Aug. 9

Fuck this. I am not going to write in this bloody book anymore. Not one more word. Fuck you, Snape!

Harry slammed the book closed again.

"Problem?" Snape asked, and Harry almost threw the journal at him.

"No. Why?"

Snape raised one eyebrow.

Harry hated when he did that. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Snape to say something. Two could play at his stupid mind games, after all. But Snape remained silent, and Harry hated that, too. He glared at the professor, whose expression didn't change. Finally, Harry shoved the book across the writing desk. "I'm not doing that anymore."

"Ah."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's an acknowledgement of your statement." Snape's other brow rose. "I did not realize such miniscule words gave you trouble."

"Just shut it!"

"A tad more decorum would suit you, Potter."

"Yeah, well, stuff your decorum. I'm not writing in that bloody book anymore."

"So you've said."

"And what're you gonna do about it?"

Snape's expression didn't change, but he stood, and managed to look more threatening, just the same. "Nothing. Writing is purely voluntary. Of course, not writing, means not flying . . ."

Harry gritted his teeth, wanting to clobber Snape or make him yell or something. He hated not knowing what to expect from this man, and hated him for that confusion. "I hate you, you know that?"

The professor cocked his head a little to the side, and peered at him as if examining a particularly foul turd. "I am not unaware of your feelings, Potter."

"Yeah, well," Harry replied, feeling oddly disconcerted. But why? He really did hate Snape, didn't he? The man kept him locked up down here, and wouldn't let him go flying, and made him talk about things he didn't want to talk about and made him eat when he wasn't hungry, and yet didn't yell or hit him or anything . . . "Just thought you should know."

"And now I do. Would you like to do your homework then, or read more on meditation techniques?"

"Neither! I don't want to do any of it!" He snatched up the journal and hurled it at the fireplace. Snape just watched it smack into the mantel and did nothing to stop him. "And how 'bout you stop being so . . . so goddamn understanding, okay? Why can't you yell at me or punch me or call me a fucking retarded freak or a spoiled arse or something? You're treating me like I'm damaged, and I'm not!"

Snape's dark eyes were hooded as he met Harry's gaze. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I have no intention of calling you a 'fucking retarded freak'," he said, his mouth twisting over the words. "And I do not hit children."

"I have never been a child!" Harry screamed, his vision narrowed to a red haze. "Get that through your skull! I've been a punching bag, a scapegoat, a house elf and the fucking Chosen One, but I have never been a child! So punch me, why don't you? You want to, right? You'd love to thrash me, admit it!"

Snape shook his head, even as he took a step closer to Harry, where he stood, fists clenched so hard his nails were digging into his palms. Snape took another step.

Harry was breathing hard, and gritting his teeth so tightly they creaked in his mouth. He couldn't take this, not from Snape. Snape was supposed to hate him, forever and ever. "Hit me!" He lifted his chin, giving Snape the perfect target. "Come on. Do it!"

"I'm not going to hit you, Harry."

"Fuck you!" Harry lurched toward the man, more angry than he had ever been. "You don't get to call me that, you great greasy git! You're meant to hate me, remember? I'm the spoiled rotten arrogant son of the one who humiliated you, remember? I'm nothing but trouble, and no one will ever care about me, 'cause I'm a dirty little freak, and I'll only get myself killed, good riddance, with my stupid, arrogant, fucked up--"

"Stop, Harry," Snape said, and his voice was kind, too kind, and Harry swung a fist at him.

"SHUT UP!"

Snape caught his wrist in one of his hands, and drew it to the side, where he couldn't punch anymore.

"LET ME GO!" He swung the other fist.

"Stop, now, Harry," Snape said, catching the other wrist and wrestling it to Harry's side.

Harry pulled and yanked on his arm, but Snape was too strong. "I hate you, I hate you! LET ME GO!"

"I can't do that, Harry."

"Stop calling me that!" Harry twisted in his arms and tried to kick him, but Snape turned him round and wrapped his arms, like bands, around his chest and held him close. "Leggo! I hate you! Please, let me go!"

"I will not hit you, Harry, no matter what you do." His voice sounded right next to Harry's ear, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt, and his chest, and he just wanted to lay down and die. Instead, he struggled harder. But Snape just tightened his grip, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep him from getting away. Stupid sod.

"Just leave me alone."

"I'm not going to do that, either."

"I hate you."

"I know."

---

From the kitchen, Severus watched Harry, who was hunched over on the couch, head pressed to his hands. The yelling had stopped, thank Merlin, and the foul language, but Harry had yet to look at him in the two hours since his last fit.

Two hours of this self flagellation was quite long enough.

Severus hovered the tea set out to the sitting room and sent a cup floating toward the boy. When Harry did not look up, even when the cup bumped gently against his forehead, Severus cleared his throat. Still not lifting his head, Harry put up a hand to grasp the thin handle of the cup and drew it down to his lap. Meanwhile, Severus took his own seat in his favorite chair and waited for Harry to adulterate his tea.

This time, though, he added nothing. Severus did not comment, but took a sip of his own cup. Once the boy had followed suit, and they were, for all intents and purposes, well into their ritual, Severus said, "Whose punching bag were you?"

"No one's," came the sullen reply. Harry still had not shown his face.

"You brought it up, Potter. And may I remind you that lying is not allowed, here."

"Whatever."

Severus watched for another few minutes. He could push the boy back into rage easily enough, but that wouldn't really get them anywhere today. He took another sip and pondered. Then, "Do you want to return to classes in September?"

"'Course I do."

"Then you must overcome this appalling tendency to fly into a rage at slightest provocation. Do you think your friends will appreciate your vitriol as much as I?"

A shrug, then a sigh, then a, "No. I guess not."

"Indeed. So, until I am satisfied that you will come to no harm, nor bring it to others, I'm afraid we are stuck here, with you answering my questions and obeying all our rules. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm not sure it is. Enjoining me to strike you is not conducive to keeping yourself out of harm. You are not allowed to hurt yourself, nor are you to beg me to do so. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

An automatic response, that. Probably trained in him by his caring relatives, Severus thought with a sneer. But maybe it was the truth this time. "Be sure that you do. Now, who used you as a punching bag?"

Another sigh, and the boy's shoulders twitched in an almost-shrug, but he said, "Dudley."

"In his 'Harry Hunting' games?"

Harry winced. "Yes, sir. Or when his friends wanted a laugh. Or if he caught me talking to anyone at school or answering a question right for a teacher, or walking too slow, or just anytime he felt like it." He rubbed a hand across his face and finally looked over at Severus. "I got used to it."

"Did no one stop his . . . attentions while you were at school at least?"

Harry gave him an incredulous look. "Why would they? It's not like I mattered. And he was usually careful not to hit me when there were teachers around."

"And you told no one?"

With a snorted laugh, Harry shook his head. "Right. They'd believe me, sure." He scratched at his scar for a moment then shrugged, looking away. "All right, fine. I tried to tell a teacher once, that Dudley and his friends had beaten me up in the boys' lavatory. Miss Killdare. She gave me ice for my eye. But then Aunt Petunia came screaming down to the school and called me a horrible little liar who was always doing nasty things to her wonderful Duddy-dipkins, and that I should be punished for making up such stories. She said any bruises I had were self-inflicted, and any tales I told should be ignored from then on. When I got home, I got the belt from my uncle and the cupboard for a week."

He hitched up one shoulder. "I'm not stupid. I learned."

Severus took another sip of tea to cover his unease. "How old were you?"

"Seven. Maybe six. It's hard to remember."

"And how often did this sort of thing happen?"

"What? Dudley beating me up? All the time. Every day at primary, he found something to hit me for. He even beat up other kids if they started to be nice to me." Harry shrugged again, one of the most forlorn gestures Severus had ever seen. "After a while, I didn't care."

"Indeed?" He leaned forward a little, and noted that Harry tensed in response, even though he was ostensibly looking away from Severus. "You didn't mind not having friends?"

Another shrug. Severus raised an eyebrow, and Harry relented. "Okay, I minded. There wasn't anything I could do about it, though, and I learned to do without, like I told you."

"And how often did you 'get the belt'?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, and his chin came up, but once more he acquiesced. "When I deserved it, sir."

"That's not an answer."

"It is." He sighed. "I don't know. Couple times? Uncle Vernon was more into shaking sense into me. Aunt Petunia just like to slap." He pulled an almost rueful smile and rubbed at the side of his head as if he could still feel a lump there. "Unless we were in the kitchen and she had a frying pan handy. I learned to duck."

Severus stared at him. "You seem to have accepted as given many conditions in your childhood that most people would find unacceptable."

"Yeah, well, I'm a freak."

"Words your relatives used."

"So?"

"Is it possible they were mistaken?"

Harry laughed, but mirthlessly. "Right. You're gonna tell me--"

"I am going to tell you this once, Potter, and I never want to hear that you've spoken of this subject again, so listen well. There is nothing wrong with you."

"Yeah, right." He had a passable sneer, it was true.

"And it wasn't your fault."

"What the hell do you know?"

"I know enough." Severus looked deep into the green eyes that had beheld so much horror, in such a short span of years, and he did not flinch. "I know what violence to a child can do. I know what it's like to feel unwanted, uncared for. Unloved. And I tell you this, Harry, it was not your fault."

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. "I know that."

"No. I don't think you do, yet." Severus sighed. "But I hope you will one day."

"Fine, whatever."

"I think I shall excise that word from your vocabulary."

"What, 'fine'?"

"That, too. You are obviously not fine, and so to continue to use such a hideously inappropriate word is insulting."

"To linguists?"

Severus smirked. "Exactly. So, we'll make a list of words that are of no use to our discussions." He conjured a roll of parchment and a never-out quill. Who knew how many words they might need to add?

Harry gaped at him. "You're serious?"

"Never moreso. Now, we've agreed that 'fine' shall go the way of all meat--"

"We never did! You decided to go all linguisty on me."

"Well, someone had to."

With a huff of breath, Harry muttered something about Hermione and word-police, but Severus ignored it. "Okay. You can't say 'arrogant' anymore, then."

Severus added it to the list. "Neither of us can. Also, no 'whatever,' 'freak,' or," he shuddered, "'dunno.' Despicable word, that."

"Oh, I dunno," Harry said with a smirk of his own -- he would have done Slytherin proud, at least on the surface. "I kinda like it."

"And 'kinda,'" Severus intoned, scribbling madly. "Perhaps, to be safe, we should just avoid all faux 'compound' words that end with 'a'."