A/N1: There's going to be some Snape torture in this chapter, folks. It's not too graphic, but if you really, really can't stand that sort of thing...just stop reading when Snape gets to the Potter's house. You also might want to read the last few paragraphs. Hope you enjoy.

Snape finally got himself under control. First the sobs, then the tears and finally he just leaned his forehead against Mrs. Potter's bony shoulder, quietly waiting for her to release him. He noticed, now that he could breath through his nose, that she smelled good. She had that earthy greenhouse smell that made him think of warm, safe, hidden places.

The arm around his shoulder finally retreated and Snape sat up, rubbing his face with the palms of his hands.

"Do you still want to go back to the school?" Mrs. Potter asked.

Snape took a breath and shook his head. He did want to go back, but he wanted to know what a clean, new shirt felt like against his skin even more, if that was still on offer. "We could finish with the tailor. It's the last stop anyway."

"Are you sure? Right now you look as if you belong in St. Mungo's, not the Italian shopping district."

Snape could imagine that. He knew what he looked like when he cried, his sallow skin covered with red splotches and his eyes bloodshot.

"I'm all right. Could we—could we get this done, please?" he asked.

"Very well. We'll make this quick."

It was quick. Mrs. Potter led him to a different store and let him choose from the rack, under the tailor's disapproving glower. The robes were easy, but Mrs. Potter insisted on shirts, trousers, pajamas and underwear. When he ran out of energy and interest after a few shirts—all black—Mrs. Potter quickly turned him into a half-dazed mannequin. A few more shirts in grey and maroon (for Quidditch season, Mrs. Potter explained) and a pile of other necessities that he had never had and Snape was finally allowed to sit down. Mrs. Potter and the tailor arranged for the wardrobe to be delivered.

They took the Portkey home. Snape grasped the end of the orange, mouse-shaped cat toy and wondered if this pleasant dream of courtesy and kindness would end the moment they were back on British soil.

He stumbled as the Portkey spat him out. Mrs. Potter grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

That answered that.

It occurred to him, as he walked through the sweeping iron gates, that this may have been why Potter had been so lenient with him. Maybe Mrs. Potter had forbidden roughing up the merchandise. That made more sense than Potter's sudden change of heart. Young men didn't stop being bloodthirsty savages all on their own.

He had almost worked up the courage to ask when a grimfaced headmaster strode out of the front entrance to meet them. Potter hurried behind him, white-faced and clutching a rolled-up parchment.

"Mum!" he yelled. "It's the Ministry! Malfoy's after Snape."

---

Snape, hunched over in a chair in the headmaster's office, decided that all he really wanted was for today to end. Until Potter's tactless announcement, the day hadn't been going badly, but so much had happened that he needed time to understand.

It looked like he wouldn't get it.

The headmaster stood in front of his desk to talk to Mrs. Potter. He handed the scroll to her.

Mrs. Potter's thin lips curled. "The minister who signed this doesn't even work on Sundays. Merlin knows who Calligulus bribed to push this through."

"More likely it was Lucius," the headmaster pointed out. "He has a position within the Ministry and petty revenge is reason enough for him to go through the trouble. Calligulus, on the other hand, always has a more practical agenda."

The headmaster sighed and crossed his arms. "I've contacted a few sources, and the claim is legal."

"I'll speak to some friends as well, but if the claim itself is legal, there isn't much we can do. Nobody will take a bribe against a Malfoy."

Snape stared up at the two adults. Were they really talking about using bribes and favors to keep him out of the Malfoys' hands? He glanced over at Potter, who was in the chair across from him. There was no mockery, no glee in the handsome face.

Potter eventually noticed and met Snape's eyes. Snape dropped his gaze to the floor.

He heard shuffling and scraping. When he looked up, he found that James had dragged his chair closer, so that his knees were almost touching Snape's.

"Hey," he said.

Snape didn't respond.

"Do you know what's going on?" Potter asked.

Snape nodded.

"Good. I don't."

Oh joy, he would get to explain the circumstances of his own torture. "My former master filed a complaint with the Ministry. They have granted him the right to punish me—or, more properly, to seek retribution."

"What's he going to do, give you a bloody nose too?"

Snape stared at Potter. The bastard really was as daft as he looked. "He'll do whatever it is he wants, provided I'm able to perform my duties within two days. It's—it will happen next Friday night."

"That's...barbaric."

It was almost mild, actually. Malfoy must have settled for a light round of torture to get it pushed through so quickly. Impatient bastard.

He didn't say that, of course. Despite both Potters' reassurances, he had no intention of laying out exactly how barbaric the laws governing his own life were. Potter really seemed to think it was unusual to torture a slave.

Mrs. Potter and the headmaster had gone quiet, staring at each other with discouraged looks on their faces.

Finally Mrs. Potter shooed her son out of his chair and sat down in front of Snape.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Yes," Snape lied.

"And I'm Merlin's apprentice. But we need to discuss this now, I'm sorry."

"Okay."

"We have the option of either choosing the location or the...punishment. You need to decide which."

Oddly, Snape didn't even consider that this might be a trick, that Mrs. Potter would do the opposite of what he said just to torture him. "Location," he answered, voice suddenly hoarse. "Please, if you're really giving me the choice, then please, don't make me go back to the Malfoys. I wouldn't survive walking through those doors again."

---

James led Snape back to the dorms, not for the first time wishing there was some kind of bridge connecting the towers. It wasn't that he minded the exercise, but going down the stairs and then up in utter silence with Snape made the walk stretch forever.

He felt the urge to make jokes, small talk. He was uncomfortable with silence, always had been. But what could he say? Nothing he had ever experienced would come close to what Snape had dealt with.

He thought back to the worst punishment he'd ever received. Five swats to his trouser-covered backside. He had stolen a failed potion from his father when he was six or seven. He had fed it to the family dog, expecting it to do something silly and spectacular like all the potions his dad had showed him.

Instead, the dog had died, nearly turning herself inside out choking on the toxic potion. James and just stood there, stunned. By the time he broke free of the shock and ran for help, it was too late.

So his father had turned him over his knee for the first and only time in James' life, and then made him help bury the dog and care for her half-grown puppies.

When he'd exposed the slave mark on Snape's hip he'd realized what his dad had been trying to tell him. He just wished his dad had used terms clear enough to penetrate his thick skull.

Foolish actions on his part could result in horrible consequences to those who couldn't protect themselves.

At least this time, with Snape, he'd saved the other boy. More or less.

When they reached the dorm room, James spotted the small mountain of packages on Snape's bed, probably the result of today's shopping trip. Snape picked up one package—a wool cloak it looked like—and hefted it in his hands. He stroked the material the same way a scared child would pet a stuffed animal.

James felt like a prat for leaving Snape to fend for himself the last few weeks. Worse, he felt like an awkward prat when he tried to strike up a conversation.

"Hey, are you hungry? We could probably still get lunch before the food's gone."

Snape turned quickly to face him. He warily searched James' face, but didn't seem to find what he was looking for.

"Or...do you want a nap or something? I could leave you alone and send up a house-elf with some food?"

Snape was clutching the folded cloak to his chest now, and the unconscious gesture made something shift uneasily in James' gut. "You know what," James stuttered. "Why don't I just leave you alone? Just...do whatever you need to do."

"I'm sorry," he said over his shoulder as he fled.

---

Snape realized he'd been clutching the cloak to his chest like an idiot child and let it drop back onto the bed. He was surprised Potter hadn't noticed, or commented.

Do whatever you need to do...

He needed to think. Nothing in his world made sense anymore. He needed to go somewhere safe and just think things out.

Five minutes later he knocked on Madam Pomfrey's office door.

"Come in."

Snape walked into the office. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, giving him a once-over. She gave him a quick once-over. "I hope you're not back with another set of bruised knuckles."

"I have a wand now. No more bruised knuckles for me."

"Merlin help us."

Snape sat himself in the faded chair in front of Madam Pomfrey's desk. It was soft, but the springs were gone, causing him to sink backwards into the chair; it was very comfortable until you tried to get back up.

"So I take it this is a social visit?"

"What did you mean when you told me to check my premises?" Snape asked bluntly.

"That you were making a bad assumption."

"About Potter."

"To start with."

"So what is the correct assumption?"

Madam Pomfrey absently trimmed the tip of her quill. "You'll have to sort that out for yourself."

"If that's the best answer you have, you should have gone into divination, not medicine."

"Divination was my best subject, actually. But I learned that people understand best when they discover the answers on their own."

"But I don't...I can't make sense of anything since Potter brought me here."

Madam Pomfrey used the top of her feathered quill to dust the trimmings into the bin. "Well, what do you think his motives were?"

"I thought...he'd get to enjoy torturing me, and his father might enjoy having a competent lab assistant."

"And now?"

"And now I don't know. Potter's just not disciplined enough to be faking his reactions...and Mrs. Potter...there's a lot of evidence, but no good theory to tie it all together."

"There is, you just haven't found it yet. Why do you think James picked on you in the first place?"

Snape shrugged. "Because I was there."

"You can do better than that."

"Because I was weak and vulnerable and he was a spoiled, arrogant prat?"

"Weakness and vulnerability are not the same thing, but we'll save that fight for later." Madam Pomfrey leaned forward. "James and Sirius like a challenge—but one handicapped enough that they will surely win. They picked on you because you are remarkably skilled and resilient, but without any support you could never hope to give them back as good as you got."

"But I could defend myself so they didn't have to feel guilty—that was Potter's excuse, anyway."

"Yes, well, they were spoiled, arrogant prats and you might have noticed that neither are very good at examining the consequences of their actions in advance."

Snape snorted. "I should be thankful for that. If Potter could think ahead more than thirty seconds, I'm sure I'd still be in Lucius's hands—or dead."

"But you aren't, are you?"

"No."

"And why is that?"

"I don't know!" Snape tugged on his hair. He had come here to find peace, but instead Madam Pomfrey was digging right into the source of his confusion and fear.

"It's not right to hurt someone who needs your protection, or let them be hurt."

"Lucius wouldn't agree."

"Obviously. But would Potter?"

Snape tried to deny it, but he kept seeing Potter, his eyes crinkled at the edges and his mouth turned downward as he learned what was going to happen in a week's time. Potter had seemed caught between frustration and guilt, even though he had done nothing to feel guilty about, for once.

No, Snape had earned this punishment himself. The horrible dread that he'd pushed into the back of his mind surged forward again. He tried to hide it, but knew he had failed when Madam Pomfrey circled around the desk to crouch in front of him.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Snape wrapped his hands around her wrist and tried to get a hold of his shakes. Finally, he took a breath, and told her. It came out in a garbled rush, but when he'd finished Madam Pomfrey had heard enough to give him a calming draught and hold his hand.

---

For Snape, the week passed in a muddle of foggy moments. It was as if all the terror and despair that had poured out of him on Sunday had taken with it all of Snape's humanity—if there had even been any left to take. There was no anger, fear or despair. He felt painfully empty, like a shriveled, dry husk.

Potter was a strange case as well. He was...solicitous. He made sure Snape went to classes, meals and did his homework—something Snape had never needed reminding of before. But time just seemed to slip through his fingers, and he couldn't remember what assignments he had or had done. He couldn't remember if he had showered, eaten, changed clothes or slept. And he didn't even have the energy to worry about it.

He knew he had gone mad. He wondered, distantly, if Potter would notice and have him put down before Lucius' punishment. But, no, he was not that lucky.

Friday evening came and he didn't notice. It was not until Potter led him to the headmaster's office and he saw Mrs. Potter standing there that he remembered. The coming punishment—torture, really.

And then he was looking at himself, from above. It did not feel odd—his mind (and sight) simply transplanted themselves from his head to a place about three feet above and behind his own body. His mind seemed to have realized what would be happening to his body soon, and decided that it wanted no part of it.

From this distant angle, he could see how greasy and stringy his hair had gotten, now that he did not even make an attempt at washing it. He knew the others in the room were talking, making reassuring noises and that his own head was nodding, but he could not understand what was being said.

Mrs. Potter held out a handful of Floo powder, and Snape saw himself take it and throw it into the fireplace. He watched himself step through, before feeling himself tugged along into the swirling whirlpool of the Floo network.

He watched himself stumble out of the fireplace and stare blankly at the room around him. It looked to be a comfortable sitting room—far too comfortable for a family of significant money and status. It was open and well lit, the cloth furniture clearly used but not ancient enough to warrant the title of antique or family heirloom. It was also quite small compared to the cavernous rooms at the Malfoy Manor.

There was a man standing by the fireplace. Dark, unruly hair streaked with gray, and wire-rimmed glasses over his brown eyes left no doubt as to whose father he was. It was eerie, though, how closely James' features matched his father's, but how little his attitude did. Mr. Potter was thin, but pale with long worry lines cut into his face. His hair was cut close to his head, though that didn't stop little tufts from sticking up all over. There was something very concentrated in the way he stood, his arms and robes folded close to his body, straight and centered. It was different from James Potter, who always seemed to fill the room he was in with sound and movement.

All at once, Snape remembered that he should be kneeling. But he couldn't seem to communicate that message to his detached body, which stared blankly and impolitely at his master's father.

He heard doors opening. He heard Mrs. Potter's voice, though he had not noticed her stepping through the Floo. He heard Potter's voice. He heard footsteps. Then, in the doorway, he heard Lucius voice, creeping across his skin like cold, familiar fingers.

With a sudden, sickening jolt, Snape found himself propelled back into his own body. He felt himself jerk, his arms and legs tense and his vision grey out for a second. And then he was looking out of his own two eyes, staring at Lucius, firmly entrenched in the body that his former master would soon be torturing.

Lucius smiled.

---

For a little while, James thought Snape had died and left his semi-animate corpse behind. The day after Snape had returned from Italy, he hadn't woken up in time for breakfast. James had finally hauled him out of bed and told him to go to class. He had been shocked by the slackness in the pale face, and the absolute emptiness of the black eyes.

He decided it must have been shock, and expected Snape to snap out of it in a few hours.

But nearly a week later, there was nothing. Snape moved when he was told, and answered when he was asked. He was like a victim of the Dementor's kiss, utterly without soul.

It wasn't until Friday night, standing in James' living room that Snape showed the first hint of emotion: terror.

James led Lucius into the living room where Snape was. Lucius had walked right up behind Snape and whispered something to him. Snape jerked as if he'd been hit with an electrifying curse, and spun around, eyes wide and mouth gaping open. James had never seen real terror before, and now the sight made him sick to his stomach.

Lucius smiled at the sight. "Nervous, are we?"

James watched Snape's face contort, finally settling on a rigid stillness as he stared at his old master. He was quite obviously still terrified, but fighting very hard not to show it. And failing terribly, but James was relieved to see Snape finally taking up the reins to his own mind again.

Lucius was not relieved; he was furious. "Answer me!"

Snape flinched and dropped his eyes, but kept his mouth firmly shut.

James heard his father clear his throat. "Mr. Malfoy," his dad said, voice low and firm. "There is nothing in the Ministry order that gives you the right to talk to this boy. The arrangements have been made. You will follow us into the basement, carry out your 'punishment' and leave."

James' dad stepped between Snape and Lucius, ending up so close to Snape that his chin almost touched the boy's nose. "Lad, can you hear me?"

Snape nodded, eyes still wide and absolutely terrified.

"Follow me. Don't take your eyes off me. Everything will be fine. This is nothing that you haven't survived before. In a little while, it will be over and you won't have to be afraid anymore."

Snape stared at James' father. The terror didn't go away, but Snape gave a slight nod and seemed to grab hold of himself just a little tighter.

His dad led them down to the basement. Specifically, he led them to the far corner, which had been cleared of boxes and broken things and sterilized from top to bottom. A ring had been bolted through the wall, and brown, padded manacles hung from it.

He still couldn't believe this was happening.

"Strip," Lucius hissed.

Snape didn't move for a second, and then he began to unbutton his robe—one of the tattered old things he'd bought on Saturday. At least Remus had had the forethought to make sure he didn't wear one of the new ones.

Snape was shaking so badly that he could barely manage the buttons. James almost wanted to go over and help him, the way he sometimes had to do for Remus, right before his friend changed into the wolf. But he just couldn't imagine undressing Snape, and he suspected he'd wind up blasted halfway across the basement if he tried that anyway.

Soon enough Snape had let his robe drop to the floor and stepped out of his pants. James felt himself flush and kept his eyes firmly in the space between Snape's pointed chin and collarbone.

Without being told, Snape walked up to the stone wall and locked the manacles onto his own wrists. He pressed his head against the stone and breathed out, a harsh, strangled sound. Naked, terrified and chained to a wall, he still had more dignity than Malfoy, who stood leering like a pervert.

Malfoy snapped his fingers. A house elf appeared, carrying a box and a folded brown robe draped over its shoulders. Malfoy put on the robe, which was covered in brown stains. Snape's blood, James realized.

Malfoy opened the box. He put on a pair of thick gloves and pulled out a short whip, wrapped completely in a damp cloth, except for the handle. He nodded for the house elf to unwrap it.

It was not what James had expected. The whip was only a few feet long and very thin. It didn't look like it could do much damage, but James was bright enough to know that looks meant little when magic was involved.

Lucius looked up at them, brushing his long white hair out of his face with his wrist. "Tryptale venom," he explained. From the corner of his eye, James saw Snape flinch as if the whip had already landed. "It travels through breaks in the skin and into the blood stream, activating the nerves along the way. But, I assure you, it will do no lasting damage to your property. Not that a few new scars will reduce its cosmetic value much."

James found Lucius' polite explanation, obviously pitched loud enough for Snape to hear, to be far more disturbing than the instrument of torture that he held in his hand. "Malfoy, just do what you came to do, or we'll throw you the hell out of this house."

Malfoy smirked. "As you wish."

He walked up to Snape, running a finger down Snape's spine. Snape flinched and made a strangled whimpering sound. He buried his face against his arm.

Before James could repeat his warning, Malfoy stepped back and flicked the whip against Snape's skin.

Snape's flinch was impressive, but the mark wasn't. Just a thin red line from shoulder to shoulder. It wasn't until the third blow that James noticed the thin tendrils of black creeping out from the first wound. Soon they began to branch out, forming a spider-webbed network across the pale skin. Snape was sobbing into his arm, body tense as a wire. But he hadn't screamed yet, and James was as impressed as he was horrified.

Lucius ordered a glass of water from his house elf. He took his time sipping it while watching Snape fight the need to scream.

Conversationally, he said, "The whip is actually one of the slowest methods of delivery. This one isn't heavy enough to do much more than scratch the skin, and the bruising delays the spread of the toxin even more. But I find the slow build up of agony to be exquisite."

James felt sick. He looked at his father, but his dad looked just as poorly as he felt.

Finally Lucius set down the glass and picked up the whip again. After the second blow had landed on the poisoned skin, Snape did scream. He tried to muffle the sound by pressing his mouth against his arm, but in a few minutes he was howling.

His screams weren't timed with the blows. He let out the scratchy, desperate wails each time he managed to take a breath. James felt a deep shame settle in the pit of his stomach. He shouldn't be watching this. Watching Snape tortured, helpless and stripped of his self-control was deeply humiliating, as bad as watching the other boy being raped would have been. James understood that, in some sense, he was watching the other boy being raped.

James was sick and sweating by the time Lucius finally handed the whip to the house elf to be folded away, and stretched his arm as if afraid the extended exercise had hurt it.

I hope the bloody thing falls off, James thought, so I could shove it down your throat.

Lucius stared at the still-screaming slave, something bordering between hunger and fury in his eyes. Finally, he turned to James' father and spoke, his voice vicious. "If you heal him before the two days are past, I will press charges."

James held open the basement door. "And if you don't leave now, we'll press charges."

James watched Lucius leave, long white hair swishing with each step. He followed him out the front door, then shut and locked it from the inside.

James felt the urge to tell a house elf to scrub every inch of floor Lucius had stepped on. He wanted the man gone and no trace left of him.

When he got back to the basement, he found his father kneeling over Snape,\ who was lying prostrate on a blanket. His screams had long since become quiet, harsh rasps, and he was trying feebly to crawl away from James' father who was keeping him on the blanket while struggling to open a jar.

James looked at his dad, mouth hanging open like a fish's. "Can you help him?"

"I can neutralize the toxin chemically, but I can't heal him or the Ministry will know, and this will happen all over again." His dad finally got the lid off the jar and offered it to James. It smelled noxious. "Rub this anywhere you see the black. Start from the wounds and move outwards. You take one side, I'll take the other."

James hesitated. He didn't want to touch the foul stuff in the jar, and he especially didn't want to touch Snape. But he bit his lip and scooped some of the cream out of the jar.

He rubbed the cream into Snape's skin. Snape hissed and cried out, rasping like a kitten. Several painful minutes ticked by before the raised black lines began to fade and melt back into the skin. James and his father emptied the jar in less than fifteen minutes, but it took nearly twice that long before the lines had completely faded. James summoned another blanket and covered Snape with it.

Even through the thick wool, James could see the tension in Snape's body slowly release as the agony began to fade. His breathing evened out and slowly became regular.

James' legs were cramped from sitting so long on the cold floor by the time Snape finally tried to sit up. He made it up to his elbows before he looked down and seemed to recall that he was naked. Snape grimaced.

His dad fetched Snape's clothes and handed them to James. James stared at them, then slid the pants under the blanket and into Snape's hands. He didn't think anyone could put on a robe while lying down under a blanket.

Snape struggled with the pants. He was moving in slow, jerky movements as if every motion drained his energy. Finally, he either succeeded or gave up and slumped onto the blanket-covered floor.

James looked at his father. "Should we carry him up?"

His dad shook his head. "You need to ask him that."

Snape looked like he'd rather not move at all. But he said, "I'll walk."

James wasn't sure that he could crawl, but when he opened his mouth to argue, his dad's hand came down hard on his shoulder.

"Okay," his dad said. "Take as much time as you need."

Snape shook his head and stood up, swaying a little bit as he caught his balance. James helped him put the robe on, and stood behind him as he pulled himself up the stairs.

He half-expected Snape to collapse at any second. But Snape merely fixed his eyes on James' father and followed him up the stairs from the basement, into the hall, and then up another set of stairs to the first floor, where the new spare bedroom was. Along the way Snape had periodically paused, tottered, and then seemed to pull just a little extra strength from the air to stumble on.

Snape made it into the bedroom. He looked at the bed in alarm, eyes darting from James to his father in a panic.

James, in a rare flash of insight, knew exactly what Snape was thinking. "It's okay," he said. "The bed's all yours. Nobody will—" He hesitated, not wanting to finish that sentence in front of his father. "It's all yours. Your wand's in the pocket of your robe."

Snape looked at him, hand slipping into that pocket and wrapping around the handle of the wand. Finally, he stumbled over to the bed and sat down. James' father crouched down next to the bed, so he wasn't hovering over Snape.

"Go get him some ice water," he said to James. "His throat's going to be very sore."

James accepted the dismissal gratefully. Outside the bedroom, he leaned against a wall and struggled against the urge to scream himself.

---

When Potter left, Snape turned his attention to Potter's father. He was exhausted and still in some pain, but he didn't want to appear completely pathetic. He'd once, only a few months ago, dreamed of meeting this man in entirely different circumstances.

He had imagined attending a potions convention, and dazzling the attending masters, inventors and researchers with his brilliance. He knew he would have to overcome looks and the 'poor family' background Calligulus had designed for him, but inventors in particular favored competence over money and blood. And Benjamin Potter was one of the best inventors in his field—healing potions. He almost never took apprentices, but Snape had sometimes fantasized about impressing the man so much that he could do nothing other than take a fellow potions prodigy under his wing.

That dream—fantasy, really—was dead and buried now. Benjamin Potter had seen him for what he really was, naked and screaming like a mindless animal. But he'd be damned if he just rolled over and gave in.

Mr. Potter, at least, wasn't hovering over him. He dragged a chair over and sat down, so he was at Snape's level. He also helped pack some pillows between Snape and the headboard, so he had something soft to lean against.

Snape was too tired to be stunned.

Mr. Potter leaned forward. "How much pain are you in? One finger for a little, three for a lot and two for in between."

Did this man really care? Madam Pomfrey's words came drifting back, but Snape shoved them into the back of his mind and sat on them. He held up two fingers.

"Okay, that's good. I imagine your throat hurts as much as your back, am I right?"

Snape nodded. His throat actually hurt worse at the moment. And he knew all the muscles he had clenched for so long would start to seize up soon. He was rather hoping to be unconscious before that happened.

"All right. I could give you some Muggle pain killers—the Ministry wouldn't be able to detect those—but they sometimes react differently in wizards, and swallowing them would probably be more pain than they're worth. You'll just have to keep a stiff upper lip, I suppose."

Snape shrugged. Currently, his upper lip felt more trembly than stiff, but the discomfort he was in now was minor compared to the agony he should still be suffering. He wanted to ask about that, but didn't quite dare. He'd just have to trust that Mr. Potter was clever enough to avoid the fine and hassle associated with disrupting a Ministry-ordered punishment.

"I can't give you Dreamless Sleep—Ministry again." Snape nodded, glad that at least James' father seemed to have done his homework. "Will you be able to sleep?"

Snape hesitated. If he was lucky, he would be too exhausted to dream half the night, but then the horror of the day and the fact that he was sleeping in a bed in his master's house would creep in.

Showing a slightly worrisome perception, Mr. Potter asked, "Are you afraid of nightmares?"

Snape swallowed, winced and nodded.

"Do you want someone to stay up with you? I know Evelyn won't mind. She's done it before."

Snape shook his head, though he was shocked at the offer. He could manage the night on his own. He'd done it hundreds of times before.

"Is there someone else you'd rather have with you?"

Snape started to shake his head, then hesitated. He didn't want to seem any more weak or vulnerable, and he certainly didn't want to reveal to his masters how much he was starting to rely on Madam Pomfrey's quiet presence. But he found himself rasping anyway, "Madam Pomfrey, if you…."

He half expected his master's father to laugh. But instead Ben nodded. "I'll have Evelyn get her on the Floo. Meanwhile, you should lie down."

At that point, Potter shuffled back into the room, a glass of ice water in his hand. Snape glared at it suspiciously. Lucius would never have fetched water for Snape, even on his father's order, without adding some nasty surprise to it. But he could vaguely remember James taking him to meals and class with an air of restrained worry and irritation.

Supposing he didn't have much of a choice, Snape accepted the glass. The cold water soothed and then numbed his throat. When he was done with the glass, he finally let his body collapse completely on the bed. It made him nervous, lying so vulnerable in his master's bed, but he would have soon run out of energy to stay upright anyway.

Mr. Potter made as if to leave, and as eager as Snape was for that to happen, he had to ask one thing. "Lucius," he rasped. "Is he gone?"

Mr. Potter paused at the doorway. "He's gone, and he won't be coming back. You're quite safe here, lad."

---

James fell onto the couch and buried his head in the crook of his arm.

His mum sat on the coffee table in front of him. "It's good that you had a hard time watching that."

"Yeah." He paused. "I was really a prick to Snape."

"Recently?"

"No—well, yeah. I got him away from Lucius, but I didn't really try to help him. And I couldn't even protect him, in the end."

"Well, I certainly hope that this isn't the end. Anyway, the immediate question is what do you do about it now?"

James groaned. That was the question his mum always asked him whenever he started feeling sorry for himself. "Kill Lucius?" he answered, hopefully.

"Besides that. Always try to pick the plan that won't land you in Azkaban."

"Someone needs to tell that to Sirius." He paused. "I don't know what to do. I don't like Snape. I never have."

"Why not?"

James shrugged. "I'm not sure. He was odd. And he didn't like us much either."

"What did you dislike about him specifically?"

"It's hard to say now. He looked funny. He didn't talk to people. He was always reading. He didn't have any friends."

"And those were good enough reasons to spend five years picking on him?"

James folded his arms across his chest. "Well, he didn't exactly roll over and whimper. This whole submissive thing surprised me too. I wouldn't have thought him capable, three weeks ago." He stopped, then added sullenly, "Besides, if you thought what we were doing was wrong, you should have said something."

His mum frowned, grey eyes darkening. "Perhaps I should have, but I doubt it would have done much good. You never listen until you're ready—just like your father."

"What makes you think I'm ready now?" James snapped.

"You had better be. You're responsible for another life now, James. You can be angry and frustrated if you want, but it won't do any good. You took responsibility, and you can't just give it up now because you think it's too hard."

"Snape can take care of his own damn self."

"Watch your language," his mum snapped back. "Snape won't take care of himself. If you don't make sure he has what he needs and is safe, he'll assume you mean for him to go without and suffer."

James began to feel like a cat boxed into a corner. He responded in the usual feline way—by getting angrier. "Why don't you take care of him? Why wait for me to fu—to mess it up?"

His mum was quiet for awhile. When she spoke, her voice was low and calm again. "Because your father and I won't be here forever. It is you Snape will depend on to do the things he can't do, legally, for himself. You need to recognize what that means, right now."

"What if I don't want to?" James whined. He knew how stupid it sounded as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

His mum pulled her long, grey-streaked hair back over her shoulder, a sure sign that she was about to go on a rant. "That's fine. You don't have to want anything. I'm quite certain the boy upstairs didn't want to be tortured, starved, sold and then tortured again. And I very much doubt he wants to belong to you any more than you want to own him."

She stared him hard in the eye, her face a stone mask. "What you want right now doesn't matter any more than it matters what Snape wants. The only thing that matters is what you do. So what are you going to do?"

James said the only thing he could, trapped as he was. "I'll find a way to look out for him. I guess I don't have a choice."

"Of course you have a choice. They aren't good choices but..." His mum looked away, but James could see her eyes glittering. "I'm very proud of the choices you have made, James. I'm very proud of you."

James looked away, staring at the grey rug under his feet, feeling baffled and a little awkward. "I thought you were angry at me."

His mum gave a little hiccup of a laugh. "I was frustrated with you—not for the first or last time. But I never believed you'd say anything else, in the end. It's just getting you to admit what you already know that is...difficult."

James looked at his mum, the lines on her face jagged in the flickering firelight, and her eyes tired. Her shoulders sagged.

It was a strange, painful revelation to him, that fighting with his mum hurt her as much as it did him. Any residual anger was quickly replaced by guilt. He didn't want to hurt his mum. He had just never considered that a possible result of the short, quiet, intense fights they were prone to. For him, they were just over and done with.

"I'm sorry for being so pigheaded," James said, and meant it.

His mum gave him a real smile. "Of course you are. And of course you'll do it again. You have too much of me in you to do anything else."

---

About half an eternity after James and his father left, Snape heard the door to his room open. He turned his head in alarm, but a slow smile overtook his face as soon as he saw the person standing in the doorway.

Madam Pomfrey bustled over to him. She brushed the curtain of greasy hair away from his face. "How are you?"

That was a pointless question. But Snape, deciding the pain in his throat wasn't worth a sarcastic remark, just shrugged.

"May I have a look at your back? Ben told me what happened."

Snape grimaced but nodded. Madam Pomfrey pulled back the light blanket and helped him shed the robe.

Madam Pomfrey tsk'd a bit as she looked him over, but overall she seemed a little surprised that the damage wasn't greater. "You should be just fine in a few days, even without treatment. Ben Potter has quite a reputation, and it seems he's lived up to it again. How did he manage to neutralize the poison without bringing the Ministry down round your heads? Now open your mouth so I can have a look at your throat."

Snape glared at her. It was rather unfair to ask the potions geek a question about potions, and then shine a wand light down his throat. Not that he could have answered her anyway, both because his throat hurt too much and because he didn't know the answer.

"Hmm. You shouldn't try talking until tomorrow. You might try gargling warm salt water if it gets too sore."

Snape grimaced. He'd had a lot of unpleasant things in his mouth in the past, and he didn't see how trying a new one would make him feel better.

"Otherwise, you're in fairly good health. The best thing you can do right now is sleep."

Snape stared up at her, the question obvious in his eyes.

"I'll stay to wake you up if you have a nightmare." Madam Pomfrey pulled out the chair by his bed and took a seat. She pulled a book out of her robe pocket. "It's the new Carmen Wingnose novel; I'd be up all night reading it anyway."

Snape found it in himself to smile a little. The idea of Madam Pomfrey staying up all night reading romance/adventure novels was bizarre yet comforting. More comforting was her presence beside him. He knew it wouldn't help much with the nightmares, but at least it made him feel safe. He might get just a little bit of rest that way.

He settled down on his belly, as Madam Pomfrey turned out the lights. He turned his face towards her as she sat down. He listened to the sound of pages turning, and watched the glowing tip of her wand bob up and down as she used it to light the pages of her books.

Snape'd had enough people fall asleep next to him in very unpleasant situations to be a little phobic about hearing someone's breath so close. But no one had ever just sat next to him and read, so he concentrated on the rustle of the pages and the creak of Madam Pomfrey's chair as she got comfortable. He found the sounds so comforting that he almost didn't want to fall asleep.

But, of course, he did.

---

By the time his eyes opened, Snape was sure that he should have stayed asleep. There was a sharp pain in his neck from sleeping on his belly all night long with his head turned at an odd angle. As he started to move to try and relieve the pain, all the muscles that he had clenched so tightly yesterday creaked and moaned as if they were made of wood. When he tried to get to his elbows, his scratched and bruised back sent sharp stabs of pain into his head.

Wonderful. He had gotten spoiled the last few weeks, used to living without pain. This wasn't even particularly bad, but he still wanted to bury his aching head under a pillow and sleep the next two days through.

Madam Pomfrey's hands came into view. Snape flinched instinctively, but leaned into her as she helped him sit up. Mrs. Potter appeared from some dark corner of the room with a glass of water—tepid, he guessed, from the lack of condensation on the glass.

Mrs. Potter offered the glass to him and he eyed it warily. She sighed. "It's not poisoned. It's not drugged. Taking it means nothing but that you are thirsty. Now, do you want some?"

Snape, a little impressed by her bluntness, nodded. The water did feel good against his raspy throat. "Thank you," he whispered, when he'd finished the glass.

"More?"

Snape shook his head.

"Are you hungry?"

Snape hesitated, then nodded.

"What would you like? Porridge, eggs or soup?"

Snape stared at her as if she had gone mad.

Mrs. Potter got up. "I know you're not daft, and you know I'm not going to hurt you. So why don't you just tell me what you'd like for breakfast, and I'll go fetch it."

"Porridge," Snape rasped.

"Then porridge you shall have."

Mrs. Potter left, leaving Snape staring at the door, frozen. He felt Madam Pomfrey put one warm, dry hand over his and he let her.

Snape finally asked the question. "They're not going to hurt me, are they? Even if it would be useful for them."

Madam Pomfrey gave his hand a squeeze. "No, they're not. They're good people."

"And Potter..."

"Won't either. One of these days, he will be good people."

A smile flickered on Snape's face, before dying.

"You really are safe, you know."

Snape did know, but hearing the words shattered something inside of him. He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. In a few seconds it was too wet with tears and snot for him to breath, so he curled into a ball. He muffled the small, choked, horribly embarrassing sounds in the crook of his arm. Madam Pomfrey stood by him and stroked his hair, whispering words too soft for him to understand.