I feel better today than yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. Yesterday, though, I got to go flying, sort of. Sort of, because I was only on the bloody broom for five minutes before all the blood rushed to my head or something, and I almost fell off. This time, Snape saved me from falling to my death.

He's kind of always doing that.

Remus, much to Snape's disgust, came to visit after dinner last night, now that the danger of the full moon is over. He was real apologetic about almost eating Severus, and about sending me to Dumbledore the other night, saying his wolf senses should have told him something was wrong with the Headmaster. But I told him -- nicely, too -- to just shut up already, that he was no more at fault about it than me or Snape is. And I even said it without getting all angry or upset or feeling stupid.

That's progress, right?

He asked again about the DA, if I wanted to get it going again, and I'm still not sure about that. It'd be good to have all the older kids, especially, all trained up to fight in the war . . . but it's so damned depressing, when I think of it that way. I'd still like to think we can just have school to learn stuff we'll need for our own betterment, not because there's a lunatic out there who will try and kill us before any of us have a chance to grow up or marry or have kids of our own. Not that I'll ever have a chance like that, anyway, but for all the others, I think they should have a chance to live, first.

So, Hermione and Ron are supposed to be coming here this afternoon, skipping the Hogwarts Express experience to be here a day early and talk to Snape about . . . things.

I asked him . . . or, rather, I agreed to his request to do that for me. I think . . . I think he's right, that I'm not really up for discussing this summer with anyone, not even them. I just hope Ron isn't a total prat with Snape, especially when he tells them about being made my guardian. I know Hermione won't be. I mean, she's got a real level head on her, but Ron... Well, let's just say that he inherited the famous Weasley temper in spades. Though I don't know any other members of the Weasley clan who actually have that temper, so maybe it's a sixth child thing . . .

Anyway, when I agreed to his suggestion, Snape asked if I wanted to be present for The Talk, and I said I didn't know. I mean, I don't want to hear all that stuff, even, and I don't want my friends looking at me like I'm some sort of fre... Oops, I said I wouldn't use that word about myself anymore. Good thing Snape doesn't read this . . . you don't, right?

But anyway, I don't want their pity or anything stupid like that. I couldn't take it. Not from them. But maybe if they get the story, they can leave it alone, or, or chew on it, or process it or whatever it is people do with information like that, during their own time, and then, when I see them again, they can act like normal around me.

I just hope I can act like normal around them.

---

Harry felt almost back to normal on Saturday. Seemed his magical core wasn't going to devour him from the inside after all. He smirked. He'd have to ask Hermione if that junk was true, or if Snape had been making it up, just so Harry would eat more.

Though he felt loads better, he hadn't been outside Snape's rooms since the disaster at the Ministry, except for the few minutes of flying he and Snape had done yesterday, and Snape had been with him the whole time. He just wasn't . . . up for that. He was too worried about meeting people in the hallways, especially the Headmaster. Oh, sure, he knew in his head that Dumbledore hadn't been in control, when he had captured Harry and planned to put him in some special cell where he could use him and stuff, but that was his head. In his gut . . . well, in his gut, he was still unwilling to actually see Dumbledore again. Not for a while, anyway.

He still had no idea how he was going to go back to classes on Monday.

---

"You need to eat more."

Harry glared at Snape and deliberately poked his fork at another string bean without eating it. "Yeah, 'cause you harping on it is doing wonders for my appetite."

"I don't understand you."

"Is this revelation time?"

Snape scowled. "I would think, given your . . . upbringing," his mouth curled in distaste over the word, "that you would eat as much as possible, whenever you had the chance."

"I guess you'd be wrong then." Harry sighed, and relented, a bit. It wasn't Snape's fault, after all. "My stomach is small, you know. Chronic starvation will do that. I can't eat as much as you want me to. I honestly don't know if I'll ever be able to. The idea of stuffing all that food in, frankly makes me a bit ill."

Snape got that hooded-eye look he only got when he was thinking of swearing, but had determined not to, for some reason. Not that Harry had heard him swearing often, but it was a look often followed by nastiness of one sort or another, so Harry helpfully supplied the reasoning on his own.

"What makes me ill, Mister Po--" Harry's glare was so fierce and so quick that Snape actually amended to, "What makes me ill, Harry, is that I have wasted perfectly good breath and syllables on trying to convince you to eat this summer, when you could have said this weeks ago."

Harry gave him a little smile and shrug. "Yeah, but then you would have felt bad. See, I was helping."

Snape rolled his eyes with a sigh. "If you're done, why don't you do something constructive with your time and practice shielding spells."

"Fine," Harry said with an answering sigh of his own. "I'll be in my room. Can you . . . I mean, when they get here, will you . . ." Harry bit his lip and pushed on, "Can I just see them afterwards? I don't . . . I mean. . ."

Snape finally took pity on him and nodded. "Don't worry, Harry. I'll talk to them, and then you can see them afterwards. But only if you want."

"I . . . thank you, sir. I really appreciate it."

Snape waved a hand at the thanks, like he usually did, like it was no big deal, what he was doing, that it was something he would do for anyone. Harry actually really appreciated that, too. He smiled a little more as he got up from the table. "Do you want me to take care of the dishes?"

"No. I'll do it," Snape said. "Go on and practice."

"Yes, sir." Harry retreated to his room, and shields and curses, and other things he could understand.

---

Severus sipped at his tea and waited for the arrival of Harry's friends. He could honestly say he had no idea how this "talk" would go, but he was glad that Harry was letting him take care of it for him. Harry, as he'd said the other night, was not used to anyone taking care of him. Severus planned to change that.

For one thing, there was this talk. For another, he knew Harry was worried about classes -- how could he not be? -- and he had an idea of how that could be mitigated, at least until Harry got used to having other people around him all the time. But he would need to talk to Albus, and though the Headmaster was doing better than he had been, he was still not completely recovered from what the Dark Lord had done to him. Nor from what Harry had needed to do, to bring his back to himself.

Regardless, all he needed for this other idea was Albus' permission, and he thought the Headmaster would not stint at all in anything he could do for Harry Potter at this point, considering how much pain he had been -- both directly and indirectly -- responsible for in the boy's life.

The Floo flared green, and Severus put down his tea. Unsurprisingly, it was Miss Granger who first appeared, stumbling ungracefully from the fireplace onto Severus' rug. The girl was staying at the Weasleys' just now, so the youngest of their sons should be popping through any moment.

Before Mr. Weasley made an appearance, though, Granger straightened up and gave Severus a cool look. "Good afternoon, Professor."

Severus covered a smirk with a scowl. "Miss Granger. You are tracking soot through my rooms."

The girl jumped a half foot, all pretense of coolness gone, and brushed frantically at her robes. "Sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Please," Severus said, to stop her from whatever she had been going to go on about. "Have a seat. Would you care for tea?"

She gaped at him for a moment, probably amazed that the Bat from the Dungeons had any manners whatsoever, and was just seating herself on the settee as Weasley came through the Floo. The red head was scowling, his face already flushed, and before he had even heard anything Severus has to say. That did not bode well.

"Mr. Weasley," Severus said preemptively, "I was just offering your traveling companion a bit of refreshment. Would you care for tea?"

"I, er, well . . ."

"Eloquent as always, Mr. Weasley."

The flush deepened, and Severus scolded himself. He was supposed to try and keep this civil, wasn't he? For Harry's sake?

"Where's Harry?" Weasley demanded, putting his chin up, as if to show he was not intimidated by his greasy Potions professor. "What have you done with him?"

"Harry is in his room," Severus said calmly, not rising to the bait. "He asked me . . . or rather, I suggested it might be better for me to speak to you, before you see him."

Weasley strode forward one pace, his face less than a foot from Severus' and at the same height. One thing could be said for the Weasley clan; they grew them tall. "Why? What did you do to him?"

Severus' temper was fraying, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from setting this child down in his proper place. "I did nothing to him, Weasley! Nothing but attempt to rescue him from being kidnapped, and from being possessed by the Dark Lord, and try and help him back on his feet so he can return to gallivanting all over the school like the rest of you Gryffindor fools. Now sit down and have some tea!"

Weasley sat.

Granger was still staring at Severus like he had sprouted wings, or horns. "Harry was kidnapped?"

Severus nodded, then spent a moment ordering up tea and cakes from the kitchen for his guests. Once he regained his own seat, he sighed. "He was. His aunt and uncle abandoned their home in the second week of July, by my best reckoning, and the wards based in blood that surrounded the house and were supposed to protect him fell. The Dark Lord took advantage of the situation and sent several of his most loyal to collect Mr. Potter."

"You called him Harry . . . before," Miss Granger said softly, taking up the newly arrived teapot and pouring herself a cup.

"I did." Severus sighed. They were doing this all out of order. He had to take control before it got further away from him. "Let me proceed at my own pace, Miss Granger."

"Of course, Professor." She didn't even sound sarcastic, and Severus lifted an eyebrow. Of course, Weasley was glaring enough for both of them. And he had not taken any tea.

"Harry was kidnapped, as I said. His confinement was . . . horrible." That should cover a multitude of sins, Severus thought. But the Granger girl was about to ask a question, so he added, "Let me assure you, he was tortured in cruel and nasty ways, and did nearly not survive, but I do not believe he wants me to relate the baneful details, or even the minutiae of his stay. Suffice to say, he spent several weeks in the Dark Lord's custody, and much of the rest of his summer had been spent attempting to overcome what happened there."

"Why can't he tell us himself?" Weasley put in, apparently devoted to making this whole thing as difficult as possible.

"He has suffered enough!" Severus bellowed. Then his voice dropped to a near-whisper -- thankfully he had put the silencing charm up on Harry's door well before this started -- as he continued, "And I will not allow you to make him relive that tragedy with your infernal questions."

Granger's eyes were wide, but she sipped at her tea without raising objection. Weasley on the other hand . . . "What do you care?" the red head snarled. "You hate him. You've never cared if he was suffering before. You preferred it!"

Ah, yes. The crux of the problem. His many years of willful disregard of the evidence he saw before him in favor of his own preconceived notions, his callous treatment of a student without true provocation -- nothing but his own anger at and unwillingness to forgive James Potter and his cohort -- and the utter antipathy that grew in him for the boy over the course of five years.

And so.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. "I am aware of that, Mr. Weasley. I . . . regret my earlier treatment of Mr. Potter."

"You regret it. You. Regret. It. Well, that's rich. I guess everything's dandy now, is it?"

"No, Mr. Weasley, everything is not dandy, as you so colloquially put it. Harry and I have been speaking--"

"And where do you get off calling him Harry anyway? You've been a total git to him for five years, and you think you're all mates now? You don't just get to call him Harry because of a chat or two, or decide when he can talk to his friends or--"

Severus interrupted the boy by launching himself to his feet. If he wasn't needing to quell his urge to hex the brat, he might have admired the way Weasley stood up for Harry, even in the face of a hated professor -- even though he knew Weasley was not going to be in his Advanced class, thank Merlin -- but he was becoming more irritated by the moment, and so, to nip any further annoyances in the bud, he loomed over the boy and snapped out, "Harry is my ward. I am his guardian, and I will address him as I see fit in our home!"

That shut the boy up most satisfactorily.

The silence, however, was broken by Miss Granger's teacup hitting the floor.