And that was all it took for Harry to burst into noisy tears.
Snape froze.
What the bloody hell - ? Harry hadn't cried when Snape had bounced him off the walls, but two little whacks on the behind and he collapsed into a puddle? No one was going to believe that. He wasn't sure he believed it himself. Oh, Merlin, I'm dead. Neither Albus nor Minerva would ever accept that he hadn't done something awful to the little creep, not after Snape's track record. And Potter really did look pathetic, standing there with tears pouring down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose. The second anyone saw the child, they'd assume that Snape had hexed him bloody then quickly healed him before anyone could see the evidence. How on earth was he going to get out of this alive?
Had Potter been unhinged by that last threat? But he'd been so careful to tell the brat that he wasn't going to hurt him. He'd even been sure to use small words, appropriate for a Gryffindor. And those whacks were mere love taps compared to the hellish beatings Potter's horrible uncle had regularly put him through. So why all the tears? Was the brat having a flashback? Well, if a light swat was enough to bring back the demons, then how was he ever supposed to teach the child to duel? The instant he felt even a mild stinging hex, he'd be wailing under the nearest desk. The child obviously required professional help, despite what Albus might want to believe.
"Potter," he began tentatively, taking an uncertain step forward. Why did this sort of thing always happen to him? He didn't see Sprout having to deal with emotionally unstable students, and she was the bloody Hufflepuff!
Looking back on it, the step forward had been a mistake. The second he approached the brat, Potter moved, but to Snape's surprise, rather than bolting for the farthest corner of the room, the boy grabbed onto him and started bawling into his robes. His nice, fresh, clean robes.
Snape didn't know what to do with his hands. He really didn't want to touch the slimy, snotty child, but he could hardly stand there with his hands in the air either. He decided that the child's back was probably the driest surface available and put his hands there. The fact that to the uninitiated observer it might look as if Snape were actually hugging the brat simply showed that appearances could be misleading.
Now what? Stand here until the brat cried himself into a dehydrated state and passed out? Weren't you supposed to slap someone who was hysterical? But slapping the little monster is what got him into this problem in the first place. He could call Poppy, but the medi-witch would doubtless just punch him again.
Of all the times not to have a calming draught in his pocket! Snape cursed his lack of forethought. "Potter, what's wrong?" he finally burst out, from sheer frustration.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm happy!" Potter wept into his chest.
Snape blinked. Then blinked again. What? The brat was destroying his robes and taking years off his life because he was happy?
He grabbed the boy by the upper arms and yanked him out to arms' length. "Potter! Do you mean to tell me all this fuss and nonsense is because you're HAPPY?"
The boy sniveled and nodded. "You're so nice to me. No one's ever been so nice to me before."
The "nice" man fought down an urge to slap Potter's head off his shoulders. "Stop this outburst at once, Potter! I mean it! In 30 seconds, if you are not calm and quiet, I will conjure up a bucket of ice water and stick your head in it."
The brat had the temerity to laugh at the threat! But before Snape could shake off his shock and conjure up the bucket to drown the little fiend, Potter had managed to hiccup and sniffle his way to a somewhat sodden state of calm.
"S-sorry," Harry managed to gulp. He really didn't understand why he had bawled like that, but all at once he had just felt safe. Like some horrible danger that he didn't even recognize any longer was finally over. The final straw had been realizing that he would never again have to worry about being whipped until he couldn't walk. All of a sudden, it had sunk in that Snape was going to care for him and protect him and make sure no one тАУ at all тАУ ever hurt him again. It was that realization, that for the first time since his parents died he was no longer alone, that had completely undone him, and he had broken down in a way he never had before. It was sheer, unmitigated relief, and he couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to. Which, frankly, he didn't. It had felt so good just to cry and cry.
Though now, of course, he felt like a complete wally.
He dragged his eyes up to meet the professor's. "Um, sorry," he offered. His gaze fell on the slimy spot on the man's robes, and he winced. Really, was he eleven or one? Had he actually wiped his nose on the man's chest?
Snape's eyes followed his, and he prepared to tell the horrible brat just what he thought of overemotional little fiends who couldn't be bothered to use a handkerchief, but before he could begin, there was a knock at the door. McGonagall called out, "Severus! I have Wood!"
"Wait a minute!" he shouted back, annoyed. St Mungo's really needed to study how it was that otherwise rational people could be driven insane by Quidditch. Perhaps McGonagall had suffered one too many Bludgers to the head during her playing days.
He turned back to the boy and was startled to find Harry's eyes upon him, wide with fear. "Please, sir тАУ don't let her. You said they wouldn't."
"Wouldn't what?" Snape demanded. Great Merlin, the child was worse than one of those Muggle yo-yo's. Would these infernal mood swings never end?
Inwardly, he marveled that Harry would still turn to him for help, even when it was clear he was irate with the boy. How had Potter come to view him with such trust?
"Cane me. You said the staff didn't hit students."
Snape frowned down at the frightened boy. "What are you talking about, silly child? Your Head of House isn't going to cane you."
Harry looked slightly less worried. "Wood isn't a cane?"
Snape rolled his eyes and gave Potter's shoulder a little shake. It was an exasperated shake, not a reassuring squeeze. Definitely not. "Wood is a student, not a cane, you little idiot. Oliver Wood. He is the captain of your House Quidditch team."
"Oh!" The tension left Harry's shoulders, as Severus could feel, since his hand was inexplicably still resting there. He quickly removed it. "I know Oliver. Ron pointed him out. Ron really likes Quidditch," the boy explained.
"And you?"
Harry shrugged, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks. "I don't really know much about it. Ron thinks it's great, so I guess I like it."
Snape snorted at this further proof of the boy's inability to think for himself. "Professor McGonagall would like you to try out for the team. She believes that, based on your flying today, you might be suitable."
Harry's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Yes. Of course, I pointed out that as your guardian, I was certainly not going to reward you for endangering yourself, not to mention disobeying an instructor." Harry's face fell. "However, since being on the team would provide you with sorely needed instruction on how to fly safely, I have agreed with Professor McGonagall that you may meet with Wood and try out for the team. You will still be punished for today's actions, however, and if I see any further signs of such reckless behavior, with or without a broom, I will not hesitate to pull you from the team."
Once again his breath was knocked out when Harry hurtled into him. Really, did the child need to launch himself in such an uncouth fashion?