Harry's head ached something horrific as he placed it down on his desk for the third time in the lesson, completely ignoring the fact that Professor Quirlle was making his way down the aisle right now in front of him and could turn at any moment. Pansy and Blaise sat on either side of the boy as the three took the back of the Defense classroom, leaving the eager Draco to sit with Greg and Vince at the front of it. The youngest Malfoy liked the idea of vampires too much to 'dwell in the back of the classroom as if I am one.'
That was how when the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson, Harry found himself with a soft grip on either side of arms guiding him out of the room. But instead of making their way to History of Magic, the boy was led down to the dungeons instead.
It wasn't long before he was being sat down at one of the long benches in the potions classroom, as he the smallest Slytherin heard three voices speaking quietly around him. Harry knew that he should care about what was going on around him, but he couldn't find it in himself to do so. Not as the pain was finally ebbing away.
—-
Blasie stared firmly at the potions Professor as Pansy shifted nervously from foot to foot at his side, Harry hidden protectively behind the pair. The Slytherin knew that the professor wouldn't do anything to the smaller boy, but that didn't stop Blaise from noticing the way that the man's eyes had been so filled with hate when they had looked at Harry for the first two weeks of term. The gaze might have shifted now, but that didn't mean much to someone that had been on the receiving side of such a look so many times before.
"Just what are you three doing here?" The older man drawled before his eyes flicked to where Harry should be. "And why in Merlin's name does Potter look like he's about to pass out?"
Blaise almost wincined, knowing just how accurate that classification of the other boy's condition was. "Because he probably is," the Slytherin boy answered dryly, never letting any emotion slip through.
"And you brought him to me, why?" Snape asked, though Blasie could almost hear a hint of concern for the boy in the man's voice.
"Because Harry has absolutely refuses to go to Madam Pomfrey," Pansy replied with a Slytherin clinicalness that Blasie knew from experience that the girl did not truly feel. "He resisted the idea of you just a little bit less the last time that we brought this up."
The pair watched as their professor studied their faces for a long moment. Blaise had begun to contemplate just taking the other boy to the hospital wing anyways, magic and Harry's personal aversion to the place be damned, when Snape's cold eyes met his own.
The professor drew his wand and made a shooing motion with his free hand that the pair were happy to comply with, doing so quickly. Blaise watched as the potions master raised his wand and moved it in a simple, but familiar pattern over the figure of the dozing boy.
Though he could see Pansy's brows knit together in confusion, Blasie knew that what Snape had just done was one of the more extensive diagnostic charms that traced back years. The Slytherin had been subjected to some of the more mild ones before by his mother over the years, and knew to expect a piece of parchment to appear in the air in front of his professor. Still, even Blaise - who had already guessed at the particulars of Harry's situation - hadn't expected the list to be so long.
The parchment easily curled at the potions professor's mid thigh, hiding just how long the list truly was, but Blasie didn't need to see it to know that even the most clumsy child on earth wouldn't have such a length.
"Out," Snaoe said suddenly. Blaise could see that his eyes were glued to the parchment just as his and Pansy's were, though the professor got the burden of the words that accompanied it. "Get out. Now."
Blasie ignored Pansy's noise of protest as he grabbed his own things and Harry's, and dragged the girl into the Slytherin common room.
"Not a word," the Slytherin boy said lowly once they were almost in the shared space, everyone else was in class or taking advantage of the warm day outside. "Harry got sick, that's all. Not a word about the parchment."
Blasie only stayed around long enough to watch the girl nod before he left for the dorms and placed his wand carefully out of reach. His mother had told him that magic was often ruled by emotion. Emotion and intent. He thought that it might be dangerous to fuel one without frost knowing the other.
The boy looked around the empty room, his eyes falling momentarily on the snakes that moved about, animated on the walls like the portraits. But eventually his gaze fell to the bed just past his own, as it seemed to a lot since the first day of term.
Almost guiltily, Blasie walked over to the bed and ran his fingers across the perpetually drawn curtains. When he pulled them back, the Slytherin was met with the sight of stars shining down from above, a perfect replication of the night sky that only came from watching it for a very long time
Somehow the sight was enough to make the boy want to break.
—-
Snape's eyes flitted between the roll of parchment in his hand and the boy dozing away at one of the professor's tables. An unreadable expression forced itself on to the man's face, but anyone could see the turmoil in his dark eyes.
There were records of burns tracing back to the age of six and horrible bruises that had taken weeks to heal that went as far back as one, where the only other information at that age was the killing curse. There were no broken bones, but the Professor didn't know if that was because the people hurting the child were careful in doing so, or if the boy's magic had protected him from the worst of it. Though there were no breaks, there was a vast history of sprains, enough that the boy was likely going to have knee and ankle problems in the not so distant future. And bad enough that potions wouldn't truly be able to fix it, just help with the pain at the least.
Then there were the scars.
Its normal for children to have a few scars at this age, they are kids after all - running around and tearing themselves apart in the name of having fun - but it's not normal for there to be so many.
The diagnostic spell revealed scars on the boy's back, long thick ones that criss crossed over one another as if from a belt. Thin ones that laced the child's hands in the same way that one would see on the hands of someone used to working in a kitchen or potions laboratories for a long time. The professor thought back to the boy's proficiency in potions over the past month and began to feel a little sick at the thought.
To top it all off, there was the obvious history of malnourishment. The kind that one could see just by looking at the child's gaunt face and stature. Lily, Snape knew, had possessed a decent height to her, and James Potter - though never reaching the wolf's height - hadn't been exactly short either. There really was no reason for a child of theirs to be so short, even at this age. Not unless the boy's growth had been stunted for one reason or another.
On top of that - though much less obvious due to the school robes that the children wear - the boy wasn't thin , he was skinny , slight. The results of the spell make it seem as if he only takes in enough to continue functioning, even after being at Hogwarts where there was always more food than could possibly have been eaten.
The professor went and sat down at the bench in front of the boy, feeling an eerie familiarness as to the day of the fight between the Slytherin and Mr. Weasly. McGonagall hadn't been too pleased that one of her lions had been 'attacked,' as she had put it, but Snape now found himself feeling a small swell of pride at the boy before him. All of the things detailed on the parchment and the boy finally got to fight back, though admittedly less publicly would have been preferred.
"Potter," the Professor called with a firm voice, though not quite loud enough for the boy to stir completely. "Potter," he tried again, reaching out to touch the boy's shoulder, his fingers just barley grazing the fabric there when-
The boy moved like water, like the snake that their house brandished; all lethal grace and swiftness. There was a blade at the potions master's throat before Snape had been fully registered that the boy had begun to move. No one had been foolish enough to give Lupin a knife when they were in school, but the older Slytherin couldn't help but think that this might have been an outcome if someone had. Especially around fourth year or so when the wolf had knocked him out in the hall of the train going to Hogwarts.
Just as soon as the blade was there, it was gone from sight as an embarrassed blush spread across the boy's face. Though, the man noted, the younger Slytherin did not apologize in the least for his actions, nor did he attempt to lie and say that he was. Snape didn't know if he should be proud of this or not.
The potions master moved back and gave the boy distance, figuring that to be the best move to retain any hopes of a civil conversation. Or how civil a conversation such as this one could hope to be.
"What's that?" The boy asked, pointing a hand almost absentmindedly at the parchment still held loudly in the older man's hand. As soon as the words had been spoken, Snape saw panic fill the younger Slytherin's eyes, as if the boy had broken some sacred rule. "Nevermind," the boy hastily, "I shouldn't have asked that."
If Snape hadn't already had enough suspicions about just what was going on inside of the muggle house that the boy lived in, that response would have been enough to convince himself of it.
He'd heard it fall from his own lips before.
"This," the professor said, blatantly ignoring the way that his student had begun to protest, "is a medical history," the man explained carefully before meeting the boy's eyes - her eyes. Except his were filled with sorrow in a way that Lily's had never been in all the years that Snape had known her. " Your medical history."
Snape had been expecting to see the small boy panic as many students in his position had before when their reports had been laid before them. He'd thought he would hear the Slytherin boy try and explain away the more obvious signs of abuse as his predecessors had. He didn't think that he'd see the boy's face contort into something so utterly devoid of emotion as the child sat at the desk as if awaiting a verdict.
"Blaise and Pansy brought me down here because of the headaches that I've been getting in Defense," the boy said emotionlessly, factually even. "Does it explain why that is?"
"No," the potions professor admitted slowly, his face forcefully relaxed. This was a turn that he would have expected from a second year Slytherin or older to make, but not quite someone at the beginning of experiencing the house's influence.
"Then it has no relevance," the boy finished simply.
"Harry," Snape said, surprising himself with just how disgustingly soft his own voice sounded, directed to the spawn of James Potter no less. "Where did you get these injuries from?"
When the boy smiled, so seemingly sweet yet bitter beyond belief, the potions professor was reminded once more of a certain werewolf that should pared the same smile with the boy before him each time that the Boy's Home that he came from was mentioned, or his reading capacity before second year, or his frequent illness. It was something deceptive that could easily turn angered and violent if pressed that wrong way. The potions master would know, he'd been the one to feel its sting first when he got punched in the mouth by the wolf when they were eleven in this very classroom. Looking back on it, Snape supposed that it might have been deserved.
"I was a very active child, Sir," the boy lied smoothly, so much so that Snape could have almost believed him had he not been holding the proof to the contrary in his hands. "Injuries are bound to happen, Sir. Burns too when you tell a child not to play around the stove, it only makes them want to do it more anyways." The young boy looked so at ease in his lies that it made the older Slytherin wonder just how many times the boy had heard them spoken around him before when others had come asking questions, and how long before he'd been instructed to say them himself.
The Head of Slytherin House sighed as he stood and walked over to his personal stores of completed potions, ignoring the way that the younger Slytherin's eyes never seemed to stop tracking his movements as if he expected an attack of some sort to come at any moment. Maybe he did.
"Here," the man said almost sullenly, hiding his worry behind professionalism. He set down two large bottles of potions and little empty bottles next to them. "This," the professor said, pointing to the larger of the two bottles, "is a pain reliever, pour some into a vile and take it before going into your Defense Against the Dark Arts class. It should be enough to last you for the rest of October, so come back at the beginning of November for more," the man explained in a voice that he knew sounded a lot more like the one that he used in class rather than the soft one that had made itself known earlier in the conversation. He pointed to the second bottle next. "This is a nourishment potion, it should be able to get you to a more healthy weight. Just take it once a day until it runs out and don't skip any meals," the professor insisted sternly.
The boy took the bottles and vials gingerly into his hands as if he expected them to leap out and try to bite him, or was waiting for them to be taken back and didn't want to hold on too tightly for when they were. When they weren't the boy stood quickly from his seat.
"Thank you," the Slytherin said with a politeness that seemed almost branded into him by a heavy hand.
The boy began to walk to the door of the potions classroom, but Snape spoke before the child could leave. "Why lie?" The man asked, acknowledging the simple fact that they both knew that the boy had done so.
The younger Slytherin didn't bother to look at his professor when he finally spoke, not even taking the time to turn to face the other, something that would have grated greatly on the man's nerves had this been any other situation. Any other day. "Dumbledore," the boy said simply. "Why don't you ask him?" And with that the child left without being dismissed.
One word, spoken as if it was the answer to everything. As if it was some all knowing truth that could never hope to be denied. As the door closed softly behind the silent boy, Snape couldn't help but think that it just might be. It always had been before.
—-
"Candy corn."
Snape watched almost glumly as the gryffin moved back and stairs started to appear in its wake. This really wasn't a conversation that he wanted to be having with the older wizard. And if it were any other child, then the potions master wouldn't be. But this was Harry bloody Potter, and Albus was the one that placed the boy in the muggle world.
Knocking on the door, the man waited for the quiet affirmative to come into the Headmaster's office.
"Severus," the older wizard greeted kindly from his desk, a grandfatherly smile curving on the man's lips. "Candy?" Albus asked, holding out a small pot of what appeared to be the snapping candy that tried to bite you as you ate it, but the potions master only waved the offer off and moved deeper into the room. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit, my boy?"
"It's about Harry Potter, Sir," the professor started, only to stop when he saw the older man's expression fall into something horrible, looking as if he expected the muggle grim reaper to appear in the office at any moment. The Slytherin couldn't help but think that this was a rather severe reaction to the name of one eleven year old boy.
"And what about Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore asked slowly. Carefully , Snape noted. Almost guarded, as if he had some scheme that he wasn't sure if he should play just yet.
"I've been noticing some rather concerning things about the boy," the potions master admitted just as carefully, watching as surprise didn't come over the Headmaster's face, but rather a resigned look of inevitability.
He's been waiting for this since the boy was sorted into Slytherin , Snape realized suddenly as he took a moment to remember just who it was that was sitting before him.
But what he's been waiting for, Snape didn't know just yet.
"And what has Mr. Potter done, my boy?" The Headmaster asked with a forcefully calm voice that the other man could hear was a little strained.
Done ? The Professor wanted to ask, but then he remembered the cold look that the older man had worn at the Sorting Ceremony. How he'd looked at the boy as if he'd seen a monster.
Snape chose not to comment on the other man's accusation on the boy that he had never met before, and withdrew the parchment that he'd created earlier in the day. "This is a result of the boy's medical records from a diagnostic spell that I cast today," the younger man explained, sliding it over to the elder wizard. Snape watched as the other man gave the parchment a curtsy glance and hummed, but not much more of a reaction the the information before him than that.
"Children can be very clumsy at times," the older wizard said benignly, the conversation clearly having taken a turn that the Hogwarts Headmaster wasn't expecting, but was already prepared to handle all the same.
The potions master shook his head, clearly exasperated with the old Headmaster before him. "This isn't mere childhood clumsiness," the potions professor insisted, speaking the words like a truth that they both held between them, "you and I both know this."
But the Headmaster only slid the parchment away from himself and towards the potions Professor with the lingering, consuming coldness in the other's gaze. "The boy is safest where he is now, with the only family that he has left," the older wizard said firmly, leaving no room for questions. "You are dismissed, my boy."
Snape had never been one to put much stock in family after living with his own. He knew just how safe a family like the one that he had lived in and the boy was placed with now could be.
The Head of Slytherin House left the Headmaster's office with a considerable dock in the amount of faith that he held for the man that he had followed for the past number of years, and a sinking realization that the boy had known that this would happen from the moment that the older Slytherin had first asked his question.