As Severus took a book of his own from one of the pockets of his voluminous robes, and settled back in his chair, he mused that there might be hope for him and the son of James Potter getting along after all.

To his utter amazement over the next several weeks, Severus was, indeed, able to “get along” with Harry Potter, the Brat Who Continued to Surprise Him. During their nightly tutoring sessions, the boy was respectful and diligent about his school work, and Severus found himself grudgingly accepting once and for all that his preconceived notions about young Potter had been unjustified, and horrifically skewed. It was a discussion the two of them had almost a week after he gave the Brat the Nimbus that truly solidified things for him, though.

Potter had been hunched over an essay for Herbology for the better part of an hour, not looking up from his books or paper at all, as usual, while Severus corrected Fifth Year exams. The two of them generally spent two hours in Severus’ classroom – or occasionally his office – each night, the first in independent work, and the second with Severus quizzing the boy on his readings or answering questions, usually about schoolwork, but sometimes they spoke about his nightmares or the attack of several weeks ago.

Severus found the schedule rather conducive to getting his work done, and to keeping an eye on the boy. Other than those two hours, Potter was generally with some of the other Firsties in their common room, or at Quidditch practice, which had been expanded to thrice a week. Potter was rarely, if ever, alone, and thus less likely to be attacked again.

This particular night, Severus was especially glad of the quiet, since the Fifth Years had been particularly dense on their exams, and he knew he would have his work cut out for him to get them ready for OWLS. But he still looked up inquiringly when Potter said, “Sir?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, and Potter bit his lip then looked down at his desk. Severus waited; he had an infinite amount of experience waiting. Finally, the boy looked back at him. “Sir, you said before that you meet with the, um, the families of all the First Years.”

It didn’t sound like a question, and so Severus did not answer it except to briefly incline his head. As he had discovered over the last couple weeks, Potter would get to his point soon enough, if he was given enough time, and little pressure to perform. But he thought he saw where this was going, and he wasn’t sure what he would do at that time.

Another minute passed, and Potter drew a deep breath, and gazed at his hands. “Did you see the Dursleys yet?”

“I did.”

Potter's head shot up. “Did they . . . were they awful, sir?”

Severus considered what to say. The visit had been awful. It would have been even if he had not Legilimized the Muggles and been inundated by memories of their loathsome treatment of the boy in front of him. But he did not want Potter to feel worse for all that. Severus did not want him to be humiliated, as he knew he would have been in Potter’s shoes, by his dirty laundry being aired by a professor. And what a revelation that was! Finally, however, all he said was, “It was not pleasant.”

A corner of Potter’s mouth twitched up. “Yeah, they’re not real pleasant people.”

“No,” Severus agreed. They had not discussed Potter's home life before, except in very oblique terms, but Severus had known it only a matter of time before they did, as all his Snakes from less than perfect homes would, eventually, when given the opportunity to do so. He was, frankly, surprised that the boy was opening up this quickly. He debated with himself for a few more moments on how to open the topic further, and then, “They truly tried to pretend you did not exist, for ten years.”

Potter nodded, his gaze back on his hands, where he twirled a thin quill between his fingers. Over the last two weeks, Severus had seen a marked improvement in the boy's penmanship, once he learned the correct way to handle his writing tools. Just as his behavior, once he understood the reasoning behind various rules, had improved, too. “Yes, sir. That way they could pretend magic didn’t exist either. I never knew why I wasn’t allowed to even say the word 'magic' until after I met Hagrid and he told me I was a wizard. It was weird, really.”

“I imagine.” And Severus could, in a way. There were many things about Potter that he did not understand. He could not fathom how the boy could have been shunted aside and neglected so continuously in his life, and still been able to make friends among his classmates so easily. And he did not understand why, exactly, Potter was giving him a second – or third? – chance to be the Head of House he was meant to be, when the boy obviously had no reason in the world to trust the word of adults.

But he could well understand the . . . disdain many Muggle relatives had for magic when they were confronted with the fact of their Wizarding children, or (as in Potter's case) their wards. At any rate, he could remember the revulsion his own father had for him. He had seen that same disgust in the eyes of the Dursley couple, and their son, as they "discussed" their nephew. He wondered again how Potter had survived ten years of living with them, with no one to mitigate their utterly unconscionable behavior.

“Do you . . .” The boy swallowed, then seemed to gather his courage from somewhere and looked him in the eye. Severus did not blink, just waited, his expression blank. “Do you think they hated me just for the magic, Professor? Or . . .” Another lip gnaw, and then Potter’s voice was much softer when he continued, as if he was actually afraid of what he was saying. Afraid of Severus’ reaction. “Or maybe ‘cause my father was a bully?”

The breath froze in Severus’ chest. For several long, agonizing moments, he was sure he would never breathe again. Severus clenched his hand into a fist and heard the quill he had been using on the exams snap in half. The ends dug into his skin. Potter’s eyes had widened, a spark of terror barely concealed in their depths.

“Where did you get that idea?” Severus asked in a low, dangerous voice.

Potter flinched at his tone, but answered his question regardless. “Um, some-someone t-told me he w-was in a gang, sir, like my cousin D-dudley has. And that he used to p-pick on p-people, Slytherins mostly, they said, and, and I thought may-maybe he did it to them, too. Picked on the Dursleys, I mean. And maybe, um, maybe that’s why they . . . why they hated me. ‘Cause he was mean to them, too?”

Well. This was unexpected. Potter had apparently chosen the most roundabout way of asking if his own father's bullying was the reason his Head of House had treated him shabbily. Severus slowly uncurled his fist, not surprised to see blood well on his palm when he dropped the broken quill.

Forcing himself to take several breaths before he cursed the boy and threw him out of the classroom for such a breach of decorum, Severus shook his head. He placed his wand carefully on the desk in front of him, as it had somehow appeared in his hand without his thinking about it.

He, Severus, was not that bully, and would not be. He had promises to keep. Once he had his breathing under control, he gave the boy a sharp look. The green eyes -- Lily's eyes -- tracked his every movement, as if he were a snake about to strike. Severus could not blame him.

The cut on his palm stung, so Severus took out a handkerchief and pressed it to the wound to staunch the blood, though there was not much of it anyway. Then he sighed. How had he come to this? Explaining his motives and his mistakes to an eleven year old? The eleven year old son of James Potter, no less, the tormentor of his youth. And Lily's son, a tiny voice inside reminded him. Yes, and Lily's. He sighed again.

"I cannot pretend to know whether your father's . . . interactions with the Dursleys impacted them negatively with regards to you." Severus passed a hand over his eyes. "It may just be as you said, that they disliked magic enough to dislike its practitioners." His gaze sought Harry's again, and he watched the boy sitting almost unnaturally still, waiting. Severus did not want to say more, but he knew he should.

At last, he continued, "As for . . . others who may have had . . . less than stellar interactions with your father. It is possible those interactions caused a certain amount of . . . resentment towards anyone connected to him."

"Like his son," Harry said quietly, still holding Severus' gaze.

"Just so," Severus replied.

The boy nodded again, and there was no resentment in his green eyes, nothing accusatory in his mien. Just . . . weary acceptance, and perhaps a bit of resignation.

Severus looked away.

"I like the broom very much, sir," Harry said into the quiet that followed.

"You were meant to." When he turned back to the boy, Harry's head was bent over his essay once more, but he could have sworn the boy's shoulders were held less tightly than they had been a mere hour before.

---

Severus was just finishing up his stack of exams when Harry spoke again. "Sir?"

"Yes, Potter?"

The boy was fiddling with his quill again, and looking nervous. "I have a question about salisyline root, sir, and the best way to harvest it. Professor Sprout said it's most potent if you harvest the root on Midsummer, but I thought I read in our Potions book that it's best if cut on a full moon. What if the two aren't the same time?"

Severus almost smiled. He managed to refrain. "They rarely are."

Harry's brows drew down. "Well, then, which time is really better?"

"Think about it. Apply that brain of yours, if possible."

Chewing on his lower lip and ignoring Severus' sarcasm -- which had been half-hearted at best, anyway -- the boy did just that, and then said, hesitantly, "Does it depend on what you're going to use it for?"

"Indeed. Now, tell me why."

Another moment's thought, and Harry said, "Well, sir, if you were going to use it in a poultice for boils or a rash, you'd want the salisyline root to be as potent as possible, so you'd want to cut it at Midsummer. But if you're using it in a more delicate potion, like a Sleeping Draught, you'd want something other than sheer potency."

"Such as?" Severus asked, impressed with the boy's logic despite himself.

Gazing at his hands again, Harry said, "Its properties of muscle relaxation? I mean, taking the root at the full moon would make that aspect of it more, uh, viable, so a potion would help the person fall asleep, without accidentally killing them?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

Harry huffed a laugh and glanced up at Severus through the fringe of his hair. "Telling you, sir."

Severus inclined his head slightly. "Then you are correct. Well reasoned, Potter."

And then he saw the boy's smile -- which was radiant and full of gratitude, for something so small as a moment's praise -- and he was gladdened to have been responsible for its appearance, at least in part. He gestured to the boy's work. "When you have finished your essay, let me look it over."

"Sir?"

"So I may make sure your work is up to par. Your mind seems capable of holding not completely unintelligent thoughts, and I wish to see if such knowledge can be adequately transferred to paper."

The boy still had a stunned expression that showed no signs of fading. "You want to check over my homework?"

"Indeed, Mr. Potter," Severus replied, and his tone turned more acerbic. "Finish your essay. Now."

That smile again, and Severus truly had no knowledge of why it might appear now. But the, "Yes, sir!" that followed on its heels seemed pleased.

---

Several days later, as mid October approached, Severus was summoned to the Headmaster's Office. Once more, he felt the role of penitent most keenly, and wondered what, exactly, he had done this time. But Albus apparently did not wish to call him on the carpet. Instead, after offering a dish of his ubiquitous sweets, and attempting to engage him in small talk -- both of which Severus refused with varying degrees of pique -- Albus brought up one Harry Potter.

"I have heard from Harry's other professors that his work has improved dramatically in last couple weeks, Severus. Why, even Minerva has professed herself 'amazed' by his turnaround."

"She is easily impressed, no doubt," Severus muttered resentfully. He had far better things to do with his time than discuss this matter. The boy's marks were improved because he had time to study now; there was no great conspiracy to be found.

"I very much do doubt it, my dear boy." Albus turned on his twinkle, full blast, and Severus winced. "But she has also expressed her concern about the reason behind his sudden improvement. Have you noticed anything . . . odd about his study habits of late? Has he been getting undue assistance from any quarter?"

Severus glared at the Headmaster. He should have expected something like this, but he honestly had not, assuming that the Brat Who Lived would be above such suspicion. He would gladly wring McGonagall's interfering neck for this insult. "Are you suggesting that Harry Potter is cheating? The Savior of the Wizarding World?"

"Of course not, Severus. Of course not." But Albus' expression said otherwise.

Severus sneered. "Then what is your objection to the boy's improvement?"

"I have no objection, certainly. I am merely bringing these concerns to your attention."

"I see." And he did. He knew this discussion would never have happened if Harry had been sorted anywhere but Slytherin. But the children in the House of Snakes was always suspected of malfeasance, even where there was no cause. "If there are no other delusive asseverations you wish to share, perhaps we could discuss Professor Quirrell's unhealthy obsession with Mr. Potter."

Albus had the audacity to wave a hand dismissively. "Have you discovered any evidence that Quirinus was actually involved in the attack on Harry?"

"Only the boy's memory!" Severus growled. "Which we both observed through the Pensieve, if you'll recall."

"And I believe we concluded it was difficult to be sure of the identity of the attacker. The voice was rather distorted, after all."

Hardly believing what he was hearing, Severus clenched his teeth in an attempt to not say something he would likely regret. This is the same nonchalance the Headmaster had expressed when faced with Severus' account of the Dursleys' misuse of the boy. How could Dumbledore treat Harry's life so casually?

Once he finally had his temper under control, Severus said, "What of Harry's nightmares, and the burning in his scar when he comes into contact with that stuttering fool?"

Instead of answer the charges, Albus merely smiled and popped another lemon sherbet in his mouth. Around the sweet, he said, "It's 'Harry' now, is it, Severus?"

Severus' mouth opened and closed several times before he snarled, "I don't see how my form of address has any bearing on this discussion."

"Quite right, my dear boy, quite right. Alas, since we have no firm evidence of wrong doing on the part of Professor Quirrell, we shall just have to wait and see."

Severus jerked a nod, past the point of making objections. It would obviously be solely his responsibility to keep the Brat alive. But then, that responsibility had fallen to him the day the boy had arrived at Hogwarts and been sorted, when the others had washed their hands of him. "Very well," he said in the same dangerous tone that most of his students knew to avoid at all costs, but which seemed to roll off the Headmaster like water off a squid's back. "If that is all?"

"Yes, Severus, that will be all. Thank you for seeing me."

With another sharp nod, Severus spun on his heel and headed for the door. He had opened it and was preparing to step through when Albus issued his parting shot.

"And Severus? Do make sure to keep an eye on the boy's study mates. It would not do for Harry to be less than diligent in his school work."

Not dignifying such a remark with a reply, Severus slammed the door closed, with himself on the other side, and swooped down the revolving stairs like the bat he was often accused of being. In his seething rage, he did not notice who was watching him from the shadows.