Whelp

He wondered if he could do any magic on purpose.

How would he know? He didn't even know how he did it. Maybe, if he thought real hard about something magic happening, like . . . like a glass of milk suddenly appearing on the table next to him, 'cause he was real thirsty, maybe he could do that?

He squinched his eyes shut tight and thought really, really hard, concentrating on what the milk would look like, and even taste like, in a tall, clear glass, not the baby cup Aunt Petunia sometimes made him drink out of. But when he finally opened his eyes, nothing had appeared. Disappointment swooped into his stomach, like a sudden fall off the last, unseen stair. But he was used to that, so he set his face back to 'No attitude now, boy!' which Uncle Vernon preferred, and waited some more.

Maybe he wasn't really a wizard. Maybe his new father wouldn't want him, if he couldn't do the magic on purpose. If he couldn't, he'd have to make sure his father never found out then.

On the heels of that thought, he heard a whoosh, then a thumping sound from the other room, the sitting room, and he gripped the arms of the chair anxiously. Sounded like someone had fallen, someone big. . . like Uncle Vernon. Quickly, he scuttled off the chair and onto the floor behind it, like his Uncle always told him, 'cause dirty freaks weren't allowed on the furniture.

But it wasn't Uncle Vernon who came into the room. It was his new father! He stood up when his father frowned at him. 'What are you doing on the floor?' his father asked.

Feeling faintly queasy – He'd messed up already. How stupid was he? – Harry bit his lip and glanced at the chair. 'I . . . I'm not allowed, sir?'

'You most certainly are allowed on the chair. Any chair.' His father's frown deepened. 'Except in my private study. That's off limits.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Harry . . .'

'I mean, yes, Father. Thank you.'

'You're welcome.' His father's face softened and he held out a hand. 'Come here, Harry.'

Swallowing thickly, 'cause nothing good ever came from being to told to 'come here,' he nevertheless did as he was told. But rather than put him over a knee, or lock him in a cupboard, his father gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

Father led him out of the library and into the sitting room, where they both sat on the settee, and Father turned to look at him. 'This is your home, Harry, and you are allowed to go anywhere you want within its walls. Except where?'

'Your study, sir, um, Father.'

'Correct. I have other rules, some of which we have already discussed. Do you remember?'

'No saying, 'freak,'' Harry recited dutifully. 'And I'm to be obedient and polite, but not to call you Master Snape, but Father. I can look at you when you're talking to me, and can use the loo whenever I need to, without . . .' he swallowed again, not quite believing, 'without even saying thank you. I must use silver at the table, and wait till everyone's served before eating.' He thought a moment more. 'I'm 'lowed to ask questions and say the word 'magic.' And Silencing's okay.'

Father stared at him, his mouth a small O. He must've said it wrong. Oh, no, he'd gotten the rules wrong! But which one? He tried to remember if any of them had changed, but maybe Father changed one while he was gone! Harry braced himself, but his father just looked at him another moment, then blinked, hard, like he was waking up.

'That's . . . very good, Harry. I'm glad you remembered all those rules. Now, the only one I think there's been a misunderstanding on is the Silencing, as you call it.'

Harry's stomach sank even lower, and he tried really hard to keep looking at his father, 'cause that was one of the rules, but he knew he'd been bad to do such a freaky thing, and it was awfully difficult not to stare at his feet instead. 'Yes, sir. I won't do it again.'

'Good.' Father paused, and his eyes narrowed. 'You think I don't want you to do any magic anymore, don't you?'

'Yes, s – Father. I know it's bad.'

Father sighed. 'That is not the case. I only wish for you not to Silence yourself when you are hurting. Remember what we said earlier?'

Harry shrugged up one shoulder and then hastily dropped it again. 'Oh! And no shrugging!'

The corners of Father's lips drew up, very faintly, in what Harry realized was his smile. 'Correct. No shrugging. But we were talking about Silencing. Do you remember why I don't want you to do that when you're hurt?'

'N-no, sir.'

'Because I want to know if you're in distress. If you are hurt, or having a nightmare, I want to know, so I can help you.'

Harry frowned, confused, and decided to ask a question. It was kind of scary, though, and made his stomach see-saw inside. He drew a deep breath. 'Help me do what, sir?'

Father's face crumpled a little, like he was sad or upset. 'Help you feel better,' he said softly, and something inside Harry crumpled a little, too, at the sound of the words, and the sadness in them.

He stared at his hands, now, folded in his lap again. 'No one's . . . I don't know . . . Why, sir?' He looked up at his father, feeling oddly adrift and not understanding how he had gotten here.

'Because you're my son, and that's what fathers do.'

Harry thought about it for a minute, and remembered how Dudley was allowed to crawl into bed with his parents when he had a nightmare, and how Aunt Petunia always made a fuss over Dudley if he scraped his knee or fell off his bike, and he nodded. 'Mums do, too, right?'