It had been a long and trying week for Severus Snape, and he was looking forward to a quiet Saturday prior to the first Quidditch match of the year the following day.

His morning was pleasant enough – after a few experimental brews, he had settled in his quarters with his latest copy of Potions Monthly, enjoying the peace and quiet. And then…

Knock, knock, knock.

Severus exhaled deeply and ignored it – no doubt one of the other faculty members after one potion or another. If he stayed quiet, they’d soon go away.

A pause.

Had it worked?

Knock, knock, knock.

Severus closed his eyes, furious.

Knock, knock, knock.

Muttering under his breath, he stood up and swept across to the door, ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind.

Flinging back the portrait that covered the entrance to his private quarters, Severus found himself having to look downwards to find the culprit.

He was not ready to see Harry Potter standing there.

The boy’s eyes were red and puffy, and he had something clutched tightly in his hand.

 “Potter? How did you…?” he began, wondering how on earth the little whelp had located his private quarters.

 “The portrait pointed me,” Potter sniffled, gesturing to a picture of a past potions master of Hogwarts, hanging on the wall just down the corridor from them.

Severus made a mental note to remove the picture later.

 “What is it Potter?” he asked impatiently, in no mood for whatever trivialities the child was bringing to his door.

Harry shuffled on the spot, choking back another sob.

Groaning inwardly, Severus moved to one side to let the boy in.

 “Come on then, Potter. And be quick about it.”

Showing the boy inside, Severus Snape sat back in his arm chair by the fire, and waited for some sort of explanation.

The brat just stood there, rubbing his eyes. 

Severus surveyed him. In this setting, the boy looked no more than 8 or 9 years old, and his pathetic snivelling threw serious doubt on whether this could really be the wizarding world’s ‘Chosen One.’

 “Well?” he asked. 

No response.

The potion’s master swallowed, trying to cling to the last ounces of patience he had inside of him.

 “Mr Potter, are you going to tell me who, or what, has reduced you into such a sorry state? What is that in your hand?”

 “M…my Defence assignment, sir…” Harry mumbled, holding up the crumpled piece of parchment, which appeared to have been torn in two.

Snape frowned. “Was there a problem with it, Potter?”

 “I… I wrote about what I was most afraid of…. J-just like we talked about…” Harry stammered. “And Professor Quirrell called us all to his office today to collect our g-grades…”

 “And what, pray, is the problem? You did not get the grade you had hoped for?” he asked.

 “He… he….” Harry began, looking at the two pieces of torn parchment in his hands.

Sensing there was more to this than met the eye, Severus gestured the boy closer to him.

 “Come here, Potter,” he urged, softening his voice somewhat.

Harry obeyed, moving to stand beside the professor’s chair.

 “Good. Now, take a deep breath, and try to explain to me what has upset you so,” Severus said.

Taking a shaky breath, Harry began.

 “I went to… to collect my assignment, with Ron and Seamus. S-some of the Slytherin lot were there too. Quirrell… He –”

 “– Professor Quirrell –”

 “–He gave out the other assignments first. And… and then when he got to me… he just changed, sir,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 “How so?”

 “His face… sort of twisted. He looked so mad…” Harry said, his voice hitching again. “He started shouting at me. Saying that my… my assignment was l-lies… And he tore it up… He said… he said that being alone wasn’t a real fear, and that I should stop pretending and write a proper essay… about… about  V– You-Know-Who…”

For a moment, Severus Snape just stared at the child in front of him, lost for words.

He himself had pulled some stunts in his time, had even made children in his classes cry. But to belittle a child in front of his peers in this manner? To humiliate him about something so personal and make him feel as though the thing he was most afraid of was nothing? No, he could safely say he had never done such a thing.

Harry just stood there, his body wracked with sobs again, and Severus didn’t know what to do or say for the best.

Eventually, he leaned forward, preparing to give the brat a pep talk.

 “Potter–”

The boy, still distraught, clearly mistook the movement for something else, and before the potions master could do anything about it, Harry inched himself closer and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

Severus Snape froze.

Nobody looked to him for comfort in this way – least of all a child of eleven.

What to do?

Should he push the boy away, knowing that already today, one of his teachers had let him down so badly?

Knowing that this child has never known the comfort or care of an adult?

“Hush, Potter. It’s quite alright.”

 “I’m sorry…” Harry mumbled, between sobs.

 “There is no need to apologise. This is… not your fault,” Snape began, the words feeling alien on his lips.

Awkwardly, Severus put an arm around the boy and patted his back.

Harry leant in to the touch, sobbing harder.

Severus Snape grimaced. How was it that he, the evil dungeon bat, had somehow ended up as a human handkerchief for the pathetic, snivelling mess that was the offspring of James Potter?

He felt the boy’s hands clutching at his robes, burrowing in further, as if a silent plea for a response.

Lily’s child. This is Lily’s child, too.

In the time it had taken him to have that thought, Snape found that his own hand had gone to the back of the child’s head, smoothing down that unruly mop of dark hair.

 And then somehow, the child that was standing in front of him was in his lap.

OOOOOOO

Harry curled against the potion master’s strong chest, the sound of the man’s rhythmic heartbeat and the motion of a warm hand carding through his hair soothing his sobs down to whimpers.

His face buried in the soft, black fabric of the professor’s robes, Harry closed his eyes and took in the now-familiar scent of sandalwood and herbs. The dark man in his dreams had never allowed him to get this close.

For the longest time, Harry stayed there, until he was finally able to regain control of his emotions, at which point he became very aware of his surroundings and the fact he was sitting in his professor’s lap like a five year old.

Sitting up straight, Harry rubbed his eyes but remained in position, not quite ready to give up the adult-comfort that he had craved for so long.

 “’M-sorry sir…” he mumbled, a little embarrassed.

Professor Snape didn’t seem to mind however, and he handed Harry a handkerchief to dry his eyes.

 “It is… understandable that you are upset, Mr Potter. You have had a… difficult morning,” the man said.

Harry glanced down at the torn pieces of parchment, which had somehow ended up on the floor.

 “S-should I rewrite the essay, sir?” he asked softly, wondering whether he really should just write about Voldemort and forget the whole mortifying event.

 “You most certainly will not,” Professor Snape said, firmly.

And then he took out his wand and incendio’d the pieces of parchment.

 “You will think no more of this incident. And you will leave Quirrell to me.”

Cautiously, Harry looked up at him, the corner of his mouth turning up into a tentative, cheeky smile. “Don’t you mean Professor Quirrell, sir?”

Severus Snape sniffed. “No. I do not.”

OOOOOOO