With a full stomach – and an extra cookie hidden away in the pocket of his overly large sweat pants - Harry found himself feeling better about life, and increasingly curious about his surroundings. He was in a living room, one much more casual than his aunt's, with dark brown leather furniture, warm tan walls, and battered old travel trunks used as coffee and end tables. There was a small desk in one corner, with a chair and a lamp, and several tall bookshelves. Don't touch the books, his father had told him. Some of them could hurt you. Why would books hurt you? But he'd long since learned that anything his father gave him behaved differently than anything he'd ever encounter otherwise. Presumably his father's own stuff was similar.

Still, he found himself heading over to the bookshelves to investigate, aware of the house-elf watching him and careful not to touch. There were many large tomes, with leather bindings and odd names like “Potions Compendium” and “501 Most Useful Spells,” but other than that they didn't look very interesting. Maybe they would've been, if he'd been allowed to touch them, but he wasn't, and he found himself vaguely disappointed.

He felt – itchy, he realized. Restless and bored, unable to settle down. It reminded him of how he felt when stuck inside the house with the Dursleys when Aunt Marge came to visit – not allowed to leave, but not allowed to really do anything, either.

He wanted his father, he realized. He didn't like being left all alone like this with the house-elf, even if there was food. When would his father return? He'd told Tilly to call him if Harry gave her any trouble, but he hadn't said when he'd be back otherwise. Well – an hour or so. Which could mean anything. Petunia said similar when she was closing him in his room for 'being in the way'.

He'd come into the room through the fireplace, he remembered. Curious, he left the books to instead go look up the chimney. There was no sign of any sort of opening, just ash-covered brick. The ash got on his hands, and he wiped some of it off on his shirt, frowning as he saw the streaks and the ash still left on his hands. Oh, well.

Was the only way out of the room through the chimney, though? But no, there was a door, stained dark brown to match the furniture. His father had left by it. Where were they? They'd gone flying through the fireplace, not just walked right through, so he didn't really think he was still in Little Wingeing. It didn't really look like an outside door, either.

Feeling oddly disoriented and still curious, Harry headed for the door, prepared to open it and look out, but Tilly finally spoke up.

“Master Snape is saying that Master Harry must not be going out,” she said.

“I won't,” Harry told her. “I just want to look.” Opening the door, Harry craned his neck around the doorway to look out, and gasped. Woah.

He was in...some kind of dungeon or something. All long corridor with stone walls and – woah, was that a suit of armor? Like knights had?

He hesitated. He wanted to go see. Father had told him to stay in the room, and Harry didn't know when he would come back. But maybe he could just look?

He edged a little around the door to see better, hearing the house-elf protest behind him. “Master Harry! Master Harry must be staying inside Master Snape's quarters! Master Snape said-”

But he wasn't out. Not really. He was still mostly in the doorway.

He'd just go see, and come right back, he decided. And then he'd go back in like the house-elf wanted and his father had said. Surely they couldn't be too upset, if he was out for ten seconds? And if Tilly did call his father...he couldn't make himself mind.

“Master Harry!” Tilly protested again. Harry was already halfway down the corridor, and barely heard her.

It was a suit of armor. It even had a shield, divided in four big sections of color with a different animal in each, and a gigantic sword.

“Good evening,” a woman's voice said above him. “I do not believe we've met. You are a bit young for Hogwarts, are you not?”

Startled, Harry looked up, and felt his eyes widen. The voice had come from a painting. A painting that moved and talked like a real person!

“You can talk?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Far better than you can, apparently,” the old woman in the painting told him frostily. “How rude.”

“Woah,” Harry breathed.

“Master Harry!” Tilly piped up behind him. She sounded upset, this time. “Master Harry is not to be out in the corridor! Master Harry is to be inside!”

“But the painting talks!” Harry told her. “And moves! Look!”

“Tilly is not caring about paintings. Tilly is caring about what Master Snape is telling Tilly. Master Harry is not to be in the corridor! Master Harry is to be inside Master Snape's quarters!”

But there was a talking painting. Surely she couldn't just expect him to leave now?

“Are you really a painting?” he asked the portrait.

The old woman sniffed. “Of course,” she said, sounding offended. “What else should I be?”

Harry frowned, not having an answer for her, but apparently she wasn't done. “To be specific, I am a portrait of the late Selena Slytherin, wife of Salazar and mother to Primus and Secundus Slytherin and Sabine Longbottom. Supreme Potions-Mistress of the British Isles and a teacher of Potions at Hogwarts for twenty-five-”

But Harry had just remembered what 'late' meant in this context. “Wait, you're dead?” he asked abruptly.

“You are interrupting, young man,” the painting told him sharply. “And I am a portrait. You could not have expected me to walk out of the painting?”

“I didn't expect you to move at all!” he told her. “Or talk! Even videos don't talk to you.”

Immediately, her expression tightened like she smelled something bad. “You are a muggleborn,” she said.

“Muggle-what?” Harry asked her.

“A muggleborn,” she repeated, glaring down at him with narrowed eyes and pinched lips. “A mudblood. What is the school coming to, to allow muggleborns in? And then to allow them into my corridor! And without supervision! For shame! Selena and Salazar would've never allowed such a thing!”

She sounded like Aunt Petunia, Harry realized. Harry wasn't sure what to say to her, and Tilly spoke up again shrilly before he got a chance to try. “Master Harry is to be going back inside!” she demanded. “Master Snape is not being happy if Master Harry is not inside when he is getting back.”

“Too late.” The voice came from a short distance behind them, the words drawn out before ending sharply on the over-enunciated 't'.

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and turned around so fast he stumbled. “Father!” he said in surprise.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Severus walked the rest of the way down the corridor to stare down at his son and his elf, and felt his heart-rate slow as his panic eased. His evidently completely incompetent house-elf and his very disobedient son, side by side. The two of them were looking up at him with nearly identical panicked expressions.

Merlin, he was tired, though. Albus had put him through the ringer, then unexpectedly released him back to his chambers. He'd come back through his floo, expecting to see his son, only to find his living room empty, the leftover dishes from his dinner the only evidence that the boy had been there at all. He'd swiftly gone to check the other rooms, anxiety growing quickly, before heading out his front door.

And here they both were, right next to Selena's portrait only twenty feet down the corridor from his door. And now looking up at him like he was the problem, here. Snarling, he sent a spell to build temporary walls blocking both sides of the corridor around them from sight and physical breach before concentrating down on his house elf and his son.

“Master Snape!” Tilly told him now, eyes wide in evident panic. “Tilly is being very sorry, Master Snape, sir! Tilly is telling Master Harry to come inside. Is saying over and over, Master Snape, sir! Master Harry is not listening to Tilly!”

“Did I not tell you to come find me if he gave you trouble?” he asked the elf impatiently.

Tilly bit her lip briefly, but spoke up to explain. “Tilly is being sorry, Master Snape, sir!” she said. “It is only being a few minutes, and Master Snape is needing to meet with the Headmaster! Tilly is not wanting to interrupt important meeting-”

Severus blinked. Tilly had disobeyed a direct order? On purpose? He'd not known that was even possible.

“You mean to tell me that you chose not to come find me, Tilly?” he asked her in disbelief.

Tilly's eyes widened. “T-tilly is not – Tilly is thinking-” abruptly, Tilly clapped both hands to her face in horror. “Tilly is disobeying!” she said. “Tilly is disobeying Master Snape!”

“You disobeyed me,” Severus said, voice soft with shock. “Deliberately.”

Eyes very wide, Tilly looked at him and took her hands from her face to instead grip her ears in sharp little fingers, digging her nails deeply into the cartilage.

Damnit. Could today get much worse? “Stop that,” he told her sharply.

Tilly paused, looking at him doubtfully, but her hands hands opened, and finally came down, revealing tiny points of blood where they'd been.

But now Severus really was getting angry. “When have I ever told you to punish yourself, Tilly?” he asked her sharply.

Her eyes were wide. “N-never, Master Severus, but Tilly is-”

“Never,” Severus interrupted her. “Not. Ever. Have you ever even thought doing so would please me?”

Tilly was stiff and wide-eyed, her mouth hanging just a bit open like she wanted to protest, or explain. Instead, she said only, “N-no, Master.”

“So what possessed you to try it now?” Severus asked her. His frustration finally broke his control, and the sentence rang out loud in the echoing corridor.

Tilly looked up at him for a moment, her eyes huge with distress, before bursting loudly into tears. “Tilly is disobeying, Master Snape!” Tilly exclaimed, her voice loud and high in her distress. “Tilly is being a bad elf! Tilly is not knowing how to fix it, Master Severus, sir! Tilly is being very sorry! Please do not be giving Tilly clothes!”

The thought hadn't occurred to him, actually, but now that she mentioned it...a disobedient house-elf? He'd never heard of such a thing. And it wasn't something he could afford to tolerate, either.

He could not keep her if she would disobey him, especially now that Harry's safety might depend on her discretion.

But – Tilly is not knowing how to fix it. The sentiment was too familiar for comfort. And a house-elf's normal response to displeasing her master or mistress was to either accept punishment, or punish herself. He wouldn't have that, either.

“You will not be given clothes, Tilly,” Severus told her, “but I am very displeased. You do not disobey me. You do not punish yourself. I cannot have an elf who will disobey my orders, and I will not have one harming herself to please me. This is the very last time this happens.”

And now for the worst part. He met Tilly's eyes and kept her gaze. “You will go down to the kitchen and tell Wrigley that I require a different elf for the evening. You may return to my quarters at eight AM for breakfast.”

Tilly froze, her hands still clasped in front of her and her mouth slightly open as she stared up at him in abject horror.

But his patience was at an all-time low. “Go, Tilly,” he told her.

“Y-yes, Master Snape, sir,” she told him, the words coming out choked. She apparated out with a sob.

Severus grimaced, fighting guilt at the harshness of his tone. The elf would be miserable enough without him snapping at her. She was in absolute disgrace, and the other elves would realize it. The fact that she wasn't allowed to serve him would be even worse. Elves quite literally lived to serve.

But elves were resilient creatures. He'd make sure to give the elf extra tasks tomorrow and she'd perk right up. And hopefully that would be the last of the self-punishment.

And now for Harry, which was going to be about as much fun. This was not how he'd wanted to introduce the boy to this place, to magic, or especially to house-elves.

The boy had been watching his interaction with Tilly, eyes very wide, and now that Severus' attention was on him he was trying to disappear in the middle of the dungeon corridor. He'd even gone a little transparent, again, and he was...cringing, no doubt from how sharply Severus had spoken to Tilly. Lovely. The very last thing he wanted was to give Harry new reasons to fear him.

But the sight of him eased Severus' temper, some. Oddly enough, even when Harry was the object of his anger, just the boy's presence seemed to make it easier to control himself.

“Oh good,” Selena's portrait piped up. “At least somebody understands propriety around here. Professor Snape, that boy is a muggleborn. What is he doing in my corridor?”

Hmm. He was having a truly terrible day. Surely Albus wouldn't blame him for a little harmless arson?

Unfortunately, though, while Albus might not, somebody certainly would. He'd heard Argus Filch having long chats with the woman, who for some indiscernible reason was kinder to him than anyone else she spoke to. It wouldn't do to burn holes in the man's only friend.

“That is not your business,” he told the portrait instead. “Isn't it time you paid a visit to your relatives in Hufflepuff?” He gave Selena a deliberately mocking sneer, and the woman flounced off, all offended dignity.

He needed a little time, if he wasn't going to snarl at his son the same way. Reaching down, he took Harry's wrist, hesitating just before grabbing it to ensure it wasn't the bruised one. Just the reminder did a lot to calm his temper. The boy's day had been at least as bad as Severus'. And it's about to get worse, he thought grimly. He was not pleased with his son.

“Come, Harry,” he said. He moved the temporary walls to block Selena's portrait on his way out.

(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)(HPSS)

Harry followed his father anxiously, hyperaware of the man's gentle grip on his wrist. Nobody else ever grabbed onto him that way. Teachers generally told you where to go, or at least they did when you were as old as Harry. They didn't touch. Petunia and Vernon only ever touched him in order to push or grab. Or...like his aunt, that morning.

His father was mad, too. Maybe even as mad as Petunia had been. But his grip was gentle.

He'd only been gone an hour, Harry realized. Hardly long enough for Harry to get dinner...and cookies.

He really, really didn't want his father to be mad. Oh, what had he been thinking? How had he dared to disobey his father, here? And Tilly – Freedom is not being important to house-elves, she'd said. But he'd thought she was a grown-up, and yet she cried worse than Harry did when his father was angry.

“F-father?” he said hesitantly.

“Shh,” his father said sharply. But his hand on Harry's wrist was still gentle, and Harry had seen the care he'd taken not to grab the wrong one.

This was – awful. He wished he could just go back in time. He'd just wanted to see the armor, and then the stupid painting lady had gotten him all distracted and now Father was mad and Harry couldn't fix it.

Father hadn't punished him for standing on the monkey bars, Harry realized guiltily. He'd been upset about Harry's wrist, and he'd brought him here, even though he didn't really want him. The least Harry could do was be a good son. What if he was too much trouble, and the man changed his mind?

“I'm sorry,” he told his father, looking up at his stern profile. The man turned his head briefly towards him at the words before looking where they were going again.

“Wait until we're inside,” he said. But his tone was reassuring – serious, but not nearly as harsh as when he'd talked to Tilly and to the painting lady.

“Wh-what are you gonna do?” he asked.

“Inside,” his father repeated.

Harry felt his stomach twist. He was a terrible son. The Dursleys hadn't wanted him, either. What if his father changed his mind? Would he ever even visit him again?