Chapter 20

(in which the author returns from the dead, aka an extended hiatus, to publish a new chapter just in time for Christmas... er, New Year's, er...MLK Jr Day... er, the Lunar New Year!)

"Wrap it up, Mr. Potter."

The Potion Master's voice pulled Harry out of the trancelike state he'd fallen into, pausing him in his rhythm—pry up the nail, the shingle, toss it down to the back yard. His arms ached, but dully, and in a good way—ached from use, from honest work.

Harry blinked a few times. It couldn't have been an hour and a half. He still had a few rows to go, too. "Let me just—" He began to call down to the man who stood watching him in the yard, but it was no use.

"No, Potter, you are done for the day. You should have been done half an hour ago, and you would have been if you had not insisted on arguing—"

Harry started to pry up another shingle. If he could draw this out by arguing with Snape…. "I was just bringing up a point. A valid point. I've put in more work before, and it hasn't hurt me yet—hey!" The roof was slowly receding from Harry's grip, and he was about to turn around and demand how Snape had managed that, when he realized that it was him, not the roof, that was moving—more precisely, levitating. Harry flapped his arms uselessly, trying to find purchase on something, because damn it, Snape was being ridiculous. He needed another twenty minutes, maybe, to finish the first stage of the job, and there was no sense in imposing such an arbitrary time limit, anyway—

And then he felt the point of force shift, and suddenly he was hovering upside down, hoisted by his ankle, and slowly descending toward the sad, dying lawn where his professor stood, directing his trajectory with smooth, crisp movements of his wand.

"Okay, fine, I'll stop—"

"Oh, you will? Good." Snape sneered as Harry hung suspended before him—even as his eyes flickered up and down Harry's form. "I would hate to have to resort to… drastic measures."

Harry realized he had stopped descending and now was just dangling there, completely helpless before Snape, his baggy old t-shirt (a Dudley castoff that now served as work clothes) practically obscuring his face, his belly and some of his chest exposed. "Um, sir? I think the blood is rushing to my head—"

"Mm, that might do you some good. That poor, underused organ of yours can use all the help it can get."

Harry rolled his eyes—which was an odd gesture when his eyeballs already felt drawn toward his forehead by the force of gravity. "Sure. Now can you let me down? Please?" he added for good measure.

"Why, Mr. Potter, I've no idea what you mean. You came down all on your own, did you not, just as we agreed?"

Harry sighed. He should have known better than to disobey Snape—in this particularly. The man was mad about a few things, and Harry doing housework had quickly become one of them. When they'd returned from Grimmauld Place, Snape had left Harry the afternoon to do as he pleased. Harry, thinking he'd wait until early evening to see about finishing up the roof, and less than thrilled about the promised daily lessons, had decided that he had no desire to bury himself in his texts again. And, not liking where his thoughts wanted to meander after that confrontation with Lupin and Sirius, he'd determined rather quickly to find something that would keep him busy.

So he'd diluted an old bottle of window cleaner, deciding that something had to be better than nothing. He'd managed the insides of the first few narrow, grimy windows in the parlor when Snape had emerged from the cellar to fetch one of his books.

Harry had been fully unprepared for the man's reaction. Snape had lost it, first snarling at Harry, demanding to know what he was doing. And then, not even waiting for an answer, he'd proceeded to lay into Harry, calling him "a bit too big for a bloody house elf", and mockingly inquiring if he thought he would be thrown out if he didn't earn his keep. Which had caused Harry to blush and try to excuse himself, and Snape to turn a faint shade of red. Snape had caught him by the arm and gruffly apologized, then stated in no uncertain terms that Harry would do no more housework.

Naturally Harry had protested, arguing that he didn't mind, and that he liked to stay busy—and he'd brought up the roof to make his point, to argue that Snape had already agreed to him working on similar projects.

Snape had declared then that he could do, at most, one hour of housework per day.

Harry had, of course, intended to wheedle out of that restriction. But Snape had stayed out with him in the yard, ostensibly to help by banishing roof debris, but mostly, Harry knew, to make sure he didn't slip and break his neck (impossible with the cushioning charms that had been recast). He'd successfully bargained for a half-hour extension, though Snape had seemed less than pleased about it.

So who was he to blame for thinking he could push a bit further without Snape drawing a hard line?

Harry grimaced to himself. Apparently Snape didn't offer warnings when he was pushed too far. Harry sighed, wishing the man had lowered him enough that even his swinging fingertips could brush the ground. Really, he didn't know what to say to the man now though. Was Snape mad? Or was he being… well, playful? Though Harry immediately discarded that notion, as Snape did not play.

"Coming inside?" Snape inquired as he turned back to the house.

Harry heaved a sigh of irritation. Why couldn't the man just yell at him and be done with it? "Okay, okay, I'm sorry I didn't listen. Will you please let me down now?"

"Why are you sorry that you didn't listen?" Snape probed. He didn't sound too serious, Harry noted, more like he was enjoying tormenting Harry.

"Gah!" Harry growled. "I don't know! Because the blood's rushing to my head and it's annoying?"

"Try again."

"Because I should obey you?"

"Warmer."

"I don't know! Why am I supposed to be sorry?"

"Because," Snape replied, "I have your best interests in mind, and when I give you directions and limits, it is not merely for the pleasure of exercising my authority. Finite incantatum."

Harry crashed abruptly to the ground—and he expected, for a terrifying split second, that he was going to crash headfirst into the lawn, but he'd forgotten about the cushioning charms. The magic was strange—marshmallow-esque, he thought, as his face squashed into some invisible barrier that had a much spongier kind of resistance than he'd been expecting. His landing was really no worse than if he'd thrown himself onto a spring mattress.

He started to struggle to his feet, only to find Snape offering a hand down to him. And once again he was struck hard, and viscerally, by a feeling of… well, he wasn't quite sure. Snape had said he felt fondness for Harry. Was that maybe what Harry now felt for Snape?

He sure didn't dislike the man. Not anymore. And he wouldn't admit it out loud or anything, but he definitely admired the man. He was brilliant at potions, and magic in general. Hell, Harry would even say he enjoyed the man's dark sense of humor. Even when it was turned against Harry, and left him dangling helplessly in the air.

Harry took Snape's hand and allowed himself to be pulled back to his feet. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"If you want to be kept busy, we can always extend your brewing time tomorrow," Snape offered casually as he turned back to the house. "I have some rat viscera that need to be pickled."

"Ugh." Harry tried to suppress a shudder. "No thanks."

"Hm. And here I had held off on forcing you to prepare ingredients because I thought you would enjoy playing with disgusting things." Snape waved a careless hand at his boots as they entered the kitchen, unlacing them and kicking them off in one neat motion.

Harry scowled to himself as he bent down to unlace his trainers. "When have I ever given you that impression?"

"You never seemed particularly bothered in your detentions."

Harry scoffed. "Poker face."

"I never imagined you capable of such subtlety."

A sudden thought struck Harry. "Do wizards play poker?"

Snape's answer was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the window.

"Doesn't owl post come in the morning?" Harry asked, watching curiously as Snape made his way to the sink.

Snape dislodged the sliding window with a grunt, allowing what Harry thought had to be some kind of hawk with a wicked sharp beak to hop through, a message rolled and tied to its leg.

"Owls are nocturnal and complete their rounds in the morning. Other delivery birds do not."

"But I thought that wizards used owls—"

"And goblins prefer raptors. Gringotts uses golden eagles." Snape fetched a slice of bread from the breadbox on the counter, tore off a piece, and offered it to the bird, which tore into it ravenously, and only extended its leg after it had polished off the offering.

"Gringotts? Oh—my account statement!"

"Indeed." If Harry didn't know better, he would have said that Snape sounded uncomfortable.

For the briefest second Harry wondered if the man had been lying and had been using Harry's vault. But he immediately dismissed that notion as absurd. He knew Snape now, knew that the man had a strong sense of honor and duty. Harry figured it was just residual discomfort from their little confrontation on the matter when they'd gone out shopping. Or maybe it was Harry's wealth. Not that Snape seemed to live in poverty or anything. The groceries he bought were usually high quality, his clothes were well-made…. Though Harry didn't really know how to judge wealth in the wizarding world.

Snape stroked the eagle's head once, a strangely affectionate gesture that seemed rather out-of-character for the man, before retrieving the scroll and allowing the bird to hop back out the window.

"Would you like to puzzle it out on your own? Or shall I show you how to interpret it?" Snape inquired once he'd shut the window again.

"I'll try on my own."

Snape nodded once and passed the statement over. "Come to me if you have questions."

Fifteen minutes later found Harry bursting into the parlor, half in a panic. "I think something must have been messed up. Or I'm reading this wrong, but I don't think I am. There should have been withdrawals in the last quarter, for the things I bought, but I don't think they went through. So whatever you and Dumbledore did—"

"Professor Dumbledore," Snape corrected him emphatically, though he did not move to rise from his armchair. "The statement is correct. No withdrawals were made."

Harry just stared at the man. "But the stores need to be paid! I can guess how much I spent, and —"

"The money for your necessities should never have come from your vault. And in the future it will not."

Harry floundered for a moment, unable to string together words for what he was feeling. "You—you? No. No, I have enough money, I don't need you—you're not buying things for me!"

"Harry, calm down—"

"No! You lied to me! You said—"

"I said other arrangements had been made. I said you did not need to worry about paying for your clothing."

"You said that something had been set up with Gringotts so my account could be charged directly—"

"I said such an arrangement was possible," Snape interjected calmly. "I never confirmed that such an arrangement had been set up in your case."

"Oh, that's so much better! You think just because you don't actually lie, just hint around and imply and basically lead me to the same conclusions, means you're completely blameless—"

"I did not wish to argue about this. I knew you would object—"

"You're damn right I object! I can pay my own way, you even said so yourself. I'm loaded—more than loaded—"

"I don't care if you're as wealthy as the Malfoys," Snape cut him off, irritation at last seeping into his voice. "You are a minor. A child. You are not responsible for paying for your own care, and besides—"

"Well, it's more like my parents are paying for it anyway! So just—tell me how much it was. We'll just fix it, quick and simple. Can you do vault transfers or something?"

"You will not be transferring one iota of your gold to me or anyone else. I've half a mind to freeze your account until you come of age—"

Harry saw red. How dare Snape…. Just when he thought he could respect the man, just when he believed that the bastard had a heart after all…. "You can't! I'll—I'll write Dumbledore, I swear to God. Don't you even fucking try, you miserable—"

Snape was on his feet in an instant, both hands clamping down hard onto Harry's forearms. "Calm yourself, Potter. And watch your language."

Harry tried to rip himself out of the man's grip. "Calm? You expect me to be calm when you what, casually announce that you want to cut off my access to any kind of money? Just how in the hell do you expect me to make it through the next two years? Just—just hold my growth spurts in? Borrow textbooks from my friends? I—"

"Stop," Snape commanded, the word harsh and unequivocal. "Breathe. In. Out."

Harry shook his head in blatant refusal. "You can't expect me—"

"I will not discuss this while you are hysterical. Breathe, calm yourself, and we will resume."

He would get nowhere, he knew, by yelling at Snape. As much as he wanted to, as big a bastard as Snape was, screaming would just get him dismissed like a misbehaving child. He had to be calm and rational if he wanted to figure out why Snape had suddenly turned back into the world's biggest arsehole.

So he breathed. In and out, just like the man had demanded. And then he spoke. "I need access to my vault."

Snape dropped the boy's arms. "I agree."

Anger surged back in Harry again, straining the meager control he'd managed to exercise over his temper. "But you said—"

"I said I had half a mind to close off your access. But you need it available to you—and not for the reasons you believe. You need the security of knowing that you can take care of your own financial needs. I will not deprive you of that."

The tension drained from Harry at those words. This was more psychological need mumbo-jumbo. Snape wasn't trying to be a jerk or anything, just maneuver Harry into… something. Feeling better about himself, or having self-esteem or something. "Okay. Fine. But I should be paying for my other stuff. It's not fair to make you pick up the bill—"

"I am your guardian," Snape cut him off. "Providing for you is my duty. I will not be swayed on this point, so save your breath."

"Temporary. Temporary guardian. It's not fair for you to get stuck with paying—"

"You have a stipend from the Ministry, for your parents' service in the last war. That more than covers any expenses you might incur."

Harry just blinked for a moment. "A… stipend?"

"A fixed sum of money—"

"I got that, I'm not stupid!" Harry forced out a huffed breath. "Did the Dursleys get that money?"

Snape's face twisted into a bitter expression then and, turning away from Harry he spat out, "Yes."

"Bastards," he muttered. This time Snape did not correct his language. "But the Ministry's giving it to you now?"

"I have spoken with Albus on the matter."

Harry narrowed his eyes at that evasive answer. "And what did he say exactly?"

Snape turned back to Harry, his expression softening, a bit of dark amusement glittering in his eyes. "So he can be taught."

"Yeah, yeah. What did Dumble—Professor Dumbledore say?"

"He said that, given my current delicate position"—Snape's eyes flickered briefly to his covered left forearm—"he would be able to assist with discreetly getting those funds to me."

Harry breathed a relieved sigh. "Good."

"You can accept, then, that your latest expenses have not been paid for directly out of your vault?"

Harry drew a deep breath. "I don't like it. But… I guess it's okay. It's sort of… it's like a salary for my parents, I suppose. As long as it's not an obscene amount."

"You're a strange boy, Potter." Snape moved over to his side and gently tugged the account statement from his fingers. "Most would be thrilled to be in your financial position."

Harry blushed and shrugged as Snape studied the numbers on the parchment. "I don't really like being rich."

"I'd gathered." Snape's lips curved into a small, tight smirk. "Unfortunately for you, it seems you are only growing richer, as the goblins have been managing your money most astutely."

"Great," he mumbled.

Snape beckoned Harry over. "Now, this portion here is a breakdown of your current vested balance."

Harry steeled himself. Then he said, as steadily as he could manage, "I… I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to… to lose it."

Snape's gaze flickered over to him, no ire there now, only a contemplativeness that Harry did not entirely understand. "What did we say about the use of 'sir'?"

"Sorry for that, too," he croaked.

"What is so upsetting to you about the notion of someone else paying for your things?"

Harry shrugged again as he lowered himself down onto the couch beside Snape. "You shouldn't have to—"

"But clearly I am not concerned about it, else I would not have gone to such lengths to bury the issue."

Harry wanted to move past this. He didn't like Snape prying. And it served no purpose. "Well, there's the stipend, so the whole thing is moot, I'm pretty sure."

"This is not about the money. This is about your conviction that you must take care of everything yourself, including managing your financial situation. Granted those… your relatives"—Snape sneered the term with such contempt that Harry couldn't help but wonder if the Dursleys felt his disdain, even from this distance—"have done nothing for you, save use you for free labor and inflict their pettiness on you. But you have had other adults in your life since then—"

"Oh, and you know how involved they've been," Harry scoffed, then immediately bit down on his tongue. "Look, the Weasleys have enough kids to be worrying about, and Sirius and Lupin… you know. Azkaban, full moons. I can accept that. And even Dumbledore—Professor Dumbledore—has a million other things to worry about. I get it, what you were kind of saying before—and I get that you overstated it a bit too, so don't start on that again, please.

"What I'm getting at is, I've managed well enough on my own, and I guess I'm just most comfortable shifting for myself, you know? If you want something done right and all," he tried to joke.

Snape did not even quirk a lip. "You find it difficult to trust adults."

"No," Harry sighed. "It's not all that complicated and dramatic. It's just, I know how to take care of myself, and it's easier for everyone if I keep doing just that."

"You don't wish to burden anyone," Snape concluded.

"Now you're twisting my words."

"I would say I am interpreting your words, rather."

"No, I'm just saying… it's better for me, too, if I take care of myself. I'm good at it."

"You have never been able to depend on anyone," Snape observed mildly. "I find it hard to believe your claim that it is better for you to never lean on anyone." Snape turned his full attention back to the statement in his hands. "Enough of that, though. Here, point out to me the amount in your account…."

Harry was relieved to move back into more concrete matters.

XXXXX

Harry held his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, pressed his forehead harder into the pillow. He hugged his arms tighter around his own torso, willing the nightmare to fade. He could still feel the tears tracking down his cheeks, bleeding into the pillow's cotton cover.

They were getting worse. Because he'd rejected Sirius? Fought with Remus? He didn't know.

But this time he'd dreamt of Cedric's death in vivid detail. He'd seen, in slow motion, the green light hitting the boy's body, the split second of terror before that bright flash glazed to nothingness. Amos Diggory, then, falling over Cedric's body, weeping, and then turning angrily on Harry.

Why did you want him to die? Why did you tell him to take the cup with you? You destroy everything, everything good. You weren't supposed to compete. You weren't supposed to be there. If you weren't, if He didn't want YOU…

And Voldemort, whispering to him, if only you hadn't brought a spare…. Ah, but he is with your dear Mudblood mother now, is he not?

And then his parents, their ghostly forms staring at Cedric's, his mother trying to comfort the boy, his father whispering, I'm so sorry. Our son, he shouldn't have… this is all his fault.

The agony remained lodged in his chest like a mass of jagged glass, and much as Harry wanted to put the whole affair behind him and settle back into an uneasy sleep, this night was not like the others, not even like that night when he'd wandered into the kitchen. Now there was a gaping wound in his chest, and the pain of it was nearly unbearable, and he did not think that he could bring himself to crawl out of bed.

He heard the door crack. A tentative footstep. No.

What was he doing here? Why did he have to show up now, of all times? Harry clamped his jaw down hard, trying to stifle any noise that might escape his lips. If he just kept his eyes shut and could just control his breathing….

The floorboards creaked and groaned beneath Snape's slow, deliberate footsteps. Harry held his breath, keenly aware that he was barely containing the deep, choking sob that had welled up in his chest. Just a bit longer and Snape would go back to bed.

But the slow footsteps only grew closer, marginally louder, accompanied by the ghost of a sigh that Harry might have imagined.

The scrape of the desk chair across the wooden floor was enough to startle Harry into releasing his sob. It tore through his throat, followed by a gasping, desperate breath, and then another sob. He startled again when he felt the light, tentative touch of a hand between his shoulder blades; the warmth of the touch sent an electric pulse through him, one that only continued to hum when Snape's fingers dug in and began moving in soothing circles.

"All right?" came the man's rough voice, the question whispered.

Snape was not asking if Harry was all right. He was asking for permission for this small bit of contact, asking if he'd overstepped some bound with his ward.

And Harry didn't want him to stop. Didn't know what he would do if the man did. That bit of contact grounded him. It took the sharp, unbearable edge off the pain, turned it dull and throbbing and there, but tolerable. He managed a jerky nod that he did not know if Snape would even recognize.

For a moment it seemed he had not. His hand froze, and Harry could feel the weight of the man's gaze on him. But then, after an impossibly long moment, the circles resumed, and Harry breathed a small sigh. Gradually his tense body subsided into the mattress, his eyes falling closed as he allowed himself to be lulled into that simple but potent rhythm.

Harry could not say how long he lay there, floating in a half-sleep, fixated on everything Snape seemed to be communicating through the tips of his fingers. There was a desperation, Harry could feel—a concentration, an intent, a need to somehow make it better. Like when Harry would squeeze Hermione's arm, or clap Ron on the back. A sentiment that mere words could not convey. Harry felt, in that moment, in the safety of the dead of night, that Snape was writing on his back the depth of an affection that he would never name aloud, would never acknowledge in the light of day.

It seemed that as long as he could feel that care, his mind could not drift back to the horrors it had conjured, as if Snape were working a magic too to ward off bad thoughts. Harry would have slipped into a peaceful slumber, given enough time.

But before he could drop off, Snape's voice pulled him back from the brink.

"What did you dream?"

This time Harry shook his head. He did not want to go back there. He wanted to move on, to leave the guilt and the fear and the pain buried where it belonged.

Snape did something unbearable then. He moved his hand up to rest against the nape of Harry's neck, the warmth of his palm seeping into Harry's spine, his thumb digging into the overwrought muscles connecting head to shoulder. It was intimate, familiar. Overwhelming.

The words were tumbling past Harry's lips before he could stop them. "Cedric again. He… he died, and Voldemort"—Snape's grip tightened sharply before gradually easing—"k-killed him, and laughed. And Cedric's father… he was angry, and m-my parents apologized to Cedric's ghost—"

"Shh," Snape hushed him. "It was just a nightmare. Everything is well now—"

"Cedric's still d-dead," Harry choked, "and I killed him—"

"You did not." There was nothing but conviction in those soft, steady words.

"I did. I told him to take the stupid cup in the maze. I wasn't even supposed to be there. If—if I'd just… if I wasn't there, he would have won—"

"Sh," Snape hushed him again. "You had no choice, and you couldn't have known. You did not kill him. The Dark Lord—"

"But if he hadn't been there—"

"If we had not allowed you participate in that asinine Tournament, if we had done our duty and recognized Moody for an impostor, if we had created safety protocols…. There are many ifs, and none of them fall on your shoulders. It is absurd that you should blame yourself for his death." Snape withdrew his hand and stood abruptly, and in seconds he had moved around the bed to crouch on the opposite side, so that his chest was level with Harry's face.

Harry could feel the dried tearstains on his cheeks beneath the new ones that were forming, and he was ashamed. Bawling like a child… he tried to hide his head. But Snape was having none of it.

He laced one hand into Harry's hair and tilted his head up, forcing their gazes to meet. "You did everything you could—everything, Harry—and you got yourself out alive. You brought Cedric's body back to give his father closure. Do you even realize how impressive it is, that you survived that encounter?"

Harry felt the blood rush to his face and he tried to turn his head away again. Snape, complimenting him. Snape saying it wasn't Harry's fault. It was too much. "It was our wands. Twinned cores. And my parents, and… and Cedric, and the others, they bought me time—"

"You survived, though, up until that point. You held your composure. You fought back, you waited for your opportunity. You think anyone could have managed that? Alone against the Dark Lord and his followers?"

"I had help," he protested. "And—and I got to the cup first. I should have just taken it."

"You couldn't have known. No, Harry, enough. You must reject the guilt, before it eats you alive." Snape disentangled his fingers enough to card them once more through Harry's hair. "We will work on it," he murmured, seemingly more to himself than anything. "Courses in mental discipline… I will speak with Albus."

Mention of the headmaster tore through Harry like a serrated blade. What does he care? he almost demanded, but wisdom had him biting his tongue.

"You're upset with him."

The throbbing wound left behind by the mention of Dumbledore was answer enough for Harry. Yes, damn it, he was furious, because while Remus and Sirius and Mrs. Weasley had all disappointed him, at least they had said something to him. Dumbledore… Dumbledore hadn't even dropped him a note. Hadn't stopped in to check on him, hadn't shown in any tangible way that he even cared what Harry had been through—apart from that generic, cheery letter to the judge that, in all honesty, could have been written by anyone, because how was a Confounded muggle to know the difference?

No, Dumbledore had believed Harry guilty, had sent him to be punished by Snape—and when he'd found out about Harry's innocence, hadn't lifted a finger to change anything. Never mind that Snape was actually a decent sort, once he decided he didn't hate your guts. How was Dumbledore to know that? The last he knew, Snape and Harry were at each other's throat.

"He has his reasons for keeping his distance," Snape murmured enigmatically.

"Of course," Harry muttered.

Snape said nothing for a moment, and when Harry stole a glance up at his face, he could have sworn he read anguished indecision there—much as he was able to make out in the dimness of the room.

And then resolve, as if a conviction had been forged. "I will explain everything tomorrow, though I know Albus would rather I did not."

"Explain what?" Harry demanded hoarsely.

"Why he sent you here. Why he has not come to see you personally."

"Tell me now!" At the wrinkle of displeasure that Harry could sense in Snape's expression, he added contritely, working to make it sound not so much like an afterthought, "Please."

"Tomorrow. You will not change my mind. Right now, you need rest, perhaps a rudimentary Occlumency lesson to clear your thoughts…."

"What?"

"The art of shielding your thoughts. The sister art of Legilimency."

"But—why would I need to shield my thoughts?"

Snape heaved a sigh and carefully disentangled his hand from Harry's tousled mop. "Mental discipline… as I said. It will help you to shield your thoughts, yes, but it will also help you to master your inner pain and turmoil."

It sounded as though Snape had intimate experience with that process. But Harry could not bring himself to voice that thought and offer the man to speak of his own experiences.

"How do you do it?"

"You start simply, with breath. Close your eyes and focus on nothing but the rhythm of your own breathing."

Harry let his eyes slip shut.

"Lengthen the rhythm. Let it slow. Breathe from the base of your spine and feel your breath expanding throughout your body."

Had he ever noticed before this strange, hypnotic quality to the man's voice? Was this why he couldn't concentrate in potions—because he was lost cresting through the syllables of each sentence, rising and falling with every inflection?

Breath. Then muscles, one group at a time, from the tips of his toes to the crown of his head, until he was floating, limbless, sinking into his mattress and on the cusp of true sleep.

I'm glad you came, he thought to Snape, and sunken as deeply into his own mind as he was, he could feel the reverberations of gratitude like plucked harp strings.

I will always come, Snape replied—and Harry could not say if the man spoke it aloud, or whispered it into his mind, or if he'd just imagined it entirely.

Doubts rose in him in answer to that—that Snape could not make such a promise, that he could not always know to come, that there would be too many times when Harry was on his own for those words to matter. And Snape hadn't said them anyway, had he? Just maybe squeezed Harry's hand—had that been a squeeze? Or just an echo or an errant wish as his thoughts fragmented further into dreams?

It didn't matter. For a blessed moment Harry felt at peace, and that was enough.

XXXX

Harry tried to ignore the knocking on his door. He wasn't going to go out there. The last time had been bad enough, and that had just been after tea and a chat that had been just a hair too candid.

This time Snape had found him sobbing like a toddler afraid of the dark, and Harry had babbled on like a blubbering idiot. And he was not, he resolved, going to face Snape down, not until the shame dulled to a bearable level.

The knocking edged toward pounding. "I know you're up, Potter," Snape called in, sounding disgruntled.

Ah. So he was irritated. Not that Harry should be at all surprised. He'd known this was coming, hadn't he? It was stupid that this switch in attitude was stinging him so much now.

"It's after ten. I've given you plenty of time to sulk. You have five minutes to get yourself to the table before I come in there, whether you are decent or not." The floorboards creaked as they always did as Snape retreated.

Harry pulled the covers back up over his head, blocking out the glaring summer sun that had long ago penetrated into the small bedroom. He hated himself. How had he even managed to wake Snape in the night anyway? His cousin had always teased him about his moaning and crying out in the night, but he'd never fully believed Dudley.

But clearly it had been drastic enough to rouse Snape from his own bed several doors down. And now the man was probably grouchy from lack of sleep, and irritated with Harry. After all, as enthusiastic as he'd seemed about 'helping' Harry, he'd never actually signed up to soothe his enemy's son through his night terrors, now, had he? Likely he was realizing the full extent of the commitment he'd tried to make and was balking at it.

And Harry hated himself for driving things to this point. Because they'd been getting along, hadn't they? Things had been comfortable. Snape was good for doing the basic things, and that was more than enough. It was like Harry had said, he was used to shifting for himself. And so anything anyone was willing to do for him was a welcome bonus.

He liked the little things. Meals made for him. Someone checking in with him. Someone to ask for advice when he needed it. That was all he wanted.

But now he'd gone and shown Snape what he'd suspected all along, that Harry was an emotional basket case who needed his hand held and his tears dried. Which wasn't the case, because Harry would have managed to get through the night on his own (though he could admit that Snape had calmed him far more quickly than Harry would have been able to calm himself). But Snape wouldn't believe that Harry wasn't actually a needy, broken little boy, not after what he'd seen—

Three sharp raps on the door caused Harry to jump and derailed his train of thought.

"Two minutes! You won't like what happens if I have to come in there, I promise!"

Harry groaned and dragged himself out of bed. "I'm coming," he called, "just need to get dressed—be down in five—"

"Two," Snape cut him off. "You've had all morning. And just come in your damned pajamas, boy."

Harry pulled a casual outfit—jeans and a solid blue-grey t-shirt—from the armoire along with clean pants, and started to shimmy out of his pajama bottoms before freezing. Snape had told him not to change… would he be mad if Harry defied him?

He really didn't need to irritate Snape any further. Not this morning.

So he hiked his pajama bottoms back up, sucked in a deep breath that puffed up his chest, and forced himself to march straight out his bedroom door, down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen.

Snape was still at the table, dressed in casual slacks and a loose charcoal jumper, reading the Daily Prophet, coffee but no breakfast in front of him. There was nothing set in front of Harry's place, either.

Snape peered around the paper when Harry entered. Harry spied a picture of Fudge waving at throngs of reporters half-hidden behind Snape's thumb. "Sit," he commanded, and tossed the paper aside to draw his wand. Quickly and efficiently, he summoned a juice cup and juice as well as bread for toast and the butter and jam, and all by the time Harry had settled in his chair.

"Are you ready to talk? Or do you want to finish your breakfast first?"

Harry pulled the glass of juice toward him, weighing his options in his head. He never wanted to talk again, not about this, but he knew that wasn't an option. "Talk," he mumbled before taking a swig of his orange juice.

"Good." Snape leaned back a little in his chair. "This is the last time we're doing this little dance, do I make myself clear? This back-and-forth nonsense is going to stop."

Harry stared at the man blankly for a moment, trying to determine what he was talking about. "Back-and-forth?"

"The bizarre habit you have of dissolving into utter mortification any time you display emotion in front of me. You were avoidant the morning after your last difficult night as well. So, you are going to tell me why that is and what you will be doing in the future to keep from falling back into the same pattern."

Harry laced his hands together tightly in his lap and squeezed them hard enough that the sensation began to inch into pain. "The nightmares just started again, and I have no idea why. But… is there a potion or something that would stop me from dreaming? So I don't keep waking you with—"

"Are you willfully misunderstanding? Or are you just that dense?"

Harry jerked his head up hard, fighting the sudden flood of panic at the note of anger in Snape's voice.

"Your nightmares are a separate issue, one that we will work through together. Properly. Not by reckless over-medication because you do not wish to face them."

Harry felt his face burn at that implication of cowardice. "I… I didn't mean… it's just, I keep waking you—"

"If I did not wish to be woken, I would simply cancel the alert spell over your bed!"

It was a few moments before Harry could respond. "Alert spell?" he whispered.

Snape bristled. He stood up suddenly, taking his coffee cup with him, and promptly dumped the contents in the sink. "I told you last time… you may have been too far gone to hear. It only wakes me if your sleep is severely disturbed. And no, I will not be removing it, before you ask, because you are at present utterly incapable of coming to me for help when you need it."

Harry watched silently as Snape began preparing a fresh cup of coffee. He knew he should protest. But, if he was being honest with himself, last night had been… nice. More than nice. He'd felt so relieved when Snape had touched his back, when the man had offered simple, concrete reassurances.

"Why were you going to stay in your room this morning?" Snape tapped his wand to the kettle, causing it to whistle for a second before he poured the water into the press.

Harry found himself absently shredding a piece of toast as he tried to piece together an answer. "I thought you'd be irritated with me."

"For?" Snape turned back around suddenly, his gaze narrowing in disapproval. "Stop playing with your breakfast. Either eat or leave it be until we've finished."

Harry winced, thinking that he was not five years old, and that Snape shouldn't scold him as if he were. And then, eyeing the unappetizing pile of fragmented toast, that maybe the man had a point. Either way, he knew that there was nothing on the table that could deflect Snape's questions, and that the longer he tried to stall, the more irritable Snape would become.

"I… I've been sort of needy—"

"By whose account? Yours? Your relatives'?"

"It's just… you have to spend a lot of time, and, er"—how would Hermione put it?—"emotional energy"—there, that was passable—"on me, and I know you didn't sign up for that—"

"I 'signed up' to look after you knowing full well that you have been through several recent traumas, not to mention a host of other trying periods over the years. And that is not to mention the abominable waste of a childhood you endured with those bloody Muggles. Just because I did not initially fulfill my duties—"

"Okay," Harry broke in, "I guess what I'm trying to say is that you didn't sign up to hold my hand or dry my tears or anything. You had your facts wrong at the outset—"

"And you think you are still here because, what? I've been begging the headmaster to send you somewhere else but he isn't listening to me?"

Harry shut his eyes tight. "I know there's no one else to take me. And I know you wouldn't ask him stupid, pointless questions. And that you've been really, really decent about letting me stay here. But that doesn't mean that… you know, that it's fair that you should have to take so much on—"

"Harry," Snape sighed. The clatter of his mug against the table was enough to get Harry to open his eyes and really look at the man. He was tired, dark rings rimming his eyes, a tinge of bloodshot red there. Not enough to be too noticeable if you weren't looking hard. And, strangely enough, the shadow of a beard; Harry had not ever seen the man with facial hair, had thought him incapable of growing it. And his eyes. Black, yes, and piercing, steady, but there was a fierceness there that had nothing to do with anger. And, if Harry didn't miss his mark, a hint of pain.

"Listen to me. And do try to reign in your temper when I tell you this."

Harry nodded once dumbly.

"I asked for you to remain here. Albus was prepared to install you at Grimmauld Place. And while I maintain that the arguments I made for keeping you here rather than installing you at headquarters are still valid, my motivation was not simply making the most rational choice given the circumstances. And yes, I know very well your feelings on the matter, and how miffed you must be that you were not consulted, but in light of everything that has come to pass…."

Snape's delineation of his rationale—a rehash, really, of the arguments he'd presented before—filtered through Harry without registering. Harry was not angry. Astonished, yes. But angry? How could he be angry when Snape, for some unfathomable reason, had actually wanted to keep Harry here? And that after Harry had thrown a fit and shattered his housewares (not that he hadn't been provoked, mind) and deliberately defied Snape, and talked back to him, and Merlin knew how many other things. But the man still wanted Harry around.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Harry nodded his head, as he had been for some time then. Then the question registered, and he shook his head—first to clear it, then to offer up a chagrined honest answer to the inquiry.

Snape huffed irritably. "My assessment of the situation still stands, personal motivations aside. I know you'd rather stay with your friends—"

"I wouldn't." Snape had been honest with him; Harry figured he could do the same. "I… I meant it, you know. You've been really decent, and I appreciate it. And—I mean, as long as you don't mind having me here…."

Snape pursed his lips. "You might change your mind yet. I intend to make full use of my powers as your guardian, regardless of your opinion on the matter."

Harry gave a little shrug. "That's fine. I really don't mind that either. It's… a bit much, sometimes. But I figure… I've never had someone, not really. So I'll try to get used to it."

"You can accept, then, that I will be checking on you frequently, especially at night? That I will be there to support you when you are in a vulnerable state?" When Harry nodded, Snape pressed, his tone becoming pointed, "And you can do so without resolving to cloister yourself in the next moment to escape your adolescent shame?"

Harry wished the man wouldn't scathingly term his embarrassment "adolescent", or speak with such a bitter, mocking edge. But he understood what Snape was getting at, especially when the man had not said one remotely hurtful word regarding Harry's nightmares. Harry was running from a fear born in mistrust. And if he thought about it, really thought about it, he trusted Snape.

"I'll do better," he mumbled.

But Snape wasn't done there, apparently. "It should not rest solely on your shoulders to sort this out. And believe me when I say I will hear no arguments on this point, because I will not. I have arranged for you to see a Mind Healer at St. Mungo's—"

"A what?" Harry croaked. "And… where?"

"A Mind Healer, at our magical hospital. Your neighbor brought up a valid point about seeking outside assistance—"

"I'm not going to go see some magical quack—"

"You will. I don't care if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming. I don't care if you talk about Quidditch for the whole session. You are going tomorrow afternoon, and three days after that, and four days after that, until it is no longer in my power to make such arrangements."

"I don't need my head shrunk! You do think I'm a head case then, after I told you I wasn't—"

"Harry," Snape interrupted, and the sudden change in tone was enough to cut Harry off at the knees. Gone was the steel, the defy-me-and-you-will-live-to-regret-it arrogance. Instead, his voice turned soft, pained, pleading. "It is not a sign of weakness. It is a resource—a necessary one, after all you have been through. I do not doubt you could soldier through the next three years, holding yourself together and fighting through the pain that dwells in your memories. But you do not deserve that. You deserve peace, and believe me, you will find it much more quickly with professional help."

Harry could not help but stare at the rawness of Snape's expression in that moment. He was far more open than Harry had ever seen him. Maybe that was what gave him the courage to ask. "Did you go to… one of them? You know… after?"

Snape snorted, the sound somehow self-deprecating. "No. Albus mentioned it, once or twice, but with no real insistence…. And you see the man I have been, Harry. You know the way I treated you, and for what petty reasons."

Harry found himself wrapping his arms over his torso, warding off… he didn't quite know what. "You think I'll become the same way?" he croaked.

Snape loosed a brief, bitter chuckle. "No. You… you turn your pain inward rather than outward. You'll destroy yourself before you hurt anyone else. And that is worse, I think." Snape moved closer, tilted Harry's head up with two fingers place under his chin. "As long as I have a say, I will take steps to prevent that from happening, whether you can agree with my decisions or not."

Harry had to swallow past the tightness in his throat. Whether Snape thought he'd gone round the bend or not, he could at least appreciate the unwavering commitment in the professor. There was no flattery, no insinuation of himself into Harry's good graces. Just an iron determination to do what was needed, what was best for Harry, whether Harry would ever acknowledge it was best or not.

"Will I have to drag you, Harry?" The question was not nearly as cold as it could have been. It was level, bereft of accusation or threat or pleading, just an inquiry of where things stood.

"No," Harry mumbled, dropping his head, relieved when Snape let him. "I'll try it."

"Good." Snape settled back into his seat, drawing his mug close to him. "Eat your breakfast, before I spell your silverware to feed you." He unfolded the Daily Prophet.

Harry sighed and began buttering a non-shredded piece of toast. "So… that's why Dumbledore had me sent here? But wait, you wouldn't have wanted me to stay at the beginning, right after you came to get me—"

"Breakfast first," Snape ordered implacably. He did not look up from the Prophet.

Harry suppressed a sigh. And then he tucked in rather than continue to wheedle, because his guardian certainly wasn't a pushover.

A/N: Hello all, [insert generic apology about life and things here] but! [insert vague promises to continue working on all fanfictions as time allows here]. Also, in case you missed the random facts that I sometimes include in my author's notes: Pangolins, also known as scaly anteaters, have scales that comprise about 20% of their body weight. When cornered, they might thrash about, and can cut predators (and humans) with their sharp scales. Their tongues can be up to 16 inches longer than their total body length. They are also scientifically adorable. So go donate to a fund dedicated to the conservation of these creatures! (or not, who am I to tell you what to do)? Anyway, on a serious note, thanks for all the support and lovely comments and likes and follows and such. Y'all are a wonderful bunch of people, and thanks for putting up with my not-every-Sunday-or-even-every-year-really update schedule. Cheers! ~Mel