“Albus,” Severus hissed, “is this really necessary?”
Albus hesitated with his wand raised, peering at Severus over the rim of his spectacles. “Well, the boy needs a place to stay until the Weasleys return from Egypt, doesn’t he?”
“But why here?” Severus replied. He did not appreciate having his solitude intruded upon. No matter how quiet the child was.
Albus’s eyes twinkled. “Where else would he stay?”
“Why not in the hospital wing?”
“Now, Severus, the hospital wing is no place for a child.”
“And the dungeons are?”
Albus raised his eyebrows. “Your Slytherins don’t complain now, do they?”
Severus snapped his mouth shut, folded his arms and glared at Albus, but the man had already turned back to Harry who had been watching their argument with round eyes. He seemed to watch everything around him and Severus had a suspicion that the boy saw far more than he let on.
“What are your favourite colours, my boy?” Albus asked, twinkling at the boy.
Harry’s eyes darted to Severus first. It was unnerving that he seemed to need reassurance for the simplest things.
“Green,” he replied after eying Albus for a long moment. “And blue, but only dark blue, not the light one. Oh, and green, also only if it’s dark like the forest.”
Albus looked amused, his eyes still twinkling. “Dark green, hm? What about silver?”
“Albus,” Severus hissed.
“Yes, Severus?” Albus said innocently, raising his wand and waving it in intricate patterns across the empty wall space in the short hallway between the sitting room and Severus’s bedroom.
Severus watched him with a scowl, wishing he’d never gotten involved in this. Damn Lily. Damn his own overactive imagination and those blasted dreams. Now he’d be stuck with Lily’s little boy, having her eyes watch him warily over every meal. And what did he know about taking care of a child? And one so small as Harry? It could only end in disaster.
His skin prickled as the magic in the castle walls rose to answer Albus’s call and despite himself, Severus found himself intrigued at the process. A door appeared, all dark wood and intricate designs of stars and moons—and did Albus have to be so cliché about all this? It swung open slowly, revealing a small room with a huge window across the opposite wall that showed the murky waters of the lake. Harry stared at it open-mouthed, watching fish swim past.
Albus stepped forward, twirling and swishing his wand, conjuring a four-poster bed, a small desk, a wardrobe, and a small bookshelf, all in the same dark wood, and transfiguring dust motes into blankets and rugs. It looked quite beautiful, Severus had to admit, all dark colours, the ceiling showing a sky full of stars, soothing and simple. Given Albus’s tendencies toward the flamboyant, Severus hadn’t expected something so tasteful.
“Now, Harry, what do you think?” Albus said, stepping up to Harry and sliding an arm around his hunched shoulders. The poor boy flinched slightly at the touch, shoulders curling even further and Severus clenched his fists against the inexplicable urge to shield the boy from Albus’s overbearing manner.
“It’s nice,” the boy said in hushed tones, still staring wide-eyed around the room.
“Excellent. Now if you need anything, anything at all, you need only tell Severus. Will you do that?”
Harry nodded slowly, darting a quick glance at Severus over his shoulder and smiled, shy but obviously happy.
Severus was glad that he did not possess a heart that could be moved by a little boy’s smile.
*.*.*
When Harry woke up, he was sure that he was still dreaming for something blurry that almost looked like a mermaid was the first sight that greeted him, looking at him curiously before darting away when he sat up. He reached for his glasses and blinked at his surroundings. It looked like he had woken up in a fairy tale.
Above him stars twinkled down at him and to his left the wall was basically one big window that looked out into the murky greens of a lake. Fish swam past and Harry plastered himself to the glass, hoping for another glimpse of the mermaid but none came. He found a pair of slippers beside the bed which were warm and comfortable and fit Harry perfectly.
After inspecting the room a bit further and making sure that all the beautiful presents he had gotten from Professor Snape were safely stored away on the shelves and in wardrobe, he carefully opened the door and crept through the darkened corridor. He didn’t know what time of day it was, but it felt like very early in the morning. On silent feet he made his way into the kitchen Professor Snape had shown him the night before and stood there for a moment, studying everything. He wasn’t sure what was expected of him—Professor Snape hadn’t given him any chores—but he thought that making breakfast couldn’t be wrong. Aunt Petunia had always said that Harry should earn his keep and given all the beautiful things Professor Snape and Professor Dumbledore had given him, Harry would have to work a lot to make up for it.
He pulled up a chair and took down a frying pan which was so heavy that Harry nearly dropped it, then Harry got out eggs from a cupboard and, after a moment’s thought, flour and sugar and butter. Anyone could make eggs, but he could show his usefulness if he made something more elaborate. He had Aunt Petunia’s recipe memorised and was very proud that he could make the crumpets without any help at all.
Things turned tricky, though, when he tried to turn on the hob. There weren’t any knobs Harry could see. He stepped down from the chair and looked into the oven, inspecting every inch of it, stepped back up onto the chair and leaned all over the burners to inspect the far end for some kind of knob or buttons to turn on the stupid gas. There had to be some trick to it. Harry only needed to figure it out and then find the matches.
*.*.*
When Severus entered the kitchen, his heart nearly stopped at the sight that greeted him. Little Harry was balancing on a chair in front of the small stove, leaning over the burners.
“What is the meaning of this?” Severus snapped which might not have been the best course of action, but it was very early in the morning and he wasn’t at all prepared to have the boy endangering himself this quickly.
At Severus’s words the boy flinched violently, letting out a small squeak and promptly lost his balance. Instincts propelled Severus forward, just in time to catch Harry before he could crack his head on the stone floor.
Severus held the boy tightly against his body, heart racing, fighting the urge to yell and rant. That would not help, not at all.
“Are you all right?” he finally ground out, holding the boy at arm’s length and looking him over.
Harry nodded, eyes wide.
Severus wanted to shake him, but he could feel the tremors running through the boy, so instead only said, “What have you been thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered. “I wanted to make breakfast, but I don’t know how the stove works.”
“You wanted to make breakfast,” Severus repeated, not quite believing his ears.
The boy nodded.
Severus took in the mixing bowl which was filled with batter, the open flour package.
“What did you want to make?”
“Crumpets. They’re all fluffy and nice and I thought you might like them more than eggs.”
Severus was at a loss for words. “You made crumpets. Without a recipe.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “No, I only made the batter and the recipe is all in my head. It’s easy, really. But I need to get the hob working. They don’t taste as good if the batter sits too long.”
It was too early for this. Far too early. And without a good cup of tea no less. Severus rubbed a hand down his face and looked at the bowl filled with batter. Looked at the boy who looked at him expectantly. Looked at the frying pan and the open packages on the counter. The very neat counter. Barely any sprinkling of flour. How odd.
“Very well,” Severus finally conceded. He had never been fond of wasting food. If the crumpets turned out inedible he could throw the batter out then. “I will manage the stove while you sit down and have a glass of…” What did children drink? Pumpkin juice, that’s what they usually had in the Great Hall, wasn’t it? Or milk? “What would you like? Milk? Pumpkin juice?”
“But I can do it just fine!” Harry protested. “I just need you to turn on the burner. I promise, I know how to do it! I’ve been doing it for years!”
Those last words rattled around in Severus’s mind and he could only stare as a silent kind of horror wrapped around him. “You’ve been making breakfast for years,” he repeated, because that seemed to be all he could do at the insanity that was Lily’s boy.
Harry nodded vigorously. “And for the entire family too. I know what I’m doing.”
Severus felt faint. He wasn’t equipped for this. It was one thing to deal with eleven-year-olds crying of homesickness or because of dread to go back home, but Harry was only eight. And he’d been making breakfast for Petunia for years.
Severus wanted to go back and wring Petunia’s thin neck.
“Do you like making breakfast?” Severus finally managed to ask.
Harry scrunched up his nose, thinking. “I don’t know. I just do it. Aunt Petunia said I have to earn my keep.”
Severus really should not be shocked by whatever the boy would so casually reveal about his life with the Dursleys. Yet, every time Harry mentioned something like this in such an innocent voice, Severus’s breath caught and his shrivelled heart clenched and he had to fight the urge to pull his hair.
He knelt down, catching the boy’s eyes. “Harry. You are a guest in my home. You do not ever have to earn your keep here, do you understand?”
From the crease between his brows the boy did not understand. Well, he would learn. Severus would make sure of it.
“Here’s what we will do. I will man the frying pan, but you can put the batter in, will that do?”
Harry eyed him suspiciously. “But you have to turn them at the right moment or they’ll burn or stick to the pan.”
“Well, then I am lucky because you can assist me and tell me the exact moment to turn them.”
Harry’s brow was still furrowed. “But I can do it, I promise.”
Hopeless, that’s what this entire situation was. “How about you teach me then and I will stand by and watch.” And have his wand ready for any accidents. Severus really hoped there wouldn’t be any accidents. If this continued, he would be grey by the time the Weasleys were back to take in Harry. Grey or have died of a heart attack. Or probably both.
Harry beamed at him, hopping up on the chair and looking down at him expectantly.
Severus sighed. How was this his life?
*.*.*
Harry eyed the marmalade on the table. The crumpets had turned out perfectly and he hadn’t needed to burn any, so that he could have them. There was a huge stack on the table and even Professor Snape seemed to be slightly impressed, having added clotted cream and milk and juice to the table. And the marmalade. Harry hated orange marmalade. But it was the only thing on the table besides butter and cream. He debated a moment longer, glaring at the jar, but when he reached out, a hand clamped down on the jar, pulling it out of reach.
Harry blinked at the empty space, not daring to draw breath. He’d waited too long. He’d waited too long and was an ungrateful brat who did not deserve marmalade or anything and…
“Is it marmalade in general that you do not like or only this particular kind?”
Harry blinked again, darting a wary glance at the professor. Was this a trick question? Aunt Petunia had asked him that to find out what things to withhold from Harry. Was the professor the same?
“Only this one,” he finally admitted, bracing himself for whatever was to come.
“What is your favourite then?” the professor asked.
Harry stared at the cooling crumpet on his plate. He loved all red berry preserves. Raspberry most of all. But if he said raspberry and the professor was like Aunt Petunia than Harry would never eat raspberry ever again. Strawberry, maybe. Strawberry was the least favourite of his favourites, so if he said that and never got to eat strawberry jam again that was okay and not the end of the world.
His heart was still pounding when he said, “Strawberry,” in a small voice.
The professor must have heard him, however, because he said, “Very well,” stood up, and left the room.
Harry sat frozen in fear. Where had he gone?
A moment later he popped back in. “Do you prefer it with fruit or without?”
“With fruit!” Harry replied. Weren’t preserves always with fruit?
But the professor only nodded and disappeared once more.
Harry heard a low murmur and a moment later squeaked when a soft plop sounded right in front of him and a jar appeared on the table. He looked at the jar curiously, wondering where it had come from. But then, Professor Dumbledore had made an entire room out of nothing, complete with the softest bed in the world and fluffy pillows and a beautiful desk. Harry really needed to get used to this. But what if he did and then had to go back to the Dursleys? Better wait and see what happened. He would have to go to the Weasleys anyway, didn’t he?
He jumped when Professor Snape was suddenly back at the table, nodding his head at the jar.
“Go ahead,” he said. “It’s strawberry. Full of fruit.” He looked slightly amused. That was good, wasn’t it?
Harry felt his mouth water at the sight of the reddish-brown preserves. It did not look like the strained variety which Uncle Vernon preferred, the one which was just jelly with nothing in it. No, this one was the real thing. Now Harry really wished he’d said raspberry or blackberry, but strawberry would have to do.
“We can always try different ones if this one is not to your liking,” the professor offered in his deep, quiet voice. Harry really liked his voice, it was so different to Aunt Petunia’s screeches and Uncle Vernon’s yelling.
Still, Harry regarded him suspiciously, wondering whether the professor could read minds, then decided it didn't matter and gave a quick nod, carefully reaching out a hand, whilst keeping an eye on the man, but there was no more snatching. Only now Harry couldn’t open the stupid jar because the lid was stuck and he nearly cried from frustration.
“Here,” the professor said, holding out a hand, “let me.”
Harry tried one more time, but it was futile and, finally admitting defeat, pushed the jar over, bracing himself for being berated or having to eat his crumpets without anything altogether.
The professor opened the jar effortlessly and Harry was a little surprised when the preserves made their way back to Harry, the heady aroma enveloping him.
“Go ahead,” the professor said again and Harry did so, carefully spreading the preserves—which to Harry’s delight were almost all fruit and very little jelly—and then adding a dollop of cream. Perfect.
“Thank you,” he said with a quick smile.
The professor’s lips twitched. “You’re very welcome, child.”