‘The very worst beating I will ever receive. At least I’ll know how bad it can get.’ He’d asked if I understood. Did I?

“Yes, sir.”

I heard his breath draw in sharply. He was practicing, tapping me a couple of times for aim. ‘He must not have done this in a while.’

His voice was calm, clear at the next command. “Pull up your trousers, child.”

“Sir?” He’d be doing this over clothing? How was that possible?

He sighed, and did it for me rather than repeating the order. Then he turned me round, lifted me up under my arms, and deposited me on the bed.

………………………………………

He looked at me incredulously, unable to puzzle out the situation. Had I done the right thing? It was soon to be told.

“That, child, was the very worst beating you will ever receive from me.”

He held eye contact with me for the longest time, searching. Grand, fat-raindrop tears welled in his eyes as he breathily asked,

“It’s really over, isn’t it, sir? The - the beatings?”

He was shaking violently; he needed to hear my answer as much as he needed sleep, air, food. ‘It was the right thing to do!’

“Yes, Harry, it is,” I all but whispered as I knelt beside him.

“Thank you, sir, thank you, thank you,” he managed before dissolving into gut-wrenching, spastic sobs that sang the countermelody to his prior, hellish life.

It was not at all awkward to have him curled in a ball, rocking him, as his tiny heart seeped pain and grief.

Poppy would be proud.

………………………………………

I was crying, being held tight, without much fear of punishment. Was this normal, or was it heaven?

I tensed as I my tears dried. How long would his sympathy last? How long before he got tired of me being a crybaby? And would he be mean next time he drank?

Soon as I’s able, I pulled myself upright and attempted at looking presentable.

“Are you ready, Harry?” he asked, as if I knew what for. ‘Please let it be something pleasant!’ I prayed.

“Yes, sir,” I answered hesitantly.

He looked down at me, a smirk that betrayed a less than normal amount of frustration playing across his jaw.

“Do you know what you’re ready for, child?” He gave a half-grin, took a little breath and held it as a sniff as if he might laugh. ‘At me or with me?’

“N…no, sir.” He did laugh.

“To eat, of course. That is why I had you remove your cloak, child; we’re among muggles, you’ll remember.”

“Oh.” I felt a bit stupid, but no insults were forthcoming, so I set my concentration on not tripping as we entered the stoop and long, cobble-stoned way of Spinner’s End.

………………………………………

Walking into the Knight’s Head Pub, eyes were on me as opposed to the boy. I silently cursed this town once again. I was chagrined that Hogwarts had been such an unsettling experience for the boy; I’d wished we could return there sooner rather than later.

He still hesitated to sit until told, so I decided to begin there.

“Harry?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Why do you hesitate to sit down at a dining table?”

I could almost hear the pace of his heartbeat rocket. He cringed, and pulled in on himself a bit, chin down but eyes on me.

“I, er - I’m sorry, sir!”

‘Take a deep breath, Severus. You will stay calm! You will!’

“Don’t worry, Harry. I only want to talk with you. Now, take a breath, and answer the question, child.”

“I never got to eat at the table at home - I mean, at the Dursley’s, sir.”

“I was afraid of that. Where did they have you eat, then?”

“Mostly on the floor, sir.”

“Bastards!” I exclaimed a bit too loudly, drawing attention from the matronly bar maid. Recovering, I added, “You’ll become accustomed to eating at the table with me. When it is time to eat, you may always sit down at the table without being told. How’s that sound?”

“Good, sir. Thank you, sir.”

One crisis down. How many to go?

………………………………………

My Snape was being very understanding all of a sudden. He seemed to be seeing me now; really looking at my face and eyes and trying to know what kind of boy I was. Again, he had become angry when he heard about my treatment at the Dursleys. Did that mean he really wouldn’t repeat it? Thinking back on the day, he’d had plenty of chances to get rid of me, if he’d wanted to.

My chest felt fluttery and warm, thinking all those brilliant thoughts.

“Wot ken I getcha at drink, then?” asked a motherly-looking lady who wore a stained, lacy apron.

“I’ll have a lag-”

Mr. Professor Snape stopped, looked at me with a wrinkly brow, then cleared his throat.

“Make that a coffee, black. What would you like, Harry?”

They were looking at me. How could I choose? I didn’t deserve anything! And this change in feelings was really strange. One minute I was happy - me, happy! - , but the next I was all worried and scared again. ‘It was easier just to stay tensed up all the time. At least I didn’t feel like I’s going mad!’

“Harry?” His voice was edgier this time. ‘Please don’t let me make him angry!’

“Um, water, please, mum.”

“Only water?” She raised her eyebrows at my Snape and gave him a schoolteacher’s glare.

“Milk,” he said. “Milk as well.”

I whispered “thank you” after she left.

“Would you like me to order for you, Harry?” he offered after perusing the menu.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes in on me, as if he was making up his mind about something. It made me feel squirmy, and I fidgeted with the dirt under my short fingernails.

He didn’t say anything. Just cleared his throat again.

When our food came he told me quietly, “You do not have to clean your plate. Eat as much as is comfortable.”

Was he reading my mind? It made me wonder. I tried a few thoughts to see if he was. ‘Why is the sky blue, Mr. Professor Snape? Will you tell me?’

Nothing.

The food was wonderful, boiled potato that was hot and a bit salty, chicken that was soft to my teeth, and fresh, slightly crunchy French beans.

I tried again. ‘How did you know just what I would like, godfather?’

Stupid me, I flinched back at that one. If he was reading my mind, would I be in trouble for thinking of him as godfather? The term of address still seemed awfully informal to me.

“What are you thinking about, Harry?” he asked at just that moment. I dropped my fork. It clattered to the floor. I bowed my head, waiting for a reprimand, at the least.

‘He won’t strike me, he won’t strike me,’ I tried to tell myself.

Quickly as it dropped, the bar lady brought me another fork.

“Here you are, dearie,” she crooned, and shot a contemptuous look at my Snape. Why was everyone always thinking he was being bad? It reminded me of how everyone always saw me. ‘He is a freak!’

“All right there, boy?” There was that word, ‘boy.’ Hadn’t bothered me so much before I started having that good feeling.

The bewitched cinema projector flickered to life again, and the pub slid away into the Dursley kitchen. “Boy!” was bellowed barbarously. I’d dropped a plate. It had slipped through my soapy fingers. My hands were bleeding from trying to pick up the pieces so hastily. Someone was coming toward me. Uncle Vernon? Uncle Vernon! I curled up in a ball, protecting what I could of me. ‘I’m tiny. I’m miniscule. I’m a small target. Slip away, slip away.’ He was kicking me; I was reacting to the blows, but it was strange. I felt gentle hands on me as well.

“Harry! Harry!” was whispered frantically in my ear. Uncle never called me Harry.

“Open your eyes, little one. Look at me”

Where was I? It was all so confusing! I could scarce breathe.

Someone else moved to the periphery of the scene.

“S’ere owt I ken do a’ help there, Mister Snape?”

I knew that voice. That voice was not from Magnolia Crescent. It was the kind voice, first one I’d heard in so long. Long as I could remember. The tailor’s voice. And he’d called my attendant -

Snape. Yes, my Snape.

I was hot, sweating, shaking, trembling.

My Snape huffed at the tailor.

“You can try.” But my Snape didn‘t leave me, he stayed by my side, as the tailor talked low to me.

“Havin’ a hard time ‘ere, laddie? Nuffin’ a’ fear here.” Then, extra special quiet, “ ‘E hurtcha?”

………………………………………

I heard him ask. I expected it to annoy me, but it did not. I would have asked the same question given the situation.

Harry shook his head slightly, then eyed me warily. I tried to look, well, reassuring, but it might have looked like a snarl. ‘I’ll have to practice in the mirror.’

“Summat else spooked ya, then?” the tailor continued.

The child nodded.

It was a flashback. All too clearly, I remembered having them after settling in at Hogwarts. Something would trigger a far-off, torturous memory and I’d be in it again, oblivious to the here and now.

Such a difficult child he was turning out to be! Thankfully, I knew what to do for Harry in just this situation. I wondered how often these would come, and what had caused the remembrance this time.

Harry blinked as if sunlight was assaulting him. Next moment he did the most endearing thing; he reached out toward me. I drew him to me awkwardly, knowing I was going red in the face. He was still shaking, breath coming in little gasps. Halfway between past and present, stuck in a time-turner’s other realm.

“Harry,” I began, “Look around the room. We’re at the pub; you’re in Ashton-Under-Lyne. You are safe here. No one will hurt you. Right, er -”

“Gray, sir,” the tailor said. “’As right, laddie. Nowt’ll happen t’ ya.”

I stood the boy up, instructing him to stomp on the floor. It was the logical step; he had to get an awareness back in his body - shake off the past, so to speak. I must’ve looked a sight, telling this tiny child who’d seemed to’ve gone utterly barmy minutes before to make all that noise in the middle of a musty pub.

Gray decided to demonstrate for Harry; the old shopkeeper jumped right in, taking away from my embarrassment. He stomped and clogged about as if an Irish jig had just sprung out of the air. Holding both little hands, the pair was off, galloping about, rattling the rotted wooden floorboards. The few others in the establishment laughed and shouts of “Eh, Gray!” were heard. The barkeep clapped in time to the frolic as the maid guffawed. By the time Gray picked him up and swung him round, Harry was giggling gleefully. I feared he’d vomit again. I cared not a whit if he did; he was positively jubilant, which was worth any amount of mess imaginable.