Harry watches Snape all day—what he does, how he moves. The man never stops moving! He grades, he brews, he checks that Harry's mouth isn't bothering him too much, he cleans. He interacts with the house unlike Sirius, who lives somewhere he doesn't take care of.
Every now and then, a look of something, resentment or loathing, crosses Snape's features and Harry thinks the man will take it out on him. He knows what it is, knows it intimately. Snape doesn't have anybody. Just like Harry didn't have anybody, but now he does. He groans as he rests his head onto the sofa's armrest. His whole face hurts worse than it used to, everything is a little loopy because of the drugs. Despite the pain and drugs, a small part of him thinks he's received a second Christmas present. Snape stepped up for him.
He takes a sip out of the water Snape left for him and almost cries when it drips out of his mouth and down his chin. While he might not mind feeling like a little boy whose daddy had to take him to the dentist, he does mind feeling like a stupid little boy. He tries the water again only to be left with the same result.
"Snape!" He calls. "Snaaape!"
"'S e plàigh a th' annad," Snape replies as he seats himself on the edge of the table in front of Harry.
Harry pouts—this is Snape's favorite phrase and he can't figure it out. "I'm a… I'm a plàigh? What does that mean?" His hand drifts to his cheek when no reply comes from Snape. "You're mean."
"Indeed."
Snape huffs as he retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket. The closer it comes to Harry's mouth, the further he moves from Snape. "No," he whines. "Wipe m'ow mouf." But Snape doesn't listen. In one movement, he draws the handkerchief across Harry's chin and all the spilt water is gone.
"There," Snape says softly, "Would you like some broth?"
Harry nods as he rests his head back against the sofa. His words don't want to make sense. It's the drugs…or Snape gave him a potion. No, his Snape is a good caretaker. He watches Snape putter around the kitchen, pulling things out of cabinets, putting things on the stove. He can't help but wonder if Sirius would be able to cook him something to eat after having his teeth done. Mrs. Weasley would probably have to do it—because that seems to be how things go. She does all the cooking, and a lot of the cleaning, and it's always Ginny that gets asked to help. Sexist, that's what it is. Sirius should do more.
He sways when he stands—what the hell could they possibly have given him?—and stumbles his way to the kitchen. "I'll help," he says as he pats the fridge, looking for the handle. Snape's hand closes around his shoulder and pushes him toward the table, but Harry manages to remain facing the fridge. "Wanna help!"
Snape pulls him with more force and drags him toward the table. "And I," he says as he settles Harry into a seat, "would like for you to stay still until that bloody laughing gas they gave you wears off."
"M'kay," Harry says as he rests his head on the table. He traces his finger over the patterns in the wood while listening to the man cook. Snape moves quietly on his feet—it's no small wonder that he sneaks up on his students so successfully. Harry knows, without looking, that Snape is cooking him something to eat and finishing the brew he's been working on. "D'you brew whiskey?" he asks.
"Whiskey gets distilled, a-ghlaoic."
Harry doesn't need to think about what a'dhl'eek means. "I'm not an idiot," he responds automatically.
Snape chuckles. "10 points to Gryffindor for a correct translation, then."
10 points to…during break when it doesn't count…not fair! Harry thinks to turn and tell Snape as much, but the most he manages is a pout. It was just a question. How would he know about whiskey and…stuff.
"Would you like to learn the word for whiskey?" Snape asks over the hissing of his potion coming to boil. "Uisge-beatha. Oosk-ah bea'ah."
"Uisge-beatha," Harry repeats. He looks up when a bowl of steaming-hot chicken broth is place in front of him. As he picks up the spoon, he prays that he'll be able to keep the broth from running down his chin. The last thing he needs is for Snape to wipe up his mess again.
Snape sits across from him with his own bowl of broth and a slice of buttered bread. It's not a lot to eat. For Harry it's only a good meal because he can't really eat. A grown man should have more. Snape eats like he's enjoying every bite, even though it's only broth. Harry should have noticed this before—how Snape eats every meal like he might never get another. It's the way Harry eats the first few days at Hogwarts after summer break. He knows Snape was beat a lot as a kid, but it hadn't dawned on him that Snape was probably also starved. Continuously, for years, if the way he still eats is anything to go by.
About half-way through his bowl, Snape sets his spoon down and focuses on Harry. "The phrase uisge-beatha means 'life water.' Whiskey, around here, is the water of life, so-to-speak. I find it to be rather amusing."
"Me too," Harry says with a grin. The broth that had just been in his mouth trickles down his chin and he smacks his napkin up to cover it. "Ugh!" A smirk adorns Snape's lips, but instead of saying something, he continues eating. "Tell a story?" Harry asks quietly. He doesn't know why he's dared to ask—it must be the special gas. Usually, he wouldn't dare ask for something like that. Usually, Snape wouldn't humor him.
"A story?" Snape asks between bites. "About your mother?"
Harry shakes his head no, even though he's terribly surprised Snape offered. "You," he says. "About you. It can be anything."
Snape seems to consider it while he finishes eating, but he looks unpleasant. The silence stretches on, though that's not abnormal at meal times. Snape likes to be left alone. Harry wonders what Snape will tell him—if it will be a happy story, or a tragic one. He'd be okay with either. If he were to go telling stories about his life, they'd be pretty dark, after all.
"I suppose," Snape begins. He flicks his hair over his shoulder twice before thinking better of it and tying it up. It looks better up. His face looks…softer with it up, less harsh. "I was about your age, yes. I spent the first two days of my Christmas break at the Black home in 1976. As you may know, the Blacks were a notoriously dark family. Your godfather no longer lived with them. Which worked out well as I was there to attend a dinner at the request of his younger brother, Regulus. Regulus was a year younger, but exceptionally bright. He had a passion for history."
There's a natural pause and already Harry has something big to think about. Sirius has a brother. Is headquarters safe if Sirius has a brother? Or could they be attacked?
"Regulus let me borrow his spare dress robes," Snape continues, "as mine were…inappropriate to the occasion to say the least. They weren't ratty, exactly. Many of the clothes I've passed along to you I had then. But the Blacks are a high society family. I was off in an alcove, avoiding people after a solid hour of socialization—soirees are not my thing—when I met the most interesting man. Tom Riddle."
This pause is clearly not natural and Harry wonders if Snape is waiting for permission to continue. Harry might be about to learn how his dad…professor became a Death Eater. Or it could just be an unrelated story. "And?"
Snape considers him a long moment before continuing. "He sought me out. My talent with potions was not appreciated, least of all by my head of house, but I had applied to start my mastery. We went to one of the drawing rooms for a chat and he told me he believed in me. He told me that someday I would be great and he'd be proud to see it."
He leans across the table and Harry mirrors to meet him at the center. "I cried," Snape whispers. "I was raised to believe that men do not cry and expected punishment, so I ran. I ran up to Regulus' room with tears streaming down my face, believing I would die of embarrassment. The Dark Lord found me sitting against the bedframe, drying my tears."
"Did he hurt you?" Harry asks, even though he knows he shouldn't interrupt.
"No," Snape says with snort. "He told me he'd built a place in the new order for half-bloods like us. That I could be the most respected and winningest potions master in Europe, if I could just trust his new order. He patted me on the head and told me to work hard. A few hours later, Regulus came up. He kissed me goodnight and said that he'd been highly honored for bringing me to meet his parents' master. That was the first time I kissed a boy, but I'd kissed your mother a few times before that."
Seemingly done, Snape leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. Harry has so many questions! Were the Blacks nice to him? Did he date Lily Evans? Did he date Regulus? Are he and Voldemort close? None of that is what he says though.
"Did you?" he asks. Snape scowls. "Did you become the best potions master in Europe?"
Snape raises an eyebrow. "Depends on who you ask."
Harry smiles. Next time someone asks about his parents, he can brag about Snape—the way everyone else brags. "I bet you are. I bet you're wasted at Hogwarts. You should write textbooks."
"What's to say I haven't?"
Harry shrugs and can't quite wipe the grin off his face. "Well can I read them?"
Snape raises the other eyebrow and looks sincerely shocked. "You…want to read what I've written? About potions?"
"About everything," Harry whispers. Snape doesn't say anything, just nods with his mouth slightly agape.
-:
Unlike most mornings, when he wakes he does not immediately get up. Instead, he studies his room. His room. Snape said so, while he was loopy. He has permission to put up a single poster, but he's not sure what it ought to be of. He doesn't know any bands and he should really be careful to only put up Muggle sports posters, but he has permission! The desk and bed table are almost level with his eyes and it's a little cramped. His trunk, Snape's trunk, fits snugly at the foot of the bed. This was Snape's space, but like everything else, the man's given it over without a second thought.
He's never thought he needed much to be happy. The Dursleys have never given him anything. Sirius gives him nice things, but only items he approves of. He'd trade his firebolt for this room any day. A book on his bedtable catches his attention and he reaches his finger out to trace it. It's a bible, courtesy of Eachann, his Seanair. His grandfather—that feels so incredible to say. He's even going to read it, from beginning to end.
The sounds of a potions explosion reverberates up the stairs and shakes his bed. Snape's not screaming in pain, just swearing some of the funny phrases that are in his old journal. "Bod an Donais!" Is the one he yells over and over. Harry knows it to mean Devil's Penis, which in and of itself is an exceptionally hilarious thing to say. He pulls on the shorts and jeans he wore yesterday and a clean shirt and sweater. On the walk downstairs, the idea to grow his hair out comes again—he's done looking like James Potter. It's done him no good. The Dursleys hate his messy hair; Snape can't stand his looks; his other professors think he looks messy; Sirius probably only loves him because he looks so much like James. He might not look like Snape with longer hair, but at least he'd look like something other than a clone.
It looks like the kitchen's been blown to bits and he almost laughs. Surely Snape was experimenting with something, but it looks like the sort of mess Neville might make. Snape leans against the fridge, face colored from the explosion, looking shocked. The sound Harry makes can only be described as a giggle. "Do you need help?" he asks.
Snape nods slowly and blinks at a disturbing frequency. Harry moves until he is right in front of the man and looks up at him. "Sir?" No response. "Dad?"
"I'm fine Heilyn," Snape snaps. He glares down at Harry for a minute before pushing off the fridge. "I merely underestimated the volatility of the reaction between the mugwort and asp scales." With the flick of his wand, the remnants of the potion are banished. After another flick, the majority of the damage is repaired. All that's left is the floor.
Harry bites his lip as he takes in the piles of goop that have to be cleaned by hand—it's not bad, he can probably have it done in an hour if he works hard. "I'll clean up," he offers. He goes around Snape and pulls the bucket out from under the sink. While it fills with water, he hums to keep his mind off being hungry. Today it will be hot cereal again, same as every day, and tea, but he's not complaining. Even if it is boring, Snape never forgets to feed him.
He wets a rag in the bucket and drops to his knees to scrub. The floor creaks a little as Snape walks on it, but he doesn't walk toward the stairs. He drops down next to Harry and soaks his own rag before joining him in cleaning. Harry wants to tell Snape to go shower—he needs one—but knows that he should just respect the man's authority instead.
They clean in silence, caring for this little place that Harry would dare say is their home.
