Harry shifted nervously, clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides. He'd been hovering in the corner of Mr. Snape's kitchen since they'd returned about a quarter of an hour ago.
Mr. Snape hadn't said a word since they'd apparated back to the front doorstep of his house. He'd levitated Harry's trunk inside and dropped it on the kitchen floor, gone straight to the table, and begun scrawling a missive to Dumbledore, his hand moving rapidly across the parchment, his brows furrowed in a heavy scowl. Harry could see the headmaster's name at the top of the page, but he couldn't make out the rest of the spiky script, and he didn't dare creep closer to try and read it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mr. Snape finished his letter, rolling it up and stalking over to the fire to pass it through. The man was always tense and foul-tempered, but he seemed to be particularly aggravated at the moment, and Harry wasn't sure what to do. Now that his initial excitement over leaving Privet Drive was wearing off, he was starting to contemplate the reality of being stuck with this man — a virtual stranger — who had made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with Harry.
Half of him hoped that Dumbledore would reply quickly; the other half wanted to stay near to his mum's house no matter the cost.
"Er, Mr. Snape?" Harry spoke up quietly. "When do you think you'll hear from Professor Dumbledore?"
"I am not a seer, Potter," he replied brusquely. "I will hear from him when he is available to respond."
Harry wanted to roll his eyes at the non-answer. The man could be so melodramatic!
"What am I to do while we wait to hear from him?" He asked, wincing internally at how lost and pathetic he sounded to his own ears.
Mr. Snape's lip curled. "I will not be playing nursemaid and entertaining you, Potter. My schedule has already been negatively impacted by this ridiculous escapade."
He considered pointing out that the man had chosen to remove Harry from Privet Drive, not the other way around. But he didn't want to anger the man so much that he actually brought him back there again.
"No doubt the headmaster will see this for the dire emergency it is — me being in charge of his golden boy for more than a few hours — and he will return promptly."
"What…what will happen to me then?" Harry whispered, ignoring the "golden boy" dig, his heart in his throat.
"That is for the headmaster to determine," the man said simply, packing up his quill and ink.
It wasn't a very comforting answer.
"Now," Mr. Snape said sternly. "I have already lost enough time as it is. I will be in my laboratory working upstairs. You are not to disturb me unless the headmaster sends word, is that understood?"
Harry felt his heart lighten a bit. "Can I go over to mum's house?" He asked eagerly.
His hope faltered when the man immediately shook his head. "I am still responsible for you until the headmaster returns. I will not have you breaking your fool neck in that old death trap on my watch. You will sit here at the table and wait for the headmaster to reply."
The man pointed at the chair Harry had sat in last night and this morning at breakfast. Harry cast a long, wistful look out the window at his mum's house. He contemplated making a run for it, but that would be a bit stupid. The man would obviously know where he'd gone, and then he'd be properly angry on top of already being annoyed with Harry's presence.
He reluctantly took a seat at the table, angling the chair slightly so he could still see out the window.
The man regarded him with a suspicious look, as though contemplating whether he needed to place Harry in a body-bind again. Harry made sure to keep a neutral expression on his face.
After a long moment, the man turned and swept upstairs. Harry breathed out a sigh of relief, relaxing now that he was alone.
As instructed, he sat quietly, alternating between watching the fire for a message and staring out the window. His mind swirled with worries — about being stuck with Mr. Snape, about being returned to the Dursleys, about his mum's house, and his lack of contact with his friends, and Professor Dumbledore's reaction to all of this.
He hoped that Mr. Snape hadn't written anything about the scene at Privet Drive in his letter to the headmaster. It was humiliating, having someone see his relatives behave like that. As much as he was grateful that Mr. Snape had yelled at Aunt Petunia on his behalf, it made him cringe to think that the man had seen Harry's cupboard.
Well, at least the man certainly wasn't coddling or pitying Harry as a result of what he'd witnessed.
Harry's thoughts spun around for the first hour or so, but then he began to calm down. He was used to the waiting game, after all. How many hours had he spent locked up in his cupboard, waiting to be let out to clean or go to school or sneak a few precious minutes at the library?
He cast a glance over at his trunk, wondering if he could get away with pulling out a few textbooks or a Quidditch magazine. But he discarded the idea for two reasons: first, Mr. Snape had placed his trunk upside down when he'd levitated it inside, and Harry wasn't strong enough to lift it and flip it over. Even if he could manage it, it'd probably make a loud noise, which might attract Mr. Snape's ire. Second, Mr. Snape had told him to stay in his seat, and Harry didn't want to find out what the consequences would be for disobeying.
So he wiggled a bit in his chair, getting comfortable, and settled in to wait.
Severus Snape was not a man prone to distraction. Throughout his life, he had cultivated the ability to concentrate deeply and nurtured his natural affinity for Occlumency.
True, there had been a dark period after the fall of the Dark Lord where he'd been lost in a dark haze. But even at his lowest point, wracked with guilt and self-hatred, he had managed to claw himself back into a state of focus and productivity.
He had a purpose and goals to guide him. He could never atone for his sins, he knew that. He wasn't a good person, and some mistakes could never be redeemed.
But he was doing what he could — conducting extremely important potions research that could significantly improve the lives of werewolves, and preparing to maintain his position as a spy for the Dark Lord's inevitable return.
He looked down at his potions bench, shaking his head in disgust. For the second time in the past 30 minutes, he'd cut a newt spleen in the wrong direction, a mistake he hadn't made since his third or fourth year at Hogwarts.
The boy needed to go. Immediately.
Severus had worked very hard over the past ten years to rebuild some sort of emotional equilibrium, reinforcing his Occlumency shields over and over again so that he could walk around with a sort of detached neutrality.
He didn't need this — this intrusion — in his life. This brat reminding him constantly of the past — of his many failures — interrupting his research — and staring at him with those damn eyes .
He jabbed his wand at the desk with more force than necessary, vanishing the ruined spleen. It was a waste of a perfectly good ingredient, and a waste of his time. Frustrated, he collapsed into his chair.
There were myriad reasons why the boy had to go. First and foremost, he could feel his blood pressure rising every time he glanced in Potter's direction. It was like looking at a pensieve memory of a young Potter Sr., especially from across the room. The knobbly limbs, the glasses, the messy hair — it had been nearly fifteen years since Severus' time at Hogwarts, and his fingers still itched to fire off a hex or a jinx when he saw that familiar silhouette.
Secondly, it was the ever-present reminder of her — far more subtle, but even harder to ignore. The way the boy wrinkled his nose when he was confused — the stubborn set of his mouth when he argued — those eyes, reminding him of the last time he'd ever seen Lily, how he and the boy had wept together all those years ago—
He'd vowed to protect the boy from the dark lord, but he'd always imagined doing so from afar. He had no desire to be thrown into close quarters with a child whose mother had been murdered because of Severus' poor choices.
And if that wasn't enough, there was another reason too — beyond who the boy's parents were, and beyond the fact that he was interrupting Severus' peace and quiet. He could admit to himself, in the privacy of his own mind, that he was disturbed by what he'd witnessed at Petunia's house earlier that day. He'd been expecting to encounter Potter Sr.'s parents waiting on Potter Jr. on hand and foot, not the boy's cousin casually calling him a freak; Petunia manhandling the boy; Petunia shoving him toward a broom cupboard and sneering that he'd lost the right to have a bedroom — warning that he'd be in for it when his uncle arrived home that night —
Severus was growing alarmed by where his mind was drifting. He finally found the discipline necessary to slam his mental shields down, exhaling with relief as he felt his barriers begin to separate him from his thoughts and recollections.
After another minute or two, he was able to shove all thoughts of the boy and their current predicament beyond his shields. He grabbed the jar of newt spleens, confident that he'd be able to focus now.
He'd already lost too much time thinking about the Boy-Who-Lived. Now it was time to think about potions.
Surely he deserved that much after the morning he'd had.
When Severus emerged from his reverie hours later, he realized with a start that a significant amount of time had passed. His stomach was empty, he was rather parched, and the sun had rotated overhead, shifting the shadows from one side of the room to the other.
He stood, stretching stiff muscles, and absentmindedly flicked his wand to clean up the last of his supplies. A nice spot of afternoon tea would be just the thing, and then he could return to write up his notes on the day's experiment.
It hit Severus all of a sudden as he brought his cauldron over to the lab's sink.
The boy!
He froze in place, mind spinning. It had been — he checked his watch — nearly five hours. He'd left the boy downstairs at 9:30, and it was approaching 2:30 now.
"Shite," he muttered, dumping the cauldron next to the sink and hastily washing his hands.
Severus was unaccustomed to having house guests of any kind, let alone eleven-year-old boys with a genetic predisposition for mischief. He'd assumed Dumbledore would reply within the hour, so he'd merely cast a light monitoring charm to alert him if the boy left or got injured. Merlin only knew what sort of disaster Potter might have caused unsupervised!
Severus envisioned his kitchen booby-trapped with dung bombs, firecrackers, and stink pellets. Potter might've found Severus' stash of pounds in one of the kitchen drawers and ordered himself several luxurious takeaway meals. Or he could've found a way around Severus' wards and escaped — perhaps to the Evans house next door, or perhaps to somewhere else entirely.
He paused at the top of the landing, unnerved to find that the house was completely silent below.
He kept his own footsteps silent as he descended, pulling his wand out, preparing for the worst, only to pause when he caught sight of the boy sitting at the kitchen table.
Severus' experience as a spy had taught him the value of observing people unnoticed, and he took advantage of the opportunity to study the boy. His back was to Severus, and he was sitting in place, looking out the window. He was curiously still, not swinging his legs or humming or tapping like all the other children Severus had had the misfortune to come into contact with.
"What are you doing, Potter?" Severus asked, noting how the boy flinched, letting out a startled gasp as he turned in his chair.
"Nothing. I've just been sitting here, sir," he replied when he recovered.
Severus quirked an eyebrow. "For five hours straight? Surely you don't expect me to believe that, boy."
The boy's brow furrowed with confusion. "You told me to sit here, sir. So that's what I've been doing." He shrugged, and Severus narrowed his eyes at him. If he was lying, then he was a surprisingly good liar for a Gryffindor.
Severus scanned the rest of the room. The boy's trunk was in the corner of the kitchen where Severus had left it earlier that morning when they returned. The boy probably wasn't strong enough to lift it and turn it over to open it. Which meant —
Severus opened his cupboards, and then the refrigerator. Nothing had been touched.
"You've been sitting," he repeated slowly, turning back to the boy.
"Yes, sir." The boy was eyeing him nervously, his shoulders hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. He was starting to remind Severus of a bloody house elf.
He irritably opened the refrigerator door with a little more force than necessary. This was Dumbledore's problem, not his! Dumbledore had placed the boy with his relatives; Dumbledore was the boy's headmaster and therefore had a duty to his student.
"You should eat lunch," he said roughly, setting the kettle to boil for tea and pulling a loaf of bread, some cold cuts, and fruit out of the refrigerator.
The boy's eyes widened when he saw the food, as though it was an unexpected boon.
"Er, sir," the boy piped up hesitantly. "Can I use the toilet?"
Severus froze, drawing in a deep breath.
"You do not need to ask permission for that, Potter," he ground out. He listened behind him as the boy hesitated for a few seconds and then scurried off and up the stairs.
Severus gripped the edge of the countertop and braced his weight against it for a long moment. He wished he'd given in to the urge to hex Petunia and her bullying son. And he was growing more and more tempted to hex Dumbledore the next time he saw the man. What was he playing at, leaving the boy with Petunia all those years ago? And now leaving him with Severus for all these hours?
Severus double-checked the floo connection, and he even walked to the front door to check his mailbox and to look for owls lurking beyond the wards.
There was nothing. Not a word of response.
The boy had returned to the kitchen by the time Severus admitted defeat. He was seated in his customary spot at the table, staring nervously at the food Severus had laid out.
"Are you waiting for an invitation?" Severus sneered.
Yes, his mind told him unhelpfully. He probably is, given how he was raised.
This was getting to be too much.
"Because you won't get one. Eat," he snapped, feeling oddly wrongfooted about the situation, an unpleasant sensation when standing in his own kitchen.
He watched as the boy took a few hesitant bites.
"Finish eating and join me upstairs," Severus said coldly. "We still need to address the subject of your attempted theft."
The boy gulped and paled but nodded.
Severus felt slightly more in control as he swept back to his lab. He would set the boy a punishment, the boy would react defiantly, Dumbledore would contact him and remove the boy, and balance would be restored.
Harry couldn't hold back a slight gasp of wonder as he stepped into Mr. Snape's work room.
"A potions laboratory? Are you a potions master, sir?" He asked, taking in the smells and sounds: a brightly colored row of vials sitting on a nearby bench, a cauldron bubbling in the corner, and a faint scent of herbs that he recognized from the Hogwarts dungeons.
Instead of answering, the man merely pointed to a stack of filthy cauldrons near a small sink at the back of the room.
"You are to clean all of those by hand. Without using magic."
The man paused, crossing his arms over his chest as though waiting for Harry to react.
Harry surveyed the cauldrons. The task seemed like something that would be assigned in a Hogwarts detention or on a normal Tuesday afternoon at the Dursleys. It was a really light punishment for breaking and entering into someone's house! Given the man's general temperament, he'd expected to be locked up or assigned to clean the house from top to bottom with a toothbrush (that was a punishment that Petunia liked to employ). He'd even wondered if he would be rapped on his knuckles with a ruler or a cane (Aunt Marge's preferred discipline method) or forced to toil outside in the hot sun doing manual labor with no breaks or meals.
Instead he basically just had to wash some dishes. "Alright, sir," he shrugged, rolling up his sleeves and heading over to the sink.
As he set to work, soaking the first cauldron in hot, soapy water, he yet again found himself contemplating the man he was stuck with. Mr. Snape had been furious with the Dursleys, yet he was also annoyed by Harry's very existence. He'd forgotten Harry and left him to sit at the table for half the day, but then he'd seemed bothered that Harry hadn't had lunch and had insisted that he eat. He clearly thought that Harry was a nuisance who needed to be taken down a peg or two, but he'd assigned a harmless punishment.
In spite of where he was and who he was with, Harry felt himself relaxing as he scrubbed the cauldrons. The familiar motions were comforting. Everything else was confusing, but cleaning wasn't.
Time slipped by, and he almost found himself regretful as he finished the final cauldron. It had been a nice reprieve from the day's turmoil.
Mr. Snape was sitting at a nearby desk, scratching notes into a leather-bound journal. Harry washed his hands, wiped the countertop dry, neatly stacked the cauldrons, and then stood near the sink, waiting for Mr. Snape to acknowledge him.
"I did not say you could stop for a break, Potter," Mr. Snape said, not looking up from his work.
"I'm not taking a break. I'm done, sir."
Mr. Snape looked up now, looking from Harry to the stack of cauldrons. "If you rushed through it and expect me to accept shoddy work…"
"No, sir," Harry said, shaking his head. He wasn't confident about much, but he knew he could clean.
Mr. Snape came to inspect Harry's progress. He lifted each cauldron from the stack, ran a finger over the inside looking for residue, and then moved on to the next one. He worked silently, and Harry found himself holding his breath nervously, awaiting judgment.
The man apparently could find no fault with the state of the cauldrons. Looking annoyed, he pointed to a spot on the floor. "You dripped water there."
He watched Harry with something expectant in his expression, almost as though he were waiting for Harry to start yelling or throwing a fit.
"Sorry, sir. I'll clean it up now." Harry replied calmly, grabbing a cloth to take care of the wet spot.
The man returned to his journal. Harry made quick work of the floor, and he wasn't sure what to do after that. He resumed standing near the sink. After a few minutes, he found himself examining the shelves filled with vials next to him. He drifted a few steps closer, leaning in to look at a light blue potion that he thought he recognized as a forgetfulness potion. He'd be able to tell if there was a slight metallic sheen to it up close…
"Do not touch that," the man barked.
Harry jumped back, startled and irritated. He wasn't dumb; he hadn't been planning to touch unknown magical substances.
"Sorry, sir. I was just curious. It looked like a forgetfulness potion."
"Ah, so the great Potter considers himself a potions expert? Tell me, then — what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" The man rose from his seat, looking down his nose at Harry. Harry felt like he'd been transported to a strange nightmare, back at Hogwarts in class with a professor putting him on the spot to answer questions.
"Er…"
Mr. Snape tutted.
"Pity. Clearly, fame isn't everything, is it?"
"It's the Draught of Living Death, sir," Harry managed to say. Merlin! He knew the answer; it had just taken him a minute to recall it.
"Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
The answer came more easily this time. "The stomach of a goat, sir," he said confidently.
"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Harry smiled. "They're the same, sir."
Mr. Snape appeared unimpressed. "What are the properties of gillyweed?"
Harry's smile faded. He wracked his brain, but he couldn't think of an answer. He didn't think they'd studied gillyweed last term.
"I don't know, sir," he admitted.
Mr. Snape looked triumphant. "It is as I expected. Slughorn has no doubt allowed you to skate by on your reputation."
Harry felt his temper begin to rise. He worked hard at potions class, and it wasn't fair to expect him to know things beyond the first-year curriculum. Professor Slughorn had told him that his mum was a gifted potions student, and he'd clung to the information, determined to try his best in the subject. Maybe he didn't have her natural affinity — he sometimes messed up the instructions while brewing — but he enjoyed the class, tried his best, and got decent marks.
"That's not true," Harry said hotly.
"Oh?" Mr. Snape said. Harry had a feeling that he was being goaded. "So he didn't recruit you into his little Slug Club? Didn't shower you with praise and extra privileges?"
Harry clenched his fists by his sides. "He did invite me to his Slug Club, but I stopped going after the first meeting. I didn't want to be a part of it. It wasn't fair how he chose people to be in the club."
Professor Slughorn had invited Harry, Neville, and Malfoy to the first meeting of the Slug Club because of who their parents were, but he'd completely ignored Hermione, even though she was obviously the brightest student of their year, because he hadn't known anything about her background or connections. Then he'd kicked Neville out after the first meeting when his marks in class were low.
Slughorn had seemed a bit disappointed in Harry after he stopped attending, and he'd more or less treated him like any other student from that point forward.
Mr. Snape's eyes glittered, and he looked vindictive. "Just as arrogant as your father. He also took issue with the Slug Club's membership. Didn't think I should be allowed to join, even though I was far superior to him in potions."
Harry bit back a groan of frustration. Mr. Snape had completely misunderstood what Harry was trying to say about the Slug Club's membership! It was like he wanted to think the absolute worst of Harry and was trying to find reasons to dislike him.
But Harry was more disturbed by the negative comments about his dad. It didn't make sense — everyone always fondly said that Harry looked like James Potter. His dad had given his life to protect Harry, and he'd smiled warmly at him from the Mirror of Erised last year. Harry had been so relieved to hear from Hagrid that his dad hadn't been an irresponsible drunk. He'd been a brave man, a bright student, and a beloved friend. To encounter someone who hated him was jarring.
"That's not true!" Harry snapped, his voice rising. "I'm not arrogant, and neither was my father!"
"I can assure you, he most certainly was," Mr. Snape retorted.
"Then why did my mum marry him, if he was so terrible?" Harry demanded before he could think better of it. "Or was she just trying to get out of spending time with you ?"
There was a moment of silence where Harry thought he'd gone too far, and his punishment was about to get much worse.
Mr. Snape stared at him, his face pale and his eyes glittering coldly.
"Out," he snarled after several long seconds, pointing at the door. "Now. Return to the room you stayed in yesterday."
Harry didn't wait to be asked twice, retreating from the room with a pounding heart and shaky legs.
Severus scrubbed a hand over his face wearily, flicking his wand to turn the kettle on for another cup of tea. He longed to pour himself a few fingers of firewhiskey instead as a nightcap, but it wouldn't do to be caught drinking if — when the headmaster showed up.
The day had been…troubling, to say the least. The boy was not at all what Severus had been expecting when Dumbledore had first told him about Potter's disappearance. All day long, he'd looked for signs that Potter Jr. was nothing but a clone of his father, and he'd found startlingly little supporting evidence.
After the boy's last jab about Lily, Severus had decided that there was no need for them to endure more time in one another's presence for dinner. He'd used magic to send a plate of food to the boy's room a few hours ago, and all had been silent since then.
The fire suddenly flared green, and Severus looked up.
The headmaster didn't stick his head through, but a letter zoomed out of the flames and landed neatly in front of him on the table, along with a small package.
Severus tore the wax seal open triumphantly. About bloody time!
His relief faded sharply as he read the short message.
Dear Severus,
I am gratified to hear that Harry is safe and well, although I am disturbed by your reports of the conditions at Privet Drive. It certainly merits careful thought and further contemplation about whether Harry can safely remain there until he reaches his majority.
Unfortunately, I am currently pursuing a time-sensitive lead on Voldemort's whereabouts and cannot travel to England at present. I trust that you will make the best decisions for Harry in my absence — if you feel that Harry can be safely returned to his relatives, you may do so. If not, he will have to remain in your custody until I complete my work here. I trust he will be safer with you than with any other Order member.
I feel that it is vital to understand how Voldemort could possess Professor Quirrell last term, but I lament that I cannot be there for Harry at this time as he deserves. Please express my regrets to him and gift him with these sweets I picked up in Albania.
For a moment, Severus could only stare at the words in disbelief.
Then, furiously cursing Dumbledore's ancestors under his breath, he crumpled up the letter and threw it into the flames. Then he chucked the sweets in too for good measure.
Was the headmaster going senile? Severus had not minced words in his report. How had the old man overlooked phrases like "the boy was bruised," and "his aunt tried to lock him in a cupboard," and come to the conclusion that Potter might be safely returned to his relatives?
And offering candy as a consolation?
It reminded Severus of sitting in the headmaster's office after nearly dying due to Black's brilliant little prank, the headmaster offering him a lemon drop with a soothing twinkle in his eyes.
And then there was the headmaster's unbelievable gall to presume that Severus would just drop everything to take charge of the Boy-Who-Lived. As though he didn't have his own priorities and life to live. As though he hadn't refused to teach at Hogwarts when Dumbledore offered a decade ago because he didn't want to have any sort of contact with Potter.
He summoned a sheaf of parchment and a quill and set to work writing a scathing reply. He was so angry that his quill actually poked through the parchment a few times. But he'd only gotten a few sentences in when a horrible sound interrupted his focus.
Tortured screaming, coming from the second floor of his house.
It had been over a decade since Severus had heard that sound. In an instant, all of his old instincts flooded back, and he was on his feet, wand in hand, moving silently up the stairs. He half-expected to feel his Dark Mark burning. The surge of adrenaline running through his veins made him want to blast the door open, but he restrained himself, using magic to silently turn the doorknob, then inching the door open slightly to check what was happening inside.
It was dark within, so he flared Lumos and pushed the door the rest of the way open, easily slipping into dueling position, the words of a curse already at his lips —
Only to freeze in place when he realized that there was no intruder. Just the Boy-Who-lived, tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare on the bed in the corner.
To be honest, Severus would've preferred an intruder. He'd choose to confront a kidnapper over a crying child any day.
Severus paused in the doorway of the room for a long moment, assessing the situation. The boy's screams had died off, and now he was muttering desperately under his breath.
"No, no — not the stone! I don't have it!"
Ah. So he was relieving his recent confrontation with the Dark Lord. It wasn't surprising — Severus still had plenty of his own nightmares about the war, and he was a grown adult.
Now that he knew the boy wasn't being attacked, Severus supposed he could leave without intervening. The dream would play itself out, no doubt, and the boy would return to peaceful slumber eventually.
He felt an uncharacteristic prickling of his conscience as he turned to leave, extinguishing his wand. Something about the loss of light must've registered with the boy, however, because he let out an abrupt gasp and fell silent on the other side of the room, his breathing pattern changing noticeably.
Bloody great. Now the boy was awake, and Severus was lurking in his doorway like a dementor.
With a sigh, he illuminated his wand again.
The boy winced at the sudden light. He was obviously still caught up in the last vestiges of his dream, on the verge of hyperventilating, his eyes darting around as he struggled to process where he was and what was happening.
"S-sorry, Uncle Vernon," the boy rasped.
Severus wasn't sure how to respond to that.
"You were having a nightmare, Potter," he stated. "I came to verify that you were not being abducted."
The boy blinked, still looking disoriented.
Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Severus pointed his wand at the boy's empty glass from dinner and muttered, "Aguamenti."
He stepped forward with his wand held aloft in one hand, the glass in the other.
And froze in place as the boy flinched, cowering backwards in the bed, shoving himself toward the corner, his eyes wide and frightened like a small animal as he clutched at the fabric of his blanket.
Immediately looking away, Severus placed the glass on the bedside table, turned, and promptly swept out of the room. He returned to the kitchen and surrendered to his urge for a glass of firewhiskey.
This — this was the real reason why the boy could not stay here.
And yet, it was the same reason why he had to stay here — why Severus couldn't simply return him carelessly to his relatives, even though Dumbledore had given him permission to do so.
The boy upstairs cowering in Severus' childhood room didn't remind him of James Potter.
He reminded Severus of himself.