"Severus, my dear boy, what can I do for you?" Albus asked jovially when Severus emerged from the fireplace, dusting off the front of his robes as he stepped swiftly away from the grate.

Severus didn't respond. Instead, he stood in front of the desk and silently passed over notes from Potter's examination. Albus' gnarled hands gripped the parchment, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"These are the results from Potter's most recent physical examination." Severus explained, answering his unspoken question. "I thought it pertinent that this matter be brought straight to you."

At once, Albus' face shifted from bemused to worried. Without another word he turned the full force of his attention onto the parchment in his hands. It was only when he'd read through each sheet several times that he looked up, and only then did Severus see the heavy sorrow in his blue eyes. A single tear trickled down his aged face, and he did not bother to brush it away.

The Headmaster had never looked quite so old as he did in that moment, his entire being seemed to wilt as the weight of his guilt crushed down on him.

"I failed him," he whispered to himself, as though he had forgotten Severus' presence. A gnarled hand reached up as though to swipe at his eyes, but at the last moment he dropped it back down to the desk with a thud. "I swore I would not fail another child but I did."

Suddenly, a terrible rage seemed to overcome him; the sheer force of it causing the air to crackle with magic, like static gathering before a storm.

"Albus," Severus called, desperately trying to get his attention lest he blew the windows out in his fury.

"Severus…" blue eyes searched Severus' face, but whatever they found only made his eyes grow sadder; another tear leaked from his eye, and trickled slowly down his face and into his beard. "I have made so many terrible errors in my life, and each time I have sworn that I will learn from them. Yet I have proven time and time again to be incapable of doing so."

Then the terrible pressure in the air receded as Albus dropped his head into his hands. "I knew, when I left him there, that Petunia might not treat him with the love he deserved. She took him grudgingly, only after I explained that Harry's life was at risk. And I accepted that, because his safety is paramount and in taking him in she sealed the protection that his mother's sacrifice placed around him."

Albus' voice sounded so wearied. He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again Severus couldn't tell whether he was trying to justify his actions to Severus or himself.

"That protection was the strongest shield I could give him and so I overlooked her unwillingness because I knew that one day he would need his mother's protection. But I never dreamt that they might hurt him. That they might raise a hand to their own kin, to a child entrusted in their care. You must believe me, Severus, had I known that Petunia was capable of harming the boy, I'd have found another option."

"You had no reason to suspect anything." Severus said, his anger fading at the sight of Albus' anguish. "Lily loved her sister, and you had no reason to suspect that underneath her bitterness Petunia did not reciprocate."

"I didn't take Arabella's warning seriously enough." Albus continued as though Severus hadn't spoken. "She's always been prone to exaggeration and I just assumed that her worries merely reflected Petunia's own grudging acceptance of her nephew."

"Arabella Figg. That's who you placed to watch over the boy. The same woman who sends you photos of her cats dressed in hand-knitted jumpers every Christmas," Severus exclaimed deridingly.

He regretted his outburst immediately, but he could not bring himself to apologise. Not when Lily's son had endured so much because Albus had entrusted a batty old woman to oversee his care.

"She was the only person equipped to blend in." Albus defended, though it would have been obvious to anyone, even Hagrid, that his heart was not in it. "One of Petunia's conditions for taking Harry in was that they'd be left alone by the magical world until it was time for him to come to Hogwarts. I didn't want to give her reason to refuse the boy … though perhaps it would have been better if she had."

That thought caused the last of Albus' composure to slip and his face crumpled. Head in hands, he stared at the pieces of parchment which told the story of a child's suffering and his own mistakes. Tears dripped freely down his face onto the desk and he did nothing to hide them. When at last he looked up, the heavy sorrow in his eyes had only grown, and his voice cracked as he asked the only important question. "Will Harry be okay?"

"Physically, he'll be fine." Here, Severus paused, trying to order his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "He's withdrawn and reticent, and the fact that he's hidden this for over two years without anyone so much as suspecting anything amiss suggests he's a long way from okay."

Silence overcame both men, each consumed by their guilt, aware that their own blindness was to blame. Each knew they had failed Lily Potter, who had given her life for her son's safety and whose son had not been safe.

There was nothing more to be said, not by Severus, he had delivered the news and done his duty. Yet he did not move. He remained rooted before the Headmaster's desk, unable to leave Albus alone to his grief.

Only when Fawkes flew down onto Albus' shoulder, red and gold plumes splayed out in full glory and a sweet melody on his lips, did Albus speak again in a dry, chocked voice so unlike his usual mellifluous tone, "We cannot risk the Ministry finding out about this."

Severus nodded. Even through the haze of his overwhelming grief at the time, he remembered the furore that had surrounded Harry Potter's placement as the country started to recover from the chaos of war.

Every newspaper in the country had dedicated their weekly editions to the question of where the boy should be placed, and it had only been Albus' insistence that a child ought to be raised by his own blood – an argument which no pureblood was foolish enough to repute, not when so many of their own privileges relied on the importance of blood – that had kept Potter safe from the families desperate for the political clout which came from raising The Boy Who Lived.

"The only people present for Potter's examination were Poppy and myself. No file has been produced so there will be no paper trail which a scurrilous reporter could find." His voice regained its icy neutrality, devoid of any sentiment. This was easier: cold hard facts which he could rattle off without emotion.

"I'll inform Minerva," said Albus, as much to himself as to Severus. "Thank you. For seeing what the rest of us were too blind to notice."

Severus nodded uncomfortably at the praise, aware that he had only bothered to watch the boy at Albus' insistence. "If that is all, I'll be on my way."

"Severus," Albus called as Severus moved away from the desk and towards the door. There was a note of desperation which Severus hadn't heard since the end of the war. "Watch out for Harry. Just until I find someone suitable to take on the permanent role of his guardian."

"Why in Merlin's name would you want me to look out for the boy? Surely Minerva can do that? Or even Lupin? They actually like the boy."

"They can't protect him as well as you can. If I remove him from Petunia's care, he'll lose his mother's protection. With Black at large, he is at great risk. I need you to keep him safe if the wards should fall." Albus paused for a moment, his hand twitching towards an unusual gold ring on his little finger. "You've been keeping an eye on him for me since he arrived at here, all I ask is that you make sure he's protected, even if that means protecting him from himself. You are the only person I can trust with this task, Severus."

The Headmaster's eyes met his, steady and unyielding, and they bore into him with such an intensity that Severus could not look away.

"Look out for him, Severus," Albus requested again. "Until I've found a solution to the loss of Lily's sacrificial protection."

He so desperately wanted to refuse, to fly into a rage because how dare Albus asked this of him? How could he ask Severus to look after the child of his nemesis, the child of the woman he'd once loved, the child who had been orphaned by his own poor choices?

He could imagine saying no, twisting his lip with scornful disdain as he spat out the word like a curse. And he wanted to, more than he could possibly begin to articulate, but just as the word formed on his tongue, he remembered his promise to Lily.

Unbidden, the memory of him knelt before her tombstone just a few weeks ago entered his mind. There, he'd sworn on his life and his magic to protect her son, and, though that promise was in no way binding on his health, he could feel it binding around his conscience, and he could not refuse.

If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear her begging him to say yes. Pleading for him to protect her son with the soft Yorkshire lilt she'd inherited from her father even though she'd never been there herself.

"I will," he said at last, aware that the silence had dragged on while he'd been lost in his memories. "I'll keep an eye on him. But only until you find someone suitable to care for him."

Then he was gone, his black cloak flowing behind him as he made his way swiftly down the spiral staircase

Harry wandered aimlessly through the stone corridors, treading carefully to avoid drawing any attention to himself. He hadn't been able to face going back to the common room, not on a night where the foul weather meant the room would be teeming with students from all years.

Outside, lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating the otherwise black night as the winds howled like a banshee. Rain lashed ferociously against the windows, and Harry knew that the common room would be full to burst of people milling around, finishing essays and playing exploding snap in front of the roaring fire.

He couldn't go back there and pretend everything was normal. Especially when Ron and Hermione would no doubt ask why Snape had kept him back after class and where he'd been since and why he had to go back to the Hospital Wing that weekend leading to more uncomfortable questions which he had no interest in answering right now. Or ever.

Sighing, Harry ran his fingers through his messy hair. The furious anger he'd felt during his examination had evaporated as the reality of the situation set in, leaving him bone tired and desperate for the day to end. He was desperate for somewhere quiet, where he wouldn't have to talk to anyone or think about anything, and that meant he couldn't return to the common room until his friends were in bed and he could slip into the dorms unnoticed.

So he kept walking, down through the dungeon towards the cloisters, a place which few students knew of and even fewer ventured to.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in the hospital wing over and over in his head. Madam Pomfrey, unsurprisingly, seemed intent to blow his injuries way out of proportion. Sure, his uncle had knocked him about a bit, but it wasn't like he'd done anything extreme. Not like the boy at Stonewall High, who'd been killed by his father when Harry was eight. His death had been subject to intense gossip at Privet Drive for months after, with everybody chiming up about how awful it was, though many had echoed Petunia's sentiment that it was the sort of thing you'd expect from a family like that.

Uncle Vernon had never done anything like that. Sure, he may have lost control a few times over the summer, but Harry had provoked him by blowing up Aunt Marge and running off afterwards. Worse still, Vernon then had to endure the indignity of a wizard dragging his nephew back in plain sight of all the neighbours. It was hardly surprising that he'd lost his temper.

Besides, he hadn't seriously hurt Harry, hadn't sent him to hospital or anything – a quiet voice in his head that sounded oddly like Hermione pointed out that just because he hadn't gotten medical attention didn't mean he hadn't needed to.

Shaking his head wearily, Harry leant against the wall for a moment. The stones were rough and uneven and Harry pressed his fingers against them, glad to feel something real and solid as the wave of fear and uncertainties threatened to overwhelm him.

Then he pushed on, one foot in front of the other, his footsteps echoing off the rocks in the otherwise deserted passageway.

At last, he reached the cloisters, an odd little place at the back of the dungeons that had fallen into disrepair over the centuries. What once might have been a vast courtyard was now an area crowded with dozens of columns, some having fallen to the ground over the centuries and littering the floor with small shards of marble.

The charm overhead gave off the impression of natural light radiating in, though it too was wearing off and, if Harry looked closely enough, he could see the real ceiling, high above his head and decorated by patterns carved into the smooth marble.

It was a beautiful room, even in its derelict state, and one of the few places in Hogwarts where he could really be alone. Harry had only discovered its existence during his second year, when the whispers of the other students had gotten too much to bear, and he'd desperately needed somewhere quiet where he could escape it all. Fred and George had led him down there, cheerfully suggesting he could use it as an evil lair, and Harry had escaped there several times before the Professor's monitoring made it impossible to slip off.

Once Harry had climbed carefully through the gap in the wall that served as an entrance, he clambered over the fallen columns and towards his favourite spot in the corner of the room.

He dropped down, his back pressed against the cool marble, and hugged his robes tighter around him to ward off the chill. Whatever heating charms had been applied to the corridors of the castle didn't extend to the cloisters.

He suppressed another shiver, almost glad for the frigid air which offered him a welcome distraction from his thoughts. Finally able to relax, he sat unmoving for several long minutes.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, he heard a strange rustle coming from the far corner. Twisting his head around, his gaze was drawn to a sliver of light emitting from behind an intricate pillar in the furthest corner of the room.

Quietly, so as not to announce his presence, he crept towards the light. Keeping himself hidden behind a fallen column, he peered over, eyes scanning for the any movement. He wondered if it was Peeves, come to torment him, or perhaps the Bloody Baron.

Then he heard the rustle of a page being turned. Curious as to who on earth would to come to the depths of the dungeon on a bitingly cold night like this, Harry moved closer still, until at last he could see the other person clearly.

He bit back a gasp of surprise.

There, sitting cross-legged with his back pressed against a pillar, was Neville, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared intently at the book in his lap. His tongue was sticking out slightly as he read, and every so often he'd pause and mouth the sentence he was reading, as though trying to commit it to memory.

Harry felt like he was intruding on some private scene; Neville clearly didn't want anyone to know what he was doing if he'd come to the depths of the castle to work rather than going to the library or the common room or even an empty classroom.

He made to move away, intending to return to his spot in the far corner without informing Neville of his presence. But he must have made some noise for Neville's head snapped up.

His eyes met Harry's.

"I came down here for some quiet," Harry explained uncomfortably. "I didn't realise there'd be anyone else down here."

"S'fine," Neville's cheeks were pink and he moved to hide his textbook from sight.

Harry thought about turning to leave; Neville clearly didn't want him there. But the rims of his eyes were red, and Harry felt compelled to make sure he was okay.

"How come you're down here?" Harry asked, dropping down beside him.

"I-I needed somewhere peaceful to work. The common room's, well you know, it's a bit much when you're trying to focus and I tried to work in the library but you can't practise spells there. Not that practising seems to be doing me much good." He was clearly trying for self-deprecating humour, but there was a hint of bitterness in his soft tone. He looked away.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked uncomfortably. "Is this why you haven't been in the common room recently? Because you're practising spells?"

Neville nodded dejectedly.

"Everyone thinks I'm useless," he said miserably, lower lip trembling slightly. "Last week when you blew up your cauldron, everyone was so surprised it wasn't me. S-S-Seamus even congratulated me on not being the one to screw up for a change … I'm just so sick of always being the laughing stock."

He sighed despondently, exhaling a puff of white steam into the icy air. "I'm always the screw up. Even my Gran thinks so. She's always going on about how I need to live up to my Dad's legacy. How disappointed he'd be if he could see me now. I even heard Great Uncle Algie say once, back when he thought I was a squib, that maybe it was for the best that my Dad's in St. Mungo's so he doesn't have to see-," Neville cut off suddenly.

He clamped a hand over his mouth in horror as the the tips of his ears turned a brilliant red. It occurred to Harry then that he had never asked Neville why he was raised by his Gran. In the three years they had a shared a dorm, the topic had never once come up. And from the look on Neville's face now, it was clear that that was no accident.

Harry ruthlessly suppressed his curiosity as it was clear Neville didn't want to be pressed. Now, more than ever, Harry could respect that. He knew what it was like to have certain questions he didn't want to answer. Instead, Harry ignored his comments on his Dad and focused on the previous part of the conversation.

"You're not useless!" He said fiercely, "And if anyone says that, then they're just being lousy gits and you shouldn't pay them any notice. Most people who put other people down only do it to cover their own insecurities."

Neville looked away from Harry, eyes fixed to his shoes.

As he spoke, he fiddled mindlessly with his poorly-tied shoelaces. "It's true though. I'm always the one to get a spell last or blow up a cauldron or have some charm backfire in a humiliating way. It doesn't matter what I try, I can never seem to get anything right."

Embarrassed by his own admission, Neville fell silent.

"I can help," Harry offered, before he even realised what he was saying. "I'm not Hermione, I'm not really that good at any of it, but I could practise with you. It might be easier if there's two of us."

"I don't want to waste your time," Neville said in a small voice. But he'd perked up slightly at Harry's offer, looking up from the ground for the first time since Harry sat down.

"It's not a waste of my time." Harry reassured him. He meant it, too. He wanted to help Neville, the boy with whom he felt a strange kinship with in that moment. The comments made by Neville's relatives reminded him all too well of Aunt Petunia's jibes. 'We can meet down here in the evenings after my detentions. That'll give us a good hour before curfew.'

"That would be really helpful … if you're sure you don't mind?" Neville looked hesitantly at Harry. He stared him straight in the eye, as though searching for a hint of irritation or pity, and Harry stared back unwaveringly. He knew, after all, what it felt like to feel like a burden.

Neville's smile grew slightly.

Then a thought struck. Neville abruptly pulled his sleeve up, his gaze drawn to the worn gold watch on his left wrist. He swore audibly when he saw the time.

It was only a few minutes till curfew.

"We'd better head back to the common room," he said.

Harry heaved himself to his feet, relishing in the lack of pain, and then offered a hand to Neville. He felt more peaceful than he had earlier, his focus on cheering Neville up successfully driving the humiliation of his medical examination from his mind.

Together, the two boys made their way slowly out of the cloisters and down the silent stone halls of the dungeon.

Severus sat stiffly at his desk, his attention a thousand miles away from the pile of homework on his desk that needed marking. His mind was still reeling from the shock of Potter's examination.

He knew he'd been sharp with the boy in the Hospital Wing; he had chastised him for his conduct and threatened him with truth serum and detentions when he ought to have been more understanding. With a shudder, he imagined how he would have responded at that age if he'd had all his most embarrassing secrets revealed to his hated professor – there would certainly have been far more foul language and belligerence than Potter had shown.

He ought to have been more understanding. But it was difficult. It was easier to goad Potter and scowl at the defiant spark in his eyes than to see his tense muscles and trembling hands. Easier to focus on his arrogance and cheek than to notice how he flinched whenever a hand moved too quickly near him. Easier to see all the ways in which Potter was like his father, pampered and spoilt rotten, than to know the truth.

Sighing deeply, Snape pushed his marking into a neat pile and placed it in the top draw of his desk. Then, he stood up and moved through the hidden door behind him through to his own quarters.

As he readied himself for bed, grateful not to be on duty patrolling the corridors for miscreants that particular evening, his mind drifted back to Albus' request.

In truth, he was not surprised that Albus had asked him to look out for the boy. Not only because Severus had been a spy for years, and was well used to noticing minor details and slips in speech that would help unravel Potter's experience. Albus trusted him to do that, but more than that, Albus was trying to give him the chance to make amends.

Severus had sworn to Lily that he would protect her son, that he would do everything in his power to do right by the boy, and now Albus was giving him a chance to live up to his vow.

Albus was giving him a chance to be absolved of his sins, just as he had when he'd asked Severus to teach at Hogwarts, all those years ago.

It was at Hogwarts that Severus had made his greatest mistake and it was at Hogwarts that he would atone. At Albus' behest he kept a close eye on his Slytherins, carefully noting which ones hissed at the muggle-borns and sneered at the half-bloods and seemed confused that Halloween was celebrated here rather than being treated with the mournful respect they were used to.

It was his task to try to guide those children away from the mistakes he had made, to keep Albus informed on who could be helped and for whom the rhetoric of hatred was too deeply entrenched. And he did it as well as he could, even if he had to be careful to keep his true loyalties concealed.

It was often difficult. Hogwarts was the site of his worst memories and deepest regrets, and sometimes, when bitterness and guilt overcame him, he could be cruel and sharp with the students.

Some reminded him of his tormentors and he got immense satisfaction from taking points and handing out detentions, and wiping the smug look of their arrogant faces. But others reminded him of himself and that was so much worse.

He had had to watch students make mistakes they could not take back, sending themselves down a terrible path on which he was powerless to help them on.

He wasn't powerless to help Potter though. No, he knew all too well what the boy was going through.

Rage burned like a fiery inferno within him at the thought of what Petunia's spite had done to the boy. But he choked it down. The boy did not need his pity. He got far too much of that from strangers in the streets. Besides, the boy would not want it. Nor would he want Severus' help, that much had been clear in his examination today. His refusal to speak about the cause of injuries had spoken volumes.

It also posed a difficult problem: no one, except Potter and his relatives, truly knew the extent of the abuse Potter had faced, Currently, all Severus had to go on was a list of recent injuries; he needed more information. He wouldn't be able to help Potter otherwise.

He needed to get Potter to speak - even if he had to force him. Tomorrow, in Potter's detention, he'd find a way to get Potter talking. Plan's half-forming in his mind, Severus drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

Harry and Neville made their way quickly through the dungeons, their footsteps clattering loudly against the floor of the otherwise silent corridor.

It was difficult enough to navigate through the dungeons in daylight, let alone try to find a path through the maze of small passageways and unexpected endings in the dim light of the flickering torches that hung from the walls.

They walked in silence for the most part, only speaking to express frustration when they came across another dead-end and were forced to backtrack. They both knew that the longer they stayed in the dungeon, the more chance they had of getting caught by a pair of patrolling prefects.

Finally, they arrived at a small passage way which Harry recognised from his and Ron's adventure last year.

They were only a couple of corridors away from the Slytherin common room.

Harry told Neville as much in a low whisper, guiltily ignoring the look of fear in Neville's eyes. Giving the turning toward the common room a wide berth, Harry tried to lead him towards the main hallway, which would take them safely back to Gryffindor tower.

He was so focused on finding his way, that he didn't notice anything amiss until he felt Neville frantically prodding his shoulder. He stopped, about to ask Neville what was wrong, when he heard the distant sound of footsteps clattering against the craggy stone floors.

At once alert, he listened intently, becoming aware after a few seconds that the footsteps were making their way towards him. Surveying his surroundings, Harry caught sight of several suits of armour which decorated the walls further up the corridor. Carefully, to avoid alerting the footsteps to his presence – it was past curfew now, and the last thing he needed was a confrontation with Filch, or worse, Snape – Harry ducked behind the suits of armour, hoping that the dim light in the passageway wouldn't give him away. He pulled Neville into his hiding spot, wishing, not for the first time, that he'd brought his invisibility cloak with him rather than leaving it stuffed into his trunk.

The footsteps came closer still until they were only a passage away, and the echoes of a conversation reached his ears. It wasn't until he heard an obnoxious laugh bouncing off the stone walls that he realised exactly who the footsteps belonged to.

Malfoy.

Harry pressed himself against the wall, desperate not to be seen, as Malfoy rounded the corner, accompanied by another slightly smaller figure whose identity Harry could not ascertain. They were speaking loudly, despite the silence of Hogwarts after curfew, and Harry was able to hear every word of their conversation.

"-detention till Sunday," Malfoy complained. "That's four more evenings with the squib forcing me to polish trophies like I'm a bloody house-elf. Just wait until my father hears about this-,"

"-I hardly think your father will be terribly sympathetic when he finds out Professor Snape gave you those detentions for demonstrating a severe lack of decorum and bringing our house into disrepute." The second voice countered, his tone slightly mocking. Harry couldn't quite place the second voice, though he was sure he'd heard it before.

"Potter attacked me! I was only defending myself, but of course, precious Potter plays the victim and I get saddled with a fortnight with Filch."

"Potter didn't get away scot-free. I heard that Professor Snape gave him detention every night for a month," the second voice said gleefully. "Blaise heard Potter complaining about it to Weasley."

Malfoy laughed maliciously. "Serves him right. Potter thinks he's so great, just because he didn't die like his mudblood mother did. At least the lousy prat's going to get what's coming to him when Black catches up with him. Imagine, having you own godfather out for your blood. I suppose that's what happens when a pureblood like his father goes making friends with the wrong sort and consorting with mudbloods."

His companion's response was lost to Harry, for the two boys had turned down the small passageway Harry and Neville had just emerged from, and were headed towards the Slytherin common room.

Even when the two boys were long gone, Harry stayed pressed against the wall, his mind reeling at the new information. A thousand questions lay in wait on the tip of his tongue.

He knew all about the crimes of Sirius Black. Fudge had warned him when he'd taken Harry back to his relatives after he'd tried to leave. Then, the last night in the Leaky Cauldron – the Minister had arranged for Mr Weasley to collect Harry the day before he was due back at Hogwarts, so that he could do his shopping in the company of a fully-qualified wizard - he'd overheard Mr and Mrs Weasley talking about how Black was specifically after him.

But they had made it clear that Black wanted to avenge his vanquished master. That Black was after him for revenge. Not that Black had any personal connection to him, any reason to target him. If what Malfoy said was true…

Could it be true? Malfoy had no reason to lie, not to his friend. Besides, the other boy hadn't been surprised in the slightest. But it didn't make any sense. How could it be that an escaped murderer, a man who had fought for Voldemort, could be his godfather? His dad must have been close friends with Black to name him his guardian. Did that mean Dad was sympathetic to followers of Voldemort? He couldn't be, he'd married Harry's mum. And he'd fought against Voldemort. But then why had he made Black his son's godfather? Was it definitely true? Harry's thought whirled in circles around his head.

Malfoy's inadvertent revelation was the final straw; the horrors of the day finally threatening to overwhelm Harry. It felt like a hippogriff was stamping on him, leaving him with a terribly tight feeling in his chest.

"Let's get back," he muttered to Neville.

They made their way through three corridors, down a hallway, and up several flights of stairs in complete silence as Harry tried desperately to stay in control of his emotions.

It was only after he had collapsed onto his bed – having sworn Neville to secrecy on the overheard conversation – that he allowed himself to crumble. Pressing his face against his pillow, he sobbed silently. The tightness in his chest eased slightly as he did, though it came back with vengeance when he thought about the coming day.

His only comfort was that it couldn't get any worse.