Harry Potter was reckless.  He was reckless and irresponsible and infuriating and impossible and Severus was terrified because he’d just heard a scream.  He’d learnt over the past year and a half that the boy was completely unconcerned with his own safety and wellbeing, happy to trust Severus with worrying about both as he blundered from one heart-stopping adventure to the next. 

Though Severus fervently wished the boy would one day lose his ever-present fear and mistrust of everyone and everything other than his guardian, he found himself often praying for the day Harry would develop a healthy fear for things that could do him serious harm... like fire; the reason Severus had nearly had his first heart attack when he’d caught Harry making him breakfast over their gas stove, hand straying a little too close to the open flame.  Or snakes; the reason Severus had forbidden Harry from making friends with the family of red belly blacks in the back yard and had only permitted a short conversation to ensure they were not an immediate threat... from a distance, half-hidden behind Severus and his wand. 

Or, as Severus discovered when he burst out of the back door of their modest cottage, a fear of heights.  The Boy-Who-Lived had managed to fall from the top-most branch of the tree in their backyard. 

Not for the first time in the past eighteen months Severus swore he felt his heart stop in his chest as his eyes caught the lump denting the long grass at the base of the enormous fir and he stopped breathing when he saw no movement coming from it.  He only began breathing again – taking in enough oxygen to make him lightheaded with great shuddering gasps – once he had reached the lump which thankfully chose that moment to moan piteously and shift a little. 

Harry was curled on his side, limbs still splayed as they had landed, head throbbing horribly and arm hurting tremendously.  His eyes scrunched shut as pain assaulted him in nauseating waves.  Distantly he heard his name and felt a warm hand cup the shoulder that wasn’t buried in the grass beneath him.

“Harry,” Severus called again, using his softest, gentlest voice.  The same voice he had needed use of far too many times for his own peace of mind since he’d first gotten to know the boy.  “Harry, open your eyes.  I need you to look at me, can you do that Harry?”

Harry scrunched his eyes shut tighter in an effort to make the pain abate some before he tried opening them, succeeding only in tickling his cheeks with his fluttering lashes despite the continued stream of encouragement.  The world was floating alarmingly in and out of focus and he couldn’t quite make out words anymore; everything was blurring together too much for that.  Growing fearful at the lack of sensation beyond pain he trembled and through reticent lips managed to quietly plead the first word that came to mind.  The one person he wanted with him in his floaty world.

“Daddy?”

The tone of voice would have been enough to break the man’s heart but Severus was frozen at the word Harry, his Harry, had uttered.  The boy had to be horribly concussed to be asking for his dead father.  Severus was startled by just how much the word hurt to hear and wondered when he had started longing to hear it directed at him so fiercely.  He brushed it aside as an errant, meaningless thought as Harry went limp once more. 

With hands as gentle as he was capable of making them – which was gentler by far than anyone who knew him (including himself) would have thought possible from the dour man – Severus lifted the boy to his chest, cradling him as he gained his feet and all but rushed back inside their house where he deposited his burden on his own bed before tearing through the cabinet beside his dresser where he kept his potions.  He had a makeshift lab in the spare bedroom of the cottage but found out early on that it was always a good idea to keep a supply of healing potions handy as they were necessary more often than was good for his heart when dealing with the twelve year old. 

It was with his wand in one hand and three vials in the other that Severus returned to the bedside to begin a lengthy period of diagnosing and treating what turned out to be a broken arm – in three places, how did you manage that, you impossible boy? – and a fairly bad concussion, not to mention several bad scrapes, including one rather large gash on the side of the tiny forehead that refused to stop bleeding for twenty long, stressful, rather frightening minutes. 

When Severus sank into a large, conjured leather chair beside the unconscious child, it was with shaking hands and no small amount of exhausted relief.  Harry would be fine.  Of course it had really only been a bump on the head and a broken arm – two very common injuries for children falling out of trees – but then, Harry Potter had never been able to do anything normally and had felt the need to break his arm three distinct times and knock himself out for half an hour with a serious head injury instead. 

Severus rubbed a thankfully steady hand over his face and tried to ignore the feelings which proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he loved the boy much more than he was willing to let on or allow himself to fully realise.  Just as it had taken a long time for the boy to trust him, it had taken him a long time to trust that Harry was really his like he’d said so long ago.  He would always protect the child, keep him safe and – as much as he was able – happy.  But it had taken a long time for him to trust that he had Harry, that they were in their self-imposed exile together and that Harry wouldn’t be gone again from his life the second it was possible to be so.  He couldn’t have explained why, when the boy was so guileless and unguarded with him, but it had been and to an extent still was hard to trust, to let him in. 

Somewhat wryly, with no bitterness but rather the irrefutability of fact, Severus pondered that there was little chance Harry wouldn’t have wormed his way into his heart anyway.  The boy was extraordinarily stubborn yet not in the least conniving – unless he wanted an extra serve of ice cream.  He had definitely wormed his way in.  So much so that he could have been Severus’ own son, especially considering the way their stubborn streaks matched now that Harry had come out of his shell and Severus had earned the boy’s precious, unwavering trust.

The thought had Severus coming back to himself only to realise his fingers were buried in Harry’s soft hair, tenderly stroking, Harry’s face turned to him ever so slightly.  He sighed but didn’t stop the movement of his fingers as it continued to calm the boy. 

Harry, for his part, was being swayed back into sleep by the comforting hand and couldn’t help the sigh that sounded remarkably like “dad,” that left his lips.  The hand paused and he made a quiet noise of disapproval which only had the hand moving away from his hair entirely, only for the long fingers to wrap around his own small ones a moment later. 

“Harry?”  The voice was quiet and familiar and any tension Harry had had left melted away instantly.

He didn’t hurt like the last moments in his foggy memory suggested he should be.  He was warm and comfortable and there was a strong, warm hand holding his.  He was safe. 

Murmuring a little, Harry moved his head in the direction of the voice and repeated himself.  The answering voice sounded wrong somehow; a little stilted.  There was a barely noticeable tone of... disappointment... to the voice, but it was definitely there and Harry noticed.  “Harry, it’s Severus.  You fell out of the tree in the backyard, do you remember?”

Harry regretted his little nod when it set a dull thudding off behind his closed eyes and decided to answer in case the aborted movement hadn’t been enough, though he found his voice reluctant to work and it was quiet and breathy when he was able to force out words.  “Yeah... remember... Dad...”

“No, Harry, it’s me, it’s Severus,” the stilted voice said once more and Harry couldn’t help but force it, cracking an eye open enough to see the blurry form of his guardian leaning close beside him.  Though he could hardly see the expression those features were arranged in, Harry did notice the way the dark eyes were downcast, as though they couldn’t bring themselves to meet with the green ones of the boy on the bed.  The fingers were still curled around his in a comforting circle that spoke to something inside Harry, encouraging him to trust and promising him that that trust would be well placed and protected and even cherished as it never had been before and Harry squeezed them with his own littler ones while trying to meet the still downcast eyes. 

When it didn’t work – not completely, the eyes stayed down but the fingers squeezed back – Harry couldn’t keep his eyes open and they slid shut as he let out a sigh that was his exasperation with the man beside him who refused to listen.  With his slow, tired voice Harry quietly said, “Dad,” again and was stopped before he could continue by the suddenly warm touch of Severus’ hands on either side of his face, cupping it gently, and when he opened his eyes he saw the dark ones now meeting his.  Severus’ voice was a little firmer, though no less gentle, when he spoke again, trying to make Harry understand.

“Harry, it’s me, Severus.”

“I know,” Harry said, voice still weak but eyes matching those of his guardian as he tried to make the man understand.  He struggled to keep his eyes open for as long as possible then, to enjoy the look he’d caused to appear on the usually unreadable face.  He hadn’t seen Severus so shocked for quite a while. 

Severus was totally stunned.  Stunned enough not to notice as Harry smiled – clearly amused by his display of shock.  Stunned enough not to notice the way his own eyes betrayed him and warmed, dare he say affectionately, as he looked into the green ones held between his fingers.  Stunned and happy enough that when he finally noticed the way the pad of his thumb was absently stroking small circles on Harry’s baby soft cheek he didn’t remove it.  Apparently it wasn’t so hard to trust after all. 

As he sat with the boy’s face held so trustingly in his palm he had to acknowledge  that yes, Harry had definitely done it; he had wriggled his way into his heart as much as his life.  Impossible boy.