Harry squinted at the row of houses opposite, reading the numbers on the plaques nailed to each door.
Ten. Eleven. Thirteen.
It made no sense.
He glanced back at the note. Hermione always told him to look past the obvious, but there couldn't possibly be more to it. It referred to number twelve. The answers he sought lay at number twelve.
Ten. Eleven. Thirteen.
He scrunched the parchment in his fist.
"Think about the answers you want," Remus winked.
Harry frowned. He wanted to know where on earth they were, of course. He wanted to know where his godfather was. Where home was.
The loud grinding of brick startled him. He looked up in time to see a rustic, arched door swelling into being. Grey walls and grimy windows swiftly followed, forcing numbers eleven and thirteen aside like a bully shouldering past. Harry gaped at it. The stereo from number eleven thudded on as the movement slowed to a stop. Apparently, the muggles inside hadn't felt a thing.
"Come on then," said Remus, igniting his wand with an easy smile. "Let's go in."
Starting up the crumbling steps, Harry stared at the door. Its dark wood was splintered and scratched. The silver doorknocker, shaped like a serpent, left Harry with a strange ominous feeling. Leaning over his shoulder, Remus rapped his wand against the place a keyhole should have been. The door emitted a series of metallic clinks before creaking open, and Harry stepped over the threshold into a darkened hall.
The air was infused with the rich essence of mahogany and underpinned with a damp, musky depth that made him want to sneeze. With eyes watering, he ventured in a little further, noticing how the house around him seemed to exhale a wheeze as though it had spent decades inhaling its own dust.
"Whose place is this?" he asked.
"Shhh, later. Here, let me cancel the charm," whispered Remus. Harry nodded, and the man struck his wand against his head. A hot trickling sensation followed the pain. Harry looked down, watching his own body solidifying, until he was fully visible once again.
"Sorry," said Remus, his face scrunching up in dismay. Harry squirmed. Adults didn't apologize, yet Remus was on at least his tenth time. It reminded him of himself. At the Dursleys', sorry was a strategy for staying alive.
At the end of the hall, door hinges groaned and Victorian gas lamps spluttered to life along the walls. He barely had time to register the odd swirling patterns of the wallpaper before a familiar voice rolled down the hall.
"Merlin, Harry? Is that you?"
A kaleidoscope of feelings burst in Harry's chest. Letting it light a smile, he whirled around to find Sirius silhouetted in the doorway. The last time he had seen him, his hair had been a stringy, matted mess. Now it fell in silky waves to his shoulders, framing a face that had filled out with a warm, healthy glow. He wore a purple waistcoat paired with jeans and a pinstriped green robe – an ensemble that would have been garish on anyone else, but on Sirius, looked effortlessly cool. Their gazes met, but Harry's smile faltered when his godfather blanched.
"My God, what the hell happened?" Sirius demanded, striding towards them, his robe whipping out behind him. Without hesitation, he grasped Harry's chin, lifting his face to the light, his grey eyes glinting.
Harry jerked away, shame searing every shred of him. "It was the car crash, Sirius," he muttered.
"A car crash did all this?" When Harry didn't reply, he rounded on his best friend.
"Sirius, I hardly think this is the best way to welcome your godson," said Remus, a hint of warning in his measured tone.
"How do you expect me to react when you bring him here unannounced and his face looks like it's been mauled by wild beasts? Figg said it was your uncle driving the car, is that right, Harry?"
"We can discuss it later," Remus interjected. "Right now, Harry needs—"
"What the hell happened exactly? Was he drunk? Why wasn't he paying attention to the road?"
Bile rose in Harry's throat. He couldn't do this. Not with Sirius. Not now.
"Enough, Padfoot. Harry doesn't need hounding the moment he steps through the door," said Remus.
Sirius crouched and grasped Harry's arms, holding him still to peer into his face. A thick vein throbbed at his temple, the same as his uncle's did whenever he was caught up in rage. "Tell me what happened. Why was he so damn careless with my godson in the car?"
Remus gripped Sirius's shoulder, trying to prise him away from Harry, but his godfather's grip only tightened on Harry's biceps, his fingers biting into a bruise. A fizzle of fear chased the pain.
"Sirius, stop this now!" shouted Remus.
"Haven't those damn Muggles at the hospital done anything for you at all? Why does your face still look like that? You must be in agony! Get him some pain-relieving potions, Remus."
Bang.
Sirius yelped and reeled back, releasing his godson as though he'd been scalded. His head hit the grandfather clock and he grunted. Harry started for him but Remus stepped into his path, his wand raised.
"I'll deal with him," he told him. "Go upstairs. Second door on your left, we'll be with you shortly."
But Harry's feet had grown roots. His gaze darted past Remus to his godfather who was now groaning and rubbing the back of his head.
"He'll be fine. Now go."
"Moony," said Sirius. "I have a right—"
"Quiet!" Remus's voice was a whip crack. "Your godson has a right to be healed before you accost him. Harry, upstairs now please. I need a word with your godfather."
The teen bit his lip, torn, when Sirius offered him a rueful grin. "It's okay, kiddo. You go."
Harry took the steps slowly then all at once, only pausing when confronted by a row of shrunken elf heads mounted on the landing wall. Squashing his unease, he made quick work of finding the right door.
As he entered the room, a musty odour tickled his nose, mingling with the stillness that hung heavy in the air. Oil paintings adorned the walls, their muted colours barely visible beneath a thick layer of dust that coated every surface. In the centre, a four-poster bed stood draped with tasselled curtains, its grandeur dulled by years of neglect. Heavy black drapes with gold accents framed the windows, while the black walls themselves were a testament to past opulence—panels and corbels carved with intricate patterns that spoke of painstaking craftsmanship. Every gold thread and delicate carving seemed to bleed superiority and wealth, a grim relic of the glory days when this room had known its prime. The flames crackling in the cast-iron fireplace did little to dispel the room's cold, aloof atmosphere, serving only as a faint reminder of the warmth this space had once known.
A familiar ache nagged at his injured leg. He had overdone it running up those stairs. God damn it, he hadn't thought this far ahead. Any healer worth their salt would instantly unravel his darkest secrets. Years of hiding and covering up, unveiled with the flick of a wand.
He should never have come here. He should have stayed at the hospital, let the Muggles heal him as best they could. Remus was already suspicious and who knew what he was telling Sirius right now. There was no way he could lie his way out if they knew the extent of his injuries.
Sinking onto the bed, he buried his face in his hands and tried to slow his laboured breathing. Tried to think. This place, whatever it was, was obviously top secret yet Remus spoke as though he already had a healer in mind. Would it be Madam Pomfrey? Remus had raided her potion stores after all. He couldn't figure out if that was worse or better than a complete stranger. But then, what was he thinking? He couldn't go through with this no matter who it was. His whole life would be turned upside down and that was even without this healer selling his dirty secrets to the press. He had to find a way out.
Maybe he could refuse. But no, Sirius and Remus wouldn't let him.
He could demand to be taken back to the Muggle hospital, but that would heighten suspicions even more.
He could run, but he had no money. No wand and nowhere to go. Besides, fleeing would be to spit in the face of those who tried to help him. And he couldn't bear to think of what his godfather would say. Despite everything, he was exactly where he wanted to be. With Sirius. He just couldn't stand to think about how he'd react when he found out his godson had been too weak to stop his Muggle uncle.
A sharp pain flared in his finger and he glanced down, watching in a detached sort of fashion as a tiny ball of blood welled up at the side of his nail. Remus was right. Picking at his scraggly cuticles had become an unconscious nervous habit. It had been over a year since they'd last seen each other, yet he remembered insignificant things about Harry like they mattered. Like they were worth remembering.
He had another teacher like that once. In his primary school. She had been the first person to ever notice him in a way that felt real. Mrs. Caramore. She had honey blonde hair, and warm brown eyes. He'd file into class, scuffing his trainers against the carpet, his head bent so low his glasses slipped to the end of his nose and she'd give him the brightest smile. He was always last in line, but she reserved that smile especially for him. She'd talked to him. She'd listened. She'd even let him stay in the classroom at break times so he wouldn't be in the yard with Dudley and his gang. Her class smelled like lavender, and of the cherry Bakewell tarts she'd gift him with at lunch.
She'd noticed the bruises one day. He had pushed his sleeves up for art class, forgetting how his uncle had manhandled him into his cupboard a few days before.
She asked him what had happened and as he met her brown-eyed gaze, he realized that somewhere in between the smiles and the cherry Bakewell tarts, he had learned to trust her. And so he'd told. She wrapped him in a lavender-scented hug and whispered reassurances in his ear, then after school, she dragged Aunt Petunia in for a "private word." He hung around the empty classroom with Dudley, who ripped classmates' art from the walls and launched Blu-Tack pellets at him.
The private word dragged on for ages and Aunt Petunia emerged from it with a pinched face and lips pursed. He didn't need to wonder why Mrs. Caramore couldn't meet his eye as he said goodbye.
Aunt Petunia's nails dug into his hand as she dragged him across the yard. He hit his head against the wall in his cupboard as she shoved him in, hissing about his dirty little lies and how he would pay when Uncle Vernon got in.
He limped into class the next day, watching carefully for a familiar smile that never came. Instead, Mrs. Caramore avoided him. She shaved words off her answers and got this faraway look in her eyes when he talked. She put everyone's art back on the walls except his.
He hated the scent of lavender since then and he hadn't ever eaten another Bakewell tart.
Wiping his bloody finger on his jeans, Harry sighed. There was nothing else for it. He really was trapped this time. Completely and utterly at the mercy of this healer's discretion. The best he could hope for would be that whoever it was wouldn't be above a bribe. He would talk to them before the exam, away from Remus and Sirius, and offer every last Knut in his vault for them not to go to the press.
He stiffened at the creak of wooden floorboards, unease coiling in his gut. Footsteps roused memories. Sleeping demons began to stir. His breathing quickened as reality slipped away. The footsteps and groans continued their tease. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy. They stopped just outside the door. He braced himself. His Adam's apple beating a tattoo in his throat. He could get through this. Nothing could rival what he had already endured.
A tall, cloaked figure emerged from the shadows of the doorway. An icy coldness spread through his chest as soulless, black eyes latched onto his.
He imagined Snape peering down his nose at him. His crooked fingers trailing over his skin, examining him, and his stomach plummeted in the way he had only felt in his nightmares.
No. This couldn't be happening. There's no way in hell his luck could really be this bad. Snape had to be here for some other reason.
"So the wolf went wayward, how very unexpected," Snape swept into the room. "Your inane recklessness is truly disturbing, Mr. Potter, tell me, is it your insatiable need for attention that drives you or do you simply strive to inconvenience others?" he drawled but his words barely registered with Harry. His dread had dissolved, leaving a strange numbness in its place. He stared unseeingly as the man absentmindedly inspected his fingernails as though they were far more interesting than the skinny, bruised teenager on the bed.
"I have to admit, however, you have surpassed my expectations. Even I did not believe you imbecilic enough to endanger an innocent man's life simply to gain yet more adoring sympathy and fawning. Your egocentrism is truly astonishing."
His eyes found Harry's again. "Well? Answer me, boy!"
"I didn't do anything," said Harry, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. "It wasn't my fault."
"Oh but of course, the golden boy is blameless as ever. How foolish of me to assume otherwise." He sent Harry a deathly glare and slammed the door behind him. Only when he strode inside the room, did Harry notice the large, leather roll-bag clutched in his hand. Muttering insults under his breath, Snape sprawled out the contents over a mahogany desk. Harry's breathing hitched at the unmistakable clink of glass vials.
"If it were up to me, I'd leave your injuries to heal naturally. Perhaps a little suffering would go a long way in teaching you a lesson in humility and exercising judgment. However, the headmaster believes it prudent to alleviate your pain, however self-imposed it may be," he turned to face the teen, his hands full of potion vials and his eyes glinting with malice.
Harry seized his chance. "You don't have to. It's not like they're critical injuries and like you said, maybe suffering will do me some good. After all, doesn't pain build character?"
A frown sliced Snape's brow as his face darkened and Harry knew he had been too obvious.
"Playing the martyr, how admirable," the word dripped from his lips with disdain. "But no, Potter, you will not accuse me of negligence and I will not aid you in fabricating stories designed to entice hero worship. Now take off your shirt."
At last, panic plunged into his numbness, shattering it like glass. Shards lodged in his windpipe. He shook his head wildly.
"Cease with the theatrics, I have no time to waste," barked Snape dumping the potions on the desk in favour of drawing his wand. "Now, remove your shirt or I will do so for you."
His words struck Harry like a blow, unlocking a torrent of memories.
Punched and restrained. The squeak of the metal bed frame. Praying his aunt would come home early. Threats hissed in his ear. Cigarette smoke and pungent cologne. The click, flash of a camera.
Sweat. Sticky sheets. Shame.
In one fluid motion, Harry sprang from the bed and bolted for the door but Snape locked it before he could get there with a lazy flick of his wand. Not about to admit defeat, Harry yanked at the handle, when it wouldn't budge he let out a roar.
"What's the matter with you?" stormed Snape. "Control yourself, Potter!"
Harry hurled his weight at the door. Pain erupted in his ribs. The potions Remus had given him had completely worn off. He doubled over, whimpering. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck while Snape continued his tirade. His hateful words raining down on Harry like splashes of hot oil. Harry tightened his grip on the doorknob. The metal dug into his palm.
". . .thick-headed brat. Sit down!"
Lost in a haze of panic and pain, Harry didn't notice Snape approaching until it was too late. The man seized his arm, wrenching his hand away from the doorknob. Realization shot through him. He recognized the doorknob's sinuous curves and cool, metallic scales. It wasn't just a knob—it was a snake. The words left his mouth without conscious thought. The door swung open and Harry lunged with such force, Snape relinquished his grip.
He smacked the ground. Agony engulfed him, a searing wave that coursed through every nerve ending. Time seemed to stretch as he lay there, gasping for breath, each inhalation a knife to his lungs. A scream ripped from his throat, raw and primal, echoing in the stillness around him. It was a sound born of pure despair, a cry that seemed to resonate with the very floor beneath him. But then, as quickly as the pain had begun, it began to fade. The sharpness dulled to a throbbing ache, and he felt the world around him shift. The cacophony of his own voice faded into silence. Desperately, he blinked away the darkness, trying to regain focus. Snape loomed over him, his wand still aimed at his face, an empty vial in his left hand.
"Get up," Snape commanded, his voice cold but lacking its usual venom. Bewildered, Harry struggled to his feet, his body aching from the fall. The snake-shaped doorknob seemed to mock him with its silent hiss.
Footsteps pounded the stairs and moments later, Remus burst into view. He rushed at the teen, his face ashen and his wand drawn. "Merlin, Harry, are you all right? Why were you screaming?"
Flushing crimson, Harry ducked his head. When he made no attempt to answer, Remus whirled at Snape. "What did you do to him?"
"Calm yourself, wolf," said Snape.
Remus gritted his teeth. His lip twitched in a snarl.
"I merely tried to set about an examination of his injuries. Now if you still wish to make use of my services, I suggest you put your wand away," drawled Snape. When Remus made no move to stow his wand, he raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Potter attempted an escape. I'm sure you've noticed his inclination for dramatics."
"I freaked out," said Harry. Scuffing the toe of his trainers against the carpet, he refused to look at the two men. "I don't want him to examine me. In fact, I don't need anyone. If you just give me some more potions—"
"Don't be so absurd. Even a half-blinded dung beetle could tell you need a healer, Potter," snapped Snape.
"Where's Sirius? He won't agree with this."
Remus hesitated. "Sirius needs a little time to calm down. But more than anything, he wants you healed. We don't want you to suffer any more than you already have."
"But why him?" cried Harry. "Why not Madam Pomfrey or anyone else?"
"Madam Pomfrey is unavailable."
"I have no patience for this," snapped Snape. "Take the brat to St. Mungo's, he'll no doubt relish the opportunity to make the Daily Prophet's front page tomorrow anyway."
With that, he pivoted on his heel and started towards the stairs, when Remus did something that surprised them all and caught the man's arm, his face drawn in a pleading expression. "Severus, it has to be you, you're the only one we can trust," he whispered.
The two men stared at one another, locked in a stalemate. The quietude pronounced the creaks and groans from the old house. Then, Snape's cold, black eyes slid back to him. Harry barely suppressed a shudder as the man looked him over, dissecting him like a potions ingredient. Finally, his scrutiny ceased and he gave Remus a curt nod that seemed to make the man visibly deflate. "Thank you," said Remus sincerely. "Kiddo, listen to me. . ."
But Harry turned away. That nod had cut him deep. Who he trusted didn't matter. What he wanted didn't matter. His whole life he'd been shrouded in secrecy. He'd worn a façade like a second skin. He'd never dreamt he'd be shredding it for the greasy, hook-nosed snake. Snape's hate was acid and Harry was already eroding away. He just couldn't believe it was Remus who sealed his fate. For the first time in his life, he thought longingly of the Dursleys. No amount of begonias, frilly cushions or gold-rimmed dinner plates could mask the darkness that resided there, but it was a simple, predictable darkness and in that, he felt safe. This was uncharted territory. He had no control and no way of knowing what to expect.
A kind of stupor set in as he returned to the bed, moving on wooden legs. Remus dragged the desk chair round, tucking it in close, but it could do nothing to close the distance between them. The corners of his lips turned up in a familiar, benevolent smile that suddenly felt as foreign to Harry as the room around them. His eyes prickled, threatening to spill his hurt. He refocused on arranging his limbs, blinking fast and swallowing hard.
Measuring out potions at the desk, Snape prepared to swoop down on him. Remus kept making motions to touch him that never quite reached. Harry was glad for it. His every nerve was burning and raw. Skin-to-skin contact would make him implode.
The quietness dragged on. Every tick of the grandfather clock mocked him. Realizing his back was aching, Harry settled himself against the wooden headboard, its grooves dug into his skin. It reminded him of his cupboard back at the Dursleys' where he couldn't toss on his cot without knocking his knees on the wall. If he focused hard enough, he could almost pretend the sound of Snape's movements were his aunt's, as she rummaged about the kitchen, rearranging the cabinet containing her best plates. He'd gotten good at pretending. Slipping into an imaginary world soothed him. He hadn't noticed he'd closed his eyes until Remus cleared his throat and nudged his forearm. Meeting Snape's impenetrable gaze, he couldn't help but wonder if this strange house had a cupboard like it. One large enough for him to crawl inside.
"Don't worry, Harry. Professor Snape will be nothing but professional," said Remus. "You're safe."
Safe. The word lodged in his throat.
Snape slowly drew his wand from his waist holster. His eyes bored into Harry's as if savouring his distress. "First, I'll cast a diagnostic spell, it'll record all of your current injuries—"
Harry couldn't help it. A tiny noise escaped him. For a moment, he thought neither man had noticed, then Snape rolled his eyes.
"I assured you, Potter. I had no interest whatsoever in the nature of the injuries you obtained. Nor did I have any interest in selling the report to the highest bidder. It would only serve to garner yet more sympathy for your gormless admirers. I had no doubt the wolf would appease your need to be coddled and admired, so please abstained from any more dramatic performances. They wouldn't inspire my pity, no matter how evocative."
It was Remus's turn to make a sound, though his was an angry, guttural growl. But for once, Harry found he wasn't angry. Though he clearly hadn't intended it, Harry found the man's words, dare he say it, reassuring. Snape despised him and he hated the attention the wizarding world gave Harry whether it was good or bad. Plus, Dumbledore wouldn't exactly be impressed if he turned the abuse he'd suffered into idle common room gossip and he'd know for sure who sold the story to the press. Yes, Snape loathed him but he respected Dumbledore and he wouldn't do anything to incur his wrath.
". . . stand for bullying, Severus. Albus will hear of your appalling—"
"Remus! Remus, it's okay. I'm used to it by now. Please, I just want to get this over with." He sat up on the bed and reached out, preparing himself to grab the man's elbow, but gladly realized it was unnecessary when Remus turned bodily to face him.
"Harry, I'm sor—"
"It's okay," interrupted the teen before he could apologize again or touch him. "Please just forget it, I really just need this to be over already."
Remus gave him a searching look before finally nodding and settling back in his chair which Harry realized he seemed to have edged even closer to his bed. He looked round at Snape who was surveying them with a withering scowl. "I'm ready."
This time Snape didn't bother with any long, drawn out movements. He drew his wand and waved it over the teen, muttering a complex-sounding spell.
Every molecule of Harry seemed to thrum. His skin heated, like he'd developed an outrageous fever but the sensations vanished as a quill and parchment suddenly appeared beside Snape with a pop.
The quill began furiously scratching lines of its own accord. Harry gritted his teeth, trying to let the noise wash over him while Remus leaned forward as if it emitted a magnetic draw. The parchment continued unfurling as the quill scribbled on. Snape merely glanced at it before setting about uncorking vials at the desk. He held them up to the light, inspecting them while barking questions at Remus about the potions he'd given Harry earlier on.
Time mocked them. Harry barely dared to breathe and the quill scribbled on and on. Lightheaded and nauseous, he vaguely wondered if he were about to pass out when a thunderous rumble from below rattled the room, shaking loose a fine mist of dust from the ceiling. Vials of potions rolled off the desk and smashed on the floor.
Snape cursed as he jabbed his wand at the vials, stilling them. Rolling his wrist, he muttered an incantation and the spilled potions evaporated into multi-coloured gas. The vapor swirled through the air before Snape guided it back over the vials, where it liquefied and flowed back into place, refilling each one.
Remus slumped in his chair, his posture heavy. His features pinched with something Harry couldn't name—regret? Grief? He seemed to focus on a point beyond the room, as though bracing himself for something inevitable. Neither was drawing their wands.
"What was that?" asked Harry, his heart slamming.
"Sirius," said Remus. "He's letting off some steam. I'm sorry, but he's taken the news of you being hurt pretty hard."
Harry sunk back on the bed, one half of him touched, the other half flailing. Just what exactly had Remus told him?
Snape chose that moment to pluck the parchment from the air and Harry's stomach lurched like he'd slipped off a ledge.
Snape's dark eyes moved over the parchment with slow precision, his face a fortress of control. And yet, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't imagining the faint tightening at the corners of Snape's mouth or the subtle twitch at his right temple.
When the parchment finally lowered, Snape's hand trembled—just slightly—before he steadied it. His voice came low and cold, as though dragged from some deep, dark place. "Several fractured ribs, a broken ulna. A burn to the torso, stretching across your chest as well as a multitude of severe bruising, lacerations and fractures. Enough time has elapsed to heal your concussion. I see the wolf has already seen to your broken tibia. Your internal injuries appear to have healed sufficiently too."
The teen opened his mouth a thousand excuses sharp on his tongue when Snape ignited the parchment with a flick of his wand. Embers and ashes floated to the floor.
"What about older injuries?" asked Remus.
Snape merely arched an eyebrow at him as he wordlessly sent several vials soaring towards the bed. "Do be more specific, wolf, the brat has numerous older injuries."
"Have any caused lasting damage? Are there any that haven't healed properly?"
"His left wrist and collar bone, both are misaligned. I'll need to re-break both to set them correctly. He also appears to have dislocated his right shoulder a great number of times too, resulting in a lasting weakness unlikely to be resolved by potions and spells."
Remus drew a ragged breath that caught in his throat, his hand trembling slightly as he dragged it down his face. More to stop himself lashing out at Snape than anything else, Harry grabbed a vial and slugged its contents. The bitter potion burned a path down his throat.
"Anything else?" asked Remus.
"Malnourishment and stunted growth."
"That's not true." Harry couldn't say where the sudden stroke of defiance came from, nor whether he'd spoken loudly enough for either man to hear. But when Snape pivoted to face him, his expression hard and unyielding, Harry clung to his anger like a lifeline, a raft keeping him afloat above the rising tide of shame.
"Really?" said Snape. "And what else, pray tell, in your diagnostic report is untrue, Mr. Potter?"
"I don't know Sir, I didn't read it."
"But surely you have some recollection of your suffering?" the ice in his tone enough to chill Harry to the bone. He stayed silent, fixing his potions master with a glare of his own. "No? Perhaps you should look at the small burns littering your body or will you tell us that those too are a figment of my imagination?"
His words were deliberate and cruel, like the cigarettes Uncle Vernon had stubbed out on his skin. Hatred pulsed through Harry. How dare he? How dare he out him like this? He wanted to lunge at the potions master. Tear him limb from limb. Snape must have read him easily, for his face twisted into a sick, satisfied grin.
It was a lit match on fuel. "Fuck you!" Harry spat. "You think this control gives you power? It doesn't. You're nothing but a sick, pathetic bully!"
Snape lunged at him, swift and predatory, like a vulture diving for its prey. His lip curled into a feral snarl, blotches of crimson erupted across his pale face. His hand shot up, trembling with fury, poised to strike like a coiled whip. Harry flinched, throwing his hands up in defence. A storm of memories surged through him—flashes of laughter, grunts and screams, the click, flash of a camera—each one crashed down with the weight of a collapsing wave.
They wrapped around him, suffocating and relentless. His brain short-circuited. Synapses misfired. The world around him faded to a muted hum, like he'd plunged into deep waters and ice had crystallized overhead.
Fingers curled around his wrist. Steady and firm. Another hand, at his face, brushed over his temples with a tenderness that lingered. Cold glass touched his lips. Minty peppermint landed on his tongue. A voice—soft and slow—like gentle waves lapping at a quiet shore. Though he couldn't decipher the words, its warmth reached into him, until bit by bit his panic ebbed away.
The slamming of his heart had given way to a dull throb by the time he resurfaced. Blinking the room back into focus, he instinctively searched for Snape but instead, found Remus, kneeling by his bedside. His face was a map of tired lines.
Disoriented, Harry looked again for the threat. Half-braced for a blow. At last he found him. Dishevelled, panting hard and leaning against the opposing wall. Snape.
He wasn't attacking, he registered numbly. Why wasn't he attacking him?
"Harry?"
His heart stammered. Remus.
He couldn't bring himself to look at him—couldn't bear what he might find in those eyes.
He'd lost it at Snape.
He'd lied.
Remus had been so altruistic, so patient, so kind. He'd tried to help him. Brought him back from the hospital. Healed him. Defended him. And Harry had disgraced him.
"Harry?"
The first tear escaped almost unnoticed. The second came faster, slipping down his cheek unchecked. He dragged his legs up and latched his arms around his shins, pressed his forehead into his knees, willing himself to stop it. He was almost fifteen years old for God's sake. He didn't cry. Especially not in front of Snape. He wouldn't cry. It was the only damn thing left he could control.
Biting down on his bottom lip, he focused on the effects of the calming draught. Letting it seep into the darkest corners of his mind, he welcomed the numbness and retreated behind the barrier it created between him and the rest of the world.
Only when he was sure he was dry-eyed did he dare lift his chin, a decision fixed in his mind.
The mattress dipped beside him, sending a brief flutter of panic through his chest. Then he smelled wood smoke and ginger and a warm hand came to rest at the nape of his neck.
Harry felt something inside him break. "I'm sorry, Remus. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you. I didn't want you to think—I couldn't—I didn't want you to be ashamed of me. I didn't want anyone to know."
Remus's hand slipped from his neck to his shoulder and Harry found himself pulled sideways against the man's chest in a fierce embrace.
"Don't be sorry. It's not your fault, you have nothing to be ashamed of, do you hear me? Nothing."
"But I—"
"Ssshhh, it's all right. I understand. Everything is going to be all right, I promise you."
He let Harry go suddenly and put his hands on either side of his face, forcing the teen to look at him. "Those monsters will never lay a hand on you again, I'll make sure of it. From now on I'll—"
"Your heartfelt declarations are indeed touching, Lupin, but if I may interject," started Snape with a baleful glare. "Your brat is still recovering from whiplash associated disorder, not to mention a weakness in that shoulder and clavicle. I would advise against such grand displays of affection—unless, of course, you wish to inflict chronic pain or paralyze him, I can assure you I'll raise no further objections if so."
As Remus's hands left his face, Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of relief and he hated himself for it. Almost as much as he hated Snape.
"I'm sorry," whispered Remus. Harry brushed it off with a small shake of his head. Snape was stalking towards his bed, lazily fingering his wand and Harry daren't take his eyes off him. Surely his professor would want revenge. And he'd get it wouldn't he. After all, he had the ultimate trump card. The key to Harry's sordid past. The weight of that secret hung in the air like a guillotine poised to fall.
"Lie back on the bed," said Snape.
"What? Why?" asked Harry.
"Because, I am about to heal your ribs, you conceited dunderhead, now lie back."
Harry hesitated. Lying down made him too vulnerable, like a mouse showing a vulture its belly.
"You've wasted quite enough of my time playing the martyr already, Potter," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Lie back or I will make you."
"It's all right, kiddo. I'll be right here," soothed Remus.
In the end, only remembering the way Voldemort bent his spine at will in the graveyard at the end of last year made Harry obey. He lowered himself slowly, his muscles stiff and taut.
The demons sneered.
Remus laid his hand on the mattress next to Harry's, his thumb giving Harry's the barest brush.
Leaning into the numbness, the teen steeled his courage as Snape bent over him, his greasy head eclipsing the candlelight chandelier. He waved his wand over the teen's side in another intricate pattern. Bracing himself for a rush of pain, Harry turned his head away. His gaze fell on the unlit fireplace and the ash spilled on the hearth.
Snape hadn't said cigarette burns. He hadn't even named their shape.
Needle sharp bolts shot through his wrist, prising a moan from his lips. He writhed and gasped, kicking out as he grappled with the pain. Memories hovered on the periphery of his mind, but he shoved them aside.
Was it possible Snape didn't say cigarette burns because he didn't know what caused them? And if so, what did that mean for his internal injuries. Could he pretend he'd slept with someone? A boy. His own age.
A flash of white-hot pain in his collarbone wrenched him from his thoughts. He clenched his jaw, stifling a scream, but his back arched on its own accord. But then, as quickly as it'd started, the pain fizzled and dissipated. He collapsed, panting hard.
"Realignments are best performed when the patient is least prepared," said Snape by way of explanation, his face a perfect mask of nonchalance, but Harry swore he saw the man's upper lip twitch. "Anticipation is the worst of it."
Seething, Harry struggled upright, a biting retort sharp on his tongue but Remus beat him to it. "Get out."
"I beg your pardon, wolf."
"I said, get out," Remus spat through gritted teeth.
Harry blinked at his ex-defence teacher. His normally kind face had hardened with unadulterated rage. With his eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, Harry saw a trace of the beast within for the first time.
"We would not tolerate your cruelty any longer. Leave your potions and get out; I'll take care of the rest." Remus shoved the chair aside as he stood and started towards the desk where the vials sat innocently, their glass twinkling under the soft candlelight. Snape stepped forward, his dark form intercepting Remus's path, exuding such malevolence it dragged the air from the room. Faces inches apart, they sized each other up.
"You consider yourself competent in healing complex breaks and fractures, do you, Lupin? Astonishing, really. I wasn't aware St. Mungo's trained dangerous, half-breeds," Snape said.
"He'd do better with me healing him than being subjected to any more of your savage ways. He's been through enough," Remus bit back.
"You fool. Those are complex breaks. If I left now, you'd be the one subjecting him to abuse by negligence. The healing spells are intricate. One mispronunciation, and the wart loses his arm. Is that a gamble you wished to take on your precious whelp?"
"Then Albus can heal him," Remus said, throwing his arms up and storming towards the fireplace. Harry distantly wondered if he intended to summon Dumbledore, but as Remus's hand reached toward the mantelpiece and grasped the vase of floo powder, the thought clenched him. The most powerful wizard of all time would see through his half-truths and lies in a heartbeat. He'd know.
"Albus Dumbledore had far more important things to do than see to the tedious woes of this moronic brat. He sent me," Snape said, his voice low and infused with unspoken warning.
"Yes, to heal him, not to abuse him."
Abuse. The word touched something inside Harry. Something wounded, shamed, and afraid. "Stop it!" he cried. "Just stop it! Remus, please! I know what he's like. I've been dealing with it for years. But I really need this to be over already. Please, I can't, I can't go through this again."
A crashing blast, like a car backfiring, reverberated around the room. Heart slamming, Harry clapped his hands over his ears, instinctively curling into a ball as the ground quaked, a memory planting itself at the forefront of his brain. He was back in his cupboard at Private Drive. His uncle came crashing down the stairs, roaring his name.
Fragmented thoughts clouded his mind. He was grateful for the numbing effects of the calming draught. It blunted his panic, allowing him to reach for an old, favoured technique. The one he'd use night after night. He focused on the muffled rushing sound in his ears. The weight of his body. The soft mattress supporting him. The soft linen sheets.
"For Christ's sake," Snape spat. With a whip of his wand, the room stilled, the furniture froze in place. "Perhaps your time would be better spent reprimanding that maniac. He was unhinged."
"Quiet, Severus."
The draught washed away the dregs of his flashback, and Harry emerged slowly, somewhat dazed, as though awakening from a feverish sleep. Flexing and uncurling his limbs, he noticed Remus drawing closer and shoved his hands under his thighs so he wouldn't see them trembling.
"Are you all right?" the man asked.
The teen gave a jerky nod, his gaze flicking to Snape.
"Listen, ignore what I said earlier. I was wrong to force you into this," he said, gaining confidence. "It isn't the only way."
"No," Harry said, his voice stronger than he felt. "I want to finish this."
Snape, who stood rigidly in the corner glowering at the floorboards, inclined his head toward Harry. "You're certain you can withstand my abuse?" he mocked.
Harry gave a short, curt nod. Better him than Dumbledore, he thought to himself, privately astonished by the words he never imagined he would think.
Snape redirected his glare to Remus, fingering his wand. "If you're to stay, you'll be a silent observer, wolf, or so help you."
Remus ignored him. "Harry, listen—"
"Funny. You claim to hold the brat in such esteem, yet you have no regard for his wish—" Snape cut himself off with a sharp hiss, his face tightening as a muscle twitched beneath his right eye.
Remus stepped forward cautiously. "Severus, what is it?" But Snape's expression shuttered so quickly it might have left them wondering if they'd imagined it—if not for the way Harry caught his hand drifting to his left forearm, lingering there just a moment too long.
"A fleeting migraine, no doubt precipitated by your incessant and gratuitous protests, Lupin," Snape said, his tone with venom as he drew himself to full height, towering over Remus. "My patience, much like my time, had reached its terminus. I shall attend to the boy's injuries in a manner befitting my expertise. I suggest you refrain from further interruptions or remove yourself from my presence." With a flick of his wand, he sent Remus soaring backwards. The man landed hard in the chair, with an indignant groan. Ignoring him, Snape stormed toward Harry, his dark cloak and hair fanning out around him.
With the man so close, Harry could smell old boots and leather. He saw his uncle's belt slashing through the air. The memory was swift but vivid. He jerked as the phantom buckle landed its blow, then grimaced.
Snape was watching him, the hard lines and sharp edges of his expression blunting.
"I cannot give you any more pain reliever."
A hint of something unidentifiable lingered in his tone, but Harry had no time to ponder. Before he could react, Snape grasped his forearm, pinning it to the bed, and swept his wand in a circular motion.
The pain was a lightning strike. Harry bit his tongue, tasting blood, but Snape wasn't finished. He pointed his wand at Harry's side, twirling it slowly as he muttered another spell. Pain corkscrewed through his ribs. He gasped. Tears welled in his eyes, he frantically cast around for his grounding techniques, the ones that helped him slip out of his body but lost focus when a series of spasms attacked his shoulder.
Remus's hand closed over his, but Harry yanked away, polite pretence forgotten. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on riding the shockwaves and Snape's low, monotone chanting.
Some of Harry's worst beatings had occurred when he was younger, before he was "promoted" to Dudley's second bedroom. Back then, he'd retreat to his cupboard under the stairs and nurse his injuries amongst cobwebs and velvety darkness. While Uncle Vernon sprawled on the sofa, cracking open a cold one. The drone of the TV filled the house, and Harry would lie there whimpering, yearning for the darkness to swallow him whole.
By morning, things would seem marginally better. The swollen limbs that had been too painful to move the night before would feel mysteriously renewed. He never questioned it: he simply assumed that healing so quickly was normal. It wasn't until his first year at Hogwarts that he realised the truth: without magic, those injuries would have rendered him crippled.
That's how he felt as he came to. Like waking up in his cupboard restored. Good as new. He stared at the man looming over him, trying to equate Snape, the ruthless Death Eater, with his healing dark night.
Snape's eyes flickered to meet his, "that's the worst of it over. I've reinforced your shoulder so it'll be less prone to further dislocations, though you will likely still suffer some level of pain."
"Well done, you've been incredibly brave," Remus praised, though Harry's heart panged at the glimmer of hurt behind his smile. He wished he could withstand touching for his sake. But being jostled in corridors by his classmates or slapped on the back by the Quidditch team was about as much as he could handle. Even Ron and Hermione seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement to respect his personal space. Or perhaps it wasn't so unspoken. Maybe they'd discussed it with each other. Speculated. Wondered why. The thought made his insides squeeze.
Snape flitted to the desk and returned with three fat, Orico jars. "Here," he said, shoving the jar with a thick, grey paste-like substance into Harry's hands. "Bruise balm," he said shortly before thrusting the next jar into the teen's face. The red glass glinted under the shaft of moonlight shining through the window. "For your cuts," Snape said. He handed him the final jar with a stroke of reluctance. Harry inspected the burlap wrapped around it and wondered if he was imagining the warmth radiating from the glass beneath. "For scarring," said Snape, then jabbed a thumb at Harry's forehead. "Though it won't work on that."
Remus, who had been relieving Harry of the jars by stacking them on the bedside cabinet, did a double-take at the last one, his eyes growing wide.
"What?" asked Harry. "What is it?"
Remus seemed to shake himself. "Velatus. It's made with phoenix tears, so it's rare..."
Harry looked at him. "And expensive?"
"Apply twice daily to the affected areas," Snape cut in, his tone once again laced with its acerbic edge. "The bruise balm requires application three times per day while the Sanguis Sanatio is to be used strictly as instructed. Of course, you may need assistance for your back." He flourished his wand and two scrolls and emerald quills appeared on the desk, banishing Harry's mental image of himself as a slimy slug. "Given your chronic inability to grasp even the simplest of instructions, I thought it prudent to produce a second set of directives for your mangy curs." Giving neither of them a moment to respond, Snape shoved a foul-smelling, steaming vial under his nose. "Drink."
Too exhausted to argue, Harry chugged the potion while eyeing the quills scribbling in perfect synchrony. No sooner had he grimaced at the astringent taste than Snape uncorked another vial.
Remus flicked his wand, and a jug of water materialized alongside a glass. He poured it carefully, the stream catching the light as it splashed against the sides. Harry reached out and took the glass, his parched throat aching for relief.
"Thanks," he murmured, his voice hoarse. Snape's sharp glare cut through the moment like a knife. With a flick of his wrist, a dozen vials floated into the air and landed on the bedside table with a clink.
"Drink," he barked, his wand already tracing deliberate patterns over Harry's torso and legs. A faint hum accompanied the movement, and Harry winced as a dull ache flared briefly in his ribs.
"Just a few hairline fractures left," Snape muttered under his breath, his tone clinical and detached.
Harry realized his muscles had stiffened under Snape's scrutiny. He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to loosen as Remus handed him another vial. The potion swirled sluggishly inside, pale and grainy like watered-down chalk. He tipped it back hesitantly, grimacing as the chalky texture coated his tongue. Warmth spread through him almost instantly, heavy and soporific. His eyelids drooped, and the glass slipped from his fingers, landing softly on the blanket beside him.
Snape's wand glowed at the tip as he muttered another series of incantations, first at Harry's ankle, then his shin, and finally his collar bone. The snapping and popping sensations in all those places felt like faint pinches compared with the fiery torture of before.
He sank back against the pillows, wishing Snape had given him that chalky potion earlier; it was far more effective than any calming draught. Or maybe exhaustion was finally catching up with him.
Remus dispensed the potions dutifully, briefly explaining their purpose but Harry hardly registered his words. He watched Snape as he worked, though his face betrayed nothing, his previously self assured, smooth movements had become hurried and erratic. Whatever Voldemort wanted it couldn't be good.
Harry let the scratching of quills and Snape's muttering wash over him, an almost soothing backdrop to his drifting thoughts.
A sacrificial truth for a greater lie—tonight had been bad, but it could have been so much worse. Snape had ample opportunity to expose him to Remus, an act that would have been both beyond devastating and humiliating. Everything Snape wanted. Yet, he hadn't. Perhaps he just didn't care, maybe simply revealing his abuse was enough, but Harry was more inclined to believe it lent more weight to his theory.
Snape straightened abruptly, his shoulders stiff and his hands trembling faintly as he shoved his wand into his sleeve. The fabric caught, and he yanked it free with a sharp motion, muttering under his breath. His steps to the desk were quick but uneven, the heels of his boots scuffing against the floor. He fumbled with the clasp of a tweed bag, his fingers slipping once before he managed to wrench it open.
The vials clinked loudly as he shoved them inside, the sound echoing in the tense silence. A flick of his wand sent the quills disappearing in a burst of sparks that lingered longer than necessary. He snatched up the scrolls, his grip tight enough to crumple their edges slightly, and strode back to the bed. Without meeting their eyes, he thrust one scroll at Remus and then another at Harry.
"Follow them exactly," he said, his voice clipped but strained, before sweeping from the room with a swish of his robes that seemed more hurried than commanding.
A cold dread coiled in Harry's stomach as Snape's retreating footsteps faded away, leaving him alone with Remus. He held his breath, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of his heart. His fingers trembled as he unrolled the scroll, the brittle parchment cracking like splintering bones. He forced himself to focus, his eyes darting over the spidery instructions. Then, at the bottom, a phrase scrawled in a hurried, almost desperate hand snagged his attention.
They may be insufferable fools but they care for you. Confide in them about the sexual abuse, or I shall be forced to do so in your stead. Do not test my patience. Your secrets are not mine to keep.