Disclaimer - I do not own Harry Potter, all characters belong to JK Rowling :)

Chapter warnings: self harm, blood

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Harry slept better than he had for months. When he woke up a few hours later, blissfully nightmare free, he felt oddly well rested and, dare he say it, energised. Was this how normal people felt, all the time? If it was, Harry was jealous.

Since he had woken up so early, the others still in bed and Ron snoring away, Harry decided to put this new found energy to good use and go for a run around the quidditch pitch. He dressed quickly, trying to avoid making too much noise as he dug through his trunk, settling on a large, maroon jumper (knitted for him by Mrs Weasley last Christmas, and suitable to wear in public now that Harry had used a spell to carefully unpick the stitching, removing the massive 'H' it had had on the front) and a pair of comfortable, light grey joggers which, he noted with mild annoyance, had had the drawstrings removed. They hadn't been like that before they'd been packed. He pulled on a pair of worn trainers and headed down to the common room, treading carefully to avoid the creaky floorboards.

Once he was out of the castle, Harry broke into a light jog, not bothering to stretch before he ran down to the Quidditch pitch. He was freezing by the time he got there, the cold morning breeze making him shiver underneath his thick woollen jumper. Bringing his pace up from a gentle lope to a fast sprint, Harry flew around the edge of the pitch, the wind whipping through his messy hair. As invigorating as it was, it only took a few moments for a stitch to start in Harry's side, a sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs. Before long, his lungs were starting to burn with each wheezing breath; it felt as though there were flames licking at his throat, scorching his windpipe. Even though his vision was starting to blur, Harry didn't stop. He felt alive - pushing himself like this, forcing his body to keep going despite the overwhelming pain and shortness of breath - it was all worth it for what happened next.

Just when Harry's body felt ready to give up, when he thought he might collapse from the exertion, when every muscle burned with invisible flames, scorching his windpipe and smouldering his lungs; when he was certain that he was going to die, there and then…. It was like hitting a wall, but instead of crashing straight into it, he pushed through it - and on the other side, he felt a surge of renewed determination and energy course through him. It was like lightning surging through his veins, resurrecting his aching muscles and filling his burning lungs, giving him the second wind he needed to keep running. Harry always thought it was like being high on some sort of amazing drug - except without the dehabilitating low afterwards. The euphoria he felt from hitting that wall, from pushing through it to claim his second wind… it was addictive

He ran for a few more minutes until he felt himself beginning to tire again, black spots swarming his vision and forcing him to sit down with his head between his knees for a moment. He could see lights in the castle windows, and knew people would be starting to wake up. He made his way back up to the common room, stumbling along the empty corridors, his trembling legs barely able to keep him upright without giving way. He always felt like this after a run, but he had pushed himself further that morning; maybe too far. Suddenly, Harry's knees buckled beneath him, and he grabbed hold of the wall in an attempt to remain standing. He slid to floor, resting his head on his knees. His limbs were still aching and weak from his earlier exertion, his hands shaking as he took some deep breaths.

"Potter."

Harry's head snapped up, the motion causing the corridor to spin for a moment.

"Professor- I was just-" He jumped up to his feet, grappling with the wall in a very undignified manner and leaning against the cool stone heavily - he didn't trust his wobbly legs to keep him standing.

"Going for an early morning stroll, are we?" Snape asked, looking him up and down. It unnerved Harry, who shifted on his feet, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper.

"I just went for a run, sir. I was up early, so…"

"And where, pray tell, did you see fit to disappear off to at this time in the morning?" Bitterness laced his tone, and Harry was almost to relieved to see his professor was back to his normal, snarky self after last night. Last night…

Harry knew that he was well within his rights to leave the castle after six am, as long as he remained on the grounds - as he had. But that didn't stop his from feeling oddly guilty, a nervous look in his eye.

"Just around the Quidditch pitch, sir." He replied, peering down the corridor behind Snape. Was the greasy git always up this early? Harry had never seen him on his way back before. Then again, he had been out for quite a bit longer than usual.

"You should not be running, given your… condition. Especially in this cold. I don't want to see you out there again, Potter. It's dangerous." Snape took in the boy's appearance with concern. He must have been out there for at least an hour, as that was how long Severus had been up, and he had not seen Harry leave.

"Go and get changed. I will see you in the hall for breakfast."

Harry nodded at the dismissal, moving past Snape and walking quickly down the corridor.

"Potter," Snape called after Harry's rapidly retreating figure. He turned around to face him. "I mean it. I don't want to see you exercising like that - next time, there will be consequences."

"Yes, sir."

The recurring thought in Harry's head, as he walked briskly back to his dorm, was that he should have brought his invisibility cloak with him. He hadn't before, because he had no need to hide. Did he?

Harry's thoughts flitted back to the night before, with Snape. He had almost forgotten about it when he'd woken up that morning, but one look at his freshly bandaged wrist when he'd changed had reinstated his memories fairly quickly. To be honest, he couldn't remember most of what had been said - he was exhausted at the time, and, truthfully, pretty out of it. He did remember the gentle touch Snape had used when tending to his wounds, and the softness in his tone. The way he hadn't even flinched when Harry had thrown that bottle - hadn't yelled at him, hadn't whacked him over the head for insolence or demanded that he clean up the mess. He had just listened to him, in a way that, apart from maybe Sirius or Remus, no one ever really had. He also remembered, with a sudden jolt, him with his shirt off, and Snape's eyes boring holes into his bruised, bony torso. And him saying he would speak to Dumbledore…

Harry's mind was racing, his worries tearing through his head at a million miles an hour, completely taking over any fragment of common sense he had. Deep down, he knew Dumbledore would never be angry with him - but he also knew that the headmaster would likely contact Sirius, with him having been Harry's designated guardian for the summer. He had promised Sirius- he couldn't bear to see the look in his godfather's eyes if he knew what Harry had been doing. Not a look of anger; never anger. But disappointment. Hurt. It was more than Harry could bear.

By the time he was back up in his dorm, Harry was struggling to breathe. His chest felt tight, like an invisible fist was wrapped around his lungs, squeezing all the air out of him. The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, trapping him. He needed his knife.

"Harry!"

Harry pushed through the door to his dormitory, and walked straight into Ron, colliding face first with his chest. Ron had grown astronomically over the holidays, leaving Harry more than a head shorter than him - a fact that Ron definitely didn't gloat over every hour of every day.

"Mate, where were you? I woke up and you were gone," there was a hint of worry in Ron's voice, and a pang of guilt broke through the layers of panic enveloping Harry.

"I'm sorry, I should have left a note - I woke up early, so I decided to go for a quick run. I didn't mean to worry you." Harry tried his best to disguise his laboured breathing, making it seem as though he was just out of breath from climbing the stairs, or from racing back up to the common room after his run.

"Don't worry about it. But yeah, maybe leave a note next time," Ron grinned, the worry gone from his face, and moved to the side to let Harry through. "I'm heading down for breakfast - want me to wait for you?" He offered. Harry shook his head, plastering a smile on his face.

"I grabbed some toast after my run, ate it on the way up," he lied smoothly. It was almost scary how easily it came nowadays.

"Okay. See you in transfiguration, then?"

"Yeah, see you."

Ron left the dorm, leaving Harry alone. Transfiguration didn't start for twenty minutes, so he decided to have a shower, to wash all the sweat off of him and to try and calm his nerves. Hot water always helped relax him.

However, ten minutes later, Harry's heart was still racing, and he was struggling to force air in and out of his lungs. "Fuck." He cursed under his breath, and grabbed the potions knife from the shower rack. He had brought it in with him, just in case, but had hoped he might not need to use it. He had to be careful - Snape was going to want to look at his arms when he went to see him at eight, and would surely be able to tell if there were new wounds. But… maybe he wouldn't notice just one or two little scratches? With that thought stuck firmly in his head, Harry griped the knife tightly and brought it to his wrist - the one Snape hadn't looked at before. He'd been so focused of treating the injuries to Harry's other arm, he hadn't bothered to check this one. It was just as well - there were significantly more cuts on this arm, seeing as it was his non-dominant hand, and most of them were still relatively fresh.

He made the cut with practised precision, watching with satisfaction as little beads of blood rose to the surface, slowly trickling down his wrist and dripping onto the shower floor. As the blood flowed from his body, so did all the stress he had been harbouring. It dissipated like dust on a rainy day, all the anxiety and worries shifting to the back of his mind once more. He loosed a sigh of relief, finding himself much more able to breath normally, the fist around his lungs having finally relaxed its grip.

Harry let the warm water wash away the blood, waiting until it had completely stopped before he stepped out of the shower and began drying himself off. He dressed quickly, re-wrapping his previously bandaged wrist with a fresh dressing from his trunk, but leaving his other arm uncovered. He liked the dull throbbing, and the sharp sting when the sleeve of his robes caught. Once dressed, Harry stood in front of the mirror, attempting to re-apply his glamour. However, much to his frustration, he was unable to cast it. The charm had been slowly slipping for the past couple of weeks, revealing much more of Harry's appearance than he would have liked. Today, however, he found himself completely unable to perform the spell. He didn't know if it was because he was getting weaker physically that his magic was losing its strength, though he had a sneaking suspicion it might be.

Harry made it to Transfiguration five minutes late, having stewed over his failed attempts at a glamour for longer than he intended. He sprinted down the corridors, leaving him out of breath and looking more disheveled than ever. "Sorry, Professor McGonagall. I- the stair cases were more active than usual." Harry berated himself for the weak excuse the moment it left his lips. The staircases? McGonagall was not an easy woman to fool, and Harry was doing a piss poor job at it - the arched eyebrow and disapproving look said as much.

"Take your seat, Mister Potter. We are on page 394."

Harry sat down quickly. He made up another excuse for Ron as to why he was late, claiming he'd accidentally fallen asleep again once Ron had left. Both Ron and Hermione seemed to buy it, the latter shooting Harry a disapproving look not unlike the one he had just received from Professor McGonagall.

"Perhaps you should go to bed earlier - you do look tired," Hermione commented, turning back to the massive stag beetle on her desk, which they had been instructed to turn into buttons. Easier said than done. Harry had a shiny, shelled button with spindly legs skittering around in from of him, and Ron's beetle had yet to change in appearance at all. One flick of her wand and Hermione had her beetle transfigured into a perfect button, no trace of legs, eyes or any other beetle-ish traits. Ron, clearly disgruntled by Hermione's effortless spell, waved his wand over the beetle rather aggressively, almost squishing it with the tip of his wand. The beetle was propelled into the air and flew across the classroom at speed, pinging off of the blackboard. The class snickered, and Ron turned a shade of beetroot to match his red hair.

The rest of the lesson passed uneventfully, with neither of the boys managing a full transfiguration - much to Ron's frustration. The next class was potions, and the trio walked down to the dungeons together, taking their seats at one of the stained, scorch-marked tables. They had only just sat down when Snape burst through the door, his long black robes billowing behind him. A flick of his wand and door slammed shut behind him, the loud bang making Harry jump and nearly fall out of his chair. He heard Malfoy and his cronies sniggering from across the classroom, but he didn't look at them. He knew it would just encourage them.

Surprisingly, Harry managed the whole class without a singe snide comment from Snape. He stayed away from Harry for the most part - except from near the end of the lesson, when he approached Harry from behind as he was chopping his mint leaves.

"Potter, did you listen to a single word during the demonstration? Dice, don't shred." Snape's voice from behind him made Harry jump about five feet in the air. His potions knife flew out of his hand, and he quickly reached out to catch it. As he did so, he sleeve rode up - only for a moment, before Harry yanked it firmly back down, but he still saw Snape's gaze shift to his un-dressed arm.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Mister Potter. For failing to follow the most basic of instructions," Snape snapped, stalking away. Somehow, Harry knew he wasn't talking about the mint leaves.

~~

Harry packed up quickly after the lesson, wanting to leave as soon as possible. However, just as he was turning to leave:

"Not so fast, Potter. I want a word with you." Snape drawled, beckoning Harry over to his desk. A chair drew itself out from underneath, and Snape gestured for Harry to take a seat.

"Roll up your sleeves."

Harry hesitated, but complied nonetheless. Snape had already seen - there was no point trying to hide it. There wasn't much to look at - just a few new red lines up near his elbow, and further down on his wrist. Snape examined the freshly marked skin for a few moments, his brow furrowed. After what felt to Harry like an eternity, Snape finally turned away. Harry hastily rolled down his sleeves; even though Snape had already seen the scars, he still felt exposed with them out on display.

"Did I not make myself clear when I told you that this behaviour must stop?" Snape said sharply, his voice stern.

Harry did not answer. He stared at the floor, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

"It has been less than 24 hours since our conversation, and already this is what you have resorted to!" He snapped. When Harry still did not reply, Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Pot- Harry. I understand that it may be… difficult for you, at the moment, to refrain from harming yourself. However, you must try."

Hot shame prickled at Harry's neck. He hadn't necessarily promised his professor that he wouldn't hurt himself again - yet when Snape had told him he must stop, Harry had agreed. "I'm sorry, sir," he said quietly.

"I spoke with the headmaster earlier today," Snape began. Harry's head snapped up, a flicker of fear in his eyes. Was this it? Were they carting him off to a mental hospital, never to be seen again?

~~

Truthfully, Severus's meeting with Dumbledore had not gone as expected. Albus was aghast at Snape's revelation of Harry's home life; it saddened him greatly to hear of the abuse that Harry had suffered. What saddened him even more, however, was the fact that Harry had never chosen to confide in anyone - had never told him. He felt that he had done the boy a great disservice by placing him with Petunia and her family. At the time, he had truly believed that it was the best place for Harry, and had never had any reason to doubt his decision. However, what's done was was done, and all he could do now was try to come up with a plan of action.

Dumbledore agreed with Snape that sending Harry to St. Mungo's wasn't a good idea. The publicity of it raised major concerns - should the Daily Prophet get wind of where Harry was, and why, the news would no doubt spread like wildfire. Not only would this severely impact Harry, knowing that the entire wizarding world was aware of his struggles, it would also alert darker forces to his whereabouts. St. Mungo's security was perfectly adequate by normal standards, but to a powerful wizard such as Voldemort, easily overcome. In Dumbledore's eyes, Hogwarts remained the safest place for Harry.

That is, as long as Severus was willing to keep an eye on him.

Snape had not taken to the idea with grace. He had crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and muttered something scathing under his breath. But deep down, he knew he would say yes. There was no one else equipped to deal with the situation – not really. Not when medical intervention had to be discreet. Not when Harry trusted so few people.

He had, of course, suggested McGonagall. She was, after all, his Head of House. But Dumbledore had been firm.

"She is many things, Severus — wise, dependable, compassionate. But she does not have your… skill set. Or the experience. She is also not as accustomed to deception as you are."

Snape hadn't been sure if that was meant as a compliment or a condemnation. Possibly both.

And so, it was settled. For now, Harry would remain at Hogwarts, under Snape's begrudging care. Not officially — nothing that would show up on paper or invite attention. But quietly, deliberately, someone would be watching. Even Albus acknowledged, though, that should Harry deteriorate any further, the situation would have to be reassessed.

~~

Snape exhaled slowly through his nose, folding his arms across his chest. "The headmaster and I have agreed that, for the time being, you will remain here. At Hogwarts."

Harry didn't respond. Just stared at a spot on the floor between them.

"In light of your… unique set of circumstances, you are not being sent home," Snape added, more dryly now, as if he could hear the question forming in Harry's head. "Though some might argue that would be the simpler solution."

Still nothing.

Snape sighed again. "However, this arrangement is conditional. It requires you to be… cooperative."

That finally got a reaction. Harry looked up — wary, half-defiant.

"You will check in with me. Regularly. You will attend meals, and eat a sufficient amount. You will not continue to harm yourself - but you will also not attempt to conceal it from me if you do. I will do my best to help you, and it return, you will try. That is the arrangement. Is that understood?"

Harry didn't answer right away. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles white with tension.

Snape waited, arms still folded, expression unreadable.

"…Yes, sir," Harry said finally. The words were quiet. Flat, but compliant. Not agreement, exactly — but not rejection either.

Snape gave a slow nod. "Good."

The silence that followed wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either. It hovered between them like fog — heavy, but not impenetrable.

"I don't recall seeing you at breakfast this morning," Snape changed the subject, giving Harry a pointed look.

Harry avoided his gaze as he answered, "I wasn't feeling well, sir."

"But well enough to be running around the grounds in the early hours of the morning?" Snape questioned, raising an eyebrow. When Harry didn't answer, Snape sighed. "How are you feeling now?"

"I'm fine, sir."

"Very well. I shall see you this evening, after dinner."

~~

At dinner that evening, with Snape watching him like a hawk, Harry had managed to choke down almost two thirds of his plate of shepherds pie. He glanced up at the staff table every so often, checking to see whether Snape was still watching him. When, having eaten as much as he could stomach, he looked up to see Snape with his eyes on his own meal, in conversation with Professor Vector, Harry pushed his plate away.

Two thirds felt like a small victory, even if his stomach twisted with nausea.

Ron was halfway through an animated retelling of something involving a rogue Bludger and nearly taking out a second-year. Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't interrupt, while Ginny snorted into her pumpkin juice. Harry sat quietly, nodding occasionally, barely hearing any of it.

The hall buzzed around him — loud, bright, full. Too full. His skin prickled with the pressure of noise and faces and cutlery clinking against plates. He felt untethered from it all, like he was watching from behind glass.

Finally, dinner ended. Ron stretched and grumbled about homework. Hermione talked about extra reading for charms. Harry walked between them without really speaking, the sound of their footsteps echoing too loudly in his ears.

Eight o'clock. His office. Eight o'clock.

He didn't sit down when they reached the common room. Just stood near the hearth for a moment, staring into the fire. He could feel their eyes on him – not suspicious, just concerned. The kind of glance that lingered a second too long.

"I'm gonna head up," Harry mumbled. "Bit tired."

"Alright, mate," Ron said, distracted by a game of wizard chess already setting itself up. "See you later."

Hermione gave him a brief look, like she might say something – then seemed to think better of it, and simply nodded.

Upstairs, the dormitory was empty and dim. One lamp burned low. Harry didn't bother changing. He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress, and stared at the wall.

The silence was oppressive. Every second ticked too slowly, yet somehow it was already ten to eight.

He stood, walked to his trunk. Knelt. Opened it.

His fingers hovered for a moment before pulling out the sock. He didn't untie it, didn't look inside. Just turned it over once in his hand. Then again. Then slid it back beneath his robes and closed the trunk.

His reflection in the window caught his eye. Pale. Eyes dull. The glamour had fizzled out by mid-morning, and he hadn't had the strength to recast it. He didn't try now. What was the point?

Eight o'clock. Just go.

He left the dormitory quietly, the common room nearly empty now. The fire was burning low, painting long shadows across the rug. No one looked up as he passed through the portrait hole.

The corridors were dim, lit by flickering wall sconces. His footsteps were soft but steady.

He hated how familiar this walk was becoming. The slow descent to the dungeons. The cold air. The stillness. It didn't feel like going to see a teacher. It felt like penance. Like walking into something that was half sanctuary, half confession.

He paused outside Snape's office, heart beating faster than he wanted to admit.

Raised a hand. Let it hover in the air for a moment.

Then he knocked.

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