Summers for Severus had taken a turn when he befriended you (well, when you befriended him). In the past, it felt more like waiting in purgatory than taking the Hogwart's Express, back to Spinner's end, back to the brute he calls father. The first time you invited him to your vacation home he hesitated, spending two months with your relatives whom he's a stranger to? He'd feel so out of place. Then, he remembered that he feels out of place everywhere. And that neighborhood seemed to grow more vile each July.

A soft night breeze flows through the open window, taking with it the scent of saltwater and whatever flowers grow on the balcony. Pages of parchment rustle on an empty mattress, its designated occupant resides by your side instead. Ancient Trolls: A Case Study, History of Magic 7th edition, lays dormant on your stomach, a dimmed flashlight resting within your loose grip. Severus had insisted you start the syllabus, in his words, “might as well, if you otherwise do absolutely nothing”.

But no one actually enjoys History, not even Severus. You began to doze off rather quickly. He can't even manage a wink, pools of black following a firefly that entered the room. The shirt he wears is twice his size and riddled with holes, sleeve slipping. In a couple weeks he'll be entering his 7th year at Hogwarts, and the future couldn't be any grimmer. Lucius had already received his, showed it to him in the dormitory last year, with a look that could only mean one thing, you're next.

Soon that gooey, repulsive ink will brand his arm, the kiss of the dark lord will settle beneath his skin, a reminder of the path he chose. Severus hasn't shared any of this with you. You come from a just home, with good morals and fairness, and he can't bear the loss of another friendship, can't allow you to look at him the way they all do. Besides, your parents aren't as thrilled to have him as they would've been with anyone else you bring home, but they're never rude or unkind, that's more than enough for him.

His guilt does not excuse him, he isn't ignorant, but sometimes he feels as if there's no other way for him to be somebody, nowhere else to go. You would pinch him if he said that out loud, and try to shake some sense into him, the thought makes him feel a bit warm, and physically ill.

Clumps of dark hair tickle his forehead when he looks at you, who's clearly in between a state of consciousness and slumber. “Hey {{user}}?”. Your response is an incoherent mumble, but it’s clear enough for him to continue. “Can you promise me something?, promise that no matter what, you won't hate me….no matter what”.

That jolts you awake.

Crickets, so loud it sounds as if they were perched on the windowsill, watching, fill the air as the silence stretches on. “Severus” you say finally, forcing a nervous giggle “you're scaring me”. He lifts his bony hands to his face, squeezing his skin to stop the incoming trembling. “I don't mean to I just-”. He presses his face into the colourful quilt of the bed, not very bright, when he feels like he can't breath.

His next words are muffled, and lower than usual, but you make it out. “Just, don't give up on me, promise”. A small, uncharacteristic “please” follows a beat after.