A/N: After some thought, I decided to continue updating this story only on AO3. As I don't get many reviews here, and 's updating system is a bit time consuming, I thought it would be better to have all my stories in one place. If you disagree with this, or if you are going to stop reading this story if I stop updating here, please tell me so. That aside, I hope you like this chapter. Thank you all for liking the story so far.

Something was wrong. At first, Harry thought he was tired; so he left it aside for another day. Then he tried again, and it kept happening. Or rather, it kept not happening.

So today it was his third attempt. And he didn't react. At all. It was terrifying.

He threw the magazine aside and rubbed his forehead, staring at the ceiling and struggling to figure out what was happening. It wasn't but a few days ago that he could hardly wait to find some time to study closely these moving images. He had no second thoughts or guilt about his theft. And he did watch them, late at night, once Snape was asleep and couldn't annoy him anymore. Which was normal. And he felt excited. Normal.

But not entirely excited. Not normal.

His first assumption was that the issue was somehow spelled to destroy the reader's hormones. But when he masturbated again, the way he always did all these years, which was without porn, he responded just fine. So he hadn't been cursed.

He shot the magazine a dirty look and was suddenly reminded of all the alarming biological facts and scientific shite he had ever heard about this in his life. He snorted. Scientific. Maybe he was scientifically cursed.

Or perhaps he just wasn't used to porn, he thought with relief. Perhaps he needed to spend more time watching it to begin to like it.

He kicked on his bedclothes annoyed.

When Harry woke up in the morning, he felt something ugly tightening his chest. With his eyes still closed, he mentally searched for the identity of the sentiment, going over the day before, and the possible obligations he might have had forgotten. Then, he opened his eyes and jumped out of the bed panicked.

The Death Eater meeting. An invisible spider crawled up his neck and squeezed, the uneasiness forming a stinging bile in the back of his throat. He willed it away, deciding that choking on it was not going to be any helpful. It felt suspiciously like the pulsating soreness one had under his tongue before breaking down, and it hadn't occurred to him again since Sirius' death. The memory that came along with the familiar stress was something he'd prefer to never recall again.

He did certainly not worry about Snape; it was the strength of the house wards that unnerved him. If Snape was gone, Harry would be locked in here until someone discovered him. If ever. Waiting. Starving to death. Relieved by the logical explanation, he let himself panic again.

He dressed up quickly and opened the door to Snape's bedroom. It was empty. Making a mental note to go through it again later, he checked the clock. And slammed his hand on the wall angrily. Almost noon. How many hours had he slept? His mind couldn't have found a more inappropriate day to sleep off its troubles.

"Snape!"

He ran down the stairs, but the kitchen and the living room were empty too. Could he have left the house that early? He always thought that this kind of meetings occured under the cold moonlight. Perhaps at a dark hill or an alley somewhere. Or a graveyard. Harry clenched his fists at the image. It seemed that murderers could stand the daylight just as well, after all. The invisible spider that was determined to torture him hadn't disappeared from his body yet; it was now nesting somewhere near his heart. Certainly not into it. He was living with a murderer. Who was responsible for his parents' death.

Kicking the armchair stubbornly, he went back upstairs to take a shower and brush his teeth. After what seemed like hours, he ended up in the living room with a glass of water and some biscuits. Waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting.

Could Voldemort have killed Snape? He didn't have any reason to do so. He hoped. Not that Harry would be aware of any reason even if there was one. No one seemed to consider the possibility of actually sharing information with him. Memories of Voldemort raising his wand flashed and stretched in his mind. With his mood being so shaky, he doubted he could bring up Cedric's death again now and chew over it. Thinking about what had already happened wasn't going to help. He knew that. Reason wasn't enough to keep Sirius or Cedric out of his mind though and he had always been weak when it came to his emotions.

Dumbledore trusted Snape for a reason. If he wasn't capable of lying and pretending he wouldn't be a double agent. Unless he was being a double agent the other way around. Which would require the same abilities in lying and pretending. Harry fixed his jaw at his confusing worries. If Dumbledore trusted Snape, Harry didn't have any other option either.

And if Snape was killed, Harry would have to go back to the Dursleys. Back to being hungry and locked up. To being lonely and bored. And to being in a kind of danger Muggles couldn't comprehend. Restricted from using his magic even if it was to protect himself or his own relatives. Not good. Definitely not good.

Almost as bad as having to cope with Dudley again. A Dudley heavier and stupider than last year. And probably more violent too. Aunt Petunia wouldn't look with worry at Harry while eating breakfast after restless nights; wouldn't toss a book on his lap to distract him from being drowned into dreadful meditations. Wouldn't push and drag him around until he learned to protect himself properly. He shrugged stubbornly at his anger for being Snape who did all these instead of Sirius.

Sirius never had the chance.

Stop.

Harry didn't need any of these anyway. Going back to the Dursleys was going to be just as good. And he was worrying for no reason at all. "At all," he repeated through his teeth like a mantra.

Snape was a skillful wizard. He could take care of himself. If he had survived all these years he could survive during another simple meeting too. There. No problem. No worries. And even if Snape died, the Order would come for Harry anyway.

Perhaps he should contact Dumbledore. But if Snape was alright he'd be furious to know that Harry had made a fuss about it. Maybe he was having a crucial conversation with other Death Eaters or something. Maybe they were arguing and that was why he was late. Maybe they were plotting the new way to kill the Chosen One. Harry thought of going upstairs to take his wand just in case, when someone knocked at the door. Hard.

Snape had keys.

Harry approached the door carefully. "Who's there?" he asked, his voice croaky.

Whoever he was, he banged at the door again, harder. It was stupid to open the door to a stranger, and even more stupid to do so without his wand at hand. But Snape was late, and this couldn't be good, and maybe he was just lying at the other side of the door injured, unable to talk, and in need of immediate help.

It'd take less than thirty seconds to fetch his wand. And his fingers twitched in agreement.

His impulse decided against it.

Swallowing the foul bile on his throat, Harry opened.

It wasn't Snape. It wasn't anyone he knew, in fact. The man at the door looked down at him with a dangerous and yet quite unfocused look, and Harry thought that he looked rather drunk. There was a kind of people that passed by unnoticed, and Harry knew that well; people who walked in the streets, head bowed, hands in pockets, and no one bothered to throw a second look at them or remember them by the end of the day. Like wizards under the strongest glamour, that slipped and ran between unwitting muggles to reach their distant destination.

This man was the exact opposite. Harry thought he would have stopped to stare at him anywhere. Under any circumstances. And as much as Harry wanted to be the kind of person that inspired respect to strangers, as he looked up at the unreasonably disgusted glare peering at him, he felt like slowly cringing and shortening, as though an urge to apologize for being and therefore annoying this man had suddenly struck him.

It was a contradictory, because he didn't look wealthy or powerful. Quite the opposite, Harry had the suspiciousness that he was a muggle. A quite homeless muggle.

"Can I help?" asked Harry tentatively.

The man didn't respond. He looked at Harry from head to toe, as though trying to make out something. Harry shifted to his feet. Petunia would have had his head for mindlessly opening the door to beggars. It appeared that the man wasn't planning on finishing any time soon staring at him, so Harry kindly repeated his question.

The man responded drawly, and his voice was hoarse as though it hadn't been used for a while. "Yes. For a start, do not speak unless you are spoken to." He pushed Harry aside hard and rushed in the house.

"Hey!" shouted Harry, rubbing his shoulder with a hand. The man strode into the living room and Harry followed behind him furiously, watching him pulling random books from the bookcases and throwing them on the floor.

"What are you doing? Who are you? Get out of here!"

The man muttered something through his teeth and tossed aside the sofa's cushions. Harry stood still, not knowing what to do. He sometimes thought that this was why he was such a troublesome person; he didn't think. If he was just a little cleverer, half his problems would have never occurred. Then again, he had always been confident in his immaturity, and come to think of it, it never led him wrong.

"Are you deaf? I told you to get out!" he yelled again. He should hex him. But he didn't know if he was allowed to use magic while Snape wasn't home. And the last thing he wanted was to have to be interrogated by the Ministry of Magic for staying with Severus Snape, and even worse, for using magic while doing so.

The man swept over and slapped Harry across the face. It didn't hurt much, but Harry took a step back, startled.

"I will not take orders into my own house, boy! Who the hell are you?" the man said.

Harry's jaw dropped open, even as he held his burning cheek. His house? "Excuse me?"

"Where's Severus?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, studying closer the man's features. There was a feeling of disbelief coming over him, as though he weren't there at all. It was not the sort of shock with which he was used to come across lately, but something colder and much less intimate. Repulse, maybe. Or terror. Harry felt the blood draining from his face.

"You're his father."

"And who the hell are you?" the man repeated, walking past Harry to the armchair. Taking out of his pocket a penknife, he ripped apart the fabric and shoved his hand inside. He suddenly stopped his searching and looked up.

"You're not his son, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "He doesn't have children." And he really hoped Snape didn't. The thought alone would be tremendous. For a long time Harry watched, his palms flat on his sides, while his mind arrived and arrived at that place and time and that man pulling down Snape's house without minding or caring.

It seemed absurd that Harry was annoyed; he could clearly remember Dudley destroying his room out of jealousness several times and even Petunia putting old utensils and brooms in his cupboard. It always bothered him. It was a bit sad to witness someone's personal space being attacked without that person's knowledge. Like knowing one's disappointment before it even happened.

The man snorted. "When is he going to come back?"

It occurred to Harry that the man didn't want to be found here. Most likely he had been preparing his intrusion and knew that Snape wouldn't be here at that time. For some reason, it felt absurd that Snape had parents. He recalled again the memory of the man before him shouting at his wife, while Snape, much younger, was crouching away in the corner of a room. One of the first memories he had seen in Snape's mind. That must have happened in the room Harry was sleeping now, he reckoned.

"Soon! And he's going to be furious with you destroying his things! What do you want?" He'd be more furious with Harry, actually.

"Let him go fuck himself then, the ugly freak. This used to be my house, boy. My house! Bought it with my fucking money, to roof that whore of a mother that he had. And then one day, the fucking bastard threw me out, that's what he did! When he turned seventeen. Right out of nowhere. Now where's that damn thing, fuck…"

He was drunk. And he was destroying Snape's house. And Snape was going to kill Harry for letting him in.

At that precise moment, a hollow metallic sound was heard from the outdoor and Harry turned to see Snape unlocking. The door opened and Snape slowly stepped in, holding the black pile of his curled up cloak on his hand along with his wand.

He looked at Harry and was ready to say something, when the other Snape swore again and something like more books being thrown down was heard. Harry's blood ran cold as Snape narrowed his eyes at him, and Harry who gave him what he hoped to be an apologetic look.

It was in the space of a heartbeat that Harry came down to the conclusion that it'd be wiser of him to not talk. Letting his cloak fall down, Snape quickly strode over to where the sound had come from, his shoes barely audible against the floor. Harry went closer too, the numbness finally wearing off his legs. Snape stopped a few feet away from where the man was, and after a long moment he raised his wand.

"You," he breathed. "You dare… come here."

His father snapped into laughter. "You… son-of-a-cunt… you have some humour after all." He stood up from where he was kneeling and placed a hand upon his stomach.

Snape remained at his spot, his hand twitching dangerously around his wand. Harry could almost see a vein throbbing above his brow.

"You have been warned to never appear near this house again." Only now Snape seemed to realize the chaos around him, and he slowly rounded the table. "What have you done?"

"You have something that belongs to me. I had bought it for her, years ago. It's mine now, I want it back."

"You will not. Speak her name! Not after everything she's suffered because of you," hissed Snape.

His father laughed again. "I'm not here to go over the same bullshit again, Severus. There's a ring somewhere here. With a blue stone on the top. Do you remember it?"

Snape glared hard. "Yes. Although I highly doubt that it had ended up to your hands by legal means. You want it back."

The man nodded.

Snape nodded too.

They stared.

And stared.

Harry shifted again, fighting the urge to clear his throat.

After a long moment, Snape stormed over and grabbed the man by the shoulders. He pushed him against the wall with such savagery that the man gasped as his head was slammed back. Snape's fists clenched around his father's shirt collar and he almost pulled him up.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he talked. "Get out of my sight. Or I'll kill you."

Snape's grip relaxed, and the man huffed. Obviously realizing that he didn't stand a chance to take what he had come for, he seemed to consider his options. He scanned the room with his eyes for a last time, and after brushing something invisible off his shirt, he spat on the floor, his eyes locked on Snape's. He pushed once more past Harry, and slammed the door hard behind him. Harry didn't miss the mocking smile he gave him before he left.

Snape continued looking at the wall, as though his father would pop up out of it again. His wand was still at his hand, which was now hanging limp at his side. His eyes weren't blinking.

In the complete silence of the room, Harry's mind seemed to eventually awake. The new information attacked him all at once. Snape had thrown his father out of his own home when he was seventeen? Was his mother dead because of this man? Harry hadn't lived with loving relatives either, but he had never been forced to witness abuse against his mother, let alone while unable to stop it. He couldn't imagine how severely something like that would have affected him.

He suddenly decided that he should say something. Only, he didn't know what. Somehow there weren't words right enough to interrupt the moment, and even if they were, he doubted that Snape would want to hear them from him.

Harry was at last granted with a bizarre look, as though Snape realized for the first time that he had been in the room with them all along. He stared back, the usual defensive anger he had developed around Snape now absent from the pit of his stomach. Snape narrowed his eyes, as though trying to determine whether Harry pitied him or was just satisfying his curiosity.

He did neither. And only now he could breathe away the worry that had overwhelmed him earlier – the fear that something bad might have happened. Snape was alive. Harry almost grinned.

Snape didn't. Surprisingly uninterested in the ruined living room, he kicked the books on the floor dismissively and hurried upstairs. Harry folded his arms over his chest, sparing a moment to check if the opened books hid anything interesting inside. They didn't, and the simplicity of Snape's few belongings only made the situation more depressive. Snape's life was indeed messed up too, after all. And it also looked like they weren't going to practice Occlumency today either.

Thinking hard, Harry ran up and fetched his wand. While it would be unwise to annoy Snape at the moment, he decided to at least take care of the books. He spelled them back in place, and left on the table those who were ripped apart for later restoration.

He cast some spells at the sofa and the armchair too. Pushing the armchair back in place, he carefully took up the Death Eater cloak. It was a plain robe, much alike to every other robe Snape used to wear; black, made of thin silk fabric, and it had the characteristic scent of Snape on it. It slipped easily between his fingers, and its folds shone darker at some parts. His hands were sweating again. God knew what kind of things Snape had done while wearing this thing. He let it on the armchair folding it twice and he lied down on the sofa.

If that man was Snape's primary example of muggle people, it wasn't a wonder that he had turned out to befriend Death Eaters. Harry had never been abused badly, and had never let his own unhealthy environment get to him, but he had made uncle Vernon angry enough times to know exactly how scary a deranged grown up looked to a small child. And Snape's horrors seemed to have frozen him in time, back to something he could not change or make better anymore.

It was one thing to lose a mother when you are too young to even remember her, and another to watch her being abused. Harry bit his lip. He abruptly felt a bit bad for everything he had accused Snape of all these years. Despite his past, he had remained strong, risking his life in a way only people who deserved to be in the Order did. And although he had followed Voldemort in the past, somehow his choices had brought him to the other side, and only that did matter.

Snape hadn't surrendered. He was working in a ground where everyone distrusted him, where the students hated him and made jokes about him behind his back, and had to prove his loyalty to Dumbledore every day of his life. One's dignity could be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it could never be taken away unless it was surrendered.

Snape hadn't surrendered.

Against his better judgment, Harry silently climbed up the stairs and stood outside Snape's bedroom. Only, this wasn't just right. Running back to his room, he left his wand, took his school notebook and a pen, and returned. Now, that was better.

He knocked.