"Why do you always eat, Potter?"

Harry froze. "I—I'm not always eating," he protested. His stomach turned at the thought of always eating. He'd end up like Dudley or his Uncle Vernon. He was not going to look like that! The box of snack-sized pieces of melon was abruptly closed. He'd even packed it before he could stop and think properly about what he was doing.

"No?" Zabini raised an eyebrow. "Every time I walk in here, you are always eating out of that little box of yours."

"That doesn't mean I always eat, though."

"Of course not," Zabini drawled. To Harry it didn't sound as if he meant it, though.

—x—

"You did not eat your fruit today?"

Harry shook his head. "No. And I won't."

"You won't?" Snape's tone was dangerous, but Harry was too occupied by the thought that Zabini thought he was always eating to notice.

"No."

"Why is that?"

Harry frowned. "I'm getting fat," he told Snape. As if to prove it, he pulled up his jumpers and T-shirts to expose his stomach. Then he pinched his skin together. "Look! It's hideous! And I'm always eating, and it doesn't go anywhere—"

"Harry."

Harry shut his mouth, eyes wide. "What?"

"You are not getting fat, you idiot boy," Snape exclaimed, exasperated.

"But look," Harry protested. "And—"

Snape hiked up his own shirt, then did the same. "Am I fat, too?"

"I—"

"Well?"

"I don't know!" Harry burst out. "But I'm always eating, and Zabini said he only ever sees me eating, and I don't want to be like Dudley or Uncle Vernon, I don't! Dudley was always eating—!"

"You won't turn into them, Potter," Snape almost snapped. "This," and he jiggled the flesh he was pinching, "is insulation. It keeps you warm. It's not fat."

Harry just stared at Snape. "You promise?"

"If it will ease your mind, Potter, then, yes, I promise."

"Okay," Harry mumbled.

Snape adjusted his clothes. "You shouldn't listen to what others have to say about your eating habits, Potter."

"I listen to you, don't I?" Harry blurted at once. "And Madame Pomfrey, and Derek, and…"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry." Harry fidgeted with his clothes, smoothing them out after he had bunched up all his layers so he could show Snape the fat on his stomach. Only, Snape said it wasn't fat. He had this feeling that he used to know whether it was or wasn't, but this term… This term, nothing was the way it had been. Harry stood up and went over to one of Snape's many bookshelves, where the record player was. The bookshelves more or less lined the room, wall-to-wall. There were even shelves built, somehow, over the doors. Harry suspected magic had helped Snape fix that.

There were spaces without bookshelves, too, of course. Like where the fireplace was, or the doors themselves. But Snape had a lot of books. And old records. Some of them were even passable.

"Don't scratch it," Snape murmured from the sofa.

Harry hesitated. He'd been real careful as he slid the record from its sleeve, real careful as he placed it on the record player. But dropping the needle? He'd only ever watched Snape as he did it from a distance, never actually been shown how it was done.

"Show me?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at where Snape was sitting.

Snape snorted. The sofa creaked as Snape got up. Harry decided it was good the man sounded amused, and not an ounce cross. Then Snape was next to him, taking the arm from Harry's lax grip. "Slow and gentle, Potter," he said. "Turn it on first."

Harry flicked the button that set the record spinning. Snape nodded. "Then…" And he put the needle down, by the scratchiest part on the edge of the record. It took a few seconds before the music started. "You will want to make sure it is on the right setting here." Snape tapped a lever. Which he then pulled to the right.

It sounded like the smurfs, Harry thought, giggling to himself, rather than the manly Bruce Springsteen it was supposed to sound like.

Snape smirked briefly before switching the level back. "I expect you not to do that."

"But that's like telling me where the crisps are and then not letting me have any!" Harry protested.

"How old are you?" Snape asked, his tone equal parts incredulous and amused. Harry at once pouted. "I rest my case."

"Hey! I did that on purpose!"

"Which, again, is very mature." The sarcasm was almost tangible. "Now, pay attention."

"Yes, sir."

"Spinning the record too fast will damage it. You do that with the singles. They are smaller and need to rotate faster." He waited for Harry to nod. "Good. Never drop the needle anywhere else but in the grooves."

"Okay," Harry said.

"Okay?"

"Yes, okay," Harry said firmly.

With quick and deft fingers, Snape turned the record off. "Let me see."

It was ridiculous, Harry thought to himself, heart in his throat. This wasn't even something to get worked up about in the first place! His fingers were just a touch unsteady as he took hold of the arm, switched the record player on, dropped the needle in the correct groove – it was the fifth song on the B-side he was after. But Snape was right there, watching, waiting. Harry hated making the man disappointed, craved with an urgency that sometimes scared him to make Snape proud.

And, bloody hell, how careful he was not to figure out why that was.

"Did I do it right?" he asked once he was done fumbling and the upbeat melody was filtering through the air.

"Just right," Snape agreed.

Harry preened.

—x—

"Think you're ready for seventh years, yet, Potter?"

It was a week or two later. Harry didn't feel much different, but he wasn't as tired any more, nor was he cold for that matter. Some days, he was almost hungry. He wasn't sure why, precisely, because so much had happened. There was Zabini, who wasn't his boyfriend per se, but still someone he spent a lot of time with nonetheless. He had Tom, and the rest of the kids in Slytherin. There was Derek who he saw once every week. Snape was there to drop him off, and then there to pick him up again after each meeting.

And he had Snape. Harry still wasn't sure why Snape had come to be so important to him, but he was just as sure that he didn't ever want to be without him again, now that he'd had him. It was like before you knew him you didn't want anything to do whit him, but after you'd got to know him, you didn't ever want to be without out, ever again.

Snape was always there.

Harry stilled. "What d'you mean 'seventh years', Zabini?"

"Oh, exactly that." Zabini chuckled in his ear. "The girls don't really care; quite the aristocratic ladies, really, but three of the blokes were planning on showing up. Eventually." Zabini mouthed the words against Harry's neck, which made it bloody difficult focusing on a single word coming out of Zabini's mouth.

Scheming Slytherin, Harry thought to himself. "I see," he murmured. Then he sighed as Zabini added teeth to the lips already busy kissing his Adam's apple, mouth hot on his throat. "That's fine…"

It was a Saturday, curfew was hours and hours away. Harry stayed right where he was, between Zabini and the comfortable mattress Zabini had in his bed.

"I want to fuck you," Zabini told him.

It wasn't the first time he'd said it, either.

Just like it wasn't the first time Harry found something else, equally pleasing, for them to do. Yes, he was gay, and, yes, he had discovered after several pleasurable explorations with Zabini that he rather enjoyed sucking cock. But a prick up his arse? He'd rather wait until he didn't have to force himself to want it, and by default like it, as well.

He'd learned that lesson only too well, the hard way.

—x—

"You, Mr Potter," Malfoy sneered, "are corrupting my Slytherins."

So much for making it out of the Slytherin common room undetected. Harry gave Malfoy a lazy grin. "Yeah? Why d'you say that?" Harry didn't really think he was doing anything at all to the Slytherins. Up until the point where Zabini and some of the other students in his year had begun showing up, Harry'd been the oldest kid there. In a way, his presence alone had made sure that the study nights had been able to continue for as long as they had. He was just there to supervise.

"It is very rude."

Harry shrugged, then made for one of the sofas littering the common room. The one he aimed for was placed just in front of the fireplace. Very nice, Harry decided as he leaned against the backrest, wriggling his toes in his trainers. He could feel them warming up nicely already.

"They all seem rather nice and polite, not rude in the slightest," he told Malfoy, who'd followed him over and sat down next to him on the sofa. "Well, maybe not all of them. Zabini's got quite the mouth on him. And Nott. And Parkinson, too, now that I think about it, and that one fifth year, Cavish, and the third year, Pritchard, and—" he babbled. It was warm, and he was tired.

"I get it," Malfoy snapped. He narrowed his eyes. The way they were blazing was most certainly not friendly. "If you leave them for the wolves,I will kill you, Potter, you understand?" he said, almost conversationally. The undertone was, on the other hand, fucking dangerous. Harry was much better at picking up undertones these days. Must've been all the time he'd spent with Derek, and now with Snape.

"Yeah," Harry said quietly, "I know. And you'd have competition, too…but…I do worry, you know?"

"How do you mean?"

Harry glanced quickly at Malfoy, then stared fixedly at the fire. "What happens when the Gryffindors have enough of me running around the dungeons all hours of the day? What happens when one of them wakes up and—"

Malfoy's look was so incredulous that Harry felt another stab of betrayal. "I know," he whispered. "But…I have to hope."

"That they will ruin everything?"

Harry shook his head. "That they'll…stop hating me. I don't want to talk about that. But what I meant was that they could ruin so much. Most of the older kids were real hesitant in the beginning because I'm a Gryffindor. Tom and the other first years just wanted a bit help with their homework, or somewhere to play games away from their common room. But… 'Cause it's just I'm not really sure just how, um, how long the other Gryffindors will ignore that a Gryffindor's hanging out down here." He didn't want to consider that they'd forgotten he was a Gryffindor in the first place. That hurt too much.

Malfoy sneered. "Then that is what must be avoided, at all costs."

"Yes," Harry agreed. He wondered why Malfoy even knew all this. Why he was talking to Harry about it. Slytherins were all about gaining something. Harry really didn't get what Malfoy hoped to gain by making sure the study sessions kept on being on-going.

Malfoy shifted on the sofa. Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, then glanced at the clock on the wall. It hung directly above the exit. Rather clever, he supposed, because you couldn't help but see the time as you went out. Curfew was in twenty minutes, then Snape'd come looking for him, as he'd threatened to do, once or twice, mostly in jest. For a short moment, he was tempted to stay out later, just to see if Snape really would come looking.

"I can't decide which one of you to warn." Malfoy's whisper startled him enough that he actually jumped.

"Huh?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Zabini, or you."

"Oh." Harry frowned. He wasn't really surprised that Malfoy knew, it was just… "How d'you mean?"

"Zabini, you see, is a valuable acquaintance of mine." Malfoy looked at him straight on. "On the other hand, so are you."

Harry grinned. "I see. And you can't decide which'll be more beneficial in the long run, right?"

This time, it was Malfoy who looked startled. Harry decided not to tell him that he'd been staying with Snape for several weeks by now.

"Yes, Potter. Exactly."

Harry looked serious again. "Why?"

"Then again, you're the soft hearted Gryffindor, tenacious though you are." Malfoy smirked at him. Suddenly, Harry was really sure Malfoy knew about Harry's eating problems, and probably more than that.

"Blaise Zabini is a Casanova, Potter. He wants his cock up your arse, and then he will find a new treasure to conquer."

Though the words hit him like icy water, it wasn't as bad as it could've been. It was just, Zabini hadn't exactly made a secret out of what he wanted. Harry just hadn't expected that was all he wanted. Harry wasn't exactly in love, but by the way his heart was hammering, and his stomach felt awfully hollow… He'd probably invested more interest in Zabini than he'd thought. He wasn't sure, but had some small part of him depended on Zabini?

It was like Charlie Weasley all over again.

"I lost count of the number of people he lured into his bed last year. The notches on his top left bedpost are not there by accident, nor are they for decorative purposes." Malfoy was brutal in his absolute bluntness. "Do you understand?"

"More the novelty of having a Gryffindor in bed than me, right?" Harry muttered.

Malfoy winced, although he hid it well. "Yes," he simply said.

Harry sucked in a deep breath, then slowly let it out again. His hands were shaking. Inside, his stomach was rebelling the dinner he'd eaten hours before.

Why wasn't he ever good enough? Was there something hideously wrong with him that made people only able to stand him for short moments?

"Are you going to be sick, Potter?" The tone of Malfoy's voice told Harry more than he cared to know about just how aware Malfoy was of his eating habits lately.

"I hope not," Harry whispered. "I finally put on some weight." And Snape had looked so proud, so pleased that Harry'd walked on clouds for the entire day.

"Good for you, Potter." Malfoy cleared his throat. "You weren't serious about him, were you?"

"No. Rebound, mostly." Even as he said it, he knew it was true. He hadn't given a thought to Charlie, or what they'd done until he'd told Derek all about it, and then only so he could have someone help him process it. But it probably wasn't too far from the truth to say that Harry had needed a tiny bit more than a casual, aloof, and entirely platonic, morning after. He'd needed far more than the absolute nothingness he'd got so far. "Or, well. Just to see what it was I missed. I dunno, Malfoy. Zabini's fit, y'know?"

"I suppose."

On the wall, the clock chimed.

"You look as if you are about to be sick, Potter. Why?"

"Not really your business, is it?" Harry snapped, a bit more harshly than he'd intended. What the fuck kind of fucked up question was it anyway? He swallowed hard several times, feeling the nausea build. His mouth was full of saliva, his gums felt thick and heavy.

"Here." Malfoy shoved a glass of water at him.

Harry gratefully took small sip. Then another.

Then he shook his head.

Malfoy pulled him up and rushed him over to the nearest loo in no time. Which, it turned out, was just in time. He lost his dinner and what felt like half his stomach. By the time he was done, his throat was sore and his stomach was cramping. He hadn't been this sick in over two weeks.

Malfoy was by the sink, holding out the glass of water he'd conjured earlier.

"Thanks," Harry muttered. He rinsed his mouth several times, then cast the Mouth Refreshing charm he'd taught himself so many weeks ago.

"I can actually see your spine through your shirt, Potter."

"Shut up."

Harry straightened, fiddling with his jumper until it covered him properly again. It was Snape's, black, and too large. Harry loved it. What he didn't love, was how his reflection looked. He was way too pale and clammy. Harry turned on the taps, mixing the cold and warm water, then washed his face.

"Why?" Malfoy repeated his question from before. Harry contemplated feigning ignorance. In the end, he decided not to.

An eye for an eye, a truth for a truth. Silence was bought and heavily bargained for, not something taken for granted and freely given. Wasn't that how Slytherins played?

"When is Harry going to be good enough?" Harry asked, voice hushed.

Malfoy stared at him, his grey eyes flat. But he didn't answer, and Harry had hardly expected him to.

Harry splashed his face one last time, then turned the taps off with shaking hands. "How were you going to warn Zabini?" he wondered.

Malfoy shrugged as he handed Harry a towel. "I was just going to remind him how much is, currently, hinging on you."

"That doesn't exactly make me feel better," Harry pointed out. His stomach remained calm, though. He sort of knew that had Malfoy said it before, just after he'd said what he had about Zabini, then it'd have been much worse. He sort of wanted to ask Maloy what it was that was hinging on him, but then he'd let Malfoy know that Harry'd no clue about the game Malfoy was currently playing, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to do that. It would sort of be like rolling over and exposing his stomach.

"You're not going to…?" Malfoy gestured at the rows of cubicles.

"No. I don't think so."

"Good. It is truly revolting."

Harry's laugh was hoarse. "'Course it is."

Harry was polishing his glasses when the door to the loo opened again. The towel was tucked under his arm, and his face was still wet round the edges. Even though Harry had automatically flushed the toilet and cast an Air Refreshing Charm just as soon as he was sure he wasn't going to be sick again, the air still held a faint undercurrent of vomit.

It was a first year, one of the boys Harry didn't know. Malfoy cast a glance at him, then gave the room a quick onceover. "Shall we?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Let's."

"You could refine your vocabulary, you know."

Harry ignored that by shrugging. And noticing the time. His stomach turned again.

It was half an hour after curfew. At least. "Oh, I'm so fucked," he mumbled to himself.

"Potter?"

"I have to go. I'll see you later, Malfoy."

"Potter!" Malfoy grabbed Harry by the arm.

"What?" Harry snapped.

"Calm down." Harry shot Malfoy an incredulous look. "Tomorrow, seventh years will show up. Accept them."

Harry just nodded, too distracted. He was out after curfew. Oh, Snape was going to be so disappointed! A claw of ice gripped his heart. Or what if he didn't want anything to do with Harry any more? What if he wasn't going to help him any more?

"I have to go," he said again, and wrenched his arm free. This time, Malfoy let him go.

Harry ran the entire way, his heart in his throat, hammering like mad. Snape's office was still a fair bit away. Harry could hear the minutes ticking off in his head, one by one. He was shaking so bad when he finally arrived at the familiar door that he could barely get it open, much less whisper his password to it. The door to the supply closet gave him similar problems, and then he was in the furthest corner of the dark room. He was breathing too rapidly by then, quick, shallow breaths.

"Salvation," he whispered. "Please." The door shimmered, and Harry stumbled right through it.

Snape was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. When Harry fell into his room, Snape was by his side in an instant. He grabbed Harry by the shoulders. "Where have you been?" he demanded.

Harry's breath hitched. "What's wrong with me?" His eyes were stinging something horrible, his throat was aching so much it felt like he'd eaten sandpaper every time he swallowed. And Snape was right there, his black eyes entirely focused on him.

"Where were you?" Snape said again. He didn't sound angry, not at all. A bit tired, maybe, and a fair bit exasperated. Maybe even a tiny bit worried. All bits of knowledge that Harry collected and guarded fiercely and jealously. Someone cared. It made him feel warm and wanted.

It made him feel even more upset than he already was.

"I was with Zabini earlier and then, after, Malfoy found me, and—" the tale tumbled from his lips. He was babbling, he knew that, but Snape still stood, listening, as if transfixed by the tale. "And, and…I was sick," he whispered.

"Potter—"

"I'm so sorry! I didn't meant to, but—"

"Of course you didn't, you stupid boy," Snape cut him off. Snape wrapped an arm round Harry's narrow shoulders, then steered him towards the sofa. Harry relished in the comfort Snape's arm gave him. He wanted to burrow closer, to feel the warmth all over him, feel protected and cared for and wanted.

Snape sat them down on the sofa, then wrapped Harry up in a large, fluffy blanket. But he didn't move away, so Harry awkwardly rested his head on Snape's bony shoulder. The arm round his shoulders never went away.

"Am I in trouble?"

"We'll talk about it in the morning," Snape said dismissively.

Harry frowned. "But am I in trouble?"

Snape smoothed a hand through Harry's wild hair. "Not as such," he finally relented. Harry felt himself relax even further.

"Good," he murmured. "'Cause I worried I was. Hate disappointing you."

"Shhh," Snape told him. Harry closed his eyes and smiled.

He was warm, comfy, Snape stilled cared about him. He felt happy.

"Tell me about Charlie Weasley," Snape said after a long moment of silence.

Harry yawned. "Okay," he agreed, and told Snape all about it.

"—Don't be angry, Snape. Please? We both did stuff we shouldn't have, but…I still like him, and he's gorgeous, you know?" Harry mumbled, only barely awake.

"He…is a Weasley," Snape said stiffly.

"Mmm. Redhead. Muscles. Freckles. Lots and lots of freckles." Harry let out an impish giggle. "S'got freckles even on his—"

"That's enough, Potter," Snape muttered.

"I was gonna say bum! Not—"

"Yes," Snape interrupted again, "I had surmised as much."

"Oh!" Harry giggled again.

Snape rolled his eyes. "I believe someone is a little too tired."

"Mmmmm," Harry mumbled.

Snape began smoothing his hand through Harry's hair again. Harry sighed in pleasure, practically melting against Snape. "Did he force you?"

"Mm, no. S'just, I wasn't really ready for stuff like that. Couldn't even say out loud that I'm, y'know, gay until I told you. Charlie knew that. I knew that. We were just…not really right in the head. Felt good, were happy. Just…not the way it was supposed to be. Didn't feel good afterwards."

Snape's fingers scratched him behind his ear. Harry shivered and burrowed closer at the same time. "Mmmmm," he breathed. "S'nice…"

"I won't be required to castrate him, then?"

"Mm, no. Just tell him to owl me, and ask why he didn't owl, 'cause Derek says I'm worth the world and more."

—x—

The next morning Harry woke up confused. He was in his bed, but he couldn't remember how he got there. It was with equal parts peculiar embarrassment and a sort of joyful contentment that he realised he must have fallen asleep on Snape's sofa.

Fallen asleep on Snape. He felt his face grow hot at the same time as his belly squirmed with happiness. He burrowed further under the thick quilt, turning so he could curl up on his side. Snape must have made sure Harry made it to his bed. Had he carried him, or levitated him? Tucked him in? Harry smiled at his own silliness. He remembered now, past the first confusion of waking up, about what had happened yesterday. With Zabini, Malfoy, how he'd been sick and how he'd been late home, and then telling Snape about Charlie.

Home. How long had he thought about Snape's flat as home?

For the first time in all the weeks since he'd stayed with Snape, a traitorous part of him, far more rebellious than his strongest defence, whispered that maybe, just maybe, this was what having a dad would be like.

—x—

"Potter."

Harry blinked. He was still busy thinking about Snape, and yesterday. There was a certain kind of thought that had wormed its way into his brain that he couldn't shake. He wasn't even sure he wanted to shake it. Would having Snape as his dad really be that bad?

"Potter," someone said again. Harry started and looked up.

"Yes?" One of the blokes who stood in front of him, the tallest one, smirked, while the other two merely stared blankly at him. It was probably the tall one who'd talked to him. "Oh. Hi. I'm Harry," he said, coming off as a bit redundant.

The tall boy sniggered. "Yes, Potter, we know who you are. I'm Nikolai Szmanda. These two are Alexander and Leonardo Maye."

"Hi," Harry said again. "Welcome." Normally, he would be sitting with Zabini. Today, he was sitting alone. It hurt a bit, that Zabini hadn't even needed him to break it off properly. "Do you want to sit?"

No, today Zabini was sitting with a busty fifth year. Jasmine Ivanov, if Harry wasn't entirely wrong. They'd arrived together, neither of them sparing Harry a glance, and promptly found a corner where they were at least partly obscured from the rest of the room.

"If you don't mind," Szmanda said. He sat down next to Harry, but the other two seventh years went off to find a table for themselves.

—x—

"You forgot your fruit today," Snape told him when he got home.

"No," Harry said. He was feeling awfully nervous, but he couldn't help but acting up.

"I beg your pardon?" Snape looked surprised.

"I said, no. I didn't forget it. I didn't feel like any, so I didn't take any."

Snape's eyes were narrowed. "You didn't feel like any?" Snape mocked him.

"Yeah!" Harry stood his ground, standing straight. It was only his shoulders, bowed inwards as if protecting himself, that belied his otherwise defiant stance. "You don't have any right to tell me what to do." He was almost convinced his tone didn't sound as waveringly confused to Snape as it did to him.

Snape just stared at him.

"How old are you, Potter?" he finally burst out, incredulous.

Harry blinked, feeling utterly confused. "I—I… What d'you mean?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "You stupid boy," he said. "Come here."

"No," Harry automatically protested.

When Snape raised an eyebrow, Harry sort of realised he'd stepped over the line, just a little bit. He was still feeling awfully nervous, and in a desperate need to test Snape. He was still feeling overwrought from the night before.

"Sir?"

"Sit next to me," Snape said.

Harry slowly made his way over, then sat down on the sofa next to Snape. Snape turned to him, and his eyes were just as warm and comfortable as Harry vaguely remembered them to be from yesterday. He felt even more confused, then, as he was suddenly very sure that it was exactly like that Snape had looked at him when he'd helped him into bed last night.

But Harry'd been asleep, hadn't he?

"I don't understand," Harry whispered to Snape. He was sure it wasn't the first time he'd told Snape that. "What's wrong with me?"

"I'm sure I have a list somewhere," Snape drawled. Harry's lips twitched at the attempt at humour. Snape quickly became serious again. "Why do you think there's something wrong with you, Potter?"

Harry fidgeted with his fingers, resting them nervously in his lap. "Why do I want to make you proud?" he forced himself to say.

Snape just looked at him.

Harry felt sick.

"I see," Snape eventually said, sounding to Harry a bit baffled. "Potter." Harry reflexively looked up at Snape. "I'm very proud of you. You've done very well, this term."

"I've been good?"

"Very good," Snape agreed.

Harry felt weak with relief. He was powerless to stop the huge grin from spreading across his face.