A New Place to Stay Chapter 7 - Harry Potter

 Harry wakes at Prince Manor after two days asleep and walks straight into the talk he has avoided for years. Over breakfast, Severus Snape calmly dismantles Harry’s cover stories, reveals the Dursleys have been paid to keep him, and presses for the truth about scars, panic, and neglect. What follows is quiet triage for a shaken teen, a measured promise of protection, and something rarer: memories of Lily and the Evans grandparents, complete with a gifted photo and a treasured book. Snape refuses pity, offers steadiness, and makes it clear Harry will never face this alone again. 

Transcript

**Chapter 7: Harry's Secrets - Snape's Version of a Heart-to-Heart**

Harry woke up groggily, disoriented and unsure of where he was. He could sense something had happened before the memories began to trickle back.

The bitter aftertaste of potion ingredients lingered in his mouth, and he felt a wave of humiliation wash over him. Snape had seen him at his most vulnerable, sprawled out and unconscious in the dungeons.

With a heavy sigh, he attempted to get up, planning to sneak to the bathroom. But then he caught sight of what he was wearing and fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily.

"Snape can't know, can he?" he thought, hoping there was a way for Snape to magically change his clothes. If not, he’d have some explaining to do.

Then again, perhaps Snape wouldn’t care. He had never shown much concern before, so maybe, just maybe, he would let it slide.

If Snape brought it up at school, Harry could just laugh it off and deny it. After all, who would believe he had been abused—except for Dumbledore, of course.

Dumbledore was aware; Harry had made that crystal clear after his first year. Yet all Dumbledore had done was insist that he return home for the blood wards that protected him, pointing to Quirrell as an example, seemingly indifferent to how Harry felt about it.

Guilt gnawed at Harry. He couldn't shake the uncertainty about Quirrell’s loyalty—had he been under Voldemort’s control the whole time, or had he been fighting against him?

The truth was, Harry had killed him. It might have been a case of kill or be killed, but still, at just eleven years old, he had taken a life.

Swallowing hard, he realized that even his underwear had been changed, and heat flooded his cheeks. He was fourteen years old; normally, he wouldn’t have minded if someone saw him.

What really bothered him was the thought that someone had seen his scars. But then again, he wasn’t your typical fourteen-year-old, was he?

He was anything but normal—not magically, not in terms of happiness, not with friends, and certainly not with family. He recalled the panic attack he had experienced; it was the first time since entering the wizarding world that he had felt so overwhelmed.

Harry couldn’t believe how much time had passed. As a child, he used to hyperventilate at the sound of his heavy uncle stomping down the stairs in the morning.

Now, he slipped into his clothes—well, borrowed ones that felt surprisingly soft and comfortable, even the boxer shorts. He wondered how he would explain those if Snape ever asked.

His mind raced with excuses about what to say if Snape had seen his scars. He knew the man could see right through him at school.

Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was nearly seven o'clock, which meant it was time for breakfast. He wasn't even sure he would be allowed to eat; he hadn't finished the chores Snape had assigned him.

A shiver ran down his spine as he recalled the feeling of the spell—it had been almost as painful as the Cruciatus Curse Voldemort had cast, just not quite as powerful. He had never understood how the caster’s skill could impact spells, but he was wiser now.

There was no doubt in his mind that Snape was aware of what had happened; he probably even taught Draco how to do it, just like that incident in his second year when Draco had sent a snake at him. Harry remembered the look Snape had given him back then, utterly stunned, as if he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing.

Harry thought about how he would have reacted the same way; Snape had to endure Voldemort constantly. Knowing Snape's loyalties didn’t guarantee his safety.

Dumbledore was aware of Harry’s hatred for the Dursleys and the abuse he faced, yet he kept sending him back there. Then, he sent him to another place where he was loathed.

Harry wondered if Dumbledore wanted Snape to hurt him like the Dursleys had. Taking a deep breath, he pushed those thoughts aside and made his way down the stairs to the dining hall.

As he entered, he saw Snape already there, waiting. "You are awake; good.

You have slept for nearly two days," Severus said, his tone softer than usual. Harry's eyes widened in shock, not just at the realization of how long he had been asleep, but at the concern that seemed to linger in Snape's voice.

For two days, Harry had been uneasy, and it was amplified by the way his teacher was acting. His heart sank, and fear settled in; Snape must know something, or he wouldn't be speaking to him like this.

Why was he being so soft? Shouldn’t he be sneering and mocking him instead?

After all, he had allowed a big, burly Muggle to beat him. It made sense why he felt so well-rested.

He felt better than ever, and he suspected Snape had given him the Dreamless Sleep potion. “Don’t just stand there; sit,” Severus said in that same soft tone, which Harry was starting to dread.

Gulping silently, he walked around the table and took a seat, trying to calm his racing heart. Once again, he helped himself only after Snape and began to eat.

To his surprise, he found himself starving and devoured everything on his plate despite the fear gnawing at him. Snape couldn’t know, or he would be laughing at him.

Surely he was just in a good mood, or maybe Dumbledore was lurking around. That had to be it, Harry thought, grasping at straws as he drowned in his misery.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Severus asked suddenly. Harry coughed, spluttering milk everywhere, and flinched back as Severus moved to thump him on the back.

Severus’s eyes gleamed, as if he had orchestrated this moment to confirm his suspicions. Harry felt like weeping; the worst person in the world to know how he was treated was the very one sitting across from him.

He wasn’t sure what would happen next, but there was no way he was going to spill his guts and give Snape more ammunition to use against him in class. “Tell anyone what?” Harry asked, struggling to maintain his composure.

Despite who knew, he felt an overwhelming urge to share everything if there was even a hint of hope that he might never have to return to the Dursleys. He was genuinely afraid that Vernon would eventually kill him; his anger only seemed to worsen with each passing year.

Everything that went wrong in Vernon Dursley’s life was somehow Harry’s fault. Harry felt a jolt of disbelief.

Snape? He wanted to confess everything to Snape, only for Snape to laugh behind his back?

Had he lost his mind? “That you were abused, Potter,” Severus elaborated.

Although he was mentally addressing Harry by his first name, he didn’t want to frighten the boy even more by using it aloud. He needed answers, not for Harry to bolt.

If he pushed too hard, Harry might run from the house, and he couldn’t risk that, especially knowing there were at least twelve Death Eaters searching for him. He was grateful he had forced Draco to swear that oath.

Curiously, Severus noted that the boy hadn’t even mentioned the spell Draco had cast on him. Surely, Harry must understand how illegal it was; the pain he felt was reminiscent of the Cruciatus curse.

Harry tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in his throat. Damn it, he had been acting for years; why were all his defenses crumbling now?

Frustrated, he settled on a neutral expression—it was the best he could manage at that moment. “I’m not,” Harry said simply.

“Really? What about your clothes?” Severus asked, his face devoid of any smirk.

Harry was taken aback. Why wasn’t Snape sneering or mocking him?

Why did he have to change now, when Harry needed him to stay the same? “My aunt and uncle aren’t very well off.

I usually wear my cousin’s clothes. I was too embarrassed for people to know, so I lied,” Harry shrugged, feeling a small sense of triumph.

There, try and make that look untrue, he thought, almost snickering inwardly. “Not well off?” Severus asked, narrowing his eyes in disbelief.

The boy was good; he had to give him that. It was unfortunate that Harry didn’t know a piece of information that Severus was well aware of.

“Yeah, Uncle Vernon lost his job years ago. I’m just glad my parents paid for my Hogwarts.”

"Tuition in advance," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders as if it didn’t bother him at all.

"Why didn’t you give them money then?" Severus asked, studying Harry's reaction. He wondered how the boy would respond to that question.

He had to admit, so far, Harry’s answers were quite convincing. If he weren’t a skilled Legilimens, he would have had no idea that the boy was lying.

Harry's body language suggested he was unfazed by the conversation. A grudging respect began to grow within Severus, alongside the other qualities he admired in Harry Potter.

"They refused to take it; I did offer," Harry replied, his eyes reflecting a deep sadness. The idea of giving his uncle money was laughable.

The mere thought of handing over his hard-earned cash made him feel ill. There was no way he would let his uncle get a single Knut; he needed every bit of it for his school supplies in the coming years.

"I see. So, you obviously don’t know they’ve been receiving enough money to support four people living quite comfortably?" Severus observed, feeling a sense of triumph as shock, hatred, and anger flashed across Harry's face.

Though those emotions quickly faded, Severus had seen them, and that was all that mattered. "I didn’t know…" Harry whispered, struggling to maintain his composure.

The revelation made him feel nauseous—Vernon had been getting paid to keep him? Yet he still forced Harry to work for his “keep,” beat him, and confined him to a cupboard all those years?

All those years of abuse, and that monster had been profiting, while all the money from Harry’s vault was spent on his cousin, Dudley Dursley. He swallowed hard, fighting back the sick feeling rising in his throat.

Memories of all the extravagant gifts Dudley had received over the years replayed in his mind, and he knew without a doubt that Snape was right. Dudley had received so much each year, things that cost hundreds of pounds…

Harry's thoughts raced as he considered the pounds of money his uncle must have been receiving.

No wonder Vernon had never let him go; that money was likely a godsend for taking care of a "freak" like him. Despite Vernon's income, it was never enough to sustain the lavish lifestyle he craved—a new car every year, the house payments, plans to convert the loft, and that ridiculous conservatory.

The televisions, everything. "Oh God," Harry thought, feeling increasingly nauseous.

It was becoming harder to keep his food down. "Here, Potter; drink this," Severus suddenly said, handing him a vial of stomach soother.

He could see that Harry was on the verge of being sick. He felt no satisfaction in this, but he needed answers—truthful answers, not the well-crafted lies Harry was spinning.

"What is it?" Harry asked, shooting a glare at Snape. Severus felt a rush of triumph; he had his Potter back, the one he found so infuriating.

He almost smirked but held it back; smirking wouldn't get him the answers he needed. It would only scare the boy off and make him think Severus enjoyed the reactions he could provoke.

"Stomach soother," Severus replied tersely, narrowing his eyes at Harry. To his surprise, Harry grinned, as if he was pleased to see his grumpy teacher back.

Severus cursed himself for falling into Harry's game. This wasn't a brash Gryffindor he was dealing with; this boy—dare he say it, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth—was more like a Slytherin.

"Thanks, Professor," Harry said, downing the potion. His cocky attitude had returned.

It was easier this way: provoke Snape and end the conversation, or face the consequences. That way, Snape couldn't comment on the Dursleys without risking his own involvement.

Harry wasn't sure if he would ever actually have the courage to blackmail his professor; those cold, dark, glaring eyes were enough to make him tremble. Severus inwardly smirked.

If this was how the boy wanted to play, he wasn’t about to indulge him. He was the adult here, and he intended to act like one, whether Potter liked it or not.

Definitely a Slytherin move; he wondered why Potter was trying to provoke him like he did in class. Did the boy genuinely expect to be punished?

Severus's eyes widened in shock at the thought. It was truly a Slytherin tactic—get Severus Snape to lash out at Harry, then force him to keep quiet about it.

Oh, Potter was clever, but not cleverer than he was; after all, he was the ultimate Slytherin. "So, what happened to your back then, Potter?" Severus asked smoothly.

Take that, he thought, nearly grinning at the disgruntled look that flickered across Harry's face for a moment before vanishing behind the perfectly neutral mask he had mastered. "Almost killed my aunt with accidental magic before third year.

My uncle didn’t realize I didn’t have control over it and thought I wanted to kill his sister. It was only after Aunt Petunia explained that I don’t always have control, that he felt sorry for what happened," Harry replied, his voice tinged with sadness.

Damn it, why did Snape have to be so difficult? Couldn’t he just do what Harry wanted for once?

Harry was sure Snape would relish the chance to take a swing at him. "How did that happen, Potter?

After all, you left your aunt's the moment she was blown up," Severus pointed out, suppressing a smirk. Two could certainly play at this game.

He was making a point with all those questions; he was letting Harry know he was aware of the truth. It was up to the boy to make the next move and share it.

Not that he could blame Harry for holding back; he begrudgingly admitted that the boy would never choose to confide in him, even if given the chance. It was rather strange; most abused children eventually came to him when the truth came out.

He had a knack for uncovering their stories. Severus felt that Potter would prefer to cling to his illusions rather than share his truth.

He hoped that wasn't the case. Maybe involving Dumbledore could make a difference.

He wasn't trying to be cruel to the boy, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Harry going back to the Dursleys if that was how they treated him. He remembered the abuse he had suffered, how close his father had come to taking his life on several occasions.

He didn’t want that for Lily’s son; it would ruin not just Harry’s life but everyone else's as well. Yet, he tried to convince himself that his motives were purely for Harry’s benefit.

Deep down, he knew he was helping an abused child, just as he always had. For the first time, he realized that Harry Potter was not James and never had been.

He had never known his parents, but perhaps mentioning Lily could encourage him to open up. "Damn it," Harry thought, "how do I answer that bloody question?" He hadn’t seen them in nearly a year.

The incident with Marge had occurred about a week into the holiday, and after that, he spent the best summer of his life in the wizarding world, later joined by his best friends. "That's why I ran away; I just didn't tell anyone," he replied, feeling a flush creep up his cheeks.

Please, for the love of everything, believe my lies, Snape! He didn’t know how much longer he could maintain the pretense, especially with so many questions being thrown at him.

Severus couldn’t help but feel impressed; Potter was exceptionally skilled at weaving his lies. It had been a long time since he had admired anyone, aside from fellow Potions Masters.

In that moment, he found himself almost admiring Harry; that flush on his cheeks was remarkably convincing. "Hm, and what about the older, half-healed scars?" Severus pressed, abandoning the pretense.

"They happened at the same time; some were just deeper than others," Harry shrugged, wishing desperately that Severus would give up. He was so exhausted; all these questions were making his head ache.

"Do you know I knew your—"

"Do you remember your mother and her sister before we went to Hogwarts?" Severus asked, abruptly changing the subject. Harry dropped the cutlery he was holding, shock registering on his face.

He shook his head in disbelief. He had no idea, but now that Snape had mentioned it, everything began to make sense.

Snape had always referred to him as being just like his father, James, using all sorts of names and saying he strutted around the school. But he had never mentioned Harry's mother.

Harry felt a wave of frustration wash over him for not connecting the dots sooner. He had so many questions, so many things he wanted to ask.

Remus had only told him that she was an extraordinarily gifted witch, and Sirius never mentioned her at all, just saying he wasn't much like his father after all. On one hand, he had Snape insisting he was like James, while Sirius claimed he wasn't.

It left Harry feeling uncertain about who to believe. At that moment, he desperately wished he could ask what she had been like as a child.

The thought of Snape, the man he hated, holding all those memories of his mother while he had nothing—except for the painful memory of her death—made him nearly cry. He couldn't stop a single tear from trailing down his cheek.

Severus felt a pang of guilt for bringing her up; it was clear that Potter was deeply emotional right now. He tried to imagine how he would feel if a Potter held memories of his mother while he had none.

The bile rose in his throat as he realized how sick to his stomach that thought made him. "I know I have her eyes, and she was an extraordinarily gifted witch," Harry snapped bitterly, unable to stop himself.

He felt embarrassed for losing control in front of Snape and even more furious that his Potions Master seemed to know the truth about his home life. It was obvious Snape didn’t believe his lies; otherwise, he wouldn’t have continued questioning him.

Harry wondered what Snape would do with that knowledge, though it hardly mattered at the moment. of the day he would find himself back there.

Dumbledore held his life in his hands and abused that privilege year after year. More than ever, he wished there was someone who would love him enough to stand up to Dumbledore.

He almost laughed at the thought; as if anyone would dare oppose Dumbledore—only Death Eaters would do that. How incredible it would be to have someone in his life who despised Dumbledore and would act on his behalf, regardless of that old fool.

“She was so much more than that, Potter. She had hair like a flame, and it was always long, even as a child.

She never wanted to cut it, and her parents indulged her. Even at the age of eight, they recognized their daughter was special; I merely confirmed it by telling her she was a witch,” Severus reminisced smoothly.

“You… you… you're a muggle-born?” Harry gasped, unable to hold back the question. “No, my mother was a witch; my father was a muggle,” Severus corrected him, masking his distaste at the mention of his father.

Harry blinked in shock at this revelation; he had always assumed Snape was a pureblood. After all, Voldemort loathed anyone without a magical background.

That’s what the books had said: he targeted everyone who wasn’t pure or anyone who opposed him. How on earth had Snape ended up a Death Eater if he was a half-blood?

Harry didn’t have the courage to ask. Instead, he tried to picture his mother as an eight-year-old performing magic.

But all that came to mind was the memory of his uncle beating him mercilessly for apparating onto the school roof. Firemen had arrived, baffled at how a little boy could have gotten up there in the first place.

Vernon had been furious; once everyone had left, he stopped pretending to be the concerned uncle and unleashed his rage, calling Harry a freak. No matter how many times he tried, he…

Harry couldn't picture his mum at eight years old, with Snape of all people telling her she was a witch.

Severus could feel the teenager's despair radiating from him and wondered what had caused such deep sorrow. Taking a deep breath, he continued his story.

“She liked to float off the swings after jumping as high as she could. Then she would show Petunia some more magic after Petunia complained that their parents had told Lily not to do it anymore.

One time, she made a dead flower come to life in Petunia's hand. Unfortunately, Petunia was quite upset that she couldn’t do what her sister had done.”

Harry swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat, even though his stomach felt fine.

The potion was doing its job, preventing him from being sick. Petunia had wanted to be magical?

He recalled her rants about Lily being the favored child because she was what Petunia always called a “freak,” her term for magical people. He couldn’t believe that the sour woman had ever wished to be a witch; if only he had the courage to share that information with his uncle.

“She used to tag along with me and Lily over the years, despite being older than us. I told her everything I could about magic.

Petunia would hide and listen to us. She was shocked to hear about the Dementors, that was for sure,” Severus smirked, unable to contain himself.

Harry was shocked too. Even at the age of eight, Snape had known about the Dementors?

He silently wondered what it was like to have one magical parent and one Muggle parent. It must have been strange for the ordinary person to be surrounded by magic all the time.

Snape's mum must have loved his father to remain in the Muggle world, away from her true world. Harry pondered if he would have to do the same to ensure he married someone who truly loved him for who he was, not as the Boy Who Lived.

He shuddered at the thought of any future wife bragging about being married to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. interviews.

Harry knew he could never live like that. If leaving his world for the Muggle one meant making someone he loved happy, he would do it.

"Petunia even tried to write to Dumbledore to find out if she could attend Hogwarts with her sister," Severus explained. Harry blinked, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

He felt like a fish out of water, utterly stunned. The shock left him unable to even think about putting on his usual masks.

"Unfortunately, just as Lily was set to go to Hogwarts, Petunia decided she didn’t want to be like Lily anymore. Lily was deeply upset when Petunia kept calling her a freak," Severus continued, observing Harry flinch.

He understood that Harry had likely faced similar taunts throughout his life. Mental abuse could be harder to bear than physical pain, and he had to restrain himself from reacting angrily.

"She really called her that?" Harry asked quietly, his sad eyes fixed on the table where the food and plates had long since vanished. "Indeed she did.

But she was at Lily's wedding, so I assumed they had made up at some point," Severus replied smoothly. As the implications of Severus's words sank in, Harry realized he was now considering his grandparents, Lily’s parents.

He had never met them; they had clearly passed away. His curiosity surged, overriding the years of conditioning from the Dursleys that taught him never to ask questions.

"What were my grandparents like?" Harry asked, cringing slightly as he spoke, unsure of how Severus would respond. "Rose and Henry Evans were probably the nicest Muggles I've ever met," Severus answered honestly.

"They were happy Mum was a witch?" Harry inquired quietly, wondering what it would have been like to be raised by them. He hesitated, contemplating their fate, afraid to ask in case it was as tragic as what had happened to his parents.

"They were ecstatic to have—"

"A witch in the family, they were unhesitatingly proud of her," Severus said, nodding softly. If Harry had looked closely, he would have seen a fond expression on Severus’s face.

But he didn’t, and so he missed just how much Severus truly cherished his grandparents. "What did they look like?" Harry asked hesitantly.

He could hardly believe he was having a conversation about his family—his unknown family—with Severus Snape of all people. It felt like the earth had shifted beneath him.

Why wasn’t he just stuck doing his chores like any other day? He wanted the old Snape back.

But then he thought about the information he had just received. It was more than he had ever hoped for, and he felt a wave of jealousy toward Severus that he hated.

"Your grandfather was a very tall man with short brown hair," Severus began. "He was an avid chess player and loved working in his garden.

He adored his daughters more than anything in the world, apart from his wife. He always wore black slacks and shirts; he never dressed down, even on weekends.

He took Lily and Petunia out when he wasn’t working—amusement parks, cinemas, bowling, the circus, and anywhere else he could think of. He even drove us all to see Stonehenge one weekend.

There was no denying he loved them. He also enjoyed cooking for the family, although he left the baking to Rose."

Harry hung on every word Severus spoke, listening more intently than he ever had before.

He soaked up every detail like a sponge. He didn’t care that Snape was the one sharing these memories; he was desperate for more information about them, even as jealousy for his mother and Petunia washed over him instead of Snape.

He would have given anything for that connection. Why hadn’t his mother just moved aside?

Perhaps he could have still defeated Voldemort. Maybe he could have had his mother with him now.

"Rose Evans had a deep love for flowers; she cherished them so much that she named her children after her favorite plants: Lily Heather Evans and Petunia Orchid Evans. Naturally, your aunt hated her name and made no secret of it.

If I had spent my entire childhood being called Tuney, I suppose I would too," Severus said with a smirk. "Rose had red hair like Lily, styled in a pixie cut; she never wore it long in all the years I knew her.

She took great pride in her appearance, but not in a snobbish way. She simply enjoyed looking good, a trait she passed on to her children.

She loved wearing blouses and fancy t-shirts, mostly paired with jeans or the occasional skirt. Like her husband, she adored taking the children out; after school, she would drive them to swimming practice, ballet, music classes, and, of course, dance lessons.

She attended every single one and always praised them for their hard work," Severus continued. "She couldn’t drive and had a passion for baking.

The house was always filled with the comforting aroma of her cooking; she loved baking cookies the most and always had a tub of fresh ones waiting for them when they walked through the door. She delighted in baking for the girls' school fairs, and the teachers loved her for it," Severus reminisced.

"The world became a sadder place when she passed away; many people will miss her and continue to do so."

"How did they die?" Harry asked, struggling to hold back his tears. Severus fixed his gaze on the teenager.

"Your grandfather had a stroke; he was young, but he survived. Your grandmother exhausted herself caring for him.

Petunia had moved away from home, and while Lily wanted to help look after their dad, Rose insisted that she finish her education. Petunia left school as soon as she could, but Rose wanted at least one of her children to earn a diploma and achieve better grades than Petunia had," Severus explained, his voice tinged with regret.

"She refused help, determined..."

Henry had attempted to do things himself, but unfortunately, he suffered another stroke, and this one was fatal. Your grandmother managed to survive for three months after his passing, and she died in her garden, surrounded by her beloved flowers.

There was no specific reason for her death, just severe exhaustion. Lily always insisted that her mother had died of a broken heart.

They are both buried in the Muggle world, not far from Privet Drive. Surely Petunia has visited them, or at least taken her son to see their graves?

After all, Privet Drive is only a few hours' drive from where they all grew up. Harry shook his head silently, no longer interested in playing along.

He didn’t care if Snape found out; he would just have to deal with whatever Snape chose to do with that information. "Well, she will certainly go to hell," Severus muttered under his breath, his voice laced with anger.

How could Petunia ignore her parents? It wouldn’t have hurt her to take her son or nephew at least once to lay flowers at their graves.

If Harry had asked what they looked like, it was clear he didn’t own a picture of his grandparents. Fury bubbled beneath the surface; Rose Evans would be gravely disappointed in her daughter.

"Stay here," Severus ordered quietly after a moment. He ascended the stairs to his room and opened a shoebox filled with cherished memories, including a half-black daisy chain that Lily had made when they were children.

He had put a preservation charm on it to keep it safe. He pulled out one of the best pictures he had of Lily's parents and duplicated it, then made a few more copies.

It was hard to avoid giving Harry pictures that included him, considering he was in most of them. He had been part of that little family.

Petunia had hated it, but Henry and Rose were the sweetest people in the world. It was easy to see where Lily had inherited her kind nature, but Petunia was a different story altogether.

With a soft sigh, Severus accepted that he had to give Harry a picture that included him, but he had no choice. He ran his fingers over the few books Rose had given him as a child—Lord of the

Rings, first editions—she had acquired them when she noticed him reading from her husband's collection.

There were also other books by well-known Muggles. Reluctantly, he picked up the one he received for Christmas when he was nine years old.

It was a book of poetry, and she had written in it: 

“Severus, you are the most proper-speaking child I've ever met. I'm sure if you read these, you will be perfect; you've the voice of a poet.

All our love, from Rose and Henry xxx.”

Severus smirked in amusement. She had been right, of course; even at nine, he had been very well-spoken.

He couldn't recall a time when he hadn't been articulate. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t had many friends during his childhood.

He had been surrounded by adults until Lily entered his life, and that likely shaped him. Walking back into the dining room, he noticed the boy hadn't moved.

He sat back down in his seat, and Harry still refused to look at him, his eyes fixed on the table. Just how badly damaged was he?

How could he, or anyone else, have continued to miss the signs? “This was a gift from your grandmother and grandfather when I was nine years old,” Severus said sternly.

“It's very precious to me, and I do not want to see anything happen to it. I'm giving it to you to keep.

It's yours to do with as you please, but all I ask is that you take care of it. It's older than you, and I will be very unhappy if it gets ruined.”

He handed over the pictures and the book.

“You won’t be doing any chores. You must understand, Potter: I thought you were spoiled.

Your change in attitude… I chalked it up to your recent encounter with Voldemort. However, it kept nagging at me until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

I was shocked at what I found out, make no mistake about that. I expected you to be spoiled, and you've done nothing to dispel my suspicions over the past four years!”

Severus was harsh—mostly with himself for not seeing it sooner.

That was the closest Harry would get to an apology from him. He simply didn’t know how to apologize, and Harry likely understood that.

As Snape continued his tirade, Harry bowed his head even lower, confusion etched on his face. It was surprising; Snape seemed angry that Harry had hidden his struggles.

“I know better now. I’ve helped many abused children over the years.

They’ve come from all houses and all backgrounds: purebloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns. No one else quite knew how to deal with them, but I was familiar with what they went through.

I realize I’m probably the last person you want knowing about this, but know that I am here for you if you want to talk about it. You will talk about it before school starts back up, believe me, even if I have to force you.

But be warned, I won’t coddle you, pity you, or lie to you. I will listen, however, and that’s it.

I’m not about to turn into Molly Weasley to help you. You’ve come this far, and I know now you are made of sterner stuff than anyone realizes.

Still, everyone has their breaking point, and I’m afraid you have met yours, Potter.” 

Severus concluded with honesty. After he finished, he walked out of the dining room, giving Harry a chance to digest what he had said.

No doubt Harry would end up crying over the pictures if it was the first time he was seeing them. Even if Severus had wanted to comfort Harry, which he didn’t, he wouldn’t know how.

He wasn’t used to comforting anyone; he helped children, he didn’t coddle them. He had delivered the same speech he had just given Harry to many others.

Eventually, they came seeking someone to share their story with and to find help. Most wanted some form of comfort, but he had remained steadfast in his refusal to coddle them.

However, none of them had been Lily Evans' son, nor were they living under his roof. He was about to realize that as the weeks stretched slowly ahead.

time passing.