This was getting ridiculous, Albus decided.  He might as well put out a press release:  Boy Who Lived Has Been Rescued!  Stop Bothering Headmaster!  Alas, that was unlikely to stop Scrimgeour's blatant pressure, but might slow the constant flow of worried faithful who came to harangue him about Harry's whereabouts.  He stared over the rims of his spectacles at, of all people, Rubeus Hagrid, who was hoping to bring Harry some of his favorite treats.

"I'm afraid Harry is not quite up to company yet, Hagrid," he said to the large man.  Surely Molly had put him up to this; only yesterday, she'd promised to annoy Albus to death if he didn't come up with the boy, and soon!  Of course, she'd phrased it more politely, though not by much.

"It's jus' I'm worried ‘bout ‘im," Hagrid admitted.  "Not seen ‘im since ‘e got back; no one has."

"Ah, that's where you're mistaken," Albus assured him, putting on his most congenial smile.  "For I have seen him myself, and have been monitoring his progress very closely."  Through a proctor.  "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to meet with members of the Ministry about what happened in Wells next the Sea over the weekend."

"O' course, sir.  Terrible business there, terrible.  Give these t'Harry, though, will ye?  He loves these rock cakes."

"Of course, Hagrid.  Good day."

After the half-giant left, Albus had all of ten minutes to prepare for the next scheduled onslaught from Scrimgeour.  The lion-bearded man always left him feeling slightly aggravated after one of their meetings, and betimes he wished he could just hex the Minister and be done with it.  But politics must be played, and he could not afford to have more interruptions at Hogwarts of the kind they'd suffered last year.  At least that hag, Umbridge, was tucked away in a safe ward at St. Mungo's, undergoing treatment.

Albus spent some few of those ten minutes considering the boy he wanted - still - to go to the hospital for observation.  Severus had been very close-mouthed with him about his progress with Harry, only saying that they had at least managed to get Voldemort out of the boy's head, a minor miracle in itself, considering how completely shattered Harry had been when he was first rescued.

"The Minister's on the way," Everard's portrait advised him.

"Thank you," Albus murmured, and set out a fresh dish of sherbet lemons.  Not that it ever helped, as Rufus was almost as paranoid as Severus.  Still, one could hope.

---

Severus watched the boy fiddle with his quill for another few minutes without saying aught, but he suppressed another sigh.  He'd given Harry a journal, of sorts, in which he was supposed to express his thoughts for just twenty minutes a day, using a medium which did not require spells to repair any damage afterwards.  Twelve minutes had passed already, and the boy had yet to set quill to parchment.  Instead, he sat hunched over the small writing table, chewing alternately on the quill and on his fingernails and otherwise staring into space.  The nail chewing behavior was just going to have to stop.  Severus found the whole experience - watching, listening, finding the gnawed bits on the carpet through sock feet - extremely distasteful.

In the meantime . . . "Potter."  The boy jumped, and Severus kept his voice quiet and steady as Harry turned around to glare.  "I gave you a choice.  Either write, or we discuss your nightmare right now."

Harry set his jaw, and Severus lifted his eyebrows and held the gaze until Harry sighed and turned back to the blank book.  He even dipped the quill into the little pot of ink Severus had spelled to not tip over - or be available for throwing, should the mood take the boy; he was not that generous - but he did not write.  Severus let it go for another three minutes, and then closed his own book - a rather comprehensive account of the origins of the Draught of Peace and its permutations and adaptations over the years - and rose from his chair by the fireplace.  He still kept a small fire in the grate for Harry's sake, as the boy seemed to remain cold even in the dead of summer, but it was banked now.

Harry stiffened in his seat as Severus crossed behind him to replace the book on its shelf, and his hand trembled where he gripped the quill.

Once back in his chair, Severus cleared his throat.  "Come over here," he said, using the same tone he'd use with a frightened dog, or perhaps a slightly stupid cow.

Biting his lip - another disturbing habit Severus longed to break the boy of - Harry turned back to him, then drug himself up from his chair as if he were a zombie, and shuffled over to the couch where he plunked himself down, looking miserable.  His face was paler than Severus had ever seen it, and the scar still stood out raw and red on his forehead.  He also hadn't been eating properly - aside from fingernails, which held little in the way of appropriate nutritional value for a growing teen - and so was looking rather more fragile than Severus had hoped for, after almost two weeks in his company.

"I want to go outside," Harry said, and though not quite a whine, it was close enough that Severus sneered at him.

"And I want you to write in the blasted journal."

"Why?  It's not like it'll do any good.  Sir."

Severus suppressed another sigh.  Really, it was too much, sometimes.  "How exactly would you know that?  You haven't actually written anything yet."

"I just know, all right?"

"No, in fact, it is not ‘all right.'  Since you have refused to write today, you will need to tell me about the dream you woke screeching from at three-thirty this morning.  If you answer my questions, to my satisfaction, you will be allowed thirty minutes time out of doors.  Understood?"

Potter seemed to perk up a bit.  "Can I go flying?"

"I believe you have a lifetime ban, still in effect."

With a scowl that almost put one of his own to shame, Harry grumbled, "No, that was for Quidditch.  I should still be allowed to just fly."

Hm.  A sore spot, that.  "Tomorrow, perhaps," he raised a warning finger, "if you write in your journal for the full twenty minutes.  And eat three full meals."

"But-"

"No exceptions.  You eat a proper dinner tonight, breakfast and lunch tomorrow, and you put an entire twenty minutes of your thoughts, should you indeed have that many, in that book, and you will be allowed flying time in the afternoon."

For a moment, it looked like Harry would argue some more, but then he relaxed and gave Severus a half smile.  "Thank you, sir."

Severus inclined his head.  He could certainly use this particular bargaining chip in the future, and he had not said how much time the boy would be allowed to fly.  "Now.  Your nightmare."

"I - I don't want to talk about it."

"We had a deal, Potter," Severus growled.

Harry paled even further, if possible.  Both his hands were shaking.  "I know, sir, I just . . . I can't."

Tapping his lips with a forefinger, Severus considered.  It was likely the nightmare had to do with what happened at Topsham, and he was quite certain that Harry was not ready to address that issue yet.  He could compromise, briefly.  "Then we will discuss topics of my choosing."

"O-okay."

How easy he was to manipulate.  How easy it would be for Severus to completely destroy him, with a wrong word or harsh tone.  Not for the first time, he cursed Albus Dumbledore for laying this burden on him, and then, again, not for the first time, he reminded himself that it was a burden he had chosen to take up, and that Albus already expected Harry to be little more than a lost cause.

Though what he expected the boy to do about the prophecy, if that was so, was anyone's guess.

"Good.  Tell me, then, who was the appallingly overweight boy who chased you through the park when you were younger?"

"Sir?"

"It's a simple enough question, Potter.  Who was-"

"My cousin.  Dudley.  Why do you want to know about him?"

Severus ignored the question.  After all, he didn't want to know about Dudley at all, but it would behoove Potter to speak of his past some more.  "Has he always been so . . . huge?"

"Erm, yeah.  Every since I can remember.  I mean, obviously he was smaller when we were really young, but he's always been big for his age."  Potter was beginning to relax.  Good.

"And he called the game of chasing you what?"

Some color returned to Potter's cheeks.  "Harry Hunting," he mumbled.

"Mm.  Was he a skilled hunter?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"I think you understand my meaning."

Potter shrugged and tried to hunch in on himself. 

Severus frowned.  "None of that, or there will be no outside time for you today."

The boy sighed, but pulled his knees up to his chest and leaned his chin on them.  "Yeah, he was all right at it.  I knew some decent places to hide, though."

"Such as?"

"Oh, bins, up in trees, and sometimes I could duck into a shop.  There was a little one, a bookshop, nearby, I could hide in for hours."  He gave a low snicker.  "Wasn't like Duds was ever going to go looking in where he might touch a book."

"And you mentioned you got his ‘second bedroom' after your Hogwarts letter came.  Why did he have two bedrooms to begin with?"

"Well, they spoiled him rotten, didn't they?" Harry said, and there was heat in his voice again.  "Gave him everything he asked for, and lots of what he didn't.  So when he got tired of playing with something, or he'd broken it, it went into the second room."  His arms tightened around his calves, where he hugged them close.  "That's where I got any of my toys from."

"Explain."

The boy clenched his jaw and squinched his eyes shut.  "No, it's stupid."

"Potter.  Answer or you won't-"

"All right!  They never bought me anything, so I only got the leftovers of Dudley's toys, same as with food."

Severus stared, wondering if this was exaggeration, and knowing he was going to have to ask.  "Surely they bought you something.  Clothes, for instance, treats at Christmas . . ."

"Are you kidding me?" Harry snarled at him.  "I got Dudley's old clothes, too.  The ones that were worn out at the knees, or frayed at the cuffs, or that he'd torn up because he didn't like the color.  And, as you noticed, he was much bigger than me, so I never had clothes that fit till I came to Hogwarts and had to buy my own robes.  But I can't even wear any nice things at their house, ‘cause they'd want to know where I got the money for ‘em, and then they'd want the money and I'd have nothing left from my parents at all!"  He took a stuttering breath.  "Did you even see the crap I was wearing when you took me from there?"

Severus nodded, not rising to the obvious bait.  "I saw.  But what about Christmas, birthdays. . . ."

"Oh, right, I was so bloody pampered, obviously they lavished me with gifts."

"Answer the question-"

"Just shut up, all right?  I'm tired of talking."  He buried his face against his knees, his whole body rolled into a ball no bigger than a niffler.  "It's stupid anyway.  Like I should care."

"About what?" Severus asked, softly.  This was the moment of every one of their recent conversations he dreaded.  Either tears or raging would follow.  He could never tell which it would be, and though he preferred the latter, as he knew better how to deal with it, neither option was particularly enjoyable.  Not for either of them.

There was a soft, sniffling sound.  Tears, then.  "P-presents.  Never till . . . First one I ever got was from Hagrid.  He g-gave me Hed - Hedwig."

For the first time, Severus realized the boy's owl was nowhere in evidence.  He tried to recall if he had seen it, when he and Bellatrix and Nott took him from the Dursley home.  He could picture the dark room, the boarded over window, the thin dirty sheet covered in blood and pus, the effluvia from the boy's wounded back.  And he recalled an empty bird cage half caved in, lying on top of a lopsided dresser.

"Where is Hedwig, Harry?"  He almost didn't recognize his own voice, it was so soft, and he almost sure he knew what the boy was going to say.  Still, he winced at the words when they did come.

Harry's shoulders were shaking, and his voice was muffled by hiccupping sobs.  "H-he killed her.  Uncle V-vernon d-did.  He killed her because she was making too damn much noise, and I tried to stop him, but he's loads bigger even than Dud, and he hit me, and I - I - I fell and then he was kicking and she was screeching, and then there was nothing, and she was gone."

Oh, Merlin.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head.  First pet.  First present, a familiar, killed by a maniac Albus had sent the boy back to year after year.  He had nothing but contempt for those Muggle relatives of Harry's.  He knew what sort Petunia was, and after what Harry had confessed about his home life, he didn't doubt the bastard had killed the snowy owl, just for hooting.

But Harry was still sobbing, and Severus rose with some reluctance, and crossed to the couch.  He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, to offer some kind of comfort - he knew what it was like to lose a precious familiar, after all - but was unprepared for the boy's reaction.

Harry's head came up and he was out of his seat like a shot, shrieking.  "Don't touch me!  Don't - don't you ever touch me!  NO ONE!  Never, never again!"

Severus put his hands up, where they could be clearly seen.  "No one's touching you, Harry," he said, more calmly than he felt.  "I'm going to sit down now.  I suggest you do the same."  He matched actions to his words, and retook his seat by the fireplace, keeping his gaze on Harry the whole while.

But Harry wrapped his arms around his middle and hunched over, sobbing again, great tearing things that wracked his thin body.  In between wheezing gasps for breath and wrenching sobs, he hugged himself tight and rocked slightly, as Severus had often seen in children who were denied any kind of comfort from their caregivers during their formative years.  Whispered words poured from his mouth in a stream, that Severus craned to hear.  "I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him. . . ."

"Who do you hate?" Severus asked, wanting to be sure who the target was.  There were so many choices, after all. Too many.

"Uncle," cough, "Vernon.  Hate him."  Wheeze.  "Hate.  Him.  Hate.  Him."  Before Severus realized what he was going to do, Harry had turned to the wall and punctuated each word with a punch to the thick gray stones.  "Hate. Him!"

Damn it!  He got in three punches with the right and two with the left before Severus reached him and grabbed his arms from behind, holding them across the boy's chest.  "Stop, Harry.  No punching!"

"Let me go!  Let go!"

Severus didn't, but tightened his hold on the frantically wriggling boy.  "Not till you've calmed.  No self harm.  We agreed!"

But Harry was barely listening, twisting this way and that to get away from Severus and screaming at a decibel level that Severus had previously considered humanly impossible.  "Let go!  Let me go!  I hate you, I hate you!  Get away from me, I'll kill you!"

Severus just held on, trying the low, soft voice with no real meaning in the words that had calmed Harry after he'd woken early this morning, and let the boy wear himself out.  ". . . Get away!  I'll kill you, you're going to die!  Everybody's dead.  Everybody's . . ."  Another sob filled the air and Harry dropped like a stone, with only Severus to keep him from hitting the ground, hard.  "Everybody.  I kill everybody.  All - all my f-fault."

"Nonsense," Severus told him in that same low voice.  "You haven't killed anyone. . . ."  Again, he got the impression that Harry wasn't really listening, and he knew they'd have to address this issue later, when both of them were far calmer, but the boy did stop screeching soon after, and his sobs lessened until they were merely hitched breaths and sniffles.

At that point, Severus walked Harry back to the couch and eased him down, then took a look at the boy's hands, and the rapidly swelling knuckles.  He shook his head and Accio'd a bruise salve.  "Make a fist," he said, of each hand, then opened the jar and spread the salve onto Harry's abraded skin.  "I don't believe you've broken anything.  This time.  But you may not conduct yourself in that manner again.  We discussed the rules of staying here versus going to hospital.  If you can't abide by them, I will need to make other arrangements."

"No," Harry whispered.  "Please.  I'm sorry, sir.  I won't do it again, I swear."

"I'll hold you to that," Severus told him sternly.  "I have no problem cleaning up a bit of crockery, but I will not put my skills to use fixing your body if you can't be bothered to respect it yourself.  And before you ask, I won't just let you heal yourself either.  One more incident and I will go to the Headmaster."

"Yes, sir.  I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Harry."  He closed his eyes briefly, then stood up and capped the jar of salve.  "And for what it's worth, I am too.  Sorry.  About your owl.  I know how much she meant to you."

Harry nodded, looking exhausted, and Severus couldn't blame him.  He was rather exhausted himself.

Perhaps tomorrow would be a better day.