All You Can Never Know

The next morning passed like no other.

So did the mornings after those, the afternoons, the evenings, the good, the bad, the everydays of a life lived. 

“Pa pa,” Harry often whispered now. 

“Hm?” Severus would reply.

“Pa pa,” Harry would repeat, short and gentle, words like little pats in the air, not even glancing at Severus. 

Still, Severus would hold down the newspaper he was reading, put down his wand, turn from whatever task that was at hand to turn towards him and a small smile would tug up on his stubborn lips as he watched Harry. 

There was no real meaning to it. He was not calling for Severus, nor was he in trouble or need. It had become a habit, a security blanket of sorts that Harry held so close to his heart. 

Papa. 

Papa.

Papa. 

To remind himself of Severus. 

Papa, who protected. 

Papa, who loved. 

Papa, who was all his. 

A quiet prayer. 

“Papa, I miss you,” he started saying one day, standing just apart from Severus, a good arm’s length that Severus could not reach from where he was seated on his armchair. 

“Hm?” Severus said, looking up from the Potion’s Journal he was currently reading. Harry was in his pyjamas bottoms, hair soaking wet from the shower, beads of water dripping onto his bare shoulders. “You’re going to catch a cold again, Harry,” he followed with a chiding immediately, “Why didn’t you dry your hair properly?” He leaned forward and reached out for Harry but Harry had flinched away from his touch.

“Papa, I miss you.” Harry told him.

Severus blinked.

“I’m here, Harry,” he affirmed.

Harry took a step back, shook his head, eyes bright and green, a sheen of unshed tears. 

Severus furrowed his brows. “What’s wrong?”

“Come, come here, child,” he said again when Harry did not budge. He attempted to reach for Harry, large arms coming at him like tendrils to catch his retreating form, “Please, Harry. What’s wrong?” 

Harry’s head shook and he took a couple more steps backwards again before he snatched his gaze away from worried eyes and peered down at his bare feet. He wriggled his toes against the wooden floor. 

“Harry,” he heard Severus say.

The chair creaked as the man stood.

Harry bolted for the stairs, scampering up them in all fours before he dived into his bed and under his covers. The lights were off, the sky was darkening beyond the window that cast a dithering shade of orange across his furniture. Papa, I miss you , he thought. Papa, I miss you. And he willed himself not to cry but there was a growing ache in his heart that spread to his neck, growing hands, tightening, choking, making his fingers numb. The air was suffocating. It always was. 

Severus was at the door. 

Magic prickled at it. 

“Harry, let me in,” he heard that deep, languid voice that belonged to his Pa. The knob rattled once more, and then a small thud of resignation, of forehead meeting wood, “Harry, let me in,” was whimpered against it. 

Harry wrapped his own arms around his body and pretended it was Severus holding onto him. 

“Papa, I miss you.” 

He whispered. 

Papa, I miss you. 

Again and again until sleep overcame him. 

Those were the Worst Days. But even those passed too. 

____

There were better days. 

The first few weeks of the summer was spent at the Malfoy’s who owned the largest manor Harry had ever set his eyes on. Aunt Petunia would have gone nuts to live in a house like this. It was immaculate, kept clean by creatures called house elves, with one particularly strange one by the name of Dobby who liked to follow Harry around until it freaked him out so much Severus banished it from doing so. 

A small studio had been set apart for them, larger than their home in Cokeworth although it barely took up ten percent of the mansion in total. The studio was quiet, tucked up in the attic where sunlight was let in through its angled windows. It had been Severus’ old space from when he first moved into the Malfoy’s during his Mastery as Spinner’s End had not had a floo connection yet and his father had still been alive. 

It was kept mostly the same with a small living space that had green counters lining one wall and a dark blue couch pushed up against another. On the third wall were two doors, one leading to Severus’ bedroom and another to the old study whose desk and chair had been removed with a bed place in it’s stead– Harry’s room now. Remnants of the room’s original intended use remained in the dark oak bookshelves that lined three out of four walls, with the remaining wall holding an oversized bay window that looked out into the pond behind them.

Harry spent his hours lounging on the blue couch or his bed while Severus brewed just past the door opposite their studio. Sometimes Draco would come up and Harry would convince him to stay in with him to read rather than go out zooming around on Draco’s new broom (Harry was not allowed one yet). Occasionally, Draco would win and they would go swimming in the pool. One time, all the adults joined them and the combined pastiness of Lucius and Severus was almost enough to make him blind. Narcissa taught Harry to swim, which Severus had commented was a nice change from Lucius because the last time he attempted to teach Severus to swim, Severus almost drowned because ‘he just pushed me in the water’ and they had gone on and on about how different they each saw their version of events as Narcissa taught him the starfish and bubble blowing. By the end of the evening, Harry was considered a novice swimmer. 

Though he was excited when Draco proposed to go swimming again the next day, he had instead woken up with memories of the Green Light and a Terrible Ache and decided perhaps swimming or anything that Draco called fun was not for him after all.

It was a summer filled with normalcy and for the first time in months, Harry was reminded of his life before Spinner’s End, before Severus and his people. He was reminded of all the times his classmate had asked him about his summer and how he had stuttered and tripped over his experiences, torn in the knowledge that nobody would ever understand or believe him. He thought now, how nice it would have been to go back to school to Imogen, to Oliver, Benedict, Charlotte whom he had heard so many stories from and tell them all about his summer in Wiltshire where the sun was bright and the future seemed even more so. He would have talked to them about his dreams and his wants and the books that he read. He would have talked about Pa, about his big chemistry sets. He would have told them about Aunt Cissa and her cool hair, about Uncle Lucius and his fear of insects, of cousin Draco being a little prat sometimes. 

In between his sick and well days, Harry daydreamed and summer passed, as all time did. 

Despite the lavishness of those few weeks, going back to Spinner’s End at the end of summer was not difficult. Draco, who was almost in tears, had lamented he would miss Harry and wished he would come over more often to which Harry had simply nodded and waved back at his summer compatriot as the blonde boy bid him a loud woeful goodbye.

Harry, who had grown use to the never-ending electrical hum, the cool dry air of the north and the occasional chirps of the birds that lived in the neighbour’s tree, the smooth scent of herbs and cheap soap of Spinner’s End, did not look back at him. 

Harry spent the rest of the summer at home, practicing to be silent. 

Home, where it was Safe. 

Home, where it was Quiet. 

Home, where it was Beautiful. 

Home, sweet, Home. 

____

Harry blossomed like a dandelion, delicate and fragile, at risk of being plucked, blown away by nefarious breaths, fractured by even the gentlest of breezes. Harry grew within Severus’ attentive protections, like walls erected on all sides of them, the Long Great Wall of Cokeworth. They lived in a bubble, in a two-up, two-down at the end of a street called Spinner’s End. 

At Spinner’s End, there were not many personal artefacts. 

There was a photo on the mantel, of Severus who was around Harry’s age and an equally sour looking woman, whom Harry now knew was Severus’ Ma, Eileen, a pureblood witch who had married a muggle. Like Severus, her eyes were a striking shade of black, deep and intense, holding an almost enigmatic quality. They could be both piercing and unreadable, paired with arched brows, high cheekbones and thin pale lips, set in a perpetual straight line. Her hair thick dark hair was tied into an intricate crown and she wore an ornate lace robe that was fading at the seams. 

To Harry, Eileen was the definition of Beautiful . She had brought him his Pa, against all odds, against the dissolution of herself, she raised Pa and now Pa raised him.

Severus’ own Pa, who was glaringly absent from any photos or scant memorabilia scattered around had been handsome in his youth, a natural blonde, chestnut brown eyes, soft features and everything that was not Severus. It was all Severus had to say about him.

Next to that photo was a photo of a teenaged Severus and a redhead girl, Lily, who was Harry’s birth mother. They were flanking a proud looking round-faced professor that Severus referred to as Slughorn (a name that made Harry laugh) as they held onto ribbons, a blue one that spelled 1st, for Lily and a red one that spelled 2nd, for Severus. 13 October 1975, it read at the bottom right hand corner, 188th Elixirs and Alchemy Summit, Pyrenees, France. 

“What did you win it for?” Harry asked as he studied the photo again, seeking out green eyes just like his. The photo looped flashes against their faces. Severus had his features solemn, looking straight on in a grimace while Lily, who was first beaming at the camera, turned to steal a glance of Severus past the teacher’s fat belly. 

“Enhancing Potion Stability: A Study on Stirring Techniques and Temperature Control,” said Severus, “I improved on the general process of potioneering. Back then, this finding was revolutionary to the community. It is still widely used today and has been included in textbooks and school curriculum.”

“And her?” 

“Lily improved an existing recipe for the strongest Pain-Relieving Potion in the market. Not only did she find a way to incorporate Nightshade Berries, which was previously only used in poison, she increased its effectiveness by ten folds with reduced opioids. You see, Pain-Relievers often contain Papaver Somniferum , or the poppy plant, which produces opium and is highly addictive. The more efficient the potion, the better. Her rendition of the potion allowed increased usage of the highly regulated potion and enabled access to wizards and witches with chronic pain, a population of which this potion was previously banned for use from.”

“She must have been good at potions,” he remarked, bewildered by his mother’s talent. 

“Lily was brilliant,” Severus replied. 

Harry hesitated, looking down at the photo of his mother smiling up at him, then back up to the person he considered his… 

“Did you love her?” He asked mutely, almost afraid of the answer. 

“Like a sister,” Severus said without further consideration. 

Harry considered this for a moment. 

“Did you know me… When I was a baby?” 

Severus narrowed his eyes. “I had seen you once , at the height of the war, right before your parents went into hiding. They brought you to Grimmauld Place for a meeting. I was not on speaking terms with Lily at that point… But she had come up to me, we spoke civilly. Maybe it was… Never mind. She had requested for me to carry you, for a photo, a request I acceded to.” 

Harry looked surprised. The whole conversation had been a fishing expedition, a behaviour he knew Severus hated but the man had answered him despite. “Do you have the photo?” Harry asked, head suddenly heady with hope, evidence that Severus had loved him before the Very Bad had happened, before he was Tainted, Disgusting… before Everything. 

“It is lost… Lily kept the sole copy.”

Harry’s face fell. 

“You must understand I was not fond of you back then, of babies or children or teenagers in general.” 

“Or humans, Papa,” Harry added with a meek smile. 

“Yes. Or humans,” Severus smiled back at him. He had in his eyes, a look of tenderness that made Harry want to melt into the ground. 

Severus looked at him like he was his child, his son, his blood, soul, kept and cherished. 

____

As the days went by, Harry’s magic kept growing. 

Strong, formidable, impenetrable. 

There were the names of many spells he knew not the names to but could perform under extreme duress. The locking spell, for one, was an example Severus used when explaining the use of wandless magic. He had explained it with such great sorrow, almost begging Harry to understand the dangers of it, though it did nothing to help take the edge of Harry’s bad days. 

By the middle of summer, it had become apparent to Severus that something was deeply wrong with Harry that could no longer go ignored for another minute. Some days, locked in the safety of his room, Harry felt himself cry enough to turn the Sahara desert into another ocean. Sobs wrecked his small body, magic preventing Severus from getting closer. Grief loomed over Harry like a spider nesting. It casted long shadows over the him, malicious and dark, threatened to swallow Harry whole if Severus was not careful. 

Harry had been having these episodes more and more frequently that Severus had to resort to the mind healer contact that Madam Pomfrey had recommended. Healer Sinclair, whom he now saw bi-weekly at St. Mungos reminded him almost of Aunt Petunia because of the pinched look she always wore on her face and the way they would go about talking about the Worst Things that happened with business-like precision. Harry had left every session unable to feel, numb, having more Bad Days than Good ones. Severus had remained wholly skeptical of this whole setup but nonetheless was persuaded by Narcissa that it was causing no harm, or was it? 

To prevent himself from going insane, Severus threw himself into study. And after a few months of fruitless research, another terrifying bout of Bad Days that almost made Harry think he was going to die, there was a fight with Mr. Albus whom Severus had shouted at, though Harry could barely get what they were talking about with all that muffling chatter in his ears. All he heard were the echoes of Severus’ grief which he felt through the cold floorboards, whispered in a tone of death and deep regret: We are the reason he has become this. 

What had Harry become? 

Harry shuffled over to the mirror and between all the unshed tears, he looked at his body which had once again shed its initial chubbiness of arriving at Spinner’s End. There were thick, dark bags under his eyes and his skin had a mottled sickly look to it. His cheeks had once again hollowed out and it reminded himself of when it first Began. He stared at himself until he became dizzy and sank to the ground, sitting cross legged instead until he could no longer feel any of his limbs through the pins and needles. Severus found him half asleep against the wooden pillar and carried him up to bed, head lolling over strong shoulders. 

Aunt Cissa had come over the night after that because Severus had to go to a library in Albania to look for a book about it. When he returned four evenings later, he had a dark, grim look on his face. He sat Harry down and spoke to him with his hands on Harry’s knees. 

He had been sick for a few weeks now and so he had kept to his bed between all of Severus’ frantic researching, largely ignored. The muggle adventure book called Sherlock Holmes was laying face down on his blanket covered lap and Severus was on his chair next to the bed. It was the first time in weeks Severus had sat down with him. All he could think of was for Severus to hold him. 

“Papa, where were you gone to?” Harry asked, looking up. 

“I have been away researching,” Severus explained to him. 

Harry studied Severus’ face, his overly big nose, the small crumple of skin between his eyebrows, the sadness in his dark eyes. He watched lips twitch, mouth move, tongue dance. Severus was saying something but he couldn’t seem to understand him. Harry decided he did not look one bit like Papa, which made his insides churn and a heaviness in his heart. 

“Harry, do you understand?” Severus asked, as though reading his mind. 

Harry shook his head once, then again as he looked back down on where his hands were clasped together, he wrung them together and then troubled his bottom lip with his teeth. He had been sick quite a lot when the Terrible Thing was still happening. He did not understand why he was still sick now that there was nothing so Horrible and Bad that was happening at Spinner’s End. His life had been Safe, Beautiful, Good, with Severus. 

Severus breathed out noisily. Harry peeked up at him between his fringe. Severus said more things, more jumbled Heavy Big Words, more revelations from his research that Harry did not have the energy nor capacity to listen to. 

He nodded along, pretended. It was something he had gotten better at. 

Playing pretend. 

Lying to Severus. 

“–you will get better. That is a good thing, Harry.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded, mind far away. 

____

Harry wrote. 

Perhaps it was out of habit from all those months of silence but it was a hobby that the mind healer he had been seeing encouraged. Somedays, he would write to Severus, somedays to his birth parents, other days, to the Malfoys. Severus had dug up a black notebook with a blue spine that had the Hogwarts Crest on it. An old, under-utilised notepad from Severus’ old school days. In it, Harry wrote to himself, stories of Privet Drive, dreams of leaving, visions of the future. 

There was a story he often revisited. 

In it, he was five and it was the first time the Terrible Bad had happened in his cupboard. He had limped his way to the washroom towards the edge of the kitchen where he dutifully washed himself up as Uncle had told him to, wincing as the lukewarm water from the previous night’s shower hit his rawest parts. His eyes glowed with tears he dared not let fall. He had gotten up and stood so very still before the tall mirror. 

In this version of his story, his parents who were still faceless then, would be behind him. They would say, “Harry, Harry, my dear child.” But when he whipped around, no matter how quickly, no matter how many times he practiced, no matter how desperately he yearned to learn every angle, every feature on their faces, he would find that they were gone, puff like magic into thin air. And in the story, he would cry and he would take the red shaped secret and tuck it into a fresh layer of boxer shorts and then again into a new pair of pyjamas bottoms where it would remain sealed, pickled and put away.

Harry could not pinpoint exactly when he had realised that his childhood was not normal. Was it the first time he was moved from his cot in the upstairs bedroom to the cupboard? Was it the way Aunt Petunia made him make breakfast while Dudley sat around watching TV all morning, or when she made him chores all around the house, or the first time he broke his arm ‘falling down the stairs’. Or was it when Dudley started school and he couldn’t go along. Was it when Uncle laid beside him, snores punctuating the guest bedroom as he gingerly tiptoed out of it? Or was it the day Severus had come for him, that hot, sweltering summer day when misery was his only company and he thought, for the first time, he would rather die than live another day. 

The thought, when it first came, scared him and he fought to push it away because he had to be good for Severus, or Severus might not want him any longer.  But it was like a thick dark fog in his mind, ever present, spreading, colouring the very lenses in which he saw life through. 

Over the years, Severus would make his guesses, as many others who would come to know Harry would do too but where those strangers and acquaintances remain wholly unaware of the truth of the secret, Severus would learn in bits, stingy pieces dropped along the years by Harry, but in the end, never quite understanding it all together in its entirety– a jigsaw puzzle with many lost pieces, forbidden memories of a child traumatised, an unreliable narrative. 

Since Harry had come to Spinner’s End, the secret would brew, bubble, simmer for hours, days, weeks, months without end like a complicated potion in Severus’ biggest cauldron, a cloud so big both would acknowledge it’s presence but not be able to see past it’s fog to each other. And something would happen and he would be across Severus in his office, just the two of them, quiet, silent, secret prodding Harry forth. He would open his mouth and Severus would scrutinise him, not daring to miss even a twitch of his lips, and just when Harry thought, this is it, this is the chosen moment he would tell Severus, the story would turn completely, wholly, into a gaseous state where it would rush out of Harry in an exhale so quick Harry could only stare, as Severus stared back and an ache would form in his heart and he would try not to cry.

Severus would try to hold him in these moments. 

“Harry, Harry,” he often said.

Harry would say nothing back, would refuse to go closer to Severus’ inviting outstretched arms. 

He instead, fantasised probable endings to what happened at Privet Drive. What once used to be faceless parents were now replaced by Severus’ chin length hair and pale features. He thought about Uncle, the way he had loved him in moments like the Horrible Act. The way he was sometimes gentle, that he would clean up after Harry when his bed became sticky, whisper and kiss him like the sweet boy he said he was on the First Time. The time at Privet Drive had melded all together into a time before and he no longer remembered the exact moment he had shed his identity as Sweet Thing, traded instead for Whore, Disgusting Boy and Sinner’s Child. 

It was in those moments he was left wanting to put a wrinkle in time, drag Uncle back, just so he could understand because, oh, how badly he yearned to understand, to be understood, to be with Uncle, to hurt because he deserved it for to live without hurting was like breathing without oxygen. 

Harry stood now, before Severus who was holding him like a precious china doll, straddling both past and present with no conceivable way forward, forced to watch Severus’ hope wither once again in his silence. “Tomorrow,” Severus would hush softly as he cried, held out arm's length apart, “It’s okay, Harry. Tomorrow will come. Tomorrow, things will be better.” 

Harry could only nod, crying, head still full of Uncle. 

____

Harry’s first birthday at Spinner’s End was a small affair.

There was no real party because Severus did not believe in that, and Harry, having experienced none before, knew not the lack for it. A couple of groups of people dropped by throughout the day with presents for him. Auntie Minnie brought a brand new set of books, one of them was the Bridge to Terabithia which became one of his favourites. Lucius, Narcissa and Draco came around mid-afternoon holding onto a big present that made Severus sigh with a single glance. It was a broom in the latest model, shipped directly from the Nimbus factory in Japan. It turned out, however, that Harry hated brooms, which drew a large breath of relief from Severus. 

He did not like the way they sat between his legs. 

Mr. Dumbledore’s gift came via owl post, or rather, phoenix post. It was something of his father’s, an invisibility cloak, which Harry promptly tucked at the very bottom of his trunk. And Hagrid, who was a giant, had turned up at the front door with a pink cake that smelt of feet but had given him what he supposed would have been the most precious gift of all: a photo album of his parents. Except, Harry thought nothing much of it and had not allowed the stranger into the house. He instead, gave Severus the album for safe keeping and went to read his book. 

His birth parents meant nothing much to him, other than that they had died to save him as a baby but even that act of sacrificial love had done nothing to lessen the bitterness in his heart. 

Finally, in the evening, there was a cake, hand baked by Severus himself, a quiet wish said and a wrapped gift that passed from Severus’ calloused hand into his. 

“Open it,” Severus said. 

Harry peeled it open gingerly. It was a frame, with a magical photograph in it. 

It was the one Harry had asked for months ago, of the first time Severus had held him. Harry was wrapped in a yellow blanket. He had a red face, chubby and angry, mouth contorted in a scream. Severus’ face had washed into a terrible paleness, a perpetual state of terror by the look on his face as he held onto the child awkwardly, cradling him with both hands, holding him close to his chest. His face became partially obscured by his hair (which was much longer than it was now) as he looked down at Harry and some of it draped over the crying bundle, close enough for a tiny fist to wrap around it and yank hard, a jerk in Severus’ head and his telltale scowl and sneer caught on the film as he looked back up at Lily. The photo looped around then. 

“That’s me, Papa,” Harry’s voice was full of wonder, his fingers tracing along Severus’ jawline and then to his yellow blanket. “That’s me, Papa. That’s me, Papa,” he kept repeating, as though any less would make it unreal. 

“Yes, Harry,” Severus said under his breath. 

“Papa,” Harry said as he looked up at Severus, “Papa.”

“Yes, Child,” Severus whispered and shuffled closer before moving to hold onto Harry’s chin, gently guiding his gaze towards him.  Harry reached up, small hands tangling into the tail ends of Severus’ dark lanky hair just as Severus leaned forward to press his forehead against the child. “My dear child,” he said to Harry. They rested like that for a long while until Harry’s breathing fell still and he was carried upstairs to his room. 

He had woken some time later, tucked tightly under a cocoon of flannel quilts. Quietly, he began to peel the layers above him, the memory of his muscles leading him. First went to red and blue blanket, then his shirt, pants, underwear until he was wearing nothing but his birthday suit.

He laid in bed until the door creaked open. He squeezed his eyes shut, right hand fisting the sheets, left hand cupping his boyhood, afraid but brave, resigned to what was to happen. 

“Papa, are you going to touch me?” Harry whispered into the dark. Against the light of the corridor which spilled into the room, he could barely make out Severus’ face, his silhouette stark and black. Harry was almost half hard, which happened sometimes when he thought too much about the Horrid and Terrible Thing, which would have pleased Uncle. Which he wished would please Severus. 

When Severus came closer, his twilight eyes were emotionless, he avoided where Harry’s hand had connected with his body parts and instead, stared straight ahead past Harry’s hairline at the very tip of his headboard. 

“No,” Severus breathed and shook his head steadily and slowly. He turned around and moved the pile of clothes Harry had folded earlier onto his lap. From it, he picked out a pair of boxer shorts and that worn maroon jumper, deft thin hands dressing Harry without another word. His hands were cold, trembling. As Severus pulled the last article of clothing over Harry’s head, Harry gathered up the courage to speak again. 

“Uncle said it was a present.”

Severus’ large hands froze where they were, his fist on the hem of the jumper tightening before loosening. He flattened the crumpled fabric and refused to look at Harry. Where there was supposed to be words, there was instead silence and the soft humming of the bulb above them. 

“Papa,” Harry whispered like the name was sacred. 

Severus’ eyes shot towards him in acknowledgement. He had not stop his almost frantic motion of straightening out the creases. “Yes, Harry.” The sound of his name was no longer smooth. It was strange, strangled, choked. 

“Papa, sometimes…”

He stared at Severus for a long while, looked away before completing his sentence, hiding, ashamed of what he had to say. 

“Sometimes, when he was soft and nice, it could feel good.”

Something cracked in the room, the glass on a photo frame which held a magical photo of Severus and Harry on his first trip to the zoo. It was mended with a wordless spell. 

“Am I bad?” Harry asked. 

“No. Never,” came immediately from Severus. 

Harry paused, suddenly overwhelmed. They stared at one another under reality crumbled all around them. 

“Will you please hug me?” He asked after a while in a small, hopeful voice. 

Severus had a small sad smile tug at the corner of his lips as though his features were warring with themselves. He looked at Harry like he had just been punched in the gut, torn between decisions. 

“No,” Severus finally answered in an equally gentle voice, he said, “Tomorrow, Harry, tomorrow you may have as many hugs as you want but not tonight, not right now. It would be–” he paused, stared at Harry, then continued after a gulp, “It would be for the wrong reasons.” Severus had a look in his face Harry was cognizant of but had started to stand, sweeping down his robes as he stood.

“Harry, I–,” he started but stopped, breath cut short, forehead creased, mouth twisted in an almost agony as he met the pleading gaze of Lily’s eyes. 

He started and stopped a few more times before saying nothing. 

Harry’s chin pressed tightly against his clavicle, eyes still looking up at him. Severus held his gaze for a moment. And in that moment, Severus seemed to have changed his mind because he tried to grab Harry but Harry flinched, shuffled away from him so quickly, tears sprouting through the corners of his eyes. But he had not been quite quick enough as a strong grip had wrapped roughly around Harry’s biceps and tried to gently tug him forwards into a billowing dark cloak. Harry had instead, fought and struggled free with all his might kicking and screaming, stronger than Severus for once but more so because Pa had let him go. Severus looked at him, an exasperated expression on his face but made no further attempts to come closer. 

As he panted, exerted from the tussling, Harry’s face said please hold me and leave me alone all at once. 

Severus, torn, finally left when it seemed like Harry had not wanted to be held after all. 

Without Pa, there was a hole filled with Pain, Horror and Quiet. It consumed Harry, took him in, wrapped him up in Darkness. 

As the door clicked closed, he felt the fat hot tears creep down his cheeks, tickling them as he scrubbed and scratched at his face until he was certain they would be raw in the morning. 

Papa, I miss you, he whimpered, Papa, I miss you. 

Papa, I...

Like the many things in Harry’s life, this missing of Severus had become a growing chasm, painful and insoluble. He wrapped his arms around himself and pretended they were Severus holding onto him. 

Oh, how Harry wished to be held in that moment. 

Despite that, Life at Spinner’s End was Quiet, Safe, Beautiful.