DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter belongs to Jo, not me.

WARNINGS: contains quite heavy cursing and very vague mentions of self-harm.

'Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,'

(Emily Dickinson)

Severus Snape had never been a very patient man, or indeed a particularly pleasant one. His early upbringing had consisted of a drunken father and a helpless mother, neither of whom had taught him much in the way of decency. But even he could not stand by and ignore the cries that so obviously belonged to a child.

He had been striding along a corridor, dressed in his customary black robes, when he had first heard the noises. Low and muffled, he had dismissed them initially as a cat's. It was his turn on duty that night and it was already twelve and, if he was honest with himself, he simply wanted to go to sleep. Peaceful rest of such a kind had been elusive the last few days; such was the issue of having two powerful and demanding masters. Both of their required potions had been 'desperately important' and were 'needed as soon as was humanly possible'. Or, in other words, Voldemort was a sadistic bas- man, and Dumbledore was just blind when it came to people he wasn't trying to manipulate at that particular moment. His irritating comments that Severus had looked like he needed more sleep had almost resulted in homicide, before Snape had managed to reign in his dangerous tendencies.

The noises had grown louder by the time he realised that they could not possibly belong to a cat; most cats did not mutter swear words under their breath. Debating whether to scold the student – which he had established it must be – for their words, or be as . . . comforting as he could manage (which mainly consisted of handing them a tissue and explaining – politely – that they were out past curfew), he quietly pushed open the door behind which the noises were coming from. Immediately restraining his immediate reaction, he stood in the shadows for a few moments, reeling with surprise.

For the cries were coming from none other than the Boy-Who-Lived.

The brat was sitting curled up against the wall at the far end of the unused classroom, his eyes red and his arms encircling his body in a futile gesture of comfort. Severus knew all too well that one's own arms were a meagre comparison to a hug from a loved one, but often, one simply had to put up with the substitute. But that couldn't be right, he thought to himself, Potter had many adoring friends and fans. He sneered, but remained in the shadows still. The stupid boy was so unobservant that he had yet to notice the open door; no doubt he was too busy grieving for that damn Hufflepuff boy.

"Don't cry," the boy was muttering to himself, "don't fucking cry." Snape was amused to see that, despite the boy's forceful words, tears were leaking from his eyes.

"I don't want to fucking cry anymore," the brat mumbled, his tone desolate. He started rocking slightly, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, his clothes rustling almost imperceptibly. But Severus had been a spy long before the boy could read and could catch every small sound that occurred, including the tiny hitches in the boy's breathing.

It was only when Potter started scratching frantically at his arms that Severus decided to step in. He knew all too well just where that path could lead and, despite his hatred of the boy, he had sworn to protect him.

"Potter," he said lowly, stepping into the dim light of the room. The brat jumped slightly, but halted his movements. Swiping at his eyes, he shakily stood up and Snape was slightly worried to see that he was visibly favouring his right leg over his left.

"Perhaps, Mr Potter," he began, "it would be best for you to return to your dormitory." He glared at the boy. "It is, after all, well past curfew."

"Yes professor," he replied quietly and limped forward to the door. Severus was getting concerned at his complicit behaviour and the sign of an injury.

"Are you injured, Mr Potter?"

"No sir," he answered, without meeting the man's eyes. Snape scowled fiercely, blocking the doorway.

"I do not appreciate being lied to," he said dangerously.

"I'm not hurt, professor," the boy carried on. "I'm sorry I was out past curfew-"

"And you will be serving a detention for that tomorrow," Severus smoothly interrupted. "But do not think you can change the subject, Potter."

"I really do not know what you're talking about, sir."

Severus growled under his breath. He was a spy, goddamnit, did the brat really think he could fool him? The brat was upset, alone, limping, and his clothes were slightly dirty. Snape knew the signs too well.

"You have been injured, Potter, and you will tell me how and why."

"Why does it matter, sir?" the boy asked intuitively. He was staring at the floor, no doubt cursing Snape's very existence, he thought with a smirk. But no, insults and jokes were not appropriate here, not if he wanted the boy to answer his question.

But it was a point though, was it not? Why did he care so much if Potter – Potter! –was hurt? The injury would not be life threatening, and all he'd sworn to do was ensure Potter stayed alive. There was nothing in his promise about looking after his well-being every day.

"Do not question me, Potter, I would like an answer!" Avoiding the question always worked so well. He didn't understand quite why he cared, but he did – strangely – want to know how this boy had been injured.

"It was just a hex, sir," the boy said at last, sighing heavily. But still, he would not look at his eyes and Severus suspected he was not getting the whole story.

"A hex, Mr Potter?" he queried. "A hex that is still causing you pain, surely hours later? Unless there is someone else out after curfew?"

"No sir," the boy muttered quietly.

"No, it was not a hex? Or no, no one else is out of bed?"

"I don't believe anyone else is out of bed, sir," the boy spat, looking thoroughly fed up with his questions. "Now may I go to sleep?"

And that was what he'd been looking for. That blasted Gryffindor spirit. The brat he normally saw would never have taken his questions lying down. He would have snapped long ago.

But again, why did he care?

"No you may not," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I have not received a sufficient explanation for your limp."

"Surely it is none of your concern, professor?" he replied. "What does it matter to you if I'm hurt?"

"I am a teacher at this school, Potter, and therefore have a responsibility for all the children in this school," he growled in answer. Really, was it so difficult for the blasted brat to answer the question?

"I am not a child, professor," the boy said immediately. "And I won't tell anyone about this. No one will know that we even saw each other, so you need not worry about getting in trouble for 'neglecting you duty' or whatever."

Damnit, the boy made a good point. Surely he could just go to sleep and forget this happened . . .? But no. He would not give in to a fifteen year old boy who still had tear tracks staining his face.

"You are a pupil of this school and underage. You are a child, Mr Potter, and will be treated as such," he answered. "Now, you will show me your injury or I will forcibly take you to Madam Pomfrey. Understand?"

The boy stood and glared for a few seconds. Then, evidently realising the futility of the exercise, he dropped his gaze and slowly rolled up his trouser leg.

Snape inhaled sharply as he caught sight of the boy's lower leg. A large red welt covered his shin and twisted round to the back of his calf. It looked raw and painful and Snape knew that no one in the boy's year would have known the magic to do that, not even Draco.

"You idiot boy," he hissed. "That could have become infected. This should have been shown to Madam Pomfrey straight away."

He shrugged. "I would have gone if it'd shown signs of infection."

"And how, Mr Potter, would you have known if it was infected?" He raised a single eyebrow, willing the boy to see the stupidity of his actions.

"I know the signs, sir," he replied casually.

While Severus was pondering his words, his ever analytical mind turning them over, the boy slipped past him and out into the corridor.

"Goodnight, sir," he called.

"7.00 o'clock tomorrow evening!" Snape called back, unwilling to allow the boy the last word. He distantly heard the boy's snort as he jogged out of sight.

Hmm . . . It had certainly been a more interesting night than most. But he couldn't let the boy wander round with that sort of injury.

Harry woke up the next morning to Ron shaking him awake.

"Blimey, Harry, get up! We're going to be late!"

"I'm up, I'm up," he mumbled swinging out of bed. He reached out to grab his school uniform, only to find a small tub tucked neatly between his shirt and trousers. Shrugging, he slipped it into his pocket and followed Ron to the bathroom.

It was only later, nursing the gently throbbing pain of a light stinging hex thrown by an angry sixth year, that he remembered the tub. Pulling it out, he looked at it curiously and found a small note stuck on the top of it.

Mr Potter, it read, your stupidity in allowing your wound to heal by itself astounds me. Therefore, to prevent your tragic demise by your own hand, this balm will heal and prevent any infection setting in. Use it as sensibly as your tiny mind can comprehend.

Reading the letter once more, he smirked and lightly smeared it onto his wound. Bloody seventh years knew some pretty good curses. Despite the pain, he could admire their skill. Still, it would be nice if the whole school could stop reading the prophet for once.

Severus watched from a shadowy alcove several days later as the boy walked through the corridor with his two ever adoring fans by his side. There was no sign of a limp and he was unreasonably pleased that the brat had actually trusted him enough to use the balm he'd sent. He'd have to prepare some more, he mused to himself, as he watched the boy casually throw up a shield as a nearby classmate sent a hex at him. The whole school appeared to have turned against Potter, and by the looks of it, he knew it.

"Harry, please, you can't keep going on like this," the girl was pleading, clutching his arm.

"And what exactly do you suggest I do, Hermione?" he replied harshly. "There is nothing Dumbledore can do, and you know it!"

That was true, Snape agreed silently. Every single person in the school seemed out for his blood, all believing he was a delusional liar and a danger to society. Expelling at least half the school was simply not possible.

The boy glanced up then, and Severus smirked, knowing the brat wouldn't spot him. But he was surprised when the boy subtly gestured to his leg and nodded. The world-weary, tired, determined, eyes gazed at him and Snape nodded back, almost imperceptibly.

"You were right, Mr Potter," he murmured. "You are not a child."

A/N: thank you very much for reading, and do please review!

ForeverChasingDreams