"Oi, Potter!" A loud and angry voice yelled. Harry looked up, startled by the harsh disruption to the lazy peace of the Gryffindor Common Room, which up until then had been filled with the quiet hum of conversation from the few students still hanging around during the morning break.
It was Oliver Wood, marching towards him, a slip of parchment gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white.
"What now?" Muttered Harry wearily, as he stood to face his Captain, who looked as though he was in a towering temper.
"I'll tell you what now," said Oliver, thrusting the parchment towards him, "Why has McGonagall signed you off Quidditch for 'at least' the next three weeks? She gave me the note this morning. I told her you seemed fine and she got all shirty with me, asked if I cared more about winning the match than the team's health. At least three weeks she said! Our first match is only a month away!" Oliver shook his head in frustration. "I tried reasoning with her and she started yelling at me. Honestly, you'd think she didn't care about the Quidditch Cup at all. What the hell did you do, anyway? McLaggen said that Snape brought you to the Hospital Wing."
"Potions accident," Harry mumbled, feeling his heart begin to race. He wondered what McLaggen had seen or heard and who he might have told.
Oliver made a disgusted noise. "Look, you've got to sort this out. Go talk to Pomfrey, tell her you feel fine and that Snape was exaggerating whatever happened. I don't care what you have to say to her, just get yourself off the bloody injured list!"
With that, he stomped off towards the portrait hole.
Harry sank back into his chair, eyes darting around the room to check if anyone had overheard Oliver's rant. Luckily, everyone in Gryffindor was well used to the seventh year's outbursts and no one seemed to have paid them any attention. For now, at least. But Harry knew that within an afternoon his Quidditch ban would be common knowledge, and everyone would want to know what he'd done this time, what injury he'd sustained that might keep him from playing the next match.
A wild bubble of laughter rose in his chest. What truth could he tell people? My Aunt Petunia starved me and Uncle Vernon broke my leg and now Snape of all people is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. He was so sick of lying to his friends, so tired of keeping secrets from Ron and Hermione, but it wasn't like he had any other option.
The familiar clanging of the warning bell pulled Harry away from his spiralling thoughts. With a final sigh, he heaved himself out of his chair, stuffed a few loose sheets of parchment into his bag, and headed slowly towards the portrait hole.
He felt so tired again, and his leg seemed to burn with every step. Vaguely, he remembered the chest of potions Snape had given him, the one that he stashed away in his bedside table the moment he'd got back to his dorm and promptly forgotten about, but he dismissed that thought as quickly as it had come. The last thing he wanted was more reminders of that humiliating afternoon. Besides, he didn't need Snape's help.
He didn't need anyone's help.
Severus's face hovered over the shallow stone basin, the tips of his lank hair brushing against the bright white substance he'd poured in moments before.
Below him, images flited across the surface of the basin, the substance turning transparent as it swirled around, allowing him to catch glimpses of a young Harry Potter hiding up a tree while a bulldog barked and a young boy with a cruel face laughed. Then the image shifted again, this time to one where Potter was older, maybe nine or ten, pulling weeds in the garden as the sun shone down on his red neck, until that memory moved out of focus, replaced with a much younger Potter, a dark bruise covering his left cheek.
That was the memory Severus wanted, and so he leaned forwards and allowed himself to be pitched headfirst inside the Pensieve.
He fell headlong into sunlight, and his feet found warm grass. As he stood up, he saw he was in a pristine garden, guarded by a tidily-trimmed green hedge. A rather large young boy with blonde hair and several chins lounged on the grass, his face covered in chocolate sauce as he gorged himself on ice cream. As he ate, he let out over-exaggerated moans of delight, shooting mocking glances towards the flower beds as he did. When Severus moved closer to them, he caught sight of another boy tending to the roses. Potter looked no more than seven or eight years old, scrawny, waif-like and pale. There was undisguised longing in his thin face as he watched the other boy – his cousin surely - munching away.
"Mmmhh, this is so good. Would you like some, freak? I bet you would. But you can't have any because Mummy says nasty freaks don't get any treats."
To Severus surprise, Potter didn't rise to his cousin's taunts, though he could tell by the boy's clenched fists that it was getting to him. It was curious that, that Potter could keep his temper in check with his family, yet was willing to launch himself at Malfoy at the slightest provocation. He pushed that thought aside in time to watch Potter's cousin at last grow bored with Potter's feigned deafness and hurl the bowl at Potter. With the same graceful ease he had shown performing stunts on his broomstick, the boy dodged and it hit the wall with a clatter, shattering into a dozen pieces.
Yet, the cousin did not seem at all concerned with the destruction. In fact, he seemed delighted. He shot a nasty grin at Potter and yelled at the top of his voice, "MUUUUM! He broke my ice cream bowl! He did it on purpose!"
At her son's cry, Petunia came marching out of the house, her thin lips twisted into a terrible scowl as she glowered at her nephew. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, she struck the young boy hard across the face. The boy did not cry out, but stared at her accusingly with his startlingly green eyes.
"Just you wait until your Uncle gets home!" She hissed, "Go! Get in your cupboard. Now!"
Potter slipped off quickly, thin shoulders hunched, eyes lowered to the ground as though trying not to draw attention. With her nephew gone, Petunia turned to her son, her bony face softening with maternal fondness, and began fussing over him, making promises of more ice cream and criticisms of the "nasty freak". As she comforted her son, she caught sight of Arabella Figg, hovering on the street, watching the exchange play out.
At once the justifications began, as routine as the hug she'd given her own son moments before, "The boy … nothing but trouble, just like his parents … bullies my poor Dinky Diddydums … out of control"
Petunia's expression was cruel and sharp; Arabella's merely resigned as she started to walk away…
The scene dissolved and reformed around him. Severus looked around: he was standing in a pastel-pink living room, and Arabella was beside him, peering nervously out of her front window, as Potter raced down the street, a group of larger, crueller looking children following closely.
In her hand, she clutched a letter, and Severus could make out Albus' smooth signature at the bottom. One of her cats nuzzled her leg, and Arabella bent to lift him up.
"Albus says that poor Harry is safest where he is," She said, stroking its head, "But I'm not so sure… Nothing good's going on in that house, not for Harry or for Dudley. But I've got no proof it's anything more than schoolyard bullying and Albus won't move him for that." She sighed softly and turned away from the window.
And the scene dissolved once more…
The memories were shorter now, shifting more rapidly, cycling Severus through years of Potter being tormented by his cousin, snapped at by his Aunt, and threatened by his Uncle. Yet, as terrible as Potter's relatives looked, there was nothing to hint at the level of violence evident in the boy's physical exam. Was Severus missing something? Or had something changed that summer?
The latest memory, of the cousin punching Potter in the face and smashing his glasses while the Uncle laughed, dissolved, and the scene took a little longer to reform: Severus was dropped on a deserted street corner, forlorn and cold in the darkness, the rain lashing down against the empty pavement. Towards them, footsteps fell against the sodden ground, and Severus could make out voices, getting louder as they came closer. Arabella Figg stood pressed against the leafy foliage, shielding herself from view … she seemed nervous, though he could not tell if it was discovery she was afraid of.
"Please don't send me back there," begged a voice that Severus recognised instantly. Yet, he had never heard Potter speak in that tone before. Over the past few years, he had heard Potter defiant, petulant, angry … but never desperate, never pleading or afraid.
"Don't be silly, my boy. I won't deny that your aunt and uncle are extremely angry, Harry, but they're prepared to take you back, and I'm sure you'll all feel differently once you've calmed down," said Cornelius Fudge, his lime green bowler hat recognizable even in the dim evening light "I'm sure they were very worried about you, out on your own in the dark, especially with Black on the loose."
"Sir, please … they'll kill me if you take me back! Please, can't I stay in Diagon Alley?"
"Nonsense, Harry. I know you're upset, but they're your family, and I'm sure you'll all forgive each other. Don't worry, my boy, we all make mistakes as teenagers, but trust me, you'll laugh about this in years to come," Fudge said jovially, patting Harry's shoulder as they passed Snape by. "I know you're keen to get back into the magical world, but you've only got two weeks left with your family. Enjoy your time together, and before you know it, Arthur Weasley will be along to take you to collect your school supplies for the year."
Severus didn't know if Harry ever responded, for the two had moved out of earshot as they made their way further down the street towards Privet Drive The trees rustled in the neighbouring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars splashing through the puddles filled the night sky. He was left standing there, alone but for the presence of Arabella Figg, as the rain drizzled down.
Mrs. Figg moved slowly from her hiding spot and headed down the street, towards the house that he had visited only the previous evening. Severus rose up out of the Pensieve, and moments later stood back in his office, his mind racing.
He remembered, late in the summer, hearing that Potter had run away from home after a bout of accidental magic. At the time, he had dismissed it as nothing more than the boy's usual inability to face up to the consequences of his actions, had written it off as the behaviour of an arrogant troublemaker, the same phrase Petunia seemed to love using.
Now, with a piece of parchment an arms-length away spelling out exactly what had happened once that memory ended, Severus understood why Potter had tried so hard to leave that night.
Harry, Ron and Hermione left Professor Binn's classroom together, wrapped their cloaks tightly around their shoulders as they emerged from the castle, crossed the vegetable patch and made for the greenhouses.
Ron and Hermione were bickering again, and neither seemed to notice that Harry had started to trail behind, limping slightly to keep weight of his splinted leg.
He was grateful for their lack of attention. It was better than Ron's worried glances and Hermione's timid attempts to address the Black situation. Besides, he still hadn't told them about his three week Quidditch ban, and he had no idea how he was going to broach the topic, not when he hadn't come up with a passable excuse. He'd brushed it off as a potions accident with Wood, and again with Angelina and Alicia when they'd waylaid him in the hallway before History of Magic, but Ron and Hermione would know that he hadn't had a potions accident recently, and certainly not one that would knock him out of Quidditch.
As he mulled over the problem, Harry caught sight of something that distracted him completely: the silhouette of an enormous black dog nestled in a thicket of trees. Even through the branches, Harry could feel its yellow eyes boring into him. The Grim was back.
Time seemed to slow down; each of Harry's shallow breaths filling the sudden silence. There was a strange thudding noise, and it took him a second to connect it to the pounding in his chest. The creature did not move, but continue to track Harry with its eyes.
"Harry!"
Hermione's call brought him back to the present. When he turned, he saw they were several feet ahead, looking back at him uncertainly.
"Mate, are you alright? You've gone a bit pale."
"There- It was- There - in the bushes," said Harry frantically. He looked back, but the Grim was gone. It had vanished.
"What's in the bushes?" Hermione asked, coming towards him and putting a hand on his arm in concern.
He looked back again, but saw only silver tree branches, decorated with yellowing autumn leaves.
"Never mind… just a trick of the light."
"You look pretty shaken. Do you want to sit down for a second? I'm sure Professor Sprout won't care if we're a few minutes late."
"No, I'm fine. Really, I am. Let's – let's just go to Herbology."
They finished the rest of the walk in silence, slipping into Greenhouse Three just in time to avoid a lecture. While his friends methodically stripped fat pink pods from the plants, Harry tried to settle his still racing heart. He knew he must look dreadful, for Sprout had taken one look at him and suggested that he go to the Hospital Wing. At least she wasn't questioning his absence the previous day, Harry supposed, though he'd almost take a detention over the concerned glances she kept shooting him.
As the lesson wore on, the scent of damp earth and the quiet chatter of his classmates was almost enough to return him to a state of normality. Yet he knew that, despite what he had told his friends, the creature he had seen was no trick of the light. The Grim was haunting him, appearing each time before some new horror befell him, and perhaps would until he finally died.
It seemed clear to Harry that it was no coincidence he'd seen the Grim that day, not when he'd decided only the day before to go after Black. But if it was a warning, he wasn't going to pay it any attention. He didn't care what it took, Black would pay for his crimes.
Once the fourth potion exploded in Severus' first lesson of the morning, he resigned himself to an arduous day. It didn't improve from there; he spent the morning break reprimanding two of his Slytherins who'd been caught hexing a Hufflepuff first year, his free period breaking up a duel in the common room, and most of his lunch break marking the fifth years' essays, and in that time coming to the conclusion that several of them were unlikely to get above a D when OWLs came around.
By the time Severus reached the staff room for their weekly Friday meeting, he was more than ready to head off to bed. Instead, he helped himself to a steaming mug of coffee and settled down on a vacant chair to listen to Minerva explain changes to the patrol rota, an updated plan for the Halloween feast at the end of the month, and the formation of the OWL and NEWT schedule. These meetings were tedious at the best of times, but after the day he'd had it felt quite excruciating. It did not help that Severus was preparing himself for a difficult conversation with Potter, one that needed his full attention, and the staff meeting felt like a trivial distraction from that.
His mood only deteriorated further when, after the meeting had finally ended, Minerva stopped him as he was leaving to discuss a clash between the second year Gryffindors and Slytherins that had ended with hexes being thrown and detentions handed out to all twelve participants. She had just finished explaining the details of the conflict when Pomona strolled over.
"I'm not interrupting, am I?" she asked, settling herself down in the red-checkered armchair beside Minerva. "Only, I was hoping we could have a brief word about Potter."
Severus raised an eyebrow at Minerva. What on earth had the boy said or done to concern Professor Sprout?
"I'm becoming slightly worried about him; he looked terribly unwell when he came to my lesson today. I wouldn't normally have mentioned it to you, but he missed my class yesterday for health reasons as well. Granger told me he was in the Hospital Wing but I checked with Poppy and she hadn't seen him. Usually, I'd give him a detention for truanting but he seemed so off-colour today that I don't believe he missed my lesson for any mischief." She paused to tuck a fly-away strand of hair behind her left ear, "I thought it might be the effect of the Dementors - heaven knows I've had to send enough of my students off to Poppy for chocolate and a calming draught, and from the sounds of it, Potter reacts badly to them. I don't suspect it's anything more serious than that… but I thought it best to report it to you anyway."
So, it was not just his detention that Potter had skipped yesterday. Had he attended any of his lessons that day? Or had he secluded himself away since his examination? Severus knew, of course, that the boy must be horrified that his least favourite professor had discovered the abuse, but he had hoped that the boy wouldn't withdraw further in on himself.
Now that he thought about it, if Potter wasn't bothering to attend classes, it seemed unlikely that he'd follow the highly specific potions regimen Severus had assigned him. Had Potter been taking them?
There was an easy way to find out. In his desk, in the third draw down, was a chest of potions vials linked to the one he'd given Potter last time they'd met. Each vial was filled with a colourful liquid and would only empty when the corresponding vial in Potter's set had been consumed. He ought to be halfway through the set by now, if he'd been taking them properly, though Severus couldn't think of a time Potter had proved himself capable of obeying basic instructions. Best to check now then, before he saw Potter that evening.
He excused himself to his colleagues and made his way back to his office. With a flick of his wand, the potion's chest presented itself neatly on his desk, revealing twenty-four gleaming vials, each filled to the brim with a brightly-coloured liquid.
So, the boy hadn't been taking his potions.
For a second, Severus was overwhelmed by his frustration. How foolish, how reckless and irresponsible and careless of the boy. How on earth did he expect to recover if he wasn't willing to take his potions?
For one glorious minute, he allowed himself to revel in his irritation. That was an emotion he was used to feeling towards Potter, not pity or concern or responsibility. How normal it felt to sigh in disdain at the thoughtlessness of the boy, just another annoyed complaint about his inability to follow rules.
He exhaled loudly in the silence of his office. How he wished he could hold Potter at fault for all of this. Yet, he couldn't blame the boy, not when he, at thirteen years old, had been let down so many times by so many people and was struggling to cope because of that. He was only a child after all, and Severus was hardly surprised he couldn't face attending detentions or taking potions or doing anything that reminded him his secret had been found out.
Still, while it wasn't fair to be angry at Potter, that didn't mean he could allow this behaviour to continue.
Normally, when a child was struggling due to issues in their personal life, Severus, as Head of House, would liaise with the parents and with Poppy until a solution was reached. Over a decade's worth of experience meant that this was hardly the first time he'd encountered a situation where a student needed additional support. Indeed, on several occasions Severus had sat through conferences with parents and impressed on them that something had to change in their child's behaviour.
Yet, with Potter, there was no one to call. His parents were dead, his godfather was a homicidal maniac, and his guardians were unfit to raise a flobberworm let alone a young wizard.
Someone needed to keep a very close eye on Potter at the moment. And unfortunately, Severus realised with a sinking feeling, the person who'd promised to do that was him.
"Mr. Potter." said Snape's cold voice, stopping Harry in his tracks.
Harry turned slowly, feeling very much as though he'd been caught in the middle of some wrong-doing.
"Sir?"
"Just where are you off to at this time of evening?"
"It's only ten past seven, he's hardly breaking curfew," protested Ron, before Harry had the chance to answer.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley, for interrupting," said Snape curtly, then, turning his attention back to Harry, he repeated his question.
"Back to my common room," Harry answered, wondering what Snape was getting at. And though that wasn't strictly true, for Harry had been planning to go and practise spells again with Neville in the cloisters, Snape couldn't possibly know that.
"Back to your common room," Snape repeated coldly, "And I supposed it just happened to slip your mind that you have detention every day at seven for the next fortnight. I am aware that you do not seem to think that the rules apply to you, Mr Potter, but that does not excuse you from facing consequences for your actions. But, of course, we can discuss this further, in my office. Now."
With a wave of his hand, he motioned for Harry to follow him. As they navigated through the dimly-lit dungeons, the silence that had fallen between them was broken only by the sharp click of Snape's boots against the flagstone floor. A couple of Slytherins shot Harry mocking glances as they passed them by but Snape's palpable irritation was enough to silence any potential taunts. Far too soon for Harry's liking, he was ushered into Snape's gloomy office and directed to the solitary wooden stool in front of the desk.
Snape sat silently across from him, his fathomless black eyes boring into Harry's. Harry looked away, fiddling awkwardly with his sleeve as a distraction from the man's penetrating gaze.
Finally, Snape spoke, his soft voice breaking the oppressive silence. "I am not in the habit of tracking my students down, Mr Potter, and I shall be most displeased if I am forced to do it again. Regardless of the challenges you are facing, I expect you to be here every evening at seven o'clock until your punishment is served. Is that understood?"
Harry nodded quickly, waiting for Snape to continue with some jibe about his arrogance or his over-inflated ego, but none came.
"Good. I let it go once because of your exceptional circumstances. But twice, that's the beginning of a pattern. And I'm not going to let that stand."
Harry blinked. When had Snape ever been known to let something go? But it was true, Snape wasn't levying any further detentions against him, nor telling him off in any way. Even his tone seemed remarkably calm. For some reason, this left Harry feeling very on-edge.
"However, while I am willing to look past your truancy yesterday, I must impress on you that I cannot accept other aspects of your behaviour, namely your failure to follow the strict potions regimen that Madam Pomfrey prescribed to you," said Snape, in the same cold, level voice he had adopted for the evening, "I do not know, nor do I care, whether you simply forgot to take them or decided not to for some foolish reason. Either way, that ends today."
Harry ducked his head slightly, a keen sense of embarrassment rising in his chest as the memory of the previous afternoon. Then, as Snape's words registered, he found himself distracted by a different thought.
"How did you know I didn't take them?" he demanded, feeling a small spark of anger ignite in his chest.
"There's a charm on the vials which informs me how much you have left. It's normally used by Healers when treating patients suffering from memory-related disorders, but it also works for erstwhile young boys who cannot obey a simple task," Snape replied silkily, a hint of irritation flickering behind his calm expression. But that vanished as quickly as it appeared, and reverting to his previous cool tone, he continued, "But the matter of how I know is beside the point. What is important is that you can be trusted to take them in the future."
"And if I can't?" said Harry, not entirely sure why he was pushing Snape, not when he'd already gotten away with more than he ever had before.
"If you cannot be trusted to follow the potions regimen I gave you – and I will know if you don't – then myself or Madam Pomfrey will be forced to supervise you. That means that, thrice each day, you will have to come to one of us at a designated time and consume your potions in our presence." He held up a hand to silence Harry, "I certainly do not want to waste my time in such a manner, but if that's what is required to ensure you take your potions then I won't hesitate to make you do so."
"I'm not a child-"
"Indeed, so don't make such childish measures necessary."
"They aren't necessary," Harry was suddenly on his feet, his arms crossed furiously across his chest, "Just because you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong-"
"Enough," said Snape in a dangerous voice, "this may not be a pleasant conversation, Potter, but I am still your teacher and your continued insubordination will not be tolerated."
There was a nasty silence. Harry glared at Snape across the desk, his fists clenched. Snape narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring as he looked pointedly between Harry and the chair. After a moment's hesitation, Harry sat back down.
"As I was saying, these measures will be implemented only if you continue to demonstrate an inability to take the potions on your own accord. Follow your instructions, and no more shall be said on the matter." Snape leant back in his chair, staring at Harry with a probing gaze. Harry couldn't help but feel as if the man had been dissecting him with his eyes, studying him like a potions ingredient. Whatever he was searching for, he must have found, for he finally looked away and stood up.
"Don't move." He instructed and pinned Harry with a dark glower until, seemingly satisfied that Harry would comply, he whirled around and disappeared through a small doorway next to the ingredients cupboard. He emerged moments later, carrying in his hands a shallow stone basin which he placed on the desk in front of Harry.
Harry's attention was drawn towards the silvery light which was coming from the basin's contents. As he leaned closer, the silvery substance became transparent; but instead of the stone bottom of the basin, he saw what looked like a neatly manicured garden.
"Do you know what this is?" Snape asked, his cold black eyes fixed unblinkingly upon Harry.
Harry shook his head.
"It is called a Pensieve. It has many uses but its primary function it to allow one to review memories. Do you know why I brought it out today?"
Harry frowned slightly and shook his head again. He tugged his sleeves down over his hands, feeling distinctly apprehensive, even though he could not say why.
Snape stared at Harry for a few moments, one finger tracing the rim of the Pensieve. When he spoke again, it was slowly and deliberately, as though he weighed every word.
"When you failed to turn up to your detention yesterday, I used the extra time available to take an excursion to Little Whinging. One of your neighbours was kind enough to provide me with several of their memories pertaining to your relatives and their treatment of you." Snape paused, looking at Harry like he was a particularly volatile potions ingredient that had been knocked into a cauldron and he was waiting to see if the whole thing would explode.
For a second everything seemed still; there was a strange fluttering in his chest and it was difficult to draw air in. Then the rage hit, burning through him and clearing his head of the terrible strangeness.
"You had no right," snarled Harry, clenching his fists. On the shelves around him, the hundreds of glass jars began to tremble, rattling as they knocked against each other.
"I had every right," said Snape calmly, "the results of your examination are such that your home life needs to be properly investigated. We cannot help you unless we know what you went through, and your behaviour has clearly indicated that you are not able to talk about it."
"I've already told you, there's nothing for me to tell!"
"Broken ribs, lacerations, malnutrition. Not to mention that your femur was snapped in two different places. Tell me, Potter, does that sound like there's nothing to tell?"
The jars started shaking faster, clattering violently against each other, harder and harder until a jar right on the end, filled to the brim with dead cockroaches, was knocked from the shelf and shattered against the stone floor. Shards of glass and dismembered cockroaches flew in every direction.
Harry froze, watching Snape warily. But if Snape was angry, he didn't show it, just slowly reached for his wand, his eyes locked onto Harry. With a careless flick of his wand, he repaired the jar and sent it soaring back to the shelf. A second silent spell suspended the other jars in place, and a third banished the mess.
Harry sat there, white-faced and trembling, no longer sure if that was from rage or fear. In the back of his mind, images played out of the consequences of his last instance of accidental magic. A phantom ache ran down his bandaged leg, and he rubbed it absently, his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"This is not an easy discussion to have," said Snape easily. His tone was still carefully calm and his hands were interlocked, set on the desk in plain view. Harry wondered if he was worried about triggering his accidental magic again, especially given how hard to come by some of the ingredients he kept in his office were. "That said, it is not a conversation that can be avoided any longer."
"There isn't much more to say," Harry insisted, fighting hard to keep his voice even.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Unfortunately, there's quite a bit more to say. While we have a report of your current injuries and memories witnessed by your neighbour to give us an idea of your situation, at some point you will have to give a formal statement regarding the specific details," he paused, then, in response to Harry's heavy breathing, added quickly, "you won't have to give a formal statement until you're ready to do so. Everyone is aware of how difficult this is for you."
"Everyone? You said you wouldn't tell anyone?"
"I believed I assured you that the results of your examination are strictly confidential, which they are. However, I had a duty to inform both the Headmaster and your Head of House." Here, Snape hesitated. Was Harry imagining it or did he look slightly uncomfortable? "Normally, the necessary Ministry departments would also have to be informed and all subsequent investigations and support would fall on them, but it has been decided that, due to your unique status in our world, it is best not to inform them immediately."
Harry nodded quickly. Anything was better than the Ministry and the Press finding out about this.
"However, although the Ministry will not be involved for the time being, there are still procedures that have to be followed in cases like this. Which brings me back to this," he tapped the Pensieve with his slender fingers, "it is necessary for Madam Pomfrey to know how your injuries were caused. I am aware, however, of how difficult it is for you to talk about this, which is why the Headmaster has loaned me his Pensieve. Rather than you having to recount your experience, I can simply extract the memory for Madam Pomfrey to view."
It took a second for Harry to process what Snape was asking for. "No! No! Absolutely not!" He reared back so sharply that his chair-legs screeched against the stone floor. "No way!"
"Calm yourself, Potter."
"No, I'm not giving you my memories just so you can get some sick pleasure in watching someone else humiliate me. What do you want them for anyway? To compare notes? See if my relatives ever came up with insults that you haven't thought of?"
"You cannot possibly think I could derive enjoyment from watching such scenes-"
"Yeah right. You haven't passed up an opportunity since I got here to tell everyone exactly how pathetic you think I am. I bet you can't wait to let everyone know that I got exactly what I deserved." Harry was on his feet and breathing hard, the sheer force of his anger leaving him breathless. "My relatives agree with you, you know, that my father was arrogant and my mum was a bitch and I had it coming for being an ungrateful brat."
"That's enough, Potter," said Snape, his long nostrils quivering.
But Harry didn't care that Snape's face had gone rigid; the fire was strong in his chest now, the stupid, suicidal kind of fire that had caused him to blow up Aunt Marge.
"Aunt Marge thought I needed proper discipline. Said I was insolent and a nasty little boy who needed to be taught a lesson. Isn't that what you always say. I bet you'd love to see-"
"ENOUGH!" yelled Snape, his black eyes flashing dangerously. "If you could get it through your head that I am trying to help you, rather than humiliate you, this conversation would be much simpler."
Harry laughed bitterly. "Right, sure. Because you've been so keen to help me in the past. That's why you've spent the last three years humiliating me at every opportunity. In every potion's lesson, every jab at my fame and my incompetence, all those times you encouraged Malfoy, when you told him to send a snake at me in duelling club, that was all born from your overwhelming desire to help me, was it?"
Harry was aware, as he spoke, that he was a long way past the limits of what Snape, or any Professor for that matter, would normally accept from him. And, indeed, he expected Snape very soon to lose his temper, to take points and assign detentions and verbally tear him to shred. Maybe even to pull out his wand and hex him. But Snape did none of those things, he only stared at Harry with a calm expression, an eyebrow raised, and crossed his arms across his chest.
When he spoke, his voice was cold but steady, his earlier anger extinguished, and his stony face schooled into a neutral expression. "There is a big difference between challenging your ego in my classroom and finding humour in the abuse you've suffered. Whatever I think about your behaviour and manners does not detract from my willingness to help you through this period in your life," he leant forward, his dark eyes boring into Harry's, "and I will help you through this, whether you want me to or not."
"Why you?" The words fell out before Harry had the chance to think. And yet, as soon as he said them, he realised that that was the question that had been bothering him since he'd sat down in Snape's office. As much as he wanted to yell and rage and provoke Snape, he wanted an answer more.
"The Headmaster asked me to," said Snape simply. "And I agreed because it's apparent that you need additional support at this moment in time."
"I don't need-" Harry started to protest, but Snape cut him off before he could get any further.
"Potter, in the past two days alone, you have skipped classes and detentions alike, failed to take a single one of your prescribed potions, and have attended exactly three meals in the last seven. Tell me, based on the overwhelming evidence against you, why you think you don't need support?"
"I've managed fine-"
"And that is before you have to engage with the reporting process," said Snape, acting as though Harry hadn't spoken, "which can be a very difficult process for some people, especially-"
"What if I don't want to go through with reporting it?" It wasn't much of a question; Harry was already certain that he wanted to avoid it like the plague.
"Unfortunately, that isn't an option. There are strict procedures in place that have to be followed the minute abuse is reported. Even if we're not going through official channels, those protocols must be followed." Snape's eyes darted down to the Pensieve and back to Harry. "You can't officially submit memories in lieu of a statement, but at the moment it would be sufficient evidence of what transpired to spare you from having to recount it." He examined Harry carefully, making a face Harry recognised from years of watching him decided whether to banish Neville's potion before it exploded. "Perhaps tonight is not the night, but I would ask that you seriously consider submitting your memories from the summer."
Harry nodded, despite having no intention of considering it. His anger had faded away and been replaced with a deep tiredness that seemed to seep into his bones, and he wanted nothing more than to get away from this conversation.
Snape's gaze lingered on him for another long moment, his dark eyes assessing him. Harry felt suddenly too exposed by the attention and dropped his eyes to the ground. Though Snape had banished all traces of the shattered glass, there were still small puddles of liquid pooled into the crevices of the uneven stone floor. It was almost comforting, in a very strange way, to see a trace of the destruction his untamed magic had wrought.
The clink of glass vials against the desk drew Harry's attention away from the floor and back to Snape.
"Take these," said Snape, pushing them across the desk towards him, "They should make up for the potions you missed. You can restart the regime I set for you tomorrow."
Harry wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of the first vial but, seeing Snape's dark look, downed it without complaint. The taste reminded him rather forcefully of Nearly-Headless Nick's Death Day Party, enough to make him wonder if Snape and him shared recipes. The second had an oily texture and seemed to ooze down his throat, while the third was so bitter that he shuddered as he forced it down. Harry couldn't remember ever taking a set of potions that tasted so awful; he wouldn't be at all surprised if Snape had made them taste terrible on purpose, as a punishment for skipping the original set.
"You may leave," Snape informed him as he gulped down a glass of water to rid his mouth of the taste. "I see no benefit to having you write lines or cut up ingredients for the remainder of the evening. Do you have any questions before you go?"
"No, sir," said Harry as politely as he could, determined not to give him a reason to change his mind.
"Very well. You are dismissed."
He was halfway through the doorway when Snape called for his attention.
"Oh, and, Potter, since you seem to be in the habit of forgetting instructions of late, let me remind you now that you are due in the Hospital Wing at nine tomorrow morning to have your leg fixed. I shall be most unimpressed if I have to come looking for you again."
Harry nodded and the door swung shut behind him.
Sorry for the wait in update time - the office scene between Harry and Snape took forever to write. I've been planning it since I outlines the basic plot of Fading Away and it was so exciting to finally get it down on paper. I love writing confrontations between Harry and Snape, especially when Snape is making an effort to be nice, but it's a slow process and definitely involves a lot of editing. I hope you all enjoy it! As ever, I always appreciate feedback and reviews. Stay safe!