Harry spent several hours in the common room the next evening trying to make sense of what had happened in the last 24 hours. He knew he had been foolish to try the incendio spell. Well, he knew that now. The day had wiped him out, with the hospital and the scene in Snape’s quarters. He had been sure he had no more tears to cry; in fact, he was getting quite tired of himself sniveling all the time, truth be told.

But Snape always seemed to know what to do and what to say to wring the last tears out of him. Harry didn’t think the man did it on purpose, but he managed to accomplish it all the same. If it hadn’t been for the past several months and all the things the professor had done for him he would have suspected that he got some enjoyment out of making Harry cry.

They’d both been emotionally exhausted after their day at the hospital. He’d apologized to his caretaker the only way he could think of, circling his fist against Snape’s chest. They’d remained like that for some time, until dinner was brought in and Harry was ushered off to the loo to wash his face of the tears that had dried there.

The silence that reigned between them over supper had been calm; peaceful even. Harry suspected that Snape had meant what he said; that it was all over, that the teacher was no longer angry with him. His relief was tangible. He wasn’t off the hook completely, however. As they had tucked into their pudding, Snape had given him one of those long, appraising looks that Harry was getting used to, but still didn’t know the meaning of.

“Despite everything that we’ve done today, one thing is clearly obvious. Your moods and the swings thereof recently have been thoroughly tiring. I suspect something is bothering you, or weighing on your mind. I suggest,” and he said this last in such a way that Harry knew that it was anything but a suggestion, “that you spend some time ruminating on your state of mind. These extremes cannot continue.”

Harry could only stare at his plate. He knew the man was right; he had been behaving in ways that were frustrating, even to himself. It wasn’t as if he was doing it on purpose – it just seemed that so many different thoughts and feelings were coursing through him, and all of them seemed to be so . . . extreme. He was never just sad, he was miserable. He wasn’t just apprehensive - he was anxious and insecure. And when he was happy, it was if all he could do was laugh and grin and bounce around the castle.

And then there was Snape. It wasn’t simple appreciation for he’d done for Harry. There was another feeling, and it made him hopeful and sad all at the same time, twisting in his stomach and causing his heart to beat in his throat half the time he was in the dungeons. Or it left him warm and sleepy, as if he was wrapped in a blanket in front of a fire.

And somehow Snape wanted him to suss all this out? It seemed like an impossible task. Thankfully he had Ron and Hermione to distract him.

His friends had tried to pull him back into a discussion of the philosopher’s stone almost immediately upon his arrival in the dorms, but that quickly came to a halt when he explained that was no longer in possession of the list of “suspects”.

“Why not, what happened to it? Oh no! Snape didn’t find it, did he?”

Harry shook his head, and hoping to distract them from going any further into the story, he pointed to himself, mimicked a wand movement, and then decided to write it down after all. ‘I kind of ruined it with a spell.’ They didn’t need to know he had done it one purpose.

“What spell did you do?”

Sighing, he wrote it down.

“Icendio! Cool! Did it work? Was it slow or fast to burn? What was it like?”

“Ronald!” Hermione admonished, “It is not cool! Harry could have been hurt. It’s not even a spell we’ve learned yet.”

“Hasn’t stopped you yet, has it?”

She coloured and scowled before curiosity got the best of her, too. “Well, how *did* it go?”

Reluctantly, Harry sat down and started writing down the whole saga for his friends, from the moment he recited the spell, to their arrival back in the dungeons. He passed it over to them to read with some trepidation. Who knew how Ron would react this time?

Strangely, it was Hermione who seemed upset by the whole thing.

“Harry that’s awful! He shouldn’t have done that, it sounds like it was terribly harsh!”

Before he could register this, however, Ron piped up, causing Harry to sit there with his mouth hanging open.

“I don’t know ‘Mione. It sounds like something my Mum would do.” His best friend said. Then he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “I always try to put on my most pathetic, apologetic face, even if I’m not all that sorry. It always works! You should try that.”

Hermione broke out in giggles, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was at Ron’s remark or at the stunned look he was sure he was wearing. Ron had the grace to blush.

“My Dad talked to me about it. Explained a few things. Told me I ‘take things for granted’. Don’t get me wrong, I still think you’re a bit nutters – I mean, it is Snape – but I kind of get it now.”

Harry couldn’t help it, he hugged his friend.

The previously uncomfortable subject dealt with, the trio went on to pass several hours poring over the list of suspects (Hermione had a backup copy, of course). They were no closer to figuring out who might want the stone. After all, anyone might. Who wouldn’t want to live forever?

“I think we ought to talk to Hagrid.” Hermione suggested, after the fifth round of asking the same questions over and over again.

“Hagrid? Why?” Ron asked, voicing Harry’s thoughts as usual.

“Well, Hagrid has a passion for animals. Don’t you think he might know something about the dog? And if we can find out a little more about the dog, well, at least it’s something. Every little bit of information helps.”

“Well, I suppose…”

Truthfully, Harry didn’t see how information about the dog would help them at all. But he understood that Hermione was getting frustrated at their lack of progress, and that knowing more would make her feel better. Even if it was about the dog. Plus, it would be nice to see Hagrid, Harry thought. He hadn’t been to see his large friend in quite some time, and he was coming to realize now just how much of his regular life he’d neglected, now that things were settling down.

Well, mostly settling down, he still had to – what had Snape called it? ‘Ruminate on his state of mind.’

Yeah, right.

Easy.

He resisted the urge to groan in frustration.

*********

It took him a week of sneaking off to the astronomy tower every night, before he could bring himself to face the truth of what was occupying his thoughts. He would let his mind wander, hoping that if he didn’t censor his thoughts everything would become clear. When the epiphanies did come, he would sit and stare at the stars, or draw. He’d become quite handy with a quill and parchment during these last several months of silence.

And thus he was occupied on his fifth visit to the tower -- thinking and drawing. He knew Ron and Hermione thought his distraction was due to the Philosopher’s Stone, but that wasn’t it at all. It was his fear of loss, his brittle need for what was missing. And he was angry in a way, at his parents for dying, at Dumbledore for leaving him with the Dursley’s and even at himself for looking for something he’d always been able to survive without before.

He wanted somebody to take care of him. He wanted a parent.

All of a sudden he was very, very tired.

Finishing up with his drawing he tucked it into his robes. He had done what Snape had asked. And even if it wasn’t the relief he thought it would be, he could head down to the dungeons with a clear conscience.

As Harry inched into the the professor’s quarters, Snape looked up at him with one brow arched and, well, it wasn’t a smile exactly. More like less of a frown. A small burst of happiness coursed through Harry at the sight of the man, who was sitting at the desk in his workroom as usual.

“So you’ve chosen to reappear, have you?” Snape commented.

Harry settled into his regular chair with confidence, and passed a quick scribble across the desk.

‘I think you missed me!’

Snape only snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yes, the cleanliness and peace and quiet was far too much to bear.”

Harry laughed at the sarcasm and began fishing through his bag for his homework. As he we doing so, the potion’s professor took the opportunity to add, “While I trust your return means you have done some thinking, I did not mean to suggest that you stay away while doing so. Yes, you needed to figure out what was bothering you, but you don’t need to be perfect to be down here, Harry. If you did, I certainly wouldn’t be living here.”

The warmth of that reassurance stayed with Harry as he finished his homework and readied himself for bed. Throwing his robe haphazardly across the end of the bed, he smiled to himself as he changed into his pyjamas. I don’t have to be perfect. It was a sad revelation, and Harry was so taken with it that he didn’t notice his rolled up parchment, the one with his drawing, had fallen out of his pocket and rolled under the bed.

*******

He was avoiding marking at all costs. Otherwise he would never be in the Harry’s room [When did it become ‘Harry’s room’? he vaguely wondered] going through the remnants of Luka’s things.

His need to procrastinate had driven him to going through his godson’s possessions, packing away the things that were clearly too young for Harry. He had been putting the task off for too long now, afraid of facing the reality of the boy’s death. But the room was occupied by a different boy now, and it was about time it reflected that.

Plus, he really had no desire to mark the first year essays that were piled on his workroom desk.

He pulled out one carton various toys and other odds and ends that had interested his godson. He tried not to look too closely at them; instead he concentrated on analysing their potential interest to Harry.

Finally pushing the first carton aside to fish out another, he noticed a rolled up piece of parchment. As he pulled it from its hiding place he noticed it was covered in children’s drawing ink.

His heart stopped, hoping he had not just stumbled across a drawing from his dead godson. He wasn’t sure he could take it.

What he found was not much easier to deal with.

There on the parchment was a frighteningly accurate child’s drawing of himself. He was smiling down at a boy. A boy with glasses and a lightening bolt shaped scar. Above them in the far corner, were ghostly-light sketches of James and Lily Potter, also smiling.

That was bad enough, but there at the bottom underneath the drawing-Severus, Harry had written in shaky, childish printing:

‘I wish he was my Dad’.