Whelp

He found nothing.

Even when his wand turned on the son, the blubbery Duddi-dipkins, all he saw was a series of hurtful pranks, petty persecutions and outright violence perpetrated against the little boy who had found a way into Severus' heart. This sadistic boy had broken Harry's arm and was responsible for the hurt ankle, many of the bruises, and for a thousand smaller traumas and taunts.

Enough!

The three Dursleys were on the floor, pale and shaking and repentant, with tears and pleas that would never reach him. Severus was unmoved. Instead, he told them, 'Every sleight, every hurt, every unkind word or deed you inflicted upon my son, every one of these will come back to you threefold. You will not rest, as he did not. You will not eat, as he did not. You will hurt and find no comfort, as you gave none to him. You will find no respite, and no mercy here. Priori Malum Res, Redeo!'

The screams from within the house, as Severus shut the door behind him, were like a balm, the smallest piece of vengeance, and he felt lighter already as he returned to his home and his son.

TBC

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A/N: OMG, you guys are super cool. How may I count the ways? With chocolate, of course! The next chapter will be this weekend, most likely, with more Sev and Harry, and an introduction to Hogwarts! Thank you to all who read and review!

*Chapter 13*: Chapter 13

Whelp – Chapter 13

By jharad17

Bonus Chapter News: The awesomeness of my readers&reviewers is absolutely overwhelming! In super-duper thanks, here's a new chappie for ya, fresh off the presses. I still hope to update again on the weekend. Thanks, all!

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was mine, never will be mine, alas.

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Alone in the library, Harry waited for his new father to return. He sat very still in one of the large leather chairs, and tried very hard not to fidget, 'cause fidgeting wasn't allowed. Dappin had showed him in here, and said he could look at the books, but he wasn't to touch them. Harry knew better than that, anyway. He wasn't ever allowed to touch anything. Whelps and freaks and dirty little boys would only ruin things if they got too near, he knew that.

Hands in his lap, Harry concentrated on keeping his legs from swinging back and forth, but it was hard going. He listened to the tick-tock of a nearby clock, and tried to figure out what time it might be from the occasional chiming in the quiet room. But it was no good; he couldn't see the clock from where he was sitting, and the chimes were different from any he'd ever heard.

Aside from shelves and shelves of books, the room contained the chair Harry was sitting in, two others very like it, a desk with all sorts of papers on it, two lamps on end tables, and several glass cases that held some very interesting things. From where he sat, he could make out some of the stuff in the nearest case – a set of binoculars, except real small and with a handle, a silver dagger with a wavy blade and a green stone in the hilt, and a brooch like Aunt Petunia wore on Sundays and when there were guests for dinner, except this one was silver and green with a big S in it, instead of just showing the head of a lady. A couple more things lay in the case, but he couldn't see them without standing up . . . which he would never do, not on the furniture, no matter what Dudley said!

Except for having to be still, Harry liked the quiet of the library. It was well shaded from the sun, and thus cooler than his bedroom – his bedroom! – though the leather chair was warm under his legs. He was wearing the nice new clothes from earlier in the day, when he'd gotten a new father, and he was glad he hadn't spilled anything on himself when they ate dinner. Not even the pie with cream, the first real mince pie he'd ever eaten! He'd been really careful.

Harry considered the ceremony again. He could hardly forget it! It was weird, the way he'd felt after he drank the wine. He wondered briefly if Uncle Vernon ever felt like that after drinking. If he had, though, he wouldn't be so mean, would he? 'Cause the one sip of wine had made Harry feel so very, very good, like he was flying and surrounded by happiness, all at once. No, Uncle Vernon could never have felt like that.

Bringing his hands up to rest on the arms of the chair, Harry stared at the toes of his shiny new shoes. His new father had already given him so much, and so had Dappin, but when Harry thanked the house elf for helping him with his laces earlier, she had almost cried and then tried to hug him, but he didn't like people grabbing him, not even small people like Dappin. He thought he understood her shock, though. After all, no one had ever thanked him when he was a house elf; he was just supposed to be quiet and not get in the way or make a fuss or be seen at all. But he also knew he was supposed to say thank you when someone helped him, or gave him something. Not that either had happened very often before he came to this house.

To keep from fidgeting, he thought more about the day. His new father had said magic was not bad, that he could say the word and not be punished. That he could even do magic and not be hit. But Harry didn't really do magic, did he? Just accidents, like when Dudley and his mates had been chasing him, and he'd ended up on the roof of the school, or when his teacher's hair turned blue that day she was yelling at him to pay attention, when he could barely sit down for the soreness on his legs and bottom.

And the Silencing. The Dursleys hated noise. They especially hated it when he made noise. And when he had the bad nightmares, the ones with the glowing red eyes in, he couldn't hardly help but cry out for help. Uncle Vernon had taught him lessons about waking them up in the middle of the night, or making any noise when having a lesson, that he would never forget. So he did the Silencing, but he wasn't sure how. He just knew he was supposed to be quiet, even if his whole body hurt like it was all on fire at once, like earlier today. Everything would be worse if he wasn't quiet.

But it was magic? And he was allowed to do it?