Legs pumping furiously, Harry ran for all he was worth. He was fast, he knew that, but he had been feeling poorly for almost a week now, and he wasn't at his best. Still fast enough, he knew, but only just. If Dudley and his friends caught up with him...Harry grit his teeth and pushed on. He wasn't going to think about that.

He knew he was small. Too small, and too little. At the same time, Harry's malnourishment was his greatest advantage and he exploited it ruthlessly. What were a few scrapes and cuts if he managed to get a way in one piece? What did it matter if he dirtied himself while squirming under a fence if it meant getting out of another beating and taunting?

Harry swallowed harshly, scraping his hands on the rough bark of a tree as he held onto it for leverage as he made a severe turn to avoid crashing into anything. He just needed to run through the park, then squirm inside the abandoned shack. Once there, they wouldn't be able to get to him and he could sneak out another way once it was safe.

As long as Harry didn't do anything freaky, his relatives mostly let Harry's appearance slip their notice.

“Potter!”

Harry gulped and pushed on. He hated it when they called his name. Then he gasped as someone suddenly barrelled into him, knocking him to the ground and kicking his back. “Gotcha, pansy.”

“I'm not a pansy!” Harry protested, eyes narrowed and chest heaving. He turned around and struggled to sit up. The boy who grinned maliciously down at him was new; Harry didn't recognise him. But whoever it was, it surely couldn't bode well for him. What made Harry scared, though, his mouth dry, was that this boy, unlike the rest of Dudley's friends, wasn't fat, overweight or otherwise unable to keep up with Harry. This boy was lanky and skinny.

The boy kicked him again and Harry winced, biting his lip and scrambled to get away. “Yes,” kick “you,” kick “are.” kick. Harry moaned, clutching his stomach, eyes angry and burning. The boy grinned. “Snivelling pansy girl! You gonna cry?” Another kick, this time harder, and Harry grunted. “Dud!”

Red faced and panting, Dudley finally arrived, a couple of other boys in tow. He grinned as he saw Harry. “You got the freak!” Dudley came closer, and Harry hurriedly tried to regain his footing, but Dudley pushed him back down. “Piers too fast for ya, freak? Grab him!”

Harry was small, he knew that, and in moments such as these, where Dudley and his friends easily overpowered him, hands grabbing and pulling, he hated it. Something tore, and Harry bit his lip. Aunt Petunia'd have his Uncle give him a lashing for ruining another shirt. He cried out as they pushed him up against a tree, scraping his back and causing more harm than their fists normally did.

Then Piers suddenly slapped him. “Shut up, you little pansy! Your cousin's such a bloody girl, Dud. Does he ever stop snivelling?”

“I'm not crying!” Harry protested vehemently.

“Shut up, freak!” Dudley punched him in the stomach, and Harry gasped silently, his air leaving him and for a short while, Harry couldn't breathe.

“Oh, Dud,” Piers breathed, “did you hear that?” Dudley blinked dumbly. Piers ignored him, and leaned closer to Harry, his putrid breath making Harry scrunch his nose up. “Say after me, pansy: I'm a snivelling pansy girl.”

There was a loud guffawing of laughter.

Flushing with shame and glaring, Harry shook his head. “Don't deny me, pansy!” Piers slapped him, then knocked the wind out of him again. “Say it! 'I'm a snivelling pansy girl'!”

Harry glared through the tears of humiliation brimming in his eyes. “I...I'm a snivelling pansy girl,” he whispered.

Piers grabbed his hair and slammed his head back against the tree. Harry grunted, a lone tear escaping his eye. “Louder, pansy!”

“I'm a snivelling pansy girl,” he repeated, voice rough.

The resounding laughs were more hurting and damaging than any beating could ever have been. Angry tears burned in his eyes and Harry furiously rubbed them away before they could fall. Piers and Dudley laughed louder than the others, and Piers hit him again. “Oh! Look, he's crying! Again, pansy, again!” Harry bit his lip. “Say it!”

“I-I'm a snivelling pansy girl...”

The day that Dudley met Piers was a day Harry hated. After that, the Harry Hunting changed. No longer the only fast runner, he had more problems getting away, and the abuse changed from being purely physical.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked slowly, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Magic doesn't exist. It's not real.”

The giant of a man, Hagrid, looked baffled, then angry and he glared briefly at Harry's relatives. “Nonsense, boy!” Harry flinched at the hated word. “Magic's very real! Look,” he pulled out a pink umbrella and waved it. Harry's previously ratty yellow t-shirt became green, but remained as ratty as it had ever been. Harry wasn't necessarily very impressed.

-x-

Diagon Alley, Harry decided, was a very strange place where he felt very out of place and uncomfortable. He still wasn't sure if he believed Hagrid, either. It seemed...too good to be true, at times, and Harry wondered if he was perhaps unconscious in a coma somewhere and was dreaming a new reality for himself. The giant had disappeared awhile ago and Harry used the little time alone wisely: first buying one of those neat pouches for witches who liked to read, but didn't want to be cumbered by having to carry the heavy books. Harry could easily hide it under his baggy clothes. Then, pouch in hand, he ventured back inside the bookshop. He had never been in one until today, but he had always liked the library his school had. It was quiet and calm; no one ever bullied him in there.

“You again,” someone drawled behind him, and Harry turned around slowly.

“Hi,” he whispered. “...Draco Malfoy, right?”

The boy nodded, looking rather too pleased and righteous, Harry thought, but he didn't say anything. “What are you doing here? Personally, I prefer Alexandria, but Father insisted we go here today.”

Harry nodded slightly, biting his lip. Wasn't Alexandria in Egypt? But again, he didn't comment. “Okay. I just needed a few books. About the Wizarding world,” he added as an afterthought.

Draco sneered. “Are you a Muggleborn?” Harry blinked. “Are your parents Muggles?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. They're dead.”

“Hm.” Draco scrutinised him, his gaze focusing somewhat on his forehead. “Well, come on, then. If you must buy books, then accurate ones are preferable. How much do you have?”

“Um...” Harry opened the small bag Hagrid had given him and glanced down at the glittering coins. He shook it a bit to get a better appreciation of how many there were. “Lots of the bronze ones, a few silver... A couple gold, too. I suppose I could go and get more, though.”

“You have a vault?”

“My parents did.” Harry thought Draco relaxed a little bit at that, but he wasn't sure.

“What is your name, by the way?”

Harry froze and bit his lip. “Harry,” he mumbled after awhile, when Draco began looking strangely at him. “I'm Harry.”

“Harry.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Draco said slowly, eyes narrowed. “Let's go, then.”

Draco pulled out several books and Harry was at first a bit hesitant, apprehensive, about how he would fit them all in his small punch, but Draco waved it off, so Harry assumed it would 'magically adapt' and instantly became a bit more pleased with it – even though it was pink – and all at once became enthusiastic at the vast selections to choose from. After awhile, Draco had asked to see how much money he had, and then they had moved on. Draco looked pleased, so Harry tailed after, smiling shyly and eyes glittering as even more books were pulled out.

“Do you know what Dark Magic is?” he asked once and Harry had shaken his head.

“I have known about magic for all of today.”

Draco scrunched up his nose and they continued on.

“And this,” Draco sneered, “is proper conduct and behaviour, manners, traditions and hierarchy.”

Harry flushed. “Thanks.”

“Who is your friend, Draco?” The voice was calm and cold. Harry's heart stopped briefly.

“Harry, Father,” Draco replied shortly. “He appears not to have a family name.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Harry fidgeted with the pouch nervously. “I need to go and pay—”

“The money is withdrawn automatically from your vault.”

Harry blinked. “But...how do they know who I am? And why did you need to how much I had?”

“Because. The pouch is tied to you, is it not?”

Harry nodded absent-mindedly. That was true; the elderly wizard had asked for his name and then proceeded to wave his wand. There had been light and lots of sparks. “Oh.” Then, “I should go,” he said suddenly. “Mr Hagrid thinks I'm buying a wand.”

“You would appear to be in the wrong shop, then, Mr Potter,” Mr Malfoy drawled. Harry reflexively pressed down his fringe over his forehead to cover the ugly scar. “You bear quite a resemblance to your...Father.”

-x-

It turned out Harry was still done before Hagrid returned, and he made sure the pouch was properly out of sight. He decided not to mention either the Malfoys or what Mr Olivander had said about his wand.

-x-

Something had happened to his hair in the month between his birthday and the day he bordered the Hogwarts train. It had...grown. Fast. Harry was sure it wasn't normal, but he didn't exactly mind because it covered the scar better this way.

He spent the ride to the school alone, having found a tiny, abysmal compartment he was almost positive originally had been intended for storing trunks, because his fit perfectly on the floor. Of course, that meant he had to sit on top of it, but he didn't mind. It was, after all, how he had spent the last month in his cupboard.

He wouldn't lie – Harry hated lying to himself – and be a coward. But he was absolutely terrified of the forthcoming Sorting. He had read the books, as many as he'd had time to, and in one of them the ceremony had been mentioned in great detail, even having in-depth analyses of the Houses. They sounded nice, all of them, in their own unique way.

Hufflepuff was probably too friendly, though, and Harry hadn't been pure of heart and honest and loyal to anyone but himself for years.

Ravenclaw, he could do, but he had never studied for his own enjoyment or to further himself. He had studied so he could appear stupid and pretend to be dumber than even Dudley. Uncle Vernon's belt had taught him never to be clever.

Gryffindor... Harry bit his lip. It was the house of his parents and in that aspect it was tempting and wonderful – that he'd finally have something they'd had; that he would step where they had gone. But at the same time...he wasn't brave or courageous, righteous or chivalrous... He was... Harry bit his lip. He was pansy, snivelling, girly Pansy 'Freak' Potter.

Slytherin housed cunning students, students who manipulated and played with words. Students who were pushed down and belittled. Students who wanted to rise above their abusers and tormentors. Little boys and girls who wanted to prove themselves to a world that had failed them.

Harry bit his lip. To him, it looked like he would either end up in his parents' House, because the Sorting deemed and demanded that he did, or he would end up in its complete opposite.

-x-

The bruise from this morning, when his Uncle had backhanded him was still smarting, but most of it was hidden behind his hair. The Great Hall was almost silent as Harry trudged up to be sorted. Most stared in awe, but some were glaring quite nastily at him: the blond boy, Draco Malfoy, was. Harry suspected he had never forgiven him for deliberately fooling him like that. The man with the black hair at the Head Table was glaring too and Harry found him a whole lot more frightening. Not only because the man looked like a vampire, but because he was an adult and adults were Dangerous and Hurt Him.

“Ah,” the Hat said as Harry slipped it on, “Harry Potter. Your mother was particularly tricky to sort, but your father quite easy, I remember. But you...oh, the enigma!”

“Um, okay,” Harry thought back. “I don't think I fit in anywhere...”

“Ha! Foolish child, that is not for you, but for me, to decide, and I say you will go far in Slytherin. That House will help you go far; make you great...yes, you would do quite well there...”

“Slytherin?”

“Yes, dear child, Slytherin. Ah, I think that is how it will have to be. Yes, yes...”

“But—”

But the Hat was done lingering and a booming voice bellowed, “SLYTHERIN!” Harry started, then slipped the Hat off. The Hall was still silent and Harry fidgeted nervously with the Hat’s brim. What was he suppose to do?

Then the stern witch gently took the Hat from his hands and smiled stiffly at him. “Well, on you go then, Potter.”

Harry blinked and looked around, then hesitantly began walking to the table with the green and silver banners, and still no one was talking. In fact, Harry noticed nervously, most of the students at the table were...glaring at him.

-x-

“Um, Professor Snape, sir?” Harry asked tentatively.

“What, Potter?”

“I, um...are, are snakes...allowed?” He was suddenly on the receiving end of a harsh glare, and Harry squirmed. “I...I met one over the summer and when I told her I was going away she became upset and disappeared. Um. She hid in my trunk. I...I could get rid of her, if I have to, but I wondered if it was allowed. Sir. Is it?”

“You talked to it?”

Harry nodded, head bent. “Yes, sir.”

“May I see?”

Harry nodded again, slipping his hand up his sleeve and retrieving a small Grass Snake. The snake hissed slightly as it was exposed to the cool air, and Harry instantly stroked her, apologising and cupping her in his cupped hands. “She doesn't like the cold, sir.”

“Hmmm,” the Professor said noncommittally. “Certainly not from your dim-witted father.”

Harry flushed and hunched his shoulders.

“Parseltongue is the language of snakes. What you are is a Parselmouth. If I were you, Potter,” Professor Snape said silkily, lowly, “I would not advertise it.”

“So,” Professor Snape sneered, “I have been encumbered by the Boy-Who-Lived. Our own little...celebrity.” Harry really didn't like the way he said that, as if it was something bothersome, irksome...a distasteful thing that left a bad taste in the mouth. “I am sure our standards here are not satisfactory after the...worship and luxury I am sure you are used to.”

Harry flushed, then, and looked away. “This is better, sir,” he whispered. He had a bed here, and he quietly told Professor Snape that. He bit his lip. Hogwarts was definitely better. Or at least he hoped it would be. No one picked on him the way Dudley and his friends had. The way Piers had. But...no one liked him, either. Draco had made sure of that. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned the expression went, but Harry felt ready to add Malfoys to that list. Sure, he was polite and courteous, but always in a mocking, insincere way that made Harry feel stupid and humiliated. The rest of the First Years had decided to follow him there, and as long as it remained that way Harry didn't think he'd care. But if the older students decided that he really was an abomination...

Nothing seemed impossible with magic.

The other Houses...Harry nibbled on his bottom lip, frowning softly. Ravenclaws stared disdainfully down their noses at him. Like one of the Prefects in Gryffindor, while the rest of them seemed to take it as a personal affront that Harry'd had the audacity to be raised in any other way than one that would guarantee impeccable Gryffindor mannerisms. The Hufflepuffs seemed to be the only ones so far that didn't care one way or the other.

“Is there a problem, Potter?” Harry mutely shook his head and reflexively raised a hand to press his shaggy fringe down to make sure his scar wasn't visible. “I should think,” the man silkily continued, close enough that all it took was to reach out with his wand and he could easily move Harry's hair out of the way, exposing the ugly scar. Professor Snape glared angrily. And a bruise. “That you would want to flaunt it.” The wand moved to press against the yellowing bruise. “What happened?”

“Forgot to duck, sir,” Harry mumbled, avoiding the black eyes. “Dudley threw a racket, and I forgot to duck.”

“And why would Dudley do that?”

“'Cause I broke it.”

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. “Do elaborate, Potter.”

And Harry fell silent. Then he hesitantly continued, “I made the broken net stick back on.”

“And to thank you for this...wondrous task, he threw it at your face?” Harry shrugged, and Professor Snape snapped, “Mind your manners, boy! Do not shrug at me and speak up!”

Instantly, Harry sat up straighter, a blush of shame on his cheeks. “Yes, sir! I'm sorry. I...I...Aunt Petunia…and my Uncle… They don't like magic.”

Somehow, Harry wasn't sure how it was even possible, the man's black eyes darkened. “Your guardians do not tolerate magic?” Harry shook his head. Professor Snape raised an eyebrow silently, and Harry stuttered,

“Um, no, no, sir. They...don't.”

“I see,” Professor Snape murmured, using his wand to gently cover the scar with the messy fringe.

Harry didn't see, though, but he was too afraid to ask.

Lily had been his friend – the only one he had ever admired through his bitter childhood. Potter had been, besides Black, the only one he had truly loathed and hated throughout the same childhood (besides his father, of course. And Black). In the end, they had both made the defeat of the Dark Lord possible. Albus claims this is temporary, and that he is not truly gone, but Severus fails to see how; his Mark has not burned even once in the many years since Lily gave her life for Harry Potter.

Albus has repeatedly told the staff (i.e. Severus Snape) to see Harry Potter as a unique individual, separately from his parents, but Severus does not see how this would be possible when the boy is both of them in one.

When the boy has the soul of Lily and the shell of Potter.

The second clue is how the boy twitches. How he always tries to keep a barrier between himself and any grown-up, be they desks, chairs or simply another student.

Never alone, never vulnerable. Raise your hands, cover your solar plexus and your face. Trust no one and no one will hurt you.

This Severus should have noticed. There is nothing that excuses the fact that he does not. That he assumes it is merely his less than friendly appeal that is once again to blame here. That he assumes the boy has never been reprimanded. That he assumes the boy has never been called upon by an authority figure. That he has never been made to see the error of his own actions – in most of these cases it is the boy's faulty brewing, something he certainly has not inherited from Lily, who was most brilliant at this.

The third clue should be higher up. Should be the first clue that he notices, as it is far too obvious, and really the first fact that Harry Potter presents to you. How small he is. How skinny and short, how even the smallest of Hufflepuff girls are almost taller than him. As the boy's Head of House it is inexcusable that it takes him a month and a half to take notice of how little the boy eats. How carefully and cautiously he eats. How he waits until almost breakfast or lunch or dinner is over until he serves himself. How he takes crumbs and the leftover pieces and bits no one wants.

How the boy is oddly enough drinking milk while most students prefer the freedom of finally being able to drink pumpkin juice instead and how he then relishes it.

The fourth clue falls oddly into place after that. Almost fits. It's the boy's manner. His impeccable manner. How he always uses titles. How he always says thanks, eyes lighting up as if he was just handed the key to the universe every time someone lends a helping hand – which is not often, not often at all considering that he is a Slytherin and the Boy-Who-Lived and in the wrong House all together.

Severus is almost tempted to make this into a fifth clue, but he chooses not to. It is the boy's excessive need to apologise. Spilled ink 'I'm sorry'. Tripping over his robe 'I'm sorry'.

I'm sorry.

Sorry that I am an inconvenience. Sorry that I exist.

Severus does not like weak-minded people who are too afraid to stand up for themselves. It takes him far too long to realise that the boy's apologies have little to do with a weak mind, because Harry Potter is quite stubborn. Just like his mother. When he finally realises that the apologies are a defence mechanism ingrained in him from an early age he begins to wonder what could possibly have caused such a need.

That is clue number five. When he finally sees the flinches for what they are. When he finally sees the fear of punishment in the Lily-green eyes. When he finally sees the way Harry Potter's shoulders slump and a strange look of loathing and resignation settles across the far too pale face.

It is a weak and trembling voice that whisperers, voice fainter than the rustle of his robe, “...sorry, sir.” Little Harry Potter bows his head, and stands his ground. Tense. Shaking.

Severus – eyes narrowed and heart thudding painfully – takes a step closer. Harry bites his lip and hunches his shoulders. Swallowing harshly, Severus raises his arm and Harry begins to cry silently, scuttling back into a corner and curls up in an impossibly small ball, repeating, over and over and over again, “I'm sorry.”

I'm sorry. Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry. I'm sorry. Didn't mean to. Forgive me. I'm sorry, it was an accident, I promise, and I won't do it again. Don't hurt me, please! No, no, I'm sorry, I won't—please!

And Severus knows and he feels horrible and he suddenly understands the bruise on the child's forehead that first week much better and more clearly.

But he knows, too – he knows that if he had merely asked, “are you abused?” little Harry would have, shamefaced, shaken his head. Made up an excuse: that he is a clumsy child, and that he always does things he shouldn't, that he gets in the way and that he is a troublemaker. Severus knows, because once, he too, used those excuses. Excuses that he was always hurt – so, so hurt – that no one ever saw through, because they were always so horribly transparent and it was so obvious that they were lies and why is no one noticing?

He is suddenly kneeling, then sitting, on the cold, hard floor in front of Harry. He places a hand on his shoulder, like Lily used to do once upon a time, long ago, far away. Harry flinches and whines.

“Harry,” he says, voice oddly dark and soothing, “I will never hurt you.”

He knows that, too, even if Harry does not. Severus would never harm a child. But Harry does not know this and he doubts the boy will any time soon. It will take time, he knows, time and patience and a kindness Severus is not sure if he knows how to give.

Lily had never needed him to be kind.

Lily had always known, and Severus had never needed to say.

“I was very close to your mother, Harry,” he finds himself saying, beginning a tale he is not sure he knows the ending off.

“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.”

 The stone was hard and sharp and it ruthlessly cut into his skin, scraping and hurting. Harry protected his head with his arms as best as he could, wishing for the all world he was anywhere else but here.

 “Oh, look at the snivelling pansy!” Harry clenched his jaw against the grunt of pain that forced its way out when a kick landed on his ribs. “Trying to be brave, I bet, eh, Dud?”

 Dudley guffawed, “yeah, yeah!”

 “Bet you're used to this, pansy, being pressed face first to the ground, eh? I bet your school is just like this, every day?”

 Harry grunted as Piers kicked him again when he didn't answer fast enough. “Yes, yes, Piers.”

 Harry winced and cried out as his face was shoved down on the stone. “Don’t think you're smart, disgusting pansy!”

 “I don't.”

 Harry hated the Dursleys. He hated the Muggles who lived in Privet Drive. He hated them for never helping him, for never seeing him and always looking away, for avoiding him and silently approving of the abuse and bullying that went on right under their noses.

 “Bloody right you're not, you snivelling bastard!”

 Just then, at that moment, there was an instant of terrible silence.

 “What's this?” A quiet voice hissed dangerously, icily.

 “Nothing,” Piers said nonchalantly, patting Harry's head. “Just checking something with Pansy here, right?”

 Harry said nothing until someone tugged so hard at his hair that his eyes watered. “Right,” he whispered. “Nothing…”

 “Oh,” the stranger purred darkly, “I beg to differ.”

 When Harry was gently tugged up from the ground, angry tears of shame staining his face, glasses broken and shattered on the ground, he was surprised and dismayed to find Professor Snape there, staring at him with his dark eyes that seemed to say so much, but still were so empty. “You…” Harry croaked disbelievingly and then he looked away. “I'm sorry,” Harry muttered.

 Professor Snape glared dangerously and he hissed, “What was that, Potter?” He gripped Harry's bruised and aching shoulders with his hands.

 “I'm always bothering you.”

 The Professor stared silently at him for several long, uncomfortable minutes. “You are not,” he finally declared. “You are to come with me, Potter. I cannot allow you to remain here. It is counteractive for your health, mental as well as physical.”

 Harry sobbed, his hands fruitlessly wiping his face.

 “Now what?”

 “H-he said I, I, I couldn't leave! But I hate it here and he said I had to go back!”

 Severus squared his shoulders and knelt down, suddenly on the same level as Harry and it made Harry feel intimidated. “Look at me,” he demanded softly. Hesitantly, Harry raised his head, hands held over his eyes in a protective gesture as his skinny frame shook with the force of his sobs. “Harry—” Harry gasped through his tears. “— you will not return to those Muggles, you hear me?”

 Harry nodded, not really believing the man, but wanting to. Wanting desperately to do nothing more than attach himself to his Professor, bawl his eyes out and be…taken care of. “I…I can't stop!”

 The hands were back on his shoulders, gentle, rubbing slightly. “When was the last time you cried, Harry?”

 It was the ‘Harry, that did it. That felled the last of Harry's defences and he threw himself at Professor Snape, small hands reaching out to clutch fistfuls of coarse black linen.

 -x-

 “Um, sir?”

 “Yes, Harry?”

 “I…you know, you don't have to—”

 “I am aware. However, I find myself wanting to. Now sleep, lad. Tomorrow will come far too soon as it is and I have no doubt that it will be…trying.”

“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.”

“Um, sir?”

 Severus grunted.

 Squirming, Harry indecisively took a step forward. “Wh…what happened to my parents? I mean…are they buried or, or don't you bury wizards?”

 “What are you talking about?”

 Harry bit his lip. “My… Where are my parents?”

 Severus stilled. Harry thought his eyes looked haunted and he could've sworn that was pain, just now, flashing across the stern features of the man who had so selflessly taken him in. “Godric's Hollow,” he said after a long while, just as Harry began suspecting he might not receive an answer. “They were buried at the cemetery in Godric's Hollow.”

 “Godric's…” Harry bit his lip. “Is that where they lived?”

 Stiffly, Severus nodded, once again wondering how much it was that the boy didn't know. All of it knowledge that the Wizarding world took for granted and assumed this boy of barely twelve knew as well. “Yes, Harry. Yes…it is a village. Your parents lived there, as did your paternal grandparents.”

 “Oh.” A pause where Harry fidgeted and Severus looked out the window with a stony expression on his face. “C-could we go?” Harry asked in a small whisper.

 -x-

 The next day a solemn boy reverently touched the headstone bearing his parents' names and fought not to cry while the imposing man next to him carefully brushed dead leaves from the top of it. Severus knelt down when he was done so that he could pull the weeds away.

 “Did Mum really like Lily of the Valleys?” Harry asked thickly as he set the small bouquet in the clear vase of glass Severus had transfigured from a rock.

 Severus nodded, face drawn and eyes dark and shadowed. Pained. “She loved them. They reminded her of her Grandma Vicky.”

 Harry bit his lip and slowly reached out to touch the sleeve of his Professor's robe. Severus didn't look at him. “I'm sorry,” the boy whispered. “We don't have to come here again—”

 “No, Harry. I can…manage. She was your mother – never allow me to forget that.”