At the break of day, Snape awoke, aware of a weight on his chest.  He gently lifted his head.

The child hadn't budged.

And yes, he was indeed a child, Snape thought, as he looked at the sleeping face that seemed so much younger without the usual furrow of worry creasing his forehead.  He weighed far too little for the sixteen year old teenager that he was….

What was he going to do about him?

After Harry'd finally fallen asleep, he hadn't had it in himself to abandon him there, to risk awakening him, or let him suffer through another nightmare.  When he'd at last decided to get more comfortable by leaning back against the pillows, the boy had clutched at his arm in his sleep, refusing to let him go.

The gesture had left Snape strangely disturbed.

Had he done the right thing? When was the last time an adult had comforted the boy after a nightmare? Had anyone even held him like this since his parents died?

Snape doubted it.

But of all those around the boy, why did it have to be that he—Severus—was the one to do it?  He'd sworn to protect the boy, obviously, but beyond the promise to Lily, he had to admit that the boy himself had touched him.

When Harry'd turned his back on those two insolent brats and come to Snape instead, he'd suddenly been proud of the boy. He knew how much courage it took for a teenager to stand up to his friends, even more so when it was over a hated Potions professor!

But Harry's loyalty was at once touching and worrisome.  The boy had this infuriating tendency to experience things to an extreme, and that risked causing a problem.

Of course, he was going to make the boy drink potions to help him more easily block Voldemort's intrusions, but that wouldn't be enough to cloak emotions that were too strong.

If what Dumbledore had told him was true, the boy's visions were affecting him at the exact moment that Voldemort himself was feeling intense happiness or anger.  Harry possessed neither this hatred nor violence, but he was all too sensitive in matters of attachment, kindness, and safety—in short, all that'd been lacking in his brief life.

It was here that the channel between Voldemort and Harry was at risk of being opened, if Harry allowed his new emotions to unsettle him. The result could only be catastrophic.

Yes, Snape had to watch over Harry, but he had to take care not to encourage a relationship. This applied to both of them.

And he was certainly going to have to begin Occlumency lessons again.

He sighed. It was going to be a long day. But then, weren't all of them?

Snape surprised himself by smoothing a hand over the boy's hair. Everything would've been so much simpler if he'd actually been a cat.

He managed to reluctantly extricate himself from the bed without waking the child.  Harry really didn't weigh much; Snape was going to have to adequate feed him.

It turned out that Snape was the one who'd be taking care of the first breakfast in their new living arrangement.

And if the profound sleep into which the boy had fallen were any indication, he'd not be touching pots and pans that day.

Snape smiled at the idea. He was curious to see the teenager's talents when it came to cooking…and hoped that his love of fish would be confined exclusively to his cat form!

oooOOOooo

When Harry opened his eyes, he felt more rested and at peace than he'd been in a long time. In fact, he didn't recall ever having slept so well, full stop.

He took a long time to stretch, smiling. The bed was really comfortable…

The bed?

What bed?

He opened his eyes, his mind foggy as he groped for his glasses.  A thin sliver of sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, dimly lighting the large bedchamber.

Snape Manor.  He was at the Manor, and….

Snape. He'd spent the night here as well.

Harry buried his head in his pillow as the memory came back to him. Snape had consoled him, had held him in his arms and comforted him like a little child…and he'd spent the night at his side. Merlin.

He couldn't decide if he should die of shame on the spot, or wait a bit and enjoy the feeling of well-being spreading through him, at just the memory of the night before.

It'd been like being Shadow, but better.  So much better.

But still…Snape? What was up with him? The episode with Shadow had probably shaken them both up a bit.

He was all of a sudden not in a hurry to see the man again. What was Snape going to think of him?  Was he cross because Harry'd wakened him? He'd seemed really tired last night, and had strongly lectured not to disturb him unnecessarily.

Guilt washed over Harry. It was probably too late to apologize by making breakfast.  Best to get up right away. It wouldn't help matters to annoy the professor further by spending the day in bed.

Harry jumped out from beneath the covers and nervously put on the clothes that'd remained on the chair. It was only ten o'clock by his watch, but it hadn't been nine when he'd gone to bed last night.

Nightmare not included, of course.

He quickly opened the curtains, with a glance at the park as he did so: in the daytime, it seemed even larger than he remembered.  Snape Manor was lost in the countryside: surely a good thing for a Death Eater…or a spy.

Wasting no time, Harry headed for the dining room.  As he'd expected, it was empty. The professor had probably eaten several hours ago.

But for all of that, the table was not cleared away.  Harry could see a still-steaming plateful of eggs and rashers, pitchers of milk and fruit juice across from him, and what he could identify as yogurt.

It looked like Snape hadn't taken any chances concerning Harry's tastes. As he started in on his eggs enthusiastically with his fork, Harry was thankful for the magic that'd kept his food hot. The meal had been there for hours, perhaps, but it seemed straight from the frying pain.

His stomach full, he wanted nothing more to eat, and was about to clear the table, when it emptied on its own.  Intrigued, he decided to take a look at the kitchen: the fruit was back in its basket, the plate and glass in their cupboard, and not a single crumb was to be found on the floor.

Did Mrs Weasley herself know such housekeeping spells? the boy wondered.  Clearly, the Potions professor had plenty of hidden talents.  Did Death Eater training have a section on 'Housekeeping for Fussy Wizards'?

Harry stifled a laugh as he imagined a Snape and a Lucius Malfoy in aprons, wooden spoons in their hands, listening attentively to a Voldemort sporting a chef's hat.

If Snape happened to one day get a glimpse of this small vision of himself, it'd be fruitless for Harry to think of running, because death would surely be instantaneous!

It was senseless, too, to wonder where the professor was just now.  It was only natural for Harry to find his way to the dungeon.  With a light heart, he went down the stone steps; it was without a doubt so much easier in his human form.  As he got closer to the door, the bitter odor of brewing potions reached him.  He smiled; if someone had told him there'd come a day when this smell would seem comforting….

There…the sound of clinking bottles and a knife chopping roots.  So many things forcefully reminded him of the softness of a jumper.  He only had to knock at the door, and Snape would open it.  And that was a good thing as well.

He covered the last meter and lifted a hand to knock, but it suddenly seemed as if the small space in front of the stairway had grown much too large, and that the door had become huge.

No!  No, not again, it was ridiculous.  Nothing had happened.  So, didn't he have any control over his transformations?

He had no time to think about it, as the door opened from within to show a mocking Snape.  "Are you sulking, Mr Potter?"

The cat meowed in protest.  That wasn't funny!

"If I'd known, I'd have contented myself with opening a tin of tuna instead of cooking.  Did you find your plate, Potter? Or should I say, your bowl?"

The cat stubbornly refused to answer or look at him, and then took off, its tail rigid, to sit in front of the fireplace.

Behind him, he heard the Potions professor laugh softly.  "Very well, Harry.  Are you all right? Have you eaten?  Need a potion?"

The cat turned its head to give him a curt meow. Yes, everything was fine, outside of the situation itself.

"Perfect," the professor said mockingly. "We know, then, where to begin our lessons this morning."

Harry suddenly knew that what he wanted to do most at that very moment was to jump on the table and knock over a few potions, just for the pleasure of seeing that taunting smile wiped from his professor's face.

But his irritation didn't last long.

"It's nice outside, all the better to make use of the park. I think a small change of scenery will do us good. We'll stay close to the Manor—foolish to take unnecessary risks."

Without waiting for the rest of it, the cat took the dungeon steps, four at a time.

"Harry! I recall having told you to take care of that paw! We'll see to your arm afterward, but I don't want any foolish games outside. You'll stay within a meter of me at all times. No jumping, no racing.  Understood?" Snape asked in his best of Potions professor voices.

The cat impatiently flicked its tail and blinked in the Man in Black's direction.

If he had to…  But he wasn't a doggie following at its master's heels!

When Snape at last opened the door, letting in the sun, Shadow had to fight the urge to run off at a gallop into the grass.

Fresh air! After the confining atmosphere of the dungeon and the dim light of Grimmauld Place, he'd almost forgotten how good it was to feel the wind in his fur.  Or his hair, whatever.

Holding himself back to a little trot, he followed Snape as he walked a circle around the Manor.  A little path brought them quickly under the cover of the tress, only several dozen meters from the building.

"This is far enough," Snape said as they came to an open space.  "So.  For now, I want you to concentrate on this place. The trees, the wind, the sounds, the smells.  Try to grasp them with your cat senses, at the same time being aware of how they're different from your human ones.  You must completely separate the two forms."

Harry had understood.  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to catch the smells around him.  Stronger, in a way, but also more intense, each one standing out instead of forming a confusing medley.  The earth, the humus, and even Snape, a few steps away from him.

The wind blew his fur in the wrong direction, prickling his skin, where before it'd only ruffled his hair; the earth beneath his paws seemed alive.

He opened his eyes again and met the professor's calm expression.  He seemed taller, of course, but Shadow could also pick out each little detail of his hands, his face, the way his jugular pulsed at his neck.  Yes, his eyesight was much sharper than that of his human form.

A few moments later, Snape began to speak again.

"Just as your senses are different, your mind does not work the same way. That's what keeps the Dark Lord from being able to find you. But in spite of all that, in your different forms you are no less the same person."

Harry felt a weight leave him. Yes, he and Shadow were one, and Snape accepted that.  He accepted him. At least, that was what he was seeming to say.

"Not being an Animagus myself, I could not be very precise on the manner of controlling these transformations. However, from what I do know, focusing on a specific image, a particular thought, can help to concentrate and channel your intent.  Something motivating enough to make you want to change forms.  Why not try to concentrate on a particular feeling, unique to your human form?" Snape suggested.

It wasn't difficult.  The best feeling in the world?  Flying, of course!  He missed Quidditch, and flying too.  He could've used the park to practice before the start of term.  There, high above the Manor, grazing the treetops, his hands gripping his broom, with the wind in his hair.

He returned from his daydream, aware that Snape was watching him with a small smile.

A satisfied smile.

Harry lifted a hand…. Yes, a hand, not a paw! He'd done it!

"My congratulations, Mr Potter, you've just accomplished your first voluntary transformation."

The boy smiled at him gratefully. Something told him it wasn't just by chance that Snape'd brought him outside for this particular lesson.

"Now, let's move on to transforming back. Take your time. Think of the difference in sensations between the two bodies, and look for a thought to channel the transition," the professor reminded him. But not that professor's voice he'd dreaded for all those years; it was the Potions master's calm voice, the one he used when he talked to the cat.

To Shadow.

What could represent Shadow? The fireplace, the jumper, the comforter, the potions…Snape. The man who'd given him all that, and who'd allowed him to feel safe for the first time in a long while.

Even if those moments were to never occur again, they'd always remain in his memory, attached to his cat form, to the incredibly pleasant feeling of having a home, of having someone.

Yes, Snape represented all that he could hope for, in his cat form.

A moment later, a green-eyed cat stared at the Potions professor, who seemed thoughtful and satisfied. Snape nodded.

"I see that you've understood. That's excellent, at least for this session. I can't confirm with any certainty that you'll always be able to control these transformations—either to avoid or elicit them—that require mastery, and a long apprenticeship…which you've been the first to dispense with altogether. But at least you have the foundation to train yourself, which you will not fail to do as often as possible. It's important that these transformations be quickly brought under control."

The speech cooled the boy's enthusiasm a bit. Evidently, it'd been too easy…  Just like the scar on his forehead, there without his consent, and it gave him powers he'd not asked for, ones he didn't control.

At least he knew where the scar had come from. As for his Animagus ability, he didn't have the slightest idea, and no one had bothered themselves to clue him in on the matter.

Focusing on the thought of flying in his teen-aged body, he tried to transform again.  To his surprise, it took more time and effort this go-around. It seemed that being upset didn't help things. He probably had to have a clear mind, like with Occlumency.

Still, Snape gave him a slight nod of approval. "It's fine, Harry. Don't be discouraged if it's not always easy. In a while, it will seem wholly natural; it's just a matter of practice, I suppose."

"Professor, there's still something I don't get about these transformations. How was all of this able to happen to me? I mean, I never set out to become… I didn't know I could do it before the night when Uncle Vernon…and…well, even afterward. I didn't really know it. Couldn't all of this come from Voldemort? A sort of trap, or a new tactic…."

Snape stared intently at the boy. He could read the anxiety in his face, the tense crease furrowing his forehead again.

How long had Harry been thinking this? Was he so used to living with the unknown that the origin of his powers was occurring to him only now?

In one of those rare instances of his life, Snape didn't know what to say.

Tell the boy the entire truth, all that Dumbledore had reported to him of his findings, and risk shocking him and opening his mind to Voldemort? For a child with no memory of his parents, to learn it had been them who'd given him this last gift, that they'd been there, they and his godfather, whose death he still cried over…

No. It wasn't the right thing to do. Not yet, not here.

But he couldn't leave him in total ignorance either, not if this would trouble him again in his transformations… and his peace of mind, for as much as he had.

"No," Snape said at last. "It's out of the question that Voldemort has anything to do with this.  Believe me, he knows nothing about your new abilities, and he would've never given you such a gift.  Because that's what this is, Harry, that you can be sure of.  Wherever it came from, it's a gift that's helped you and will help you again. An extremely precious trump card."

"Still, I'd feel better if I knew where it came from," said the boy with a sigh. "Is it possible that I've always had the ability without knowing it? Like…Parseltongue?  After all, Voldemort did give me that gift unintentionally," he said reluctantly.

Snape nodded. The boy wasn't wrong. "That's right, but the Dark Lord has never been an Animagus. Your father and godfather, on the other hand, were Animagi. If you inherited it, it could only be from them."

And unnecessary to say exactly how, the Potions master thought.

"Professor Dumbledore fully intends to figure it out and do some research on the subject as soon as he has the time. It's really something that must be found out, but we're not worried about this, Harry. You shouldn't be either."

The boy searched Snape's eyes. The tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen.

A few weeks ago, though, his professor's little speech would've only fueled his mistrust.

Over time, the virtues of fish, and evenings in front of the fireplace…..

Snape gestured toward the Manor. "Perhaps it's time to take care of that broken arm."

Harry made a face. "I suppose. I dreamt of it last night. Wasn't very pleasant," he admitted.

"No, I imagine not," Snape said.  "With an adequate potion, however, it shouldn't be painful. You mustn't hesitate to ask for it if you feel the slightest discomfort, Harry.  Your body was severely strained and weakened by your transformations. You must absolutely regain your strength before the start of term."

They slowly made their way back to the Manor, or more precisely, to the laboratory.  Did the professor sometimes use the real entryway? Harry wondered.  He doubted it.

Harry was once again about to ask him about the Manor's history, and why the Potions master had chosen such a large building, when he didn't use it.  Simple pride?  Had Snape intended to start a family?

Again, Harry didn't ask his question.  He had an idea he'd not like the answer…and that his professor wouldn't want to tell him.

They took the stairs down to the dungeon, and Harry surprised himself by being careful.  He didn’t want to change forms just now; it would be too frustrating, and Snape would be disappointed.

So what?  After all, he wasn't there to impress his professor. Well, maybe just a bit.  But only out of pride.

The smell of potions hit him, and he focused on the thought that he wanted to stand on two feet, his glasses firmly planted on his nose.

His glasses….

"Professor, when I transform into a cat, now that I’m wearing glasses again, will that make a difference?"

Snape looked at him with a slight smile. "Would you want to look like your Head of House?  No, Mr Potter, your form was fixed the first time you took it, and it will no longer change.  No circles around the eyes for you, then."

Harry smiled.  He had to admit to feeling a bit relieved.  No, he didn't particularly want to look the same as McGonagall!

"Really, as a black cat that likes living in a dungeon, surrounded by potions…  It's more as if I look like you!" the boy joked.

He didn't miss the face his professor made. Touché!

"Take care not to draw hasty conclusions, if you don't want to end up as an ingredient yourself, young man.  Cat eyes and claws are essential elements in several potions of quality, which you can't help but know, seeing that it's fourth year material," replied the Potions master.

Harry grimaced in reply, his eyes laughing.

"Sit here," Snape said more gently as he pointed to an armchair.

The boy obeyed apprehensively, then took the bottle that the professor handed to him.  More painkiller, maybe.  He swallowed it without thinking.  The thought of having an arm re-broken wasn't a nice one….

"You've done this before?" he asked nervously.

Snape lifted a mocking eyebrow.  "Broken bones? Have no fears on the matter."

Harry swallowed with difficulty. 

"Everything will be fine," the professor reassured him with his 'Shadow' voice. "I'll do it so that it's quick and painless.  Just the opposite of Potions class, in short."

Harry's eyes widened.  It was the sort of joke he could've made!  Snape had just now said something funny, and not only that, he'd poked fun at himself!

The professor sniggered softly.  "Shut your mouth, Potter, before I get the notion to make you try one of those potions that are so dear to you. And take off your t-shirt."

The boy abruptly closed his mouth, as he desperately sought for a reply.  In vain.  He quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head, trying to hide his embarrassment.  Beaten by Snape at his own game!

Beside him, the professor was murmuring spells in a low voice in the direction of his shoulder.  He finally pointed his wand and took Harry's arm in a firm grip.

"Ready, Harry?"

The boy nodded as he clenched his teeth together. This wasn't the time to make a joke….

His arm felt soft and shapeless as Snape used his fingers to prod the place where the bone had knit badly.

Without apparent effort, he pushed his fingers into the flesh to stabilize the arm, before breaking it with a sharp crack.

When he heard the sound, the teenager let out a little yelp.

"Harry?" queried the professor.

"It's all right.  I had…it was the sound, pretty impressive."

Just as it'd sounded when it'd broken the first time, he suddenly remembered.

Snape frowned, but nodded.  Once again, he murmured some spells toward the shoulder, then handed the boy a potion that he downed in a single gulp.

"Tomorrow, you'll be able to use this arm easily. While you wait, I'd prefer if you avoid using it.  Fractures that have not healed are always delicate to fix."

Harry nodded as he pulled his t-shirt on. After that scene yesterday, he hardly wanted to stay half-naked in this same chair for any longer than was necessary.  He was about to stand, but the professor stopped him with a wave of his hand, then sat in his own armchair, facing Harry.

His mocking demeanor had given way to a somber expression, all traces of the smile gone.  "Harry, there's something we must talk about."

The boy squirmed in his seat, and replied with a gesture of his hand.

"What happened this summer with your family?" the professor asked in his most neutral voice.

Harry scowled right away. "It's not important. Anyway, Dumbledore said I wouldn’t have to go back there."

"Professor Dumbledore.  No, you won't be going back, but you're well aware that you'll still have to explain to the Ministry all that went on there, aren't you?  No, just this summer—the way they treated you since you got there," Snape explained calmly.

Harry frowned as he looked at him. "What do you know about it?  It's not…what you think."

"Indeed, probably not.  And that's why I'd like you to explain it to me," answered the professor.

"Why?  What about it interests you—you in particular?" Harry felt himself becoming angry.  What was Snape going to do once he was back at Hogwarts?  What was he going to tell them there—Malfoy and the others?

"That's not what's important. What's important is that you be able to tell the Ministry people in charge of the inquiry, and it appears that might present a problem."

"I thought you used Legilimency on Uncle Vernon," Harry said.  "You know all there is to know, and even more, if you want my opinion."

"I'm probably far from knowing it all, but what I saw was enough to convince me that many assumptions about you had been terribly wrong.  And not only my own.  I cannot believe that Dumbledore knew all that went on in that house.  Why didn't you speak of it before, Harry?"

"What good would it have done?  I had to stay there because of the protections against Voldemort. Didn't matter that Vernon hates me, the wards held up…until Marge's death, in any case," the boy said reluctantly. Marge's death, yes, his fault, in short.

"And why does he hate you?" the professor asked quietly.

"For the same reason you do, bascially," grumbled the boy.  "Because of what I am, what I represent—it doesn't matter.  They never wanted me, they were forced to take me.  I tried for so long to do what was expected of me, but I can't change what I am.  That wouldn't have changed anything anyway.  They hated me too much."

"Be that as it may, they've no excuse for what they did to you, Harry.  None," Snape said gravely.

"It wasn't…it didn't happen often.  Uncle Vernon was really beside himself because of Marge's death.  I really don't know what he was thinking."

"He had enough presence of mind to beat you methodically for an extended period of time, in a way much too harsh for a child.  It was cruel, premeditated and unjustifiable.  It wasn't just an accident, Harry.  It was dreadful, and he should be called to account for it," Snape tried to explain.  The boy didn't seem to realize in the least how badly he'd been mistreated.

"It's not worth the trouble," Harry said, now nervous. "It's not as if, I dunno, I was his son or anything.  He supported me for a long time, and he truly thought I'd killed Marge."

Harry felt frustrated.  Snape didn’t want to understand.  It wasn't like he'd been part of their family, after all.

"He almost beat a child to death.  Can you find an excuse for that?"

"I'm not a child!" Harry protested. "I'm sixteen, and I've never been a child."  He felt himself flush.  The words had just slipped out.  He didn't even know why he'd said that.

But Snape didn't laugh, and he didn't lift that ironic eyebrow as he studied him.

"That's correct, Harry, you were never treated like a child, and that's regrettable.  Even if the physical mistreatment didn't start until later, the way your aunt and uncle raised you bears no resemblance to what's expected of a normal family—to know love, and care, and protection."

"They protected me," Harry murmured.

"In a way, yes, by taking you in.  But as for the rest?  Did they protect you from their little brute of a boy?  Did they treat you fairly?  Did they give you attention?  Did they ever show affection?"

The conversation was definitely extremely strange, Harry thought.  These questions, coming from Snape?

But he knew the professor was right; Harry had to get ready for that interrogation.  And somehow, here, in his armchair, with Snape, things seemed different.  The Dursleys couldn't get to him.  Not their scorn, nor their hatred, not when the Potions professor looked at him like that, so calmly.

The same look he'd had when Harry was a cat, when he was taking care of him.

It wasn't so much different from what Harry'd done earlier, when he'd had to look for the difference between his two forms. Snape had taken him in; the Dursleys had taken him in; and everything had been different.

"No," he finally said.  "No, they never showed me affection, nor attention.  And not love, for sure.  They kept me in a cupboard for eleven years. And no, that's not a metaphor," he added, when he saw the professor's eyes grow larger.

"The cupboard under the stairs, that's where I slept.  That's where they shut me in when they didn't want to see me.  It wasn't so bad, most of the time, but when I was sick or whatever, I really wanted to get out…it was suffocating.  And there was nothing to do in there; I didn't have toys or books, except for Dudley's old ones, ones he'd broken, but I had to be careful, if they saw me playing with them…oh well, they threw them away.  I got his old clothes as well."

He looked at the t-shirt he was wearing: three times too large for him, washed-out, it'd belonged to Dudley a few years ago.  He let out a small bitter laugh.

"Certain things didn't change.  But when I got my first Hogwarts letter, Uncle Vernon made me move into Dudley's second bedroom.  He was afraid of trouble, I think."

"And did they start to feed you a bit better?" Snape asked.

"Not really.  I didn't have time to find that out…because every holiday…they seemed to forget that I needed to eat."

Snape looked at the boy. He'd pulled his legs in against himself, chin propped atop his knees, and seemed lost in his memories.  Snape sighed. He hardly liked it, but he had to do it….

"About your uncle, Harry.  Did he always have this compulsion to vent his frustration on you every time something bad happened in the world?"

The boy grimaced again.  "Not really.  I mean…if something happened at the house, if Dudley did something stupid, of course it was my fault," he explained. 

Of course.

"But…he didn't hit me, not like that.  He was quick with his hand, but most of the time I managed to avoid it; a few times it happened…where he took his time, with his belt or something else.  But that almost never happened, and never like what happened this summer.  Really."  He shot Snape a sincere look, in which Snape could read guilt.

The Potions master pinched the bridge of his nose.  How could he make the boy understand that he wasn't responsible for all the misfortune in the world, and even less, most of his own?

"Harry, have you already thought about what your parents would've thought about this mistreatment?"

The boy's eyes widened.  "Not really.  I don't know, I don't remember them at all, so it's hard to imagine…."

"Do you think they would've treated you the same way, and that would've been all right?" continued the professor.

"No!  No.  I don't think so, but that's not….   Listen, Dudley was their son, and they took good care of him, they adored him, a bit too much probably.  They're not bad people, it's just that they didn't want me."

"And that's normal, is it?" Snape asked gently.

"Yes!" Harry shouted.

He hunched himself up, furious.  He hadn't wanted to answer that.  Snape….   What was he going to do with all this information?  And Harry didn't want his pity either!

But the professor held his tongue, and when the boy finally decided to look up, he saw that Snape was watching him, his face showing neither pity nor ridicule.  Just understanding and something that looked like regret.

Their eyes remained locked on each other for what seemed an eternity.  Snape didn't say anything, bit it seemed to Harry that his eyes spoke for him.  No, it wasn't normal.  Yes, you deserve a family.  Yes, you are normal.

After a long moment, it was Harry who looked down.  He felt even more tired than when he'd gone to bed the night before…and the day had only just begun.

"Many people do not see in you, nor will they ever see, the Boy Who Lived, the savior of their world, or the son of your parents," the professor said at last.  "It's enormous baggage to carry, with all that it implies.  But what they're going to think, Harry, absolutely does not define who you are or what you are worth.  Most of the bad things that happened to you were grossly unfair.  And I must admit that conversely…the credit for your victories is fully yours."

Harry wasn't very sure that he understood what the man was trying to tell him.  But it sounded good, almost like something a father could've said to a son.  Or Dumbledore.

The thought almost made the boy laugh.

Snape had gone to a lot of trouble for him, and Harry appreciated it.  But he wasn't so naïve as to imagine that he wasn't doing it on Dumbledore's orders.

No matter, it was good to be able to enjoy it.

He glanced up at the professor, who'd not looked away.

The protections due to his mother had fallen.  He'd never felt so alone.  He would've gladly welcomed protection, even of the mental sort, from anyone.  Even from Snape.

Especially from Snape. 

Harry was so tired. He wanted a break, a little break in his life, before going back to the battle, since he couldn't get out of it.

A moment later, a black cat jumped awkwardly from the armchair, and leapt to the one opposite.

The Man in Black could read in the cat's eyes all the hope and despair he was incapable of hiding at that moment.

The mans' face tensed, and he briefly closed his eyes.  For an instant, the cat thought he'd push him away, or worse, hit him.  But the hand that was raised rested lightly on his back.

The Man in Black had opened his eyes again, and he seemed as tired as the cat.

He gently lifted the cat, who weighed next to nothing, and laid it against his chest in the shelter of his arms.

Without another thought, the cat buried its head in the crook of his shoulder, and let loose a sigh.

He fell asleep, his last thought sounding like an echo in his head.

'Let me believe it for a moment…for just a moment.'