Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

she . . .' Father sighed. 'She needs to be provided with her own food, perhaps in her own bowl. Away from the table.'

Harry didn't understand. Ripper ate right from the table, sometimes licking from Aunt Marge's own cup or plate. And Fang, the only other pet he really knew, also got food right from Hagrid's table. 'Why?'

'Because it's not polite to have animals eat from the table.'

'Why?'

Father closed his eyes briefly. 'Because it isn't.'

'But Tree's polite. She is! And Fang and Ripper get to eat from the table, so why not Tree?'

'Ripper?'

Harry swallowed, and unconsciously hugged Treacle closer to him. She did not protest, but butted her head against his chin. 'Aunt Marge's dog.'

Father's eyes narrowed, but he didn't ask any more about Ripper, and Harry was just as glad. He hated that dog. It was mean and it chased him and tore his trousers with its sharp teeth while Dudders laughed at him and called him a two-legged dog bone.

'All the same, Harry. Our family has different rules than those of the Dursleys', I dare say, and different from Hagrid's, too.'

Harry pressed his lips together, but nodded. Father was letting him have Treacle Tart, even though he hadn't wanted to at first. And hadn't he just promised himself to be good and obey all the rules? He kissed Treacle on the head and let her down from his lap. 'What kind of food should she have, Father?'

'We will . . . ah, we'll have to ask Hagrid, I suppose. You can find out from him today, all right?'

'But she's hungry now!'

'Harry.'

Harry ducked his head. He shouldn't have yelled. 'Sorry, Father,' he said softly.

'Indeed.' There was a pause, and Harry realized what his father was waiting for, so he lifted his head and looked Father in the eyes. Father nodded. 'For right now, you can make her a little plate of eggs and bacon, broken up a bit.'

'Okay.' He started to slide off his seat, then stopped. 'Can I get her a plate, Father?'

'May I get her a plate.'

'Sorry. May I?'

'Yes, Harry. Thank you for asking, before you left the table.'

Father's words made him feel warm all over. He liked doing things right. The cabinet where the little plates were kept was above the kitchen counter, and once or twice, he had climbed up there to reach it, but he was in a hurry this time -- he just knew Treacle was hungry; she hadn't much to eat yesterday, and she really wanted that bacon -- and so, at the base of the counter, he reached out his hand and Pulled. Quicker than thought, the cabinet door bumped open slightly, and a white dessert plate with tiny blue flowers on it flew into his hand.

Behind him, Father gasped.

Plate in hand, Harry turned around to see Father striding toward him, eyes wide. Oh. Oh, no. He'd done some freakiness again. Harry backed up a step, and another. He put his arms up to protect his head. 'Sorry! M'sorry, I din't mean it! Please don't hurt me!'

Father froze where he was, his mouth hanging open like he wanted to say something but the words wouldn't come. 'Harry,' he whispered finally. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I . . . I was surprised. I have not seen you do that before.'