It’s not enough to be remembered by another family in passing, even if it is his best mate’s family.

He just . . . wants something that’s his.  Not something added on or handed down or cast off because it wasn’t wanted.  Even if that’s what he is. Cast off.

He wants to be wanted.  Even if he isn’t. Because, he’s fairly positive that he isn’t.  Wanted.

If he was, then maybe he wouldn’t be locked inside a stuffy, dark room, waiting for his next cup of cold soup to be passed through the flap.  

He just wants somewhere that he doesn’t have to try so hard to survive in.  He wants to be taken care of.

He scrubs his eyes clean at that thought.  He’s not getting enough liquids to waste them on tears.  

But his heart can still cry.  His heart can still break. His heart can still want.

And he wants so much, so much that he can’t even voice it all-- even if he weren’t pretending to not exist.  

It hurts.

He writes a letter after the Weasleys free him.  He writes it to Dumbledore to explain, to confirm that there were reasons that he had asked to stay at the school for the summer.

He sucks up his pride and tells him about his so-called bedroom with the seven locks and the cat flap and the darkness.  He tells him about his meals, such as they were and the utter loathing he saw on each of his guardians’ faces whenever they had to interact with him.

He throws up after sending the letter, his stomach tied in knots by his admissions, and from the very real fear that Dumbledore might go and talk to the Dursleys and believe them over him.

As it happens, he need not have worried about that.  

'My dear boy,

I don’t see what you hope to gain from exaggerating such tales about your family.  However . . .'

Whatever the old man says after that is lost to his accidental magic as the parchment suddenly catches fire and burns away to nothing in seconds.

He trembles violently, almost as though his magic knows that something has changed.  

Or, that something will change.

“I won’t go back there ever,” He swears to himself when Ron is asleep.  “The Dursleys aren’t my home. I have no home.”

Something breaks further inside his heart as he whispers these words to his pillow.  He has never felt so alone.

His eyes swim with tears that drip into his ears.  

“I’d rather go anywhere else.  I’d live on the street before I lived there again.  I’d live with Snape before I lived there again!”

He’d be boiled and chopped into ingredients if he tried to live with Snape.  

But at least I’d be clean, is his wry thought to himself as he contemplates where exactly he could live instead of his relatives’.

“I don’t want to live where I’d be second best.  I don’t want to go where I’m just an afterthought.  I want to be wanted.”

It surprises him how fiercely his mind latches onto that last sentiment.  

“I want to be wanted,” He repeats quietly again, hugging his arms around his middle in a poor semblance of a hug.

The barrier at Platform 9 and 3/4ths is solid.  

“We can’t get through,” He says, his already white face paling further.

He wishes desperately for someone to hold him, someone to tell him that all will be well, for someone to take control.

Unfortunately, they don’t have anyone, and all that’s left is the stares they’re getting and the rising sense of hopelessness.

And a car.  A flying, invisible car.

There isn’t a choice.  He doesn’t have any options.  He has to get to Hogwarts.  He cannot stay here any longer, in this place of not belonging, in this place of not home.

I don’t have a home, is his despondent thought.

. . .

“You were seen!”  

Snape slams the muggle paper down on the desk in-between them with such violence that he nearly bursts into tears from the fright.

He’s hungry.  He’s tired. He’s home.

But I don’t have a home.  Not even here.

“If it were up to me, you’d be expelled.”

Where would I go?  What would happen to me?

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest in an effort to calm his racing heart.  He’s trembling badly.

“Stop it!  You’re scaring Harry!” Ron shouts.

“You should have thought of the consequences before pulling such an idiotic stunt!”

Snape slams the door behind him in an effort to go and find McGonagall.  

Harry has a feeling that he does it to refrain from throttling them both. The thought does little to calm him.

“You okay, Harry?”

He shakes his head wordlessly.  He’s concentrating on not throwing up.  He wishes he had a dark hole to crawl into.

And never come out.

. . .

McGonagall is furious.

She doesn’t yell, but the disappointment in her eyes is just as bad.  

Ron babbles through their story in a ragged way, looking back and forth between McGonagall and him with both panic and oddly, concern.

“We didn’t have a choice,” Ron tells them at last.

“Why didn’t you send an owl?”  McGonagall glares severely down at them.

A knock on the door reveals no other than Dumbledore.

There’s no reason to exaggerate.

Harry feels the fury all over again.  He barely feels it when his feet finally hit the floor.

“Who?”  He surprises them all by speaking.

“Who, what, my boy?”  Dumbledore raises an eyebrow instead of his usual twinkling grace.

“Who should we have sent it to?”  He hisses.

“If you think I’d willingly ask the Dursleys for help, then you’re mad.  And if you think I’d ask you, after you told me I was exaggerating about them--.”  He cuts off abruptly and purses his lips.  

“Impossible,” Dumbledore states coldly. “They are your family.  They would never harm you.”

“They weren’t feeding me.  Ron and his brothers had to break me out.  There were seven locks on the door!” There are tears gathering in his eyes, but he ignores them.

McGonagall is looking at him with wide eyes.  Snape is looking at him with a strange calculating stare.  But Ron. Ron is nodding vigorously.

“I cannot believe that you continue these lies in front of other people, Harry,” Dumbledore merely states.

“I’m not!” He cries out, his hands balled up in fists as he looking imploringly between him and other two adults.  “Why would I lie about things like this? That’s why I asked to stay here for the summer!”

I have no home, he nearly says.

“If,” Snape’s silky tones cut easily and quietly through their argument, “Mr Potter is telling even an inkling of the truth--which I doubt--then perhaps we should have it confirmed with Madame Pomfrey.”

Poppy is all fuss and bustle and normality.  

Severus sees it the moment the boy begins to relax, despite the tense environment surrounding them.  The Weasley boy has finally been convinced--ordered--to leave Potter’s side, and all that is left is the three of them.  Dumbledore returned to the feast as soon as feasibly possible, though Severus expects to get an earful later about Potter’s behavior.

Given the results of the exams thus far, it seems likely that Severus will have his own rant to throw at the old man.

Malnourished. Light sensitive. Contusions.  Extremely low magical core readings, almost as if the boy’s magic is the only thing standing between him and death.  

The thought sends an icy chill through his stomach and he scowls at the sensation.  

Perhaps more worrying is the boy’s propensity for flinching.

The boy flinches every time either of them get too close to him, hands raised or not.  They are very small reactions, and perhaps unnoticeable to the untrained eye, but Severus is far too used to seeing such things from his own Snakes.

That he should be seeing something from the Potter boy, the veritable Prince of the wizarding world, is deeply unsettling.

“And you asked the headmaster to stay over the summer?”  Snape asks him at the end of the exceedingly long exam.

“Yes, sir,” He whispers.

Snape’s scowl deepens but he nods and turns to Madame Pomfrey.  

“I must see to my Snakes,” Is all his professor says before leaving.

“Will I have to go back?”  He asks.

“Not if we have anything to do with it,” Pomfrey answers, smoothing down his covers fretfully.

He drops his chin to his chest and sighs.

“But the headmaster gets the last say.  And he doesn’t think anything’s wrong.”

Maybe he thinks I deserve it.

“The headmaster is not the only authority on this,” Pomfrey says tersely, her lips thinning.

“Are there magical orphanages?”  He asks tremulously.

“No.  The wizarding world is inter-married enough that family is almost always found.”

“What if I get put with someone who is worse?”  

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” She answers, patting his knee gently.  “I’m keeping you here overnight and don’t frown at me! You knew I would need to.  If you were in the muggle world, it’d be even longer. So be thankful for that.”

He watches the packages flown by the owls with envy and adds another point to his list.

Correspondence.  

Mentally, he awards himself two points for using a word that Ron would likely frown at.  

He didn’t have to have presents.  He wouldn’t know what to do with them.  But . . . receiving a letter here and there.  That would be nice.

Absently, he rubs his chest as the old familiar pain resurfaces.  

“When did she let you out?”  Ron asks him, sliding in beside him.  

Hermione takes the seat opposite and watches them curiously.

“I told her some.  It’s not like I had a choice!”  Ron growls, freckles standing out against his still too white face.

Harry grins and adds another line to his list.  

Worry.   Concern over well-being.

He should know that term well enough.  He’s heard it dished out by both Hermione and Pomfrey.

“She let me go just before breakfast.  I only got here a couple of minutes before you guys.”

“What are you going to do, Harry?”  Hermione looks at him searchingly.

He bites his lip.

“I need to find a new guardian,” He says quietly.  

“What about the headmaster?  He’s not gonna like that,” Ron asked.

He feels his stomach go cold at the thought of the headmaster.

“The headmaster already made it clear that he thinks I’m a liar,” He says, not calling the man by name on purpose.  

“Ron said that Dumbledore accused you of exaggerating?”  Hermione asks gently.

He juts his chin out stubbornly.  

“I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.  But Madame Pomfrey and Snape both saw the exam results and were really decent about it.”  He nibbles his lip thoughtfully and adds another point to his list.

Ability to disagree with Dumbledore.

“Snape?”  Ron splutters out around a mouthful.

He shifts uncomfortably.  

“Yeah.”  

“Why do you have to be the one finding a new guardian?”  Hermione asks, effectively changing the subject.

His shoulders drop as the weight of the world abruptly comes crashing back down on him.

“Because no one else will,” He whispers.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just live with me,” Ron argues.  

Hermione is looking at him again.  He can feel it. He resists the urge to sink under the table.

“Because Harry needs someone to himself,” She says.  “Don’t you think so, Harry?”

“It’d be nice,” He admits, twisting his fingers in his lap.  

Albus looks down at the parchment Severus has just angrily shoved in his hands moments before.

“What is this, my boy?”

“A list of injuries sustained by Potter from his so-called safe guardians,” Severus spits out.

Another document drops into his hands.

“And this?”  Albus asks, bushy eyebrows drawing together in concern.

“Signatures from each of the Hogwarts’ Heads of Houses demanding your prompt removal of the boy from those--” Severus snarls, “Those creatures.”  

“Don’t you think you’re blowing things out of proportion?”  Albus asks, reaching into his robes for a lemon drop.

“Proportion?”  Severus’ face is cold.  “Read the list. I’ll wait.”

Albus watches as his youngest professor stalks over the fireplace before looking back down at the list.

The list is both worse and better than he’d feared.  Lasting damage--perhaps--from the lack of proper nourishment, but everything else is capable of being solved through potions.

And perhaps a mind healer, is the thought he doesn’t allow himself to think on.

“I have to admit to being surprised that you are so adamant that something be done about Mr Potter,” He says, trying to sound jovial.

Severus sneers and merely pulls a thick folder out from a hidden pocket.

“What’s this?”  Albus asks, feeling definitely wrong-footed by his usually predictable Potions’ Master.

“When does it stop, Albus?”  Severus shakes his head with a frown.

“When does what stop?”  He answers, standing up and lacing his fingers behind his back.  

“If Potter isn’t safe from his guardians, then where do the rest of us fall in your schemes?”

“My schemes, as you put it, are only for the greater good,” His expression is earnest and it surprises him when Severus merely shakes his head again.

“You will remove him into the care of Hogwarts, or we will go public with this knowledge,” Severus responds.

“Is that a threat?”  He asks, knuckles white behind his back.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Severus allows, finally putting the thick folder down on the desk between them.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s in the folder, my boy,” Albus forces himself to relax.

“The results of your efforts towards the ‘greater good,’” Severus answers with the ghost of a bitter smile.  “Poppy has helped me gather the information as far back as we can find.”

“Since when?”

“Since you became employed here.”

Severus’ dark eyes feel as though they are piercing his very soul.

Severus informs him that they will speak again on this later, and strides out without so much as a ‘by your leave.’

The folders’ contents are chilling.  

Tom M. Riddle.  
Raised in an orphanage.
Requested to stay at Hogwarts no fewer than 10 times.
Slytherin
Most Known Profession:  Dark Lord

Albus flips ahead a few pages and finds another name he recognises.  

Bellatrix Black
Raised in an abusive home
Requested to stay at Hogwarts no fewer than 5 times
Slytherin
Most Known Profession:  Death Eater

The contents of the folder is vast.  He pulls up another page with some surprise.

Gaspard Shingleton
Raised by an abusive father.
Requested to stay at Hogwarts no fewer than 25 times.
Slytherin
Most Known Profession:  Inventor of self-stirring cauldron
Least Known Profession:  Death Eater, killed in 1979

The great majority of the folder are dead; killed long before their time should have ended.   

Donaghan Tremlett
Abandoned to the wilds as a child
Requested to stay at Hogwarts no fewer than 7 times, eventually was moved in with Hagrid until school days were finished
Gryffindor
Most Known Profession:  Bass player for Weird Sisters

A note is attached to Donaghan’s page, and it catches Albus’ eye.

'The only accommodations ever made for students in need were for Gryffindors in need.'

'And even then,'   The note continues, 'The majority of the Gryffindors in need were also neglected, much like the rest of those in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin.  When does it end?'

Albus scowls and lays the folder aside.  

He reaches for a quill and some parchment instead.

'The majority of those Death Eaters who died in the last war would have come to a sticky end regardless.  Once again, you confuse nature and nurture. The majority of these students were bad to begin with, and no amount of help on my part would have done them any good.'

“Fawkes, if you would be so good as to take this to our dear Potions’ master?”

“Harry won’t fall the same way as those who grew to be Death Eaters did.  He is too kind, too willing to help and not hurt,” He murmurs to himself.

Behind his back, the portraits watch, and when they are certain he is not watching, one leaves his frame in search of a certain Slytherin Head-of-House.

Two other meetings take place following Severus’ meeting with the headmaster.  Both occur outside of Hogwarts, and both are conducted by other heads of houses.

If anyone is surprised to see Minerva McGonagall stalking the corridors of the Ministry of Magic, they are careful enough to not let her see.  

By the time she is ushered into Madam Bones’ office, most of the building knows she is there.

“It is a surprise to see you,”  Amelia says, steepling her fingers and looking inquisitively at the woman sitting across the desk from her.

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.  I have serious news to speak of,” Minerva answers.

“I had surmised as much,” Amelia says, reaching down and pulling a bottle of firewhiskey out of a bottom drawer.  “Can I interest you in a drop?”

“A small one,” Minerva allows.  

Drink in hand, she frowns back at Amelia, not liking what she has to say.

“The headmaster has been knowingly allowing children under his care--our care--to stay in abusive homes.”

Amelia’s eyebrows go up to her hairline and she tosses the remainder of her drink back in one shuddery swallow.

“Proof?” She asks.

Minerva hands her a large folder with a grimace.  

Filius Flitwick is nervous to be sitting in the presence of Ragnarok, current director of Gringotts, but swallows his fear in order to complete his mission and return to Hogwarts.

He is largely glad that goblins don’t bother much in the way of pleasantries, because he is fairly certain his stomach will turn inside out should he have to wait much longer.

“I come with proof that Albus Dumbledore has been ignoring the hurt and neglected students of Hogwarts,” He says bluntly.

Ragnarok snarls and shows him his teeth--his sharp teeth--in response.  

“And what do you require of Gringotts?”  The goblin growls at him.

“Help in spreading the word.  Help in letting others know that he is an oathbreaker.”

Filius hands over the thick folder that Severus and Poppy have compiled and then sits back to watch with some fascination as the full blooded goblin quickly begins scanning the documents.

“Why should you alert us now?  What has changed?”

Piercing eyes meet his and he fights the impulse to bare his neck to the predator sitting before him.

“Severus Snape swore to Lily Potter that he would protect her son.  Albus’ inactions have threatened that promise. He wants revenge. I want revenge. Hogwarts needs it.”

“Mr Potter,” Snape calls out at the beginning of class.

“Sir?”  He looks up with a startled look.

“Please stay after class.”

“Y-Yes, sir,” He whispers, ignoring the titters from the Slytherin side of the room.

He can see Ron and Hermione looking at him in askance, and he gives them a tremulous smile.  

. . .

The end of the lesson is both far too soon and also interminable.

Snape gestures at him to follow after the last student has cleaned up their workstation.  He trails behind his professor in vaguely bewildered silence. The man was inexplicably neutral toward him during class, as though Harry were suddenly not worth the effort to yell at.  

Or he feels sorry for me.  

He pushes that thought far from his mind.  Snape has been many things to him, but pitying is not one of them.

His professor leads him back past his office to a portrait with a man and a snake in it that hisses a greeting to them both.  Snape leans in close and whispers something that Harry doesn’t hear. The portrait opens without a word, and he follows the man inside.

“This is your home?” He asks with surprise.

This is the last place he has thought to ever be introduced to.

What--or rather, who-- he finds inside is also a surprise. 

“Come in, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall says, lifting a hand toward him.

He can’t help the minute flinch that the motion causes him, and he burns red as McGonagall’s face turns sorrowful.

“Just sit, Potter,” Snape growls, pointing and gently pushing him forward to the sitting area.

Professor Flitwick smiles and raises his tea cup to him.

“Tea, Mr Potter?”  

“Um, yes sir?  Thank you?” Harry manages, trying to look at everyone and everything simultaneously.

Professor Sprout gestures to the spot next to her.  

“Here, child.  Sit here.”

He finally manages to untie his tongue after watching Snape serve them both.

“Sir?  What’s going on?”

“We are meeting with you to notify you of your change in guardian,” Snape answers smoothly.

His eyebrows shoot up and he nearly fumbles his cup.  Flitwick catches it with a wave of his wand, setting it on a small table to Harry’s right.  

“I beg your pardon?”  Harry chokes out.

“We,” McGonagall interrupts, “Have taken it upon ourselves to remove you from the Dursley’s care.”

Her face shows them all how exactly she feels about that care.  

“But where will I go instead?”  

“Here,” Snape says.

“What--,” He takes a deep breath.  “What do you mean?”

“You have been made a ward of Hogwarts.”

He’s glad his tea cup is no longer in his hand.  He feels certain that he would have dropped it upon hearing that.

“Is that done?” He asks.

“Aye,” McGonagall answers, a slight smile upon her lips.  “In order to remove a child from their home, it takes the approval of either the headmaster and their head-of-house, or simply the agreement of all four heads.”  

He is trembling, but whether it is from excitement, terror or fear, he hasn’t a clue.

“Before Severus became the head of Slytherin,” Flitwick begins, glancing at McGonagall as if asking for permission to continue the story.  “We could never agree. Slughorn would only agree if he could get the credit, and since we didn’t want everyone to know, then that was generally out of the question.”

“How many others have you removed?”

“Hm,” Sprout begins.  “Well, Severus has been here for 12 years, and we’ve removed at least fifteen children, wouldn’t you say, Minnie?”

“Seventeen,” Snape answers instead.  “Mr Potter is number eighteen.”

Something relaxes in his chest.

“What does it mean to be a ward?”

“It means that you no longer have to go somewhere that you are unwanted,” Snape says.

The lump in Harry’s throat gets bigger.

“And I s’pose you know all about that?”  Is what comes out of his mouth before he claps his hands over his face.  

I am an idiot.

“I s’pose I do,” Snape answers with a strangely forgiving expression.  “Since I’m one of the ones whose plight was ignored by the Headmaster.”

“What d’you mean, ‘ignored’?” He asks with a frown.

Does he mean--?

“If a child in my situation came into my notice now?  I would see that he or she were removed instantly,” Snape’s face morphed into a scowl.

“Why--,” He swallows with difficulty.  “Why weren’t you?”

“Because the Headmaster only cares for Gryffindors,” Snape spits out, briefly turning to glance at McGonagall.  

“Except when he doesn’t,” Harry whispers.

“Indeed, Mr Potter.”

“Although a great majority of the students we have removed have been in Slytherin, there have also been children removed from Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor.  In fact, after Slytherin, the most children removed have been from Gryffindor.” Snape says, looking steadily at him.

“Then why do you treat us so badly?”

“I have a role to play, the same as you, Mr Defiant Gryffindor,” Snape answers smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting in bitter amusement.

“But you make Neville cry every class, and you scare me, and you give points to the Slytherins for almost nothing and take points for silly things like breathing too loud or asking questions!  It’s not fair.”

Instinctively, he knows that things are not fair, but he had hoped that they might be different here at Hogwarts.

"Mr Potter, one of the things you learn in life is that everything is not fair, or right, or just,” Snape says, sounding tired.

“I know that!”  Angrily, he scrubs a hand under his glasses at the strange appearance of tears.

Snape observes him for a moment before speaking again.

“My Slytherins receive punishment in private.  I do not discipline them in class for appearance’s sake.  They understand that if I award them points for,” He pauses and smiles in a frightening way, “Silly things, then they are likely to be forced to explain themselves to me once we are alone again.”

He blinks as he suddenly understands why the Slytherins never react to receiving points with anything other than silence or frowns.

Except for Malfoy, but he's a prat, so that makes sense.

“If you care so much for your Slytherins, then why do you bother to help the kids in other houses?”

“Severus cares for all of his students, even if that care translates into doing things to keep them safe in secret, or helping them have someone to go to when the dark begins making requests of them,” Flitwick interrupts.

Around him, the other heads of houses are nodding or smiling in agreement.  

“He seems frightening, because he must, in order to be someone that his Slytherins, or those who might be likely to go dark, can trust,” Flitwick explains.  “It doesn’t mean that we always approve of his methods though.”

Harry watches in fascination as Snape rolls his eyes at his colleague’s statement.

“No child should be left with the choice between choosing the dark or being cast out on the streets,” Snape responds.   

I wish I had been sorted into Slytherin after all.  I wish that I had already known that Snape was safe to go to.  I could have asked him instead of Dumbles.

A sudden stray thought hits him and he frowns.  He barely notices that he’s twisting his fingers again until a large hand suddenly appears atop his own.

“What is it?”  His professor asks.

His attention narrows down to only the hand on his own and the face in front of him, briefly forgetting the others sitting around them.

“Are you--,” He coughs to avoid the wave of emotion that is threatening to break out from him.  

No adult has ever touched him so gently; at least, none that knew the entire truth about him.

“Are you going to get in trouble for helping me?”  He finally manages to whisper.

“We took some extra precautions with your situation.  We attempted to cover all aspects of the situation so that the Headmaster will be unable to find a way to put you back with your worthless relatives,” Snape said, sneering again as he mentioned Harry’s only living family.

A sob catches in his throat.

“The headmaster doesn’t care about me,” He sniffles.

“He does, but not in a way that would help you escape your despicable relatives.”

“Then he doesn’t care at all!”  He suddenly shouts.

And just as suddenly, he remembers that there are others in the room, watching them.

“Sorry,” He whispers, returning his eyes to the large warm hand that is still bracketing his own.

“It is expected that you should be angry.  What has happened to you is unjust,” Snape explains in a patient voice.

Harry nods rapidly, ignoring the tears that are slowly seeping out of his eyes.  He blinks them away, but more keep coming.

He is drifting.  He has forgotten how tiring it is after a good cry, considering that he hasn’t had one in a great long while.  Vernon doesn’t approve of snivelling. Neither does Petunia, but at least she doesn’t wallop him for it.

He is asleep, but he is aware of his surroundings - sort of.  He is pillowed on something firm, but warm, and distantly, his brain surmises that his head must be in someone’s lap.  

There is a warm hand, a familiar warmth that would have made waking Harry gasp with disbelief.  There is no way in hell that Snape is petting him, letting him sleep on his couch, keeping him safe after his awareness has faded so drastically.

Conversations fade in and out around him.  

“ . . . Amelia wonders when exactly you were planning on sharing this information with her,” Is McGonagall’s voice.

He wonders who Amelia is, and what kind of information it is.  

“ . . . tell her that I was always going to share it with her, but I was waiting for the best opportunity . . .” Snape’s voice makes his pillow vibrate.

Guess that answers that.

“Should I still plan on going to the papers if the Headmaster tries to fight you on this, Severus?”  Sprout’s voice fades into his awareness.

“Yes,” His pillow rumbles again.  The hand in his hair is so so gentle.  “We will have to warn Mr Potter of the possibility, of course.  That’s why it’s a last resort. I don’t want to have to have more put upon him than necessary.”

“ . . . full support of the Goblins, Severus.  They have frozen his accounts, and should he fight you on Mr Potter, they are ready to bleed him dry,” Flitwick says.

McGonagall asks something that Harry doesn’t hear.

“Mostly figuratively, Minerva,” Is Flitwick’s reply.  “Although, the Goblins take the deliberate harming of a child--any child--as a very serious offense indeed.  In fact . . .”

. . .

“Are you awake, Mr Potter?”  Snape asks in a low undertone some amount of time later.

He blinks his eyes open suddenly.  They are alone. And Harry is still using Snape as a pillow.

“‘m sorry, sir!” He whimpers as he scrambles upright.

“I’d say you were in need of it,” Is all that Snape says.  “I trust that you will keep what happened here today to yourself?”

“I won’t tell anyone I used you as a pillow!  I promise, sir!”

Snape’s lips quirk briefly into the semblance of a smile.

“I meant in regard to the conversation that we had with you and the other heads-of-house.”

Oh.

“Sorry, sir.”

Snape waves a hand at him dismissively.  

“You are hardly the first student who has curled up next to me.  I am a head-of-house. I am used to dealing with tears.”

Oh.  

“McGonagall, um Professor McGonagall,” He corrects himself as he catches the small frown that Snape is giving him.  “She doesn’t get cried on much, I don’t think.”

“She does during exams.  I should know. I have to hear her complaints.”

He grins in spite of himself.  

. . .

He soon discovers that he knows the castle better than he thought.  Secret passages become easier to stumble upon, and the stairs are working in his favour more often than not.

He doesn’t think anything of it until Hermione points it out.  He can’t give her any of his theories, considering he isn’t allowed to talk of his change in guardianship, but he suspects it has something to do with Hogwarts herself.

Perhaps she is keeping a closer eye on him.

He likes that theory.