The boy held perfectly still in the Black man's arms. He didn't want to be tied up or hit or anything. He'd already made the man threaten to do it, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the man was angry enough to follow through. Mean people hit, and adults hit, and he had been hit enough in his life to know that this Black man hit, too. That he could be as mean as Dudders.

While carrying the boy, the Black man took the stairs quietly -- he'd said they had to be quiet -- and his hand was heavy on the boy's mouth, so heavy the boy could hardly breathe. But he didn't need to breathe, so much, if the man didn't want him to. He'd proved it in the bathtub when She had hurt him before. Mostly, mean people didn't kill you, except this man had killed his parents. Or had he? He'd said he didn't, but was he lying?

In his head, the boy kept calling over and over, Please, Daddy; please, come help me. Daddy! Come help me, Daddy. PLEASE COME!

At the bottom of the stairs lay a long, dark hallway filled with dust and cobwebs, bigger than anything the boy had ever cleaned at the Dursleys'. The dust flew into his eyes as the Black man moved, stinging them and making them water. The two of them crept down a few more stairs into a large room with a table, and the Black man righted the boy and sat him firmly on a hard chair.

"Stay put, now," the man breathed in his ear, then pointed a long-nailed finger in his face. "I'm just going to get us some supplies."

The boy rubbed the dust from his eyes, then stared at the man who had gone to the cabinets on the walls of this . . . kitchen. The man opened each one and left them hanging open if they were empty, which most of them were. "Wanna go back to Sev'rus," he said quietly. "My Daddy."

"He's not your bloody Daddy, boy," the man snarled. "I told you, he didn't have permission to adopt you."

If that was true, would he have to go back to the Dursleys? He couldn't, not now. Not ever. They would kill him this time; he knew it. Uncle hated him so much. He had to make the man see, and even though he wasn't ever supposed to tell, he had to tell the Black man now. He slid forward to the edge of the chair, not daring to leave it, like he'd been told. "But he rescued me," he insisted. "They were mean and hurt me, and Sev'rus rescued me."

"Shush about him," the Black man said, rummaging through the cupboards nearest the floor now.

"They kept me in the cupboard, you know," he said.

"Unh-huh." It was like he wasn't listening, not really, just grabbing a sack from one cupboard and then heading back to the other cabinets to stuff things in.

The boy needed him to listen. "And they never fed me, not at the table. They just threw scraps on the floor afterwards, if the chores was done, and I'd been a good do-- a good boy," he stuttered over his near mistake. He wasn't a dog; he wasn't. No matter what He said, no matter what They tried to make him do or eat or say about himself. "Didn't eat the dog food like they wanted, even when they chained me to the shed. See?" he asked, lifting his chin and pointing to the scar on his neck that had not faded altogether, even with the special salves Sev'rus rubbed into the skin that smelled of mint, or sometimes jasmine. "Had to wear a collar when Uncle chained me up. Hurt, 'cause it was too tight. The metal cut in my neck and hurt a lot. Left awful scabs."

Finally the man was listening. He had stopped rummaging and was staring at the boy, gray eyes wide. "Those bastards chained you?"

"In the back yard," the boy agreed. "And Ma'am," he swallowed down the automatic fear he had of saying her name aloud and continued, while holding up his hands to show the man the scarred flesh on the backs of them and on his forearms, "Aunt P-p-petunia, I mean, she burnted me sometimes, with hot grease if the bacon got burnted, and she put my hands on the cooker when something got dropped on their floor. It hurt bad, too, and She didn’t care, and neither did He."

"He?"

"U-u-uncle V-vernon," the boy whispered, as if telling a secret, feeling like he was choking. His vision swam, as if Uncle was choking him like the freak he was, but he went on, "He hates the freak. Calls him names, hits him and calls him . . ." He gulped a breath and pressed his hands into his eye sockets to hold his head together as he hunched over his stomach so no one could punch him or kick him there, and even if he couldn't recall his real name just now, he had to make the Black man understand. "Me, I mean. He called me a freak and useless and worthless and a gutless whelp who shoulda been put down with his foul, stinking parents. He kicked me and hit me with his belt and the stick he got from the Smellings school. He's the one what chained me in the backyard after he caught me . . . he caught me--"

"Doing what?" the Black man's voice was tight.

The boy squeezed his eyes tighter shut, ashamed. "Going through the bin, looking for food. Was hungry. Did all my chores, whitewashed the shed and pruned and swept and weeded all the beds, but Dudders messed up the patio again with his boots, and so He said th'whelp'd get nothing to eat." The boy looked up at the Black man again, and saw tears in the man's eyes, and wondered at it, even as he felt them streaming down his own cheeks. But no one was hitting him now, and maybe the man was listening. So he went on, telling the man about other things the Dursleys had done, but that he'd told no one: about the foul blue drink Ma'am had given him that burned his throat for days and made even his vomit hurt; about the weeks spent in the cupboard, with no more than a damp towel to suck on for sustenance, and his stomach stopped growling after a while, and he couldn't move anymore; about being beaten by Dudley and his gang until he puked all over himself on the first day of school, so the other kids called him "The Smelly Kid," from then on; about many other instances of hurt and wanting and need.

When he stopped speaking, it wasn't because he had run out of things to say; far from it. But the Black man had tears streaming down his cheeks, and was mumbling, "Harry, oh, Harry, I'm so sorry . . ." and the boy -- Harry -- wondered if the man had been telling the truth, not just about Sev'rus not really being his father without being given permission, but about not killing Harry's parents. Would someone so sorry about what happened afterwards have caused it to begin with?

"That's why I have to stay with Sev'rus, see?" Harry said finally. "'Cause they say I'm the whelp, and stupid. Worthless. They hate me and they'll kill me, and, and, and . . . I don't wanna die." He swallowed around his own tears. "But Sev'rus saved me when I was gonna, and he fixed me up and he hugs me and reads to me, and calls me his son. You can't . . . you can't make me go back to them. You have to let me stay with Sev'rus. Please."

"No, Merlin, I don't . . ." Mr. Black looked like he was searching for words, but did not get a chance to say them before a blinding light erupted in the room.

The boy covered his head with his hands and ducked under the chair.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

In the Shrieking Shack, Albus Dumbledore turned the knob on an upstairs bedroom after having checked it for magical energy. The door eased open quietly, and Dumbledore's shoulders slumped in relief when no attack came from within. But Severus Snape knew there would be no attack. He knew Black wasn't here, and knew Harry wasn't either. But Dumbledore had made them come all the same.

The Headmaster had suggested this stop first, before any others, and Snape had balked. Badly. He wanted nothing to do with the Shrieking Shack, not after what had happened to him there, little more than ten years ago. Still, when the Headmaster insisted that Black might have been able to get there with Harry, in a wandless Apparation, Snape finally agreed to check it out with him. Even though Dumbledore took the front in their search -- and would thus bear the brunt of any ambush from within the house -- Severus could do little more than count his breaths to keep himself calm, and hope they would leave this terrible place -- where Black had nearly gotten him killed by a werewolf -- soon.

Albus turned to him and shook his head. "Alas, he is not here."

The words soothed some of Severus' anxiety, but it was not till they were back out under the stars that he could take a full breath without feeling like his chest was in a vise. He hated this shack, and everything it stood for.

But, above all, he needed to find Harry . . .

"What is it, my boy?" Albus said quietly.

Severus stared off into the distance, southwest, if he had to put a direction on it, and shook his head, but could still hear the chant in his head. Please, Daddy; please, come help me. "I feel . . ."

"Yes?"

Daddy! Come help me, Daddy. PLEASE COME! "Harry's calling for me."

"I imagine he is," the Headmaster said, his tone soft. "Can you hear him?"

Please, Daddy; please, come help me. Severus nodded, and his throat tightened. "He needs me. He's scared."

"We'll find him. I swear this to you."

Severus darted a look at the old wizard. Dumbledore never swore anything. He knew what it was to give someone your oath. But, of course, he had not said they would find Harry alive. Always leaving a . . . Daddy! Come help me, Daddy. PLEASE! "He's calling me," Severus repeated. He pointed to the southwest. "From there."

"The Three Broomsticks?"

"Merlin, Albus, no. From far away. England . . . London, perhaps . . ."

"London, you say?"

"It could be. I don't know." Daddy! Come help me, Daddy. "It just seems far away, and Harry isn't saying anything specific, just that he needs me, needs my help . . ."

"Come, Severus." Albus latched onto his arm. "I believe I know where they are." The Headmaster lit his wand with a Lumos that burned into Severus retinas it was so bright, and he almost considered batting the wand away, but then he felt the old man turn, and turned with him, so they could Apparate together.

The next moment, they were landing in a large, dark room, with Albus' wand lighting everything around them. From all around the room came the howl from a dog, the screeching hiss of a kneazle and then the cry of a young boy, yelling, "Daddy!"

Severus dashed toward his son, heedless of everything else. The boy was in the process of hiding under a chair. The foul odor of urine clung to him -- he must have been petrified, was Severus' only thought -- and he scooped his son into his arms. "Harry! Oh, thank Merlin, are you alright?"

"'M'okay, Daddy, where did the Black man go?"

Clutching the boy tight to his chest, and covering Harry's small body with his own arms and robes, so he could not be hurt again, even by friendly wand fire, Severus spun in place quickly, seeing only a great black dog locked in combat with Treacle Tart, Harry's little kneazle, while Dumbledore looked on, seemingly confused. The kneazle spat and clawed and hissed and yowled and the dog could not get close enough to her to do anything but yelp as she swiped claws across his nose.

A sudden thought occurred to Severus. The dog -- who looked a bit too like a grim -- was Black. "He's an Animagus, Albus! Stun him!"

Albus did.

Treacle Tart gave the large dog one last swat with her exposed claws, hissed a final time in the beast's direction, and stalked over to Harry and Severus, tail held high. Once again, she had saved his son.

Severus sat heavily on the chair, hugging Harry close and not paying any mind to the smell. "Gods, are you alright? Are you hurt? Did he hurt you, son?" he asked the boy, seeing both tears and snot running over his lips and chin.

Harry was breathing hard, but said, "No, no, I'm okay, sir."

Severus' eyes narrowed in confusion. "Sir? You know better than that."

"But, sir?" Harry said, and new tears tumbled from his bright green eyes. "I'm not . . . he said I'm not your son no more. He said 'cause he din't give pre'mission for you to 'dopt me."

"Oh, Harry . . ." Severus hugged his son all the tighter, and smoothed a hand over the back of the poor boy's head, murmuring soft, soothing things, even as he glared at the pile of black fur on the floor. How could that man have said such a thing to his Harry, his sweet, loving son? But then, this was what came of not telling the boy the truth right away. Softly, he continued, "Black didn't have to give permission. He couldn't. James was never your father. You were always mine. I'm sorry I didn't tell you when I found out a few weeks ago, but I thought you had quite enough to be going on with already."

The tears faltered and died, and Harry gave him a quizzical look. "I'm not 'dopted? Not even Blood 'dopted?"

"No, no, son, you are, always will be, and always have been mine. I didn't know, myself, before we did the ceremony, because your Mum set a charm on you that changed the way you looked, though only a tiny bit, and she never told me the truth, nor James, who she married after she was pregnant." He stopped, knowing this was too much detail for this time, and for this child at his age. Although, one thing was explained, apparently. "Because we did the blood ceremony, though, we have an even closer bond than most fathers and sons. The bond helped me find you today, because I could hear you calling for me, as your father. You are my son, Harry. Always. Never let anyone tell you differently."

Harry nodded and clutched him in a hug with his skinny little arms, just as tightly as Severus was, as if neither of them could let the other go. "Love you, Daddy," the boy whispered into his chest.

"Love you, too, Harry," Severus whispered back.

On the floor in front of them, the great black dog transformed back into a man with black hair and pure blue, haunted eyes. He was still stunned, but fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he watched Harry and his father.