'But if you aren't willing--'
'I am! I will! Harry . . . he can't go to a Mind Healer. For one thing, the Ministry doesn't even know he's not with the Dursleys. It's a tricky situation, but I won't put his status, and thus his safety, in jeopardy.'
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,
