“The boy is a child, Albus!”

“Now, Severus, see reason—”

“I will not! Harry Potter is a child! I will not condone sending one of my own into the hands of mindless Muggle filth!”

“Severus!” the Headmaster sounded shocked and appalled.

Professor Snape was sneering, Harry could tell, because it did something funny with his voice, “Yes, Albus? Surely, you of all have not forgotten my past allegiances?” Something changed then, because Professor Snape's voice became stern and firm and hard. Harry was almost afraid and he was on the other side of a closed door, studiously drying vials and refusing to acknowledge his bright red ears or the way his face burned. “Harry Potter is the same boy you, at the beginning of last summer, declared as the precious saviour of this mangled world. I am certain you remember, because you proceeded to tell of how well taken care of he was and that it had been good for him to have lived in normality.”

“I do remember, Severus. I must admit, I was surprised by the Hat's decision.”

“I am not.” Harry flushed with shame; he hadn't meant to say all those things, but he had reacted...his body reacted to the man's words and motions before Harry could remind himself of where he was and that a teacher wouldn't hurt him. Especially not the Head of House. “He will be staying here for Christmas.”

“But surely the boy would wish to see his relatives? I am sure he must miss them terribly!”

“Not quite.” Professor Snape was sneering again and Harry felt something strange and warm in his chest; no one had ever protected him before. “He will, in fact, remain. To quote the child, Albus: he has a bed here.”

-x-

“Potter.”

Harry didn't look up, his hands moving on autopilot, almost. He had dried the last of the vials ages ago and he had immediately begun on the cauldrons, scrubbing and washing. He flinched badly as hands came to rest on his shoulders and he was gently pulled away. “What are you doing, Potter?”

“I...I...I'm cleaning.”

“Yes, I can see that. Why?”

“'Cause I was bad.”

Professor Snape frowned, his touch soft, but hands firm as he carefully opened Harry's loosely closed fists. Harry's hands were red, blisters forming in the left one. He moaned, suddenly, as he felt how terribly they ached and how much it hurt. “I do not recall any such occurrence, you foolish child.”

“I'm sorry...” Professor Snape scoffed, and Harry, feeling very unlike himself – physically tired and mentally exhausted – whined. “No, no, sir, I, I am! I won't—”

“Potter.” Harry trembled. “You are not at fault. However, I will not tolerate this sort of brainless behaviour. There will be no more destructive cleaning, or I will be forced to punish you until you are intimately familiar with the wrath that would incur.”

“I...I heard you.”

“I am aware.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You are not a bother. Now give me your hands, and on your detention tomorrow, I will teach you how to brew this ointment.”

Harry was just about to ask what detention, because he was quite sure he didn't have one, when he realised with a quiet sigh that he had just been assigned one. “Okay, sir.”

“'Yes, sir', Potter. Do mind your speech.”