Better Be Slytherin!

The corners of Harry's mouth turned up, matching Severus' expression very well.

--HPHPHPHPHPHPHP--

Harry spent two more days in the hospital wing before Madame Pomfrey pronounced him fit to leave. Dumbledore held a special feast in his honor that night. An hour before the feast, Severus found the boy skulking about, in the vicinity of the Potions office, instead of in his room preening for the event.

'I don't want to go, Professor,' Harry answered when Severus asked him why. 'I killed a man. That's nothing to celebrate.'

'No. It isn't,' Severus agreed. He led the pale, frowning boy into his office and gestured to a seat. Harry sank into it easily, just as he had before their falling out. His feet still didn't reach the floor, and the skin over his face and bony arms was stretched tight. He had filled out somewhat over the course of the school year, but this latest stunt with the Baron had stripped away any extra flesh he had gained from the nutrition potions and regular food.

'But, to most of your friends and admirers--'

Harry made a rude noise.

'--you saved the school from the Dark Lord.'

'How do they even know what happened?'

'It's supposed to be a secret,' Severus explained. 'So, naturally, everyone knows.'

'It's a bit creepy, how everyone's so excited about Quirrell being dead.'

Severus did not bother to correct Harry's manners with respect to Quirrell's title; the spineless fool had not deserved the honorific in the end. Instead, he observed Harry's face for a moment. The new trust they had was as fragile -- likely more so -- than what they'd had before, and Severus considered his words carefully as he sat behind his desk. 'No one considers the specifics, Harry, or wonders how he died or what it felt like for you. It has nothing to do with them, and they could not understand if they tried.'

'And few enough are trying.'

'Such as your friends?' Severus asked. Harry shrugged and looked away. 'How are you getting on with them?'

'We're . . .' Harry paused and examined his thumbnail, only recently grown back from being burnt off completely. 'We're okay. But I'm having a hard time just talking with them. I mean, I know one of them ratted me out, probably Millie, but I can't be angry with her. Not really.'

'Good.' He kept the true 'rat's' identity to himself. 'They saved your life by doing so.'

'I guess.'

'You sound as if you don't think that's a good thing.'

'Sometimes I wonder.'

'Harry . . .'

The boy held up his hands. 'I'm not, like, suicidal or anything, Professor.'

'I should hope not!'

'But if not for me, I mean, if I'd never been born--'

'Then it's possible hundreds more, perhaps thousands, would be dead by the Dark Lord's hand.'

'You don't know that!'

'Neither do you.'

Harry sat back fully in his chair and nodded. 'All right. But Quirrell--'

'An abomination created by his own hand and inferior will. He was not living, truly, after giving over his body and its needs to the Dark Lord. If anything, you released him from a horrific fate.'

Harry appeared to set his jaw, even as he said, 'What about my parents? He . . . he claimed they died begging for mercy, and then he changed his story and said my Dad died quick, fighting him, but that my Mum might not have needed to die at all.'

Severus' heart clenched. But those were just words, words the Dark Lord had used to try and keep Harry off balance, or even to sway the boy to his cause. He forced himself to say, 'If only she could have sacrificed her son instead. An innocent babe.'

Harry looked down at his hands. 'Yeah.'

Severus considered for a moment. What knowledge did Harry have of mothers, really? 'Do you think any mother could make such a choice? Even a mother as odious and callous as your Aunt Petunia?' He waited while Harry thought about the question, and it troubled him more than he could say that Harry could possibly imagine Petunia giving up her son, never mind her nephew.

'No,' Harry said at last. 'She wouldn't give Dudley over to be killed.'

Something clenched in Severus' gut. 'But you, she might?'

A small, defeated shrug was all the answer he needed.

'Harry, that's not . . . Harry, look at me.' He waited until the boy met his gaze. 'Harry, whatever failings your aunt possesses -- and do not misunderstand me, her failings are many and varied -- but they have nothing to do with you. Her issues with her sister and with magic are not your fault.'

Harry's frown deepened, and he was thinking rather loudly, so that it was almost impossible to miss his thoughts on his own freakiness and how his family (what there was of it) was right to push him away and revile him.