"Hold still."

"That was amazing—"

"Hold still, Potter, or I will stun you."

Harry obliged for a moment, closing his eyes lightly as Snape spread some sort of healing balm over the small cut beneath his eye. He felt Snape's fingers on his jawline tilting his head further back, likely looking for more damage.

"I'm really fine," he tried again.

Predictably, Snape loosed something like a snarl. "You were injured. I am treating you. There is nothing else to discuss."

"What was that spell, anyway? I feel like it spun me around a hundred times in like, five seconds. Will you teach it to me? Or does it have to be done nonverbally? Even if it does, I still want to learn—"

"Would you cease babbling for a moment and get your top off?" Snape interrupted.

Harry hesitated for just a second, some of the old nervousness rising in him, but he fought it down—easy to do when he still felt like he was bubbling over with excitement from the mock-duel he and Snape had staged. He shucked his t-shirt so that Snape could see his chest was unbruised (as he'd insisted too many times to count now). Or at least, not significantly bruised.

"And you were just so… I mean, I've never seen anyone cast so fast. You were holding back with Lockhart second year, weren't you? You could have knocked that prick on his arse without looking at him—"

"Still, Potter," Snape commanded, turning him bodily by his shoulders to face the end of the sofa. "Merlin, I just wiped the floor with you. You're supposed to be subdued. Embarrassed."

Harry snorted. "You're an awesome duelist and you're going to teach me Defense. Why the hell would I be upset? How long did it take you to get the hang of nonverbal spells, by the way? Because I know it'll probably take a long time, but it would be dead useful not to have to incant—"

Harry found his head, which he'd automatically turned to face Snape, shoved a bit roughly back forward.

"I'm about to demonstrate a most useful jinx involving the tongue and the roof of the mouth. Now stay still and I can finish this."

"I'm fine! It's just a few bruises—"

"You told me you weren't bruised," Snape said. His voice had dropped to that deadly-quiet tone that made Harry's gut clench.

"Badly," Harry said. "I said I wasn't bruised badly. They barely hurt."

"What was our agreement?"

Harry hated how soft and controlled and patient Snape sounded. Somehow, it was worse than if Snape had raised his voice or shown his irritation, though Harry had no idea why that should be the case.

"Come to you with any injury," Harry mumbled, and hissed as the cold salve met his lower back.

"Indeed. And if you are going to lie to me—"

"I didn't," Harry started, and heard Snape draw breath behind, likely to begin an epic-length lecture. "Mean to," he added hastily. "I didn't mean to. I just… I can put up with it, you know. It'll heal on its own. I don't need to be coddled."

"Do I seem like the coddling type, Mr. Potter?"

Cold salve on a new spot now. Harry couldn't deny that it felt good; it siphoned even the residual ache from the places where his body had connected with rocks and roots and the ground in general. Maybe he would suggest Snape choose an open field for their next location, instead of Apparating them to some random part of some unknown forest.

"No, but—"

"No. I do not coddle. And this—shoring up and saying nothing—is a tendency that you will have to unlearn, however difficult it is for you. Once you have overcome your basic inability to seek help, then we can work on using discernment. For now, you will come to me for everything."

Harry knew he wouldn't—but he decided that he'd better make an effort at telling Snape about some of the things he normally wouldn't bother with. After all, Snape wasn't Vernon or Petunia. Even if he did snipe at Harry about clumsiness or avoidable idiocy, it wouldn't be anything like his relatives. At most it would be a bit of grumbling and a few dark looks as his professor fixed him up.

"Now," Snape announced, "if you are honest with me, I'll let you apply your own salve. If not… well, you cannot say you did not bring it on yourself."

"Huh?" Harry mumbled, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Is there any bruising below your waist?"

Harry felt the hot prickle of a blush along his hairline. "No—"

"Think very, very carefully before you answer," Snape cautioned him, with a meaningful look that had Harry turning his head away again.

"A little, I guess." Harry held himself stiffly. It wasn't about humiliation, he knew, but Snape could be so unreasonable about some things, and wouldn't it be just like him to insist on pulling Harry's trousers down to rub the balm in himself, as punishment for Harry's lack of cooperation? Harry could already hear the man's impatience. It's just skin, Potter. Still, he supposed there was no harm in asking. "Can I… may I take care of it myself? On my own?"

"Yes."

Harry sagged a bit in relief. He was pretty sure instinct would have overridden any common sense if Snape had said no, and then there would have been a shouting match to rival the ones he'd been a part of when Snape had first brought him here.

"But if you ever lie to me again about injuries, especially when I ask you directly, I promise you will find yourself in a much less comfortable position. Are we understood?"

"Next time I'll just get my shield off—hey!" Snape had cuffed him—lightly—in the back of the head. And for some stupid reason, Harry couldn't stop himself from smiling just a tiny bit. "Yeah, understood."

"Good. Go get that taken care of and report back here for a discussion of theory."

Harry accepted the open jar of salve from Snape, and glanced up at the man slyly. "You know, we could just have another duel…."

"I think not." Harry felt the sofa shift as Snape got to his feet and brushed out his jumper. "You could do with some theory work—particularly, the theory of how to get a shield off to block a curse, or barring that, how to step out of the way."

"I was trying to do it without incanting—"

"Which you've never done before. Imbecile. I didn't intend for that curse to hit you full on."

Harry was glad the man's grimness since the end their mock duel had dissolved—though he could still sense some measure of dourness lingering. Sure, that curse had spun him hard, and sure, he'd knocked into that tree and tumbled over the ground with some force, but it was no different than the rough-and-tumble injuries you got during quidditch. Still, Snape seemed overly sensitized to any injuries Harry acquired—Harry could still see the man's thin lips and flared nostrils from when he'd treated the small burn Harry had acquired when his pinky had accidentally brushed against a hot cauldron.

Snape hadn't said anything, though—no lecture, no snide remarks, nothing of the sort. Just a careful examination followed by the application of a burn salve, all while Snape looked as though he were sucking on a lemon. Harry had tried then, too, to tell him that it was nothing, but that had just darkened the man's expression.

Snape always seemed better after Harry had been seen to, though. Like now.

"I just wanted to try it out," Harry defended himself, tugging his shirt back down a bit. "I guess I need to practice it a bit first—"

"Yes, I would have thought that was apparent. Suffice to say that I will not be overestimating your capabilities in the future."

"But we can duel again, right? Please? I swear I'll be more careful and give it my all. Please?"

Snape paused in his wand motions—Harry saw that he'd been summoning the tea service from the kitchen. "We shall see. Go take care of your bruising."

Harry recognized that the impulse to push Snape further likely wasn't a sound one, but he ignored that feeling, propelled by his lingering excitement. "Please? We can set up cushioning charms if you're worried, and I'll take whatever precautions you want. But I feel like I could learn so much—"

"Enough wheedling! Merlin and Morgana, you're worse than your mother when you want something. We shall see—if you can grasp the concepts here, and if I've the time—"

"I'll help you with anything you need," Harry put in eagerly. "So you have time. And really, it didn't take that long to pop out to wherever we were. I mean, the wards you set took a minute, but maybe you could teach me those too, and I could help set them? You said the Trace doesn't work outside of residential areas, right?"

"I said that the Ministry does not bother checking outside of populated areas."

"Right. So you won't even have to do as much work next time. Just boss me around and make sure I set everything up properly. Please?"

"Fine, I will not promise, but I will endeavor to arrange for a similar excursion in the future. If you assist me in the lab when I request it."

Harry grinned. Strange that such a bargain didn't bother him in the least. "Wicked." And then he felt the smile falter as his thoughts snagged on what Snape had just said. He knew the man would likely just brush him off again, but he had to ask. "What… what did my mother pester you about?"

Snape sighed and directed the tea service to the coffee table, then ran his free hand over his face. "Magic. Pureblood tradition. Wizarding customs. I will tell you about her, if you like, after our lesson."

"Please," Harry rasped before he could stop himself. "I mean, if you want to. You don't have to."

"You are far too agreeable," Snape muttered, shaking his head. "Yes, I will tell you. It is the least I can do. Now go apply that—unless you prefer me to do it?"

"Going," Harry said, tripping to his feet.

Before he turned toward the bathroom, Harry caught sight of Snape rolling his eyes.

XXXXX

Harry did not like the grimness that had returned to Snape's expression by the time he returned to the sitting room. Their lesson had gone well, he'd thought. Theory, while not nearly as exciting as dueling, was still fairly interesting, and Snape was very knowledgeable when it came to Defense. He would have made a brilliant professor for the subject—provided he could keep his temper in check.

But now he'd promised to tell Harry about Lily, and it looked as if the thought of turning toward what Harry was certain was a painful past was enough to turn the man dour and distant. It was almost enough that Harry told the man to forget it.

Almost.

He settled carefully on the sofa next to Snape, trying to find the right position for this. He tried leaning back a bit, then setting on the edge of his seat, then leaning forward on his knees.

"I met your mother before our Hogwarts years."

That took Harry off guard.

Snape's eyes were fixed on the hearth, but it seemed as though he were staring through the solid stone, at something far beyond. "I was the first to tell her she was a witch."

Harry clung to every word as Snape detailed those early years of friendship, his voice soft and tinged with just the barest hint of wistfulness—how Lily had soaked up every tidbit of the wizarding world that he'd been able to share, how they'd dreamed together of their houses and their illustrious Hogwarts careers. How Lily would sneak him packages of biscuits and chocolate bars and call it payment for his knowledge, when they both knew it was kindness since Severus' family never had much money to spare for such treats.

Snape told him about the pain of separation as they were sorted into different houses, and the strained friendship they carried on in spite of it. He told Harry about how brilliant his mother had been, how she excelled in Charms and Potions above all—the apple of her professors' eyes, he told Harry, all the while carefully excising any mentions of himself or James.

Harry could well guess why. He knew their animosity probably had been a longstanding thing, one stretching back as far as their first year together. And Snape likely wanted to revisit that as much as Harry wanted to reminisce about his happy childhood tussles with Dudley.

Snape was a wealth of information on his mother, as it turned out. He knew her favorite foods, her career plans, the kind of music she listened to at home. He knew that her father had tried to drive the rabbits out of their garden, only for Lily's accidental magic to turn them invisible—which had initially nearly driven the poor man into cardiac arrest. He recalled fondly how Lily had tried to bring her sister sweets from Hogsmeade her third year, only to make the mistake of bringing home some Acid Pops (herself never having tried them and underestimating how literal the name was). That had resulted in a trip to the Muggle emergency room, a round of Obliviations, and a parental conference with the Headmaster, who'd had to reassure the Evans that Petunia's tongue was surely healing over as they spoke.

Harry knew he grinned like a lunatic the whole time Snape spoke, but he couldn't help it. No one told him these things. Hearing these stories, it made Lily feel a little less distant, a little less abstract. He could imagine the kind of mother she would have been—like Molly Weasley in her doting, he guessed, and tenderness, and likely just as terrifying when in a temper, but with a dash of mischief thrown in, the kind of suave slyness that he saw in Snape sometimes. Likely that was where she'd picked it up.

Their tea went cold three times while they spoke, and the light pouring in through the still-murky window of the sitting room had turned a deep gold by the time Harry's ceaseless questions and Snape's supply of anecdotes had run dry. Harry expected Snape to grouchily order him off to relax while he made to prepare their dinner, as was his habit.

He didn't move, though. The grimness had returned, and settled heavily over him like a shroud. Harry assumed the man was going to elaborate on what he had only hinted at—the moment when he and Lily had ceased to be friends. The moment that he had called her a "foul word" that he refused to repeat, the moment he had touched on and glossed over earlier.

But Harry was wrong.

"I know," Snape began quietly, his eyes once again on the cold hearth, "that I told you that you were to remain here with me… that you could not stay elsewhere." Snape seemed to swallow hard. "I… if you wish, I will arrange for you to stay at Grimmauld Place with your godfather and the Weasleys."

It took Harry a good long moment to fully absorb what Snape was saying. "What do you mean? I… I told you, I'm good staying here. I mean, if you'll have me still. But I thought…."

Snape's somber gaze shifted to meet Harry's. Harry did not like this, whatever it was. It made his gut twist in unpleasant ways. "You are most welcome here. I would… prefer you remain with me. You know this. But… I must…." Snape paused to draw a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the force of it. "There is something I must share with you, about myself… about your parents. And if… if, afterwards, you no longer wish to stay here…."

Harry's heart lurched as the implications of those words hit him. Whatever Snape wanted to tell him, it was bad. And Snape had been a Death Eater. God knew what the man had done during those days. Had he cursed Harry's parents? Had he attacked Lily on Voldemort's orders? Tried to poison them?

Did he really want to know?

"Much as I hate to concede… it was your godfather who raised the point that if you are staying with me, you have a right to know… certain things." To Harry, it sounded as if those words were being raked out of some deep place within Snape. His gaze drifted away again, and now the slight creases of Snape's expression deepened with what, to Harry, looked like pain. "You know I once served the Dark Lord." A statement, not a question.

Harry dipped his head stiffly anyway. His body ached from the tension that had drawn him up at Snape's words. He sat stiff, erect, feeling brittle, as if one wrong word would shatter him.

"You may not know that it was He who ordered me to take up my post at Hogwarts, to… to spy on the Headmaster."

"You don't have to tell me this," Harry cut in. "It's… I trust you, okay? I know… I know you're not like that—"

"I do have to tell you, Harry. You need to know." Snape closed his eyes lightly. "The Headmaster was conducting an interview at the Hog's Head. You know of the place, I'm sure. One Sybil Trelawney, granddaughter of a famous Seer, who had applied for the Divination post. An old fraud, I thought, but at that time I was dogging the Headmaster's every step like a young fool, searching for any tidbit of information I could pass to him. I did not expect… never, never would I have thought the woman capable of delivering a prophecy." Snape's voice had dropped to a strained hush by the end there, the volume low enough that it had Harry leaning in to catch his words. "Let alone a prophecy that would affect someone I…well."

"She gave me one too," Harry offered quietly. "It made no sense at the time. I didn't know… if I had, I never would have let Wormtail…." With barely a thought he found his hand drawn to trace the scar on his arm where the ritual knife had carved him.

"You could not have known. Whereas I… no, I did not know what the words meant—the half that I managed to catch before Aberforth tossed me out. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. I knew it spoke of a child. A baby."

Suddenly Harry's own breath seemed to be choking him, and his twisting gut burned as if filled with acid. Snape… Snape had been the one. There had been a prophecy… it had been about him, about his parents. And Snape….

"And I told him anyway, because what did I care for the life of one unknown brat? He was pleased with me, pleased that I had been in the right place at the right time… he told me to stand by his right side that night, and I was so damned proud of myself."

The bitterness in those words penetrated some of the bile that was rising in Harry, pierced him for a moment with the sheer potency of the regret there. But then the churning rage rose up within him again, and grief, and buried whatever he might have felt at Snape's unexpected vulnerability.

"And then the next time we met, I heard," Snape continued hoarsely. "Two children due at the end of the month, and one of them to Lily. We could not know whose child was marked by the prophecy. The Dark Lord announced the Potters had been a thorn in his side for far too long. That it was time he paid them the courtesy of a home visit."

Snape's hands were trembling. Harry did not know how he noticed that through the maelstrom of emotions tearing through him, the things that were so potent that they left him speechless. His magic was reaching out again, rattling the few faded prints that adorned the walls, fluttering the pages of one of the books that Snape had left on the coffee table.

"I am not proud… I stayed behind. I begged him to spare Lily. He… he misunderstood. Thought… well. That I… desired her." Snape's hands clenched on his knees, and his eyes squeezed shut. "I did not ask him to spare James, or you. I told myself that he would not, afterwards—that he knew I loathed James, that he intended to slay you and protect himself, and that he never would have entertained pleas to leave you breathing." Another deep inhalation. "I know now what pale excuses they were.

"I went to the Headmaster immediately afterwards. I sent a Patronus; I pleaded for him to hear my case. Him, too… him I begged to protect only Lily. He agreed, in exchange for my services as his spy." By then Snape's breathing had turned harsh, as harsh as Harry's own. "They would be hidden under Fidelius—you know of that business. When I heard they were betrayed… you think I wanted Black dead for our schoolyard animosity, but it was so much more than that. Yes, I had delivered those damning words, but him! They should have been safe in that house. Untouchable. And I believed him to be the Secret Keeper, the traitor…. I wanted him Kissed because I believed with my whole self that he deserved nothing less."

"You told Voldemort," Harry forced out through gritted teeth, "a prophecy about a baby who would destroy him. You told him, a bloody homicidal dark wizard, knowing full well that he would go murder that baby, that he'd shove Hell itself aside to do it."

Snape did not meet his eyes. "My actions were inexcusable."

"Did you just fucking realize this?" Harry shouted, and a seismic wave rippled through the room, rattling the boards, shaking the walls, loosing a few books. "Because you treated me like shite for four years—and don't even try to deny it!"

"I'm not, Harry," Snape replied evenly, his voice subdued.

"You acted like I'd brought it all on myself or something! Like I'd asked to be famous Harry Potter, like I just lived for it. Like this fucking scar on my forehead is some kind of blessing! And it hurt, damn it, because for years, years, my relatives treated me the exact same way, like I was so awful to be around, and that first class… it made me wonder if it was true. And then, this whole fucking time, it was your fault to begin with that he came after them and blew them all to hell and got me landed with the bloody Dursleys! This whole fucking time, you're the one who ruined my whole life! And not that I expected you to come up and say, 'Hello, Harry, I'm the one who got your parents killed, apologies about that' or anything, but you hated me, and you had no bloody right. I'm the one who should have hated you! The one who had a bloody reason to hate you!"

Snape did not answer, or tell him to calm down and stop shaking the foundation of the house. He just sat with his head bowed and his hands in his lap, rigid, almost listless.

"Why the hell were you so awful to me?" Harry demanded.

He expected Snape to remain silent. But the man didn't. "Because I was a coward."

Harry felt the storm of magical energy pulsating around him falter at those words and confusion muted some of the rage. "What?"

"I have thought on this," Snape answered quietly, "extensively over the past few weeks. Initially I told myself it was because you so strongly resembled James, and I was content to believe you had inherited all of his less desirable traits. Then I told myself that it was because you resembled Lily, and reminded me of her, and that anger and hatred were a way to protect myself from my own grief. Or perhaps I was angry that you had survived and she hadn't.

"But the ugly truth, I believe, is that I was terrified of this very conversation. Hating you—and ensuring that the feeling was mutual—meant that I would never have to face up to what I'd done. That I would never have to have this very conversation. You would never know me well enough to ask, and if you ever did, I would loathe you so much that I wouldn't care." Snape's chest rose, and stayed expanded there for an interminable moment. And then, exhaling, he practically wheezed out, "I know I can never make it up to you. But I would like to try."

The anger still coursed through Harry's veins, practically humming, as memories of Snape's cruelty and sneering over the years whirred through his mind. He wanted to yell more; he wanted to pierce Snape over and over with the guilt of what he'd done.

But tangled though all of that inextricably was the weight of the sheer wrongness of this, of seeing Snape—contrite? Weak? Miserable? There was nothing of his normal self-assurance, not a trace, and nothing of the mask that he wore so easily, the stone-smooth façade that kept Harry from reading any of the more human emotions in his professor. It was as though the world had flipped on its axis, and Harry found himself plummeting suddenly into the sky. No foundation, no constant—fuck, when had Snape become his anchor? Why did it feel as though as long as Snape was a needling, rude bastard, all was right in the world?

Too, in the mix, was a rational part of himself, whispering into the senseless screaming anger that what Snape had done was no worse than Sirius, running off like a madman and landing himself in prison, and never once fighting to be recognized as innocent. No worse than Dumbledore leaving him with the Dursleys and doing not a single thing more to help Harry to cope with his magic-loathing relatives. And certainly all of that ranked far below what Voldemort had done, or Peter Pettigrew, or any single one of the Death Eaters who had materialized in the graveyard that year.

It was too much.

"I need to think," he choked out, but even as he said it he knew that he couldn't stay in this house. He could still feel the rafters rattling, the faint vibrations of his magic making itself known. "I… I need…."

"Accio Harry's broom." The Firebolt burst from one of the closets in the hall and flew into Snape's hand. Snape stood in one smooth motion to catch it, and offer it out to Harry. The man's face was still drawn and haggard, and now his eyes were bright with worry. "Be careful."

Why the fuck did Snape have to know exactly what he needed?

XXXXX

Harry flew in circles, mind far too preoccupied for anything more elaborate. His neck prickled from the Disillusionment Charm that Snape had hastily cast as he'd beelined for the door.

His innards churned. He felt too much, and all at once, and he was certain that too much more of this and he would come apart at the seams. He clutched at the handle of his broom, willing the roughness of the wood grain to ground him as he struggled to marshal his thoughts.

Snape had been a Death Eater. He'd known that. He'd known, too, on a theoretical level, that the man had probably done some terrible things. But he hadn't been prepared to face down the fact that some of those terrible things had such direct impacts on his life.

It was strange how fast the boiling anger dissipated once he was up in the air. The cool rush of air as he kicked off seemed to leach the worst of it out of him, leaving him with just a queasiness in his stomach, and too many conflicting memories—the man who had spat at him that he would like to see Harry and Ron expelled, the man who had so carefully applied bruise balm just hours ago to every even vaguely discolored patch of skin. The man who had looked hollow and broken as he'd detailed the lowest moments of his life to Harry. The man who had begged Harry to be careful, please, when he'd handed Harry the very escape he'd so desperately needed.

He didn't want to be angry at Snape. He'd moved past this—he'd forgiven the man, and meant it. But forgiveness wasn't a neat thing, it seemed, and there was nothing to guard against these resurgences of resentment.

He didn't want to be angry, he reminded himself. And Snape had paid for his mistakes. Harry didn't want to know what the man had done to earn his place back at Voldemort's side—or what the man's Death Eater meetings entailed. And he'd saved Harry's life too many times to count.

And that wasn't even mentioning the thousand little things he'd done since, the things that Harry had tucked away into the shelves of his mind so carefully, like priceless heirlooms that he would always treasure. He could still feel the ghost of that warm hand on his back, rubbing in slow, deep circles as Harry cried himself out.

They'd moved past things. And then this—the revelation that Snape had…

Snape had… what? Been an idiot? Served the wrong master? Wanted to gain himself some recognition and shared the words of some blathering old woman—words, knowing the Potions Master, that he likely didn't even believe—words that Voldemort, not Snape, had taken seriously?

He had been a bastard. There was no disputing that. He'd had no right to be a bastard. In fact, that he had been so pompous and hateful was nothing short of unbelievable.

He regretted those mistakes, though, just like Harry regretted his. And admittedly, Harry's mistakes had been far more innocent and far more forgivable. But Snape was only human (surprisingly), and Harry was smart enough to put two and two together. He'd had a terrible childhood, probably, and Lily had been his friend and probably the only good thing about it. And then something had happened, and Snape had lost even that, and being in Slytherin while Voldemort was gaining power, Harry surmised, was probably no cakewalk. Harry didn't know exactly what had happened there, but he could guess enough of it, and he didn't have it in him to believe that Snape hadn't struggled when he'd joined Voldemort. Clearly he'd still loved Lily, and fiercely—because he had gone to Voldemort and begged for her life. And then gone to Dumbledore, not knowing if the Headmaster would ship him off to Azkaban or what.

And then the one person he'd loved had died anyway. Because it really didn't seem like Snape had anyone else. Not that Harry could see, anyways. He clearly lived alone (he was pretty sure this was Snape's house now and not some dump he'd bought on a whim), he never mentioned family, he never seemed to even correspond with anyone. He lived a solitary life.

And Harry guessed that he'd be pretty bitter, too, and cruel, if he had no one. Even now, when he knew that he had support—that the Weasleys liked him, that Sirius was there for him—he still felt those awful surges of black emotion—anger and loneliness, twined together sometimes. The sense that he would never have anyone of his own. That Sirius, affected as he was by the Dementors, would never be as reliable or stable as Harry wanted, and it was all the man's fault for running after Pettigrew like a complete idiot and abandoning his orphaned godson. That the Weasleys, kind as they were, would never see him as a part of the family; that he would always have a place apart, as Ron's friend. And Lupin… Harry knew he had to talk to Lupin. But Lupin was worn down by his condition, and even if the man had bothered to keep in touch with Harry, he didn't have the wherewithal (or desire, probably) to be the kind of support figure Harry craved.

Harry had all of them, though. And Snape had had no one.

Another realization struck Harry as he looped in the sky again, this time dipping gently toward the house, brushing the weathervane that twisted lazily above the half-finished roof. He needed to keep working on that—really, it still looked a mess. Snape didn't like it, he knew, even if Harry thought the reason was dumb. No, he hadn't liked being forced to do chores at the Dursleys, but he did like the satisfaction of seeing the results of his work. He still took pride in his labor—had done so even at the Dursleys. And not just because he was afraid of what they'd do if he'd done less than his best. He liked knowing that he was capable. He liked hearing the neighbors remark on the lovely flower beds at Number Four, or Vernon complaining that there was no roast left the next day because it had been gobbled up the night before. And here, he knew that Snape at least would acknowledge a job well done, even if he disagreed with Harry working on it in the first place.

Harry pulled up abruptly on his broom, stilling it and interrupting his circling. He wanted Snape to acknowledge his good work. He… he wanted Snape to be a support figure. Still.

Suddenly he was gripping his broom handle painfully, and his throat was pinched too tightly for him to swallow.

It didn't matter, he decided. Snape had been stupid and awful and never should have passed on that prophecy, but it didn't matter, because the man was sorry and was being better. And he was still sarcastic and at times impatient, and definitely annoyingly unbending in his decisions, but Harry could accept all that. Liked it, even, because it meant that the man wouldn't cosset him. He would just charge forward unrelentingly and unapologetically, making Harry eat and talk through his feelings and keep up with his relationships with his friends and surrogate family. He was exactly the kind of—adult—Harry needed in his life.

Slowly, heart still racing from his revelation, Harry allowed himself to drift downward. He touched feet to the ground and dismounted his broom with a great deal more care than he would normally. The Disillusionment Charm still enrobed him, and it was an odd thing to walk back into the house while still mostly invisible.

Snape was at the kitchen table, a cup of tea clutched in both of his hands. Harry froze in the doorway, taken aback by how despondent the man looked. He glanced up slightly, limp dark hair framing his face, his expression nearly blank.

The door fell shut behind Harry. And still Snape said nothing.

For something to do, Harry fumbled his wand out and muttered a quick finite incantatum, dispelling the charm. Unnerving, he thought, to watch his arm ripple a bit and fill back in with color.

His move, Harry thought. Snape seemed to be determined to let Harry determine how to proceed.

Harry didn't have the faintest clue what to say, or how to go forward. So he just blurted out what was most on his mind. "I forgive you."

Relief and, strangely enough, gratitude, flickered across Snape's features before being folded so expertly back into that unreadable mask. "You don't have to, Harry," he said quietly, his voice so strangely soft and deferential that Harry could hardly bear it. "You don't have to make this decision now, either. You can have as much time as you need to reflect on it. And if… if you would prefer to remain at Grimmauld in the interim—if you need space—"

"I don't," Harry cut the man off, and almost hoped that Snape would at least glare at him for the interruption.

No such luck. "I know what I have done is very nearly unforgivable. It would be natural for you to be angry with me still. And you may of course remain here, regardless of your feelings, if you wish—"

"I really forgive you," Harry insisted, unable to prevent his irritation from bleeding into his tone. "I know what you did wasn't right or fair, but I don't care enough to stay mad about it. And I want to put this all behind us."

Snape nodded once—but a troubled wrinkle creased his brow. "If you change your mind—"

"I'm not going to change my mind."

Snape winced, and Harry realized retrospectively how harshly those words had come out. "I only mean to say that if you find yourself contending with unresolved feelings, or if you wish to discuss specifics—particular past interactions, my history, anything—I am more than willing—"

"Fine." Harry really wanted Snape to nod briskly, and snap back into his old self. This—this was starting to become unnerving.

Snape still clutched his empty teacup. His eyes fell back to it, and idly he began rolling it back and forth. "I wished to express again how very sorry I am for all that has passed—for your parents, as well as for the years of anguish—"

Harry couldn't stand to hear Snape's apologies. Was this how the man felt every time Harry tried to excuse himself? If so, he could begin to understand the man's claims of stomach ulcers. "I know, and it's fine. I really want to move past it."

Snape nodded faintly. "Of course. And as I said, I will do everything in my power to make amends."

That was worse than the apologies. Harry's gut clenched at the sheer wrongness of this. Snape was too cowed, too… not Snape. "I really want to just forget about it and start fresh," Harry tried, though he couldn't get his teeth to unclench enough to get the words out.

The pain that rippled over Snape's face was too much. "As you wish," he agreed, but Harry could hear the unspoken words. If only that were possible.

Harry wondered if a snarky, insolent reply would get Snape to rebuke him, and break the Potions Master out of this… whatever it was. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't think of anything. And he didn't actually want to insult Snape. Something told him that Snape might actually welcome the abuse.

Slowly, as if he were decades earlier than he had been that very morning, Snape rose from his chair and shuffled his way over to the sink. "I will start on dinner. Is there anything in particular that you would like?"

"No," Harry mumbled.

"We could order out. Perhaps you would like to choose something to try?"

There were plenty of things, Harry thought, that he would like to try. Indian or Chinese, which Hermione had recommended to him. Or even some pub food, which he had only ever had since being able to go into Hogsmeade.

But he hated how solicitous Snape was now. He reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia trying to pull Dudley out of a sulk. Harry had a feeling that if he flat-out demanded ice cream for dinner, Snape would acquiesce. Would probably take note of Harry's favorite flavor and run out to buy it.

And that was just wrong. Snape should give him some concise explanation—that Harry hadn't eaten out in his life, and had best not make a fuss because they would be getting takeaway, and Harry would be choosing what kind exactly. And then he would glare at Harry and dare him to refuse. And that would be fine.

"No." Harry clutched his broom.

"Harry," Snape murmured, setting his cup into the sink at last. "Truly, it is fine if you are still angry with me. You have much to be angry for—"

"I'm not!" Harry growled, "and stop saying that I am! I know how I feel, and I don't need you to tell me how I should feel, okay?"

Harry saw the knowing look in Snape's eyes, and the faint misery tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course." The reply was smooth, but Harry knew it was placating. Knew that Snape mistook his frustrated tone and vehement denials for proof positive of his anger and hurt.

He needed to go flying again. He pushed out the back door, broom in hand, without another word to Snape, letting the door slam behind him. Probably not the best thing for convincing Snape that he wasn't actually upset with the man.

He'd forgotten the Disillusionment Charm. Damn it. But he wasn't going to go back in there, not when his every retort seemed to be making things worse. Besides, Snape's wards were concealing, and extended at least a little ways up over the house. Snape had told him as much. He'd just float up there while he tried to sort this out.

He kicked off hard and shot up before pulling himself to a hard stop once he'd become level with the weathervane. And then he just floated there, seething with how much a mess things had become between him and Snape.

It had been just that morning—just hours ago!—that everything had been fine. Comfortable, even. Of course nothing good could last very long, not for Harry. Of course Snape's stupid confession had to ruin things, and not even in the most obvious way.

Because even if Harry might have a little lingering resentment for Snape, he could deal with that. But no, it was Snape sitting down there, so obviously crushed by a burden of guilt, so downtrodden that he—hell-born terror of the dungeons—was walking on eggshells. What could Harry do about that? Tell the man to stop? Tell him to buck up? As if that would do any good.

Maybe Snape would get better. But Lord only knew how long that would take. Months, if not years. And Harry didn't have years to put up with this—whatever. It was worse than coddling, that was for sure.

Harry searched for a solution, positively wracked his brain trying to conjure some solution to un-break Snape. But drifting aimlessly on his broom wasn't cutting it, so he flipped himself upside down and dangled, clinging to the handle like a sloth to a tree branch. And then he remembered Snape's admonition not to try any foolhardy stunts.

An idea struck him. A stupid idea that probably wouldn't work, but it was worth a shot. Though with his luck Snape wasn't even watching him. And it wasn't like it had worked in the past—though then his aim had been quite different.

Still, he didn't think he had many options at the moment. So this was worth a shot.

Harry righted himself slowly, trying to decide exactly what he wanted to do. A shame his conversation with Sirius hadn't circled around to broom tricks. Well, standing up had been one of the more difficult maneuvers he'd performed over the years. In fact, he was pretty certain he hadn't even attempted it since that Quidditch match his first year. It might be more difficult now that he was less an undersized runt and more a gangly, if still a bit short, teenager.

He swung one leg up and braced his foot against the handle, shifted his weight, and in one heart-stopping moment hoisted himself up, pulling his other foot up to the handle. He lurched forward for a bit, and for one awful, flailing moment, he thought he was going to pitch forward into freefall—but he managed to regain his equilibrium and stabilize himself. And even though this was just a stupid stunt with a much greater purpose in mind, he couldn't help but grin to himself at his accomplishment.

He found that with a little nudge of his magic, he could get the broom to drift forward and rotate slowly toward the house. He wondered how long it would take for Snape to notice him. He was fairly certain the man would keep a close eye on him after he'd stormed out without the charm—

He nearly toppled off his broom when he caught sight of Snape glaring up at him from in front of the back door. Not long at all, then.

But his gambit had certainly worked. Snape was livid.

Suddenly, Harry was wondering whether he should have given Snape time to sort through his own feelings and recover from his confession, rather than trying to force things back into normalcy (or what passed for normalcy lately) by pissing Snape off. Because boy, had he pissed the man off.

Snape didn't speak, only gripped his wand hard in his left hand and pointed violently with his right to the empty lawn in front of him, the command clear as day.

Swallowing hard, Harry gently guided the broom down to the ground and stepped off. He moved to grab it, but Snape slashed his wand at it, and suddenly it was careening toward the house of its own accord, the door just barely flying open in time to let it in.

Harry had a sinking feeling that he would not be seeing his Firebolt for quite some time.

"What. Were. You. Thinking?"

Good job, Harry, he congratulated himself, flinching back from the icy tone and spittle both. Definitely not overly solicitous now, is he?

Harry knew he should explain what he'd intended. But he couldn't string the words together to shed light on what he'd actually tried to do. I wanted you to be angry so you'd stop being too nice sounded utterly brainless. And actually, maybe it was. Maybe Harry's reasoning had been less than sound.

"Um—I stood up on my broom my first year—"

"And I wanted to strangle you then as well," Snape hissed, seizing Harry roughly by the upper arm and thrusting him back toward the house. "What did I tell you? What did I expressly forbid when I allowed you to have that blasted contraption back?"

"I know, but see, it… I needed to make you angry—"

"Angry is not the word, Potter, believe me." A hand at the back of his neck now, and not the warm, reassuring kind. This one was tight as an iron collar, and pushed him to the left, straight into the corner of the kitchen, relenting only when Harry's nose was one inch from the place where the two walls met.

Harry tried to turn around to face Snape, to explain himself, but the second he started to pivot, Snape grabbed him by the back of the head and repositioned him so that he was once again practically suffocating from his proximity to the walls.

"You are going to stand right there and think about why you have decided to behave so foolishly and recklessly—"

"I wanted things to go back to normal!" Harry cut in, his words muffled by the walls. He wanted to twist back to Snape, but the hand at the back of his head kept him from turning so much as an inch. "You… you were all…."

"You did not care for my demeanor, so you decided to risk your life?"

Well, put that way, it sounded bad. "No, I just wanted to disobey you enough that you'd… you know, get all…." Fuck, he had to say the word. "Parental. It… you weren't listening to me! I told you I just wanted to forget it, but you… it was awful, okay? And I don't need you tiptoeing around me. I've told you that. But you didn't listen, and I had to do something, because I just couldn't stand you being… not you. I… you're good at, you know, not letting me get away with stuff, and it seemed like that was going to change because you were all guilty—"

"And you waited precisely how long to do something about this perceived problem?" Snape demanded, his voice clipped.

Harry was glad, actually, that he was facing the corner, because he could feel a hot blush rising on his cheeks. "Um…."

"You will stand there and contemplate your actions. And then you will explain to me, in detail, the tangled mess that I will kindly term your thought process that led you to tempt Fate and nearly break your neck—again. You will tell me precisely why it was wrong, and if your explanation is not satisfactory, you will spend more time in the corner pondering your actions. And then we will discuss the consequences of this stunt."

Snape was going to make him stand in the corner? The man couldn't be serious.

Except he was, and Harry knew that he was. "I'm almost fifteen," he pointed out, hating how much of a whine emerged in his tone. "I'm too old to… to be put in a corner—"

"Perhaps if you had acted your age," Snape suggested in that deadly cool tone of his, "you would not be here right now. And your contemplation will be silent, Mr. Potter. Argue with me again and you will stand there even longer."

"If you would just let me explain why, though—"

"You have. And your desire to get me angry does not excuse your actions, regardless of what you believe you needed to accomplish."

"You don't understand—"

"I do. I understand exactly. And I am giving you precisely what you just told me you need."

Those words did all kinds of things to him—a cold trickle down his neck, a twist and fluttering in his gut, another rush of heat over his cheeks. Snape was giving him limits. Boundaries. Snape was holding him accountable. And he hated that, even while he appreciated it and was grateful for it.

So he murmured, "Yes, sir." And he resigned himself to his thinking-time in the corner.

Snape released his head almost immediately, and stepped back. Harry resisted the urge to turn and face him. It sounded as though he left the kitchen for a moment, then returned. Harry heard the scrape of a wooden chair, the soft groan against the tiles as Snape presumably settled into it, and following that the soft rustle of a page at regular intervals.

Harry waited. And waited. And waited. His feet started to ache, and the scintillating view of two inches of faded light-grey paint was beginning to wear on him. His breath was too warm for the small space, too, and really, how long had it been? Half an hour, at least.

He tried to be patient, but at last he decided that Snape was probably just waiting for him to break and acknowledge that he'd learned his lesson. "Okay, I get it. You're still in charge—"

"You are not done contemplating, Mr. Potter. Nose back in the corner."

Harry bit back a groan as he stopped twisting around. "You've made your point—"

"I am not making a point. You are there to contemplate an incredibly foolish decision, and you have lengthened the amount of time you will be spending there. A shame, as you were doing so well."

Harry sighed. Okay, so Snape was going to be a bastard about this, probably to dispel any notion that his guilt would make him a pushover. Great. "How long do I have to stand here?"

"Even longer now, since you cannot follow directions."

Harry knocked his head lightly into the corner. "I just want to know how long—"

"Longer still, since you are still having such trouble doing as you were told. And the answer to your question is 'until I say you can come out', if that was not clear enough."

Why in the hell had he told Snape that he needed him to be parental?

An interminable amount of time later, and Harry was certain that this was the worst punishment that had ever been invented. He was going out of his mind just standing there and staring at nothing. And he would have traded his wand for any kind of surface he could sit on. A stool, a rock, anything.

He knew he shouldn't. He knew what Snape was going to say as soon as he opened his mouth. And still he opened it. "Can I please come out now?"

"No. If you would actually focus on your task instead of obsessing over how long this is going to last, you would already be finished. Instead, you will stand there even longer now."

This time Harry did groan aloud as he knocked his head once more against the corner.

Snape made no comment, just continued to flip pages as if nothing had happened.

Harry decided he had better decide what he was going to say. He wasn't all that sorry, even if he wasn't thrilled with his current situation. After all, he'd broken Snape out of that awful mood, even if he'd had to provoke the man to do so. And if Snape would just see that and give Harry a pass, just this once….

So. Snape was pretty well ticked off with Harry. And Harry was pretty sure the man would make him stand here for just as long as it suited him, because any hesitation and deference he'd felt previously was long since gone. So Harry settled in and began turning over what he'd done in his mind.

Okay. From Snape's perspective. Snape had been feeling all around rotten about his stupid decisions, and trying to tell Harry that he should still be upset. And Harry had stormed off at that, and generally been an unpleasant little prat rather than mature and level-headed about the whole affair.

So Snape, guilty and miserable, had watched Harry rush outside. And then, what? Probably meandered over to the window to check on him. Watched Harry climb up onto his broom, almost lose his balance….

Okay. Yeah, Snape probably hadn't liked that feeling. Not at all, if Harry thought back to how he'd reacted to Harry climbing up onto the roof. And Harry could admit that a narrow beam of wood floating midair was probably considerably less safe than a ladder and a broad, slanted surface that wasn't going anywhere.

Harry swallowed hard as guilt now washed through him instead. He'd wondered for half an instant, why Snape hadn't yelled at him, but the truth was obvious now. He'd probably been terrified of startling Harry and sending him pitching toward the ground. So he'd kept silent and watched, probably hoping that Harry would come down, or that he'd be able to renew the Cushioning Charms in time to lessen the impact if Harry did fall.

Oh, and he'd been worrying. The kind of worried that preceded the vicious anger that had overtaken his features the second Harry had made eye contact. Harry's stomach flipped at that thought. He kept forgetting that Snape actually worried about him.

And he might have fallen. What if he'd broken his neck? What if Snape hadn't come out to watch? What if Harry had slipped and hit his head and died, and Snape had come out to find him in a broken heap on the lawn? And that after he'd confessed so many things to Harry, after he'd apologized so profusely and seemed so very swamped with regret.

Harry wrapped his arms around his stomach and hugged himself a little. Snape was right. He should have just waited a bit. Let Snape feel bad, let him work through it. Not rushed ahead like a damned fool and give the man another heart attack, not when he was already feeling so terrible.

Harry had no idea how long he stood there. He was still swimming through half-formed sentences by the time Snape final announced, "You may turn around."

Harry did, his eyes on the floor, all the words he'd been trying to string together lodging firmly in his too-dry throat.

"Tell me what you did."

Harry swallowed painfully. "Put myself in danger."

"And was it worth it? Was your decision justified?"

Harry shook his head to the ground. "No."

"Indeed. You also disobeyed me directly, did you not?"

Harry closed his eyes tightly. "Yes," he admitted. That, too, felt awful. "I… I'm sorry. I was dumb. I just… I didn't think."

"You cannot continue to do that." Snape's tone was stern, but exasperated too, no longer that polished, unfeeling cadence that he often adopted when overseeing detentions. Now there was a hint of real emotion buried in there, burning like a remnant ember. "You cannot charge ahead without thinking, because one of these days your damnable luck will run out, and then…."

The soft, rasping quality of Snape's voice as he trailed off there was what did it for Harry. "I'm sorry," he choked, even as he felt warm dampness pricking in his eyes. "I really am. I just—I hated how you were talking so much, and… and I overreacted, and I didn't think. I didn't mean to… I'm not used to anyone caring, honest. I mean, I know Mrs. Weasley would chew me out if I ever did anything, but it's—it's not the same. I really am sorry, I swear."

A long pause. And then, heavily, Snape replied, "I accept your apology. But that does not mean you are wheedling out of the consequences."

Harry nodded to his shoes. "I know." And then Harry steeled himself, because he needed to know that this was over—the worst of it, at least. He needed to know that Snape forgave him. And he was too much of a coward to ask. So instead he dared a small step forward, so that he was just half a step away from Snape, well within range, and he held his breath as he waited for Snape to either simply step back and sweep away, or—

Harry let his breath out in a rush as Snape wrapped an arm around him and pulled him in tight against the man's side.

"I need you to listen to me now," Snape continued quietly, practically speaking into Harry's ear. "Regardless of how you feel in this moment, I need you to know that it is perfectly natural for you to have unresolved feelings regarding my past actions. And that, should those feelings arise, and should you feel the need, you may come speak to me—or yell at me, or curse me out, as necessary. I do not want you to shove your anger down and bury it, is that clear?"

Harry nodded weakly into Snape's shoulder. He didn't want the man to let him go. It was pathetic, he knew, but it felt so good to bury his face against Snape's shoulder and hide there and just feel accepted.

Snape sighed, and the hand clasped to his shoulder began to rub up and down a bit. Harry leaned harder into Snape, fatigue washing over him the longer he stood there. He still really wanted to sit, but he didn't want the embrace to end.

But it did anyway. Snape drew back, untangling his arm so he could use his hand to tilt Harry's chin up slightly. His dark, assessing gaze seemed to pierce straight into Harry. "You're exhausted," he muttered, rolling his eyes a bit. "And no wonder. Go lie down for a bit. You can start on your lines after supper."

Harry bit his lip, twisting a hand in the hem of his shirt. "Er… am I allowed to ask how many lines?"

A faint smirk tugged at Snape's lips then. "A mere five hundred. This time. And suffice to say, your feet will be staying on the ground for a few weeks at least. And all dueling between us is suspended until you have completed your lines."

Not ideal. But definitely not unreasonable, either. So Harry nodded dejectedly, trying not to think about how dull his birthday was going to be if he couldn't even go flying. But… he'd brought this on himself. And he would just have to accept the consequences this time.

At least he wouldn't have to spend his birthday locked in his room. Probably. Snape might even let him visit his friends. Though he would probably do better waiting a few days to ask about that particular topic.

"Go on," Snape repeated, giving him a little nudge. "Take the sofa if you'll be comfortable there."

Harry nodded again, and then, on impulse, lunged forward again, snaking one arm around Snape's midsection and giving him a quick squeeze before trying to pull back and flee.

Snape caught him, though, both arms coming around him briefly and trapping him there for a long, slow squeeze that seemed to wring the last remaining drops of anxiety out of Harry. Snape even twisted a bit, back and forth. Harry was glad once again to be able to hide his damp eyes.

"You're a smart boy. Stop making stupid decisions," was all Snape said before releasing him and making his unhurried way to the fridge.

A/N:

Remember the bit where I said I never update regularly, sorry and thanks for your patience? The good news is I'm recovered from my surgery and back to work! The bad news is I'm writing slow as ever. This one was another doozy to write. I hope the wait was worth it. Again, I am always most sincerely humbled by the kind, generous, and long comments some of you leave. I am terrible at replying (or even acknowledging them!) but I do read every single one and appreciate the time you take to leave feedback. As for the few folks who have mentioned that this story resonates with you in a personal way, please accept all the love and kindness I can pour at you through this work. I am truly humbled to be able to create something that speaks to you.
As always, thanks for your readership :) Cheers (and please stay healthy!) ~Mel

PS: please let me know if there is a fic you would like me to update before this one-I am at a complete crossroads, and can focus on about one thing at a time.