Severus watched Dappin usher Madam Collin into the dining room, and then lead Harry there as well, while he started signing paperwork that would go to the Ministry. Before he went through the doorway, Harry looked back at him, searching his face for something. Reassurance? Severus gave a small nod, and the boy, seeming relieved, followed the house elf to where he could get some lunch.

"He squints," Severus remarked to Albus, who stood just behind him. He was remembering the same scrunch-faced look from other times the boy had peered at him.

"Yes. He wears glasses."

"I haven't seen any." He looked at Albus. "And how do you know?"

Albus waved a hand dismissively. "I had a picture of him from a few years ago."

This was news. He frowned. "And how did he look?"

"Thin," Albus said softly. "And with big green eyes behind bigger glasses." A soft chuckle. "Rather like Professor Trelawny, in that respect."

"Trelawny?"

"My Divinations professor. She's been at Hogwarts eight years now."

Severus sneered. "Divinations. A more useless waste of time I've never encountered."

Albus put a hand on his shoulder. "There are many who would agree with you, my dear boy. But not every portent is false."

Severus turned to face the Headmaster. Something in his tone was troublesome. The clear blue eyes held nothing untoward, but he felt a sudden ache in his gut that warned of future hurt. "Such as?"

"Prophecy," Albus said simply.

Scoffing, Severus turned back to his parchment and made another sweeping signature with his quill. Prophecy indeed. Nothing but soothsayers and buskers. And yet . . . his mind churned, and he looked toward the dining room. "Do you mean--"

"I don't mean anything, dear boy. How could I?" But Dumbledore's smile rang false this time, and Severus could not shake off the feeling that there was something he needed to know. Something that was . . . Oh.

"She was the one you were interviewing at the Hog's Head. The one . . ." He drew a sharp breath. "Oh, Merlin."

"You didn't know, Severus. Don't blame yourself."

Disbelief warred with disgust at himself, at the base man he had been, and could be. "My eavesdropping, Albus. My report killed them! How can I not blame myself?"

"You did not know," the Headmaster said again, as if that absolved him. Which it did not, of course, and Severus knew he should save the rest of his recriminations for another, more private, time.

"What will Harry think of me?" What would it do to the poor boy's fragile trust, when he found out that his parents had been murdered because of his new "father"?

"Don't, Severus. Don't tread down that path. It will serve only ill to do so."

With a sigh, Severus nodded. Enough of maundering about ghosts. He had a very real, very alive child waiting for him in the other room. For now, he could put it to the side. He looked at the paperwork, and considered. Harry was his now, in blood, and could be, in name. Taking the "Potter" away from him would make life here much safer for the boy, which was one of the reasons they were doing this, right? Safer if no one knew a former Death Eater was now parent to the Boy Who Lived. Of course he had no ulterior motives in removing the surname of his nemesis . . . Oh, who was he kidding? "He doesn't look much like James," he murmured, still considering.

"No. He's pinched too thin for that. Maybe with glasses . . ."

"He does have her eyes," Severus remarked, recalling Albus' earlier comment.

"Yes. And his father's hair."

James' hair, perpetually windswept as if he'd just stepped off a broom. He saw little of that in Harry. Though, to be honest, the boy's hair had gone from matted with blood and dirt to dampened curls after his shampoo, with little in between to give Severus any idea of its true look. Harry could have been blond before, for all he knew. "How can you . . . ah, the picture?"

Without answering, Albus leaned over and looked at the parchment. "Thinking of changing his name?"

Severus nodded. "He should keep 'Harry,' as I think it might be too confusing for him else. But he should be 'Snape' now, too, as he is my heir."

Albus smiled, warmly this time, Severus thought. "Of course. And for the middle?"

"I thought perhaps to just add my own in. Traditionally. So, Harry James Severus Snape."

"Sounds quite good."

"Quite."

---

Nibbling on a cracker Dappin had pressed into his hand, Harry waited for his father. He sat at the table, elbows off, like he'd heard Aunt Petunia say to Dudley a time or two, and his chair was pushed most of the way in, thanks to Madam Collin's help. His feet didn't come anywhere near the floor, so he swung them idly back and forth and watched the door to the sitting room, where his father was still talking to Headmaster Dumbledore.

His father seemed to like the old man well enough, but Harry wasn't sure. Something about the way man watched him, even though he was always smiling, made him feel . . . odd. His scar itched, and he rubbed a hand across his forehead. Dudley said that scar made him look like a monster, like Frankenstein, all sewed together, and Aunt Petunia always turned up her nose when he asked anything about it, and reminded him that he should have died in the car accident, and should be grateful to just have a scar to remember his parents by.

But she'd been lying, or so Harry's new father said. But if his parents didn't die in a car, then where were they? Were they still alive? Would they come and take him away from his new father? The idea made him feel cold and ugly inside. He didn't want them to come; they'd never come when he'd been at the Dursleys, only Master Snape had. Master Snape was the one who had taken him away, and told him to call him Father. Not them.

He tugged a bit on his tie, under the pretty robes, and loosened it, not liking the feel of anything round his neck, then scratched at his forehead again. Madam Collin had looked at his scar, and so had Headmaster Dumbledore. He wondered why, but knew he wouldn't ask. Maybe they just thought he looked like Frankenstein, too.

Done with his cracker, Harry licked his fingers clean while looked at the rest of the food at the table. Just for a minute, he let himself dream that he would get to have some. There was something that looked like mince pie, and some biscuits, many covered with icing, and a platter with slices of sweet smelling ham, surrounded by tiny potatoes. A bowl of green beans sat next to one of raisins and shredded carrots, in some sort of dressing, and several baskets of rolls were placed strategically, steam still rising from their contents.

His mouth watering, and his stomach aching with hunger, Harry made himself turn back to the sitting room door, wondering what his father was doing. Was he changing his mind?

Harry jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder, and almost fell off his chair in his haste to get away. Climbing to his feet, Harry gripped the ladder back tight and stared up and Madam Collin.

"Forgive me, Harry." Her brows had drawn down in a V over her eyes, and she didn't look sorry, really. "I did not mean to startle you."

Tightening his hold on the chair, he glanced at the doorway to the sitting room again. "Yes, ma'am," he said automatically.

Her frown deepened. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yes, ma'am." He darted a look at her face -- lickity split, so she couldn't tell on him -- then down at his new, shiny shoes. He'd never had new shoes before, unscuffed, with no holes or anything. And new clothes, too!

The woman moved, and he did, too, keeping the chair between them instinctively. She was silent for a long minute, but he could feel her eyes on him, and he didn't like it. "Who hit you?" she asked suddenly.

"Ma'am?" His gaze stayed on his feet. He recognized that tone. He was in real trouble now, and it would only be worse if he was impertinent. Somehow, Uncle Vernon must have found out where he was, and he knew Harry hadn't kept quiet about being hit, like he was supposed to. He knew! Had his new father told him? Had Madam Collin?

The woman moved again, and though he wanted to run, he couldn't. Fear froze him to the spot, and moreover, he knew if he ran, it only made things worse. It always made things worse. But she didn't hit him, just touched his cheek, where it was still bruised a little, and achy, but not bad, not like it had been, when Dudley kicked him. Then her fingers brushed over his neck and he couldn't help it, he jerked away.

"What happened, Harry? I didn't see before, but your face is bruised . . . and what is this scar on your neck? Who did this to you?"

"I fell," he told her, the only answer he was allowed to give.

"You fell? Harry, that's not --"

"Why are you interrogating my son?" asked a cold voice from the doorway to the sitting room. Harry's father stood there, and Dappin stood just beyond him, wringing her hands.

"Professor Snape!" Madam Collin turned, and Harry let out a relieved breath. "I was certainly not interrogating him. But those marks concern --"

"They are no one's concern, except for mine, and my son's." Harry's father's face was blank, but his dark eyes snapped fire. "I will thank you not to waylay him when I am otherwise occupied."

"Children's welfare is my concern!"

Harry's father opened his mouth again, but the Headmaster interrupted. "Enid, we will discuss the matter further another time. Not at present."

Harry watched their faces from under the fringe of his hair. Madam Collin looked tense and unhappy, but then she let out a gusty sigh. "Very well, Headmaster. May I expect a full report?"

The Headmaster, smiling, nodded. "I believe lunch is served." He moved into the room, having to push Harry's father in front of him, and took a seat at the table. He glanced at Harry's father, who frowned back. Something was going on, Harry knew, and it didn't feel right, but his father sat down, after helping Madam Collin into a seat beside the Headmaster.

"Everything smells wonderful," the Headmaster said, and Harry had to agree with that. Maybe if he was really quiet, they'd let him stay in the room while they ate, and he could at least still smell everything. He concentrated on making himself small, and unnoticed, hiding behind this chair, so they'd forget he was there. But then the Headmaster looked at him directly, over his glasses. "Why don't you sit down, Harry, and we'll celebrate your new family with a delicious dinner."

Instead of sitting down, though, Harry looked at his father. "I can stay?" he asked, scarcely allowing himself to hope. Though his father looked suddenly as if he'd been slapped, his face going white, except for patches of color on his cheeks, he gave a curt nod.

"Thank you, sir!" he said, and climbed into the chair. Dappin pushed it a farther in, so his face was level with the table, but he could still barely see the tops of the platters and bowls, and couldn't see his own plate except for the side. But he had a plate!

The chair shook suddenly, and he shot up into the air, then jerked to a stop. His chest was now at table level, and he could see everything! Eyes wide, he gaped at the table, and then at his father, who was just tucking something that looked like a brown pencil into his sleeve. What had happened? How had the chair gone up like that? He bit his lip hard, and looked at his plate. His father had said he could ask questions, but he knew better than to ask about how freaky things happened. Sucking in a quiet breath, he waited for the yelling to start.

But it didn't.

Instead, when he glanced up again, he saw that his father had taken his plate. Oh! No food then. Disappointed, but not surprised, he looked down at his hands and clutched them together to keep them from shaking. He wasn't really hungry; he wasn't! He'd had breakfast, after all.

"A little of everything, I think," his father said quietly, and Harry looked at him, cocking his head to the side, not sure what he meant.

But then his father put some of the carrots on his plate, and a spoonful of beans, a slice of ham, two small potatoes, and one of the rolls. He put the plate in front of Harry as he said, "All right then?"

Harry's mouth hung open, and he almost forgot his manners. But his father raised an eyebrow, and Harry blurted, "Yes, sir, thank you, sir!" He grabbed one of the potatoes off the plate, and was about to cram it in his mouth when he caught his father's frown.

"Wait until all have been served, Harry," he said very quietly, so probably only Harry could hear him.

Harry nodded and dropped the potato on his plate. "Yes, sir."

In an even softer tone, his father continued, "And use the silver."

"Yes, sir."

His father offered him a small smile, and Harry basked in it for a moment. When he looked at the silver, though, his stomach tightened. There were two of everything: forks, knives, spoons. Which was he supposed to use? Instead of ask, though, he watched his father, after everyone was served from the bowls and platters, as he picked up his outermost fork and used it on his carrots. Harry followed suit and took his outermost fork, too. Noting what he'd done, Harry's father winked at him covertly, and Harry gave him back a little smile.

"Harry," his father said, while Harry stabbed at carrots with a fork gripped tight in his fist, "now that you're my son, do you want my surname as well?"

Harry frowned. "Surname? You mean 'Snape'?"

"Yes."

"I'd be Harry Snape?"

"Harry James Severus Snape, actually. If you are amenable."

He remembered what "amenable" meant. It meant, if he wanted to. Harry nodded quickly. "Yes, sir, um, Father," he corrected, remembering that, too. Finally spearing a bite of carrots, he scooped it into his mouth before it fell off. They were tangy and juicy and really, really yummy. He chewed, swallowed and nodded again. "I'm 'menable."

When his father gave him a smile that reached his eyes, he felt sure he could fly.

Late in the afternoon, after Madam Collin had gone with all the papers his father had been signing, Harry drowsed on the settee in the sitting room, head back, feeling pleasantly full. The Headmaster was still there, talking with his father. The Headmaster was in the overstuffed chair by the fire, and Harry's father perched on the other end of the settee. Their voices were quiet, and lulled his eyes closed. His chin bobbed against his chest several times before he felt someone lift him up, and settle him on a lap.

Relaxed enough that he barely struggled, Harry was soothed by the low voice he recognized as his father's, telling him to shush, and that he was safe, and no one was going to hurt him. Though wanting to believe, Harry still pulled away until a gentle hand touched his hair and carded fingers thought it. The feeling touched something deep inside his chest, and he leaned into the touch like a cat. Another hand drew his head down to rest on a cloth covered chest, and he could hear his father's heart beat through the robe. As long as he could hear that sound, he was safe. He rested one of his own hands on his father's chest, too, and could feel the heart beat, and he took a low, shuddering breath. His father's arms encircled him and held him close.

The murmuring voices continued, but he was too tired to follow them much. ". . . be a problem?" his father asked. His voice rumbled in his chest, and Harry could feel it against his cheek.

"Not at all. . . . very discreet."

". . . won't let . . . interference."

". . . understand . . . take him . . . Hogwarts?"

"End of the week. . . . clothes and . . . used to magic."

Harry squirmed in his father's arms, feeling suddenly alarmed, but too lethargic to rouse more than that. He gentle hand returned and smoothed over his forehead, and his father's voice murmured his name, and he relaxed again.

". . . anxious, you see? . . . relatives told him . . ."

". . . over it, I daresay. . . "

The voices went on, but Harry had succumbed completely to sleep, feeling truly safe for the first time in what felt like forever.

---

Some time later, Albus rose to leave, and Severus got up with him, the boy still in his arms.

"He looks comfortable," said the Headmaster, with a fond look at the boy.

Severus rearranged the boy on his hip -- and how had he realized immediately that it would be easier to carry him thus? -- and cupped the back of the boy's head with his hand as the boy nestled his head in where Severus' neck met his shoulder. Harry's warm breaths whispered against his skin. "I'll have to wake him soon, or he'll be up all night."

Albus looked doubtful. "From all appearances, he could use a great deal more rest than he's recently acquired."

Severus frowned down at the thin body as his fingers combed through the soft, raven-black hair. It was long enough in the back to cover the neck, and would require a tie soon. Had James had long hair? No. Just that mussed, untamed mop. This hair was more like his own. Would the blood ritual work that fast? "He didn't sleep well last night, I don't think." Neither of them had.

"Did you have him under monitor?"

"No. Not last night."

"Give it a try tonight, then," Albus suggested. "It may be that the unfamiliarity of a new room makes him too nervous to relax well."

Severus nodded and Albus left a few minutes later. Madam Collin had gone hours ago, to file the adoption papers. He really hoped she would not make an issue of the marks she'd seen on Harry's body, or his odd behavior at dinner when he seemed to think he would not be fed. Dumbledore was certain she would not, but Severus was not as trusting as his mentor.

Regardless, it was done. No one could take the boy from him now.

He carried the boy upstairs, removed his shoes, socks, robe and tie, leaving him in trousers and shirt, then covered him with a light quilt, planning to wake him in an hour or two for some supper. Then perhaps he would show Harry the rest of the house, and they could relax a while before bedtime. In the meantime, he could work in his study on some lesson plans he'd been considering for his upper level classes.

Harry had other ideas, apparently, and woke twenty minutes later, screaming.