Healing a Bad Memory

By: Song

Disclaimer: Sadly, no.

Summary: Durring the opening feast of a year like any other, Severus Snape was seen running down the halls holding the body of his dieing son. How will Hogwarts react to the child of their sadistic and suprisingly parental potions master?

Warnings: Sevitus, major angst, kidfic, swearing, child abuse, implications of rape, a P.O.ed potions master, and a few rabid plot propelling rabbits...

A/U: I cannot promise any regular updates. My bunnies are intermitted as least, and I have been known to have writers block for longs periods of time (my record is three months.) I will however warn you if I ever abandon a story (I really doubt that will ever happen though.)

"HOW MANY IS THAT?!?!?" A heavily set man bellowed.

This is how days often ended for a young Harry Potter. He would wake up before dawn, do 'chores' for hours on end, then wait in his cupboard until his uncle came home. The chores were everything from cooking, to cleaning, to transplanting all the plants in the garden. If he was lucky, he wouldn't be beaten too badly. If he was unlucky, and his uncle came home drunk then he and the belt would get to know each other very well.

"S-sixty e-eight sir" A meek voice answered.

That was how today was. The list of 'things to do' was far to long, and by the time his uncle came home (late and smelling distinctly of vodka) he had just barely finished. The dinner he had cooked over three hours ago was long gone cold. Which made Vernon mad. Incensed, in fact. Ultimately meaning that Harry would soon be in a lot of pain.

And so we find the two in the basement, young Harry cowing under the brute's hand.

Another clap of leather hitting flesh.

A whimper.

Another crack of sound.

A slight whimper of pain and another slap.

"Now how many more boy?!?"

"T-Twenty nine s-sir"

"Start over!"

Again.

The belt whistled in the air.

He was choking back sobs by now. "O-one sir."

The flash of a buckle.

An instant of pain.

Darkness.

A long while later the child awoke in the grim darkness of his cupboard Moving slightly there was a sharp intake of breath. Despite that he was only six, he did not cry. If he cried he would be given a 'lesson'. Hopes of being loved were crushed once again. His heart writhed in agony longing for what it was not allowed. He longed for a love. He longed for a grandma to spoil him, or a grandpa to tell him stories. He longed for a friend to play with on rainy days, or pet to cuddle with. He longed for a mother to kiss him better when was hurt... but most of all, he wanted a father. A father who would take him away and protect him, hold him at night when he was scarred, and to teach him how to grow up. A father who would love him.

But the little boy wouldn't have any of these. No one wanted a freak like him.

Pulling his legs to his chest he took a deep breath only to find his stomach convulsing in anger. Bile stung his thought as he dissolved into a wracking fit of coughs.

Despite his best efforts a tear dripped down a once happy face. He didn't want to be here any more. He wanted a home! He wanted to be wanted!

A small whimper no body should have heard escaped his dry lips as he fell into a fitful sleep.

But somewhere deep in the dungeons of a castle in Scotland, a man was woken abruptly by thoughts that were not his own.