Snape sat in his armchair by the fire, a roll of parchment on his lap. He wasn’t looking at it, staring into the flames instead. On the chair next to his, Marlowe slept the sleep of the of the untroubled, his back to the warmth of the fire.

Everything was as it ought to be, their routine unbroken. Except that it wasn’t.

Snape was only too aware of the words on the parchment in front of him, of the significance they held and the changes they would introduce into his life. Or had already introduced. While the room where the boy had slept was currently empty, Harry having returned to the dormitory, Snape would not convert it back into the storage chamber it had been. It would have to be enlarged, decorated – with Quidditch posters, Merlin preserve him – and it would always remind him that his responsibilities were no longer limited to himself, his potions and his Kneazle.

Snape’s eyes drifted towards the parchment. Three signatures had been scribbled at its bottom: his own, Dumbledore’s, and the chicken scratch of a child who was unused to writing with quills. That would have to be remedied, of course. Many things would have to be remedied. The boy’s wardrobe, for instance, if one could call it that. Rags and shabby hand-me-downs, not fit for a jumble sale, much less a young wizard. No, Harry would not walk around in those anymore. And if they went to Madam Malkin’s, they might as well take a detour to the optician and have Harry’s eyes checked. Snape didn’t like the way the boy squinted when trying to read the blackboard. Chances were that those glasses of his had come from a bargain bin, and were not even close to his prescription.

He’d also have to take the boy to St. Mungo’s at some point. The scars on Harry’s back no longer hurt, but there was no need for the boy to carry them around as a reminder for the rest of his life. Snape knew many of the Healers at St. Mungo’s, and quite a few of them contacted him regularly to request potions. They’d find a way to remove the scars. Snape would make sure.

Over in the other chair, Marlowe arched his back, stretching out his long front legs. Snape shot his familiar an irritated look. His own head was threatening to burst, and the Kneazle slept as if no little boy had suddenly entered their life, bringing with him a flood of new obligations, expenses and headaches. Harry’s grades, for instance… what if the boy entered puberty and suddenly decided that broomsticks, parties and the opposite sex were far more important than his education? Most of the little dunderheads did… but Snape would not allow his ward to stoop to such irresponsible behavior. No, Mr. Potter was going to study for his OWLs, and if Snape had to ban him from the Quidditch pitch for an entire term, so be it. No apprentice of his was going to get away with shoddy schoolwork.

Apprentice. There it was right in front of him, magically signed and sealed on official parchment. Irreversible until Harry came of age. And Snape still couldn’t quite believe what he had gotten himself into.

He remembered himself standing in Dumbledore’s office, clad in the heavy embroidered robes still worn for ancient ceremonies. Harry had looked very small in his white novice robes, pale and apprehensive as he watched the two adults prepare the ritual. He had agreed to the apprenticeship readily enough; more eagerly than Snape had expected him to. He had no illusions that it was mostly the prospect of never returning to his relatives that had convinced the boy.

They had stepped into the circle of runes Dumbledore had conjured, and Snape had taken the silver dagger the headmaster gave him. He felt Harry’s eyes on him as he pricked his thumb, allowing the blood to drop into the bowl Dumbledore had ready. Then he handed the dagger to the boy. Harry didn’t flinch when its blade cut into his skin, and calmly watched as their blood mingled in the bowl. Dumbledore had intoned the millenia-old chant of master and apprentice, weaving the magical bond between them. And then it was done. The boy was his, to teach, to guard and to care for.

The old apprentice bond took the “giving ceremony” very literally; the novice became his master’s property as soon as he joined his household. It was the main reason why apprenticeships had fallen out of fashion; too many masters abused their power, and even the wizarding world no longer condoned slavery (as far as humans were concerned, that was). Dumbledore had managed to reword the traditional contract, toning down the passages on “property”, “obedience” and “absolute power”, but Snape did not think that the magic had been fooled. Harry was indeed his, and the responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had held power before, and had abused it. There was no reason why he wouldn’t do so again, and who would be there to stop him? No one could break the bond they had created, not even Dumbledore. And Harry was probably not even aware just what he had agreed to.

Snape grabbed the contract and tossed it onto the coffee table. He didn’t want to look at it any longer. A child should not have to submit to an obscure ceremony from a long-lost age just to find a safe home. It wasn’t right or fair.

Of course, as he liked to remind his students when they whined about some insignificant thing or other, life wasn’t fair.

He got up from his chair, turning away from the parchment on the table as if it would cease to exist if he didn’t look at it. He would go to his office and grade papers. That was what he usually did in the early evening, and there was no reason to break his routine. Grading papers had an almost meditative quality to it – the same spelling blunders, same mistakes, same nonsense spouted by dunderheads from year one to seven. Ink stains and chocolatey fingermarks he could circle with red ink and write a nasty comment underneath. If nothing else worked, it would distract him for a while.

He went by the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he did so, he noticed that his cupboards weren’t exactly stocked for the needs of an eleven-year-old boy. Of course, Harry ate in the Great Hall during term time, but shouldn’t a proper guardian be aware of his charge’s dietary requirements? He’d have to make sure the boy ate a balanced diet, vegetables and such. Come to think of it, he should probably start by changing his own eating habits; he couldn’t very well demand healthy eating from Harry if he himself usually passed over the greens. Pomfrey had been on his back for years, lecturing him on chronic health risks and such tosh, but it was only now that he actually considered following her advice.

And the Master shalt be an example unto his Apprentice, and the Apprentice shalt model himself on his Master…

Merlin. At this rate, he’d have to start brushing his teeth twice a day… no more relaxing with a good pipe in the evenings, either. Snape had always suspected it, but now he had proof; parents were indeed the most miserable wizards on this planet.

Parents. Bloody hell. No, he was not going to think of it in those terms. Guardian. Yes, that was better. Not that it changed anything about the fact that he’d better shape up to the task, and fast.

He went into his office, almost relieved when he saw the large pile of essay scrolls. This would take several hours, and afterwards he might be exhausted and annoyed enough to forget about Harry Potter and the horrible fact that he, Snape, was supposed to be a responsible role model.

He started with the third-year Gryffindors and their inept scribblings on Odiosus Schroeder’s variations of the Shrinking Solution. Fred Weasley had seen fit to supplement his descriptions with small pictures of a brewing Schroeder, whose nose bore a suspicious resemblance to Snape’s own. In the last picture, Schroeder dripped some of the Shrinking Solution on his nose and then smiled at his (much improved) appearance in the mirror, while his wife applauded in the background. Snape narrowed his eyes, and was about to formulate a particularly acid comment on how Weasley’s extra-curricular ambitions would be better served by scrubbing the Potions classroom from top to bottom, when he was interrupted by a hesitant knock on his office door.

“Enter,” he barked, glaring at whomever felt the need to disturb him.

It was Harry. The boy poked his head in, looking caught off guard by Snape’s pugnacious tone. Snape sighed and pushed Weasley’s essay aside.

“Come in, Harry.”

The boy obeyed, closing the door behind him. Snape noticed that he was carrying a plate with… a piece of sponge cake on it?

“Didn’t you finish your dinner?” Snape asked, raising his eyebrows at the plate.

The boy looked slightly sheepish. “Um… you weren’t in the Great Hall, and Draco said you were probably working, so…”

Snape blinked, momentarily stumped. This was… unexpected. And it seemed that the boy had it all wrong. He, Snape, was supposed to take care of Harry, not the other way around.

Then he noticed that he was indeed quite hungry. And sponge cake was one of the more… acceptable sweets the house elves served.

He opened his mouth, about to tell the boy that he wasn’t supposed to take plates from the Great Hall, then closed it again. Role model. Right. Manners and such.

“That was… considerate of you,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

Harry smiled a little as he came over and set the plate down, right on top of Weasley’s nose shrinking picture. He had even thought to bring a fork.

Snape regarded the boy for a moment. He looked… rested. The dark shadows under his eyes were gone, and he seemed to have gained some much-needed weight. His cheeks even had a slight pink tinge to them. It made the scar seem less pronounced, for some reason. He was probably imagining it, but it seemed that the reddened tissue had faded somewhat, and no longer stood out as the defining feature of Harry’s face. Or maybe it was just the fact that Harry was no longer the pale and basically mute child that had arrived at Hogwarts.

“Sit,” Snape told the boy, who took a seat on the chair in front of Snape’s desk. He looked at the pile of scrolls.

“Are you very busy?”

Obviously, Snape thought, but again he didn’t say it. “Is there something you require?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s just…”

He trailed off, looking down at his hands. Snape waited patiently, and eventually, the boy raised his head again.

“I was just wondering if it was real, you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Snape said. “If what was real?”

Harry began to fiddle with the sleeve of his robes, not looking at Snape. “When I… when I saw my mum and dad. Back when I was… you know.”

Snape did know, this time, and he was well aware that it had only been a matter of time until the subject came up. He should probably be glad that Harry addressed it of his own volition, even if he had no idea how to discuss life after death with an eleven-year-old. Such questions were Albus’ forte… but Albus, damn him, was not the one doomed to be a parent. Guardian. Same difference.

“Did they seem real to you?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah… they looked like normal people, not ghosts or something.”

“That is because they were never ghosts,” Snape said. “They decided to move on.”

“But I came back,” Harry said softly. “I didn’t stay with them.”

Snape gave him a long look. “You weren’t ready,” he said then. “Your parents will have known that.”

“They asked me about Hogwarts and stuff. And…” He paused, apparently gathering courage for what he wanted to say. “And mum asked about you.”

Snape felt a sharp jolt somewhere close to his stomach. It was painful, and at the same time he felt surprisingly elated. He took a deep breath, and only spoke when he was sure his voice would sound perfectly calm.

“Did she?”

Harry nodded. “She asked if you were looking out for me, and I told her you were. And she wanted me to tell you she says thank you. For everything.”

Snape stared at him, and for a second or two he was tempted to get up and leave, just to make sure the boy didn’t see any of the emotional turmoil his words had caused. But he stayed where he was. This was her son, giving him her message from beyond the veil. He deserved an answer.

Slowly, he nodded, and his voice even came out fairly normal. “Thank you for telling me.”

Harry nodded and looked at the plate on the table. “Aren’t you going to eat your cake?”

At that – and maybe it was a reaction to the emotions swirling inside him – Snape almost laughed. “Yes,” he said, and pulled the plate over to him. “I suppose I shouldn’t miss dinner.”

Looking pleased with himself, Harry watched as Snape took a small bite. “If you want, I can bring you something every time you have to work late.”

Being a Slytherin, Snape was well used to reading between the lines, and it wasn’t as if Harry was being all that subtle. His nervous expression said it all.

And for once, he knew exactly what to do in response. “Yes,” he said, and didn’t smile because, well, it was not something he did. “That would be acceptable.”