An hour after Flint left his office found Severus by the Infirmary doors. He had crept inside - like a common thief, he sneered to himself, or someone with something to hide - and blended with the shadows in the corner, watching the Slytherin Quidditch team surrounding Harry Potter's bed. Some of them sat on chairs or other beds nearby, and the rest stood. Severus could not see the injured boy from here, but from the worried looks of the other boys, he could imagine what Potter looked like.
Draco Malfoy, surprisingly, was sitting on Potter's bed. His blond hair – usually perfectly coifed with not a strand out of place – was severely disheveled, and he looked as worried as the rest of the team.
Severus continued to watch from the shadows as the team was ushered out not long later, by Madam Pomfrey, who told them sternly that "Potter needs his rest, not a gaggle of gawking geese."
There were times Severus truly appreciated the Medi-witch.
Malfoy, however, lingered for a few minutes after the others left, and bent his face close to Potter, who Severus could now see for the lack of bodies blocking his view. The boy appeared asleep, but Draco was apparently speaking to him anyway. Severus inched closer, to listen.
"…why he would say something like that. I wouldn't have, you know." Malfoy pushed his hair out of his eyes and shook his head. "I know you're better, faster, even on a junky old broom." The boy's voice dropped to a whisper, and Severus had to strain to hear him. "Just . . . I hope you'll be all right, Harry. We . . . I was really sc . . . I mean, concerned for you. We all were."
Madam Pomfrey was back, and as Severus retreated to his shadows again, she shooed the boy out – wondering out loud how he had managed to remain behind the first time.
When she returned again, she pierced Severus with a gaze, letting him know that she knew he was there, and that she had words for him. Serious ones.
He sighed and moved forward. "I know," he said softly.
"You know nothing," she hissed. "The boy is exhausted. And the nutritive potions have ceased working for him since they have nothing to base from." At his frown, she continued, still sounding like a wet cat, "He has not been eating properly. Nor sleeping. I thought we had discussed this. The importance of getting him healthy."
"We did," he admitted.
"Then explain his condition to me."
He couldn't, and both of them knew it. So he did not try.
Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly. "I hope you come up with a better story when you talk to the boy."
Severus hoped so, too.
When she continued, her voice was crisp, but still low. "He broke three ribs; they will be sore for some days, and I do not want to hear any nonsense about him doing any detentions during that time. He needs to rest."
She paused, waiting, and Severus nodded, as he was meant to.
"And his right arm was shattered. Compound fracture that he exacerbated by striking a bludger with it. Several times." She paused again, and waited until Severus met her gaze. It seemed harder to do than it had been before. Her voice dropped again. "Something drove him to a fit of rage, which he saw fit to take out on himself."
"On a bludger," he corrected.
Her eyes narrowed. "As if the bludger felt it. Make no mistake, Professor Snape, Mr. Potter had every intention of taking those injuries." Severus felt his insides knot up. Had it gotten so bad for the boy? Of course it had, he chastised himself. And he knew it. Pomfrey sighed, and Severus held his breath, waiting for the worst. "I looked him over again, for any other signs of self-harm, scars from cutting or burns or the like. I found none. The behavior does not appear to be habitual."
Severus let out his breath. There was that, at least.
"Which is not to say it has not been," she continued, relentless. "He is a wizard, after all, and he had hidden the signs of his abuse at home fairly well."
He had at that. "Surely you don't think—"
"I don't know what to think," she said honestly. "I thought you and I had come to an understanding about young Mr. Potter. I thought I could count on you not to mistake him for someone else. And I thought you would care more for a member of your House than you did old grudges." She stared him in the eyes, and he looked away again. He was a fool, and a coward, that he could not even own up to his errors, that he could not face the one woman who had always had faith in him. "Apparently I thought wrong."
"No," he said softly, and made himself look at her again. Let no one call him coward. "No, I . . . I will do right by him."
"You had better, Severus Snape. I do not want him coming back in here like this again. Ever. Is that clear?"
"Of course," he said stiffly. He had said he would do right by the boy, and so he would. She had never had cause to doubt his word before. Of course, he had never let her down so horribly before either.
She gave him a curt nod, then said, "I also noted his scar was inflamed again, and applied some salve. His bones are repaired, but he will need to favor them for a week or two, the arm especially. I don't want him flying again until at least then, and preferably not until I give him the go ahead."
Unspoken was the understanding that the boy might not be completely trusted in the air, with bludgers flying about, just now. Severus nodded. "I will see to it."
"Good. He's sleeping now, if you want to see him."
Since had come out of the dungeons to do that very thing, Severus was not too put off by her assumption that he should. Instead, he nodded, and went to stand at the boy's bedside. Potter looked so small in the hospital bed, so pale and frail against the white sheets. His right arm – the damaged one – was held in a soft sling, to keep him from jostling it too much. The lightning bolt scar stood out like a slash on his nearly white forehead. His mouth was pinched, even in sleep, as if he were still in pain. But Pomfrey would have dosed him with pain relief potions, surely.
He glanced at her, and she nodded. "I gave him a strong one, and a muscle relaxant, but he seems unable to rest well even so. If he wakes before midnight, I have a Dreamless Sleep for him, too."
Severus nodded, and pulled a chair up, one left there by the Quidditch team. As he eased himself down, he wondered how it had come to this. Alas, he knew the answer; he just did not want to admit it. And yet he must.
It was fairly close to midnight before Potter woke. As with almost everything the boy did, he woke quietly, eyes blinking heavily as confusion crossed his face. Severus could tell when Potter realized he was in the Infirmary, as he gave a low sigh, almost a groan, of displeasure. If he had not been trying desperately to figure out what he was going to say to the Boy Who Tried to Beat Bludgers at Their Game, he might have found it amusing.
As it was, he had only to say, "Mr. Potter," and the boy closed his eyes again with another almost inaudible groan. His expression grew immediately blank, as Potter hid his emotions carefully behind his mask. Severus could not blame him, at all.
The words he knew he had to say made his voice shake, just a little, when he repeated, "Mr. Potter." He swallowed, then, "I know you are awake. I would like . . . I want to speak with you."
The resigned look in the boy's eyes when he opened them again and sought out the form of his professor was so complete, Severus was almost knocked back. He didn't have to be a Legilimens to realize Potter expected a lecture, and maybe some punishment. Well, the boy was in for a surprise then.
"Yes, sir?" Potter's voice was flat, with almost no inflection, and Severus hesitated and swallowed again.
"Potter . . . I would like . . ." Severus ducked his head briefly, and when it came up, he leaned forward, closer to the bed and reached for the edge of the bed, to clutch at the blanket. He needed something to hold, something to grip, or he was never going to get through this.
"Sir?"
"I want to apologize," Severus said quickly, only able to get the words out if he rushed them. Potter's mouth opened as wide as his eyes as he continued, "I've treated you badly, and I'm sorry."
A long moment passed, with Potter staring at him like he had suddenly turned into a flobberworm. His eyes narrowed after the first few seconds, as suspicion took root in his mien. Severus was almost glad to see it, as it meant the Potter Brat wasn't going to just accept his words on face value. And yet . . . he had to accept them. Severus would not accept anything else. He was going to make a concerted effort to treat the boy as he would any of his other Snakes; he was going to change.
At last, Potter said, "Fine. Thanks," and turned his face away.
He should have just gone, and waited for another time, but he could not dispel the feeling that this was all his fault, and he wanted . . . absolution? Something, some recognition or acknowledgement of what this was costing him. So he said, "Potter, I know you're tired, and I understand this has been a difficult week for you," and when the boy's jaw clenched, he should have taken it as a sign and left him alone, but hindsight was twenty-twenty, wasn't it? "I am willing to take some of the responsibility for that, and—"
"Oh, you are?" the boy snapped. His green eyes flashed dangerously. "How incredibly noble of you. Sir."
Severus clenched his hands into fists. "Well, it is hardly my doing that your scar has been hurting and you've not seen fit to share that information with me."
"Oh, right; you've been so bloody approachable!"
"Language, Mr. Potter! And I will not tolerate your impertinence."
Potter worked his jaw and came out with a sullen, "Sorry, sir."
Severus gave a quick nod. He was just as glad for the display of temper, actually, as, in his opinion, it showed the boy would likely make a recovery from this . . . incident, without too much trauma. "As I was saying, since your present predicament is, at least in some respects, my responsibility, and I have heard from others of your professors that you have fallen behind in your work—"
"Because you made me do—" Potter cut off when Severus raised a warning hand, though the accompanying flinch he could have done without. He had never struck a child in his life, but Potter's reaction gave him a start nonetheless, and reminded him that this was a child he had to handle carefully, or he would never regain the boy's trust . . . if he had ever had it in the first place.
"I understand that," Severus said, more softly, dropping his hand. The boy's gaze tracked it, all the way down, which made him feel an even greater beast for raising it in the first place. "I am merely telling you what I have come to realize very recently. And to follow that up with an offer for tutoring. To help you catch up with your classmates."
"No. Thank you. Sir." The boy's expression was set in stone. "I'm doing fine by myself."
Severus stared at the small form in the bed and suppressed a sigh. How many times had this child said – or internalized – that same thing over the course of his life? How many times had others made him feel like he had to get along by himself, that he had no one else to rely on? He had been severely neglected by his relatives, that was certain, and seemingly had not been given any refuge at school either. Severus did not care to ponder that particular issue any longer for the moment, but he had to set the boy straight.
"I was not actually giving you a choice," Severus told him.
Potter's eyes blazed again, though the rest of his face was as blank as a new canvas. That was his weakness, Severus realized. The boy could not lie with his eyes to save his life. His voice came out rather strangled as he said, "Fine, sir." Then he drew a deep breath and swallowed, looking away again. "Can you . . . can you go now? I'm really tired."
"Very well," Severus said and got to his feet. But he had to get in a parting word. "Madam Pomfrey has informed me that the nutritive potion you have been taking will do you no good without actual food to drive it along. Assuming she allows you to leave the infirmary in the morning, I will expect to see you at all meals tomorrow, and each day thereafter. And after dinner, starting tomorrow, we shall begin catching you up."
"Yes, sir," came the quiet reply, and Severus took his leave.
Madam Pomfrey did not, indeed, let Potter leave the infirmary the next day, insisting he needed another day of full bed rest. Severus did not see the need to speak with Potter again during the day, but he did advise Flint to make sure one of the other Firsties got his assignments to him and several of his books as well. He rather thought the boy would appreciate something to do. As well, it would make it easier when Severus began their tutoring session after dinner. He did not mean to put that off any longer than necessary.
He would have thought Potter understood that, and so it with some consternation that he met the boy's annoyed, "What now? Sir?" when he arrived at the infirmary at just half six.
"We are beginning our tutoring," Severus said with much more calm than he felt, and choosing to ignore the snappishness in Potter's tone. "You seem to be most behind in History of Magic, thus we will focus on that subject this evening."
Potter glared at him for one long minute, then let out a deep sigh and said, "Yes, sir."
When it seemed the boy was just going to sit there, Severus said, "Would you not prefer to take notes?"
With a quick glance at his right arm, which was still in a sling, Potter said, "No, sir, that's all right."
Oh, for pity's sake. "Have you never heard of a dictaquill?"
Potter frowned. "No . . . should I?"
No, Severus thought, he probably hadn't. Not living with those Muggles, at any rate. As patiently as he could, he said, "A dictaquill will take notes for you; they are not generally allowed at Hogwarts except for under circumstances where the student is unable to take notes on their own. Madam Pomfrey should have several specimens, just for this purpose."
"Oh."
"Shall I see if she has one?"
Potter squinted at him. "Please."
Severus tracked down the Medi-witch, and the quill in question, and returned to the boy, who was pressing his palm to his head. When he caught sight of Severus again, Potter's hand dropped from his forehead as if it had been burned.
"You scar is hurting again."
"No, not really."
"Do not lie to me!" Potter flinched back, pressing himself against the headboard, and Severus modulated his tone, though he crossed his arms over his chest in his own defensive maneuver. "It is idiotic, not to mention completely unconscionable for you to try and hide this situation. If your scar is indeed a link to the Dark Lord, then you need to advise me whenever you have the slightest sensation in it. Do you understand?"
"I . . . Yes, sir. Of course."
"I don't think you do. This is your life we're talking about here. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you were attacked?"
"I haven't! I just . . . it's . . . well, my scar hurts almost all the time, sir, and I doubt you want me running to you every five minutes whinging about it."
That stopped Severus for a moment. It was true; he didn't want the boy whinging to him constantly. But at the same time, he wanted to know when the scar was "active." After a short pause, he said, "Does it always hurt the same way?"
Potter's eyes narrowed, and then he shook his head. "Sometimes it just aches."
"And sometimes, it does not?"
An almost wry smile touched the boy's lips. "No. Sometimes it burns."
With a slow nod, Severus asked, "Have you noted a pattern as to when that occurs?"
"Not really," Potter admitted. "Though it seems to happen more at night. Usually after . . . er, I mean, if I wake up at night."
"After a nightmare?"
Surprisingly, the boy's face flushed, and he shrugged up one shoulder, as if that were an answer. Why should he be embarrassed about nightmares?
"What are your nightmares about?" he asked.
"Doesn't matter," the boy mumbled.
"I shall be the judge of that." Severus sat in the chair by the bed again, and placed the dictaquill on the night table. "Tell me."
Potter glared at him for another minute before he sighed again. "Sometimes, it's just a green light, and someone screaming." Severus caught his breath, and hoped Potter had not noticed. How could he remember – or dream – about something like that? "But lately it's been more . . . awful."
"Explain."
Potter chewed on his lower lip, and Severus saw him clenching and unclenching his fists. "Er, it's hard to explain. There's always blood, but not always red. Sometimes, it's silver, and there's . . . I dunno, a weird light, and the smell of dead things."
Severus processed that briefly. "And it is after these dreams that your scar hurts worst?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you see anything, or feel anything besides this aching, when you are awake and your scar gives you pain?"
"No, sir." Potter glanced at the dictaquill. "Can we study now?"
Giving him a long look, Severus nodded. "But I want to hear about these dreams, the very next time you see me after you have one, Potter. And you will alert me if anything changes in the way your scar feels or reacts. Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You have parchment ready? Good. As a favor to me, Professor Binns has agreed to allow you a make up essay for the abysmal effort you put forth at the end of last week. Thus, you may open your text to Chapter Three, which discusses the Witch burnings of the 14th century, specifically that of Wendelin the Weird. Now. How much of this chapter have you already read?"
"I read it all," the boy said. "Sir."
"Mm. Let's see if you retained anything. Tell me, what were several of the ways in which Muggles attempted to identify Witches at that time? Which of these were true signs of a witch, and which were not?"
Potter sighed a bit, and then tried to answer, and then had to page through the chapter to help himself out. His ears and neck were red with embarrassment by the time it got that far.
"Just read the chapter, Potter," Severus snapped. "And stop wasting my time."
"You don't have to be here," Potter snapped back. "I told you I was fine on my own!"
"This is not negotiable," Severus told him, sneering. "I will assist you in getting your studies back on track. What did you do all day today? Did you not have any time for studying?"
The red traveled to Potter's face and he ducked his head, mumbling something.
"Speak up, boy!"
"I was sleeping, all right?" The boy's head came up quickly, and there was an odd shine in his eyes. Severus dearly hoped there were not going to be tears; he had very little tolerance for tears. But the boy put his chin up a bit and merely said, "I was really tired, and I was sleeping. Most of the day."
Out of the corner of his eye, Severus caught sight of Poppy sticking her head out the door of her office and giving him a baleful glare. He sighed and modulated his tone again. She was right, and he knew it. "My . . . apologies, Mr. Potter. Please, read this chapter now, and we'll go over the information you need for your essay when you are finished. That is . . . if you are rested enough."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Something in Potter's tone made Severus say, "Whatever for?"
"For sleeping when I should have been working. I know that's wrong, sir. I'm awful sorry."
"No. No, Mr. Potter. Disregard what I said earlier. You should have been resting, on Madam Pomfrey's orders if nothing else. And, at your age, you definitely need more sleep than you have been getting of late. And with nightmares on top of it . . . it's no wonder you've become exhausted."
Potter frowned a little, and Severus sighed – he seemed to be doing an awful lot of that lately – and continued, "The blame for that can be laid squarely on my shoulders, I'm afraid. Not yours. I did not realize how much of your time I was monopolizing. Or, I knew, but I chose not to let it influence my decision. I wanted to keep you in my sights, to keep you from being injured again. Unfortunately, the method I selected did not end up aiding you in the long run."
"Yeah," Potter agreed quietly, staring at his hands for a moment before turning his bright green gaze on his professor. There was an oddly speculative look in his eyes, and he did not appear so angry now. Perhaps honesty worked best with this boy. Severus would not, however, admit to being worried about him. "I mean, yes, sir."
"Let that not deter us now, all right?" Severus said. "Read the chapter, if you will, and let me know when you are finished."
Potter nodded and opened his book. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
As Severus took a book of his own from one of the pockets of his voluminous robes, and settled back in his chair, he mused that there might be hope for him and the son of James Potter getting along after all.