The sun slanted through the pale yellow curtains of Aunt's kitchen and across the Boy's face, warming it, as he climbed on a stepstool and reached into the cabinet that held the dinner plates. Like almost every day, he hesitated briefly before counting the plates out, wanting to take four, but knowing he could only take three. He would be fed afterwards. Maybe. If he did everything perfect.

On the cooker beside him, a pot of potatoes boiled, the water reaching the rim but not boiling over. Aunt hated it if the water splashed on the hob. It stained, she said, and was dirty, like the Boy. Balancing the plates in the crook of one arm, the Boy slipped down off the stepstool and moved to the table, where he set the plates out carefully. Then, he returned to the drawer next to the cooker, for the silverware. As he was counting out forks, he heard the hiss of hot water hitting the hob, and he jerked around to see the pot start boiling over.

The silver clattered to the floor as the Boy grabbed at the heavy pot to move it to another part of the hob. He'd forgotten to take up a pot holder first, and the hot handle startled him, but he hung on gamely, swinging the pot off the heat.

More water sloshed over the rim to splash on the surface of the cooker.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU UNGRATEFUL BOY?!"

Aunt Petunia was behind him, in the doorway, and now moving forward, he saw, darting a look over his shoulder, and her face was tight and her eyes were furious, and he wasn't supposed to look her in the eyes, he knew that . . . and she snatched his arm and spun him around, and he managed just in time to let go of the pot though some of the water splashed over his hand.

She glared down at him, like he was a beetle, come crawling from beneath the fridge. The Boy dropped his gaze to his bare feet. "You vile, disgusting creature. Must you ruin everything?" she spat. "My mother's silver. My kitchen. My family." Squeezing his upper arm hard enough to bruise, she wrapped thin fingers around his bony wrist and dragged him the one step back to the cooker.

A thin, tight smile curved on her lips, and the Boy knew then that he had to get away. She had that smile every time she had some special torment planned. He pulled at his arm, his hand, but she had in a pincer-like grip. Before he could fight more, she whispered, "You should be dead. Maybe I'll kill you," and she pressed his hand to the bright red hob. She used her weight to hold him down.

The Boy screamed.

. . . and screamed and screamed, and then there were other hands holding him which he tried to fight because he would be hurt again, he knew it. But the hands turned into comforting arms, and there were soothing words and gentle rocking and tears and . . . and Father.

"Harry, it's all right. I have you. It's all right, son. I'm here, Harry," Father was saying, over and over, like he believed the words. Like he meant them.

And the Boy's name was Harry.

Once the crying eased, his breaths came in hitching gasps. His face was hot and ached from crying. He hated crying. He hated being a baby.

"Sorry," he said, his throat sore from screaming. Treacle Tart purred softly and butted her head against Harry's leg, and he petted her soft fur and his breathing slowed. "Sorry, Father."

"No, no, Harry, it's all right. You've done nothing wrong." Father hugged him closer, and from Father's lap, Harry hung on to his arms like he might fall away into nothingness if he was ever let go.

They sat in stillness for a long time, and Harry's eyes were getting heavy again, but he didn't ask Father to put him back down on the bed. He could not hold back the yawn, however, though he pressed his face into Father's chest to help cover his mouth.

Father kissed the top of his head and rested his cheek on the spot directly after. "You didn't put up your Silencing tonight. "

"Didn't?" Harry's eyes were still closed, but he tensed. But he wasn't supposed to do the Silencing, so maybe he wasn't in trouble?

"No, you didn't. I'm proud of you."

Harry shook his head slowly against his father's chest. Waking Father with his nightmares was nothing to be proud of. He was so stupid, such an infant.

But Father wasn't finished. "This is the first time, Harry, that you haven't put up that charm. I hope that means you're starting to realize -- even when you're half asleep -- that I will always be your father, and having nightmares will never make me think less of you. You are not weak. Not a baby. So get those thoughts out of your head. You're my strong little man. And strong young men like you need to know when to ask for help."

"Did I send a message?" Harry asked through another yawn.

"Yes," Father said quietly. He kissed Harry's temple. "But I heard you calling, too. Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to remember any of it. He couldn't tell anyone about what happened or why he dreamed about them; he knew that.

Father sighed a little, his chest moving up and down with the force of his breath. "Harry, son, I need you to tell me about your dream. It will make you feel better."

"M'fine, Father," Harry whispered. He didn't need to talk to feel better. Just having Father with him was enough.

"But will you have more nightmares tonight?" Father asked. "Talking will help that not to happen."

"Don' wanna." Harry pushed his face further into the folds of Father's night clothes. Father was warm, and his arms made Harry feel safe.

"I know you don't," Father said, his voice soft, and almost sad. "But it would be better if you would." A pause, then, "I want you to."

Harry swallowed and hunched his shoulders. An ache, like something was stuck in there, bloomed in his chest. Father wanted him to talk. He wasn't supposed to talk. Not about what they did. Not ever.

"I know you're frightened, Harry. I know you think you're not supposed to talk about them. But you are not with them any more, and you never will be again. And I want you to tell me what they did to you. What made you so upset tonight, to make your nightmares worse."

Still, Harry remained silent. Was Father telling him the truth? Was he really allowed to talk about Aunt and Uncle and his dreams? He had never been allowed before.

Father smoothed a hand over Harry's head, and the gentleness of that touch made his breath hitch again. He hugged Father tight, even as Father said, "Remember, Harry, that we have different rules here. Rules between you and me. The rules you had with those other people do not apply anymore."

"Dunno what to say," Harry whispered.

With a smaller sigh, Father cupped the back of his head with one of his long fingered hands. "It's all right, Harry. Just tell me what you remember."

"I . . . I . . ." He felt tears prickle in his eyes and blinked hurriedly to make them go away. Crying was for babies.

"It's all right," Father said again. "You can tell me anything. I still love you."

"She hurt my hand," Harry said in a rush. "It burned."

"Your aunt?" Father asked softly.

Harry nodded against his chest.

"What happened?"

Hesitating even more, Harry said, "I was bad."

Father's arms tightened around him. "Did she say that?"

"Uh huh." Harry sniffled a little; his nose was running. "Said I was disgusting and I ruined everything."

"You are not disgusting," Father said. "And you could not possibly have ruined everything."

"Did," Harry countered. "The pot boiled over, and messed up the cooker. And I dropped her Mum's silver. Deserved to be burnt."

"No. You. Did. Not." Father's voice was sharp, even though his arms were still holding Harry close. "No one deserves that. No one. Least of all you."

"But I was bad!"

"Harry. Do you really think dropping silverware is a valid reason to burn someone? To cause them so much pain?"

"I dunno . . ."

"Harry . . ." Father held him away from his warm, safe feeling chest, far enough that he could look Harry in the eyes. "Look at me, son."

Doing as he was told, Harry couldn't help but gnaw at his lower lip and hunch his shoulders even more.

"Do you really think that?" Father asked again. "Or is it possible that your aunt was just a very angry person and she took it out on you?"

Harry shook his head wildly. "I was bad!" he cried. "All the time! I broke the rules and ruined their family."

Father's eyes glittered darkly in the gloom of the room, lit only by the ball of light by Harry's bed, cycling through its colors. "I know that's what they told you. But, Harry, the rules they wanted you to keep . . . no one should be held to those rules. You were meant to be cared for, not hurt by them. They never should have burned you or beaten you or chained you up. One does not do that to children in their care, no matter what."

Harry stared at his father. "Not even if they're bad?"

"Not even then. Remember when you and Draco went up against the squid, and how we had that talk afterwards, and you were punished?"

Harry nodded. The fear he had that day had been overwhelming, but Father had not hit either of them, and had not confined him to a cupboard or taken away his meals or anything.

"You were not allowed to use your broom for a week. That is the kind of punishment that is acceptable to use on children. In comparison, if you dropped some silverware in our home, I would expect you to apologize, and that's all. At most, I might send you to your room for an hour so you could consider better how to handle other people's things." Father paused, his gaze boring into Harry, and Harry squirmed, trying not to look away, but it was very hard.

"Do you understand the difference?"

"I . . . I think so." He didn't, really, but Father seemed to want him to.

Father nodded. "Your aunt over reacted. She treated you poorly. It was not your fault that she did so."

"Even if I was bad?" Harry whispered.

"Even then. But Harry, dropping silver isn't really bad. It was an accident. And accidents are rarely bad." He was quiet for a few moments then added, in an even quieter voice, "They were the ones who were bad, Harry."

Not knowing what to say, Harry remained silent, resting his head on Father's chest again, and Father let him, smoothing his hand over Harry's head again, until Harry's yawns grew more frequent.

"Do you think you can go back to sleep now?"

"Mm hm."

Father helped him lie back down, and covered him with his blanket, tucking him in. Tree settled next to his head on the pillow. "I want you to clear your mind, Harry. Think of the sky and the clouds, remember how to do that?"

"Mm hm." Eyes closed, Harry reached blindly for Father's hand, and held it on his chest. The weight of it was soothing, and made him feel safe. "I forgot to do it before," he admitted, waiting for Father to pull back in anger. But Father didn't.

"I thought maybe you had. We'll have to make sure of doing this each night," Father said. "I'll sit with you now, and we'll practice, all right?"

"Yes, Father."

Over the next few minutes, Father worked with him on breathing, and picturing the sky, and the clouds, and clearing his mind of all other thoughts. No more aunt or burning flesh. Just peace, and breathing, and his father's low, soothing voice.

---

Once the boy was asleep, Severus rose from Harry's bed and made his way to his own bedroom. He was drained. Exhausted. Angry -- at those miserable Muggles. But he was also hopeful for the first time, that maybe he could help his son get past the damage they had done to him. Harry had trusted him enough to tell him about the incident with the cooker. He hoped such trust was not a one off thing. He would have to make sure it wasn't.

He left his bedroom door open, in case Harry had any more nightmares, but he hoped for both their sakes, that it was an unnecessary precaution.

---

Harry woke, feeling achy and tired, when someone touched his shoulder. Before he could draw breath he was out of bed and in a crouch halfway across the room.

"Harry," said a familiar voice. "It's all right, it's just me."

Opening his eyes for the first time, Harry looked up and up to see his father staring down at him. Harry's face flushed and he looked down at his feet. His fingers fiddled with the hem of his pajama top. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Come on then, time to get ready for the day." Father didn't sound angry or even annoyed, so Harry chanced another look. His father's face was calm, but with that particular crinkle of his forehead that meant he was thinking hard, or maybe upset, and didn't want anyone -- like Harry -- to know. And then he held out his hand for Harry to take. "Breakfast is waiting."

With a huffed breath, Harry smiled a little and took his hand, letting Father pull him upright.

"All right there, Harry?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Father. Was just startled, is all."

"I understand." They walked down the short hall hand in hand. "What kind of juice would you like?" he asked as if he didn't know.

"Pumpkin juice!"

Father chuckled softly. "I thought as much." He led Harry to the table and waited while he climbed into his chair. Then he piled eggs and toast and several sausages onto Harry's plate before he poured a good sized portion of juice. "The Weasleys will be here in less than one hour, so I suggest you get started."

Harry grabbed up his juice, holding the cup -- which Father called a goblet -- in both hands so he wouldn't spill. He took a long swallow, savoring the cool sweetness of the drink. He had yet to pick up his fork. "Will I have lessons again?"

"Yes." Father peered at him from where he sat. "And today Mrs. Weasley has promised to help you with your writing. I told her you were still working on forming letters, and basic quill skills, so she will know better how to proceed."

Harry bit his lip and did not answer.

"I want you to tell her if you are having any difficulty with the tasks she assigns." Father paused. "Harry, look at me."

Harry snapped his head up, with a quick, "Sorry, Father." He knew he was supposed to look at Father's face when he was speaking, but it was so hard to remember sometimes.

Father waved a hand to dismiss the issue. "Do you understand me, about Mrs. Weasley? She cannot help you to the best of her ability, if you do not tell her when you need her help. She wants to help you with your writing an reading and maths, but you have to let her. Understood?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, Father."

"And, do you promise to try and heed me?" Father shook his head a little when Harry gave him a confused look. "I know it will be hard, admitting you need help, and asking for it. But I just want you to try. Will you promise me that?"

With a tiny smile, Harry said, "Yes, Father." He could try. With that, he picked up his fork, and ate his breakfast, feeling a bit better about the day already.

---

"The day went by fairly smoothly," Mrs. Weasley said to Father when they had gathered back in the dungeon late in the afternoon. She had sent her children through the Floo already, after making sure that Mr. Weasley was home to be with them.

Harry was tucked in against Father's legs, and didn't even flinch when Father patted his head, smoothing the hair that had gotten stuck up in all directions during the game of Snitch chasing they'd had after lessons. It had been a smooth day, Harry thought. No one had tried to grab him or hurt him, and he hadn't gotten yelled at even once. Ron hadn't laughed at him for not knowing his letters, and Ginny had called Treacle Tart "Very cute," though that was before Tree caught a field mouse and worried it before eating it almost whole. He'd gotten to play with the Baku again, and everything.

"Is that so," Father said in his low, cool voice.

"Yes." Mrs. Weasley smiled down at Harry, and Harry hid his face a little from her, but she didn't say anything about that. "Harry did some very good work today. Perhaps you can show your father later," she suggested.

Harry nodded. "Yes, ma'am," he said from the folds of Father's robes.

She smiled again. "We had no running off today, which was also very good. And Harry was able to ask for help with his writing, when he was having trouble with dripping ink. I very much appreciated that you asked me, Harry. I was glad to be able to help you."

Harry felt his face burning and hid it again. But Father put some pressure on his shoulder. "What do you say?" Father asked.

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley. For helping me."

Father squeezed his shoulder again, the kind of squeeze that made Harry feel like he'd done something good, and he could not help but smile. Father thought he was good.

"You're very welcome, Harry. We'll be back tomorrow, all right?"

"Yes, ma'am. Good night."

"Good night, Harry dear. Severus." She nodded once and bustled over to the fireplace where she disappeared in a wash of green flame.

Father crouched down, so he was looking Harry eye to eye. "So," he said, and his mouth made that little quirk of a smile. Harry grinned back at him. "Tell me about what you learned today."