Disclaimer: Think of me as an ownage-less hobo. I own nothing. NOTHING!!!

Authors note: I only go this chapter out so quickly because I'd pre-written it and this was the inspiration that got me started on this fic, but I knew I had to give some sort of introduction to it. Anyways, I'm basically saying, don't get used to chapters being put up so fast!

Chapter four

"No please," he begged, "have mercy father,"

"I'll show you no mercy," he lifted a steady fist and swung it at the boy, sending him sprawling across the kitchen floor, hitting the table and causing several food items to fall to the ground, smashing a plate as they went. If it hadn't been for the savage beating he had to endure, the boy would have fallen upon the food. He had always been skinny, but now he had the pinched, sallow skin of someone with anorexia. He was denied food, save the occasional morsel that accidentally left his parents plates and slipped to the floor. His father loomed over him, like a towering wave, about to crash down on him all too soon. The boy felt a foot collide with his stomache, hooking under his already bruised ribs and making him squeal. Tucking his knees up to his chest to protect his vital organs he waited for the next blow to fall. But it did not come. Instead he felt a firm hand grab his jet-black hair, dragging him to his feet, holding him inches off the ground. Something cold and jagged was being pressed against his throat and as he looked down, he saw a shard of the broken plate at his Adams apple.

"Look at me," the man hissed, jerking the boy's head upward. Cold dark eyes met those of similar colour, except the man's eyes were glittering with malice, whereas the boy's were blackened with fear. He hated being related to this man, but refused even to think it, in case his father could hear his thoughts

"You little brat. You deserve to be dead," he spat. Yet he removed the shard from the boy's throat and his son let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. He was dropped to the floor as his father raised the pate shard. The boycowered, propped on one elbow, shielding himself with the other arm. As he lifted the arm to cover his face he felt a cold something slicing through the flesh of his forearm. He cried out in pain as blood spattered the floor.

"Get up. And clean up this mess!" The boy waited until he heard his father running a bath before he moved, and quickly mopped up the blood putting the food back on the table. He wanted to eat. He would have, if he were not in fear of what would happen to him if he did. His parents would know there was food missing, and would make him vomit until his throat was sore and his stomache empty. Making sure the room was spotless, he tiptoed upstairs and past the bathroom where the door was ajar. Suddenly he was yanked by the collar into the bathroom as his father slammed the door behind him.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded. The boy hesitated, "Take them off," the man's voice had gone quiet – always a danger sign. Reluctantly, the boy peeled off his shirt, shorts (originally trousers which he had long since outgrown) and underwear. The man advanced, lifting the petrified boy and plunging him into the bath. The boy yelped as the scalding water burnt every inch of his skin save his head which was still mercifully above water. Placing a heavy gloved hand on the boy's chest, the man held him underwater despite the struggle. Then man smirked as he watched the water turn scarlet from the deep gash in the arm of the boy, still bleeding from where he had cut it. As soon as the water began to cool down, the boy was wrenched out of the bath, his red and blistered body still struggling. His father picked up his clothes, and then the boy, and threw him bodily into his room. It was a small room, devoid of everything save a small nest-like pile of rags in the corner and it was pitch black; the only light came from the landing pouring through the open door. At night the boy wished for a streetlight, which seemed to have disappeared since his windows had been boarded up. Clutching his clothes, he watched as his father stood in the doorframe, his hand poised on the doorknob. The boy pulled on his underwear and shorts, but wrapped the shirt tight around his bleeding arm. As his father closed the door, he left the boy with three chilling, twisted words, which would haunt the boy forever. They were normal words, probably said to every other child around the country, except they weren't dreading the morning. Their parents meant it. Their parents loved them. As the door creaked shut, the words seemed to hang in the still air.

"Good night, Severus."

Severus awoke with a start, panting slightly, a cold sweat causing his silk duvet and pyjamas to stick to him. He checked the clock. Ten to midnight. He fell back on his pillows and cursed the day he'd used Legilimens on Potter. It had been 4 days since their last encounter and Snape had been having a recurring nightmare ever since. It was always the same one: him, standing in the corner of his small room, watching as the shadow of his father grew on the wall as he drew ever closer…but now this one too? Far more vivid…stupid Potter. I'll never get to sleep now. So he swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his black cape. He'd just patrol the corridors for a bit, maybe that would calm his nerves. But he couldn't help feeling he hadn't been the only one who'd been watching his dream…

------------------------------------------------Harry------------------------------------------------

Harry awoke with a dull 'thud' as he hit the floor. He was twisted in his sheets and he felt like he couldn't breathe. What's happening to me? He thought. It was bad enough when he'd been having his own nightmares…but now someone else's too? Who was that boy? And what is he doing in my dream? It looked oddly like…no…it couldn't be…he untangled himself and grabbing his glasses and wand, ran out into the main school, stopping only to glance at the clock. Ten to midnight. His stomache growled loudly, nearly alerting Peeves to his presence. Now that would be a disaster. It growled again. Maybe he could sneak down to the kitchens to get some food on the way to the bathrooms? Changing his course, he ran down a corridor, letting his hunger guide him. Maybe if he'd been more careful, he could have avoided what happened next. He ran into something tall and black and fell over, squinting into the darkness. Whoever, or whatever he'd bumped into seemed to stagger backwards with the force in which Harry had run into him, but recovered quickly.

"Lumos," said a silky voice. Oh no, not again. He thought. Just the hem of the Potions Master's robe was enough to scare him thoroughly. He skittered backwards until he hit a wall, and in a few steps Snape was in front of him.

"Potter what the devil are you - " he gasped, something so rare that made Harry look up in surprise, completely forgetting that by this time the concealment charm had worn off. Snape crouched down in front of him wand raised to cast more light. His eyes were wide and they displayed some emotion that Harry couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't anger or pity…more like…shock. He dropped his wand, though it didn't extinguish itself, and Severus cupped Harry's chin in his hands, tilting it slightly so more light was shed on it. He looked on the clearly broken nose caked in old, black blood, on the bruised jaw, the cut lip. Brushing Harry's fringe aside, he nodded, as if seeing his black eye confirmed his suspicions. It seemed Harry's stomache was determined to speak out at exactly the wrong moment, as it gave a loud, thunderous growl of protest, making Harry blush furiously.

"Potter…you look…" Harry looked into his eyes, his own, hurt and defiant, making Snape change tact, "When did you last eat?" Harry shook his head, for he truly couldn't remember, "Well we can't have that now can we?" Standing up, he held out a hand for Harry to take, which this time, he did. But it appeared, either out of fear or hunger, Harry's body was ready to give up, and he fell, Snape catching him just in time. He pulled an arm around his broad shoulder to support him, and Harry was too weak to care. Slowly, they hobbled back to Snape's quarters, which scared Harry even more. What's he going to do to me? Please…please don't rape me. Locking the door behind them, Snape set Harry down on a black leather sofa in front of an empty fireplace. Snape pointed his wand at the grate "Incantatum, inflamari!" and the fire sprang into life, making Harry jump visibly. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Snape shake his head as he pulled off his cloak and came to sit on a squish armchair next to the sofa. He clicked his fingers, and a small house elf appeared before them,

"Pebly, I think Mr Potter here needs some food. Nothing extravagant – nothing his stomache can't handle. Some bread and hot water would be fine," the house elf vanished and returned seconds later with a tray heaped with many slices of white bread and two empty glasses and a pitcher of water.

"Anything else master?" he squeaked.

"Not for now, thank you," the house elf vanished. They sat there in silence, Harry sat there stiffly, resisting the urge to curl up into a ball, and Severus watching him politely. After a few minutes, the latter thought it appropriate to speak,

"You may eat, the food is there for you, Harry," Harry looked up, alarmed at being called by his given name. He was confused, why was the most formidable Snape being so…nice? Was he trying to poison him? He needed clarity, was he friend? Or foe? His stomache gave another involuntary squirm and Harry lurched for the bread, cramming as much in his mouth as he could possibly allow. Choking, Snape patted him on the back, making Harry flinch. Snape withdrew his hand quickly and continued just watching Harry eat. When he was quite finished, he took a sip of water and set the cup back down on the coaster. Silence. Minutes passed, Snape looking at Harry, Harry looking anywhere but back at him.

"Harry, what happened to you?" the question was direct and to the point, and Harry felt tears well up in his eyes, as he simply shook his head. He could not tell. He'd never survive to come back to school if he did.

"Please tell me. If you don't, I can't help you. What happened?" he asked again. Harry shook his head more vigorously this time, tears streaming down his cheek.

"Can you at least tell me why I cannot know? Would you feel more comfortable talking to someone else?" this last question held a note of hurt and Harry hid his face in his hands, still shaking his head.

"If I t-tell you," he said in a wobbly voice, "then he'll – he'll come and get me. He said he'd k-kill me if I told," He looked up and into Snape's eyes for the first time that night, "y-you're not going to m-make me are you?"

"No, no I'm not. But I implore you Harry, please tell me. I'm not going to tell anyone unless you want me to, but I want to help you. I mean, look at you. Cuts and bruises everywhere…and your nose is starting to resemble mine…" Harry whimpered and began to cry uncontrollably, sobbing into his hands.

"It's not my fault. I'm stupid. I don't have the intelligence to breathe and watch where I'm going at the same time. I ran into a door, that's all!" he was rocking backwards and forwards, reciting the words, his knees drawn tight up to his chest, his hands still covering his face, muffling his words. "I am filth. Vermin. The shit on your shoes. Filth. Vermin - " he felt warm hands grasping his wrists as Snape pulled his trembling hands away from his face. Snape was crouched in front of him, and he looked tortured to say the least. His eyes were…feeling his pain.

"What happened to you?" he breathed, scanning the boy's face. The more he thought about it, the more Harry was coming to remind him of himself. More sobbing, "Harry, I will protect you. Understand that I will not let anything happen to you," What was he doing? He didn't care about this boy…and yet…it was like he was looking at himself in the mirror, a younger him. He hated the child…and yet he loved hi. He knew he had to save Harry, just because no one had saved him.

"My uncle…he…he hit me…beats me…hurts me…I didn't mean to do it…I swear…" it seemed Harry was switching between talking to Snape, and defending himself from his uncle, like some sort of schizophrenic, "…I was so hungry…I thought I could get some food…he kicked me…s-stamped on my f-face…cut my arm with the plate I smashed…I wanted that tricycle…he p-put me on the s-stove…" he yelped and tried to struggle out of Snape's grip, but he would not let go. Snape nodded and tried to hide the horror as comprehension dawned upon him. Those blurred images were now so clear. He envisioned a small boy…somewhere a cross between Harry and himself being beaten, starved, broken. He felt hot tears sting his own eyes and he blinked them back, but they stayed fast.

"I – I understand," and he said it with conviction. Harry glared at him.

"How could you possibly understand…do you know what its l-like? I can't look myself in the mirror anymore. Can't you understand?"

"Yes." Snape tried to tell him everything with his eyes, knowing he could not do it with words. He sighed, knowing that it was the only way to gain Harry's trust. He opened his mind, and pulled Harry in.

A small boy sat in a corner, listening as he heard his drunken father arguing with his mother.

"No Tobias! Don't hurt poor little Sevvy! Please!" Slap! A young Snape felt his blood boil. He ran out into the corridor.

"Don't you touch my mother!" his voice sounded small and frightened, and he couldn't cover the shake in it.

"What did you say to me?" the boy cowered as his father smashed a heavy hand onto his son's head and slit his leg with the smashed beer bottle. There was blood everywhere, and still his father continued to kick him, pulling out a metal cane, and continued with that.

Another memory. Snape sat huddled in the corner, curled into a ball amongst the rags he used as bedding. It was late and he couldn't sleep for his mother's screams. It was the middle of winter and his father had insisted he keep the window wide open. Snape looked at his bleeding leg as his hands turned blue with the cold…

Snape looked at his hands, just to make sure they were normal colour and grimaced. Harry was looking at him with a look of knowing.

"Professor I - "

"It's ok. Harry why didn't you tell anyone? How did you keep it covered up for so long?"

"Concealment charms…you know I c-couldn't tell," he sobbed. His head fell back onto the sofa and he closed his eyes warily. There was age beyond his years in his face. He didn't deserve this. Where had his childhood gone?

"Well what do you want me to do about these bruises? I can heal most of them, but the some scars will never heal." Harry knew he wasn't talking about the ones on the inside, "and I think I can do something about that broken nose before it heals crooked like mine did. Would you like that?" Harry nodded numbly. Snape moved to a cabinet and when he returned with a vile of potion he smiled. Harry was asleep, still sitting upright on the leather sofa. Bending over, Snape unbuttoned his shirt to see the worst of the damage. Another jolt of shock ran through him, he hadn't been expecting it to be this bad. All along his collar bone was bruised and his neck too, like he had been throttled. His chest was burnt and his ribs were poking out. He was definitely emaciated to say the least. He could see the pale scar to the left of his stomache where he must have been stabbed and around his left forearm was more finger-shaped bruises and on his right was a long laceration, probably from that plate. All down his back was red and scarred, the remainders of the stove incident. There were scratch marks starting at about his navel and they disappeared beneath Harry's waistband. Snape wasn't going to ask about that. Yet. He sighed and shook his head. He could heal a little while Harry slept, but to heal all the wounds completely would take time and encouragement. But Snape knew all too well, that some wounds could not be healed by potions.