“Mr. Dursley, I presume?”

Braced and ready, it took a little while for Harry to realize that the shove he'd been waiting for wasn't coming. Whoever had spoken had thoroughly distracted Uncle Vernon, to the extent that he never released the back of Harry's neck, but never propelled him out onto the sidewalk, either. He was stuck in mid-motion, mouth slightly agape.

Looking for the man who'd so frozen his uncle, Harry looked up, but the man was too close for him to see anything but a long expanse of black fabric that led up to black buttons. But it was a man, he knew that. A man he didn't know, wearing a long, black, button-up...dress?

Oddly, he'd somehow managed to appear inside the house without coming in through the front door. Maybe he'd come in through the back and walked through the kitchen? But Aunt Petunia hadn't said anything, either, and she would not have liked this dark stranger in her house. He was one of the funny-looking people that occasionally noticed Harry on the street and greeted him like they knew him before disappearing. His aunt hated them.

Finally over his shock, Uncle Vernon released Harry's nape and drew himself up. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

“That is irrelevant, Mr. Dursley,” the dark man said arrogantly. “I will leave in a moment, but first you listen to me. Tempting as I understand it is, you will not throw the boy again. I will be watching, and I will know.”

Mouth agape again, Mr. Dursley reddened and started blubbering. “How- you dare- in my house! Who do you think you are? What right do you have to tell me what to do with my own nephew?”

“Like I said, that is irrelevant, Mr. Dursley. All you need know is that I am watching, and I will not permit you or your wife or son to harm him.”

“My son? My son would never harm anyone! How dare you-! Get out of my house!”

But the dark man was evidently not intimidated. “I will leave, Mr. Dursley. But heed my warning. Your son will not harm mine.”

There was an abrupt, sharp crack, and the man disappeared. In the middle of the foyer, and without using the door. It was like he'd never been.

But – mine? He'd thought his father was dead!

---

Severus Snape grimaced, surprised and disturbed by the entire encounter. Damn, but Harry Potter was tiny. Seven years old, and the uncle could probably palm his head. He detested children, and would likely be more dangerous to Harry than helpful, but that did not mean that he would allow Vernon Dursley to throw the boy.

---

---

---

He was...on the roof. On the chimney, even. How did that happen? Then he grinned. Piers and Dudley were below, looking up at him in shock, their game of Harry Hunting having ended in a singularly unexpected way.

“Misters Dursley and Polkiss, you will leave now before I take your tongues to dry and use in a Verbis potion. Is that clear?”

Urr...clear? He didn't even know what the man meant, and he was loads smarter than Dudley and Piers. But the menace underlying the words was unmistakeable, and Dudley had met the dark man before. He pulled on Piers' arm, and the two of them left quickly.

The dark man looked after them before glancing briefly at Harry, and Harry's heart beat up as he realized that the man would leave again.

“F-father?” Harry said tentatively. The man turned and gave him a sharp look. He always did, when Harry called him that, but Harry had no other name for him, and he'd never been corrected.

“Yes?” the man demanded harshly.

“I- don't know how to get down,” he said.

“Then you would be wise not to get yourself up, don't you think?” the man demanded.

“I don't know how I did that, either!” Harry protested.

The man's eyes narrowed. “Do not cheek me, boy.”

Harry closed his mouth quickly, and held tightly to the sides of the chimney. The man had rescued him before, but now he was mad.

But then, he always seemed mad, when he talked to Harry. And this time, Harry felt a weird tug, and realized that he was being lifted. Looking down at the man anxiously, he let go of the chimney to be lifted to safety.

---

He'd expected the boy to flail and yell, when his spell started pulling at him, but the boy simply let go of the chimney and calmly allowed himself to be lifted down. Severus gave him an extra scowl and disapparated back to Hogwarts.

---

---

---

Severus smirked as the tiny dark-haired figure looked down from the lowest branch of the tree and considered the drop to the ground in obvious trepidation. Served the boy right. Severus had watched as the little idiot had jumped up and down trying to reach the lowest branches, then attempted to climb the trunk, then painstakingly dragged a park bench over underneath the tree and jumped up and down on that, and then finally stacked a plastic chair on top of the bench to jump up to grip the lowest branch and climb into the tree. At which point, of course, the chair had fallen down, and the park bench was too low for him to get back down again, and now he was stuck. Eventually, Severus knew, he'd have to rescue him. Certainly Lily's sister and brother-in-law weren't going to. But he'd let the boy suffer for a bit. Anyone who was that determined to get himself into trouble deserved whatever happened to him.

After a moment, however, the boy seemed to abandon his worry over how to get down again in favor of the original source of his determination – a small cat who had fled a little higher into the tree to get away from the her “rescuer”. The boy followed her up – then higher up - and then, to Severus' dismay, started crawling towards her away from the trunk of the tree and out into the thinner branches. The cat, of course, continued to flee, and Harry gave another anxious look at the ground at least ten feet below before clearly regaining his determination and heading further along the branch after her.

The cat continued to pick his way carefully further from the trunk of the tree, and Severus watched in astonishment as the boy continued to follow, finally getting to a point where it was too narrow to crawl and flipping himself underneath the thin branch to instead clamber squirrel-like along the underside of it. Meanwhile the branch started to bend under his weight.

He was going to kill the boy himself, Severus determined. All that danger and effort and misery to protect the boy from real danger and the boy was going to die falling out of a tree.

It was almost a relief when the boy yelped and began to fall and Severus was finally able to catch him with invisible hands and lift him down. The brat was hanging upside down from the grip on one of his ankles, but Severus was not feeling charitable and did not bother to flip him before pulling him to himself and dumping him unceremoniously on the grass in front of his feet. The boy was clearly disoriented, but he just as clearly saw the hem of Severus' robe as he stood up promptly to stand in front of him.

“Sir!” he said. “Thank you!”

But Severus couldn't think of anything to say, nor did he bother. He found himself grabbing the boy around the waist, and then his hand came down of its own volition to give the boy a sharp smack on the seat of his pants. And that felt...exactly right, in that moment, and he did it again even sharper.

---

The dark man was...smacking him! And it hurt!

“S-sir!” Harry protested. “N-no!” SMACK!

“F-fatherrrr!” he complained. It was evidently a mistake, as the smacks just came down sharper and faster. The man was mad. He'd never been so mad before. And – ow!

“Don't you dare complain, boy,” the man said harshly. “You deserve every damned smack. You'd be dead if I weren't here.”

“I d-didn't mean-”

“Silence!” the man said harshly.

It was that, and not the spanking, that brought the first tears to Harry's eyes, and he tried to be quiet but just a moment later he gave a loud sniff as the smacks continued to fall steadily on his now constantly-stinging backside.

Soon after that, it was over, as the man stood up and released him to stare down at him with an intimidating scowl. Harry tried to look back at him, but lost courage somewhere around the man's nose, and looked down again. Still the man glared, and to Harry's dismay he felt his lower lip start to tremble again and his eyes fill with tears under the weight of that harsh gaze as his butt stung from the swats he'd received. His father had spanked him. And he was still mad.

---

Damn. Damn, damn damn. He couldn't just leave the boy like that; Lily would haunt him.

“Calm, boy,” he told him. “I have not harmed you.”

Sniff. The boy was trying, too, he could tell – scrubbing the tears away with a rough fist and pursing trembling lips, only to have the tears reappear a moment later. And now the boy was scrubbing at his nose with a sleeve instead of at his eyes.

Ugh. Severus sighed. Fine. Fishing in his robes, he pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to the boy. “Use this,” he told him.

The boy looked up at him only very briefly, but he took the handkerchief and cleaned his face with it, and it did seem to help calm him down.

But the little brat still wasn't meeting his eyes, and his lower lip was extended in a slight, probably involuntary pout.

“Don't give me that,” Severus told him. “You have no business getting yourself into a situation like that and then expecting me to rescue you. I have enough problems. I will not accept you giving me trouble.”

Sniff.

Right. Eight-year-olds cried when you scolded them. Fabulous. At least the first-years were tougher than this. The boy was tiny.

“You will go home, now, do you understand?”

That got the boy's attention, and he looked up at him in dismay for a moment before looking down again, biting his lip. No doubt the boy would try to disobey him.

“I will know if you don't,” he told him menacingly.

Again, the boy looked up quickly and then back down. “I know,” he said softly. There was a pause, and then an even quieter, “...please don't make me?”

He knew what the boy was going home to. He did. But the boy was perfectly safe there – his relatives, including his cousin, would no longer dare to actually harm him. He was just lonely and bored and likely to get pressed into service helping his unpleasant aunt in the kitchen or with the laundry. And it might make Severus a bad person, but that was precisely how he wanted his misbehaving brat to spend his afternoon after nearly giving him a heart attack.

He gave the boy a fierce frown, and Harry stopped even attempting to look at him. The tremble in his lip also increased.

Oddly, Severus found himself compelled to put a hand out and squeeze the boy's shoulder briefly before he apparated away.

---

Father...had touched him. Gently. The adult Dursleys didn't touch him at all anymore, since the dark man had shown up and forbidden his uncle from throwing him.

The man wouldn't be back again for weeks or months, Harry knew. Not until he got in danger again or something. But he'd touched him.

He should've done something, Harry realized. Gripped his clothing and begged him to stay, or to take him with him. Not just stood there like an idiot, stunned from this one little thing.

But no. Father would never allow that. He wouldn't stay, he'd just go all stiff and cold like he sometimes did and order him to let him go.

But oh, Harry wanted that touch back.

He wondered briefly what would happen if he actually didn't go home as instructed, but then remembered the state of his backside and redirected his thoughts. His father would come back, for sure, but it wouldn't be worth it. That time.

---

---

---

Harry shivered, and tucked his knees up and under Dudley's over-large jacket to fill the space and warm them. He'd tried layering clothing underneath the huge garment – tee-shirt over tee-shirt until he resembled a particularly unfortunate homeless person – but they didn't bulk up enough to keep air from getting into the gaps between the coat and his body. The thing worked better as a blanket, and Harry's pants were no better.

But Dudley was throwing a tantrum, again, and his reasoning and self-control were poor enough that Father's warnings were only partially effective. Dudley wouldn't hurt him on purpose anymore, or at least not much, but it was still well worth being out on a park bench in the cold to be away from him in this mood.

His toes were freezing, though. Harry had the same problem with the size of his shoes as with his jacket, and the shoes had holes, to boot. Not worn-through holes – Dudley had never, to Harry's knowledge, worn the same item of clothing long enough for it to naturally develop holes – but cut holes. Dudley enjoyed taking a pair of scissors to his clothing, especially if he got tired of it and wanted new, or if he'd outgrown it and knew it would be passed down to Harry. And it was raining. Not only were his feet cold, they were wet and cold. So would the rest of him be, soon.

Abruptly, Harry's view was taken up by a long expanse of black fabric, topped by the scowling face of his evidently-displeased absentee father. Harry looked up at him in surprise. The man hadn't shown up for more than three months, which was part of why Dudley was willing to throw things at Harry. And the man's scowl could've drilled a hole through Harry's skull. What'd he done?

But the man didn't start scolding. He just scowled even further, and pulled out the odd little stick that he did freak-stuff with.

“Sit properly,” he told him shortly.

Harry anxiously obeyed, and after a brief moment his jacket started to shrink, until it fit snuggly over Harry's multiple tee-shirts, and then his father transferred his glare to Harry's pants and they shrank, too. That done, he glared at Harry's hands and feet for a moment before directing the stick towards Harry's shoes.

“Reparo,” he ordered them angrily.

In a moment, the holes were gone. Still, his father's face darkened even further and then not only were Harry's shoes fixed, but his socks were dry. Finally the man stopped glaring at Harry's shoes and moved to glare instead at Harry's face.

“You're skinny,” he snapped.

Harry shrugged, curling his toes to enjoy the feeling of his clean and dry – if still over-large – socks.

“Answer me,” the man warned him.

“You didn't ask a question,” Harry pointed out.

He regretted it instantly, as the man's normal scowl and glare sharpened and focussed on his face and Harry found himself looking at the ground again.

“Was that cheek, Mr. Potter?” his father asked him.

“...no, sir,” Harry said softly. “...sorry, sir.”

“No, and sorry,” his father repeated. “Which is it? No, it was not cheek, or yes, it was cheek, and you apologize? And don't think to lie to me.”

Harry's cheeks reddened. “Y-yes, it was cheek, and I'm sorry, sir,” he said softly.

“Hmm,” the man told him. “Better. Now out with it.”

But he still didn't know what the man wanted him to say. Or, well, maybe he did, actually, but he didn't want to admit to it.

“Out with it, Mr. Potter,” his father demanded again. “Why are you so skinny?”

He hadn't forgotten his spanking, though it had been more than a year ago. “I keep...doing things,” he said softly to the ground. “I don't try, I promise, but things keep happening around me and my aunt doesn't like it but they say you won't let them punish me properly so sometimes they don't let me eat.”

“I see,” his father said shortly.

There was a silence, but a moment later, the man spoke again, and his voice was marginally softer. “You've learned to store food?” he demanded.

“...yes, sir,” Harry told him. “I just can't always get enough. My aunt takes it if she finds it, so I can't save much and I end up running out a lot.”

“Very well,” the man said, tone still very cold. “I will speak to them. You will eat, are we clear? If I find you're being picky, or refusing to eat-”

“You won't,” Harry said quickly, not wanting him to say it.

“Good,” the man said shortly. Without another word – or a repetition of the touch from before – the man disappeared.

But that night, Harry was given a full, hot, unadulterated meal by his sour-faced aunt, under the red face and narrow-eyed gaze of his uncle. “Take it to your room,” his aunt hissed at him. “I don't even want to see you.”

Even that, though, didn't manage to kill Harry's appetite. He just reminded himself of who it was who had actually fed him – and fixed his clothes - and ate his food as ordered in his cupboard under the stairs.

The next day, an odd package in a wooden crate showed up on the front porch, with a note to Petunia that made her purse her lips like she'd sucked a lemon, and nearly throw the entire box into Harry's arms. Inside it was a pair of very plain black gloves, four pairs of black woolen socks, a dark green woolen sweater, and a pair of perfectly-sized, thick rubber rain boots.

And a note. “If you destroy your shoes or any of your other clothing again, I will cut off each of your fingers in payment for them.”

Harry frowned. How could his father notice when he was in danger – every time he was in danger – and not know that it wasn't him who'd damaged his shoes?

And that wasn't the end of the note, either. It finished, “You will find the crate is indestructible to anyone without magic, and will not allow anyone but you to open it. I expect you to always remember to pack your clothing and anything else of value inside of it.”

Oddly, Harry found himself grinning as he took in the next part of the note. His father was definitely accusing Harry of being the one to destroy his clothing and shoes...and yet had provided a way for Harry to prevent Dudley from doing it. The man was weird.

Finally, though, it really hit him, and Harry looked down at the treasure in his arms and started to cry. His father had given him a present.

---

---

---

He was warm, and well fed, and decently clothed, and not in any danger whatsoever from any of his relatives. In short, he hadn't seen his father in nearly six months.

It was Dudley's tenth birthday, a couple of months before Harry's own. Piers Polkiss was over, as well as a couple of Dudley's other friends, and they were playing kill the carrier in the back yard. And Harry got an absolutely idiotic idea. Dudley had more-or-less learned not to mess with Harry, through direct encounters with his father. His friends had only ever been warned by Dudley.

He wasn't going to do it. Really, he wasn't. He was going to stay where he was, and weed and water the flower beds as his aunt had asked, and ignore the game.

But then the ball came flying out of someone's hand and whizzing past Harry's head. It hid the side of the house and bounced back, landing directly on top of the area Harry had just watered and splattering him with mud. And Harry's hand reached out of its own volition and seized the ball, and then Harry was up and running. “Bet you can't catch me, 'Dudders'!” he called back.

“Get him!” Piers called excitedly.

“Yeah, you're dead, Harry!” Dennis added.

And the chase was on.

Piers was nearly as slow as Dudley, Harry knew, but Dennis tended to be a lot faster, and even more violent. He'd been a problem before, and made Harry truly hate Dudley's parties. Now, he was perfect.

Harry shook his head, spraying a load of sweat, and concentrated on his running as he started to get out of breath. Dennis was gaining on him, but his father would show in any moment, he was sure. Any...moment...now.

He was slowing, and Dennis was gaining. It hadn't occurred to him what would happen if his father didn't show. Damnit, Dad, where are you?

He was starting to get scared, which, rationally, was ridiculous. Neither Dudley nor his friends had actually hurt Harry in two years. His father didn't allow it.

But where was the man? Normally, he'd've showed by now. Dennis was right behind him.

Suddenly – sooner than Harry expected – he found himself plastered to the ground, hitting hard under the heavier boy's weight, and the ball was ripped from his grasp.

“So, you want to play Kill the Carrier, do you, Harry?” Dennis asked him.

Uh, oh. Father...please?

Severus watched, disturbed, as the larger boy pursued his son and finally knocked him to the ground, landing hard on top of him. The brat had provoked this on purpose, he reminded himself. Let him deal with the consequences. Severus would not allow the boy to use him to take revenge on people he didn't like.

And the other boy really wasn't big enough yet to do actual damage, even as tiny as Harry was.

Still, he couldn't help but wince, as the other boy put a fist in his son's ribs...and then another. Harry curled into a ball, trying to protect himself and not even attempting to fight back. I need to work on that, he noted. But no, he really wasn't around enough to teach Harry much of anything. Harry would have to figure it out on his own.

A third hit, this time to the kidney...and that was enough. He'd been to hundreds of Death Eater meetings without flinching, but this was his son. He could not just watch, even if the boy did deserve it.

Severus revealed himself and grabbed the larger boy's neck, pulling him off of Harry before he could hit him again.

The boy looked up at him in confusion, then glared resentfully.

Severus looked back at him, noting in his peripheral vision that Harry had scrambled to his feet, obviously shaken but not actually hurt. Good.

What to do with the other boy, though? The Dursley boy's friend was a lot bigger than Harry, but that only made him a big ten-or-eleven-year-old – certainly no match for Severus. He probably shouldn't actually harm him, then. Not that Albus or Minerva would actually know, but he was hiding enough from them, at the moment.

Apparently he'd thought long enough for the idiot to get bored of glaring. “Who're you?” he demanded instead.

“Harry's father,” he told him neutrally. He was vaguely curious how the boy would react to that.

But apparently the child was as rude as he was aggressive. “No you're not,” the boy told him. “Harry doesn't have a father. He lives with Dudley's parents.”

“He lives with the Dursleys because I value him and living with me would be dangerous to him,” Severus informed him, careful to keep his voice soft enough that Harry could not hear. “You might consider what that means for you.”

The boy looked far angrier than frightened. Like Harry's uncle, then – really too stupid to understand what danger looked like in real life.

Very well, then, he wouldn't be quite so nice. Gripping the boy's neck a tad harder, he let some of the anger he was containing slip its leash as he forced the boy to meet his gaze.

“I said I value my son,” he said softly. “This does not make me a nice man.”

Legilimancy was an amazing thing. The boy would have no idea why he was so frightened – Severus hadn't even actually threatened him - but he would feel a very strong aversion to ever crossing Severus again. And the ministry would have no way to detect magic on him at all.

The boy blanched, and finally started to struggle, but Severus was not quite ready to release him yet, and just tightened his grip on the boy's neck, lifting a little to make it clear to the boy that he could not get away. Then he released his grip on the boy's mind, allowing him to calm. It only took a few seconds, and the boy finally stopped squirming and focused back on him.

“You will not harm Harry,” he told him.

The boy nodded, frantically, his more normal fear response kicking in in the aftermath of Severus' assault, but Severus noted with satisfaction that he had not wet himself. Part of Severus wanted to actually harm him, but it was not a part to be encouraged. The boy was obnoxious and violent, but he was also a child. Severus released the boy's neck, and merely stood still as the boy stared up at him for a moment in a daze.

“Leave,” Severus suggested.

Turning on the spot, the boy did just that, and as fast as his legs could carry him.

Now to deal with his son.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Harry watched, stunned, as his father grabbed Dennis by the neck and simply spoke softly to him for a moment before letting him go. And Dennis turned and ran, without a glance back.

His father had come, he realized, relieved. But then the man turned to him, and Harry froze solid at the expression on his face. Suddenly he knew why Dennis had run. Harry only wished he had the same option.

“Come here, Harry,” the man ordered quietly.

Nuh-uh. No way. Not when the man was looking at him like that.

He shook his head frantically, letting his fear show on his face for his father to see.

“Harry,” the man said, voice just as soft as he'd spoken to Dennis. “I am at the very end of my patience. You do not want to cross me right now.”

That didn't help at all.

“F-father-” he protested. Oh, no. Why was the man so mad? He'd provoked Dennis, but- surely that wasn't that bad? His father looked ready to kill him.

He had to approach the man. He knew he did. He didn't want him even madder. Then he might not come back at all, and he certainly wouldn't come back with gentle touches and presents.

Terrified, he looked away from his father's expression and inched forward towards the man, eyes firmly on the ground and shoulders around his ears.

“Better,” the man said shortly. He reached out, and Harry flinched, but his father merely grabbed him by the back of the neck and started pushing him towards the Dursley's house. “Come.”

He kept pushing, and Harry followed the push all the way back to the Dursley's yard and then up the front steps and finally through the door. Petunia was inside, and gasped in outrage at the intrusion.

“You!”

“Me,” his father agreed. Then he shoved firmly and directed Harry further into the house and towards the stairs. “Up.”

Harry suspected that the one-word sentences were not a good sign, and the fact that the man was shoving him towards the relative privacy of the upper floor was ominous. “S-sir-” he started, uncertainly. But his father just kept shoving, and Harry shut up quickly.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Seeing the boy's obvious fear, Severus fought to get his temper in check, and not push hard enough to make his son stumble. He was going to spank the boy, and he was going to do it hard, but he would not harm him, and he knew he had a temper.

He was nearly running out of time. They were at the top of the stairs.

“Which one is yours?” he demanded.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Harry stared at his father, confused. “N-none of them,” he stammered finally. “Mine's downstairs.”

To his surprise, he was abruptly hauled all the way around until he was nearly nose to nose with his suddenly furious father, the grip on his neck nearly tight enough to hurt. “Do not play around with me, Mr. Potter,” the man said slowly. “I know very well there are no bedrooms downstairs.”

But that wasn't fair! “Mine is!” Harry protested. “It's under the stairs!”

That seemed to surprise the man, as he froze, and frowned, no longer looking ready to do murder. “Your bedroom is under the stairs,” he repeated.

“Y-yessir,” Harry said quickly. “It's just kind of small, which is why-” why you didn't know it was there, he was going to say, but his father's expression stopped him. How had he angered him now? What did he do?

“Which bedroom up here is unoccupied, then?” his father asked then, nearly biting the words out in evident fury.

“D-Dudley's second one,” Harry answered, pointing. “There. It's for his toys, so it doesn't have a bed-” Again, he cut off. Somehow, the explanations weren't helping. What had he done so wrong?

“It will,” his father promised darkly. “Now which one is your cousin's first bedroom, then?”

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

He'd run out of time to control himself, he knew. They were in the damned cousin's absolutely trashed “first” bedroom, and it was time to either release the boy or get started. Harry had gone entirely silent. Severus took a breath, and released him.

Harry turned to face him, but still didn't dare look up, obviously well aware of just how angry Severus was, though he couldn't know that not all of it was actually directed at him. Damned Dursleys. Severus couldn't watch everything, and they obviously knew that. Who knew what else was going on that Harry had not told him about?

But this wasn't helping, and he was far too angry to do this safely. Anger didn't really care who you took it out on, and he could not allow his temper to harm his son. Harry, he reminded himself. This is about Harry. He could deal with the damned Dursleys later, after he'd chastised his son for the latest idiocy.

His anger by itself was being effective, though. The boy was clearly miserable – curled in on himself and staring at the floor, his upset and...fear, that was definitely fear...very clear. The boy was very nearly cringing.

The sight helped Severus' temper to cool a little. He didn't actually want the boy to fear him. Fear his anger, yes, but not fear him.

“Well?” he demanded nonetheless.

Harry bit his lip, and shrugged without looking up.

Once again, Severus fought down his temper. He hated that gesture. “That will not do, Mr. Potter,” he told him. “Look up at me, and explain properly. Now.”

That got him an anxious glance before Harry looked down at him, and the boy finally answered him. “H-how much do you know?” he asked.

Severus grit his teeth. “Look at me, Mr. Potter,” he demanded.

The boy obeyed him – finally – and Severus felt his temper fall just a little bit at the woebegone expression. The boy was not trying to provoke him. He would give the boy a chance to explain his actions, no matter how obvious they seemed to him.

“Why did you provoke that boy into attacking you?”

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Provoked...the man had been there for that long?? But if he had, then- then- a feeling of betrayal welled up in him, and Harry found himself answering his father with pure hurt, no longer concerned with the man's anger. “Y-you let him hit me!”

“Yes,” the man said calmly. There was not even a trace of apology in that tone, though some of his anger had evidently calmed at Harry's realization.

“B-but why?” Harry asked, hurt. The man usually protected him! What had changed?

“Because you knew perfectly well what the outcome would be when you took that ball, and I allowed you to feel the consequences of your decisions,” his father told him.

Consequences...? That was way too many words in one sentence for him to try and parse. “Y-you didn't p-protect me,” he repeated. It came out strangled, spoken around the huge lump that had suddenly taken up residence in his throat.

“I did protect you,” his father told him. “I protected you when I allowed you to feel some of what would have happened if I hadn't. What if I had not been here, Harry?”

Oh. Oddly, the primary response Harry could feel from that statement was simple relief. His father was still protecting him. He was just also angry that Harry had provoked Dennis. But the man had asked a question, and he would not be patient waiting for a response. “But you were there!” Harry protested, still upset at the revelation. “You always are!”

To his surprise, his statement brought back the man's earlier anger. “By luck, Mr. Potter,” he snapped. “I cannot possibly watch all the time! How do you think that I missed your sleeping accommodations?”

“B-but,” Harry explained, “my sleeping – my room's not important. You always come for important stuff.”

But the man's scowl only deepened. “Yes,” his father said coldly. “'Important' stuff like taking revenge on your cousin's friends, evidently. I will not be used, Mr. Potter.”

Used? And his father thought it was for revenge?? But – that was a horrible thing to think! “I didn't!” Harry protested, hurt again. “I just wanted to see you!”

There was a pause, and then- “...Excuse me, what?” his father asked him.

Oh. He had not meant to admit that. He knew his father wouldn't like it.

Cheeks burning and abruptly wanting to melt into the floor, Harry looked away and quietly repeated his admission, eyes squeezed shut against a sudden and horrible sense of shame. “I-I just wanted to see you,” he said. If only he could disappear.

“That will not help, Mr. Potter,” his father told him. Oddly, there was some...humor? In his tone? “I know you're still here.”

Huh? Opening his eyes, Harry saw that his clothing – actually no, all of him – had become just a little transparent. He could actually see the floor through his sneakers.

“Oh,” Harry said.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

The boy...wanted to see him. That was...new. Children universally hated him. He knew this, and he didn't particularly blame them. He didn't like them, either, and he'd never hidden it.

Except this particular little idiot had just risked getting beat up by a larger boy in order to force him to come rescue him...simply because he wanted to see him. And had evidently learned at some point that that wanting was something to be ashamed of.

Seeing his son turn actually transparent in a moment of embarrassment was amusing, but the reason behind it...not so much.

And that was his fault, as much as the Dursley's, he knew. He had not wanted the boy to become attached, and Harry had evidently picked up on that.

But he needed to get back to the task at hand, regardless.

Angry. He was angry. His little idiot of a son had tried to get himself killed.

“So,” he said, letting the boy hear the anger as it returned. “You purposefully provoked the anger of a child you know to be dangerous to you in order to force me to come and rescue you.”

Which...was still a shock. He was used to Slytherins manipulating a situation to harm their enemies, he was not used to one doing it for...for what? What could he possibly want from Severus? More clothing?

The boy nodded a quiet assent to his assertion.

“I am going to spank you,” Severus told him.

It got him a brief, dismayed look – but no real surprise - before the boy looked down again. So Harry had not really expected differently. And he'd still wanted Severus' presence enough to provoke a bully.

Severus was not actually stupid. He did have an inkling of what a very lonely nine-year-old would want from the only adult who'd ever shown him any care whatsoever. But – certainly he'd never been kind to the boy. He'd protected him, and he'd punished him. The boy had only even seen him for fifteen minutes at a time, months apart, and he knew the child could not have enjoyed it.

He'd bought him some clothing. Once.

The boy had figured out that he was watching, Severus realized. He'd risked a beating on the trust that Severus would be there – and been quite surprised and dismayed at the three blows Severus had let him take. Damnit, boy, I can not be your father.

But Harry evidently knew that. He very clearly knew he had no right to ask his own father for attention.

He had not meant to do that.

But he still could not allow the boy to do this again. There was always the possibility that Severus would somehow miss something, or be unable to come. And his anger had calmed.

“I told you, I believe, about taking risks that required me to rescue you?” he told the boy, pulling out his wand.

Not wanting to give the Dursleys the pleasure of humiliating the boy after he left, he waved his wand around the room, silently spelling it for privacy and locking the door.

“Y-yes, sir,” his son told him.

“Apparently I did not make a strong enough impression,” he said.

It was always a powerful line, and it did not disappoint. Harry gave him wide, dismayed eyes. “N-no, I j-just-”

He'd say pretty much anything, at this point, to try and convince Severus not to spank him. It'd be a waste of time to let him try. Severus sat down on the side of Dudley's rumpled bed. “Come here.”

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Oh, no. He'd sort of thought – when he'd initially had the idea of provoking Dennis – that this would be the end result. It was the reason he'd initially decided not to.

And yet here he was, and it was so, so much worse than last time. Last time, his father had just grabbed him. This time – 'come here'. He was supposed to cooperate? When his father was this mad?

“F-father-” he protested.

The man's eyebrows snapped together immediately in a fierce scowl, and Harry flinched, remembering suddenly how his father had dragged him up the stairs.

And he was making everything so much worse, but he just couldn't bring himself to move with the man looking at him like that. Apparently I did not make a strong enough impression. Father was going to kill him. He didn't want killed.

His father didn't help him, either. He just waited for Harry to obey, his gaze steady on Harry's face.

And Harry's feet felt like they were stuck to the floor. “Y-you're so mad,” Harry said finally.

His father's expression didn't soften, but he did finally speak. “I will not harm you,” he said shortly. “Come.”

And Harry believed him, he did, but – I don't want to!

Apparently, though, he'd delayed too long, as quite suddenly his father was up, and then he'd gripped Harry's arm, and there was a pull that Harry didn't dare resist and then he was at the bedside – and his father was sitting – and then he followed the pull one more time and he was lying flat on the bed, his butt face up over his father's lap.

“You do not disobey me, boy,” his father told him.

The words came with a hard swat, and Harry flinched.

Then things got a thousand times worse, as he felt his father's hand grip his waistband.

“N-no – Father-” Harry protested.

But it was far too late for that, and he felt his pants being pulled down – and then tugged further, all the way to his knees. The chill of the air-conditioning was shocking against his bare skin, and he realized suddenly that his boxers were down, too.

Oh, this was no good at all. Not at all at all at all. He was bare! It had stung plenty enough when he was clothed!

“Noo,” he found himself protesting. “Sir – I'll be good! I won't do it again!”

“No, you won't,” his father told him seriously. “You won't dare.”

The hand at his waistband lifted, and Harry buried his face in his arms, not wanting to see.

Not watching it didn't stop it from coming down on his bared backside, and Harry yipped immediately at the sting. That hurt! It hurt a lot worse than last time!

“Nooo!” he protested. “Sir! Not so hard!”

“You're lucky I'm not using an implement,” his father told him bluntly. “I considered it, and after your disobedience it's tempting. You're quite right that I am angry.”

The next swat came down in a new place, just as hard.

Harry flinched and gulped. Oh, no. Already he didn't want even one more, and last time his father had given him many, many more than just two.

“No-one can hear,” his father told him out of nowhere.

Oh. He actually hadn't considered that, but now that he did. “...thank you,” he said softly.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

“Thank you.”

The boy said that a lot – oddly courteous for a boy of Harry's background. Certainly his cousin never said it. But Harry...Harry really was a good boy, overall. “Thank you”. For the smallest things, and even in the middle of a spanking.

Irrelevant, and it didn't require a response. He gave the boy his third of...he'd estimate fifteen and adjust as he got there...very firm swats. It made the boy whimper, and twitch just a little, as the skin reddened under Severus' hand. He was going for a sharp correction, and evidently succeeding. Soon -

Yes. There it was. He gave the boy a hard fourth swat, and the hand came back to block him from giving a fifth.

Three options. Grab the hand and pull it away, order Harry to pull it away, or simply swat where the hand wasn't. Or swat the hand, of course, but he wouldn't do that.

The third was the harshest option, and he'd had enough of Harry's resistance. Severus lifted his hand high and landed a very sharp fifth swat at the very top of the boy's bare thighs.

Harry yipped in shock, and pulled the hand away quickly, but Severus was not feeling forgiving. He gave a second swat in the same place, and Harry yipped again. “I'm sorry!” the boy told him quickly. “I won't do it again!”

Message evidently received, Severus resumed spanking the area the boy had tried to cover, and heard the first very quiet sniff.

The boy wasn't even half done. He'd be crying by the end. The next swat was gentler, and Severus cursed himself and made sure the next came down all the sharper for it. If the boy cried, he cried. He deserved it. In fact...perhaps tears were the goal. Harry had deliberately put himself in danger. He should remember this.

But Harry was...squirming. He'd learned not to reach back, but he was clearly very sore and not wanting any more swats, and though he wasn't wiggling enough to actually count as fighting, he was clearly struggling to keep still.

He wasn't angry anymore, Severus realized. He just wanted this done.

There were other ways to induce tears. Especially given that the boy had evidently decided he liked him.

“I am very unhappy with you, Harry,” he told the boy, pausing for just a moment. “You do not get to take risks with your safety, for any reason. Is that understood?”

There was another, quiet sniff, but Harry nodded slightly.

But now was not the time to be gentle. “Answer me, Mr. Potter,” he told him.

The boy's breath hitched. Good. “Yes, sir,” he heard.

“You especially do not get to take risks, and expect me to save you from the consequences. What if I had not come? Or what if you get yourself into a situation that I cannot get you out of?”

Sniff.

But he was looking for tears. “And if I had decided not to come at all, Mr. Potter?” he asked next. “If I had decided to let you take the beating that you'd signed up for?”

A gasp, and Harry looked back at him, eyes wide and imploring.

“I should think you would prefer the spanking, would you not?” he asked.

Harry broke the eye contact quickly, at that, burying his face in his arms.

There had been a nod in there, somewhere, but Severus was not prepared to let it go. “I want an answer, Mr. Potter,” he said coolly.

Harry's shoulders hitched. “Y-yes sir,” Harry told him shakily. “P-please don't go away.”

Oh. “I was not threatening that, Harry,” he told him. “I will always come back to protect you from harm. But I could choose not to protect you from a lesson I think you earned.”

It got him another imploring look, and the boy's eyes were wet. Severus just looked back at him, letting that sink in, and after a moment Harry hid his head again, his shoulders hunched.

Very close. Severus lifted his hand high, and made the next spank particularly hard. The boy froze at the sting and then squirmed again afterward, with a little whimper of protest and an even stronger sniff.

“Are you going to do this again?” he asked the boy, spanking him again.

A frantic head-shake. He swatted him again, just as hard. “Answer me.”

“No!” Harry said quickly.

“No, what?” Severus asked him.

“N-no, sir.” The strain was clear in the boy's voice, but he wasn't quite there.

“Better,” Severus told him. And spanked him hard.

“F-father!” Harry protested, sounding choked, “I won't! I s-said I won't.”

“But you did this time,” Severus told him severely. He gave him an even harder swat that time, and Harry kicked out at the sting. “D-daaaaad!” he protested. “Huuuurts! Please?”

Severus froze. Dad? The boy had called him father, and he'd allowed it, but... Dad? He was not the 'Dad' type.

But the boy was crying, finally. His last protest had ended in a sob and a despairing flop down onto the bed, and now the boy's shoulders were shaking, his head completely buried in his own arms, and his whole body nearly limp.

“It should hurt,” he told the boy's back. “You do not put yourself in danger like that.”

He'd told himself he was going to give the boy extra swats for disobeying. He would not allow Harry to fight him over a punishment.

He didn't want to, and he found himself just looking down at the very distressed small person draped over his lap, unwilling to swat him even once more, or even scold him. The boy was no longer transparent, at least, but he was still the picture of misery, limp and tearful and unwilling to show his face.

Severus had not even gotten to fifteen, he realized. He was considered a strict teacher, and a very strict head-of-house, but apparently he was a pushover as regards his own son.

But he already had swatted the boy for his disobedience. Just the once, and over clothing, but he had. He'd made it clear he disapproved. It would have to be enough – Severus evidently didn't have it in him to make up for the lack.

Harry was manifestly not going to stop crying right away, and his faintly pink bottom was still exposed, which was at least as awkward for Severus as for the boy. Forgoing a spell, he quietly gripped the waistband of Harry's pants, gently pulling the boy's clothing back into place without requiring him to stand.

Harry didn't react. The punishment had been hard – from Harry's perspective, at least - and he knew it would be a bit before Harry managed to calm himself.

Severus was not going to help him. The boy needed to process what had happened and why. Immediately distracting him from his distress would be counter-productive. Still, it was oddly tempting to do so, when the boy was so upset.

Pushover. He would not allow Harry to get himself killed, no matter how tempting it suddenly was to console him. God forbid the boy turn out like his cousin.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Gradually, Harry became aware of something other than his own crying, but the situation did not improve.

He was sore! His whole rear end radiated heat. He wanted to rub, but couldn't bring himself to do it in front of his father. It was just too embarrassing. But he couldn't seem to ignore the warmth and slight sting and the punishment he'd just received.

And worse - if I had decided not to come at all, Mr. Potter? His breath hitched again, just from thinking it. And Father had let Dennis catch him and hit him. And still spanked him. That was awful.

...Apparently, that was what happened when he got his dad mad enough. His father. When he got his father mad enough.

...Had he really called the man Dad?

And he was still draped over the man's lap, though somewhere along the line his pants had come back up. That was some small consolation.

He groaned, and hid his head even further in his arms. He was a mess of tears and snot, still butt-up over his father's lap, sore , and he'd called the man Dad without permission. Could life get worse?

It could, he realized. Last time, his father had assigned him additional punishment even after the spanking. He'd still been angry.

“...I'm sorry,” he said softly, silently begging the man not to be mad at him. Please. Please don't just leave.

But he always left, and Harry knew somehow that he always would. Harry did not get a family like other people. He should be grateful that his father protected him at all. Gifts and gentle touches were...well, he didn't deserve them. And especially not when he'd made his father so angry.

But that didn't stop him from wanting.

And he seemed to want the most when he least deserved. He could hardly bear it, how much he just wanted the man to touch him, and instead...his father was going to leave now. In just a few seconds, or maybe minutes, the man would ask him to get up, and then he'd leave, and Harry would once again have no idea when the man would return.

The boy was...a mess. From louder crying, upset from his spanking, he'd gradually quieted down and transitioned to a soft weeping that was much harder for Severus to take, especially because he had no idea where it came from.

I am not going to be the boy's father, he reminded himself. He could not be, he didn't deserve to be, and it wouldn't actually be in Harry's best interest for him to try. He knew the children of Death Eaters, and abusers, and they were not like this boy. This boy was still sweet. He still loved. He was neither angry, nor cold. Besides that, the boy was still alive. The less he had to do with Severus Snape, the better off he would be.

But the boy was so very, very sad. Far sadder than Severus had intended to make him. And Harry was his son. And Lily's. So very, very much Lily's, with that gentle streak.

Unable not to, he finally lay a hand on the boy's back, and tentatively rubbed. The boy's breath hitched in surprise, and then he froze absolutely still. Barely even breathing.

Did he not like it? But no, the freezing was not a protest, or a movement away. It was more like Severus' hand on Harry's back was some kind of wild animal that might run away, that required absolute, perfect stillness if you wanted it to stay. A twinge of guilt pinched in Severus' chest, but he just kept up his rubbing, gently.

“Relax,” he found himself saying. “I won't stop.”

He could feel Harry try, but the attempt was only half successful – the boy was still holding very, very still, and much as Severus wanted to deny it, he couldn't help but know what was going on.

He'd barely touched the boy. Ever. And Harry was absolutely starving for it.

How had he missed it? He knew that the Dursleys didn't actually care for the boy; that they took care of him only because they were compelled to do so. He knew that it was only his own presence that prevented them from being actually abusive. How could he not have known, that they would not touch him? And how could he possibly forget what that same treatment had done to him?

This was why the boy had wanted him to come, he realized. Not the clothing that he'd given the boy – but the very, very few times he'd actually touched him.

Which meant he was rewarding him, but somehow Severus couldn't bring himself to refuse the boy, when Harry was being so, so careful not to do anything wrong and make him stop.

“Harry,” he told the boy's back. “It- it's not you. You deserve a father. I just – cannot be that for you. I am not a good man. You think you've seen my temper – you haven't. You would not be safe with me, or around my...” he hesitated, searching for a word that didn't require further explanation. “...friends,” he said finally. “You are better off here.”

“I don't care,” Harry retorted.

And promptly froze again, and hid his head, nearly cringing.

“I do,” Severus told him shortly, surprised at the boy's temerity. Harry was typically timid with him, and though the boy had a stubborn streak, he'd largely learned not to give Severus lip. But though Severus' tone was sharp in return, he didn't stop rubbing. The boy would think it a punishment, at that point, and this was a conversation they were going to have to have.

There was a long pause, but Severus could tell the boy was steeling himself to say something.

“Take me with you,” he asked. No – demanded.

“Harry,” Severus told him, “I just said-”

“I don't care!” Harry told him more forcefully. Angrily. And then cringed for real.

“Watch your tone,” Severus told him. But he wasn't actually angry, and the boy could no doubt tell. Severus was still rubbing his back, and he knew that that ran counter to any other message he'd try to give the boy. Still, he didn't stop.

But- “I'll run away,” Harry threatened, then.

And that – Severus stopped the rubbing, immediately. It was horrible, but it would get his point across stronger than anything else. “You will not,” he told him. The boy would be dead within an hour, if he did.

“S-sorry,” Harry said quickly. “Sorry, sir. I'll be good.”

Frantic. Like he'd swatted him, and was threatening to continue. Worse, actually – the boy was trembling. Harry was just like he had been...just younger and a lot softer. So very vulnerable, still. His protection counted for something, at least.

He is better off here than among Death Eaters, he told himself again. Draco Malfoy was this boy's age, and already likely doomed. It was a known thing that the Dark Lord used his followers' children against them. And Severus was already doubly dangerous to be around because he was a spy, and also very high in the Death Eater ranks. Any child of his would be very much of interest, even if he weren't Harry Bloody Potter.

But still he again started up the gentle rubbing, unwilling to punish the boy for long when he'd just spanked him. And especially not to punish him that way for any period of time. The boy didn't want the touch, he needed it. Needed it like food and water and warmth.

And he wasn't getting it. Could someone else take the boy?

But no, Lily's blood wards. They kept Harry safer than anything anyone else could do save maybe Albus or Minerva, and even they would have to be so careful.

And yet – if they were careful – would Minerva take him?

They'd all thought that the toddler Harry would be better off with his own kin, but Minerva had loved the little tyke. She'd been devastated to give him to people as self-centered and unhealthy as Lily's sister and her husband. But the war had only just been over – the Death Eaters had been angry and desperate, keen for revenge on the little baby that had so humiliated them. Minerva, too, had seen the necessity.

But that was almost nine years ago – the world had calmed. And if Harry was really this starved for affection – so starved that he was willing to get beat up to call a father who he'd only ever seen for twenty minutes at a time, a father who had generally only scolded or spanked him and then left- then...

Then he was not safe, even under the blood wards, and no matter how distant Severus tried to keep himself. No matter how much he hurt the boy in the process.

'I'll run away'. He would, too. He was nine. He had no notion of what true danger even was.

Minerva. She would be careful. Harry wouldn't run from her, and she could not only adequately protect the boy, she could fix him. Severus knew from experience.

And Harry wouldn't throw it back in her face.

She and Albus would both need convincing, he was sure. It would be difficult to take a ten-year-old who'd never met them, and try to become his family. Possible, but very difficult.

Severus would beg on both knees, if that's what it took.

Slowly, he eased off his rubbing, and finally stopped. “I need you to get up now, son,” he told him.

Almost worryingly obedient, despite the misbehavior that had gotten Severus there in the first place, Harry struggled back onto his knees, evidently fully recovered from the spanking.

Curse it. The likelihood that the boy would remember anything from this encounter other than the affection he'd received afterward was now minimal.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Harry stood in front of his father, nearly overwhelmed by the last hour. He was still a little sore, but that hardly seemed to matter. His father – his father had rubbed him. And not just for a moment, either, even though Harry had made him mad again in the middle.

But...one thing still stuck out in his mind, that bothered him more than anything else. “...you let him hit me,” he said again. That part still hurt.

His father looked at him, and for once his expression wasn't hard. “I did,” he told him. “I was right there, and I watched him hit you.”

Harry looked down at the ground, feeling his lower lip poke out without him wanting it to.

But then his father kept speaking. “I will not allow you to be hurt,” he told him softly. “But I will allow you to get into trouble if you seek it. Do not seek it again.”

Harry nodded, and kept his head lowered, swallowing down the tears that wanted to fall again. He hurt. And he really didn't want his father to be mad at him, but- “Y-you said you wouldn't come,” he insisted.

There was a pause, and a single finger on his chin lifted his face up to meet his father's serious gaze. “You were not listening,” his father reproved. “I said I would not always come to protect you from lessons you needed to learn. I also said that I will always come back to protect you from harm. Always, Harry.”

Oh. Oh. Suddenly hopeful, Harry found himself swallowing hard, and tentatively speaking up. “You promise?”

There was a pause, and Harry felt himself tense, waiting for the excuse.

But – “I promise, Harry,” his father told him, finger still on Harry's chin. “I have never let anyone hurt you, and I never will, not if there's anything I can do about it. Now you promise me that you will not seek trouble.”

Oh. And he didn't want to lie – couldn't lie, and still believe that his father was telling the truth. But he couldn't promise, either. “B-but-” Harry protested, pained.

His father just raised his eyebrows, and waited.

He should lie. He should definitely, definitely lie. All he had to do was say 'yes, sir', and his father would stop looking at him like that, and he wouldn't be mad.

But the words were nearly choking him, so desperate they were to burst out. “I can't promise,” Harry told the man around the lump in his throat. “You'll never come.”

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Severus froze, pained, and his son apparently took it for disagreement.

“Y-you won't,” he told him more freely. “You only ever come for- for some reason, and th-this time it was forever, and I kn-know you don't want me b-but y-you come when I'm in danger a-and I just- I just want you to come!”

The last was almost a shout, and the boy had pulled away from his finger, and now he gave Severus a looked of mixed anger and terror before staring at the ground, shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. “S-sorry,” he said softly. “Sorry, sir. Please don't go away.”

The boy was crying again, his face now soaked and blotchy from all the tears, and he was staring at the ground like he could sink through it.

I know you don't want me. Please don't go away.

He'd done this.

“I- I can't, Harry,” he said softly. “You don't understand-”

But of course the boy didn't understand. He was nine. “It's okay,” Harry said quickly. “I'm sorry, sir. Th-thank you for s-saving me from Dennis.”

Horribly, Severus' first impulse was to run. He had no idea what to say, what to do, and his instinct was to simply leave, to go find Minerva and recruit her to heal his boy of the damage that he had hitherto blamed on the Dursleys.

The Dursleys, who did not want the boy. Who refused to touch him. How dare they, really?

I know you don't want me.

Those mean-spirited, self-centered, hateful muggles were there for Harry far more than Severus himself was. And had hurt him less.

His father. His only surviving parent. I know you don't want me. It was clear that the boy didn't actually blame him for that. Explanations wouldn't matter in the slightest.

And here he was, standing and staring at the boy as he cried his heart out over his heartless bastard of a father.... and apologized for begging him to come see him. Clearly, the boy didn't think he deserved any better. Oh, Lily, I'm so sorry.

He hadn't a clue what to do about it. The boy was not safe with him. He could not possibly continue as a spy with Harry Potter for a son. Even if he quit, the Dark Lord would target him and anyone associated with him, as a message to the rest of his followers.

The boy was a target anyway, though. He always would be priority number one as far as the Dark Lord was concerned – he couldn't go higher than that, even as a Death Eater's son. And if Severus had trusted anyone but himself to keep the boy safe, he wouldn't be here – and the boy would not be being fed. Harry was still skinny, and Severus didn't actually believe it was because he was picky. The Dursleys were clearly still feeding him the minimum they could get away with – or, perhaps, mucking with his food somehow. He wouldn't put it past Petunia to over-salt it, or something.

I'll run away, the boy had said. It wouldn't be long, before he actually did. It had taken Severus only fourteen years to get to that point, and Harry was nearly ten. The instant he ran, the blood wards would fall. Severus could not guarantee that he would be there at the particular moment they fell, nor could he trust anyone else to be.

Whereas at Hogwarts, the boy would not only have him, but Albus and Minerva.

This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? He couldn't just stop being a spy, for the sake of one nine-year-old boy who happened to carry his DNA.

Irrationally, the thought came with a stab of guilt. Harry wasn't just some nine-year-old boy. He was his nine-year-old boy. His responsibility.

But still just one. He couldn't reasonably prioritize him over the entirety of the wizarding world, could he?

But- Says who? He didn't know where the thought came from, but it was an oddly tempting one, looking into the face of a small boy who looked so like his Lily – and also, subtly, like him. A small boy whom he'd already hurt so badly. Screw the damned wizarding world. What has it ever done for me?

But the answer was, unfortunately, everything. The wizarding world had rescued him. Hogwarts was the only place where he'd ever been safe, or treated like he mattered. It hadn't saved him – that had taken Lily – but it had given him someplace to come back to after his repentance and her death. It had taught him that there was a world out there that was worth saving, even once she was gone. He'd been a key player in its salvation, the last time around. Surely he couldn't abandon it, the next time the Dark Lord rose. Not for the sake of just one boy.

But – his son actually wasn't just one boy, he realized suddenly. His son was Harry Potter. It wasn't Severus who was supposed to save the world, it was Harry. Severus had brought back the damned prophesy himself.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... 

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, implying that no-one else did. And just because the boy could, didn't necessarily mean he would. Could the wizarding world afford it, if the boy turned dark – or just stopped caring, the way Severus had? There were only so many times you could hurt a boy, before he started either hitting back or just not feeling it. It was only his love for Lily that had pulled Severus out of that. He had no idea what would pull Harry out, if he got that bad.

They really had no idea what the 'power to vanquish the Dark Lord' would look like. Apparently whatever it was, Albus didn't have it. That was terrifying.

And Harry was still so, so vulnerable. Still willing to show hurt, to demand that Severus fix it.

A familiar stab of guilt made him grimace. I'm sorry, James. Fathers were supposed to be proud of their children, proud of having taken part in the creation of a new little person that looked like them, proud of raising them to be forthright and courageous, to take each small step towards adulthood with confidence.

He could have no such pride.

I am not a good man, Severus thought, with another wave of guilt. There had been a certain pleasure, in multiple ways, in stealing James' wife out from under his nose, even if he'd felt nothing for Lily, but now Severus could only look back in disgust. He'd thought James would come kill him, honestly – and the man could've. Despair was no better a motive than lust or revenge, but he hadn't even thought about his motives at all until James hadn't killed him.

At first, he'd thought that Lily simply hadn't told him, but he couldn't actually believe that. Lily had been determined to do so, from the moment she sobered up. She would not have chickened out.

No, the unexpected element had been James. Far from killing him – or even shaming him - James had said nothing at all, then quietly allowed Snape's son to be acknowledged as his firstborn. And yes, society would have disparaged James, too, if he'd made it known. For two years, Severus had consoled himself that that was why the man had not accused him, or rejected the son his wife bore him.

Two years – until October 31, 1981, when the man had died protecting that same son. A child he knew was not his own. A child he knew to be the son of his...Severus nearly snorted. James' worst enemy. How juvenile. That hadn't been true since they'd both left Hogwarts. Voldemort was James' worst enemy. Severus was just the pathetic loser who couldn't let go of a grudge, even in the midst of war. That was whose son James had protected.

Severus did not like being indebted – again – to James Potter. And now he couldn't even apologize.

But – actually – would James mind, so much, if Severus did take the boy? The man had died for this boy, and for his wife, even knowing all that had happened. There was no way James would like the way Harry was living, now. No doubt the damned all-loving Gryffindor would even prefer Severus take him.

James had always been the better man. The boy should be James'. But James would prefer Severus to the Dursleys.

I would prefer James have him, Severus realized, looking down at the boy's tear-glazed face. Harry was still just standing there, trying and failing to choke back tears, while Severus stared at him like an idiot. He hadn't a clue what to do with a child.

But he had to do something, and he actually did know...one thing. It didn't feel exactly natural, but-

Slowly, uncertainly, Severus reached out with one arm, and pulled his son into his chest.

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Father...was holding him. Actually holding him, one hand wrapped gently around the back of Harry's head while the other seemed to engulf his whole body and pull it close. What had changed?

But Harry didn't care, for the moment. This might never happen again. He buried himself in it, close enough that he could smell a strange bitterness in his father's clothing, along with the smell of soap.

It was probably supposed to make his tears go away, but somehow they only increased in his father's embrace. It hurt, and yet he couldn't get enough of it, and he whimpered and wrapped his hands in his father's robes in a futile effort to pull him even closer.

“Alright,” he heard his father say softly, his tone one Harry had never heard before. “Alright, you win. Albus is going to kill me.”

HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS

Harry...clung to him. Clung to him like Severus was the only stable point in a hurricane, and Severus found him gripping him harder in response, trying to protect the boy from something he couldn't put a name to. Perhaps from damage that had already been done.

You can be a better man, Severus. Albus had said that to him, over and over again. And he'd scoffed at him over and over again. Now he could only pray that it was true.

He snorted inwardly. He'd have Albus' help, in not too long. There was only going to be so much time he could keep the secret, now. The thought of Albus' expression when he found out about Severus'... indiscretion...and subsequent ten years of deception was not enticing.

“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.

Damned dunderheads. Severus opened the door to his quarters and headed for his armchair, sinking down into it with a heavy sigh. He hated Wednesdays. He'd initially been pleased to see that his teaching hours were concentrated on Wednesdays, giving him two half days a week to work on his more complicated potions, but that didn't make the heavy day any easier. To make matters worse, one of his seventh years had still not managed an even minimally acceptable version of his culminating project and it had taken the entirety of Severus' lunch hour to sort him out. He hadn't been back to his quarters or eaten anything since breakfast, and he now needed to work on his sanguis puris potion within the next three hours if he wasn't to ruin several days' worth of work.

He hadn't checked on Harry, either, he realized a moment later with a groan. Not for hours. He really couldn't just sit here for the rest of the afternoon.

Food first, he decided. He wasn't going to be any good for Harry or his potions if he handled either of them as hungry as he was now. And maybe he'd take a pepper-up, while he was at it. Yes. Definitely.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Well fed, and feeling slightly less murderous for it, Severus finally got to his desk at five forty-five. He'd check on Harry and then settle in to finish his potions while it was still early enough for him to read a bit before bed. His old Master from his apprenticeship period had published a column in a lesser-known trade rag, and he hadn't managed to get to it yet.

First though, Harry. For all he knew the boy had gotten himself stuck hanging by his feet from the ceiling, or something, and his relatives certainly wouldn't help him out if that were the case.

Tapping out a complicated rhythm on his desk top with his fingers, Severus disengaged the locks and wards on the secret panel in his desk, and slid it open to remove his scrying mirror. Ostensibly, it was there so that he could spy on those of his colleagues whose houses he'd managed to bug or whose wards were inadequate. But the Dark Lord was long gone, and while Severus did keep tabs on those Death Eaters who had managed to avoid Azkaban, his mirror was now much more often employed to follow his son in his various wanderings. If Severus knew where to look – and the boy was in one of the areas that Severus had bugged – Severus could watch for him.

This time – the boy wasn't in his bedroom, nor in the kitchen, but... Severus frowned in concern as he watched the family gathered around the kitchen table. The Dursleys were eating, and Harry was not there. Not a good sign. He watched for a moment to make sure the boy hadn't just stepped out to the bathroom or something, but all he saw was the older Mr. Dursley waving food around on the end of his fork, apparently dominating the conversation. He had food in his mouth, too. Severus grimaced and thought of the next location to look.

He'd already checked the boy's bedroom, and he wouldn't be in the living room or the other public areas of the house if he hadn't been allowed in the kitchen. Outside, then. The garden? But no, Severus shifted his view among several surveillance points but saw nothing. The boy wasn't in the garden, and it was too late for Harry to be in school.

The playground. And yes, there he was, and Severus breathed a sigh of relief before stiffening as he realized what he was seeing. Harry. Standing bold as brass on top of the monkey bars and walking back and forth over the rungs, not even a week after he'd scolded the boy and made it very clear what he was and was not permitted to do on these same monkey bars.

Severus closed his eyes, but when he opened them again the view hadn't improved. As Severus watched, the boy wavered, then recovered. Nothing for it. He could either ignore the boy's disobedience – and the risk to his safety – or he could slip out of Hogwarts for the second time in a week to go punish his son. And all he wanted to do was perform the next step on his damned potions and go to bed. Damn it. Why today?

Nothing for it, and while he wasn't looking forward to it, he'd been called out of Hogwarts at the end of a long day for worse things. He only hoped Albus wouldn't notice. Fortunately the man was used to Severus keeping to his quarters on Wednesday evenings. He wouldn't think it odd that he missed dinner in the Great Hall. He'd use the floo in his office and do his best to explain his departure later if Albus was still monitoring its use.

Not that it mattered, he realized grimly. Albus had made it clear that he'd noticed Severus' deception and was going to allow it. Not that he knew how long that would last.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

The trick was to keep moving, Harry discovered. If he attempted to balance on the bars one at a time, he wavered, and eventually had to put his hands down quickly to avoid falling. If he stepped and kept moving, though, he could quite easily walk along the bars in a sort of rolling rhythm that only got really scary when he got to the end and had to stop.

Or alternatively, when he got most of the way across and slammed to a halt as his father's head came into view over the end of the rail. The expression in the man's eyes could have cut glass. Harry nearly fell backwards in his startlement and scrambled for balance for a moment before he felt the sudden odd weightlessness that he'd encountered once before when he'd fallen from the tree. His father had caught him again.

And the man had spanked him the last time, Harry remembered belatedly. His father did not like it when he had to come to Harry's rescue. And this time Harry had disobeyed him, too. Harry winced, but there was nothing for it. As before, the magic lifted him into the air and dropped him unceremoniously at his father's feet. At least this time he was right side up, but he landed on his butt anyway, and looked up from the ground to see his father positively fuming.

Well, that was fine, Harry told himself, willing his anxiety away as he stood up to face the man. Harry was mad, too. Father had promised. He was supposed to keep his promises! He was the only one that kept his promises! Harry stood up straight – just a little bit out of his father's reach - and matched the man glare for glare.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Well that was...new. Glaring like that, his son looked just like him, with somewhat messier hair and Lily's expressive green eyes. Very angry green eyes. What right did the boy have to be angry with him?

But Harry had never defied him quite this explicitly, and now that Severus was here he found himself wondering why. How had the boy gotten this angry with him when he wasn't even here?

And how that anger translated into the boy risking his neck on top of the playground equipment was another question. He positively itched to spank the boy, but Harry's behavior really was odd. Usually, his son wanted to please him.

“Explain,” he commanded the boy coldly.

Harry flinched at the word, but his anger didn't waver. “Y-you're a liar!” his son declared angrily. “You promised and you LIED.”

Severus frowned. He lied? The accusation that he was a liar was absolutely accurate, but he used it to very specific aims. He had never, to his knowledge, lied to his son. “I lied,” Severus repeated blankly.

Harry's glare intensified at Severus' confusion, but the boy didn't answer him.

But Severus had had a long enough day without Harry being difficult. “I said explain, Harry,” he told the boy sharply. “This is your chance. If you only wish to glare at me then I will simply spank you for your disobedience and have done with it.”

His son's eyes widened a little at the words, and a slight tremble in his lip became more visible. The boy was clearly angry, but he was also apparently on the edge of tears. Not an unusual combination, actually. Severus had seen it a lot in his years as Head-of-House.

After another moment of mute staring – which Severus allowed, as Harry seemed to be trying to get himself under control - the boy finally answered, his voice coming out broken and surprisingly quiet. “You s-said they couldn't take my p-plane,” Harry told him. “You said. But they did! They t-took it! You said they couldn't!” The last words were louder, as the boy's upset started to spill over.

Oh. That explained it. But – how? He'd been quite sure that none of the Dursleys would be even able to touch the plane, let alone take it. “Harry,” he said, the name coming out sharper than he'd intended. “They couldn't even touch your plane, and you tell me they took it from you?”

“But they did!” Harry protested. “A-aunt Petunia made me throw it in the rubbish bin!”

Oh. He hadn't accounted for that. Of course. Petunia couldn't touch the plane, but Harry could, and she could make Harry do whatever she wanted. Severus' temper, already wavering at the boy's obvious upset, finally fell completely. Oh, Harry. The boy's one toy. Severus knew exactly how that felt.

And they'd had a deal. Severus had broken it, or at least he had as far as Harry was concerned. And he hadn't given the boy another way to contact him than to do something so wildly stupid that Severus was guaranteed to come tell him off. Which he'd get to, in a moment. For now – he was relieved that all the boy had done was disobey him, and hadn't run away, or something.

“I am sorry, Harry,” he told the boy quietly. “I didn't think of that.”

Harry looked so surprised at the words that Severus was almost amused. Almost. He would've been, if it weren't for the sudden realization of what it would take to get Harry to throw out that one cheap little airplane.

“Harry,” he asked seriously. “How did your Aunt make you to throw out your plane?”

The boy gave him a wide-eyed look before looking away to stare resolutely at the ground, his shame and misery obvious and immediate in the rounding of his shoulders and the small, mute shrug that was Severus' only reply.

“Harry,” Severus said warningly. “I do not like shrugs. Answer me, please.”

The boy gave him an anxious look, then looked away again. “N-”

Severus cut him off before he could get any further. “Don't you dare.”

Harry stopped the lie at the warning, but glared sullenly at the ground, once again refusing to speak. Damn.

Severus stepped forward to close the distance to his son, and gently took his arm, turning him. Harry evidently knew what was about to happen, and this time he protested, his tone coming out whiny. “N-no! Father!” He was resisting Severus' pull, too, but not strongly enough to really make a difference. Ignoring the protest, Severus turned him, and gave him two swats in quick succession on his clothed behind. That done, he turned the boy back to look at him.

“I asked you a question,” he told the boy. It came out quiet, almost gentle – and Harry's expression in response showed such upset that he felt bad for the swats. He knew the boy had had a hard day, but then they were going to have this conversation, and he would not allow Harry to disobey him, no matter what else was going on. But he still didn't like punishing the boy. What was he going to do about the boy's idiotic playground antics?

Harry hesitated just a moment longer before finally answering him. “It's your fault,” he accused. “Y-you did it! You made it shock Dudley! I didn't do anything and- and-”

The boy was becoming distraught, his words coming out louder and faster as his eyes filled with tears, and finally his words failed. Still Severus waited, hoping Harry would finish the sentence. The boy wouldn't be struggling that much if it wasn't new information. But then Harry paused too long. “And what, Harry?” he asked him.

“I was holding it,” Harry told him finally. There was a sort of - pained bewilderment – in his voice that set a slow fire in Severus' chest. “I was holding onto it and I – I knew she wouldn't give it back and I didn't want to let it go so she- Aunt Petunia hurt me. S-she grabbed my hand and it hurt. I- I knew she didn't like me but-”

His voice failed, and he clearly fought for control but it was no time at all before his eyes filled with tears again.

Numbly, Severus reached for the boy's right hand, gently insistent even when Harry initially pulled it away from him. Very carefully, he checked him, looking at the chafed, reddened skin and slight swelling on the boy's wrist before watching his son's face as he manipulated the joint and pressed gently on the bones. He was reassured when the only point of soreness was the initial small contusion he'd found, and nothing worse. Still, he couldn't help running a very gentle finger over the mark, fighting back a sense of mindless fury that threatened to send him back ten years into the past. He did not hurt and kill his enemies, anymore. No matter whom they themselves had hurt.

But the boy's aunt had hurt him. Gripped that thin wrist hard enough to chafe the skin and bruise when the boy pulled. Harry was standing in front of him in tears, submitting meekly when Severus knew that his examination, however gentle, must have hurt.

And Harry was watching him now, with a vulnerability in his eyes that Severus had seen a couple of times before, when Harry had begged him – begged him – to take him away. To be his father for real. Harry was absolutely correct that this was Severus' fault.

For the first time, it felt as natural to Severus to pull the boy into his arms as it had to swat him when he fell out of the tree – he just reached out and the boy's head was in his chest, his hands gripping Severus' robes as his tears wet the fabric.

“Good boy,” Severus told him, holding his head. “Good boy. My good boy. I'm so sorry.”

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

My good boy. Good boy. I'm sorry. His father continued to speak, mostly just those three things over and over again. But Harry had never heard any of the three before in his life, and between that and the warmth of his father's body through his clothing and the feel of his father's hand in his hair, Harry found that while his tears continued, he'd never been so...not exactly happy, but comforted – in his life.

He had one little nothing of a bruise, something no one in their right mind would be the least bit concerned with. It didn't even hurt all that much. And yet somehow Harry couldn't bear to look at it, his very soul shying away from the memory of how he'd gotten it. It felt – huge, that bruise. Unimaginably, intolerably awful.

Which was just pathetic. It was a bruise. A tiny thing that a big boy of nine had no business worrying over. But his father...his father had somehow seemed to know. He'd touched it, brushed gentle fingers over it – fussed over it – like somehow he, too, thought it was important. And now – now he held Harry, too, like he was important. Like he truly was sorry about Harry's one tiny hurt. And that felt enormous, too.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry cried in his arms, and Severus just held him, unsure what to do or say other than to praise the boy for talking to him and apologize to him for his failure, knowing without a doubt that he was the worst kind of coward the world had ever seen. Send him against the Dark Lord, sure, he'd do what he needed to. He didn't fear death. Evidently, what he feared was Albus. And he'd failed to protect his son because his mentor would be angry with him. He'd procrastinated and procrastinated until the woman had actually hurt the boy.

And...that was it. No more of this. Severus didn't exactly know what he was going to do, but Petunia Dursley would never touch his son again.

But first – Harry was clinging to him, and Severus couldn't bring himself to pull free or otherwise make the boy stop before he was ready. He let the boy cry, and then let the boy cling to him as the crying quieted and eventually died altogether, and then stayed until Harry himself finally pulled back a little, giving him a quizzical look.

“Father?” he asked.

Severus stared down at him. What was he going to do with the boy?

But nothing for it. He'd delayed long enough, and he could not stomach leaving his son in that house one more night. The fact that he had not prepared in the slightest for this eventuality was his problem, and not Harry's. He'd grovel for Albus and the man would fix it, no matter how angry he was with Severus for springing this on him...and for lying to him for nine years before that...and for having had that night with Lily in the first place... Severus winced, but his cowardice had already cost Harry enough. He could not let it go further, and he needed to act before thought too hard and chickened out again.

“Come, Harry,” he told the boy quietly. He would come back for the boy's belongings later. Hogwarts would supply enough for the one night.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus led Harry away from the playground and past the Dursley's house, headed for another house a little further down from it and across the street. He'd brought his copy of the key, and used it to let himself and Harry in through a back door.

As usual, the place was deserted. Evidence would suggest that the older man who owned the place did actually live there, at least some of the time, but Severus had only even met him once, when he'd explained this arrangement. Since then, the man had done a very good job disappearing from the house when Severus was in it. Severus in turn was careful to leave no evidence of his passage other than the agreed-on fee. Well, that and a private, locked floo passage, but the muggle would have no way to detect that other than the ashes left in his fireplace.

Harry looked around the house in curiosity, but didn't ask questions. He'd been utterly silent for the entire walk here and for the time that he'd stood waiting while Severus unlocked the front door. He thought he probably should encourage the boy to talk, but he found that he simply didn't want to. He was in no mood for answering questions and the boy would figure it out himself soon enough.

Kneeling on the hearth, Severus placed a fragment of wood on the grate and lit it with his wand, then removed the small bag of floo powder from a pocket of his robes. He opened it and pulled out a small handful of the gritty material.

“The flames will not harm you,” he told Harry, reaching for him. “But the room will spin.”

He threw the silvery powder into the flickering flame and they flared into a two-foot tall green bonfire. “Private floo number 2-5-3-2,” he commanded.

Evidently, he needn't have worried about his son. Once the boy figured out that his father was going to hold him, that was pretty much all Harry cared about. He didn't fight at all as Severus backed him straight into the flames.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry held onto his father for a moment after the wild ride through the chimney, catching his breath and savoring the fact that the man was permitting it. His stomach had tightened painfully through the entire walk to his neighbors house, as his father had stalked ahead of him and not spoken a word.

Harry had known that the man wasn't angry. His father had let Harry cry on him. Harry had gotten snot on the man's clothes and still his father hadn't made him stop. Instead he'd apologized and told Harry he was good. He couldn't possibly be angry.

And yet- Harry had disobeyed, today, and the man hadn't spoken to him at all since Harry had let go of him.

After a moment of silent clinging, though, Harry felt a large, gentle hand on his head, the fingers carding through his hair in a way Harry was just starting to get used to. Not that getting used to it made him love it any less.

He really ought to let go now. Surely, his father had brought him...wherever they were...for a reason. But he couldn't bear the idea that maybe his father really was upset with him. The hand in his hair was enormously reassuring.

Finally, though, his father spoke up, that unusual gentleness still in his voice. “I need you to let go now, Harry.”

Harry didn't want to, but he also knew he was clinging and he really, really didn't want his father to get mad again. He let go immediately and backed up, looking at the floor and feeling the beginnings of a blush.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus frowned, noticing for the first time how wary Harry looked. I haven't scolded him, he realized, and I haven't talked to him, either. He was just preoccupied, but Harry needed to know where he stood.

“I am not angry with you, Harry,” he told the boy. “We are going to talk about your behavior on the playground but I understand why you did it. I simply have a lot to think about, right now.”

And a lot to do, but this was the first time Harry had ever been in his quarters, and he didn't even yet know that that was where Severus had brought him.

“This is my home, Harry,” he told the boy. Harry looked up in surprise, and Severus met his eyes. “You are not going back to the Dursleys,” he told him. “You will stay with me. But I have a lot that I need to do to make that happen.”

The boy's eyes were as big as saucers, but he didn't speak, and once again Severus understood. The boy wouldn't know what to think, just yet. Severus had felt the same when he'd started going home with Albus for the summer. The fear had so far overwhelmed him that he couldn't even really be happy about it. Harry was probably a little better off than that, but nonetheless, the boy was most likely feeling very insecure.

And now he needed to leave Harry alone in order to talk with Albus. Not ideal, but not horrible, either. Harry probably had a lot to think about, too.

“Stay here,” he told the boy. “You may move around through the room as you wish, but don't touch the books – some of them could hurt you.”

Come to think of it – he couldn't imagine Harry just sitting or playing quietly for the amount of time this conversation was likely to take. And he had absolutely nothing he could offer the boy to do.

“Tilly,” he called sharply.

Harry frowned, evidently confused, but a moment later Severus' house-elf popped into the room. “Master Snape is calling for Tilly, sir?” she said.

Harry squeaked when he saw her, and Severus smiled, remembering his own first experience with the creatures. He was lucky that Tilly was so very short, even for a house elf. Harry might've been more frightened of a larger one.

“Tilly,” he told her, oddly nervous. “This is my son, Harry. He is coming to live with me, but I need to go speak to the headmaster. I need you to please watch over him for an hour or so.”

Harry's eyes were wide, and Severus found himself tempted, for a moment, to tell the boy some sort of scary tale about her to get him to behave. But he really wouldn't lie to his son. Not even just for a joke.

“Harry, this is Tilly,” he told the boy instead. “She is a house-elf. You are to obey her. I will be back as soon as I can be.” Then he turned to the elf. “Come find me if he gives you trouble, but I don't think he will.” Then he realized something. “Oh,” he told the elf. “And feed him dinner. He really likes cookies.”

He was going to leave, then, but the elf frowned at him. “Just cookies, sir?”

Severus winced, embarrassed. “Oh,” he told her quickly. “No. Just...” His embarrassment increased further at the realization that he specifically wanted to be sure his son got dessert. He was a terrible parent already, it seemed. “Give him whatever the students are getting, but please look to see if there are cookies left over from yesterday. He may have two.”

Harry was giving him big eyes, and once again Severus found himself terribly uncomfortable under the hero worship he saw in his gaze. “Be good,” he told the boy. “I'll be back as soon as I can be.”

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus approached the gargoyle at the base of the stairs and swallowed. “I wish to see Albus,” he told the beast.

The stone monster frowned at him and didn't move.

“Please,” Severus revised.

Still, the beast stared at him and did not move. It knew the headmaster's moods, always knew when Severus had upset the man, and was much less forgiving than Albus himself. Sometimes it meant that Severus had to explain himself just to earn the right to go see the headmaster. And he could use the password, but oddly enough the beast himself was enough of a friend to make Severus feel bad for using it to bypass him. And the gargoyle wouldn't forget it the next time, either.

But Albus' voice drifted down the stairs. “Let him by, Garthus,” he said.

Severus winced. Oddly enough, that was not a good sign. Albus had been waiting for him to come by, or he wouldn't have noticed Severus down here before the gargoyle let him by. And he didn't usually help him with Garthus, either.

Garthus saw Severus' wince and gave him a cool smile before moving aside. The smile wasn't any more reassuring than Albus' call had been. The bastard knew Severus was in trouble and was enjoying it. Severus snarled at him as he went by.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

“Severus!” Albus greeted from his desk as Severus entered the office. “I'm so pleased you came by. Please sit.”

Albus indicated a chair, but Severus just met his eyes. He'd infinitely prefer to stand for this, but any desire to snarl or snark or anything else had fled at the man's jovial greeting. The warmth this time was absolutely genuine, and he did not deserve the friendliness. He gave Albus good eye contact, communicating what he could, and Albus gave him a slightly sad smile.

“Ah,” he said more seriously. “This is not a social occasion. I suppose I should have guessed, given your careful avoidance of me lately. What can I do for you?”

He'd been avoiding Albus? Severus swallowed, fighting the childish need to look away. The weight of what he needed to tell this man – his rescuer, his mentor, nearly his father – was crushing. More than ten years' worth of lies. What would the man think of him? But he truly had no choice, not with Harry waiting for him in his quarters. Not when he couldn't let the boy leave his quarters without some plan in play to protect him.

“I need – help,” he admitted quietly. “And...you will not be pleased with me.”

Albus' eyebrows rose, but he didn't speak, and Severus closed his eyes to avoid his gaze. His stomach was churning, and he once again realized just how much more afraid he was before Albus than before the Dark Lord. Albus had never hurt him – certainly not like the Dark Lord had - but he had far, far more ability to do so. And his anger stung regardless.

Albus, please... but he could not beg. Not when the man didn't even know what he'd done. And not when he knew how disturbed his mentor would be if he did. But the temptation was there nonetheless. Severus had far more experience with Masters than mentors, and anyway this was Albus. He'd betrayed the man this badly before, but it had been a very long time. Albus had helped, before – as much as he could – but despite or even because of that Severus couldn't seem to stop the frantic words running in his head. Albus, please. Damnit, he was an adult. How could Albus still have this effect on him? How could he still hope that the man would just fix everything? How could he even ask him to, given the lies he'd been telling? How could he even hope Albus would look at him again?

Albus spoke up, finally, and his tone held a rare gentleness. “Severus,” he said, concern obvious in his tone. “What can be so bad?”

How could he answer that? “I – I left again, tonight,” he told the man finally.

The words sounded pathetic in his own ears. The very smallest of his crimes. One that he'd never felt guilt for before, even. Albus was responsible for keeping an eye on him for the ministry, but he also deliberately let Severus “escape” to meet with Death Eaters. As such, Severus figured it was his prerogative to slip his leash sometimes for his own purposes, as well. He'd always told Albus afterward, though. It was almost a game they played. This was not a game.

But Albus had evidently finally decided to help him. “Where did you go?” he asked.

Severus felt his shoulders sag in relief. Questions. He could answer questions. One thing at a time. “I went to see...someone,” he told his mentor. He sounded like his son, he realized. Avoiding the one thing that his questioner wanted to know.

“Severus,” Albus chided.

Severus nearly winced, the chiding tone reminding him once again of how badly he had treated the man. He'd lied to his employer, to the man who was responsible for supervising his parole, to the Head of the Wizengamot, to the Head of the Order of the Phoenix. But in the process he'd also lied to the man who may as well have adopted him. Albus' tone was not that of a boss to his employee. Not even that of a teacher to a student. And that was what made Severus' betrayal so unforgivable. He owed this man everything. He could not imagine this conversation going well.

Severus' mouth went dry, but he forced himself to speak. “My son,” he told the man. “I went to see my son.”

Albus went silent for a moment, staring at Severus. “I...see,” he said slowly. He paused for a long moment, but evidently decided not to comment. “And how old is the boy?” he asked instead.

And Severus could well hear all the questions underlying that. 'How long have you been hiding this from me?' and ' How long have you been going behind my back to see him?' were only the start.

“He is...almost ten,” Severus admitted, feeling his heart pound hard in his chest. The fear was becoming overwhelming, and there was no way to tell his body that the adrenaline wouldn't help. Neither running nor fighting would change anything at all, if Albus couldn't forgive him for this. What was done, was done.

“Ah,” Albus said, tone neutral.

Severus clenched his teeth, fighting an unreasonable surge of temper. Damnit, Albus. Would you get it over with? But Albus certainly didn't deserve his anger, and he hadn't even gotten to the worst part, yet.

“And who is the boy's mother?” Albus asked him.

Yeah. That part. And suddenly Albus' questions didn't seem all that helpful, after all. He opened his mouth to answer- and closed it again, unable to make himself speak. He was staring at a spot on the wall over Albus' head, he realized with a twinge. He'd looked away, and there was no way Albus would've missed it.

He had to answer. Albus had been helping thus far, and he probably could guess, given Harry's age, but Albus deserved better than that. Severus owed him better than that, after the lies he'd been telling. How could he possibly gain forgiveness for them without finally telling the man the truth?

But he couldn't get any moisture into his mouth at all, and Albus was just waiting. It took several tries before he finally managed to make himself speak, but he forced the words to come out clearly. “Lily Evans,” he said, then winced, and revised his words. “...Potter. Lily...Potter.”

He was grateful for his experience with the Dark Lord, suddenly. He knew for sure his face was blank, and the words still came out clear. None of his humiliation would be readable to anyone but Albus. But he felt like he was going to throw up.

The silence that came after the admission was worse. It felt like three years before the headmaster spoke again. “What is it you think I am going to do to you, Severus?” the man asked him eventually. His tone was still gentle, and Severus looked up at him in surprise. Albus' eyes when Severus met them held a wealth of kindness that Severus did not deserve. He looked away again.

Severus' mind flashed back, suddenly, remembering that same line long ago, when as a third year he'd gotten in a fight with Albus' golden boy, James Potter, and stood before his headmaster for the first time with a black eye and a scowl. What is it you think I'm going to do to you, Severus? Like Severus had deserved sympathy.

Severus had not known what to answer, then, as he didn't now. He suspected Albus already knew the answer to his own question, and a painful hope started to creep in as the headmaster's tone communicated something more than his words. Nothing has changed.

“Honestly, Severus,” Albus told him then. “These are events that happened ten years ago, to people who have been dead nearly as long. The only one I have left to worry about is you. I am certainly not going to drag you over the coals now for events that transpired ten years ago, especially when it's so clear that you regret them.”

Severus winced. He did regret them. Tremendously. James' forgiveness had puzzled and bothered him ever since, like an itchy spot on the inside of his collar that he couldn't find to dig out. He didn't know if Lily forgave him – he hadn't seen her in the year and a half between Harry's conception and her death. He'd fought to keep her and her family alive in the interim, under the knowledge that the boy could never really be his and that Lily would never look at him the same way again. Still, he'd fought with everything he had to keep them alive, and he'd still lost, through yet another massive failure. His life was a string of them.

But Albus had loved Lily, and he'd loved James – and yet he'd forgiven Severus his part in their deaths as easily as he'd forgiven that silly fight. But still Severus couldn't believe it enough to trust in it now. How could Albus forgive him for this betrayal, too, even if it had happened first?

But if he could - if Albus could forgive him, when he loved all the same people – and when his tongue could cut him to ribbons if he wanted to without even raising his voice – if Albus really could just wave the whole thing off as if he'd heard about it ten years ago instead of ten minutes - perhaps the incident really could be over? Perhaps the man's regard for him really hadn't changed? Or perhaps it just wasn't that high in the first place, some bitter part of him snarled back. You've always been his black sheep. Why should that change now?

Albus didn't speak again, and after awhile Severus realized he was waiting for eye contact. And Severus recognized that, too. Usually, it wasn't a bad thing. But nonetheless Severus had the same reaction he always had - a horrible mix of hope and fear and humiliation that grew as the silence lengthened and Albus waited for him. It took no time at all before Severus gave in, meeting Albus' gaze and keeping it, reading the information there.

And Albus' expression was calm, concerned – exactly the same as it always was, when Severus came before him after a Death Eater meeting to be debriefed. Like he knew how hard it was for Severus to even look at him after bathing in – that. Like he knew how hard it was, now, after admitting to taking advantage of his best friend. The man really was just concerned about Severus. He really did forgive him the rest. Again. Given that - it was actually wonderful that the man knew.

“T-thank you,” he told the man finally. But his stomach still churned, as his body processed the stress of the last minutes. It was awhile before he could bring himself to speak again, as the fear and humiliation faded to be replaced by a much more normal anxiety about what Albus would have to say to him. What had possessed him, to wait this long to bring this to him? This was Albus. Surely he should've known that Albus would react this way? Surely he should've predicted it? And yet he'd waited ten years to bring this to him.

Oh, Albus really was going to kill him. Still, his relief allowed just a hint of humor into his tone when he finally spoke again.

“How recent does the error have to be before you do 'drag me over the coals', then?” he asked.

“Ah,” Albus answered, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. “Of course.” His own tone had lightened as well, but Severus knew from experience that the lightness did not mean Severus wasn't in for it, any more than the humor in Severus' tone meant that he didn't understand the seriousness of his crimes. But even the return to the familiar dance was a relief so sharp it was almost painful. Albus was going to tell him off, like he was thirteen and had gotten in a fist fight with another third-year. Severus could live with that.

“Let's take just the last...two years,” Albus suggested. “Does that seem reasonable to you?”

Two years. Instead of ten. It was more than reasonable, it was merciful. And this was not going to be good at all.

“...yes, sir,” Severus told the headmaster stiffly.

“So only the two years of deception, then, as well as-” Albus paused briefly, as if to think, then counted off on his fingers. “Hmmm...lies about where you've been, broken parole, misuse of the scrying tools I provided you...?”

He was obviously not actually unsure of all that Severus' deception had entailed, but nonetheless his tone invited confirmation. And the repeat of the words 'two years'...it had actually been ten.

“Ah – yes, sir,” Severus told him. “...that.” But the words came out freely, the choking fear gone even as his stomach remained sore. This was normality – and, so far, Albus' tone was reassuring. He was going to tell him off. Nothing more, nothing less. Severus hated earning his censure, but he'd expected a lot, lot worse than a lecture.

Albus gave him a brief look, and put up the fourth finger to keep counting. “Passages into and out of Hogwarts that I didn't know about and that could have been discovered or put the students at risk, missed staff meetings and classes, fictional dying aunts-” he looked at Severus for confirmation again as he put up the thumb on his other hand, but this time Severus had something to defend himself with.

“She was real,” Severus clarified.

Albus frowned at him, and Severus found that somehow he could smile. This wouldn't remain at all lighthearted, but for the moment - “I didn't like her,” he told his mentor, enjoying an odd sense of mischief. “...and nobody actually expected me to come see her.”

“Ah,” Albus answered, the twinkle momentarily returning to his eyes before dying again. He gave Severus a direct look, almost a warning of what was to come, and Severus steeled himself as his mentor put up a seventh finger and continued.

“Two years of struggling to spend time with and protect your son, while you failed to come speak to me or ask for any sort of help,” Albus told him. “You had to have known that I, too, had interest in the lad's welfare?”

More serious charges, and Albus' tone no longer held any humor, but still Severus couldn't fight back an odd sense of – lightness. High, almost. The relief was too great, to hear Albus speaking to him like this again. Like he'd screwed up, but like he still mattered.

“Not to mention, of course, the danger to your safety during those years,” Albus continued as he put up an eighth finger. “If I am not mistaken, you have been playing not double but triple agent. You could not have thought you could hide your time with Harry not just from me and from the Ministry but also from the Death Eaters with whom you still associate? And this, once again, without my help?”

He put his hands down, no longer counting fingers, and gave Severus a straight look, waiting for a response. And that...Severus let Albus see him wince. He hadn't thought about that, and he knew it wouldn't go over well. Still, though – the man knew what had happened with Lily, and had said hardly anything about it. Hadn't asked for the humiliating details, hadn't pointed out – as he was doing now for much lesser sins– all the myriad ways he'd screwed up that night. The despair, the anger, the betrayal of the person he loved most – none of it. Had the man already known, somehow? How could he forgive so easily? To be scolding him, now, about the danger he'd put himself in, after all he'd done - but then, why Albus chose to give a whit about him at all always had been a mystery.

Albus was still looking at Severus expectantly, as Severus remembered that Albus typically preferred a verbal response, even if a short one. He'd asked whether Severus had thought he could hide his visits to Harry from his Death Eater colleagues.

“No, sir,” he answered. “I didn't. Rationally.”

“I do not think it was your reason that failed, Severus,” Albus told him severely.

Severus swallowed, any sense of levity finally dying away completely at the sharpness in Albus' tone. This was normality, yes, and he was so grateful to Albus he didn't know how to express it – but that was exactly why this was going to be so hard. He had lied to Albus, over and over again, and he'd long since received his second and even third chance. He could not, as he so frequently did, face Albus' criticism with aloofness and snark. Albus would evidently forgive him, over and over and over again, but – Severus took a breath, and steeled himself for the rest of what was already proving a very unpleasant conversation.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry watched the... “house-elf”... “Tilly”... from his place on his father's huge dark brown leather chair. She was an ugly little creature. Tiny, with absolutely enormous eyes and ears. Like a little bald lemur, or something, but with no tail. And she had talked. Father had told him to obey her. What was she going to tell him to do?

As he looked at her, she looked at him, her head turned slightly to the side like he was the strange one. “M-master Snape is saying that Master Harry is being his son, Master Harry sir?” she finally asked.

Master Snape? Was that his father's name? Harry frowned, embarrassed at the realization. How stupid was he, that he didn't even know his own father's name? Even Dudley knew that much.

But the house-elf's question made no sense unless “Master Snape” was referring to his father. Harry swallowed, but nodded to her. It had made him feel...good... hearing his father refer to him that way to somebody else. This is my son, Harry. He was somebody's son. Like his father actuallywanted him to be his son. Petunia had always made it very clear that he wasn't. 'This is my son, Dudley...that is my sister's child, Harry.' She sometimes even added something else, along the lines of how difficult it was to take in a charity case.

But Father had told this...elf...thing...that Harry was his son – he hadn't even hesitated, or seemed embarrassed. So it was with real pride that Harry nodded to the little creature. Yes, his father had said that Harry was his son.

“Oh,” the house-elf said in response to Harry's nod. Her surprise was evident, and Harry realized something...horrible.

“D-does he have other sons?” Harry asked her in return. He couldn't bear to hear the answer, but he had to know, and he knew he wouldn't have the courage to ask his father.

The house-elf's surprise clearly grew at his question, as her eyes widened even further. Still, she didn't comment, and she responded with more information than he'd asked for. “No, Master Harry sir. Master Harry is being Master Snape's only son. Master Snape is not having a wife, Master Harry sir. He is having only Master Harry for family. And Master Dumbledore and Mistress McGonagall. But they are being like mother and father for Master Snape, sir. Not children. It is Master Dumbledore that Master Snape is talking to now, Master Harry, sir.”

That was reassuring. The idea that his father might have other children, children who he actually wanted... well. It'd been bad enough with the Dursleys, when he knew he didn't really belong to them. If his own father had been the same – Harry shied away from the thought. Father had admitted that Harry was his. That was good enough. He might not want him, but he'd claimed him anyway.

That question resolved, though, Harry found himself once again wondering about his babysitter. “W-what are you?” he asked. A “house-elf,” his father had called her. But what the heck was a house-elf?

His question earned him a smile. “Tilly is being a house-elf,” the creature replied, reminding him that she had a name. “She is being a magical being. Tilly is not being a human, but is being smart like a human. Different like a human. Not an animal. But Tilly is belonging to Master Snape, and Tilly is happy. Freedom is not being important to house-elves. Service is being important. Helping. Humans is not understanding.”

Harry frowned. Tilly...belonged... to his father? “You are a slave?” Harry asked, incredulous.

But Tilly frowned. “Slave is not being a nice word. Slave is being done to someone. Tilly is wanting to serve. Is wanting to belong. Master Severus is being a good master. Is giving Tilly good work. Tilly is being very happy with Master Severus!”

Woah. Harry stared at the creature. Freedom is not being important to house-elves. Apparently, she meant it.

“Master Harry is staring at Tilly,” the elf told him, frowning.

Harry felt his eyes widen, and quickly looked down, curling his knees into his chest. He'd offended her. “Sorry,” he said. “I just – sorry.”

He stayed curled up for a moment, unsure what to do. He was tired. It couldn't be late, not yet, but it had just been such a hard day and there was just so much to process. The strange creature in front of him, who talked and minded him staring. This big, dark, room, that they'd come through the fireplace to enter. Where had his father brought him? And was he really staying? For ever? For real? Had his father really said he that, or had Harry's mind somehow made it up? Surely his father couldn't actually want him here.

And now he'd offended the elf, when his father had told him to obey her, and he wasn't really scared of her but he had no idea what to do now, either. He'd already said he was sorry, but other than that – and he just didn't want to keep talking to her. He was sure that curling up and not saying anything wasn't the best thing, but that was what he ended up doing, anyway – just putting his forehead down on his knees and blocking everything out.

For a moment, there was silence. Wonderful, restful, silence, and then the elf spoke again. “Tilly is being very sorry, Master Harry,” she told him. “Tilly is not wanting to frighten Master Harry. Is Master Harry wanting some dinner?” Her voice came out quiet and slow, but Harry just curled up tighter. He was being stupid, he knew. His father would surely not approve.

But that thought didn't help at all. He didn't want food, he wanted to be left alone. And, horribly, he wanted to go home. His father was not here, and without him, he'd rather be in his room at Privet Drive, alone and safe and knowing what he was supposed to do.

“Tilly is bringing Master Harry dinner,” the elf said finally. “Tilly is being right back.”

There was a soft 'pop'. Harry didn't look up, but a moment later there was another pop and a clatter and the sudden smell of hot food, very close by. And Harry perked up immediately as he realized that he was starving. He'd eaten his last sandwich from his father for lunch and he hadn't wanted to go home for dinner after his aunt had taken his plane. Not only that, but when he looked up the elf was standing there with an entire hot meal ready. Somehow in the space of about three seconds she'd come up with a plate of sausage, potatoes, and vegetables, all arranged nicely on a plate. A separate plate on the same tray held two cookies, alongside a glass of milk.

Tilly smiled brilliantly when she saw him looking. “Master Harry is wanting?” she asked.

Encouraged by her smile, Harry nodded vigorously and uncurled from his spot on the couch to come eat.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus stood still, and clenched his teeth to avoid saying anything, determined to let his mentor say what he was going to. He deserved every word of it, and he was still too raw to even pretend differently. But it was getting increasingly hard not to try and stop the flow of painful words. He knew, damnit! He knew how much he'd screwed up. But Albus had a gift for listing every minuscule idiotic decision he'd made, and everything he'd risked in doing so. The words were not unkind, but they nonetheless hurt. And hurt all the more because he knew he deserved them. If he interrupted Albus now, he'd get a pause, and a very kind, sympathetic glance, and then the words would continue.

“...parole, which I pulled every string I had to obtain for you, on the condition that I would know where you are at all times – do you think I could obtain that for you in the current political climate? Do you think I could save you from Azkaban if someone caught you breaking it? Or how about the Death Eaters? How long until one of them noticed you around the Dursley residence? They knew where the boy was, and the blood wards don't protect you!”

Severus winced. His safety, again. Of course that was what Albus cared about the most. Not the lies, the myriad ways Severus had betrayed him, but the danger he'd put himself in in doing so.

And still the man didn't stop.

“ Honestly, Severus,” he continued. “You are a brilliant, brilliant man, you are well capable of making prudent decisions in difficult contexts, and you are not – usually - a coward. Did you truly choose to risk Azkaban or death in order to not admit to a mistake you made ten years ago? Do you trust me so little?”

Severus stared at him, dry-eyed but shaken. He wanted – needed – to contradict the man, to tell him that he really hadn't prioritized Albus' good opinion over his own safety. That he hadn't risked death to avoid one man's anger. But he held himself silent, unwilling to lie.

He had, he realized. That's exactly what he'd done. He'd made the decision, over and over again, to not tell Albus. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. For ten years. Of course Albus would blame himself. And no, he evidently didn't trust the man. Nothing Albus – and Minerva - had done for him had managed to make him trust them. Love them, yes. But trust them? Not enough to take that risk. Not until his son had given him no choice.

But apparently his silence had brought Albus to the same realization. Did you truly risk Azkaban or death in order to not admit to a mistake you made ten years ago? Yes, yes he had.

“Severus-” Albus whispered. He sounded horrified, his voice holding a sorrow that was too painful to bear.

“I'm sorry,” Severus told him. He cut himself off, unable to come up with anything adequate to say. He'd expected the man to be angry, and instead, Albus was hurt. Of course he was.

Albus had tried so, so, hard, to get him to trust him. He'd earned that trust. And yet Severus couldn't give it to him. Just didn't seem to have it in him to give.

And yet, so far, the man hadn't given up. Thirty six years old, and Albus was still trying.

There was nothing Severus could say that was adequate, against that. “I'm sorry,” Severus said again, softer.

Albus kept the eye contact, his own expression sharp and direct in a way Severus rarely saw. “Severus,” Albus told him. “I know very well what it was you feared, but you also knew very well that your fears are irrational. I have told you before, and I will tell you again. You will not – can not – drive me away from you. I will never, ever, tell you to leave, or leave myself, or deny you. No matter what you tell me you've done. You cannot do anything to make me write you off, or want rid of you. Is that adequately clear?”

Severus blanked his expression again, unwilling to let Albus see the effect his words had. The man had said them before – in similar contexts - but it was far, far too perceptive in a way that never failed to make Severus cringe. Who said these things to a grown-up?

But he couldn't deny that it was the right thing to say. The words hurt too much to be irrelevant. Albus knew him too well.

“But you knew that, Severus,” Albus told him quietly. “I know you know that, and you are both a very rational and a very courageous man. So what possessed you to let this go for so long?”

Severus just shook his head. He had nothing else to offer.

The silence after his statement was...horrible. Albus' hurt was tangible, and Severus hadn't any more idea how to fix it than he did when it was Harry.

Finally, Albus seemed to decide to let the question go, but his expression as spoke again was no easier to bear. “Tell me the rest, please.”

Albus was looking at him, expression questioning. And he could just tell him, Severus realized with relief. The fact that the boy was at Hogwarts was a tiny thing, compared to everything that came before it.

And yet, when he met the man's eyes and tried to speak, it was still hard. In some ways, it was even harder to say, for everything else that he'd done. Just another failure on his part. He hadn't adequately protected his son, or prepared Albus for his arrival, and now he needed help.

“Harry has been living with his relatives,” he told the man factually.

Albus nodded, but did not speak, and Severus just kept forcing the words out, keeping his tone brusque and matter-of-fact.

“The Dursleys were initially – not good, but under control. They did not harm the boy.”

Albus was keeping his expression blank, obviously giving him the benefit of the doubt, but Severus couldn't help but try and justify himself. How could he leave his son with those people?

“I'm a Death Eater, for goodness' sake,” he told the man, hearing his tone come out rough. “The boy couldn't possibly be safer with me than with a family of perfectly ordinary muggles. I mean – you put him there; you must've thought it would be to his benefit-”

Albus raised his eyebrows, simply waiting for Severus to continue as he sometimes did, without giving any clues as to his own opinion on the issue. And as usual, Severus tried to wait him out in return, but quickly caved. They both knew who held the authority here. Severus had no business denying Albus...pretty much anything he wanted, at this point.

“I – gradually things have gotten – worse – for Harry. At first, I just stepped in occasionally, making sure that Vernon knew I was doing so, and things didn't get out of hand. Harry was an infant and couldn't get in much trouble and Petunia's instincts seemed to push her in the right direction. But then, as Harry got older, started doing magic-” He trailed off, but still Albus just waited.

“Petunia hates and fears magic,” Severus said shortly. “I knew she did when it was Lily, but I thought that as an adult, with a small child...surely a child's small, unimpressive magics could not frighten her so; could not inspire the same hatred?”

Still, Albus didn't give him any indications, either of agreement or censure, and Severus pushed himself on. “I was wrong,” he said shortly. “Vernon wasn't the problem, it was Petunia, and recently things have gotten...unacceptably bad.”

No, Severus realized. No more hiding from the truth. He swallowed. “I should have taken him a long time ago,” he admitted. “It's been clear enough to me that things were going south. I simply did not want to see it, or know what to do about it.” He'd been a fool. A fool and a coward.

Still, Albus was still just listening, his gaze steady on Severus' face, and Severus continued his story, wanting to get it over with. “I went to see Harry today, and found that his Aunt had hurt him. Not – badly – but enough to bruise.”

That wasn't the real hurt, Severus knew. The honest confusion on Harry's face, like he couldn't quite believe what had happened- the boy was so, so innocent, somehow.

“I brought him here,” he told Albus finally, meeting his eyes. “He is in my quarters.” He had no right to ask, he knew. He had absolutely no right to ask. Harry, he reminded himself. His son would not be hurt again. “I would...appreciate...your help, in keeping him safe.”

He was staring at the wall, he realized. At some point, he'd looked away from Albus' face. Desperate to see Albus' reaction, Severus met his mentor's eyes, and immediately felt his stomach clench. Albus' gaze was focussed, sharp - direct on his. Penetrating. And Severus thought he knew what the man wanted, though Albus had never demanded it before. There was a way that Severus could unquestionably prove his loyalty.

The Dark Lord had demanded it, and though it did not hurt it was one of the more horrible parts of Severus' duties. The feeling of a greater power ruffling around in his very mind left him feeling unaccountably soiled, as if greasy fingers had left their imprint on his brain. Occlusion kept the Dark Lord from seeing everything that he wanted to, giving him only the illusion that he'd seen everything, but Severus could not afford to actually block him out of his mind. And this was Albus, who had taught him how to keep his Master out of his darkest secrets. Such barriers would only insult him.

And this was Albus. He had every right to demand that Severus earn his trust again, no matter how that demand hurt him.

Holding that gaze, Severus dropped his occlusive barriers – all of them – and let the man see whatever he liked.

To his surprise, Albus blinked immediately, and kept his eyes shut, blocking his sight too quickly to have picked up on much of anything, though his evident distress indicated that he'd gotten something. “Severus,” he said, his tone portraying shock. “My boy, there is no need for that. I wouldn't ever-”

He got up and rounded his desk, and in no time Severus found himself in a tight embrace. He stiffened slightly at the unexpected contact, never knowing quite what to do with it, but Albus ignored his discomfiture and put the usual hand up to embed his fingers in Severus' hair.

“I trust you, Severus,” the man told him vehemently. “I knew you were in trouble of some sort, and I must keep tabs on you if I'm to protect you from the Ministry. I did not like knowing where you were going and I am still quite angry with you but I never doubted whose side you are on and I would never do that to you. Not ever, Severus.”

And that, right here – this embrace, those words – was why Severus was so damned terrified of Albus Dumbledore. The man would probably never understand – quite – why contact with him was so hard for Severus, but a bit like Harry on the playground, Severus just couldn't quite relax – ever – with someone who mattered this damned much.

Finally, Albus released him, and once more met Severus' eyes. This time, Severus kept his normal barriers in place, knowing that otherwise his thoughts and emotions would once again spill right over through the eye contact. But he could feel how shaken he was, and he was sure that Albus could pick up on his tension just fine.

“Go back to your quarters and to your son,” Albus told him. “Floo me when you're ready. I'd like to meet the boy, preferably tonight, and we need to plan how to keep him safe before anyone else finds out he's here.”

With a full stomach – and an extra cookie hidden away in the pocket of his overly large sweat pants - Harry found himself feeling better about life, and increasingly curious about his surroundings. He was in a living room, one much more casual than his aunt's, with dark brown leather furniture, warm tan walls, and battered old travel trunks used as coffee and end tables. There was a small desk in one corner, with a chair and a lamp, and several tall bookshelves. Don't touch the books, his father had told him. Some of them could hurt you. Why would books hurt you? But he'd long since learned that anything his father gave him behaved differently than anything he'd ever encounter otherwise. Presumably his father's own stuff was similar.

Still, he found himself heading over to the bookshelves to investigate, aware of the house-elf watching him and careful not to touch. There were many large tomes, with leather bindings and odd names like “Potions Compendium” and “501 Most Useful Spells,” but other than that they didn't look very interesting. Maybe they would've been, if he'd been allowed to touch them, but he wasn't, and he found himself vaguely disappointed.

He felt – itchy, he realized. Restless and bored, unable to settle down. It reminded him of how he felt when stuck inside the house with the Dursleys when Aunt Marge came to visit – not allowed to leave, but not allowed to really do anything, either.

He wanted his father, he realized. He didn't like being left all alone like this with the house-elf, even if there was food. When would his father return? He'd told Tilly to call him if Harry gave her any trouble, but he hadn't said when he'd be back otherwise. Well – an hour or so. Which could mean anything. Petunia said similar when she was closing him in his room for 'being in the way'.

He'd come into the room through the fireplace, he remembered. Curious, he left the books to instead go look up the chimney. There was no sign of any sort of opening, just ash-covered brick. The ash got on his hands, and he wiped some of it off on his shirt, frowning as he saw the streaks and the ash still left on his hands. Oh, well.

Was the only way out of the room through the chimney, though? But no, there was a door, stained dark brown to match the furniture. His father had left by it. Where were they? They'd gone flying through the fireplace, not just walked right through, so he didn't really think he was still in Little Wingeing. It didn't really look like an outside door, either.

Feeling oddly disoriented and still curious, Harry headed for the door, prepared to open it and look out, but Tilly finally spoke up.

“Master Snape is saying that Master Harry must not be going out,” she said.

“I won't,” Harry told her. “I just want to look.” Opening the door, Harry craned his neck around the doorway to look out, and gasped. Woah.

He was in...some kind of dungeon or something. All long corridor with stone walls and – woah, was that a suit of armor? Like knights had?

He hesitated. He wanted to go see. Father had told him to stay in the room, and Harry didn't know when he would come back. But maybe he could just look?

He edged a little around the door to see better, hearing the house-elf protest behind him. “Master Harry! Master Harry must be staying inside Master Snape's quarters! Master Snape said-”

But he wasn't out. Not really. He was still mostly in the doorway.

He'd just go see, and come right back, he decided. And then he'd go back in like the house-elf wanted and his father had said. Surely they couldn't be too upset, if he was out for ten seconds? And if Tilly did call his father...he couldn't make himself mind.

“Master Harry!” Tilly protested again. Harry was already halfway down the corridor, and barely heard her.

It was a suit of armor. It even had a shield, divided in four big sections of color with a different animal in each, and a gigantic sword.

“Good evening,” a woman's voice said above him. “I do not believe we've met. You are a bit young for Hogwarts, are you not?”

Startled, Harry looked up, and felt his eyes widen. The voice had come from a painting. A painting that moved and talked like a real person!

“You can talk?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Far better than you can, apparently,” the old woman in the painting told him frostily. “How rude.”

“Woah,” Harry breathed.

“Master Harry!” Tilly piped up behind him. She sounded upset, this time. “Master Harry is not to be out in the corridor! Master Harry is to be inside!”

“But the painting talks!” Harry told her. “And moves! Look!”

“Tilly is not caring about paintings. Tilly is caring about what Master Snape is telling Tilly. Master Harry is not to be in the corridor! Master Harry is to be inside Master Snape's quarters!”

But there was a talking painting. Surely she couldn't just expect him to leave now?

“Are you really a painting?” he asked the portrait.

The old woman sniffed. “Of course,” she said, sounding offended. “What else should I be?”

Harry frowned, not having an answer for her, but apparently she wasn't done. “To be specific, I am a portrait of the late Selena Slytherin, wife of Salazar and mother to Primus and Secundus Slytherin and Sabine Longbottom. Supreme Potions-Mistress of the British Isles and a teacher of Potions at Hogwarts for twenty-five-”

But Harry had just remembered what 'late' meant in this context. “Wait, you're dead?” he asked abruptly.

“You are interrupting, young man,” the painting told him sharply. “And I am a portrait. You could not have expected me to walk out of the painting?”

“I didn't expect you to move at all!” he told her. “Or talk! Even videos don't talk to you.”

Immediately, her expression tightened like she smelled something bad. “You are a muggleborn,” she said.

“Muggle-what?” Harry asked her.

“A muggleborn,” she repeated, glaring down at him with narrowed eyes and pinched lips. “A mudblood. What is the school coming to, to allow muggleborns in? And then to allow them into my corridor! And without supervision! For shame! Selena and Salazar would've never allowed such a thing!”

She sounded like Aunt Petunia, Harry realized. Harry wasn't sure what to say to her, and Tilly spoke up again shrilly before he got a chance to try. “Master Harry is to be going back inside!” she demanded. “Master Snape is not being happy if Master Harry is not inside when he is getting back.”

“Too late.” The voice came from a short distance behind them, the words drawn out before ending sharply on the over-enunciated 't'.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and turned around so fast he stumbled. “Father!” he said in surprise.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus walked the rest of the way down the corridor to stare down at his son and his elf, and felt his heart-rate slow as his panic eased. His evidently completely incompetent house-elf and his very disobedient son, side by side. The two of them were looking up at him with nearly identical panicked expressions.

Merlin, he was tired, though. Albus had put him through the ringer, then unexpectedly released him back to his chambers. He'd come back through his floo, expecting to see his son, only to find his living room empty, the leftover dishes from his dinner the only evidence that the boy had been there at all. He'd swiftly gone to check the other rooms, anxiety growing quickly, before heading out his front door.

And here they both were, right next to Selena's portrait only twenty feet down the corridor from his door. And now looking up at him like he was the problem, here. Snarling, he sent a spell to build temporary walls blocking both sides of the corridor around them from sight and physical breach before concentrating down on his house elf and his son.

“Master Snape!” Tilly told him now, eyes wide in evident panic. “Tilly is being very sorry, Master Snape, sir! Tilly is telling Master Harry to come inside. Is saying over and over, Master Snape, sir! Master Harry is not listening to Tilly!”

“Did I not tell you to come find me if he gave you trouble?” he asked the elf impatiently.

Tilly bit her lip briefly, but spoke up to explain. “Tilly is being sorry, Master Snape, sir!” she said. “It is only being a few minutes, and Master Snape is needing to meet with the Headmaster! Tilly is not wanting to interrupt important meeting-”

Severus blinked. Tilly had disobeyed a direct order? On purpose? He'd not known that was even possible.

“You mean to tell me that you chose not to come find me, Tilly?” he asked her in disbelief.

Tilly's eyes widened. “T-tilly is not – Tilly is thinking-” abruptly, Tilly clapped both hands to her face in horror. “Tilly is disobeying!” she said. “Tilly is disobeying Master Snape!”

“You disobeyed me,” Severus said, voice soft with shock. “Deliberately.”

Eyes very wide, Tilly looked at him and took her hands from her face to instead grip her ears in sharp little fingers, digging her nails deeply into the cartilage.

Damnit. Could today get much worse? “Stop that,” he told her sharply.

Tilly paused, looking at him doubtfully, but her hands hands opened, and finally came down, revealing tiny points of blood where they'd been.

But now Severus really was getting angry. “When have I ever told you to punish yourself, Tilly?” he asked her sharply.

Her eyes were wide. “N-never, Master Severus, but Tilly is-”

“Never,” Severus interrupted her. “Not. Ever. Have you ever even thought doing so would please me?”

Tilly was stiff and wide-eyed, her mouth hanging just a bit open like she wanted to protest, or explain. Instead, she said only, “N-no, Master.”

“So what possessed you to try it now?” Severus asked her. His frustration finally broke his control, and the sentence rang out loud in the echoing corridor.

Tilly looked up at him for a moment, her eyes huge with distress, before bursting loudly into tears. “Tilly is disobeying, Master Snape!” Tilly exclaimed, her voice loud and high in her distress. “Tilly is being a bad elf! Tilly is not knowing how to fix it, Master Severus, sir! Tilly is being very sorry! Please do not be giving Tilly clothes!”

The thought hadn't occurred to him, actually, but now that she mentioned it...a disobedient house-elf? He'd never heard of such a thing. And it wasn't something he could afford to tolerate, either.

He could not keep her if she would disobey him, especially now that Harry's safety might depend on her discretion.

But – Tilly is not knowing how to fix it. The sentiment was too familiar for comfort. And a house-elf's normal response to displeasing her master or mistress was to either accept punishment, or punish herself. He wouldn't have that, either.

“You will not be given clothes, Tilly,” Severus told her, “but I am very displeased. You do not disobey me. You do not punish yourself. I cannot have an elf who will disobey my orders, and I will not have one harming herself to please me. This is the very last time this happens.”

And now for the worst part. He met Tilly's eyes and kept her gaze. “You will go down to the kitchen and tell Wrigley that I require a different elf for the evening. You may return to my quarters at eight AM for breakfast.”

Tilly froze, her hands still clasped in front of her and her mouth slightly open as she stared up at him in abject horror.

But his patience was at an all-time low. “Go, Tilly,” he told her.

“Y-yes, Master Snape, sir,” she told him, the words coming out choked. She apparated out with a sob.

Severus grimaced, fighting guilt at the harshness of his tone. The elf would be miserable enough without him snapping at her. She was in absolute disgrace, and the other elves would realize it. The fact that she wasn't allowed to serve him would be even worse. Elves quite literally lived to serve.

But elves were resilient creatures. He'd make sure to give the elf extra tasks tomorrow and she'd perk right up. And hopefully that would be the last of the self-punishment.

And now for Harry, which was going to be about as much fun. This was not how he'd wanted to introduce the boy to this place, to magic, or especially to house-elves.

The boy had been watching his interaction with Tilly, eyes very wide, and now that Severus' attention was on him he was trying to disappear in the middle of the dungeon corridor. He'd even gone a little transparent, again, and he was...cringing, no doubt from how sharply Severus had spoken to Tilly. Lovely. The very last thing he wanted was to give Harry new reasons to fear him.

But the sight of him eased Severus' temper, some. Oddly enough, even when Harry was the object of his anger, just the boy's presence seemed to make it easier to control himself.

“Oh good,” Selena's portrait piped up. “At least somebody understands propriety around here. Professor Snape, that boy is a muggleborn. What is he doing in my corridor?”

Hmm. He was having a truly terrible day. Surely Albus wouldn't blame him for a little harmless arson?

Unfortunately, though, while Albus might not, somebody certainly would. He'd heard Argus Filch having long chats with the woman, who for some indiscernible reason was kinder to him than anyone else she spoke to. It wouldn't do to burn holes in the man's only friend.

“That is not your business,” he told the portrait instead. “Isn't it time you paid a visit to your relatives in Hufflepuff?” He gave Selena a deliberately mocking sneer, and the woman flounced off, all offended dignity.

He needed a little time, if he wasn't going to snarl at his son the same way. Reaching down, he took Harry's wrist, hesitating just before grabbing it to ensure it wasn't the bruised one. Just the reminder did a lot to calm his temper. The boy's day had been at least as bad as Severus'. And it's about to get worse, he thought grimly. He was not pleased with his son.

“Come, Harry,” he said. He moved the temporary walls to block Selena's portrait on his way out.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry followed his father anxiously, hyperaware of the man's gentle grip on his wrist. Nobody else ever grabbed onto him that way. Teachers generally told you where to go, or at least they did when you were as old as Harry. They didn't touch. Petunia and Vernon only ever touched him in order to push or grab. Or...like his aunt, that morning.

His father was mad, too. Maybe even as mad as Petunia had been. But his grip was gentle.

He'd only been gone an hour, Harry realized. Hardly long enough for Harry to get dinner...and cookies.

He really, really didn't want his father to be mad. Oh, what had he been thinking? How had he dared to disobey his father, here? And Tilly – Freedom is not being important to house-elves, she'd said. But he'd thought she was a grown-up, and yet she cried worse than Harry did when his father was angry.

“F-father?” he said hesitantly.

“Shh,” his father said sharply. But his hand on Harry's wrist was still gentle, and Harry had seen the care he'd taken not to grab the wrong one.

This was – awful. He wished he could just go back in time. He'd just wanted to see the armor, and then the stupid painting lady had gotten him all distracted and now Father was mad and Harry couldn't fix it.

Father hadn't punished him for standing on the monkey bars, Harry realized guiltily. He'd been upset about Harry's wrist, and he'd brought him here, even though he didn't really want him. The least Harry could do was be a good son. What if he was too much trouble, and the man changed his mind?

“I'm sorry,” he told his father, looking up at his stern profile. The man turned his head briefly towards him at the words before looking where they were going again.

“Wait until we're inside,” he said. But his tone was reassuring – serious, but not nearly as harsh as when he'd talked to Tilly and to the painting lady.

“Wh-what are you gonna do?” he asked.

“Inside,” his father repeated.

Harry felt his stomach twist. He was a terrible son. The Dursleys hadn't wanted him, either. What if his father changed his mind? Would he ever even visit him again?

Severus took a moment to take stock and work on controlling his temper. His hand wrapped completely around Harry's wrist, to the point that his thumb overlapped his fingers, and the boy's aunt had already hurt him that way. He would not be another adult who dragged, pushed, or threw the boy around. Especially not today. Though, come to think of it, he really wasn't struggling that badly, at the moment. Not nearly as badly as even five minutes ago. His brief anger had burned out and now he mostly just felt - tired. Tired, frustrated, and dreading this, but not particularly angry. Certainly not tempted to hurt his son.

It was a very short walk back to his quarters, and he put his hand up to let the magic read his palm. A soft 'click' let him know that the wards had opened for him and the door unlocked. Harry would not have been able to get back in on his own, he realized. Tilly could, but Harry could not, and Tilly could not apparate in with Harry. The boy would've been trapped in the dungeon corridor for anyone to find. That did start to kindle his temper. Harry had not been in his chambers when he'd come back from speaking to Albus. Instead, he'd been locked out in the dungeons of the castle. Harry Potter, wandering around the Slytherin section of Hogwarts, alone but for Tilly. Severus could've throttled the both of them. My fault, Severus realized grimly. Again.

Whoever thought it a good idea to give him care of a child- but he cut off the thought. No-one had decided that but him. The boy had been his responsibility from his conception. It was Severus' problem if he hadn't found someone better to care for him before the idiot boy had decided to bond.

But he was the last person he'd have chosen to take care of Lily's son. He, too, had thought the Dursley's better, until the very last minute.

Best to get this done. The door from the hallway opened directly into his living room, and Severus headed straight for the dark leather couch. Sitting down, he stood Harry up in front of him to look him in the eyes. For a moment, he didn't know what to say, and just studied the boy. Harry lost the eye contact quickly, and Severus noticed for the first time how upset he already was. This was not going to be easy.

“Harry, what were you thinking?” he asked his son.

Harry sniffed...and shrugged.

“Harry,” Severus chided.

Harry looked up quickly, eyes widening. “Sorry!” he said. “I'm sorry!”

Like the damned house-elf. The boy was thoroughly spooked. “Shh,” Severus found himself saying softly. Damn his temper. He wasn't even all that angry anymore, and the boy was frightened.

Severus frowned, pulled off track. He couldn't punish the boy like this. He would punish him, but he wasn't even sure that was what the boy was afraid of. By now, the boy was pretty used to that, and he'd never reacted like this.

“Harry, what's wrong?” he found himself asking. He almost startled at the words, like he'd heard someone else say them. He'd never heard his voice sound like that – certainly not since Lily had died. Was it really the first time, or had he just not noticed? It was odd, having his two lives suddenly clash so vividly; talking to Harry from a spot on his own couch at Hogwarts where he was a spy and a potions master and the scariest teacher in the school. The Bat of the Dungeons could not possibly have a son of his own, and yet here he was. It was...terrifying. How had he gotten to this point? What was he going to do, now? Could any of his old life survive, with Harry here?

“I'm sorry,” Harry told him for the third – no, fourth – time.

Severus focused back on Harry as the boy spoke up, and frowned more deeply. From the boy's demeanor, you'd think Harry had murdered someone. But he hadn't answered the question, and Severus was too much the spy to miss it.

“Harry,” he asked again, a little more firmly. “What is wrong?”

Harry gave him a confused look. “You're mad at me,” the boy told him. As if that was wholly sufficient. Which it would be, if the boy weren't suddenly acting actually afraid of him. Surely his aunt's actions couldn't have scared him this badly, this fast? Or was it Severus' actions that had somehow frightened him? But he hadn't even really snarled at the boy. But you did snarl at Tilly, he reminded himself. The boy's not stupid.

“Quite,” Severus confirmed. “What is wrong?”

“W-what are you going to do?” the boy asked him.

Do? Surely the boy knew? “What do you think I'm going to do?” he asked in return.

Harry started a shrug, then gave Severus a leery look and aborted the shrug mid-motion. “I don't know,” Harry told him softly.

Oddly enough, that sounded like the truth. But how could the boy not know? Surely they'd done this dance often enough before?

But finally, the boy seemed to screw up his courage, and spoke again. “P-please don't take me back,” he said to his knees, so quiet Severus could hardly hear him. “I'll be good, I promise! I didn't mean to disobey!”

That was a logical inconsistency, Severus realized. One could not honestly promise not to disobey if one's behavior was not within one's own full control.

Which was not at all relevant or helpful to the situation.

Please don't take me back. Of course. Of course that was what the boy feared. Severus should've predicted it. The fact that he hadn't proved just how off his game Severus really was at the moment. Thank goodness he didn't need to meet with any 'colleagues' tonight. Though I do still have to face Albus again, he remembered. Ugh.

Please don't take me back.

I know you don't want me, Severus remembered. Please don't go away. And now another. Damn.

Gently, Severus put out a hand, lifting Harry's face to look at him. Almost immediately, Harry started to cry. Severus looked at him for a long moment, hesitant, then finally shook his head and pulled the boy into a hug. But he was sitting down on the couch, and the boy was standing, which was uncomfortable for both of them. Grimacing, Severus instead maneuvered the boy into his lap. Apparently Harry didn't find this nearly as awkward as Severus did. His only reaction was to turn his head and bury his face in Severus' neck. After a moment Severus adjusted his arms around the boy to hold him close, doing his best to manage his own awkwardness as he felt the boy's tears leaking down his neck. Damnit. Not again. What was wrong with him that his son cried so damned much? And how the hell did he fix it?

Minerva, he thought again. He didn't look forward to that conversation, but it was nearly as vital as the one he'd had with Albus. He'd need Albus' help to protect the boy, but he'd need Minerva's to help fix the damage he'd done. As usual, and yet another set of unpleasant confessions to make. He did not fear Minerva's reaction as he'd feared Albus', but nonetheless it wasn't going to be a good time.

For now, though, he just needed to answer Harry's anxiety. He could answer all of Harry's questions with touch – he was quite sure Harry would accept it happily – but it wouldn't answer the boy's very rational fears when Severus wasn't immediately there to reassure him. The boy needed something to remember and answer the fears with.

“You are not going anywhere, Harry,” he told the boy. “You are staying with me. Being angry with you will not change that.” But his own words reminded him suddenly of different words - words that he'd been clinging to for twenty years and more, even as he barely believed them.

As disdainfully as he usually regarded this kind of maudlin sentimentality, it was the best idea he had. “You are mine, now,” he told Harry. “You will not – can not – drive me away from you. I will never, ever tell you to leave, or leave myself, or deny you. No matter what you have done. You cannot do anything to make me write you off, or want rid of you.”

Harry had evidently noticed the oddness of his tone, as he'd pulled his face out of Severus' neck and was looking questioningly up at Severus' face. Severus met his eyes, and self-consciously returned to his own wording. “You are my son, Harry,” he told him, fighting to find words that were both honest and reassuring. “You are correct that I chose not to acknowledge that, before, but you are mine just as much as your horrible cousin belongs to your aunt and uncle. You're not going anywhere, ever. No matter how badly you behave or how angry I get. I will not harm you, and I will never take you back to your aunt and uncle. If it is up to me, you will never see them again. I promise, Harry.”

Harry's eyes widened and fixed on his as he spoke. “B-but I'm a horrible son,” he protested.

Oddly, that kindled Severus' temper again, and he found his words coming out sharp. “You're nothing of the sort,” he contradicted. “You're a perfectly adequate son. It is I who have failed you, and not the opposite. I should never have let them take you to your aunt when your parents died.”

He regretted the words as soon as he said them, for a moment convinced he had broken his convictions and lied to his son. The next moment, though, he realized quite suddenly that he'd meant them. If he could, he'd go back in time, quit his spying as soon as Voldemort was destroyed, and take his son as an infant.

But that required him to go back in time, knowing the things he knew now. The man he'd been then would've never considered it – hadn't considered it. He'd taken the trouble to ensure that Dumbledore had a workable plan for what to do with the boy, and considered his responsibility fulfilled. Just checking in on the toddling, babbling infant had felt an imposition, a ridiculous risk and a waste of time he could've better spent on his potions and his spying.

And yet, somehow, he'd found himself doing it...and then letting the Dursleys know he was doing it, and that the boy belonged to him...And then rescuing his son from on top of school buildings, and permitting him to call him 'Father'. Somehow, the more he'd done, the less adequate that attention had felt, until here he was, trying to convince a son whom he really had not wanted that he actually did...without lying. He was aware that most fathers looked down on their sons and felt joy, pride...good things. He hoped he could some day get there. For now, he mostly felt guilt, and anxiety. The desperate need to keep the boy alive and healthy when he'd already done so much damage.

But he could truthfully tell his son that he regretted his neglect. That much, he could do. Harry was still looking up at him, openly anxious and confused.

“We'll figure it out,” Severus told him. “For now, just try to believe me that none of this is your fault.” He hesitated, feeling ridiculous. Was he really going to try to explain this to a nine-year-old? But how else could the boy ever understand what had gone wrong? “It is me that needs to change, Harry,” Severus told him. “I don't know any better how to be a father than you know how to be a son. All I can promise is that I will try.”

“...okay,” Harry said softly.

He still didn't sound happy, and Severus finally sighed, and just repeated the main point. “At any rate, you belong to me now,” he told the boy again. “This is your home. I will not send you away.”

“...even if I'm horrible?” Harry asked him.

“You're not,” Severus retorted sharply. “You are occasionally disobedient – and I am going to punish you – but I certainly do not expect you to earn my regard through perfect behavior. I told you, you are my son, and nothing you can do will change that. Did you think I was lying?”

There was a distinct pause, before Harry decided on his answer. “...no?” he said meekly.

Severus snorted. “Is that the truth?” he asked his son.

Harry squirmed. He knew that lying got him in serious trouble, usually, but Severus was mostly ….teasing. He was teasing. He wasn't sure he'd ever done that before. Harry didn't seem to quite know what to make of it, either, and finally Severus let him off the hook.

“I didn't think so,” he told Harry more seriously. “You don't believe me, yet. Have I ever lied to you before?”

Harry frowned. “No,” he answered. He continued a little more quietly, and Severus could hear the continued hurt and a new bitterness in his words. “You didn't mean for Aunt Petunia to take my plane, either.”

But the plane was still gone, Severus finished for him. And Severus had promised. He still intended to keep that promise, but he didn't want to get Harry's hopes up.

“True,” he said instead. “Do you think it likely that I could 'accidentally' take you back to Privet Drive, then?”

Harry looked up at him, evidently surprised. “...no,” he said.

“So then, I would have to deliberately choose to break my promise, would I not?” Severus pushed.

“...yes,” Harry admitted hesitantly.

“Do you think I am likely to do that?” Severus asked him next. “And be careful,” he warned as Harry opened his mouth. “Think before you answer that.”

Harry closed his mouth, and frowned. “...no?” he finally said.

Severus smiled just slightly. “But you're not really sure,” Severus finished for him. “People have lied to you before, and I have not lied to you but I also have not been very reliable. You don't quite know what I'll do.”

Harry looked startled, for just a moment, but then he looked down, and Severus could see the anger on his face. It was almost a relief to see it. The boy should be angry with him. If he continued to think that Severus was perfect, he'd also continue to think that he was somehow an inadequate son.

But that was as much of this conversation as Severus had the stomach for, and eventually the boy needed to go to bed. Time for a change of subject. Gripping Harry's wrist again, Severus put the boy off his lap and set him back in front of him where he'd been before.

“Now tell me why you disobeyed me,” he told him quietly.

That time, Harry's anxiety was a much more familiar type, and Harry pulled slightly away from him to hunch his shoulders and look at his feet.

“I dunno...” he told him.

Terrible diction. Severus ignored it. “No, you do not want to tell me,” Severus corrected. “That is not the same thing. Answer my question, please.”

Harry squirmed, but finally answered. “I just wanted to look at the armor,” he said softly.

Yes, Severus thought sarcastically. He'd just wanted to look at the armor, which he'd somehow spotted through the four-inch-thick solid wooden dungeon door.

“Hmm,” he told his son, restraining the sarcasm. “I believe the misbehavior started quite a bit before that, did it not?”

Harry pursed his lips, but didn't answer, his gaze fixed on his fingers as they picked at the hem of his shirt.

Severus was tired of looking at the top of his head. “Look at me, Harry,” he demanded.

Harry looked up very briefly, then down again, his shoulders hunching miserably. The movement sparked a memory of the last time Harry had been in quite this much trouble, and a new insight came swiftly on the heels of the memory. Last time, Severus had been gone for an unusually long time and Harry had put himself in immediate danger in order to force Severus to come back. Today, Severus had brought Harry here, dropped him off with Tilly, and disappeared, telling Tilly to come find him if the boy disobeyed. And Harry had almost immediately disobeyed. He really shouldn't have been surprised.

The last time, Severus really had been furious – and for similar reasons. It was not safe for Harry to be disobeying like this, especially right now when he didn't have the measures set up to protect him yet. The boy had reason to think Severus would be furious. But he'd also evidently decided it worth the risk.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps Severus had simply underestimated how hard it would be for Harry to be left alone, even for an hour. after coming to Hogwarts for the first time and after the day he'd had. Severus hadn't even found something to distract the boy with. So Harry had found something, himself. In the way of ten-year-olds everywhere, it wasn't a good something.

Either way, he'd disobeyed – thoroughly – immediately after being brought home with Severus for the very first time. And the boy knew how this went when he was with the Dursleys, but now he was here, and evidently sending him right back was on the list of possibilities for how this could turn out. Perhaps even the first entry on that list, as far as Harry knew.

Harry wasn't looking at him as Severus had asked, or actually answering any of his questions. Which Severus was usually strict about, but he couldn't seem to bring any sharpness into his tone at the moment.

“You meet my eyes and answer me when I ask you something,” he reminded the boy. “I asked why you disobeyed me.”

Harry didn't quite meet his eyes, but he did look up, and his answer was soft but definite. “I don't know,” he said. “I wanted to know where I was. I was just going to look, but then there was the armor, and the painting...”

Oh. Remembering his own first time flooing, Severus nearly winced. Of course the boy would want to know what lay outside of the room they were in. He hadn't even told the boy where he was.

“You're in the dungeons of a castle,” he said, momentarily distracted. “Or, these days, the basement of a school for magic. The rooms in here are all mine, but out in the corridor may as well be a blind alleyway in a bad part of town.”

Harry stared at him. “Really?” he asked. “A dungeon?”

Severus frowned. Was the boy really that distractible? “A very dangerous dungeon,” he told Harry seriously. “Which is why I forbid you from going out there.”

“...oh,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Severus agreed. “Do I need to explain why, to get you to obey me?”

“...no?” Harry answered hesitantly. He finally looked up, at that, and gave Severus a theatrical grimace – one that said, approximately I-know-I-was-bad-but-I'm-really-sorry-and-aren't-I-cute? Apparently, someone in the boy's life was susceptible to being buttered up. Probably his homeroom teacher. Unfortunately for him, Severus knew manipulation when he saw it, and he didn't appreciate it, either.

“No,” he told Harry more sharply. “Nor do I have to entertain you, or tell you where it is I am leaving you. I will try to do so, but you are to obey me whether or not I explain anything at all. And I gave you very explicit instructions. Harry look at me,” he ordered.

Harry had been looking at the floor, again, but snapped his head up, really meeting Severus' eyes for the first time.

“Did I, or did I not, tell you to stay in here?” Severus demanded. He could hear his own anger in his tone – the words came out slow and precise, almost cold.

Harry swallowed, but spoke up promptly. “Yes, sir,” he said softly. The big-eyed stare were much more honest, that time – not intentionally trying to be cute or butter him up, but genuinely very nervous.

Temper, Severus reminded himself, taking a breath. But the more he scolded the boy, the less he'd need to spank him to make an impression. “I also told you to obey Tilly as you would me,” Severus told his son. “Did I not?”

Harry's head sank a little bit down between his shoulders, again, but he didn't look away this time. “Y-yes, sir,” Harry told him.

“Do you have any excuse other than that you were anxious and did not want to obey me?” Severus asked. He doubted it, but Harry had surprised him before.

Harry bit his lip, and shook his head. “N-no, sir,” he said. There was a pause, but Harry seemed to realize he didn't plan on asking anything else and spoke up again quickly. “But I'm really sorry!” Harry told him. “I just wanted to see! I was going to come right back but then the painting lady started talking to me!”

“Yes,” Severus told him severely, “as did Tilly, as I understand it. You managed to ignore her, somehow, and it was Tilly I told you to listen to and obey. And you are merely sorry you were out long enough to get caught.You had no business being out in that corridor in the first place. You should not have even opened the door. You were locked out as soon as the door closed behind you.”

“But-” Harry started, but Severus held up a hand to stop him.

“Enough, Harry,” he said cuttingly. “The facts are very clear. Unless something else happened to compel you out into that corridor, I cannot come up with any explanation other than simple disobedience on your part because you were bored and anxious in my absence. You were locked out, you could very easily have become lost, and some of the people you would meet in these corridors would make your cousin's friend Dennis seem like your best bosom buddy. I do not give instructions for no reason, Mr. Potter, and I expect to be obeyed. Is that understood?”

The last words were nearly bitten off as Severus' temper sharpened, and Harry's eyes were wide on his for a moment before the boy looked down, shuffling his feet. “Y-yes, sir,” he said softly, his voice hitching.

“Good,” Severus told him softly, temper falling as quickly as it had risen. “But this is the second time you've disobeyed me today. I realize that you just wanted to call me this morning, but your good intentions would not have prevented you from falling. You could have thought for a moment and brought a written sign for me, or simply sat up there waving your arms. I would've understood. You chose instead to risk breaking your neck. I have talked to you repeatedly about putting yourself in a situation I would need to rescue you from.”

Which was all absolutely true, and, unfortunately, convinced Severus that his relative lack of temper did not make this any less a serious incident. Sighing, he stood up and strode out of the room to fetch the hairbrush from his bedroom. He wasn't convinced that he was going to use it, just yet – the boy had been very disobedient, but he'd also had a truly horrible day – but just seeing it would have an impression, he thought.

It did. Harry twisted to watch him come in, and his eyes widened when he saw why Severus had left. He bit his lip again, and gave Severus a look that was absolutely imploring. Apparently, the boy really did think that Severus would respond to the so-called 'sad puppy eyes' his colleagues so frequently referenced.

Trouble was, he was almost tempted to, this time. He wasn't convinced he was going to use the brush, and Harry's very genuinely anxious big eyes were making him want to reassure him that he wouldn't. But whether he did or not would depend largely on Harry's behavior now.

So far, Harry was standing stock still, exactly where Severus had left him. But then, he would stay where he was put, now.

There was really no point to extending the conversation. Harry knew exactly what he'd done wrong. He'd known it before he'd even touched the door out of Severus' quarters. He'd deliberately chosen to ignore Severus' instructions.

Severus returned to his spot in front of Harry on the couch, and took hold of the boy's waistband to pull down his trousers, ignoring Harry's gasp. Then he just as silently moved Harry to his right side, and took his wrist – this time the injured one, though he made sure to grip well above the small bruise – to encourage him to bend over his lap. Harry cooperated well, and Severus found himself speaking up.

“Good boy,” he said gently.

He'd never yet been less angry when punishing his son, he realized. Maybe the damned puppy eyes had worked.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

The first swat came quickly, and Harry gave a small gasp at the sting. Oh, no. No, no no. It was far, far too late now, but Harry couldn't help one last protest. Not an argument, exactly but – a complaint. “Father!”

“Do not whine,” his father told him, swatting him sharply.

“B-but-” Harry protested. Another swat. They really weren't very hard, but they stung, anyway, and he just –hated- this somehow. Would've probably hated it even if it didn't hurt. Especially when his father had already spoken to him so sharply.

“Don't bother,” his father told him. “You deserve this, you know you deserve this, and if you'd thought about it for two seconds you'd've expected it. You have no rational reason to complain now.”

“I'm sorry,” he told his father again. He was, now.

There was a pause, so slight Harry wasn't quite sure it had actually happened, but then Father just swatted again...and again.

He was only just getting started, and already Harry wanted it to end. He didn't want to be spanked, and now the situation was totally out of his control.

“F-father!” he protested. “I'll be good!”

It didn't even delay the next swat, but his father did respond. “You'd better be,” he told him. And swatted him again.

It stung. He wanted it to stop. Now, not when his father decided. But nothing he said seemed to help.

“I'm sorry,” he told the man again.

Swat. That one landed low, just above his thighs, and Harry discovered that the spot was especially sensitive. “Father!” he protested again. And squirmed.

“Be still,” his father told him sternly.

But it stung! Father couldn't seriously expect him to just...lie there and take it? He squirmed again, and the next swat landed harder, right in the same place as the last. Apparently, his father really did mean stay still. He stilled.

“Better,” Father told him. “Don't push me. I do still have the hairbrush.”

Harry sniffed. The swats weren't that hard, really, but he still really didn't like them. And that last one had been hard. He didn't want to be spanked!

Covering himself had not gone well last time, he remembered. Somehow he didn't think fighting or kicking would, either. Nor would that have helped. He didn't want to fight, he wanted...like when his father held him, or petted his hair. He wanted...that. Desperately.

And his father was angry, but – maybe?

“F-father,” he tried. “P-please?”

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus paused, unable not to at his son's quiet plea. He had one hand draped over the boy's back as he swatted with the other. The boy's butt was faintly pink, but he was not close to done, and the boy had to know it. But there was meaning in the boy's words somewhere. Something other than just 'stop'.

He could actually guess what it was the boy wanted, but he hesitated to give it. If he'd wanted Harry comfortable and enjoying himself, he wouldn't be spanking him. But the fact that his son had asked – and Harry had been offered so little comfort in his life.

Severus picked up his left hand, and rubbed Harry's back gently for a couple seconds. Harry whimpered, the same sound he'd made when Severus had hugged him that morning, then relaxed, tension in his back easing at the brief touch.

“Good boy,” Severus told him. “Stay still.”

This time, when he put his left hand down, he instead placed it on his son's upper back, anchoring him gently over his lap as he resumed swatting him. Harry tensed but held carefully still, and didn't complain further beyond his increasingly hitched breathing.

He wasn't smacking particularly hard, this time, so he didn't count the swats. He just watched Harry. Who was being...still, exactly as asked. It would've been easier if the boy gave him trouble.

The boy's bum reddened under his hand, and Harry eventually buried his face in his arms, sniffing, but apparently still determined not to squirm. He was behaving himself, really amazingly well. But that did not make up for wandering the dungeon corridors when he'd been explicitly ordered to stay put. There were at least a couple of the sixth-and-seventh-year Slytherins that Severus did not want him to encounter.

Severus paused, and eyed the hairbrush, really not wanting to use it. But he really didn't like idle threats, either. It was perilously close to a lie, or a broken promise, and he knew what those felt like. A compromise, then.

Harry had unburied his head from his arms at the pause, and was looking at him over his shoulder, and his eyes fixed on the brush as soon as Severus picked it up. Then he looked at Severus himself, and his eyes were once again huge.

“Just two,” Severus told him.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry saw his father pick up the brush, and couldn't help but give him another pleading look. He wasn't really crying, this time, but the simple hairbrush suddenly looked huge. Terrifying.

But - “Just two,” his father told him. And brought the brush down with a quick flick of his wrist that made a sharp 'snap' against Harry's skin. For half a second, it didn't hurt, but then it was like a whole nest of bees decided to sting him all at once and Harry yipped and jumped, throwing a hand back to belatedly protect his assaulted bottom. He did not like that!

“Harry,” his father said sternly.

Quickly, Harry snatched the hand away, and immediately received the second horrible swat with the hairbrush.

The two were probably worse than the whole rest combined, and Harry found his breath catching in his throat. And then his father gathered him up, and fixed his clothing for him like he was a toddler before tucking him back onto his lap like before. As soon as Harry got there, the tears came, and he found himself pushing his face into his father's neck, desperate not exactly for the comfort but for the reassurance that the man wasn't still angry with him. That brush hurt.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry...clung. Tucked his face into Severus' neck and gripped his robes in both hands and clung. And started to cry. This day was never. going. to end.

But he was starting to know what to do, and Severus just tightened his arms, holding Harry as close as the boy evidently wanted to be, and surprisingly quickly the crying stopped, and Harry relaxed in his arms. But it was very shortly after that point that the boy spoke up, his voice muffled.

“Are you still mad?”

“No,” Severus told him truthfully. He couldn't have been if he'd wanted to, he realized ruefully. There was something...very pleasant...about having the boy that close to him. Holding him close and feeling his body heat and the trust that was so evident in the boy's relaxed muscles and sleepy voice.

A moment later, the boy spoke up again, and this time he was both more awake and a lot bolder. “I don't like that,” he accused.

Since the spanking had happened before, Severus had to assume he was talking about the brush. “I did not imagine you would,” he answered, gently moving Harry off him and starting to get up. “You more than deserved it. And now you're going to bed.”

“It's already nine thirty?” Harry asked, surprise evident in his tone.

Severus nearly smiled, oddly satisfied to hear that his son knew his bedtime. Such a small thing, and so...ordinary, but it was something Harry had not had before.

“No,” Severus answered. “But you've had a long day and you're tired.” And he still had nowhere to put the boy, Severus realized suddenly. And Albus had wanted to meet him.

“Ti – no. Wrigley.”

The elf popped up in front of him a shade faster than Tilly would've, almost startling him. “Master Severus, sir?” he asked, bowing low. “Wrigley is at your service, sir.”

Severus nearly winced. Apparently, his treatment of Tilly had impressed Wrigley, too. As head of the house-elves at Hogwarts, he should not have been quite that respectful. Or at least, he hadn't been, before. “Was I overly harsh, Wrigley?” he asked the elf abruptly.

The elf gave him wide eyes. “Sir?”

“To Tilly, Elf,” he said impatiently. “Was I overly harsh, in ordering her away?”

The elf gave another bow. “It is not being Wrigley's place-”

“Answer the question, please,” Severus ordered him.

Again, the elf bowed, but avoided his gaze when he stood, still obviously reluctant to answer. “Tilly is being very upset, Master Severus, sir,” he said.

“I realize that,” Severus told him, still impatient. The propensity of elves and children to make him ask the same question six times to get a meaningful answer was irritating beyond words. “Will she be alright or was I too harsh?”

Wrigley grimaced, a distinctly un-house-elfish expression, and answered. “Tilly is knowing she is being a bad elf, Master Severus, sir. Neither Wrigley nor Tilly is blaming Master Severus for punishing Tilly. Wrigley should not be having sympathy for such a bad elf as Tilly is being, sir.”

“But?” Severus demanded.

Wrigley winced, and continued. “Tilly is most likely deserving to be treated harshly by Master Severus, sir, but she is being a very young elf, and Wrigley is not liking to see her frightened. She is usually being very happy with Master Severus, sir.” Finally, the elf's nerve failed, and he looked down at his hands. “Please be forgiving Tilly, sir.”

There was an answer in there, somewhere, Severus figured. Perhaps not an actual opinion of what Wrigley thought he should do, but certainly a request for what Wrigley wanted him to do. “You're dismissed, Wrigley,” he said shortly. “Tilly!”

Tilly apparated into the room faster than Wrigley managed to leave it, which gave Wrigley the opportunity to bow deeply to Severus before he apparated out. It was, definitely, the fastest Tilly had ever responded. Her eyes were large and red and wet, and she was practically holding her breath in front of him, her back so straight he half expected her to salute.

“I'm still not pleased, Tilly,” he told the top of her head, “but I have changed my mind as to your punishment. If you would make up a bed on the couch for tonight, then see about organizing a group of elves to add a room to my chambers for Harry to sleep in tomorrow. Somewhat similar to the Slytherin dorm rooms, if you please, but with a desk.”

He paused, then, but Tilly was familiar with him, and simply waited for him to finish. He thought a bit more before answering. “Please see if you can find a small food-preservation box, to fit into one of the walls,” he told her finally. “I may have seen one in the Room of Requirement's hiding place.”

She didn't even look up at him, but gave a deep bow. “Yes, Master Snape, sir,” she said. Tentatively, she paused in front of him, staring at the floor. “Master Snape is forgiving Tilly, sir?” she asked him hopefully.

Severus grimaced. Maybe there existed someone who deserved this kind of adoration, but it was surely not Severus Snape. “Do not disobey me again, Tilly,” he told her. “...but yes, you are forgiven for this incident. Usually, I am very pleased with your service.”

Tilly looked up at him, then, studying his face, and slowly hers brightened. “Yes, Master Snape, sir!” she told him. “Thank you, Master Snape, sir!” This time, she popped out without waiting for him to speak again. Presumably, she was getting bedding from somewhere.

There was a pause, but finally Harry spoke up. “W-what's wrong with her?” he asked softly.

Severus took a breath, stalling. “She is not...abnormal...for her species, Harry,” he explained finally. “House elves exist to serve wizards. There are theories why, but none of them fully substantiated. Once an elf has chosen a wizard to serve, his loyalty is nearly unshakable. Not taking advantage of their mindless devotion and dedication to service can be difficult.”

“Y-you were mean to her,” Harry accused softly.

That...hurt. Surprisingly. Why should he care what a nine-year-old thought of him? “It...is a difficult situation,” he explained anyway. “I cannot allow her to disobey me. I do not wish to be unkind to her, and she may leave any time she likes, but if she wishes to stay, I must be sure that she will obey me and keep her mouth shut. Perhaps I should not have an elf at all, but Tilly wished to serve me.”

“...oh,” Harry said. He didn't seem exactly satisfied by the answer, but he fell silent anyway, and a moment later Tilly popped back in, walking sideways to see around a pile of blankets and pillows taller than she was. She had the good sense not to bow, but made her way directly to the couch. When she'd put the blankets down, she turned back to him.

“Is Master Severus wanting Tilly to transfigure the couch?” she asked tentatively.

Oh. He was an idiot. Exactly how long had it been since he'd lived in the muggle world? And yet in his distracted state he'd still thought of sleeping on the couch like a muggle. Unbelievable. How had he survived as a spy all these years, when he was capable of forgetting about magic?

“Yes, please, Tilly,” he told her. He'd not been looking forward to sleeping on the couch when he needed sleep as badly as he did right now.

What else did he have left to do? Floo me when you're ready. And Albus had wanted to meet Harry. But Harry needed to go to bed. And right now he was so tired that even that small conflict was turning his stomach. But for once in his miserable life he could do what Harry needed, even if it risked angering Albus.

“Bring Harry the necessary supplies for the night, please,” he told the elf.

Which reminded him of what else he absolutely had to do tonight. He wanted to groan, but kept it off his face. “...and a coffee, please.”

“Yes, Master Snape,” Tilly told him.

She wasn't in the least surprised, she noticed. Equally, he knew that the coffee would be prepared exactly how he wanted it, and very likely accompanied by some sort of light food. The elf really was an asset – not only loyal, but smart, and capable of using her own judgement to determine what he needed at exactly the right time. Like not interrupting difficult meetings with Albus Dumbledore, he realized. She'd been right that the interruption would've been hard on him. But she had stepped over the line, that time. He didn't mind her doing things in addition to what he asked her to do, but she'd actually disobeyed. There was a difference. She'd known it, too.

“Thank you, Tilly,” he told her. “That's all for now.”