The morning post was especially busy the first week back at Hogwarts. Harry glanced up but without much interest. Hedwig rarely delivered mail to him when he was at Hogwarts as the only people he had ever exchanged letters with were his friends sitting across from him. Just as he returned to staring at the plate of toast Hermione had resolutely sat in front of him, a tawny owl swooped down, dropped a letter onto his plate, and took off. The envelope was blank and a dark gray, Harry took it slowly not sure if it was safe to do so. What if this was a more sinister version of a howler or maybe a nasty note from the Dursleys saying that they weren’t going to let him back in the house next year? The letter wasn’t from the Dursleys and it didn’t start screaming at him, however the frown on Harry’s face deepened as he read the few lines written on the inside of the intricately folded envelope.

“What is it?” Ron asked, glancing up from where he was steadily consuming his plate of fried potatoes.

“Snape,” Harry answered gloomily, tossing the letter unto the table and trying not to grimace at the slanted spiky writing demanding he be present in the dungeons ‘as soon as conceivably possible’, “looks like a detention.”

“It’s the first week back, you can’t have been in any real trouble,” Hermione reminded him reassuringly but she didn’t look very confident as she studied the short note.

Harry sighed, staring moodily down at his breakfast. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since school started, or really since he’d been dropped off at the Dursleys doorstep twelve years ago. His aunt and uncle had made sure to deprive him of food at every opportunity and Harry had grown used to scavenging out of rubbish bins or neighbor’s gardens on Privet Drive. Hogwarts had an abundance of food at every meal but all of it was savory and wonderfully prepared and much better than he deserved. He sipped at the tea before him, pleased with its safeness. He’d deliberately watered it down so that only a hint of its flavor remained and then let it grow cold. Hermione had given him a speculative look at his actions but Harry ignored her concern. He cared deeply about his friends and Hermione was the smartest person he knew, but she wouldn’t understand.

“Detention with Snape already?” Fred Weasley remarked behind him, swinging himself unto the bench beside Harry and pilfering a piece of toast from his plate, “Well done, Harry.”

“Almost beats our record,” George chimed in, sitting down on the other side of Harry, “of course, we earned a detention with him first year, the moment we got off the train,”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Fred grinned reminiscently, “didn’t even get a chance to see Hogwarts from the lake, just straight to detention, out to be sorted, and then right back in.”

“What on earth did you do?” Hermione demanded, aghast, her brown eyes wide.

“Nothing much,” George said offhandedly,

“A tiny bit of mischief,” Fred supplied,

“Miniscule, really,” George stated, “although it might have left a few Slytherins with some hard feelings against us, though how they knew we were the ones to jinx their train compartments with a never-stop rainstorm charm, I don’t know.” Harry and Ron exchanged grins at that while Hermione looked torn between amusement and disapproval.

“Anyway,” Fred said heartily, pulling a platter of bacon toward him, “best to get it over with Harry, duel the dragon or ‘bite the bullet’ as the muggles say.”

“Yeah.” Harry replied glumly, checking the time but knowing that he couldn’t use classes as an excuse to get out of detention with Snape, not on a Saturday.

“We’ll be in the library if you finish detention before lunch,” Hermione offered, her tone sympathetic as she quickly gathered up the pieces of toast and handed Harry the whole stack.

“What!” Ron protested, eyebrows raised in horror, “Hermione, it’s the weekend.”

“Which means homework, Ron,” Hermione snapped impatiently, “specifically Professor Sinistra’s essay on meteor showers and Professor Binn’s assignment on troll campaigns in western Europe during the thirteenth century.” Harry left them to their arguing, though with Fred and George soon joining in with wildly invented ‘facts’ about trolls it seemed a shame to leave.

The camaraderie he had with Ron and Hermione always helped to make the first few weeks back at Hogwarts more bearable until he got used to the pointing and the staring again. At times, the Dursleys were easier to endure. Harry knew where he stood with his relatives, somewhere between cat sick and a cockroach if it was to judge by the looks of disgust they gave him whenever they looked at him. At Hogwarts though, he was famous because of his parents being murdered and him surviving. The whole thing turned his stomach.

At least, Snape hates me, Harry considered dully, wandering out of the Great Hall and toward the dungeons. He realized he was still holding the pile of toast Hermione had given him. It was cold and soggy now and Harry thought about eating it but he remembered the butter Hermione had scraped on it when it had still been warm, the smell of it that had hurt his insides with its goodness. No, he didn’t deserve something prepared out of kindness, something that would still taste far too wonderful. Harry threw the toast into a wastebasket in an empty classroom before he lost his resolve and ate it anyway.

It seemed seconds later that Harry was standing outside Snape’s office. He’d been here once before last year and it hadn’t been particularly comforting what with the jars of floating pickled creatures and ominous potions ingredients. He wiped his sweaty palms on his baggy jeans and tried to flatten his unruly black hair, making a valiant effort to stop his hands from shaking. It didn’t work and finally Harry knocked on the door, determined if nothing else, to get the worst over with. There was silence and then Snape’s sharp, “Enter.”

Hesitantly, Harry edged the door open. Snape was sitting behind his office desk, grading piles of essays with scarlet ink. He paused in writing what was no doubt a scathing comment on one of the pieces of parchment, glancing up quickly as Harry stepped slowly into the man’s office. Tall, thin, and pale, Snape looked more like a vampire than ever. Lank, long black hair hung into his thin face as his dark eyes fastened on Harry, his expression equally impassive and intense.

“Shut the door, Potter.” He snapped and Harry did so quickly, not wanting to anger Snape any more than usual. Snape was bad enough as it was on a good day.

Snape stared at him for a long time and Harry swallowed, wishing he were wearing school robes instead of Dudley’s hand-me-downs which looked particularly huge and ragged on his small skinny frame. He stood there, fiddling with the overlarge sleeves of the ripped shirt he wore, waiting for Snape to make a comment about how ridiculous he looked. Dudley had smashed Harry’s glasses twice over the summer and although Harry had repaired the lens on the train, the frames were harder to fix magically. He had been stuck with taping them back together with Ron’s spellotape and listening to Hermione muse over why muggle-made products were harder to repair than wizard-made products. Black eyes pierced his green ones and Harry flinched and looked away as Snape stood abruptly, coming around his desk and stopping a few feet away to stare down his prominent hooked nose at him.

“You haven’t been eating.” Snape said into the silence and the unexpected statement took Harry so by surprise that he didn’t at first register that Snape’s tone was far less antagonistic than usual.

“Sir?” he said uncertainly,

“You are clearly drowning in those muggle…clothes…” Snape stated, distaste flickering over his features as he stared at Harry’s clothing, “yet you’ve been avoiding meals or throwing away food that is given to you. I want answers for this behavior, Potter.”

His voice was firm but again not as cruel as Harry would have thought, given the fact that Snape made no secret about disliking him. Yet, those eyes looking at him now were not narrowed with hate and while Snape’s expressions were impossible to interpret, there was something steadfast in the way he stood there, studying Harry closely.

Harry stared at him, wondering suddenly what Snape would do if he knew how things were at the Dursleys. Would he agree that Harry deserved what happened? Fear crowded Harry’s throat and he swallowed but the words were there, he couldn’t seem to keep them back. No one had ever asked before about the clothes or the lack of food. Snape was watching him, waiting for him to say something. Harry shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to speak.

Severus had watched the boy closely the first few days of term. Last year, he’d made the mistake of no longer spying on the boy, since Quirrell was dead and the Dark Lord vanished once more, and Potter had ended up nearly getting killed by a basilisk. Clearly, the child needed more than just his head of house keeping an eye on him. Not that McGonagall did, Severus thought sourly, she’d practically rewarded the boy when she caught him in any wrongdoing. He’d been honest when he’d told Potter and Weasley last year that he would have expelled them for their flying car. They both could’ve been killed and the wizarding world exposed due to brainless childish antics and Severus wasn’t about to let such behavior continue.

Still, Severus had been surprised at what he’d witnessed during the first week. Potter wasn’t eating. The boy sat at the crowded Gryffindor table during meals and joined in occasionally with what passed for conversation among the other third years but didn’t eat any of the food before him. Sometimes, often at the beseeching look of Granger, he’d take something to eat later but he never ate during the meal. Even during the welcome feast Potter had not consumed more than a cup of tea.

After three days, Severus left the Great Hall when the boy did, following him to see if Potter’s penchant for eating food away from the Gryffindor table was simply an ill-mannered teenage habit or something more serious. He noticed that Potter seemed quieter than he had once been, not so prone to the brash foolishness of the other students around him. But then, Severus had to admit that the boy had never been overly loud although he was certainly just as insufferable as his father had been.

Under his careful watch he saw Potter distract his two friends in a conversation with the Hufflepuff ghost long enough to toss the apple he held aside. Severus’ eyes narrowed in confusion as he studied the covert practiced motion of the boy. What was Potter up to now? After two more meals of which he witnessed Potter discarding food when Granger and Weasley weren’t looking, Severus was more bewildered than ever.

He told himself he was wasting his time and retreated to one of his dungeon labs. The image of Potter refusing to eat came back to him all throughout his brewing, unsetting him. Resolutely, Severus shook his head, focusing on the broiling potion before him. It wasn’t his business what Potter did or did not eat. Who could fathom the minds of thirteen-year-old boys anyway? Soon, Potter would grow hungry and whatever game he was playing would be over.

* * *

The next day he observed Potter in potions class, watching the boy mangle perfectly good ingredients. While earlier his frustration at the boy’s lackadaisical attitude toward brewing would have consumed him, Severus found himself noticing other things. Potter seemed tired. The frames of his glasses were taped along one side and his messy black hair looked as if it had not been cut for several months.

Severus moved through the steam rising from dozens of cauldrons, curling his lip at the sludge in the bottom of Weasley’s cauldron and glancing quickly over at Potter’s work. Appalling, as usual. The burdock root on the boy’s scarred desk was being destroyed by Potter’s inability to properly cut even slices with his knife. Severus turned away, the insult that he normally would’ve given for Potter’s poor work was on the tip of his tongue, but a distracting thought was pushed to the forefront of his mind instead. Had the boy’s hands always been that thin? He supposed that they had. Every year when term started Potter looked a bit unwell, now that he thought of it. The child’s parents had been slender and fair-skinned, but Potter had an unhealthy pallor to him and even with the thick school robe the boy wore it was obvious that he was underweight, in addition to being undersized. And really, was it normal for a teenage boy to still be so short? Weasley towered over Potter and even Granger looked an inch taller than the boy who was now half-heartedly stirring his cauldron.

Severus reflected on the last few days, remembering each time that Potter had refused to eat or had thrown away food. Term had started four days ago and he couldn’t recall seeing Potter eat once. Whatever was going on, it needed to be addressed immediately before things grew worse. A loud bang and a roiling cloud of pungent green fumes erupted suddenly from Longbottom’s table. Severus whipped around, dark robes billowing as he strode across the classroom to inspect the damage, all thought about confronting Potter driven out of his mind by the sight of Longbottom’s pink face and the hapless boy’s half-melted cauldron.

* * *

And now, here Potter was in his office, wearing the most horrid ill-fitting muggle clothing Severus had ever seen. Far too large for any thirteen-year-old, the gray jumper hung off Potter’s shoulder. The sleeves were rolled up ridiculously far just to see the boy’s hands while the unraveled hem fell somewhere past the child’s knees. He could only assume that a belt was holding up the massive ripped jeans that the boy wore.

Potter was gawking at him and for once Severus did not feel that unbearable mix of pain and resentment at seeing Lily’s eyes staring from James Potter’s face. Perhaps it was the apparent thinness of the boy’s face, or perhaps he had never really looked at the child and seen him before, but now he could identify wariness and fear in Potter’s large almond-shaped eyes. There was shame there, but hope as well and Severus stood still and waited, holding that green gaze.

“I don’t –“ the boy closed his eyes and turned his head away, “I don’t know where to begin,” he whispered, his voice tight and ragged. He was trembling slightly and Severus remained quiet.

Sympathy rose in him, a strange creature he hardly knew. He remembered with sudden swiftness his own fear of speaking truths he was afraid others would use against him. He had been cruel to the child for years and now he was expecting Potter to speak when the boy clearly was considering the possibility that Severus’ demand was no more than a ploy to humiliate him later on. Severus grimaced, unsure of how to climb out of the hole he’d dug himself into. He was no good at reassuring children. He couldn’t even explain to himself why he no longer loathed the boy on sight. Those eyes behind broken glasses opened, and looked at him with the forthright curiosity of a much younger child, although the boy lifted his chin in the proud motion of a man facing danger head-on.

“They don’t want me to eat,” Potter said in a surprisingly steady tone. Wariness was still visible in his gaze but so was a sort of relief. Severus kept his expression calm, unthreatening and after a moment Potter continued, fiddling with the enormous sleeves of his muggle shirt, his words leaving him in a pent-up rush. “The Dursleys hate feeding me. They’re always going on about how much money I cost them. They give me what’s left on their plates but Dudley’s started some new diet so there’s not much left when they’re done eating. I don’t have any muggle money to buy food and I don’t dare try sneaking anything from the fridge anymore.”

Shock and a much darker emotion warred inside of Severus as he watched the boy, taking in the almost defiant posture and the vulnerability clearly hidden underneath.

“They starve you.” He stated flatly. Oddly, Potter bristled at that, anger flashing across his face.

“They’re not my family sir, they don’t have to feed me.”

“They are your guardians and as such –“ Severus began but Potter interrupted him boldly, crossing skinny arms defensively over his hideous muggle shirt.

“I didn’t ask to be landed with them and they sure as hell didn’t ask for me! I get by fine without them,” his voice lowered and he turned his gaze back to the dusty stone floor, “it’s just better, if I stay out of their way.”

This was turning into a far bigger problem than Severus had first thought. It took all his skill in Occulmency to keep his face impassive and his temper reined in at hearing Potter rationalize such deplorable actions.

“And how do you get by?” he finally asked quietly.

Potter shrugged in a forced casual motion, his jumper sliding further down his shoulder and pulling at the overlarge gray t-shirt underneath so that the prominent bones of his collarbone were visible, the thinness of his neck suddenly very apparent.

“Nicking things out of bins or the neighbors gardens.” He finally muttered and Severus looked away sharply, rage pulsing inside him. So this was why the boy was so thin and small. For two years no one had seen the mistreatment that was painfully obvious now. He didn’t know who he hated more, the boy’s muggle relatives or himself.

“Why aren’t you eating now?” he demanded harshly and Potter shrugged again, avoiding his eyes and staring instead at a row of bottled ingredients along the wall of his office. “There is plenty of food here –“

“I know there is!” Potter interrupted him loudly once more, “I just – it’s – I can’t explain.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, regarding the boy closely. Much as he disliked being interrupted he could see that there was something Potter longed to say, something truly difficult for the child to speak of. Potter’s cheeks were flushed with shame and he was staring hard at the floor as if hoping he would disappear. Unconsciously, Severus gentled his voice, speaking as he would to a injured animal,

“Tell me,”

“It’s not right,” Potter whispered, running a shaking hand through his untidy hair, “I – I don’t… I’m not good enough to…” his voice trailed off into nothing.

Severus studied him. Potter seemed to be holding himself very still, as if expecting to be laughed at or disparaged. Severus felt only immense pity that years of having to scrounge for food had conditioned the child to think he did not deserve to eat anything other than the scraps left on others’ plates. Beneath the pity was that terrible anger and the part of him that still dwelled close to darkness was longing to find Potter’s relatives and extract some form of justice for what had been done. But then, what would vindictiveness do other than land him in Azkaban? Cursing the boy’s family would be satisfying, but it would not help the boy heal.

He turned, moving back around his desk, seeing the way that Potter flinched at the sudden motion, shrinking away automatically. His anger heightened but he would not allow it to show in his demeanor, the child was clearly unsettled enough at the conversation, he would not frighten the boy or make Potter believe his anger was directed at him. Severus pulled his quill and a scrap of blank parchment close and wrote quickly on it, red droplets of ink dotting the parchment like blood in his haste. He slid the paper toward Potter. The boy came forward hesitantly, slowly picking up the parchment, brow furrowing as he read.

“You want me to come here every day before my first class?” he demanded, his tone too incredulous to decipher whether he was outraged or not.

“And after your last class.” Severus intoned, gesturing to the parchment with his quill. “It is a request, not a punishment,” he continued at the look on Potter’s face before narrowing dark eyes at the boy, “but if you fail to be present at the times stated than you will be serving a real detention, understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Potter said after a long pause, his head lowered, his tone tinged with defiance.

The boy had no idea how pleased Severus was to hear such defiance. Anger, Severus could work with and courage would be extraordinarily important in helping the child recover. Even when Severus had hated the boy he could not deny that Potter was brave. And that was a thought in it of itself, he no longer hated Potter, nor did he believe that Potter hated him, at least not entirely. There was still much left to be discussed but perhaps some sort of truce between them would not be as impossible to achieve as he had once thought.

“You have to see Snape in detention, twice a day?” Ron demanded that evening in the common room, “Snape? Twice?”

Harry grimaced, wishing Ron wouldn’t keep bringing it up. It was bad enough that he kept thinking about the whole matter. Snape made it sound like every weekday he was expected to go to the man’s office and talk about his problems. He had already gone on enough about stuff. Harry wasn’t about to let his guard down like that again. Snape hadn’t been as horrible as he could have been, but he was probably just waiting for the right opportunity to make Harry miserable. There wasn’t any other reason for him to require that Harry spend half his time in the man’s office.

Ron and Hermione had questioned him over and over but Harry had just said he wasn’t sure what Snape was up to. He didn’t like keeping secrets from his friends but he hadn’t wanted to tell them what Snape and him had discussed. He flushed, awkwardly tugging at the ripped hem of his enormous jumper. He couldn’t believe he had told Snape about the Dursleys not feeding him.

“I don’t get it, why would Snape – “ Ron began again, his freckled face screwed up in confusion only to have Hermione interrupt, her quill scratching rapidly over her parchment.

“Harry doesn’t know why, Ron. Could you please concentrate on your essay instead of talking? I’ve already had to re-write this paragraph twice.”

“Look Hermione, I’m not taking a vow of silence just because you’ve got twice the course load as the rest of us,” Ron pointed out irritably,

Harry stood up from his armchair as Hermione opened her mouth, “I’m going for a walk,” he muttered, too tense to deal with another argument between Ron and Hermione.

He should’ve kept his mouth shut when Snape had asked. Telling always made things worse. He’d learned that lesson at the Dursleys enough times as it was. Harry shuddered, too caught up in his thoughts to notice Oliver Wood near the portrait hole until the Gryffindor keeper caught him by the arm. The sudden movement jolted fear through Harry and he jerked away, stumbling and immediately pressing his back against the stone wall opposite the seventh year, thin hands lifting automatically in front of him to ward of incoming blows.

“You alright, Harry?” Wood asked, eyebrows raised. Swallowing, Harry nodded, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. He quickly crossed his arms over his chest to hide the fact he was still trembling with reflexive terror.

“Great,” Wood said, distracted, “listen, we don’t need to waste time waiting for tryouts, I say we get in the air as soon as possible. Practice is always harder when there’s less daylight and colder weather.”

“Yeah,” Harry responded, trying to force himself to think about Quidditch and not how dizzy and exhausted he suddenly felt now that the adrenaline was seeping away. A stab of hunger shot through him but he clenched his teeth, pushing aside the physical discomfort. He hadn’t wanted to eat any of the delicious food the Great Hall had at dinner, certainly not after his pathetic confessions to Snape.

“This year’s our year, Harry!” Wood enthused, his eyes gleaming with that maniac light that Quidditch always brought out in him, “we’ll get that Cup for sure this time!” Harry nodded and mustered a grin, tensing to avoid flinching as Wood clapped him hard on the shoulder, “Excellent, see you at evening practice then.”

“Right,” Harry said automatically, before suddenly freezing, remembering Snape’s stupid detentions. “Uh, wait, Wood…I might be a bit late for practice on weekdays, I have to see Snape after my last class all week.”

“But the Cup!” Wood exclaimed in horror before his face suddenly darkened, “Snape’s sabotaging us, that’s what he’s doing! He’s never gotten past Gryffindor taking the House Cup two years ago and now he’s trying to prevent one of my best players from –“

“I’ll try to talk to him about it,” Harry offered, hating the idea but too on edge to deal with Wood’s ranting about their chances for the Quidditch Cup for the next several minutes.

“You do that,” Wood responded firmly, “make him see reason Harry. Bias toward Slytherin is one thing when it comes to grades but it’s beyond the pale for Snape to mess with Quidditch.”

* * *

“You want to be excused from your evening appointments with me so that you can fly around on a broom after class?” Snape intoned slowly, his expression making it clear just how idiotic he thought Harry’s request was.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, tugging on the sleeve of his school robe. Charms class was due to start in a half-hour but for now he was stuck in the first of his ‘appointments’ with Snape. Regardless of how the man had phrased it the other day, they certainly seemed like detentions. Snape had already berated him for not eating, told him he needed to concentrate better in class, and was now looking at Harry as if Harry has suggested something too monumentally stupid to dignify discussing.

Harry stared down at his battered shoes, grateful his uniform cloak was long enough to cover most of the ugliness of Dudley’s old trainers. Snape’s office was cold and dimly lit and the jars of floating things didn’t do anything for the hollow pain in his stomach. He could feel Snape’s dark eyes on him but he didn’t look up, mumbling to the floor instead.

“Oliver Wood asked me to ask you if – “

“No.”

Harry’s head shot up in surprise at the abrupt response, “Er, Sir?” he said, confused at the studying look Snape was giving him. The potions master raised a dark eyebrow, his black eyes gleaming in the flickering light of candles that floated around the edges of the room.

“No, I will not allow you to skip out of these sessions simply for your own amusement,” Snape hissed, his mouth twisting in a scowl, “if I had my way you wouldn’t be flying at all.”

“What?” Harry demanded, “why?”

He was too angry to care that he was being disrespectful, or that Snape was still glaring. Snape couldn’t ban him from Quidditch, he couldn’t. Harry would go to McGonagall or Dumbledore, but then… Snape would likely tell them about Harry not eating, about what Harry had said the other day. Harry stared at the man, his green eyes large behind his broken glasses. His heart rate increased almost painfully, his breath leaving him sharply. No, this was between Snape and him, he had to find out what Snape’s motive was and try to fix it on his own.

“What did I do?” He asked, his voice suddenly quiet and tired. Snape watched him for a long moment, pale face impassive, his long black hair falling forward slightly as he inclined his head toward the stiff-backed chair across from his desk.

“Sit down,”

Harry stood his ground, trembling but determined not to back down. This was just like the Dursleys, he had to make it clear that Snape’s threats wouldn’t get to him, that whatever the man did, it wouldn’t break him.

“I have to be in Charms soon, Sir,” he said with forced politeness. Snape shook his head, the mask-like expression of his face slipping enough to display irritation and something unfamiliar to Harry.

“I know when you have to be in Charms, now sit down.” The Potions Master instructed firmly, and the part of Harry that instinctively responded to orders when in danger sat before he could find the courage to rebel. For a long time they looked at one another. Harry didn’t know whether he was still angry or just really exhausted. He was breathing hard as if he’d been running and he could feel a trickle of sweat slide down his brow despite the cold of the room. Snape was watching him closely, and Harry looked away, glaring at the floor, bony hands gripping his thin thighs, trying to hide the way he was shaking.

“You seem to be under the impression that I wish to punish you in some way.” Snape’s low voice echoed slightly in the room, startling Harry after the long moments of silence.

Harry shook his head at the fact that Snape actually sounded confused that Harry thought him unfair, “you basically have me in detention twice a day and you just said that you’d try to stop me from playing Quidditch.” He muttered bitterly.

Now it was Snape’s turn to shake his head, a line appeared between his brows, “I already told you, these are not detentions. They are a way for us to discuss a number of matters involving your wellbeing,” he snapped, dark eyes flashing above his hooked nose, “on the same note I hardly think it wise to allow you to fly a broom when you haven’t been eating.”

All the fight went out of Harry at that, his shoulders slumping. So, Snape was going to hold this over his head, whatever Harry had told him about the Dursleys would be used against him. He should have kept quiet, should have found some other way of explaining why he couldn’t stand eating food so lovingly prepared. Snape sighed, pushing a hand through his long unwashed hair. Harry looked up, startled at such a display of emotion from the man. Snape no longer appeared agitated, only deep in thought.

“I am not trying to punish you for your poor health, Harry,” he stated quietly, “but strenuous exercise can be life-threatening to those with eating disorders.”

The shock of Snape addressing him by his first name was too much for Harry to really take in. He stared at the Potions Master, uncertain suddenly of everything.

“I – I don’t have a eating disorder.” He protested softly, ducking his head instinctively when Snape shifted a hand along the edge of his desk. The tall man stilled, then continued slowly reaching toward a sheaf of parchment on his desk and his quill. Harry flushed,

“You and I both know otherwise, Mr. Potter, which is why you will continue to come here twice a day so that you at least will eat then.” Snape spoke, his tone sharp but without malice, “You need not confide in me beyond what is necessary, if you do not wish to, but I will not have you starve if I can do something about it.” He wrote something on the piece of parchment and it vanished with an audible crack.

A very strange thought was taking shape in Harry’s mind. Snape really wasn’t trying to manipulate him, or humiliate him, or hurt him. He’d offered to help Harry, he’d even called him ‘Harry’ instead of ‘Potter’ or ‘Boy’ like the Dursleys did. Snape hadn’t outright said anything and it was probably too dangerous to get his hopes up, but it sounded almost like Snape actually cared about what happened to him.

“Why does it matter to you?” Harry asked quickly, needing to know. Snape didn’t ask him what he was talking about, but instead regarded Harry with that steady look he had given the boy a few days ago in his office.

“Why doesn’t it, to you?” Snape replied simply.

Harry swallowed, suddenly horribly aware that it was difficult to breathe past the lump in his throat, that if he spoke he might even cry. His hands twisted helplessly in the fabric of his robe.

“I don’t know.” He finally whispered hoarsely.

Snape didn’t say anything. A tray of unbuttered toast popped into existence at the man’s elbow and a glass of water. Snape edged them toward Harry. Harry stared at the food, unsure of what to do or say.

“Pain cannot be healed instantly, Harry,” Snape said in a surprisingly gentle tone, “regardless of what magic is used. I will not punish you for not eating, I ask only that you stop punishing yourself.”

Harry looked at the man, seeking some sort of reassurance in Snape’s solemn gaze. He took a shaky breath and let it out. Slowly, he reached for a piece of toast.

* * *

The next few days passed quicker than expected. Soon enough, Harry got used to waking early and heading towards Snape’s office and then stopping by after his last class. The man was still a bit abrasive in Potions, but he’d stopped treating Harry so unfairly in front of everyone and even Ron had commented half-way through the first month that Snape wasn’t being ‘as big of a git as usual’. Harry had shrugged in response.

He still hadn’t told Hermione and Ron much about his appointments with Snape. They had assumed the meetings were really horrible detentions and Harry got used to seeing sympathy on their faces every time he headed off to Snape’s office. He didn’t know how to explain to his friends that Snape wasn’t really that bad, or that the man was somehow now counseling him. Snape and him hadn’t really talked much about Harry’s homelife yet, Snape seemed to be waiting for when Harry was ready and that could be forever, as far as Harry was concerned.

Harry let out a sigh, gripping his Nimbus 2000 as he wandered down to the Quidditch pitch. Wood had been furious that Harry was unable to make evening practices on time but relented when Harry caught the snitch every single time that they trained. Harry grinned as he neared the pitch, the setting sun catching the red of Weasley hair as Fred or George (it was too far away to tell), blocked a quaffle by throwing himself half off his broom in a purely reckless save.

Snape hadn’t been thrilled at Harry attending nightly practices but had not forbidden it, insisting only that Harry ‘use his brain and not overexert himself.” He had repaired the frames of Harry’s glasses and then made him go to Madam Pomfrey to get the lenses altered so that they would be closer to whatever Harry’s prescription would have been in the muggle world. All necessary so that Harry wouldn’t ‘confuse a bludger for a quaffle’ as Snape put it.

Harry shook his head, smiling slightly. It almost seemed as if Snape hadn’t banned Harry from Quidditch because he knew it made Harry happy to fly. It was weird to think that the professor actually cared about him but over the last week, Harry had seen proof of that. Snape had not pushed him to talk about things, although he had quietly insisted Harry eat something and in the safety of the potion’s office, Harry found that his aversion to food had mostly disappeared. He still wasn’t comfortable eating in the Great Hall, but Snape and him were working on it.

With a nod to Angelina who zoomed past to throw another quaffle, Harry mounted his broom, taking to the sky with a burst of enthusiasm. He waited, watching the toss of practice quaffles between chasers. Fred and George taking turns acting as keeper while Wood flew around, shouting instructions and plays for them to try out. Harry didn’t have anything to do for the first part, as he was a seeker and Wood was training part of the team in a new move that the Ballycastle Bats chasers had won a game with over the summer.

Harry’s mind wandered back to that evening’s meeting with Snape. He’d spent nearly an hour there doing his homework, but Snape was surprisingly helpful when it came to answering Harry’s questions about classwork. There had been a bit of a standoff between them for a few minutes when Snape had broached the subject of his ‘eating disorder’. Harry scowled. He wished Snape would stop saying that. He knew a little of it was true, but he didn’t want to discuss it. Snape had let him argue for awhile and Harry had to concede that the potions master was right about some things, but it wasn’t like Harry hated food, he just didn’t have an appetite. That wasn’t anything for Snape to make a big deal about, besides, he’d already started eating some in the man’s office.

“Harry, we need a seeker here for this new diversion tactic,” Wood yelled, and Harry swooped toward him, wind streaking through his hair, his heart light in his chest, all thoughts of Snape’s ‘detentions’ firmly pushed aside.

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.

The morning after the match, Harry had just stepped out of the hospital wing when Percy Weasley showed up at his side.

“Sorry, Harry, but I’ve been asked, as Head Boy,” he announced importantly, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses, “to bring you to the headmaster’s office.”

Harry swallowed heavily, glancing around the crowded corridor. He had a sinking feeling that this was about what Snape and him had discussed yesterday. Even as exhausted and out of it from healing potions that he had been after the match, he shouldn’t have been so damn emotional. He’d practically told Snape all about his uncle hitting him and then he’d gone and asked the potions master if Snape could still look after him. The whole conversation made him intensely embarrassed and afraid now that he thought it over. It was ridiculous anyway, he’d never be allowed to leave the Dursleys. No one had ever cared in the muggle world about him being hit or not getting fed, why should the wizarding world be any different?

He followed Percy’s long strides to Dumbledore’s office, dreading every moment that brought him closer to meeting the headmaster. Dumbledore would likely ask him hundreds of questions about the Dursleys. Snape probably had told him about Harry not eating right, or worse, maybe he told Dumbledore that he didn’t want anything to do with looking after a whiny worthless kid that he had always hated anyway. Snape was probably having Dumbledore do his dirty work and be the one to tell Harry that their appointments were over. And then Snape would go back to being horrible to him and giving him actual detentions. Harry kicked moodily at the stone wall of the corridor with the side of his foot, ignoring Percy’s reproving expression. It was his own fault for daring to want some sort of father figure in the stern potions master.

Finally, Harry stumbled to a stop, jarred out of his disturbing thoughts by nearly running into Percy who had drawn himself up imperiously in front of the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office. “Peppermint Toad,” Percy declared authoritatively. At once, the passage opened and Harry let Percy wave him pompously unto the circular staircase that led to Professor Dumbledore’s office.

Harry felt rather small and alone, standing by himself outside the wooden door of the headmaster’s office. With a deep breath, Harry knocked, feeling a slight twinge in his wrist when he did so. Madam Pomfrey had insisted he continue to wear the splint, and made some noise about having some other healer look at the injury, but Harry had convinced her to let him leave the hospital wing at least. His wrist barely hurt and he couldn’t understand why the medi-witch insisted on fussing over the whole thing just because it wouldn’t heal instantly. She was almost as bad as Snape about his Quidditch injuries, he thought, recalling the tense argument the day before.

The door suddenly swung open and Harry hesitantly stepped into the large round office. He paused a little past the threshold at the sight of Snape seated near the fireplace in a wing-backed armchair, his black robes contrasting with the purple, red, and gold tones of Dumbledore’s study. Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his expression serious.

The presence of the two people he least wanted to disappoint watching him closely was unnerving. Harry tugged at the hem of his overlarge T-shirt, wishing Ron hadn’t brought him muggle clothes to change into. His rags from the Dursleys felt particularly awful compared to the splendor of magical artifacts and antiques that furnished Dumbledore’s office.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, his blue eyes studying, his fingers interlaced in front of him, “congratulations on the match, I understand it was quite a close game.”

Harry blinked, mustering a small smile, glancing toward Snape whose eyes had flickered disdainfully away at the mention of Quidditch, “Yeah, it was,” Harry replied, edging further into the room as Dumbledore gestured him to come forward.

“Severus informed me you were injured,” Dumbledore remarked and Harry shot another look at the potions master, wondering what else Snape had told. Snape met his gaze directly this time, his expression calm in that same steadying way it had been from that very first detention. Slowly, Harry felt himself relax a bit, he nodded at Dumbledore who leaned forward, strong lined hands falling flat against the desk.

“I must apologize Harry, it is not my intention to befuddle you about why you are here,” his blue eyes met Harry’s, so piercing that Harry had the distinct feeling Dumbledore was peering into his very soul. “It has come to my attention that your relatives do not treat you well. I confess, I believed them to be narrow-minded and parsimonious in their regard toward others, but I had hoped they would treat you with the respect and care you deserve.”

Harry shifted, unconsciously moving his arms tighter to his body. Deserve? How the hell did he know what he deserved? Anytime his uncle had hit him had been because he ‘deserved’ it. The neighbors in Little Whinging had seemed to agree, as had the teachers at his old primary school. No one had minded about him showing up with a black eye or nicking food out of bins then. Why was it a problem now? He chanced another glance at Snape and had to look away quickly for the man was watching him closely with narrowed eyes as if he knew exactly what Harry was thinking.

“I will do what I can to rectify this situation, Harry.” Dumbledore continued, “it may be difficult to circumvent certain members of the Ministry, but I do not foresee any insurmountable problems.” Fawkes let out a soft trill from where he was perched on the back of a battered ancient chair. All of them looked toward the phoenix momentarily and Dumbledore’s expression, while still retaining a matter-of-fact quality to it, was suddenly old and sad.

“My main concern Harry, is your safety,” Dumbledore declared and Harry was relieved that a briskness was still there in the headmaster’s voice, that once again Dumbledore would be able to fix the impossible, or at least offer some sort of resolution, “not only from the mistreatment you abhorrently suffered, but also from Voldemort and any of his followers.”

Snape tensed at the headmaster’s words, rubbing absently at his left forearm. Harry bit his lip, his stomach in knots. He didn’t want to talk about the Dursleys with Dumbledore. Maybe with Snape, he might be able to. But he didn’t want the headmaster knowing how terrible things had been at times.

“However, I believe defensive wards can be put into place to ensure your safety and Severus is well up to the task of protecting you.”

Harry’s green eyes widened behind his glasses, he inhaled tightly, staring from Snape to Dumbledore. The elderly wizard smiled slightly. “Professor Snape has offered you a home with him. He would like to become your guardian and provide for you, as your relatives should have.”

“I –“ Harry realized he was shaking and swallowed, unable to speak further.

The room felt suddenly very large and hollow, echoing with the frantic beat of his racing heart. Dumbledore was still speaking but his voice seemed far away, as if Harry were underwater. A hand suddenly grasped Harry’s upper arm. He jolted in instinctive fear but the grip was light, leading him to a chair by the flickering fireplace. Harry stared up at Snape, dazed still as he was gently deposited in the armchair.

“Why did you –“ Harry mumbled, still too shocked to be mortified at the realization that he’d nearly fainted. Snape summoned a glass of water and made him drink it, eyeing him closely, his black eyes narrowed with what was definitely concern. When he seemed convinced that Harry wasn’t going to collapse, Snape stepped back, appearing, for the first time, a bit awkward.

“You need a safe place to stay,” he murmured.

Harry shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the concept that Snape had offered to take him. He stared up at the tall thin man, Snape’s gaze still fixed on him.

“But,” Harry stammered weakly, “you can’t. I mean, you don’t want –“

“Do not presume to think that you are unwanted,” Snape stated, his tone suddenly fierce, “it is my wish to become your guardian, to provide you a home, and to care for your physical and emotional wellbeing.”

Harry could only stare at the man. He swallowed tightly, forcing himself to keep breathing as evenly as possible while all the while feeling as if he’d just been hit in the face again by a bludger. Snape wanted to become his guardian. Snape wanted him. With sudden, terrible embarrassment he realized that his face was wet and that he’d been crying without even knowing it. Immediately, he lowered his head and stared hard at his knees, trying to get himself back under control. Snape did not speak, but his hand came to rest atop Harry’s head as it had in the hospital wing, the sensation incredibly soothing and bizarrely making Harry want to cry more.

Dumbledore had remained thankfully quiet, so that after a few moments and a silent, if somewhat uncomfortable, offer of a handkerchief from Snape, Harry was able to raise his head. He knew he still looked a long way from alright, but he was suddenly too tired to care.

“You really want to look after me?” he asked softly, needing the absolute truth, “you’re not just doing this because you pity me or –“

“No,” Snape said instantly, “I am not rearranging my entire life, and yours, out of some wayward bout of sympathy.”

It was hard not to smile, just a little at the sardonic words from Snape. At least, it was reassuring to know that his professor wasn’t acting like this because he’d been Confounded or something. Harry looked over at Dumbledore who was regarding him thoughtfully, that sorrow was still there in his expression, but he smiled faintly as well. An exhausted joy seemed to hang over them all, everyone too worn or tentative to really grasp hold of it, but it was there and Harry knew then that no matter what, things were going to be okay.

He found himself folding and refolding the handkerchief for something to do, Snape’s hand had moved from his head to rest on his shoulder and it was a comforting weight that did not frighten him. Harry looked up at the man,

“I used to think you hated me,” he hesitated, “I mean, you always act like children are really insufferable to be around.”

Snape tilted his head, the firelight flickering over his features, adding color to his waxy skin and black eyes. “Most are,” he replied off-handedly before, remarkably, the corner of his mouth moved in a hint of the first genuine smile Harry had ever seen from him, “but there is one that isn’t ‘so bad’.”

Harry couldn’t contain his sudden grin at the man’s words, his laugh still shaky from his earlier tears.

* * *

“So what was it that you wanted to tell us?” Hermione asked curiously, glancing up from the enormous tome she had propped open against the arm of the battered sofa she sat on.

Harry looked between her and Ron, who was doodling in the margins of his Astronomy homework. He sat his own textbook aside, hands trembling. The nervousness he had felt facing Dumbledore didn’t seem half as bad as this. It had been only two days since he’d sat in the headmaster’s office and learned that Snape was trying to get guardianship of him. Since then, both wizards had been incredibly busy filing paperwork with the ministry, Harry had spent the last three sessions with Snape just filling out forms. Dumbledore had obviously leaned hard on someone in the ministry, or else guardianship changes were relatively unregulated because that morning, Snape had handed him the official guardian contract in his office. They’d both signed it with Dumbledore and a rather shocked McGonagall as witness and now it was only a matter of time before the whole school knew.

Harry wasn’t looking forward to the Slytherins finding out, but Snape had seemed remarkably unfazed about the matter, commentating to Harry that if anything, it would add some interesting facets to the rumors about Snape being part-vampire or using students for potions ingredients or other such nonsense. Harry figured it would resolve itself in due time but he would likely be in for a lot of staring and whispering for the next few weeks. It was hard to care too much about what others thought though when he knew he was finally going to leave the Dursleys and live with someone who cared about him. The only thing dampening his excitement was trying to work out how to tell Ron and Hermione. He’d held off until after dinner, but knew he couldn’t wait much longer. He had to tell them before someone else did.

“Um,” Harry began, “well, it’s…er…about Snape.”

“Snape?” Ron said, looking up with a scowl, “what about him?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, setting her book aside, “is he being really terrible to you? I told you to tell Professor McGonagall about his detentions, I mean, it’s not fair if he’s –“

“What? No!” Harry objected, “look, this isn’t really about his detentions. Alright, so it is, sort of. But it’s not –“ he stopped, frustrated.

Ron and Hermione were looking at him with open concern now, Ron’s poised quill dripping ink on the work table he sat at. Harry glanced around the common room, making sure no one was eavesdropping. It was fairly empty and most everyone was crowded around Fred and George on the other side of the room who were playing some sort of game that involved knarl quills, empty butterbeer bottles and fire. Frowning, Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to come up with the right words.

“Snape – the detentions – they’ve been a bit…unexpected.” He muttered,

“Unexpected?” Hermione repeated, brows raised in confusion,

“Well, he’s had to have run out of really horrible tasks by now,” Ron pointed out reasonably, gesturing with his quill so that it left streaks of ink across the table, “Harry’s been doing these detentions for weeks. Guess he’s got you doing lines or something like that now?”

“Er – no,” Harry replied, poking at an already sizeable rip in the armchair he sat on.

“Well then – hang on, this doesn’t have anything to do with the match? Fred said Snape looked bloody furious in the hospital wing –“

“Yeah, he was angry about me getting injured,” Harry mumbled with a shrug, “but I don’t see why, everything’s fine.”

“You’re not fine!” Hermione insisted hotly, crossing her arms atop her book and regarding Harry with the sort of stern look McGonagall was more prone to wearing, “You were hit by multiple bludgers and you’re still wearing that brace on your wrist, not to mention that you haven’t been well all school year. Snape has a lot of nerve getting angry at you for missing one of his unjust detentions when you were obviously injured!”

“Hermione, that’s not –” Harry shook his head, a bit impressed at the sudden show of temper from his best friend, if not a little irritated that neither Ron or Hermione seemed to want to listen to him, “Snape didn’t yell at me for missing a detention, okay? He was upset because I got hurt.”

“What?” Ron demanded, Hermione and him wearing identical looks of bewilderment, “why would Snape care?”

“Because he does!” Harry snapped, suddenly tired of the whole issue, “Snape’s done more for me than anyone else since school started! He noticed I wasn’t eating and he started helping me there and now he’s taking me away from the Dursleys –“

“What do you mean –“

“Snape’s going to be my guardian,” Harry stated flatly, “he is my guardian. We signed the last form this morning.”

Both of his friends were staring at him in frozen horror. Ron’s quill was now leaking ink unto the rug. Hermione’s mouth was still slightly open.

“Come again?” Ron finally managed weakly.

Harry rubbed at his temples where a headache was forming, trying to remain calm despite the warring emotions inside him that were debating between yelling or running.

“That first detention with Snape back when school just started,” he said quietly, “he wanted to know why I wasn’t eating. I – we talked about…the Dursleys and stuff. He says I have an eating disorder and that’s why I have a hard time eating here,” Harry avoided Hermione’s eyes, staring at the rapidly larger pool of ink on the rug now, “he had me meet him twice a day so I could eat in his office. A lot of times I did homework there or we talked about things. He’s been decent in class to me and he really listens to what I have to say.

“The whole thing with the match – he was only mad because I got hurt, he says that I ‘recklessly endanger myself’. He gave Warrington and Montague three weeks worth of detention and took a whole load of points from Slytherin after all that fighting that went on in the Great Hall. Anyway, he, uh –” Harry paused, cleared his throat past the sudden tightness there and made himself continue, staring hard at the floor the entire time, “he found out that my uncle used to hit me sometimes and that my relatives didn’t feed me. Snape was really angry about that and told me he’d get Dumbledore to move me somewhere else and well, I asked if I could stay with him and he said yes and now he’s my guardian.”

“Harry…” Hermione began tentatively, “are you sure –“

“Yes.” Harry replied firmly, lifting his head and shooting both her and Ron a defiant look, “maybe you don’t get it yet, but Snape does care about me. He’s already helped me loads.”

“But Harry –“ Ron protested, his voice slightly strangled, “Harry, it’s Snape! He’s been rotten to you – to everyone – since the beginning and now –“

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner that he was helping me,” Harry interrupted, tired and fed up with the confused pitying look Hermione was giving him or Ron’s still shocked horror, “I didn’t want to talk about all that. It’s hard enough just accepting that my thoughts about food probably are messed up because of everything with my relatives. I just thought you should know before the whole school does.”

“He’s helping you eat more though,” Hermione said slowly, “I mean, you’re still underweight, but you look better than earlier this year.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, scuffing his shoe against the floor, “yeah, he’s been really great.”

Ron looked unconvinced and Hermione’s expression was altogether still too skeptical, but Harry figured that there wasn’t much more he could say. Hopefully, with time, they’d see the truth about Snape.

* * *

A cold wind blew all of late November, with snow flung ruthlessly down from the mountains to land on Hogwarts. Harry shivered as he and his classmates trudged across the grounds after a long Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. It was always interesting to see the game rather than be in it, but Harry suspected he would have enjoyed it a bit more if Wood hadn’t been using the game as a ‘teaching opportunity’ to bore the rest of the team into a stupor as he kept up a endless stream of training ideas for their next practice session.

“I can’t believe that Hufflepuff won!” Ron said for the second time since they’d started the march back to the castle doors, where hopefully Harry could warm his feet up. His trainers had long since fallen apart over the last few years and his toes had been numb most of the match. “I thought Diggory was going to lose the snitch for sure.”

“He’s not a bad seeker,” Harry pointed out, “but that last move was too uncontrolled, if he hadn’t rolled out of that feint fast enough –“

“Isn’t it enough to have seen the match without having to reiterate the entire thing play-by-play?” Hermione asked, her face pink with cold. Harry shook his head wordlessly at her lack of interest, sharing a look with Ron as they reached the castle and stepped inside the warm entrance hall.

“Speak for yourself, Hermione,” Ron remarked, shaking snow off his gloves, “I personally like your matches better, Harry. It’s always more fun when players barely miss getting pummeled to death –”

“Is that so?” a cold voice came behind them. They turned to find Snape standing there, arms crossed over his black teaching robes, his expression particularly forbidding.

Harry smiled slightly but both Ron and Hermione looked torn between awkward and terrified at the sight of their potions professor. Snape’s eyes moved from Ron’s face to Harry’s, narrowing as he took in the state of Harry’s snow-covered clothing.

“With me, Harry,” he ordered sternly, gesturing to the corridor leading to his dungeons. Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance at the familiarity, with Hermione trying to smile in what she clearly thought was a reassuring manner but it came out as more of a grimace.

Harry followed Snape down to the dungeons, even the cooler air there feeling warm compared to outside. He sighed quietly, wishing Ron and Hermione would stop acting as if Snape was going to murder him every time that Harry went to the man’s office. The whole school was still gossiping about Snape basically adopting Harry and at least three separate betting pools had formed over whether or not Harry would survive the year without Snape killing him.

The Slytherins seemed particularly disgruntled toward both Harry and Snape, but had refrained from saying or doing anything, obviously not sure who Snape might side with. Gryffindors though, they’d been relentlessly trying to get information out of Harry about the whole matter ever since the news broke. No one, besides Dumbledore, seemed to accept the information calmly, except a second-year Ravenclaw girl who had actually congratulated Harry on ‘his new father’ before wandering off with a vague smile into a crowd of other students.

“Sit,” Snape instructed as they entered his office and Harry found a chair, tensing automatically before relaxing as Snape reached out, brushing clumps of snow from Harry’s dark hair.

“Is there a reason you are not wearing a hat, or gloves, or a coat beneath your winter cloak?” Snape demanded, his expression harsh but his fingers very gentle as if still unsure if Harry would flinch at his touch.

“I don’t have any.” Harry responded quietly, stretching his feet out toward the fire playing in the low grate of Snape’s office before hastily pulling his legs back when it exposed just how damaged his trainers were.

Snape sighed, waving his wand in a complicated motion, sending warm air over Harry that instantly dried him. He went over to his desk, returning momentarily with a quill and parchment that he set in front of Harry.

“Write me a list of everything you own, clothing, textbooks, everything. Whatever you do not have or is in a state similar to that of those shoes, I will make sure is replaced.”

“But Christmas isn’t for a few weeks…” Harry argued, brow furrowed, “and you never said anything about us doing gifts or anything.”

Snape looked even more agitated than when he’d overheard Ron talking about Harry being hit in Quidditch matches, “this isn’t about gift-giving,” he snapped, “this is about you having the basic necessities that other students have. I would not have allowed you to watch a two hour match in freezing weather had I known that you were not properly dressed for winter.” He held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth, palm held more to the side in a motion that was less likely to cause Harry to flinch, “I am your guardian, Harry. I am required to provide for you and it is my desire to do so.”

Slowly, Harry closed his mouth, managing a nod. Snape was taking this all a little too seriously. It wasn’t as if his clothing was too small for him, and his shoes could probably still last another year, provided he cast a few more charms on them to prevent them from completely disintegrating. Still, he knew better than to argue when Snape got that determined look in his eyes. Somehow, over the last few months, Harry had grown to know what a lot of Snape’s relatively impassive expressions meant.

“Drink this,” Snape said suddenly, summoning and handing him a nutritive potion that Harry obediently swallowed, “we need to discuss Christmas.”

“What about it?” Harry asked, handing the empty vial back and quickly draining the glass of water Snape gave him to wash the taste of the potion away.

“You have always spent the holidays here. My place of residence outside of Hogwarts is not yet safely warded for your protection. As it is, a separate residence may be better, but that is a matter to be discussed at a later time. If you do not object, the safest measure would be for both of us to stay here.”

“Right,” Harry agreed, pulling his winter cloak off now that Snape had the fireplace flooding warmth into the man’s office.

Snape raised an eyebrow at Harry’s instant acquiesce and Harry offered a small smile, running a hand though his dark hair, “like you said, I’m always here anyway. I don’t really mind where I have to stay as long as it’s not the Dursleys.”

“I told you, you will never go back there,” Snape said with sudden fire, glaring at the mention of Harry’s relatives. He looked rather scary, but the knowledge that it was protectiveness over Harry that had caused Snape’s instant fury couldn’t help but make Harry feel as if a second drying charm had been cast over him. He looked down at the floor, a bit shy at how nice it was to finally have an adult looking out for him.

“As for your earlier statement regarding gifts,” Snape began, changing the subject deliberately, “I do not require anything, but I most certainly will be providing you with presents.” That was such a un-Snapeish thing to say that Harry could only shake his head, forgoing his protest at the inequality of Snape giving him gifts but he not being able to give the man anything, when Snape changed the subject yet again.

“I take it Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger have not come to terms with the change in guardianship.”

“No,” Harry sighed, “no one really has. But I don’t care what anyone else thinks, except Ron and Hermione.”

Snape nodded thoughtfully, “it will be awhile before they adjust to the news, I’m sure.” He fixed Harry with a sudden stern look, “However, if anyone, regardless of who they are, mistreats you over this matter, I expect you to inform me immediately.”

“It’s not –“ Harry started but Snape interrupted him,

“I’m well aware of your penchant for not confiding in authority figures, Harry,” something about the potions master’s voice softened a bit, “you are not to blame for mistrusting adults, many have harmed you or threatened to do so. But I hope that you are now aware that I will not tolerate anyone hurting you,” he stepped forward, a hand settling on Harry’s shoulder, his gaze very serious as their eyes met, “including allowing you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ve – I’ve been eating,” Harry said quietly.

Snape nodded, “you have, but we need to have a number of discussions about your lack of self-preservation skills, as well as your childhood.” Harry exhaled roughly, avoiding the man’s eyes, looking up only when Snape moved back to his desk, his gaze intent yet still very gentle.

“We do not have to speak of anything right now,” he said quietly, “I told you there would be time to address things more fully.”

“Does this mean I’m still in ‘detention’?” Harry couldn’t help asking and was surprised to see Snape’s mouth curl ever so slightly in amusement.

“I imagine you’ll be having numerous discussions with me over the years, a few of which no doubt will seem like detention, but for now we can conclude that these current sessions are at an end.”

Harry nodded. He’d known that would be the case. After all, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t made progress. He still had to fight against his self-loathing for daring to eat food not stolen or damaged, but well, he’d done alright the last few weeks. He was getting better at eating, especially once he knew he wouldn’t have to go back to the Dursleys. Still, he had sort of liked the detentions with Snape and it was oddly upsetting to know that they were over.

As if knowing what he was thinking of, Snape spoke quietly, almost hesitantly, “there is no reason why you cannot come and see me when you wish, Harry. I am a teacher here and as such, I am afforded the same respect and formalities of other teachers. However, I am also your guardian. You will always have a home with me, here at Hogwarts, and wherever we end up residing after term ends.”

Green eyes met black, Harry standing uncertainty, and Snape stepping forward, watching him quietly. Harry moved closer, he wasn’t sure want to do, or to say. He felt suddenly helpless, unable to articulate the simplest words. In the end, he didn’t really have to. Surprisingly, Snape rested hands on Harry’s thin shoulders and then pulled him close in an awkward but heartfelt embrace. Harry clung to the man’s robes, trembling slightly. He could not remember ever being hugged before like this, though he supposed his parents must have when he was a small child.

“I –“ Harry began unsteadily, glad that Snape couldn’t see his face as he spoke, unsure if he could even allow himself to say what he really wanted aloud, “I could stay with you, in your quarters, during the holidays.”

“Yes,” Snape replied, stepping back, his hands still gripping Harry’s shoulders, his eyes not leaving Harry’s.

“Like family?” Harry whispered,

“Yes,” Snape said, the ghost of a smile once more briefly visible on his pale angular face, “like family.”