Whelp

in being careless.

Taking the child into his bedroom, Severus allowed himself to really think, for the first time, about what he had discussed with the Headmaster this morning. Harry was his and Lily's son. His, and hers, borne of that one night of compassion and empathy and -- dared he think it? -- love. And then, she had immediately run to James. The 'prat.' Severus had seen little of them over the next year, and only once or twice after Harry was born, and he tried to remember if Lily had been happy in her marriage, if there had been any signs at all that she wished for something -- someone -- different.

Severus removed Harry's shoes and pulled a light quilt over him on the bed. In his sleep, the boy curled into his habitual ball, cradling his injured hand close to his chest. Severus sat with him, carding fingers through the boy's fine, soft hair and watching his face, even now etched with lines of tension that no seven year old should ever have. Especially not his son.

'Was it worth it, Lily?' he whispered in the quiet. 'All this pain. Was this what you wanted?' He neither expected nor received an answer. But when Harry murmured a little in his sleep, Severus began a story, to quieten him. This one began with a little boy with few friends, and the green eyed girl who captured his heart.

---

Harry woke to the soft sound of his father's voice, and he relaxed for a little while, just listening to the sound and not really hearing the words. But then he reached out with his good hand, trying to touch his father, and the voice stopped. A hand captured his and squeezed gently.

'Harry? Are you awake?'

'Mm-hm,' Harry said and blinked his eyes open heavily. He yawned and tried to cover his mouth with his other hand, but it felt weird. He brought it up in front of his eyes and looked at the bandage that was wrapped from finger tips to wrist, and tried to bend his fingers, but they wouldn't bend. He looked to his father, then, and frowned at the look he saw on Father's face.

'What's wrong, Father?' he asked.

'We had a bit of a scare today, you and I.' Father caught his injured hand and laid it back down on Harry's chest. He still looked very serious, and it made Harry nervous. He never wanted to scare his father, never wanted him to be mad or upset at all. 'We went to hospital, to see to your hand. They had to put a splint on it, and give you antibiotics. It will take a while to heal. A month, or more.'

Oh. He knew it. He was a bother, too much trouble. Father would send him back to the Dursleys as soon as he could. 'When are you . . .' Harry swallowed and worked his courage up. 'Sir? When will I have to go back?'

Father frowned slightly. 'Never, I should think. As long as you do what you're told and keep the injury clean and well dressed. Poppy, or rather, Madam Pomfrey should be able to help us with that. And I'll talk to her about who we can schedule the surgeries with.'

'I . . .' Harry was so confused. None of that made any sense, except that he wouldn't be sent back to the Dursleys if he obeyed his father. He could do that. He could.

'What is it, Harry? You look confused.'

'I'm sorry, sir.'

Father patted his arm, and Harry only flinched a little. 'No apologies, Harry. Not for not understanding. What do you need me to explain?'

'Surgeries, sir?'

'For your hand. You bit through the . . . extensor tendon, and they will need to do at least one surgery in the next week, to repair it. Otherwise, you might not be able to move your fingers properly again.'

'Oh! That's why I couldn't pick anything up.'

Father sighed. 'Yes. Does it still hurt? They gave you some of their medicine for pain, but I can give you a small dose of potion if it hasn't done the trick.' Father's gaze held his steadily. 'And I want the truth, Harry. No telling me something is fine if it isn't. This is serious business.'

Harry's gaze flicked away. 'Yes, sir.'

'Well, then? Does it hurt?'

'No, sir.'

'You're sure? You're . . . you're not a bother, if you tell me it does hurt. I'm your father, and part of my job is to look out for you, and make you feel better if you're not well.'

Harry bit his lip, feeling tears well in his eyes, though he couldn't have said why. Maybe just that no one had ever cared about him like this. 'Sorry,' he whispered, and wiped angrily at his face. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Harry.' Father's voice was very quiet, but a gentle quiet, not the angry quiet he could sometimes get. 'You are allowed to cry if you need to. You are allowed to tell me if you're in pain. You are allowed to tell me to leave you alone, if you feel I'm hovering too much. But you are not allowed to apologize for things that are not your fault.'

He couldn't have stopped the tears then, if he tried. They ran unchecked down his face as he threw himself into his father's arms and sobbed and sobbed. He couldn't have put into words what his tears were for, but it seemed like they were for everything. For the cupboard, and Uncle Vernon's belt, and the chain in the backyard and bathtubs and all of it.

Father rubbed circles on his back and let him cry, only saying things like, 'It's all right, you can cry. I'm here, Harry, let it out. Father's right here.'

The kindness and soothing words only made him cry harder, but there was something . . . good about the tears. He felt like all the bad things were being released from the prison he'd made for them in his gut, in his head, and he felt cleaner afterwards. Almost peaceful.

When he had finished crying, he was really, really tired, and didn't think he could move. And he liked the safety of his father's arms and didn't want to move, anyway. And father continued to hold him, for a long time, still not talking, not really, just being.