Snape had – mostly – managed to regain his composure by the time Harry returned to his quarters late that afternoon. Hearing a Potter contemplate calling him “Uncle” or – Merlin help us, the world was wobbling on its axis – “Dad”, had been enough to require two calming drafts and a cold cloth on his forehead.

Even if Voldemort hadn’t existed and James and Lily were alive, it was unlikely that Snape would have been a welcome visitor to Potter’s home, let alone on friendly terms with their offspring. Harry’s artless comments had shaken him to the core. A man who had, since childhood, avoided nearly all close friendships was all too easily undone by a child’s naïve words.

Snape had barely emerged from the trauma of losing Lily’s friendship when he had taken the Dark Mark. His service to Voldemort and the war in which they were engaged had occupied all his time and efforts, and he was certainly not inclined to build friendships amongst those ranks. To the purebloods, he was a lesser creature, tolerated because his skill with potions had made him one of the Dark Lord’s favorites, but certainly not someone you would befriend. Snape himself was still an awkward adolescent when it came to relationships, and knowing how badly he had botched his friendship with Lily made him more reluctant to risk being hurt again. When he had become a spy for the Light, it was too dangerous to become close to anyone – whether in terms of their learning his secret or by placing someone he cared about in danger.

Then had come that awful Halloween and Severus felt his life had ended. He had retreated into a dark, bitter, bleak world from which that no one – least of all himself – cared enough to coax him. Albus had tried, but he had been distracted by all his other duties, and Severus had fought him tooth and nail. In the end, the Headmaster had sadly resigned himself to waiting the saturnine man out.

By the time the rawness of his emotions had begun to ease, Snape had created a life for himself as the Evil Bat of the Dungeons, the quintessential Slytherin whose caustic tongue blighted scores of childhoods. How could he even think of seeking “normal” friendships when his only experience with such a thing had been with a redheaded witch nearly two decades previous? He had no idea how to get along with people – only how to intimidate, alienate, or otherwise push them away. If it weren’t for Dumbledore, he would literally go months without having a civil conversation with another human. He’d burned any and all bridges with the other faculty within weeks of his arrival as a staff member, and the persistent rumors – suitably embellished by years of Hogwarts students – about his (literally) Dark Past hardly made him anyone’s idea of a suitable date or even someone with whom to have a few pints at the Leaky Cauldron.

So perhaps it was no surprise that Harry’s simple words had rocked the foundation of Severus’ world. In many ways, despite (or perhaps because of) the lonely, angry years, he was still that awkward adolescent, desperately seeking love and affection. And the unconditional, unwavering love of a child was very, very seductive.

On principle – he was a Slytherin after all – Snape expected the worst, so it was no surprise when he found himself assuming that the brat’s attitude towards him would change the instant Harry found himself among the Weasleys. After all, they were the archetypical parents. Their children patently adored them. They probably knew how to handle all sorts of crises and didn’t insult their children to their faces, let alone backhand them into a wall. Threadbare they might be, but you could practically feel the love oozing off the walls at the Burrow. Snape had always claimed it was Molly’s diabetes-inducing biscuits that made him nauseous on his infrequent visits there – usually related to the twins’ extra-curricular activities – but if truth be told, it was the palpable feeling of Home that always unnerved him.

Harry would doubtless blossom under their care and forget all about the snarky loner who dwelt in the dungeons and hadn’t the faintest idea how to be kind to a child. Terrorize children, oh yes. In that he was unparalleled. Even his Slytherins didn’t like him. They respected him, appreciated his fierce protectiveness, honored his loyalty… and avoided him like the plague. The most homesick Firsties quickly decided to seek comfort from a Prefect than their Head of House.

And yet despite his spiky temper, his acerbic put-downs, his utter lack of gentleness or indulgence, somehow Snape had impressed Harry as “nice”. Without even trying. In fact, while trying very hard not to be. But Harry hadn’t been driven away by Snape’s efforts. Instead he’d somehow misconstrued them to the point where he openly preferred the Potion Master to the Headmaster’s grandfatherly approach, the medi-witch’s blandishments and sweets, and even his own Head of House’s Quidditch-obsesssed adultation. Snape’s Slytherin heart rejoiced at the thought of how much this state of affairs must irritate his colleagues, but his past history convinced him that it would be short-lived. Gloating now would only lead to later pain when Harry renounced him, and the others had their chance to take revenge.

Snape sat up, flinging the compress off his eyes and savagely stalking through his quarters. What was wrong with him? Acting as if he cared if the brat lived or died? Well, all right – he did care about that. But only because of his Unbreakable Vow. It wasn’t as if he cared two knuts for the little monster. Disloyal brat that he doubtless was. Let’s see how long it took for the Weasleys to win him over.

Snape dressed in yet another of his relentlessly black outfits. With a rare show of sensitivity, he chose a set of robes that, while entirely presentable, were far from new. He would still show his respect to his hosts, but without highlighting the difference between his own resources and their limited means. He glanced at the clock and cursed. Where was that little snot-nosed –

A knock interrupted him before he could get a really good rant going. A flick of the wand opened the door and Harry tumbled in, flushed and breathless.

“I’m sorry!” he exclaimed before Snape could snarl at him for his tardiness. “Professor McGonagall and Oliver kept me forever. They kept making me catch that little golden thing. Over and over and over til I thought my fingers would fall off. They just kept getting more excited and saying ‘Once more!’ I don’t know what was so special about it, do you?”

Snape glared at the urchin. So much for his House’s chances at the Cup. Given how the little idiot was so blithely prattling on about capturing the Snitch “over and over”, Gryffindor would be nearly impossible to beat.

Undaunted by his guardian’s lack of response, Harry swung his bookbag off his shoulder and squirmed, stretching out his back muscles and rubbing his bum. “Sitting on a broom for that long hurts, you know? I had no idea that Quidditch was such hard work. I’m going to be sore tomorrow. It feels like when I had to weed all of Aunt Petunia’s flower beds.”

Snape scowled harder at this reminder of how those Muggles had pressed a Wizarding child into servitude. In one pace he was at Harry’s shoulder, ignoring both the boy’s reflexive flinch and subsequent embarrassed flush. “Where does it hurt?” he demanded, probing along the boy’s back and shoulders.

Harry blissfully closed his eyes, wriggling in delight at the impromptu massage. “Urr, right there. Between my shoulder blades. And lower down along the back.”

Snape frowned at the knots along the boy’s back. His trapezius was wildly overstressed and his lumbar area had been wrenched by all the acrobatics. “Where else?”

“Erm, well, lower,” Harry admitted, coloring. “You know…where you sit.”

Ignoring Harry’s squeaks of humiliation, Snape bent him over and continued his examination. Yes, Harry’s gluteus maximus muscles had been abused by too much exercise, and his backside and thighs were likely chafed and sore from gripping the broomstick through numerous dives and twists. McGonagall was a complete fanatic, Snape snarled to himself, irate that the witch would encourage his ward to overstress his body in this way. Hadn’t she realized that the boy’s muscles were exhausted? A few more minutes and his strength would have failed, most likely just as he was risking his fool neck on some absurd stunt those idiots encouraged.

“Ow. Ouch,” Harry protested as Severus’ strong fingers kneaded his tender back and bum, but he had to admit he felt a lot better after the muscles were forced out of their spasm.

Snape released the boy and Accio’d a potion and jar from his storeroom. Harry watched curiously, even as he absently continued to massage his backside. “Drink this,” the professor ordered.

Harry wrinkled his nose. He might be new to the Wizarding World, but he’d already learned how foul the vast majority of potions tasted. He sneaked a glace at the professor, hoping he might be able to wheedle his way out of it, but one look at the man’s stern face and he knew better. He sighed and accepted the vial. Holding his nose with one hand, he tossed the contents down his throat with the other.

“UGH!” he exclaimed, shuddering violently. “That tastes worse than dirty socks.”

“As you might expect, considering they are the main ingredient,” Snape said drily.

Harry stared at him. “Really?” he whispered, more than a little nauseated.

“Idiot. Of course not.” Snape rolled his eyes. Gryffindors! “I can see that Remedial Potions will figure prominently in your future, Mr Potter. Before our next class, you will present me with twelve inches on the actual ingredients of a healing potion.”

Harry actually grinned. “You got me!” he admitted cheerfully, much to Snape’s confusion. He had just insulted the brat and assigned him – rather unfairly for a first year in his first week of classes – a punishment essay, and Harry thought it was a good joke?

Harry stretched, beaming. Professor Snape just kept on taking care of him. Even though – as Professor McGonagall had taken pains to explain – Harry would be playing against Snape’s own House Quidditch team, the man had been interested in his tryouts. What was more, the instant Harry had so much as mentioned not feeling well, he’d been all over him. Harry hadn’t really meant anything by the mild complaint about soreness. The Dursleys had liked hearing him groan, feeling it showed that he was working hard, so he had gotten into the habit of moaning a bit. Not enough to be guilty of whinging, mind you, just enough to indicate he wasn’t slacking.

But never in a million years would his aunt or uncle have rubbed his back – or bum! – to make it feel better, let alone given him medicine. Harry squirmed in sheer happiness. The professor took really, really good care of him.

He was funny too. Pretending that Harry was really drinking dirty socks. Harry grinned. That was a pretty good one – he’d have to see if he could get any of the other kids to believe it. And giving him permission to study ahead? That was another sign of how nice Professor Snape was. The Dursleys would never even let him do his assigned homework, lest he make Dudley look even dumber than he was, and most of his teachers therefore decided he was as lazy and stupid as his cousin. Any questions Harry might have had about his schoolwork were answered briefly and simply, since such a slow student couldn’t possibly understand complex concepts. Yet Professor Snape not only expected him to know the answers, he wanted Harry to try to figure things out for himself when he didn’t.

Harry liked reading – at the Dursleys it had been his only escape – so being told to look something up was a welcome excuse to spend time with his books. And knowing that the professor was willing to take the time to look over what he found, and tell him if he was right or wrong… Well, that was more effort than anyone else had ever been willing to spend on Harry.

“How do you feel now?” Snape asked, wondering if the potion had unexpectedly combined with the toxins from the overstressed muscles to create a paradoxical giddiness. Why else would the boy – er, brat – be grinning to himself in such a peculiar way.

“Better,” Harry answered instantly. He gave his bottom a last rub. “Still a bit sore, sir, but lots better than before. That potion is brilliant, even if it does taste awful!”

Snape scowled, more out of principle than anything else, and handed the boy the small jar. “Rub this salve into your backside and thighs before bedtime and again in the morning. Those muscles are particularly strained, as you have not flown before. You will need to build them up gradually over the next several weeks.” He paused as a thought struck him. “Did Wood show you how to stretch before and after your workout?”

Harry shook his head blankly. “No sir. You stretch the broom?”

“Idiot.” Snape shook his head. “You stretch your muscles in order to avoid the very difficulties you have just experienced.” His eyes narrowed as he contemplated how he would exact revenge on the Gryffindor captain. He would teach Wood to ignore the welfare of a first year in his mindless excitement over finding a new Seeker.

“Sir?” Harry’s voice roused him from pleasant fantasies of watching Wood whimper as he started scrubbing out his fifteenth cauldron of the night. Oh, he’d show that twit what a sore back felt like!

“What?” he demanded.

“Shouldn’t we be going to the Weasleys, sir?” Harry asked tentatively. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the Weasleys had changed their mind. After all, the professor was a great guardian, and he was already taking better care of Harry than he’d ever dared hope. Having a second family on top of that, well, it almost felt greedy. Harry would have understood if the Weasleys had decided they had enough kids to keep them busy and didn’t need a fre – oh oh. Harry caught himself in mid-thought and looked guiltily at the professor. Given the man’s other talents, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he could read minds as well.

If Snape heard him referring to himself as a freak again, Harry figured he’d be lucky to end up with another set of lines. The professor had made it clear that he did not like Harry using that term. He didn’t think Snape would actually make good on his threat about the soap, but he didn’t want to find out either.

The professor had been, by and large, unexpectedly, amazingly gentle. His “smackings” were little more than an admonitory tap on the bum, and for all his snap and snarl – and despite Harry’s giving him plenty of provocation – he’d not yet given Harry a clout like the one that first night. Harry wasn’t sure why. Yes, Snape had said that it had been “inappropriate”, but Harry knew perfectly well that sometimes he was really, really bad. Like when he’d disobeyed Madam Hooch. And if he’d learned one thing at the Dursleys, it was that bad behavior was punished. But Snape, while far from over-indulgent, didn’t seem to grasp the concept of punishment.

Instead of hauling off and really slapping Harry a good one, he did things like assign him lines, which would actually give him lots of needed practice in using a quill. Or have him write essays that would teach him something. Or insist that he had to come and spend time with the professor. Harry frowned. Professor Snape seemed to have the whole “reward” and “punishment” thing confused.

Harry knew that punishments were supposed to hurt, but even Snape’s spankings didn’t, not really. Of course, knowing that the professor was upset with him did hurt. A lot. More than any of the Dursleys’ beatings, in fact. Feeling that he’d disappointed the man or let him down made Harry’s heart ache more than his backside ever had, and that pain didn’t fade nearly as quickly.

Harry wrinked his brow in thought. Maybe the professor did know something about punishment after all.

Snape stifled a sigh. He couldn’t put it off any longer. They had to go to the Burrow and dine with the Weasleys. He growled to himself, wondering if Molly would reprise her objections to his guardianship in front of the boy. Well, fine. Let her. If the brat chose to spend all his time with that clan of red-headed simps, let him. It wasn’t as if Snape gave a damn.

He looked the boy over. He’d obviously washed up after Quidditch; that messy mop he called hair was damp and even more unruly than usual. “Come here,” he ordered, crooking a finger to where the boy was frowning to himself, obviously lost in a daydream. Snape sneered. Probably wondering what would be for pudding tonight.

Harry obediently walked over to the professor and stood, transfixed with shock, as the man caught up each hand to inspect his fingernails, then checked behind his ears. “What?” Snape demanded, catching sight of the boy’s expression. “Do you imagine I would let you embarrass both of us by arriving poorly groomed?”

“N-no, sir,” Harry gulped. “It’s just that no one ever – I mean, I hadn’t – “ He broke off, unsure how to explain that Aunt Petunia never cared if he looked like a complete ragamuffin, so long as he didn’t walk too close to her family. He’d never had anyone go to the trouble of ensuring he looked appropriate. Usually he just had to rely on the other kids at school laughing at him to figure out things like what “inside out” meant or that he’d buttoned his shirt wrong.

Snape snorted in derision at this further example of the brat’s inarticulateness. Unable to find fault with the boy’s hygiene, he turned his attention to his clothes. “Why are you in your school uniform?” he demanded. “Didn’t I tell you to dress in your best? Didn’t I tell you to make a good impression? Do you think I was talking to myself?”

Harry snickered at the mental image of Professor Snape having a pleasant conversation with himself, but hastily swallowed his mirth when Snape’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir,” he said, bending over to retrieve his satchel. It felt good to be able to turn his back on someone without worrying that they’d take the opportunity to wallop him – or worse. He’d learned never to turn his back on Uncle Vernon or Dudley; not after the last time when a kick had not only lifted him off his feet but also sent him flying halfway across the living room.

Yes, Harry mused, it was a great feeling to be able to trust Professor Snape. And to know he had the man’s permission to defend himself if anyone else tried to hurt him. He wondered if the professor knew how good it felt to no longer have to worry about a blow coming out of nowhere.

Snape stared at the bag in disbelief. The little monster really did plan on moving in with the Weasleys. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing with that, you atrocious brat?”

The snot tugged out some stained rags. “Well, I know you didn’t want me wearing my school uniform, but my other clothes really aren’t very nice. I thought I’d bring them and you could decide.”

Snape wrinkled his nose and plucked the offensive “garments” from the boy’s hands using as few fingers as possible. “These cannot possibly be your best clothes,” he hissed, glaring at the boy. The cheap T-shirt and jeans were grimy and enormous. They would have hung off Potter’s slight frame like a clown’s costume.

Harry flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably. “I guess I should have gotten some regular clothes when Hagrid took me to Diagon Alley, but they weren’t on the list…”

Snape incendio’d the rags, wishing he were doing so to the Dursleys themselves. So they clothed Lily’s child in poorly fitting castoffs that no self-respecting charity would accept, and then made the boy feel it was his fault that he hadn’t a pair of underwear to call his own. Rage made his voice even harsher than usual. “Of course they weren’t, you moronic child. Normal parents and guardians provide suitable clothing for their children, and it is therefore unnecessary to specify it on the school’s list. You had the misfortune to be placed with disgusting creatures whose freakishness is apparently limitless. You and I will need to do some shopping in the near future. I intend to break, once and for all, the lingering legacy of your relatives’ awfulness.”

Harry gulped. The professor looked awfully fierce, but instead of soundly scolding Harry for his lack of foresight, he had instead promised him a shopping excursion. Harry was getting awfully confused. Professor Snape really must be new to this whole parenting thing to have punishments and rewards so mixed up.

Oh! Maybe that was why they were going to the Weasleys? So that Ron’s parents could explain things to the professor, like how children should be disciplined and how many hours a day they should spend on chores and stuff. Professor Snape obviously didn’t really understand how things were supposed to be, and the Weasleys, with all their kids, would be able to set him straight. Harry gulped. He wondered how strict the Weasleys were. Ron had said his mum was famous around Hogwarts for her “howling”. Harry didn’t think he would like the professor to howl at him, though he guessed it still was better than getting slapped around by the Dursleys. Still, his stomach gave a little jump at the thought of having the professor scream at him the way his relatives used to do.

“Very well, Potter. You will wear your school uniform. Now come along.” Snape led the way to the floo, wondering why his stomach felt so leaden. Of course the boy would prefer the Weasleys to him. That was a given. And that had been the whole point, hadn’t it? To give him over to a real family so that he could be snuggled and pampered by those redheaded nitwits.

Potter, predictably, stopped dead at the fireplace. “What – what are you doing?” he gulped.

“Have you never floo’d?” Snape said impatiently, then rolled his eyes. Of course he hadn’t. A horrible thought struck him and he bent to stare directly at the boy. “Did your relatives ever burn you? In the fireplace or with the stove?” If that were the case, then the child might be truly incapable of using the floo network.

Harry blinked. “No,” he answered honestly. As awful as the Dursleys had been, they hadn’t been that depraved. Swats and smacks and beltings, insults and neglect and expressions of disgust – all that had come his way, but his relatives hadn’t been sadistic. They had had an unwelcome, freakishly dangerous child forced upon them, and they had made sure he was aware of that fact every moment of his life, but they hadn’t hurt him just for the sake of hurting him. “Mostly, they were just mean – you know, with what they said and what they called me and how they looked at me – but even when they hit me, it was usually just with their hand.” Of course, Uncle Vernon’s hand hurt rather a lot, as did Aunt Petunia’s, but it was clear that they didn’t really want to touch him. “I got the hairbrush or the belt sometimes, but usually they’d just yell and smack me as I walked past. It was more that I never knew when it would happen than that it was all that bad. Usually,” he amended, remembering those times when it really had been pretty awful. “It’s not like they broke bones or burned me or drowned me or anything,” he added, mildly indignant.

Snape let out a snort that was half-relief that the Muggles’ distaste for magic had led them to be more neglectful towards the boy than abusive, and half-irritation that they could be so arrogant and insular in their thinking. Stupid Muggles! “All right, then come along.”

But the boy still hesitated, watching the licking flames with dread.

Snape exhaled in frustration and snatched the boy up in his arms. Startled, Harry instinctively wrapped himself around the professor’s body, and as Snape marched steadily towards the fire, he gasped in fear and buried his face in the man’s neck.