Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

'Don' wanna.' Harry pushed his face further into the folds of Father's night clothes. Father was warm, and his arms made Harry feel safe.

'I know you don't,' Father said, his voice soft, and almost sad. 'But it would be better if you would.' A pause, then, 'I want you to.'

Harry swallowed and hunched his shoulders. An ache, like something was stuck in there, bloomed in his chest. Father wanted him to talk. He wasn't supposed to talk. Not about what they did. Not ever.

'I know you're frightened, Harry. I know you think you're not supposed to talk about them. But you are not with them any more, and you never will be again. And I want you to tell me what they did to you. What made you so upset tonight, to make your nightmares worse.'

Still, Harry remained silent. Was Father telling him the truth? Was he really allowed to talk about Aunt and Uncle and his dreams? He had never been allowed before.

Father smoothed a hand over Harry's head, and the gentleness of that touch made his breath hitch again. He hugged Father tight, even as Father said, 'Remember, Harry, that we have different rules here. Rules between you and me. The rules you had with those other people do not apply anymore.'

'Dunno what to say,' Harry whispered.

With a smaller sigh, Father cupped the back of his head with one of his long fingered hands. 'It's all right, Harry. Just tell me what you remember.'

'I . . . I . . .' He felt tears prickle in his eyes and blinked hurriedly to make them go away. Crying was for babies.

'It's all right,' Father said again. 'You can tell me anything. I still love you.'

'She hurt my hand,' Harry said in a rush. 'It burned.'

'Your aunt?' Father asked softly.

Harry nodded against his chest.

'What happened?'

Hesitating even more, Harry said, 'I was bad.'

Father's arms tightened around him. 'Did she say that?'

'Uh huh.' Harry sniffled a little; his nose was running. 'Said I was disgusting and I ruined everything.'

'You are not disgusting,' Father said. 'And you could not possibly have ruined everything.'

'Did,' Harry countered. 'The pot boiled over, and messed up the cooker. And I dropped her Mum's silver. Deserved to be burnt.'

'No. You. Did. Not.' Father's voice was sharp, even though his arms were still holding Harry close. 'No one deserves that. No one. Least of all you.'

'But I was bad!'

'Harry. Do you really think dropping silverware is a valid reason to burn someone? To cause them so much pain?'

'I dunno . . .'

'Harry . . .' Father held him away from his warm, safe feeling chest, far enough that he could look Harry in the eyes. 'Look at me, son.'

Doing as he was told, Harry couldn't help but gnaw at his lower lip and hunch his shoulders even more.