jharad17 - Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

At Severus' place was a glass of red wine. He sat, unfolded his cloth serviette and draped it across his lap, then surveyed Harry where he stood stalk still, fists bunched by his sides and arms trembling. "Harry, sit down," he said mildly.

The boy's head came up. His eyes were dilated, his mouth drawn tight. His gaze skimmed over the table and a breath hitched audibly in his chest.

Severus was rapidly losing patience. He knew he should get up and walk away while he was in a fractious mood, but he was hungry and tired and just wanted to relax after a long, arduous day. What was it about dinner that was so hard? "Harry, talk to me. What is it?"

Harry gave a short shake of his head. It may have even been just a twitch. The trembling in his limbs grew more pronounced.

Severus' eyes narrowed. What the hell? He had no idea what might be wrong, and the boy seemed unable to tell him. Well, fine then. "Look at me."

Harry met his gaze at last, and Severus whispered, " Legilimens ."

A barrage of images bombarded him. Severus sifted through them carefully, easing past this memory or that, dismissing his own attitude toward the kneazle surprise as of no consequence, then the boy's afternoon's activities of mucking around in dusty corridors and running himself almost sick on the fields with a leaping kitten, searched back past Filch's terrorizing taunts, back days and then a week, then further and further in time, seeking reasons for the boy's behavior.

Ah. There they were. . . .

The remnants of a meal, roast and peas and potatoes, laid out on a white table top, and Harry pulls dishes down, one by one, to clean them, staring hungrily at every bit of food he is not allowed to have -- wipes down counters -- wishes for water, just a moist cloth to suck on in the darkness of a cramped, claustrophobic room -- rummages through a garbage pail -- the taste of potato peels, mealy but wet, barely chewed and swallowed quickly -- bright light, yelling and screams, Harry's screams -- the cold of a night outdoors, the coppery taste of blood on his lips -- the hose and blinding cold water, more water than he wanted and Aunt Petunia's cold words, "Vernon will sort you out, boy" -- kicks and punches of Dudley and his friends, aches in his ribs, his hand, crushed -- Uncle Vernon, "On your knees," with the collar, latching it tight, metal links cutting into his skin -- "If you're a good dog, you'll get dinner tonight . . ."

Severus withdrew from Harry's mind, feeling sick. His gorge rose and he struggled to keep his composure. If Dursley wasn't already on an express train to insane thanks to his previous visit, Severus would have gone directly to that damn Muggle's house now and flayed the skin and meat from his bones.

With a flick of his wand, Severus banished the unfortunate meal on the table, and turned his attention to Harry, who was on his knees, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Silent tears flowed down his cheeks as he rocked himself back and forth, mouthing words Severus could not hear, hunched over his knees.

Severus dropped down beside him, and his heart broke when Harry flinched away. The boy was cowering from him, and no wonder, with Severus' attitude over the last half hour. Cursing both his stupidity and lack of patience under his breath, he had to force his hands to stay by his sides and not reach for the boy, not wanting to frighten him again.

"Harry. I'm sorry . . . Harry, you're at Hogwarts, do you remember? Please look at me, Harry . . . Can you hear me? Son?"

Unable to stand the boy's silent keening, Severus reached for him again, but his hands were knocked away by a white blur that streaked across his field of vision.

--

"Disgusting, filthy animal!" Uncle shrieks and grabs the boy by the neck, shaking him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "I told you, boy, no food. I'll teach you to disobey me! No good FREAK!" Uncle shoves him to the back door. "Outside with you! If you behave like a dog, you'll be treated as one. Should've know you weren't fit for living indoors with decent folk. Get out of my house!" . . . . .

. . . . Later, Uncle's eyes are frightening. But the boy's legs tremble weakly, so it is no hardship to sink to his knees. In seconds, his uncle has slipped the chain around his throat and cinched it tight like a collar. In the next moment, he clips the end to the black rope. A leash! the boy realizes with a jolt. His hands go to the chain collar and tug at it.

"Leave it!" Uncle bellows and slaps his hands away. Then he holds up the last item in his hands, a large screw topped with a loop. Taking the other end of the leash, Uncle Vernon leads the boy to a far corner of the yard. With a heavy mallet, he hammers the screw into the side of the shed and hooks the other end of the leash to it. He sneers at the boy as he heads back to the house. "If you're a good dog, you'll get some dinner tonight. Otherwise . . ."

On his knees, the boy's hands went to his throat. It's not there . No leash. No collar, it was not there anymore. "No dog," he moaned softly. "No collar. Not there." He hunched lower over his legs, leaving his back exposed, but that was better than his belly, always. Terror whined in his throat and clutched at him like sticky spider webs that he could not break free of. His mind rolled through the memory of days of no food and little water, and the shed and his broken fingers and the whisper of the little snake who asked if he was dead yet, and the light flickering touch of its tongue along the shell of his ear.

But the snake was soft, and whiskers quivered against his cheek as wet sandpaper lapped at his jaw. No hissing. Not a snake. A furry head, purring, butted against his chin, and he released his hold on his belly so he could pet it, and his fingers carded through its fur. His breath evened out, and he relaxed a little more. The memory of those horrible days receded once more.

Then a voice called his name, "Harry . . ."

Yes. His name was Harry , and he was not the boy in that backyard anymore. Someone . . . someone had rescued him, and taken him away.

"Daddy?" Close by was the sound of a sobbed breath, and he opened his eyes.

"Harry . . . I'm sorry." Father held open his arms, but didn't try to hold him, so Harry threw himself into his embrace, needing his protection, needing to know Father was okay, and let him know he was okay. Father's strong arms wrapped around him and he burrowed into the embrace.

A white furry face peered into his, looking over Father's arm. Harry's throat felt thick, like he couldn't swallow. He wanted to keep the kitten so much, but Father had said no. Still, he reached toward her, and she rubbed her head along his fingers, letting him scratch her under the chin. "Treacle," he choked out her name, and his eyes burned. He buried his head back in Father's arm, not wanting to even look at her anymore.

Father's hand cupped the back of his head, and he pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead. His voice was very soft when he said, "She seems to be taken with you." When Harry lifted his gaze, Father continued, "Treacle Tart is an . . . original name. I imagine she could not hope for a better one."

"Ha-Hagrid c'n ch-change it, if he wants" Harry stuttered and blinked rapidly to keep his tears from falling. "He's good wif an'mals. Tree . . . Tree'll like him fine."

"No, I think you should keep her." Father's arms tightened around him. His voice was oddly hoarse, like he was trying to keep from crying, too. "She's very protective . . . I believe she will look out for you. And you can look out for her, too."

Harry's breath caught. "Really, you mean it? I can keep her?"

"Yes. You can keep her." Father shook his head with a small sigh, but he didn't sound mad anymore. "Merlin help us all."