Severus cursed, allowing the slip of decorum within the privacy of his own quarters. He leafed through the book in front of him, the pages already showing wear from how often he had taken to reading it. The wizarding world, for all its supposed grandeur, had very little resources for dealing with mental health or trauma. Severus grimaced, pushing his long dark hair out of his eyes as he leaned over the pages of the muggle book once more. It was not the most through guide on eating disorders, nor was the advice gender-neutral. It appeared several muggle psychology experts believed that males were immune to developing such a disorder, or that media expectations mainly influenced the disorder. With a sneer, Severus stood, pacing the small area of his sitting room.

He had made several breakthroughs with the boy, and Harry was now eating full meals in his office, but they had yet to delve deeply into the boy’s thoughts about the matter. He could not blame Harry for being so resistant about asking for help; judging by the child’s actions the year previous, Harry hadn’t seemed to think reporting concerns to a teacher was necessary even when his life was in danger.

Severus circled the layout of the room, his strides agitated as he paced, thinking hard. He had not seen signs of disordered eating from the boy last year. In truth, the muggle book, as limiting as it was, did make it clear that Harry was in the early stages of his disorder. Although, Severus could not be sure that the child wasn’t utilizing other forms of self-harm.

Severus halted, staring darkly at the empty fireplace without seeing it. How could he have once believed the child to be arrogant? Everything Harry seemed to do was sacrificial. The boy had no regard for his own wellbeing. He denied himself physical health and punished himself for wanting emotional support. Severus knew all too well the thoughts circling the boy’s head and he was determined to find some way to resolve the matter, even if it meant requiring Harry meet him during the boy’s lunch period as well. He would not have the child grow as bitter and isolated as him.

* * *

“Sir?” Harry’s question that evening pulled Severus from his marking and he looked up toward the conjured desk where the boy sat, a half-finished essay in front of him.

“Yes?” he responded, waiting calmly as Harry opened his mouth, closed it, chewed on a fingernail, and proceeded to partially destroy his quill by tugging at the barbules of the feather.

Until a few weeks ago, Severus had never had the patience to realize that Harry’s actions were not displays of disorderliness or rudeness. As hard as it was for the boy to tell him anything, asking a simple question was even harder for the child. Severus wasn’t sure why, but he had a strong suspicion that it had to do with how the child had been raised, as even when Severus was attempting to be as unthreatening as possible, Harry still watched him warily with large green eyes.

“Erm…” Harry mumbled finally, “I – this book says to use a pewter cauldron, not copper, but you had us use copper cauldrons in class so I’m not sure which is right…”

Without thinking, Severus stood to have a look at the boy’s potions book; Harry cringed, dark hair falling into his face as he hunched his shoulders protectively. Severus stilled, remaining a good few feet away, having to employ occlumency to keep from showing the rage that rose sharp and cold as ice inside him. He longed to go to Surrey and curse those muggles for causing such an automatic response of fear in a boy who was so often immeasurably brave. But he knew he could do nothing until he learned the truth. Harry acted sometimes as if the threat of violence was imminent but had it progressed beyond threats with his relatives? Had the muggles actually struck him? Severus did not know and the boy would not openly speak about the matter. If Severus discussed it now, he could risk losing what little trust they had and the progress that they had made toward combating the boy’s eating disorder would certainly be lost as well.

Harry’s muscles loosened slightly and he ducked his head further, this time to conceal a flush of embarrassment at his instinctive response. His hands resumed their anxious defeathering of his quill, but the terror was no longer there and Severus approached carefully, turning the boy’s potions book to face him. He lifted an eyebrow at the margins of the page where Harry had drawn detailed interlaced geometric shapes. The childish scribbles, obviously done out of boredom, did show a certain artistic talent he recalled in Lily. Harry relaxed further when Severus said nothing about him defacing his potions book and turned to studying the recipe instead. Severus lip curled as he read through the potion’s instructions.

“The reason, Mr. Potter, that you used copper cauldrons in class is because the writer of this particular potions textbook is an idiot.” He declared succinctly.

Harry blinked in confusion, “Oh.” He finally said, Severus shook his head, black robes sweeping behind him as he moved back toward his own desk.

“The potion requires the more delicate heating process of copper cauldrons. If brewed in pewter, the potion will burn at the final stage and produce a weak facsimile of the healing properties it is supposed to have.” Severus frowned, dark eyes flashing with irritation, “I have sent a number of letters to the editors to address several flaws regarding their potions in this book, but as it is the ministry approved textbook for third year students, I’m afraid you and I are regrettably stuck with it.”

Surprisingly, Harry laughed then glanced uncertainly at Severus when the potions master looked over at him. Severus allowed his features to relax slightly to show the boy that he did not take offense. Indeed, it was good to see the child happy. He was beginning to think that Harry was only capable of feeling contentment on the Quidditch field.

The moment of happiness abruptly faded as a plate of food and a glass of juice popped into existence on Severus’ desk. Harry frowned but took the plate as Severus handed it over to him. With a small flick of his wand, Severus summoned a nutritive potion, handing it silently to the boy as well. Harry did not seem bothered at drinking the odd-tasting nutritive potion, which confirmed that it was eating things that tasted good or were carefully prepared that upset him. Severus tapped his fingers against his wrist, thinking hard. He would have to address the boy’s self-worth issues but it was important he not bring up what would be a difficult discussion when Harry was already anxious from having to eat.

“Slytherin plays against Gryffindor tomorrow,” he remarked instead, returning to grading essays, “the first match of the season is always particularly violent, so I suggest you eat what you can and sleep for at least eight hours.”

Harry looked up from where he was pushing around a piece of shepherd pie on his plate. “No one sleeps for eight hours,” he replied, his earlier good humor apparently restored by the thought of the match tomorrow.

Severus regarded him over his pile of marking, “you will need your rest,” he stated, dark eyes stern, “I am not entirely convinced it is wise for you to be playing Quidditch, considering your health –“

“I’m eating!” the boy protested, his mouth set stubbornly, “and coming here and doing everything else you want me to –“ he cut himself off mid-flow and shook his head, “please don’t kick me off the team, Sir.” He pleaded suddenly and Severus withheld a sigh at how quickly the boy seemed to believe that he would be punished in some way.

“Calm down, Mr. Potter, I don’t intend to ban you from playing, I simply want you to be careful. Last year you spent a night having your bones regrown after a match.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Harry muttered, finally returning to eating a few bites of his now cold shepherd pie, “anyway, most of the time the game gets violent because the Slytherins are always cheating.”

“Thank you for that unnecessary generalization of all the students in my House, Harry,” Severus responded dryly, “I enjoy being told repeatedly that Slytherins are the worst embodiment of wizardkind.”

“Some of them are,” Harry responded truthfully, if a bit cheekily. His eyes had brightened at the use of his first name and so Severus had taken to occasionally using it during their meetings, despite the initial difficulty of getting past thinking of the boy as ‘Potter’, “but there’s one that’s not so bad.”

* * *

The day of the match dawned cold and ominously gray. Severus regarded the excited Great Hall during breakfast with a watchful eye. Slytherin was resentful that Montague, one of their chasers, had been hit the day before with a jinx that onlookers were claiming had been cast by a Weasley twin. Madam Pomfrey had resolved the matter with a mere wave of her wand but it had left Slytherins with a stronger grudge than usual against the Gryffindor team. Severus’ dark eyes flickered in the direction of Gryffindor table where the team was easy to spot in their red and gold uniforms, Harry’s black messy hair was barely visible, hidden as he was by groups of well-wishers and team members that were all much taller than him.

Quidditch was something Severus rather detested watching and the idea of sitting in what would likely be freezing rain was off-putting to say the least. Still, Severus knew as Head of Slytherin he could not avoid seeing his own House play. Although on the days when Slytherin wasn’t facing a match, he hardly bothered to attend. He understood the rules of Quidditch, but not the point. His view on the matter however, seemed to be unheard of among students and staff. McGonagall was beaming, her tartan scarf thrown jauntily around her neck as she chatted with Flitwick about Gryffindor’s chance of winning the upcoming game. Severus looked away with a barely concealed grimace. McGonagall feigned fair-mindedness when it came to Quidditch but was obviously not satisfied with anyone other than Gryffindor winning. At least he had never pretended to be unbiased about wanting Slytherin to win. If someone had to succeed at a foolish game played on broomsticks, it might as well be his own House.

After breakfast, of which he did not have an opportunity to see if Harry had eaten anything, the school headed toward the Quidditch pitch. Severus seated himself in a place as remote as possible where the majority of Slytherins were settling, hoping that the weather would remain clear for the duration of the match. Madam Hooch paced the field as the crowd settled into their seats and teams entered the pitch. Even from a distance, the small size of Harry was extremely noticeable. Draco, while several inches taller than Harry, was also towered over by his much larger and older teammates.

“Brooms in the air!” announced Madam Hooch, her voice magnified to be heard easily through the stands, “players at the ready.” The teams kicked off the ground, Slytherin a flash of green against the gray sky, opposite the red of Gryffindor.

“Welcome everyone! Gryffindor versus Slytherin today,” came the quick enthusiastic voice of the Quidditch commentator, Lee Jordan, microphone in hand as he addressed the crowd, “teams have taken to the sky with a excellent line-up from Gryffindor, same team as last year, a real fantastic group of players.” A scattering of boos came from the Slytherins near Severus, but most of his House were resigned to the biased reporting of the Gryffindor commentator.

Teams were sliding into positions: keepers to their goal posts, beaters and chasers spaced out evenly along the pitch and seekers hovering high above the other players. Madam Hooch threw the quaffle into the air and the game began in a flurry of movement. Chasers were a confusing blur of motion before a scarlet-robed figure pelted toward the opposite end of the field, Slytherin chasers in fast pursuit.

“And it’s quaffle to Johnson – quaffle to Bell – back to Johnson, there’s a bludger, duck Angelina! And TEN POINTS GRYFFINDOR!

Groans came from Slytherins in the crowd as the Gryffindor chaser shot the quaffle through one of the lower hoops, Slytherin keeper, Bletchley unable to block in time. A low rumble of thunder echoed across the distance and Severus pulled out his wand to charm his clothing and skin to repel water as it began to rain lightly. He followed the game with unusual focus, his concentration not on his own team but on the small Gryffindor seeker circling the stormy sky. The clash between chasers was growing ugly and Severus felt distinct relief that Harry was high enough above the game to avoid the majority of conflict happening on the pitch. Flint had seized the quaffle from a Gryffindor chaser and was streaking toward the goal posts only to be hit by a bludger slammed toward him by one of the Weasley twins.

“Nice ploy by Gryffindor beater, and Gryffindor back in possession, Spinnit sends it through the center hoop – ugh, blocked by Bletchley, and Flint has the quaffle now – Flint to Warrington – Bell tries to take it but no good there –“

Jordan’s rapid commentating intermixed with the continued reverberation of thunder. The game was fast becoming brutal and Severus jerked his head up as one of the Slytherin beaters belted a bludger straight toward where Harry was scanning the skies.

“Bludger heading right for the seeker – block it George! Fred! Either one!” Jordan called as one of the Weasleys’ sped forward, beater bat at the ready. Harry was already moving though, diving downward, his broom nearly clipping Warrington, “– Excellent evasive maneuver by Potter although now he’s really in the game – SLYTHERIN SCORES!”

The goal took everyone by surprise, the crowd of Slytherins around Severus gleeful, even as three-fourths of the school groaned. Severus watched, eyes narrowed against the rain. He had barely paid attention when Slytherin had scored, instead he was watching Harry try to escape to safety, the boy nearly being crushed in the onslaught between chasers and beaters as the fight for the quaffle worsened. Slytherin was employing every tactic they could to win and while Severus could not fault their ambition, he found it difficult to conceal a wince as Flint collided with Harry, Harry’s broom nearly spinning off-course. Some of the crowd was yelling for a foul, but in the mess of players it was too difficult to see what had happened. Rain was falling thickly now, making visibility harder as well for those who hadn’t had the sense to use the impervius charm.

“Montague hands the quaffle off to Warrington – Johnson intervenes – YES! Gryffindor back with the quaffle and Johnson –“ There was a collective gasp in the stands and Jordan’s sudden, “THERE’S THE SNITCH!”

Draco had seen it as well, Harry and him were racing toward the barely discernible golden ball, Harry coming up alongside Draco who tried to knock him out of the way. Harry shoved back. The crowd was on their feet, excitedly watching but Severus turned his head, just catching the movement of Bole, one of the Slytherin beaters, striking a bludger toward the seekers.

“Potter and Malfoy are neck to neck on this one, whoever catches it wins the game and – OUCH! Bludger to Potter, he’s still at it though, gaining on Malfoy – Johnson scores another ten and – THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR!

There were loud objections throughout the stands, as Harry, face bloodied but undaunted, had gained ground on the snitch only to be struck full on by Warrington and Montague. Both Slytherin chasers were much taller and heavier than Harry and the force of the impact sent Harry careening into Draco who dodged out of the way, Harry only managing to stay on his broom by instinct alone.

The Slytherin students around Severus were cheering but he could not move past the sudden anger filling him as he remembered just how thin Harry had looked all those weeks ago when he had first stood in his office. The boy was still so underweight, often exhausted and easily startled. Now, he was bleeding and reeling slightly. Half the Gryffindor team was flying over to check on the child. Madam Hooch took to the sky, blowing her whistle and awarding Gryffindor a free shot.

“Gryffindor team calls for a timeout to assess the damage to their seeker after that filthy no-good –“ Jordan broke off, his tone disgusted and enraged, only to calm a minute later as Harry flew back a bit, palm gesturing in a sharp downward motion to his team captain. “Potter’s signaling a go-ahead, looks a bit unsteady but he’s still in the game.”

The crowd was agitated now and Severus crossed arms over his black robes, glaring at the dark sky. He wanted this game over. He knew the boy well enough now to know that Harry would not ask for a reprieve unless he were dying and Severus could not trust his own team to not go after the boy again the first chance they got.

“Gryffindor is back in the lead – Warrington grabs the quaffle, fumbles it, HA! – Spinnit grabs it –” Jordan broke off once more as a blur of bludgers barreled through the other players, most barely pulling out of the way, the target obviously Harry who tried to quickly maneuver, but only was able to turn his broom partway. “Double bludgers to Potter from beaters Bole and Derrik – ducks one – ouch, takes another. Slytherin is really going after Potter – FOUL!”

The surrounding crowd echoed the abrupt cry as Flint used the diversion of Harry being hit by another bludger to his advantage, kicking Bell nearly off her broom in order to reclaim the quaffle. Hooch swept into the fray, citing another foul to Slytherin for unnecessary violence. Severus watched Harry fly through the rain, only half-listening to what the commentator was saying. Harry was flying oddly, his broom listing to one side, his head down. He was clearly hurt but no one else seemed to notice.

“Johnson takes the penalty, puts it away easily and we’re back in play – Flint steals the quaffle – Wood blocks third hoop – there’s the snitch again!” Jordan cried. Draco and a second later Harry plunged toward the ground, brooms spiraling in tight formation, “Seekers are diving for this one – Bole sends another bludger – blocked by Weasley – they’re right on it – Malfoy – no Potter has it – YES! GRYFFENDOR WINS!”

The stands erupted in a massive cheer, while the Slytherins near Severus protested angrily. The loss was humiliating for them, considering they’d only scored one goal, but Severus felt his own anger as separate from theirs. He wanted to be far away from the noise, from the cold rain that was pounding the ground now. Both Quidditch teams looked like they’d narrowly escaped drowning as they landed on the muddy pitch.

Harry had been immediately engulfed in hugs by his teammates seconds after grabbing the snitch inches above the ground. However, the group of scarlet-clad players parted soon and Severus saw that Johnson and one of the Weasley twins were trying to keep Harry on his feet. The boy’s face was still bloodied, glasses askew, his clothing plastered to his skin as the rain increased.

“That’s one-ninety to ten, a great start for Gryffindor chances at getting the Quidditch Cup this year. Potter’s definitely injured though, Madam Pomfrey is on the field now to oversee matters – “

Severus stood, making his way around dejected members of his own house, his thoughts in complete disarray. He should never have allowed Harry to continue to play Quidditch. The child was still dangerously malnourished and had no self-preservation skills. He could have easily died if one of those bludgers had struck his head a certain way. As for Montague and Warrington, they would be facing several detentions if they thought they could get away with practically murdering the boy.

There was a small crowd still out on the field, surrounding where Madam Pomfrey was kneeling next to Harry. Severus paused, feeling a very unfamiliar urge to approach the injured child. He needed to make sure the boy was alright, to ascertain with his own eyes that there had been no damage that could not be immediately healed. But he did not wish to make a scene in front of the entire school by confronting Harry about the dangers of playing Quidditch, not until his anger had lessened some at least. Severus strode toward the Hospital Wing instead, already considering the potions that the boy would undoubtedly need.

* * *

It seemed much longer than the few minutes it was before Harry entered the hospital wing, still being supported by Johnson. The rest of the team hung back in the doorway as Madam Pomfrey bustled through the group of muddy players.

“Out, all of you!” she ordered hurriedly, catching sight of Severus from where he stood in the corner of the room, “Oh good, you’re already here, Professor. Mr. Potter will need a few healing potions.”

Severus took a step forward, expression carefully blank. His black eyes fastened on Harry who was determinedly avoiding his gaze. The boy was dangerously pale and unsteady on his feet, his right hand was in a splint and his face was bruised from one of the bludgers. Blood and rain still splattered the lenses of his spectacles.

“– don’t know why the school allows such a dangerous sport –“ Pomfrey was muttering, “Over here, Mr. Potter,” she and Johnson helped Harry sit on the edge of a hospital bed, Harry moving slowly, mouth drawn with pain. His wet robes trailed water across the stone floor.

“The number of times I’ve had to patch up students…” the medi-witch shook her head, shooing Johnson away who reluctantly left with the rest of the team still loitering by the hospital wing’s door.

Severus swept forward a few more paces, studying Harry closely, “his injuries?” he demanded sharply.

Madam Pomfrey glanced up from where she was performing a diagnostic spell on Harry, looking a bit affronted at Severus’ clipped tone but answering regardless, “three broken ribs, broken wrist, broken cheekbone, and damaged left shoulder, not to mention a bloody nose, minor concussion and major bruising.” Harry stared down at the floor, water dripping from his soaked hair, saying nothing as Pomfrey recited his injures. “I’ve mended the bones, all except his wrist, that will need extra work. He’ll likely need a good deal of bruise balm as well as a blood replenisher – oh for Merlin’s sake!” she snapped, the frustrated exclamation making Harry shrink away as a scroll appeared in thin air, hovering at the medi-witch’s left elbow. Madam Pomfrey grabbed it, unrolling it and reading the message with eyebrows raised.

“Sit tight, Mr. Potter,” she commanded, “it appears that a number of fights have broken out in the Great Hall, regarding the match’s results. Students from a certain House,” she threw Severus a look that made it clear which House she was referring to, “were apparently not satisfied with losing the match and have taken to jinxing other students. I’ll need to go help Minerva sort it all out.” She marched toward the door, instructing Severus in a agitated, distracted tone, “see that he gets his potions and make sure he doesn’t remove that splint from his wrist anytime soon, he needs to stay overnight, at least, to heal.” With a swish of her robes, she was gone and Severus was left with his anger and a boy who resembled a drenched kitten far more than he would have liked to be compared to.

Harry was still staring at the floor while Severus stood there, struggling to remain calm. It seemed impossible that out of all the foolhardy stunts the boy had pulled, easily healable Quidditch injuries should be what enraged him. The child had broken his arm last year and he hadn’t felt more than a brief distant concern during that match. Yet now, he was furious and terribly aware that beneath the fury, he had been afraid.

Wordlessly, he strode to the cabinet against one wall, selecting the potions required from the top shelf and a pair of first-year size pajamas. Harry had taken off his glasses and was attempting to clean them with one hand, his fingers trembling. He looked up apprehensively as Severus approached, his black hair tousled in wet clumps, one of his vivid green eyes nearly swollen shut from where the first bludger had hit his face. Severus set the hospital pajamas on the stand near the table, disliking how the boy flinched at the movement. He waved his wand over the child, drying him. Harry blinked, slowly taking the pain-relieving potion Severus handed him and drinking it silently.

“Thanks,” the child muttered, still looking away.

Severus frowned, “A better way to thank me would be to not get yourself nearly killed,” he snapped, “you should have been removed from the game the moment your team called for a timeout.”

“What?” Harry demanded, obviously affronted enough to lose whatever shame or caution had prevented him from meeting Severus’ eyes earlier, “Gryffindor would have lost then!”

“You were injured!” Severus hissed

“So what!” Harry yelled suddenly, his pale face was flushed with anger, his one uninjured hand clenching the side of the bed where he still sat, “that’s part of the game! I’m not going to give up just because your Slytherins tried to maim me so they could win.”

“If you think I do not intend for Montague or Warrington to be punished for hurting you, you are sadly mistaken,” snarled Severus, his dark eyes flashing, “they will be held accountable for their actions. You, however, should not expect me to simply ignore the fact that you put yourself at great risk, being in a already compromised physical state –“

“I couldn’t help that those bludgers hit me, it wasn’t like I was throwing myself in their path!” Harry shoved his glasses back on roughly, “if I’m going to get hurt I’d rather it be on the Quidditch field than –“ he broke off abruptly, hands shaking, his gaze back on the floor.

Severus suddenly felt fear return, the emotion separate from his present frustration and worry, “than where?” he asked, his low voice quiet in the large room.

“Nothing, never mind. I didn’t mean to argue.” Harry whispered, staring at the muddy puddles on the flagstone.

Severus conjured a chair, sitting down across from Harry, “I’m not upset because you argue with me, Harry,” he tried to explain and found he could not. He bent his head, long black hair falling forward as he tried to meet the boy’s eyes.

The hospital wing was perfectly silent. Harry’s breathing was stilted, Severus did not know if it was because of his newly healed ribs or the suddenness of their disagreement. Harry was still trembling faintly and Severus realized with a sickening sense of sorrow that the child was terrified. He had tried so hard to not frighten the boy, but in his fear over Harry’s injuries, he had only made things worse. He studied the way Harry’s bony hands shook, his visible shoulder blades hunched slightly, expecting punishment. He looked so very small and alone and Severus spoke without knowing what he would say,

“Your relatives hurt you, don’t they?”

He hadn’t wanted to force the boy to speak of his past, hadn’t wanted to see the parallels between them, even when it was obvious. Some part of Severus had foolishly thought that if he focused first on the boy’s eating disorder, he could deal with the child’s other traumas later on. But all of the boy’s pain was connected to his past. Severus’ suspicions, his fears, became a reality as Harry’s face whitened, his limbs tensing.

“A lot of kids get hit around,” Harry mumbled finally, turning his head to study the clean white sheet he sat on, “it’s not that big of a deal.”

The rage Severus had thought he had known before was nothing compared to this. He was going to kill those muggles for daring to lay a hand on the boy. They were going to pay for their years of denying Harry food, for lying about his magical heritage and hurting the child when he dared to question them.

“Do not minimize the abuse you suffered in a attempt to normalize their actions,” Severus spat out, hands curling into fists, “were it in my power to enact justice…” he inhaled harshly, looking away until he could regain some semblance of calm.

“Yeah well, it’s not.” Harry stated bluntly, frustration and exhaustion granting him boldness, “the Dursleys aren’t great, but Voldemort’s worse and I’ve faced him twice. I don’t need people trying to protect me.” Severus reached out instinctively, careful to slow his motions so as not to frighten Harry, his hand momentarily gripping a small shoulder that was still far too thin.

“That is exactly what you need,” he intoned firmly, eyes watching the way Harry’s expression flitted between defiance and desperate hope. He moved his hand to the boy’s jaw, tilting his chin slightly so that their eyes met, green orbs locking onto his own black gaze, “you will not go back there,” he said quietly, his voice low and intent, “they will never hurt you again. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Harry nodded. He breathed in a bit roughly, his eyes slightly wet. Severus let go of his face, returning his hand to the boy’s shoulder, sitting quietly at his side as Harry looked down at the hem of his mud-splattered Quidditch robe twisted nervously in his hand.

“What happens now?” the child asked hoarsely. Severus conjured a glass of water, handing it to him, murmuring a caution to be mindful of his healing ribs.

“I will finish healing you, then you will rest while I speak to the headmaster.”

Harry sighed, but did not appear surprised. He took small sips of water, bruised face still obscured by messy uncut hair that fell into his eyes as he continued staring at the hospital bed before him. Without knowing why, Severus reached out, resting a hand momentarily on that dark head, his touch gentle.

“There will be time,” he said softly, “for all of this to be resolved. Professor Dumbledore will work with the Ministry to find you a place that is both welcoming and safe. Nothing will be decided without your input, Harry. I will insist on it.”

“What if –” Harry whispered almost too quiet to be heard, “what if I wanted it to stay like this?”

Severus could not pretend not to know what the boy meant. He had through his own actions become a mentor to the child, not only in being a person that Harry could confide in, but also in providing a safe environment for the boy. Now he had to face the results of his work. Harry wanted and needed support, he longed for a parental figure, all of this Severus had quickly learned early on from the things the boy did not say but gave away with every gesture, every word. Could Severus be that? Even contemplating the matter was too overwhelming. He did not know the first thing about raising a teenager, particularly one with the hardships the boy had in his past and would likely have in his future. Yet, he could not deny that he had had numerous opportunities to turn away before, to send the boy to discuss his trauma with McGonagall or Pomfrey. Instead, he had taken on the task of looking after Harry’s well-being as if were designated to him and him alone. Perhaps it was. He had never known what his promise to Lily would fully entail. He would die unquestioningly to save the child’s life, but fatherhood? He needed time to consider the matter.

“I will speak to the headmaster,” Severus repeated quietly, unsure of what else to say.