This probably should have been two chapters, but I didn't want to give you guys two short chapters. So I combined them into a longer one.

Thank you to my reviewers: Kairu117, Zarathustra46, Alika Jones, WynterRavenheart, and themrs, not to mention all the alerters, favoriters, and people who added my story to their C2s (C2ers?). I'm quite pleased with the response to this story.

"I dream about it sometimes," Potter said without preamble the next time he sat in front of Severus' desk. He drew a knee up under his chin. Severus would normally protest as that brought Potter's shoe in contact with his furniture, but he pretended to ignore it. It was a protective pose that Potter had unconsciously assumed. "The cupboard." He shook his head. "It didn't bother me while I was in it, but now-"

"You feel like you can't be free of it?" Severus completed for him, softly.

Potter looked up at him briefly and looked away, picking at the fabric of his uniform. "Why does it bother me so much now?"

"I'm no Healer, Potter. All I can offer you are theories." Severus steepled his fingers in front of him. "While your- muggle relatives," Severus couldn't bring himself to say 'aunt and uncle,' "kept you in that cupboard, you had to endure. You had no time to be scared. And I'm guessing protest would just warrant further punishment." Potter didn't look up, didn't make any sign. He continued to pick at his uniform. Severus took that as an affirmative. "So there was nothing you could do about it and your mind pushed it away. You couldn't grow if you were constantly terrified. It wasn't that it didn't bother you, it was that you couldn't allow it to bother you."

Potter stopped picking and looked up again, this time holding Severus' gaze. "So what do I do now?" he asked. "How do I fix it?"

Typical Gryffindor, looking for a quick fix. "There is no potion or spell to heal you, Potter. As your friend Weasley learned, memories leave deep wounds. And those wounds may never completely heal."

"So what- I do therapy? Talk about my feelings?" Potter snorted in derision. "Like the Daily Prophet won't figure out what I'm up to if I show up at St. Mungo's once a week."

"While the Healers at St. Mungo's are best qualified for this kind of work, talking with one of your professors will likely suffice. I can notify Professor McGonagall if you'd like. Or Madam Pomfrey-"

But Potter was shaking his head violently. Severus bit back a sigh. "Who then, Potter?" he asked, knowing what the answer would be. But Potter had to be the one to suggest it. After the rather disturbing thoughts he'd been having about the boy all week, he wouldn't put him into such a vulnerable position without Potter's consent.

"I- what about you, sir?" he asked tentatively. "I mean, you already know, right? So-"

"So you'll willingly give me that kind of ammunition against you?" Severus asked with a sneer. Potter's shocked look showed just how far they'd both come in a few months.

"Y-you wouldn't-"

"You rely too much on blind faith, Potter." The sneer disappeared. "Think about it. In my office you are just a student, but outside of these walls, information on your weaknesses command a high price. Do you place so much trust in me, a confirmed Death Eater?"

"Yes."

For a moment Severus couldn't breathe. A few months of their tentative truce had completely wiped away five years of enmity, it seemed. Potter was looking away again, pulling on his hair, giving Severus time to school his expression to something that wasn't so shocked. No one had ever trusted him so simply, so completely, and Merlin knew he'd given Potter plenty of reason to mistrust him in the past.

"Potter-"

"Dumbledore trusts you," the boy interrupted. "And you're a part of the Order. And you've had an entire week to leak the story and you haven't. And no Death Eaters came at me in Hogsmeade trying to stuff me into a little box, so I'll assume you won't tell Vol- You-Know-Who." He gave a little half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Besides, you're the one who keeps insisting I have to talk about it, so why should I burden anyone else with this?"

"Cheeky," Severus muttered, almost to himself. "Fine then, Potter. If you can manage to be so flip about it, tell me."

"Tell you what?" Potter asked with a puzzled look.

"Tell me about the cupboard."

Harry found himself telling Snape things he'd never told anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. Ron knew, of course, how bad things had been the summer before second year, but he'd always assumed that had been the worst of it. Harry had let him believe that. Truthfully, though, there had been no food flap on the cupboard. There had been days when his only food consisted of lunch at school (Aunt Petunia always packed him one since the Dursleys wouldn't trust him with lunch money, and the teachers would notice if Harry consistently went without lunch). Some Saturdays they would forget to feed him if he was locked in his cupboard, but they always remembered by Sunday; they certainly didn't want him too weak to go to school on Monday. And there had been weeks when Harry's only reprieve from the cupboard had been school. Aunt Petunia would let him out in time for the school bus and shut him back in when he got home.

Harry had half-expected Snape to interrupt him, accuse him of lying or at least exaggeration, or ridicule him. But Snape listened attentively. Sometimes his mouth would tighten or his eyes would darken. The only time Snape spoke was to ask questions or (even more strangely) assure Harry that his actions had not warranted such severe punishment.

Over time, Harry found it easier to talk about his time at the Dursleys'. When he finally realized that Snape wouldn't ridicule him, he shared things like how terrified he'd been of Ripper, Aunt Marge's bulldog, how he learned to cry quietly in his cupboard so Uncle Vernon wouldn't hear him and extend his punishment, and how much he'd sometimes wished desperately he could have been Dudley, despite how much he hated his cousin.

When Harry was describing how they'd encouraged Dudley to beat him with his Smeltings stick, Snape made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Harry stopped short at the sound. "What?"

"Potter, you never told anyone about this?" Snape asked rubbing his forehead. "Not a friend or a teacher or one of those muggle peace-keepers- police men?"

"Ron knows a bit."

"A bit," Snape repeated dryly. "No one else."

"Just you, sir."

Snape pinched the bridge of his hook-like nose, and Harry suddenly worried that the Potions Master had had enough. "You aren't going back there this summer," he said instead through gritted teeth.

"I- what?"

"I've sat here and listened to you talk about being shut in a small closet and starved half to death like it was nothing and I will not allow you to go back there." He gave Harry a long, hard look, and Harry was sure he must look absolutely shell-shocked. "What they did," Snape said, very slowly, "was criminal, and if I had my way…" Snape trailed off without finishing.

Harry just gaped at his professor. Of all the things he had expected Snape to say, of all the things he thought Snape would interrupt him with, that wasn't even on the list.

"Did you know, Potter, that those are tried and true methods of breaking a prisoner? That your childhood was spent in a way that most grown men would consider torture?"

"I never-" Harry faltered, "I mean I always thought that it could have been worse-"

Snape laughed, a terrible, hollow, mirthless laugh. "It could have been worse?"

Harry shrank back in his chair. "I mean they never beat me or- or touched me-"

Snape sobered at once. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to laugh," he said in an oddly gentle tone. "Harry, what they did was just as bad. Is that why you never told anyone? Because you thought you were fine as long as they didn't beat you?"

"Well…yeah. I guess." Harry shrugged feeling at a loss. It always threw him for a bit of a loop when Snape called him by his first name. "It never really occurred to me to say anything. Would have felt like I was whining or something.

Snape rubbed his forehead again. "Whining," he repeated in a strangled voice. "You are definitely never going back there."

"Err, sir, Professor Snape, where will I go?"

"There are a number of places you can go and be safe, Potter." Harry felt an odd sense of disappointment at the vague answer. Snape looked up and seemed to realize that didn't satisfy Harry. "I assure you, Potter, you will not be going back to that house even if you have to stay with me."

And that, Harry realized, was the answer he'd half been waiting for. It was odd; less than a year ago Harry would have said that living with Snape would have been just as bad- or worse- than living with the Dursleys. Now, however… "You'd do that, professor? For me?"

"Those people," Snape spat the word as though the Dursleys didn't even deserve to be called that, "shouldn't be trusted to take care of a cat, never mind the bloody Chosen One."

Normally, Harry hated it when people called him that, as though he wasn't even human, just a weapon to be used against Voldemort. But he knew Snape never meant it in that way. After all, as he always said, Harry was just a student in his office.

"Whining," Snape muttered again, turning his eyes heavenward as though asking for patience. Eventually he looked back down at Harry. "I think that's enough for the night. Now the potions I have planned for class this week…"

Severus decided he would get spectacularly drunk that night. If he didn't, he might go down to Little Whinging and murder those people who dared to call themselves Potter's caretakers. He'd heard plenty to make him angry at them, but to hear Potter talk about it like it was nothing more than every other child went through, that to tell someone about it would feel like whining… Severus burned with anger at the very thought of it.

Severus might not have been the most beloved professor at Hogwarts, he might have taken pleasure in cultivating his 'nasty' reputation, and he even might have been the first to admit that he wasn't an especially good man, but even he had his limits. And the neglect and abuse of a child who had born it all silently and without complaint, well that pushed him very far beyond those limits.

Especially since you like Potter a little more than you should, eh Sev? that nasty little voice asked in the back of his head.

Severus didn't respond to it; he'd quickly learned the voice knew better than him and to argue with it was to lose. Never mind how absolutely insane that statement was.

Severus poured himself a hearty shot of Ogden's Best and downed it in one gulp, relishing in the burn. He poured another one, took the glass and the bottle, and sank into his couch in front of the blazing fire. He sipped at the glass, brooding as he stared into the fire.

The voice was right, of course. It always was. Severus had found himself looking at Potter with wholly inappropriate thoughts in his head. Thoughts that would get him fired, if not arrested. Thoughts that included Potter looking up at him with those warm, trusting eyes as he…

Stop! Down that path lay certain madness.

I thought we already established that you were mad, Sev, the voice whispered, sounding gleeful. Some nice little fantasies about you deflowering Harry Potter won't hurt.

Severus frowned as he poured himself another shot. The voice was definitely wrong about that. The fantasies would have been harmless if Severus hadn't been spending so much time alone with Har- Potter. No, being closed in a little room once a week with the newfound star of his fantasies was dangerous. Severus poured himself another drink.

"This is all your fault," he muttered, gesturing violently at the brown-paper package propped up against the mantle. "If I looked at you now, would you show me as a pedophile?" He drained his glass.

Potter's over the age of consent, the voice supplied helpfully, so you aren't a pedophile.

"Just a pervert, then? Good to know."

What's perverted about it? It's been quite a while, Severus. A fantasy life is perfectly healthy. And no one has to know.

He never took his eyes off of the unopened package. "You'd know," Severus murmured at the painting in the corner. "You'd know." And for once, the voice didn't have a response.

Severus poured himself another drink. This was going to be a long night.

During breakfast the next morning, Hedwig dropped a note in front of Harry, narrowly missing his eggs. Harry quickly rescued the parchment from his breakfast and stroked his owl affectionately as he examined the note. It had no address, so it was from someone inside the school. Probably Hagrid, he thought with pleasure, realizing he hadn't seen the half-giant as often as he'd have liked this term. Between the sixth-year coursework and his sessions with Snape, there just hadn't been time. Harry wasted no time in ripping it open, expecting an invitation to come down and visit. Instead, the note contained a single sentence in Snape's now-familiar handwriting:

Don't be stupid.

Harry frowned at the note, trying to puzzle out what Snape meant by it. He didn't have anything especially foolhardy or illegal planned, so Snape couldn't mean that. "What on earth…?" Harry murmured to himself, turning the note over in his hands just in case there was something written on the other side. There wasn't.

"Harry?"

Harry looked up to see Ron and Hermione looking at him with concern. Hedwig looked affronted that he'd stopped petting her. He fed his owl a bit of bacon to appease her, and handed the note over to his two best friends. "From Snape," he clarified, just in case they didn't recognize his handwriting.

They both frowned at it as Harry had. After a few moments, they looked back up at him. "Did something, err, happen last night Harry?" Ron asked. "With Snape?"

"Nothing unusual." Nothing except him offering to let me live with him. A part of Harry squirmed at the fact that he was essentially lying to his best friends, but he couldn't tell them that without telling them the truth about the Dursleys. And that would just worry them unnecessarily. Besides, that couldn't possibly have anything to do with the note. Unless Snape is saying I shouldn't be stupid and actually believe the offer, Harry realized suddenly, with a feeling of something almost like dread in the pit of his stomach. If that was the case, well… he hadn't really let himself hope anyway. Still, it would have been nice to leave the Dursleys a few months early.

"You don't have anything planned, do you Harry?" Hermione asked, giving him a significant look.

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts. "Nothing stupid if that's what you're asking."

Hermione didn't look convinced. She opened her mouth as if to ask something else, but Ron interrupted her. "Lay off it, Hermione. Harry wouldn't tell Snape something like that. Especially before us. At least, not unless he was drugged with Veritaserum," Ron added with a little laugh. Inwardly, Harry winced. He'd been telling Snape an awful lot that he hadn't told Ron and Hermione.

Ron must have noticed some sort of change in Harry's expression because he paled. "He- he hasn't been dosing you with Veritaserum, has he?"

"Wha-? No. Of course not. Don't be stupid, Ron." Harry shook his head in disbelief. "He'd get canned for that. And maybe even arrested." Snape had told him in his fourth year that Veritaserum use was monitored very closely by the Ministry.

Harry looked up at the Head Table to see if he could find some clue in the man's eyes. But to his surprise, Snape wasn't there. Sitting in his customary spot was a woman that looked familiar to Harry. He sucked in a sharp breath.

Ron and Hermione both looked in the same direction. Hermione frowned. "Is that who I think it is?"

"That's Anastasia King," Harry supplied grimly. He'd seen her both in Snape's office and in the library book. He wasn't at all pleased to see her again.

"The woman that does those awful portraits?" Hermione made a face. "What on earth is she doing here?"

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked desperately, and Hermione explained King's portraits to him.

"I think I know what the note means," Harry interrupted. He described the scene in Snape's office, although he left out the fact that King had painted Snape.

"That was… decent of him," Ron said with some surprise.

Hermione ignored him. "So you think Professor Snape is warning you against letting King paint you?"

"I think it's more… not to trust her." You rely too much on blind faith, Potter. Don't be stupid.

Hermione nodded. "That's sound advice. I think it would be best to avoid her as much as possible, too." Hermione looked back at Harry and there was concern in her eyes. "Don't give her anything to use against you. We don't want a Rita Skeeter repeat."

Harry and Ron both shuddered at the idea.

But avoiding King would be harder than any of them thought. Harry and Hermione walked into the Potions dungeon (Ron had sworn that he would have nothing more to do with Potions, never mind that he hadn't gotten an Oustanding on his OWLs like Hermione, or had had Professor McGonagall swear to help him become an Auror, like Harry), only to see King standing in the front of the classroom.

They stopped in their tracks upon seeing her. "Come on in, come on in!" She said cheerfully. "Professor Snape is ill today, so Professor Dumbledore asked me to take over the class until he's well again."

King looked the exact opposite of Snape, wearing jeans and dragonhide boots and a wide-sleeved peasant blouse. Her long brown hair was pulled back using some kind of iridescent ribbon that changed color every time she moved. Her face was expressive, and she sported a healthy tan.

Harry and Hermione frowned at each other, but said nothing. Instead of sitting in the front as Hermione generally liked (easier to see the board, she claimed), they both silently agreed to move their seats towards the back for once. "He wasn't ill last night," Harry muttered to Hermione as they slid into their seats. "D'you think she…"

"Don't be stupid," Hermione scoffed. She gave a little grin when Harry made a face. "See? Sound advice. But do you really think Professor Dumbledore would ask her to teach the class if she had done something to Professor Snape? For that matter, don't you think Professor Snape would have been able to defend himself?"

Harry nodded. That made sense. "So you think he's doing something for the Order?" Harry lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

Hermione tapped her finger with her lips. "Possibly," she said thoughtfully. "Or maybe he's really sick."

Harry stared at her. She shrugged. "I agree with you, Harry. I don't think Professor Snape would willingly take the day off unless he was on his deathbed. But Professor Dumbledore might have made him take the day. With everything he's been doing," Hermione waved her arms vaguely, and Harry knew what she meant: classes, work for the Order, being a double agent, and (Harry winced) doing sessions with him, "it's a wonder his health hasn't suffered."

Harry rubbed his forehead; like always, Hermione's argument made sense. But before he could say anything else, King called the class to order.

"Hello everybody!" she said brightly. "My name is Anastasia King, and I'll be taking over the class for today since Professor Snape is ill."

Malfoy's hand shot up into the air. "What's wrong with him?" the blond asked without waiting to be called on.

"Mainly dehydration," she answered with an odd twinkle in her eye. Harry felt suddenly angry that she found Snape's illness amusing. Seeming to sense his mood, Hermione placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Rest assured that it's nothing life-threatening and he'll be back teaching by tomorrow. In the meantime," she hopped up to sit on Snape's desk, "you're stuck with me."

To Harry's surprise, Hermione raised her hand. "Excuse me, but aren't you a painter?"

King seemed pleased that someone recognized her. "Why yes, Miss-"

"Hermione Granger. So why did Professor Dumbledore ask you to take over the class?"

Harry struggled to keep his expression schooled; for Hermione, that was a downright rude way of addressing a teacher, even a substitute. The few Gryffindors in the room looked surprised as well, but everyone looked at King, waiting for her answer.

If King thought it was rude, she made no sign. Instead she smiled, an oddly secretive smile. "That's a valid question, Miss Granger. I use a number of different potions in my paintings, of course. But potions-making is not so different from painting. It's an art, Miss Granger, not a science. Every true Potions Master, including Professor Snape, knows this. In fact, I tutored Professor Snape when we were in Hogwarts. You might say he became the Potions Master he is today because of me."

"Somehow I doubt that," Harry whispered belligerently to Hermione, feeling oddly defensive.

"Shhh."

King looked over in their direction, but said nothing. Harry stared defiantly back at her. Snape might not have been a nice man, he might have far too much fun taking points and assigning detentions, and he might occasionally make first years cry, but he was a brave man and an honest man. He didn't make a living exploiting the weaknesses of others. He's twice the person you can ever hope to be, Harry thought angrily at the artist. Hermione's restraining hand tightened on his arm, and Harry wondered briefly if she was using Legilimency.

After that the class started off as normal. King had them start on one of the Potions that Harry had researched last night, putting the directions on the board. Harry and Hermione agreed that she would go into the potions stores for both of them, as Harry pretended to look up the potion. Going into the storeroom would bring him right past King, and they agreed that it was best to keep Harry as far away from her as they could manage.

But it seemed King had been waiting for that, because as soon as Hermione was out of sight, King was in front of him. She was there so fast that Harry wondered if she'd used a Portkey. He pretended to take notes from his text.

"Aren't you Harry Potter?" she asked sweetly.

As if you didn't know. "Uh-huh." He didn't look up.

"I was wondering if you'd allow me to paint a portrait-"

"I know what kind of portraits you paint, Ms. King," Harry interrupted, "and I'm not interested."

If he'd surprised her, she didn't show it. "You know," she said conversationally, "years ago, I wanted to do a study of the prisoners in Azkaban, the long-term ones? And I only found one prisoner lucid enough to give me his consent. Sirius Black."

Harry's head whipped up at his godfather's name, and he knew the shock must have shown on his face. But King kept talking as though she hadn't noticed. "Now, I knew Sirius from Hogwarts, of course, but we were never very close. Different social circles, you understand. So I was shocked when he gave me his consent. He said it would break the monotony." She gave a small laugh. "Monotony. As if boredom was the only thing to worry about in Azkaban!" Harry felt the intense urge to slap her. "I'm actually quite proud of the portrait. It's one of my personal favorites. Unfortunately, it hasn't gained quite the attention that I'd hoped."

Harry felt relieved when she said that; people weren't clamoring to stare at his godfather's flaws. But King was leading up to something, and Harry had the feeling that it wasn't something very good. "I heard that Sirius' name was cleared last June. Posthumously." Harry's heart ached, and Anastasia shook her head sadly. "A very terrible story, but it's the kind that gains a lot of publicity, don't you think?"

At first, Harry didn't understand what she meant. And then he felt as though his heart was being squeezed. "You- you wouldn't. You never reveal-"

"No, I don't, but I don't see what other choice I have." She gave Harry a despairing look, but something hard glinted in her eyes. "I put more time and effort into that portrait than any other- do you know how hard it is to paint around dementors?- and I have to make it worth something." She tilted her head to the side thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could make an exchange. I'll give you the painting if you agree to sit for me."

Harry felt sick. He thought of the note in his pocket. Don't be stupid. "I don't- I don't know-"

She patted his hand. "Think about it, Harry. I'll be in Hogsmeade until the end of the week. You can owl me until then. After that…" she shrugged and left to check on the other students.

"Sorry!" Hermione said as she came back a few moments later. "I couldn't find the… Harry?" Hermione immediately dropped the ingredients on the table, heedless. "What's wrong?"

"King's trying to blackmail me."

"You have to go to Professor Dumbledore!" Hermione hissed when Harry told her the story under the cover of brewing their potions. Harry knew Snape would be disappointed with his. Abysmal would be a kind description, but Harry simply couldn't concentrate. "She can't do that!"

And what can Professor Dumbledore do? But he agreed, not wanting to argue. "After class. Don't want to give her the satisfaction… You can tell Flitwick I'm ill."

But Professor Dumbledore wasn't who Harry wanted to see, and instead of going to the headmaster's office after class, he went up to Gryffindor Tower to fetch the Marauder's Map. Holding the old parchment in his hands, Harry searched desperately for the dot labeled 'Severus Snape.'