The following weeks were incredibly tense for Harry. Ron was still flabbergasted by his behaviour, not really understanding how Harry could obey Snape so easily. Harry knew that his friend envied his situation. No parents meant no one he had to listen to. At least not at Hogwart’s. Ron’s own parents kept a strong presence in their children’s lives, even while they were away at school, something Ron found stifling.

So no, he didn’t understand Harry’s position, and every once in a while Harry would catch him staring. Not meanly, but in a way that made him feel like Ron thought he was some sort of alien. Or a freak. He was always a freak to someone, wasn’t he?

And Hermione, well, Hermione understood Harry a little too well. She’d been on him the minute Snape had said he was to say goodnight, that he’d be staying in the dungeons. He wasn’t sure the man had even got the bedroom door closed before his friend started talking. Harry understood she was concerned for him, but just the memory of it all made him flush with embarrassment and shame.

“Why are you listening to him Harry, I don’t understand!” Ron had protested again. That’s when Hermione shot him an annoyed gaze, followed by something akin to sympathy in her eyes when she looked at Harry.

“Harry, does your willingness to listen to Professor Snape have anything to do with your sign for him?”

His heart somehow dropped into his stomach and leapt into his throat at the same time. If he hadn’t already been mute, he would have been shocked speechless. That was something private, and while he had realized his friend might go looking for the meaning of the sign when he created it, he never thought she’d actually bring it up.

It was a stupid, silly thing to do really, creating that personal sign for the man. It’s not like Snape was a long name. Heck, he likely could have spelled it faster than the time it took now. But he didn’t want that.

He hadn’t put a lot of thought into the two signs that had come to represent the potions master. At the time he had just been so grateful, and so relieved, and just – warm. He didn’t have the word for it then, but now he thought that just maybe that was what being safe and protected felt like. For the first time in his life, a grown up was trying to help him, not hurt him. And suddenly everything was jumbled up in his head.

Because he never thought he’d want that protection. He thought he’d let go of that dream a very long time ago, that he was far too old to rely on anyone that way. Apparently he thought wrong, because not only did he not reject Snape’s efforts, he’d wanted them very, very badly.

He sucked up even the smallest scrape of safety and protection like a sponge, and, truth be told, he was horrified at the extent of his own need. It was embarrassing, and it made him think that maybe Snape was right, that he really was just a “silly little boy”.

But the embarrassment didn’t stop him, and as time crept on the words he chose for the man’s sign were being linked ever stronger to the man himself. He couldn’t look at Snape now without thinking the words, particularly the second. Sometimes, sometimes he even thought the secret version of it, the one he would never, ever be able to say out loud, ever.

He had thought it that night, quietly to himself – the word a whisper even in his mind. As if someone would hear his thoughts if he thought them too loudly. After the accidental magic, the belts, Hermione’s question, and most absurdly, Snape asking him if he had cleaned his teeth, he went to bed with that word in his heart if not on his lips.

His friends calling his name brought him out of his reverie with a hot blush. Once again, Hermione was staring at him as if she knew his thoughts, and he really wished she would stop doing that. With a scowl on his face, he turned to them.

“We’ve got to get to potions” she told him with a look of pity.

Getting up he gathered the parchment they’d been using it to try to work out all the information they knew surrounding the philosopher’s stone. They had been obsessing over their list of ‘suspects’ all week, and despite all his arguments, he couldn’t get them to take Snape off the list. The incident at his first quidditch game was enough for his friends to keep considering the man a suspect. Harry, however, was convinced that there was more to it than they realized. It was just one more thing to add to his frustration these days.

Even though he was arguing with his friends in the professor’s defense, Harry found himself wanting to shout at the man half the time he was down in the dungeons. He laughed bitterly to himself at the irony. Shouting probably would be welcomed the way Snape was going on and on about him not talking. And to make matters worse, earlier in the week the man had recanted his statement about not answering questions in class.

Harry had been angry, and upset. He’d taken the man at his and word and done what he’d asked by incanting in class, but apparently that wasn’t enough.

“I had thought that given a bit of time to get used to speaking in class again that you would voluntarily begin to speak up further, but it appears that is not the case. Perhaps Gryffindors ought to be noted for their stubbornness and not their bravery.”

As if he's one to talk! Harry seethed.

“And just to make sure we both understand each other…” Snape trailed off, pulling something out of his pocket. He laid it out flat on the desk and Harry paled when he recognized it. The pledge of obedience he had given the man at Christmas. Oh no!

The anger and fear threatened to overwhelm him. Snatching up the paper and his things he moved towards the door to leave, but not before his teacher got the final blow in.

“I believe you owe me a word or two, Mr. Potter.”

Argh, damn him! Twirling, he threw the two words accusingly at Snape, his voice cracking far more than he would have liked.

“Greasy git!” he cried out, and then left the dungeons at such a run that he did not hear the older man break out into rueful chuckling.

Snape had found him moments later, sicking up in the third floor boy’s toilets. Harry didn’t notice him until he heard muttering about “foolish little boys” and felt a cool hand brush his hair from his face. Snape handed him a vial.

“Drink that, it’s a stomach calming draught.” He did as he was told, even though it tasted of chalk. Another vial was pressed into his hand. “A freshening potion, for your mouth.”

Harry had to give it to Snape, he thought of everything. This one tasted of mint and snow. Feeling remarkably better, he slumped back against the man without thinking. He was still angry at the man, but if he was being honest with himself, he also wanted to fall asleep right where he was. To curl up against his teacher's wall of a chest and be carried to bed.

The confusion and contradiction made him release a noise of frustration, and he moved his arm up to wipe his face of the general grossness he felt. Before he could do so, however, Snape stopped him, and began mopping at his face with a handkerchief.

“It’s no wonder you’re making yourself sick. But the sooner you begin to talk again, the less anxiety you will experience.”

Harry doubted that. He doubted that very much.

Snape had walked him back to Gryffinfor tower, and that was the last he had seen the man.

Until now. Potions class was mere minutes away, and while no other teacher had required him to answer any questions yet, he knew Snape would not be as kind.

And so Harry found himself staring at the board 15 minutes later while Snape described the potion they were about to make. A stomach calming draught. And people thought the man didn’t have a sense of humour.

“Mr. Potter. Can you tell me what this potion does?”

That was his question? Was he serious? He took a deep breath. “It, it calms the stomach, sir.” That was far too much of a whisper for Harry’s liking.

“And is it slow or fast acting?”

“F-f-fast, sir.”

“And if brewed properly what colour should it be?”

“Greyish white.” Much like the colour of his face, no doubt.

“Correct, Mr. Potter.”

And that was it. The beginning of the end, Harry thought.

*********

He stewed in his resentment all through dinner that night, and then went stomping down to the dungeons. He didn’t even get to his chair before Snape deflated him.

“You would not presume to barge in on any other professor to throw a tantrum about class, so do not take advantage of our circumstances by doing so now.”

He didn’t even look up when he said it, so Harry threw himself into the chair in front of the man with. . .zeal. As it slid back several inches with a screech he thought he had the man’s attention, but still his teacher did not look up.

“If you wish to get my attention, maybe you should say something.”

Oh for bloody…!

“No talking.” That was two words, maybe Snape would leave him alone.

The man sighed in almost a sad way, and Harry’s heart clenched. He didn’t like disappointing him. But then Snape started nagging him again and he didn’t feel so bad about it anymore.

“You did well today, Harry. One more word perhaps?”

“No.”

This time it was Snape’s turn to be annoyed. “I need to stop falling into that trap,” he muttered to himself.

Harry snatched up his parchment. ‘You said you wouldn’t bother me about talking at home!’ he wrote, unconsciously echoing the man’s words from weeks before.

For some reason Snape coloured at his words, and then looked…chagrined. Or so Harry guessed. He’d never seen the man look remorseful before, so he could only guess.

“You’re right. So I did. And if it were up to me I would leave you to your own devices, as long as you were keeping up in your classes. But the Headmaster and Professor McGonagall are growing concerned. People don’t normally stop talking, or even cast accidental silencing spells on themselves unless there’s something wrong.”

Once again, the tornado of Harry’s emotions began whirling within him. His teacher sounded sad and worried. Harry was both touched and irritated. Of course something was wrong!

Taking his parchment in hand he began to write so quickly, and with such emotion that the ink ran. But his words were clear.

‘What’s the point in talking? Where has it ever gotten me? Nobody ever listens. Not my Aunt when I begged her to stop my Uncle, not the teachers when I told them my relatives were hurting me, not my friends when I defended you, and not even you when I first got to Hogwart’s! Tell me – why should I bother?!’

He watched as Snape read the words and then ran his fingers through the long greasy locks. He closed his eyes and whispered into his palms “It’s true. We have all failed you.”

After a few moments, Harry grew uncomfortable. He tugged at Severus’ robes and passed him the parchment, which read ‘May I go to the other room?’

“You don’t have to ask permission, child.” Snape replied, and gave his fingers a quick squeeze.

As he reached the spare room, he sat down on the bed and tried to get a leash on all the emotions he was feeling. The sound of the parchment from this morning crinkling in his pocket brought more immediate issues to his attention.

He may not be able to bring himself to talk, or even trust himself with the real reason he didn’t want to. But he could do something about this particular frustration.

Taking out the parchment he set it on the desk, and then took out his wand. Aiming at the paper, he repeated the word he heard from Snape at Christmas.

“Incendio!” he croaked. The paper went up in flames, but it did not die within seconds as it had with his gloves. Instead it caught onto his textbooks and they began to smoke. Panic washed over him, and he tried to yell for Snape, but nothing came out. The smoke grew heavier and he reached for the flaming book, when he heard the command.

“Step away from there! Aguamenti!”

Harry watched, wide-eyed, as the water doused the flames. And then all he could see was Snapes eyes, and they were angry.

“What did you do?!”

Oh, he was in trouble now.