Alone in the library, Harry waited for his new father to return. He sat very still in one of the large leather chairs, and tried very hard not to fidget, ‘cause fidgeting wasn't allowed. Dappin had showed him in here, and said he could look at the books, but he wasn't to touch them. Harry knew better than that, anyway. He wasn't ever allowed to touch anything. Whelps and freaks and dirty little boys would only ruin things if they got too near, he knew that.

Hands in his lap, Harry concentrated on keeping his legs from swinging back and forth, but it was hard going. He listened to the tick-tock of a nearby clock, and tried to figure out what time it might be from the occasional chiming in the quiet room. But it was no good; he couldn't see the clock from where he was sitting, and the chimes were different from any he'd ever heard.

Aside from shelves and shelves of books, the room contained the chair Harry was sitting in, two others very like it, a desk with all sorts of papers on it, two lamps on end tables, and several glass cases that held some very interesting things. From where he sat, he could make out some of the stuff in the nearest case - a set of binoculars, except real small and with a handle, a silver dagger with a wavy blade and a green stone in the hilt, and a brooch like Aunt Petunia wore on Sundays and when there were guests for dinner, except this one was silver and green with a big S in it, instead of just showing the head of a lady. A couple more things lay in the case, but he couldn't see them without standing up . . . which he would never do, not on the furniture, no matter what Dudley said!

Except for having to be still, Harry liked the quiet of the library. It was well shaded from the sun, and thus cooler than his bedroom - his bedroom! - though the leather chair was warm under his legs. He was wearing the nice new clothes from earlier in the day, when he'd gotten a new father, and he was glad he hadn't spilled anything on himself when they ate dinner. Not even the pie with cream, the first real mince pie he'd ever eaten! He'd been really careful.

Harry considered the ceremony again. He could hardly forget it! It was weird, the way he'd felt after he drank the wine. He wondered briefly if Uncle Vernon ever felt like that after drinking. If he had, though, he wouldn't be so mean, would he? ‘Cause the one sip of wine had made Harry feel so very, very good, like he was flying and surrounded by happiness, all at once. No, Uncle Vernon could never have felt like that.

Bringing his hands up to rest on the arms of the chair, Harry stared at the toes of his shiny new shoes. His new father had already given him so much, and so had Dappin, but when Harry thanked the house elf for helping him with his laces earlier, she had almost cried and then tried to hug him, but he didn't like people grabbing him, not even small people like Dappin. He thought he understood her shock, though. After all, no one had ever thanked him when he was a house elf; he was just supposed to be quiet and not get in the way or make a fuss or be seen at all. But he also knew he was supposed to say thank you when someone helped him, or gave him something. Not that either had happened very often before he came to this house.

To keep from fidgeting, he thought more about the day. His new father had said magic was not bad, that he could say the word and not be punished. That he could even do magic and not be hit. But Harry didn't really do magic, did he? Just accidents, like when Dudley and his mates had been chasing him, and he'd ended up on the roof of the school, or when his teacher's hair turned blue that day she was yelling at him to pay attention, when he could barely sit down for the soreness on his legs and bottom.

And the Silencing. The Dursleys hated noise. They especially hated it when he made noise. And when he had the bad nightmares, the ones with the glowing red eyes in, he couldn't hardly help but cry out for help. Uncle Vernon had taught him lessons about waking them up in the middle of the night, or making any noise when having a lesson, that he would never forget. So he did the Silencing, but he wasn't sure how. He just knew he was supposed to be quiet, even if his whole body hurt like it was all on fire at once, like earlier today. Everything would be worse if he wasn't quiet.

But it was magic? And he was allowed to do it?

He wondered if he could do any magic on purpose.

How would he know? He didn't even know how he did it. Maybe, if he thought real hard about something magic happening, like . . . like a glass of milk suddenly appearing on the table next to him, ‘cause he was real thirsty, maybe he could do that?

He squinched his eyes shut tight and thought really, really hard, concentrating on what the milk would look like, and even taste like, in a tall, clear glass, not the baby cup Aunt Petunia sometimes made him drink out of. But when he finally opened his eyes, nothing had appeared. Disappointment swooped into his stomach, like a sudden fall off the last, unseen stair. But he was used to that, so he set his face back to "No attitude now, boy!" which Uncle Vernon preferred, and waited some more.

Maybe he wasn't really a wizard. Maybe his new father wouldn't want him, if he couldn't do the magic on purpose. If he couldn't, he'd have to make sure his father never found out then.

On the heels of that thought, he heard a whoosh, then a thumping sound from the other room, the sitting room, and he gripped the arms of the chair anxiously. Sounded like someone had fallen, someone big. . . like Uncle Vernon. Quickly, he scuttled off the chair and onto the floor behind it, like his Uncle always told him, ‘cause dirty freaks weren't allowed on the furniture.

But it wasn't Uncle Vernon who came into the room. It was his new father! He stood up when his father frowned at him. "What are you doing on the floor?" his father asked.

Feeling faintly queasy - He'd messed up already. How stupid was he? - Harry bit his lip and glanced at the chair. "I . . . I'm not allowed, sir?"

"You most certainly are allowed on the chair. Any chair." His father's frown deepened. "Except in my private study. That's off limits."

"Yes, sir."

"Harry . . ."

"I mean, yes, Father. Thank you."

"You're welcome." His father's face softened and he held out a hand. "Come here, Harry."

Swallowing thickly, ‘cause nothing good ever came from being to told to ‘come here,' he nevertheless did as he was told. But rather than put him over a knee, or lock him in a cupboard, his father gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Father led him out of the library and into the sitting room, where they both sat on the settee, and Father turned to look at him. "This is your home, Harry, and you are allowed to go anywhere you want within its walls. Except where?"

"Your study, sir, um, Father."

"Correct. I have other rules, some of which we have already discussed. Do you remember?"

"No saying, ‘freak,'" Harry recited dutifully. "And I'm to be obedient and polite, but not to call you Master Snape, but Father. I can look at you when you're talking to me, and can use the loo whenever I need to, without . . ." he swallowed again, not quite believing, "without even saying thank you. I must use silver at the table, and wait till everyone's served before eating." He thought a moment more. "I'm ‘lowed to ask questions and say the word ‘magic.' And Silencing's okay."

Father stared at him, his mouth a small O. He must've said it wrong. Oh, no, he'd gotten the rules wrong! But which one? He tried to remember if any of them had changed, but maybe Father changed one while he was gone! Harry braced himself, but his father just looked at him another moment, then blinked, hard, like he was waking up.

"That's . . . very good, Harry. I'm glad you remembered all those rules. Now, the only one I think there's been a misunderstanding on is the Silencing, as you call it."

Harry's stomach sank even lower, and he tried really hard to keep looking at his father, ‘cause that was one of the rules, but he knew he'd been bad to do such a freaky thing, and it was awfully difficult not to stare at his feet instead. "Yes, sir. I won't do it again."

"Good." Father paused, and his eyes narrowed. "You think I don't want you to do any magic anymore, don't you?"

"Yes, s - Father. I know it's bad."

Father sighed. "That is not the case. I only wish for you not to Silence yourself when you are hurting. Remember what we said earlier?"

Harry shrugged up one shoulder and then hastily dropped it again. "Oh! And no shrugging!"

The corners of Father's lips drew up, very faintly, in what Harry realized was his smile. "Correct. No shrugging. But we were talking about Silencing. Do you remember why I don't want you to do that when you're hurt?"

"N-no, sir."

"Because I want to know if you're in distress. If you are hurt, or having a nightmare, I want to know, so I can help you."

Harry frowned, confused, and decided to ask a question. It was kind of scary, though, and made his stomach see-saw inside. He drew a deep breath. "Help me do what, sir?"

Father's face crumpled a little, like he was sad or upset. "Help you feel better," he said softly, and something inside Harry crumpled a little, too, at the sound of the words, and the sadness in them.

He stared at his hands, now, folded in his lap again. "No one's . . . I don't know . . . Why, sir?" He looked up at his father, feeling oddly adrift and not understanding how he had gotten here.

"Because you're my son, and that's what fathers do."

Harry thought about it for a minute, and remembered how Dudley was allowed to crawl into bed with his parents when he had a nightmare, and how Aunt Petunia always made a fuss over Dudley if he scraped his knee or fell off his bike, and he nodded. "Mums do, too, right?"

Father snorted a soft laugh. "Mums, too, yes." Another pause. "Harry, your Mum was . . . was a good friend of mine in school. I . . . I loved her very much. And I promise you, I will take care of you to the best of my ability. I owe it to her . . . and to you." Father waved his hand in a gesture Harry was beginning to learn meant he was done talking about something and wanted it to go away now.

"But, other rules," Father said sternly. "No Silencing, understand?"

"Yes, Father."

Father spared him one of his thin smiles; it was the first time Harry hadn't stumbled over what to call him.

Harry's answering smile was quick. He liked making his father happy, even if he couldn't do real magic.

"Good. And you will be responsible for keeping your own room neatened. No toys or clothes on the floor."

"But, Father, I haven't got-"

"Any toys, or clothes. I know. You will have them, before the week is out."

"Really? Of my own?"

"Yes, child. Of your very own. Now, you must not be late for meals. If you can't yet tell time, then Dappin or myself will call you."

"I can tell time! Only, not when I can't see the clock."

"That would make it more difficult." Father tapped his lightly upturned lips with one slender finger. "Perhaps, at first, we'll just make sure to call you for meals, until you learn where all the clocks are."

"Thank you, sir."

"You will have a bath every night - or a shower," Father amended, after seeing that Harry was going to protest. He'd told Dappin that baths were only for babies, but really, he just didn't like what happened in them. Showers were much safer. Faster. He was relieved when his father allowed for showers, instead. "And clean clothes each morning. Dappin will help you with selections."

"Yes, Father."

"You are allowed time in the back garden each morning, but as it's rather hot there in the afternoons, I would prefer your time after lunch to be indoors. Dappin will show the garden to you tomorrow."

There was a garden in the back? That must be where he would do his house chores. He nodded enthusiastically. He hated doing outdoors work once it got really hot, especially if he wasn't allowed drinks or shade. "Thank you, Father," he said.

His father reached over and patted his knee, which Harry thought was kind of odd, but since it didn't hurt, he didn't flinch away. Well, not too much. "I think that's enough for now. Why don't you go get washed up for supper, and meet me in the dining room in ten minutes?"

"Yes, sir!" Supper, too! This had been a very good day.

----

Severus watched the boy scramble toward the stairs and suppressed a sigh. The pure moment of glee he'd experienced at forcing the Dursleys to take on all the punishment they had dished out to Harry over the years, had vanished quite completely when he'd come face to face with the reality of a boy who thought he wasn't allowed on furniture and who had no memory of ever being comforted when he was hurt. Once again, he wondered how he had ever thought he was cut out for this. What did he know, anyway, of damaged children? He had been one himself! Hardly a glowing recommendation.

Before supper, though, he had one more errand. Going into his study, he closed the door, and tossed a bit of Floo powder onto the hearth. Emerald flames shot up, and he called, "Albus Dumbledore!"

Moments later, Albus' head appeared in the flames. "Good evening, Severus. How is everything? No troubles, I hope?"

"No. Not really." Severus sighed. "May I come through?"

"Of course, dear boy." The Headmaster's head vanished, and Snape tossed in a bit more powder, called for the Headmaster's office and stepped into the flames. After spinning around for the time it took to say the password, he slid gracefully out of the Floo and into Albus' circular office.

"Thank you," he said, cleaning his robes with a wave of his hand.

"Please, please sit down. Lemon drop?" the Headmaster offered, holding out a tin.

"No, thank you," Severus replied, although he did take a seat. "I visited the Dursleys," he said, bypassing all the annoying chit chat that might otherwise have gone on. "And performed the Priori Malum Res."

"Ah." Albus steepled his fingers in front of his face and peered at Severus through the tent.

"I make no apologies. I just thought you should know."

The Headmaster nodded. "It has been a long time since that curse was invoked."

"It's not Dark Magic, Albus!" Severus rose and paced the room. "Anyway, they deserved it. And I had right of kin!"

"So you did. But, the threefold law is a little . . . harsh for Muggles, don't you think?"

"If you'd seen . . ." He might as well confess it all, now as soon as later. "I Legilimized them first."

"All of them?"

Damn Albus and his soft, not-quite-accusing tone. "Yes," he snarled. "Even the boy. Seven years old, like Harry, and already more a bully than Black ever was, at his worst. He showed off Harry - who he called the dog, by the way - to his mates, and then egged them on when they took turns beating him."

Dumbledore sighed heavily, his blue eyes tired and drawn, but pierced to the heart of the matter, to his conscience. "How long will it last for them?"

Severus looked right in his mentor's eyes, knowing he would probably be Legilimized himself, and not giving a whit. "Six years, I suspect. As that's how long they've had the care of him. They won't die of it, but they might wish they had."

"Very well." Albus put the tin of lemon drops away in a drawer. "Is there anything else, Severus?"

"Yes, a trifling matter," he said, rather stiffly. For all Severus was grateful to the Headmaster and the help he'd provided on Severus' "legal troubles" with the Ministry, Albus could be a right pill sometimes. "Harry woke from his nap this afternoon, screaming. I could find nothing wrong with him, but he said everything hurt, down to his bones. But his appearance is unchanged, and anyway, I thought the blood ritual took months to work itself out."

"It does," Albus agreed.

"Another thing, he cast a perfect Silencing charm around himself, while still sleeping! Says he had to do it with the Dursleys because he wasn't allowed to make noise, even in his dreams."

"Quite talented, then, at his age."

Severus glared at him. "You're not even listening, are you? The boy has taught himself magic as protection from those bloody creatures, and won't even tell me when he's in pain! I want to know what the hell went wrong with the ritual. What fresh pain can I expect for my son, since he won't tell me about it himself?"

"None, I would suspect," Albus said serenely. His eyes had somehow regained their twinkle, and Severus didn't trust that a bit. "At least, not from any external magic. He will certainly have an adjustment period, living with an actual parent for the first time."

"You know something," Severus bit out. He didn't like the twinkle, nor the fond tone Albus had taken with him. "What are you hiding?"

"Me? Severus, you should know me better than that."

"I know you better than to expect a straight answer, you mean." Severus unclenched his fists and wondered for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing by putting himself under the old codger's aegis. But what choice did he have, really?

"I always tell you everything you need to know."

"And not a tenth of what I want to know," Severus muttered. He grabbed the container of Floo powder, and wrenched off the lid.

"See you on Friday, then. With the boy."

With a barely civil nod, Severus flung powder into the flames and headed home.