Snape let him go flying again. This time, though, the sky was stormy and black, and thunder was rumbling off in the distance.

"I don't think you should go, Harry," Snape said, though he held out Harry's Firebolt.

Harry wanted to go. Badly. Up in the sky was where he felt safe. And Snape wasn't stopping him. "I'll be fine," he promised.

"Don't fly into the Whomping Willow," Snape admonished, his face crumpled with worry.

Harry didn't like the way Snape looked. He was never worried on the outside. Though now Harry realized that he was probably worried on the inside an awful lot of the time. "I won't," he reassured the man. "That was just because we didn't know how to fly the Ford Anglia that one time. I know how to fly a Firebolt."

Snape nodded, but he didn't look convinced.

Harry took off, and he felt the wind rush past him again as he ascended up and up and up. But suddenly the air started to grow cold, and he caught a flash of black at the edge of his vision.

Dementors! There was only one at first, hovering just at the edge of his vision, but then he chanced a look down, and there were hundreds, their black forms like ragged sheets in the wind ascending toward him. The cold was growing, and suddenly Harry was sure that he would pass out just as he had in his third year, and would plummet to the ground.

The ring, though! Snape had given him the ring, but what was the word to make the Portkey work? Something about a spy he wasn't supposed to kiss—no, a creature he wouldn't want to kiss….

"Spider!" he cried, but remembered too late that the key word was something in Latin, and that spider had been the answer to the Sphinx's riddle in the maze. But there was a hook behind his bellybutton, and suddenly he was spinning away, his stomach roiling, before he landed hard on cold, damp earth, and turned to find Cedric beside him, struggling to find his feet.

"Cedric, look out!" he tried to warn the other boy, because he remembered what came next, but it was too late.

As Cedric turned, a flash of green light slammed into him and he crumpled back to the ground, limp, eyes glassy and lifeless.

"Help!" Harry cried, feeling for his ring with his thumb and finding nothing. Where was Snape? Snape was supposed to come for him, right?

Snape did not come, though, and Wormtail grabbed him and pinned him against the grave again before cutting his arm open and collecting his blood in a goblet. Harry watched as Wormtail made his way back over to the empty cauldron he'd stood up beside the other grave, and suddenly Snape was there, stirring the black pot with a long, wooden spoon.

"Snape!" Harry cried. "Sir, please, help me!"

Snape glanced up at him, lips wrinkled in disgust. "I requested we be finished with the honorifics, Potter. You can't follow even the simplest of directions." Snape took the cup of Harry's blood from Wormtail and dumped it into the cauldron.

"Severus," Harry tried, but that was even worse.

"You dare call me by my given name?" Snape hissed, whipping out his wand. "Silencio!"

The spell washed over Harry, and suddenly he could no longer speak or scream. He struggled against the stone arms of the graveyard angel that held him in place, but he could not escape, only watch as Snape finished the potion to resurrect Voldemort. He added the bone of Tom Riddle Senior, and then Wormtail's hand. The cauldron began to smoke furiously.

And then Snape was stepping back and bowing, and Voldemort was rising up from within the cauldron, his bone-bleached wand raised against Harry, a smile stretched over his alien face.

"Harry Potter," he hissed. "You won't escape me this time. Crucio!"

Harry's bones turned molten. He cried out, twisting hard as he tried to escape the awful, unbearable pain, but there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but endure. He tried to scream for Snape, but he was still Silenced and nothing came out past his lips but grunts and screams of agony.

When it finally ended, Voldemort commanded, "Wormtail, check on him."

But it was Snape who appeared at Harry's side, whispering in Harry's ear. "Foolish boy, you were supposed to tell me if you were hurt!"

Harry tried to reply that he'd meant to, but his voice was still gone.

Snape moved back from him and declared, "He's worthless. He cannot follow even simple instructions."

"Very well," Voldemort sighed, his tone bored. "Avada kedavra!"

Green light washed over Harry. And he woke with a start.

Sweating, shaking, tangled up in the sheets and blankets in his bed in Snape's home. It took him several minutes to calm his racing heart, to ground himself back in reality. He'd not gone back to the graveyard. Snape had not turned against him. He was safe.

He turned his attention to Hedwig, only to find that she was gone. Of course. Out hunting, likely.

He couldn't go back to sleep. Not yet. Rubbing his hands over his arms, Harry extracted himself from his blankets and snatched up his dressing gown from where he'd left it, slung over his trunk at the foot of his bed, then toed along the floor until he found his slippers.

He was allowed to be up. Snape had said that. Snape had also threatened Harry to not go creeping about in the middle of the night, but that had been before the Veritaserum debacle, so Harry figured Snape had changed his mind. And if not… well, the professor wouldn't punish him, likely, just send him back to bed.

So Harry carefully made his way downstairs, robe wrapped tightly around him. He passed through the dark sitting room and into the kitchen, where he flipped the lights on and slumped down in one of the chairs at the table. He had no idea what to do to make himself feel better. Maybe he should find a book….

Harry heard the telltale creak of a floorboard somewhere off in the house, and it was then that instinct kicked in. He was up on his feet in seconds, dousing the lights and pressing himself into the corner of the room behind the fridge, the same place he'd hidden before. He didn't quite know why. Years of living with the Dursleys, he figured, where he'd only been up in the middle of the night in the kitchen to nick food.

Moments later, Snape eased into the kitchen, wand illuminated before him. This time he moved straight to the place where Harry had pressed himself against the wall, almost as if he'd been drawn there magnetically.

Harry braced himself for a scathing remark.

Snape lowered his wand with a slight flick, extinguishing his Lumos but turning on the electric lights in the kitchen. His face, Harry noted, was lined with exhaustion and unhappy creases, but no anger, no irritation.

"A nightmare?" he guessed quietly, stepping back and angling himself so that Harry was no longer trapped in the corner.

Feeling ridiculous, Harry stepped out of the corner toward the kitchen table. "Sort of."

Snape arched a skeptical brow at him.

Bowing his head a bit more, Harry admitted, "Okay, yeah. A nightmare."

"Any pain in your scar?" Snape asked idly, making his way over to the stove to grab the kettle.

"No…."

Snape started to fill the kettle up from the sink. "Sit."

Harry clenched his fists, half in anger and half in anxiety. "I really don't want to talk about it—"

"And I won't force you to do so." Snape tapped his wand against the kettle, and instantly it began to whistle as steam poured out. He moved to the cabinet and retrieved two mugs, then to another cabinet and began pulling down tin after battered tin. "However, you aren't likely to go back to bed anytime soon. So rather than sitting somewhere alone and brooding, you can share a cup of tea with me. Does that sound reasonable?"

Harry couldn't think of a good enough reason to say no. He settled in at the table, forcing his hands down into his lap. But he found that he was too fidgety to remain like that, so he lifted a hand to brush a finger gently over the gouged, weathered wood of the table's edge.

Snape continued to hover over at the kitchen counter, measuring out pinches of all of the various tins and adding them to each cup in a flurry of motion.

"Don't you have tea bags?" Harry thought to ask.

"Yes, but this is a special blend for sleep." Snape poured water into both of the mugs and carried both over to the table, placing one before Harry.

A sweet, subtle scent hit Harry's nose—orange and pine and lavender, all seamlessly blended together. Instantaneously, he felt his muscles start to relax. He wrapped a hand around the ceramic, sighing a little to himself as the warmth started to seep into his digits.

"It's like magic," he mumbled before blowing across the surface and taking a small sip.

"It is, in its own way," Snape informed him, sipping from his own cup. "It's a potion master's brew, infused with a very subtle amount of magic. Preparing a cup is a delicate art, and the tea itself must be drunk right away or it loses its potency."

Harry could believe Snape, given the pleasant, soothing warmth that was beginning to unfurl through his veins. It was like a Calming Draught, but better in that it did not feel like an undertow dragging him down.

"Your mother taught me to make it."

That snapped Harry out of his gentle reverie. "My mother? You knew my mother?"

Snape was not looking at him. He was tracing a long, pale finger along the rim of his mug, passing over and over the slightly chipped place opposite of the handle. "Yes. Since we were children. She and your aunt grew up not far from here."

"Here?" Harry echoed numbly. In this awful little factory town? Did that mean… was this house where Snape had grown up?

"A few blocks over. The area is much nicer than Spinner's End," he assured Harry, as if he could read Harry's thoughts. "I will take you to see your grandparents' house sometime, should you wish."

"Yeah." Harry took another gulp of his tea before replying, "I'd like that."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a time, each of them sipping at the tea. Harry could feel its effects building cumulatively in him, layering over one another and warding off the chill that had rooted in him during the nightmare. Perhaps, too, it was helpful to have Snape sitting across from him, a picture so completely opposite to the dream version who'd resurrected Voldemort in a cauldron.

"Were you friends with my mum?" Harry asked after a while, stealing a glance up at the potions master.

Snape paused with his mug at his lips, a pensive look stealing over his features. "For a time," he answered evasively, and Harry figured that there was some complicated history there that was best left alone for the time being.

They finished their tea, Harry's limbs and eyelids growing heavier with every sip, until finally he began to doze, awakened only when his head, drooping toward the table, banged lightly against the surface and startled him back awake.

"Time to return to your bed, I believe," Snape announced, collecting Harry's empty mug. "Can you make it up the stairs?"

Harry opened his mouth to say he could, but in all honesty he was unsure. The marvelous tea had swept away all his fears and uncertainties, and left him in a pleasant, hazy fog. Part of him thought that he could just curl up on the floor here and be perfectly content for the rest of the night.

"Dunno. Probably not."

Snape snorted lightly. "A half cup for you next time."

And then the professor was at his elbow, helping him to his feet. The pressure was strong, firm, a solid presence that Harry inherently felt he could lean into should he need to. Harry stood as best he could, and tried to start the journey on his own, but eventually found that it was far easier to allow himself to be guided through the sitting room, up the stairs, into the bedroom, and up onto the bed. Harry crawled onto the mattress and fumbled around for his sheets and quilt, only to find them settling over him of their own accord. He had the mental presence still to pull off his glasses, but not the stamina to place them much further than on the pillow right next to his face, where his hand fell.

But they disappeared too, which was nice, because it made it much easier to nestle down into the softness of the mattress, and to lay his head just right against the pillow. He felt a slight movement, then a coldness at his feet—oh, the slippers. He hadn't kicked them off.

"Thanks," Harry mumbled, though he couldn't remember quite who he was thanking. Someone or something was taking care of the things he was too tired to do, though, and that had never happened before. It was nice, he thought.

"Go to sleep, ridiculous boy."

A layer of warm, shimmery magic wrapped over him. Harry could feel the webbing of the spell—light, subtle, but complete, like a blanket falling over him. "Nice," he murmured. He felt safer somehow.

"If your sleep is disturbed again, I will be alerted."

Harry didn't think his sleep would be disturbed. He would fall into it easily and stay there for a long, long time. Maybe forever. "'Kay," he slurred.

"Pleasant dreams, Harry," the Someone murmured.

If Harry could have summoned even an ounce of reserve energy, his lips would have twitched into an idiotic grin. No one had wished him pleasant dreams before. Or maybe they had, but he had the niggling sense that this time it was different. More meaningful, though he couldn't quite remember how.

XXXXX

Harry decided that he would never look Snape in the eye again. Simple in theory, difficult in practice.

But hell, the man had put him to bed like a toddler the night before. How ridiculous did he find Harry now? Utterly, probably. Pity had likely transformed into scorn. God, he wasn't ready to deal with Snape's attitude, he really wasn't.

Despite his resolution to truly avoid Snape from now on, he knew that remaining upstairs for the whole morning would not end well for him. He could likely snatch his breakfast and run back up the stairs, but Snape wouldn't like that either, and would probably follow him to interrogate him. And Harry didn't need that now.

It was nearly nine by the time he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Snape sat as he did every morning behind an unfurled copy of the Prophet, mug within easy reach of his left hand. The paper dipped when Harry tried to slide over to the counter without being noticed.

"Good morning," he greeted Harry, neutrally as ever. "I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, keeping his eyes on the pan of bacon. "I—"

"What am I going to tell you, Mr. Potter?"

Harry flinched at the slight harshness underlying those words. "Two servings this morning?" he guessed.

Snape just stared. Harry knew because he could feel the man's eyes on him.

Harry sucked in a breath, then turned, though he couldn't bring himself to meet Snape's eyes. "I don't think I can do three, if that's what you want. And besides, I've always had an—er, what's it called, a high metabolism, so—"

"What have I requested for the last day, Harry?" Snape demanded, laying special emphasis on Harry's name.

"Oh." Harry laced a hand into his loose t-shirt and twisted it a bit. "Sorry. It's… it's a habit."

"And one must invest effort in order to break habits." Snape set his paper aside and stood, sweeping over to take Harry's place in front of the stove. He piled a plate high with double servings of the bacon, eggs, and potatoes that had been laid out before shoving the plate at Harry. "High metabolism or no, you are unhealthily underweight. Oh, do stop blushing, Potter. You're ill-suited to it."

"It's going to be hard to stop calling you 'sir' if you keep calling me 'Potter', you know," Harry bit out, and immediately regretted letting his temper get the better of him.

Oddly, though, something like approval flashed in Snape's eyes. "I only call you Potter when you are being foolish, since it is in those moments that you remind me most of Potter Senior."

"No, you call me Potter all the time—"

"Precisely."

Well. He'd walked into that one. "Well, I only call you sir when you're being unbearable—"

"Not true," Snape dismissed him, easing back into his seat at the table. Harry followed him with his overladen plate. Snape did not take his paper back up, though; his eyes remained riveted to Harry. "Your verbal habits are very telling. And very disappointing."

Harry tried to pretend he didn't care one bit what Snape meant by that. He couldn't be baited.

He managed to shovel down two bites of eggs before he caved. "Disappointing how? Let me guess, my vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired?"

"You have room for growth in that area, undoubtedly. But that is not what I meant. With you, it seems overly respectful language denotes insecurity—"

"It does not! I—"

"Mm, and vehement denials of this sort are fine confirmation." Snape took up his mug and sipped delicately from it before adding, almost offhandedly, "I suppose the disappointment mostly arises because I thought we'd broken past some of this nonsense last night."

Last night. Harry didn't want to talk about last night. "You drugged me or something—"

"No," Snape countered gravely, no trace of levity in his expression. "A tea such as that requires the witch or wizard to embrace what is offered. It does not carry the same power to wipe away one's faculties and inner resistance as a potion of the same class. You relaxed. You were at ease in my presence. And now you've reverted."

"I made a fool of myself," Harry muttered, twisting his head away. "You can't tell me you want me—"

"Unafraid? Unhidden behind some carefully constructed mask of politeness and deference? Yes, Mr. Potter, I greatly prefer that."

"I was just tired," Harry insisted. "And you can't tell me you want me to be rude—"

"I want you to stop tiptoeing!" Snape cut him off, settling his mug back onto the table with a dull thud. "Every time I feel like we've taken a step forward, you insist on proving to me that we have not, that we have actually taken one backward. Yesterday afternoon you felt at liberty to speak your mind. Today you can scarcely stand to be in the same room with me."

"Because you—" Harry started, but immediately clammed up.

"Because I… what?" Snape prompted, his dark eyes intent and unrelenting.

"Nothing—"

"I swear, Potter, if you insist on lying to me—"

"I'm not lying!" Harry cried, jumping up in agitation. "I'm just… look, I know what I was like last night, okay? It was pathetic, and I'm not going to let myself be that bad again—"

"You know nothing if you think 'pathetic' in anyway describes your conduct," Snape fired back, rising to his feet as well.

"Right, well, I don't know words worse than 'pathetic', but I'm sure you do, so lay them on me—"

"How about 'human'?" Snape pressed, grabbing Harry firmly by the upper arm and fastening him into place. "'Young', perhaps? Or not as old as you've been trying to be? 'Vulnerable'?"

Harry tried to shrug out of Snape's grip. "It was just a stupid nightmare—"

"I refuse to believe that your nightmares are anything of the garden variety." Snape's grip tightened slightly, a reassuring squeeze, and that simple pressure was as effective as a spell, sapping the fight out of Harry. He stopped trying to twist away. "You are allowed to lean on others, Harry."

Others. That was the word that undid him again, the word that had him twisting once more against the hand on his arm. "Except no one is ever there to lean on, are they?"

Snape just stared at him, his expression somehow conveying all that needed to be conveyed. I was there last night. "I am here now," he told Harry solemnly.

Harry let loose a strangled half-laugh. "Until the end of the summer—"

"You imagine my commitment will dissolve then?"

It would. He knew it would. This was temporary. Everything was always temporary.

Snape seemed to read that belief in him. "It will not." But he let Harry go at that, as if he knew how pointless it was to make that argument. "No more sirs."

"Why?" Harry demanded, before he could stop the question from slipping past his lips, and he did not know what exactly he meant by it.

"Because I am not your uncle. I am not Lupin, I am not your idiot godfather, and I am most certainly not the headmaster. You can be damned sure that when I say I will see you through this, there is nothing empty or sentimental about it." Snape stepped in closer, bowing down slightly so that he was uncomfortably close, his face just inches from Harry's. "And I am tired of you hiding behind empty, placating, stilted formality, as if doing so will keep me from becoming invested in you. It will not." Snape stepped back at last.

Harry, having held himself utterly paralyzed being so close to Snape, at last inhaled in a deep breath. "I just… I'm more comfortable calling you Professor and sir."

"Because you are afraid of me, and I will not have that. You will—"

"No, no," Harry insisted, and when Snape's brow furrowed deeper, he added, "Only a little, I swear. Just sometimes, because you… I don't know. You seem like the type to poison people in their sleep and bury their bodies in your backyard."

Snape's lip curled in a snarl, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Harry beat him to it.

"That's not it either, exactly. It's more… you're not the, uh… the patient and understanding type. And we have a history, okay? So it's really only natural that I'm still a little wary. The titles… look, I respect you, okay—"

"Titles do not prove that to me."

"No." Harry slumped back into his seat, chewing his lip as he tried to reason this out to Snape. "But it feels disrespectful for me to call you anything else. And…" Boy, this was hard to admit. He hadn't even realized this much until he'd been forced to think on it. "Look, I know you probably won't believe this, because I scarcely believe it myself, but I do respect you. You've… helped. A lot."

"I've harmed a great deal as well," Snape countered quietly, sinking back into his own chair.

Harry shrugged lightly, even though his heart fluttered a little at hearing the fierce self-condemnation in those words. He wouldn't buy too much into Snape's guilt, of course, because he doubted it would last. But for now… it felt nice to believe that Snape was not pleased that he'd hurt Harry.

"Before I'd only call you 'sir' or 'Professor' when someone was making me. Usually you. But now… it's because I want to be respectful, because it feels right. It's not because I want to disobey you, or keep you happy so you won't wale on me."

Snape just stared at him skeptically, as if Harry were interspersing nonsense words into his sentences. "You believe it is more respectful to continually ignore my requests and admonitions regarding my preferred mode of address?"

Harry didn't have a good response to that. So he switched tracks instead. "I'm your student. It's not really appropriate—"

"You are my ward," Snape cut him off calmly, his voice ringing with steel.

"Just for now—"

Snape's derisive scoff startled him. "Very well, do what you will. Hide in your room. Refuse my help. Keep yourself well away from me. I will cease wasting my breath attempting to convince you that it is ludicrous for you to do so, and that you will only be harming yourself—"

"You're going to change your mind!" Harry burst out. "They always do! You don't even like me that much. I thought the Weasleys or Lupin or Sirius, or even Dumbledore… they did like me, and it didn't matter one bit, because as soon as they decided I'd done something unforgivable I turned into some misbehaving brat to them. And guess what? I'm not perfect. Sooner or later I'll do something to royally piss you off, and then I'll be that loathsome idiot Potter again. And I just… I'd rather not forget that."

Harry desperately wished he could run out then. But the Sticking Charm was in full effect, so he simply ducked his head down and started shoveling food into his mouth, wondering how long it would take him to wolf it down. Hopefully not too long.

Snape did not respond at first. Maybe, Harry decided as he scarfed down his eggs, the man had finally seen sense. Maybe he would acquiesce, and they could stop this stupid charade. They got along well enough anyway, and Harry didn't see the need to jeopardize that at all. He'd meant what he said; he actually wanted to be respectful to Snape. The man had been very decent to him of late.

Snape finally did lightly clear his throat, and he waited until Harry had tentatively raised his eyes before continuing. "I am rather fond of you, actually," Snape countered quietly, in one of his most restrained tones.

And it was at that point that Harry started choking on his bacon. He thumped a fist against his chest a few times, desperately trying to clear his airway, but even then only managed to expel spittle and a few bacon crumbs.

Snape, of course, drew his wand and waved it in one deft arc, muttering an incantation that Harry could not make out, and immediately Harry felt the obstruction in his throat vanish, though he continued to cough for a few moments before Snape pushed his juice closer to him.

Harry gratefully quaffed it, desperate for a distraction. He'd misheard Snape, he decided. Or misunderstood. Or something.

"Perhaps you should cease eating until we have finished this discussion," Snape suggested dryly. "I would hate to have you suffocate in my dining room."

"I'll finish it for us," Harry muttered. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about. You're confusing pity for fondness. And it's fine because I don't care about either, and we can get along fine without being all chummy. There, conversation finished." Harry picked up his fork again, only to find it stuck to the table. He cast an irritated glare up at Snape. "What is your issue?"

Snape ignored him. "You are a remarkable boy. Driven, courageous, resilient. There is nothing in those traits to pity. I admire you, Harry, for the way you have handled difficult circumstances—"

"No, you don't, because I've annoyed the piss out of you! Don't try to lie about it, or make it sound like you think I walk on water now. I've been trying to stay out of your way, so of course you've forgotten how much you hate me—"

"I do not hate you," Snape cut in impatiently. "As I have said—"

"How intolerable you find me," Harry corrected himself.

"I do not find you intolerable. And even if you were to… ah, annoy me, which I can assure you, you have already, on many occasions, even then… that will not change my mind. I understand now what I was too blind to see before—"

"But I'll do something," Harry insisted, his throat suddenly tightening again. "I'll do something unforgivable, and you'll go back—"

"Potter, I doubt you are capable of doing something 'unforgivable', for one. And for another thing, you are under the false impression that every other adult in your life turned their backs on you when they heard that you had committed some sort of crime—"

"They did!" Harry cried. "You should have seen what they wrote to me! They thought I was just awful, and then—"

"I did see," Snape admitted quietly, his lips pursed. "And I do not mean to excuse their reactions by any means. Nor do I wish to see you distort them into something they are not."

Harry snorted. He really wasn't surprised that Snape had read his letters, and he found that he did not actually care all that much that the man had. "What are they not, then? Because it seems to me that they're all a pretty clear reprimand of me. I've never done something that awful—"

"Molly Weasley has raised how many boys, Harry?"

Harry stared. And then counted in his head. "Um, six. Counting Ron."

"And how many of those boys, do you imagine, got themselves into considerable trouble during their teenaged years?"

Well, Fred and George for sure. Not Percy. But Bill and Charlie… the way that Ron talked about them, he guessed there had been a few things that had come up. Though both had been really good students overall, and had done something impressive with their lives.

"Most of them," Harry muttered. "But what's that got to do with her not thinking to even ask if she'd got it right—"

"Albus Dumbledore informed everyone personally that you had gotten mixed up with the Muggle police, and that you had been caught red-handed stealing from an elderly neighbor's house. That was, after all, the information we'd gotten at the time from what we'd—wrongly—presumed to be reliable sources. My understanding is that Molly Weasley interpreted it as a bout of acting out, driven by teenaged angst, and took it upon herself to straighten you out the only way she knew how. Guilt, after all, has worked with her other boys. Lecturing and shaming is, I believe, how she would deal with any other one of her boys had they been in the same situation."

Harry flushed a little as he remembered the Howler Ron had received their second year. Never mind that they'd actually been guilty of the crime that time…. If Harry had received a Howler like that from Petunia, he'd have been nearly sure that he was on his way to an orphanage. But for Ron, there had never been a moment of fear or doubt. And Harry had brushed it off as just one of those things that normal kids understood, that their families wouldn't just toss them out and be done with them on a whim, or even after a major screw-up like the Ford Anglia and the Whomping Willow.

Maybe Mrs. Weasley hadn't realized what it would feel like to Harry to get a letter like he had. But then, why hadn't she bothered to apologize for it in the next one she'd sent? Why not even mention that she'd been wrong and that she was sorry that she'd made assumptions?

"I will not force you, but I believe it would do you good to speak to her, as well as Lupin and the mutt." Snape's lips curled disdainfully around the last two he named. "Perhaps they will be more forthcoming with apologies in person."

"Lupin and Sirius…."

"Lupin, to my understanding, largely expressed his concern for you and your lack of support following last year's tragedy."

Harry turned his attention back to his plate, wishing he could seize his fork and use it to mash his eggs into oblivion. "Funny that he didn't care one whit before, when I was literally facing down a dragon…."

"Yes," Snape hissed, and Harry was surprised to hear that the man's ire did not, for once, seem to be directed at him. "Believe me, I am just as disgusted as you at his prolonged absence from your life."

Harry wetted his lips, and then forced out, "But it's like you said before, he's… he's had his own issues to contend with—"

"Issues that occupy perhaps three days of his month, thanks in no small part to his supply of a very complex potion that I spend three days of my month brewing. Leaving him with twenty-seven or so days to put quill to parchment." Snape exhaled heavily, and angled his head away, toward the sink. "I regret having implied that he, or the Weasleys or the m—your godfather—could not have made time for you. You certainly deserved better from them… from all of us. I…." Snape drew another deep breath, one that caused his chest and shoulders to rise and fall dramatically. Then he continued, "I did not appreciate having my failings pointed out in that particular moment, and I reacted poorly. For that I apologize."

Harry felt as though someone had ripped his chair out from underneath him and left him to tumble to the floor. Except that sensation of falling through space with nothing to clutch onto did not leave him.

"You…." He swallowed thickly. "You didn't really owe me anything, though, did you," he stammered. "Not like…."

"To your mother, yes. She was a dear friend, and her death… I swore an oath to protect you. And I did not take that oath seriously. I regretted and resented the burden it imposed. And you suffered deeply as a result."

It was unreal to hear pain in Snape's voice. Pain and regret. Harry hated it, hated the way it speared through him and pierced through any semblance of distance he'd been building up between them. It made him want to fix it. "I should have said something, though—"

"Christ, Harry, do you want to set me off again?" Snape growled, and the intensity and sudden heat of his tone caught Harry entirely off guard. "You were not responsible for any part of that miserable situation, do you understand?"

"I… but you said—"

"Forget what I said!" Snape interrupted him. "I was out of sorts and what I said was inexcusable."

"It wasn't untrue," Harry pointed out in a small voice. It hadn't been. Snape acted as if he'd made awful accusations or something, when all he'd really done had been to point out reasonable, indisputable facts. "Mrs. Weasley—she does have a lot of other things going on, and Sirius—"

"Merciful Merlin, perhaps I should have Obliviated you! I told myself that you wouldn't take it to heart, that you would rally… Harry, you are deserving of others' care and attention, even when it is inconvenient to them. Even when there are flimsy excuses as to why they could not have taken a few moments to consider you and your character and decide that what they'd heard, even from the great Albus Dumbledore, was highly suspect."

Harry didn't respond. He didn't know how to. Snape was… defending him. Snape was upset on his behalf. Snape was fond of him.

"I will not have you taking on the blame for others' failings. Nor will I have you parroting the asinine excuses I threw out in response to my own sense of responsibility and failure." Snape raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and rubbed at it lightly. "None of us, least of all myself, expect you to be perfect. When you do something to—now, what was your phrasing? 'Royally piss me off?' When that inevitably occurs, there will be consequences, and I promise that I will at least be cross with you for a time. But one misstep, deliberate or not, is by no means a reason for me to wash my hands of you. I swore I would help you, did I not?"

Harry nodded faintly into his breakfast plate.

"Do you doubt my sincerity?"

"No." Not anymore. Snape… he'd been good. Feeding Harry, and letting him go flying, and helping him get back to sleep, and even making him write out answers to all those letters…. And now he was admitting to having said things he regretted. Admitting it far after the fact, when he wasn't being pressed to do so at all, but rather because he regretted what he'd said.

"Good. So we are agreed that my commitment to you is sound, and will not revert at the slightest misstep on your part. You will stop worrying excessively about this, just as you will stop believing that you are in any way at fault for the responsible adults in your life being less than responsible, or outright negligent. And finally, you will cease calling me 'sir' and 'Professor' until classes resume, else I will assign you a lengthy essay exploring your tendency to hide your vulnerability behind formality and decorum. Am I understood?"

Again, Harry found himself just staring. The first set of directives was a lot to swallow, but Harry figured he'd try to do as Snape asked (commanded) and push his worries to the side. But the last bit….

"Are you serious about—about the essay bit?"

Snape locked eyes with Harry, his dark gaze intense. "Extremely. There will be consequences for disobedience, as I have already stated. A shift in perspective does not mean that you get a free pass going forward—"

"I get that," Harry insisted, though he couldn't help but recognize that hearing Snape say as much made him feel better. Pity would mean that Snape would tiptoe around him and go easy on him. But clearly the man didn't really pity him, as he'd said, since he was still being pretty strict and unyielding about a lot of things.

"And I am hardly about to take you out back and switch you, or enact any kind of physical punishment. The points system is, lamentably, suspended until term resumes, so I will have to rely on corrective methods that might actually force you to learn something. So, unless you wish to have even more summer homework, you will make an effort to break that particular verbal habit."

"But if I'm not comfortable calling you—"

"I never made that a requirement," Snape cut him off, his eyes flashing a bit—a reminder to Harry to think before he spoke, likely. "It was a suggestion, and will remain just that."

"But if I don't use your given name, and I can't call you 'sir', how am I supposed to address you? I mean, you hate it when I use just your family name—"

"You may call me 'Snape'," the man conceded, though he looked less than pleased by the prospect. "I recognize the need for compromise and middle ground, especially on this issue. I prefer 'Severus', as I have said, but I do wish for you to be comfortable. But no honorifics. Are we agreed at least upon that point?"

Harry nodded. He was struck by the way Snape had made an effort to meet him halfway, even when he had no real incentive to do so. "It still feels disrespectful, though…."

"Respect starts with intention, does it not?"

Harry glanced up at Snape, who seemed to be trying to convey a double message with this particular question. That he respected Harry now? That he would assume Harry's intentions were respectful, unless otherwise indicated, from now on?

"I suppose."

Snape drew another deep breath, then pulled out his wand and uttered a quick finite incantatum. Harry felt the Sticking Hex release, much to his surprise. "Speaking of respect… I would like to be done with these games. Can I trust you understand the importance of proper nutrition, and that you will accept my guidance and directives on your eating habits until you are in a healthier state?"

Harry figured that was Snape-talk for 'will you clean your plate like a good boy if I stop hexing you?'. "Yeah. Um, but sometimes I'm not as hungry, right? It's not that I'm trying to be defiant or anything, I just can't physically get it down."

Snape grimaced. "I will endeavor to listen to you and respect your input. But absolutely no skipped meals."

Harry nodded vigorously. "No skipped meals, I promise."

"Good. As for… other restrictions. Obviously I have lifted the Grounding Spell, so that you might go flying again. But you are not to climb up on the roof, do you hear me? If I find you up there—"

"I won't," Harry promised hastily. "I swear. I… I was just trying to irritate you. I promise I won't do it again."

Snape's mouth curled up in a faint, wry smile. "Oh, I am certain you will manage to irritate me again. But if you could refrain from sending me into cardiac arrest, I would be much obliged."

God. It had been panic he'd seen on Snape's face. Suddenly he felt much, much worse about that stunt. "It's a lot safer than being on a broom—"

"Not a wise argument to make, Mr. Potter." Snape reached across the table and touched his wand to Harry's plate, which suddenly began to steam again. "Let us say, no unnecessary risks unless we have both agreed upon the parameters and implemented safety measures." Snape gestured loosely to Harry's meal, indicating he should finish.

"Wait, so—if you were to cast those charms again over the yard, could I get back up there to finish the roof?"

Snape's face twisted in a look of utter perplexity. "You… wish to work on the roof?"

"Well… it's half-finished. It looks a mess. And it's no good, especially if it rains anytime soon—"

"I've cast Impervious Charms over the house," Snape informed him patiently. "There is no need—"

"Well, it still looks a mess. And it's nice to have projects to work on. And the work's not so bad, really, once you get into it."

Snape still did not look convinced, but the perplexity had settled into a look of intense contemplation. "We will revisit this later today," he announced after a few moments. "When we can talk about the measures we might put in place, and my conditions. For now, finish your breakfast so we can be on our way. I imagine you'd rather not keep your friends waiting."

Harry's heart leapt. They were going to see Ron and Hermione right away? He'd expected a short visit in the afternoon or something.

His heart turned fluttery again as the truth of the situation sank in. Snape didn't want him to be miserable. He was fine with doing things for Harry, like figuring out how his ward could get some flying time in, or getting Harry out to visit his friends. And being willing to listen to Harry, and compromise where they could.

And he'd known Harry's mother. So maybe the man was remembering Lily more now, and not thinking of James quite so much. It sounded as though he'd really liked Lily.

So maybe—and Harry was afraid to even think this, even in the deepest, most secret place of his mind, because the Universe loved to prove him wrong—but maybe things would be all right. Maybe being dumped with Snape would turn out to be a positive thing after all.

A/N: Thanks again for all your reviews (especially to those of you who leave those lovely long reviews, the kind that make me smile a bit stupidly when I read them). I'd started writing another one-shot/interlude/bonus chapter (for the record, I like this term) for y'all, but just a few paragraphs in realized that writing much from Snape's perspective, especially requested scenes involving the Order, would spoil things that I'd rather not spoil outside of the main story at this time. Ooh, I know-intrigue, right? So rest assured that more will be coming, but only after a certain plot point is reached. I will do my best to fulfill as many requests as I can-definitely a scene with Snape talking to Order members and informing them of the situation with Harry, and likely a few more at Spinner's End to give everyone some time inside Snape's mind. I'd hoped to get to Grimmauld Place with this particular chapter, but oh well, that will have to be saved for next time. Hopefully all the unplanned dialogue does not disappoint.

As always, thank you for reading and keeping me plugging along on this. You are all fabulous, and I'm glad to have you along on this little ride with me :) Cheers! ~Mel