Snape dismissed the boy back to his Tower not long after that declaration. Anything else would be anti-climactic. He had informed Potter that after his last class on the following day, he was to report to the dungeons so that the two of them could join Mr and Mrs Weasley for dinner. “Wear your best clothes, Potter,” he had instructed. “You need to make a good impression.”

Just because he knew that nothing short of a rabid hippogriff would keep Molly Weasley from fostering the child was no reason for Potter to be complacent. The boy had nodded obediently to that, as well as to the repeated command not to mention anything to any of the Weasley boys. It would be up to the parents to decide what and how to tell their brood, and Snape wasn’t about to have Potter spill the news prematurely.

His own classes ended early, after a third year Hufflepuff managed to produce a cloud of poisonous gas instead of the Blood Replenishment potion he had assigned. He still wasn’t certain exactly what the idiotic girl had done, but he suspected that she’d been too busy eyeing the Ravenclaw boy at the next bench to actually select the right ingredients, let alone combine them in the proper order. No matter, the fumigation spells would clear the air by morning, and only three of the students had ended up at Poppy’s.

Snape used the unexpected leisure time to lurk about the Quidditch pitch. The Gryffindor and Slytherin first years were having their first flying lesson with Madame Hooch, and Snape was eager to see if there was any new talent for the House team. The Potter brat’s being there was merely a coincidence, he told himself. The fact that Potter had been raised by Muggles and would likely fall off the broom and break something had nothing to do with him. Just because he was now the boy’s guardian didn’t mean he was expected to, well, guard the boy. Hooch was in charge of teaching flying and it was her responsibility to ensure that none of her students was injured.

Not that she did a very good job, Snape reminded himself darkly, but that was Potter’s problem, not his. He was there to look for Slytherin talent, not to protect some Gryffindor brat. The fact that he had his wand in his hand and a cushioning charm on his lips was merely coincidence.

Sure enough, the lesson had barely begun when that plump nitwit Longbottom promptly broke something. Obviously his ineptitude for potions was the rule, not the exception. And Voldemort insisted that purebloods were superior? Obviously the Dark Lord needed to spend some time teaching at a magical boarding school. That would cause him to revise his theory of eugenics pretty quickly.

Hooch hustled the crying boy off to the Infirmary, ordering the remaining students to wait quietly for her return. Ah yes, that was likely to happen, Snape sneered. Take a class full of young dunderheads, give them some broomsticks, remove all adult supervision, and expect them to sit politely. How rational. And the Headmaster rebuked him for his methods of maintaining classroom order.

Maybe if Hooch had beaten a few of them with their own broomsticks before departing, she might have had a hope of being obeyed, but Snape rather doubted it. Sure enough, it took just a few seconds for hostilities to break out, and – perhaps unsurprisingly – it was Malfoy who started it.

Snape’s eyebrows drew together. That spoiled little horror. The first day, after the Feast, he had delivered his usual lecture to his entire House about not embarrassing the Slytherin name. He directed his usual, particularly menacing glares at the first years, but at the time, he’d suspected that Draco’s arrogance would cause him to require additional persuasion that the rules did in fact apply to him. Now, here was the proof.

The only surprising aspect was that Malfoy’s opponent in the conflict was Potter. Snape would have expected it to be Weasley – who better for a pureblood to taunt than an alleged blood traitor – but perhaps Draco couldn’t resist taking on the famous Boy Who Lived.

Snape was too far away to hear what the argument was about, but it was obvious that for all his timidity and past abuse, Potter was holding his own against the blond Slytherin. Then, abruptly, the argument escalated and suddenly Draco was airborne and – no! That disobedient little brat! – Potter was somehow in the air beside him. More than that, he was keeping up.

Snape blinked. To his certain knowledge, Draco Malfoy had been receiving special tutelage in flying since his sixth birthday, and now Potter, in what had to be his first time ever on a broomstick, was matching him.

Damn. Snape hated to admit it, but perhaps the brat had inherited something worthwhile from that prat Potter after all.  What’s more, if he enjoyed flying, then that was one more thing that could be withheld for punishment. Snape smirked at the thought of having yet another hold over the boy.

Obviously, though, he would need to purchase the brat a broom – and given his obvious talent, it had better be a good one – because unless Harry had a broom of his own, how could Snape confiscate it? Snape smiled to himself at the thought of all the tears that would doubtless be shed… though the image of a radiant Harry unwrapping his new broom kept intruding. Snape irritably shoved such thoughts out of his head. He wasn’t interested in pleasing the child, just in finding ways to torment him when he misbehaved.

But then Draco shouted at Harry and hurled something away from him. A snitch? A rock? Whatever it was, Harry instantly shot after it, and Snape surged forward in horror. That little fool! He was surely going to crash into the castle wall! He couldn’t pull up at that speed! He was going to – and then Potter did the impossible.

Somehow, he managed to snatch the item and simultaneously twist around a mere instant before he would have – should have – smashed himself to paste against the stone walls of Hogwarts. Snape found himself storming towards the Quidditch pitch, absolutely incandescent with rage. He had almost reached the students, who were busily twittering about a proudly beaming Potter, when he was nearly run into by an equally incoherent McGonagall. “Severus – Did you – I couldn’t – Never in all my years – I can’t believe – That boy…!” she sputtered at him.

“I completely agree, Minerva,” he said grimly. “Wait until I get my hands on him.”

“Oh, no!” she said abruptly. “He’s mine! He’s in my House!”

“And he is my ward,” he retorted furiously.

“That is irrelevant!” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shrill. “He was sorted into Gryffindor. That makes him mine.”

By now their raised voices had attracted the children’s attention, and suddenly Potter was looking apprehensive. Snape fought down his ire. What were they fighting over, anyway? Obviously Minerva was as furious with the boy as he was. If they coordinated his punishment, it would probably be better for Potter anyway. That way, he would see the adults presenting a united front. “All right, Minerva,” he said, lowering his voice so that the students couldn’t overhear. “There is no need for us to be at odds over this. It will probably be best if we share –“

“Absolutely not!” Minerva declared. “Don’t think you can get around this one, Severus! The rules are unequivocal. It makes no difference if a parent works at the school or not – a student’s House allegiance is exclusively based on where the Sorting Hat placed him. Harry is a Gryffindor and will play only for Gryffindor.”

Snape blinked at her. “Play for – What are you talking about, you daft woman?”

McGonagall looked smug. “Quidditch, you idiotic bat. The boy will play for my team, not yours.”

Snape gave serious thought to strangling the older witch. Potter had come within millimeters of death, flying an unfamiliar broom at unconscionably high speed directly at a stone wall, and the only thing his Head of House was thinking of was her chances for the House Cup. No wonder she and the Headmaster got along so well. They shared the same priorities.

“You seem to have forgotten the other rule, Minerva,” he purred. “The one that says that first years do not go out for Quidditch.”

She made a rude noise. “With his talent? I’m sure the Headmaster will make an exception for Harry.”

“Which his guardian can override,” Snape pointed out silkily.

He watched with satisfaction as Minerva’s eyes widened in horror as she realized the truth in his words.

There was a distinct pause, then McGonagall spoke again, her tone suddenly honeyed. “Severus, surely you wouldn’t deny the boy an opportunity to enhance his popularity within his House? He has a talent that should be nurtured and –“

“Save it, McGonagall,” Snape said rudely. “Your dreams of Quidditch glory are based on my ward’s reckless endangerment of his life, not to mention his complete disregard of Madame Hooch’s orders. Aren’t you the least concerned with that?”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “Er, yes. Yes, of course. And I was going to speak with Potter very firmly about that. Very firmly indeed. But, er, about the Quidditch team –“

Before Snape could hex the witch in an effort to derail her one track mind, Madame Hooch came hurrying up. “What’s all this, eh? What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Potter! Malfoy! Get over here!” Snape thundered, and, looking scared, the two boys hurried up.

“These two miscreants,” Snape told Hooch, glaring at the pale children, “deliberately disobeyed you and went flying in your absence.”

“Did they now!” Hooch scowled at them. “Young blighters!”

“And Potter displayed flying talent that we have not seen in a generation,” McGonagall put in slyly.

Hooch’s eyes lit up. “Did he now? Really? A chip off the old block, eh?”

“Even better,” Minerva said with a conspiratorial wink.

“Really!” Hooch rubbed her hands together with gusto. “Well!”

Snape gnashed his teeth. Merlin save him from Quidditch addicts. “Malfoy, Potter – go wait for me at the castle wall.” The boys fled. His tone alone told them that they were about to be very, very sorry for the impromptu flying.

“Now then, if you two could kindly focus on the children’s well being instead of your pathetic desires to vicariously live your own Quidditch dreams through your students,” Snape began, ignoring the affronted huffs from both women, “I would be interested in learning what penalty you are planning to assign the children for their abysmal behavior.”

“Well, I didn’t actually see anything,” Hooch began, but at Snape’s expression, hastily changed her mind. “Er, how about five points from each for failing to obey instructions?”

“Please, Professors,” the Gryffindor know-it-all had to stick her nose in, “Harry just wanted to rescue Neville’s rememberall. He dropped it when he fell. Malfoy took it and was going to smash it against the wall – that’s why Harry had to go after it.”

Snape’s fury surged anew. A blasted rememberall? The boy had nearly killed himself over some silly trinket?

Worse, he saw McGonagall nodding in approval. “Protecting a Housemate – how very noble of him. Five points to Mr Potter.”

Snape nearly strangled on his own anger. The silly witch was rewarding the brat? For risking his neck over some easily replaced bauble, which – knowing Longbottom – he was likely to lose within the next 72 hours anyway? How exactly was that supposed to teach Harry that his life had value and was not to be risked needlessly?

Idiot Gryffindors. Always bleating about “heroism” and “nobility” but never bothering to look at the big picture. No wonder the Weasleys bred like rabbits – Gryffindors had the survival instincts of a brick.

“If you will excuse me,” he ground out, “I will go see to my ward and my student.”

Minerva trailed after him anxiously. “But Severus, you won’t really oppose Harry joining the House Quidditch team, will you? It would be such a wonderful way for him to honor his fa-“ she abruptly broke off. Gryffindor she might be, but Minerva wasn’t stupid, and she knew that invoking James Potter would not help her cause. “It would give him something to talk to the other children about, help introduce him to Wizarding society –“

He interrupted before she could ramble on any longer. “If I support you in this, I assume I will have your full support in my dealings with Potter, even over the Headmaster’s objections?”

McGonagall paused, eyeing him shrewdly, then: “Deal.”

He nodded, grimly triumphant. He was quite certain that Albus’ meddling in Potter’s life was far from over, and he wanted to ensure that he had plenty of allies in the inevitable battles. He also wanted to be sure that he didn’t have to worry about Minerva quibbling with him about his handling of the boy. Harry’s placement in Gryffindor gave her a certain responsibility for the boy – though Snape couldn’t see that she had been particularly vigilant in evaluating and providing for his needs – and he didn’t want her second guessing him at every turn.

She left him as they drew near the boys. “I’ll fetch Wood and meet you in your office,” she called as she headed through the doorway.

He nodded, then turned to the boys. “So.” He turned his fiercest glare upon them and had the satisfaction of watching them quail. “You decided to ignore Madame Hooch’s instructions and lost each of your Houses five points.”

Potter gulped. “Sorry, sir.”

“Oh, you will be, Potter. Go to my office and wait for me there.”

With a last glance back at the Quidditch pitch, Harry obeyed, leaving Snape and Malfoy alone.

“Mr Malfoy. You have barely arrived here at school and you are already losing our House points.”

“I’m sure I’ll quickly make it up in another class,” Draco tried to emulate his father’s sneer, but failed miserably.

“That isn’t the point, Mr Malfoy,” Snape said, his voice low and curiously hypnotic. “You were warned about embarrassing the House. You were told not to bring disgrace upon the name of Slytherin, and yet what do you do? In one of your first classes, you demonstrate deep disrespect for your instructor.”

“It’s j-just flying,” Draco tried desperately to bluster his way out of it.

“No, Mr Malfoy. You not only demonstrated disrespect towards Madame Hooch and her orders to your class, but also towards me and my orders to our House,” Snape gently pointed out. Draco paled further.

“I do not treat disrespect lightly, Mr Malfoy. I am surprised you appear unaware of this.”

Draco tried to speak but no sound came out.

“You will return to your dormitory where you will spend the rest of the afternoon writing, ‘I apologize for my disrespectful actions’ five hundred times.” He ignored Draco’s dismayed expression. “This weekend, while your classmates enjoy their free time, you will serve two detentions with Mr Filch, learning humility by scrubbing the Owlry floor with a toothbrush. If I hear even a hint of complaint from you or Mr Filch, I will owl your father about my dissatisfaction with your conduct. Need I point out the likely consequences of that action?” Draco was now a light green in color and was shaking his head vehemently.

“You are not only an arrogant and foolish little boy, Mr Malfoy,” Snape continued in the same quiet, dangerous voice, “but you are also an extremely ill-informed one. Mr Potter has come under my protection.” Draco’s jaw dropped. “He is now my ward, and any action against him will be considered an action against me. He is to be thought of as a Slytherin and treated accordingly. If I see you arguing with him in public, I will take it as a deliberate violation of our House code: Slytherins United, One Against the World. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Draco managed shakily.

“Then I suggest you start those five hundred lines. If I do not have them by breakfast tomorrow, we will make it two weekends of detention. And do pass on my warning about Mr Potter to the rest of the House, will you? I will be very displeased with you if someone repeats your error.”

“Yes, sir!” the blond stammered and fled.

By nightfall, Snape mused, the Owlry will likely be empty as every Slytherin writes home about this news. It would be very interesting to see what happened next.

Meanwhile, outside Snape’s office, Harry was waiting with a deepening sense of dread. The look on the professor’s face… He shivered.

Snape often snapped and snarled, but he didn’t really feel angry. This time, the anger was radiating off of him in nearly palpable waves. Harry thought he might sick up if he had to wait much longer. He didn’t know what Snape was going to do to him, but he was utterly terrified that the man would change his mind now that he had seen how much trouble Harry could be.

“In,” Snape swept up behind him, robes billowing, and opened the door with a wave of his wand.

Harry scuttled in and stood before the desk, head down and eyes on the toes of his shoes.

“Potter, I am prepared to hear whatever excuses you may have to offer for your behavior,” Snape said coldly, standing next to him, arms folded.

“No excuses, sir,” Harry whispered, feeling his stomach clench.

“Then perhaps you can explain what you were thinking?”

“I – I just got mad when Malfoy took Neville’s rememberall. He’s been awful to Neville, really mean and nasty, and when he tried to break it, I – I just didn’t want to let him do it.”

“So you allowed Malfoy to manipulate you into breaking the rules and losing points for your House. Had he led you by the nose, it would hardly have been any less deliberate,” Snape said bitingly. Harry winced. “Are you always so easily controlled, Potter? Are you completely incapable of thinking for yourself? Of deducing another person’s intentions?”

“I knew Malfoy was trying to get me in trouble,” Harry protested, eyes welling with tears, “but I didn’t want Neville to lose his rememberall. I’m sorry about disobeying but it –“

“Potter!” Snape’s voice cut like a lash. “You moronic child! Why do you think I am so angry with you?”

“B-because I didn’t listen to Madame Hooch.” At Snape’s contemptuous snort, Harry was surprised enough to look up. “Then what?”

Snape was in front of him in an instant, and had him by the shoulders. Stooping down so that he looked directly into the child’s eyes, Snape punctuated each word with a little shake. “You – could – have – killed – yourself – with – that –stunt! How dare you fly at the castle like that!”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t even really see the wall. I was just after the ball,” he gulped.

If anything, that just made the professor angrier. “Do you think so little of your own life, of your parents’ sacrifice, that you don’t even consider the consequences of your actions?” Snape demanded furiously.

Harry felt a little warm glow begin deep in his belly. The professor wasn’t mad because he had disobeyed. The professor was mad because he might have gotten hurt.

This was the first time Harry could remember where anyone, especially a grown up, had ever been worried about him. When he was ill or hurt back at the Dursleys, they had only cared what it meant for his ability to do his chores and make their food. Occasionally they might worry about what the neighbors would think, but they never, ever cared about Harry for his own sake. Yet here was Professor Snape, absolutely furious over the fact that Harry might have been hurt.

He didn’t even care that Harry hadn’t been hurt. He was still mad that Harry might have been. The butterflies in Harry’s stomach were gone, replaced by a warm, happy feeling.

He risked a quick glance up at the professor’s livid face, and quickly dropped his gaze again. Harry fought to keep the tiny smile off his face. He cared. He really cared.

The insufferable brat, Snape fumed. Grinning over his harebrained stunt like it was something to be proud of! Obviously it would take sterner measures to communicate his message.

“Potter,” he said dangerously, “do you remember what I said I would do if you were foolish enough to place yourself in jeopardy?”

Harry’s eyes widened. Ha! That had wiped the smirk off the little snot’s face. “Y-yes, sir,” he stuttered.

“And what did I say I would do if you deliberately disobeyed?”

“The same thing, sir.”

“Obviously you didn’t believe me,” Snape said coldly.

Harry looked up at that. “No, sir! I believed you! I just – I just…”

“Since you obviously require a reminder of how seriously I take such behavior, I am happy to provide you with one. Or two, as the case may be.” Snape stepped forward and turned Potter by the shoulder until the boy stood at right angles to him. “You are not to put yourself in jeopardy.” He gave the boy a sharp whack on the seat. “You are not to disobey your instructors – without a very good reason,” he added cautiously, then administered a second brisk smack. This one wrung a little yelp out of the brat.

“I trust I have made my position clear?” he said sternly, turning the boy back to face him. If the little brat thought he wouldn’t make good on his promises, he had just been disabused of that idea.

Harry’s expression of shock was almost comical. Snape fought down an unfamiliar feeling of guilt. The brat had deserved it.  He’d been warned, and he’d gone ahead anyway, then had the temerity to snicker at his scolding. Well, if it took a stinging backside to get the boy to take him seriously, then he would accommodate him.

#

“Potter, do you remember what I said I would do if you were foolish enough to place yourself in jeopardy?” Harry’s heart sank. He remembered all too well.

“Y-yes, sir.” He hung his head. He hadn’t even been the man’s responsibility for a week and already he’d earned his first whipping.

Although, Harry remembered hopefully, the professor had said he wouldn’t use a belt. Or a cane. So maybe he’d just get walloped with a hairbrush. It wouldn’t be much fun, but at least he’d be able to keep any marks hidden from the other boys.

The professor sounded awfully disappointed in him. That was bad. But Harry couldn’t help feeling just a little bit happy. Even if he was getting smacked, for the first time it was because someone was worried about him. Harry decided that wasn’t such a bad thing to get whacked about.

Harry was sorry to have been foolhardy. Professor Snape was so smart; he would have known what to do in that situation. Harry just blundered ahead without thinking. No wonder the man was annoyed with him… But the fact he was annoyed sort of proved that he thought Harry should have come up with a better plan. And that meant he thought Harry was at least a little smart. Uncle Vernon would never have whacked Harry for doing something stupid – he was always pointing out how dumb Harry was. He’d have been only too glad if Harry did something foolish. But Professor Snape had higher expectations of him. He expected Harry to use his brain, and he was disappointed when he didn’t. Harry straightened up a little. It didn’t feel nearly as awful to be punished for not living up to your potential. He rather liked the idea that Professor Snape expected a lot from him. No one else ever had.

“And what did I say I would do if you deliberately disobeyed?”

“The same thing, sir,” Harry spoke up more strongly. It had just occurred to him that the professor was keeping his promises about the whacking, and that meant he was likely to keep his other promises. Like the one about being Harry’s guardian. Besides, he wouldn’t go to the bother of smacking Harry if he weren’t planning to stick around, right?

“Obviously you didn’t believe me.”

Harry was startled. He hadn’t doubted Professor Snape for a second. “No, sir! I believed you! I just – I just…” He trailed off, not having the words to describe how he felt. He just didn’t think in terms of his own safety. He’d never had any reason to do so. No one in his life had ever cared enough to get annoyed with him if he put himself at risk, so he’d never learned to consider his safety. But now he had Professor Snape. And the professor was making it very clear that he did care about Harry, and he wasn’t going to allow him to do stupid stuff any more. That realization was worth a month of spankings, as far as Harry was concerned.

“Since you obviously require a reminder of how seriously I take such behavior, I am happy to provide you with one. Or two, as the case may be.”

Harry gulped. Two smackings? This was going to hurt a lot, but he guessed he deserved it. And Snape had warned him.

When the professor put his hands on his shoulders and moved him about a quarter turn to the right, Harry wasn’t sure what was happening. When was Snape going to have him drop his trousers and bend over? Or lie across his lap?

But the professor was speaking again. “You are not to put yourself in jeopardy.” Almost before he knew what had happened, the professor had landed a swift whack on Harry’s bum. Harry jumped, more in astonishment than pain. The professor hadn’t even pulled Harry’s robe aside, let alone had him lower his trousers.

“You are not to disobey your instructors – without a very good reason.” A second whack fell on the same spot, and Harry was so surprised he let out a little yip. Was this the promised smacking? But it barely stung.

Before he could sort out his whirling thoughts, he’d been pulled back around to face the professor. “I trust I have made my position clear?” Snape asked sternly. Harry could only gape at him, eyes wide and mouth in an “O” of shock.

Snape struggled with himself. He would not apologize. He had told Potter what to expect and he had followed through with the consequence. The fact that the boy had been abused by his Muggle relatives didn’t earn him a free pass on all future behavior. All the books had been most explicit about setting consequences and enforcing limits.

But when the child was staring at you with such a look of shock – and betrayal? – it was hard to obey the bloody books.

“Well? What is it, Potter?” Snape’s patience ran out. If the boy was going to howl or protest, he should just do it!

“That – that was it?” Harry stammered. “But you said – “

Snape scowled. “I was perfectly clear, Potter. I told you that if you disobeyed me in this, you would feel my hand against your backside. And you did. You got one swat from my hand on your clothed backside for putting yourself in jeopardy, and another one for disobeying. In future, if you don’t want two swats, then don’t break both rules at once.”

“But it didn’t really hurt,” Harry blurted out. His hands had automatically flown to cover his rear, but what little sting there had been was fading fast.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Potter, don’t be a dolt. First off, if my goal was to hurt you, I would hardly use Muggle methods. There are Dark curses that will leave you screaming in agony for days on end.” Harry’s eyes widened, and Snape abruptly remembered he was supposed to be reassuring the brat. “I am your guardian – it’s my job to protect you, not hurt you. It was only because those bastard Muggle relatives of yours have such a perverted views of the world that you think adults are supposed to cause you pain and misery. We are actually here to try to ensure you don’t experience those things.” At least that’s how it’s supposed to be, Snape thought. You and I both got stuck with atrocious childhoods, but it wasn’t either of our faults. “I told you that if you were foolish enough to break the two most important rules – about keeping yourself safe and following the rules – then you could expect a special punishment, and that is why you were smacked, Potter – because I am very unhappy with you. But that’s all the smacks are for. If I were to want you to truly suffer, I have many other, more efficient ways to do that.” And he gave him a very Slytherin glare.

And that was all it took for Harry to burst into noisy tears.

Snape froze.

What the bloody hell - ? Harry hadn’t cried when Snape had bounced him off the walls, but two little whacks on the tush and he collapsed into a puddle? No one was going to believe that. He wasn’t sure he believed it himself.

Oh, Merlin, I’m dead. Neither Albus nor Minerva would ever believe that he hadn’t done something awful to the little creep, not after his track record. And Potter really did look pathetic, standing there with tears pouring down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose. The second anyone saw the child, they’d assume that Snape had hexed him bloody then quickly healed him before anyone could see the evidence. How on earth was he going to get out of this alive?

Had it been that last threat? But he’d been so careful to tell the brat that he wasn’t going to hurt him. He’d even been sure to use small words, appropriate for a Gryffindor. And those whacks were mere love taps compared to the hellish beatings Potter’s horrible uncle had regularly put him through. So why all the tears?

Was the brat having a flashback? Well, if a light swat was enough to bring back the demons, then how was he ever supposed to teach the child to duel? The instant he felt even a mild stinging hex, he’d be wailing under the nearest desk. The child obviously required professional help, despite what Albus might want to believe.

“Potter,” he began tentatively, taking an uncertain step forward. Why did this sort of thing always happen to him? He didn’t see Sprout having to deal with emotionally unstable students, and she was the bloody Hufflepuff!

Looking back on it, the step forward had been a mistake. The second he approached the brat, Potter moved, but to Snape’s surprise, rather than bolting for the farthest corner of the room, the boy grabbed onto him and started bawling into his robes. His nice, fresh, clean robes.

Snape didn’t know what to do with his hands. He really didn’t want to touch the slimy, snotty child, but he could hardly stand there with his hands in the air either. He decided that the child’s back was probably the driest surface available and put his hands there. The fact that to the uninitiated observer it might look as if Snape were actually hugging the brat simply showed that appearances could be misleading.

Now what? Stand here until the brat cried himself into a dehydrated state and passed out? Weren’t you supposed to slap someone who was hysterical? But slapping the little monster is what got him into this problem in the first place. He could call Poppy, but the medi-witch would doubtless just punch him again.

Of all the times not to have a calming draught in his pocket! Snape cursed his lack of forethought. “Potter, what’s wrong?” he finally burst out, from sheer frustration.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m happy!” Potter wept into his chest.

Snape blinked. Then blinked again. What? The brat was destroying his robes and taking years off his life because he was happy?

He grabbed the boy by the upper arms and yanked him out to arms’ length. “Potter! Do you mean to tell me all this fuss and nonsense is because you’re HAPPY?”

The boy sniveled and nodded. “You’re so nice to me. No one’s ever been so nice to me before.”

The “nice” man fought down an urge to slap Potter’s head off his shoulders. “Stop this outburst at once, Potter! I mean it! In 30 seconds, if you are not calm and quiet, I will conjure up a bucket of ice water and stick your head in it.”

The brat had the temerity to laugh at the threat! But before Snape could shake off his shock and conjure up the bucket to drown the little fiend, Potter had managed to hiccup and sniffle his way to a somewhat sodden state of calm.

“S-sorry,” Harry managed to gulp. He really didn’t understand why he had bawled like that, but all at once he had just felt safe. Like some horrible danger that he didn’t even recognize any longer was finally over. The final straw had been realizing that he would never again have to worry about being beaten bloody or smacked until he couldn’t sit down. All of a sudden, it had sunk in that Snape was going to care for him and protect him and make sure no one – at all – ever hurt him again. It was that realization, that for the first time since his parents died he was no longer alone, that had completely undone him, and he had broken down in a way he never had before. It was sheer, unmitigated relief, and he couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to. Which, frankly, he didn’t. It had felt so good just to cry and cry.

Though now, of course, he felt like a complete wally.

He dragged his eyes up to meet the professor’s. “Um, sorry,” he offered. His gaze fell on the slimy spot on the man’s robes, and he winced. Really, was he eleven or one? Had he actually wiped his nose on the man’s chest?

Snape’s eyes followed his, and he prepared to tell the horrible brat just what he thought of overemotional little fiends who couldn’t be bothered to use a handkerchief, but before he could begin, there was a knock at the door. McGonagall called out, “Severus! I have Wood!”

“Wait a minute!” he shouted back, annoyed. St Mungo’s really needed to study how it was that otherwise rational people could be driven insane by Quidditch. Perhaps McGonagall had suffered one too many Bludgers to the head during her playing days.

He turned back to the boy and was startled to find Harry’s eyes upon him, wide with fear. “Please, sir – don’t let her. You said they wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t what?” Snape demanded. Great Merlin, the child was worse than one of those Muggle yo-yo’s. Would these infernal mood swings never end?

Inwardly, he marveled that Harry would still turn to him for help, even when it was clear he was irate with the boy. How had Potter come to view him with such trust?

“Cane me. You said the staff didn’t hit students.”

Snape frowned down at the frightened boy. “What are you talking about, silly child? Your Head of House isn’t going to cane you.”

Harry looked slightly less worried. “Wood isn’t a cane?”

Snape rolled his eyes and gave Potter’s shoulder a little shake. It was an exasperated shake, not a reassuring squeeze. Definitely not. “Wood is a student, not a cane, you little idiot. Oliver Wood. He is the captain of your House Quidditch team.”

“Oh!” The tension left Harry’s shoulders, as Severus could feel, since his hand was inexplicably still resting there. He quickly removed it. “I know Oliver. Ron pointed him out. Ron really likes Quidditch,” the boy explained.

“And you?”

Harry shrugged, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks. “I don’t really know much about it. Ron thinks it’s great, so I guess I like it.”

Snape rolled his eyes at this further proof of the boy’s inability to think for himself. “Well, Professor McGonagall would like you to try out for the team. She believes that, based on your flying today, you might be suitable.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes. Of course, I pointed out that as your guardian, I was certainly not going to reward you for endangering yourself, not to mention disobeying an instructor.” Harry’s face fell. “However, since being on the team would provide you with sorely needed instruction on how to fly safely, I have agreed with Professor McGonagall that you may meet with Wood and try out for the team. You will still be punished for today’s actions, however, and if I see any further signs of such reckless behavior, with or without a broom, I will not hesitate to pull you from the team.”

Once again his breath was knocked out when Harry hurtled into him. Really, did the child need to launch himself in such an uncouth fashion?

“Thank you! Thank you!” Harry said over and over.

Snape finally managed to pry himself loose. “Yes, well, you will not feel like thanking me once you hear your punishment, Mr Potter. I expect two hundred lines of ‘I shall not take unnecessary risks with my health and welfare’ – and don’t think I have forgotten the five hundred lines you owe me for quoting your uncle the other night!” Harry looked guilty. “And you will spend two nights next week in my quarters, writing an essay about the need to think before foolishly rushing into action.” He frowned forbiddingly at the boy, but Harry was surprisingly unsquelched.

“Yes, sir,” the brat chirped happily.

Snape glared at him. What did the wretch have to look so pleased about? Hadn’t he just lost several nights of free time and been harshly scolded? He’d been called a “moronic child”. He’d even been smacked!

So why was Potter eyeing him so thoughtfully? “What?” he demanded defensively. Did he expect another cuddle? Well if so, he was in for a long wait. Severus Snape, Death Eater and spy, did not cuddle disobedient, headstrong brats.

“I was just thinking about what to call you,” Harry explained guilelessly. “Outside of class, I mean. When it’s just the two of us.”

“What!” Snape squawked.

“Well, I don’t much want to call you Uncle Severus,” Harry explained, oblivious to the way Snape’s eyes bugged at his use of the appellation, “ ‘cause that reminds me too much of my Un – well, you know who. But I don’t really think I should call you Dad either.” Now Snape was truly incapable of speech. Only his certain, delicious knowledge that James Potter was spinning in his grave allowed him to remain conscious. “Hmm.” Harry thought a moment longer, then shrugged. “I’ll just have to keep thinking, I guess. Thanks, Pr’fessor! I’ll go meet Oliver and Professor McGonagall and as soon as I’m done I’ll come back so we can go to the Weasleys.” He paused then grinned impudently. “Guess I won’t be able to start on my lines until tomorrow.”

While Snape continued to fight for air, Harry headed to the door then, just before he reached it, he turned and darted back. The breath that Snape had nearly managed to regain was knocked out of him anew as Harry flew into him. “Thank you. I’m really sorry you had to smack me,” he mumbled, squeezing his professor as tight as he could. “And I’m really glad you’re my guardian.”

And then he was gone, sprinting through the door to the loud welcomes of the other Gryffindors, leaving behind a breathless and very, very pensive Snape.