Whelp II The Wrath of Snape

*Chapter 3*: Chapter 3

Whelp II -- The Wrath of Snape

By jharad17

Chapter Three

Disclaimer: None of this is mine. Honest. She's rich, blond and British. I'm not.

A/N: If you haven't read "Whelp" before reading this story . . . well, why not? Really, you should, 'cause otherwise, you're gonna be plenty lost.

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Previously:

Calling up a smile for Hagrid's newest acquisition, Harry followed him into his hut.

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After six hours of teaching incompetent, negligent dunderheads, two hours of cleaning up after them, an hour of listening to his colleagues complaints about the new -- and returning -- crop of students, and another hour of setting final times for nightly rounds and detention monitoring, Severus was exhausted, wanting no more than to take a hot bath and relax with a glass of brandy and a good book. Or maybe just sprawl in an easy chair and stare into space. That would be good, too.

But he had the potion for Filch to prepare -- one which took almost four hours of prep time before even starting the fire under the cauldron, followed by constant monitoring for another four, then simmering and stirring and cooling . . . it would be done by Friday, but only just, and he meant to have Filch drink it or be damned by then. Plus he had summer assignments to grade, two detentions already to monitor, both students from his House, with the detention assigned by Minerva -- damn her -- as well as potion ingredients to prepare for tomorrow's lessons.

It was going to be a long night.

He entered his quarters with the expectation that it would be quiet -- Nelli had been on duty with Harry until noon, at which point Fern and . . . the other one took over until bedtime -- and Harry should have been fed dinner already and be in the process of getting ready for bed even now. Severus was disappointed that he'd missed dinner with Harry, as he'd known the boy was still having a difficult time after the mess with Filch in the Great Hall. But Dumbledore had insisted he be present for dinner with the rest of the staff, for at least this week, and he had acquiesced, though he had not eaten much, given his worry for his son.

Even with this expectation, he was not prepared for the still, almost deathly quiet of his chambers. No breath of sound came from anywhere.

Immediately on alert, with wand at the ready, Severus moved cautiously through the sitting room to the hallway which held doors to the bedrooms and his office. The door to Harry's bedroom was ajar, just a crack, and he crept quietly toward it, noting that a mere sliver of light escaped the room, enough for a single candle, no more.

Not until he was almost at the door did he hear anything, and then it was only an odd scritching sound . . . then silence again.

Sidling to the small shaft of light of the opening, Severus peered into the boy's room, able to see only a portion of the bed. Harry's body was sprawled across the part he could see, an arm, a leg and partial trunk. And then . . . over the band of Harry's black hair where it met his neck, a large, pointed tuft of white-furred . . . ear? appeared. The ear swiveled toward him and then twitched as a clawed paw rose to scratch at it.

What the . . . ?

Severus aimed his wand at the tufted ear, pushed open the door, then slipped into the room. Candlelight glimmered in ice blue eyes below white ears, in the white (or cream colored, perhaps), narrow feline face of a kneazle kit, no more than three or four months old.

Where the . . . ?

Harry had not stirred from where he had apparently passed out cold on the bed, though he looked unharmed. Severus glanced for only a split second at the House-elf, Fern, fast asleep in the small rocker in the corner of the room. The blue-eyed kneazle watched his movements, not blinking, and Severus stared right back. Very deliberately, gaze still locked with Severus', the little furred face lowered over Harry's neck and a little pink tongue lapped at his exposed skin . . . as if the bloody thing were taunting him!

Harry's hand came up and scratched absently at his neck, his eyes still shut.

After another moment, Severus stepped out of the room and said, under his breath, "Fern."

From his vantage point, he could see the House-elf's eyes fly open, accompanied by a soft gasp and then a Pop as Fern disappeared from the chair and appeared right in front of Severus. "Master Snape, sir!" she squeaked, and Severus shushed her, pointing out how close they were to Harry. Coloring in embarrassment, she whispered loudly, "You is home!"

Severus found it unnecessary to agree, but pointed at the kneazle and pitched his voice low. "What is that?"

"A kneazle, Master Snape, sir!"

"Yes." Severus sighed and regarded the creature. The indistinct grayish spots in the otherwise pure cream-white pelage, on top of a pink nose and blue eyes, leant the animal the look of a small, white leopard. It was rather beautiful. But it was in his home. "Now, what is it doing here?"

"Master Hagrid was showing the kneazle kit to young Master Harry, and Master Harry is liking the kit very much."

"And so Hagrid gave the beast to him." Another sigh. He was going to have to have a long talk with the man in which the second half of the compound term "gamekeeper" was elucidated. Honestly!

"Oh, yes," Fern said happily. "And Master Harry is showing Treacle the whole castle, even the ow--"

"Wait," Severus interrupted. "What did you call it?"

"Master Harry is naming his kneazle Treacle Tart."

Severus shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The boy had already named it. Damn.

"Father?" came a sleepy voice from inside the room.

Severus peered into the room again, and lifted an eyebrow at Harry's expression as the boy pushed himself up and rubbed at his eyes. One of the worst cases of bed hair Severus had ever seen was currently glued to the side of his face with sweat and -- he would swear -- drool. Maybe even some kneazle spit. The kneazle rose on back paws and stretched up to lick the boy's ear. Harry giggled. "Quit it, Tree." He scratched the kit's head and it leaned into his hand, purring.

"Harry . . . ?" Severus said, in a leading tone.

"Hagrid gave me her. Isn't she pretty? Hagrid says she can pr'tect me from bad people and help me find my way home if'm lost, 'cause she's nearly magic and real gentle. Can I keep her?"

Severus set his jaw. "I believe that is a question you should have asked before accepting Hagrid's gift. I have no desire to share quarters with a kneazle."

Harry's eyes opened wide at Severus' tone. They managed a combination of sorrowful and guileless that hit Severus in the gut, and yet he vowed to remain firm. He didn't like cats or kneazles. In fact, he was sure he was quite allergic to them.

A faint flush colored Harry's cheeks before he ducked his head. "Yes, sir," the boy whispered. "I'll bring her back." Avoiding Severus' gaze, he gathered the bundle of fur and claws in his arms and pressed his nose to the top of her head, then rubbed his cheek along her ears as he slid off the bed.

"It's late," Severus told him with some asperity. "Too late to pester Hagrid tonight. You can go down in the morning." He glanced at Fern, and then at the rumpled bed where Harry had been resting and asked, "Have you eaten dinner?"

"Umm . . ."

"Did you at least have lunch?" At Harry's blank look, Severus rounded on the House-elf. "How long have you and Harry been sleeping?"

"Master Snape, sir?" Fern's face wrinkled further briefly before she said, "Two hours and thirty-five minutes, sir! Master Harry was very tired from exploring the castle and--"

Sighing again, Severus turned away from both of them and strode back down the hall. "I would like dinner on the table, and Harry washed and straightened up by seven-thirty, if you can manage that." He retreated to his shower and very hot water, and quiet. Perhaps Severus would have more of a chance to eat, too, here in the privacy of his own chambers, than he had been given in the Great Hall, full of loud, gawking children.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged, still cross but clean. At the table, Harry was standing beside his chair, clothes straightened and head down, with neither Fern nor the kneazle in sight. Dinner was laid out -- roast beef, potatoes and peas -- and smelled inviting.

At Severus' place was a glass of red wine. He sat, unfolded his cloth serviette and draped it across his lap, then surveyed Harry where he stood stalk still, fists bunched by his sides and arms trembling. "Harry, sit down," he said mildly.

The boy's head came up. His eyes were dilated, his mouth drawn tight. His gaze skimmed over the table and a breath hitched audibly in his chest.

Severus was rapidly losing patience. He knew he should get up and walk away while he was in a fractious mood, but he was hungry and tired and just wanted to relax after a long, arduous day. What was it about dinner that was so hard? "Harry, talk to me. What is it?"

Harry gave a short shake of his head. It may have even been just a twitch. The trembling in his limbs grew more pronounced.

Severus' eyes narrowed. What the hell? He had no idea what might be wrong, and the boy seemed unable to tell him. Well, fine then. "Look at me."

Harry met his gaze at last, and Severus whispered, "Legilimens."

A barrage of images bombarded him. Severus sifted through them carefully, easing past this memory or that, dismissing his own attitude toward the kneazle surprise as of no consequence, then the boy's afternoon's activities of mucking around in dusty corridors and running himself almost sick on the fields with a leaping kitten, searched back past Filch's terrorizing taunts, back days and then a week, then further and further in time, seeking reasons for the boy's behavior.

Ah. There they were. . . .

The remnants of a meal, roast and peas and potatoes, laid out on a white table top, and Harry pulls dishes down, one by one, to clean them, staring hungrily at every bit of food he is not allowed to have -- wipes down counters -- wishes for water, just a moist cloth to suck on in the darkness of a cramped, claustrophobic room -- rummages through a garbage pail -- the taste of potato peels, mealy but wet, barely chewed and swallowed quickly -- bright light, yelling and screams, Harry's screams -- the cold of a night outdoors, the coppery taste of blood on his lips -- the hose and blinding cold water, more water than he wanted and Aunt Petunia's cold words, "Vernon will sort you out, boy" -- kicks and punches of Dudley and his friends, aches in his ribs, his hand, crushed -- Uncle Vernon, "On your knees," with the collar, latching it tight, metal links cutting into his skin -- "If you're a good dog, you'll get dinner tonight . . ."

Severus withdrew from Harry's mind, feeling sick. His gorge rose and he struggled to keep his composure. If Dursley wasn't already on an express train to insane thanks to his previous visit, Severus would have gone directly to that damn Muggle's house now and flayed the skin and meat from his bones.

With a flick of his wand, Severus banished the unfortunate meal on the table, and turned his attention to Harry, who was on his knees, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Silent tears flowed down his cheeks as he rocked himself back and forth, mouthing words Severus could not hear, hunched over his knees.

Severus dropped down beside him, and his heart broke when Harry flinched away. The boy was cowering from him, and no wonder, with Severus' attitude over the last half hour. Cursing both his stupidity and lack of patience under his breath, he had to force his hands to stay by his sides and not reach for the boy, not wanting to frighten him again.

"Harry. I'm sorry . . . Harry, you're at Hogwarts, do you remember? Please look at me, Harry . . . Can you hear me? Son?"

Unable to stand the boy's silent keening, Severus reached for him again, but his hands were knocked away by a white blur that streaked across his field of vision.

--

"Disgusting, filthy animal!" Uncle shrieks and grabs the boy by the neck, shaking him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "I told you, boy, no food. I'll teach you to disobey me! No good FREAK!" Uncle shoves him to the back door. "Outside with you! If you behave like a dog, you'll be treated as one. Should've know you weren't fit for living indoors with decent folk. Get out of my house!" . . . . .

. . . . Later, Uncle's eyes are frightening. But the boy's legs tremble weakly, so it is no hardship to sink to his knees. In seconds, his uncle has slipped the chain around his throat and cinched it tight like a collar. In the next moment, he clips the end to the black rope. A leash! the boy realizes with a jolt. His hands go to the chain collar and tug at it.

"Leave it!" Uncle bellows and slaps his hands away. Then he holds up the last item in his hands, a large screw topped with a loop. Taking the other end of the leash, Uncle Vernon leads the boy to a far corner of the yard. With a heavy mallet, he hammers the screw into the side of the shed and hooks the other end of the leash to it. He sneers at the boy as he heads back to the house. "If you're a good dog, you'll get some dinner tonight. Otherwise . . ."

On his knees, the boy's hands went to his throat. It's not there. No leash. No collar, it was not there anymore. "No dog," he moaned softly. "No collar. Not there." He hunched lower over his legs, leaving his back exposed, but that was better than his belly, always. Terror whined in his throat and clutched at him like sticky spider webs that he could not break free of. His mind rolled through the memory of days of no food and little water, and the shed and his broken fingers and the whisper of the little snake who asked if he was dead yet, and the light flickering touch of its tongue along the shell of his ear.

But the snake was soft, and whiskers quivered against his cheek as wet sandpaper lapped at his jaw. No hissing. Not a snake. A furry head, purring, butted against his chin, and he released his hold on his belly so he could pet it, and his fingers carded through its fur. His breath evened out, and he relaxed a little more. The memory of those horrible days receded once more.

Then a voice called his name, "Harry . . ."

Yes. His name was Harry, and he was not the boy in that backyard anymore. Someone . . . someone had rescued him, and taken him away.

"Daddy?" Close by was the sound of a sobbed breath, and he opened his eyes.

"Harry . . . I'm sorry." Father held open his arms, but didn't try to hold him, so Harry threw himself into his embrace, needing his protection, needing to know Father was okay, and let him know he was okay. Father's strong arms wrapped around him and he burrowed into the embrace.

A white furry face peered into his, looking over Father's arm. Harry's throat felt thick, like he couldn't swallow. He wanted to keep the kitten so much, but Father had said no. Still, he reached toward her, and she rubbed her head along his fingers, letting him scratch her under the chin. "Treacle," he choked out her name, and his eyes burned. He buried his head back in Father's arm, not wanting to even look at her anymore.

Father's hand cupped the back of his head, and he pressed a kiss to Harry's forehead. His voice was very soft when he said, "She seems to be taken with you." When Harry lifted his gaze, Father continued, "Treacle Tart is an . . . original name. I imagine she could not hope for a better one."

"Ha-Hagrid c'n ch-change it, if he wants" Harry stuttered and blinked rapidly to keep his tears from falling. "He's good wif an'mals. Tree . . . Tree'll like him fine."

"No, I think you should keep her." Father's arms tightened around him. His voice was oddly hoarse, like he was trying to keep from crying, too. "She's very protective . . . I believe she will look out for you. And you can look out for her, too."

Harry's breath caught. "Really, you mean it? I can keep her?"

"Yes. You can keep her." Father shook his head with a small sigh, but he didn't sound mad anymore. "Merlin help us all."

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A/N: Thanks for all the enthusiastic reviews and encouragement for this story! I should have a new chapter out in a couple of days. Harry Hugs for everyone!