“Severus, my boy.”

Severus grimaced. The falsely jovial tone always put his teeth on edge, even when he knew it was his own fault. He'd been keeping too many secrets, and Albus was an even better Legilimens than the Dark Lord. He didn't suspect the man of using it deliberately, but Albus was so perceptive it had to be supernatural. Perhaps he was paranoid, but lying to the man was terrifying, and that jovial tone could mean danger.

“Headmaster,” he greeted, gritting his teeth.

It earned him a smile. “So formal, Severus?” Albus asked him.

“It seems appropriate, given that I assume you mean to reprimand me for missing the staff meeting,” Severus told him dryly.

“Why would you assume that?” Albus asked him, putting on a quizzical expression. “You typically have a good reason for being away. Do you not have an explanation for me this time?” Though the man's head was tilted to the side in light-hearted inquiry, his eyes were penetrating.

Surely, surely he was paranoid. Surely the man wasn't doubting his previous reasons for leaving, too. Severus was a Potions Master. Leaving Hogwarts on various errands was not at all unusual for him, and it had been three months since the last time he'd been to Privet Drive. The trip had been connected with a legitimate errand for potions ingredients, and he hadn't even seen Harry. How could the man possibly suspect anything?

Sure, Albus watched him closely – and he well understood why, though he couldn't help but resent it – but before this trip Severus hadn't seen Harry since December, when he'd given him the clothing. And as Albus had said, he'd always come up with a good reason for being gone – and an at least partially truthful one, when he could manage it.

As he could now. “I do, of course,” Severus told the man, feigning offense. “I had a family emergency.” Which was the truth, but Albus knew well how little family Severus had, so that was not sufficient. “My aunt is ill,” he told him. Also true – but the woman had colon cancer. She'd been ill for months. Still not a good explanation for why Severus had left at that particular moment. “She's in hospital.” Still true, but the woman had been there for a week. “I was told she may well pass at any time.” Still, no outright lies...but Severus had gotten word of that the week before, from his father's other sister, and had neither written back nor visited. The world would be well rid of the woman.

He felt bad, when Albus' face softened in much more genuine sympathy. “I had not heard. I'm so sorry, Severus. Do you wish a leave of absence?”

He couldn't let that stand. “No,” he told the man coldly. “Thank you. We are not close.”

Albus met his eyes, and Severus fought not to look away even as he concentrated hard on his occlumency. Looking away would aid in fighting Albus' legilimancy, but it would also open him up to more ordinary means of telling a lie. Dumbledore was an expert at both.

Still, it was hard not to look away. The last time he'd been hiding this much from the man, he'd ended up with a serpent and a skull branded into his forearm.

Albus held his gaze for longer than usual, his own expression going sad and grave, but Severus refused to give in, lifting his chin and keeping the man's eye contact for as long as he wanted it.

“Alright, Severus,” Albus said, sighing. “I trust you.”

Severus suppressed his wince. 'I trust you' was not at all the same statement as, 'I believe you.'

Albus knew. And - he'd hoped the man would be angry, would demand the truth. Instead - Albus definitely knew he was lying, and he was... worried. Sad, and worried.

It's nothing bad this time, Severus wanted to tell him. I promise you. I'll come clean, just...not yet. But that was what he'd been telling himself for ten years.

“Albus, I-” but he had no idea what to say, and Albus put a hand up to stop him from trying. “I trust you,” the man repeated. “Take your time.”

But the words sat in Severus' stomach like lead.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harry grinned, thrilled, as he gently touched the 'on' switch of the little plastic airplane he'd rescued from Dudley's garbage, and the tiny motor hummed to life, spinning the propeller and illuminating the edges of the wings. It was a simple little toy, and it had not survived Dudley hurling it into the wall, but as it turned out, the batteries just hadn't been contacting properly. Not worth the repair to Dudley, who either already had another one just like it or could demand one from his parents, but eminently so to Harry. A rubber band and some duct tape, and he not only had a toy airplane, it still worked!

For a little while, he played in his room, bouncing on the bed and 'flying' the plane around the small space. But he didn't want to wake the Dursleys, and flying in circles was boring. Finally, he took the little plane with him and snuck down the stairs and out of the house, heading for the park. That was a much better place to play, and he ran around making motor and gun noises, 'shooting' at the moths under a street lamp before 'crashing' into it and sending the plane to the ground. “Mayday! Mayday!”

“Mister Potter.”

Startled, Harry whipped around, clutching his plane, and looked up at his stern-faced father. What'd I do? Father only ever called him that when he was mad.

“Father?” he asked guiltily. He hated it when his father was angry. And it'd only been a week since the last time. But his father hadn't objected to him playing before...or rescuing toys from the trash, either.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” the man asked slowly.

Oh. Was that why? It probably was late, given how he couldn't see any of the park beyond his street lamp. But it was apparently not a rhetorical question, as his father was still waiting for an answer.

“No?” he tried. The man's eyebrow twitched, and Harry quickly revised his statement. “No, sir.”

“Hmm,” his father said. “Do you remember what time it was the last time you looked at a clock? When did the Dursleys go to bed?”

Harry bit his lip at the tone, and looked down. “...ten, sir,” he offered. That did make it pretty late, didn't it? Probably like eleven or twelve...or even one. But...since when did his father care when he went to bed?

“So, then, do you have a guess what time it is?” came the stern question.

“...midnight?” Harry hazarded.

His father did...something, and a glowing clock showed up in space. Used to that kind of thing around his father, Harry didn't startle.

“Close,” his father told him, indicating the numbers. “Twelve thirty. Why aren't you in bed?”

“I was playing,” Harry told him. But then he couldn't help it. He hated it when his father was angry! And how was he supposed to know he'd be in trouble? “You didn't tell me I was supposed to go to bed!” he protested.

“Tone,” his father snapped.

Harry shut up, his heart suddenly pounding. Now his father was even more mad. He couldn't do anything right. “Sorry,” he said softly. “W-what time do you want me to go to bed?”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Severus stared down at his son, cursing his temper. The boy was quiet, now, and sort of – curled in on himself. Miserable.

Worse, Harry was right. He wasn't being fair. He could tell the was actually trying to please him, so if he failed it was Severus' fault. He was trying to be a better father, not just yell at the boy more often.

Of course the Dursleys hadn't given the boy a damned bedtime. What did they care if he was miserable in the morning?

“Nine thirty,” he decided, feeling like a fraud. He sounded like...one of his students' parents. Which shouldn't be odd – he was, in fact, this boy's father, and he was finally actually trying to be that. But it still felt unnatural. “...with your teeth brushed,” he added. The boy had skipped that, the night before.

Harry gave him a look of consternation. “But-” the boy started.

Severus scowled, and Harry cut off and looked down again. Severus took a deep breath. He'd been wrong before, about Harry's motives for things, and the boy didn't usually protest without good reason.

“What's wrong with nine thirty?” he asked, trying not to allow his impatience into his tone. “But watch your tone.”

Harry looked up at him, cautiously trying to read his face. “I'm not angry,” Severus assured him. “Explain, please.”

“I-it's before the Dursleys go to bed,” Harry told him.

Ah. Yes. That would be a problem, wouldn't it? But then, he actually wanted Harry to tell him these things, he realized. “What is wrong with that?” he asked.

“I-I got the p-plane because they'd already gone to bed,” Harry told him. “A-and- f-food sometimes. A-and Dudley takes his toys back if I fix them, even if they were in the garbage. I can't play until he's in bed.”

Yes. That. He actually knew that, from watching the boy. He'd been aware of the dumpster-diving and refrigerator-raiding. It was one of the reasons he suspected Petunia was doing something to the boy's food – Harry would eat only half of what was on his plate, then stuff himself on the same food cold from the fridge in the middle of the night.

And since he couldn't actually do anything to the Dursleys without Dumbledore or the Ministry or somebody figuring it out, there was a limit to his control over them. He needed them not to figure out that he was constrained from actually harming them.

“Give me your plane,” he told the boy instead.

Harry shot him a wary look, obviously reluctant. Severus wouldn't have wanted to hand his toys over to an adult, either. Still, he put his hand out, and gave the boy a straight look. He expected obedience, and this time it would build trust – especially if he didn't actually reassure the boy. He shouldn't have to tell Harry that he wouldn't break or take his possessions.

Biting his lip, Harry slowly reached out, and gave him his plane. Unexpectedly touched, Severus took it from him gently.

“Good boy,” he found himself saying.

The look on the boy's face in response made him uncomfortable, and he turned his attention to the airplane instead. He'd memorized the magical signature of each of Harry's relatives when he'd included them in the wards he put on the house. It was simple enough to cast wards to specifically exclude them instead. The spell he knew was meant for dwellings, not objects, and was therefore seriously overkill for a toy airplane, but it would function the same. None of the boy's relatives would be able to touch the thing, and the attempt would give them a nasty shock. It took a little time, and he was aware of his son watching him anxiously, but holding it awhile before returning the toy unharmed would matter a lot more than words of reassurance.

“I will be coming more frequently, Harry,” he told the boy, returning the toy to him. “Bring your toys and other objects to me, and I will prevent your relatives from damaging or taking them. Alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry told him, clutching the airplane now that it was back in his possession. “Thank you.”

Again, the discomfort. “Nine thirty,” he told the boy firmly.

“Yes, sir,” Harry told him again. He didn't say anything more, but he looked forlorn. He wouldn't be able to acquire 'new' toys from his relatives garbage, this way – or food, either - but Severus had a different idea for that. An idea that, looking down at his son, gave him an unexpected sense of anticipation.

But that wasn't why Harry was sad, he knew.

“Come,” he told the boy, taking his hand. After a moment of obvious startlement, Harry gripped him back, small fingers tight around part of Severus' hand. Once again unexpectedly moved, Severus lead him back to his relatives'.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Father was taking him home, Harry marveled. His father was holding his hand, and he'd made his airplane Dudley-proof. The man was practically dragging him, his stride twice the length of Harry's, but Harry just hurried to keep up, determined to keep his grip.

Had Father really said he'd be coming more often, now? Did he really mean it? He didn't know, but for now he just concentrated on soaking up every minute.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Reaching the Dursleys' home, Severus released Harry's hand. He could feel the boy's reluctance, but Harry did let him go, and Severus gripped his shoulder instead, using it to steer him through the front door, into the house, and up the stairs. He'd initially intended to put him straight in bed, but then he remembered, and veered for the bathroom instead.

“Teeth,” he told the boy quietly. If one of the Dursleys woke up, whoever it was would wake up the whole rest of the household, and not only would that delay Harry's – and therefore Severus' - sleep even further, he'd probably end up hexing one of them. The whole family infuriated him beyond anything he'd felt for anyone, even for Lucius Malfoy. The way Lucius Malfoy treated his son made Severus grit his teeth, but the Dursleys weren't mistreating their own son, they were mistreating Severus'. And Lucius Malfoy – like Severus himself, he supposed – at least thought his behavior would benefit the boy in the long run. The Dursleys were actually vindictive.

Harry obeyed his order, quickly brushing his teeth and spitting in the sink before putting his toothbrush away and just – standing there.

Surely the boy wasn't so stupid he wouldn't know what Severus wanted next? Or was he just hoping that Severus would touch him again?

It wasn't worth making a deal over. Sighing, Severus grabbed the boy's shoulder and turned him towards the door, pushing him into the corridor. Severus had 'convinced' the Dursleys to give his son Dudley's 'second bedroom', and this was where he led Harry, noting with satisfaction that all of the spoiled boy's toys had been moved out of it, and that Harry appeared to keep it tidy. Considering the boy didn't own anything, this was not hard, but it was still good to see that Harry was using the crate he'd given him to protect his possessions.

“Pajamas,” he told the boy now.

Harry gave him a frown. He didn't have pajamas, Severus realized.

“Come on, Harry,” Severus told him. “You know what I mean. Put on whatever ratty shirt you sleep in and get in the bed.”

Harry gave him a shy smile, at that, and pulled out the shirt in question to change. It was the first time Severus had seen the boy's bare skin from this close, and he used the opportunity to examine him. No bruises, no welts, no marks, and the boy changed in front of him without a qualm. Harry was still a little skinny, which angered him, but Severus wasn't missing anything major.

The boy pulled the tattered sleep shirt on over his head, and obediently climbed into his bed.

“You're warm enough?” Severus demanded.

“Yes sir,” Harry told him.

“Good,” Severus told him, turning for the door. “I'll find my own bed, then, and I'll see you in a week or two.”

“Really?” Harry asked him hopefully.

Like Severus had promised him a trip to Disney Land, honestly.

He should've never allowed himself to be bothered by Harry's obvious attachment to him. Now the guilt seemed to never quit. It was not his fault that the boy was this desperate for his attention. He had an entire family to provide that, a family who lived a far more normal, happy life than Severus could manage. There were plenty of children who were adopted and whose families loved them as much as their biological children. Harry should not need him this badly.

But it was increasingly obvious nonetheless that he did. He had to find another way to keep the boy safe. And he could not give his son to anyone else, not even Minerva. He'd recruit her help, but the boy wanted him. He could not betray that.

He also couldn't take the boy to Hogwarts. It wasn't safe, and he needed to give Dumbledore fair warning.

He didn't even know how to make it safe. Or how to tell Albus and Minerva. Or how the hell he was going to supervise the boy in a castle that large with so much potential for trouble while still teaching classes. Or how to not raise another Death Eater. How he thought he'd do better than the damned Dursleys given his own father's example he hadn't a clue. He just knew he had to.

But in the meantime - “I promise,” Severus told him. “Behave.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The next morning, a sour-faced Petunia allowed him to eat an unadulterated breakfast before shoving a shoe-box-sized package into his arms and ordering him back to his room. Harry quickly did as he was told, too excited by his box to care about his aunt.

Inside the box was a plastic lunch box, decorated with...people flying around on broomsticks? - and a note.

Harry, it said.

This is for you, when you are HUNGRY. Do not make meals out of it if your Aunt offers you something acceptable. I will refill it when I return. The box will keep the food fresh.

• your Father.

The flying people moved, Harry realized. They wore what his father had sourly informed him were robes, and the edges of the clothing flapped in a non-existent breeze, while the man wearing them waved at Harry.

Curious, Harry opened up the box to discover several neatly-stacked ham-and-cheese sandwiches, a tin of crackers, and a small package of cookies.

He had...a lunch box. And food. And...his father had given him cookies?

Harry didn't care if he was stuck in his room all day. He had cookies.

Do not make meals out of it if your Aunt offers you something acceptable, his father had said. But his father was not there. And...cookies. Maybe just one?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Severus watched through his mirror as Harry opened his lunch box, looked at everything, reread the note telling him when he was and was not allowed to eat them...and promptly opened the box of cookies. Oddly, he found himself smiling, just a little. Why on earth he would smile at the boy's disobedience...but he actually was familiar with children, and Harry was just so happy.

And obvious. The boy was giving the wall suspicious glances, as if trying to guess whether Severus was watching. But Severus' bug was very well-hidden, and Harry's gaze didn't cross it.

Finally, Harry's attention returned to the tin of cookies. He took just one, closed the box again, and carefully broke off tiny bites of his treat, managing to make one cookie last about five minutes.

And Severus simply couldn't make himself be angry.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harry crept cautiously out of his room, clutching his small airplane tightly in one hand. His father had told him they couldn't take it or harm it – and his promises about Harry's crate had been proven true- but he didn't actually know what it would look like if the Dursleys tried to take it and he wasn't keen to find out.

A week ago, protection for his airplane and any other objects had seemed fair compensation for the requirement to go to bed before the Dursleys, but now it definitely didn't. He hadn't had the courage to play with it outside his room since his father had left.

But the man had promised, and so far Father had kept his promises. And what good was an airplane if you couldn't even play with it?

Last night, he'd been terribly tempted to just get up out of bed and go play. It had been a lovely night – the full moon – and the open spaces of the park had seemed to be actually calling him. Only the memory of his father's anger – and of the man's gentleness on the rare occasions when he was not angry – had kept him in his bed.

He'd promised himself that today, he would bring his airplane out and go play. His father had promised the Dursleys wouldn't take it.

But he couldn't help but look carefully around corners on his way out, making sure Dudley was sufficiently distracted by his new television, and that his aunt was nowhere to be seen.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was daylight, Harry marveled. Sure, he'd played outside in the park before, but usually at night, and never during the day with a toy. This was fun!

Catching sight of the playground, with its monkey bars, Harry headed straight for it, flying his plane in the air as he ran.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Severus watched Harry play, torn. He was there, and he was not angry. Harry was in no danger. What did he do, now? Should he interrupt the boy's solitary play? It had taken the boy long enough to take his new plane outside again that Severus had expected him to give up and leave at night again. Instead, the boy had obeyed him, and finally screwed up the courage to go out during the day. He wanted to reward him.

But what was he supposed to do with the boy? Thus far, he'd just followed him, unobserved, watching like he usually did from his office on his breaks while the boy played. He couldn't help a vague anxiety as he did – the boy was so small, surely something would happen?

But all that happened was that the boy headed up onto the monkey bars and perched there, legs hanging over the side, flying his plane in the air and making motor noises. Severus took a deep breath, determined to allow it, but then Harry seemed to get bored, and carefully moved to stand up on the wooden frame, seven feet off the ground. He seemed unsure, for a bit, as his attention wavered from flying his plane to simply balancing on the beam. Then he started walking it. Then making little dips off the side with one foot, like on a balance beam.

Damned the boy and his penchant for heights. Moving slow so as not to startle Harry into actually falling, Severus left his hiding spot and walked into view. He stopped several yards from the end of the beam and waited, arms crossed, for Harry to get to the end of the beam and notice him.

He knew his son saw him when the boy froze, arms in the air to balance himself. The arms came down slowly, and the boy bit his lip, looking down guiltily. So he did remember what had happened the last time he decided falling off of high things was a good idea. It had been long enough ago that Severus hadn't been sure.

Severus didn't even have to summon him. The boy glumly took his plane and climbed down from the beam. In no time he stood before his father, bottom lip once again firmly held between his teeth.

“Good morning Harry,” Severus told him.

“...morning,” Harry told the ground quietly.

Since he actually didn't intend to punish the boy, Severus let him stew for a bit before speaking.

“Does this not remind you of an incident involving a certain tree?” he asked the boy finally.

Evidently, it did, because the boy winced, and looked up at him imploringly. But he hadn't actually told the boy what he may and may not do, so Severus gave him a frown but went no further. “You may sit on the beam,” Severus told him. “Or crawl. But you will be careful, and you will not stand. Am I clear?”

Harry's look that time was startled- and hopeful. “I can-?”

“You may,” Severus told him. “But if you fall don't expect me to catch you.”

Harry stared at him, eyes wide and uncertain, and Severus jerked his head at the monkey bars. “Go on,” he told the boy. “Do not fall.”

But Harry looked at him just a little longer. “You...you'll stay?” he asked.

Severus sighed. Stay, to watch Harry on the monkey bars from here rather than from his office. But it was evidently important to the boy. “For a few minutes,” he consented. “Go play.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harry played, watching his father constantly to be sure the man neither left without warning nor got mad at his antics. But the man seemed content to sit on the park bench and watch, his face not allowing Harry to read anything of his thoughts.

That was okay. When the man was angry, Harry knew it. That had never been in doubt. And Harry was very, very careful not to fall off the monkey bars.

“Harry,” the man called eventually.

Oh, no. His father wasn't angry...which probably meant something even worse. The man was going to leave. Harry approached obediently, trying not to pout. At least his father hadn't just disappeared. Harry knew by now that he could do that.

“You need to eat lunch, son,” his father told him, his tone surprisingly gentle.

Son? But - “I'm alright,” Harry protested. “I'm not -” his father's eyebrows climbed his forehead, and Harry cut off the lie before it came out. “I don't want to go in!” he said instead.

“I need to leave anyway, Harry,” his father told him. “Go home, and eat lunch. Will your aunt provide you with something?”

Harry grimaced, but nodded. It was food, and his father had instructed him not to be picky. And he did still have a sandwich left, if lunch was really bad.

But his father frowned, looking displeased. “What does she do to your food, Harry?” he asked. There was a warning in his tone.

Startled, Harry looked up at him. How had the man known? But- “Nothing?” Harry answered. It came out a little late, and uncertain. He didn't want to complain, but that wasn't quite the truth, either. Petunia did muck with his food. But it was still food. It wasn't like she poisoned it.

But the temperature in the air dropped about twenty degrees as soon as the word came out of his mouth. “Nothing,” his father repeated.

Uh, oh. That tone was not good. “Just...too much salt, sometimes,” he admitted hastily. “Or spicy stuff. But I don't mind spicy, too much.”

But the air between them didn't lighten, nor did his father say anything to make it easier.

“I just meant - it's not poison or anything!” Harry added, stomach tight with stress. “And it's not all the time! I'm okay.”

“Nothing?” his father inquired again.

Oh, no. Don't think to lie to me, his father had told him once. But it wasn't a lie. Or, well, not a big lie.

“Y-you told me not to be picky,” Harry protested softly, feeling his heart pound in his chest at his father's evident displeasure.

“Did I tell you to lie to me?” his father asked immediately.

“N-no,” Harry admitted, voice trembling. He was looking at the ground, he realized. His father's unhappy expression was just too much for him to deal with. And he really, really didn't want to make things worse. “No, Father,” he said softly. “Sorry.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Severus looked down at his son, frustrated. It was a small thing, really. The boy had actually been trying to please him, and he'd come clean very quickly when Severus had made it clear that he wasn't pleased. But Harry would have to learn not to lie about what the Dursleys did or did not do. Severus had done his best to cover most of the house and likely areas outside, and to spend as much time as he could watching them, but there were nonetheless many things that Severus could not catch without Harry's help. He could not have the boy covering for the Dursleys.

Still, that was enough, he thought, looking at the top of the boy's bowed head. Harry understood, and Severus had clearly already managed to make him miserable for it.

“How often?” he asked more gently.

Harry swallowed, but looked up at the gentler tone. “O-only when she's mad at me,” he said.

Severus nearly snorted. Of course. He could've predicted that. “Which is how often?” he insisted nonetheless.

“Not too often,” Harry assured him, finally really meeting his eyes. “I try! J-just, sometimes I mess something up, I don't do it on purpose! They-”

“Harry,” Severus cut him off, letting a bit of sharpness back into his voice at the boy's evasion. “How often?”

Harry winced, but didn't look away this time. “L-like every couple of days?” he answered finally, shoulders rounding.

“Today?” Severus asked him next.

Harry winced again, but nodded, blushing.

“What did you do?” Severus asked him.

Harry's mouth fell open, and Severus could see him want to protest – and then decide not to. Severus held up a hand to stop him from answering, and revised his question. “Why did she decide to punish you?” he asked instead.

Harry looked down. “I ruined a shirt,” he said softly. “Dudley had a new shirt, and I didn't notice that it was new. It bled all over a different shirt in the laundry.”

“So Petunia messed up your food,” Severus stated. Angry, as he nearly always was when they talked about Lily's family, Severus took a deep breath before he spoke again. “What else happened, Harry?” he asked.

Harry frowned at him. “Sir?”

But Harry had heard the question, Severus was sure. He just raised his eyebrows again, making it clear he expected an answer.

“N-no-”

Severus cut him off quickly. “Harry if you finish that word I will spank you. You do not lie to me. What. Happened?”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Harry looked up at his father, miserable. Nothing had happened. He was okay, now. And what if his father decided he was exaggerating, or something?

But the man had made his expectations very clear. “Th-they closed me in my room,” he said finally, looking down. “A-and l-lunch was okay but d-dinner and breakfast were...” inedible. But he wasn't going to say that. “salty,” he finished.

There was a pause, and then - “Better,” his father told him. “That's better. Now, if you go back, will Petunia put something in your lunch?”

Almost certainly. Harry shrugged.

A tug on his arm was all that warned him – he turned towards the tug, and received a swat on his backside. Just one, and not hard, but he looked up at his father in shock. “Father!” he protested. “I didn't-”

His father didn't even say anything. He didn't have to. Harry'd learned before that the man didn't like shrugs and evasions and non-answers any much more than he liked lies. “Yes, sir,” he said hastily.

“Better,” his father told him. “Now go home. I will ensure that your aunt feeds you properly.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

All of his damned resolutions, and he'd still swatted the boy. Not that the boy didn't deserve it – and it had been just one – but somehow he couldn't get through an interaction with his son without punishing him in some way. How was he supposed to get to know the boy when Harry couldn't even properly play in his presence?

And he couldn't keep playing whack-a-mole with the boy's relatives, either. They would always be one step ahead of him, finding ways to torment Harry that he couldn't detect. There was only so much his spying spells could do, and the more he misused them, the more likely it was that Albus would notice. Already, Severus felt like a triple agent, serving two masters and lying to both.

And damnit, but he needed Albus' help. And Minerva's, especially. She'd know what to do with the boy. Better than Severus did.

His mind had wandered for a bit, but then he realized that Harry was still in front of him, shifting from foot to foot.

He'd told the boy to go home, and Harry wasn't obeying. The boy was just standing there, head down and shoulders rounded, yet disobedient nonetheless. He gave the boy a frown, before realizing what the boy's body language was telling him. He'd given the boy a hard time, and Harry never did like it when Severus left. He couldn't just dismiss him.

“Alright,” he said to the top of the boy's head. “I'm sorry. Come here.”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He didn't want to go home, and his father had told him to, but almost as an afterthought. He hadn't said goodbye or- or anything, and Harry couldn't bear to just leave like that. He'd already angered his father that day, and he didn't want to anger him worse, but his feet just wouldn't move.

He hunched miserably, waiting for the scold or a swat or – something – but for a moment, nothing happened, and then his father spoke and his voice was soft, and almost...resigned.

“Alright,” the man told him. “I'm sorry. Come here.”

Sorry? Harry wondered. Sorry for what? And he wasn't sure about the order to come closer, either.

But it was better than being asked to leave, anyway, and he knew better than to disobey.

Well, most of the time. His father had told him to go home, after all, and he usually expected immediate obedience.

Harry approached as ordered, and let the man grip his shoulder once again following the pull – only to receive, not another swat, but his second-ever hug.

As before, he buried himself in it, too relieved to even speak. But his father didn't seem to mind. The man never even smiled at him, but somehow at times like this, his hands held a world of reassurance that he did not voice. Somehow it was going to be okay.What 'it' was, Harry wasn't sure. But it would be okay.

Harry could've stayed like that for another six years, but his father finally released him, and gently pushed him away. “Alright,” the man told him. “ Now go home.”

Harry pouted, just a little, and watched as his father's eyebrows once again climbed his forehead. “Yes, Father,” he said hastily. “'Bye Father.” But he could tell his father wasn't actually mad, yet, and he couldn't help a little bit of a smile at the man before he turned, and hurried back towards home.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Severus watched the boy go, belatedly returning boy's slightly tentative and yet still somehow cheeky smile. He was almost regretful that the boy had to go.