall with his Housemates, but the trouble was: he was rather hungry… Not to mention, Weasley and Granger would be at the Gryffindor table again so he had no one else to sit with. And worse yet: Snape’s voice was still ringing in his head, ‘It would hardly kill you to get to know them.’

It just might kill Harry, though.

But he’d give it a go, for Snape’s sake. And if it went wrong, then he’d be sorry.

Harry sighed internally but gave a nod.

Malfoy’s teeth gleamed in the sunlight when he smiled out a, “Wonderful.”

Harry followed his fellow Slytherins into the Great Hall quietly, surrounded at all sides, breathing through the feeling of being trapped. The First Year girls were waiting for their arrival and didn’t seem at all surprised that Harry was joining them. Apparently, this had been planned. Whether or not this boded well for him, he had no bloody idea.

Tracey Davis watched them surrounding Harry with a look of disgust on her face, but who the disgust was meant for — Harry couldn’t be sure.

The boy shot a faintly cautious look at the Head Table, searching for the same person he always did. And not at all surprisingly, Snape was already looking his way. The man looked… approving? No, pleased? No, proud? Whatever the look meant, it ignited a spark in the center of the boy’s chest, like a little fire where his heart should be. Harry knew he would do anythinganythinganything to keep it on Snape’s face.

Even if it meant eating with these idiots. He watched everyone fill their plates with their favourites, and only once they had dug in, did Harry rush to do the same.

Piling his plate was sufficiently high, he reflected it was good that he was here actually, since his food stash was running sort of low. Relying only on the food in his trunk had severely affected his stock. He glanced at his Housemates out the corners of his eyes, and when he was sure everyone was too distracted with their meals, he snatched two bread rolls and stuffed them quickly into the pockets of his—

“Hey, Potter.”

Harry froze like he’d been struck by lightning (or magic, maybe), every muscle in his body pulled taut, nerves humming with fear — of being caught, of being mocked, of a hundred different things.

But all Zabini said was, “I heard you grew up with Muggles, is that true?”

This was… safe enough. Though something about this, the tone, the words, it distracted him from his theft long enough for him to reply, bitingly, “Why does that matter?”

Zabini arched one manicured brow.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, though his expression was guileless. “We’re just trying to get to know you better, Potter. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Harry, who had pretty limited experience when it came to making friends other than Granger and Weasley, couldn’t exactly refute this. So, he nodded, reluctant, slow. At least no one was saying anything about the bread in his pockets. Maybe he got away with it. Maybe no one had seen.

“Poor you,” Bulstrode said sympathetically, ignorant of Harry’s sweating palms. “I can’t imagine having to degrade myself like that. Picture having to eat with Mudbloods.”

A chorus of horrified shivers.

Davis looked away.

Harry’s hands tightened into fists; he didn’t like that word.

“They have different diseases, you know — my mother said.” Parkinson paused and appraised him a bit skeptically, “It’s a miracle you didn’t catch something there, Potter.”

“Maybe he did,” Crabbe snickered.

Harry felt his hollow cheeks turn red.

Goyle backhanded his fellow idiot across the chest at the same time Malfoy chided, “Quiet, Crabbe. If Potter’s caught something, it’s hardly his fault. It’s that horrible Dumbledore’s.”

Amidst all the other— bad topics being discussed, that particular one was a needle—point, stabbing him neatly and directly in the heart.

“Dumbledore…?” Harry rasped.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Malfoy questioned, one blond brow arched, looking genuinely surprised. “My father says Dumbledore is your magical guardian; the barmy old wizard dropped you there, apparently. Merlin knows why.”

Maybe Merlin knew, but Harry certainly bloody hadn’t.

It was… him. This time, it wasn’t Harry, but all himhimhim — every wretched piece of it was all Dumbledore’s fault. The source of all of his pain, all of his fear. The bloody reason the Otherness — the Obscurus — formed in the first place. The reason he’d been put with his fucking relatives, subjected to Aunt Petunia’s shrill insults and Dudley’s cruel laughter and Uncle Vernon’s heavy hand.

hisfault— his fault—hisfault

The boy searched through the many faces across the Great Hall until his gaze landed upon their Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore himself, and something Dark inside of him — sharpened.

Harry was jolted out of his Darkness with something terribly… mundane. Normal.

“Have you started studying for the Potions test next week?” Zabini asked casually, blowing on a spoonful of hot pea soup, “I heard we’ll have to brew by ourselves, no partners or anything.”

“I’m doomed,” Greengrass groaned.

“Why?”

“Have you seen my brewing skills?”

“Oh. Good point. You’re doomed, for sure.” Malfoy decided primly, expertly dodging a sausage link she threw his way. He glanced at Harry, winking, making him part of the joke, including him.

Harry’s lips twitched a little, kind of amused — and hating it.

“I bet I can guess who isn’t doomed,” Nott chimed in, looking oddly— smug? — when he said, “Pet Potter.”

All traces of amusement immediately disappeared. Harry’s eyes darted again, and his expression tightened. What the fuck did Nott just call him?

His fellow Housemates chuckled.

“Oh, there’s no shame in being a teacher’s pet, Potter.” Zabini drawled, seeing his expression. “We’re Slytherins, after all; take any advantage wherever you can.”

“It’s impressive, actually, seeing as how much Professor Snape hated your very existence only a month ago, but…” Malfoy shrugged and smirked slightly. “I suppose you’re lucky — or you just owe him big.”

Harry stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “…What?”

“I’m just saying that I’m sure Snape will pass you no matter what, what with all those extra tutoring lessons… You must owe him a pretty Sickle.”

Owe?

Harry, suddenly, couldn’t swallow. He could barely form the words to even ask.

Malfoy arched a mocking brow, “Come on, Potter, it’s not like you can expect to get all those extra tutoring lessons for free, can you?”

The others smirked pityingly at the so very stupid Half—Blood.

“What’s he asking for in return? Or are you paying him?”

“I…” Harry shook his head a little, tongue—tied, heart—twisted. “I don’t under—,”

“Well, someone has to pay him something, you know, Potter.” Malfoy rolled his eyes so condescendingly. “Professor Snape tutored me loads of times before I started at Hogwarts, and my parents always paid him generously — even though they were friends.”

There was so much to that statement that made that Dark something in Harry churn again. The fact that Malfoy knew Snape before Hogwarts, that they spent time together, that Malfoy’s rich parents were friends with him… it was almost too much to stand.

“You can’t just get special services like that for free.” Malfoy informed him lightly, “Don’t worry, Potter, maybe your parents can— oh, but wait. That’s right.” He smirked so nastily when he said, “Your parents are dead.”

Harry clenched his jaw. He didn’t have to stick around for this shit, and he wouldn’t. He would not. He was already walking away, wishing he could stop listening, wishing he was somewhere — anywhere — else when Malfoy called out behind him:

“It doesn’t matter how good you are at Potions, you know. He knows what you are, Potter, and he’s never going to like you.”

Nothing Severus did felt like enough.

Simply acknowledging the wrongs done against the boy couldn’t be enough, especially now that he didn’t even have retribution to distract him. The trouble was, he didn’t know what would be enough. He did not know how to do— this. He knew potions and violence and spells; yes, yes, he knew vengeance, but none of those things had any true use to the boy now. None of those things would make any genuine difference to him.

So how to help Potter now?

Severus had no fucking clue, and this irked him. Uselessness did not suit a man like him, and soon he found frustration tugging at him day and night, leaving him pacing—pacing—pacing once more. He could not rest until he helped the boy. Saved him.

Perhaps this desperate need, this horrible feeling within him was a need to seek penance for the wrongs he’d committed — both against the boy and his mother. Severus did not subscribe to a higher power, though his father had — in his own twisted way, and Tobias had instilled in his only son a desperate need to self—punish oneself, to pay for one’s crimes.

In his hands was such a fragile boy, falling apart at the seams, and he had no idea how to put him together again.

Severus’ only knowledge came from his own suffering, and that had taught him only to be bitter and cruel. He did not want that for the boy. He had such little experience in caring for other human beings that he was certain to fail and feared it to the point he woke up in the night, panting and sweating, not for the sake of his pride, but for further damaging the boy.

And yet, there was no one else.

The boy had no parents, no godfather, no real family or support anywhere; he had only Severus.

And since no one else was bloody here, no one else would fucking help, it had to be him.

So, Severus was determined to start small.

He had broken it down into the most simplistic terms: children required food, shelter, sleep, and clothing. Seeing as how Hogwarts had three—quarters of these needs already met, this left the remaining job to Severus.

Clothing. For an eleven year old boy. Yes, he could do that. For some time now, he had noticed the boy’s appalling state of dress — had mocked him, even, for it. If anything, it made him doubly eager to right this wrong, now that he knew the true reason was neither Muggle fashion or blatant disrespect but obvious neglect. What a fucking fool he had been,

All the same, he couldn’t very well take the boy to Diagon Alley or even Hogsmeade when there was so much fuss about the prized Boy Who Lived. A catalogue would do the job fine for now, until the summer and his new guardians had the chance to take him shopping. Taking a wild guess at his size for an entirely new wardrobe was a hassle but it was a necessity, and the very least he could think to do.

What Severus didn’t expect was for the Potter boy to show up on a Wednesday evening, pale—faced, shoving the box of his new clothes right back at him.

“No,” Potter said only.

For a moment, Severus could only just frown down at the boy before asking flatly, “What?”

“No.” His voice was quiet but no less strong. “I don’t want— any of that.”

“Mister Potter.” Severus drew in a long and steadying breath through his nose. He really thought he deserved to be congratulated for how well he was managing to keep his patience. “I am unsure as to whether you intend to sound so thankless or not, but I took significant time out of my day to allocate and purchase better fitting clothes for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

And there went his patience. Severus instantly narrowed his eyes, “You ungrateful brat, I swear if this is because you didn’t get to choose the style or fashion—,”

The boy’s face went red with embarrassed indignation, and Severus winced instantly to himself. Damn it. He had once again let himself forget how little the boy was like his father.

“You needed new clothes, I acquired them on your behalf; it’s that simple.”

“No,” he repeated, infuriatingly.

Severus couldn’t help but scathe, “What are you saying, Potter? You actually enjoy walking around in those pathetic rags you call clothes?”

The boy flushed and tugged self—consciously at his oversized sleeve, ducking his head to hide his face. Bloody hell. Severus was no good at this, no good at all. The man sighed and massaged at his temple. He knew he sounded too harsh, too cruel, so he softened his tone as much as he was currently able.

“It is not acceptable, Potter, how your relatives have chosen to clothe you.” Quietly, he questioned the boy, “Don’t you want to get new clothes that fit you properly?”

And just as quietly, the boy answered, “Yes, sir.”

“Very well then—,”

“But I didn’t want you to.”

Teeth grinding hard enough to make his jaw sore, Severus found himself on the verge of losing his patience altogether, “For Merlin’s sake, why not, boy?”

Potter flinched again, muttering, “It’s nothing—,”

“Potter.”

“Nothing, it’s just ‘cause—,”

“What?”

“B—Because—,”

“Just tell me, damn it!”

“I’ll not have you take it out of my hide!” The boy suddenly yelled, louder than he’d ever been.

Instantly, Severus recoiled. For a moment, he could only stare at the boy in utter bewilderment. Take it out of his—? He had no idea where this had come from, but such an earnest statement with such particular phrasing clearly did not originate from the boy himself.

“Potter, what—?”

“I’m not stupid — okay?” The boy sniffled and wiped his nose roughly on his sleeve. “I know the clothes come with expectations because stuff always comes with strings attached. Nothing ever comes for free. Everything costs something. And I—I don’t know what you want, sir, but I can’t give it to you, okay?”

“Harry.” He exhaled heavily, feeling suddenly so very exhausted. “I do not expect repayment or anything else so absurd from you. The thought never occurred to me, I assure you. I am only… I’m trying to do the right thing by you.”

Harry stared at him, full of distrust, backing away slowly. “No one does the right thing.”

Then, the boy turned and fled.

Dark.

The world was dark. The dungeon was dark. All dark. He was all dark.

He didn’t need Snape’s pity. He didn’t need Snape’s charity. And he certainly didn’t need to owe the man anymore than he already did. He felt angry and humiliated and stupid because obviously he would owe Snape something. After everything he’d done for Harry? It was only right; it was only fair. The trouble was, he knew what owing people things meant — he knew the beatings, the hunger, the labour that went into paying off his debts.

He fought his way down the damp corridors, path only lit by the flickering fire of the scones, struggling to breathe. It felt like the old days, old times, making himself hidden and smaller in whatever darkness surrounded him, wishing he would fucking disappear.

Harry couldn’t owe Snape anything.

He couldn’t.

He’d only disappoint him.

He’d only get disappointed.

And then, without full knowledge of how he got there, Harry was back, hollow, and his tiny section of the First Year dormitory had been—

Trashed.

His mattress leaked stuffing; not done by a knife, a wand and a simple spell did the damage just fine. His trunk, his already raggedy clothes, his textbooks, everything was torn and ripped, stomped on and spit on. One of Harry’s charcoals had been smeared all over his half—falling green bed curtains, words as slashes — written:

Did they come here together after dinner?

Did they come here together to ruin his things, laughing?

Nothing ever gets better.

Harry stood in the middle of his dorm, shaking. He gasped in four deep swallows of air, hacking and coughing on it. A thousand bees buzzed in his ears. The freakishness was sharpening its claws, gathering venom. Every part of him was singing. The music was starting. That was dangerousdangerousdangerous.

And who fucking cared?

Nobody.

The boy dropped to his hands and knees on the ground and crawled through the carnage, ignoring it all in favour of finding two very important things. He heaved at the dented trunk and flipped it upside down, pushing and pulling, until the lid gave.

A little sound, a cry, escaped his trembling mouth.

His sketchbook was gone. His drawings — old and new, all shredded.

And his potions for his scars, the little carton of vials, stomped on and shattered and emptied out, glass smashed to bits, a thousand stars, a thousand daggers.

Harry was wrong: he was stupid. So fucking stupid. Why did he ever listen to Snape? What was he trying to do, anyway? Thinking things could be any different? Telling him to breathe. Telling him to make the world small. Telling him that he wasn’t a freak. What a load of shit.

His shoulders trembled with the weight of his sobs, heavy and heaving, so angry, aching with it. Hands shaking, he gathered up the torn shreds of his sketches, kicked the dented trunk away, and stood up. He closed his streaming eyes, hugged the remains close to his chest, and tried to focus only on not screaming as loud as he possibly could.

Harry was dark, dark, all dark, becoming darker all the time. He was slipping, losing control, losing hold of this thing inside of him that thought he could get better. His five senses were lost. His world was too big. He had to remember how stupid he was, how fucking stupid — pathetic, disgusting, weak—

But then, Harry stopped.

Stupid and pathetic and disgusting, he may be, but he was — not — weak.

A sparkling wave of glass was beneath his feet, and he ground down into it, let his skin soak up the sea. He could grind the glass into his face, erase his eyes, choke down the shards and disappear from the inside. The pain wouldn’t hurt him, not like it would normal people, good people, not freaks like him. Freaks who had monsters living inside of them, hungry and revengeful and the very opposite of weak.

“You are a very powerful young wizard,” Snape had said.

Why bother fighting it? Why bother believing he was anything but this? He could remind them — show them fucking all — how very powerful a Freak like him could be. Yes, goodbye, yes, give in. No matter how painful, it was all so easy. The tremble started in his hands. The muscles in his back spasming. His fragile, aching body twisted and shook, and his once green eyes blackened as his atoms and molecules shifted into something toxic, something dangerous.

How powerful am I?

How powerful am I!

The room imploded, wood splintering and glass raining over him.

Give him more, give him more splinters and glass and painpainpain, he could swallow it all — as he always had.

When the Otherness finally took over, it felt like home.

Harry laid in the Hospital Wing for days.

He didn’t feel like waking, he didn’t feel like talking, he didn’t even feel like moving. He had stayed asleep for as long as possible, no doubt helped along with some sedation potions or some other magic. Sometimes, unconsciousness didn’t feel any better than the alternative. Reality haunted him, chasing him awake or sleeping. He wished he could open his eyes. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He heard the sound of crying again and realised for the first time that it was him.

Harry was crying.

The boy didn’t know many hours or days had passed before he woke from his latest— outburst, but he knew instantly where he was by the familiar white cot and the usual Hospital Wing clamour — hushed voices and clinking potion vials and pots clanging against trays.

The scent of food seeped through the privacy screens — bacon, pancakes, porridge, tea and coffee. Too, the faint yet lemony scent of healing magic. Beyond these screens, in the real world: one student complaining of boils from a hex gone wrong, Madam Pomfrey scolding another for not holding still, the whispers of friends coming to cheer a patient up. And then there was the almost imperceptible rhythm of students passing the Hospital Wing all together, either on the way to classes or Quidditch practise or a game in the courtyard.

Life just went on, just happened, continuing as always. Normal. And he couldn’t shake the knowledge that life would just keep on happening, regardless if he woke up or not. Obscenely normal.

It felt worse this time around.

Everything hurt — like he’d been trampled by a herd of trolls or chewed up by one of Hagrid’s creatures. He felt around his aching body with his hand and an unfamiliar pain shot up his arm. His hands were bandaged from his fingers to his wrists, and his chest felt flayed of skin. He tried to move his legs to get out of the cot, but they were so sore— no, they felt broken, bones crushed in his limbs. And his jaw ached like a mouthful of cavities.He wanted to swallow, but his throat was scraped raw — from screaming, probably.

So as he stared at the faraway ceiling, he thought: make it small.

Harry was good at making himself small; he did it sort of a lot. He curled in on himself, tucking in his arms and legs, to protect his stomach, craning his neck low to protect his head. Disappear—disappear—disappear. For hours, he drifted in and out of sleep, his face rolling against the scratchy linen, his body throbbing, the pain cresting and receding like the waves of the sea. His hands drifted under the new jumper Snape must’ve dressed him in, skimming over the bandages there.

So full of scars, he wondered if he had any no room left.

When he woke next, Harry realised he had to go to the washroom.

I have to go to the washroom.

And of course no one answered — because he had not said it out loud.

With a faint groan, he forced himself to sit up and his bones wailed in defiance, like he was hundreds of years old. It was nighttime. The Hospital Wing was quiet. All he could see from the window was blackness, shadowy trees.

He had to go to the washroom.

Gingerly, Harry eased himself over to the side of the cot, biting his lip to keep from crying out, feeling the stretch and sting of his bandaged skin. He hauled his legs out of the starchy blankets and leant forward to stand up. But as soon as his toes touched the stone, lightning cracked up from his feet. He pitched forward, unable to stop himself, smashing his already aching hands and mouth onto the hard floor.

He cried out despite himself, inhaling dust and starting to choke.

Hands instantly rolled his body over, brushing any grime from his mouth and hospital clothes.

Harry blinked through the dust and found, above him, was Snape, expression was grim and resigned. He was at once terrified and yet also resigned that his professor would be angry at him. No, not just angry — furious. Because he had let the Otherness in. He had let the Obscurus win. Againagainagain. When Snape had been working so hard, putting in so much effort, to fix Harry. But Harry was unfixable. Irreparably broken and beyond saving.

It was okay for Snape to hate Harry again. He understood. He’d hate himself too.

The eleven year old waited, his weight mostly supported by Snape, for the man to start beratingshoutingscreaming, but all he said was this:

“Do you require the facilities, Mister Potter?”

Dehydrated and dizzy, Harry was relieved he didn’t have to explain, and he willingly let Snape guide him to the washroom. When he was finished, as the man helped him back to the cot, Harry decided not to ask questions — how long he had been here, what was going to happen now, why Snape wasn’t screaming — none of it; he decided not to speak at all.

“Stomping in the glass, that was a nice touch, Potter.” Snape’s tone was sarcastic but not mean — so very far from mean. “Madam Pomfrey has done what she could for your feet, but I’m afraid you’ll be paying for that for a while.”

Harry wasn’t so concerned; he had dealt with worse than stinging feet.

Once Harry was tucked back into the cot, Snape took his place in a rich—wooden chair he hadn’t noticed until just now. The man studied him for a while, those black eyes watching from overtop two pale steepled hands. He spoke again eventually, but only after what felt like a very long time.

“The matron was concerned, but I informed her that you may be quiet again for a while.”

Yes. Harry would be quiet, yes. He wasn’t sure if he was ever going to speak again — to anyone. Really. What was the fucking point?

“That’s all right, Potter.” Snape’s voice was growing softer and softer. “You take as long as you require.”

The boy wiped his face, hard, with the palms of both hands, letting the soft gauze of his bandages mop up the tears and snot and dust.

“Rest, Mister Potter.”

Yet he didn’t take his eyes off the man, suddenly terrified again: terrified he would leave, terrified he would be left alone.

And Snape seemed to understand that somehow, for his eyes flickered strangely and he murmured, “I won’t be going anywhere. I’ll stay right here, watching over you. Now go to sleep, Potter.”

Harry did.

They kept the boy in the Hospital Wing for days — ‘he needed time to heal’, they said which Harry understood was code for, ‘they needed time to figure just the fuck to do with him’. Murmurs from around the Hospital Wing reached him slowly, as though through a long tunnel. Words funneled around him: needs to rest/needs to move/needs to be contained/needs to be controlled/poor, poor Harry.

He felt weak and sick and feverish, but with time and potions, he began to feel a bit less shit. The damage to himself likely had nothing on the damage done to his dormitory — and his things, whatever little was left of it. Ohgod. Every time he remembered the destruction, he felt the freakishness rise up in him again, howling and angry. He pressed his hands hard against his eyes.

Harry did cry some in the dark, face buried in the pillow and blankets to hide the tears. It was fucking humiliating. But Snape never said anything; he just let Harry make noise.

Snape sat with him most days, before and after classes, and long into the night — maybe all night, Harry couldn’t be sure. All he knew was: when he fell asleep at night and when he woke again in the morning, Snape was still sitting right there.

Other people had been asking after him — students (like Granger and Weasley) and professors (like McGonagall and Quirrell) and even horrible Headmasters who stuck their noses in where they weren’t bloody wanted.

Harry, right now, didn’t give a shite about any of them.

Except Snape; thankfully, everyone else pretty much left him alone.

Until the third day, when the curtain pulled away, and the most unexpected person showed his very much unwanted face.

“Er… Hi Potter.”

It was Malfoy. Bloody, fucking, shit—talking Draco Malfoy who smiled and shook his hand and said he wanted to be friends… all before he led a posse to their dormitory and destroyed all of his stuff. Harry felt every aching muscle in his body seize, coiled as if to strike, but he wouldn’t. Not now. He was tired.

Malfoy looked uncomfortable under Harry’s dead—eyed stare.

Fucking good.

“If it makes you feel any better, Professor Snape’s basically murdered us. We’ve all got in—school suspension; Nott suspects we’ll be washing bedpans and cauldrons ‘til we graduate. Too, I heard Professor Snape was pushing for expulsion, but Dumbledore refused to go for it. Can you believe that? The Slytherin Head of House demanding expulsion of his own Snakes and the Gryffindor Headmaster not allowing it—,” Malfoy forced an awkward chuckle, “What a topsy—turvy world we’re in.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“So — about your things.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, hiding his eyes against the pillow. That dark something, tired though it was, roared back to life.

“I… It wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t know what to say— how to stop them. I guess… Perhaps I should’ve done something.”

Harry didn’t want to be listening to this either. This had happened to him too many times before. It was bloody pathetic. Just like that time with Dudley; in the summer when they were eight, he’d been almost sort of nice because he’d not had anyone else to play with. They spent all day in the playpark, running and laughing, but Harry had known it was too good to last. Because when Aunt Petunia arrived to call them in for dinner, without any warning at all, Dudley had pushed Harry against a tree and punched him so hard that Harry’s tooth chipped.

But Draco Malfoy was clever, far smarter than Dudley ever would be, and he’d actually managed to make Harry sort of believe — even if for just a few minutes.

And then that pain in the center of his body, from the depths of his insides, restarted its torture as if on cue.

“Leave me alone,” Harry whispered.

Malfoy fidgeted, stepping closer, “Potter…”

“Just— get out!” Harry broke and covered his face with both hands, unable to look at that face, “Please get out—!”

Snape was there suddenly, his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder and guiding him far, far away.

In the aftermath, Harry laid small and alone. He sucked in breath to stem a fresh wave of sobs. He was so tired. Tired of trying. Tired of fighting. Tired of everything. His nose leaked — disgusting. His eyes throbbed with the effort of holding back tears. He curled up as tight as he could manage, clutching his knees to his rattling chest, rocking back and forth on the hospital cot.

A hand touched the top of his messy head, and he flinched.

It was Snape.

Quietly: “All right?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder. Snape knew him well enough by not to accept that was the only answer he was going to get. They sat in silence for a while, just long enough for the boy to pull his shit together (because honestly, this was getting bloody embarrassing). Fuck’s sake.

“I apologise,” said Snape eventually, “I don’t know how he got in, but it seems he was determined to speak to you.”

“I don’t know why,” Harry grumbled, scrubbing at his face.

“I confess I’m as equally unsure — seeing as how all he managed to do was upset you further.”

“I’m fine.” Harry said quickly, defensively.

His Head of House arched one dubious brow.

“I’m — fine.” He repeated tersely.

His professor’s concession was clear in his silence. Then, after a time, he asked, “Are you ready to discuss— matters?”

No. But would he ever be? Probably not. So better to just get it over with, Harry supposed. Besides, his professor cast a Privacy spell so at least nobody was going to overhear whatever embarrassing shite that had to be said. Snape took his next shrug as an answer and immediately got to business.

“For their actions against you, your dormmates have been punished, and the matter is being dealt with, not precisely to an extent of my liking — but alas, it’s out of either of our hands now. Yes?”

Harry was feeling a bit dazed so he really could only nod.

“Yes.” Snape nodded, charging onward steadily, “I recognise now is not the time to discuss everything. We will have a conversation regarding the matter of the clothes, and replacing your other belongings, in the future. For right now, we must discuss the immediate and most pressing matters.

“I want it known, Potter, that you’ve made impressive strides in your work with beginner’s Occlumency, but the various external factors have done you no favours. That being said, we’ve realised that perhaps we may not be doing everything we can to deal with the Obscurus. So we’re calling in an expert. Perhaps he will have better ideas of— how to help you— better than I do.”

If he hadn’t been watching so closely, if he hadn’t spent so much time with the man lately, Harry would’ve missed the slightest wince that crossed Snape’s face at those words before it disappeared again.

In the lapse of silence between them, Harry could only think about how much of a bloody problem, an inconvenience, a fucking hassle, his entire existence was. Surely that wouldn’t come without its due consequences.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not….” Snape looked slightly surprised, but his voice remained careful, “In trouble, no. Though I must warn you, Potter, things will be changing. I see now that it was irresponsible of me to keep you living amongst your tormentors, no matter how much I berated and punished them. It was foolish, and it won’t happen again.”

The skin on his brow creased, and something frightened crept into his heart.

Then what would be happening?

“The Headmaster has come to the decision that it is no longer viable — that is, safe — for you to remain in the dormitory.”

“Oh,” it was the only thing he could think of to say.

Bad. Freak. Harry clutched his hands tight to his chest. He understood now that the only thing he could do was try not to cry again, like a bloody idiot.

“When…” He cleared his throat, hard. “When do I go back?”

Snape blinked, nonplussed.

Harry wrung his hands against his sternum, achingachingaching.

“Back— where, Potter?”

Sometimes Snape seemed very smart, but other times — the man seemed frankly dense. Not that he would ever tell Snape that. Shit. It was dangerous to even think that. Could Snape read minds without even saying that spell? He really, really hoped not. Ohgod.

Snape’s eyes were narrowing. “Mister Potter—,”

“Back to the Dursleys’,” he mumbled out the words as fast as he could, head down, eyes back on his lap.

Silence. After a moment, Harry chanced a glance up, just in enough time to see a flash of shock slither across Snape’s face before it disappeared completely.

“Potter, I—,” Snape paused and cleared his throat too. “Harry.”

Now, Harry was the one shocked. Did Snape just—?

But the man didn’t give him any time to consider that because he quickly went on, “Listen to me when I say this: you will not be going back to your relatives. Ever. Do you understand?”

Harry’s breath caught. This was what he had wanted for so very long, and yet he couldn’t believe it. Especially not from this man — who had done so much for him — who he had let down so completely — who he apparently owed — who hated him just a few months ago.

“No…” That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be.

“You will not go back to your deplorable relatives, and you cannot remain in the dormitory with the other boys. However, you can’t be left to your own devices; you are only eleven and, quite honestly, a bit of a safety risk right now. Someone needs to keep an eye on you. Someone with the proper qualifications and knowledge to assist you in times of discomfort or stress; someone who can— protect you. As it stands, there is only one person who fits those specifications.”

Harry couldn’t understand, he couldn’t even begin to guess— “Who?”

“Me.” Snape leant forward in his chair, gaze intent and serious and darker than any cupboard, “The Headmaster and I have decided that you will move in with me for the foreseeable future. Is that acceptable with you?”

Harry barely needed the time to consider.

Yes. It was acceptable.

Chapter Text

Harry was toxic; he was waste.

He was bad things happening, and all the things wrong in the world.

But his friends didn’t see it that way. As soon as the adults in power determined he mostly wasn’t a risk anymore, Weasley and Granger were allowed to come visit — which they did with a speed that shocked Harry. They practically sprinted over to his bedside and crawled all over it, planting themselves on the little cot, smothering him with their worries and comfort and questions.

Once all had been updated and reassured, Harry decided to share the upcoming changes— with Snape.

Of course he should have expected his friends’… less than understanding response.

“You’re moving in with Snape?!” Weasley leapt from the cot, his face turning red with his outrage, “Are you completely mental?!”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” Harry muttered under his breath.

Weasley positively gaped.

“Oh, Harry…” Granger fretted meanwhile, scooting closer. “Did the Slytherins kick you out?”

Harry wrapped his arms tight around his belly, shoulders tucking in a little. “No, it’s… not safe for them— to have me around. That’s why I have to move.”

“Oh,” her lips formed the word, if not the sound.

“But to move in with Snape?” Weasley couldn’t get past that, horror tattooed onto his face alongside every freckle. “Mate, he’s nasty!”

“No, he’s not!” Harry suddenly shot back, angry, something ugly curling in his chest.

“Yes, he is, Harry, and you know it. He’s been a right git since the start — maybe not to the Slytherins, but he is to the Gryffindors and he was to you!”

“He’s not anymore!” Harry argued defensively.

“Like that makes this so much better!” Weasley scoffed with flopped arms.

“I don’t know what it makes this, but I know he’s not awful to me anymore! It’s better… He’s better — to me.”

Brown eyes filled with worry, Granger bit her lip and asked, “Is Professor Snape nice to you, Harry? I mean, does he treat you all right?”

Harry flushed, feeling embarrassed and weirdly so. “Yea.” He whispered, “He’s… He’s the first adult to ever treat me so— good.”

“Merlin.”

Weasley’s horror had only grown, but it was the truth, and even if it was terrible, Harry knew it to his very bones.

Granger wondered, “Do you really trust him, Harry?”

Did he trust Snape? After everything that he’d been through, after all that happened, Snape had been there. Sometimes sneering. Sometimes snarling. But he’d been there, almost always, and most often, he… helped. Yea. Harry supposed he did trust Snape.

Severus was still seething.

Even all these days later, it boiled within him. The boy had already endured enough suffering for a lifetime, and then to come here — hoping for some fucking reprieve — only for a gang of eleven year olds to attack like sharks smelling blood. No. Severus couldn’t fucking stand it. To have found the boy like that, to have gone after him and seen him lying in a bloody pool of his own destruction, there were no words in the English language that could appropriately capture the depth of his fury.

It had been— apocalyptic. Truly.

In fact, it had been so terrible that Albus had even denied him entrance to the Headmaster’s office when he spoke to the boys himself.

A wise decision, perhaps.

Severus wanted to grind them all into pulp or burn them at the stake or feed them kicking and screaming to the fucking Cerberus. They were pleasant fantasies to soothe him as he sat at Potter’s bedside, at any rate. Unfortunately, the reality of their fates was a lot less satisfying… at least for Severus.

A majority of— well, everything in the dormitory was destroyed; the other First Year boys were not aware as to how or why precisely — as they did not know of the Obscurus — but they knew the school most certainly would not be replacing their beloved belongings. They could consider it an added punishment — on top of having to pay to replace all of Potter’s things.

For the rest of term, the five little bastards would be in Severus’ classroom — pickling, gutting, and scrubbing — from after classes until dinner, then from after dinner until curfew. They had been forbidden from attending any extracurriculars for the foreseeable future and were, instead, enlisted in service to Argus Filch. Not to mention, Severus took fifty points from each student involved, 250 in total, the first time ever Severus Snape had taken points from his own House.

Now, they were in the fucking negatives.

At least it had the beneficial side effect of public repudiation. The elder Slytherins had not responded kindly to the First Years’ misbehaviours (and the consequences caused), and so their own brand of social justice was inflicted behind closed doors. Despite his hours of ranting, Severus was not allowed to expel the horrible little brats, but perhaps it was better this way. When they were here, he could inflict a thousand little sufferings to make them ever regret fucking with that boy.

Still, Severus felt he needed to add a personal touch — and so he called each bit to his office for a… less than pleasant discussion. Draco Malfoy, he hosted first.

“You… called for me, Professor?”

Severus stared at the boy standing in the doorway, and to look him in the face nearly had him snarling. For the first time since he was a child, he felt he was at a real risk of releasing accidental magic. But that wouldn’t do, no. He needed to maintain control if only to get his message across. He hid all of his anger and fury behind his icy cold shields so only his cool, calculated wrath could remain.

Merlin’s sake, he felt he hadn’t Occluded this hard since his spy days during the fucking war.

“Sit down, Mister Malfoy.”

Severus watched from behind his shields as Draco crossed the office and made himself comfortable in Potter’s chair— wait. Just when the hell did he start considering that chair to be Potter’s? Something very strange was happening to Severus. But now was not the time to think about that. No.

Moving on.

He let the silence hang heavy between them, simply eyeing the boy who looked to be doing his level best not to fidget. Finally, the eleven year old broke the discomfort.

“We’re here to discuss Potter, aren’t we?”

Severus raised one imperious brow, “What gives you that impression?”

“Well. You’ve done nothing but glare at the whole lot of us since— well, it.”

He blinked, silent, waiting.

The boy would not hold up well under scrutiny; he never had and Severus intended to use this shamelessly. He knew he only needed to let time inflict its toll. Draco Malfoy would start spilling secrets soon enough.

The blond boy finally burst, “It wasn’t my idea.”

It was so very easy to break him. It was hardly even fun.

“No? Then whose was it?”

Draco fidgeted now, uncomfortable. It was perhaps not rule number one in Slytherin, but it was rather high on the list: you never betrayed a fellow Snake. But Harry Potter was a Snake too, and they had ground him into the dirt and laughed while they did. Severus could not — would not — let that stand.

When the silence stretched on, Severus’ eyes narrowed. “I know you, Draco, and I know your family. The Malfoys are many things; stupid is not one of them. Self—preservative, however, is. Answer my questions, and — perhaps — you will be spared the full force of my wrath.”

Draco slumped, defeated, bottom lip puckered out in a pout. Merlin, but these idiots were still only children.

“It was… Zabini. He was pis— that is, mad — about getting in trouble over the Boggart thing. But honestly, it’s not such a big deal as everyone’s making it, Uncle Sev—,”

“You will call me ‘Professor Snape’,” Severus hissed, the threat of venom slithering into his voice.

“Professor Snape, yes…” Draco’s face twisted unpleasantly. “It’s just… it’s only Potter.”

Severus’ expression darkened.

“How dare you. Never mind what you’ve all done goes against every code of Slytherin, but it goes against decency itself. Do you know the vilest thing a child like you can do, Mister Malfoy? It is to find someone smaller, quieter, lonelier than yourself, and to cause them more suffering — simply because you can. Which you and your fellow First Years have done. Repeatedly.”

Draco, clearly, did not get it. The boy only sighed and nodded unhappily. “I suppose it did start to feel sort of bad. I mean, there is something a bit pathetic about Potter.”

“Potter is not pathetic,” Severus spat.

Draco was dubious. “Is that why you’ve moved him out of the dormitory?”

“Do you dare speak such impudence to your other professors?” The boy’s sudden, embarrassed silence was answer enough. “I thought not. What is pathetic, Mister Malfoy, is your behaviour, and it disgusts me quite thoroughly.”

Having never looked smaller, Draco fretted, “Are you going to tell Mother and Father?”

“I assure you, I already have — as I have for all the parents of students involved.”

Minus Potter of course, Severus remembered with an internal wince.

“Furthermore, if I had my way, you all would have been out of Hogwarts with your wands snapped before you could have begged, ‘Please no, Professor Snape, sir’.”

The boy’s face crumpled as he whinged, “I just don’t understand, Uncle— I mean, Professor Snape. What happened? You didn’t like him either! Just two months ago, you hated his guts! You always said—!”

“I know what I said!” He shouted before drawing in a low, slightly unsteady breath. He needed to get a hold of himself. “Whether or not I ‘like’ Mister Potter is immaterial. Recently, I was reminded of my job description, not to mention how well my treatment of The Boy Who Lived will be received.”

He had to remember just whose son he was talking to. It never hurt to be too careful, at any rate…

“You, too, might find it beneficial to be in at least— neutral terms with such a famous figure.” He couldn’t resist sneering at that, even after all this time. “Both in the future, and in this school. What occurred might not have been your idea, but you readily went along with it. Due to your family’s position in our society, your fellow Slytherins will look to you — as an example. They will follow your lead, Draco, but only if you actually lead. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good because if you continue on the path you are now, I will be forced to continue on mine.” He leant forward in his chair, folded his hands upon his desk, dropped his voice so very low — the very picture of intimidation. “Remember this, Draco: if any of you cause Harry Potter more suffering, if any of you go near him, if any of you so much as look at him sideways — I will personally ensure that you suffer tenfold. Am I quite clear?”

A gulp. Then: “Crystal.”

“Good. Now send in Mister Nott.”

Harry felt— overwhelmed.

It was the only word he could think of to describe all of this, the horrible storm swirling and twisting inside of him. Moving into Snape’s home, moving into anyone’s home at all (with their unknown rules and conditions and expectations), he was more cautious and flighty than ever. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt— on the knife’s edge here, like he was crossing some invisible line, charging past a boundary and there was no going back.

Harry trailed very carefully, very quietly behind Snape through the dungeons, moving past the classroom and storeroom and office, and deeper and deeper still. He was trying to memorise his path (for the future, Snape said), but he was a little distracted by the pain that kept erupting through the soles of his feet with each step. His feet still ached something fierce; the broken glass had sliced them up pretty sufficiently. It seemed there were some wounds even magic could not fix: not when a wizard caused it on purpose.

Harry winced when they came to a sudden stop before a nondescript door made of weathered plank wood with a snake door knocker. Interestingly enough, there was no door handle. Like, anywhere.

“There is a password that grants entrance.” Snape cleared his throat and glanced back at the boy who nodded, “You need merely say ‘Asphodel’.”

With that, the door swung open, and Snape led him inside without further ado.

“Well then, Potter. These are my… chambers.”

He didn’t say ‘home’.

Harry wondered why.

He wondered a lot of things.

Harry stared at Snape for a long time, trying to figure it all out — not taking in their surroundings, his eyes locked only on him. Watching for sudden movements, any signs that he might lose his temper, any hint that he thought Harry deserved a lecture or a smack. Instead, Snape seemed… uncomfortable.

Harry couldn’t understand why, though.

With a muffled sigh, his professor waved his wand and the heavy door clicked locked.

Harry flinched at the sound and edged himself away, arms instinctively hugging around his belly. He immediately dropped his gaze back to the floor, ashamed of himself — but for what, he didn’t know exactly. For walking straight into a trap? For trusting Snape? For not trusting Snape? For flinching at all?

Snape apparently had caught his movement. “I see that I must explain, Potter. When I lock the door, it is not to keep you in but to keep others out. Do you understand?”

Harry inclined his head, eyes not leaving the floor.

The man sighed heavily. “It is not my intention to put you in another prison. We can leave whenever we want, but I will ask that you do not leave without me. I have been tasked with protecting you, and I will not allow any foolish Gryffindor behaviour in some vain attempt to emulate your father—,”

Snape cut himself off when Harry recoiled even more, chin practically against his chest. Why was he so angry? What had Harry done now? Was it because he didn’t really want him here?

The man sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I… yes, I apologise, Potter — again. I must remember that you are very little like him. I assure you, I will endeavour to do so in the future.”

No words, just overwhelmed—overwhelmed, over and over.

“Now, if you would allow me to show you around?”

Harry frowned. Why would Snape need Harry’s allowance to do anything? Still, he shuffled after the older wizard as he showed him his— home, or whatever it was. There was the sitting room with a fireplace and loads and loads of books, an office with a big desk and even more books, a washroom with a mirror, and a kitchen that wasn’t at all like his relatives’.

As he glanced round the stone floor, Harry wondered if he would have to do chores here too, like he did for his relatives. It made sense. How else was he going to earn his keep? Besides, he was real good at chores. At five years old, he could cook food and wash dishes and scrub floors and garden and dust and—

Snape motioned to a nondescript door next to the pantry, “Through this door, is the laboratory and my personal store cupboard which, to you, is strictly off—limits—,”

At the mention of a cupboard, Harry quickly backed up while he felt all the blood drain from his face.

Snape’s stern expression softened just a bit, “Though I do not imagine that will be a concern. However, if you have need of me and I am indisposed, you may knock on the door. I will hear you.”

Harry nodded a bit again, but promised silently to himself that he’d never ever do that. Not ever. He then followed Snape down a long hallway. Harry flinched with every sound of his stinging feet, hating how loud it was, how noticeable. He wanted to be invisible. He wanted to disappear entirely. There were only three doors: another washroom, a bedroom that Snape said was his (also strictly off—limits unless there was an emergency — whatever that meant), and then a final door at the end of the hall.

“And this,” Snape twisted the shiny brass handle and pushed open the squeaky door, “Will be your room.”

Harry’s eyes shot wide. His what? He had never had a room of his own before, not ever, not even at his relatives’. It was… brilliant. It was the same size of the First Years’ room in the Slytherin dormitory, only this was all his. It came with a large plush bed with the same green bed curtains, a dresser, a bookshelf, a wide desk… and Harry’s trunk — battered and busted, sitting at the foot of the bed, holding very little.

He was shaking hard; he didn’t know why.

“Potter?”

Harry didn’t look at Snape for several seconds before he got up the nerve.

“Are you quite all right?”

Harry wasn’t sure how to answer; he hoped Snape wouldn’t get mad at him for that. He carefully stepped further into His Room, holding his breath while he passed by Snape, and began his inspection. He ran trembling fingers over the top of the dark wood dresser and then dropped onto the bed, hearing the springs and feeling the mattress bounce underneath him. Then he turned his head to look out the window.

It was… a fantastic view.

It showed the Quidditch pitch with its many wood towers and colourful flags, tall hoops, and stadium seating.

Fresh air and daylight and the real world.

But it was all wrong. So, so wrong. Harry shouldn’t have this. Nonono. Freaks didn’t have real rooms — barely deserved real beds. After letting the Otherness in, after losing control again, he didn’t deserve any of this. Freaks shouldn’t forget their place. He hurriedly stood and wrapped his arms back around his stomach, hard and tight, stepping away from the bed.

Snape, though, seemed to understand somehow.

“Look at me.”

It took everything within Harry’s small body to force himself to look upward — at Snape. His feet, his stomach, his chest, his neck, then his mouth and nose and finally his eyes. His professor’s eyes were black like the bottom of a long staircase, but they didn’t feel dangerous, and they didn’t remind him of the Dursleys.

“This bed is yours, Potter,” he said. “Everything in this room is yours now.”

Over—bloody—whelmed.

The thing was, Harry J. Potter was different from other kids, and anyone good and pure could immediately sense this and would be repulsed. When he looked inside himself, he saw nothing but the freakishness, riddled with diseases and maggots and rot, and he was sure it must show when people saw him, so whenever he passed a mirror, caught his reflection by accident, and saw that he was neither as dirty or repulsive as he’d imagined, it gave him a start.

He felt that same surprise now.

Only this time — his outside nearly matched the inside.

After his first night at Snape’s, Harry looked at himself in the mirror. He had never had much of a chance at his relatives’, but he looked worse now than he ever did. He looked little more than a stranger. The Boy in the Mirror had overlarge green eyes, brittle curly hair that reached his shoulders, jutting cheekbones over hollowed cheeks, and yellowed skin that looked stretched too thin over his face. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

He understood, now, why the Dursleys always said he was an ugly little boy.

He was ugly.

Had he always been that ugly, even when his parents were still around?

Harry had taken his shirt off, too, glad for a door he could shut and lock. Ugly there, too. He trailed one crooked finger down his sternum to his ribs where he could count every single one — one, two, three, four, five, until he reached twelve on his left side. He had black webbed veins all over his frail chest along with the scars from Uncle Vernon’s punishments. Bruises were sore to the touch, and it looked like he’d reopened a few of his cuts in the night. Dried blood dirtied his skin.

Then again, it wasn’t like Harry was clean in the first place.

His stomach growled mutinously.

When he could put off eating no longer, Harry pulled his shirt back on and forced himself to be brave. His bandaged feet padded silently down the hallway, and he found Snape sitting in the kitchen with a plate of food and a cup of steaming coffee before him, engrossed in a newspaper. A black and white picture moved on the front page, eyeing Harry suspiciously. The boy didn’t know what to do. He lingered awkwardly in the doorway. He couldn’t go in, not without express permission.

It took only a minute or two for Snape’s eyes to dart over the top of his paper. Very calmly, he said, “Good morning, Potter.”

Harry just dipped his head in greeting, but he didn’t speak— or move.

Snape raised one of his heavy brows, “Cease loitering there immediately, boy, come in quickly.”

Relieved, and hiding a wince at the name, Harry obeyed. He eased himself into the only empty chair, folding his hands neatly in the space provided. Most of the table was full already, cluttered with two cauldrons (pewter and brass), stacks of books, rolls of parchment, and a few terracotta pots. It was organised but busy; like Snape, sort of.

“Now, Potter,” said the man himself, folding his newspaper into two neat creases. “You can see that there are numerous vials beside your cup. Those are your potions, prescribed to you by Madam Pomfrey. The red vial is a Stomach Soother and the green is a Nutrient Potion; both of which you should take before you eat. Do not consume the Bone Strengthening nor the Nerve Regenerator on an empty stomach. I assume you’ll recall these instructions during our next meal?”

Harry nodded just slightly, hiding a grimace when he chugged down the first two. The potions tasted disgusting, obviously, but he was mostly okay at hiding his thoughts about that. The Dursleys didn’t like ungrateful boys, and he didn’t think Snape would feel much different… though they weren’t very similar, the Dursleys and Snape.

“Good. Typically, we will eat whatever meal is being served in the Great Hall, but for today, you’ll have eggs and dry toast for breakfast; no need to overdo it.”

Harry jumped when a plate of food appeared on the table in front of him, just like the trays had the day he had lunch in Snape’s office.

His stomach growled again with need.

No more hesitation.

Immediately, Harry began scooping the scrambled eggs with a spoon and shovelling them into his mouth. A few bits fell out here or there, but he was quick to pick them up with his fingers and eat them. He was not wasteful, no. After a childhood of not knowing when he would next be allowed to eat, he knew he couldn’t ever afford to waste a single bite. He was so distracted with eating, he didn’t notice Snape looking at him with something akin to horror.

“God’s sake, Potter, stop that, why don’t you just—,”

Harry froze, spoon halfway to his mouth, startled and face stricken.

Was Snape going to take the food away? Had he earned punishment already?

But the man only sighed, readjusted the fork in his hand, and then pressed his lips into a very thin line. “That is… Oh, never mind. As you were.” Harry blinked, unsure what he meant, and somehow Snape sighed even heavier, “I mean, continue eating, Potter. It’s fine.”

So, Harry did. A bit slower now, even if it was hard; the eggs were so bloody good.

“As you eat, there are a few things we need to discuss moving forward.” Snape was using his lecture voice, which didn’t bode well for the next few minutes. “First, I think it important for us to talk about how we are to… co—exist here. For as long as we are sharing a space, I believe it will benefit us both if there is a clear and well—defined list of rules set into place.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that, in fact, he felt most relieved as Snape continued.

“You know already which rooms in my chambers are off—limits so there is no need to rehash that. The fireplace is connected to the Floo network and so if you ever have need of me when I am not present, I give you permission to Firecall me — I will show you how in a few moments. Next, you are to keep your room organised which means — no clothes on the floor, shoes put away, bed made every morning. Furthermore, I am not your slave or your maid, so I expect you to keep your area clean no matter what room you find yourself in.

“Finally, you will be eating all meals in these chambers from now on, and my schedule is as follows: breakfast at 7:30, lunch at 12:00, and dinner at 6:30. I expect you to be present at every one…” Snape paused, jaw clenching slightly while his eyes scanned the room as if looking for any other rules to pop out at him. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and decided, “Yes, I believe that’s it.”

Harry frowned and resisted the urge to say, ‘You’re shitting me, right?’

Surely there had to be more than that… He hadn’t even said anything about punishments if he did break one of those rules… Not that Harry was planning to, but it was good to know just in case… But Snape just moved swiftly on.

“Regarding your education, as of now you are… on probation, as they say. Your Obscurus has proved itself volatile, and we cannot in good conscience put other students at risk. If there’s another incident or if at any time a professor grows concerned, you will be removed from classes.” Snape eyed Harry keenly, voice gentling just a touch, “You understand this is not a punishment, don’t you, Potter?”

The boy bit his lip and nodded slightly. He understood it wasn’t… even if it felt like it was.

The man continued to study him for a moment, as if seeing right through him, as if knowing that Harry was a nasty, little liar. Mercifully, he didn’t comment on it.

“Besides having a professor to escort you in the corridors, we believe this will help.”

Then, with absolutely no warning at all, he reached into his pocket, drew out his hand, and then set on the table… a marble.

Harry blinked at the swirly green sphere for a good sixty seconds before he spoke, “Er… are you trying to make a joke, sir?”

Predictably, Snape rolled his eyes. “Hardly, Mister Potter. It’s a portkey, obviously.”

What the hell was obvious about that? And what the hell was a portkey?

“It’s a charmed transportation device. If you ever feel yourself becoming upset or distressed, you need only hold this and say the password — Effugio — so it will take you to a safe and private location. I have a corresponding marble which will alert me if you ever utilise it. Mind, it’s unregistered with the Ministry so you will need to keep it hidden.”

Harry’s brain was beginning to hurt. Snape was saying a lot of words and explaining a lot of things he didn’t totally understand so it was a bit hard to keep up. And about a marble, no less. Magic was really bloody confusing.

“Do you wish to discuss what your Housemates did?”

Harry’s expression curdled. He poked at his food. He mangled it.

“They will not be bothering you again. I have ensured it…” When there was no response, he charged on. “Now, I wish to talk about the clothes—,”

“I just,” the boy cut in, mumbling, “I wish I knew what I did to make them hate me,”

“Potter... You did nothing wrong. This is not your fault.”

“It’s gotta be, though… right? I mean, my relatives hated me, the Slytherins hate me, God— even you hated me!”

Snape leant in, expression twisted and voice insistent, “And I was wrong, Potter. Deeply, terribly wrong. I was… biased and rude and blinded by my own resentments. They are just the same; they will either learn that or they will leave you in peace. Either way, they are responsible for paying for the replacements of your belongings. I have taken the liberty of making the selections myself, however, I do hope you don’t mind.”

Snape was testing the waters, he could tell.

Harry didn’t react, picking at a hangnail on the side of his thumb.

“Potter, I... I apologise for my reaction regarding the clothes. I did not mean to distress you in the slightest; perhaps I ought to have handled it differently by discussing it with you. I know better now.” He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, spine not touching the back of his chair. “I bought you the clothes so that you would feel comfortable, not indebted. I did so because I wanted to, because it is my duty to take care of you; I had no alternative motives. Will you— agree to keep them?”

Harry studied the man.

Days — probably weeks — ago, perhaps without even realising it, he had decided to trust him.

The boy could do nothing now but nod.

Harry wore his new clothes a lot in the days that followed, jumpers and trousers and socks and shirts. They felt like a shield when he left Snape’s chambers, even if his return to classes was slow.

He knew loads of people were wondering where he’d gone off to, what had happened, what had become of him. It seemed no one had a straight answer. The corridors were filled with a river of bodies and voices whispering that Harry Potter murdered someone/no, Harry Potter was murdered/no, Harry Potter tried to murder himself. He got in a fight with a troll and lost. He set fire to the Slytherin dorms and stayed. He laid down in the tracks of the Hogwarts Express/jumped off a tower without a broom/strapped on a weight belt and dove into the Black Lake.

Harry Potter offered himself to the big, bad wolf and didn’t scream when he took the first bite.

It was worse hearing the whispers, and it was worse trying to prove them wrong.

Where did his bandages come from?
Why wasn’t he staying in the dorms anymore?
Why were the Slytherins ignoring him?

His only escape from it all was Snape’s chambers. During the week, his Potions Professor had a strict routine that he adhered to, and in turn, made Harry follow as well. Other children might have detested (resented) such rigidity, but, honestly, it made life for Harry easier.

He woke every day at 7:00 AM, made his bed and re—tidied his new clothes, and ate breakfast at 7:30. He let Snape escort him to Charms before he was marched through the rest of his morning classes by a rotating circuit of professors until lunch when Snape escorted him back to his chambers, and then he was marched through his afternoon classes until Snape returned to escort him back to his chambers again.

Snape had his office hours while Harry more or less did his homework. The man returned so they could share dinner. Snape went to his private lab and Harry sketched in the sitting room. Snape emerged from the lab at 7:45 PM so Harry retreated to his bedroom.

And then in the morning, they did it all again.

It wasn’t an overly existing existence, but at least he wasn’t having to look over his shoulder every five minutes. He had no need to use the marble thing — especially since all of the Slytherins from First to Seventh Year gave him a wide berth.

Harry, in turn, was doing the same thing to Snape.

He trusted the man, of course he did, but he also treated him with a certain wariness that he had not in weeks, or months really. Now they were in a private enclosed space, a home, and Harry had never done well in homes. They were scary. Dangerous. Badbadbad. He felt cautious here, like one wrong move might make the man kick him out or change his personality entirely. Harry flinched around him, circled around him, obeyed the very few rules, kept mostly silent during meals unless he needed to speak when spoken to, and every time Snape returned from his lab, Harry retreated to his (his!) bedroom.

It was in the second week, on a Thursday, that Snape finally stopped him with:

“And where are you going, Potter?”

“Erm…” Harry froze halfway down the corridor, retracing just a few steps to meet Snape’s eyes in the firelight. “To my— to the room?”

That same brow arched again. “Interesting things to do there, have you?”

He’d hovered uncertainly in the doorway, hands wringing, unsure what to do or say. “Not really…”

“Then perhaps you might find something of more interest out here.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “I can sit out here? With you?”

Snape gave him that look again, the one that made him feel impossibly stupid. “Obviously.”

Personally, Harry didn’t think it so obvious, but he didn’t bother saying so. He made sure to make himself as unobtrusive as possible when he sat on the sofa across from Snape’s armchair. The boy drew his legs up to his chest and rested his cheek on his kneecap, drawing little patterns on the soft texture of the cushion with his finger.

Even though the fire was going, Harry felt the cold settle in his bones and he tried to breathe through the instinct to shiver — that would be way too obtrusive. The dungeons were permanently damp and frigid, especially now they were in the winter months, and Snape’s rooms felt even more so — without the hundred or so Slytherins to warm it. There was just Snape here… and Harry, too, yes.

And yet Snape’s voice made him jump when he demanded, “Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine,” Harry answered a little too quickly. Don’t complain, don’t complain. Don’t be so fucking ungrateful, you little brat.

“Don’t lie to me, Potter.” The man cautioned sternly, eyes narrowed. “Not even about small things. If you are cold, you need merely to say so.”

With a flick of his wand, a blanket came flying across the room and smacked Harry straight in the face. He sputtered through the fabric and managed to shoot his amused—looking professor a small glare… even as he wrapped himself in it. It was a quilt, Harry noted, and it was… lovely.

Hand—sewn, he could tell.

It was made of hundreds of patches, all different patterns and colours, and he wondered where the hell it had come from — and who the hell had made it. It didn’t seem at all like a Snape thing to have. He eyed Snape overtop the green paisley square and wondered if his severe Potions Master was a secret seamster (i.e., a male seamstress, he overheard that on the telly once). It didn't seem likely.

From then on, they stayed up together, most nights and mostly in silence, Snape reading or grading and Harry sketching or reading, until the fire in the hearth shrunk real low. Then, they each murmured a quiet goodnight before shuffling to their respective bedrooms, and if Snape noticed Harry taking the quilt with him that first night, he didn’t mention it.

A new routine had been started.

Harry recognised that this new— situation was a good one, and he knew he needed to make up for it in some way. It was like Malfoy said. It was like Aunt Petunia said. He needed to earn his keep. He knew it wasn’t pleasant to live with a freak like him so he’d best make the time worth it. And maybe… along the way… convince Snape to keep him around somehow. This would be a start at any rate.

Of all the different household chores, Harry liked baking best (cakes, biscuits, pies, puddings, what have you), and it was his one accomplishment that the Dursleys never ever complained about.

He thought — hopedprayedbegged — that Snape might agree.

So, after he’d been escorted back to Snape’s chambers after classes, he got to work.
He made gingersnaps; one reason being that he knew the receipt by heart and another being that he thought Snape was the type of bloke to like something bitey like ginger. All he could do was hopepraybeg. When Snape finally caught him over an hour later, Harry was just pulling the biscuits out of the oven, red—faced and hair—frizzed.

“What…” The man’s black eyes darted about the kitchen, taking it all in with a growing, mildly bewildered look, “Is all this?”

Harry rushed to reassure, “I’ll clean the mess, Professor, I promise.”

“See that you do, but I can’t help but wonder what the mess is in aid of?”

Harry nervously bit his chapped and sore lip. “Do you like biscuits, sir?”

Snape’s brow wrinkled slightly and his voice was one of extreme uncertainty when he replied, “I… suppose… Though I don’t often eat sweets, Mister Potter…”

Harry deflated, “Oh.”

Snape winced but moved on. He strode over to the dining table and opened one of the many books he had present, clearly intent on ignoring the discomfort of having an eleven year old cook for him. Harry buried a sigh and plated the biscuits for the table, shuffling his way around the kitchen to clean. When the job was done to even Aunt Petunia’s standards, he sat at the table and scribbled half—heartedly in his sketchbook.

Until…

One pale hand slid out, cautiously took a biscuit, and put it to his lips. Chewchewchew — a pause (a startled one), eyes darting surprisedly from biscuits to boy, then — chewchewchew. A few moments later, the pale hand reached for another.

Harry buried his grin in charcoal.

He considered that a success.

It wasn’t enough though, he knew that. There wasn’t much Harry was worth, but there was some to be found in his talent for work. On a Saturday when he was trapped in the professor’s chambers with no escape, he decided to tackle his next task: cleaning. Honestly, it wasn’t so hard to get back into. Maybe it was even sort of nice — the routine, the familiarity — and not even for the thankless Dursleys, either.

Harry’d been at it all morning when Snape caught him again. His professor froze in the threshold, nearly skidding to a halt, and this time there was none of the bewilderment, only horror written across the man’s face.

“Potter… What in Merlin’s blessed name are you doing?”

Harry blinked and glanced around. He thought it was kind of obvious.

“Er… cleaning?” A sudden, horrible thought occurred to him, and his back stiffened, his spine like a broomstick. “Oh no, it’s not done right, is it? I wasn’t sure what you preferred — bleach or plain soap. I couldn’t find a lot of cleaning supplies around your house (I wasn’t snooping, sir!), but next time, I can do it different… o—or I can do it again now, if you’d prefer, sir? I can get right to it—,”

He bustled to get on with it, but the man raised a hand so fast that he actually flinched.

Snape winced at that.

Harry blushed.

“I…” He looked slightly uncertain as to what to say, which was pretty discomforting. Snape always had something to say. “I do not want you cleaning anything. You are to keep your room tidy and that’s it.”

“That’s not enough,” Harry didn’t understand.

“I don’t understand.”

Bloody hell, they were a disaster.

Face pinched, Snape continued, “You would like more things to clean?”

“Well…” Harry hedged, wringing his hands slightly, “I can do other things, sir. Like, I can cook your meals or polish your boots or do the laundry. I garden too, but I don’t see any plants around. I’m not so good at ironing yet, but I guess I could give it a go if you were that fussed—,”

“I am not fussed, I—,”

A great sigh.

Harry fretted.

“Potter.” Snape sounded exasperated — exhausted with him.

Harry shrunk into himself. He hated this.

“I was up very late last night working on potions for the Hospital Wing so perhaps I am not as quick on my feet as I usually am, but I find I have no bloody idea what you are talking about. You are going to have to help me. Why are you so intent on performing household tasks on my behalf? Are my living conditions so uninhabitable to you?”

Harry flushed, feeling faintly mortified. “No.”

“Then?”

“It’s just… I’ve got to earn my keep, sir.”

Snape looked as though they were speaking vastly different languages.

“Earn your keep?” He then drawled. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Harry had never needed to explain it before, and honest to God or Merlin or whoever, but he had no idea how. He just shrugged.

“Potter. Let me make this abundantly clear to you. You do not have to ‘earn your keep’ to live in my chambers. You are here because it’s the safest option.”

Harry frowned. “But I’ve got to.”

Snape still didn’t get it. “No, you haven’t. Forcing you to do menial tasks about my home would be taking advantage, and I refuse to do that. Honestly, Potter, it’s practically—,”

He went suddenly silent while a dawning light passed through his black eyes.

“Ah,” he said finally, “Did your relatives make you do many chores, Potter?”

Harry wrapped his arms tight around himself. He murmured, “I don’t wanna talk about them.”

“Merlin, must we play that infernal game again?”

Just to be difficult: “What game?”

“You know very well what game.” Snape’s eyes narrowed, “Quid Pro Quo.”

“No,” he answered, more petulantly than he really wanted to.

He was just— tired of talking about the bloody Dursleys all the time. But worse: if they played the game, then he’d have to answer even more bloody questions and give a lot more information than he wanted to. It would probably just be easier for Harry to answer this and get it over with… He wasn’t going to make it easy for Snape, though.

“I did chores, yea. But loads of kids do, don’t they? It’s normal.” He had no idea what was normal.

Snape merely hummed and took a seat in one of the armchairs, getting comfortable like they might be here a while. Bloody hell. Harry resisted the urge to groan too loud.

“And you did all those things at your relatives’ home, did you? Cleaning, cooking, polishing, laundry, and so on?”

“Yes…”

“I see. And what little tasks did your aunt use to fill her oh—so—very important time?”

“Erm…” He scratched the back of his curly head. “She made puddings? Entertained company, did the shopping and the bills, and she had the book club, too, yea… She kind of spied on the neighbours a lot — that took up loads of time.”

Snape lifted a brow — maybe that meant amusement? It was hard to say because his voice was very serious, “Yes, she sounds quite the busybody. And your cousin — Dudley, was it? — did he have many household chores to perform?”

Harry actually snorted at that. Dudley? Work? Ha—fucking—ha.

“I see.” Snape saw a lot, apparently. “So, while your aunt was preoccupied with spying on her neighbours and your cousin found joy in hounding your every step, you were busy slaving away at keeping their house running — in between being starved and shoved in a cupboard, of course. Oh yes, that sounds very fair to me…”

Red—faced, now breathing shallow, Harry felt very, very stupid. Snape had been weaving a web around him, trapping him in his own words and admissions, until he was proving the man’s own bloody point. Ugh. Just… ugh.

“Do you think that was fair, Potter?”

“I…”

“Do you?”

His lips formed a soft, silent, “No.”

“No.” Snape agreed grimly, eyeing him. “Do you think my home is anything like the Dursleys’, Mister Potter?”

“No!” Harry rushed to repeat.

“Then why do you want to treat it like it is?”

Harry had no response to this, no argument, no explanation to make Snape understand. He’s been hardwired to think this way. It was natural, it was instinctive. Maybe he’d been wired wrong.

“Is this in any way similar to the matter of the clothes?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Potter. I will tell you as many times as you need to hear it: you do not owe me anything — not for the clothes or the food or the room. Whatever I’ve done — it was my duty as your professor and Head of House. And my pleasure. Understand?”

“But…” He whispered faintly. “Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

“But— I know it puts such a strain on you, and you shouldn’t have to put up with—,”

“You do not strain me, child.” Snape groaned deeply. “Yes, there are times you vex me and, yes, there are times I think you’re going to turn me completely grey, but I am— glad to have you here."

Something in Harry’s chest, open and raw, felt a little more healed.

But then Snape said, “I believe I already mentioned something to you about duty…?”

Harry hid a wince and nodded a little, fiddling with his fringe, tugging on the loose curls.

Snape was studying him again, with those tunneling eyes that could see straight through him. He asked, “What words are in your head right now, Potter?”

freak — bad — nothing

For a moment, the world slowed. Snape’s quarters were silent, caught on the edge of breath, waiting for Harry to tell. He could try. Maybe not everything. Maybe just the names, the really bad ones, the names that stabbed him when he least expected. But the trouble was the same as it always was; he just didn’t know how. He felt trapped between worlds, with no compass, no map, no way out.

“I’d like to hear them.”

stupid — ugly — nasty

“I… dunno how to tell you. It just… it hurts.”

Softly, so softly, “What hurts, Harry?”

His name, his name, Snape said his name. This was enough to make him confess.

“Everything about me.”

hate — boy — unwanted

Snape crossed the space that separated them. His hands were gentle when they took the sponge and bucket from Harry’s white—knuckle grip, setting them on the floor, out of reach. The gentleness didn’t stop there. Snape’s hand was a reassuring weight, rubbing his shoulder… even though his shoulder wasn’t hurting at all. Harry liked it, anyway.

“Harry.” Snape said his name again. “When you look at yourself in the mirror, what do you see?”

“Nobody. Blank. Who cares.” He revealed, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

Silence—silence—silence. Then:

“I care.”

Harry looked up at Snape, and thought maybe the world could keep spinning.

Harry hated anticipation.

He felt sick with it.

He laid curled up on the large poster bed, the quilt burying him, the anxiety crushing him. Things had been better lately, so he wasn’t sure why his mood had shifted so completely. Maybe there was something about the unknown that penetrated the skin and infected— everything. A wave of nausea had rolled though his belly: sadmadbadworried. Everything gagged him. He choked and coughed.

If he had eaten anything today, it’d be coming up right now.

“Potter.” A quiet knock on his open door, a sliver of Snape’s face visible through the blanket. “The expert is here.”

The Otherness — the Obscurus — expert.

Heartbeat thrumming in his ears, Harry crept after Snape into the sitting room. He couldn’t resist bringing the quilt with him, feigning cold even though he felt quite toasty; the quilt just… brought him comfort. Standing by the hearth was a tall trim wizard, slightly hunched with age, but his freckled face was clean—shaven and his eyes were bright hazel — full of life.

Immediately, a smile stretched across his heavily wrinkled features.

“Hello, Mister Potter. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, but my close friends usually call me Newt. You can too, if you’d like.” He cocked his head, fluffy grey hair bobbing a little, “That’s what I would like, anyway.”

Harry didn’t respond, fidgeting, tugging on the sleeve of his new blue shirt.

Snape’s eyes darted from the boy to the expert, as if waiting for something to happen.

At least Mister Scamander didn’t seem to mind his silence.

“Would it be all right if we sat down?”

Harry immediately dropped to his arse on the floor, so fast and hard that it kind of hurt actually, but this spot was better. There was the sofa and two armchairs, and he didn’t want to take any of those. The armchairs seemed meant for the adults, and the sofa was tucked furthest away from the door — which Harry didn’t like at all. He needed to be ready. To run. To hide. To do— something, anything, if this all went wrong.

For now, it was just— awkward.

He tugged the quilt tighter around himself. He really should give Snape back the blanket, but he felt sure that he’d freeze in an instant and the expert would say something awful and he would break into a thousand tiny pieces. Neither of the adults spoke for a moment, just watched him.

“Very well.” With a distinct note of finality, Snape cleared his throat and said, “I will leave you to the privacy of your session.”

In an instant, pinpricks of panic shot through Harry’s body. If the expert did something, if he lost control of the Otherness again, who would know? Who would care? For a moment, he was back there: lost in those terrifying days before Snape took charge of him, when every day was heightened heartbeat and the days lasted years, waiting for the pain to end, jumping at every sound, trying to find a safe place to disappear.

Snape moved for the exit.

“Don’t!” Harry snatched a hand into his robes, green eyes gaping at him in a panic.

Mister Scamander offered quietly, “Professor Snape can stay if you would be more comfortable, Harry, especially for these first few sessions…?”

Harry nodded a bit, kind of shyly, not taking his gaze off the professor.

Very slowly, Snape sat down in the armchair closest to the boy. But then, instead of taking the other offered chair, Newton Scamander sat on the floor and criss—crossed his legs like Harry. The boy was taken aback. The wrinkles on the expert’s face said he was pushing a hundred (at least), but somehow he seemed as able and flexible as a young man.

They waited for Harry to fill the air with words.

He didn’t.

Harry inspected his hands, pale and small, picking at his hangnails. One started bleeding. It was a good distraction.

It had taken him over a month to grow comfortable with talking to Snape; he had no idea how it would take for him to grow comfortable with this new wizard. The thing was, though, something so guileless existed in the old man, so soft and gentle. So welcoming that Harry didn’t instinctively feel on guard. Which was weird.

Then, the strangest thing happened.

Out of the expert’s fluffy hair emerged a— stick figure. Not a drawing but an actual little creature that looked like a green twig. It had little eyes and a mouth, and its hands allowed him to swing merrily from a strand of hair, slip down Mister Scamander’s nose, and then landed lightly on Harry’s knee.

The boy went rigid.

Snape’s hand appeared on his shoulder. Reassuring. Comforting. Caring.

“Ah, Pick, what did I tell you about making a fuss?” Mister Scamander chided the creature with the exasperated tone of someone who had been doing so for a lifetime. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend of mine along. His name’s Pickett.”

Pickett inspected Harry as closely as Harry inspected Pickett. He was rather cute. The boy, very gently, poked the creature in the stomach, which caused a series of squeaky giggles before Pickett shook a finger and scolded Harry. He smiled a little despite himself.

“He’s a funny little fellow, isn’t he?” Mister Scamander smiled fondly, extending a finger so Pickett could climb up his arm and back to his hair. “A bit clingy too, but lovely, like most Bowtruckles.”

Harry bit his lip and contemplated the path forward. The man was nice — suspiciously nice, nicer than most people were when they first met Harry — and he wanted to be cautious… In the end, it was the curiosity that made him brave enough to speak.

“Er… excuse me?” His words were nearly soundless, hardly above a whisper. “But what kind of doctor are you, exactly?”

“Oh, no, I’m not a doctor at all. Actually, I’m a Magizoologist.”

Harry’s brow crinkled. This was the Otherness expert? And then a more sinister thought occurred to him. This man worked with animals, and now they’d called him here to work with Harry. Like he was an animal. His stomach hurt again. He tugged the quilt tighter around himself, wanting to disappear into it.

“I work with magical creatures — like Pickett, large and small and all of them worth our notice.”

“I’ve come across a few I’d rather not have noticed,” Harry grumbled.

Over his shoulder, Snape snorted.

Mister Scamander looked amused when he asked, “Really? Which ones, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Harry didn’t mind, but he wasn’t sure he was going to answer. He looked back at his fingernails, smeared with blood. Pickpickpick. It stungstungstung.

“Potter,” Snape nudged his shoulder, and somehow he didn’t flinch. “Mister Scamander asked you a question; it is only polite to provide him with a verbal response.”

“It was a troll, first, and then…” Something cold and horrible swelled inside of him with the memory, making it so much harder to answer, finishing, whispering, “A Boggart.”

“Ah. I see. I’ve faced my own fair share of Boggarts over the years. They can be quite nasty, I’m afraid fear is in their nature. The important thing when facing a Boggart, I’ve discovered, is taking away its power. Sometimes understanding your fears does just that.”

“Like the Other— the Obscurus?”

Snape tensed behind him.

Mister Scamander’s eyes glimmered slightly, sort of sadly. “A bit like that, perhaps, yes.”

“That’s why you’re here — a Magizoologist.” Softly: “Because they think I’m an animal.”

“No, we certainly do not—,” Snape froze and glanced at the elder wizard, “Excuse me if you don’t mind, but— Potter. Mister Scamander’s regular occupation is not a reflection of our opinions of you. In his travels studying magical creatures far and wide, he has come across a few Obscurials and has made a study of them — it is correlated, but not the same. Yes?”

Even softer: “Yes, sir.”

Snape nodded firmly and sat back in the armchair.

Harry thought — maybe — he would believe him. Since he cared and everything...

Quietly, the boy confessed, “I thought they’d wanted to, you know, cage me up…”

“I don’t believe in caging in anything,” Mister Scamander shook his head firmly, then gave Harry a wink, “Especially not a boy as clever as you.”

Harry was helpless against the urge to smile, even if it was a small one. The expert was nice, and it didn’t even seem fake. Doubly weird but… welcome.

Mister Scamander — that is, Newt — asked him, “Why do you think I’m here, Mister Potter?”

“You’re here to fix me.”

“Not fix you, no.” His voice was gentle, and his ever—present smile even more so. “Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, there’s just been something wrong done to you, and I’m here to help you to learn to live with it. For now though, I would simply like to observe you.”

“Observe?” Harry smirked, kind of joking now, “So I am like one of your animals?”

Snape heaved an exasperated sigh.

Newt chuckled. “I find some of the best ways of getting to know someone is by observing, and unlike most of my animals — luckily for us — you and I speak the same language.”

Harry snorted slightly.

“So, tell me about your classes. Do you have a favourite subject?”

Slowly, Harry let himself open up to Newt’s questions, softly asking a few in return about the Magizoologist’s life and experiences. It was not so bad, interesting really. And at least with Snape there, he knew this old wizard wouldn’t be able to do anything too bad. Or if he tried, Snape would be able to stop him.

Harry meant what he said to Weasley.

Harry trusted Snape to protect him.

And more than that: the man… cared about him.

Even this thought was enough to make him blush with joy.

Towards the end of their meeting, Newt asked, “How much magic have you done since you arrived at Hogwarts?”

Harry thought about all the outbursts of his magic — where he nearly destroyed the forest and the toilet and his dormroom… That was a lot of magic. Like, a shit—ton. “Do you mean, like…?”

“With spells, that is,” Newt understood with that same small smile.

“Oh. Well, not much. I can do Lumos and a hover charm, and erm, some spells for Potions. I… I dunno.” He tugged hard on the ends of his sleeves, swallowing his hands, wishing it could swallow him. “I haven’t tried much.”

“I know your relatives didn’t approve of magic, and they tried hard to impose those same opinions on you. But if you had to say — for yourself, what do you think of magic?”

Harry suddenly couldn’t look at either of them. He ducked his head and sealed his lips shut so he wouldn’t blurt out what he was really thinking. He liked the freakishness, sometimes, even though it felt like a sin. Because magic was the root of all evil — Aunt Petunia said so. A negative influence, a toxic shadow; worse than the seven deadly sins combined. They locked him up to keep it contained, tried to beat and starve it out of him. It was the reason Uncle Vernon lost the promotion and Dudley fell off the swingset. It was the reason Harry was bad and freaky and horrible, the cause of everything nasty and dangerous.

Wrongwrongwrong.

“Harry?” Newt prodded, quietly. “How does magic feel to you?”

“Bad,” he answered, voice muffled and his eyes hidden by his fringe. “Bad. It still feels bad.”

“Does the magic feel bad? Or did they make you feel bad, Harry?”

…

Holy shit.

Severus walked Scamander to the exit.

He kept his hands enfolded behind his back and his mouth closed for the few moments it took to cross his chambers, questions brewing in his mind. Newt Scamander was the leading expert on the topic of Obscurials, and thus he had been hopeful about today — for answers, for options, for fucking good news.

Whether or not he would get some remained to be seen.

The Potions Master waited until they were out of earshot of the child to inquire, “Well, what are your thoughts, Mister Scamander?”

“I think Harry is a very kind, very quiet young man. You can see how significantly his relatives’ treatment has affected his own sense of self—worth. It is worrisome, but I think, with some work, he has a lot of potential in his future.”

“And he will have a future,” Severus repeated, not so much a question as a demand.

They paused before the door, the two men turning to stand face—to—face.

“We have reasons to think so.” Scamander stated without confirming anything, really. “There are some of us in the community who hypothesise that it is possible to cure them of their Obscurus, but at a certain stage, an Obscurial can no longer be able to be saved.”

“Is Harry at that stage?”

Scamander’s wrinkles pulled into a thoughtful expression. “From what I have seen today, and again — it has only been one session, I think not.”

Severus felt his body sag, slightly, with relief. But he didn’t let himself linger in that too long.

“You hypothesise meaning you have supposition and theories, but have you ever seen someone outlive their Obscurus? Or, indeed, rid themselves of it entirely?”

The elder wizard exhaled quietly but heavily. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. There are methods of prolonging their lives, many I’ve researched and developed myself… Time and again, the poison of the Obscurus became too much on the host’s body, and their organs and magic eventually gave out.”

Severus felt something cracking within himself; clean, precise, right in half. Almost as quiet as Harry, his voice was. “How long… do you think the boy has?”

“Truthfully, the normal age expectancy while hosting an Obscurus changes from person to person, most often plateauing at ten years. The longest I’ve personally seen an Obscurial survive was thirty—two years. Though I confess I never thought of Occlumency as a method of treatment.”

Severus felt hope (stupid, bloody, traitorous hope) take root in his chest. “You think that could be a solution, then?”

“I’m not a mind healer, Professor Snape, but I have worked with a few Obscurials over the years. Occlumency seems helpful in terms of regulation, but complete suppression cannot be encouraged. As silly as it sounds, Harry needs to feel his feelings. He needs to feel allowed to process. This isn’t just a physical malady to be contained; this is an infection brought from within, that needs to be treated.”

Scamander took in the measure of him, but not in any way Severus had been inspected before. This man wasn’t searching for Severus Snape’s total worth or potential utility; he was merely attempting to understand him.

“You, too, seem like a man of research. Perhaps you can find some texts available on adolescent trauma and recovery?”

“I tried,” Severus grumbled, low enough that no one (Potter) could overhear, “Our world is… particularly lacking when it comes to mental health.”

“Have you tried searching outside of our world?”

Severus blanked.

Scamander smiled, kindly. “The Muggle world may not benefit from the wonders of magic, but they are ahead of us in many ways. Mental health, I find, to be one of them.”

“You think there are Muggle texts that will help Potter overcome his Obscurus?” He couldn’t help but scathe, but honestly, the idea seemed ludicrous.

“I think there are Muggle texts that will help Harry overcome his trauma, which — in turn — will help him with the Obscurus. Moving forward for Harry: the less stress, the better. Overextending him emotionally — specifically with negative emotions — will do him no favours. Each outburst wreaks more havoc on his body and magic, deteriorating him further.”

Severus frowned, considering. The Slytherin dormitories were still standing after Potter’s last outburst, which was more than they could say for half the Forbidden Forest. The First Year dormitory was under renovation for the time being, but it, too, would be fixed in little time — due in no small part to magic. Still…

“The first time, the destruction was far greater than recent. His outburst effects have lessened. Do you suppose that means he’s getting better?”

“Interesting…” Scamander hummed, “That could be so. The Obscurus is like a cancer; it can grow and fester — just as it can shrink. The size and might of an Obscurus depends on the innate power of its host; the more powerful an Obscurial, the more powerful their Obscurus, see. Those with very strong magic will survive longer. Encouraging him to build up his knowledge and strengthen his magical core is essential.”

Fuck’s sake.

That was all he’d been trying to do, and look what had happened: no bloody progress at all.

Severus growled out a sigh, unable to keep from venting, “Everything I’ve done up to this point, all of our great strides… it all seems utterly useless.”

“I think you’ve done quite well under the circumstances — far better than you give yourself credit for. In fact, an Obscurial can only be drawn back to their corporeal state by someone they trust, which, from my understanding of the stories I’ve heard, is you. Having Harry here with you, depending further upon you, is a very good idea. That’s my main recommendation for now: forging a stronger bond between you.”

Severus sneered, “You, too, subscribe to Albus’ theory that the cure is love.”

Scamander’s smile was as instinctive as Severus’ sneer. “Obscurials are often formed due to a lack, and our potential cure is to give what was lost. You can call it what you wish: acceptance, warmth, even love. Perhaps it doesn’t always need a title. Albus is an old friend, and a wise one, but he has the tendency to be rather… vague.”

Severus snorted. “It seems we are similar in this regard as well, Mister Scamander.”

“I believe so.” Scamander chuckled lightly. “I would like to come back, if you don’t mind. Next week, perhaps?”

Snape was willing to do anything, everything, to just save the boy, so he agreed readily.

Then, just before he left, Scamander turned back to give a rather small, rather sad smile.

“I want to help Harry, Professor Snape, very much. But I think the person who can help him most… is you.”

Chapter Text

For Harry, life finally seemed— safer. At least somewhat.

Now that he’d settled into Snape’s chambers, he felt as if he had entered another world. He felt almost… protected here, inside the sudden silencing, even if only for a while. He felt like that, right now, in these rooms, everything he had done and everything that had happened to him in the past few months, in his entire life, was washed away. He was being cleaned, comforted, polished for a new life.

It was better here than anywhere.

Harry didn’t have many friends, and from what he could tell, Snape didn’t either. If he had any at all. When he wasn’t grading or brewing or dealing with Head of House duties, the man could often be found in his quarters with a cup of tea and a Potions journal. Harry never sat far away from him, hands smeared with charcoal and graphite, shoulders wrapped in a quilt. They were comfortable together, quiet.

Harry liked those moments. They felt soft, and warm, and calm.

It was these times, with the quilt and the quiet, that comforted Harry, like a promise, tangible good things were happening all around him. He fit himself in these moments like a puzzle piece long gone missing and finally found, filling his lungs with the scent of comfort, warding off the bad thoughts with the good. He held these moments to himself as closely as he could. He was terrified to let go. He was terrified everything would go back to the way it was.

True, a part of him understood why Snape didn’t really call it a home because, in some ways… it wasn’t. Despite all the furniture and rugs and books, it still felt— empty. For Snape, it was merely a place to live, but it wasn’t a place to call home. It lacked true colour. It didn’t have memories — no pictures or people. It was always so cold.

But at least he had new clothes to keep him warm.

As much as he hated to admit it, Harry loved the clothes Snape bought him. He liked how they fit him just right. He liked the colours — black and blue and green and white and yellow (no red, of course, because as much as he had changed, Snape could not change that much). But best of all, there was no grey, no elephant skin, none for Harry, nonono.

They kept him warm, even though the world kept growing colder and colder and colder.

Christmas was rapidly approaching, and with it, came hordes of decorations. Wreaths of foliage and ribbon lined every hall, tinsel positively dripped from scones, and no less than twelve towering trees towered in the Great Hall. The castle had so many Christmas decorations, there was barely room left for the bloody students who were all buzzing with talk of their holiday plans.

While Weasley was staying with his brothers, Granger was taking the train home to spend two weeks with her parents. And Harry? Harry… well…

Harry would stay at Hogwarts, forever if he could. When the sign—up sheet went up for who would stay over the holidays, Harry’s name was first on the list. He wrote it quickly, a bit panickedly, with a shaking hand and stuttered breath. When it was finished, he backed up and peered at his name with those intense green eyes.

Harry Potter.

“I do feel so sorry,” his fellow Slytherins had mocked, from somewhere over his shoulder, “For all those people who have to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas because they’re not wanted at home.”

Harry didn’t even give a shit.

Written in ink, stark and black and irrefutable, his name was evidence that he was meant to be here, sure and sound proof.

Harry Potter.

Yes. He thought maybe he belonged here.

“Come here, Mister Potter.”

Harry paused on his journey from the loo to his bedroom and his feet marched him towards the sitting room. Being summoned like that might have once worried him, but it didn’t anymore, really. There was nothing to be concerned about with Snape, the boy knew; everything was business as usual. Snape was in his usual armchair with his usual Potions journal, calling him ‘Potter’ just as usual… Some deep, secret part of Harry sort of wished he wouldn’t. He wanted him to call him by his first name again — again and again and forever… not like he was going to actually say that though.

He was halfway to his professor’s seat by the hearth when he saw — in his pale hands — were vials, full to the brim with familiar purple potion.

“You…” Harry stopped, stumbling over the words in his surprise, “You remade my scar potion.”

“Certainly I did. You required it, I brewed it.”

“But…” Harry didn’t understand, never understood, was confused by any act of random kindness — alwaysalwaysalways. “You already did it; all your hard work and it was ruined—,”

“Which was hardly your fault, and we both know it, Potter, do not be difficult about this.” Snape gave him a mildly scolding look before waving a stern hand, “Come and let me apply the salve.”

So. Harry decided not to be difficult and let him apply the salve. He shivered at first despite himself, despite how his professor had tried to warm his hands. The purple potion soothed the lingering aches in his arms and legs, the bright colour fadingfadingfading into the pale expanse of his skin. Snape even applied the cold potion to the bottoms of Harry’s still healing feet.

The whole time Snape’s touch was so gentle — as always, and by now, all the scars from Harry’s first outburst were hardly visible at all anymore. He treated Harry like he was— not fragile exactly, but… delicate. Like the way Aunt Petunia would handle one of her mother’s old Christmas ornaments or a piece of really fine china. Like something precious.

It was kind of embarrassing to admit, but Harry liked being close to Snape for more than just his gentle touch now… Clove and spice and woodsmoke, this was the scent of Snape. And it had become— comforting, somehow. It was familiar, and whenever he smelt it, Harry always found himself feeling safesafesafe. Not like he was going to actually say that either.

When it was over, Harry tugged the quilt back over his shoulders, glad for the warmth. “Thanks,” he shivered the word out.

Snape hummed and made eye contact when he wiped his hands clean of the salve, raising a brow which just made Harry blush knowingly. He felt stupid for having overreacted so much before, even if he had felt fairly justified. He just knew better now. Snape didn’t find Harry too disgusting to touch. Snape… cared.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” Harry answered with a shrug, “How much longer do you think I’ll need it?”

“I would say only a few more applications for your arms and legs.” The man tilted his head slightly, his tone clinical and steady. “I expect your feet may require a bit more time; the numbing agent is reacting suitably?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was some concern that nothing would be able to mitigate the pain in his feet since it was self—inflicted, purposeful, but the salve was doing its job. He could actually walk around without feeling like he was walking on burning hot coals, so that was nice.

“Good.” Snape shook his lank hair from his suddenly very serious face. “Actually, Potter, there was something that I wished to discuss with you.”

Oh shit. Harry’s gut clenched. Maybe things weren’t business as usual.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

Shit, shit, shit. Harry sat. This was never a good start.

“Mister Scamander suggested that it might be beneficial for us to… bond.”

Harry blinked. What the f—?

Snape looked just as discomforted at the wording, but he just straightened up and cleared his throat before announcing, “Perhaps there are other things we might do together than just sitting quietly in the evenings. What do you think?”

Harry stared at him, cautious, unimpressed. “Uhm… okay.”

“Very well.” Snape nodded firmly, still looking awkward but determined to rise above it. “Do you know how to play chess, Potter?”

Harry nearly snorted. Chess was way too intellectual a game for the likes of the Dursleys so — no. He had never played chess and he didn’t know how. He shook his curly head.

“Well then, I shall teach you.”

Simple as that.

Still weird, but who was Harry to complain?

They set up the board by the fireplace, the white and black marbled pieces shouting belligerently at being told where to stand. Harry didn’t say it, but he really thought the chess pieces seemed as grumpy as their owner. Over the various animated grumbles and groans, Snape explained the game, and it made sense to Harry for the most part, even if he quickly learnt he was absolute shit at it.

Still.

Sitting here, together, calm and warm, it was exactly the kind of thing Harry liked.

As the game continued, he felt brave enough to say what he’d been thinking for ages now. “You don’t have— paintings in here, or anything.”

No paintings, it was true, but mostly he meant no pictures. No faces. No memories.

“Alas, no,” Snape countered with a smirk, using his pawn to take Harry’s, “I’m afraid I do not decorate my chambers with chains and coffins despite rampant theories and popular opinion.”

Harry smirked, but stayed on topic, “I imagine it would get annoying to have those paintings talking to you all the time.”

“Mm, yes. It is annoying enough to have to deal with live people, to have to deal with canvas ones is simply asking too much of me.”

“You could get paintings without people in it, though. Do— magical people have scenery paintings that move?”

Snape seemed slightly surprised by the question and he thought over it for a moment while moving his next piece. His knight took another one of Harry’s pawns. “I suppose they must; I’m certain I must have seen a few during my travels.”

“Travels?” Harry perked up. He’d never been anywhere. “Have you been loads of places, then?”

Snape considered this with a brief jerk of his shoulders that could sort of count as a shrug. “It depends on your definition of ‘loads’, but generally, my answer would be yes. I have had many an occasion to travel over the summer holidays — when I am not imprisoned amongst 800 of the world’s most immature, annoying dunderheads.”

Harry snorted but stayed on topic, “Where’ve you been?”

Snape sighed. “Is this really so interesting to you?”

Harry blinked, nonplussed. If it hadn’t been interesting, he wouldn’t have asked… duh.

Apparently, his thoughts were communicated just fine by his expression because the professor answered, “I’ve been to many places in Europe, and Asia. I was also fortunate enough to receive an invitation to Uagadou in Africa for a potions conference last summer.”

“Wow,” Harry breathed, awe mixing with a faint tinge of jealousy.

“I don’t imagine you’ve been to many places?”

Harry snorted again, this time less amused. “No.”

“Your Dursleys were not world travellers, then?”

“They’re not my Dursleys,” he snapped back, which only made Snape arch his brow. Harry huffed and slouched his shoulders, muttering quietly, “But no. Uncle Vernon didn’t much like the idea of ‘stinking foreigners’… But, even if he did, they wouldn’t have taken me. I’ve never been anywhere. Not even the beach.”

“Hm.”

Harry was desperate to shift the conversation back on course, “Do you have any pictures?”

Snape rolled his black eyes. “And who would’ve been taking these pictures, Harry?”

“Well, you obviously.”

“Not me. I am not a photographer, and I find no joy in pretending I am. I buy a postcard or I remember my experiences.”

Harry frowned. “But postcards aren’t personal, and eventually you’ll start to forget stuff. You should take pictures. Or I can draw it for you, if you’d like?”

Snape looked confused, “You’d draw it for me?”

“Yeah,” Harry was blushing a little now, a bit self—conscious, “You could describe it, or even show me through your mind, and I’d draw it for you. So then you’d remember better.”

Another hum, and then: “Perhaps I’ll take you up on that.”

Harry nodded, really embarrassed now and eager for the conversation to be done. He turned back to the board with a frown when his rook started shouting at him to just ‘bloody well get on with it, please and thank you’. Honestly, what a bunch of bastards.

After another poor decision that resulted in another lost piece, Harry wondered, “Who made the quilt?”

Surprisingly, this question startled Snape enough to make the typically composed man jolt. “Beg your pardon?”

“The quilt, did…” Harry squinted a little, studying the man very closely, “You sew it?”

“No… I’m afraid I do not possess a talent with a needle and thread.” Damn. “It was given to me by a friend.”

Harry perked up with memory. “The same friend who sketches?”

“Just the same,” Snape focused back on the board, now not looking at the boy in the face.

“It’s really nice; I like all of its colours and patterns, and how none of its the same.”

“Mm, yes. My friend rather liked that as well. She didn’t buy the fabric from a store, as I recall, but she bought old shirts from consignment shops and the charity stores. The older, the better. She said that there were countries of women in that blanket, a hundred colours and a thousand stories.”

Harry liked that, and he liked that it was big enough to keep him warm.

“You should tell your friend it was a good gift.”

Snape didn’t look like he was going to answer for a very long time, if at all.

So, Harry decided to help Snape like he had helped Harry. He didn’t ask anymore. He let them drift into a peaceful silence, where no one demanded answers, where nothing hurt them. After another two games of being completely slaughtered, though, he was ready to call it a night. He’d just stood up and rewrapped the quilt around his shoulders when Snape gave him a nearly accusing stare.

“And where do you think you are going?”

Harry startled. “Er… What?”

Snape scoffed, crossing his arms over his skinny chest when he asked, “Are you not going to draw for me like you promised?”

Oh.

Oh.

Right. Bonding.

A small, stupid smile stretched across Harry’s face, and he nodded, “Yeah. All right, if you want.”

Lips quirking too, Snape cleared his throat and decided, “Good.”

He drew with charcoal as Snape described some holiday from years ago; the man swathed in black riding a boat along a river lined with reeds and exploring old stone temples and studying in an ancient magical library that Muggles thought was destroyed long ago. His descriptions were so vivid, so real, that Harry imagined he could actually feel the sun on his back and the sand between his fingers. He wondered if he’d ever get to travel anywhere. He really was lucky that he was even seeing the outside of his cupboard.

In the end, Snape stuck his drawing up in the kitchen, spello—taping it to the cabinet in place of the fridge.

Maybe it was childish, maybe it was stupid, but… it meant the world to Harry

Life continued on in their structured routine for the rest of the week, and as the castle charged ahead with holiday decorating, Harry decided that he would too… just a little. So, Saturday morning (bright and early because he wasn’t used to sleeping in) found Harry marching into Snape’s kitchen with a mission in mind. One weird thing about the kitchen? No matter what he wanted or needed, everything could always be found in the cabinets. Flour, check; food colouring, check; vanilla extract, check. Magic was weird… but wildly convenient.

Snape found him by the time he was elbow deep in frosting, and the man looked instantly exasperated. He groaned and pinched the slightly crooked bridge of his nose. A bit over—dramatic, Harry thought.

“I cannot believe this,” he murmured gravely. “Mister Potter, please explain to why the hell you are baking when I thought that we had already discussed—,”

“I like baking!” Harry rushed to get the words out, hands still covered in sugary confection.

Silencesilencesilence.

“You… do,” it wasn’t exactly a question.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, a bit bashful now, “Especially, you know, for someone who enjoys it…”

Something softened in that usual analytical stare. “I… do.” Then, after a beat of awkward silence: “Very well. But if you ever do not feel like you want to, I insist you stop immediately.”

Harry ducked his head and buried a snort, but he conceded in giving a nod.

Snape stepped closer with his hands folded behind his back, looking a bit like a bird the way he leant forward and inspected Harry’s work. The boy’s limbs went rigid as he awaited his judgement, studying his professor’s face very closely. His thick brows bent inward at the various shapes of gingerbread men, stars, candy canes, and trees.

“Are these Christmas biscuits?”

“Yes, sir.” He struggled to rub his itchy nose on his shoulder. “I didn’t have the proper cutters, but I tried my best.”

They weren’t perfect, and some of them were a bit— abstract (a very nice way of putting it), but overall, they weren’t too bad either, Harry was rather happy to say.

“Quite well done, Potter.”

Harry had to turn his face away to hide a shy smile.

Only a month ago, such words would have made him recoil in suspicion and disbelief. Now, he was soaked it, grateful, so fucking grateful for even just a scrap of kindness. He felt as though he made some giant achievement; one small step for a normal person, one giant leap for a boy called Harry Potter. It was pathetic— Snape had only given him a compliment, which he had given before, but for some reason…It felt like a gift. The Dursleys never thanked him or complimented for anything, not even once, not even to joke and be mean about it.

In the end, he only nodded and tried not to look like he was going to cry like a bloody idiot. Snape touched his shoulder very lightly in passing before moving towards the table where cooling biscuits sat, stealing one and returning to his reading. Harry was relieved to be able to turn away and do something so he couldn’t see the tears threatening to fall.

Honestly. So bloody pathetic.

Hesitantly, once he’d regained control of himself, he asked, “Do you… celebrate Christmas, sir?”

Immediately:

“No.”

“...Oh.”

“That is,” Snape grimaced slightly, “Not usually.”

Harry shrugged, to show he didn’t care one way or another. Though he sort of did. It might be nice to have a proper Christmas for once, like the ones he’d always hoped to have when he was locked away in the cupboard, wishing he was anywhere else, with anyone else. But if Snape didn’t celebrate, it didn’t seem very likely that would happen.

“Perhaps—,” said Snape, quietly, hesitantly, “This year will be different.”

Perhaps.

It could be different this year, or perhaps it could be just the same for Snape. Truthfully, it didn’t matter either way because — for Harry — it wouldn’t be the same no matter what. He would not be at the Dursleys’. He would not be locked up. He would not be starved. Still, Harry was determined not to be stupid. It never hurt to be cautious, to prepare for the worst, to be ready for things to stay the same.

So, when Snape wasn’t looking, Harry slipped three Christmas biscuits into his pocket… for later… for safe—keeping… for just in case…

Perhaps this year will be different.

Snape escorted Harry back from classes on Friday afternoon, something comfortable in their companionable quiet. Snape had asked how his day went, and Harry had asked how his classes were. Harry’s day was fine and Snape’s classes were full of dunderheads.

Simple, simple.

And yet still good.

Winter holidays were just around the corner, only one week away in fact, and the days that had passed felt less like school and more like biding time. Most days could find Harry, Granger, and Weasley sledding or having snowball fights or laughing about the strange and funny carols the ghosts sang while passing through the corridors. It was the most fun Harry had ever had in winter since— well, ever.

Snape opened his chamber door, and Harry had barely walked in five steps when he skidded to a stop and his jaw bloody dropped.

In the corner, by the hearth, stood a massive evergreen spruce.

It was… a Christmas tree. It was almost too big for the space, stretching to the ceiling and expanding out so far that the sofa had to be moved back. It smelt— wonderful in here, crisp and woodsy, and he just knew it had to be the tree. A tree, Harry’s and Snape’s. He was trembling so hard, it was a miracle that the whole dungeon wasn’t shaking and half the needles weren’t falling off.

“Potter?”

His teeth clacked when he abruptly shut his mouth. His voice sounded very distant when he managed a response, “Yeah… sir?”

“Are you quite well?”

“Mm?” He was acting ridiculous, Harry knew this, he knew it and yet he couldn’t stop staring at the ruddy tree. “Yeah, sir. Fine.”

Christmas.

His first real Christmas.

Snape had done this… for him… because he cared.

Harry — pathetically, embarrassingly — thought he might cry.

“Would I be correct in assuming you appreciate the tree?”

Harry could only nod.

Snape cleared his throat and shifted by his side. He spoke his next words like a confession: “I’m afraid I do not possess ornaments.”

The boy turned to face his professor immediately, the words tumbling out in a rush, “Oh, that’s okay, we don’t have to really decorate it. I mean, having a tree is enough—,”

“No.” Snape held up a hand, and this time Harry didn’t even flinch. The man said, “I’ve committed to the idea, and we’re going to see it through. Keep your cloak on and come with me.”

Snape swiftly whirled around and made for the door, and Harry nearly tripped over his own feet to reach him.

“Er, where are we going?”

“To collect ornaments, obviously.”

Nothing Snape said ever seemed obvious to Harry, but the boy simply rolled his eyes and jogged to keep up with the man’s long strides. The castle was still bustling with activity at this time of day, but the general terror Snape inspired worked in their favour at least. Everyone rolled away as if caught by the tide, clearing the pair’s path in three seconds flat. Harry kept his head low as they hurried through those chilly corridors, desperate not to catch anyone staring (like they always did).

But at least the upper levels of the castle were warmer than the dungeons.

Until they reached the grand entrance, that was.

Stepping through those big doors was a huge mistake.

Harry was shivering instantly. The cold nipped at their noses, stinging their eyes and chapping their cheeks. It’d been a bitterly cold winter thus far, and the boy had no hope that it was going to get any better any time soon. Even now it was snowing faintly, and the sun was setting soon, pale and white behind the heavy billowy clouds. The wind blew in the scent of burning leaves and dead things piled onto bonfires.

Frankly put: the cold was bloody miserable, and Harry hated it. He tugged his cloak tighter around his skinny frame and wished for the quilt, even if he’d look ridiculous dragging it behind him outside. But really, he didn’t really see the point in going outside if they weren’t doing something fun. He followed Snape down the icy slope with a quiet huff, eyes on his boots to make sure he didn’t slip.

Finally at the bottom of the slope, Harry relievedly looked up and saw—

The Forbidden Forest.

Or what was left of it.

Harry’s heart dropped.

It was the first time Harry had been back here since he’d— blown the forest to hell all those months ago, with his Otherness’ first outburst. For at least half a kilometer, the forest looked barren. Devoid of all life but for some stumps and low bushes. Burnt with a momentary flash—fire and blown down as if by a great and sudden gust of wind. This was what his freakishness wrought. Destruction. Death. It was more chilling than any snowflakes dusting his cheeks.

His hair blew in his eyes, briefly hiding the way they were filling.

Being here, seeing this, filled him with the aching recollection of how it felt— of what his existence looked like four months ago, two months, three weeks, even one week ago. It made him want to run, to close his eyes, but there was no escaping it, not when his body stung with phantom pain of memory. He felt sorry for the boy he had been, walking around in his eleven year old bone cage, an empty cave for a chest with bleeding eyes, dragging his tiny frame from one prison to the next, always being measured, never measuring up.

One day the frigid wind would carry him off. Nobody would notice.

“All right, Potter?”

He startled slightly when Snape stepped close to his side, the warmth of him radiating and cutting through the cold of Harry.

“Yes, sir.” He swallowed hard, looking once more at his boots, whispering, “Did I hurt— anything?”

“Beg your pardon?”

The boy didn’t look up from where he was inspecting the slush of snow and dirt. “That first time. When I blew up the forest. Did I hurt—?”

“No.” Snape cut him off firmly, fully understanding now. “You didn’t hurt anyone or anything, to our knowledge. Burnt quite a lot of vegetation and frightened the already minimal wits out of Hagrid’s cowardly dog, but… no one was injured— other than you.”

Harry’s shoulders shook with his sigh of relief. He nodded jerkily. That was good; he would much rather destroy himself than destroy anyone else. Not that the Potions Master would let him, of course. Snape would notice, Harry realised suddenly, if he got swept away by the wind.

If no one else noticed, Snape would.

“Very well then, Mister Potter. Let’s get to it.”

With that, Snape conjured two baskets, shoved one his way, and then marched onward into the decimated forest.

Harry rubbed harshly at his snuffy nose and followed after. “Uhm. What are we looking for, exactly?”

“Ornaments, did you not hear me?”

Harry groaned and barely managed to catch himself from falling on his arse on a patch of ice. “Yeah, I heard you, but what sort of ornaments can be found out here?”

The ornaments Aunt Petunia had were always shiny or sparkly or plain colourful, and most often made of semi—translucent glass. He was fairly bloody sure they weren’t going to find anything like that out in the middle of nowhere.

“Anything that catches our eye.” At seeing Harry’s confused expression, Snape just groused, “Honestly, Potter, don’t you have an imagination of your own?”

Bloody hell but the man could be rude.

Harry grumbled into his new Slytherin scarf and put some distance between them just to show his displeasure. For a while, he trudged a bit aimlessly around in his clunky winter boots in search of anything that ‘caught his eye’. After a while, he started filling up his basket with pinecones and acorns and particularly interesting leaves.

“Aha.”

This was the first either of them had spoken in at least fifteen minutes.

The boy turned and found his professor standing before a low standing tree with prickly green leaves and clusters of little red berries. Switching his basket to the other hand, Harry came close to watch Snape use a little knife to avail the branches of its fruit.

“Recognise this plant, do you, Mister Potter?”

“No, sir…” The boy arched a brow. “Should I?”

“Indeed you should since it’s the very wood your wand is made out of.”

“Holly…” Harry realised with a whisper.

He didn’t remember too much of those early days leading up to Hogwarts; so caught in that haze was he that most things felt thousands upon thousands of miles away. But he remembered the wand shop, and the feeling of holding his wand for the first time. The rush of warmth, of life — his first hint that maybe magic wasn’t so terrible, after all. Holly, eleven inches, nice and supple. Not to mention the phoenix feather; the same fucking core as the arsehole who murdered his parents.

“Terrible, yes,” said Mister Ollivander, “But great.”

Fucking wonderful.

“Indeed.” Snape didn’t seem to sense where his thoughts had strayed as he lectured on, “The berries of holly, or ilex as most potioneers call it, are actually poisonous to consume.”

Harry darted a wary glance up at the man. Maybe his professor had finally lost it.

Snape sneered, though not so meanly. “Which is why we’re not going to consume it, Potter. Good grief. I think these berries, once dried, will suit our tree quite nicely, I think.” The man didn’t look at him when he said, “You see Potter, things regrow. There’s always life to be had after loss.”

Harry couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

He thought that was enough.

Back in Snape’s chambers, there was more work to be done. As soon as they were in the kitchen, his professor appraised the boy closely, “You suggested you have a talent for cooking.”

“Erm, yes, sir…?” Harry answered, a bit hesitant. Was this some sort of test? Did he change his mind about making him do chores, after all?

“I assume that means you are experienced at chopping; you seemed fairly efficient with the task during class. Can I trust you to cut these into slices without lopping off your fingers?”

He rolled a bushel of mixed fruits his way; all citruses — oranges and lemons and grapefruits.

“Not all of them, at least,” Harry smirked and got to work.

While Snape made a delicious smelling brew of cinnamon and apples and cloves, Harry sliced up most of the fruit in neat, thin slices and then laid them out on trays, as per his professor’s instructions. He sprinkled on salt and then tucked them into the oven to dehydrate, along with the rows of red holly berries.

Meanwhile, Snape was now busy pouring popcorn kernels into a large cauldron with oil, and at first Harry didn’t think much of it (other than making popcorn in a cauldron was kind of/sort of/a bit weird) until the man started up a second cauldron with even more popcorn.

He eyed Snape’s back confusedly, “Er… Are you hungry, Professor?”

Dryly, without turning around, Snape informed him, “The popcorn isn’t for eating, Potter.”

This time, at least, the ‘obviously’ was silent.

Harry was fairly certain Snape really had lost his mind.

As they waited for the popcorn to finish, they tied sticks of cinnamon together with twine and stuck spikey cloves into the leftover oranges to make what Snape called, ‘pomander balls’. It was only after the berries were done and the popcorn was all popped that Harry realised just what the hell Snape had planned. That evening by the fire, they took to stringing it all together to make garlands.

Suddenly he wondered, “Is this silly?”

Snape froze, halfway through stringing a strand of popcorn. He peeked at Harry very cautiously, “Do you… think it is?”

Harry slowly beamed. “No.”

“Ah. Then I don’t either.”

Harry beamed even brighter. “How’d you know to do all this stuff, anyway?”

“Ah,” Snape said again, but this time didn’t follow it up with more words for what felt like a very long time. Then, very quietly: “I did not possess ornaments during my childhood, either. My mother, when she could be bothered, discovered creative methods to make our own.”

Harry bit his lip. Mother.

Sometimes he wondered about his own mother, and the life he would’ve had with her in it. He would’ve had Christmas trees and birthday cakes and good morning kisses on his forehead. In his imagination, his mum smelt nice — like vanilla or lemongrass, her colourful clothes rustling softly. She was always clean but wonderfully disorganised, their home a beautiful disaster. She liked debating with friends and reading by the fire and standing outside in the pouring rain, even when his dad stood in the doorway and insisted his wife was a bloody maniac. She never raised her voice, or her hand. In his imagination, his mum was lovely.

He wondered if Snape’s mum was a bit like that, too.

He asked, “Is she…?”

“She’s gone,” Snape’s voice was harsher than it had been ages.

Harry cringed. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have even wondered. It wasn’t his bloody business, and he’d do well to keep his grimey little nose out of it — badboy, badboy, badboy.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Snape simply exhaled heavily and didn’t say another word about it. Sometimes he wondered if Snape, too, knew what it was like to be… empty — of love and safety, but full, too, with hell.

“What are we going to use as lights?” Harry wondered when he thought it might be safe to speak again.

Mercifully, Snape didn’t seem to be holding his earlier words against him. In fact, he sounded as if he didn’t remember the brief strained moment at all. “The traditional Wizarding families often capture and use faeries as lights, in lieu of the electric Muggle alternative — hence the name ‘faerie lights’.”

What the fuck?

To be perfectly clear, Harry felt pretty horrified at this news. “I don’t want to do that! That just seems… mean.”

Snape smirked into his popcorn, “I did not think you would, Potter. Never fear: I have no drip candles that will serve our purposes just fine.”

A bit warily: “They won’t set our tree on fire, will they?”

“Forgive me, Potter, did you temporarily forget the existence of magic?”

“Never mind,” Harry groused and got on with it.

Honestly, Snape could be such an arse, even if… Harry sort of liked it most of the time.

“Ouch, bloody—!”

“Stuck yourself again, did you?”

Harry was too grouchy to answer, sucking on the wound and putting the needle as far from himself as he could.

Still not looking up, Snape smirked and hummed, “Well, you do not have to put yourself at risk again. I think that’s more than enough garland, don’t you?”

Relieved, Harry nodded.

They gathered together their decorations and stood before the tree. As badly as he wanted to do this, Harry had to admit that he had no bloody idea how one went about actually decorating a Christmas tree. He was always stuck in the cupboard for that part of the Dursley family tradition. Locked in, peeking through the cracks, trying not to cry, wanting it so badly for himself… How pathetic. Harry winced slightly at the memory, curling his hands into fight fists and tucking them in his sleeves.

Snape glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and then, determinedly, he announced, “Garland first, I should think.”

Harry nodded sharply, snuffing, chest loosening at the distraction.

Standing on either side of the massive tree, they passed the popcorn and berry garland round and round from the top to the bottom until their entire tree was appropriately… garlanded (or whatever the word ought to be). Then came their ornaments. They stuck on the pinecones and twined cinnamon sticks along with the spikey cloved oranges, charmed the weight of a feather. They even hung some of the dried out gingersnaps amidst the bright colours of yellow and oranges and peach. The finishing touches were the candles, and then it was done.

Finally, Harry and Snape stood side—by—side, inspecting their work.

“Prognosis, Potter?”

“It’s brilliant,” he grinned, glasses glinting gently in the candlelight.

The cinnamon apple brew mixed with the fresh scent of evergreen was so rich, so poignant, Snape’s chambers were smelling like Santa Claus himself threw up in it. Completely brilliant. With the fire blazing and the tree decorated, everything looked— perfect for the first time in Harry’s short life, or in his remembrances of it.

It was a pity it couldn’t last.

Things were getting bad again.

Harry felt— okay, mostly, when he was surrounded by the potions and the tree and Snape. He was even happy most times. During those hours of daylight, sitting around the table or huddled around the fire, Harry felt good and warm and safesafesafe. But when all the lights were off, when the dark came again, that was when Harry had trouble. Or trouble found him.

The trouble was nightmares.

They found him, hounded him and pinned him down. It wasn’t just the cupboard or Uncle Vernon, not always, and it wasn’t just the mysterious green light every time either; sometimes, it was something Dark whispering to him. So angry, it was so very angry.

“I’ll rip you open. I’ll eat you up.”

What was it? What was it? What was it? Harry woke with a blanket clenched in his teeth and tears streaming down his chapped cheeks. His head was bursting. His eyes throbbed and his mouth tasted of black bile. That Dark something had snuck inside and was hiding behind his ribs. Sometimes it was better not to sleep at all.

The alternative wasn’t much better. Staying awake for hours meant lightning shooting through his skull, short—circuiting the wires. He was cold, then hot, and then he couldn’t feel his fingers or his toes. Someone was standing on the other side of his door, or lurking in the inside of his closet, or growling from under his bed. He could sense it, he could feel it. But… no. Everyone in the castle was sleeping. Everyone in the castle was enchanted, pulled under into a dream.

Harry was forced to face the Darkness alone.

At night, Snape’s chambers were too quiet, and Harry felt the overwhelming, skin—crawling urge to escape—escape—escape so he just— left for a while. He didn’t go far, and he didn’t do much; he just wandered the castle. His lungs hurt. He moved slowly. Keeping his head down and his hair in his face. Everything was too quiet. He traced a finger along the rough stone until his skin felt oversensitive and sore. He did this for hours.

Red and green Christmas decorations hung on the walls and over doorways. He could feel the shadows slipping out of the dark, coming for him — always comingcomingcoming. He ran away from it. He escaped closer and closer to the sky, climbing staircase after staircase until he could see out the highest windows, out at the night and the coming winter. No, not coming, already arrived. The snow was falling fast enough to suffocate them all.

Sometimes he saw Weasley’s rat when he climbed the tower, on the ledge and watching him sorrowfully, scrawny and scraggly and generally miserable.

He wondered if Scabbers ever felt as small and afraid as he did.

By the time dawn rolled around again, soft and golden, Harry was ready to return and start a new day — with his friends and sunlight and Snape.

Deeper, deeper into the dungeons, where cold swirled around his ankles, hungry to pull him into the earth. The Darkness wanted to taste him while it still had the chance. Its hands snaked out, fingers open wide. He walked quickly, moving out of the reach of their sticky shadows. As he passed under a sconce, the fire went out and he smelt burnt tar and bright anger.

Otherness. Otherness.

He stumbled, in the dark, and when he fell, he scraped his hands and fingers on the rough edge of stone. It stung a bit, but it was a nice sort of pain — the distracting sort. Just before he reached the familiar weathered planks of Snape’s door, he stuck his fingers in his mouth.

Harry tasted like dirty shillings and the end of the world.

Asphodel, and the door swung open silent so Harry could slip secretly and silently into the rooms and then off to bed… Only, this time, Snape was waiting for him.

And Harry was in very deep shit.

“Where the fuck have you been?!”

Severus pounced on the boy instantly, fear making his voice vicious. He had been— frantic —ever since he’d woken a few moments ago to check on the little fool, to make sure he was sleeping well, that he was safe and secure, and when he realised he was missing, Severus had been only seconds away from Firecalling Albus, Firecalling Minerva, Firecalling the whole bloody cavalry, ready to charge through the castle and personally (and brutally) murder whoever dared to take the boy from him—

But now the boy was back (safe and well and completely unharmed), and he had the fucking gall to look shocked—

“Are you insane, boy?!”

Potter’s scrawny shoulders hiked up nearly to his ears. “Don’t call me that.”

Severus barely heard him over the sound of his pounding heart and his own angry words, “What in blazes were you thinking? Holy fuck,” his voice was nearly trembling, “I thought something had happened to you!”

Potter backed up a few steps, but he kept his chin up in a truly infuriating show of defiance.

“Nothing happened, why are you so angry?”

“Why am I so angry?” Severus repeated in disgusted disbelief, voice still rising and rising, “How can you possibly be this thick, Potter? You nearly scared the life out of me, I had no idea where you were!”

The boy wrapped his arms tight around himself, hugging his stomach when he whispered, “So?”

“So?” Severus repeated again, positively seething at this point, “So, something could have happened to you, you imbecilic little brat! Did you somehow manage to forget you currently have a target on your back?”

“Yeah,” muttered Potter bitterly, “Aimed by your Slytherins.”

“And you are one of my Slytherins so it is my duty—,”

A genuinely furious look crossed the boy’s petulant face, and he had the audacity to shout, “Stop talking about duty all the bloody time!”

“You will take care how you speak to me, Mister Potter…” He hissed this warning quietly, hands clenching in and out of fists. “I do not appreciate how you are not taking this at all seriously— how often have you done this?”

The boy went suddenly quiet. He shifted from foot to foot, not meeting his gaze. “…What?”

“You were far too calm and far too practised sneaking back into these rooms; I know now is not the first time you’ve done this. Tell me now: how many times, Potter?”

A moment of silence.

Then, Potter only shrugged slightly.

Severus inhaled sharply, furiously, through his nose. He was burning up to the point of explosion. He tried uselessly to bat it down, to bring up his shields and ward it back, but before he could, it was up and swinging. The fire was raging before he could stop it.

“No one was even awake,” the boy whispered harshly, “I wouldn’t have hurt anyone—,”

“That is not the point!” Severus boomed so loud the bloody Christmas tree trembled, “We have discussed this repeatedly, and yet you clearly cannot get it through your thick skull. You cannot leave these chambers because your magic is uncontrollable! You know that you are a safety risk to yourself and to this castle—!”

“I took the marble,” the boy explained tightly, “If I was angry, I could’ve just used it—,”

Severus spoke louder, charging ahead, even more angry at the interruption, “If you wish to leave, you tell me and I will consider escorting you wherever you wish to go, but you cannot just go galavanting off whenever you please!”

“I wasn’t galavanting,” the boy spoke through gritted teeth, “I was— I needed to clear my head—,”

“So read a fucking book! Take a shower, sketch, hell, bake a bloody cake, fucking anything over what you did!” Severus felt on fire with his anger, burning up, up, up completely, the flames singing his tongue, “From now on, you will obey every single word I utter, I don’t care if you disagree, I don’t care what excuses you have, you will listen to me—,”

“Why?!” The boy shouted.

“Because I said so!”

Potter, who hadn’t been raised with normal, everyday parents, had apparently never before heard this phrase and, therefore, seemed completely taken aback.

“That’s— that’s not a fair argument; you can’t just say that when I’m asking a genuine question—,”

“I can, and I will. I am the adult here, Potter, and you will obey me.” Severus dragged in a short, shaking breath, and he decided harshly, “Just go to your room.”

Potter’s wild eyes darted from his face to the kitchen to the hallway, bottom lip trembling slightly.

His defiance, his pitiful expression, it would not sway him.

“Go, Potter — now.”

Potter bolted.

Small feet raced down the hall and then the bedroom door slammed shut. Left in the silence, Severus turned away and dragged both hands down his heated face. Fuck’s sake. Fucking hell. That hadn’t gone— well. Though it could have been much worse. He had just felt so— so— worried. As soon as he discovered the boy was missing, he had— lost it. Almost completely. He didn’t like losing such control of himself, it was humiliating and pathetic and— worrying.

What the bloody hell was the boy doing to him?

Severus groaned into his hands. It was good that he had sent the boy away when he had, just for a few moments, so he could clear his head of the anger still burning within him. He could feel the flames of it licking at the backs of his eyes, burningburningburning. Okay. Fuck. All right. He needed to calm down before he spoke to the boy again.

Severus had been much too cruel to Potter already in their short time of knowing one another; he didn’t want to repeat the same mistake.

In the aftermath, Severus took deep and steady breaths: inhale, exhale, in — out.

He put the boy’s trainers as neatly as possible by the door. He lit the fire with a flick of his wand. He banished his graded papers back to his office and straightened his usual stack of books on the card table. He gathered the quills and ink into the glass jar. The plaid blanket flared out before him as he settled it softly on the back of the sofa. He had made this a habit when he was young, when his mother was cowering, when his father was raging: he would make his world as orderly as possible.

When a situation made him feel out of control, Severus would find little things that he could control.

He had frightened the boy with his scolding, he knew, and perhaps his tone had been too harsh, but… it wasn’t so bad. He had been justified in being angry, and really, this was bound to happen. Potter, for the most part, was a well—behaved child (more due to fear than anything else), and Severus had very few problems with him thus far, but the boy was only eleven years old. And a Potter, besides. He was bound to misbehave sometime or another.

It was all right. It was dangerous, it could have been disastrous, but everything was— fine.

Perfectly.

The boy had a point, at least, that he had the Portkey and if the Obscurus began to rear its head, he could have simply utilised it. That was more or less reasonable. Keeping the boy trapped in here all the time was not entirely fair, in truth. He wasn’t an animal to cage, and Severus did want the boy to live as normal a life as possible. Perhaps sometime during the winter holidays, when there were less students about and less risks around, Potter could be permitted to take a private walk or two. If Severus was aware beforehand. If the boy proved he could obey.

Yes.

He would speak to Potter, reiterate his concerns, and re—establish the bond between them.

Simple, simple.

Running a hand through his hair and straightening his clothes (Merlin, he was still in his fucking pyjamas), Severus travelled the short journey from sitting room to bedroom. He couldn’t hear the boy sobbing through his bedroom door, thank all that was magical; he had no idea how he would be able to deal with that on top of everything else. He drew in one final, calming breath—

And now he was ready.

Determined to just get through it, Severus knocked once on the boy’s door and stepped inside, only to freeze when he spotted Harry, kneeling in the center of the room, face paler than death, caught chewing on a slightly molding piece of cheese and already pulling out of his pocket… a sausage.

What the hell?

The man just— stared, and the boy— he fucking whimpered.

Severus, who had always prided himself on his extensive observational skills, had no method of understanding what was before him. He could hardly comprehend what he was seeing. The boy’s battered trunk was open, a stash of food made visible — loose handfuls of granola, a couple of bread rolls, a few bruised apples, and three Christmas biscuits.

Oh Merlin.

Oh fuck.

Potter jerked upright and backed himself away until he collided with the opposite wall with a painfully hard thud. The words tumbled out of his quivering lips, “I—I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, but I just— it was breakfast time and I was so hungry— and,”

“Potter, I…”

Severus was at a loss. He was just… lost. Understanding crashed upon him like a wave, and he was left nearly gasping in the wake of it, soaked to the bone and left shivering. The boy thought Severus was going to starve him. Whatever fire that still existed within him had been stomped out, extinguished completely.

He felt sick.

Severus had no idea how to deal with this. How to speak to the boy, how to reassure him, how to fix this. He had no control over his face; his shields were slipping all over the place. Severus buried his face in his hands so Potter wouldn’t have to see the emotions escaping — guilt, confusion, anger, overwhelm… Behind the protection of his hands, he tried to steady his breathing, tried to get ahold of himself again, tried to think of a bloody way to handle this.

Before he was ready, he heard quiet steps and then a light hand rested on his sleeve.

Through his hands, he found brilliant green eyes (no, not like Lily’s at all suddenly, so very sad) staring.

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” the boy whispered, “I won’t eat again. I promise.”

“Oh, Harry…”

As he peeked up at him through loose fringe and damp lashes, Severus saw — fear — on the boy’s face. It chilled him to the bone, to the fucking core. In truth, the prospect of frightening children had never bothered him. He had quite a lot of experience with it; he practically had made his career on it. In fact, he nearly thrived off of their fear for the past decade that he had been employed at this bloody school. It brought him no joy now.

How the fuck could he be expected to deal with this?

Surely the boy knew Severus would never starve the boy? Lock him away without food?

Apparently not.

What the bloody hell was he doing?

Severus was out of his depth, barely treading water, drifting further and further from shore with no help in sight. The boy was his responsibility, and yet he could not even be trusted to not starve the poor brat. Was that what Potter truly thought of him? Had he not proved that he only desired to help him — even just a little?

Tears were welling within those green eyes.

“Please, sir,” he whispered, “Please, I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”

“I’m not kicking you out, you foolish boy, not ever,” Severus was ashamed of how his voice cracked just slightly, dropping his hands from his face and letting them rest, so very gently on the boy’s trembling shoulders, “You’ll always have a place with me, I promise you that.”

Potter was silent apart from his soft gasping breaths, eyes still shimmering, and Severus’ hand was shaking when he gently cupped the boy’s cheek, thumb dashing away a tear. The boy leant into his touch and his breath caught again.

“When I sent you here, you thought I would deny you breakfast. Is that it?”

Potter didn’t answer, not truly; he just eyed Severus very cautiously, very quietly.

“You thought I would starve you?”

The boy’s gaze dropped like it always had those first few weeks, but Severus nudged his narrow chin so he’d look up at him once more. He prayed to any higher being that existed that he would be believed.

“I will never take food from your mouth. You will never be denied meals in my care. I sent you here only so that we may both come better to our senses. I can only hope, one day, you trust me enough to believe that.”

Trust enough to not need a hidden stash of molding, rotting food; to not think he must survive only on scraps and cast—offs…

All at once, tears bled down the boy’s face, and he growled to himself, wiping harshly at his ruddy damp cheeks, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry—,”

Severus withdrew his hands, murmuring, “There is no need to apologise to me for this.”

“Yeah, but, you know, for crying and everything…” His face flared red, and he still refused to fully meet Severus’ eyes. “It’s embarrassing, I shouldn’t have.”

“Why not? I understand that that is extremely emotionally distressing. Shedding a few tears is a completely understandable, and indeed natural, response.”

“But… I’m a boy.”

Not for the first time in this conversation, Severus was confused.

“And you know, boys shouldn’t— cry. Like that.”

Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This sounded extremely familiar to his own tortured upbringing, and the barest resemblance between the two made his stomach clench painfully. He could already guess at who had told him this, but he still found himself asking:

“Which of your deplorable relatives told you this?”

“Uncle Vernon.” Potter’s lips barely moved when he mumbled his answer, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, “I— he caught me crying once. I was just so hungry, it had been… a while, you know, since I’d eaten. He said I was ungrateful and weak and pathetic, and he had his belt and he… He said boys don’t cry, and for every time I did, he’d add another whack.”

Severus felt caught between bright burning anger and deep resounding grief.

“How old were you?”

Potter made a vague sound before biting his lip and whispering, “Six or something. I dunno.”

Severus nodded just slightly. It took him a moment to speak next.

“So you learnt not to cry.”

Potter snuffed hard and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Yeah.”

Severus’ sigh seemed to come from the very depths of him. Every time he thought he understood all the horrors Potter had gone through, something new was discovered and he felt his world shatter all over again. No wonder the boy was a bloody Obscurial. How was he ever going to get him through this?

“Potter. You do not ever need to hide your emotions when you are here with me, you understand?”

“But you do.”

“Ah.” Now Severus felt caught. “I suppose in the future, when I am with you, I will endeavour to— emote more freely.”

Potter’s face looked a bit confused by his phrasing, but generally his message seemed to have gotten through.

“Now, in regards to sneaking out, I don’t ever want you to do so again. I was worried for your safety, and I did not appreciate being left to ponder what became of you.” After a murmured apology from the boy, Severus nodded sternly and went on, “I believe the previous tumult was enough of a punishment this time, but if you disobey me again, I will have you scrubbing cauldrons or writing lines until you thoroughly regret it…” He watched the boy’s face closely, wincing at the surprise and worry he still saw. “That is all the punishment you will ever face while in my chambers. All right?”

Very softly: “Okay, sir.”

“Yes?” He pressed.

The boy nodded.

“All right, then. And perhaps… when the school is emptier, I may be convinced to allow you to take a few walks by yourself — perhaps. And only if you ask permission beforehand. Am I quite clear?”

“Quite, sir,” Potter answered, still contrite, just a bit cheeky. This was, shockingly, a relief.

“Good. Now then, I believe it’s time for breakfast?”

The boy’s shy answering smile set off a fire in Severus’ chest that would keep him warm for weeks.

At Potter’s next check—up that weekend, Severus pulled the mediwitch aside for a private word while the boy was redressing.

“Poppy, I found…” The weight of his revelation made his voice heavy, “I found… Potter has been hiding food, and I caught him eating some when he apparently thought I would— withhold meals from him.”

“I see… Oh, that poor child. Harry is not the first boy to stash away food for safekeeping,” Poppy replied in a mournful tone, tutting quietly, “And unfortunately, he won’t be the last.”

“But how do I get him to stop?”

“Did you take his food away?”

“I explained that the food was rotting, that it couldn’t be safe to eat, and I banished it. Though I’m sure he will just make a new stash when I’m not looking.”

“I’m sure he will,” Poppy mused, eyeing the screens Potter was changing behind.

“I am trying my best, Poppy,” Severus murmured, unable to keep the hopelessness out of his voice. “I just don’t see what more I can possibly do—,”

“There is nothing else to do, Severus. The only thing I can prescribe now is the oldest cure in existence: time.”

Severus hissed impatiently to himself, looking out the window.

“You must give Harry the time to trust you, to become reassured that what happened before will not happen again.”

“There has to be something more — something I can do…”

Poppy chuckled, though in a sad sort of way. “Honestly, what did you expect, Severus? Some kind of potion you can brew that’ll fix everything?”

He grumbled bitterly to himself. It was worth a try…

The matron hummed softly, studying his profile for a long quiet moment. “Lily would’ve been proud.”

Poppy was not trying to be cruel, but those words felt so fucking sadistic that Severus had to close his eyes just to block out the pain.

“Do not mention her to me,” he warned lowly, “Not now, not in this context.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you like this in a very long time, Severus.”

“Like what?” He drawled lowly, unhappily.

“Like you love something again.” Severus tensed, but Poppy didn’t take the hint when she finished, “I think you’re starting to love that boy, Severus, like he’s your very own.”

The Potter boy was not at all what he expected.

He was neither chivalrous or courageous, so boorishly Gryffindor that he was predictable; no, indeed, the Potter boy was… intriguing, thought his Master. The raw power — that pool of hatred — wretched parasite — it was too delicious, too bright a spark to snuff out too quickly. The boy could not live, of course, but it would be amusing to play with him, just a bit, like how a serpent played with its prey before it unhinged its jaw and devoured it whole.

And his Master would devour the boy, make no mistake.

The little wretch had no fucking clue what fate awaited him. He had been so consumed, so distracted, by the torment from his fellow Slytherins, he had no more time to wonder about who had jinxed those bludgers and who had released that troll. True, his earliest attempts at eliminating the problem had failed, and his Master had not been pleased — no, not at all.

Not to mention, Severus Snape had become something of a problem.

His Master’s old spy was getting in the way, constantly at the boy’s side, constantly shielding him from harm. He couldn’t touch the boy, not when he was being watched so closely, protected so keenly.

And of course the boy’s most intriguing facet had to be considered. Upon discovering the boy’s affliction — it was decided an alternate plan needed to be made. If that troll’s fate was of any indication, the boy’s Obscurus could not feel threatened, or at risk. His Master didn’t like to take such risks with his precious prey.

So, he had gone… dormant, perhaps, lying low, lying in wait. He had watched the boy from the shadows for weeks now, biding his time, making his plans.

He would have to take it slow, let the boy and his guardian feel safe — almost happy, and when the time was right, the most— fascinating turn of events would unfold. Soon, the school would empty, their guards would let down, and the boy would feel safe enough to venture into the shadows. The boy was so careless with his safety, and it would cost him his life, in the end.

His Master had more allies in this castle than the old fool was even aware of, ready to bow, ready to serve, ready to use, ready to be used.

His Master had already crept into the boy’s dreams and whispered pretty little nightmares that would soon send him running — straight into his waiting arms, straight into the belly of the beast.

He would rip him open. He would eat him up.

And his Master would enjoy every fucking bite.

Chapter Text

Severus was cold.

He had been ever since he learnt exactly what the Potter boy was. Perhaps he was Occluding too hard; perhaps he had finally let it go too far. It seemed rather likely.

Everyone’s Occlumency shields were supposed to look different; Severus’ own were made of ice, brittle and biting and cold, a defense mechanism; so cold, that it felt hot, all sensory cells triggering at once, scalding anyone who dared get close enough. It kept him numb and calm through whatever horrors he was facing, and indeed, he had faced many in his life. Only recently had he started to notice how bloody cold he was, though.

Severus subtly casted a Warming Charm on himself when the boy wasn’t looking, distracted once more with the jar of eyeballs.

It hardly helped at all.

Besides the bonding time that Scamander recommended, Severus continued their lessons in Occlumency. Unfortunately, today’s lesson had reached something of a standstill, and the boy kept getting frustrated with himself. He couldn’t concentrate; he didn’t sleep well, was the petulant explanation Severus received when he asked why this was the case. He would guess the reason was bad dreams again, though he thought it wise not to ask the boy when he was in such a horrid mood.

It seemed— it was Severus’ job to get the poor brat out of it.

“This is getting us nowhere.” He decided with a sigh. “You like to fly as I recall, correct, Potter?”

Very cautiously, the boy turned around to stare at him. Then, quietly, “Yes, sir…”

“I think we both require a break. Come with me.”

Potter stared at Severus as he circled his desk, crossed his office, and he was already at the door by the time the boy scrambled to follow. He swept through the familiar corridors of the castle with his usual grace and expediency, his expression (his face) enough to silence any conversations or end any mischief as he passed. Students released quiet squeaks and moved quickly out of his way, like he was a magical Moses parting the black—robe sea.

The boy had to go at a trot to keep pace, drifting safely in his wake.

Potter didn’t ask where they were going or what they were doing, but he kept shooting Severus inquiring glances their entire journey down to the snow—laden Quidditch pitch. It was only once they were there that he Summoned one of the many school brooms, held it out to the boy, and said:

“Go on.”

Potter didn’t take the broom. He just gaped at Severus with huge green eyes on that pale little face, “...Really?”

“Yes. Really.” He waved a disinterested hand, “Shoo.”

And Potter— shooed. The eleven year old snatched onto the broom, tucked it between his legs, and then he was gone. As fast and as high as he could get. Within seconds, the idiot boy was making loops and sharp turns, pushing the old school broom as hard as it was able. Severus had never minded how dangerous the sport was before apart from a detached these—children—are—my—responsibility sort of way, but all of a sudden, he felt himself wincing and tensing with every wild manoeuvre the ridiculous boy pulled on the broom.

And despite the fact that he was discomforted by the boy’s dangerous antics, he had to admit that he was… pleased in general.

After all, on a broom was the only place that Potter actually seemed like a real child. He looked young and wild and free, and the way he whooped and shouted with glee, it was all— Lily.

For once, for Severus, that didn’t hurt so very much.

When he finally touched down again half an hour later, the boy was grinning from ear—to—ear and breathing heavily, practically shaking with his excitement.

Severus arched a somewhat amused brow, “Enjoy yourself?”

“Yes!” Potter answered immediately, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, “That was amazing! Did you see me up there, sir? Did you?” Then, almost giddily, he said, “Professor McGonagall said I’m good, really good. The best flyer she’s seen in a decade!”

Something about that, the words, the tone, it made every muscle in Severus’ body tense. Oh, how Potter Junior sounded so dearly similar to his dear old dad. How darling. How despicable. Severus couldn’t help but sneer down at the boy, barely registering his faltering smile.

“Yes,” he crooned too harshly, “How proud of yourself, you must be, Potter.”

Severus stalked away quickly, intent on getting away from the pitch, away from the boy, away from the memories.

Then, a very quiet voice: “I’m sorry, sir.”

Severus swiveled around. The boy hadn’t moved from the snowy field and he had his head low, slumped between two slouched shoulders. Severus’ breath caught and his stomach lurched slightly.

“What?”

“I—I shouldn’t do that — be better, I mean. The Dursleys didn’t like that either. I know it’s bad to be— I know I shouldn’t— I’ll stop, all right? I won’t do it anymore. Okay?” Those green eyes were so pleading, so desperate, it made Severus’ gut clench. “Please, just, don’t be mad, sir, okay?”

Severus shivered. He felt colder than ever before.

This was wrong. This was all — very — wrong.

“No. Potter, I…” Severus pressed his lips tight, angry — at himself — at them —, “The Dursleys, your relatives…”

It wasn’t a question, but Potter nodded, just slightly.

“They… didn’t like when you did well at things?”

“No, sir,” he murmured, still not meeting his eye, “When I— got higher marks than Dudley for a test, or won at a game at recess, they….”

“They what?” Severus pressed very quietly.

Potter bit his lip and shook his tousled head. “They just didn’t like it, sir. And I can see that you don’t either so don’t worry, I’ll just— I won’t fly anymore, all right? Or I’ll make sure to do worse—,”

“Potter. Stop.”

For Potter to be compare him to those vile people, to put him in the same category, to even think he needed to respond to him so similarly… It made Severus almost sick, his stomach convulsing, his body practically shaking. Lashing out at the boy like that (again), what the bloody fuck had he been thinking?

“You will try your best, always. It was wrong of me to make you feel as though you shouldn’t. That is repugnant behaviour and I will not see it emulated. Yes?”

The boy looked confused but nodded again anyway, just a little too slowly, like he didn’t quite believe it.

“I was merely—,” Severus couldn’t believe he was saying this, he really could not, “—Recalling an old school bully who was proficient at flying and liked to brag about it to everyone, especially to those who weren’t. It left a bitter taste in my mouth.”

“That’s not right, sir.”

“I understand, and that is why I’ve apologised—,”

“No, sir.” Potter then flushed red at contradicting a professor, as though he didn’t do that all the time to Severus nowadays. “I mean, it wasn’t nice of the bully to brag.”

Severus regarded the boy closely for a moment. That messy hair, those round glasses, that full mouth; all famous Potter features. The son really did look like the father, but Harry wasn’t at all like James in any way that mattered, was he? Wasn’t that the whole point? Wasn’t that why everyone had been so damned upset at first?

“You’re right, Mister Potter,” Severus murmured, “It wasn’t.”

Potter offered a fleeting upturn of his lips and then looked back down.

“Shall we return to the castle?”

And then they were on their way, the broom zooming back to the shack where it belonged with a flick of Severus’ wand. The boy still flinched slightly at the magic done so obviously, though he didn’t say anything. Bonding and Occlumency might not be enough, Severus knew; he also needed to continue making Potter less fearful of his own magic — even magic in general.

Severus glanced down at the top of the boy’s tousled head, expression thoughtful but tone beyond nonchalant. “Do you realise that broom flight requires magic, Mister Potter?”

Potter shot Severus a look that said, ‘Obviously’. Impertinent little brat. Where the fuck had he gained such a disrespectful look as that? And yet— it didn’t bother him as much as he would’ve expected. That was… odd. Anyway.

“Very well. But did you know that while the brooms are enchanted, it calls upon the magic of the particular witch or wizard to actually fly?”

Potter’s eyes had gone wide when he shook his head.

“Hm,” was all he had to say.

Let the boy stew on that for a while, Severus thought with a faint smirk, See how he liked magic now.

And then, because he was still feeling a bit guilty, he added, “Perhaps next year, you might even be on the Quidditch team.”

Potter shot him a quick glance through his perpetually messy fringe. Very softly, “Yea?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The boy grinned.

Things were going too well — life had seemed too peaceful — he should have known everything was about to go to hell.

Harry was screaming.

Snape came running.

The boy gasped into wakefulness. Back arching, hands fisting at sheets, he returned to the land of the living. Regrettably. Thankfully. Through muddled, blurred vision, he saw that he’d woken Snape — and ohgodohgod, Snape was going to kill him, yell at him, punish him — but he didn’t even have it in him to be terrified for long. He couldn’t, not suffocating as he was. Sweating and shivering, he threw off the blankets so it didn’t smother his mouth and nose, but it didn’t help.

He was hyperventilating, trapped in his sweating flesh, suffocating inside of his own body.

“I—I can’t—,”

“Up, up.”

Not killing, not yelling, not punishing, Snape merely dragged him upright which somehow helped air flood to his lungs as he heaved. The man rubbed his back in circular soothing motions, stroking sweaty hair back from his pale face. Harry thought he might vomit, saliva triggered and skin paling to the point of greenness. His breath was still ragged and heaving, though at least there was actual air in his lungs now.

He gaspgaspgasped.

Snape ran calloused fingers over Harry’s closed eyelids, across his temples, down to his neck to feel his pulse, and then cast what Harry had begun to recognise as the Diagnostic Spell. Briefly, Snape swiveled away with his wand aloft, and without fully meaning to, without even realising it, Harry slumped into the man’s side with a ragged gasp. Vision again blurred, he watched Snape turn back again with a small vial of something blue in hand.

Bloody Potions Masters with their bloody potions.

Numb lips murmured, “W—What’s it?”

“What do you think it is?” That was his ‘professor’ voice — clipped and mostly rude, though sounding strangely uneasy beneath his tense exterior.

Harry was too shaken to be tested, voice loose and soft, “Maybe… Ah, it’s… Maybe it’s a—,”

Snape took pity on him.

“A Calming Draught.”

With one hand, Snape managed to pull him closer so Harry’s cheek hit his shoulder. He shivered against the soft black sleeve of Snape’s pyjamas, sweat and tears wetting it. And yet Snape didn’t even complain. He simply fixed the quilt, tugging it back to the boy’s thin shoulders from where it had fallen round his waist.

Quietly, Snape instructed, “Take slow sips and do not stop until it is finished.”

Harry couldn’t be trusted to hold the vial on his own, hands shaking too much to not spill it all over the place or even drop it on the bed. Snape’s hands seemed massive and so gentlegentlegentle when they wrapped round Harry’s. Though still gasping, he tensed his wrists when Snape tried to raise the cold vial towards his lips.

“I—I don’t… I don’t want a Calming Draught.”

“Do I look as though I care?”

“Do I look as though I care?” Harry grumbled back, just as tartly. “They… They always make me feel floaty and like I’m… I’m far away, and I feel enough of that already. I don’t need—,”

“The Diagnostic revealed that there are no bodily concerns; your brain shows no signs of distress and your elevated heartbeat is still within a generally safe range. I have found nothing physically wrong with you, and yet your pupils are dilated, your face is white as a ghost, and you are shaking like a leaf beside me. Clearly. Something is wrong.”

He was right about that.

His heart wouldn’t slow its wild sprint within his chest, and his ears ached like somebody was trying to drive nails into them. He felt — oddly — like his organs were too big for his body, bones brittle and sore, and each breath was a struggle to catch. He was sluggish. Weak. So very afraid. Maybe his blood had dried inside of him. It had crumbled. He almost broke into pieces right there on the bed.

He wondered if this was how dying felt.

Did nightmares have the power to kill?

Even in his desperately weakened state, he managed a scowl at Snape, however half—hearted it was. His professor responded with nothing more than a twitch of his dark brows. Unfortunately, Harry was a person who, when confronted with an easy way out, always took the hard way. He was just born like that.

Still, he refused to take the vial.

Snape studied the boy stonily for another few moments before his jaw clenched and he rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. He spoke through his teeth, “If I swear to pull a Christmas Cracker over the holidays, will you take the damned potion?”

Wow. It was a good deal, actually. Brilliant, in fact. He’d been hinting at the special wizard crackers he’d seen around for days, though he never really thought he’d manage to convince Snape to pull one with him. Completely brilliant. Still… he thought he could get a little more.

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe… Only if you al—also promise not to take any points from Gryffindor next class.”

Snape’s jaw twitched.

It seemed mad, probably, that they were negotiating over something that would ultimately help Harry, but here they were — Harry being quite stubborn and Snape barely refraining from throttling him. Besides:

“You’re killing Granger’s spirit,” Harry informed him.

For now, Snape looked like he wanted to spit at him, but instead he gave a sharp nod and scowled hard.

“Are we agreed?”

“Agreed.”

With their deal finalised, Harry allowed Snape to lift his hand and press the vial to his lips. He drank slow, as instructed, and tried to distract himself from the sudden fuzziness of his head with the flavours of the potion. The floral taste of lavender, the soothing flavour of peppermint, the rather revolting saltiness of crocodile heart…

Trying not to gag, he felt the effects rather quickly. His colour returned, His heart slowed, and instead of feeling sluggish, he felt relaxed. Still, the world was beginning to seem farther and farther away — like he was seeing everything from thousands of feet up. Once he’d finished, he gave back the vial and eased further into the bed.

He felt mostly… better.

Harry was a stubborn kid, though, and he wasn’t about to admit that to Snape. He mumbled, hands over his eyes, “Huh. Feels no different.”

Snape didn’t believe him. Dryly, he said, “Really.”

His lips quirked into some teasing half—hearted smirk, and when he peeked through his fingers, the professor rolled his eyes at him.

Sincerely, he whispered, “Thank you…”

Snape, however, had long been unused to people’s genuine appreciation and, therefore, never seemed to know what to do with Harry’s. So he simply waved him off and for a moment, he hoped that this would be the end of it, then. But he continued to study the boy, though, just like the other professors did: like something broken needing to be fixed.

Somehow — coming from Snape, it felt much worse.

“Rest now,” he breathed.

Harry slipped back into the bed with an exhausted sigh.

While his body no longer reflected the terror he still felt inside, the nightmare hadn’t left him. He’d never had a dream so vivid, so awful, and in the aftermath, he felt— dirtydirtydirty. Like he wanted to peel his filthy skin off, shed himself of all that blood and tar. But the nastiness, the freakishness, had always existed inside of him, and flaying himself alive would do no good at all.

“What did you dream of, Potter?”

Harry buried his face deeper into his pillow, wanting to crush himself into it. He felt fragile and small, his body made of bird—bones, liable to shatter at any moment.

Snape rested a hand on top of his head.

Harry tensed instantly.

The only person to ever touch his head had pulled his hair, no— worse than that. The boy caught his breath at the flash of memory, knees digging into the soft flesh of his shoulders, pinning him to the hallway floor, one hand yanking at the curls, the other viciously shearing his head of everything but his fringe — left only to cover his hideous scar. Hack job. Ugly. Nasty. Badboy — freakboy — badboy. The words laughed at him, making his stomach hurt even worse.

Quietly, Snape asked permission, “Is this all right?”

Harry held his breath, waitingwaitingwaiting for something horrible to happen (as it always did), but nothing did. So, he nodded just slightly. The hand atop his head began moving slightly, stroking through the curls with shocking gentleness, such tenderness, sapping his body of every last bit of tension. The boy instinctively curled himself closer to Snape’s warmth, fingers curling into the sleeve of his shirt. He buried his nose into the soft black material, comforted by the scent of him — clove and spice and faint wood smoke, filled to the brim with relief.

“You can tell me, Potter. Anything.”

Harry nearly bit through his lip but confessed, “The Obscurus… I dreamt it— talking to me.”

Softly, very softly: “What did it say?”

“It… it says it’s angry.”

Harry peeked up the length of Snape’s arm and shoulder to find his face, very intense, those black eyes piercing nearly straight through him.

“Why is it angry, Potter?”

The answer was far too complicated to fully express. It was impossible to put into words just how fucking angry the Obscurus truly was. Its hold was slipping — the violence diminished; its power over him getting weaker and weaker by the day. He explained as best he could manage:

“Because I’m winning.”

Snape’s hand froze just for a second, a brief hitch of breath, before he continued stroking Harry’s hair. “Do you think you could fall back asleep?”

He forced himself to nod.

“Shall I sit with you?”

The boy blinked heavy, watery eyes up at him.

“Until you fall asleep?”

All Harry whispered was this: “Please.”

And that was all Snape needed to hear.

Severus sat at the boy’s bedside long after he had fallen asleep.

He had planted himself on the desk chair and studied the boy for a while, lost in a tired, grey world of musings. Though the boy’s dreams were somewhat— disturbing, he had to admit he also found them rather cheering. He was unsure as to the likelihood that the boy could actually communicate with his Obscurus via dreams, but if it did indeed feel as though it was losing and Potter was winning, then… fucking good.

He did not like to see the boy so distraught, however.

Severus understood, after all, what it was like to be tortured by one’s own nightmares. He was a man who had much to be haunted by — his crimes committed in the name of a madman, sharing word of the prophecy and willingly taking the Dark Mark, never knowing what became of Regulus, his humiliation at the hands of the Marauders the day by the lake when he verbally attacked his dearest friend, not to mention his failure to protect Harry Potter and betrayal of Lily Evans, and of course… his fear of his own fucking father.

Tobias Snape had been a useless utter bastard, weak and pathetic — who took pleasure in hurting those weaker and more pathetic than himself… and sometimes Severus still had nightmares about him. In dreams, Occlumency did not have as much power. And so in those dreams, he remembered his da who drank too much and blamed it on his wife and child. Who shouted so loud, it felt like the house shook. Who spent all their money on drink and cheap whores so they went to bed hungry. Who beat his family so fiercely that it became impossible to even breathe without fear.

‘That’s just his way, Severus.’

‘He’s said he’s sorry, Severus.’

‘You know better than to talk back, Severus.’

Screaming as his mother wrapped his broken ribs because she refused to use magic to heal him. Falling asleep with his hands over his ears to block out their screaming. Finding his mother in a pool of her own blood at the bottom of the stairs.

He could not provide Potter with much, but he wished to give the boy some comfort, and peace.

Albus’ message jolted Severus out of his reverie.

A summons to the Headmaster’s office never boded well, even as a teacher, especially only two days before the start of winter holidays, but Severus had actually experienced a few good days in a row (the nightmare notwithstanding) which was also unlikely so he hoped against his better reason that things would turn out all right when he Floo’d to the Headmaster’s office around 3:04 AM.

He should have trusted his instincts.

Albus had his back to him when Severus arrived, hands folded behind him and gaze on the charred remains of the Forbidden Forest. Severus hesitated in the hearth, half in the office and half in the Floo, wishing quite suddenly he was anywhere else. There was no greeting, no idle chatter, no useless offer of sherbet lemons.

Something was very wrong, indeed.

Quietly, he intoned, “Are you— quite well, Albus?”

The Headmaster didn’t turn back to look at him, not even when he answered, “Something is happening that I do not understand, Severus.”

Hair rising on his arms, Severus stepped further into the shadowy office.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something Dark moving within the halls of this castle. I can feel it, even if I cannot see it. I knew once Harry Potter re—entered our world that Voldemort would pose a greater threat than he had this past decade. He had a plan — one I might have been able to predict, but now it is shifting… Harry’s status as an Obscurial changes things, and it will make Voldemort unpredictable. We cannot afford to leave Harry exposed to such dangers; we must consider the greater good in this situation.”

Severus stared at the man’s turned back for what was surely an eternity. He didn’t fully— understand, right away. Or perhaps he did not want to. His mind was racing at the implications about what Albus meant and what the Dark Lord had planned and what this could mean for Potter and— His heart stopped when he realised…

Harry. Oh Merlin, Harry.

“It is for his safety, Severus.”

His safety?

“You want to send him back,” it wasn’t a question.

Finally, Albus turned around and levelled him with such a stare that made his stomach churn.

“It is the only way to keep Harry safe.”

“Safe.” Severus spat, still reeling, “Returning him to his abusive home will keep him — safe?”

“Temporarily, only for the winter break. Needlessly keeping him exposed in the castle when he could be hidden within a warded home is nothing short of recklessness.”

Heat flooding his body, Severus growled and stalked closer to the elder wizard, “Do you not remember the reason Harry didn’t want to go back in the first place?! They locked him in a garden shed, they starved him, they beat him, Albus!” He slammed both hands down on the desk, making the entire thing rattle. “If you do this, you’ll be sending him straight back into what made him a fucking Obscurial in the first place!”

“Severus.” Albus squeezed his eyes shut, voice heavy. “The Blood Wards were set into place to—,”

“Fuck your Blood Wards!” Severus roared, throat straining at the volume and ferocity, “They protect Harry Potter from the evil outside, not from the evil within!”

“Calm yourself, my boy.” Albus warned. “You and I both know Harry needs the Blood Wards. You know the dangers he faces every second he is not protected by his mother’s sacrifice.”

“His mother — yes, let us speak of Lily.” He sneered, beginning to pace before the desk, never taking his fuming eyes from Albus’ face. “She died for that boy and this is how you honour that? Do not speak to me of your ‘greater good’ now, Albus, not when it’s her child at stake.”

“Lily would want her child alive. The wards must be the priority, Severus. He is in danger here. The Dursleys, for all their faults, will ensure his safety with their mere existence.”

Severus’ words had the power to stop the world in its tracks:

“I will not let you do this.”

Albus slowly took a seat, appraising his Potions Master from head to toe. “You will not — let — me?”

“No. I refuse to let the boy return to that place, and the fact that you’ve even considered merrily sending that boy right back into the hands of his abusers…” Severus shook his head to match his equally shaking voice, “You disgust me, Albus.”

How was that for irony?

Albus sighed hard, demanding, “What would you have me do, Severus?”

“Anything! Literally anything else. You could keep him here—,”

“And leave him within Voldemort’s grasp? I think not.”

“I would protect him — me!”

“Against something neither of us can predict, Severus? No. It’s an unnecessary risk for a temporary situation.”

“Unnecessary? You speak to me of unnecessary?! If you do this, Albus…” Severus bit back, positively trembling with the strength of his black burning anger. “If you send him back, I will report it! I’ll go straight to the fucking papers if I have to!”

“And risk Harry’s freedom? The Ministry will be more than happy to get their hands on a boy like Harry, is that what you really want?”

Severus’s nails drew blood on his palms from how tightly he held his fists as he made his final pronouncement:

“We’ll run.”

At this, Albus’ eyes widened as shock finally set in.

“I will take the boy,” Severus threatened, refusing to back down, meaning every damn word whole—heartedly, “And I will run with him. I’ll protect him with my very life, Albus, even if it means protecting him from you.”

In the aftermath, silence reigned.

Albus collapsed back into his chair and sealed his eyes shut for a long time before he murmured, “I see I’ve underestimated how much you’ve come to care for the boy, Severus.”

Severus opened his mouth to refute this, but he found there were no words on the tip of his tongue, no words for miles and miles.

“I implore you to be reasonable, Severus. I know I have made mistakes with Harry before, but it won’t be like that again. We can still protect him in that house. I would swear my magic on it. We will put safeguards in place. We will have routine check—ins, surprise visits, even monitoring spells if that will appease you—,”

“You truly think that will be enough?” Severus whispered harshly, achingly, “Even if they don’t hurt him, even if they don’t say a single word against him, do you not understand that simply returning to that place will inflict untold damage upon the boy? Harry’s trust in us — in me — will be broken, perhaps forever.”

“I’d rather him live to hate us than die being grateful.”

Severus stared his employer, his mentor, his friend — and he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Very, very quietly, he warned, “I swore to protect that boy. I cannot let this happen.”

“You will if you wish to maintain any interactions with him.”

Startled into a brief silence, he had to take a second to catch his stolen breath before his black eyes narrowed viciously.

“Is that a threat?”

“I don’t wish to threaten you, Severus.” Albus replied gravely, almost sadly a moment or so later. “But I will do as I must, as I always have.”

Severus’ jaw clenched. Softly now, “I promised he wouldn’t have to go back.”

“That wasn’t a promise you had the authority to make, Severus.”

On the last day before winter hols, Harry was— exhausted.

True, he had slept better with Snape at his bedside, but most of the night had been fitful, full of tossing and turning. He felt half—dead when he stumbled through the last classes of the day, tripping over the edge of his robes. He couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t concentrate. He’d a headache the size of Everest since the moment he woke, pounding so hard that he could feel it in his temples and behind his eyes.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Granger nudged him, announcing rather rudely, “You look dreadful.”

“Gee, thanks,” he grumbled.

They had taken residence in the library, one of the few approved places for inter—House friendships to congregate. Weasley was arguing with one of his many brothers by the entrance while Harry was trying to shield his eyes from the over—bright lights coming from the big windows. Naturally, Granger was lecturing him.

“Are you feeling ill? Maybe you have a fever. Or maybe it’s the flu? It’s going around, you know. You should tell Professor Snape when he picks you up.”

“‘M not ill,” he muttered, still unnaturally quiet, “Just tired.”

Mostly, he just really needed a bloody vacation.

Granger hummed, still not convinced and looking ready to pester him further before her eyes went bright and she gasped loudly. She leant closer with a conspiratorial whisper, “Guess what? I’ve got Ron the most perfect gift.”

Harry’s brain skidded to a screeching halt. “What?”

The girl was grinning from ear—to—ear as she whispered, “I got him Every Flavour Beans and a charmed Chocolate Frog card that shows you a picture of yourself! Can you imagine? Ron will have his own collectible!” She froze and then fretted, “That was a good idea, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he encouraged as best he could, “It’s completely brilliant, Granger.”

Granger’s worry morphed into something softer, a bit shy but mostly reassuring. “You know, you can call me Hermione.”

“Oh.” Harry was getting whiplashed all over the place. “All right… Hermione.”

“Good,” the girl beamed, “And— you can’t tell Ron about his gift, all right? Promise?”

“No… No, I wouldn’t, I promise.”

Harry was having a breakdown.

Gifts. For Christmas.

Harry had never given nor received a gift, and so he hadn’t thought anything of it. A rush of guilt tasted like copper on his tongue. Why the bloody hell was he so stupid and thoughtless and selfish? He needed to give them something, of course he did — something brilliant, to show how much their friendship had come to mean to him, how much their acceptance and willingness to be around him despite his— Obscurus.

And ohgodohgod— what would he get for Snape?

Strangely enough, it was McGonagall (and not Snape) who escorted Harry from the library today — following a brief goodbye with his friends. Harry didn’t want to think too much of it, to read anything into it, especially when things had been going so well between them lately.

He couldn’t fuck it up by not getting the man a Christmas gift!

He was so consumed with these thoughts that he hardly noticed the grim demeanor of his Transfiguration professor, nor her solemn tone when they arrived. He merely waved her a silent goodbye and pushed open Snape’s office door, already grinning at the thought of the holiday ahead. But all that changed when he stepped inside and found Snape was not alone.

The Headmaster was with him.

The eyeballs were turned away, hiding in their jars.

The temperature in the office had dropped twenty degrees.

Dumbledore turned around when Harry skidded to a noisy stop in the doorway. He bared an amiable smile, a painful twinkle in his grandfatherly blue eyes. You, Harry thought with an instant surge of bright glittering anger, Youyouyouyouyou. You sent me to them. You let them hurt me. You ruined my life. Youyouyouyouyou. If the old wizard noticed the depth of Harry’s anger, he didn’t show it.

“Ah, Harry, thank you for joining us. Please sit down, here.”

And he patted the chair Harry always sat in.

While he obeyed, the boy shot a quick and cautious look at Snape, but his face looked different than usual. His expression wasn’t stern or calming or even inscrutable; the man just looked… smaller. It was frightening.

“Professor Snape and I have been reviewing your progress, Harry. I was very pleased to see that you’ve made so many promising strides in such a short time.”

Harry didn’t know if he was supposed to answer, or nod, or what, so he didn’t say anything at all. He kind of started pinching his thighs through the thick robes, but Snape noticed and frowned pointedly, so he felt the odd need to stop. Snape continued to just— look at Harry, the circles under his eyes like black half—moons. Whatever caused those dark stains, it wasn’t just a lack of sleep, Harry was sure of it.

What the hell was going on here?

“You are a very strong boy, Harry,” said Dumbledore, “And over the past few weeks, you’ve learnt to manage the Obscurus impressively well. I know it hasn’t been easy, and you’ve been through so much, at such a young age besides, but I can see even now that your suffering has only made you stronger.”

And here, weirdly, Snape gave a little twitch and the Headmaster stopped, sighed, and cast a halfway reproachful glance at the man.

“Do you have nothing to say to Harry, Severus?”

Severus. That was so weird. Harry supposed all of his professors had first names, but it was strange to actually hear it — in real life — used so casually. He was still absorbing Snape’s first name (severus—severus—severus), and so it took a while for him to actually process what the Headmaster was still busy saying.

Finally, Harry managed to choke out, “Wait, what?”

Snape — flatly, emptily — repeated, “You’re returning to Privet Drive for the winter holidays.”

When receiving terrible news, like really terrible, most people — normal people, that is — react with horror. Or outrage. They gasp. They scream and shout, start to wail or bargain, maybe even threaten. In this instance (like so many others), Harry was not at all like normal people.

Harry Potter, a small boy aged eleven, shut down.

Nononono.

He just… stared. Emptyemptyempty. He wished he could float away from this, drift into the haze or float above this moment, but he could only sit here, staring, not speaking. His world was ending in slow motion, and he knew of no way to stop it. The scientists and philosophers were all wrong, every one of them. The end of the world was quiet.

hate — boy — unwanted

Sometimes, when the Dursleys left him in the cupboard for days at a time, Harry used to cry until his throat was raw.

Dumbledore talked and talked, “Unfortunately, Hogwarts is being shut down temporarily — due to an unforeseen plumbing issue. We’ve sent out notices to all the families, and the Heads of House are currently informing the students who had planned to stay over the break. With your… unique circumstances, I felt it my duty to inform you personally.”

The words were reaching him across a thousand miles of frozen wasteland, and he was an iceberg drifting toward the edge of the map. He trembled so hard that his teeth rattled. Something wet hit the top of his hand, slipping from his cheek — shockingly warm in the frigid dungeons. Blood? Was he bleeding? Had these words, these horrible wounds, cut him open? Split him from navel to nose, gutted like a fish? He felt battered and beaten up, and not from fists this time. Blood leaked from his nose and licked at his lips. His eyes were black and blue.

And yet— neither Snape nor Dumbledore seemed to see it.

So, he reached and touched his cheek to find — not blood, no— but tears.

Harry was crying, perfectly silent, perfectly still.

“I do not want you to worry, Mister Potter. I have personally talked with your family, and I will continue to do so—,”

“They’re not my family,” a voice that sounded a bit like Harry interjected, quietly, from somewhere very far away — as if at the end of a very long tunnel.

Dumbledore paused, briefly, looking almost sad. But not sad enough apparently.

“They are your family, Harry, and, however hard this may be right now, Privet Drive is your home. I will continue speaking with your aunt and uncle, Harry, and I will make it clear to them that their treatment of you cannot continue as it has been. Of course no one wants you to return to the previous circumstances — no one.”

Previous circumstances. Meaning: the cupboard. Meaning: endless chores. Meaning: going to bed hungry and getting smacked by Aunt Petunia and choked by Uncle Vernon and beat up by Dudley.

Dazed, driftingdriftingdrifting, Harry looked at the eyeballs. A few of them had peeked back around, their irises twitching, as if shrugging: ‘What do you expect us to do? We’re bloody eyeballs trapped in a bloody jar’.

Bloody Dursleys. Bloody Privet Drive. He was being sent back.

To somewhere the complete opposite of here, far, far away, in another country, and they would lock him away in that picture perfect house, that place of nightmares, where the floor smelt of bleach and his mouth tasted of blood and there was always enough food for ten but only three ever ate. No more Christmas, no more friends, no more chess, no more quilt, no more magic, no more Snape, for Harry.

Only days of hurt, of cupboards and bruises.

“Harry?” Dumbledore prompted, eyes still twinkling.

When he finally managed to speak, he sounded no more than five years old. “But… They don’t like me.”

Snape closed his eyes, as if Harry was too pathetic to even look at.

nobody — blank — who cares

The Headmaster smiled gently. “Think of it this way, Harry, it’ll only be two weeks before you’re back at Hogwarts. Fourteen short days, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure your visit back home goes well. In fact, when I reached out to them to inform them of the changes, Vernon and Petunia said they would open their door to you until term resumes and you can continue your education here. That says something to me, Harry, that they are willing to try.”

Heart choked, Harry glanced quickly at Snape in desperation. The professor’s mouth was pursed into a thin line and his black eyes were the saddest things Harry thought he’d seen in a long time. Very, very slowly, the professor shook his dark head from side—to—side.

“There is nothing I can do for you, Mister Potter. I… I apologise.”

Harry’s ears were ringing. Buzzing. Once his uncle hit his ear so hard, he heard the howling of trains for a week. There was betrayal in this moment, and it tasted a lot like blood. He didn’t speak. He was scared if he opened his mouth, he’d start crying— or maybe drip blood all over the floor. He got up from the chair that he used to consider his and walked towards the door, every step feeling strange and stiff.

Snape spoke to his back, voice quicker than usual, “We are not abandoning you, Harry. The Headmaster says he’s investigated every possible option, and I’m told there just isn’t—,”

“No.” Harry opened the office door, refused to look back, refused to show them the tears escaping his eyes. “Thank you. I am going back to my dorm now.”

Snape called after him, but Harry didn’t stop.

His head was a sea of bees, of music, the same buzzing that always came before he lost control, before the Obscurus took over. But he would not do that, not now. Not today. Not again. He would do something else instead.

freak — bad — nothing

Snape’s chambers and the Slytherin dormitory were all in the dungeons, and so it was only a few hundred metres or so to his old dorm. He passed by his old dormmates and walked straight into the washroom and just stood there for a while. Confused, Malfoy called his name. Confused, Harry did not answer.

Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

Then Harry stepped into the shower and pounded his forehead into the tiles until the bees died.

Againagainagainagain.

When Snape came sprinting in seconds and minutes and hours later, he grabbed Harry around the waist and pulled at him to force him to stop. But Harry wasn’t Harry anymore — he was prey animal, he was wild beast, he was pure hysteria. Do you understand? With a screech, he snatched his black greasy hair with both hands and yanked so hard that Snape had to grit his teeth to hold back a shout.

Harry slid to the floor, warm blood trickling down from his forehead to his mouth.

He said, “Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry.”

Limp strands of hair fluttered in his bloody hands.

Harry was going back to the Dursleys. Harry was going back and Snape would not do anything to stop it. Snape had broken his promise. He was just like everyone else, and just like that, just realising that, out everything came, all he ever asked of Harry and more.

He told him: “I wanted to make them happy — I wanted them to love me — I had to pretend I didn’t exist so I curled up into something tight and awful and there was no more speaking, there was no more magic, I was only a ghost that listened and obeyed. I took food from Dudley’s mouth. They didn’t want to feed me. I took up too much space. They made me sleep in a cupboard under the stairs.”

So very gently, Snape wiped the blood from Harry’s young face.

He told him: “If I got in their way, if I took too long making breakfast, if my magic happened, if I was just me, the yelling started. They yelled for years. When they got tired of yelling, they started hitting.”

Malfoy wrung his hands in the doorway. Boys piled up behind him, pushing, trying to catch a glance.

He told him: “They’ve been hitting me for a long time.”

He told him: “Please don’t make me go back there, sir.”

He told him about how badly it felt to have Aunt Petunia’s indifference, about Dudley and how he once pretended to be Harry’s friend and then he broke his tooth and that broke him. All these things hurt swelling out of him, but he gave it to Snape anyway, all the horrible words in his heart — about the garden, about Harry Hunting, about Uncle Vernon.

Finally, Harry stopped and the silence that echoed filled up the whole world.

Perhaps he had given him too much. Perhaps none of it mattered to anyone at all. The cool edge of a glass vial pressed to his lips, and when Harry’s gaze darted to Snape’s face, he found the man’s eyes watery — from pain? There were small pinpricks of blood at the roots of Snape’s hair, little spots of red amidst the black.

Sorrysorrysorry.

Guilt forced his mouth open, and he swallowed the potion down.

The world disappeared in a wave of black.

I’m sorry.

For a man like Severus Snape, those were the two most pitiful words a person could utter, and yet he had the constant urge to speak them aloud to a little boy he constantly failed. How many times in the first few hours After had he felt like running out of the Hospital Wing and leaving Hogwarts altogether? It must have been hundreds. But that was the coward’s way out, and Severus Snape was anything but a coward. He would not be going anywhere.

Infected by guilt, Severus sat at Potter’s — no, Harry’s — bedside.

He was so sick of this fucking place, and he was so sick of this boy being in this fucking place.

The boy would be well, at least physically. His head was healed, and his skin was spelled clean, but no Scourgify was powerful enough to erase the stain of blood on his face. Seconds after leaving him, minutes after being told he would be sent back, the boy had tried to bash his head open, spill out his brains. He could only imagine the horror the boy had felt, the terror that had driven him to this.

I’m sorry.

The two words burnt like embers in his mouth, singing his tongue, charring the backs of his teeth. He thought them over and over, waiting for a chance to breathe them to life. Severus should’ve fought harder. He should’ve argued better. He should’ve insisted they find another option — any other option. He buried his face in his shaking hands. They were stained with blood, too.

I’m sorry.

When he came to, Harry was already crying. There was no confusion, no questions, no moment of shock where it all came back; he woke with the knowledge of all that had happened, and it hurt him. Harry’s chest heaved with his sobs and his shoulders jerked with every shaky breath. His small hands went to his face to hide his shame, crying so hard that Severus truly thought the boy might vomit, desperately trying to stop this.

Severus reached — tentatively, carefully — to touch his shoulder.

The second his hand made contact, the very second, Harry had thrown himself at Severus. His slight weight hit him with enough force to steal his breath, but he had no time to recover before the boy was latching himself to Severus like a limpet, like moss and vines, wrapping his arms around his neck and tucking his face under his chin. Harry was crying, gasping, smearing tears and snot all over his black robes.

Severus was breathless.

It had been fifteen years since Severus had last hugged someone. Or someone had last hugged him. It felt awkward now, his limbs stiff and heavy, and they folded around Harry’s shaking body with jerking discomfort.

But— as his arms cradled the boy, something happened.

The warm weight of Harry pressed into his sternum, awakening something he had long thought dead and buried, withered and decrepit. His heart, whatever was left of it, began to stir. Perhaps something was melting, or perhaps blooming inside of him, and it hurt as much as it felt good, like blood rushing back to a cinched limb, aches of the best kind.

Poppy’s voice came back to him: “You’re starting to love that boy, Severus, like he’s your very own.”

No.

It was not love. It couldn’t be. Love was dangerous and pointless and cruel, and it had done nothing but ruin Severus’ life time and again. Love— was not possible for him. It would only hurt him, and hurt the boy, and he was not about to let that happen. Not again. Never again.

And yet, still, Severus held the boy tighter against himself, wishing he could wrap himself around him like a second skin and shield him from the whole terrible world.

“I’m sorrysorrysorry,” Harry sobbed into Severus’s shoulder.

He rested his hand atop his head, fingers lost in the messy swamp of hair, petting softly like one would a day—old kitten.

“It is I who am sorry,” Severus breathed back, “I’m very sorry, Harry.”

It was as if the boy couldn’t hear him, still chanting it like a prayer: “—Sorrysorrysorrysorry—,”

“Hush, Harry, it’s all right. It’s all going to be all right.”

“It’s not,” the boy choked on his own tears, drowning in it, shaking his head over and over again. “I didn’t mean to— I was just so angry— I didn’t want to become—,”

“I know,” he soothed and he murmured, “It’s okay.”

“Are you?” The boy pulled back just slightly, peering up at him through swollen eyes, “I mean, okay, that is?”

Severus had hardly given any thought to the brief pain he experienced; it was nothing in comparison to the depth of the boy’s suffering. In the face of that, it could hardly qualify as pain at all.

“Yes, I’m okay. Everything is just fine.”

The boy slumped back into him, suddenly boneless, sighing with relief. Severus cradled the boy against his body, rocking him softly, like one might for a much younger child. Harry curled his thin fingers into the black cloth of his waistcoat, and Severus let him take comfort — in the little he was capable of providing.

Perhaps Harry needed it.

Perhaps Harry needed him.

The boy’s tears burnt his skin, but he relished the pain. It was little more than he deserved. He was choked by his own guilt, a tangible entity — lodged in his throat, hovering over his shoulder, mocking him with the memory and consequences of his failures. How could you? How could you?

Their foreheads were nearly pressing with how close they were, while Severus whispered, “Don’t worry, boy. You’re not going anywhere, you’re going to stay.”

A whimper, something soft and scared floated up to him, “With you?”

“Yes.”

Harry relaxed fully into Severus’ chest, a warm and light weight, and when his harsh breathing finally evened out, he knew the boy had fallen asleep against him. Even still, Severus didn’t let him go. For some reason, he could not force himself to. He wanted — needed — the boy close, to ensure he was well, to ensure he didn’t hurt himself again, to ensure no one took him away.

“With me,” he vowed, “Always.”

Severus’ other hand pressed against the side of Harry’s curly head, holding him closer, holding him more securely. He stroked one long finger across the freshly sealed skin along the boy’s hairline, where he had tried to bash his brains out. The boy had nearly died, he had nearly killed himself, he had nearly disappeared entirely. And Severus decided, there and then, that he could not lose this boy — not to his relatives, not to the Dark Lord, not even to his own foolishness.

Severus would keep his boy, and he would keep him safe.

Chapter Text

When Harry was a real boy (with two parents and one house and no curses flashing), he was wanted. If the stories were to be believed, he was even loved. He had James and Lily Potter to stroke his hair, to wipe his tears, to soothe him back to sleep. With them, he was safe, yes, but more than that: he was happy. He was golden boy, he was beloved son, he was miracle child and all that was good in the world.

Now, the third (or fourth?) time they locked him up in the Hospital Wing, Harry knew he was only badbadbad. All the adults were frowny sadsadsad. Through the privacy screens, he thought he could hear the adults bouncing the blame back and forth, fucking Albus, fucking Dursleys, Severus Snape: ‘I’ve failed him again and again and—’, poor little Harry Potter, sick starving mental Harry Potter, what was wrong with him, maybe it was all his faultfaultfault.

Every moment was spoken for.

Harry ate, slept, took potions, and went to the loo all on a schedule. He was under constant observation, most usually — Snape’s observation. And of course Madam Pomfrey was always there. Newt came, too, with quiet words and thoughtful interpretation. McGonagall and Quirrell hung in the wings, waiting for news, wanting to offer their get—well—soon’s.

Madam Pomfrey asked if he had any plans of engaging in any self—destructive behaviours in the future, and honestly, Harry hadn't been planning on doing any self—destructing behaviour the first time.

It was… frightening.

And that was exactly right… because he’d just been so bloody terrified. He had lost control— not of the Otherness, but of Harry. The truth was this: he hadn’t been trying to hurt himself, he hadn’t been trying to kill himself; he’d just wanted the music — the bees — to die.

But something new had been added to the orchestra: voices. Singing, mocking, slipping into this boy’s head when he wasn’t looking. The voices swam around his insides and multiplied even now — charred, tinny echoing voices that made a permanent home inside the eggshell of his skull.

freak — bad — nothing
stupid — ugly — nasty
hate — boy — unwanted

All the words banged around in his head as his heart squeezed smallersmallersmaller. He didn’t dare to breathe them aloud, to give them life. He hardly had the energy; the potions often made his head too heavy to lift off the pillow. Besides, after his embarrassing emotional breakdown, right after he woke up, Harry had gone quiet again. Even Snape was beginning to look concerned.

Two days later, two days before Christmas, he was judged sane enough to be freed from the Hospital Wing.

He was still too underweight, too dehydrated, still bordering on malnourished. Dangerzone — dangerzone. He needed more potions and more sessions with Newt and some actual fucking (godforbid) therapy. But he was stable enough to go back to Professor Snape’s chambers. They all said he was stable. He failed eating, failed drinking, failed speaking, failed not bashing himself to a pulp. Failed friendship. Failed family and Snape. Failed body and common sense and innocence. Good thing he was stable.

In a detached sort of way, Harry was relieved that the castle had been emptied while he was unconscious. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t need to see another soul for the next fifty years.

Thinking about his dormmates made him want to pull out his stitches with a pair of pliers, if only he had any stitches. Magic made them unnecessary, the gaping wound on his head sealed with a wave of a wand. He didn’t want the pain; that wasn’t the point, okay? He just wanted to tear and pluck and rip out the stitches like seams until this body fell apart. He wished there was a way to make them forget what they saw, to wipe that memory clean.

But there was not enough soap and bleach in the whole fucking world.

He hadn’t seen the Headmaster since— well, since, and he was relieved. If he ever saw that bastard again, it would be too soon. According to Snape, the old man wouldn’t be bothering him again. He was giving them ‘space’. Whatever that meant. Still, the relief in him was warm but dim. It was hard to muster up any joy about anything, now.

Harry was tucked back into the safety of Snape’s chambers, safe and sound, and he wouldn’t be leaving again — for the foreseeable future. At least, he wouldn’t be kicked out. He wouldn’t go back to the Dursleys. He would be staying with Snape.

Harry should have felt— happy. Comforted. But he wasn’t. Mostly, now, he just felt angry.

Without full memory of how they got there, Harry saw Snape standing on the other side of the sitting room, watching him the same way he had for the past forty—eight hours. He said, simply, “Potter.”

Harry tensed at this one simple word — this one word that could do such damage, scowling down hard at his feet. Sometimes he felt like Snape really wanted him around, calling him ‘Harry’ and touching his shoulder and stroking his hair, but then he went back to stiff politeness and blank faces and ‘Potter’.

Harry fucking hated it.

“Do you have a headache?”

Yes. But Harry shook his head no.

“Are you quite certain?”

No. But Harry, naturally, nodded his head yes.

“Any lingering dizziness or nausea? No? Good. You will tell me if that ever changes or you develop new symptoms, understood?”

Harry didn’t answer at all this time.

Snape clenched his jaw but asked very evenly, “Won’t you say something, Potter?”

Harry was so fucking tired of saying something — of being asked a thousand questions and being forced to answer, of being inspected and analysed and observed.

Snape exhaled his sigh and went silent also.

Harry wondered if that was a punishment.

At first, he had been so grateful that he was able to stay, that he wouldn’t be sent back to the Dursleys’, that he could continue living with Snape. Then, common sense kicked in. Snape had been willing to let Dumbledore take him. Snape had been willing to break his promise. Now, he was angry at being close to him and terrified of being separated from him. It was too much. Toomuch—toomuch—toomuch.

One person could only take so much.

But— maybe Snape didn’t care like he said he did.

Like he had proven when he bought him all new clothes that fit perfectly, let him each lunch in his classroom and let him move into his chambers, saved him from the Boggart, punished the boys who bullied him, got him a Christmas tree and made him ornaments, gave him nonperishable food to keep in his trunk, complimented his artwork and taught him how to chess and gave him the quilt and—

But maybe remembering all that was too bothersome for Snape.

Maybe it was easier for Snape to dump Harry one last time.

His winter became a desert wasteland, and the man he had trusted most in the world had tried wiping him off the face of his existence. And so now Snape couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t do what Harry so badly wanted him to do: touch his shoulder, make it better, brush the wild hair from his face, whisper it’llbeokayokayokayokay.

Harry retreated to his (the guest) room.

The boy was shivering when he crawled under the bedcovers with all his days—old clothes still on. They were crisp and smelt heavily of lemons; a Scourgify had spelled it clean of blood. He tried to draw but kept falling asleep, dreaming about shovelling ashes. The handle of the shovel was so hot he dropped it. He tried to read, letting the sentences build a fence around him, a Times Roman 12—point barricade, to keep everything from getting too close.

He turned page after quiet page, but he had long stopped seeing the letters, stopped understanding the words, if he had ever in the first place.

When Snape’s footsteps took him down the hall and outside his door, Harry dropped the book on the mattress beside him, hands limp, eyes rolling closed to lielielie. He arranged his face in a way a sleeping person’s might be, loose and unbothered.

A quiet knock, no response, so the door opened quietly.

“Potter?”

Harry briefly remembered Aunt Petunia’s tinny voice on the answering machine, ringing through the house because he was not allowed to answer the phone — no one wanted to hear what he had to say, anyway.

Potter is not available. Please leave a message when you hear the beep…

“Potter? Are you awake?”

Snape cautiously sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. One hand brushed the fringe off his face, and it took all of Harry’s effort not to flinch at the unexpected contact.

“Potter.”

Go away.

He lifted one of Harry’s cool hands and slid the book out from under his fingers. The boy opened one eye a slit and peeked through black spiky lashes. Snape marked his place by bending a corner of the page and then set it gently on the bedside table. His expression looked so— so— sadsadsad.

“Potter? I know you are awake.”

He stopped breathing. He stopped caring.

Snape exhaled again, another sigh, and his large hand rested lightly on top of the boy’s curly head.

“You foolish boy,” he whispered, “What am I to do with you?”

Harry wanted to sit up. Harry wanted to tell him. Harry wanted to say so much.

What he wanted to tell him was this:

You were going to give me up, and look what happened, and now I don’t know how to feel safe anymore, and I’m scared, because I don’t know how to be with people, but I don’t know how to be alone, either, and I thought I wasn’t going to be alone again here.

The springs in the mattress creaked as Snape stood. He turned off the light on the nightstand with a quiet ‘Nox’ and crossed the room in the dim glow of his wandtip. With the quiet snick of the door closing, Harry was released from the lie.

Snape had left.

Harry ached. His eyes felt fierce with water, and he buried his head in his pillow so no one — not even the ghost of his Otherness — could ever see them. He felt so, so sick, and he felt so, so tired.

When Harry was a real boy (with silver spoons and lullabies and no scars anywhere), he had people who loved him. His parents would wrap him in warm blankets, cuddle him on the sofa, and feed him faerie tales one spoonful at a time. But those times were gone, and there was no one left to make him believe that happy endings were possible. Wanting was wrong — because no one wanted him back.

And perhaps that was Harry’s greatest fault.

He always wanted the ones he couldn’t have, the ones who were never coming back.

Things were still tense between Harry and Snape when he woke the next day.

They circled around each other like two skittish animals, treading on eggshells or perhaps glass, treating one another like unpredictable potions — liable to explode at any moment. The fight simmered gently over the metaphorical fire all afternoon, the bubbles rising up and popping, ingredients falling to the bottom, then surfacing again.

It didn’t boil over until the sun set.

Snape had asked for his assistance in his personal laboratory, and since Harry wasn’t speaking to him, it made it difficult to refuse. He shuffled down the stairs, surprised that there was a dungeon below the dungeons, and it was somehow even colder in here than the classroom. It was just as neat and orderly, however, with glass piping, knives drying on a rack near an installed stone sink, and a massive island counter in the center of the room which housed no less than four bubbling cauldrons.

This is gonna be fun.

They went through the motions of working together for a while, and everything was more or less fine, but it all went to shite when Snape asked:

“Would you pass me the Snakeweed, Potter?”

Harry fisted his hand around the stirrer, not raising his head, refusing to answer to the name.

“Potter.” Snape’s tone turned flinty with warning, “Pass me the Snakeweed.” Still nothingnothing. “Potter, you will cease ignoring me this instant!”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

“Answer me, Harry—!”

The boy’s entire body turned to stone as he snapped, “Don’t.”

Snape went equally rigid. “Don’t… what?”

“Don’t call me ‘Harry’!”

Snape arched a brow, acting like he was being stupid, like he didn’t have a bloody right to be angry. “Don’t call you by your name?”

“No.” Harry gritted the words through clenched teeth, “I don’t want to hear it, not from you. Not when you only call me that when you’re feeling guilty or you want something from me.”

Snape looked appalled, practically sputtering a reply, “That is not true—,”

“It is true,” he growled, throwing down the stirrer, potion splattering on the worktable, “I’m not so stupid as to not notice when you’re bloody manipulating me.”

“That is ridiculous, I’m not manipulating you—,”

“Yes, you bloody are!” Harry suddenly shouted, jerking his head up to glare.

“No, I am not, Potter, calm down,” Snape was beginning to get all wide—eyed worried.

It was only making Harry angrier.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t you get it?! Don’t you hear me?! I don’t want you calling me that because it feels like bloody false hope, because it reminds me how completely stupid I am! You know I needed you, I was scared, and you were gonna give me away! I thought you wanted me around, I thought you actually liked me, and then you made me look like an idiot because I actually believed that you could—,”

“Potter, stop, you are acting hysterical—,”

All of the glass in the lab sang when Harry screeched, “Fuck you!”

“Language, Potter!”

It was reflexive, instinctive, this scolding, and they both looked scolded by its pointlessness, the way it solved absolutely nothing. They glared at one another, Harry and Snape. Sometime during this, the boy had bitten himself. His mouth was flooded with the sharp, metallic taste of iron. Harry felt his chest heaving, shoulders trembling, his green eyes burning.

The argument was unspooling before them, both of them losing control, everything going straight to shit.

“Potter.” Snape spoke forcibly calmly, hands outstretched just slightly. “You need to breathe and focus on your five senses. We cannot take the risk—,”

“I’m more than a fucking safety risk!” Harry shouted again, all the glass vibrating in the room. “I’m not just the bloody Obscurial, more than just a freak, I’m a person!”

“I know you’re a person, I am only attempting to take care—,”

“Don’t act like you care! You don’t even like me, you don’t even—,” he fisted his hands into his hair, tugging hardhardhard on the curls, “Why did you change your mind? What did I do? Why didn’t you want me anymore?”

“Harry…” Snape shook his head, very slowly, back and forth. “Merlin’s sake, Potter, you didn’t do anything,”

“I must’ve! I know me, I know I’m nasty, disgusting, unwanted, but I thought maybe you— I thought— I must’ve done something—,” something vicious was climbing its way up Harry’s throat, “To make you want to get rid of me.”

Snape blanched, white as the moon, white as sea foam. After a moment, very lowly: “I did not.”

“Yes, you fucking did.” Harry seethed, “Why else didn’t you fight for me? Why didn’t you even try to keep me?”

Snape drew in a shaky breath and closed his eyes again — he couldn’t bear to look at him.

These words, these humiliating words, were spilling out of him, and it felt good as much as it felt bad. “You’re the only one I ever—, and I—I tried to tell you what they did to me. What was even the point of me telling you all that shit, huh? You told me I could trust you, that I was never going back ‘ever’. You promised. And then you were going to give me back to them, like I was fucking trash, like I was nothing to you!”

“How dare you suggest—,” Snape’s eyes open so he could snarl at him with full force, properly furious now too, “I do not think you are trash, you are not nothing—,”

“No, you’re right, I’m just your fucking duty.” Harry sneered furiously, “I’d rather be trash! At least then I might be worth your notice, even if it’s your disgust! But now you keep looking away from me; you want me out of your sight! You’re just like all the rest of them!”

Snape’s face was pale, not just with shock or distress, but now with pure anger.

“Is that what you truly think, Potter? After everything?” His professor prowled closer as he hissed viciously, “You think I wanted that? You think I wished to send you back to those monsters, to spit in your face, to betray your trust when I had only just begun to earn it? I was put into an impossible situation, and I did what I thought was best—,”

“Best?! You thought the Dursleys were best for me?”

“You are not listening,” Snape growled furiously as his fists clenched into white—knuckled fists.

Harry’s eyes lingered there, on those hands, those dangerous hands.

Fists could hurt. Fists could cleanse.

Perhaps if Snape made him bleed, perhaps if he vented his dislike on Harry’s body, they would made right again; the Dursleys were always better to him after they’d dealt him a beating. Maybemaybemaybe things could still work out. Harry would take his anger, would take his punishment, if it meant he had Snape back in the end. The man’s anger was better than nothing at all. He would take a beating, he would take anythinganythinganything, if it came from Snape.

Harry readied himself to take a blow.

“Go ahead!” The boy shouted suddenly, hoarsely.

Snape’s brows furrowed, as if confused, as if he could be bloody confused, black eyes darting all over Harry’s furious face.

“Come on! Fucking hit me, you coward!”

Snape stumbled back a few steps, horrified, so bloody horrified, as if it were Harry threatening to strike him instead.

“I remember how you treated me at the start of the year, I haven’t forgotten, I forget nothing! You wanted to hit me then, I’m sure you did, what’s changed? Nothing!” Harry could hardly comprehend why he kept pursuing him like this, shoving the man, shouting and snarling too — what the hell was wrong with him? But he couldn’t stopstopstop. “Nothing’s bloody changed! You still want to get a shot in, right?! You want to hit me? Go on! No one will care, no one fucking cares about me!”

Snape finally lurched forward to grip Harry’s shoulders and shook him hard, as if desperately trying to shake him out of his hysteria.

“Stop this! You will stop this at once, Harry!”

“Don’t call me that!” The boy shrieked, already so far gone.

Snape shook him roughly once more and then grabbed either side of his face, forcing them to meet eyes, black and green, both full of tears. “I will not hit you, not ever, because I care! I have told you that I care about you!”

Tears were beaten out of Harry, and he cried out, “But you tried to give me away!”

All the air had been sucked out of the entire bloody castle.

“I made a mistake, all right? It was obviously a fucking mistake!”

“How many more of your mistakes am I gonna have to survive?”

The world stopped at this final shout.

Snape recoiled with a shuddered gasp, hands slipping from Harry’s face, leaving him cold and shivering. The man took three steps back, lacking so much of his usual grace as he stumbled slightly. He gazed down at the floor, long and hard, his chest also heaving, hands still clenching in and out of fists. Fists that he wouldn’t use to hurt Harry, no matter what, no matter how much Harry begged. Suddenly Snape drew himself back up to his full height and made the effort to look him head—on.

“You are right. I have failed you, too many times. My mistakes are costly, and they cost you most of all. Perhaps…” Snape shoved both hands through his tousled, greasy hair, his voice softer now, sadder too. “Perhaps it was a mistake, too, to think I would be capable of caring for you the way that you so desperately need. If you— if you desire a change in guardianship, I could arrange—,”

“No. No, please,” Harry instantly rushed forward again and latched himself around Snape’s waist again, “Don’t send me away again! Please, I need you, please, keep me!”

Snape’s arms caught him and clutched him close, holding him, holding him, holding him.

“Fuck. Fucking hell, fuck—,” The man’s eyes squeezed shut as his jaw clenched. The words were pulled from him, strained and strangled, none of them coming natural, “Harry. I would keep you however long as you would want me to. I want you here. I have done nothing but want you, here, since you arrived. You’re— Merlin, you foolish boy, you are important to me. Do you not understand by now?”

Harry could hear Snape’s heart with his head on his chest like this, and he tried to slow his own so they kept time, matching beat for beat. He felt so very close to him now, but— he needed more. He wished that he wanted less, needed less, was like one of those plants in Herbology with a tangle of wiry, dry roots and a minty congregation of leaves that could survive on only the smallest bit of moisture and air.

“Do you like me?” Harry whispered, feeling pathetic, like he was five years old.

“Yes.” Snape answered simply, quickly, “I do.”

The boy nodded and snuffed hard.

That was enough, for now.

But Snape wasn’t finished, “You were wrong, however, Harry. I did not wish to be rid of you. I— the Headmaster gave me an ultimatum. It was either allow you to be sent back or never be able to speak to you, to help you, be able to care for you, again. I… as your guardian, I should’ve selected that option instead. I’m very sorry.”

Oh.

His burning and growing hate for Dumbledore was only eclipsed by his swelling relief that he got to stay here — with Snape — for as long as Harry wanted him to — which meant forever. And that word — that one strange word — was swirling around and around in his head. Was that what he could call Snape — his… guardian?

“And… I will endeavour to call you only Harry from now on…”

Harry drew away just enough to hide his face. His bloody stupid teary face.

Something caught in his throat — sorrysorrysorryiloveyousorry — but it stayed there, soft and hidden and forbidden.

After a moment, Snape took those bony wrists and gently pulled Harry’s hands away from his face, rough calloused fingers wiping it of tears. A heavy arm wrapped around the boy’s shoulders and he fell once more into Snape’s side, burying his face into the space between his arm and his ribcage. Snape did not move, straight and firm against him, but it was enough.

There was peace again.

Harry was relieved once and for all, though he did feel a small bitter disappointment that this wasn’t turning out the dream Christmas that he had been imagining for weeks now, and this time he had no one else to blame but himself. He felt sorry for himself and sorry for Snape for having to put up with him. He had slipped into a gloom he didn’t know how to work his way out of.

So. Harry went back to the drawing board.

Literally.

As Christmas descended on them, Harry was days of not changing clothes, of sometimes silence and sometimes too much laughter, a strange laughter that seemed to crack him from the inside until there wasn’t laughter but crying, tears that bled down his face. He was days of not getting out of bed, filling his sketchbook to the very end with drawings of Otherness and cupboards and garden sheds, in quill and pencil and charcoal.

Sometimes Snape found him like that, and he brought him back from the brink — his guardian against all the horrors: both the world and himself.

He talked to him. He comforted him. It was good. Harry went back into the laboratory a lot in the following days. He sometimes helped Snape chop and cut ingredients, the familiar and repetitive motions soothing to his chaotic mind. They played more chess, and Snape sampled more of his baking — even helping him mixing ingredients on more than one occasion.

The fire was always lit, and there were always new books to be read. Harry made fat, soft loaves of bread, and each night they feasted on big pots of steaming stew delivered by the invisible magic of those House Elf creatures. Still, Harry sometimes found it hard to sleep so he would sketch and sketch and sketch, his fingers starting to hurt just as the sun started to rise. He finally put down the charcoal when the first colors came in his charmed bedroom window, soft and golden, and Snape appeared in the doorway.

“You need a distraction, I think.”

In his guardian’s pale hands was a rectangular box, colour fading from its face, looking like it had seen far better days.

Harry raised his brows, “We’re trying another game?”

“Complaints?” Snape raised his own in return.

“No.”

“Very well, then. Have you ever played Scrabble?”

Harry had seen a few people play it before, in primary school, but he’d never done so before. Spelling wasn’t really Harry’s strong suit. He was better at maths. But he’d try. Unfortunately, Harry quickly learnt as the game got started that Snape was bloody brilliant at it — which was just so fucking annoying. He knew all of these obscure and/or ancient words (i.e. ZYMURGY, VIZCACHA, QUIXOTRY) that Harry wasn’t even sure were real, though Snape’s poker face was so good it was hard to challenge him.

They kept a dictionary close by, just in case.

Harry wasn’t doing half—bad, though. His words weren’t flashy or big or earned a particularly large amount of points, but he was holding his own. The further they got into the game in any case, the more he worked up the nerve to speak. The boy counted to ten, then to one hundred. Perhaps Snape could tell he was building up to something because he simply waited, watching. Inhale. Exhale. In—out.

Harry stared at the criss—crossing of words with a heavy weight tugging at his heart. Finally:

“I’m sorry. About before.”

“Hm?”

Snape looked purposefully down at his row of tiles, arranging and rearranging them, not pressuring him with those tunnelling eyes.

Harry fidgeted.

“About when I was, you know, trying to convince you to hit me,” he winced, more than a bit embarrassed, “It was stupid.”

If he expected Snape to coddle and reassure him, well, he would have been dead wrong. He was, after all, still Snape.

“Quite stupid, indeed. More stupid than I’ve seen in quite some time, in fact.”

Harry forgot to be offended when he smirked, “Even stupider than when Crabbe mistook Goyle’s finger for Bloodroot in Potions last week?”

“Ah.” The professor’s face twisted in pained remembrance. “Perhaps not quite so dim—witted as that, I’ll concede. All the same — if I were you, I wouldn’t go around offering yourself up as a punching bag anytime in the future. Others might not have the decency to refuse.”

Harry snorted, “Noted.”

They lapsed back into quiet while Harry tried to figure out his next word. It took a second or two. Carefully, he laid out his letters to form PARASITE using Snape’s E in DEFUZING. His word was worth 13 points — double letter score on P. Harry sniffed, a bit chuffed. Not bad for a kid who was fairly shite at spelling.

Snape again didn’t look up from the board when he asked quietly, “Why did you ask me to hit you, Harry?”

Despite the sudden rush of warmth that came from Snape’s use of his name, Harry didn’t know how to respond. Really, he didn’t know how to put it into words, and he wasn’t sure if Snape would get it if he even tried. He looked down at himself, shrouded in the colourful quilt, and what he thought of himself was this: badboy—freakboy—badboy—freakboy. The people here (these magical people like Snape, Pomfrey, McGonagall, even Quirrell), they looked at him and saw: poorharry—sadharry—goodharry—sickharry. They didn’t like that he couldn’t see what they saw. Nobody could explain why his brain worked differently than others’.

Nobody could make it stop.

Meanwhile, Snape played HIGHJACK — 28 points.

“The Dursleys…” Harry fiddled with the letter D (worth 2 points), “They hit me, you know…”

Of course Snape knows, you bloody idiot, his mind mocked cruelly, You only blubbered that all over him after you tried to brain yourself.

He winced and put the D back down.

“Over loads of things, big and small. Which was horrible, right? And I hated them and I hated myself more every time it happened. But also, some part of me kind of thought it cleared the slate, right? Made us start over. Start fresh. They punished me already, so then I got to try again…”

Try again and fail again. As Harry would always do.

Snape was quiet for a very long time. Then, in nearly a whisper, he replied, “I understand.”

Harry peeked up at him through his fringe. He honestly thought Snape really did understand.

Snape— got it.

In the ensuing silence, Harry laid out his next word: SIMILAR — 9 points.

“Sir…” This was so fucking risky, he couldn’t even believe he was saying this, but: “You told me awhile ago that you’d— gotten hurt by a man in charge of you… What did you mean?”

Snape tensed.

Harry did, too.

Consumed by an instant regret, he ducked his head and muttered quickly, “S—Sorry, shouldn’t’ve asked, ‘s not my business.”

Snape’s features were contorted sharply into a grimace. He still hadn’t answered, and he likely wasn’t going to. It seemed that every muscle in the man’s body was coiled, set to spring and flee. Besides his tightly clenched jaw, he tapped two long fingers on his knee, his only outlet for the moment.

“It… He was my father.”

Harry held very still. He felt if he moved at all — even a single muscle, it might make Snape stop, and he wanted — for some reason, needed — to hear this. To hear how Snape got it, how they were similar… and how Snape bloody survived it.

“Tobias — I am named after him. As if he was someone worthy of honour, or fucking renown.”

The vitriol in his voice was potent, almost visible.

Harry swallowed hard.

“Tobias was a man who felt small, so he wanted others to feel smaller. At least then, he was more powerful than someone…” He suddenly straightened, spine like a broomstick and levelled the boy with a blank stare. “I will not sugarcoat it for you, Harry. I need not, when you’ve so much experience with it yourself. He beat me for imperfections both real and imagined, but most significantly: for my magic.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

Snape was watching him very closely, a new light passing through those bottomless eyes — a look of knowing.

“Yes,” was all Snape whispered.

“But,” Harry whispered, “Why didn’t you become…?”

“Because I was fortunate enough to believe he was in the wrong, and I was in the right. He was weak because he lacked magic, and I was strong because I didn’t. I wanted my magic. I never tried to crush it, or bury it. It was my escape. I loved magic in all its forms, and I hated my father (and those like him) for fearing it.”

Harry watched Snape play FAMILY. A shudder went through his body even as his brain calculated: 42 points — triple word score. He was going to win in a landslide…

Harry bit harder into his bottom lip when he whispered, “Do you think I’ve got a chance?”

Snape jerked up to look at him with those black penetrating eyes once more. “A chance…?”

Harry pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders, hiding his charcoal—stained hands up his sleeves. “To be cured of the Obscurus? To get over what the Dursleys did to me?”

Snape leant slightly closer, the depth of his feeling making his voice insistent and harsh, “You will never ‘get over it’, Harry. But you will learn to live with it. And I will be here to help you.”

That night, on Christmas Eve, Harry woke up screaming. Again.

Shuddered gasps filled the air as he stared up into the darkness, heart pounding. Dread sat like a weight on his chest, the taste of iron and blood in his mouth. His lungs refused to cooperate, not expanding and contracting fast enough to draw breath. The ceiling spun over his head, and he clung onto either side of his bed so he wouldn’t spin off.

Snape appeared as he had the first time, quietly and quickly, his long hair sticking out every which way and black eyes narrowed.

“Another nightmare, Harry?”

“‘M fine,” he muttered.

His guardian sat sleepy—eyed on the edge of his messy bed. One pale, long—fingered hand reached out, less tentative all the time, and then he began to stroke through Harry’s perpetually riotous curls, only made worse by the tossing and turning. Harry buried his face into his sleeves and breathed him in. Now, just as then, he was soothed again by the smell of him — clovespicewoodsmoke.

A horrible, humiliating whimper escaped him, “Snape…”

“Hush.” Snape murmured, steady and sure, “I’m right here; neither of us are going anywhere.”

The man didn’t say very much after that; he merely wrapped both arms around him, and rocked him a little, back and forth, back and forth, heartbeatheartbeatheartbeat as the light changed outside, as the world grew darker around them.

On Christmas morning, Harry woke naturally.

He didn’t remember falling asleep or not being able to fall asleep or even dreaming. This was a good thing. He felt well—rested, and he hoped maybe his nightmares would finally be put to rest, too. He felt toasty warm and safe in his big bed, but this morning, more than ever, the air smelt like Christmas: cinnamon and nutmeg and peppermint — all of it promising good and safe things to come. It had the power to drag a very sleepy eleven year old out of his room like a moth to the flame.

Grabbing his parcel, Harry wandered into the sitting room, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fists, mouth stretching into a yawn when he found many things awaiting him. One: a delicious spread of Christmas breakfast. Two: a steaming mug of hot cocoa. Three: Snape. The man looked to be almost— hiding behind the expanse of his newspaper, eyeing Harry over the paper edge.

“Good morning,” said Snape very solemnly, “And Happy Yule.”

“Er… yeah. Happy Christmas.”

Harry sounded as distracted as he felt. He was having a very hard time looking away from the tree, or rather: what was beneath the tree — the fourth thing awaiting him.

His professor narrowed black eyes, “Are you quite well?”

The awe positively dripped form his voice when he answered, hushed: “I have… presents.”

Something in Snape’s usually frigid expression melted, just a little. “Yes, Harry. You do.”

Harry dared to shuffle closer to the tree and knelt down to get a better look at the presents under the tree — all of them bearing tags with one single name: Harry Potter. He hesitated before touching them, peeking warily back at Snape — looking for permission, looking for encouragement, looking for any sign that he was doing the wrong fucking thing. Something in Snape’s expression managed to both darken and soften, both angry and gentle at once; it was actually a bit impressive.

“This isn’t a trick, Harry. You may open your gifts now, if you like. That is what they’re there for, after all.”

Harry decided to believe him.

The boy criss—crossed himself on the thick carpet by the fireplace and stared at the near mountain of parcels (it was at most five presents) that awaited him beneath the spikey, evergreen branches. He opened each gift very slowly, careful not to damage any bows or rip any paper. He felt speed showed eagerness which showed greediness.

Or maybe it just reminded him too much of Dudley.

Hermione, not Granger, had sent him a six book collection detailing the lives of famous Quidditch players, while Weasley’s — that is, Ron’s — family had sent him chocolate frogs and a sweater — bright green with a giant grey H knitted in. Snape looked positively horrified by it, but he managed to keep quiet about it. This was also impressive.

Harry was doubly relieved he managed to send things to his two friends, with Snape’s help and a Christmas catalogue. He hoped they knew how much he appreciated them.

As the unwrapping wound down and Harry had a neat stack of gifts surrounding him, Snape set down his newspaper with flourish and cleared his throat rather awkwardly.

“Now, for the dregs.”

With a flick of his wand, his professor summoned a gift that came flying into the room — wrapped neatly in glossy black paper, not at all festive but so very Snape that Harry recognised who it was from instantly.

“You… You got me a present?”

“Presents.” Snape cleared his throat again, not really looking at Harry. “As in: plural.”

The man had said plural, but it was only one box that Snape sharply thrusted out.

Caught between nervousness and amusement, Harry turned the box over several times before slipping his nail under the paper and breaking it open. Inside had to be what Snape called ‘wizard space’ because somehow the professor had managed to put in more charcoal sticks, watercolour pencils, fresh paintbrushes, a leather—bound sketchbook with his name embossed into the front, and more than that — a whole wooden easel which he’d never even thought to wish for.

Harry suddenly had a very hard time swallowing. “Professor…”

“If any of it is not to your liking, I will return it immediately—,”

“No! They’re brilliant. Completely.”

“Oh.” Snape looked so stiff, he was almost a statue. “Good, then.”

“Sir… Thank you.”

“Yes, well.”

Then, clearly uncomfortable and relieved and a bit pink—cheeked, Snape gave a nod and the briefest flash of a smile that was barely visible in the light from the fire before he snapped up his newspaper, apparently ready to hide behind it again. But Harry couldn’t let that happen, not yet.

Harry shuffled awkwardly, scratching at his fringe when he mumbled, “I… erm… got you something too, sir.”

Clear surprise rippled across Snape’s face as the newspaper slowly lowered.

At first, Harry thought he could just gift his guardian with a month’s worth of good behaviour — which, honestly, Snape might’ve appreciated that more than anything, but… it didn’t feel like enough. Or possible.

It was a small parcel, tiny enough to fit in Harry’s hands but heavy enough to be a slight strain, and Snape took it like he expected it to blow his fingers off. As if he’d given him an explosive, Harry nearly rolled his eyes. He felt impossibly shy and impossibly stupid as he released a breath and raised his chin, trying to bury nerves with bravery.

Interestingly enough, Snape was much like Harry in how he very cautiously unwrapped gifts. Now, he hated it. He waited in agony as his guardian finally finished ever so carefully unfolding the present, and his pulse thudded wildly in his ears when the man didn’t immediately speak.

He hates it. He hates it. He hates it.

“Harry, I…” Snape stopped and cleared his throat.

Despite his very best efforts, Harry couldn’t help but nervously peek up at his face. His dark brow was furrowed, and his mouth opened and closed for a moment. He was shocked and speechless and that wasn’t something he’d never seen before. Who was this strange man?

“It’s called a—,”

“Suribachi and surikogi,” Snape finished in quiet awe of the present.

“Yeah…” He nervously fiddled with his fringe, biting on her bottom lip. “I—I talked to Professor McGonagall about other magic schools around the world, and she helped contact the Potions Masters from Mahoutokoro, in Japan.”

Snape stared down at the Japanese—style mortar and pestle for a long while as Harry fidgeted anxiously. He nearly startled when he spoke again.

“I did not expect…” The two stared at each other for another ten heartbeats, black eyes upon green until he slowly smiled. “Thank you, Harry. Truly.”

Harry ducked his head to hide a smile, and it was only then that he noticed, “There’s another gift under here…”

Snape frowned and put down his gift to look closer, “Is there?”

The parcel was tucked away near the back of the tree, wrapped in simple brown packaging, with Harry’s name scrawled on a tag in neat calligraphy. Snape made him wait, casting all sorts of magic spells to make sure the gift wasn’t hexed or something. Honestly, after living with five less than welcoming Slytherins who had a tendency to hex first and ask questions never, Harry was relieved he thought of it.

Unwrapping it as neatly as he had all the others, Harry was surprised to find inside: “It’s a cloak…?”

It wasn’t the most attractive of clothing items he’d ever received, but it was silver and it reflected the light in odd ways that caught his eye. Harry was reluctant to replace the quilt with the new cloak, but he tossed it over his shoulders, looked down at himself— and promptly yelped.

“What the—? My body’s gone!”

Snape was on his feet, black eyes wide as he inspected the fabric from end—to—end. “Fascinating… It’s an invisibility cloak.”

Confession time: magic might be freaky, but it was also bloody cool. The cloak had made his body totally disappear, his head floating rather spookily midair. It was like decapitation without the pain. Harry loved it. The cloak itself was sleek and smooth, feeling almost oily in his hands, and it gleamed in the fire light when he turned in circles.

“Brilliant!”

Harry tugged on the hood and then disappeared entirely, stifling a laugh when Snape’s face twisted in displeasure.

“If you think you’re going to be allowed to slink around in that thing, you are sorely mistaken, Harry. Now…” He paused and his darted eyes darted, “Where the hell are you, boy?”

Harry dropped the cloak, grinning, now standing on the complete other side of the room.

Snape swiveled and clenched his jaw when he spotted him, the closest thing to a jump that he was going to get.

“Hilarious,” Snape drawled.

“I like to think so,” Harry teased.

“Still. It is rather an interesting artefact, and could be useful for your safety if you ever need to move about unseen.” Back in professor mode, Snape crossed the room to inspect the cloak closer. “One of such good quality is quite rare to find these days. In fact, I’d suspect this particular cloak is at least a few centuries old.”

“Really?” Harry gaped a little. “But who’s it from, do you reckon?”

As if to answer, a little card slipped from the folks over his shoulder, and Snape had barely even read it before his face twisted into an instant sneer. “Wretched old man.”

Harry froze, worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“It seems the Headmaster is feeling rather guilty.”

His chest constricted. “What—? You mean, the Headmaster gave this to me?”

“I would assume so.”

The boy immediately dropped the cloak. The silky fabric pooled around his feet, making his toes disappear. It didn’t seem so cool anymore, nothing about it did. He didn’t even want it now. He wanted nothing to do with it.

Snape eyed him closely for a moment before he drew in a long, slow breath, “The Headmaster might have given it to you, Harry, but it was not Professor Dumbledore’s in the first place… It was your father’s, and before it was his, I imagine it was your grandfather’s. He would…” His mouth twisted, like he was tasting something particularly foul, “You should have it.”

Harry felt all the air sucked out of him, and he mouthed a soundless, “Oh.”

He delicately picked up the cloak again to hold it close. His grandfather’s, his father’s, and now it was his. It was his first family heirloom — besides his father’s bad eyesight and his mother’s eyes — the closest he ever got to touching them. Harry tugged it around him, closing his eyes trying to imagine it was a hug from his father instead… and if it felt a bit like Snape’s arms around him—

No one would ever know.

For the first time, Harry woke and Snape was not there.

Having been so exhausted, he had fallen asleep before he was ready and woke up in the middle of the night, confused again about where he was and why and who. A thousand fingers were reaching up through the mattress, poking through his skin to scratch his bones. He leapt out of the bed, nearly tripping on the quilt, shivering and pacing to shake off the feeling.

It had been a nightmare, he was sure of it — a horrible, terrible one… and yet there was no Snape to be seen.

Wrapping his arms tight around his belly, the boy shuffled out into the sitting room and found— no one, nothing. The hearth was lit, Snape’s bedroom door was open, as was the door to the laboratory, and yet… no Snape. Not anywhere. Gonegonegone. All at once, Harry was clutched by a new and horrible fear:

abandoned—abandoned—abandoned.

But Snape wouldn’t just leave… forever, right? That was bloody stupid. Snape had just gone— out, or something. Maybe he needed to stretch his legs and decided to go on a walk… at 2:00 AM. Or maybe he was a smoker; Aunt Petunia detested smokers because they ‘stank’ — though Snape had never smelt bad to Harry. Or maybe something bad happened to him, and he needed help! Harry’s help, since no one else was bloody around. So, because this was clearly a brilliant plan, Harry armed himself with the marble and the invisibility cloak and set off.

The corridors were as eerie at night as ever.

Since his— breakdown in the dormitory, Harry hadn’t ventured out of Snape’s chambers — despite his guardian’s statement that it was an option during the hols. The nightmares had nearly driven him out of his skin, yeah, but he’d been strangely afraid to leave the safety of Snape’s rooms — as if somebody was going to snatch him the minute he stepped out the door. Probably bloody Dumbledore.

There was something spooky about Hogwarts at night, even worse now that it was empty of all its students. Every step further away made it feel as if he was walking into the gaping mouth of a monster, as if the darkness was devouring him. The shadows, they loomed, big and dark — they were comingcomingcoming closer. They were going to eat him whole.

He just needed to find Snape.

He would find Snape and everything would be fine.

Still… he didn’t want to linger in the dark any longer than necessary. He sped up. His footsteps were light, almost soundless; a lifetime of making himself invisible at the Dursleys’ had helped with that. Somehow he had a hard time feeling grateful. Moving at a near jog, the boy hurried around a corner just as two shadowy figures came into view.

Harry roughly skidded to a halt, terrified of being caught before he remembered that he was currently invisible. Swallowing hard, he stepped closer and squinted for their faces to be clear in the moonlight. Ahead, in a dark alcove, stood Snape — but he wasn’t alone. Quirrell was there, too. The man had the other professor shoved against the wall in obvious threat, a look of pure malice on his angular face. Finally, their voices carried through the dark air without having to strain to hear it.

“—here of all p—places, Severus…”

“I thought we’d keep this private,” Snape replied icily, voice sharp enough to cut. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the Philosopher’s Stone, after all.”

The Philosopher’s Stone; what the fuck was that?

“I d—don’t know anything about that either. Sh—Should we get your little Sn—Snake from d—downstairs to t—tell us about it?”

“What do you want with that boy?” Snape growled, clenching his blue collar closer when the man didn’t readily respond, “Oh, you don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell.”

Harry tightened his grip on the cloak, heart thundering in his chest.

Meanwhile, Quirrell was struggling for words, “W—What do you m—mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Harry felt unease spread through him again. It wasn’t caused by what Snape said — not exactly, but by more of what he wasn’t saying. Nothing was more frightening than a fear he couldn’t name.

Absently, he rubbed at his forehead which was beginning to sting a bit.

Suddenly, it was as if Snape could sense him there. Without warning, his dark head jerked to the side and then— it was like he was looking straight at him. Instantly, Harry covered his mouth, desperately trying to muffle his nervous breathing. Brow furrowed so low, Snape slowly reached out for him. Slowly, barely keeping from tripping over his feet, he crept back just in time for his guardian to grasp at empty air. Nothingnothingnothing… Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Snape whipped round with his finger back in Quirrell’s quivering face.

“We’ll have another chat soon… when you’ve had time to decide where your loyalties lie.”

“Oh, Professors!” Filch the caretaker hobbled up out of nowhere, breathless and wide—eyed, “Missus Norris and I heard something — some sort of disturbance, near the Third Floor.”

Snape’s narrowed eyes darted to Quirrell’s bewildered face (so very suspiciously), and after another beat, all three men took off in the opposite direction. His guardian passed him so closely he could have touched him, but mercifully he was still oblivious to his presence. Thank God or Merlin or whoever because Harry might’ve seriously been turned into potions ingredients otherwise.

As soon as they were out of sight, Harry heaved a sigh of relief.

Snape was fine. He was being bloody confusing, attacking innocent professors and running off after mysterious disturbances, but mostly, he was fine. So, if Harry really wished it prove he wasn’t suicidal, he should be getting back, or else Snape was eventually going to notice he was gone and bloody lecture him for the next six years.

Harry tried to go back the way he came.

But something very bad was happening all around him.

The darkness was different now — always changing, always shifting; it wasn’t formless and it certainly wasn’t empty. It circled around Harry as if it possessed a mind of its own. It creeped and crawled, slithering through the shadows, hovering just over his shoulder. The fine hairs on his arms rose. His breaths grew scarce and hot.

Something wicked this way comes, Harry’s mind supplied unhelpfully, a quote from some scary story he couldn’t now recall.

Warm breath, cold fingers, whispers on the back of his neck.

“Harry…” It purred.

“Harry…” It whined.

“Come close to me. Come walk with me. Come, Harry, come here; I’ll take such good care of you…”

The boy froze, tugging the cloak tighter around him, and then — slowly, warily — glanced back.
At first, there was nothing — simple darkness, dense and close, but then… through the shadows, it watched. Two eyes, red like blood, like guts and gore, glowed through the darkness. There was a beast hiding in the dark. Harry choked on a gasp and stumbled back a step. It couldn’t see him, surely— he had the cloak on, nothing was supposed to be able to see him—!

And yet it pursued him.

For every small step he took, another step the beast approached.

And when Harry started to run, it chased him, hissing, licking at his heels, drinking up his fear. His inside music stirred, more frightened than angry, more desperate to protect him than ever. The hallway lengthened before him, getting longer and longer, escape so far away no matter how long he ran.

Harry hurled himself through the first open door he found and slammed it firmly shut behind him, sweating and gasping hard.

Holy fuck.

He said it again — out loud this time, just because it was that fucking scary.

Snape wouldn’t approve of his language, but he didn’t think the man would approve of Harry being chased by a monster with red eyes either.

Just then, something glimmered out the corner of his eye.

Harry glanced around to find that he’d hidden himself in an old classroom, and in the corner stood a magnificent and massive mirror. The boy cocked his head as he slowly approached. The mirror was very grand, out of place in the dank and dark room, with an ornate golden frame and two clawed feet. A string of words were carved across the arch, but to him, it looked only like a load of gibberish: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

For some reason, his palms began to sweat. His lungs trembled. He could feel his heartbeat in his toes.

Pulling off the invisibility cloak, he peered at his reflection.

Only it wasn’t only a scruffy eleven year old boy in his pajamas looking back. Harry jumped and looked sharply over his shoulder, but… there was nowhere in sight. His narrowed eyes inspected the rest of the room closely, but there was no one—no one—no one. Heart still beating fast, he cautiously turned back to the reflection, and found it wasn’t reflecting reality at all.

The people staring back, they looked… so happy… together.

“Oh.”

He wasn’t sure why — he couldn’t possibly guess where the explanation came from — but all at once he understood just what the fuck he was witnessing. This mirror showed the greatest desires of the viewer’s heart. Something in Harry’s chest, a hope so fragile and small that he had long ago been forced to bury, cracked open and spilled out the word: familyfamilyfamilyfamily.

Harry— ran.

He got the fuck outoutout because he couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t look at it for another second.

Running from one horror, he fell right into the next.

He threw open the door and stumbled back out into the hallway — not emptyemptyempty. The darkness had been waiting for him. As the boy ran, something dangerous slipped through the shadows, a voice he could not hear — high—pitched and sibilant.

“Imperio.”

It should have been a wonderful feeling to feel the weight lift from him, the weight of all his worries and fears that he had borne for so long… It was a floating sensation, sort of/kind of, like a tidal wave of ice cold water had washed over him and was trying to sweep him away.

A voice he didn’t recognise crooned within the chambers of his fractured mind: Come to me.

Harry felt his body stop running, and like a marionette controlled by a puppet master, his limbs turned him around and carried him along in the exact opposite direction. And yet there was no struggle, no tension in his muscles or twist of anxiety in his chest. There was no orchestra, no bees at all. His body was entirely at rest, perfectly relaxed. There was no need to worry… There was no need to fear…

Someone else was in charge now.

Yes, yes, the voice encouraged him, called for him: Come to me, Harry. Leave this place. Leave and come straight into my waiting arms…

Floatingfloating, Harry floated along — through the corridor, down the moving staircases, towards the entrance hall. Floatingfloating. But— no. But— Harry had floated for far too much of his life, caught in haze of indifference, turning himself into a mere ghost, and he had been controlled by an otherness for far too fucking long. No, Harry stopped walking. No, Harry was done floating.

He stopped and planted his feet, nails digging into his palms as he resisted what his entire body was trying to obey. Like a hook in his eye, like a leash around his neck, it tugged at him. It hurt to refuse. Just walk… Just take one step… Just a little one… Just a little further…

“I won’t,” his lips formed the words, chest heaving, sweat building, “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t!”

A hand landed on his shoulder.

Before he could even scream, Harry was jerked around and found himself gaping up into Snape’s furious black eyes. His entire body shuddered with relief, and that hook of imperious urgency left him at once. His knees went weak and he crashed into Snape’s stomach, even as the man was shouting at him overhead.

“—arry?” Snape’s voice reached him from hundreds of miles away, “Can you hear me? Harry! Tell me what’s happened; what’s wrong with you? Where the hell—?”

Harry didn’t even realise he was speaking until he was nearly finished, “—saw the mirror and then there was that voice over and it was telling me to—,”

“What, Harry? What?”

“Someone was there!” Harry finally managed to regain some control of himself, almost shouting, “I thought I felt someone— they were watching me! They were whispering! It told me to follow them and I felt like—,”

“What?” Snape gripped his shoulders so tightly it nearly hurt, black eyes blazing with a strangely knowing intensity, “You felt— what?”

“Like…” He swallowed convulsively, throat bobbing, “Like I had to follow.”

“Someone cursed you,” it wasn’t a question, it was a breathless declaration of fury.

“I…” Harry couldn’t be sure, he couldn’t even remember what had compelled him to listen to those orders in the first place, “I think so, maybe, but I…”

Snape’s dark hair swished while he quickly looked around them, and the muscle in his jaw jumped when he found nothing at all. His arm wrapped tightly around the boy’s shaking shoulders and drew him close, almost swallowing him in the thick black fabric of his robes.

“Come, quickly.” Snape ordered over Harry’s head, still looking quickly around, “I need to get you somewhere safe.”

They moved swiftly through the castle, two figures of light cutting through the dark.

“I… there was a mirror, and I was running from…”

“Mirror?” Snape glanced down, perplexed for only a moment before dawning realisation came upon him, “The Mirror of Erised… what the fuck was it—?” The man briefly squeezed his eyes shut before shaking his head and continuing on, “I know seeing your parents must have been upsetting, Harry, but we will discuss that later, I promise. First, we must get somewhere safe. Agreed?”

Harry nodded, but in doing this, he became a liar.

Because the truth was… his parents weren’t what Harry saw in the mirror at all.

Chapter Text

Severus supposed, in retrospect, that they had been avoiding Albus as much as Albus had been avoiding them. Everything between them was rather fraught, a bit too raw, and Severus was more than willing to let time and distance do its job. But the day after the Mirror incident left him with very little other option. The evening soon found him back in the Headmaster’s office to face off with his employer — his mentor — his friend — once more.

And once more, he was pacing and ranting, just like every other time he was in this office.

“You left that Mirror for the boy to find. You did it on purpose. I am certain you did. There is nothing in this school that goes beneath your notice.”

“I think you’re over—estimating my omniscience, my boy—,”

Severus sneered viciously, “Don’t play games with me. I am not in the mood. I want to know— why.”

Albus sighed heavily but mercifully conceded, “We needed to know the utmost desires of Harry’s heart, do you not see?”

“We don’t need to test the damn boy.” Severus growled and stalked to the other side of the office, merely for something to do. “If we wish to know the desires of Harry’s heart, we need only to ask. I’m not playing games with the boy. I’m the only person he trusts. And I will not betray him — never again.”

“That makes me quite happy to hear, Severus…” Albus smiled, a bit solemnly. “Did he tell you what he saw in the mirror?”

“His parents, surely—,”

“You assume.”

Severus fairly gaped. “Assume? What else would a boy who was cruelly made an orphan as an infant, left with no memories of his parents, possibly want?”

“Personally, I — assume — a family. With, as you say, the only person he trusts. You.”

Severus growled louder but didn’t say anything else.

After a moment, Albus inquired, “How is Harry?”

Hands folded behind his back, Severus stared out the window to report, “Perhaps a bit shaken after the events of last night, but I found nothing physically wrong with him when I cast a Diagnostic. If he was cursed, whatever it was was not intended to wound him.”

“Do you suspect the Imperius?”

“It is possible, likely even. He was near the entrance hall, heading towards the door. He was being lured.”

“I see…” Albus hummed contemplatively.

Severus didn’t like to think about it, even if it absolutely needed to be thought about. Fuck this. Fuck it all. Worry for the boy was never—ending, all—consuming, and he knew there would be no peace ever — for as long as both he and the boy lived. There would always be a new threat, lurking in the shadows, licking its lips in wait, and Severus would need to be ready. Always.

More words spilled from his lips, and it offered a distraction, just for a little while. “Overall, Harry is… progressing well. He has a knack for Occlumency, when he isn’t overly distractible — he’s not had an outburst in months. Physically, he is becoming more healthy all the time. As for his mental state, I fear, as always, he requires more than I am capable of providing…”

“You are too hard on yourself, Severus.”

Severus clenched his jaw but didn’t respond.

Quietly, a moment later, Albus added, “I am happy for you, my boy, for both of you.”

“Really?” He replied, unable to resist sneering slightly. “And here I thought you were against us.”

“That’s hardly fair, Severus.”

“Is it not? You would have rather sent Harry back to his abusive relatives than let him stay with me.”

Albus looked actually pained at that, but Severus felt no remorse. He was aware he was wounding his old mentor, but he needed to hear the cold, hard truth — at least once.

“I never wanted to hurt Harry. Or you. It was wrong of me to try to separate you both. I see that now.”

“Do you?” He snipped back.

“Don’t think me so heartless not to recognise a mistake when I’ve made yet another one, Severus. I care about Harry as well, and I want him to live just as much as you do. I’m just realising now that perhaps it’s your love that will save him.”

Severus’ tone was positively scathing, “Love—,”

“I see the way you look at the boy, Severus.” Albus cut in swiftly, if a bit gently, “You can lie to yourself and to Harry, but you cannot lie to me — no matter how much you may try.”

Severus had no response to this. Loving anyone — even loving the boy — was unfathomable. He did not, could not, love anyone ever again.

He turned from the window to pin him with a hard stare, “You never did seek retribution on the Dursleys at all, did you?”

“No,” Albus murmured, regretfully, “I had wished to leave them available as an option if Harry ever needed the safety their shared blood provided.”

“And now?”

“I see now that’s not going to be an option. I am willing to leave the decision in your capable hands, Severus. You are, after all, the boy’s guardian now.” A quiet pause, and then: “Any updates in regards to our other business?”

Even the bare mentioning of their ‘other business’ made Severus irritated enough to spit. “Quirrell has made no movement on the Stone. It’s as if… he’s changed his mind.”

Albus frowned deeply. “This is what concerns me: unpredictability. Especially if it was him who attempted to Imperius Harry… Yes, we must watch, Severus, very closely.”

There was really nothing else to discuss after that, and if anything, the conversation had only made him more eager to get back to Harry faster — to watch over him, to protect him, to guard him — because that was what he was now, wasn’t it?

Severus Snape was Harry Potter’s guardian.

Then, just as he was about to leave:

“Will you tell Harry that I’m sorry?”

“Tell him yourself, Albus.” Severus snapped before pausing at the door, glancing back to say much less cruelly, “It would mean more to the boy.”

And that was true.

Severus left Albus’ office swiftly, and if he were another kind of man, he might have jumped at finding Minerva lying in wait for him.

He sneered without much heat, “Listening at keyholes, Minerva?”

The old clever witch raised one fine brow, “We both know that’s more your expertise than mine, Severus.”

Severus resisted the urge to laugh or cry or do an ugly, horrid combination of both. If only she knew…

“I’m a Gryffindor, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m more bold than sneaky. I’ve come to inquire as to how both you and Harry are faring.” She fell into step beside him as they rode down the spinning staircase and into the corridor, “Neither of you leave your chambers much these days, and I know… the poor boy was very upset with Albus’ foolhardy decision to return him to that deplorable place.”

“Yes. He was.” Severus clenched his jaw and kept walking, “Though now that he’s been reassured that will not be happening, Harry is recovering quite well so if that’s all you wanted to know—,”

“I’m very glad to hear Harry is all right, but I didn’t just mean the boy, Severus.”

He picked up his pace. “I’m fine.”

“Fine, are you, seeing a boy you care about trying to bash his brains out?”

He stopped and swivelled to face her, pinning her with a furious gaze. “What would you like from me?”

“Emotional honesty, for once,” Minerva’s thin mouth quirked into a teasing smirk— which was just— too fucking irritating, even for her. “I would settle for some self—awareness, however.”

“Well, keep dreaming,” he spat, just to be petty.

“Don’t be childish, Severus, it’s tiresome. I am asking you this sincerely.” Her wrinkles deepened with her concern, “I’m sure it had to be horrible for you to see him trying to—,”

“Of course it was fucking horrible!” He burst, voice echoing so very loud off the ancient stone. He sighed and drew a hand to his forehead, massaging away the building headache, “It did… cause… some… distress.”

She smiled at him, rather pityingly. This was also horrible. “That looked painful coming out. All the same, it is good you acknowledged it. Such communication is important when you’re raising a child, Severus.”

“And this is exactly why Harry Potter deserves to live with a happy, well—adjusted family, and not a miserable, uncommunicative Potions Professor such as myself.”

“Alas, that’s not what the boy wants.”

“No…” Severus had to concede, softly.

“And I don’t think it’s what you want either…”

He shot her a fierce look. She was not dissuaded.

“Besides, you haven’t seemed so miserable these past few weeks, Severus,” she informed him with an annoyingly knowing glint to her eyes. “I see the way you look at him, the way you are with him. I know how you feel about that boy.”

“Currently, I am feeling rather overwhelmed.” He sneered dryly, annoyed at the damn near constant bombardment he was receiving, “Did Albus or Poppy put you up to this?”

“No. But perhaps you’re feeling overwhelmed because we’re all thinking the same thing, because it’s true.”

They were at the staircases now, where they would have to separate — her to the tower, him to the dungeons, unless she was so fucking intent as to pursue him all the way to his chambers.

“Is there a point to this conversation, Minerva? If so, I pray you get to it — quickly.”

Her eyes narrowed even as her lips stretched into a little grin. “Not much of a point, no, when I see you are deliberately attempting to ignore it. All the same, I wanted to say I was wrong to doubt you before, and well done, you’re doing a rather good job with the boy. We are — all of us — impressed.”

Severus had no fucking idea what to say to that so… he just didn’t say anything at all. He left her, quickly. His walk to his chambers was mercifully undisturbed, and he was grateful that he’d been able to (more or less) enjoy a few student—free days this holiday before the little irritants returned. He wondered, idly, when he stopped lumping in Harry with all the other irritants.

Perhaps because… now… Harry Potter had become his irritant.

What an odd thought.

Murmuring the password, he entered his chambers quietly — cautious not to disturb Harry if he was sleeping. Yet as he crossed the threshold, he spotted a scrubby head of curls on the sofa, and he sighed heavily, “Harry, I’d say it is long past the time for you to— ah.”

There was no need. In the midst of waiting for him, it seemed the boy had fallen asleep on the sofa.

He approached quietly.

Head cocked, Severus inspected the boy. He hadn’t been wrong in what he said to Albus; physically, the boy was doing quite well. He had put on some weight, Severus was glad to see, even if it wasn’t the two stone Poppy deemed healthy. The perpetually purple bags under his Avada—green eyes had lightened, and he seemed no more pale than the rest of the castle’s residents in the time of deep winter. But right now, sleeping here, curled up with his knees tucked to his stomach and his hands folded under his chin, Harry looked so— young. So small and fragile. So in need of protection.

Severus’ protection.

It was rather a miracle that the boy was managing to sleep so peacefully, actually, what with the near constant nightmares he had been facing.

Severus didn’t like to wake him.

Instead, he tucked one arm under the boy’s knees and the other around his back, and then he lifted him like he weighed of nothing but feathers. His burden was easy to bear — hardly a burden at all. The boy sighed softly in his sleep and curled closer into him, hiding his warm thin face into the skin of Severus’ neck.

Harry murmured, blearily, “You’re back…”

“Yes.”

“‘S all okay?”

“Yes, everything is just fine,” Severus assured, that wretchedly colourful quilt trailing behind them across the floor, “Don’t fret.”

“I never fret,” he defended drowsily.

“Of course not.”

The journey from the sitting room to his room was a short one. Severus very lightly laid the boy on his bed, and Harry snuffed into his pillow as he made himself comfortable. Severus hesitated in the actual business of tucking — that was just one step too far. He felt as though he had come a long way, but he could not fathom doing that much.

Did pulling the blanket over him count as tucking?

Merlin, God, he hoped not as he tugged the thick quilt over his skinny shoulders, making sure it was wrapped securely around him — just so the little brat couldn’t complain endlessly about a cold or some similarly horrible thing in the near future. His thumb gently brushed a curl away from the white lightning bolt scar, striking from his scalp past his brow to his eyelid.

Fuck what everyone else said, and what they saw and how they thought he felt. In truth, not even Severus knew how to describe the depth of feeling he felt for the boy in his care, though he was sure it was not love. All he knew was that he wanted to help the boy be all right.

Perhaps one day Harry Potter would look other adults in the eye or he would speak above a whisper to his peers. Perhaps one day he wouldn’t feel the need to hide food away or run at the sound of raised voices. Perhaps he would one day graduate from Hogwarts and find a job and have a family. Perhaps one day the Obscurus would be cured and he would have nothing ever to fear again.

Perhaps Severus would still be around to see it.

In the space of four months, Harry’s life had changed completely.

Seemingly from one day to the next, everything that he had ever known was changed — from bad to worse to… slightly better. Something a bit like hope had reinforced itself in every new crisis and development, and the boy began to truly feel as though he sort of/kind of belonged somewhere now. For most people — for normal people, the new year brought with it resolutions and changes and hope for a fresh start. Harry, not at all normal, could only hope that the next year would be even better than his last.

Maybe 1992 would really be his year.

Miracles could happen — one never knew…

It was probably a good idea to enjoy it while it lasted.

Once January arrived, the rest of the winter holidays passed far too quickly for Harry’s liking. If he was lucky, if he had his way, this holiday with nobody but Snape for company would last forever. But of course, Harry hadn’t ever been lucky once in his eleven unfortunate years of life.

The night before classes restarted, Harry woke again with another nightmare.

His sorrysorrysorry’s didn’t matter.

Snape ignored his apology as he arrived, with a yawn and disheveled hair, immediately setting Harry’s world to rights. He wiped the boy’s face of tears and sweat, talked him through another breathing exercise, and straightened the blanket that had been twisted around his legs. He then did a double tap of his wand against his nightstand, and two steaming cups of chamomile tea appeared. In the quiet, they took slow sips of the too—hot tea and contemplated the wall opposite with pensive expressions on their faces.

And despite the tea scorching his tongue, Harry was still shivering. “Why is it always so bloody cold down here?”

“You don’t have enough body fat to maintain your temperature,” answered Snape simply, casually sipping at the tea that had to be burning his mouth, “The solution is to eat something nutritious every few hours.”

“I don’t need to eat every few hours,” Harry muttered, setting down the tea and sinking down in bed, “That’s too much, I’d get stuffed and explode.”

“That is because your metabolism has slowed. Your body thinks you are stuck in a famine so it is attempting to hold onto every ounce it can.”

Harry hmphed and tugged the quilt up to his eyes, peeking at the man across the patches of colour, expression growing thoughtful after a moment. In the midst of the chaos that followed the night with the mirror, he had nearly forgotten what he’d seen happen between his two professors.

“Do you not like Quirrell?”

He cringed. The words came out too— big, almost startling, like his volume button was broken. He was always either too quietquietquiet or too loudloudloud. He hoped it didn’t annoy Snape. He didn’t want Snape to think he was annoying.

“Professor Quirrell,” his guardian corrected automatically before turning his head and asking lowly, “What has brought this question on, may I ask?”

Harry shrugged.

Snape sighed.

This was their routine.

“Well, as my personal opinion of my colleagues is none of your business, I find no reason to answer your question,” and with that, Snape went back to sipping his steamy tea and studying the wall.

Well then. Harry bit his lip.

“Do you trust him?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Quirrell— Professor Quirrell. Do you trust him?” When Snape didn’t answer right away, Harry felt compelled to explain, speaking in his usual low whisper, “There’s something about him,” he scratched hard at his scar, “He makes me— I dunno.”

Snape suddenly sat straight up in his chair, eyeing him like a bird inspecting a worm again. “Has Quirrell done something to you, Harry?”

“No. Nothing like that. When I’m with him, it’s just… weird.”

Snape’s face was creased with too many thoughts, maybe bad thoughts about Quirrell — but maybe, also, really bad thoughts about Harry. Worry tasted like bile in his mouth. He wished he’d finished all that tea, scorched his tongue, and burnt away every taste bud. He swallowed hard.

“Were you dreaming about Professor Quirrell, Harry?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just sank deeperdeeperdeeper into his layers of quilt and blankets, letting them swallow him upupup.

Snape, for once, incredibly, didn’t demand an answer. He provided an answer himself:

“I regret not considering it before, Harry, but in regards to your nightmares, I think you could utilise Occlumency.”

This caught his attention. “Occlumency helps with nightmares?”

“It can. If you put your mind into a state of calm, clearing it of pre—sleep worries and stressors, the likelihood of undisturbed sleep increases exponentially.”

That was a lot of words that Harry didn’t totally understand, but he climbed back outoutout of the quilt and blankets anyway.

“Your next step in our Occlumency lessons is to build a barricade for your thoughts by visualizing a place of calm — somewhere you can take yourself, something that acts as a placeholder for the more… unpleasant emotions such as anger or sadness.”

“What do you picture?”

Snape hesitated and said, “Usually one’s mindscape is rather private…”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry felt his face turning red.

“It’s no matter. You and I are in a position of trust, Harry. I visualise myself at a glacier — an ice field where I can bury all of my distressing thoughts in the cold and numb myself to my concerns. But that is what works for me; everyone’s is — or at least should be — different.”

Harry felt skeptical. “You’ve been to a glacier?”

Snape arched a brow, “I’ve shared stories of my travels, have I not?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “All right. So I should choose somewhere cold too?”

“No. You ought to choose a place where you feel calm.”

“I feel…” He scrounged around for an answer, “Calm in the sitting room?”

Snape’s expression softened slightly, and though his tone was almost— flattered, he corrected, “Preferably, it’s a place you’ve been alone — with no external distractions. Think of a place where you’ve been at peace while simultaneously being alone.”

The boy bit his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut — like this could help him concentrate somehow. Bloody difficult. The trouble was for Harry, he hadn’t had many reasons to feel at peace in his short life — not anywhere but here, and that was mostly because Snape was here. The only other place he could really think was — his cupboard. It was dark and quiet and it was always just him in there. Neither Dudley nor Uncle Vernon could fit, and Aunt Petunia thought it was too foul. Even if he didn’t always like being in there, even if sometimes he was locked in there for days at a time, the cupboard was always only hishishis.

It was about as calm of a place that Harry could think of, at any rate.

“Do you have it?” Snape asked after a time.

Harry nodded, silent.

“Good. Now you will use your five senses again, but this time — conjure the sensations of that space. Imagine it and let it surround you. Visualise yourself in your place of calm, and let it fill you up.”

What did he hear in his cupboard? His own low breathing, Dudley stomping down the stairs, Uncle Vernon’s booming laugh because of something on the telly.

Taste? Stale breath, dry mouth, a bit of leftover sugar from a sweet he’d swiped when Aunt Petunia wasn’t looking.

Touch? Spiders, just a few of them, tickling his fingers — his first friends.

See? Darkness mostly, and through the slits in the metal grating, just enough light to make shadow puppets, his hands conjuring shapes of birds and dogs and rabbits.

Smell? Cleaning supplies, a bit, yes, a little dust — true, but mostly just the spell of himself, comforting in its familiarity — fresh green grass and rainwater and something citrusy.

Not perfect, but quiet, and alone, and calm.

Softly, from somewhere far away from the cupboard, Snape asked, “Are you in your place, Harry?”

“...Yeah…”

“Good. Now keep Occluding as you drift.” Snape’s hand had found its way into Harry’s hair again, gently untangling the snarls, stroking through the curls. His deep voice was low, soft, almost hypnotising, “Take that place into sleep with you, Harry — smell it, hear it, sense it — as your limbs get loose, your eyelids get heavier, your head gets foggy… safe… calm… peaceful.”

Harry sighed softly, soothed by his touch, by Snape’s presence, as he drifted away into the black of his cupboard.

Term resumed, and it tasted of dread.

As he readied himself for his first day of classes, Harry found himself half—sick. His heart was pounding double—time, his palms were slick with nervous sweat, and he felt faintly dizzy whenever he was on his feet too long. His body was a humming ball of tension, high—strung nerves threaded through his body like currents of electricity.

He had a very bad feeling about today… and it seemed like maybe his guardian did, too.

Because before they left his chambers, Snape set Harry down for A Talk.

He was still on probation, so his behaviour and engagement in classes were important, but surprisingly — amazingly — strict Potions Master Snape stated that he cared more for Harry’s… feelings. They both cringed at this word, but Snape moved valiantly on. If Harry ever began to feel overwhelmed or upset (or like he might want to bash his head against a wall again), he was to ask the professor to Floo—call Professor Snape who would immediately collect him for the rest of the day — no questions asked.

Harry wondered how many times he could abuse this privilege before Snape realised he was just trying to skiv.

Because he was terrified to leave that door — to see them, any of them; after what they had seen him do.

“What if— what if they talk about it?” He was so fucking worried. “What if they tell people—,”

“They will not,” Snape dismissed immediately.

“But how do you know?”

“I know because I have forbidden it.”

Harry blinked, still hugging his stomach.

“I gave a speech to welcome them back this morning, and before they dispersed, I spoke to the First Years separately. It has been addressed. No one will bother you, Harry.”

And no one did bother him… for a while at least.

Really, things were mostly— fine, to start with, and it was good seeing Hermione and Ron again. They filled him up with their stories of happy Christmases and times with their family — fascinated by his own stories about the mysterious mirror and the odd confrontation between their professors. It was all brilliant, especially since they didn’t know about his—meltdown in the Slytherin dormitory.

He certainly wasn’t about to tell them.

But he worried someone else might.

After all, the First Year Slytherins — saw — everything.

Usually, it was easy to avoid them since he lived with Snape now, and he had no need to interact with them at all unless it was in classes. As it was, he hardly interacted with anyone there either (whether Snake, Lion, Iguana, or whatever the mascots were) so that wasn’t so much of a strain… not usually… not until today.

Now, his fellow Snakes were treating him so very oddly.

Harry was escorted quickly through the corridors, squeezing past his fellow Slytherins, so scared and embarrassed that he felt sick. He could barely hear himself think, his heart was pounding so much. True, there were no tripping jinxes or pranks or anything of that sort, no scowls or giggly whispers, nothing like it was at the beginning. Now, all they did was watch him. Inspect him. Analyse him. Just like everyone else did. He felt completely humiliated, cheeks flaring red every time he noticed them staring. And there was so much staring.

Not like he was a meal, but like he was a mystery.

No. An enigma. Alwaysalwaysalways.

It happened Defense Against the Dark Arts, their second to class of the day.

All throughout Quirrell’s lecture, Harry had felt their eyes on the back of his head, and when he finally heard their whispers, his very skin began to prickle.

“—Biologically inferior to us,” Nott was muttering to his mates, completely ignoring their professor ending the class, “That’s just a fact. I mean, did you see Potter?”

Harry closed his eyes, hunching down in his seat. The humiliation was so intense, so great, it felt like a physical presence on him — like an elephant stomping on his chest. He wished they’d never seen him do all that. He wished they’d never heard him say all that. He just wished none of it had ever happened.

“That’s why the mixing of magical and Muggle blood is an abomination — ‘cause bad blood makes the future generations magically and mentally unstable…”

Harry’s fists tightened and his face scrunched, but he kept quiet even as everyone else stood and gathered their belongings. The itch of memory bothered him, reminding him foully of Aunt Marge and all her petty little cruelties — comparing Harry to dogs. Bad blood will out, bad blood will out, bad blood—

“I suppose that sort of behaviour can only be expected since he’s got a Mudblood for a mother—,”

Harry froze. All that blood nonsense came up a lot when one was a Slytherin, talk about purity and filth, but no one had ever insulted his mum—

The boy turned, voice calm and clear and full volume when he replied, “What the fuck did you just say, Nott?”

“Harry,” Hermione squeaked worriedly just as Ron tugged on his arm, holding him back slightly.

Nott’s expression twisted, looking both taken aback as well as mildly annoyed.

“I’m just being honest, Potter; it’s hardly my fault that your dirty bloodline’s made you—,”

And then the surprise of ages:

“Leave off, Nott,” Draco Malfoy chided.

Harry and his friends whipped around to look at Malfoy in surprise. In fact, everyone in their vicinity did. Was the blond prat… defending him? Because… what the fuck? Nott looked ready to argue, but as it was, Malfoy was higher on the Pureblood food chain of First Years so his mouth snapped shut, and everyone just— moved on. Malfoy looked at Harry just briefly, a flash of a glance, as he passed along with the rest of his bodyguards, but no word was said between them.

“That— was odd,” said Hermione faintly, “Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, since when is Draco bloody Malfoy on our side?” Ron groused with a glare following the other boys out of the room.

“Yes…” Harry agreed, “Really odd. “

Still more than a bit disarmed, they shuffled towards the door, only taking five steps before:

“Mister P—P—Potter.”

Harry froze halfway towards their escape, Ron and Hermione still protectively on either side of him. When he glanced back, he saw Professor Quirrell eyeing him, hands intertwined over his belly, trying hard at looking pleasant. He swallowed hard.

“Might I see y—you for a moment?”

Harry lurched a bit, like his body wanted to make the decision for him and walk straight out the door. His mind, however, wasn’t at all sure what to do: to stay and obey or to run screaming from the room. Decisions, decisions. He wasn’t supposed to be left alone with this particular professor — Snape said. Because Snape didn’t trust Quirrell. So Harry shouldn’t trust him either… right?

“Uhm,” Ron stepped in, darting an awkward glance between student and professor, “We’re going to be late for History of Magic, Professor.”

“Y—You and Miss Gr—Granger certainly will be since I d—didn’t ask y—you two to stay,” countered Quirrell as he crossed the classroom towards them, “Mister P—P—Potter will have the n—note that I give him.”

His friends dithered, the war of indecision playing on their un—scarred, un—traumatised faces.

“It’s okay,” Harry whispered, very softly, “I’m okay.”

Reluctantly, his friends drifted out the door and away from him. Then Harry was alone with Quirrell. The professor was just as twitchy as usual, and when he smiled, it looked almost like a struggle. That was mostly okay, though, Harry felt like his answering smile was much the same.

“I w—wanted to see how y—you were,” Quirrell said before the silence stretched on too long, “I know y—you had a rough time of it at the be—beginning of the w—winter holiday.”

Harry still had a hard time making eye contact with adults, and so he spoke mostly to the man’s purple turban when he replied, “I’m okay, Professor… thanks.”

“G—Good… D—Did y—you know that other professors report y—you’re engaging more in their classes, but I haven’t n—noticed much ch—change in mine. Is everything all r—right?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, very quietly, “Sorry, sir.”

“N—No apologies, P—P—Potter.” Quirrell gave an odd smile, “I only want y—you to be as comfortable as p—p—possible with me. Are y—you comfortable n—now?”

Nononono. Harry shrugged and stayed close to the door. He could feel the handle pressing hard into his back, freezing cold through his layers upon layers of clothes.

“And are y—you comfortable with P—P—Professor S—Snape?”

When Quirrell stepped slightly closer, Harry stepped slightly further. The backs of his trainers scuffed the hard wood of the door, and he rubbed away an ache in his forehead. He couldn’t find the will within him to answer, even though his heart throbbed with the answer over and over: yesyesyesyesyes.

“Harry,” his professor levelled him with a sympathetic stare, “Y—You know y—you can always still come to me with q—q—questions about y—your father…”

The boy tugged at his fringe, not knowing how to answer. The trouble was, Harry did still want to, even if Snape didn’t want him to, even if he was beginning to feel sort of/kind of/a bit— uncomfortable. Yet it was so sly, the way it happened, the words that came next. Like a thread through a needle: casual and easy, and then just that little knot at the end to suddenly bring everything to a yanking halt.

“I wish I c—could be more helpful in regards to y—your mother, b—but I’m sure P—P—Professor S—Snape is telling y—you all about Lily—,”

“What?” Harry blurted instantly, rushing thoughts pausing, like he’d been doused with ice water. “Sorry, I mean— why would Professor Snape be able to tell me… about my mum?”

Quirrell blinked, looking completely taken aback, and he had no stutter at all when he said, “Well, because they were best friends, of course. Oh my… you look shocked, Harry. Didn’t he ever tell you?”

Harry was gone.

Long, long gone — so far gone, with no escorts, no friends or professors or guardians, he was just fucking gone.

Harry ran through the corridors and stairwells and dungeons of Hogwarts, barely letting himself notice how familiar it had all become, knowing exactly which corners to turn and which shortcuts to take. By the time he crashed into Snape’s chambers, he was gaspgaspgasping.

The man himself wasn’t there yet, likely still finishing up his classes for the day, but he’d come soon.

He’d show up, any moment now, Harry just knew it, somehow.

For now, he just bided his time. He paced in short, quick lines in the sitting room, tugging on his fringe, biting at his thumbnail. His body felt a blur, the Otherness singing — questioning — wanting, his thoughts turning to slush from confusion and hurt and grief. Mum. His mum. He ached for her so fiercely just then, wrapping his own arms around himself, a pantomime of the hug he actually wanted. He wanted to call out to her, wherever she was, pleading: ineedyou — ineedyou — ineedyou. But how could he need someone he didn’t even know?

But Snape knew her.

And he’d never fucking said a word.

Harry was right. It didn’t take too long for Snape to appear, billowing in with a deeply disapproving look on his pale face, already lecturing:

“Harry Potter, Professor McGonagall said she saw you running through the corridors— what were you thinking? What did I tell you about waiting for an escort? Did something—?”

“You knew my mum.”

It was a little mean, probably — to blurt it out so bluntly, so harshly, perhaps it was punishment for keeping secrets, for never giving details or explanations or good fucking reasons. Because it was going to catch him off guard, and make him a little sick, being forced to provide pieces to the puzzle of Severus Snape for a change.

And it was as if Snape had been slapped. “What?”

“You knew my mum, you were friends with her, weren’t you?”

The man instantly looked as though he wanted to deny it — or worse yet, turn around and simply leave the room, the chambers, the whole bloody castle. Instead, he demanded harshly, “Who told you that?”

Harry was taken aback. “What?”

“I asked, who told you that?!”

“It doesn’t matter who told me!” He willed his voice not to break as he shouted, “Is it true?!”

His guardian — the professor — this stranger clenched his jaw and looked away, as if suddenly determined to ignore Harry’s entire existence. Just answer me, the boy pleaded in his mind, Just tell me something — anything! Harry was panting, trembling, ready to bloody combust if he didn’t just—

“Snape!”

The man snapped back around to glare at him, expression utterly furious. “Do not — shout — at me, boy. I am still your professor, as well as your guardian, and you will show me—,”

“Respect?” Harry cut in, too angry to be respectful or whatever the hell Snape wanted from him. “Well, I don’t think it’s bloody respectful of you to keep secrets that are about me from me! Tell me the fucking truth!”

“I have said it once, and I will say it again — watch your language, boy.”

“Stop calling me ‘boy’, and just tell me: were you friends with my mum?”

Silence—silence—silence.

“Yes.”

Harry gaped.

There was a red burning heat in his body, not from the Otherness, but from anger — less dangerous but just heavyheavyheavy, weighing him down, pressing on his chest. And maybe it wasn’t really anger because it felt more like grief with no place to bury it. Because where did it even come from? How was it possible to mourn the loss of something he’d never even bloody had? But he could’ve had some — just a little — just a bit — and Snape fucking kept it from him.

Snape’s words were still stinging Harry’s ears.

“This whole time… this whole time and you could’ve told me.” Harry was seething, Snape was seething, the whole bloody world was seething. “You know— I told you I don’t know anything about them, the Dursleys told me nothing, why wouldn’t tell me that?!”

Seething, seething, Snape’s fire finally exploded, “You are not entitled to every facet of my life, Potter! Am I allowed no privacy in my own fucking home?!”

Harry flinched and took a step back.

Snape sighed, face was papery with exhaustion as he stalked from the door to the hearth. The man rested a hand on the mantle, would’ve fallen face first into the fireplace if he hadn’t, leaning all his weight there. Harry didn’t speak. He waitedwaitedwaited for more. It took a while, but it came eventually.

“Who told you we were friends?”

“Professor Quirrell.”

Harry didn’t have to see Snape’s face to know his upper lip was curling.

Much later, much softer, the boy whispered, “You knew my mum, so why didn’t you tell me?”

Over Snape’s shoulder came a sharp look. His voice got tight. “It was none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Harry repeated, still whispering, “She was my mum. How could you be so cruel?”

“Cruel?!” Now Snape looked positively incensed, whirling around to scathe, “You want to know cruel, Potter? You have no idea—,”

“No idea, do I? I didn’t even know my mum’s name until Hagrid told me! I don’t even know what she looked like! What her voice sounded like, how she laughed, what it felt to be held by her, to be close to her — and you do! And you took that away from me!”

Snape had paled even further by the end of Harry’s rant.

“You could’ve told me — I would’ve taken anythinganythinganything.”

Harry despised himself for how his voice cracked, but he could do nothing about that now. And when a tear slipped loose, he huffed in frustration and wiped it harshly away.

“Harry…” Snape’s voice was about as weary as a voice could get. “I don’t know.”

“...What?”

Harry was beyond confused.

“Perhaps you’re right, perhaps I should have said something… There were many times I had the opportunity, and I deliberately chose not to.” It still looked like saying any of this was like pulling teeth for him, but he said it — and meant it — which was enough. “I want you to know, Harry, that it wasn’t intended to be cruel. My… hesitance to share my connection with your mother wasn’t designed to hurt you, but rather spare myself hurt.”

Oh.

“She was a very dear friend, and speaking of her — after losing her — it is… very painful.”

“Oh.” Harry echoed his thoughts, suddenly feeling very ashamed of himself, whispering again now, “I—I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. If it’s too painful, you don’t have to—,”

“But you were right. As I said.” Snape cleared his throat and straightened up, obviously Occluding, “She was your mother, and she deserves for her son to know about her. And vice versa.”

There was a dull humming in his ears. His body ached and he held his breath.

Snape sighed and massaged his heavily wrinkled brow, “Why don’t we both sit? I feel as if this will be a bit of a longer conversation than we ought to have standing around.”

Harry sat very tentatively on the edge of the sofa while Snape took his usual spot in the armchair. For a while, neither of them spoke. Everything felt… very delicate, and Harry was afraid to make the moment shatter. As Snape gazed off into the distance, he thought he could start with something simple… something easy…

“Was she…” He barely scrounged up the courage to ask, “Was she your friend — the artist?”

“Yes.” Snape replied, after a beat. “Lily was an artist, like you. And a very good one. She also made the quilt you like so much.”

Harry’s heart warmed at that. He had the cloak from his father, and nwo the quilt from his mother. It felt pieces of them, that he could hold close, and treasure.

Snape kept his dark gaze on the fire when he spoke from a place a thousand miles away, “We were friends, Lily and I…”

Another long pause, and he felt the need to gently ask, “During school?”

“We met before Hogwarts, actually. We lived in the same Muggle town, and when we were nine years old, I saw her doing magic… I was the one who told her she was a witch — not very delicately, I will admit, but I was a little boy who had never met someone like me before and I was… happy. She— made me happy. We were fast friends after that.”

Snape exhaled softly, though heavily.

Everyone knew the story of Lily Potter, the mother who sacrificed herself for her son, the woman whose love was so strong that it helped kill a god.

But there was more, there had to be more… right?

Hushed, so so quiet: “What was she like?”

Snape suddenly looked at him, eyes intense and very dark. “Harry, when the world speaks of your mother, they romanticise her. She is Lily the Martyr, Lily the Saint, Lily the Holy Mother, but the real Lily — or at least the girl I knew? She was… fierce, in everything she did. When she wanted something, she believed in something, there was no one and nothing that could ever change her mind — so incredibly stubborn.”

He sounded exasperated at this, fond and yet annoyed in equal measure, even ten years later.

“Brilliant, of course, and kind, yes, but she also took no prisoners. She could hold a grudge like no other; this I learnt personally… And of course she had a wicked temper — much like her son.”

Harry blushed but leant closer and closer, smiling now, smiling so much it almost hurt.

It looked like it was hurting Snape too, a little, but he was smiling too, just a little. “She was persistently clumsy, but her magic was graceful. Her laughter was infectious, and she could debate with you for hours — about anything, everything. She would plait my hair (completely against my will) and draw on my arms during class. She loved paints and overalls and flowers, and most of all— she loved magic.”

Harry worried his bottom lip, thinking about Aunt Petunia — his mum’s sister, and how much she hated everything that had anything to do with the M word.

“Were her parents… you know, okay… with magic?”

Snape’s expression tightened slightly, but his tone was as gentle as ever, “Yes, Harry. They were okay with magic — more than okay, really.”

“And they were… nice to her?”

“Yes. So nice, in fact, their kindness even extended to her odd little friends, like me. I had never been to another person’s home before theirs, and they… welcomed me with open arms.” His guardian swallowed hard, eyes darting straight back to the fire, never straying, “They fed me most days, and always had a kind word for me. They even gave me Christmas presents. Their home was always bright and clean, and… safe. It never mattered that I was too dirty or angry or…”

Snape’s lips twisted, expression ugly as he shook his head.

“Are they dead?”

“Petunia never once mentioned…?” Harry’s silence was enough of a reason for Snape to exhale hard and murmur, “Yes, Harry. They died many years ago, in a car crash — I believe, when we were eighteen.”

“Oh.” Harry whispered sadly. “I wish I’d gotten to meet them… All of them.”

“Yes… More?”

“Yes… More.”

So, Snape told him more and more about his mother — stories flowing out like blood from the stone, difficult and halted and painful, but soon Harry could practically see her — standing in the room with them — more and more, story after story.

“Every day, we’d lay under our tree,” Snape’s voice was growing coarse from so much talking, from so much pain, “Reading armloads of books filled with great quests and dangerous adventures. I taught her everything I knew about magic, and Hogwarts, and the wizarding world. Lily picked poisonous berries and cut a rose from her mother’s garden. We smeared the berries on our faces and pricked our fingers on a thorn. We swore sacred oaths to be strong and to save the world and to be friends forever…”

“And were you?” Harry whispered.

Snape smiled, sort of, a sad little twist of his thin mouth. Humourless. Empty. “Things— changed eventually. When we got to Hogwarts.”

“My mum was in Gryffindor,” Harry suddenly remembered, apropos of nothing.

“Indeed.”

“And you were in Slytherin.”

“Really, Harry, your powers of observation are unparalleled.”

“Ha, ha.” He huffed and gave his guardian a pointed look, “That couldn’t have been easy, I know.”

“No, it wasn’t easy.” Snape’s tone was quiet and thoughtful, eyes lost on the fire as if he had nearly forgotten Harry was even there. “Neither was it easy that she was Muggle—Born while I was a Half—Blood Housed with mostly Purebloods.”

Harry hadn’t given much thought to Snape’s blood status, but he supposed it might’ve been surprising to someone who cared more.

“It hadn’t mattered until…”

When he didn’t go on, Harry softly prompted, “Until?”

“Until it did.”

Snape’s answer was vague and sad and confusing, and Harry knew there was deep pain behind those words. He knew that Snape likely didn’t want to talk about Lily Evans Potter, who had been his closest friend in life, whose name he hadn’t even known about until a few months ago.

Harry bit his chapped bottom lip and after a moment, asked, “Were you friends until she d—?”

“No.”

Harry’s guardian’s voice was sharp, like a blade, falling down upon the word as if on the chopping block. And perhaps it was in a way; perhaps it was better to stop now and let their conversation go the way of the guillotine. Harry had put Snape through quite enough. The boy tugged his legs up onto the sofa, making himself smallsmallsmall — not because he was afraid, or sad, but because he was worried Snape was.

It was quietquietquiet, but that was okay.

It wasn’t an angry—quiet, or a bitter—quiet, just a bit sad, but mostly peaceful.

“I’ll take you to see it,” said Snape, quiet suddenly, perhaps an hour later, “If you like.”

Harry jerked his head around to look at the man, questioning, wide—eyed waiting.

“To see Lily’s house, your grandparents’ house; the first weekend after start of term, I will take you there.”

And take him, Snape did.

The weekend came far too slowly for Harry’s liking, and when the time finally came around, he was practically quivering with anticipation. To know more about his mum, to feel close to her, it meant the world to him. But for all of Harry’s excitement, Snape looked— well, dreadful, in a word.

His guardian’s face was the colour of sour milk, and his lips were pressed so tightly together they nearly disappeared. He was dressed more normal, Harry thought — or more Muggle, as magical people called it, but really there wasn’t much of a difference. He was still covered head to toe in black, this time in a long trench coat rather than those thick robes.

It rather reminded him of some funeral garb.

Harry worriedly wondered if his own green coat was too colourful for the occasion.

In perfect silence, they walked to the front gates of Hogwarts, and then Snape pulled him close (which was kind of nice), muttered for Harry to prepare himself— and then he did something not at all nice (truly evil, actually). It was magic, in the very worst way. There was absolutely no preparing himself for it. The world disappeared in a swirling hurricane of colour and motion. It was like being sucked up through a very small straw, his body twisting and contorting, crushed into something smallsmallsmall — lungsclenched, heartsqueezed, earspopping — then it was over and they were some place entirely new.

The perfect white snow that was once beneath his feet was now gritty black soot.

The morning blue sky once overhead was now a swirling storm of grey.

Harry pitched forward, forcefully separating himself from Snape, to gag and cough through the very real possibility of vomiting his guts out.

Quite frankly: apparition sucked arse.

“You couldn’t — ah, bloody hell — couldn’t have warned me?” Harry managed to choke out, once he was sure his breakfast wasn’t going to make an untimely reappearance.

“I did say to ‘prepare yourself’,” Snape replied dryly, though he wasn’t really paying attention.

And Harry understood why.

When he straightened up, he saw the world they had been dropped into.

Cokeworth.

Cokeworth was— not beautiful.

Barely surviving under a thick blanket of smog and black smoke, it was a tired old town made up of several identical streets of dilapidated brick houses. It could hardly be found on a map, Snape said; its only geographical indicator was a long dirty river, the bank of which was perpetually strewn with litter. In the hazy distance, one could see the old mill factory that was no longer in commission and had left many of Cokeworth’s residents jobless and utterly destitute in the late 80’s.

The street they had Apparated onto was little more than a narrow alley with sloping cobblestones, surrounded by rubbish bins, lines of laundry dried crisp in the chilly weather, and a tiny fox nosing at some old wrappings — hungry for his next meal.

Snape didn’t seem to want to linger.

They got moving.

Harry had to jog to keep up.

A maze of traditional two up—two down’s lined their path, house rows linked mostly by the alleyways they travelled, swallowed up by a wave of intense petrol fumes, frigid air, and people waking to start their day. The streetlights, the sparking few that were working, were still on this early in the morning — all of them looking hazy and faintly haloed in the misty air.

It was a bit magical in its own way.

In his eleven years, Harry had never been anywhere—anywhere—anywhere, and Snape seemed sorry that this was the first place the boy would be able to go. But Harry, for his part and for all his lack of experience, didn’t mind at all. True, Spinner’s End couldn’t have been more different from Privet Drive. Here, old paint peeled off walls, doors hung crooked from hinges, rotting wood planks blocked broken windows, and not a spot of green could be found.

But… it had been his mum’s home, and so, to Harry, it was more magical than any spell.

Parts of it seemed familiar, for some reason he couldn’t name, but he didn’t think he should mention it. He was full up with so many questions, so many things he wanted to ask and say — the words bubbling up inside him, but he wasn’t sure how to arrange any of them. He didn’t want to sound stupid. He didn’t want to be stupid.

Their shoes crunched in the damp soot rising between separating cobblestones, breaths a bit heavier with the weight of polluted air.

They hardly passed a soul their whole journey.

For the most part, Cokeworth seemed abandoned — used up and decrepit, made up of skeleton houses and freezing pits of mud. Harry was taking everything in, green eyes intent and interested as Snape guided him down Slack Ave and onto Old Walsall. It was raining slightly, even if scant bits of dawn could be seen through the smog. Shivering, Harry tugged his green coat tighter around him, and as if noticing, Snape gave a subtle flick of his wand to ward off the chill.

Inside, he felt warmwarmwarm.

It was a long walk, and with every step, Snape seemed to get more and more tense. His shoulders were strung up very high, and he hadn’t said a thing in ages. He was ashamed of this town, where he came from, and Harry understood that — in his own way.

Softly, he asked, “Do you still live here?”

“During the summers,” the man replied, a bit bitingly.

“Where’s your—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” sharp, very sharp.

Harry pressed his lips together and let the crunching of the grit beneath their feet fill the silence.

His mum’s place was across the black river — lined with dead plants and waste, to a brighter part of town, just north of the poverty line. The houses were a bit better on the other side, windows shined and paint unchipped, with actual yards to bracket them — though most of it was covered with snow at this time of year.

Harry only noticed Snape had stopped when he was five steps past, and he had to skid to a halt and whirl around to find the man gazing up at one house amongst many. At once, the boy understood.

“That’s hers?”

Their breath was white in the air.

“That’s hers.”

Mum’s home. The house wasn’t overly large, perfect for a modest family of four, with red brick and white siding. Two windows stared back like a pair of eyes from the second storey, and centered between them on the first was an arched white door (freshly painted), decorated with an evergreen wreath — jolly and merry.

Nearby, an engine rumbled to life. A dog was let out the backdoor. A baby began to cry. Dads were going to work. Mums were waving them goodbye. A child or two hung onto her leg.

Around them, life continued marching on.

When Lily Evans died, the world didn’t stop as it should have.

It wouldn’t ever stop, or even slow, because one bright light in the world had been snuffed out.

Someone else lived here now, someone who had probably never heard of Lily Evans — never knew her story, never knew that she liked overalls and had a temper and she liked her chips with curry, never knew that she was dead and gone. No, murdered. For the first time, Harry really thought about that bastard, Voldemort. In an abstract way, he knew about him, had heard about him — because Harry had supposedly defeated him — but right now, staring up at his grandparent’s old home, the wreckage Voldemort had left of Harry’s life felt more real than ever.

Harry— hated Voldemort.

He wished he was still alive, so he could kill him a second time.

His Otherness would probably like that.

His throat and eyes burnt, but the cold that spreaded through his veins obliterated that.

Snape was very quiet, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. It seemed to take an eternity for him to find the words, too. “Your mother…” He pointed one long pale finger, “That was her bedroom, on the right. Her bedroom was painted green; it was her favourite colour.”

“Slytherin green?” Harry joked — kind of/sort of/a bit hoarsely.

The man’s lip quirked slightly. “No, not Slytherin green — but spring green, fresh like trees and new earth. Though, it was hard to see the paint under all the photos and posters she had hung up. It was— chaotic. She was chaos, in every aspect of her life.”

“Me too.”

Snape snorted and glanced down at him, “Yes, in a way, you too.”

“Do you…” Harry bit his lip and went quiet.

“Do I… what?”

He rushed out the question, suddenly terrified of asking and not asking and doing anything at all: “Do you think we could ask to look inside?”

Snape’s face did something very odd, then, like a spasm or something — a blink or you’d miss it of pure agony streaking across his face. It was a grief so real, so poignant that it actually stole Harry’s breath away. And very stiffly, like he was stuck on a pike or something, Snape shook his head.

“I would… rather not. If you don’t mind.”

Harry watched Snape carefully — that pained look of pure grief, and he understood. “I don’t mind. It’s okay.”

Snape’s shoulders shook with the weight of his exhale. “Thank you, Harry.”

And then, suddenly, with no warning at all:

“If that isn’t Sev’rus Snape.”

Harry hadn’t noticed how much Snape had relaxed until the man went positively rigid at his side, and they both turned to find a woman standing in the middle of the road, staring at them with equal shock. She was of indiscernible age to Harry, who still couldn’t ever guess the ages of adults, though if he reckoned she was close to ancient.

Still, old age had treated her kindly, and the wrinkles across her bronze face didn’t look so much like canyons but gentle rivers on the map of her face, the map of her life. There were great streaks of silver shining through the twist of her tidy black bun, and when she approached, she did so with great confidence.

Snape, however, looked like he wanted to do a bloody runner.

It was sort of/kind of/a bit terrifying, to be honest.

Harry shuffled slightly closer.

“Missus Mital…” replied Snape quietly, his voice slightly off, tone somewhat different, “Didn’t ‘spect t’ see you…”

“Nah, I don’t reckon that you did. Haven’t seen you round in years, Sev’rus lad.” The woman nudged him with her umbrella, as if in greeting, “Almost didn’t believe me eyes, did I?”

She had a thick accent and scratchy voice, and Harry thought she must have been a smoker in a past life, decades ago, but something about it was melodic as well. Like a raspy song, told in the tones of an old time band singer he once heard on the radio before Aunt Petunia switched the station. Harry was entranced.

Snape looked more rugged now, hair swinging in his face, shoulders slouching real low. “S’ not much reason t’ come round, you know I live 'cross the river.”

Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.

“And not much reason to come calling since Eileen…” Missus Mital stopped and then nodded, sympathetically. “And your da? I’d s’pose you’ve not…”

“I have no interest in that man,” his tone was sharp, more posh and crisp — he sounded much like himself again.

“Nah, I’d not think so…” Missus Mital agreed, smiling in the frigid wind before her ink—black eyes darted suddenly to Harry, “Sev’rus, you’ve not yet introduced me to your bonny son!”

Snape’s eyes widened, a true testament to the level of his shock that he let it show so obviously, but before he could answer, Harry gamely rushed in head—first.

“I’m Harry.” The boy reached out a hand for her to shake, still speaking in a shy whisper but meeting her eyes boldly, “It’s very nice to meet you, Missus Mital.”

Snape’s head snapped around to glower at him.

The old woman looked pleased, taking his hand firmly in her warm grasp. “Ah, that’s the Evans manners in him, no mistake. It’s nice t’ meet you too, Harry lad.” She clicked her tongue, still beaming, “Why I never… Little Lily and her Severus, still together all these later and having a son! That’s lovely.”

“Lily’s dead,” the words escaped Snape bluntly, and the man actually flinched at his own harshness.

Missus Mital’s kind features collapsed briefly. “Ah, Sev’rus. I’m so sorry, how terrible for you both… But it’s lovely you have her little boy t’ treasure now that she’s gone, eh?”

Harry could do nothing but blush. Missus Mital smiled at him.

“Now tell me,” she tucked her purple umbrella under her arm, piercing them with a chiding stare, “Where’ve you been hiding this handsome young son of yours away, Sev’rus?”

Those once slouched shoulders were getting tense again. “I work at the school now, the one Lily and I attended when—,”

“Ah yes!” Her keen eyes lit up in remembrance, “I remember now, the clever boarding school for you gifted kids, yeah?”

Snape shot Harry a purposeful glance, “That was the one.”

Gifted… What an interesting word for ‘magical’.

“Ah.” Missus Mital sort of spoke to Snape, though she was winking at Harry, “And I’m sure your lad is clever enough to go there now too, is he?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry answered softly.

“Must be nice to have your da so close to you all the time, eh?”

Snape did a weird little twitch at his side.

Swallowing hard, he said again, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Though I hope you get away with some mischief at that posh school of yours — at least to give your da here a taste of his and Lily’s own medicine,” she looked positively shameless, apparently impervious to Snape’s even most potent scowls.

So, so bloody fascinating.

Snape had definitely left that part out of his stories.

Completely amazed, Harry could only gape, “My parents got into mischief?”

Ron and Hermione weren’t gonna believe this shit.

“Oh they did, yeah.” She grinned, her wrinkles stretching with fondness, “Utter deviants. Proper public menaces, they were, wreaking all sorts of havoc—,”

“Yes, thank you, Missus Mital,” Snape bit out, one hand landing firmly on Harry’s shoulder, “But we really ought to be getting on now.”

“But—,” Snape shot him such a look that Harry immediately clacked his mouth shut. Well then. He sighed and turned back to the old woman, murmuring, “Thanks for telling me about my mum and— and my dad.”

Snape did that odd twitch again, but he didn’t speak.

For her part, Missus Mital only smiled softly between them. “Mm, yeah, l can see the resemblance. Sweet like our Lily but not quite so boisterous as she, is he?” Snape made a vague, rather forced noise of acknowledgement, “No, he’s far more like his da, Sev’rus. Quiet, sure, but too smart for his own good.”

Harry flushed bright pink again, from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.

Even Snape was beginning to look a bit embarrassed.

Missus Mital looked even more pleased at that. “Sure I can’t offer you lads a cuppa 'fore you’re on your way?”

Harry fairly leapt at the chance to hear more about his mum and his guardian, but bloody Snape beat him to it this time.

“No.” Snape snapped, then softened, “But, thank you. We really do need to return.”

Missus Mital smiled and stepped closer, taking his limp hand in hers, “Lily would be so proud of you, Sev’rus, not following in your da’s footsteps. You’re a good father to the lad, I can see it.”

Snape’s mouth twisted, and Harry’s heart seized, certain — certain — that he was about to give the game up, to tell her that they’d been lying all along, that they weren’t anything to each other— not really.

But in the end, Snape said only this: “Thank you.”

Missus Mital patted his cheek and squeezed Harry’s shoulder, and then she was off — quick as a shot, astoundingly fast. Harry watched her go, heart sinking, feeling oddly bereft at a lost chance to hear more about Lily and Severus, to live a little longer in the fantasy that he had a dad he knew and a mum whose stories he heard.

Over his head, Snape bit out, “Come along now.”

The man’s hand on his shoulder didn’t leave, if anything, his grip only tightened when he suddenly yanked him away from the street and back towards the bridge.

“Why did you do that?” Snape hissed, looking around wildly for any threats — innocent people who once knew Snape the boy, not Snape the Man. “Why would you lie to that woman and say we were— that we— that I was somehow your father?”

Harry scuffed the tie of his trainer against the broken pavement. He shrugged a little, feeling lost again — in the words — with no idea how to arrange them. He couldn’t conjure them like he could magical light or feathers or even the Occlumency—induced cupboard.

“It was nice to pretend, just for a while… wasn’t it?”

Snaps sighed but didn’t answer.

It felt kind of/sort of/a bit like another rejection, a small one but hurtful in an entirely new way. You were what I saw in the mirror, the words were on the tip of Harry’s tongue, heavy and waiting. He could say them, he wanted to say them, but somehow, he knew that they wouldn’t be accepted. Familyfamilyfamily, his heart beat for it, aching with how badly he wanted it for himself.

Leaving Cokeworth felt like he was losing the chance of ever having it all over again.

When they returned to the castle, it was nearly lunch, and neither of them spoke on the way to the Great Hall. As soon as they entered, the entire bloody room went quiet — six hundred students, suddenly perfectly silent. People were staring — even more than usual, and not just the Slytherins. Harry’s feet were suddenly not his own, and they skidded to a stop just in time for Hermione and Ron to rush over and surround him.

“—Oh, Harry—,”

“—Those bloody prats—,”

“—We’re so sorry—,”

“—I can’t believe it—,”

Snape had billowed away from Harry, back in his magical school robes, meeting McGonagall and Dumbledore halfway down the aisle of long tables. They were deep in conversation, and it was very hard to look away from them, even as Harry tried to pay attention to his friends. Something was wrong — really, really wrong.

“What is it?” He murmured, “What’s happened?”

Snape was getting angry; he could see it on his face, in the way he moved his hands, the tension rising in his shoulders again. Ohgodohgodohgod. The dread returned full—force, stealing his breath away, making him sick.

“Harry.”

Hermione had taken his shaking hand, and when he looked at her, her young freckled face was grave.

“The Daily Prophet, they published an article. It’s about you.”

Harry’s heart froze in his chest. There were so many secrets, so many terrible things, an article about him could mean anything. Ohgodohgod. “What about me?”

Hermione darted a nervous look at Ron who looked equally fearful.

“They know about what you did to yourself before Christmas, mate, and…”

No. Nononono. Harry caught his breath and turned to find Snape again across the hall, already looking at him, even as Dumbledore and McGonagall both spoke to him. His guardian left them suddenly, drifting down the rows and rows of students to stand in front of the boy, face—to—face, eye—to—eye.

“Harry,” Snape said, pale and quiet.

His body was revving up in that familiar dangerous way, his breath coming in gasps. There was anger and anticipation and, more than any of that, there was fear. Every instinct inside him insisted that he turn around and leave the way he came, screaming that he would not want to see what came next. But he could not move, no, stuck in place as if by a spell.

“They know the Dursleys abused you.”

Chapter Text

Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.

Harry cradled his face in his hands, his head tucked between his knobby knees as he rocked slightly. Back and forth. Back and forth. He counted his breaths and identified each of his senses, repeating it like a mantra over and over in his head. He was worried he was going to fucking suffocate, right here, trapped in the cage of his own flesh. He pressed his bony fingertips into his eyes to press back the tears. It hurthurthurt but in a good way, or at least, in a distracting one.

Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.

Snape had gotten him out of the Great Hall nearly immediately, as soon as Harry had understood what he was being told, but already the whispering had gotten started, and worse than that — the snickering.

Poor, pathetic Potter. Badboy—badwizard. He would never be anything good.

Now, he was back in Snape’s chambers, and he sat huddled in small boy—like shape of a ball, making himself smallsmallsmall, squeezing himself into the corner — mostly hidden by the furniture. He hadn’t wanted to be on the sofa or the armchair or even the rug; he wanted something cold and hard and unforgivable, to match the unending pool of awfulness inside.

Snape stood somewhat over him, seeming unsure what to do — typically uncharacteristic, yes, but not as much when it came to How to Handle Harry — and so he seemed caught between whether to kneel at his side or to give him a moment alone. In his hesitance, he merely hovered.

“Do you require a Calming Draught?”

Headshake.

“Is the use of your marble necessary?”

Another headshake.

“Do I need to help you count your five senses?”

Again, no.

His Otherness wasn’t so much of a threat right now. He didn’t feel… angry, per se, which was when his Otherness was most a threat. He just felt… fucking humiliated. Harry had suffered a lot of embarrassment in his unfortunate eleven years of life, to the point where he sometimes felt as though he lived in a perpetual state of mortification, but this was the very worst.

“How…” Harry croaked, unable to form more than this word — over and over. “How… How…?”

When he peeked through his elbows and fingers, he saw Snape’s face twist with frustration and regret.

“We do not know exactly. The working theory as of now is that your— general behaviour came as somewhat of a shock to many in the Wizarding world, and one of your dormmates spoke of what occurred before the Yule holiday. It seems some of those particular people decided themselves fit to investigate…” Then, with a touch of bitterness: “It was rather obvious — when someone bothered looking for answers.”

“Oh.”

His face burnt when he finally met Snape’s eyes.

“It’s all right… Harry, if you wish to cry, it’s fine.”

Harry hid his face again. He retreated into himself, the only place it was safe. He wished the floor would open to swallow him or the castle would suddenly collapse in on his head or something equally disastrous would occur. The whole of Scotland could explode and Harry would be seriously grateful.

He felt like the eyes of the fucking world were suddenly on him, a spotlight burning his eyes, and he wanted to disappear. As if the actual pain of having to go through those things wasn’t bad enough, now everybody had to know about it. It had to have been one of the First Year Slytherins that told, like Snape said, there were no other people Harry could think it would be. He wondered which one it was. Goyle and Crabbe were altogether too stupid to hatch a plot like this. So was it Nott or Zabini or Malfoy? Any of them were an option, and it made Harry’s stomach hurt.

Ohgodohgod.

“Harry,” said Snape from overhead, “I know this is terrible, but it does not need to be the end of the world—,”

“Maybe not for you,” Harry mumbled against his palms, “You’re not the one they’re going to be laughing about in the papers!”

“They are not laughing. And if they are, it is a bad reflection upon them — not on yourself. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Oh no? Then why does it feel like I do?”

All at once, Snape had grabbed him, hauled him to his feet, and then clutched him to his chest. It was nice. He still sort of hugged like someone who had very little experience with it, always a bit too stiff or a bit too tight, but that was what defined Snape’s hugs and so, to Harry, they were perfect. For now, he let himself cling and tried not to think himself too cowardly.

“Harry.”

With great effort, the boy managed to force himself to look up from the dark fabric of his guardian’s robes.

“We will deal with this. I will be with you, every step of the way, I swear. Though I will not lie to you,” he spoke very quietly, words just meant for him, “This will get harder before it gets easier, but everything will be all right, I promise.”

‘Everything will be all right’ usually sounded like some bland, useless thing that people only said when there was nothing else to be said for a situation, but those words coming out of Snape’s mouth — Snape who had a tendency for better or worse to never lie to him — it sounded like the most profound thing anyone had ever said.

Harry nodded and said nothing.

Snape continued after a few beats, “Given your circumstances, I think it best if you remain in our chambers for the next few days. I know that term has only just begun, but I would rather not risk an outburst when there is so much emotional strain on you.”

Our. Humiliation briefly forgotten, Harry’s heart started pounding. He said ‘our’.

“—Harry?”

The boy jerked and met Snape’s eyes again. He whispered, “S—Sorry, what, sir?”

“I said,” he talked like Harry was slow or something, “Is this acceptable to you?”

“Yeah… Yeah, it’s fine.”

Honestly, it was what Harry would’ve preferred. He absolutely no fucking interest in seeing all of those people — and those people seeing him. He didn’t want to hear their questions, feel their pity, await their judgment. It would just make him only more miserable than he was now. For now, it felt good to hide somewhere; a place that was safesafesafe.

“Your dormmates now know without a doubt where you are staying, and while they might share it with their parents, I do not believe they would automatically assume I’ve taken up any sort of guardianship role over you.”

Harry frowned slightly, and Snape mistook his confusion for concern.

“That is a good thing, Harry. The Headmaster and the Minister are assuring people that you have been removed from your relatives’ care. As of now, no one knows who your new guardian is, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible.”

Harry bit into his bottom lip and nodded a little. Of course that was what Snape intended. Why shouldn’t he want to keep his guardianship of Harry a secret? It couldn’t exactly be fun for the man to be tethered to a freak like Harry. It was probably embarrassing for him, too. What a shame—shame—shame.

Harry went to sleep early that night, blankets pulled over his head, like a shield to hide him from the world.

He woke hours later, in that strange time between night and morning, to the sound of voices.

Well — just one voice in particular.

He didn’t think as he crawled out of bed, curiosity beckoned him forward — out of his bedroom, into the hall, down the corridor. He tip—toed over cool stone and then froze at what he found in the sitting room. Snape was on his knees in front of the hearth with his head in the fireplace.

At first, Harry was consumed by absolute terror that Snape was burning his fucking face off, but then he heard the man— talking, and with a gusty exhale of relief, he remembered bloody Floo—calls. Now assured that his guardian wasn’t actually on fire, Harry flattened himself against the wall of the corridor and strained to listen to the snatches of conversation, bits of an argument, with someone whose voice he couldn’t make out.

“—was forbidden from speaking of it—,”

Amidst the crackling of the wood and the popping of sparks, Snape sounded— annoyed.

“Indeed? Oh, how forgetful of me. I don’t recall having to answer to—,”

Harry scrunched his face in frustration. Answer to who? Who the hell was Snape arguing with?

“—situation is not one of envy, I assure you—,” the man replied a moment later, tone changing with a haughty sigh, turning from annoyed to rather… mocking? “Yes, yes, a terrible inconvenience, truly an exhaustive waste of my time—,”

Something in Harry’s chest twisted, and an uncomfortable humming thrummed in his ears. He didn’t know who Snape was talking to, or what he was talking about… but something about it made him feel— sicksicksick.

“At least the stories have been entertaining— imagine— brought so low — difficult not to show outright enjoyment—,”

Snape scoffed a horrid laugh, tone practically dripping with condescension.

Palms sweating, heart in his throat, Harry began to retreat.

“—perhaps nice to get off my chest — have a story or two you’d enjoy — certainly brought a smile to my face—,”

Harry closed the door on Snape’s words.

He leant his back against the tall wood planks and stood there for a very long time before one horrible idea chased him into bed, taunting him over and over:

Snape wouldn’t… He couldn’t… be talking about Harry… could he?

Harry hardly slept, rigid with fear, and when he shuffled into the sitting room the next morning, Snape was already there. His guardian was standing by the hearth with a stack of letters in hand and a look on his pale face that chilled Harry to the bone. The letters were stamped with fancy wax seals — silver and green and black, each symbolising some posh—looking family crest.

Harry had a very bad feeling. Already.

He wanted to tell the man that he’d overheard him, ask him what it all meant, but he wasn’t sure how the hell to do that without telling him that he was an eavesdropping little bastard who was supposed to be in bed so… He kept quiet.

It seemed like a better idea, at least for now.

Harry’s shoulders hunched nearly up to his ears. “Are people writing things about me?”

Snape jerked his head to look at him, expression carefully blank. “Beg your pardon?”

“They’ve gotta be mad, huh?”

His guardian had gone quite still. “What do you mean, Harry?”

“I mean… The papers… People have to be— reacting, right? People can’t like that their Boy Who Lived is… is…” Weakweakweak. His lips twisted and he spat bitterly, “I’m supposed to be this— super powerful magical wizard person, aren’t I? The Boy Who Lived, who defeated Voldemort, and yet he couldn’t even defend himself against no—magic people, against Muggles. What kind of saviour is that?”

“You don’t need to be their saviour, Harry. You’re only a boy.”

Harry was struck by this pronouncement, silent and watchful.

“No one is upset with you, and certainly no one has written with recriminations against you. Of that, I can assure you. In fact, it seems the world at large is upset for you.”

Harry glanced down at his socked feet covered in mismatched patterns, toes wriggling a little against the cool stone.

“It’s embarrassing.”

Snape gave him that look again, the one that hurt to see. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You have no cause for shame… Did you sleep well?”

Harry shrugged. That was as much of an answer he was going to get.

Snape seemed to understand that because he simply moved on, “Harry, if you don’t mind, I have something else to discuss with you.”

“Something else?” Harry worried, arms wrapping tight around his belly as was his habit.

What the hell else could have gone wrong in the past twenty—four hours?

Snape had them both sit down which immediately gave Harry a very bad feeling. Talks like this were usually serious, and Serious Talks typically never went well for kids like Harry. The man watched him for a long time, long enough to make him start to squirm slightly. Ugh. This was getting unbearable.

“Just say it,” Harry finally blurted, unable to stand the suspense.

“Very well.” Snape cleared his throat and crossed one leg over the other. “Regarding the information that’s come out, I… will be required to speak to some old acquaintances.”

Brow furrowing, Harry once more felt full of dread, “What do you mean— speak about… what?”

“About what you’ve suffered through — about your childhood with the Dursleys.”

Harry didn’t understand.

“But… don’t people already know?”

Snape sighed hard. “A general story was presented in the papers, yes, but only the most gullible will believe everything purported in the media. Therefore, certain less gullible parties have questions, and as a professor at this school and your Head of House, I am expected to… confirm what has been reported.”

Harry’s fingernails bit painfully into his palms. “To who?”

“You don’t know them.”

His green eyes narrowed as he challenged, “But I’d bet I know their kids.”

A muscle jumped in Snape’s jaw. “The Notts and the Rosiers, to name a few… As well as the Malfoys.”

Harry bolted to his feet, dizzying himself and having to grip onto the armrest to stay standing.

“You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

It felt like a hole had been punched in his chest, and Harry was left gasping in the wake of it.

“What? Why?!”

“Because they have questions, things they want me to confirm, and if what the newspapers are saying is true, it could have widespread effects on wizarding Britain—,”

“What the hell are you talking about? Widespread effects? Why does anyone care all of a sudden? What difference does it make to anybody?” Harry couldn’t—couldn’t—couldn’t understand. “And why do you have to confirm it? That shit is private, you know it is!”

“I know.” Snape murmured, very seriously, eyes locked with Harry’s. “And I regret having to share it.”

“You don’t have to share it!” Harry sounded strangled, high—pitched and gasping, “Not with anybody, and definitely not with the Malfoys!”

Ohgodohgod. Malfoy would know— everything. About the Obscurus and Harry—Hunting and the cupboard and the fucking garden shed. At least in the papers, there wasn’t any confirmation. It was just rumours, just gossip, just shite that any reporter could make up, but if Snape went out there and told people — told the last people on bloody earth he’d ever want knowing — then there would be no way to ever hide from it. His final line of defence, ripped to shreds.

Harry wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“You can’t— how could—? God, I should’ve known—,”

“Harry, no,”

“You can’t talk about it with them! You just can’t!”

“Harry,” Snape’s deep voice reached him a thousand miles buried into the earth, “I have to.”

Harry decided it was so much easier to be angry than sad so he snapped, “Why?! Why do you have to tell them anything? Are you mates with them or something?”

Snape’s face curdled slightly. “I would hardly call us ‘mates’, but they must think we are friendly, yes…”

“I don’t understand.”

“No.” The man’s voice was suddenly very, very serious. “Then again, I would not expect you to.”

Harry scoffed in disgust, hands clenching into fists. “So what are you planning on doing — sitting around together in Malfoy’s big posh mansion, laughing about the fact that I used to live in a cupboard?”

“Yes, in the most general sense—,”

“You’re going to laugh?!” Harry cried in outrage, feeling sicksick — so very sick, “I bet you’ve been laughing all along, haven’t you? Poor pathetic Potter, not like his father at all, is he? Yeah, he just lets his Muggle relatives push him around, stuff him in a cupboard, chain him in the garden shed, what a bloody disappointment!”

Snape was wincing more with each word, but Harry wasn’t fucking finished.

“I would’ve never told you any of that if I’d known you were gonna to turn around and laugh about it with the Malfoys!”

“Harry—,”

“I can’t believe you’re going to do this to me!”

“Harry. Take a breath. If you’d just let me explain, you would see that it is not maliciously intended—,”

“Not maliciously intended? Are you serious? It sounds like all you’ve been is malicious!” Horrible realisation crashed upon Harry and he breathed, “Oh my God, that’s who you were talking to last night…”

Snape froze, looking caught between mortified that he’d been overheard and angry that he had eavesdropped.

“You said it was ‘difficult’ not to show your enjoyment,” tears were buildingbuildingbuilding, “You said my pain made you smile!”

Snape squeezed his eyes shut and his mouth twisted when he said, “Harry, I did not mean it—,”

“How am I supposed to know what you mean?!” Harry shouted back, “If you were lying about that, then why shouldn’t I think you’re lying about other things?!”

Now, the Otherness was here, rising in his throat, boiling beneath his skin — plucking strings and breaking reeds and crashing cymbals.

The boy feared he was going to be sick. And in fact, he was. All at once, his body lurched over and he sicked up all over the sitting room floor — blackblack bile.

“Harry, fuck… What the fuck is that?”

Snape was bewildered at the sick, but it didn’t stop Harry from vomiting a second time.

“Damn it! All right, Harry, hold on—,”

Snape moved to take his arm, to rub his back, to brush curls from his face — it was all so tender, and Harry wanted nothing to do with it.

“Don’t touch me!” He shrieked and tried yanking himself free.

Snape reluctantly let him go, hands still extended towards him, ready to help — but Harry didn’t want his help — right now, he didn’t want a fucking thing from the man.

“Was this your plan all along?” He couldn’t seem to breathe through the black bile in his throat, in his mouth, smeared across his lips, “Get me to tell you all the bad things that’ve happened to me just so you can have some juicy gossip to share with your pals, the Malfoys?”

Snape instantly stepped closer, hissing, “How dare you—!”

“How could you?!”

Something in his guardian’s expression changed from frustrated to understanding, and suddenly he was wrapping thin arms tight around him, as restricting as they were comforting.

“It’s okay—,”

“No!”

Harry twisted and shoved, but Snape just held him tighter, like he was holding all of his broken pieces together. He had his arms pinned for the most part, though he was gripping one of his hands. Snape’s fingers clutched at Harry’s. The man stroked his other hand through sweat—soaked curls, his thudding heart against Harry’s ear, taking exaggerated breaths as if this would somehow calm Harry down, as if anything could calm Harry down now.

“Please. Let me explain.”

“No.” He choked against his sternum, still fighting, just more tiredly now, “I don’t want to hear your excuses, I don’t want to hear anything. I… I trust you, you know how much it costs…”

“I know.”

There was regret in Snape’s voice, but it wasn’t enough to comfort Harry, or to crush the growing ache in his chest. He could barely manage to get the words through his numb lips, a sad and weary whisper:

“You’re just going to do it anyway. It doesn’t matter what I say, or what I want, does it?”

Harry’s eyes were glinting with tears like razorblades, and some dark, vile part of himself hoped it made Snape bleed inside.

“No,” his guardian agreed, softly, “Right now, I’m afraid that it doesn’t.”

Something terrible was happening.

Harry felt a disturbance in the air, a bitter tang of magic that made the fine hairs on his arms stand on end. Something was wrongwrongwrong. Terrible, yes, very terrible. His toes curled with cold when they hit the stone floor, and he crept from his bed to the door with a pounding heart. His stomach curdled with apprehension as he made his way down the hall and to Snape’s closed bedroom door.

He wasn’t sure what had drawn him there, but this feeling — what had woke him — it had given him an intense and sudden need to see the man for himself.

The door creaked very slightly when he pushed it open, and in the shadows, Harry saw a terrible (yes, terrible) sight.

Snape, back arched, hands twisted into bedsheets, mouth open in a silent scream.

Nightmares.

There was something very terrible indeed about seeing an adult afraid — particularly an adult that he relied on to keep him safe, protect him, shield from all the terrors of the world.

Harry’s breaths were short and quick when he cautiously approached Snape’s bed. He could barely make out the man’s face because of his spinning head and the darkness of the room. He smelt sort of bad — like Uncle Vernon did sometimes when he came home late, angrier than usual, rougher than usual. It triggered something horrible in Harry, something that made him want to run and never stop.

But he couldn’t abandon Snape. He would not do that, no matter how angry he was with the man. The kind thing to do now would be to save him from his nightmares, and that meant undertaking the likely unpleasant task of waking him. It had to be done; there was nothing else for it.

“Professor?”

Nothing.

Snape spasmed once more, letting out a strangled gasp, sweat trickling down his brow.

“Snape,” he called a bit louder.

Still nothing.

Harry swallowed hard, and his shaking hand reach—reach—reached…

The second he made contact, Snape jolted upward with a snarl on his lips and his wand aimed at Harry’s heart. They each froze at the sight of one another, staring for what felt like an age — Harry’s expression one of pure fear and Snape’s one of pure malice.

Then, with a ragged exhale, Snape realised: “Potter.”

The boy cringed.

“Harry.” Snape corrected a few seconds later, after a few blinks and a couple of gasps, and he dropped the wand. “You startled me.”

Harry nodded numbly and stumbled a few steps away, hands twisting and twisting in front of him, a lump the size of the castle rising in his throat.

“I— I apologise, Harry.”

The tang of whiskey was there on his breath, and it… it did things to Harry. Things that made his skin itch and his inside music start to humhumhum.

Very, very quietly, he questioned, “Are you— Are you drunk, sir?”

For a moment, the shadow of Snape looked shocked. Then, quickly: “No. No, Harry. I’ve only…” He harshly cleared his throat, seeming loud in the otherwise silent dungeons, “Had a bad dream is all. Did I wake you, Harry?”

Harry didn’t know what to say so he said nothing at all.

“It’s all right now, I’m— it’s fine.”

It didn’t seem fucking fine.

The man collapsed back in his twisted bedsheets, more floppy and loose than Harry had ever seen for such a stoic and rigid man. Unsettling — was the only word Harry would use to describe it. Sprawled in his bed, Snape seemed trying to catch his breath. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He covered his face with both hands, curling them so his nails dug harshly into the thin tender skin surrounding his eyes. If he kept at it, he would draw blood, and soon. Harry dithered.

Through his palms, his muffled voice drawled, “Go back to your room, Harry.”

But it wasn’t Snape’s usual voice, Harry shivered slightly. It was hoarse and thin, breaking all over the place. But… at least he wasn’t slurring. Harry suddenly was overcome with the urgent need to make Snape feel good, and not so sad or afraid anymore. He thought of all the things Snape did when Harry had nightmares, and drawing in a deep breath, he tried to straighten up and steel himself.

Without a word, Harry dragged the mussed sheet off of Snape and shook it out so it billowed like a cloud, hovering in the air for just a second before he gently laid it flat back over the man. He smoothed out the blankets and tucked the man in, trying hard not to fret over whether this was weird or awkward or uncomfortable.

Snape peeked out of Harry from between his long fingers, black eyes glinting in the darkness like obsidian.

Pretending he was a Gryffindor just like his parents, Harry hoisted himself onto the side of the bed and pressed his knees into Snape’s ribs. His hands hesitated, unsure, before he began to pet at the man’s head like he would a half—feral cat. It wasn’t too bad of a comparison, if Harry was being honest — and he certainly wasn’t going to be.

Snape had gone very still under Harry’s ministrations, but he didn’t tell him off, not really, other than a muttered: “You’ve got the wrong end of this, you foolish child. I believe I am the one who ought to be comforting you.”

“Shush.”

And because he was the one doing the comforting, it didn’t seem so weird for him to say this to his professor or guardian or whatever Snape was to him.

The man let out a deep huff that relaxed him back into the mattress, dropping his hands from his face and resting them neatly over his sternum. They were shaking. Harry quickly looked elsewhere. He focused on brushing back the hair stuck to Snape’s sweaty face and counting the deep breaths that filled the silence between them. In — out, one. In — out, two. In — out, three. In — out…

Snape’s shoulders were trembling, shaking the mattress just a very little, like he was crying but was fighting it. And it was scary but also comforting in some terrible way — because Harry was just like that, too. He knew what it was like to fight back the tears because the tears didn’t fix anything, they didn’t make anything better, they served no purpose at all. And yet… yet the tears helped ease the grey turning to black inside his body, sometimes.

He wished Snape would let himself cry.

He figured Snape felt the same way about him.

“It’s all right, Professor,” Harry whispered, still stroking at the man’s greasy hair. “I’ll take care of you, too.”

Harry curled up on top of the blankets beside him, and if Snape put his arm around him, well, neither of them knew how to acknowledge it. All this was probably weird, and strange and odd, but perhaps Harry and Snape were simply weird and strange and odd people. And this realisation let Harry bury his face into the side of Snape’s chest, fighting his own tears, trying to hide it.

They were such a terrible mess now.

The next morning, Harry woke in the big bed alone. It was extremely disorienting. Where was he? What happened? How had it gone wrong? Would everything ever be okay again? The door on the right side of Snape’s room was closed and the shower was running on the other side, so Harry thought it was time to make a hasty retreat. Snape was fine now. He was up and moving and getting ready for the day.

The horrors had passed, and they could both move on and pretend like none of it had ever happened.

It seemed as good an idea as any.

Knowing what awaited him beyond the door of Snape’s chambers, Harry decided to eat breakfast in. He knew he technically could call those House Elf people through the fire, but that still felt weird and sometimes he preferred just to make it himself. He cracked an egg in the pan and listened to it crackle while he sliced off two big chunks of bread from the loaf, layering them each with smooth yellow butter. He poured himself a small cup of pumpkin juice from the clay pitcher before setting up a neat space for himself at the table.

It was all very routine. Nice, distracting.

It was only once he’d sat down that he realised he was not at all hungry.

Ten minutes later, Harry was still sitting at the table, pushing around the eggs and toast when Snape strode in with his usual determined gait. Harry’s eyes darted over the man to do a quick study. He looked the same as he always did (thankgod, thankgod) — he had the same pale face, intense midnight eyes, and severe black robes buttoned high up on his neck. The normalcy was reassuring.

Snape paused in the doorway and said very politely, “Good morning. I trust you slept well?”

Harry blinked and then nodded, “Yes, sir. Erm… did you?”

“I slept fine. Thank you.”

Awkwardawkwardawkward.

After a beat, Snape stepped slightly closer to the table and announced, “Harry, I would like to speak to you regarding last night, if you’ve a moment.”

Harry frowned at the man. That was another odd thing about Snape; the more uncomfortable he was, the more formal he talked. It was a weird but helpful tell. Apparently, Snape didn’t want to just forget it all and move on like Harry really, really did.

“It’s okay, sir. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Ah. But I think perhaps we should.”

Harry couldn’t help how his face twisted in a grimace.

Snape sighed and pulled back a chair to plant himself in it. He crossed his legs and folded his hands neatly atop the dark wood tabletop before levelling Harry with an intense stare. The boy set down his fork and leant back in his chair, trying to look casual.

“Firstly, I would like to apologise for my behaviour last night. It was completely inappropriate of me as your guardian. I am the adult and it is my duty to take care of you, not the other way around. It will not happen again. Of this, I can promise you.”

Harry’s eggs suddenly looked very, very interesting. He studied them intensely.

“It’s okay,” was all he could manage.

Snape swallowed hard and shifted very slightly in his chair.

“Did I— concern you?”

Harry frowned, kind of confused.

“Frighten you,” Snape seemed to dredge up this explanation from deep inside him.

“Oh.” He flushed. “No. Not really. Just, erm… do you drink— often, sir?”

“No. Not often. I felt I had an unusually stressful evening and wanted a method to relax…” In the brief silence that followed, something softened in the man’s usually brusk voice. “Did your uncle drink often, Harry?”

Harry found that he again couldn’t tear his gaze away from his breakfast of eggs and toast. He shrugged.

Snape cleared his throat. After a moment, he confided, “My father— he drank.”

Harry startled at the sudden confession, head jerking up to stare at Snape wide—eyed.

“More than was good for him — or anyone for that matter. It made his already wretched temper even worse than usual, which he often took out on my mother and myself. It is not a habit I care to emulate…” He eyed the boy cautiously, lips pressed into a thin line, “Though, I fear I have already done so and thus made you question your safety in my presence and that is something I deeply regret—,”

Harry rushed to say, “I… I don’t feel un—safe around you, sir.”

Actually, Snape was the only person in the world that Harry felt actually safe with, though he had no idea how to tell the man that. But apparently those words were enough for now. A small twitch at the corner of Snape’s mouth told him that the man wanted to smile. Even the tension in his shoulders faded and he looked lighter, like he could breathe easier. Good. Harry did that. He did something good.

“I’m… glad.”

Snape’s lips stretched a bit wider, and Harry couldn’t help but smile back, a little. But then he said something terrible like:

“If you would be willing, I would also like to discuss why I must speak with the Malfoys regarding the article.”

Harry’s blood rushed from his face so fast that he felt instantly dizzy.

“You mean…” He swallowed convulsively, once and twice and a third time too, “You’re still going to?”

Snape pressed his lips into a thin, white line. “Yes, Harry, I must.”

The boy closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at that imploring face. The man had said only yesterday that he had no reason for shame, no reason to feel like people were mocking him, and now he was saying that he was going to personally be mocking and laughing at him? He and some friends? Honestly, what the fuck?

Snape leant forward in his chair.

Harry bit his lip and leant back.

The professor sighed again, very heavily. “I do not wish to break your trust, Harry, and it is not my desire to humiliate you. I would never want to do that.”

“Then,” the words caught and got tangled in his throat, “Why’d you say you were going to laugh with them?”

Snape’s face fell as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. Ten heartbeats of silence followed. When he opened his eyes again, he peered at Harry from under a heavy brow, “What I am about to tell you is strictly confidential, Harry, and you are never to tell anyone a word of it, am I understood?”

Even as his forehead wrinkled in confusion, Harry nodded quickly. What this had to do with talking about the Dursleys to the Malfoys, he didn’t know, but he could keep a secret; he was very good at that. After all, he’d kept what the Dursleys had done to him a secret for ten years. He’d kept his magic a secret for nearly just as long. He could handle this. He could handle anything.

“A long time ago, before you were born,” Snape was speaking flatly, with his face very still and his tone very distant, like he was standing outside of himself, “I made— a mistake. Many mistakes, in fact. Mainly, I aligned myself with some very— Dark people…”

“You mean the Notts and Rosiers and Malfoys?”

“Yes, in a way.” He answered carefully. “They were also a part of the— group that I joined, but all of our loyalty was devoted to one man in particular.”

Suddenly Harry felt like he wouldn’t like where this was going at all. Dread tasted familiar by now, bitter like bile on his tongue. His voice was very hushed when he dared himself to ask, “Who?”

Snape stared at Harry for a long time, those black bottomless eyes taking in every bit of his face before he answered, “The Wizarding World calls him most commonly — He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath but said nothing.

“When I realised my mistake, I turned to Professor Dumbledore to try to make it right. But,” he paused and swallowed thickly, his eyes now aiming anywhere but at Harry, “I know that’s easier said than done. I understand if what I’ve done makes you… not want to live here—,”

“No.” Harry rushed to say, suddenly consumed with terror again at having to leave. “I mean, I don’t like it, but I guess since you realised you were on the wrong side…” He bit his lip, peeking at the man from under his messy fringe, “You regret it, don’t you?”

“Bitterly,” Snape had never looked more sincere.

Good. That was… good. Harry nodded to himself over and over for a moment and then decided aloud, “All right, then.”

Snape blinked, looking actually bewildered for a whole ten heartbeats. “Simple as that?”

Now a bit abashed, he shrugged, “What do you expect me to say?”

The professor sighed heavily and rubbed a hand across his face that suddenly looked very weary.

He continued on then, as if there hadn’t been any interruption.

“After I changed sides, the war was won—,”

Because Harry, apparently, somehow, killed Voldemort.

“—But the Headmaster decided that I should keep up my façade amongst my old compatriots.”

Harry’s brow scrunched. What he had learnt so far at his time in Hogwarts was that Slytherins never told you anything straight. They always obfuscated and talked in circles and danced around the truth — even Snape, perhaps Snape most of all. Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that a lot of the story was being left out, and so much of what was actually being said was so very vague that it was sort of hard to understand at all.

Snape was holding himself very stiffly. “You have questions?”

“Sorta.” He chose the easiest. “What’s ‘façade’?”

“Ah. It means a false face; in this instance, the Headmaster wants me to act as if I am still loyal and to report back with information.”

“You mean, to spy on them.”

Snape’s lips pursed again. “Just so.”

“And so you’re— still doing the spying?”

The man nodded grimly.

“So that’s why you have to…” Harry swallowed really hard, snuffing just slightly, “Tell them about what the Dursleys did to me… because I was their enemy?”

“Yes. But Harry,” Snape leant further across the table, hesitating just a second before resting his warm hand on top of Harry’s cold one, “There are things I will not tell them, not about the Obscurus or the Boggart or even the garden shed. I swear, I need not go into any more detail than necessary. If I must laugh, if I must mock you, I will not mean any of it. It is my job to play a role, and play it I must.”

Harry didn’t like it, not at all, and it still stung, but… he — sort of — understood, he… guessed. He wasn’t going to pretend to be happy with it, though, so he just shrugged and nodded, which was really the best Snape could ask of him.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence.

Severus did not want to do this.

He wanted that to be abundantly clear — to the boy, though not to anyone else. For him to be so honest with anyone else would be not only disastrous but also purely suicidal. Though how to make the boy understand this? How to make him understand that not only did he not want to do this, but he also hated himself for it? How could he express himself? How could he make the boy see?

Severus was too buried beneath the ice, and perhaps he had been for too long.

Perhaps— he had allowed himself to go too numb, and so had lost the ability to express his feelings at all.

Severus did not want to do this… But he knew he had to.

There was only so much he could blame upon the call of duty. He was already risking a great deal by letting the boy stay in his chambers, and defending and avenging him with his fellow Slytherins was harder to explain away. If he dared not share his findings, if he chanced not saying anything at all… well, that would be dangerous in the extreme.

Any chance of him going back to spying depended upon playing his role just so with the old crowd, and it would not serve them well to be seen as being overly friendly or even sympathetic towards the boy. They couldn’t afford to lose his position, if the Dark Lord really would return as Albus warned.

Severus did what he had to do.

As he always had.

The Malfoy furnishings were as elegant as ever, the mansion plush and lavish and silver—trimmed. Everything about it made Severus vaguely uncomfortable. To think he had once been envious of this… now it just made him nauseous. At least he’d come through the Floo instead of the front door.

Lucius greeted Severus and escorted him into the library where he always conducted the Darker sides of his business. None of their other acquaintances from the old days were present, which was just as well, and somewhat of a relief for Severus who had no interest in dealing with the likes of Tiberius Nott and Felix Rosier today. Lucius also mentioned that Narcissa was away at another society tea, which was hardly surprising, given their inevitable topic of discussion today.

“Wine?”

“Please.”

With their intricately designed goblets in hand, they took their seats and began playing their game.

At first, they made idle chit—chat, which Severus despised with a passion, about Draco and which of his Slytherins possessed the most potential and the recent bills put before the Wizengamot. It was all very dull, and Severus was bored. He knew Lucius was building up to the main event, and it was getting rather tiring waiting for him to just fucking get to it. He idly considered driving his wand into his skull, just to spice things up. Perhaps he was entirely too homicidal to play—act today.

At least the wine was good.

It had better be, with how much it cost — 5000 Galleons, which Lucius had found the need to tell Severus several times.

Such expensive goods to waste on a lowly Half—Blood such as himself… how intriguing.

“So, tell me, Severus,” Lucius finally (finally) began, “How much of that horrid rag that dares call itself a newspaper was accurate?”

“A fair bit,” Severus replied a bit disinterestedly, “Enough to make the old fool nervous.”

Lucius was practically on the edge of his velvet seat. “So the boy was abused.”

“It’s not so shocking, really, when Dumbledore decided to put his Golden Boy in the care of Muggles.”

Severus conjured up a sneer to look appropriate.

Lucius didn’t think twice.

“I assume, as Potter’s Head of House, you have the details. You’re not keeping them a secret any longer, are you, Severus?”

Severus rolled his eyes, not even for show now. For Merlin’s sake. “What part of ‘forbidden’ do you struggle to understand, Lucius? Dumbledore would have had my head if I had spoken of it any sooner. And in any case, you are not my master and I do not answer to you nor am I required to—,”

“All right, all right. Touchy, touchy.” His fellow Slytherin purred, smiling with that same old taunting amusement, “Won’t you tell me now, old friend?”

Severus sighed exhaustively and brushed a bit of faux lint from his pant leg. “It’s a sob story, nearly pathetic enough to make my ears bleed, and believe me, it has come close. According to the over—dramatic little wretch, his relatives took a firm hand to him one too many times, and, clearly, the Headmaster couldn’t abide that.”

Lie, lie, lie — because that was all Severus knew how to do anymore.

Lucius hummed, thoughtfully, inspecting his neatly trimmed nails.

“Beat him, did they?”

“Not nearly enough to deprive him of that deplorable Potter attitude.”

“Starved him?”

“He’s the table manners to prove it.”

“And that truly fascinating bit about the cupboard under the stairs?”

Here, Severus’ lips did a cruel little twist to match the twist of his heart and stomach. It was all the answer he needed to give.

Lucius smirked over the lip of his goblet. “My, my. How tragic.”

Severus took an overlarge sip of his wine and muttered, “Tragic for me, at any rate.”

“Well yes, of course,” Lucius replied readily, “Since now the Potter boy is living with you…”

“What are you smirking about?” He snapped, pulling the goblet from his lips.

The blond man practically cackled. “Pardon me, Severus, but you can’t expect me not to find some humour in this funny little turn of events…”

“I assure you, I can.”

Lucius made a very undignified snort and poured himself a bit more. “You… in the care of a child… it’s too much, even for me.”

“I’ll remind you that I am in constant care of 150 Slytherins every day,” Severus’s voice was sour, and only partly false.

“Ah, but none of those precious Wixen children live in your personal chambers and are the beloved son of James Potter…” Here Lucius’ tone shifted, even as his mouth stayed smirking, “Nor are they The Boy Who Lived.”

So it was down to business now.

Severus took another sip of his wine and got to work. “Dumbledore is watching too closely to get away with anything other than mere observation. I’ve found that the boy is not what anyone had feared or expected. How he managed to destroy the Dark Lord remains as much of a mystery as ever.

“Potter exhibits no measurable talent — mediocre to the extreme. He’s an impertinent brat and dim—witted as his blasted father, though he barely speaks, hardly makes eye contact, and refrains from any conflict entirely. If there had been anything extraordinary about the little wretch, it was firmly stomped out by those Muggles ten years ago.”

A long pause.

“Excellent.”

Severus briefly considered the benefits of a murder—suicide. Hmm… it was nice to dream. Then, sadly, he tightened his grip on what little remained of his sanity, swallowed back bile, and merely arched a brow in questioning.

Lucius smiled pleasantly and took to his feet, pacing towards the window to observe his endless acres of perfectly manicured property.

“People are angry, Severus, and with good reason. Dumbledore has made a grievous mistake this time, one the good witches and wizards of Britain are not so willing to forgive or forget. After all, he placed the last surviving Potter in the care of Muggles, and look what they’ve done to our poor Boy Hero. They’ve broken him.”

Lucius tutted, and when he turned, he mocked a truly sad pout before smirking once more.

“Truly, we ought to toast to the boy’s suffering. How ironic, is it, that the boy who disposed of our Lord and ended the war is now the catalyst for its reignition. Muggles and their spawn of Mudbloods cannot be trusted, just as our Lord always forewarned. If they’re willing to abuse such a young innocent child, such a great hero, what’s to stop them from doing the same to our own children? To us? To once more hunt us with their pitchforks and burn us at their stakes…? Nothing at all.”

Lucius swirled the blood—red wine in his silver goblet.

Severus tightened his grip on his.

“A few of our old friends want to use this story for the opportunity it is. Perhaps a few rallies and raids and conversations with the right people, and we might have a proper movement on our hands again… This time with the popular vote. Of course I’ll have to be discreet. It’s a perilous world we’re living in, and I have a certain reputation to maintain—,”

“As do I,” Severus intoned pointedly.

They were both cautious in nature, Severus and Lucius — self—preservation their lifeblood as with most Slytherins. They each (supposedly) turned to the winning side at the eleventh hour of the last war, to save their skins. Lucius claimed Imperius and Severus claimed espionage. It worked well enough, and it allowed for some sense of comradery. Together, they shared a tight smile.

“Then we are in agreement.”

“So we are.” Severus set his goblet aside and stood with flourish, black robes swishing around his legs. “I trust you’ll pass along my information to our mutual friends then?”

“Of course. And you will keep an eye on the old man?”

“As ever.”

“Good. Don’t lose hope in the cause, Severus. Our Lord may yet return, and I think we must pave the way for him.”

“Certainly.” Severus drawled and tilted his head towards the hearth, “For now, I must return. I’ve left the little beast in my quarters, and I don’t like to imagine what foulness he’s conjured up in my absence.”

Lucius chortled. “I know your temper, Severus. How you’ve managed not to raise your wand against him, I can scarcely imagine.”

He exposed one canine as he snarled expectedly, unpleasantly. “It’s been a near thing, I confess.”

His companion was amused. A Death Eater, even one as refined as the likes of Lucius Malfoy, could be relied upon to enjoy his share of violence — even the mere threat of it.

“Severus, tell me. Was Draco right — did the Potter boy truly break his head open against a wall?”

As the silence lengthened, so did his smile, and he lowly murmured, “Rather amusing, is it not?”

Lucius chuckled and took another sip.

Severus briefly considered breaking his own head open against a wall, but before he could:

“Before you go, Severus, you must toast with me.”

Lucius Summoned his goblet, refilled it just enough, and then held it out for him to take.

“To his suffering.”

Severus swallowed more bile and clinked their goblets together.

“To his suffering.”

Harry made himself a fortress.

In the bedroom that Snape had given him, he built a barricade of pillows and quilts and blankets between him and the rest of the world, and he had no plans on ever leaving — ever, ever, ever.

His Otherness feasted on his misery, singing quietly in his ears, tap—tapping at his shoulder, asking:

Can I come out to play?

Harry chanted through his teeth:

Stayout — stayout — stayout.

When Snape had left on Sunday— to be pals with the Malfoys, they didn’t speak of it. Harry didn’t even say goodbye, and Snape didn’t wait for a response. When he returned, the man came to his room so he feigned sleep and let him sit on the edge of the bed, stroking his hair and whispering an apology.

“I am sorry, Harry.”

Snape’s sorrysorrysorry’s didn’t make him feel any better.

His guardian had claimed that when he laughed at him, when he mocked him, he wouldn’t mean any of it — that it was just pretend, just for show. Because he was a spy ten years ago, and he was going to be a spy… forever. By tearing Harry down, Snape would actually be making him safer. By the time he figured out that the man wasn’t making any sense, it was over and done with.

He wanted to not be angry, not be upset, but he had no idea how to stop the rising bitterness consuming him.

The days that followed the news story were— horrible. No need to sugarcoat it. Harry wasn’t exactly the sugarcoating type; he and Snape had that in common. Ron and Hermione had sent messages, asking how he was and if they could do anything to help. It was nice, even if it was pointless. Harry was not okay and there was nothing anyone could do to help.

He missed classes on Monday and Tuesday.

Ron wrote a separate note to say it was good he’d skivved; he said that the whispering hadn’t gotten any better at all and Harry decided it might be best if he just left the country altogether.

On Wednesday, Snape came to his door again to say, “You cannot stay in bed like this forever.”

“Watch me,” Harry mumbled into his pillow.

His guardian sighed heavily.

The boy didn’t move.

“If you could come out for a moment, I have something I would like to discuss with you.”

Slowly, Harry pulled the quilt down from over his eyes and croaked, “What now?”

“Come into the sitting room.”

Fuck.

It felt like it took all of Harry’s strength to do just that.

After he managed to get out of bed, he brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face, not letting his eyes stray to the mirrors. He changed from his pyjamas as slow as he could and prayed that there would be some sort of magical catastrophe that required all professors/Potions Masters/wizards to run around for the rest of the day.

Alas.

Harry took his normal spot on the sofa by the fireplace, bundling up in the quilt waiting for him there. Snape was in his usual spot too, hands resting neatly on the armrests, his left index finger tapping the upholstery. It was a bit mesmorising to watch, and it gave Harry a nice distraction from the anxiety brewing in his chest.

“As a Slytherin,” began Snape, “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the various Pureblood ideals that exist within our world.”

The man paused and then waited until Harry nodded slightly, even if he wasn’t certain where this was going. At all. Again.

“I’m sure, however, you’ve not heard that anti—Muggle sentiment is at its highest it’s been since the war. Since The Daily Prophet exposed the Dursleys’ treatment of you, there has been an outcry for retribution against all Muggles on your behalf; indeed, the Headmaster has learnt that crimes against those without magic have increased by at least sixty percent following the article about your relatives.”

Harry frowned. That was bad — actually horrible of course, but he didn’t totally understand why Snape was telling him this… unless it was just to make Harry feel bad and he didn’t really think Snape would do that. Not anymore, at least.

“That being said,” Snape continued steadily, “The Headmaster has requested that you write a statement of defense.”

Harry stared.

Defense. Dumbledore and Snape wanted him to… defend… the Dursleys? Which was basically excusing everything they’d ever done to Harry and dismissing it like nothing. The cupboard. The whippings. The starvation. Did they want them to just get away with it? Harry’s bottom lip trembled for just a second before he bit down into it, hard.

A fissure was cracking open the insides of him, and what came out was an ugly thing.

“No.”

Snape stared back. “I am certain I misunderstood.”

“No,” Harry whispered, barely able to look at him. “You didn’t.”

“Then surely you must have misunderstood what I was trying to tell you—,”

“I didn’t either. I’m not writing anything.”

“Harry, do you not understand how they will be in danger—,”

“So was I.” Harry countered bitterly, tone low and trembling. “I was in danger, and no one wrote any statement of defense for me. No one even cared about what happened to me. So why should I?”

Snape inhaled sharply.

“Potter.” Harry winced at the surname, but Snape either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You cannot seriously consider allowing innocent people to—,”

“Innocent,” the word escaped him as a scoff, “Right.”

“Thinking like that can put you on an extremely dangerous path.”

“What?” Harry spat bitterly. “Speaking from experience?”

Snape’s eyes blazed with even brighter fury, “Don’t you dare cheek me, Harry—,”

“Why shouldn’t I? Do you even realise what you’re asking me to do?”

“I am asking for you to have some common decency, you wretched boy! Think of the possibility of someone else’s suffering for one damned minute.”

“Think about my suffering!” Harry cried back, anger making his eyes blur, making his thinly held control slip further and further, “You were the one who said I suffered in the first place, so what? Have you changed your mind?!”

Snape looked at Harry like he’d never seen him before, or worse yet — like he had at the beginning of the year, like Harry was nothing more than scum on the bottom of his shoe.

“I cannot believe you would be so selfish.”

Jolting, Harry couldn’t help but exclaim, “Selfish?!”

“Yes, selfish!” Snape spat, his face still carved with something very much like disgust. “Reprehensible is what this is, Harry, plain and simple. I had thought better of you, but I was clearly mistaken.”

Harry understood that the most important thing to do now was not to cry. Gasping, staring at the wall, anywhere but at him. Gritting his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. Defend the Dursleys? He was horrified.

“Out of my sight, Harry. I can’t look at you right now.”

And as if to underscore how very much he meant it, Snape purposefully turned his face towards the fire. The following silence felt so very loud. Harry felt numb, out of place, out of his body. With a rock lodged in his throat, he wiped hard at his eyes and shakily got to his feet. He was just passing the threshold of the hallway when Snape called one parting shot:

“You have failed me today, Harry.”

Harry closed the bedroom door very quietly behind himself, and only when he was sure he could not be heard, he curled up on the floor and he allowed himself to cry.

Chapter Text

Harry hadn’t often understood the world.

As an eleven year old, perhaps this wasn’t that shocking — but for Harry, he hadn’t understood and he hadn’t ever tried. The world and its mysteries seemed too far out of reach, and thus never interested him; it was always considered a lost cause. He at least knew his place in this confusing world (freakboy—badboy), and after that, there was nothing more that he needed to know.

But now, for the first time, Harry wished he understood.

Because now, he — did — not — understand.

As they went through the motions, Harry went to his lessons and Snape taught his classes and they pretended none of it ever happened, except for the awkward silence and the avoided eye contact and the lack of games and the hurricane of his guardian’s disappointment.

Because Snape was Disappointed.

Disappointed, Harry discovered, was worse than hateful.

He worried Snape was looking at him like— he was a criminal. Or a monster. Like the freak he’d always known he was. The man hadn’t given up speaking to him entirely, which was good because Harry might have actually died if he had, but there was something distinctly missing. It was as though all of the progress — all of the closeness — that they had gained was lost in a single moment.

The discomfort persisted throughout the week and into the next, and during these days when they weren’t talking for the first time in months, guilt was heavy on Harry’s chest, like a large animal perched atop his lungs and heart. Like some crime he had committed but couldn’t quite understand. Harry could hardly understand what Snape had to be angry about when it was him who tried to get Harry to do the unthinkable.

How could he be shocked that Harry refused? How was it fair?

Life wasn’t fair, Harry knew this, but he’d started to think — that Snape tried to make things fair, for him.

Harry hated this — hated the Dursleys — hated the newspapers — hated every bloody thing. He wanted to take it all back, make it feel like none of it had ever happened. No disappointment, no regret. Yet he didn’t want to admit how much this all felt like a mistake, how horribly lonely he was already, how much he needed Snape.

And he didn’t see a way to get out of this.

Now that he had finally returned to classes, Harry did it with a listlessness he hadn’t possessed since he first started at Hogwarts. He wandered through the hallways, ignorant of his escorts, driftingdrifting during his classes without listening or learning. Every day McGonagall asked him if he was all right. Every day Quirrell said that he was always available to help. Harry didn’t want anything from anyone.

He just wanted things to go back to the way they were.

Every morning before he left their chambers, Harry would hover awkwardly by the door, watching Snape not watch him, wanting so badly to say something — anything — to make Snape like him again.

Because he didn’t anymore, did he?

You couldn’t like someone you were disappointed in; at least that was his general understanding from the likes of Petunia Dursleys who was endlessly disappointed with him daily. And it was so very important to Harry for Snape to like him. And Snape had, for a while. And then… it all got messed up. Like everything always did.

He was caught fiercely between deep rotting guilt and bright burning anger. He was like a pendulum, swaying constantly between being certain it was all his fault and then deciding it was all Snape’s.

He wanted to scream at the man and he wanted to beg him for forgiveness.

But he knew he couldn’t give in, not on this — not for anything, even if it meant… even if Snape never liked him ever again. This thought alone made him sick enough to vomit in the third floor boy’s bathroom on his way to Charms. When his escort, Flitwick, asked if he was all right, Harry had no answer that wouldn’t be a lie.

Nothing would ever be all right again.

Ron had been right; the whispers and snickering had persisted, and they followed Harry everywhere he went — no escape. Harry took to avoiding everyone but especially his fellow Slytherins who knew his shame better than anyone. He did not sit near them during classes. He did not go to the Great Hall. When he saw them coming, he went the other way.

Oddly enough, Malfoy’s taunts had lessened since Snape had confirmed what the papers said to his family. He barely said a word to Harry, in fact, and apart from a few odd speculative glances shot his way, he’d given the boy a wide berth.

Until after classes on Tuesday.

For the first time, Snape was late picking him up from his last class, which was just— fucking fine because he didn’t need a bloody babysitter anyway — especially not one who was clearly so disappointed in him. So, Harry slipped away from class and planted himself in some private, tucked away alcove where he thought no one would venture or bother him. He curled his knees up and pulled out his sketchbook to draw a massacre of his feelings.

Last time they talked, Newt said it was a healthy outlet for his emotions, which he supposed was good — because he had way too fucking many.

Newt also suggested that maybe when Harry was sad, it really meant he was angry, and when he was angry, it really meant he was hurt. Right now, Harry felt like starting a war or blowing up a building or breaking every window in this castle. He wondered what Newt would say that really meant.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

Harry jumped and whipped around to find Malfoy hovering just over his shoulder, head cocked and eyes intrigued. His entire body tensed, readying himself for another storm of remarkably well—thought out insults, but instead Malfoy merely stepped forward and cocked his head curiously.

“That’s actually… quite good, Potter. Though you’ve made my face way pointier than it really is.”

Harry arched a brow. “Are you sure about that?”

Malfoy sniffed, offended but not enough, apparently, to leave. “Do you ever add colour to your drawings? Because you really ought to. That will make them look much happier, not so…” His pointy nose scrunched in distaste, “Depressing.”

“I don’t recall asking for your advice,” Harry grumbled.

“Hm. You ought to take it anyway.”

Harry didn’t know why Malfoy was talking to him, but he wanted him to stop it — immediately. Unfortunately, the blond boy showed no sign of stopping anytime soon so as he was droning on and on, Harry huffed and slipped from the alcove seat, snatching up his stuff to make a hasty exit until he remembered—

“Did you tell?”

The words left him so harshly, so quickly, that Malfoy was understandably confused.

“Pardon?”

Harry’s lips twisted; the words tasted like black bile when he gave them life, “What happened before Christmas — what I did — did you tell the Prophet or whatever it’s called?”

“No.” Malfoy replied, after a second. “I didn’t.”

Harry turned around to fully eye him, mistrusting, angry.

Malfoy raised platinum brows. “You don’t believe me?

“Why should I believe you? You’ve been a right git to me since the moment I arrived.”

“True, but why would Professor Snape have to confirm anything to my father if it was us who investigated those deplorable Muggles in the first place?”

Oh. Shit. Harry was momentarily stumped at that, and honestly he felt sort of/kind of/a bit annoyed that his argument actually made some sense. Shit, shit, triple shit.

“Come on, Potter. You’re a Slytherin, not a Gryffindor, you’re supposed to be smart.” Even if his words were cruel, his tone wasn’t, and his expression was — oddly — earnest, like he was desperate to be believed.

Harry hated how quickly he’d been convinced.

“Fine,” he finally spat.

The blond boy blinked hopefully, “You believe me?”

Harry shrugged and glowered down at his feet, very aware of Malfoy slowly shuffling a few steps closer.

“So. It’s true, then? That your family— hurt you?”

It took a moment, but soon Harry jerked his head into a nod.

“But then… why would you hurt yourself?”

It struck Harry then how young Malfoy sounded, far younger than he himself was ever allowed to be, and as much as he envied the other boy for it, he was also… glad. No one should have had to go through all that shit… maybe not even Harry himself.

“It won’t make a lot of sense to somebody like you…”

Malfoy puffed up, already halfway offended. “And what’s that supposed to mean — ‘somebody like me’?”

“A kid whose got two parents who love you,” the words tumbled free before Harry could snatch them back, and he gave up the fight to keep in the rest, “Who actually want you around, who don’t hurt you… You’ve got all that, so you won’t understand — the things you’d do — the really bad, scary things — to keep from having to go back to them.”

This haunting pronouncement hung in the air between them.

“Oh,” said the other boy now, a bit hushed, “I… I am, uhm, sorry, you know, Potter.”

Harry cringed at that, but Malfoy didn’t let it stop him.

“Seeing you do that, it freaked me right out, it’s true, but it— also made me realise that I was treating you like a threat when you aren’t one. Loads of people are threatening you… and we Slytherins, we ought to stick together.”

Harry braced one foot behind him, readying himself to run, feeling something half—disbelieving and half—hopeful coiling beneath his ribs. Malfoy had tricked him before, had made him feel like a fool, and Harry was not the sort to forget. Not ever, ever, ever. Harry was still a Slytherin; he remembered all slights and sins committed against him, and he kept score.

Harry bore an oddly familiar sneer when he asked, “Is this another offer of friendship, then?”

Malfoy, too, cringed a little, but he murmured, “It can be? A real one… if you like.”

Harry was still digesting this when their fellow Slytherin boys happened upon them, everyone freezing as the air changed into something fragile and dangerous. This was badbadbad. Harry instantly recoiled from Malfoy, from all of them, curling back into himself, making himself smallsmallsmall.

“Oh, look who it is,” Nott said with a slow grin, “Running from us, were you, Potter?”

Harry didn’t really have a clever reply to that because… yeah… he sort of had been.

“Poor Potter,” tutted Zabini mockingly, “It must be hard for you, now that everyone knows just how pitiful you are.”

“The only pitiful thing here is this conversation,” Malfoy spoke dryly but defensively, and for some reason… his defence warmed Harry.

Zabini’s dark eyes narrowed, ignoring the blond boy, “Was that what your Boggart was, Potter? Your little Muggle family?” He feigned a pout, bottom lip puckering, “Did they hit you? Not feed you? Call you mean names? It’s not more than you deserve. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the amount of shite you got me in for that!”

“You got yourself into that shite,” Harry amazed himself by retorting, and any trembling in his voice could be explained by his anger as much as his fear. “I didn’t fucking ask to be locked in a room with a Boggart, did I?”

The other Slytherins looked mildly surprised by his language.

“No, but you bloody deserved it.” Zabini hissed and stepped closer, the heat of his breath burning Harry’s cheeks. “You’re so pathetic, Potter, not even those dirty little Muggles could stand you. Maybe Professor Snape is following their lead…?”

Tears flooded Harry’s eyes, startling him, embarrassing him. But it was too late; Zabini had seen and Zabini now knew he had him.

“Oh, I see. Is that where he keeps you, then? Has he got a nice dark cupboard for you to sleep in?”

Crabbe and Goyle chortled.

Nott smirked.

Harry’s fists white—knuckled within his sleeves.

“Lay off, Zabini,” Malfoy interjected, surprising them all — yet again.

“You lay off, Malfoy,” Nott stepped in, clearly still sore from their last run—in, “Where do you get off, ordering us about? We’ve as much right to speak as you do, and we’ve the blood to prove it.”

Malfoy exhaled hard, equal parts flustered and exasperated. “What part of Professor Snape’s lecture did you idiots misunderstand? Slytherins have each other’s backs.”

“Potter here’s not even a real Slytherin! He’s nothing. Supposedly defeated the Dark Lord and yet can’t handle a few Muggles, isn’t that right?”

Harry could no longer hear Zabini’s voice or anything else around him. The Otherness battered and rammed the walls of its cage. His lashes fluttered, irises nearly rolling. His left hand twitched. A sick flash of satisfaction flooded his chest. He felt himself separating, like a division of himself, drifting further and further away.

That voice — oily, slick — purred within his fuzzy mind:

Can I? Can I? Can I come out to play?

No. No. Nonono.

Zabini shoved hard at Harry’s chest, forcing him back and back and back as he demanded viciously, “What sort of wizard are you, Potter? Huh? What the fuck are you?!”

Harry pounced on Zabini in an instant.

With a startled shriek, the other boy was tackled to the ground and managed to drag Harry down with him. There was no order, no strategy, no actual method of fighting. It was pure, uncoordinated violence. Front teeth split open Harry’s knuckles and Zabini’s fingers yanked hard at his hair, both kicking and shouting and scratching at whatever they could reach.

No magic.

All Muggle.

As always, a tight circle quickly crowded around them — school children always loved a good fight. Students from every corridor had come to watch. Some of them had abandoned their schedules and were edging nearer to observe. Some looked apprehensive (like Hermione and Malfoy), others entertained (like Ron and Greengrass). There were smiles spread around the onlooking faces, and the calls and cries were filled with such thrill that Harry was suddenly convinced there was nothing else but thisthisthis.

“Fight, fight, fight!”

Merlin, there was such joy and fear in him, such brilliant violence.

The Otherness was— thrilled.

A stray elbow caught his across the nose, and blood instantly broke free, rushing down to his mouth. He tasted blood, and it was sweet — like iron and cherries. It discoloured his lips. It stained his teeth, made him look wild, made him look vicious. Made it look like he’d sunk his teeth into him and taken a bite.

Harry’s advantage was his pure savagery, his first instinct for ferality, the urge to never stop fight—fight—fighting.

Zabini’s advantage, unfortunately, was the fact that he’d been fed heartily and regularly for the past eleven years.

Zabini’s perfectly normal size quickly turned the tides, and soon Harry was on his back and taking blows, but then, suddenly, Harry and Zabini weren’t fighting alone. With absolutely no warning at all, Malfoy had thrown himself into the fray and was now kicking and shoving — not Harry — but Zabini, over and over and over until the bigger boy toppled. The world was in awe of this shocking turn of events.

Just when it was getting interesting, they were hauled away by the backs of their robes. Zabini flailed to get free, but Harry merely let it happen, tragically recognising the hand now yanking him off the ground.

Overhead: Severus Snape.

Harry was in deep shite.

Breathing heavy, Harry refused to look at Snape — feeling the man’s fury radiating off him like heat from a fire. Filch had Zabini by his collar, who was shouting and spitting and letting out a stream of mixed swearwords and hexes, but with his wand being ten feet away, nothing happened.

“He attacked me! He’s gone mental, he has! He could’ve killed me—,”

Harry coughed on blood and rolled his eyes. What a baby.

Snape grasped Harry’s arm — hard, and he snarled, “You will be coming with me, Mister Potter.”

Yep. Deep, deep shite.

At the sound of Zabini’s snickers, the professor snapped around to hiss, “And I will deal with you later.”

That shut Zabini up.

Brilliant.

Unfortunately, Harry’s own glee was short—lived.

Snape dragged him by the arm through the castle, and Harry’s cheeks flushed in humiliation at the stares they were receiving. The boy’s legs were much shorter than Snape’s, and he was tripping over his feet to keep up, but he had no choice but to let the professor drag him down. Ignoring the gaping Slytherins, they travelled through the winding corridors, stalked through the entrance of his chambers, and then his guardian slammed the door behind them.

Snape practically shoved Harry onto the sofa, and yet it was so oddly gentle — his hand on his back, the way he landed, the bounce against the cushions — that Harry was momentarily stunned at the restraint. And yet he wouldn’t be grateful, he wouldn’t be relieved, he would only be fucking angry. He quickly dug his fingernails into the soft fabric, trying to maintain his balance and keep the Otherness inside.

The trouble was: this felt good.

He’d kept the freakishness in, but he’d let some Darkness out. He was buzzing, humming from the thrill of violence, a bit of madness still clinging to his edges. There was blood on him — the blood of vengeance — and it had the ability to both frighten and excite.

Already fetching potions and casting healing spells over him, Snape apparently still found the time to snarl, “What on earth is wrong with you, boy?!”

Harry didn’t care about the sudden lack of pain around his eye or the missing blood from under his nose. He was far too distracted by the familiar poison of betrayal coursing through his blood. The truth is: anger was so much easier to feel than sadness, and so Harry had little choice but to lean into that full—throttle.

“Nothing’s wrong with me!” He shouted back, “What’s wrong with you?”

Outrage — outrage — outrage: “I beg your pardon?!”

“I asked…” He replied very slowly, like Snape was particularly dim—witted, “What’s — wrong — with — you?”

Snape’s crooked teeth bared and he hissed furiously, “I am absolutely clear on what you said, boy, but you will tell me what precisely you meant — by — it.”

The Otherness inside burnt, scorching his insides and flaying the tender flesh of his throat. The words stung when he spat, “I meant — that you dragged me in here to have a go at me when he’s the one who fucking deserves it!”

“Oh, completely innocent, are you?” Snape sneered loudly.

The boy dragged in a breath and decided to lower his voice.

The more Snape lost control, the more Harry had to hold onto it.

“I’ve never once been innocent, Snape, I’m not actually stupid enough to think that, but maybe — for once — I had hoped you wouldn’t blame me for fucking everything!”

Harry was wrong. There was no control to be had, not for either of them — out of control — out of control, both of them spinningspinningspinning out of control.

His guardian’s face turned steely, his eyes glinting like dangerous blades. He spit the warning through bared teeth: “Harry…”

“What?!” The boy snarled in reply, practically shaking with the force of his anger. “Blaise bloody Zabini can say whatever the hell he wants, and I just have to stand there and take it?!”

“And what, pray tell, did he say that deserved such an imbecilic response?”

Snape’s words were sharp, each ending with a knife’s edge and needle—point. It poked him through the sternum and popped his lungs like they were balloons, stealing all the oxygen from his body. Harry slunk down in his spot on the sofa, tongue suddenly like sandpaper, weighing thousands upon thousands of pounds so he wouldn’t even begin to imagine saying a word.

“I…” He struggled, he struggled so very much against the weight of words, “He just— he deserved it, like I said!”

“I am certain he did, but that doesn’t mean that you are permitted to—,”

“To what? Defend myself? Oh, that’s right, I forgot, you don’t like me defending myself!”

Snape’s glinting eyes narrowed dangerously now, “What in Merlin’s fucking name are you going on about now?!”

Harry’s mouth clamped shut.

How could Snape not know?

I’m a disappointment. I’ve failed you. You’re ashamed of me.

Snape’s brow was arching higher and higher, but Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to respond — no matter how irritated he grew. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t repeat any of it. He was afraid to say it, worried Snape might confirm it, maybe not even with words but a twitch in expression, a look in his eye.

Finally, he settled on a snapped, “It was a fair fight, and I’m not sorry.”

Snape looked about to combust for ten seconds before he suddenly sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth and then closed his eyes. He was silent, lost to Harry for at least fifteen heartbeats before he murmured, quite calmly:

“I don’t wish to fight with you anymore, Harry.”

Harry’s heart caught and he peeked warily up at the professor through his tangled fringe. Not speaking. Not breathing. Not moving a single bloody inch. Those black eyes reopened to peer down at the boy with such an expression that cracked his chest open.

“I don’t enjoy it. I like it much better when you and I are on good terms, and this distance that has grown between us has left me… disturbed.” Snape paused, as if waiting for Harry to say something, but when he didn’t, he continued steadily, “Whatever Mister Zabini said to you was sure to be cruel, and while I am quite certain he deserved a punch (or several), as a professor I cannot have you going around hitting people. Can you understand that?”

Sort of/kind of/a bit. Harry nodded and shrugged mutely.

Snape nodded in reply. Then: “Will you tell me what he said?”

Harry ducked his head even lower. His heels hit the side of the sofa, thudding lightly against the cushion, even as he picked at loose skin on the side of his thumbnail. It stung and began to bleed, but it didn’t distract him as he’d hoped. It just hurthurthurt, like everything else.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to actually answer, but he did: “He just… It was what you’d expect, about the Dursleys, about me, and… about you, like — maybe — you were keeping me in a cupboard like they did.”

At this, Snape sighed deeply and pinched his brow. “You know that I wouldn’t ever do that to you, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry didn’t hesitate before he nodded. At least he knew that, even if Snape didn’t like him anymore, even if Snape hated him now.

“That is something, at least…”

His guardian exhaled heavily again and practically collapsed into the armchair across the sofa. It was so uncharacteristically Snape that it worried Harry, and it was only made worse in the way they stared at one another. The man’s black gaze was heavy, and it made him squirm slightly, tug at his fringe, bite his bottom lip, wishing himself currently somewhere — anywhere — else.

“I know this fight can’t have been just about Mister Zabini. Since our— conversation last week, you’ve been upset, and angry, and I’m sure your emotions were running high even before Zabini confronted you…” Snape’s dark head cocked slightly when he murmured, “I meant what I said, Harry. I do not like this discord between us, especially not when it leads us to situations like this.”

“I know.” Harry whispered, eyes dropping, arms wrapping tight around his belly, “But I just… can’t.”

It all went back to this: he could not defend the Dursleys.

The lines in Snape’s pale face sagged with disappointment. His eyes were red—rimmed with long nights and too many mistakes and a defective Harry. It made his stomach hurt. It was easier to fight back when Snape yelled.

“I see…” The man at least seemed to understand what he was referring to immediately, and his eyes never left Harry’s when he said, “Very well… Will you at least tell me why not?”

For someone so very smart, Snape seemed so very thick at this moment.

Harry just couldn’t believe it wasn’t fucking obvious, and he realised suddenly that maybe he was disappointed in Snape, too, because he dared ask this of him, because he refused to understand, because he made Harry the villain in this. That anger he’d known for so long, that had been his oldest truest friend, was clang—clang—clanging against the metal cage of his ribs, bruising his lungs and his heart.

“Harry, please.”

Nonono. Harry shook and shook his head. His chest began to heave as his lungs constricted, fingernails digging bloody half—moons into his palms.

That voice hissed and whined:

Don’t you see? Don’t you see? Don’t you see everyone else will let you down?

Snape was still imploring, “I am trying to understand—,”

Temper gonegonegone, Harry finally exploded, “How would you feel if you had to write a letter defending your abusers?!”

Snape instantly turned the colour of fog, dull and grey, his sharp edges seeming to blur as he shuddered.

“If I— what?”

Harry watched in growing horror as something ugly crawled from the depths of Snape’s bottomless eyes. A monstrosity of dread he couldn’t put a name to. He had never — in all their months together, through all of their chaos — seen Snape so lost for words.

“What the fuck—? How could you think—? What did—? Oh Harry, what must you be thinking?”

Snape was on his feet, lurching almost, his lips moving soundlessly as he kept asking over and over: whathaveidone, whathaveidone, whathaveidone? His brow was creasing. His pupils were darkening. That monstrosity was growing larger and looming darker in his eyes, so terrible, so ugly. The sudden anger — the outright horror — on Snape’s face sent Harry into a spiral.

Harry pitched forward to hide his face in his hands. He couldn’t bear to look.

Suddenly Snape was on his knees on the ground before him, grasping first at his shoulders and then at his face, cupping both cheeks in his warm hands.

“Breathe—,” their foreheads pressed, each of them rasping for oxygen, “Harry, just breathe—,”

He gasp—gasp—gasped for air.

He’d barely caught his breath before Snape started speaking again, eye—to—eye, heart—to—heart.

“Harry. You must know, there must be no more misunderstanding between us: I would never ask you to defend the Dursleys. Those — people — are monsters, and what they did to you is inexcusable, indefensible to the highest degree. They deserve nothing but suffering for their crimes against you, Harry.”

“But then…” He was still panting, fearful to believe, “Then—?”

“Remember that I shared that the rates of violence against Muggles is high, and those innocents were whom I was asking you to defend. Not the Dursleys, never the Dursleys. I… I am very sorry, Harry. I didn’t realise you thought I meant…” Snape sighed and drew back a little to cover his eyes with his hand, “Fuck’s sake.”

The weight of the relief flooding Harry’s chest did nothing to help him breathe easier, but that was all right. Everything — maybe, perhaps — could be all right again. He sat on the edge of the sofa with bated breath, the whole world at a standstill as it waited for Snape to speak.

“When we spoke… I feared that you now resented Muggles. That because of your relatives, you had grown to hate them as a whole — that they deserved to face such cruel treatment.”

“I don’t think like that,” Harry instantly defended, more than a bit bewildered, “I know that’s not true!”

Snape gave him a smirk that looked so pained and sad, it kind of hurt to look at. “Of course not, I see that now. But you are a very good person, Harry, and many would not be so generous as you… including myself. My father was a Muggle, and when I was young, I allowed how he treated me to jade my view of all Muggles. I feared… that was happening to you, as well. That I had… somehow done that to you. Corrupted you.”

Harry was horrified, shaking his head so quick that his fringe bounced, “You didn’t corrupt me—,”

“I know that, now. I’m… sorry.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. He felt hollow, but for once, not from hunger. He was a gaping wound of festering infection, a black hole where even light died. All of that anger, all of the fear, all of those horrid emotions he felt too much of suddenly fled and left him emptyemptyempty. He had nothing to support him now, nothing to prop him up. Harry Potter, the Golden Child, the Boy Who Lived, the Dying Star, was going to collapse in on himself.

The boy’s shoulders began to tremble.

Snape very quickly but very cautiously slipped onto the sofa beside him, waiting just a moment before tentatively wrapping an arm around him. Harry immediately burrowed himself into Snape’s side, quivering, his warmth making a home inside his frigid chest. It was a great relief to be held, to feel arms around his body, arms that clasped his back, legs under his own, a face pressed to the top of his head, absorbing his heat, his tears.

For a long time, Snape said nothing, one hand rubbing over his trembling shoulders, soothing away the anger and fear. His other hand rose to press against the side of Harry’s head, holding him closer, holding him more securely. As he held him upright, he didn’t seem to mind that Harry’s tears were soaking his robes.

Harry was crying again. He was so fucking tired of crying.

He never cried this much with the Dursleys, never ever, if at all. Why — now — when he was the happiest he had ever been, did he dissolve so completely into tears over and over? He was safe, and here, with somebody who actually gave a shit, so why did it still feel like he was being torn open?

Torn open and found: no longer emptyemptyempty.

Snape merely let Harry cry as he held him close, his fingers running gently through his hair, rocking him just slightly. Back and forth, back and forth.

Overhead, Snape sounded very hesitant, “Are you— upset about the letter?”

“No,” Harry choked out.

“Then about Zabini?”

He shook his head, crying still.

“Then why—?”

“I hated fighting with you, too.”

Snape exhaled softly and nodded, his chin very lightly bumping the top of Harry’s head. “Then let us agree not to do it anymore, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Harry huddled closer to Snape. He sniffed and wiped his running nose on his sleeve, ignoring how his guardian cringed in disgust at that. There was a comfort in being Snape’s arms that he couldn’t explain. He thought of the Mirror, and how he saw Snape within it — but not just Snape. He’d seen Snape and himself, arm—in—arm, holding and being held, comforting and comfortable.

He felt a little bit like that now.

It was funny; almost, how angry he’d been at Snape, and yet all he’d been wanting was— a hug from the man. How pathetic. And yet, Harry was willing to be pathetic if it meant being able to stay just a bit longer.

Quietly, after a while, he worried, “It’s my fault.”

Snape adjusted their position so he could arch a questioning brow at him.

“The wizards want to hurt innocent Muggles because of me — so it’s my fault… right?”

“No, Harry.” Snape drew away to hold his chin in two fingers, “Their actions are their own. What people choose to do — whether right or wrong — is never your responsibility. I realise…” He winced and shook his head, dark hair swinging to briefly hide his eyes, “It is an unfair burden to put upon you, to even ask you to write any statement at all. This should not be on your shoulders—,”

“I want to do it,” Harry rushed out, meaning it, “If I can stop innocent people from being hurt, then I will… It’s just, when I thought you meant the Dursleys—,”

“I understand now, Harry.” Snape gave another small, forced smile. “I’m terribly disappointed in myself for not making sure the both of us understood each other entirely.”

Harry felt sort of bad now that Snape was taking all the blame for himself so he whispered, “Well… maybe I assumed too quick—,”

“Which was only fair to do.” Snape raised a hand to cut him off. “Honestly, Harry, do stop trying to deprive me of blame. It is only fair. I am the adult; it is my responsibility to make sure we are communicating most effectively. I will… strive to do better in the future.”

“Okay… sir.”

Harry sighed and relaxed back into Snape’s side, squirming so his head was on his shoulder and his legs were resting over Snape’s own. It would be weird to sit in the man’s actual lap, since he was eleven and too old for all that, but it was still nice. Kind of like— having a parent— or something.

He just wished he knew what to call the man other than ‘sir’ or ‘Snape’.

The man was his guardian now, so why did that make them sound like strangers?

“Did you know,” said Snape suddenly, “Since I’ve become your guardian, the fates of your relatives have been put in my hands?”

That shocked him. “What?”

“Yes. The Headmaster said it was up to me, as your guardian, to decide what should become of them… Things are, of course, a bit different now that their treatment of you has been exposed, but people will ask how Vernon and Petunia Dursley should best answer for their crimes. And, if it does not upset you too much, I would like to hear your input.”

Harry blinked — once, twice, and a third time. “You… wanna know how I’d want to punish them?”

“If you’d like.”

Harry was speechless for a good long while. Finally: “I… I dunno.”

As strange as it sounded, he had never considered — never even imagined — what he’d like to see become of his relatives. Harry kept a scorecard, he made note of all slights and offenses, but the Dursleys— they had always been a special case, for him. Punishment for them seemed impossible, and for a long time, undeserved. He had hated them for so long, even when he couldn’t allow himself to realise that he hated them, when he’d been too scared to, too desperate for them to love him. But now…?

He didn’t know what he wanted.

“Can I… think about it?”

“Of course.”

He nibbled on his bottom lip. “Will magical people really hurt them?”

“They’ve been taken into custody by the Wizarding police force, that is — Aurors. Child abuse is taken very seriously in the Wizarding world, as it should be, and it seems likely they will be charged, but given your situation, you will have some say.”

Harry shuddered and scooted closer to Snape who welcomed his company with a low hum. He wasn’t sure what he thought about all that, but even the mere suggestion of having a say in it made his stomach squirm uncomfortably. He decided, for now, not to think about it at all.

For now, he had to admit, “Maybe… I shouldn’t have hit Zabini.”

“Mm.”

He whispered nervously, “What’s going to happen?”

A long pause.

Then, “You and Misters Malfoy and Zabini will have detention.”

Harry blinked, nonplussed.

“You’d do well to look miserable about it, Mister Potter. I can’t have the Pureblood contingent saying I’m going easy on you.” Snape scolded, seemingly debating with himself before he added lowly, “Though ten points to Slytherin for an impressive display of physical prowess more suited to a Third Year, as well as not allowing the Obscurus to end the life of one of your classmates — no matter how much provocation you might have had.”

Harry quickly pulled away to gape up at him, eyes shocked and lips slightly parted.

He… gave points for fighting? For beating up… one of his Slytherins?

As an afterthought, Snape snapped, “Don’t you dare speak a word of this to anyone.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Or I will make you regret it.”

“I know, sir,” Harry began to smile.

“I’ll take fifty points quicker than you can say ‘I’m sorry, sir’, I swear I will.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Snape nodded a bit tightly, leaning back on the sofa with his arm still tucked around his shoulders, “And don’t say I never gave you anything, Harry."

“No, sir,” he assured with a widening smirk before resting his sleepy head upon his shoulder and trying to forget the world.

When Harry had at last fallen asleep, Severus… went to Minerva.

The witch startled when he slammed into her office with absolutely no warning whatsoever, almost knocking over a cup of tea all over a pile of Second Year Transfiguration essays. She grasped the edge of her desk for balance and demanded:

“Severus, what on earth—?!”

“This is untenable, Minerva!” Severus burst immediately, already pacing and ranting, “It cannot be allowed to continue like this, it absolutely cannot! Fucking unacceptable is it what it is, make no mistake, and believe me, there have been many mistakes—!”

Minerva’s wrinkled face was flush with irritation when she interrupted, “Severus, if you have a problem with one of my Lions—,”

“It’s not one of your bloody Gryffindors, it’s my Slytherins!” He roared.

She blinked, taken aback, mouth slightly gaping. “I see. Well, this is a first — you coming to me for advice for your Slytherins. I had always thought my opinion was unwanted.”

He sneered despite himself. “Un—needed, perhaps. My House works differently than yours, and it always has done. A Lion like yourself could hardly understand the twisted inner workings and complexities that run Slytherin House—,”

“Then,” she began carefully, “Why are you here?”

“Because…” The words were dragged from the depths of him, “Because I don’t know what to do.”

This was very humiliating. Explaining to her what had occurred first amongst his Slytherins and then between Harry and himself was… excruciating, in a word. He strode back and forth before her desk, unusually frantic, frenzied with furious energy, running both hands through his greasy hair.

“How can I keep doing this? Why do I never think with my fucking head? Every time I make progress with the boy, every time he comes to rely upon me, I shoot his trust straight to hell. He has enough tumult with his Housemates, I cannot be the one to make it even worse. I made the boy think I wanted him to defend his relatives, Minerva! Defend his fucking abusers! Can you imagine the hurt, the turmoil, that he must have suffered?”

“Did you apologise?” Her even tone caught him off guard, but it was nothing in comparison to what she had actually said.

Stunned, Severus blurted, “What?”

“I said: did you apologise?”

“Of course I did!”

“Well, then.” Minerva replied simply.

“Well, then what?” Severus snapped in outrage. “It’s not settled just so! I’ve made him live in torment these past days—,”

“It was a misunderstanding, Severus. Miscommunication. You were not deliberately trying to be cruel.” Then her lips thinned and she chided, “Although I will say you ought to fully explain yourself in clearer terms in the future, Severus, and honestly, Harry’s self—esteem is so fragile that any harsh critical or insult from you will surely—,”

“I know.” He groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You’re right, of course. I know.”

A small pause, and then: “You continually impose opinions on Harry that are not his own. You seem to forget that he’s his own person, that he’s not—,”

“I know he’s not James!”

Minerva paused and gazed at him critically for a moment. “Do you?”

He sighed and turned to face the window so he would not have to look her in the eye, “I do. When I’m in my right mind, I absolutely do… though I will admit when I lose my temper, I am caught in my own misconceptions, my own prejudices, and I fear— I take it out on Harry.”

“You need to let your anger against Harry’s father go.”

Whirling back around, Severus’ eyes blazed, “After how James Potter and his little gang treated me—!”

“Not James Potter,” she interrupted once more, “Harry’s father. As long as you are angry, it will always be beneath the fore — ready to lash out once more. It will do you and Harry’s bond no favours. I am not saying you must forgive, but you must let your anger against the boy’s father finally come to rest.”

Severus closed his eyes and exhaled in a shaky breath through pale lips. He thought, in this too, she was right. He could not, probably not ever, forgive James Potter and his Marauders for what they did to him, but if his anger against Potter kept affecting his interactions with Harry — whom he cared about so deeply — then it could not continue. No. Never again.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Minerva nodded sternly. “Is Harry all right now?”

“He’s— fine. Healed and resting now in our chambers.”

“And Misters Zabini and Malfoy?”

“In the Hospital Wing. They will both be fine with a bit of bruise salve. Apparently, Draco defended Harry, going so far as to jump into the fight merely to get Zabini off of him.”

“Will wonders never cease.”

“Mm. Seems a shame to give him detention now.”

“Severus,” another chiding look.

“And yet Zabini got off easily.” Anger roared back to life within his chest as he bared his teeth and hissed truly viciously, “What Harry did to him is nothing compared to what I’d like to do. Given the chance, I’d tear that little fucker to shreds—,”

“Severus,” she cut in again.

“What?” He scathed in reply.

“You know, before, you thinking of Harry as James was not what I intended, Severus. I was going to say that Harry is not you.”

Severus sucked in a sharp breath.

“You’ve made him your champion, Severus. Like you, he’s been abused and bullied cruelly, yes, but we’ve not yet failed him as we failed you — he’s not alone as you were. I think you are finding justice for yourself through him, and while I understand, you must remember who that boy truly is.”

He didn’t respond, even as he absorbed her words.

Perhaps this was why he had come to her — not for advice, exactly, but for her to talk him from the fucking ledge.

After a moment, she questioned, “How have you seen fit to punish them?”

“I must give them all detention, for brawling like a trio of hooligans — even if I understand Harry’s reasoning.”

Minerva hummed and said, “Send them to Hagrid.”

At this, Severus arched a brow.

“Hagrid will treat them all kindly, and he will be gentle with Harry in particular. Mister Malfoy will likely find it uncomfortable, but I should think that a young man like Mister Zabini will find the entire ideal of obeying the orders of half—giant just horrifying enough to learn not to engage in said hooliganism anytime in the near future.”

“That… is a good idea.”

Minerva arched one thin brow, “I’ve been known to have one on occasion.”

Severus snorted and turned to the exit without another word, but her voice stopped him with a called:

“Severus?”

He turned back with his hand on the doorknob.

“Do not be so hard on yourself. From what I hear, part of being a parent is making many mistakes. It’s how you choose to rectify them (if at all) that the child will always remember.”

Severus’ throat closed up. “I… am not Harry’s parent.”

Minerva’s knowing smirk chased him out the door.

Beneath a night sky, Filch the caretaker and his lantern led an unfortunate trio of students towards the Forbidden Forest. The moon was big and round, but the darkness still hung heavy — so heavy that the rocky steps were nearly impossible to see. Zabini was giving Harry a wide berth, clearly a little frightened of the boy after the whole Beating His Arse incident.

As he should.

Shockingly, this was Harry’s first ever detention at Hogwarts, so he didn’t know what exactly to expect. Snape assured him no one was going to hurt him so he wasn’t too worried about that, but still… this Filch man seemed rather mental. All the same, it didn’t seem so terrible so far, and to be honest, he would take a thousand detentions if it meant things were all right with Snape again.

They’d talked about what had happened — their misunderstanding — loads, and he supposed he’d still be angry if he couldn’t see how bloody terrible Snape felt about the whole thing. Mostly now, he just wanted the man to stop looking so morose. Already, he more or less wrote a statement for the press, and Snape said it was good — it would need some tweaks of course, but that would be taken care of by Snape himself and Dumbledore. He needn’t worry.

And Harry felt good— at having helped. At having done something good, for once. He didn’t want innocent people to get hurt, and especially not for him.

“A pity they let the old punishments die.” Filch annoyingly recaptured Harry’s attention by lamenting, “There was a time detention would find you hanging by your thumbs in the dungeons. God, I miss the screaming.”

“Mister Filch?” Harry’s quiet voice was light, almost casual, “You have serious problems.”

The caretaker growled at him. Harry found he didn’t mind.

Malfoy snickered under his breath.

When they finally worked their way down the hill, they found the half—giant called Hagrid already waiting with a crossbow, a massive and whimpering hound drooling at his side.

“A sorry lot this, Hagrid!” Filch called out, “I pity you.”

Hagrid ignored the caretaker entirely to boom down at Harry, “‘S good ter see ya, ‘Arry!”

Everyone, even Filch, jumped.

The half—giant didn’t seem to notice. “Bin worried ‘bout ya, I ‘ave. Yer lookin’ well! I s’pose Perfesser Snape’s bin takin’ care o’ ya all proper, eh?”

Harry, still very much uncomfortable with any and all attention, just blushed and nodded.

Unfortunately, something about his reaction seemed to have a very bad effect on Hagrid who immediately choked up and began blowing his nose in a tablecloth—sized handkerchief.

“What that family o’ yers did t’ ya, ’s just not right, ‘Arry, not right at all,” he sniffled, “Feel right guilty, I do, ‘cause see, ‘Arry, I’m the one who delivered ya straight t’ their door!”

Harry’s eyes widened at that, and yet he didn’t find it within himself to be angry at this man, especially not when he was blubbering all over the place about it. It was hardly Hagrid’s fault, after all. Very, very awkwardly, Harry stretched out a hand and patted the half—giant on the arm. With his tragic lack of social skills, he offered the only reassurance he could:

“Erm… there, there.”

It seemed to be enough for Hagrid — at least a little, who snuffed and smiled gratefully, though his eyes were still filled with tears when he said, “Yer too kind, ‘Arry, poor mite… And no wonder yer skin and bones! And ya don’t hardly talk, do ya? Poor, poor little mite…”

Zabini snickered, and Malfoy swiftly elbowed him, silencing him with a grunt.

Meanwhile, Harry contemplated jumping into the Black Lake headfirst. There was supposed to be a giant squid in there, maybe it would eat him — did squids eat people?

Somehow Filch was even less than understanding. He squinted at the tears still running down Hagrid’s face, snapping cruelly, “Oh, for God’s sake, pull yourself together, man! You’re going into what’s left of the Forest, after all. Got to have your wits about you…”

Ah. Yes. The Forest that Harry had nearly blown to smithereens.

The boy shifted, guiltily.

“The Forest?” Malfoy cried in an outrage that Harry shockingly shared, although for an altogether different reason. “I thought that was a joke! We can’t go in there. Students aren’t allowed. And there are…” Somewhere in the dark distance, some creature howled, making them all jump. “Werewolves!”

Filch’s eyes practically gleamed with vicious thrill, “There’s more than werewolves in those trees, lad. You can be sure of that. Nighty—night.”

With a cruelly cheery smile, he and his swinging lantern turned back for the castle.

“Git,” Harry mumbled at his back.

Malfoy grumbled in agreement.

“Right.” Hagrid mopped up his tears once more before announcing, “Let’s go.”

They went. Following after the half—giant, they stepped into the darkness of the slowly regrowing Forest and travelled down a rocky path nearly invisible with the long arching shadows of trees. The Forest was black and silent.

To be perfectly honest, Harry wasn’t too worried.

He’d levelled half of it before; he could do it again, if he needed.

At least he wasn’t worried until he suddenly tripped and ended up on his hands and knees in a puddle. Ignoring the other Slytherins’ snickers, Harry realised this was not just any puddle, though — it was made of shimmering silver liquid. Though he flinched when Hagrid dug a great big hand into his robes to pull him up, he was more distracted by his hands — now shining horribly in the moonlight.

Malfoy leant in for a closer look while he asked with distinct disgust, “What is… that?”

“What we’re ‘ere for.” Hagrid dug into his pockets for another large rag to wipe Harry’s small hands off. “That’s unicorn’s blood, that is, found one dead a few weeks ago. Now, this one’s been hurt real bad by somethin’.”

“Poor unicorn,” Harry muttered softly.

“Too right, ‘Arry. Now ’s our job t’ find the poor beast.”

Harry made a face while he still scrubbed at his small hands. The rag wasn’t working; the silvery blood had seeped into his pores and left a stain. Brilliant. He peeked over at Malfoy, smirked, and then proceeded to wipe his hands all across his perfect black robe. The blond immediately slapped him away with an indignant yelp that made him snort.

But the mood was totally killed when Hagrid split them into groups.

“Mister Zabini, you’ll come with me.” He decided, “And ‘arry, you’ll go with Malfoy.”

Ugh.

Even if Zabini was the worst of the two, Harry certainly had no desire to spend any more time with Malfoy. Soon on their own with Fang the Hound for company, he kept at least a metre between him and the other boy while they walked further into the forest. The woods were wide and deep, growing darker and darker with every step.

“Just wait ‘til my father hears about this!” Malfoy complained like a little bastard, holding the lantern high from somewhere behind him, “This is servant’s stuff!”

Eyes rolling, Harry sassed over his shoulder, “If I didn’t know better, Malfoy, I’d say you were scared.”

“Scared, Potter?!” He scoffed but then jumped when something howled in the distance, “Did you hear that?”

“Yea, it sounds like you being scared,” Harry muttered snidely.

Malfoy huffed but shockingly didn’t respond for a while. Then: “Zabini is not always completely wrong, you know, Potter, only in some aspects. If you do want to fit into Slytherin, you must stop with the whole Saviour routine. Our House has certain standards that we must uphold—,”

“Well, maybe if those are your standards, I don’t want to fit into Slytherin.”

Malfoy looked appalled, but he buried it for the time being to say, “You shouldn’t have hit him. Most of the older Slytherins were on your side after we went after you all those times, but now that you’re the one picking the fights, well— it certainly won’t do you any favours.”

“First of all, I didn’t pick any fight, and second of all, I’m not looking for any favours. Besides, I don’t recall you thinking that when you joined in the fight to help me.”

Malfoy winced at that but had no rebuttal.

Satisfied, Harry led their path on, careful as the flat path turned to gnarled roots that threatened a broken ankle and no mistake. Just ahead of them, Fang padded to a stop and then growled at something he couldn’t see.

“What is it, Fang?”

And suddenly Malfoy snatched tightly onto Harry’s wrist.

Because, just up ahead, there was a terrifying cloaked creature, crouching over a dead unicorn, its fangs sunk into its mangled white flesh. Drinking its blood. At the smell of their fear, the creature lifted its dark head — silver dripping from its grotesque mouth. As Malfoy screamed in pure terror, Harry gasped and went rigid, grasping at his suddenly throbbing scar.

Burning—burning—burning.

Harry’s entire body felt engulfed.

As Fang bolted for the trees, Malfoy yanked hard on Harry’s wrist and screeched, “Run, Potter! We’ve got to run!”

But he couldn’t move.

The pain in Harry’s head was crippling, nearly unbearable in its strength. Something had slithered awake in his mind and was now writhing, like an infectious parasite, like nails pressing into his brain, like white—hot blades driving through his skull. Blood had burst forth, slipping down his face like teardrops. The Otherness didn’t like this. Nonono, not at all, it wanted out— it wanted away—

The creature pushed itself up from where it had been feasting on the unicorn.

And then, as if floating on air, it began to advance on them.

And as much as the Otherness wanted to retreat, wanted to flee, something else compelled Harry to staystaystay. It purred and whined, entreating him to stay very still, to come near, to listen oh—so—closely.

“Come… Come to me… Harry, don’t you want me to take such good care of you?”

Harry was afraid. He had never been more afraid of anyone or anything before in his short terrifying life, and it wasn’t because of the darkness around them. The figure had an air of fury about it, of something keen and biting and—

Harry took a step closer.

“Potter!” Malfoy shouted in a panic, “What are you doing?!”

Harry didn’t know. Woozy with pain, he took another step. The air in his lungs grew thinner as cold fingers closed around his heart. The Otherness pleaded for respite, for escape, but something else within him — something much Darker — drew him forward.

Malfoy’s hands fisted into his robes and tugged so roughly, nearly strangling as he tried to drag him awayawayaway.

“Potter, come on! Please, Harry, stop!”

But something in Harry didn’t want to stop, he didn’t want to go awayawayaway,

“Closer… Come closer…”

Another step, and then, a scream from somewhere in the night:

“Harry!”

Footsteps rapidly approaching — sprinting, really, nearer and nearer, but whoever it was would not make it in time. The creature and Harry were nearly together — both reached out pale hands, both stained in blood, fingertips nearly brushing — until a great burst of light flooded the night, pure and whole and with all the brightness of a star, it forced the darkness to retreat.

Snape had swept down the hillside like the great giant bat everyone called him, roaring spells that made the creature disappear in an instant, flying away in the blink of an eye.

Harry was still there; standing stock—still, hand outstretched until Snape collided hard into his back, both arms wrapping tight around his ribs and yanking him away, hard.

Harry went willingly, confusedly.

What the fuck just happened?

Harry had no clue.

Malfoy, meanwhile, was having a mental breakdown. “What was—?! What was that?! What did it want?! What’re you doing here?! And what were you thinking?! And what—?!”

“Harry,” Snape was there, all around him, cupping his bloodied face, running inspecting hands over his arms and legs, “Are you all right? Harry, are you hurt? Did it hurt you?”

But for the blood now drying around his scar, Harry was unharmed— but not all right. With one arm still holding the boy close, Snape did a circular scan of their perimeter with his ebony wand, lighting up the space with the technicolour spectrum of detection spells. There was nothing—nothing—nothing.

Harry’s knees were weak, and he stared into the dark with eyes wide open, feeling something terrible ooze out of the cold earth. He didn’t know what the creature had been, or what had compelled him to approach it, but the fear was back again, digging its claws into his chest, stealing his breath away. Nothing was more frightening than a fear one could not name.

Finally, when he was assured nothing was in the dark with them, Snape turned back to the two boys with a severe look carved onto his pale face — looking like he was on the knife’s edge of losing the battle with panic completely.

“You foolish boy,” he breathed out, still inspecting Harry, “What in hell were you thinking?!”

“I… I dunno…”

Harry took stock of himself, and decided he wasn’t quite sure he had been thinking at all. That seemed the scariest thing of all. The Otherness stirred once more and folded back into itself, instruments abandoned and music dead. His head felt crowded, still pulsing with a pressure he’d never before felt — or at least not this strongly.

“Look at me.”

The intensity in his voice left the boy no choice but to obey.

Snape studied his eyes, his trembling mouth, his red—soaked scar, and whatever he found dissatisfied him enough for his mouth to twist and that dark looming thing to flicker through his eyes again.

“Sir.” He croaked, more pathetically he would’ve liked, though he couldn’t escape the sudden terror gripping at his throat. He wished he had some other word to fearfully whisper than: “Sir…”

“I am right here.” For now, his deep voice — the familiar scent of him: clovespicewoodsmoke — scared off all monsters, real and imagined. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Harry breathed a bit easier. Yes, yes. Snape would look after him, yes, Snape would protect him. He certainly had so far. Over his shoulder, Malfoy let out a strangled noise — outraged at not having any of his questions answered. When Snape spoke next, he sounded more in control — purposefully and forcibly calm.

“Draco,” Harry tensed — since when did Snape call anyone but Harry by their first names? — as Snape asked, “Are you quite well?”

For a moment, Malfoy could only gape at him. “Am I quite—? No, I’m not bloody well! What was that thing?!”

It took Harry’s guardian quite a long time to answer, anticipating building and building and building.

“That…” Snape finally replied, very lowly, “Was the Dark Lord.”

Chapter Text

Severus was furious — for many reasons, actually.

Hagrid — bloody, well—meaning, utterly foolish Hagrid — leading Harry straight into the arms of danger! Didn’t he know Harry wasn’t to be left unescorted — even for a moment? Not to mention, what in hell were the genius intentions behind splitting up from two of his charges? And what was he even thinking, taking three eleven year olds into the Forbidden Forest in the first place?

“Severus. You must not be too upset with Hagrid.”

“Oh, mustn’t I?” He replied petulantly.

Albus sighed deeply, “Naturally, Rubeus feels terrible for endangering Harry and the other boys.”

“Perhaps he should have thought of that before he sent them merrily off into Dark territory with absolutely no thought of what monsters lurk there!”

Albus arched one spindly brow as if asking what Severus thought would happen.

Severus, of course, sneered. “I had thought it a good idea to send Harry to the half—giant because he’d look after him, treat him kindly — not send him completely unescorted into the fucking Forbidden Forest!” He’d built up to a shout somewhere in the midst of all that, and his chest heaved when he caught his next ragged breath. “Clearly… I was mistaken.”

Damn you, Minerva.

“There were many mistakes made tonight; ones that won’t be repeated.” Albus assured quietly, “But you did well, Severus, showing up to protect Harry and young Mister Malfoy when you did.”

Severus clenched and unclenched his fists. “When I heard where Hagrid had taken them…”

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his heart to return to its normal rhythm. It was— fine. Everything had turned out all right. He had been— upset, he had been furious, and yes, he had been concerned. But Harry and Draco, and even fucking Blaise Zabini, were fine.

“We are fortunate for your timely intervention in any case,” Albus reaffirmed a moment later before transitioning into an altogether Darker topic to conversation with two simple words: “Lord Voldemort—,”

Severus flinched.

Albus didn’t notice.

“—Very nearly had a chance at hurting Harry tonight because we let our guards down. We cannot do so again… The boys said they saw him drinking from the unicorn, yes?”

Severus nodded, rigidly.

“That of course explains the numerous slayings Hagrid has reported to me over the past several months. It seems Voldemort has prolonged his meagre existence with their blood. It leaves me to wonder why he no longer seems set on acquiring the Philosopher’s Stone…”

“Do you believe he has other ambitions at play now?” Severus intoned, stepping closer, the Mark on his arm tingling worryingly.

“Perhaps, though what they might be, I can hardly imagine. I had thought… that if we were able to predict his plots and thwart them, we would be able to stay one step ahead of him, but now…”

He shook his grey head, face severe in its wrinkles.

It was extremely disconcerting.

Severus didn’t like it — despised it in fact, but he had to speak his mind, “Beyond his plans for world domination and the subjugation of Muggles, the Dark Lord always had a singular focus on achieving everlasting life, but it seems now his— attentions have shifted, and landed solidly on… Harry.”

Just saying it aloud made him sick.

“Yes,” Albus agreed, grimly, “But how Harry might help Voldemort—,” another flinch, “—achieve eternal life, I don’t know. I will need to do research. Will you as well, Severus?”

He nodded because of course he would, he had perhaps twice as many Dark tomes as Albus, not to mention practical experience, and his knowledge was always listened to — if not approved of. They needed to figure just what the fuck the Dark Lord was planning now.

But… there was something else that was still troubling Severus.

“Headmaster… there was a moment in the Forbidden Forest—,” he paused, words frozen on the tip of his tongue, suddenly unsure of how to proceed, and indeed, whether to proceed at all…

“Yes, my boy?” Albus pressed after a beat.

But how could Severus say it? To Albus, the Leader of the Light, the firmest believer in the Wizarding World’s Saviour, how could he say: Harry was drawn to the Dark Lord…? He could not. He would not. Ever. Even if it was wrong, or foolish, or reckless, if it meant keeping the boy safe — even from suspicion, Severus would take a thousand dangerous secrets to the bloody grave.

Severus Snape would stand by Harry Potter — always, a guard dog to defend him during the darkest night, a strong tower to watch over him while he slept. He wouldn’t let anyone bother him, nevermind hurt him. No one would fucking touch him.

So. Severus kept silent.

For the first time, of his own freewill, Harry had been… studying magic.

If he ever came up against that— creature in the Forest again, he needed to be ready. He needed to be able to stop himself if it called to him again. Names of spells, how to cast them — ways to move his wand, what to think when you did it, how to reach inside of yourself to make your magic obey. He memorised these words and kept them close, arming himself with them like they were swords, like he was preparing for battle.

Protego. Stupefy. Depulso. Expelliarmus.

Snape’s return to the room was quiet, and yet Harry recognised the sound of his footsteps instantly. He thought there was something fairly significant in that. He peeked up from the book perched on his propped up knees and found his guardian eyeing him with distinct surprise, black eyes darting from Harry’s face to the spell book — back and forth, back and forth.

“Erm, hi, sir…” He waved a shy hand, “It’s… still okay I borrow books, right?”

Snape’s lips parted for a moment but nothing came out, as if he didn’t know what to say. Then, quickly, “Yes, of course. Quite all right. In fact, it’s good to see you take an interest in your studies… for once.”

“Ha, ha…” Harry groused and pointedly snapped the book shut. “Did you talk to Dumbledore?”

Snape looked about to correct him on proper titles, but he merely hummed and moved on. “I did. Hagrid taking underage students into the Forbidden Forest was absolutely reckless, and not at all what I thought he’d do when I sent you to him for detention, but at least you’re all right. The Headmaster has assured me that the creature cannot come through the wards of Hogwarts so we are at least safe in our beds.”

“That’s good.” Harry swallowed over the lump still in his throat. “And… was it, really, the Dark Lord?”

And for some reason, hearing that title out of Harry’s mouth made Snape twitch a little.

It had been a long night, one of the longest of his life, to be honest. He was still covered in the mud from the Forbidden Forest, skin still prickling with nightmarish memory of seeing that thing drinking unicorn blood. His head felt sore, no longer burning like before, but just— tender, weary. He was so tired, but he needed answers before this night could be done.

“Does that mean he’s… coming back?”

Snape’s mouth twisted, but his voice was flat, almost emotionless: “Some do not wish to think so. But I will endeavour never to lie to you, Harry… Yes, he will return.”

A chill shuddered down Harry’s spine.

The implications — the hidden meanings — behind that statement made him curl himself up tighter, arms wrapping around his shins, digging his knees into his chest so tight that it hurt.

“And you’ll… have to return to spying?”

Snape didn’t even flinch.

“Yes.”

Harry bit his lip and worried his fingers, digging nails into his knuckles, breaking skin. He had never felt— this before, at least he didn’t think so. Worry. He imagined Snape was good at it, since he did it during the war and survived, but wasn’t it so much more dangerous now that Harry was in his life? What if something went wrong? What if Snape got hurt? What if Harry lost him — forever?

“Is Vold—,”

“Don’t say his name,” Snape cut in sharply, surprising him.

“Uhm…” His voice was much softer now, “Is he gonna be mad that you’re my guardian now?”

“He would be,” replied his guardian carefully, “If he knew the truth behind it. Though when he returns, he will be told the same thing Lucius Malfoy was.”

Harry nodded, feeling a bit dazed. His stomach twisted when he breathed his newest fears to life, “Won’t he want you to… give me up to him?”

Snape’s brow furrowed and he crossed the distance between them, one hand reaching to hold Harry’s cheek. “That’s not going to happen, Harry. I would never do that to you. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. But now you see why it is more important than ever that we protect your mind — from invasion and from possible… possession.” Before he even had time to process that, Snape’s wand had slipped into his hand, the contrast of ebony black against lily white stark and startling. “Stand up, Harry. Face me like so…”

Harry obeyed and got into position across from him, wariness mounting as he wasn’t sure what was coming next.

“This time, when I cast Legilimens, I want you to try to keep me out.”

“Keep you out? How am I supposed to—?”

“Remember your Occlumency.”

Brows raised high, Harry didn’t understand. “But I thought Occlumency was meant to bury my emotions…”

“No. Not bury. See, this is where you continually become confused, Harry. Occlumency isn’t designed to remove all human emotion; it is designed to control it, and when necessary, think past it. Compartmentalise, and now: hide it all away — emotions, memories, thoughts.”

Harry thought back hard, recalling the safe space that Snape helped conjure up when he had nightmares all those weeks ago. His cupboard. He was safe in his cupboard…

“Ready? Legilimens!”

The door to his cupboard flew open, and they tumbled immediately into Harry’s mind. With his dread or confusion swirling around them, they were both witnesses to hours of Dudley’s Harry—Hunting, to school days when the teacher pressed his nose into the corner, to Aunt Petunia swinging a frying pan at his head, to Uncle Vernon yanking him around by his hair.

Harry was gasping when they re—emerged, and instantly, Snape was there to keep him from falling on his arse.

“Breathe, Harry. Remember to identify your five senses.” Snape reached out, murmuring, “Hold my hands, tightly. Do you recall what to do?”

Harry followed the same breathing pattern, in — out, clearly concentrating on the five senses as Snape instructed all those months ago. Smell, hear, see, touch, taste… over and over until his mind felt less chaotic.

Only once he was able to breathe again did the man lowly question, “Do you need to use your marble?”

Harry inspected himself. Took stock. He could feel the Otherness battering against its cage, unhappy with the treatment, but… no. He shook his head, black fringe bouncing out of his eyes.

“I’m— okay.”

“We’ll try again then.” Snape nodded sternly and poised his wand, taking aim at Harry’s forehead once more, “Legilimens!”

And instead of shielding his mind, Harry shielded his entire body by suddenly raising his wand and shouting, “Protego!”

At once, the spell rebounded.

And then Harry fell from his mind… and toppled into Snape’s instead.

Entering his guardian’s mind was like falling into an icy pool, so cold that it stole away all his breath and left him instantly shivering. He’d slipped through a crevice, or a crack in the ice field, and accidentally dropped himself directly into Snape’s mind. Ribbons of thought swirled all around him, darting through the chunks of ice and slush. Confusion, frustration, panic, concern—

“—Fix yer face ‘fore I hafta, you ugly little—,”

“—you’re a witch!”

“You’ve got the stench of Mudblood on you, Snape—!”

“You’ve chosen your way, I’ve chosen mine.”

“You ought to be honoured, Severus—,”

Snippets of time and memory that Harry had no time to process circled him. It was overwhelming, crushing his brain, flooding his five senses over and over. He didn’t know how to escape, how to make it stop.

“Severus, my good and faithful servant—,”

“—boy will be in terrible danger—,”

“—return here and expect us to trust you?”

“—My Slytherins looking as pitiful as the likes of you—,”

“I never wanted to hurt Harry…”

It was Dumbledore’s voice floating by — his words so startling, so impossible, that Harry latched onto the memory with both hands and held like hell as it spiralled further and further into the arctic waters of Snape’s mind.

“Or you. It was wrong of me to try to separate you both. I see that now.”

“Do you?” Snape snapped in reply, expression impossible to see from his own memory.

“Don’t think me so heartless not to recognise a mistake when I’ve made yet another one, Severus. I care about Harry as well, and I want him to live just as much as you do.”

Distantly, Harry realised he wasn’t supposed to be hearing this, but he couldn’t make himself stop.

“I’m just realising now that perhaps it’s your love that will save him.”

Snape scathed, “Love—,”

“I see the way you look at the boy, Severus.” Dumbledore replied lowly, “You can lie to yourself and to Harry, but you cannot lie to me — no matter how much you may try.”

Harry suddenly became aware that he was drowning. Trapped beneath the icy shields of Snape’s mind, his body was screaming for relief. Frigid water had flooded his lungs, burning him with its iciness, suffocating him, an Occlumency trick meant to force the invader outoutout. Snape’s final thoughts from that moment, that snapshot of time, burnt like a hot coal in the center of his brain.

can — not — does — not — love — ever — ever — ever: unfathomable.

When they finally both emerged, gasping and panting, Harry had to catch himself on the sofa to keep from falling over. He felt at sea, the ground rocking beneath him, nausea stirring in his guts. Across the sitting room, Snape was hunched forward and holding his head in his hands.

“S… Snape…”

He tentatively shuffled across the rug and reached to touch his shoulder, but the moment he made contact, Snape jerked upward, his pale face more haggard than Harry had ever seen it.

“S—Sorry…” Harry stumbled back, “I’m sorry, sir…”

The man’s breathing was slightly ragged, and his face was creased as if still in pain. He summoned a Headache Reliever and threw it back without a second’s hesitation, digging the heel of his hand into the centre of his forehead.

“Are you all right?” Harry worried.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry—,”

“No. You have no reason to apologise,” Snape said, his eyes still squeezed closed even as the tension in his face lessened. “That was… a unique way to avoid an intrusion in your mind. If not quite what I was intending, it was impressive. Well done… But Harry,” he opened his eyes, black obsidian tunnelling into the boy’s pale face, “Harry, what did you see?”

“I… I… I dunno. I—It happened so fast…”

Snape nodded absently, as if mostly to himself. Then, a moment later, “Once more?”

Harry couldn’t deny him, no matter how much he should. Still reeling, he could not even contemplate what he had seen, he could not process or accept it. He needed to store it away for later, to pick and wonder at, to hide it deep within himself and try to understand.

Then, much more soft: “Legilimens.”

Harry had to get this right. Now. Perhaps he just needed the proper motivation. He knew the sound his cupboard made when it slammed, knew the exact force it could take before the hinges whined, the familiar click—click of the bolt sliding when it locked him in—in—in. And when his guardian tried to get inside, Harry had the door to his cupboard barricaded shut.

When they slipped back into reality, Snape asked, “Harry, what was that place?”

It was too embarrassing to explain that it was his cupboard so he merely replied:

“Somewhere safe.”

And that was enough.

With a still weary, slightly strangled exhale, Snape said, “Well done, Harry.”

Harry smiled as best he could.

Days upon days passed.

What he had done, and the aftermath, it all came back to him in flashes.

can — not — does — not — love — ever — ever —

Truthfully, Harry felt— shellshocked; this was the only word he could think of to describe it, like a soldier coming back from the brink. Over and over, for hours and hours, Snape’s memories played in a loop in his head:

“Perhaps it’s your love that will save him.”

“Love—,”

“I see the way you look at the boy, Severus.”

“Love—,”

“No matter how much you may try.”

The boy agonised over it, this thing called: love.

Dumbledore, for all of his faults, for all of the ways that he had failed Harry, was at least a skilled wizard. He knew about magic, and he knew about Obscurials, and it was extremely likely that he was— right.

Love was the cure to his Otherness.

How shockingly simple, how annoyingly impossible.

Because the trouble was, nobody fucking loved Harry.

At least, he didn’t think so…

Snape certainly seemed absolutely against it. But Harry was not stupid, and this time, he refused to misunderstand. Snape seemed nervous of love in general, not love in relation to Harry in particular… right? After all, Snape had very little experience in that area. Born to parents who were neglectful at best and abusive at worst, and having lost his one true friend at a young age, Snape had lived alone (with no wife, no kids, seemingly no friends) for bloody decades. Of course the idea of love would be— foreign. Downright terrifying. Feel so wrongwrongwrong. It certainly was to Harry. They had that in common, and they understood each other.

And maybe if Snape understood that Harry wasn’t expecting anything, that he didn’t need to give him a title, that he would take even a scrap of— anythinganythinganything, then maybe Snape would stop being so afraid.

And then he could feel free to love Harry.

And the Otherness would be cured.

After all, Snape kept telling Harry to ‘emote more freely’ so, maybe, they should just talk about it. Because that was the only way to handle such convoluted situations — to talk about one’s feelings and what they were expecting and allow no room for miscommunication. It was the right thing to do. The mature thing. Snape would be proud of him for his rational thinking.

Steeling himself, Harry crossed their chambers to the door of Snape’s office.

It’s not going to be true, he told himself, what Aunt Petunia said. That nobody could ever love him, not in any normal ways. It was not going to be true. His stomach started to squeeze a little. A little bit of the old feeling was coming back to him: how desperate to be accepted, how hopeful that things might be different, how needy he felt for affection of any kind, of any sort, of—

“—tell me something?”

Harry skidded to a halt outside the door, startled. Someone was already in Snape’s office. Technically, it was his office hours but— nobody actually came to those… right? Eavesdropping was only for sneaky little bastards, he knew this, and yet he couldn’t stop himself as he pushed open the door just a little and then a little more.

It took no time at all for him to recognise the voice inside:

Malfoy.

Harry’s stomach twisted.

“My father tells me a lot, you know,” Malfoy was saying, “He knows I’m trustworthy.”

“Indeed? Well, then I’d suggest taking your newest inquisition to him. I’m sure it would be extremely well—received.” Snape replied, clearly sarcastic with just a hint of amusement that only months spent with the man had allowed Harry to identify.

And it seemed Malfoy was able to as well.

He whined, “Don’t make fun, Uncle Severus—!”

Two words held such power, it was almost impressive. Harry felt the blood flee from his face and he had to quickly slump a shoulder against the wall to keep from falling over entirely. Uncle Severus. Uncle Severus. Malfoy had said, forever ago, that his parents were friends with Snape, but he’d never said— never even hinted at— and Snape had never implied— they were family.

Harry’s entire world was suddenly unbalanced, out of control, like the earth was spinning faster and faster on its axis but in the entirely wrong direction.

Maybe that was why he suddenly felt sick, too. A wave of nausea bulldozed through his belly, and he quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle how he choked and gagged. If he’d been able to eat anything today, it’d be coming up right now.

“Fine then, be that way,” the boy inside his guardian’s office was saying, “But about Potter, you’ll talk to Father, won’t you?”

Harry somehow managed to tense further, fingernails scraping hard into the stone, his heart sputtering to a weary halt in his thin chest. Why would Snape and Malfoy be talking about him to Malfoy Senior? What could they possibly have to say? Ohgodohgod.

“I could, but I am unlikely to do so.”

“Talk to Mother then!”

“As if anyone has ever been capable of changing her mind,” Snape countered dryly, though he didn’t sound annoyed, he sounded almost… fond?

Malfoy groaned and pouted, in that overdramatic way only eleven year olds and close family could get away with.

Harry felt so lost, so confused. What the hell were they talking about? Through the crack in the door, he glanced from Snape to Malfoy and then back again, anxiety pinging inside him.

“You’ll still attend her teas this summer, though?”

“I highly doubt I would be permitted to miss them.”

Malfoy nodded assuredly, though looking relieved at his edges.

Harry didn’t like this. Not at all. The teasing, the back and forth, the familiarity and obvious history that was between them. Most of all, though, Harry didn’t like that Malfoy was sitting in his chair.

A little fact: Harry was usually quite sneaky, but— not now. Not when the world was spinning out of control. He wasn’t quiet enough — the door hinges creaked, and Snape spotted him before he could bolt.

“Ah, Harry.”

When the door opened wider, Harry jumped despite himself and pressed his side hard against the wall, tethering himself to it, refusing to part with it, suddenly terrified of getting any closer to them.

“Hello Potter,” Malfoy still spat his surname, but his voice held none of the derision and cruelty it used to.

Harry couldn’t think of a single nice thing to say, and Hermione was always telling Ron if he didn’t have anything nice to say, he shouldn’t say anything at all… It seemed like very good advice at the moment. Things were growing awkward in the ensuing silence, though, an obvious lapse in what was once casual conversation — caused only by the disturbance that was Harry.

Malfoy and Snape’s brows were arching higher and higher.

Snape cleared his throat. “Would you like to take a seat, Harry?”

No, Harry could — not — take a seat because Malfoy was currently taking Harry’s seat.

For as long as he could remember, Harry had always been last place at the Dursleys. In the competition for favourites, he’d never even been a contender, not really; Harry was freakboy and Dudley was the holyson — there was no comparison there. For ten years, he watched Aunt Petunia coo and coddle Dudley until she had no love left (not even a little) for Harry.

They couldn’t stand to look at him, to even be in his disgusting presence, so they hid him away, pushed him aside, easy as a chess move, and he was shoved to the edges. For ten years, he’d been so angry, and hurt. He never thought — at least, he hoped not — that he’d ever be on Snape’s edge.

Feeling self—conscious and desperately wishing he’d stop, the boy just… stood there.

Snape’s face twisted into a frown, “Is everything all right, Harry?”

“Erm…” He hedged, tripping a step in retreat, “I can come back another time…”

“No, just tell me now.” The man cocked his head and rounded the desk to take a few steps closer. “Is something the matter? Do you feel— unsettled?”

Harry winced at the question. Unsettled was one way of putting it, but it wasn’t what Snape meant so he answered somewhat honestly, “No, no, I’m fine, it’s just— uhm, my stomach hurts.”

Concern wrinkled his guardian’s forehead, “Oh?”

“It’s not bad, it’s just come on— suddenly, you know, but… have you got a potion?”

“Of course he’s got Potions, Potter, he’s a Potions Master,” replied Malfoy with a snicker and grin.

His tone wasn’t mocking, or even remotely mean, and yet it rubbed Harry the wrong way.

And it made him feel even worse when Snape smirked amusedly too.

“I’m going to sick up,” Harry announced as his stomach churned.

Snape was immediately at his side, one hand feeling at his forehead while he hummed, “You do not have a fever, though you are rather pale— and your heart rate is up. You know I’ve provided our chambers with a supply of basic first—aid potions. Did you not make use of those…?”

“Uhm,” Harry was ready to lie, “I lost it.”

Snape blinked, nonplussed, but accepted his lie readily enough. With his free hand, he summoned a sludgy dark blue substance that Harry now recognised as a Stomach Soother. It tasted spicy like ginger and salty like Eye of Newt; it was hard to swallow when all his body wanted to do was throw up.

“All right?”

Snape’s voice startled him, and he jerked his head into some semblance of a nod.

“Feeling any better?”

Again, Harry nodded, again lying. He still felt like he was going to vomit all over Snape’s lacquered Dragonhide boots.

“Good.” Snape’s hand was on his shoulder, and it was so very heavy. “Is there anything else that you require?”

Harry shook his head, still silentsilentsilent.

can — not — does — not — love — ever — ever —

“Very well. Then would you mind giving Draco and I a few more minutes of privacy, Harry?”

Harry felt the monster that was jealousy digging its little claws into his heart. He knew this feeling well; he felt it every time his aunt and uncle praised Dudley for the bare minimum and crushed Harry for trying his very best.

And yet: “Of course not.”

Harry retreated, putting one foot behind the other, never turning around or taking his eyes from either Snape or Malfoy’s faces. His tongue contemplated the words: I love you. He had never said them, never even felt them, for anyone. And he couldn’t say them now, not even as a whisper, nothing.

This was so stupid. What the hell was wrong with him? What had he been thinking? He’d been thinking about their months spent together, about the tumble into Snape’s mind and what it might mean, and he had this hope, a tiny hope, some flickering thing— stupid. Just fucking stupid.

He bolted.

Harry was always losing things.

Spring had officially sprung, and the world was finally coming to life again.

Of course it was still miserably cold most days, but it was crisper, fresher, and at least there were blue skies and fresh flowers to be seen now. It was the first time he’d been out of the castle in ages, and the sun on Harry’s pale skin felt brilliant.

Snape, of course, didn’t seem to share the same sentiment. His guardian looked bloody miserable to be outside. He was watching from the stadiums, acting apparently as chaperone which was necessary when First Years borrowed brooms, hooked nose buried deep in books and grading.

It was no surprise the man was here, really.

The man had become Harry’s near constant shadow in the last few weeks, ever since the detention that went wrong, since they had seen— the Dark Lord or whatever he was called. Lately, Snape had taken to casting off all other escorts and did the job of taking Harry everywhere almost entirely by himself.

That is, when he wasn’t spending time with bloody Draco.

His stomach roiled, and his head pounded. He breathed out short but even breaths to keep steady — and to keep from sicking up all over the Quidditch pitch. If Snape saw him sicking up, he would freak. If he freaked, he would insist Harry go back inside. If he went back inside, it would be another few weeks before Harry managed to get outside again. He would not sick up.

Hermione was at his side in an instant, “Are you ill again, Harry?”

The black dots danced in front of his eyes again even as he lied, “No, and I wasn’t ill before. I’m just… a bit nauseous is all.”

The frizzy—haired girl worried her bottom lip, “If you’re feeling nauseous, then maybe you shouldn’t be flying…”

“Oh, come off it, Hermione, it’ll be the first time we’ve been able to fly in ages!” Ron appeared at his other side with two school brooms in hand, “All right, Harry?”

He nodded, silent.

It was lucky they were able to borrow the school brooms on the weekends, since neither he nor Ron had their own.

They took the air easily, and instantly, he felt loads better.

It was as if flying reduced his body to a mess of scattered atoms and a few necessary organs to keep him alive, shrunk and shrivelled to keep so smallsmallsmall. He felt light, weightless, in the air. All of his worries had been left on the ground, and he was so far from it all now. Up here there was no Dark Lord or Uncle Severus or Obscurus Cures or any of that rot.

It was just Harry, and the open air.

And Ron, who whooped gleefully when he did a loop below.

Harry risked a glance down and was (unsurprisingly) relieved to find Snape watching. He knew it was likely to make sure Harry didn’t crash and break every bone in his body rather than anything resembling actual interest in his activity, but that was okay. He wanted to grin and make a big show of waving, but he didn’t think the dour man would like all of that — what with keeping appearances and all that. Still, he sent a very quick wave that Snape returned just briefly.

That was enough. More than.

Harry smiled softly and leant forward on the broom to make it go faster.

He loved flying. He really did. There was nothing like it — to feel the wind through his hair, to see the world stretch out all around him (mountains and lakes and glens), to feel actually and completely free.

He did another lap of the pitch and was just turning back towards the stadium when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another flash of silver and green in the stadiums: Malfoy. He’d sauntered up to Snape now, and they were— talking. Just having a chat. Casual, easy, like normal families usually did.

It was like a mini explosion in the center of his chest, and all the blood in his body turned to ice in an instant. All of the sickness, all the nausea, that he’d been battling for days now rushed in with no chance of escape. Harry wobbled on the broom, palms slick and struggling to hold on, suddenly gasping for breath through the pain in his chest. Black overwhelmed his vision, creeping from the corners in, as he fought desperately to stay conscious.

It was a lost cause.

A moment of weightlessness, a breath stolen from his lungs, he only realised he was in free fall when it was far, far too late.

“Harry!”

Hermione’s shrill scream was the last thing Harry heard before the world disappeared into black.

Hours later, he woke in the Hospital Wing. This was getting annoyingly habitual. At least he was alive. Shocking. His body ached, true, but not in the way one would’ve expected had he hit the earth. He just felt— sick. Really sick. His head was full of cotton and his eyes were gritty when he managed to force them open, immediately landing on Snape’s pale, grim face.

“We’ve got t’ stop meetin’ like this.”

Snape arched a brow, unimpressed.

The boy hissed in pain when he tried to sit up a bit more on the pillows. His words were a bit slurry when he asked, “Was i’ ‘nother hex?”

“No. It does not appear so.” Snape’s face really was very grim, lips pressed into a thin line and dark half—moons under his eyes. “We are lucky you’ve not shattered every bone in your body; if I hadn’t managed to catch you…” He exhaled hard and seemed to shake himself back to rights. “Well. How are you feeling now?”

“Mmh,” was Harry’s response to that. He felt, honestly, dreadful. His head was pounding, his skin felt clammy and sore, and his raw mouth tasted sour like he’d sucked on an overripe lemon for five straight hours. He confessed, “Don’t usually get sick.”

“No?” Snape questioned, holding himself very stiff.

“Mm—mm.” He replied, still dazed, so tired that his tongue felt loose and free, “At the Dursleys, I wasn’t ‘llowed t’ be sick. Had t’ earn my keep.” He didn’t register the flash of angered pain on Snape’s face before asking, “Think I’ve got the flu?”

“Perhaps. Madam Pomfrey and I are doing some tests; apparently, you never received your vaccines for Wizarding illnesses.”

Harry blinked in surprise, yawning through his question, “There are different illnesses for wizards?”

“Yes, quite a few.” Snape was using his professor voice when he explained, “Spattergroit, Dragon Pox, Black Cat Flu, Scrofungulus…”

“Huh.” He scrunched his nose. “That all sounds gross.”

“Quite,” a twitch of Snape’s lip showed his amusement.

“So which of those do I have?”

“None so far as we can tell… But we’ll keep a close eye on you. Don’t worry.”

Harry wasn’t worried because he didn’t realise he had reason to be.

How fucking wrong he was.

Madam Pomfrey did her usual tricks but couldn’t find anything wrong with him that was— well, new. It was the same old story: Harry was unhealthy/his magic/his body/sick/sick/vitamin deficient/too pale/too thin. 060.70 lbs was not enough stuffing for paper Harry boy. They said he had to get healthier. Heavier. Harry was sure Madam Pomfrey made a mistake because she didn’t figure in the thick shadows hiding in his head and the sickly pain causing chaos inside the cage of his ribs.

She said there was nothing new, and yet…

Yet.

When he dreamt that night, he dreamt of Snape. Of Snape slipping through his fingers because Malfoy kept tugging at him, laughing as they went, becoming high—pitched and cold. There was a horrible flash of green light and then Harry woke, sweating and shaking. His body was on fire, burning him away, scalding his flesh and melting his organs. Electrical storms were lighting up the inside of his skull. His tired liver was packing its suitcase. His kidneys were lost in a sandstorm. Everything hurthurthurt.

The next morning, he wandered in the kitchen where Snape was sitting, drinking his coffee, and for a moment, they merely gaped at one another.

“I’m sick,” he told him, tears coursing down his cheeks. “I’m just sick, so sick.”

And then, as though someone pulled a plug, everything drained out of Harry at once, and he fell to the floor. He could hear Snape swearing and rush over, scooping him up, his hands sliding under his knees and around his back.

Harry was dizzy. Snape was a blur.

His guardian carried him to the bedroom, lying him down on the soft mattress, pulling off his robe, untying his trainers. The sheets soon grew damp with his sweat, and Snape fed him potions, heated bowls of broth, laid cool cloths against his forehead…

Outside his bedroom, a pack of wolves were scratching at his door, looking for bodies to eat and bones to crunch. He couldn’t tell anymore when he was asleep and when he was awake, or which was worse. Fever dreams kept his head foggy and distant, and he talked to ghosts long gone and unable to hurt him anymore.

“No, Uncle Vernon—, no please—,”

“Shh, Harry,” said a voice that couldn’t be his uncle, it couldn’t, “It’s all right—,”

“I’ll do the washing later, I promise,” he was near tears, choking, begging, “Don’t be angry, please—,”

“I’m not angry, Harry,” thin lips brushed the skin of his forehead, so featherlight it could have been his imagination, “And I’m not your uncle. It’s all right, Harry, I’m going to take care of you…”

And he did.

Harry was sure he didn’t deserve it — because he was badboy—freakboy, because he was an Obscurial, because he was so fucking jealous. Snape shouldn’t be here, with him; he should’ve been off with bloody Draco because that was his family apparently, and Harry had no claim on the man, not really, not in any official way that counted. Snape should’ve just abandoned him here, to lie here sick and alone like his family always did.

But he didn’t.

What he did was even worse, because he was Snape, because he was good. He sat at Harry’s bedside and put his arms around him. But that somehow made it even worse, being held by him, being warm inside the cocoon of his arms, because it made him want (more than ever) something he couldn’t have.

Snape murmured, “You must take something, Harry.”

“No,” Harry whimpered and tried to turn away, “I lost something, I lost some things. I keep losing things…”

A hand stroked through his hair, and it felt so nice that Harry was sure he was imagining this.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Harry,”

can — not — does — not — love — ever — ever — ever

He whimpered again, “I’m tired.”

“Then you rest. I will be here when you wake up.”

As lovely as that sounded, it couldn’t be right. Harry mumbled through heavy lips, “You… Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“No. You are more important.”

Harry closed his eyes and pretended that didn’t make him want to cry.

For three straight days, Snape cancelled Potions classes and tended to Harry.

When his fever finally broke, and after a little begging, Snape (finally) permitted people to (briefly) visit him. And unfortunately his Gryffindor visitors happened to arrive at the same time the Slytherin one did — which was all rather awkward. It was a shame Harry was still feeling so sick; he hardly even got the chance to enjoy the overall discomfort. It was weird having them all in his bedroom, though. He’d never had friends (and whatever the hell Malfoy was) over.

Like the Lion he was, Ron was instantly growling, “What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

The other boy’s reply was prompt and tart, “I am visiting my very ill friend, Weasley.”

Despite feeling fairly miserable, Harry managed to raise his brows at that.

Ron looked scandalised, and Hermione’s jaw dropped at the same time as her eyes darted, “Harry! Since when is Malfoy your friend?”

“Erm…”

Malfoy ignored them all and trudged further into Harry’s bedroom, flopping into the end of his bed and nearly crushing his feet. Prat. Harry contemplated kicking him in the kidney. If he was feeling even slightly better, he might have.

“Since we were both nearly eaten by the Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest, obviously. Or was it before — when I saved him from getting his arse kicked by Zabini…? Which, by the way, I don’t recall seeing you leaping in to help, Weasley.”

Harry winced while Hermione sighed.

This was not going to go well.

Ron turned bright red and instantly began sputtering, “What?! I would’ve—! I just didn’t—! But Harry would’ve— I wasn’t sure— well, I thought—!”

“Nobody needed to get involved,” Harry quickly intervened, squinting because his eyes were starting to ache in their sockets. Still, he did have to admit, “But… I guess it was… sort of/kind of/a bit decent of you to help, Malfoy.”

Malfoy looked chuffed.

Harry tried to decide if he was annoyed.

Meanwhile, Ron still was appalled, but Hermione, of course, looked thoughtful.

“Hmm,” she hummed and stepped closer to the bed, “It was oddly decent of you, Malfoy…”

Now it was Malfoy who looked unsure if he should be offended.

“Why did you help Harry?”

This was a very good question.

Upon hearing it, the boy winced and shrunk down on himself. “Well… perhaps I decided that I was being a bit of a prat—,”

“A bit?!” Ron repeated.

“All right, more than a bit,” Malfoy grumbled, glaring at the redhead before focusing back on Harry, “Anyway, when you came to Hogwarts, Potter, we all thought you were a stuck—up weirdo git who thought himself too good to talk to his fellow Slytherins.”

Ha. Nothing could’ve been further from the truth. What a fucked up world they were living in.

“Oi!” Ron cried defensively at the same time Hermione wisely surmised, “You were jealous.”

Malfoy flushed. “Uhm. Maybe.”

Now, that was shocking.

Malfoy — was jealous — of Harry?

And here Harry was thinking it was absolutely the other way around.

“Anyway,” the blond Slytherin hurried onward, “Once all the papers came out about how your family treated you and everything, I felt really bad and— I wanted to make up for it.”

“You mean you pity me,” Harry sneered, oddly reminiscent of his guardian.

Malfoy shrugged, unapologetic in this aspect. “Maybe at first. Now, I just think you’re bat—shite mental—,”

“Language, Mister Malfoy!” Snape called as he just so happened to walk by the open bedroom door at that moment.

Malfoy winced but huffed. “Fine, then. All I mean is, you’re completely mental, Potter, and yet I’ve found it more or less interesting. I’ve decided to like you, even with the unfortunate barnacles that are constantly attached to you—,” he shot a disparaging look towards the Gryffindors before biting his lip and very quietly asking, “So… Are we— I mean, can we be friends now, Potter?”

Hermione and Ron turned to Harry for an answer, their expressions vastly different — one curious and the other horrified.

And despite his better judgement, despite his decade’s worth of lived experience that taught him to never hope for better (never—ever—ever), Harry murmured:

“Maybe— we can… try.”

It was quickly discovered, though, that the actual ‘trying’ wasn’t going to happen any time soon because Harry wasn’t getting any better.

That night, sometime around 3:00 AM, someone stabbed a sword into Harry’s guts.

He woke up screaming for his dad, but it was Snape he really meant because his dad had been dead for ten years. Barely even a second had passed from his first scream before the door was thrown wide open, smacking loud against the opposite stone wall, as Snape dashed across the room to gather the still screeching boy in his arms.

“Harry—? Harry!”

“It— hurts— it hurts!”

The boy clung desperately to the man, just his touch soothing despite the agony making his body spasm.

With a slash of his wand, Snape conjured some bright shimmering creature that he spoke to and sent off — all of it so murky and muddled, like Harry was ten thousand leagues under the sea. When Madam Pomfrey bustled in, bathrobes and harried, he hardly even noticed.

“What’s in Merlin’s name—?”

“—Just started screaming, I don’t—,”

Sweat poured from his brow and gathered in his protruding collarbones, smearing with the tears running helplessly from his eyes. It hurt, everything just — hurt. Like his skin had been flayed off and he was being rolled in salt. Like his bones were being crushed into tiny pieces, the shards piercing into his muscles and flesh. He could hardly breathe through the pain of it all.

“Breathe, Harry,” Snape still held him close, stroking his damp hair, clutching his shaking back, “I’m here, I’m right here…”

“Severus, back up—,” Pomfrey demanded from somewhere, “Severus, you must move!”

Harry whimpered at the thought, clutching his guardian tighter, thinking nonono.

Seeming to curl tighter around him, Snape snarled through his teeth, “I am — not — leaving him.”

The blade ripped through Harry’s belly again and he choked back a moan. He was in such pain that he wanted to peel all of his flesh off and walk, just bone and gristle, straight into the Black Lake, to be swallowed, to be set free.

Madam Pomfrey looked truly fierce when she halfway yelled, “Don’t make me throw you out of this room, Severus Snape, you know I will! I want to help him as much as you do, but you must allow me space to work!”

Snape, with great effort, finally managed to force himself a few steps back.

Harry’s hands ached with the loss of him.

Madam Pomfrey immediately rushed forward to begin her inspection, waving her wand, drowning him with spells.

“What’s happening to him, Poppy?” Snape demanded from somewhere too far away.

Without Snape close to protect him, somebody had started beating on Harry’s chest with Dudley’s cricket bat. He tried to count his breaths, but his heart was hammering too fast to hear over. It felt as though his body was eating itself, chopping up his muscles and throwing them in the fire so the Darkness inside him wouldn’t seize. There was metal in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue. He was bleeding—bleeding—bleeding.

“Has he been poisoned?”

“It’s not poison, I don’t know what it is—,”

The blade twisted again.

Harry tried not to scream.

“I don’t understand… The Diagnosis Charm isn’t giving me any answers. We have symptoms, endless lists of it, but no actual diagnoses—,”

Whatever this was was ripping his internal organs to shreds.

“Make it stop—!” He pleaded, writhing, clutching at his traitorous body, “Oh God, make it—!”

“He needs another dose—,”

“Severus, it’s too soon, he’s just—,”

“He is in agony, Poppy!” Snape nearly roared, “I refuse to let him suffer if I can stop it!”

Then, a few seconds or minutes or hours later:

“Harry?” One hand tucked under his head, gently inclining his head, “Harry, please, drink this.”

The cool glass of a vial pressed to his lips, and he obeyed over and over, swallowing whatever potions Snape thought best.

When the agonising pain passed, the vomit started again. He hunched over the side of his mattress, comforted by the hand on his back, as he sicked up over and over. And he saw, at the bottom of the basin: thick and black, like oil or tar or freshly poured tarmac spilling from his guts.

What is that? What is that? What is that?

“What is that?” Snape whispered what they were all thinking, voice one of true horror.

Madam Pomfrey had no answers.

When the vomiting finally stopped, when everything finally stopped. Snape just held Harry. He stroked the sweat—slick hair from his forehead, and rocked the small boy back and forth a bit, probably not even aware that he was doing it. Harry shuddered and leant further into Snape, into the comfort he provided, face buried into the warm skin of his neck.

He barely managed to croak: “What’s wrong with me?”

A pause, and then Snape’s strained voice: “I don’t know, Harry, I just don’t know.”

Chapter Text

Harry dreamt of flies.

Swarms of them chased him, biting at his clothes, trying to suffocate him. Did you know the imagery of flies often was evil — the darkness of the human heart? Perhaps flies were the demons of people who lived on the outside. They pecked at you, crawled over your stink, fed on you, made you sick.

Harry’s demons were escaping him.

He woke up, sweating and gasping and swatting blindly, to the sound of a low, soothing voice, “Stop, Harry, it’s all right…”

Snape was there, as he had been for the days upon endless days before this, stroking his tangled hair, holding his battering fists down.

“It’s all right,” his guardian said again.

But he didn’t know that for sure. Neither of them did.

Harry wished they could just magic him better. He had started to think that there was a magical cure to (almost) everything, but now… he wasn’t so sure. Harry had been bedridden for nearly two weeks now, and he was beginning to worry that he would never be healthy again. When he wasn’t sicking his guts up, he was feverish and freezing and seeing things that weren’t real. He was screaming in agony at an invisible pain from somewhere in his body. The tar within him had stained his lips and tongue black.

Madam Pomfrey was still looking for explanations, as was Snape, but neither of them seemed to know what the hell was going on.

Eventually, Pomfrey decided they needed to call in reinforcements.

Since they could not risk taking him to a place such as St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, magical doctors (healers, they were called) of all kinds in the vast field of medi—wizardry came and went. There were experts in Creature—Induced Injuries, Magical Bugs Bites, Potions and Plant Poisoning, Contagious Spell Poxes, and more…

Snape hovered close by alwaysalwaysalways, one hand on his shoulder, always answering for Harry because his voice had fled him again in the face of these strangers.

“Where does it hurt? How often does he vomit? Can he sleep through the night?”

Snape would be Harry’s voice.

“Has this ever happened before? When did this first start? Is this genetic?”

They had him tested for diseases and influenzas and ten different kinds of cancers, and yet there was— nothing.

The healers were baffled.

When he wasn’t with Harry or seeing to his NEWT classes, he was in the lab — brewing, brewing, brewing cures to make Harry a real boy again. If that was possible. If he ever was one in the first place.

Every night Snape sat at his bedside, sometimes in silence, and sometimes reading aloud. Harry had no idea the comfort that would come from listening to that familiar baritone. It lulled the Darkness — the badness — of him into silence, into peace. He let Snape’s words glide over him, smooth and warm.

Snape had even brought in the jar of eyeballs because he knew Harry liked them so much — even if he didn’t totally understand. Truthfully, Harry didn’t totally understand why either. He just liked looking at them, sitting on his bedside table, watching him as he watched them. Perhaps he appreciated that they were observers, safe from the trials that life presented — mere witnesses to the good and the bad, unaffected and safe.

Perhaps Harry wished he could be a little like that.

Harry had drifted again, on the waves of distance and dissociation, his mind trying to save him from the pain, sinking further and further in that thick haze…

Until Snape brought him his sketchbook.

When he had the strength, Harry drew. He made little sound. His sketchbook was everything, his own little world. Drawings of Snape, of Hermione and Ron, the little comics he would make about the magical school he attended, about himself. He could feel his fingers tingling. He just needed to draw. He needed to bury himself.

That first time, he’d opened his sketchbook, unpeeled a charcoal from its wrapping, and took a real look around his (his!) bedroom. After all this time, having a room of his own would never become un—exciting.

Stone bedroom walls now covered with Quidditch posters. His big bed with curtains, completely covered in tens of pillows and quilts and blankets. A large dark wood desk with a cushioned chair. Assorted cups of pens and charcoals and pencils next to a neat stack of sketchbooks. The easel Snape got him. Books, for school, for himself. Christmas presents he put on display on the windowsill. His father’s cloak hanging in his closet along with the rest of his clothes, all of it purchased by Snape.

The casual accumulation of Harry’s being.

He started there. He drew where he was, what he wanted. He put himself at this new beginning, surrounded by the comforts of a life Snape had given him.

It had helped, some days.

Others…

“It’s raining again,” commented Snape, staring out the charmed window — the Quidditch pitch engulfed in blustery grey. “But at least it’s not snow, yes?”

Harry nodded, sleepily, the feeling of flies still creeping on his skin.

“Do you like rain, Harry?”

He knew Snape was trying to keep him verbal — so he wouldn’t “back—slide” as he heard Madam Pomfrey whisper when they thought he was sleeping. At first he thought that was stupid, but then he’d realised how long it had been since he’d the energy to speak and— perhaps she had a point.

Harry debated this question and then shook his head a little, still staring at the world swallowed in a shimmery gauzy blue. He thought of the times he got stuck out in the rain, when the Dursleys didn’t want to let him back inside — when they had guests over or when he was being punished. He remembered standing in the rain, huddled against a wall with his arms wrapped tight around himself, knowing that the wetness will grow a fungus in his dirty, wet socks, that he’d probably be sick for days.

He wasn’t sure how much of that story had slipped out by the time he whispered, “It felt like I’d never be dry again…”

Snape’s face was grim, lips twisted thin and down, and one pale hand lightly stroked though his hair. “I am sorry, Harry.”

The small boy shrugged and snuffed into the edge of the quilt. It felt kind of good to tell someone, to tell Snape specifically. Out of anyone — everyone, Snape would understand.

“Do you think you could eat anything?”

“Mm,” he mumbled, pushing down the quilt from over his nose, “Maybe some crackers?”

“And light broth?”

He shrugged again.

“We will try. I know the Stomach Soothers aren’t working, but I’ve been tweaking the receipt and this is stronger. Perhaps it will help… would you give it a try?”

Harry, of course, agreed.

As he took very small sips of a salty chicken broth, Snape told him, “You had more visitors whilst you were sleeping. I’m afraid I had to turn them away, though it wasn’t an easy feat.”

The eleven year old started to smile, a bit shyly. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Something in Snape’s voice was gentle, as if he knew how much this meant to a bit who once had nothing and nobody. “You are quite liked by your friends, Harry, as you well should be.”

The tips of Harry’s ears were completely red. He was properly chuffed. Snape looked glad.

Unfortunately, the man had more to say, “Granger and Draco have both been kind enough to deliver this week’s notes and list of assignments—,”

Harry’s face twisted into an immediate grimace. The broth was now a virus attacking his insides.

“I’m not expecting you to do your homework while you’re so ill, Harry, so cease your glowering, if you please.”

That was not why Harry was glowering, but he couldn’t exactly say that, could he? The boy never knew how to say anything at all. He took another small sip. The chicken broth was burning holes through the lining of his stomach. He swallowed loose carrots and celery, picked up another spoonful, and opened wide for the airplane buzzing into the hangar.

Snape took a sip of his herbal tea.

Harry put the spoon down and pushed the bowl away. “I feel sick. I can’t eat this.”

“You are sick. When you get protein into your system, you’ll feel better.”

“Eating makes me feel worse.”

“Eat a few crackers.”

Harry begrudgingly obeyed. He slowly unwrapped the crackers from their plastic, and broke one in half, then one of the halves into another two, and then so on. He put one of the small pieces in his mouth. The dry cracker crumbles to crumbs on his tongue. His professor watched him chew and swallow. He watched the boy not take another bite for one minute, two, three, four…

A few weeks ago, Hermione wondered how much professors at a magical boarding school got paid. Of course she did the research, and of course he did the maths to figure out their hourly rate. Harry just wasted seven Sickles of Snape’s time. Waste of money. Waste of time. Waste of space.

The crackers were cramping his stomach.

Unhealthy/malnourished/yes — too thin/and — too pale/in need/in need.

“In any case,” Snape continued another minute later, face blank and tone flat — like nothing at all was wrong, “It seems as though Draco and Granger’s mutual obsession with their education has rather broken down some barriers. Though your friend, Weasley, wasn’t best pleased.”

“I wonder why,” Harry grumbled bitterly — way too bitterly.

Snape arched a brow. “I would have thought the idea of your various friends becoming better acquainted would make you happy.”

“Why?” He sassed. “Do I not seem happy?”

“Harry…” His guardian’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Watch your cheek with me.”

Harry very much could not do that. “Why do you call them ‘Granger’ and ‘Weasley’ while you call him ‘Draco’?”

If a bit startled, Snape looked mostly… bemused? “Because I know Draco, obviously. Not to mention, he is one of my Slytherins while Granger and Weasley are merely two irritable Gryffindors that you happen to be friends with—,”

“You don’t call all your Slytherins by their first names, though,” Harry challenged harshly, “Do you?”

Snape withdrew from Harry a little, penetrating eyes darting as he inspected and analysed his face. Harry hated that. It made him want to squirm out of bed and crawl out of his skin and run to another country. Maybe Mexico. It was warm there, if the encyclopedia was to be believed. Maybe it would be warm enough to chase away the blizzard raging within his chest.

After a full minute, Snape asked a very horrible question:

“Why do you seem angry with me, Harry?”

“I’m not!”

“Yes. You are.”

Harry growled through his teeth and slouched further into bed.

“Harry,” Snape said levelly, very reasonably. “We said no more misunderstandings. Simply tell me what I’ve done that has made you upset and I will attempt to rectify it.”

The boy huffed noisily and fisted a hand into his hair, tugging hard.

Snape deeply frowned and took his hand, untangling his fingers from the curls and making him stop.

It took Harry ages to work up the Gryffindor courage to burst, “It’s just, I had to fight for you to call me Harry, and you’ve been calling him Draco for years!”

Snape’s face creased, like he was baffled and annoyed at Harry for making so little sense. The logic in his words, dripping from his tone, made Harry want to scream or cry or kick something. Mostly, it just made him want to throw up again.

“Of course I have been calling him by his name for years; I’m his godfather.”

Harry twitched, fingers curling tight into his blankets now. They were— family. The word spun in loops around and around in his head, taunting, mocking, jeering. Familyfamilyfamily.

“Well,” his voice was loudloudloud, “You’re my guardian!”

“Obviously.” He drawled again, “Honestly, Harry, you are not making sense to me at all. What is the problem here?”

Harry nearly threw his hands up in exasperation then and there; it was only the ache in his belly that kept them wrapped tightly around himself.

The problem, to Harry, seemed simple:

“You’ve been calling him Draco longer than you’ve been calling me Harry.”

Snape sighed and pinched his brow, like Harry was giving him a headache.

“Merely because I’ve known him longer, since he was born.”

“But you could’ve known me since I was born too, right?”

Snape turned pale, rigid and stock—still. Something about that was very frightening.

“I mean,” he stuttered, suddenly very nervous, “You were best friends with my mum, weren’t you? So you could’ve been calling me Harry forever, and yet it’s Draco who gets to call you ‘Uncle Severus’ when I could’ve called you— or— I mean, I—I would have—,”

The words were getting stuck, all caught and tangled, forming a lump in the middle of his throat, making it impossible to speak or swallow or breathe. Snape’s face — his white, tensed expression — that look of pure ache — stole his breath away and made his stomach hurt worse than ever. Harry pulled up his legs and hid his face into the hardness of his bony kneecaps.

He wasn’t explaining anything right at all.

The problem — the really real problem — that bothered him so much that he wanted to scream was that he didn’t have with Snape what Malfoy had with him. After all, what did Harry and Snape have to bind them together? Nothing but terrible memories and horrible pasts. More than anything, he wanted it to be— real, between them. But it wasn’t possible, hard as he tried, as much as he wanted. He stuck out. He did not blend, needing more than he was given and hoping to hide it. They did not fit.

They were not family.

Harry didn’t even have a name to call Snape — his only title was what everyone else called him, all the other students that he hated and who hated him in return. But not Malfoy. Malfoy got to call Snape “Uncle Severus”. And it wasn’t like Harry wanted to call him that, obviously; he just wanted a title that was important, and personal, significant to them both.

And what Snape was to Harry… he would never be able to say it.

Snape would never allow it.

The man himself cleared his throat — once, twice. Then: “I do not know what you want from me, Harry. If it makes you feel better, I confess that I am… sorry I wasn’t there for you sooner, of course. But I am here now, and I am endeavouring to be everything you require now.”

That’s not what I meant, Harry mouthed the words against his knees, too hidden and too quiet to ever be heard.

A beat, or two. Maybe three, and then Snape tentatively broke their silence, “Are you all right?”

Harry shrugged, whispering, “My stomach hurts.”

Snape exhaled deeply and pushed him gently flat. “Lie down. When I came in here, I did not do so with the intention of riling you up. In fact, I had found something I rather hoped would cheer you.”

Harry instantly felt wracked with guilt.Snape had done nothing but care for him since this whole rotten sickness had started, and here he was — being an ungrateful little bastard. It turned his face red with shame. Sorrysorrysorry.

“Yeah?” He croaked, “What is it?”

Snape reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a small stack of photographs wrapped in a white cloth, fraying and yellowing with age. Together, they hunched over the first picture, and Harry blinked in shock because there in the photo: a boy, maybe fifteen years old, with long hair, tight black trousers, and a leather jacket with metal studs all over it, stood with a hand thrown up to (unsuccessfully) cover his pale and glowering face.

Severus Snape.

And then in the next photo…

Two kids, one with hair black as pitch and the other with hair red as dark cherries. This was a green—eyed girl, laughing, leaning on the shoulder of a sullen boy who was doing his best not to smile, both of their heads adorned with delicate flower crowns.

“Who…” Harry’s voice was lost, breathy in its reverence, “Who is that?”

“You know who it is, Harry.”

And he did.

When he turned the photo over, in a young but spidery scrawl, it was written: ‘Sev and Lily — 1973’.

Harry had never seen his mother’s face before. Not once. She was lovely, even as a girl. For so much of his childhood, he had tried to picture her face — the sound of her voice — but he had no memories of her, for the woman who loved him enough to die for him. She was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined. She was so small in this photo, so sweet with youth and childhood and happiness, the hope of a whole beautiful life ahead of her. A beautiful life cut short. Because of Harry.

He quickly tried to shake that thought away, only somewhat successfully.

If it was anyone else at his side, Harry would be embarrassed by the sudden stinging in his eyes. Still, he knew crying didn’t fix anything, and if anything, it only made things worse. He rubbed roughly at his face and snuffed hard.

“Holy,” he whispered, “Shite.”

“Yes,” Snape agreed.

Hurriedly now, almost desperately, he sorted through the pictures, some Muggle and some magical. More of those two kids, ‘Sev and Lily’, climbing a massive tree, smearing ice cream onto one another’s faces, lying on their stomachs while working on summer assignments. Another of three kids sitting in someone’s fancy backyard, even younger this time — barely eleven, Lily and Sev and another girl, horse—faced and fair—haired and covered in inky scribbles as if someone tried to eradicate her from the memory.

“Aunt Petunia,” Harry muttered, making a face, “You hated her, apparently…”

“Mm, yes,” said Snape without a hint of shame, “I also dropped a tree branch on her head once — entirely by accident of course.”

Harry darted a glance up to his guardian.

Snape smirked a little.

Snorting, Harry smirked back.

On and on these photographs went, from ages nine to fifteen, from scabby—kneed kids to a pair of teenage rebels. Looking their age or a bit older in the last photo, Lily had an arm round Snape’s shoulders, each with band t—shirts and cigarettes in hand, wearing tall black boots, her beaming while he had an almost—smile.

They looked the sort of young teens that Uncle Vernon would’ve called punks and no—goods, would’ve warned Dudley to steer clear of on the streets when they went to town. To Harry, it looked like his guardian was murmuring something that made his mum throw her head back in laughter, two pairs of contrasting eyes sparkling.

“Ah. This was taken on our first trip to Diagon Alley.”

This one — the very last photo of the stack — was Sev and Lily, posing outside the shop Ollivanders, arm—in—arm and holding their wands, smiling as the bulb flashed bright light. They both looked so happy, so excited, so— hopeful for what their lives would turn out to be. Harry bit his lip, feeling stupid for being a bit disappointed. He hardly remembered his trip to Diagon Alley with Hagrid at all.

Eyes darting his way, Snape frowned, “Are these photographs upsetting you?”

“Oh—, uhm, no.”

Suspicion was begging to creep into his tone. “Then what is it?”

“Nothing… I dunno, this looks like a nice memory and I don’t really remember going to Diagon Alley at all. I’m just— disappointed that I didn’t feel the same way you and my mum did,” he rushed to reassure, “It’s stupid, I know.”

“Hmm,” was all Snape said about that.

Harry yawned, then, feeling a bit sleepy. All he did was feel sleepy nowadays.

Without another word between them, Snape shuffled the photographs back together and started folding them back up in the cloth, but— then he paused. His mouth was pursed into an almost—frown—but—not, and he gave the boy a thoughtful stare.

“I do not think it stupid, Harry. Not at all, in fact.” Snape’s words surprised him, but not any more than what he said next: “I want you to have everything your mother did, and more than. So, if you are feeling up to it, perhaps I might be able to organize a trip for us to Diagon Alley in the near future.”

Harry jerked bolt upright in bed, “Really?”

“Yes, Harry. Really.” Though he rolled his eyes, Snape’s mouth quirked at the corners, which was about as close to a smile as Snape could get before he sternly added, “Now, rest, you little irritant. You are going to need it if you intend on going to Diagon Alley.”

At this, Harry smiled and slipped further into his bed as Snape stood to leave, and just before the lights were Nox’d and his eyes drifted closed, he noticed that Snape had left the photograph perched on Harry’s nightstand.

Sev and Lily’s smiling faces soothed him into sleep.

Harry had to do something or he would explode.

The mysterious sickness had kept him caged up for ages now, and he was beginning to get stir—crazy. The days of vomiting tar had lessened, and he was no longer so feverish — despite the occasional chill. He needed to move. He needed to get out. So, when Madam Pomfrey had recommended fresh air and sunshine, Harry leapt at the chance.

Even though Snape looked disgruntled to be going outside.

He really was a dungeon bat, not meant for the outdoors.

Snape made sure he was bundled, and for once, Harry was annoyed by all the layers that magic people insisted upon. It no longer felt protective but stifling. After days and weeks of being sick and bedridden, his body felt sore and stiff. His bare face felt sensitive to the hat pulled over his forehead and and his fingers felt like husks of bone in their gloves.

Still, he didn’t complain.

He considered this the first step in getting Snape to take him to Diagon Alley.

Harry needed to prove he could handle it.

Snape knew so many hallways through the dungeons that no one else traversed, and the comfort of the privacy — of the aloneness — meant more than Harry knew how to express. Not to mention, it was fascinating to learn the secret passageways and trick tunnels that lurked in the walls of the castle — even if he had to clutch the back of the professor’s robes in the dark so he wouldn’t fall on his face and break his nose. That was the last thing he needed.

Harry already felt tired by the time they reached the Entrance Hall, but he refused to mention it.

The fresh air felt like a balm to his heavy and weary lungs.

The world smelt fresh and new again, rebirthed after the long and unforgiving winter. The sky was soft today, a quilt of puffy clouds — fluffed and light, drifting fast in a warm wind. The sun was a cut—out, golden with shimmering technicolour rings of heat. There was a lot of mud on the ground, but a lot of grass and flowers, too. The Whomping Willow (an actual, real—life, moving tree) had leaves growing back that twitched every time the branches stretched.

They came across a few students on their sloping path; most giving them a wide berth — either because of Snape or Harry, it wasn’t entirely clear.

Still, it didn’t bother either of them at all.

Solitude suited them just fine; as long as that solitude included one another.

Snape held onto him (since he still felt a bit wobbly) as they crossed slowly over the grounds. It was comfortable, too, this not talking. Gazes catching, Snape quirked his lips at him and Harry let himself smile back, grateful to be caught in a good moment together, even if it hurt a little to be so close to him.

“Morning, Professor Snape.”

The voice came from ahead, a boy walking up the hill towards them. Harry recognised him as the Slytherin prefect called Barnaby, ages older than himself and much taller too. He was a nice enough bloke; at least he didn’t give Harry a hard time and mostly kept the others off his back if he noticed any funny business.

“Mister Lee,” Snape nodded politely, for once not scowling — since it was one of his Slytherins at all, “Returning from Hogsmeade early, are you?”

“Yes, sir,” the student smiled, “I needed the time to work more on the Potions final.”

“Ah, yes, your project. Attempting to create a new potion is a clever way to entice prospective masteries.”

Harry couldn’t possibly be any more bored than he was right now. He had started to like potions just fine when he was brewing with Snape, but talking about it — planning a future sound it — just ugh. The whole thing was almost impressive in its dullness.

“I’m hoping so, sir, but I’m not creating an entirely new potion — exactly. More like tweaking an old one. I actually wanted to ask you, if you didn’t mind…”

Lee cast a questioning look at Harry, and Snape followed his gaze just long enough for the boy to shrug his general disinterested approval. With that, Snape nodded, and the older boy felt free to carry on. Rather than stick around to more potions shite, Harry let his feet take him away.

Over his shoulder, Snape called, “Don’t go far, Harry.”

“I won’t!” Harry called back as he went farther and farther away.

It was nice to have some independence too, just for a few minutes. He drifted away and away from his guardian and fellow Slytherin, letting himself soak in the outside world — for however long Snape would let him. He hopped over some rocks and crouched down to study some interesting bugs, admiring the daisies and dog—violets sprouting up from the shoots of wildgrass. He blew on white dandelion fuzz and let himself make a wish, even if it was stupid, even if he knew wishes like that didn’t come true.

Unfortunately, it was probably a bit stupid of him to wander so far on his own because before he knew it, he felt a wave of exhaustion and his knees gave out from under him. He barely managed to swallow a yelp when his arse landed on the mossy stones, bruising his tailbone and making him wince.

Despite the initial burst of pain, falling wasn’t so bad; this wasn’t a bad place to land.

It was such a beautiful view, and it was— sort of okay here.

More than okay.

Harry folded his hands in his lap. Pale and small, but not hurting. Unmarked. Unbloodied. These were his hands. They had taken food from rubbish bins. They had bled from too much gardening and cracked open from too much washing. They had a whole other life than this one here, playing games in warm rooms and taking walks in sunny fields, as the big terrible world kept moving far from him, outside the safety of Snape’s presence.

He had resisted accepting it for so long, perhaps had been scared to admit it, but he loved it here, in this magical place called Hogwarts.

He sat on the stones for a long time, in the fresh warmth, listening to the natural world echo around him, its chirps and squeaks and howls, listening to the sounds of Snape murmuring to Lee a few feet away, discussing potions and projects and the future.

It sounded like home, all of it.

The sun glistened off the distant Black Lake, and the scent of fresh moss and mud was heavy in the moist air. A red and black ladybug climbed atop a fallen leaf while a stem of pink flowers like bells fluttered softly in the wind. Harry crouched nearer, propping his chin on one fist, fingers stretching to twinkle the bells when—

“Don’t touch!”

The boy startled at the sudden and unfamiliar voice, but found no one around — no one but a small green snake watching him through the blades of grass. Breath catching, Harry blinked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, and then he smiled a bit tentatively.

“Oh… hullo.”

The snake froze and then whispered, just as quiet as Harry, “‘Lo…”

Curiously, the boy pointed back at the flower, “Why ssshouldn’t I touch it?”

“Poissson, Walker,” the snake hissed, still keeping its distance, “Very, very poisssonousss. You’ll eat and you’ll die, sssilly Walker.”

“I wasssn’t going to eat it,” Harry reassured, “But thanksss.”

The snake tilted its tiny head, eyeing the boy thoughtfully, “Never knew a talking Walker…”

“Well, I’ve not known many talking sssnakesss,” Harry reasoned, “Ssso I guesss that’sss fair.”

It had been a while since Harry had talked to a snake, so long that he’d nearly forgotten that he’d been able to do it at all. It had been just one more terrible thing, one more freakish talent, that he had been desperate to crush within himself. But surely, talking with snakes was just another form of magic, and Harry didn’t want to crush himself of that anymore. Not ever again.

The snake curiously hummed and slithered a bit closer, its little forked tongue poking out towards Harry.

“Don’t bite me,” Harry cautioned, though he really didn’t know what he’d do if the snake tried.

“I won’t, Walker,” the snake replied, apparently content with whatever he’d discovered and now undulated slightly closer, head lightly bobbing the boy’s thigh.

“May I touch you?” Harry asked in his most polite tone.

The snake hesitated for only a moment before its head bobbed, and Harry very, very gently let his index finger stroke down the thin scaly back. Huh. He’d expected him to feel— wet, or kind of slimy, but all the snake was dry, tough, and a bit warm.

“Thank you.” He felt it only right to introduce himself, “I’m Harry.”

“Harry Walker,” the snake bobbed its head.

“Erm… okay. Do you have a name?”

“Name? What is— name?”

Harry’s brows arched at that. He didn’t know why he’d just assumed animals would have names; apparently that was just a human thing. He shrugged and moved on. It didn’t seem worth explaining, really.

“Do you live clossse by?”

“Yessss. My nessst is clossse.” Its little head tilted, swaying a bit. “Why are you clossse to my nessst?”

“I’m jussst enjoying the sssun.”

“Ahhh,” the snake crooned, wriggling purposefully, “Me asss well. I wasss sssunning on my rock when you arrived.”

Harry winced. He must’ve made an awful loud noise when he fell — at least to one so small as the little green snake.

“Oh, sssorry, I didn’t mean to ssscare you.”

The snake went straight, indignant and outraged, “I was not ssscared!! A bit… cautioussss wasss all.”

Harry smiled wider, “Right, of courssse not.”

So, as Snape kept chatting with his Slytherin, Harry settled in to have a nice chat with the snake. He discovered that he was a boy—snake and he had lots of nest—mates (siblings) before he went off to make a nest of his own. He had woken from his long sleep only recently, and he was out here to hunt voles (which were really just tiny mice). Harry made a mental note not to ever let Ron’s rat, Scabbers, come running around here.

“What’sss the thing you do with your tongue, if you don’t mind me asssking?”

“I am ssscenting the world,” the snake replied.

“Oh, ssso before you were ssscenting me.” Harry understood now. “Well, thanksss for not biting me.”

“I would not, Walker. You do not sssmell good, not like the othersss who come bother my nessst.”

Harry, understandably, was a bit offended. “I sssmell bad?”

“Yesss,” answered the snake, very softly, “Bad like rot, bad like sick, bad like— death.”

“Harry!”

The boy jumped at the same time the snake lunged, and Harry cried out in surprise at the sight of his little snake friend bouncing off a glowing blue shield Snape had conjured just in time.

“No!” Harry cried when Snape moved to take aim a second time, “Don’t hurt him!”

“Don’t hurt— him?” The man’s black eyes were as round as moons.

Ignoring his guardian for now, Harry hurried over to the little snake where he laid sprawled in the grass. “Are you all right?”

“Yesss.” The snake really did seem okay, though he coiled himself tight and stared directly at Harry’s professor. “I wasss trying to sssave you from being eaten.”

“Eaten?” Harry blinked in surprise, glancing back once more at Snape’s stunned face. “Oh, don’t worry. He wasssn’t going to eat me. He protectsss me. He’sss my…”

Harry’s throat closed up.

He had no idea what to say.

The snake hissed, “Father?”

Harry jolted again. And as badly as he wanted to agree, he had to tell the terrible truth, “No. He’s jussst— my teacher.”

“Not going to eat you?” The snake pressed.

“No.”

The snake hissed and thought this over, black eyes darting between the two humans. “Not going to eat me?”

“No, not you either, I promissse.”

And if Snape tried to turn the snake into potions ingredients, Harry would just start screaming.

“Harry… Harry!”

The boy whipped around, “What?”

Snape’s face had gone white, and just behind him, Barnaby Lee looked about to keel over.

“Harry.” His guardian spoke very, very calmly. “Have you been bitten?”

“No.” He felt a bit offended on the creature’s behalf, “The snake is my friend.”

Snape swallowed once, twice, three times. “I can see. Very well. S—Say goodbye to your snake friend for now, and come towards me… very slowly, all right?”

Harry frowned, but he wasn’t about to argue. He was feeling kind of/sort of/a bit tired. He shrugged and said to his new friend, “I have to go for now. Goodbye, sssnake.”

“Yesss,” the snake hissed and waggled his head, “Farewell, Walker.”

Harry only turned around when the snake disappeared back under the rocks, and he found his guardian still watching him with something close to—

“Snape?” Harry murmured very cautiously, “What’s wrong—?”

“S—Sir…” Lee sputtered, shaking from head to toe, “Sir, h—he just—,”

“Be silent!” In an instant, in a flash, Snape’s entire demeanour towards the boy had changed completely, “You will tell no one of this, you will not utter so much a word of what you’ve seen here, do you understand me, Lee?”

Lee was whiter than a ghost when his eyes darted once more to Harry’s face, so fast, so nervous, like he was scared to even look. “I—I won’t, sir. I s—swear.”

Snape nodded sharply and wrapped a tight arm around Harry’s shoulders, dragging him hurriedly back up the path. Harry couldn’t speak or ask what was going on; he didn’t have the words. Not for miles and miles. But the look of fear of the other boy’s face stayed with Harry their entire journey back to the castle.

Severus didn’t know what to think. What to say. What to do.

He stared numbly into the Headmaster’s fireplace, eyes blind to anything but memories. Fear clung to his edges, a decades old horror that he had tried so hard to forget, brought once more to the fore. He still felt the hair—raising chill that he got when he heard that sibilant croon slipping from Harry — his Harry’s — mouth.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Over his shoulder, Albus hummed thoughtfully, tapping long bony fingers against his desk. “What an interesting turn of events.”

Severus nearly spat at that. Interesting, indeed. Fuck him. Fuck this.

“This is not something I expected, I admit… Of course I would like to question him—,”

“Any questions you have, you can direct to me, Albus,” he cut in with shocking sternness.

Albus froze and then his old face twisted with regret. “Ah. Still untrustworthy to the boy, am I?”

Severus could not find it within himself to feel pity when he answered, “Until you prove yourself otherwise to him, yes.”

“I understand…” The elder wizard murmured sadly but quickly seemed to rally, “Very well. Then I shall draw up my list of questions and present them to you as soon as possible.”

Severus nodded but did not speak for a long moment, not until he’d worked up the courage to ask, “What does this mean, Headmaster?”

Albus’ lips were thinned nearly into nonexistence when he very slowly shook his grey head. He did not reply.

“To my knowledge, no one in over a hundred years has possessed this power… apart from—,”

“Tom Riddle. Yes.”

Severus exhaled very slowly, very quietly, fists tightening where they were hidden behind his back. “Why does the Dark Lord and my— Harry share this talent?”

“I cannot say for certain. I have only theories — theories built upon theories.”

Something about this — the hint of obfuscation, the subtle weave, secrets upon more secrets — set Severus’ teeth on edge. Lowly, he demanded, “You would tell me, as his guardian, if there was anything I needed to know about Harry, would you not?”

Albus’ face was very calm, and very controlled, when he replied:

“If I knew something, for certain, I would tell you, Severus, yes.”

This did not convince him in the slightest.

Severus returned to his rooms, to see his boy, to tuck him into bed, to make sure he was all right. Of course Harry awaited him, the quilt tucked around him and over his head, bundled on the sofa and looking so very frightened. He whispered:

“Did I do something wrong?”

And Severus could only say:

“No. There is nothing wrong at all.”

By the time Easter hols came around, Harry was feeling kind of/sort of/a bit better.

He had no more fainting spells, his fever had officially broken, and he’d not sicked up in over four days. It felt strange to feel mostly— normal again. At least, whatever Harry’s normal was. And being normal let him remember the real world that had kept moving outside the safety of Snape’s chambers.

Ron had turned twelve, and Hermione was already studying for end of term exams. More Quidditch games had been won and lost. Slytherin showed real promise of winning the House Cup, much to Snape’s muted pleasure. Ron had spent some time in the Hospital Wing because something had happened with Hagrid — and something about a dragon? Harry wasn’t very sure.

The world was waiting for Harry to re—enter it, and he would.

He just had something else he needed to do first.

And that was: go to Diagon Alley.

Nothing could spoil this day. Not his sickness, not his endless pile of assignments, not even the mysterious matter of the snake. None of that mattered, not now, not today.

Today, he decided, was a day of only good things.

Harry stumbled like he always did when they emerged from the Floo, but it didn’t matter so much when Snape was there to catch him. They Floo’d from the Headmaster’s office to a restaurant called the Leaky Cauldron. The barman called a greeting that Snape only grunted in response to because he was too busy already being in lecture mode:

“You have your marble, Harry?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re feeling warm enough?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, but if you begin to feel ill, if you feel even the slightest bit weary, you will tell me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape’s face did an odd twitch at that, but he merely said, “I mean it, Harry. You will tell me immediately.”

It took every last bit of restraint Harry possessed not to roll his eyes. “I got it, Snape.”

The man huffed but waved them onward, anyway.

Today, not even Snape’s general grouchiness could bring him down. Perhaps he had spent too long inside, had been sick too much, but all of a sudden — he felt — free. For once, just briefly, the perpetually shy, damaged shell crumbled to make room for a bright, smiling boy.

It was nice to pretend, for just a bit.

Diagon Alley was— brilliant.

He dashed from storefront to storefront, pointing and grinning, listening to Snape explain this and that and everything, giddily taking in every sight with wide green eyes. Their shoes click—clacked over the ancient cobblestones, as they took in the sights of restaurants, shops, and little tables lounging beneath coloured umbrellas. Street peddlers were out selling their wares, flowers and jewellery and roasted chestnuts. Streets signs were in glorious colour, the words moving and little pictures dancing, beckoning them inside.

Harry remembered very little of his day with Hagrid, but he at least recalled enough to know that it was less busy today than it was when he came for school supplies.

There was some staring, yeah, of course, but it was tolerable — especially when he had Snape’s forbidding glare to protect him from any gawkers.

Harry didn’t mind; mostly, he was happy.

Side—by—side like this, smiling and talking, they felt like— normal people. Not just professor and student or guardian and ward but— something better.

Harry loved peering in the windows, hands pressed against the glass, looking at the animated book covers, Potage’s stacks of cauldrons swaying and staggering, or rotating giant cones of ice cream at Florean Fortescue’s.

There was even a joke shop called Gambol and Japes that Snape sneered at before guiding Harry quickly away. They gave Ollivanders a wide berth, too, for which Harry was very grateful. He wasn’t sure how much he liked that old man who compared him to his parents’ murderer.

Yeah, he didn’t like that odd bastard at all.

The brooms on display in Quality Quidditch Supplies were brilliant, and Snape patiently listened to him babble about all the facts he’d learnt about each model from the Shooting Star to the Comet 260 to the newest broom: the Nimbus 2000. The man didn’t even look annoyed when Harry spent an extra twenty minutes inspecting the various kits and national team robes.

So, as a thank you, Harry made sure not to look the least bit bored when they had to go into the apothecary called Slug and Jiggers. In fact, it was rather interesting, if a bit gross, as Snape gathered a few more supplies for his personal store. He tapped his finger against the jars of leeches and inspected the bucket of dragon scales, a rainbow of colours.

It was all wonderful, but then of course Snape started asking questions. Would you like this, Harry? Would you like that, Harry? Perhaps some other (much more normal) child wouldn’t mind this, perhaps even enjoy it, but Harry had been weird since the moment he was born, and that likely wasn’t going to change now.

“Harry, would you like an ice cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“Harry, do you want to have this book?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Harry, do you want to try this sweet?”

“No. That’s okay.”

Over and over, a refusal, and after about fifteen straight minutes of this, Snape was getting more than a bit annoyed. He stopped halfway down the street and pinned Harry with a stare that he couldn’t meet. The boy elected to study the tops of his trainers: clean, new, no hint of falling apart at all.

“Harry,” Snape was talking very slowly, as if to keep his calm, “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Harry made a vague noise, something sort of resembling ‘I dunno’.

“Something is clearly going on, so I would very much like for you to tell me.”

Ugh.

“I just— don’t want you to buy me all that stuff.”

Snape’s jaw clenched. “Is this about debts again?”

“No!” Harry rushed his reply, “No, but… it’s just… Dudley always got everything he wanted, and it— it made him— mean.” he fidgeted, tugged hard on his fringe. “You know?”

“Ah,” said Snape after a beat, “I believe I understand. You think that if you’re treated to a few indulgences, then you will become as spoilt and rude as your cousin.”

Harry nodded, hunching his shoulders in real tight.

Snape hummed and rested a hand on his shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “I do not believe that will ever be the case for you, Harry, even if you were granted all the riches in Gringotts. That is simply not your personality.”

Harry felt something warm and small, like a new and tiny sun, had been born in him, lighting him up, filling him with warmth. Snape thought well of him. Snape liked him. He shouldn’t need the reassurance after all this time, but… well. It still felt brilliant.

Harry grinned shyly and they continued on.

The whole street was noisy, with people going about their business, shouting and laughing. Harry felt, distinctly, that he should appreciate this. Harry wasn’t sure why, or where it had come from, but he had the distinct feeling that he should— enjoy these moments while they lasted.

Like he was on the edge of something, something great and terrible as Ollivander had said.

The calm before the storm, the seconds before a lightning strike.

The Magical Menagerie was next, but Harry couldn’t get himself past the threshold. He stopped on the front door step and his head craned back to peer at the sign — a white kitten hopping around a little green snake. A terrible fear hardened itself into a rock in the middle of his throat. He wondered if he was feeling sick.

Snape was already two steps inside, glancing back with some surprise, “Do you not wish to explore this one as well?”

Harry didn’t turn away from the sign when he shook his head.

His guardian was at his side in an instant, asking lowly, “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No.”

“Then what is wrong, Harry?”

“There could be snakes in there.”

Harry’s eyes dropped to meet Snape’s, and in that instant, he saw the man understand. The professor sharply glanced around, took his shoulder, and then guided him swiftly into some alleyway where they couldn’t be easily stared at. Now, it was just Snape staring at him as he shuffled in place, dragging one foot over the other, scuffing shapes over the gritty cobblestone.

“You’re afraid of speaking to another snake,” he murmured after a moment.

“Shouldn’t I be?”

The words were sharp, far more cutting than he intended.

Snape looked briefly cut open by them, and his guardian glanced away, searching the street— for any threats. Or maybe just for any reason not to discuss this. Snape had been avoiding this ever since it had happened, and there was no more reason to avoid it now. It needed to be said. Whatever it was.

“Do you think I’m a freak?”

Snape’s face twisted into an instant scowl. “What have I told you about that word, boy?”

“Not about magic,” Harry snapped in reply, voice drifting to a mutter, “I don’t think it’s… so freakish anymore, anyway.”

The wrinkle between his guardian’s brow lightened slightly. “Then tell me what it is about.”

The black tar stirred. Can I? Can I? Can I?

“Lee was terrified.”

The answering silence seemed so loud.

“I’ve had people afraid of me — of the Otherness before — I know what fear looks like. You had to threaten him to keep quiet.”

Snape drew himself up very tall, his face stoic and solid — impenetrable, untouchable. Finally, the man replied, just as biting, “What do you want me to say to that, Harry?”

The boy shrugged one tired, bony shoulder. “Nothing, I guess. It isn’t so surprising. There’s always something wrong with me, I think.”

A hand cupped his chin and tilted his head upward so he was forced to meet those black eyes. So, so gentle. So, so sad.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Harry.”

A coarse thumb stroked just gently across his chin. Harry almost shuddered at the tenderness. It was too much. It was not enough. Please loveme—loveme—loveme.

“You can tell me, you know.” Harry sniffed and rubbed his sleeve across his nose, “If it’s really bad.”

“It is not bad.”

Harry scoffed out a laugh, twisting and twisting his trembling fingers. “It wasn’t just Lee, Snape. I saw the way you stared at me; there was a look in your eyes… You’ve never looked at me like that before.”

Snape squeezed his eyes shut and, in an odd show of release, let himself fall back into the alley wall behind him. His black hair swung forward and briefly hid his face from view. Very quietly, like it was a secret, he confessed this:

“It is a rare talent that very few in the history of magic have possessed. A very — special — few, called Parseltongues. I myself have only ever met one… before you.”

And it was like this — with his guardian speaking so quietly, without meeting his eye — that he realised.

“The Dark Lord was a Parseltongue… like me.” Harry’s voice was hushed, a bit dangerous.

“Yes,” the answer was rasped, “When I heard you speak it, it reminded me…”

Of him.

Harry swallowed hard over the rock in his throat, and his breath left him in trembling gasps. How much was Harry really like Voldemort? First his wand, and now this snake—speak. And that heavy, damming Darkness that crowded his chest, that whispered cruel encouragement to his Otherness. Did Voldemort have that too?

“Do you think I’m like him?”

Snape’s head jerked up, eyes blazing, voice strong, “No.”

Harry couldn’t help but demand, “Do you think I’ll become like him?”

Snape swiftly crossed the few steps that separated them to cup his face in both hands, his grip firm but never painful. “You are — not — like him, Harry. You will not become like your vile cousin, nor will you become the Dark Lord. Ever.”

Harry’s hand crept up to cling into Snape’s bony wrist, whispering, “What does Dumbledore think?”

Snape’s crooked teeth bared when he spat, “It doesn’t matter what Dumbledore thinks; it matters what I think. Do you trust me or not?”

Harry smiled then, a bit sadly. “Of course I trust you. But, if you’re wrong… if the Obscurus ever got out of control… you’d stop me, right?”

“Harry.”

“You would stop me, wouldn’t you?”

All of the muscles in Snape’s jaw clenched while he ground his teeth and finally, finally, said, “Yes.”

Harry sagged with the weight of relief. He nodded, again and again. “Good. That’s good.”

Snape didn’t look away from him, and he didn’t let go either. He continued to study Harry, face pinched, lips pursed, eyes so, so intense. Harry was scared to hope. Looking at him like that, holding him like this, didn’t it mean something? It had to. It had to.

Clearing his throat, Snape stepped back and stiffly asked, “Are you hungry?”

Harry’s smile was a bit wobbly. “My stomach is hurting a bit. Can we go— back?”

Home. He almost said home. But that would be wrong, wouldn’t it? Homes were for familyfamilyfamily, and they weren’t that. Were they?

“Of course.”

Snape’s hand found his shoulder again: warm, comforting as they moved towards the mouth of the alley. “Harry, since our conversation a few days ago, I have been thinking… I do not wish you to feel unequal in your importance to me. I cannot say I completely understand how you feel, but I am attempting to be more— accommodating. That being said, if you would like to call me,” his mouth twisted a little, “‘Uncle Severus’ — as Draco does, you may do so.”

Harry was stunned. Struck speechless. Because nononono, Snape had gotten it all wrong. Harry didn’t want to be like Draco, and he definitely didn’t want to call Snape ‘Uncle Severus’. No way in hell. Because — well — he already had an uncle and he was awful and he wasn’t like Snape at all. But he had no chance to say any of that because the second they stepped back into Diagon, they knew instantly something had happened — something had changed.

The entire street was clogged with people, all of them caught in a wild frenzy, holding newspapers in their hands.

What the hell had happened?

Harry couldn’t make sense of what had happened in the five minutes they were gone. Suddenly these once calm and happy people were frothing at the mouths. There was shrieking and shouting and a massive outpouring of shock. Snape’s eyes were doing great arcing sweeps of the crowd and the possible dangers and their potential escape routes.

“Fuck,” he said, with great feeling.

“Can’t we just A—Apparate?” Harry could hardly hear himself over the pandemonium.

Snape’s jaw clenched with frustration. “The Apparition point is on the other side of the crowd,” the man spat bitterly, “As is the Public Floo. We’ve no choice but to go through.”

Snape was right. Fuck.

“Harry.”

Snape extended a hand that Harry immediately caught, trying desperately to stay together. He pressed close to the man, practically latching himself to his side as he pressed forward into the chaos.They were jostled by the hundreds of bodies, all of them writhing and twisting, so very angry about something he couldn’t understand.

And when one man caught sight of Harry, everything went straight to hell.

“Freak!”

Harry blanched, the bloodrush so intense, so horrible, that he instantly swayed on his feet. One man in the crowd of hundreds was glaring at him, one arm extended with one finger pointed, and Harry thought his world was ending. Againagainagain.

Snape yanked Harry close, keeping him upright as he snarled at the stranger, “What the fuck did you just call him?!”

“Freak! He’s a freak!”

“Snape—,” his voice was tremulous, almost silent.

Snape just gripped him tighter, trying furiously to shove through the crowd, “Move! Get out of our way!”

But it was too late; now that one person had seen, everyone had.

The mob turned on them, savage and hungry, suddenly snarling and spitting and shouting. Harry recoiled further and further and further, clinging as hard as he possibly could onto Snape, but there was nowhere for him to run. Nowhere for him to hide. Harry was briefly yanked back by a stray hand, and a vicious hex threw the woman to the ground, but that didn’t stop all the others. Snape’s wand was in his hand, but so were so many others.

It was utter chaos.

And amidst the chaos, the same things were being shouted — over and over again:

“Freak!”

“Monster!”

“Threat!”

Harry couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe—breathe—breathe. The drums and the bass and the winds were screaming. Raging. His inside music was out of control, pummeling the insides of his mind and his heart, the black tar within his gut stirring—stirring—stirring, wanting outoutout.

“Harry,” Snape’s voice, from so very far away, “Harry, just stay with me— don’t you dare drift!”

But Harry could hardly stop it. His mind was trying to take him away, even as the Otherness tried to break free. His vision was growing narrower and tighter and darker, but then there were lights quick—quick—quick like fireworks.

Cameras, Harry realised belatedly, fearfully.

They were shouting, but he couldn’t understand a single word.

“No!” Snape hissed and shoved the newest horde back, aiming his wand in their faces, “Get back! Get away from him!”

The lights of their flashing cameras burnt Harry’s eyes, like he’d stared straight into the sun. Everyone was looking at him; he shut his eyes. Snape gripped Harry’s hand and tried hard to drag him through the pressing horde, growling and spitting and threatening every single one of them.

But the crowd was pressing, and then their hands slipped, and then… Harry was alone.

Black dots swam in front of his eyes; his skin was prickling; something clawed at the inside of his throat. He hunched himself over, trying to cover his ears for the onslaught.

“He’s a monster!”

“Lock him up!”

“Chain him!”

“Such a freak!”

He realised he was crying, a thin, reedy whine.

“Snape!” He shrieked, but the man could not help him now.

Harry was lost to his panicpanicpanic, suffocating in the fleshy cage of his body, his ears filled up with ocean and thunder. They pushed and shoved and grabbed at him. Foreign hands grasping at his hair to see his scar, foreign hands grasping for his shoulders to shake him back to rights.

“Get off! Get off of me!”

A head of tightly coiled blonde curls bobbed in the crowd, a mouth of smeared red lipstick asked, “My name is Rita Skeeter, Mister Potter, tell me — do you think you’re a danger to the public?”

“W—What?” He breathed, swallowed with horror.

“Do you believe you’re more likely to hurt people now you’re in the care of a former Death Eater?”

No. No, God, nononono. This couldn’t be happening again. He stumbled through the chaos, hoarsely calling Snape’s name. He’d be okay if he could find Snape. Snape would hold him, keep all his bad things in. He could do that, at least for right now, right? Like he did when he was sick.

They might not be family, but he could count on him for that.

And then finally, finally, that familiar voice: “Harry—!”

The boy blindly reached out, but Snape was nowhere—nowhere—nowhere.

“Get the fuck away from him! Out of my way—!” Snape sounded close, but not close enough, “Use your marble, Harry, use—!”

But the marble had slipped from Harry’s hand, stomped to a million glassy pieces under someone’s boot. Harry tried to slip through their pushing bodies, but he was trapped, yes, closed in, locked in, all around him — the people were closing in, he was suffocating, he was in his cupboard—

Suddenly, a loud cracking boom, and every person separating them were blown away as if by a hurricane of wind, hurling them back and away and into storefronts or onto the cobblestone.

At once, in a blink of an eye, Harry was swept up in Snape’s arms, like he was a much younger child, even though he was getting far too big to be held like this. The boy immediately wrapped his arms around his shoulders and his legs around his waist, and buried his face into the warm skin of his neck to hide from them — from this — from everything.

Snape stormed their way through the suddenly terrified crowd and escaped to the other side of the high street, breaking from the throng of angry witches and wizards, trailing its cries and shouts behind them. Snape tightened his hold on Harry when they arrived at the Apparition Point, his foot stomping on a fallen newspaper, the dirty morning edition marked with today’s date, with Harry’s moving and terrified face staring back.

And just above it, in huge black ink, it read:

THE BOY WHO LIVED: AN OBSCURIAL!

Chapter Text

Harry first learnt he was a monster at five years old.

It was during an over—warm summer lunchtime in Privet Drive, and Uncle Vernon was at work. This usually meant some level of relief for Harry, without his uncle’s meaty hands to hound him every second of the day — but not today. In the midst of serving lunch, carrying overlarge dishes to and fro, Dudley had stuck out a thick ankle and tripped him.

Harry had dropped the platter of cold ham on his way down, a decorative serving plate in hundreds of glistening shards, embedding in his palms and kneecaps. It stung — and it bled like hell, of course it did — but it was nothing in comparison to the hurt that came from hearing his cousin’s uproarious laughter and his aunt’s furious shrieking.

Stupidboy—clumsyboy—ungratefulboy.

What is wrong with you?!

Tears in his eyes, Harry felt that familiar rise in him, a golden warmth of pure magic, that called to fix the plate, to make everything all right again.

But Aunt Petunia had grabbed his face, fingernails cutting slits into his still soft, still babyish cheeks; she was so forceful, so hateful.

“Don’t you do it,” she had hissed, the same phrase she had been using since he was two, over and over — a familiar line in a familiar script, “Don’t you dare show us your freakishness, you foul little beast!”

And he hadn’t. He had left the plate broken and lunch ruined. He had hated himself, and he had buried that natural inclination within himself to make freakishness known as magic.

And introduced an entirely new monstrosity.

He buried. He buried, he buried, he buried, and he exploded.

It blew a hole in the roof.

Aunt Petunia had screamed and dove for Dudley, covering him with her own body — a mother first, last, and always. It was a shame she could never have been a mother to Harry, at least a little.

It had been terrifying, to feel something so dark and angry and violentviolentviolent such as the Otherness take control. He watched from somewhere distant, somewhere safe, as chaos was unleashed. A black mass of tar and pitch screeched and roiled and knew only how to destroy. It bulldozed the kitchen cabinets, ripped out the sink, split the table in half, tore the fridge door from its hinges, and shattered his dead grandmother’s china.

When it was over, Harry laid panting on the floor.

He was not just badboy, he was freakboy too.

His relatives were horrified; rightly so — Harry was horrified too. A nosey neighbour would call the police, and the incident would be explained away — a mysterious household accident, an explosion of some kitchen appliance, ‘it’s quite a miracle no one was hurt, Missus Dursley’. Later, there would come a new plan for dealing with Harry’s latest freakishness — a garden shed, a leash of metal links, a muzzle stuffed between his teeth, dry pills with liquor forced down his throat to keep him docile. Suffer in silence, boy, or else.

He was used to that threat, at least.

But in the aftermath, in the immediate hours after, such destruction had earned Harry a most vicious beating, and Aunt Petunia a £10,000 kitchen remodel.

It taught him, then, that sometimes Harry’s monstrosity could mean another’s benefit — if one knew how to play their cards right.

Harry was dyingdyingdying.

Through the twist of Apparition and the stumble of landing, Harry had not let go of Snape. He clung to the man with all he was worth, and when he tried to set him down, he let out such a cry that Snape quickly drew him back up and held him tight. Cradling him like an infant. This was weird, and strange and odd, but Harry and Snape were simply weird and strange and odd people, and Harry could not get himself to stop. He held tighter and tighter. He was dying.

They knew. They knew, they knew, they knew. This was so much worse than when they found out about the Dursleys’ treatment of him, about the starving and the beating and the cupboard and all the rest of it. This— was world—ending because now he was not just poorharry—victimharry—sadharry, he was badharry—dangerousharry—threatharry. Againagainagain. This was his lot in life, perhaps, forever and ever.

To be cast out, shunned, dismissed: for something he couldn’t control.

“Breathe,” Snape’s voice, just by his ear, gravelly and low, “Harry? Breathe.”

Come on, think of your five senses, damn you.

See? Snape’s concerned and taut face, hovering just centimeters over his own.

Smell? The forest around them, yes, spring and fresh, but mostly the scent of Snape himself: clove and spice and woodsmoke.

Taste? Something bitter, like copper coins, like Sickles, in his mouth — this he knew to be fear and adrenalin.

Feel? Snape’s large hand rubbing his back, the cool wind winding through the trees.

Hear?

“Severus.”

Harry flinched, pushing himself more firmly into Snape’s chest as his guardian pressed his hand tighter against the back of his curly head. The boy hadn’t paid any attention before, but from beneath his lashes, he saw now that they’d landed outside the wards of Hogwarts, near the front gates, where the road from Hogsmeade met the path to the school. Professor McGonagall stood on the other side, her old face paler than ever before.

“Minerva,” Snape greeted lowly.

“Come,” she beckoned, lips pursed into a thin white line, “Quickly.”

At once, they were hurrying up the rugged path towards the castle. Harry didn’t dare watch.

“Is he all right?”

“He’s in shock.”

“Yes, of course,” McGonagall murmured, worry evident in her tone, “But no one hurt him?”

Snape’s arms tightened a bit more, a hand brushed over his fringe.

“Not for a lack of trying.”

These things were happening away from Harry, not around him — not even close to him. He was drifting again, and this time Snape was letting him. He put a shield up, like he did once magically, but this time he did it in his mind. Occlumency? Who knows? But he was going away, retreating, into silence and softness — a place to lick his wounds. It was better this way, really.

The haze was comforting.

The haze was once all he knew.

The door to his cupboard snapped shut and locked tight; he would not come out again, not until it was safe.

Far away, his guardian was asking, “What do we know so far?”

“The Daily Prophet released a morning edition announcing Harry’s status as an Obscurial, as you apparently saw — they even had quotes from that wretched uncle of his. Someone did their bloody research, it’s true, but they didn’t just stumble upon this on their own. A reporter most certainly received a tip — we know that at the least. Unfortunately as of now, none of us knows who actually leaked it—,”

Snape’s voice over his head was particularly vicious, “The circle was getting far too wide. Too many people were finding out, I shouldn’t have let it get this far—,”

“The time for that sort of thinking has come and gone, and it’s utterly useless to waste our attentions on any sort of self—flagellation. We must focus on the now. I have been charged with conducting the investigation, but that is not our greatest cause for concern at the moment.”

Snape’s teeth were grinding by Harry’s ear.

“And what is?”

“The Ministry. Fudge was already receiving public backlash regarding his apparent fumbling with The Boy Who Lived’s living arrangements, but this?” The older professor shook her grey head sternly, tone utterly disgusted, “He will want to appear— proactive.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes.”

Tucking Harry’s face into his shoulder so no passing students could stare, Snape asked, “Has Albus spoken to him?”

“He’s speaking to him right now. Fudge is here.”

Snape faltered, for just a second, foot stumbling on the path before righting himself and marching steadily onward through the dark corridors. He had not put Harry down the entire journey through the castle.

“He’s requesting to see Harry.”

Somehow these words reached him where he was. The fear was sharp, razor—like to the brain, slashing his shields of neural tissue to ribbons. Harry whimpered and clung tighter to Snape. Nonono. He didn’t want to see any more strangers — he didn’t want to see anyone. And it seemed as though Snape was of the same mindset as he snarled:

“Over my dead fucking body.”

“Severus,” McGonagall’s voice was equally frustrated, but mildly chiding, “Think reasonably. It will have to be a give and take for now. We cannot be seen to be so noncompliant that they feel the need to do— something rash and unpleasant.”

The man’s chest shook with how deeply he breathed in. “And what does Fudge want with him?”

“For now? He claims he wants to see that Harry is just a boy, not a monster.”

Then he would be disappointed, the boy/the monster thought, idly, faintly. Harry James Potter had always been a monster.

They had somehow made it across the castle in all this time, and now they were before the odd stone gargoyle. Harry would wonder at it more, if his brain wasn’t so foggy, if he wasn’t so far away. A hand on Snape’s arm made them pause, made Harry curl up tightertightertighter.

“Severus, before we go in, I must tell you,” McGonagall’s voice was forcibly calm, “They know, too, that you’ve become Harry’s guardian.”

“Fuck!” He hissed vehemently.

Snape was angry, but Harry couldn’t muster up a feeling about this — not good, not bad.

Once the password had been spoken and the gargoyle had jumped aside, they went upupup a rotating staircase. Snape set him down just outside the door and looked down at him with a deep frown that creased wrinkles around his mouth. He was aware of Snape speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear him through the door of his cupboard. His mouth moved, more and more rapidly now, but— nothingnothingnothing. How odd. McGonagall was looking at him too, all frowny sad, but this didn’t matter to a boy who was safe in his cupboard.

Snape gripped his shoulders, shook him a little.

Harry shook his head in turn.

His guardian’s mouth was moving faster and faster, but there was still nothing, nothing at all, until a pair of potion—stained hands suddenly cupped his face and: “—Harry—!”

The door burst from its hinges, and he was left gasping and exposed.

“W—What—,” he demanded, frightened and annoyed and confused and—, “What?!”

“Harry….” Snape panted and pulled him closer, fingers slipping into the curls of his hair, “Harry, you’re with me?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, still floating a bit, trying desperately to tether himself down, “I’m with you.”

Snape exhaled hard, head looking suddenly too heavy for his neck. He had knelt in front of Harry, one arm wrapped around his back and the other reaching to take his pulse. After that, he made the boy look up, to the side, then straight at the light shining out of his wandtip. He was stable: his least favourite word.

The haze was gone, for now.

“You had us worried there, Potter,” McGonagall informed him, not sounding quite as out of breath as Snape, but it was a near thing. “Are you all right?”

No. But: “I was safe.”

Snape’s black eyes locked on his green ones. “Safe where, my Harry?”

myharry — myharry — myharry

“In my cupboard.”

“Your…” Realisation dawned in those eyes, and then they squeezed shut, “Oh, for fuck’s sake… Harry Potter, are you telling me your mindscape is that blasted cupboard?”

“No one could get me there,” he confessed, feeling a part of him — the part that should be ashamed of this — was still locked up. “Uncle Vernon and Dudley were too big. Aunt Petunia thought it was too dirty.”

“No wonder I couldn’t get you out…” His sigh heavy, Snape’s thumbs traced shapes on his cheekbones. “We’ll discuss all that later. Just— stay with me, Harry. Yes?”

“I won’t leave you either, sir.”

A frail smile, rather frightening. Then, “Harry, you need to listen to me very closely now. Are you sure you’re with me?”

Harry, eyes bright and breathing tight, forced himself to nod.

“When we go in there, you may stay silent, you may avoid making eye contact, you may do whatever you must to be most comfortable, but you must — must — remain calm. Absolutely. No matter what happens. They are looking for fault in you, for any reason to label you just as unstable and dangerous as they suppose. We must not give them that. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Harry nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I understand,” he whispered, so quietly, barely audible.

It was enough. Just.

The door swung open, and Harry felt sick — deathly ill — when they stepped slowly inside. Harry dug his fingernails into his palms, forcing back a rise of bile, forcing himself to stay hereherehere. He had to be calm. He had to keep his head. He could not vomit. The Headmaster’s office was a wide space full of windows and knickknacks, beautiful in it's comfortable elegance, but there was no time at all to appreciate it.

Because the room was full up with shouting.

As Dumbledore sat behind a grand desk, a portly little man in a pinstriped cloak was raging, “—Frankly outraged that you thought you could keep this from me, Albus—!”

“Ah, Severus and Harry.” Dumbledore cut in, quite calm despite the frankly hellish circumstances, “I am grateful that you were able to join during what I’m sure is a very distressing time.”

The man, very red in the face, whirled around at the sound of their names, instantly locking on Harry’s pale face and recoiled slightly — as if concerned the boy was a bomb about to blow at any moment.

“But—,” He stuttered, stumbled. “H—He’s not… He doesn’t look—,”

“What? Not what you imagined, Minister Fudge?” Snape sneered, one hand firm and yet gentle on Harry’s shoulder, “No, you conjured up a visual of a two horned demon with fangs and yet all there is a frightened little boy you’ve decided to attack.”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure how much he liked that description, even if — maybe — it was true. Kind of/sort of/a bit. He wondered if he did not look like a monster, if he smelled like one. Like his snake friend said, did he smell like rot, like sick, like death?

The Minister’s face curdled into something unhappy and faintly mean.

“I am not attacking anyone. It’s hardly my fault that the boy is an—,” his voice turned hushed, like it was still somehow a fucking secret, “—Obscurial!”

Harry really was going to sick up. He pressed both fists, hard, into his belly.

“If anyone, it’s the fault of those wretched Muggle relatives of his—!”

“True,” agreed Snape, mysteriously cool, frighteningly calculated, “And yet you seem fully prepared to punish their victim instead.”

Fudge turned bright red with indignation before he whipped around to face the Headmaster. “Albus! Call your employee to heel, if you don’t mind!”

“I apologise, Minister,” said Dumbledore pleasantly, “But I’m afraid it is not in Severus’ nature to heel, as you say, to anyone.”

And as much as he suddenly liked Dumbledore in this moment, Harry did not like the sudden light that entered Fudge’s beady eyes even more so.

“Ah, but that’s not entirely true, is it?” His eyes did an absurd sweep of Harry’s guardian from top to bottom, disgusted and rude, “So this is the Snape fellow. You’ve continually astonished me, Albus. First, leaving Harry Potter in the care of Muggles and now in the hands of a Death Eater?”

“Ah, but I have never been formally convicted, Minister Fudge,” Snape’s smirk was hair—raising, “Is that your intention here today? Or do you have some ulterior motive we all must sit on the edge of our seats in wait for?”