Third Place - Romance

Snape apparated to the same spot as before, behind a hedge, dressed in a Muggle shirt and trousers. It was broad daylight after all, and there was no need to attract unnecessary attention.

However, beyond these measures he would not put himself to any further effort at being inconspicuous, so marched straight up to the door of Number 4 Privet Drive and rang the bell. The window, he noticed, had been mended.

The thin, shrewish woman who opened the door was Potter's aunt, he supposed- she had an air about her which immediately irked him.

After a stand-off in which he only just managed to prevent himself from saying anything rude to her, he was invited inside.

"I am here about Mr. Potter," he began.

The woman went chalk white; he supposed that she must have been worried about what sort of trouble the boy had got himself into now.

"Vernon!" she screeched, "Vernon!" A giant rhinoceros of an uncle came stamping out into the hall.

Snape hated repeating himself- that was mostly why he got annoyed with students and they never listened the first time round. "I am here about Mr. Potter."

The effect it had on Mr. Dursley was completely the opposite of how his wife had reacted. He went dark red, and his whole face seemed to swell in rage. Snape admired the result, and had a sudden urge to shoot him, stuff him and mount him on the wall. Not in his own chambers, though, for he had far better taste.

"There is no one by the name of Potter here," Vernon bellowed.

The man could state the obvious if he must, thought Snape, but he doesn't have to get so upset about it. Did the ogre know he was spitting? At Severus? Whilst wishing the man would just have a heart attack and keel over, he said, somewhat impatiently, "I know that, he left. I am here to collect his things. And his wand."

The man just stood there gaping at him. Snape imagined himself hacking away at his head with an axe. It was a soothing image, but upon consideration, the axe would probably bounce off.

"He's alive then, is he?" Vernon snarled unpleasantly, "We all hoped he'd died and disintegrated in the night, like I suppose your kind do."

Snape stared at him. Something was wrong here. He couldn't process what he was hearing. It wouldn't fit into his head. The puzzle pieces jarred with each other.

The odious lump of lard continued, "We never want to hear from him again; he was doing magic, and tried to kill our Dudley with a bomb. But we beat it out of him."

Vernon carried on ranting, but Severus blocked it out as the whole of his world suddenly rearranged itself. The fragments of information which had seemingly contradicted each other made sense. Potter had lied. Snape had known it, but hadn't pursued it.

There had been no Death Eaters. The boy's own family had caused his injuries.

There had been no Death Eaters. His mind leaped through all of the evidence. A bomb, the uncle and the boy had said? The explosion had been on the road. The tag from a Christmas present. If it was from a Weasley he wasn't surprised that it had contained something dangerous. The owl. The shattered glass. The locks on the cupboard. The untreated wounds.

There had been no Death Eaters. And by the look of things, the Dursleys' appalling treatment of the boy had been continuing for a long time. The photos on the wall. The boy had in fact never been the spoiled celebrity that Snape had always presumed he was. At that moment, Severus saw for the first time, the existence of Harry, the frightened abused boy. There was such person as Potter- Snape had made him up to suit his own needs.

There had been no Death Eaters. Oh, and Merlin, the boy had known, had known something like this would happen, which was why he had begged so hard to stay at Christmas. Severus had guessed right when he thought Harry was putting on an act, but it was the happy, cheerful boy that was the fake version, rather than the depressed one.

There had been no Death Eaters. Harry had lied. Harry had known of the treatment he would receive, and had told no one. Harry had been abused for years and had told no one. Harry had been very badly beaten, and almost died, and still told no one the truth.

There had been no Death Eaters.

The uncle was still talking. Snape wanted to hurt him. Very badly.

"... So we burned all of that freak's things, course that stick wouldn't burn so we buried it..."

Snape advanced on him. He knew he looked intimidating- it was a something he had practised. Lily's sister retreated upstairs. Snape focused all of the energy he had into putting one foot in front of the other as the podgy man backed away before him. He felt that if he did not keep his concentration, he might do something unforgivable to him. In more ways than one. This man, a Muggle, had beaten a wizard. A wizard! The saviour of the bloody world no less, no matter how much Severus resented it.

This man had beaten Harry, an innocent, if at times relatively annoying, boy. Nothing the boy could have done would have deserved such treatment. Nothing.

They were in the kitchen now, and Snape saw some very tempting knives lying around. He indulged himself in imagining skinning the man and selling his blubber on the black market, but then reminded himself that he did actually have some self control. Possibly.

Pomfrey said some of the bruises had been old. So it had not been an isolated incident. And severely malnourished. His anger was reaching a peak now. If Harry Potter was treated like this what hope was there for the rest of them?

Out the back door. If Severus was brutally honest, which he suddenly didn't want to be, a great deal of the anger he was feeling should have been directed at himself. He, who prided himself on his clear head and accurate assessments of people, had been so utterly wrong. And he, who prided himself on his deductive skills, had not thought of abuse even when all of the signs had pointed to it. Now that he thought of it, Albus had handed Harry the perfect excuse on a plate. Death Eaters indeed!

But there were no Death Eaters here. Only a monster of a different kind. Snape raised his wand, and Vernon went flying backwards with the force of the curse. He landed hard on his behind in the middle of the vegetable patch. When cursed again, he landed in the compost heap.

Leaning down close to the terrified man, ignoring the smell, Snape willed him into submission.

"Where is the wand?"

The man crawled out of the heap and, thoroughly cowed, made his way over to a corner of the garden where he began scrabbling in the dirt. Snape stood, impassively watching until finally the pieces of the wand were deposited in front of him. He cleaned them of filth with a spell and placed them in his pocket.

Then he turned to the other man. His icy glare was trained on the quivering mass of fat for a full minute before he felt in control enough to speak.

"I will not be seeing you again, Mr. Dursley," he said, perfectly composed.

He would not. But the Dursleys would be punished. He would let Albus deal with them. He was not sure if that was not a worse fate. For the headmaster was fond of the Golden Boy. And his temper when roused, though very rare, was formidable.

He sat in his room for the rest of the day and mused over all that he had learned. He was in turmoil over what to think and do. How was he supposed to act around the boy now? Just because he knew the truth about Harry's life didn't mean he could start treating the boy totally differently. It was hard to imagine that his dislike of him was based solely on prejudice. There had to be another reason.

But maybe he could be slightly less harsh. If that was possible. And no more comments about the boys fame. Since at home he didn't have any. Maybe, unless he was provoked.

He would have to make the boy eat more.

He would have to talk to Albus.

He would have to talk to Harry.

He would talk to Albus after he talked to Harry.

How had he got involved in this mess?

Severus thought that he had heard something. He was instantly alert and waiting, planning what to say.

It was nothing. The boy did not come through the door. He settled back down again, tense as a taut wire. He decided to let the boy do the talking, after all it was Harry who had all the explaining to do.

He was not made to be a councillor. He was far too antisocial. And it wasn't as if he even cared. The boy would get over it, already had by the look of it.

But it will fester, said the little voice in his head. He told it where it could go shove itself. It said that was where he was thinking out of anyway so it didn't really need to move. He ignored it, it sulked, he considered obliviating himself...

There, he was sure he had heard a noise that time. Of course! The wretched boy would have forgotten the password. Done just to irritate him, he was sure. Then again, it had be designed to be hard to remember, so maybe it wasn't Harry's fault after all. What a novel idea!

He opened the door. The boy was indeed standing there, looking insolent. For a second Snape wondered if Harry was actually looking insolent or if it was just habit to make him a villain by now, and then something moved in the corner of his eye. It was the painting. The snake was moving. It had never done that before, in fact he had thought that there was more than one. It hissed, and he started.

Harry laughed. Damned boy, Snape thought, no respect. Then the snake and Harry talked for a while. It was fascinating to listen to- parseltongue, the indecipherable words and syllables flowing into each other. Hypnotic even. Severus knew that this was yet another thing he envied Harry for. How was it that a Gryffindor inherited a Slytherin trait?

As they finished the snake coiled into a resting position. Harry precariously balanced the books he had with him on top of each other. Snape felt no inclination to help- the silly boy should have levitated them. Then he remembered Harry didn't have a wand. Then he remembered why.

As the boy staggered past him, he reached out and grabbed the top couple of books which threatened to fall, and placed them safely on the floor. There. Guilt assuaged. His good deed for the day. Though not the hardest.

He sat down. Harry sat down. That was a good start he decided. Now how did he say this tactfully? How would Albus say it? No, Severus could not begin to understand the headmaster's mind. He'd have to do it his own way. Maybe he could let the boy assume things, and see what came out.

"I went to get your wand today," he said, and Harry's head whipped round, his eyes going wide in shock.

As the books Harry was carrying began to topple and he frantically tried to right them, a pair of hands came into view and saved the few attempting to escape. He looked up, awaiting the corrosive remarks he was sure would follow. But Snape said nothing. Slightly surprised, Harry sat down, only belatedly realising that he hadn't thanked his professor. He would appear foolish if he did so now, so Harry kept his mouth shut and considered which book to read first.

Then Snape caught his attention. "I went to get your wand today," the man said.

Harry's stomach went cold, curled up and started shivering violently. Which made him feel sick. There was a roaring sound in his ears. He turned and stared at Snape. The man looked blank and emotionless. His wand... But it had been at the Dursleys'. Had Snape been to the Dursleys? Or had it been found somewhere else. Maybe there was a lost property system and it had come in there? He knew his thoughts were getting more and more chaotic, but what was he supposed to think? How could Snape leave him hanging like that, with words that could mean so many things?

Though Harry's stomach was telling him it knew exactly what Snape had meant.

He choked out "But I told you it was broken."

"Yes, but a broken wand can be professionally fixed, so the headmaster wanted me to fetch the pieces."

Harry couldn't find anything to say. His mind was in turmoil.

"Harry, I met your relatives..."

Harry didn't even notice the use of his first name. So Snape knew, now they would all know, would all pity him and know that he wasn't strong. And if he wasn't strong, then how could everyone one else be.

Still he said nothing.

"Harry, there were no Death Eaters, were there?"

His breathing was becoming faster and faster, as though by pushing more air out he could push all of his troubles out too. Maybe if he stopped breathing Snape wouldn't pester him anymore. The roaring in his ears became a throbbing, faster and faster, as the sound of his heart pounding overwhelmed him. Now not only his stomach but all the rest of his body was trembling.

He couldn't think, couldn't feel.

Harry got up and ran to the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him before throwing up down the toilet. Several times. Laying down, the cold tiles eased the heat in his head and he slowly calmed. Very slowly. After a while he became aware that the pounding had moved out of his head and moved to the door. After a moments pause, he realised that it was Snape. His muffled voice came through the barrier but Harry could not hear him. Would not hear him.

He dragged himself torturously to his feet, his back protesting, and stared at his face in the mirror. He wasn't sure that he knew himself anymore. He washed the foul taste out of his mouth and thought briefly of the effort the house elves had gone to, to make him eat lunch. All wasted now. He wiped his face on the towel, the texture feeling rough against his skin.

He stared at the door again and the words started to make sense. It was like a really bad reception on a radio suddenly clearing up.

"Harry? Harry, come out. Now. I know you don't want to talk about it but..."

Harry leaned his sore back against the wood of the door and let the words wash over him. Snape knew. There was relief, that someone knew, that he didn't have to hide anymore. Fear, that the world would turn on him. And some anger, that it had been Snape who found out.

"Harry..." Since when had Snape called him 'Harry'? He had always been 'Potter'- a name spat with venomous hatred. Then Snape found out his relatives beat him and suddenly he's 'Harry', like they know each other better or he was just a child or something? Snape already pitied him then. He didn't want that. Even if it meant that the man wasn't being such a complete git.

He opened the door. Snape was standing on the other side, starting to look worried. Was he expecting a suicide attempt then? Not that Harry hadn't thought about it.

Harry went back to the couch, and sat cross-legged staring fixedly down at his hands. Snape obviously wanted an explanation. He didn't fancy pouring his heart out to him. He hadn't wanted to tell him in the first place. He didn't want more pity. Which brought him to...

"Why are you calling me 'Harry'?" he finally raised his eyes to meet Snape's. They were as unreadable as always, but Snape's expressive eyebrows seemed taken aback at the question, as though he hadn't noticed he'd been doing it.

"Well," said Snape almost hesitantly. If Snape patronised Harry, he would walk out of the room. "I always thought of you as being an embodiment of fame and happiness, with a perfect life. When I found out that that wasn't true, I suppose most of my reasons for hating you were gone. I had chosen to believe what I wanted because it made my life easier. Rather than seeing you for yourself."

Oh, thought Harry. That wasn't what he had expected at all.

"But I thought it was the opposite," he gathered up the courage to say, "I thought that you were the only one who did see the real me, through the fame, and that you hated me for who I was."

Snape sounded strained when he admitted "No, I'm afraid that in the end I was just as blinded by prejudice as everyone else, though in a different way."

Harry blinked. Pity yes, but not how he'd been expecting it. Snape didn't pity him because of what had happened, he pitied the fact that no one really knew Harry at all. That wasn't as bad, it was almost comforting in a way.

He let out a small "Oh" of acknowledgement to give him time to think. He wasn't ready to talk, not like Snape thought he had to, but if he didn't what would Snape do, would he...

"You won't tell anyone will you?" he asked in desperation.

Snape looked at him incredulously for a second but then it changed to understanding. Harry felt ashamed, like the professor could see inside his head.

"Harry," he said, his tone not as biting as usual, almost gentle, "Harry I have to tell the headmaster. He needs to know."

"No!" exclaimed Harry. "He can't know, no one can know, they mustn't know, please. Please don't tell them," he begged with tears forming in his eyes.

The voice became sterner. "Harry, he has to know that there weren't any Death Eaters. He's been worrying too much. And he's planning on putting more defences round your house, so that you can go back. You don't want to go back do you?" was the question.

Harry shook his head numbly. He was being so selfish, worrying everyone. He couldn't go back. But to tell someone, voluntarily, was worse than Snape finding out by accident. And that had been bad enough. He felt his heart rate speed up again and forced himself to calm down.

Snape was watching him like a hawk. "I can't, I can't tell him," Harry managed to say, dry-mouthed.

Snape nodded, as though he had been expecting this. "Shall I talk to him for you then Harry? Though he may want to question you about it."

Harry began to panic at the idea and his professor must have seen something of it in his face as he said reassuringly "Not right away, not until you are ready." What if he was never ready, thought Harry. He didn't think he ever would be.

Harry was deeply engrossed in pretending to read his book, but constantly felt the heavy glances that Snape was casting in his direction. He feared that the other would try to draw him out but at the same time longed for it. It would be so good to not have to act all the time. He was acting even now. He decided to stop.

He put the book down, not even trying to keep the place since he hadn't learned anything anyway, gave a tired sigh, and turned to Snape. He was met with an inquisitive look. Well, if he wanted to know, he was just going to have to ask.

"Did you want to talk about it?" Not quite the question he was looking for, he didn't want to talk about it. He shrugged. Snape appeared to consider for a minute.

"What happened?"

Harry shrugged again. Not specific enough. Snape became irritated and went back to reading his book. Harry did not bother pretending to have anything more interesting to do than watch him.

After a while, Snape turned back to him. "You got a Christmas present, didn't you?"

Harry nodded, then decided to elaborate. Snape seemed surprised by his sudden willingness to talk.

"Yeah, it was from Ron. He said he'd send it a day early, so that I'd know I had something waiting for me." Harry smiled, and then carried on in a seemingly unconnected thread. "The Dursleys met the Weasleys the summer before the forth year. They didn't come out of it too well." For a moment he smiled, then remembered the grief it had brought him. The expressions on there faces hadn't been worth the pain. "So they thought that the package was suspicious. Hedwig.... She couldn't deliver it to me so she took it into Dudley's room and they found it. They thought I was trying to kill them as the twins must have put some tricks inside and it exploded when it was thrown out of the window."

Snape seemed to be processing this, though Harry had a feeling he might have already guessed some of it. Then he picked up on something. "Why couldn't your owl get to you?"

Damn, thought Harry. "I was downstairs."

"She could have flown downstairs."

Why was Snape pushing this? "I was in my cupboard."

The eyebrows rose at the words 'my cupboard'. Then furrowed. "Why?"

Leave it alone, thought Harry, tiredly. Why had he wanted to talk about this anyway? "I did magic."

"In the holidays?"

Nod. He could just see Snape suppressing criticisms. Idiot boy doing magic in the holidays, his mind agreed with what he imagined Snape's assessment of him was.

"Why?"

Such a troublesome word. "Because my glasses were broken and I couldn't work without them."

"Work"

"Yes, you know- chores."

"Why were they broken?" asked Snape cautiously.

"I fell down the stairs." Seeing the disbelieving look directed his way, "No, really I did."

"Why did you fall down the stairs?"

This was going too far, he really didn't want to talk about it. Not that Dudley was so bad, his picking on Harry was annoying, but what it had led to was something he didn't want to mention. He was not sure whether his stock of excuses was large enough. Maybe there weren't any he could give that Snape would believe.

Wanting to end the conversation he said, "Dudley." And turned back to his book. And he had said that he wasn't going to act anymore. He was such a coward. This provoked him into saying "My cousin- he pushed me."

Silence. At first he was glad to hear it, then he began to think about what he had told Snape. Snape! Not that he had really said anything. But the man must be laughing inside. Harry sneaked a peek at him. Snape had a contemplative look to him. He did not seem to be sneering at Harry. Maybe it was just paranoia.

When the silence was broken he immediately wished that it hadn't been.

"Pomfrey said that some of the bruises were older. She said that you hadn't been fed enough or at all, since about the end of school," said softly, like Snape was trying not to scare him off.

But Harry wasn't ready to answer that question, even if it hadn't been a question. He couldn't tell of the day to day hatred, and starvation and hardships, couldn't talk about the years it had happened for.

He just shook his head, and kept shaking it. No. That he could not do. He got up from the couch, but doing so too fast, he felt dizzy and swayed. He felt a hand placed on his back in support and yelped in pain, flinching away from the touch and falling to his knees. Snape stood beside him.

"Harry?"

He thought he wouldn't be able to speak, like in the hospital wing, but suddenly his tongue was no longer stuck to the roof of his mouth and he could.

"My back," he muttered, "It hurts. I couldn't reach to put the salve on."

Snape sighed. "Fool boy. You should have said." But though the words were harsh, there was no ill feeling behind them, and Harry thought that maybe Snape did understand. "Take your top off, I'll get the bottle."

Snape disappeared into the bathroom and Harry struggled to get the overlarge T-shirt over his head. He was so stiff. It had taken him ages to get undressed the night before, and dressed this morning. And now, because he was in a hurry, his back seized up, his arms felt weak and he could not lift the top up much higher than his waist. He felt a tear trickle down his check. He hated being helpless.

Then there was someone kneeling beside him, and gentle hands took the top from his uncertain grip and carefully pulled it off, pausing as he winced in pain. Then he was turned around, and he heard another sigh, then quiet incomprehensible murmuring. It didn't matter anymore who it was with him. He closed his eyes. Someone cared. However little. He was manuvered onto his front on the rug and there was a shock of cold as the salve was poured onto his back. As hands rubbed it in, he writhed in agony, but was held down.

"It's your own fault, silly boy," said the voice, but the hands were gentle. And the pain faded away. And the hands slowly warmed. And he began to feel very tired.

And then the voice said, "I am sorry about the owl," awkwardly. And another tear fell. And he fell asleep.

Flawed Lines - Chapter 6

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