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Harry Potter was having a terrible day.
Harry was no stranger to a terrible day. Once he’d realised that the other kids in his Primary class didn’t have the same kind of life as he did, pretty much every day had been terrible. Sometimes he wishes he’d never realised that there was something wrong with his life, with him. It would make things easier.
Of course, learning that he was a wizard, and that if there’s something wrong with him, it’s something cool like magic that he shares with others, made him feel a little better. Well, actually, learning that he’s a wizard was the best day he’d ever had.
But today was not one of those rare good days.
No. Harry hadn’t managed the day’s transfiguration, and had melted a hole in the bottom of his cauldron, setting fire to the desk, and earning himself a detention. You’d think the desks would have something to stop them being set on fire. Like a ward or a spell over them. It’s stupid.
Snape just hates him, he probably removed the ward on Harry’s desk, hoping it would get set on fire and he would have an excuse to put Harry in detention. It would probably be the highlight of the great bat’s week.
In front of Harry was the door to the potions classroom. His detention started in two minutes, so it would likely be a good idea for Harry to lift his hand and knock on the door. To let Snape know he was there, and not get another detention.
But…
Harry was having a bad day. A really bad day. And he was all shaky and everything made him more annoyed and he really wanted to just go have a nice, long hot soak in the shower.
Showers are wonderful. Especially when you can use up all the hot water you like and take as long as you’d like to take without your aunt yelling at you through the door.
Harry lifted his hand and knocked before he could talk himself out of it.
“In,” a voice barked from within.
Tentatively, Harry opened the door and stepped into the dark and damp of the dungeon room.
As he did, Harry watched as Snape looked down at his wrist, checking his watch for the time. Without a word, he looked back at the papers in front of him. “I want the cauldrons in the sink to gleam,” he barked.
Cleaning Harry can do. Cleaning is something Harry has done since he was very little. He doesn’t remember learning how to clean, but he does remember being four years old and already knowing how to wash the dishes, sweep the floor and tidy Dudley’s bedroom.
At least while doing dishes, Harry never had to deal with anything too terrible. Dudley and Vernon would never deign to touch a dish enough to ruin it. And Petunia cared too much about how good her plates looked to do anything either. It meant that Harry was left alone when cooking or when doing the dishes. Left alone to think, to clean, to work at scrubbing the remains of something away, letting his arms and his muscles work instead of trying to clean and keep from getting in trouble.
He lets himself fall into that same rhythm here. He takes a cauldron, grabs the wire and he scrubs it clean. He works inside first, letting it fill partway with water and soap as he scrubs the edges of the cauldron. He works in deep, removing any cooked-in grime from the surface. Then he would work his way down, in big movements. He would work in a circle, rounding the whole cauldron as he went, stopping to work on a stubborn stain before continuing, By the the time he made it to the bottom of the cauldron, he could work in smaller movements, letting his wrist rotate instead and making sure he got every last bit. With one final rinse of the inside, Harry would then clean the outside and let the cauldron dry.
He would repeat with the next one.
It was a calming rhythm. It was a piece of normalcy in the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts, and the constant pressure this new environment put on him. He could almost forget about Professor Snape’s presence in the room.
Almost.
Snape would occasionally turn a page, scratch his quill, snort grumble or even worse, snort derisively on occasions, interrupting Harry’s rhythm and reminding him that he can’t truly settle into it with the dungeon bat back there. This is still supposed to be detention, after all.
Except…
Despite the shake in his hands, despite the dungeon bat, despite knowing most people would find this disgusting, Harry really had settled into the task.
This is what made it so surprising when directly behind him, there was a loud harrumph, that sent Harry careening for the floor, in an unconscious attempt to flee.
Severus Snape was not having a good day. Most days in this ridiculous castle full of too many unpleasant memories and far too many annoying children meant most days were not good days.
But a day is especially unpleasant when one Harry Potter melts his cauldron, setting fire to the table and then precedes to knock his ridiculous skull into a table in the middle of a detention, forcing Severus Snape to run through the castle with the foolish brat floating along in front of him so that Poppy can fix whatever damage the boy did to himself.
Upon his arrival, Poppy takes over, asking what happened, and shooing him away after he lays the boy down on a bed, his legs have taken him to the doors of the hospital wing when a shaky voice calls out, “Severus?” stopping him in his tracks.
He hurries back to Poppy, and takes the scroll she hands him without a word.
The list in front of him is damning.
Broken bones, head trauma, malnutrition, deformation, stunted growth, macro-degeneration, and on it goes. A lifetime of abuse beginning at around two years old, not long after the death of his parents.
“A full diagnostic is needed for head injuries,” Poppy whispers, horrified. “You need to know about any past injuries to the area to ensure treatment won’t interfere or exacerbate prior injuries or treatment. But this… How could this have happened?”
Severus would like the answer to that question himself.
“We must tell the Headmaster,” Poppy continues.
“He placed him in that household,” Severus whispers, cogs turning in his mind as he looks at the list in front of him. “He said that Mr Potter was safe, well cared for. Spoiled even. That he was loved and treated well.”
The list in his hands tells a completely different story.
“This child wouldn’t even know what being treated with basic dignity and respect is supposed to be.” Poppy’s voice is thin and reedy as she speaks, but hides a deep, deep vein of anger. With a shake, Poppy turns away from Potter’s prone form and heads for her office. “Severus, if you could begin brewing a nutrition potion, a bone-strengthening solution and a brain tonic, it would be much appreciated. I must tend to Mr Potter.”
“Of course, Poppy,” he says and leaves the hospital wing, heading for the dungeons with little thought. His whole world has been rocked on its feet. Never mind the seventh-year study he has at the moment or the mountain of marking sitting upon his desk, what he really needs is a very stiff drink.
He ignores that urge though, and heads to his classroom. The seventh years can watch quietly or leave. It can be a valuable learning experience for them. The brain tonic will require the longest to brew, and is the most complicated. Few of them will ever have cause to brew one in their lives. Often it’s only something a St Mungo’s brewer or a specialised Potion’s Master will have cause to brew, but Severus trained in anything that could help the Dark Lord in his youth. Luckily, those skills are transferable to working in a school.
Most of his students choose to stay, gathering in a circle around his desk, books out, quills at the ready. He lets himself fall into a rhythm as he works, and his mind drifts despite the difficult task at hand.
How can he maintain the belief that he hates Potter when he’s seen the child lying prone on a bed, as he surveys his past? How can he yell at the boy for being spoiled and arrogant when the very proof of how very wrong that assumption is lay in his hands?
He simply can’t.
Any anger he draws up will be just that. Fictional. A ruse. A game he has to play to maintain his cover.
But one thing is for certain. Potter cannot return to whatever house he is currently living in. It would be unconscionable.
If the Headmaster never checked in on the boy… Worse. If the Headmaster did and never knew… Severus isn’t sure what he would do. Better to think that Albus was simply naive, believing that children do not come to harm in their homes.
It’s ridiculous, and Severus is proof enough of that, but… It’s better than the other options.
It’s late in the night by the time Severus returns to the Hospital wing with the potions in his arms. When he enters, the room is silent, except for the gentle breathing of Potter off to the side.
Severus walks past the boy, towards the gentle light flickering in the door of Poppy’s office, and pushes it open.
“Severus,” the woman exclaims, turning from her desk. “Good. Harry only fell asleep a little while ago, but he’ll need the brain tonic immediately. There’s a very slight amount of swelling present, that needs to be seen now.”
Pushing past him, Poppy bustles into the ward without giving him a chance to reply. Severus follows after her, unable to find himself annoyed with her brisk manner. The boy requires help, after all.
“Mr Potter,” Poppy says gently, shaking him awake with a gentle hand on his arm.
The boy reacts quickly. He jerks up with a cry, throwing himself up the bed and away from Poppy’s hand with a speed Severus has seen him put to good use as a seeker. Potter’s head whips around and as he spots the two of them, he settles down in a moment, holding himself stiffly.
Poppy takes a step back from the bed, and holds out her hand. Severus hands her the brain tonic as she begins to speak. “As we discussed, Professor Snape has brewed the potions you’ll need to take. I need you to drink this first. It’s the brain tonic, and will lessen the slight swelling the bump caused and a regular course of it over the next two months, should help to lessen the previous brain damage you’ve suffered.”
Looking on blankly, Potter shuffles slightly, kicking the blankets around his feet. Unresponsive to the declaration that he has brain damage, and refusing to acknowledge what they likely know. Severus reacted similarly when Poppy treated a broken leg at the start of fourth year for him, though he believes there was more cursing involved.
Summoning a measuring cup from the cabinet, Poppy unstoppers the top of the potion and pours out a measure. “Drink,” she commands, handing the cup out to Potter.
The boy takes it without a word, downing the contents in one gulp.
Leaning over the boy, Poppy fluffs the pillows behind his head, and rearranges them. “In the morning you’ll take your first dose of bone-strengthening solution and a nutrition potion with breakfast and in the evenings with dinner, you’ll take the brain tonic.” Poppy stops, freezing in place for a moment as she stares solemnly down at Potter. You have a long road to recovery, Mr Potter.”
“I’m fine,” Potter grumbles in return. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
With a growl, Severus inserts himself into the conversation. “You are severely malnourished and your growth and development have been stunted by the deplorable treatment of your guardians. That doesn’t even take into account the physical abuse you’ve suffered no doubt at their hands. You are not ‘fine.’”
“What do you care?” Potter shoots back immediately and the question doesn’t surprise or phase Severus in the least. In fact, he’d been expecting it at some point.
So he gives the only answer he possibly can. “I was… wrong.”
In return, Potter stares at him. His expression is level, with just the slight hint of surprise and anger lingering in the crease of his eyes and the way he holds himself.
Before either of them can speak again, Poppy does so. “Mr Potter, it would be best if you return to sleep now. We can talk more in the morning.”
With a long look, Poppy shoos Severus out of the Hospital Wing, with a clear directive to return for a longer conversation tomorrow.
There are a lot of conversations that will need to take place tomorrow. Dumbledore must be told, and a plan must be put in place for Potter.
He cannot stay where he is.