jharad17 - Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

Molly gazed at him a long time, her expression pensive, and concerned. Finally, she nodded. "If you think you can be what he needs . . ."

"I will," he said again, and he never meant anything more. "You have my word."

Her smile was kind. "I know, Severus. And I will do all I can for him, as well."

Severus nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Will you be back tomorrow?"

Her smile widened. "Of course. My boys had a lovely time, they said, and Ginny was very pleased to make Harry's acquaintance."

Recalling how the girl had blushed every time she looked at his son, Severus sneered. "I'm sure."

Molly merely raised her own eyebrows in response, and took another sip of tea.

TBC . . .

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A/N: Wonderful, wee Harry hugs for everyone!

*Chapter 13*: Chapter 13

Whelp II -- The Wrath of Snape

By jharad17

Chapter Thirteen

Disclaimer:None of this is mine. Honest. She's rich, blond and British. I'm not.

Warning: Some graphic abuse in this chapter. Skip the dream/memory at the beginning if you're easily squicked.

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The sun slanted through the pale yellow curtains of Aunt's kitchen and across the Boy's face, warming it, as he climbed on a stepstool and reached into the cabinet that held the dinner plates. Like almost every day, he hesitated briefly before counting the plates out, wanting to take four, but knowing he could only take three. He would be fed afterwards. Maybe. If he did everything perfect.

On the cooker beside him, a pot of potatoes boiled, the water reaching the rim but not boiling over. Aunt hated it if the water splashed on the hob. It stained, she said, and was dirty, like the Boy. Balancing the plates in the crook of one arm, the Boy slipped down off the stepstool and moved to the table, where he set the plates out carefully. Then, he returned to the drawer next to the cooker, for the silverware. As he was counting out forks, he heard the hiss of hot water hitting the hob, and he jerked around to see the pot start boiling over.

The silver clattered to the floor as the Boy grabbed at the heavy pot to move it to another part of the hob. He'd forgotten to take up a pot holder first, and the hot handle startled him, but he hung on gamely, swinging the pot off the heat.

More water sloshed over the rim to splash on the surface of the cooker.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING, YOU UNGRATEFUL BOY?!"

Aunt Petunia was behind him, in the doorway, and now moving forward, he saw, darting a look over his shoulder, and her face was tight and her eyes were furious, and he wasn't supposed to look her in the eyes, he knew that . . . and she snatched his arm and spun him around, and he managed just in time to let go of the pot though some of the water splashed over his hand.

She glared down at him, like he was a beetle, come crawling from beneath the fridge. The Boy dropped his gaze to his bare feet. "You vile, disgusting creature. Must you ruin everything?" she spat. "My mother's silver. My kitchen. My family ." Squeezing his upper arm hard enough to bruise, she wrapped thin fingers around his bony wrist and dragged him the one step back to the cooker.

A thin, tight smile curved on her lips, and the Boy knew then that he had to get away. She had that smile every time she had some special torment planned. He pulled at his arm, his hand, but she had in a pincer-like grip. Before he could fight more, she whispered, "You should be dead. Maybe I'll kill you," and she pressed his hand to the bright red hob. She used her weight to hold him down.

The Boy screamed.

. . . and screamed and screamed, and then there were other hands holding him which he tried to fight because he would be hurt again, he knew it. But the hands turned into comforting arms, and there were soothing words and gentle rocking and tears and . . . and Father.

"Harry, it's all right. I have you. It's all right, son. I'm here, Harry," Father was saying, over and over, like he believed the words. Like he meant them.

And the Boy's name was Harry.

Once the crying eased, his breaths came in hitching gasps. His face was hot and ached from crying. He hated crying. He hated being a baby.

"Sorry," he said, his throat sore from screaming. Treacle Tart purred softly and butted her head against Harry's leg, and he petted her soft fur and his breathing slowed. "Sorry, Father."

"No, no, Harry, it's all right. You've done nothing wrong." Father hugged him closer, and from Father's lap, Harry hung on to his arms like he might fall away into nothingness if he was ever let go.

They sat in stillness for a long time, and Harry's eyes were getting heavy again, but he didn't ask Father to put him back down on the bed. He could not hold back the yawn, however, though he pressed his face into Father's chest to help cover his mouth.

Father kissed the top of his head and rested his cheek on the spot directly after. "You didn't put up your Silencing tonight. "

"Didn't?" Harry's eyes were still closed, but he tensed. But he wasn't supposed to do the Silencing, so maybe he wasn't in trouble?

"No, you didn't. I'm proud of you."

Harry shook his head slowly against his father's chest. Waking Father with his nightmares was nothing to be proud of. He was so stupid, such an infant.

But Father wasn't finished. "This is the first time, Harry, that you haven't put up that charm. I hope that means you're starting to realize -- even when you're half asleep -- that I will always be your father, and having nightmares will never make me think less of you. You are not weak. Not a baby. So get those thoughts out of your head. You're my strong little man. And strong young men like you need to know when to ask for help."

"Did I send a message?" Harry asked through another yawn.

"Yes," Father said quietly. He kissed Harry's temple. "But I heard you calling, too. Do you want to tell me about your dream?"

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to remember any of it. He couldn't tell anyone about what happened or why he dreamed about them; he knew that.

Father sighed a little, his chest moving up and down with the force of his breath. "Harry, son, I need you to tell me about your dream. It will make you feel better."

"M'fine, Father," Harry whispered. He didn't need to talk to feel better. Just having Father with him was enough.

"But will you have more nightmares tonight?" Father asked. "Talking will help that not to happen."

"Don' wanna." Harry pushed his face further into the folds of Father's night clothes. Father was warm, and his arms made Harry feel safe.

"I know you don't," Father said, his voice soft, and almost sad. "But it would be better if you would." A pause, then, "I want you to."

Harry swallowed and hunched his shoulders. An ache, like something was stuck in there, bloomed in his chest. Father wanted him to talk. He wasn't supposed to talk. Not about what they did. Not ever.

"I know you're frightened, Harry. I know you think you're not supposed to talk about them. But you are not with them any more, and you never will be again. And I want you to tell me what they did to you. What made you so upset tonight, to make your nightmares worse."

Still, Harry remained silent. Was Father telling him the truth? Was he really allowed to talk about Aunt and Uncle and his dreams? He had never been allowed before.

Father smoothed a hand over Harry's head, and the gentleness of that touch made his breath hitch again. He hugged Father tight, even as Father said, "Remember, Harry, that we have different rules here. Rules between you and me. The rules you had with those other people do not apply anymore."