“This is unacceptable, Potter.”

 It was 'Potter' again. Yesterday, it had been 'Harry' and he didn't know why, but he had liked it. No one really called him Harry.

 Harry flinched. “I'm sorry, sir! Don't you like eggs? I could make waffles or pancakes instead, I— or porridge? Do you—”

 “Silence,” he hissed. Harry flinched again and shrank back. The man grabbed him by the back of his neck and shoved him around to stand in front of the rickety table where Harry had served the Professor breakfast. “Tell me, Potter, exactly why this is wrong.”

 Harry bit his lip and swallowed reflexively several times. The plate with the food was perfect; the eggs and the bacon and the tomatoes were cooked in a way Harry knew the Durlseys had always preferred. The table was spotless. The tea was still on the cooker. Maybe he should have looked harder for a tablecloth? Or…Harry paled and bit his lip. “I…I forgot to clean, sir. I'm sorry. I'll—”

 “No.”

 Harry began trembling. “N-no?”

 “You are wrong. Try again.”

 …wrong? Oh, he was in so much trouble, he— “…are you a vegetarian, sir?”

 “That is not of relevance. What is wrong with this picture?”

 “I…I don't know, sir,” Harry finally mumbled, defeated. “I'm sorry.”

 “Hmm,” Professor Snape sniffed. Harry cried out in shock when the man bodily lifted him, only to sit him down in a chair and pull the plate over. “Eat.”

 Harry shook his head. “But, I…sir, this isn't mine, I can't—”

 “Silence,” Harry was rebuked mildly. A fork was placed in his hand. “As it happens, Potter, you have failed to cook for yourself, and I cannot – in fact, I will not – tolerate any such behaviour. Are we clear? Furthermore, if you insist on carrying this on, then I will insist that you produce enough to sustain the both of us, and yes, Potter, as it happens, I am a vegetarian. Which leads me to the next point: where did you procure the bacon?”

 “…I, it…I-I asked the neighbour, sir. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry.” Harry's voice shook.

 “No matter. Now, lad, eat.”

 But Harry just shook his head. “I can't…I—”

 “You can.” The Professor reached down and somewhat gently placed the fork back in Harry's hand. He closed the trembling fingers around the utensil. “I realise you are not aware of this, Potter, but I am aware of the…procedures of your last home. I will promise you this: in my home, you will never go hungry.”

 “But—”

 “Eat.”

 Meekly, “Yes, sir.”

 -x-

 Dark at night, Harry found himself sniffling and wiping away his tears as he tried his best to be as quiet as he possibly could. He liked his room, he really did and during the day it was bright and cosy, but at night…at night, it was far too large. Especially after waking from a bad dream. But he had seen a closet. It was downstairs, though, and stairs liked to creak. Not that Harry noticed; in between trying his hardest to stem his tears and not falling over his feet, he missed quite a few of the squeaks.

 A small, trembling hand reached out and turned the handle. Harry sighed shakily.  The tiny room was pitch-dark and smelled faintly of dried paint. “C'pboard,” he slurred as he curled up in a corner.

 When the door opened, slowly, several minutes later, Harry tensed up and shielded his head with shaking arms. “Potter! What is the meaning of this?”

 “Sorry, Uncle,” he mumbled. “I'll be quiet. T'won't happ'n again.” He only began trembling and shaking badly, snivelling and moaning in protest, when hands took hold of him. “No,” he protested. “I'll be good! I promise, Uncle, I'll be good! I'm sorry—”

 “Harry.”

 “I'll be—” Harry blinked. 'Harry'? “—good?”

 The hands were back, this time on his face and cold fingers were rubbing his tears away. “Harry. Would you look at me?”

 “…Sev'rus?”

 Severus nodded. “Yes. What are you doing here?”

 “…bad dream. Sorry.”

 “Do not apologise. Everyone suffers from bad dreams.”