Whelp

the nightlight, Severus watched his son sleep, and considered his slim nose and lips, and the arch of his brows, and Albus' enigmatic words, 'He could be your son.'

Turning from the room before he drove himself madder still with questions, Severus went back to the well appointed sitting room, selected one of the books he had already unpacked and settled in to read. These were questions that he was sure Albus had the answers to, and he would get them from the Old Codger, and sooner, rather than later. Without even thinking, he summoned a glass half filled with Ogden's finest brandy and took a long swallow. The rest of the glass he sipped at slowly as he paged through his book.

Harry managed almost two hours before the alarm went off, and Severus upset the glass of brandy as he jumped out of the chair. Not stopping to clean, he tossed the book down and rushed to his son's room to wake him from his newest night terror, ready to give him the comfort and reassurance of his arms.

---

The woman's cries cut off with the flash of light, and Harry screamed, 'Mum!' but it was too late; she was dead, one arm outstretched on the floor, reaching for him, always reaching for him.

Red eyes bored into his, and a man laughed jabbing his wand in Harry's face. He tried to bat it away, but the man spat horrible words, and there was more green light and pain and screaming, except this time it was his own voice, and his head was exploding into pieces all covered with blood that got all over the telly, which had a fashion program on. Blood spattered the pink and yellow dresses, white shoes and clean white faces of the models, and one of them was Aunt Petunia and she was shouting, 'Not on my nice clean rug!'

The telly grew bigger and wider until it was Uncle Vernon, and the Silencing must not have worked since Uncle Vernon was yelling at him to, 'SHUT UP!' and he tried to, he did, by biting his own hand. But his head hurt, everything hurt so bad, and he knew he was still making sounds, so to stop them, he bit down until his mouth was filled with blood. But Uncle Vernon was there, grabbing him and yanking on his arm, and he'd been drinking, Harry could smell it all over him, and he knew he was in for it now, and he curled into the smallest ball he could and protected his head and waited for the hurt to be over.

Some time later, he realized he wasn't hurting so much, really, except for his head and his hand, and someone was holding him, rocking him, and saying his name softly, almost a whisper. He couldn't smell the drink anymore so maybe Uncle Vernon was gone.

He opened his eyes.

And he was gathered close in Father's arms, and Father's head was bent low over him while they rocked together, and there were tears on his cheeks. Harry reached up with his good hand to brush them away. 'Don't cry, Daddy. Please. Don't be sad.'

'Harry . . .' Father's voice sounded thick and he bent lower, so his forehead almost touched Harry's, squeezing his eyes shut before he blinked them open again. He cleared his throat. 'You're awake.'

Harry nodded, and his father smiled. Obviously, he was.

'I couldn't . . . you were having a nightmare, and I couldn't wake you,' Father explained.

'I'm sorry, Father.'

'No . . . no, it wasn't your fault. I think you . . . I think I gave you reason to think I was your . . . that I was that Vernon creature.' His eyes were dark, like midnight, like the inside of a cupboard. 'I swear to you, I will never have another drink. I . . . I didn't realize.'

'Sorry,' Harry said again, not knowing what else to say.

'Please, don't apologize, Harry. I'm the one who's sorry. I should have understood . . .' Father broke off, his voice thick again, and Harry frowned, trying to understand, himself. Uncle Vernon was gone now, so it didn't matter, right? 'How does your hand feel?'

Harry brought it up in front of his eyes and saw a new bandage wrapped around it. It ached fiercely, and he tried to move his fingers, but they felt stiff and wrong. With a cock of his head, he asked a question, and Father nodded. 'I healed the bite the best I could, Harry, but it's . . . because you did it to yourself, it has to heal on its own, for the most part. You'll have to be careful of it for a few days.'

'Yes, sir, um, Father. It's fine.' The lie came easily, like always.

'Good. Do you . . . I could have Nelli bring us some cocoa if you like.'

'No, thank you. I'm tired. Can I go back to sleep?'

'Yes, of course. Would you like me to stay with you a while?'

'Yes, please.' Father helped him snuggle back under the covers, and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on Harry's side, while Harry stared at the ball of light on the little table, and watched it spin through red and gold and green and pink, over and over, until his eyes were heavy enough to stay closed.

In the morning, Harry rolled out of bed sleepily and was half way to the kitchen to start breakfast before he realized that here, he didn't have to do that. In the sitting room, he turned round a couple times, but his father wasn't to be seen. The door to his bedroom was closed; maybe he was still asleep. Rubbing his tired eyes, he winced at the sharp stab of pain that shot through his left hand, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace and stared into the banked coals.

Maybe Father had gone Flooing. He could wait.

A while later, Nelli appeared beside him. 'Master Harry, sir. Master Snape says you is to have breakfast and then Nelli is to be watching you this morning.'

Harry scrambled to his feet. 'Thanks, Nelli. Where is he?'

'Master Snape is talking to the Headmaster Dumbledore. Master Snape also says Nelli is to be making sure you is wearing play clothes today. But you is not to use your hurt hand, Master Harry. Master Snape is coming to look at it again at lunch time.'

Harry sighed a little, wanting his father now, but said, 'Thank you,' again. He peered at the hand, and wondered what it looked like under the bandage. Aside from the one he'd had on his ankle when he first woke up at Spinner's End, he couldn't remember ever having a bandage before. He'd used shirts, old towels, and even pieces of newspapers to cover up cuts and keep them from bleeding, when he'd had to tend to his own hurts. It was weird that Father had done this for him. But nice.