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They ate dinner together in Harry's room. Severus had to admit to himself that he was perhaps being a tad overprotective at this point. But he could live with that. And it made him feel a little bit better . . . not as much of an abject failure as a guardian, at any rate.
Harry's appetite had not diminished from the ravenous stage. He ate everything on the tray sent up from the kitchens, including the serving of liver and onions, which while chock full of important nutrients, was nothing Severus ever enjoyed smelling, and he could not imagine how the boy could actually both eat it and keep it down. Then again, Harry had taken enough foul tasting potions in his tenure as a student that his taste buds were probably all but ruined for real cuisine.
After they ate, Severus graciously handed over the boy's letters from the other two thirds of the Golden Trio, while he looked over Harry's essays. They were much improved, he noted, and forbore to make any notations on them unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. Even the potions essay was better than many of Harry's previous efforts, and he would have to give it an E, at least, once the work was turned in to him in earnest. He didn't say so, of course. No reason to make the boy
In his bed, Harry raced through his stack of letters, occasionally smiling, once even laughing outright, but mostly his expression was grim. Almost worried.
When he had finished with the last one, and Severus was poring over Harry's Transfiguration essay – immensely improved, though it could hardly not be, given its predecessor – Harry shuffled the letters together, lower lip firmly ensconced between his teeth.
'What is it?' Severus asked with a negligent air, as if it was something he expected Harry to answer easily.
'Huh? Oh . . .'
'If you say, 'nothing,' I might have to mock you for being utterly absurd.'
'Like that'd be different,' Harry replied, but it was an almost automatic response, with no heat in it. Severus waited, patiently, until Harry said, 'I don't . . . They're going to be here in a couple of days, and I don't . . . I mean, how am I going to tell them about this summer? Hermione's letters are . . . more and more worried sounding, like she knows something real bad happened, but doesn't want to come right out and ask me. What am I gonna tell them?'
'What do you want to tell them?'
'Nothing! I want to pretend nothing happened at all. But . . . if I don't tell, they'll find out from . . . someone else. And I don't want that either.'
By 'someone else,' Severus knew Harry meant the children of various Death Eaters, such as Theodore Nott, Crabbe, Jr., and Greg Goyle. Undoubtedly, each of those students would know far more of what transpired in Topsham than any of Harry's friends, whose parents would have protected their sensibilities – and Harry's privacy – and told them nothing. It was a tricky situation. A lesser person would have fled the field altogether, and not even considered speaking to his friends about what occurred over the summer. But Harry had courage in spades. Oftimes, Severus reminded himself, detrimentally so.
'Do you want my advice?'
Harry nodded jerkily. 'Yes. Please.' The nervous cast to his features eased, as if he had not been sure Severus would offer any actual assistance, but let him flounder instead. Severus was reminded sharply that Harry had received very little actual help in his young life, and for him to ask for it at all was a giant step forward for him. And perhaps Severus could help him in another way, too.
'Very well. I think you have had quite enough pressure on you this summer as it is, and thus should not be required to relive the horrors you've been through for the benefit of sating the curiosity of others. I believe your friends will understand that, if they are any
