Harry awoke the next morning just after dawn. As the events from the previous evening returned to him, he was filled with relief as he remembered that he did not have another detention with Umbridge that night. Normally detention with Snape would not be cause for celebration by any means, but it was better than sitting in Umbridge's office for hours at a time, cutting open his hand and writing with his own blood. The coolness of his healed hand was a blessed relief, and he had enjoyed a good night's rest for the first time in weeks. He turned his head to where Ron was sleeping in his own four-poster bed; he had been so tired from Quidditch practice the evening before that he was already asleep when Harry had returned from his encounter with Snape. Hermione, on the other hand, had seen the healed cuts on the back of Harry's hand, and peppered him with questions.

"Did you finally go to Madam Pomfrey? Or Professor McGonagall? What spells did they use? That's really quite impressive work."

Harry considered telling her that he had healed the cuts himself after researching healing spells in the library, but he doubted Hermione would believe that. For whatever reason, Harry did not want to tell Hermione and Ron what had happened the night before. He did not wish to discuss Snape, or to hear their exclamations of surprise upon hearing what he had done for Harry, for Harry was still having trouble believing it himself. All through breakfast he kept glancing down at his own hand and was each time surprised to find it healed.

For the first time in all his years at Hogwarts, Harry was not dreading his detention with Snape. However, he was dreading trying to explain to Umbridge why he wouldn't be serving detention with her that night. She would no doubt be angry, and would probably assign him three extra detentions to make up for it. As he walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts he rehearsed in is head what he would tell her, and was feeling quite sure of himself when he took his seat at the back of the room. However, when Umbridge herself entered the classroom and he looked into her broad, flabby face, he found his confidence dwindling. This would not be easy.

He waited until class was over. As the rest of the students began filing out of the room, he told Ron and Hermione he needed to ask Umbridge something. The two of them exchanged bewildered glances but agreed to wait in the corridor. When the others had left and Harry was alone with Umbridge, she looked at him in mild surprise and gave a falsely sweet smile that made Harry's stomach turn over.

"Is there something you need, Mr. Potter?" She simpered, and though her voice was as high-pitched and breathy as always, her gaze was quite cold. She was undoubtedly angry that Harry had managed to worm his way out of detention with her; he did not want to imagine how she would react upon hearing that he would be missing another.

Steeling himself, Harry approached her desk, wiping his sweaty palms discreetly on his robes. "Er, actually, Professor-" How he hated to call her that! "-There's something I need to tell you, er, about my detention tonight. See, I actually, er, made Professor Snape very angry, so I, er…" He found he could not look into her small, beady eyes as he said it. "He's given me detention tonight, and says I absolutely have to come, so I, er… I can't serve detention with you tonight."

Umbridge's wide, toad-like face stretched in a horrible gloating smile. "Oh, no. No, no, no. Mr. Potter, you may have been ill last night- if what Professor Snape has told me is to be believed- but I will not allow you to miss two detentions in a row. This detention has been in place for nearly a week. As the High Inquisitor my decision takes precedence. You will have to serve your detention with Professor Snape another night, I'm afraid." She did not sound very 'afraid' at all.

Harry could hear his blood pounding in his ears. He was furious and would have liked nothing more than to bring his copy of Defensive Magical Theory down on Umbridge's head. There had to be a way out of this, he was desperate, but who could he possibly go to for help? Umbridge was right, she had given him detention that night first. Not even Dumbledore could argue with that. Now, not only would he have his hand sliced open again, but Snape would be angry at Harry for canceling the detention he had set for him. His two least favourite teachers on his back- how could this situation get any worse?

Unable to speak, Harry merely nodded stiffly and turned on his heel to leave. As he opened the door, Umbridge called out to him in her smug, high-pitched voice.

"Remember, 5 o'clock, Mr. Potter."

Harry's only response was to slam the classroom door behind him, seething. Ron and Hermione immediately rushed to his side, looking concerned.

"What was that all about?" Ron said, leading the group down the corridor towards Professor Flitwick's classroom; they had Charms next. "What did Umbridge want?"

"You haven't been given more detentions, have you?" Hermione asked, wringing her hands. Harry shook his head numbly, his rage fading away to be replaced with resignation.

"No. It's nothing. I just wanted to ask about my detention tonight." He paused, considering whether he should tell them, and decided that there was no point in hiding it. "Snape had given me detention tonight, too, but I have to do Umbridge's. Hers takes priority."

Hermione frowned. "What did you do to make Snape give you detention?" She asked, and Harry hesitated.

He gave me detention to get me out of the one with Umbridge, he thought, and despite all the negative feelings he harbored for Snape he couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude, even though Snape's attempt hadn't worked out. But he couldn't tell Ron and Hermione that. "I got a D on my Moonstones essay," He said, which was the truth, although it hadn't landed him in detention. "He was going to make me redo it tonight. Which I'd much rather do than have this bleeding again." He waved his freshly healed hand in the air. "It's official. Umbridge is worse than Snape. A thousand times worse."

Ron nodded in sympathy; he of course disliked Snape, but Harry had never come back from a detention with him bleeding profusely. Hermione, on the other hand, looked reproachful.

"Of course she's worse than him, Harry, he's a spy for the Order, and she's a spy for Fudge!" She went on even though Harry was in no mood to hear her spiel. "If you would stop being stubborn and take this to Dumbledore, he might be able to-"

"Drop it, Hermione." Ron said gently, as they entered the Great Hall for lunch; Harry had become quiet and taciturn again, and Ron and Hermione did not disturb him for the remainder of the hour. When lunch was over, Hermione departed for Arithmancy, while Ron and Harry set off for the tower that housed the Divination classroom.

Harry found it even more difficult to concentrate on his dream diary than usual. Ron agreed to come up with a suitable dream for him, leaving Harry to his own thoughts. He found himself dwelling on his detention that evening, and wondered at how he had awoken that morning feeling so cheerful that he would be able to skip it. If only he could take this to Dumbledore, and have him step in and put an end to Harry's torment. But Umbridge was quite within her rights to give Harry detention, despite her abhorrent methods of discipline; besides, Harry did not want to go to Dumbledore for help when the headmaster had seemingly made an effort to avoid Harry all year.

He supposed he would have to tell Snape that he couldn't do his detention that night, although Harry didn't have Potions class that day, so it would be difficult to track Snape down for conversation. He decided he would go down to the dungeons during dinnertime, before his detention with Umbridge. Snape wouldn't be happy, but Harry found he wasn't as nervous to cancel his detention with Snape as he had been when trying to do the same with Umbridge. Perhaps it was because he had known Snape for five years, and was used to his biting remarks and cold, cruel gaze. He certainly had never kept Harry in detention until after midnight or sent him away covered in blood.

So, at 4:30 PM when classes were over and the rest of the school was on its way to dinner, Harry was on his way down to the dungeons. He knew Snape wouldn't be in the Great Hall, for Harry almost never saw him eating with the other teachers. In fact, given Snape's sickly complexion and thin physique, Harry wondered if the Potions master ever ate at all.

He would have served his detention in Snape's office, if he had been able to attend, but when he arrived he found it empty. Harry assumed he must still be in the Potions classroom. However, he found the classroom was deserted as well, the ingredients from the last lesson of the day still written on the blackboard.

Perhaps he went up to dinner after all, Harry thought. Before he gave up his search, he decided he would check the Marauder's Map, because if Snape thought Harry had purposely skipped his detention with him he would no doubt be furious. The map was lodged between his copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5 and Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard. He opened the map, tapped it with his wand, and murmured, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

The map appeared, and he could see the tiny footprints of hundreds of students throughout the school. He saw Draco Malfoy quite nearby in the Slytherin dormitory; he saw Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan standing together in a third floor corridor; he saw Ron and Hermione in the Great Hall, seated across from Fred and George. His eyes scanned the map for Snape's name. He looked at the Head Table, but saw no sign of Snape. He searched the dungeons and teacher's lounge, but he was not there; he searched classrooms and corridors and Dumbledore's office, and he was not there. Indeed, Harry searched the whole of the map, and Severus Snape was not anywhere.

For reasons he could not explain, Harry began to feel a cold, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach, and when he saw that Dumbledore's footprints were once again pacing up and down the length of his office, as though the headmaster were anxious or worried, Harry began to understand where Snape had gone.

"Voldemort." Harry whispered, and he glanced fearfully up and down the corridor as though he expected the wizard in question to materialize in front of him. Harry turned and hurried towards the stairs that would lead him out of the dungeons. He pushed his way through a group of startled second-years at the top of the staircase and raced towards the Great Hall. Umbridge and her magic quill could wait; he had to tell Ron and Hermione.

"What? Are you sure?" Hermione whispered, her eyes wide with fear. She, Ron and Harry were hidden in an alcove in the corridor that led to the Gryffindor common room; Hermione had cast a cloaking spell so that no one passing by would notice them.

"Yes, that has to be it." Harry said, speaking in an excited whisper. "He's not anywhere on the map, even though he planned for me to come to detention in fifteen minutes. And Dumbledore is pacing in his office- he's been doing that a lot this year, sometimes late into the night- and I never could figure out why, until now. It's like he's waiting for something. It must be Snape!"

"But Harry, if he is with V-Voldemort- oh, get a hold of yourself, Ron- then he could be in serious trouble." Hermione looked sick with worry; she twisted her hands in the fabric of her robes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I mean, have you seen him recently? He looks really unwell, and his face is even thinner than usual…"

"But I mean, You-Know-Who trusts him, right?" Ron said anxiously. "And he was a Death Eater for a while. He probably knows what he's doing."

Hermione did not look convinced. Harry didn't know what to think; should he be worried? Even if Snape was in danger, did he, Harry, have any reason why he should care? After all, he hated Snape. He always had. But now, something was different. If Snape had gone off to Voldemort two nights ago Harry would not have given the man a second thought. But each time he looked down at his healed hand, he was reminded of what Snape had said about the potion he had used: that there would usually be quite a bit of scarring, but Harry's injury wasn't as serious as the wounds the potion had been designed to treat. Did Snape often return from Death Eater gatherings injured? Or had he been referring to something else? Was Harry reading into Snape's words too much? His head was spinning.

Harry, Ron and Hermione decided that the best course of action was to wait and see what became of the situation. If Dumbledore was pacing about his office in agitation, then he likely already knew where Snape was, and would know right away when he returned. Harry went off to his detention with Umbridge, the knowledge that at that moment Snape might be standing before Lord Voldemort weighing heavily on his mind.

If Umbridge was surprised to see that Harry's hand was healed, she didn't show it. Indeed, it hardly mattered that his wound was gone, for within the first five minutes of his detention it was back and bleeding harder than even. He actually began to feel lightheaded as blood streamed down his wrist, pooled on the desk and dripped onto the floor. Each time he was forced to cut into his hand his hatred for Umbridge deepened. I must- I hate her- not tell- I hate her!- lies. I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! He imagined Umbridge's blood dripping down his wrist instead, from a dagger he had in her heart. He imagined beating her with a chair and pushing her off the North tower of the castle. He imagined sending her off to face Voldemort- who she didn't even believe had returned!- and letting her fend for herself. He learned something that night- that he was capable of very wicked thoughts indeed, and that he actually possessed far more self control than Snape gave him credit for. If he was as impulsive and reckless as many people thought, Umbridge would already be dead.

She released him after midnight, as usual. Harry traipsed back to the common room and up to his dormitory; he pulled the hangings shut around his bed and sat hunched against the headboard, his bleeding hand wrapped in one of Uncle Vernon's old t-shirts and his eyes blurry with exhaustion.

He looked down at the stained, too-large shirt that covered his hand. He had never once owned a brand-new t-shirt in his life. He was given Uncle Vernon's or Dudley's or, if he was lucky, Aunt Petunia would take him to a thrift shop and let him choose a shirt is it was under £3. The first pair of "new" underwear he had ever owned had been a pair of Ron's, that Ron gave him because he noticed Harry's were full of holes.

Hogwarts had become his safe haven, his refuge, a place where people actually cared about him, where he always had enough to eat, where Uncle Vernon's fists could not reach him. He had met his first friends, received his first words of praise, eaten his first piece of treacle tart, and felt at home for the first time, all within the castle's walls. And now, Dolores Umbridge was making him wish he were back in his bedroom at Privet Drive.

Harry was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. He knew if he slept, he would dream of the locked door at the end of the dark corridor again, but he could not bring himself to care. He burrowed down under his quilt and shut his eyes, and within moments, he was asleep.

Almost immediately, a dream began. But he was not in a dimly-lit corridor with a plain black door at the end; he was seated in a grand upholstered armchair in a dark, high-ceilinged room, the only source of light being the fire in the hearth before him. Harry's hands were steepled before his chin, and in the firelight he saw they were ghostly white and long-fingered. The room was silent but for the crackling of the fire, when from the shadows behind him a man spoke in a low voice.

"My Lord… He will die if nothing is done." The voice sounded as if the person speaking were quite troubled, and was trying hard to disguise it. "Perhaps I should… Take him back to the castle."

"Not yet." Harry said in a high, cold voice. "Let him bleed a bit longer. Pain is, after all, the best teacher." From somewhere in the room, a high-pitched voice snickered.

"B-But… My Lord…" The man continued, his voice shaking slightly. "Dumbledore will know… He surely will not keep quiet about this… I fear if we let him die, public suspicion may rise…"

At last, Harry turned his head to glare at the man behind him. There, half-hidden in the shadows and frozen with fear, stood Lucius Malfoy, wringing his hands, his eyebrows drawn together in a display of concern. Harry found this rather amusing. Malfoy's eyes widened as he met Harry's gaze, and he quickly looked down at his shoes, his face a mask of terror. However, it would seem desperation made the man bolder, for after a moment Malfoy looked up, and continued.

"I beseech you, Master, to think about this- He is, after all, your spy, your greatest asset… I believe losing him would be detrimental to our cause." Malfoy glanced over his shoulder; he uttered a short, quiet gasp, and when he turned back to Harry his eyes were wide with panic. He went on with renewed urgency, sounding close to tears. "My Lord- My Lord- I beg of you, please- Let me take him back, let me take him to Dumbledore, I will do anything, anything-" Across the room, the high, squeaky voice tittered again.

"Quiet, Wormtail." Harry said, very softly. Immediately the laughter stopped. Harry surveyed Lucius coldly, considering his words. Then, coming to a decision, Harry waved his hand in dismissal. "Very well, Lucius, your appeal has been noted. You may go. I will decide what to do with him. Leave, now. And you, Wormtail."

There was the sound of a door opening and closing as Wormtail immediately scurried from the room, but Lucius hesitated, looking as though he might say more. Harry glared at him, and spoke in a quiet, menacing voice. "Do you disobey me, Lucius?" He saw the man jump slightly, the color draining from his face. "Do you wish to end up like him?"

Lucius needed no further persuading. He bowed quickly and retreated to the door, shooting a worried over his shoulder at something in the middle of the room, and departed. Left alone, Harry examined the tips of his long, white fingers, thinking. Then, he stood up and slowly paced around the armchair, directing his gaze to the rug in the center of the room, hidden in shadows. There was something there that was darker than the rest of the room, jet black among hues of green and grey. Harry approached the shape and knelt down beside it; holding out his wand, he whispered "Lumos," and the room was bathed in a pale white light.

There on the rug was a man, lying crumpled on the floor in a slowly widening pool of blood, his cloak spread out around him and his hair over his face. It was a thin man, with sallow skin and long black hair that shone in the light from Harry's wand. The man's robes had come unbuttoned at the neck, leaving his sharp collar bones and one strong shoulder exposed. Harry felt the desire to run his nails across that smooth, olive skin, but he did not. Instead, he reached out and placed a single finger on the man's long, slender neck, feeling the pulse there; it was rapid and very faint, and Harry knew he did not have long.

"You're quite lucky, you know." Harry whispered. "I would have done worse, but Wormtail was enjoying himself far too much. Besides, I need you." Harry brushed the long, dark hair off of the man's face, a hollow parody of a loving gesture. "Now, it's time I returned you to your other master, Severus."

Miles away, tucked in a four-poster bed in his cozy dormitory, Harry Potter woke up with a hammering heart.

This story went from a fluffy one shot about Snape helping Harry to a psychological thriller about sacrifice and abuse...

I go from 0 to 100 real quick

Note about chronology: I realize Hermione did not start using Voldemort's name until she introduced the idea of a secret DADA group to Harry. But... I don't care.

Please let me know what you think! ^.^