AN: I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter 12

He barely sleeps, and when he does, he has nightmares. They're all some variation of Uncle Vernon killing him when wizards come knocking and demand better treatment for him. It's already happened once. He knows they had only the best intentions, but the aftermath wasn't pretty. It was like his uncle had channelled all the anger he'd repressed when he was afraid of Sirius showing up. The bruises had been spectacular, even with his uncle's 50/50 hit rate. He was just lucky they'd mostly faded by the time Dumbledore retrieved him from Privet Drive, and the ones that hadn't were easily hidden.

Frankly, he thinks Snape is making a mountain out of a molehill. He wonders how angry the man will be when he realizes he's wasted his time. He knows Dumbledore will set Snape straight in that calm way of his, explain that Harry has to stay with his aunt and uncle every summer in order for his own protection, and what is getting knocked around a bit in the grand scheme of things? It's not like they've given him broken bones. Voldemort will—and has—done a lot worse. Snape calls it abuse, but he just can't see it that way; he knows he's lucky to have a family at all. As he's been told, they didn't exactly have a say in whether or not they were taking him in, and it isn't their fault they don't like magic. Maybe he would act the same in their place. (He doesn't think so, can't picture it, but maybe. He's been in lots of tough situations where he did things he didn't think he could or would.)

He doesn't go down for breakfast, and his stomach, newly re-acclimated to being fed regular meals, protests… but he wants to avoid Snape as long as possible. He even thinks about trying to leave entirely via the window, though he quickly rejects this idea, deciding that someone—the Ministry, Death Eaters, or Snape himself—would flay him alive if and when they caught up to him.

Finally, mid-afternoon, Snape comes to him. Unfortunately, he is on his knees in front of the door, eyeing the nails he pocketed a few days ago and considering how he might use them to remove the lock, and Snape has that nasty habit of not knocking.

"Ouch!" He topples over sideways, catching himself on his elbows and bringing one hand up to rub at the bump that is surely forming on his forehead. There's a quiet clatter as the nails fall from his fingers and roll off across the bedroom floor.

"Potter!" Snape snaps, glowering down at him. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

"Nothing," Harry says automatically, still absently rubbing at his forehead. "You really need to learn how to knock first."

"You are putting yourself on thin ice," Snape warns. He suddenly swoops down and grabs Harry's wrist, prompting a flinch. "Stop poking at it. Let me see."

Harry watches warily as he leans in and narrows his eyes at the contusion. Then, he reaches into his robes and pulls out a jar of paste. He unscrews the lid, and Harry recognizes it as bruise paste (why does Snape carry around bruise paste?), mostly because they learned to brew it in second year and it has a distinct and unpleasant odour. Also, Madam Pomfrey has slathered a lot onto him over the years. Hermione brought that up once as an argument against playing Quidditch. "If you have to bathe in bruise paste afterwards, is it really worth it?" she said.

Now, Snape dips his fingers into the cream and applies it to the injury. The paste is cold, but Snape is surprisingly gentle, despite the ferocious look of disdain on his face.

"Be more careful," he says as he screws the cap back on and returns the jar to his pocket, standing as he does so. (He must have some kind of charm on his robes, because he seems to keep everything in there.)

Harry opens his mouth to retort that he didn't exactly hit himself with the door, but he closes it again. This isn't the time to pick a fight. They'll probably be having lots of fights later.

"Now, come downstairs and have lunch. Don't think I didn't notice that you missed breakfast."

Since this is clearly an order, he reluctantly follows Snape into the kitchen. It crosses his mind to ask Snape why he suddenly gives a shit, but then he figures that he probably talked to the headmaster and Dumbledore probably told him to.

Dobby is standing by the kitchen counter, and when he sees Harry, he jumps excitedly. "Master Harry Potter sir!" he gushes. "Master Potions Master sir asked Dobby to prepare a nice lunch and Dobby has done his best!"

Harry looks at the table. Dobby has basically looked for an army. "It looks wonderful," he says with a smile. "Thanks."

The little elf's grin takes up half his face. "Master Harry Potter sir is always so kind!"

"Yes, yes," Snape interjects sarcastically, "thank you very much for this… feast. That will be all."

Wholly oblivious to Snape's insincerity, Dobby's grin stretches even wider. "Thank you, kind Master Potions Master sir!" he says before he disappears with a pop.

"You don't have to be so mean to him," Harry says as they sit down. "He means well."

The look Snape gives him is as biting as his most sarcastic tone of voice. He looks away. Snape changes the subject.

"I spoke with the headmaster."

He braces himself.

"I assure you that Professor Dumbledore was unaware of your relative's inappropriate behaviour."

"...What?"

Snape sneers, but it lacks it's usual malice. "You can put that absurd theory of yours to bed," he says. "The headmaster said that, had he known, he would have made other arrangements."

"He told you I have to go back, though, right? Because of the blood wards."

"Honestly, Potter," drawls Snape in exasperation. "Did you listen to a word I said? The headmaster is making other arrangements."

Harry shakes his head. "But the blood wards-"

"Are worth nothing if your relatives do the Dark Lord's job for him."

He must be hearing this wrong. It doesn't make any sense. "But what about the blood wards?" he insists.

"There are other methods of protection we can rely on," Snape says, managing to not sound like he is slowly dying of impatience.

There is a long silence. Harry stares down at his plate. At some point, either he or Snape put food on it, but he can't remember that happening. Snape eats his salad.

"Isn't it kind of a waste, though?" Harry asks eventually, looking up. "If I just… leave? I mean, is it really that simple?"

"It is, indeed, 'really that simple,'" says Snape with a raised brow. "When we discover that children are in unsafe environments, we remove them.'"

He frowns, picks up his fork, and stabs a potato. "But the Dursleys have tolerated so much. You're telling me I didn't have to make them put up with me for all these years?"

Snape doesn't speak until Harry looks at him. "Tell me, Potter," he says slowly, his stare intense and unwavering. "Do you think Mister Weasley's parents begrudge his existence? Or the existence of any of their children?"

"No!" Harry exclaims, horrified at the suggestion that the Weasley clan is anything but warm and welcoming, if chaotic.

"And do Miss Granger's parents starve her or put bars on her window?"

"It's not the same," he protests. "Ron and Hermione's parents wanted their kids. The Dursleys didn't ask to take care of me."

"And yet, they consented when they brought you into their home instead of contacting the headmaster and raising hell."

He shakes his head vehemently. "Okay, sure, but I was a problematic kid. You of all people should be able to believe that."

Snape suddenly looks like he's bitten into a lemon. And is that discomfort in his eyes? "I may have been"—he pauses for a long moment—"incorrect in my initial assessment of your character. I treated you unfairly. It was wrong of me."

He feels that he should be angry at this stilted, not-quite apology, as if it erases years of mutual dislike, but all he can think is, Wow, that's probably like a public statement of error in Snape Land.

"Okay," he says lamely.

Snape appears unaffected by this lack of reaction. Moving on, likely to the relief of them both, he slides an envelope across the table. "This came from the headmaster for you," he says.

Harry opens it. It's just a short note saying that Dumbledore is very sorry and would like to speak with him in the near future. He still fails to see why this is such a big deal, but it feels nice to know that Dumbledore wasn't setting him up for misery.

Snape sets down more pages. "And these came from your friends. Mister Weasley's owl is horribly excitable."

Harry smiles a bit. "That's Pig," he says. "He does his best. Kinda like Dobby."

Snape sniffs derisively and directs his attention to the rest of his lunch. They finish their meal in silence, but before Harry can excuse himself, Snape speaks up again.

"What were you doing at the door when I came in?" he asks.

Harry bites his lip. They've come this far, there probably isn't any point in lying. "Trying to figure out if I could remove the lock," he admits.

"Locks bother you." It's a statement, not a question, so he just shrugs. "It only locks from the inside," Snape informs him. Then, he adds, "If it bothers you, I will ask Dobby to remove it.

He can't stop the expression of surprise on his face. "Oh. Okay. Um, thanks."

Snape gives him a curt nod before pushing back his chair and exiting the kitchen without another word. Harry sits there feeling confused and dazed and something that seems a bit like hope. Eventually, he goes into the sitting room to work on his Transfiguration paper. It won't be until later that he realizes Snape somehow knows more than he ever told him.