Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

disgusting creature. Must you ruin everything?' she spat. 'My mother's silver. My kitchen. My family.' Squeezing his upper arm hard enough to bruise, she wrapped thin fingers around his bony wrist and dragged him the one step back to the cooker.

A thin, tight smile curved on her lips, and the Boy knew then that he had to get away. She had that smile every time she had some special torment planned. He pulled at his arm, his hand, but she had in a pincer-like grip. Before he could fight more, she whispered, 'You should be dead. Maybe I'll kill you,' and she pressed his hand to the bright red hob. She used her weight to hold him down.

The Boy screamed.

. . . and screamed and screamed, and then there were other hands holding him which he tried to fight because he would be hurt again, he knew it. But the hands turned into comforting arms, and there were soothing words and gentle rocking and tears and . . . and Father.

'Harry, it's all right. I have you. It's all right, son. I'm here, Harry,' Father was saying, over and over, like he believed the words. Like he meant them.

And the Boy's name was Harry.

Once the crying eased, his breaths came in hitching gasps. His face was hot and ached from crying. He hated crying. He hated being a baby.

'Sorry,' he said, his throat sore from screaming. Treacle Tart purred softly and butted her head against Harry's leg, and he petted her soft fur and his breathing slowed. 'Sorry, Father.'

'No, no, Harry, it's all right. You've done nothing wrong.' Father hugged him closer, and from Father's lap, Harry hung on to his arms like he might fall away into nothingness if he was ever let go.

They sat in stillness for a long time, and Harry's eyes were getting heavy again, but he didn't ask Father to put him back down on the bed. He could not hold back the yawn, however, though he pressed his face into Father's chest to help cover his mouth.

Father kissed the top of his head and rested his cheek on the spot directly after. 'You didn't put up your Silencing tonight. '

'Didn't?' Harry's eyes were still closed, but he tensed. But he wasn't supposed to do the Silencing, so maybe he wasn't in trouble?

'No, you didn't. I'm proud of you.'

Harry shook his head slowly against his father's chest. Waking Father with his nightmares was nothing to be proud of. He was so stupid, such an infant.

But Father wasn't finished. 'This is the first time, Harry, that you haven't put up that charm. I hope that means you're starting to realize -- even when you're half asleep -- that I will always be your father, and having nightmares will never make me think less of you. You are not weak. Not a baby. So get those thoughts out of your head. You're my strong little man. And strong young men like you need to know when to ask for help.'

'Did I send a message?' Harry asked through another yawn.

'Yes,' Father said quietly. He kissed Harry's temple. 'But I heard you calling, too. Do you want to tell me about your dream?'

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to remember any of it. He couldn't tell anyone about what happened or why he dreamed about them; he knew that.

Father sighed a little, his chest moving up and down with the force of his breath. 'Harry, son, I need you to tell me about your dream. It will make you feel better.'

'M'fine, Father,' Harry whispered. He didn't need to talk to feel better. Just having Father with him was enough.

'But will you have more nightmares tonight?' Father asked. 'Talking will help that not to happen.'