Whelp

'Don't, Severus. Don't tread down that path. It will serve only ill to do so.'

With a sigh, Severus nodded. Enough of maundering about ghosts. He had a very real, very alive child waiting for him in the other room. For now, he could put it to the side. He looked at the paperwork, and considered. Harry was his now, in blood, and could be, in name. Taking the 'Potter' away from him would make life here much safer for the boy, which was one of the reasons they were doing this, right? Safer if no one knew a former Death Eater was now parent to the Boy Who Lived. Of course he had no ulterior motives in removing the surname of his nemesis . . . Oh, who was he kidding? 'He doesn't look much like James,' he murmured, still considering.

'No. He's pinched too thin for that. Maybe with glasses . . .'

'He does have her eyes,' Severus remarked, recalling Albus' earlier comment.

'Yes. And his father's hair.'

James' hair, perpetually windswept as if he'd just stepped off a broom. He saw little of that in Harry. Though, to be honest, the boy's hair had gone from matted with blood and dirt to dampened curls after his shampoo, with little in between to give Severus any idea of its true look. Harry could have been blond before, for all he knew. 'How can you . . . ah, the picture?'

Without answering, Albus leaned over and looked at the parchment. 'Thinking of changing his name?'

Severus nodded. 'He should keep 'Harry,' as I think it might be too confusing for him else. But he should be 'Snape' now, too, as he is my heir.'

Albus smiled, warmly this time, Severus thought. 'Of course. And for the middle?'

'I thought perhaps to just add my own in. Traditionally. So, Harry James Severus Snape.'

'Sounds quite good.'

'Quite.'

---

Nibbling on a cracker Dappin had pressed into his hand, Harry waited for his father. He sat at the table, elbows off, like he'd heard Aunt Petunia say to Dudley a time or two, and his chair was pushed most of the way in, thanks to Madam Collin's help. His feet didn't come anywhere near the floor, so he swung them idly back and forth and watched the door to the sitting room, where his father was still talking to Headmaster Dumbledore.

His father seemed to like the old man well enough, but Harry wasn't sure. Something about the way man watched him, even though he was always smiling, made him feel . . . odd. His scar itched, and he rubbed a hand across his forehead. Dudley said that scar made him look like a monster, like Frankenstein, all sewed together, and Aunt Petunia always turned up her nose when he asked anything about it, and reminded him that he should have died in the car accident, and should be grateful to just have a scar to remember his parents by.

But she'd been lying, or so Harry's new father said. But if his parents didn't die in a car, then where were they? Were they still alive? Would they come and take him away from his new father? The idea made him feel cold and ugly inside. He didn't want them to come; they'd never come when he'd been at the Dursleys, only Master Snape had. Master Snape was the one who had taken him away, and told him to call him Father. Not them.

He tugged a bit on his tie, under the pretty robes, and loosened it, not liking the feel of anything round his neck, then scratched at his forehead again. Madam Collin had looked at his scar, and so had Headmaster Dumbledore. He wondered why, but knew he wouldn't ask. Maybe they just thought he looked like Frankenstein, too.

Done with his cracker, Harry licked his fingers clean while looked at the rest of the food at the table. Just for a minute, he let himself dream that he would get to have some. There was something that looked like mince pie, and some biscuits, many covered with icing, and a platter with slices of sweet smelling ham, surrounded by tiny potatoes. A bowl of green beans sat next to one of raisins and shredded carrots, in some sort of dressing, and several baskets of rolls were placed strategically, steam still rising from their contents.

His mouth watering, and his stomach aching with hunger, Harry made himself turn back to the sitting room door, wondering what his father was doing. Was he changing his mind?

Harry jumped when a hand fell on his shoulder, and almost fell off his chair in his haste to get away. Climbing to his feet, Harry gripped the ladder back tight and stared up and Madam Collin.

'Forgive me, Harry.' Her brows had drawn down in a V over her eyes, and she didn't look sorry, really. 'I did not mean to startle you.'

Tightening his hold on the chair, he glanced at the doorway to the sitting room again. 'Yes, ma'am,' he said automatically.

Her frown deepened. 'Are you all right, Harry?'

'Yes, ma'am.' He darted a look at her face -- lickity split, so she couldn't tell on him -- then down at his new, shiny shoes. He'd never had new shoes before, unscuffed, with no holes or anything. And new clothes, too!

The woman moved, and he did, too, keeping the chair between them instinctively. She was silent for a long minute, but he could feel her eyes on him, and he didn't like it. 'Who hit you?' she asked suddenly.

'Ma'am?' His gaze stayed on his feet. He recognized that tone. He was in real trouble now, and it would only be worse if he was impertinent. Somehow, Uncle Vernon must have found out where he was, and he knew Harry hadn't kept quiet about being hit, like he was supposed to. He knew! Had his new father told him? Had Madam Collin?

The woman moved again, and though he wanted to run, he couldn't. Fear froze him to the spot, and moreover, he knew if he ran, it only made things worse. It always made things worse. But she didn't hit him, just touched his cheek, where it was still bruised a little, and achy, but not bad, not like it had been, when Dudley kicked him. Then her fingers brushed over his neck and he couldn't help it, he jerked away.

'What happened, Harry? I didn't see before, but your face is bruised . . . and what is this scar on your neck? Who did this to you?'

'I fell,' he told her, the only answer he was allowed to give.