But there was no help for it now. He just had to try and do better in the future, and not disappoint Father again.
Father hadn't seemed angry last night, especially when they'd read together, and at dinner, when he'd asked the House-elves to serve up Harry's favorite, shepherd's pie. They'd even had treacle tart for dessert. And Tree had been so good at dinner, too, he thought as he washed his hands. As if his thoughts summoned her, she jumped up on the sink counter and brushed past his chest, tickling his nose with her uplifted tail and making him giggle. He didn't pet her while his hands were wet, not wanting to get her fur all wet and sticky, but scooped her into his arms after he had tried them on a towel, and went back to his bedroom, donned his slippers, and headed out to the sitting room.
To his surprise, Father was already up, in his favorite chair -- which was Harry's favorite, too, 'cause they read in it every night -- and reading a magazine. Harry liked to watch him read, the slight cant of his head, the tiny purse of his lips if what he was reading was complicated, and the small crease of lips if it wasn't. Today, his lips were pursed. Potions journal, probably.
Father's gaze rose from the magazine to look at Harry as he crossed the room. "Good morning, Harry," he said in a very calm voice. Harry was glad to hear it.
"G'morning, Father."
"Did you sleep well?"
"Yes, s . . . yes, Father." Harry flinched. He wanted to hit his head, he was so stupid sometimes. How could he not remember to call his father Father? After all this time, too.
Father didn't make any mention of his stupidity, though, just got up and laid aside his reading. "Good. I'm glad you're up early. Let me call up breakfast, and we'll have a bit of a chat."
"A chat?" Harry asked.
"Nothing to be nervous about, Harry," Father said. "I just want to talk to you about what you can expect this morning."
"Yes, Father." Harry went to the kitchen and sat at the table where they usually had breakfast. "Where's Nelli?"
Father's expression darkened. "She won't be joining us today."
"She . . . she's not in trouble, is she?"
"No, of course not." Father spent a few minutes getting breakfast delivered to their table, and sat down as he gestured to the spread before them, of eggs, bacon, porridge, toast, juice and bananas. There was a bowl of sugar, a pot of honey, and a little pitcher of cream, too. "I want you to have at least some porridge and juice. You can have as much as you want of everything else after that."
"Yes, Father." Harry pulled the bowl of porridge closer, and looked up at Father, and then at the pot of honey.
"Would you like honey on your porridge?"
"Yes, please."
Father smiled and used a dipper to drizzle the amber liquid across Harry's cereal. After he put the dipper back into the pot, he touched Harry briefly on the head, brushing the hair out of his eyes. Harry tried his best not to flinch, and Father didn't say anything about that, either, but his eyes were sad.
Treacle leapt into Harry's lap. Harry reached for a piece of bacon for her.
"Harry . . ." Father said.
"Yes, Father?"
Father pursed his lips, like he was trying to think of what to say, but finally he shook his head slightly. "I would prefer if Treacle Tart did not learn to beg at table."
"She doesn't beg," Harry said, frowning. "She only takes what I give her."
"Now, she does. But she . . ." Father sighed. "She needs to be provided with her own food, perhaps in her own bowl. Away from the table."
Harry didn't understand. Ripper ate right from the table, sometimes licking from Aunt Marge's own cup or plate. And Fang, the only other pet he really knew, also got food right from Hagrid's table. "Why?"
"Because it's not polite to have animals eat from the table."
"Why?"
Father closed his eyes briefly. "Because it isn't."
"But Tree's polite. She is! And Fang and Ripper get to eat from the table, so why not Tree?"
"Ripper?"
Harry swallowed, and unconsciously hugged Treacle closer to him. She did not protest, but butted her head against his chin. "Aunt Marge's dog."
Father's eyes narrowed, but he didn't ask any more about Ripper, and Harry was just as glad. He hated that dog. It was mean and it chased him and tore his trousers with its sharp teeth while Dudders laughed at him and called him a two-legged dog bone.
"All the same, Harry. Our family has different rules than those of the Dursleys', I dare say, and different from Hagrid's, too."
Harry pressed his lips together, but nodded. Father was letting him have Treacle Tart, even though he hadn't wanted to at first. And hadn't he just promised himself to be good and obey all the rules? He kissed Treacle on the head and let her down from his lap. "What kind of food should she have, Father?"
"We will . . . ah, we'll have to ask Hagrid, I suppose. You can find out from him today, all right?"
"But she's hungry now!"
"Harry."
Harry ducked his head. He shouldn't have yelled. "Sorry, Father," he said softly.
"Indeed." There was a pause, and Harry realized what his father was waiting for, so he lifted his head and looked Father in the eyes. Father nodded. "For right now, you can make her a little plate of eggs and bacon, broken up a bit."
"Okay." He started to slide off his seat, then stopped. "Can I get her a plate, Father?"
"May I get her a plate."
"Sorry. May I?"
"Yes, Harry. Thank you for asking, before you left the table."
Father's words made him feel warm all over. He liked doing things right. The cabinet where the little plates were kept was above the kitchen counter, and once or twice, he had climbed up there to reach it, but he was in a hurry this time -- he just knew Treacle was hungry; she hadn't much to eat yesterday, and she really wanted that bacon -- and so, at the base of the counter, he reached out his hand and Pulled. Quicker than thought, the cabinet door bumped open slightly, and a white dessert plate with tiny blue flowers on it flew into his hand.
Behind him, Father gasped.
Plate in hand, Harry turned around to see Father striding toward him, eyes wide. Oh. Oh, no. He'd done some freakiness again. Harry backed up a step, and another. He put his arms up to protect his head. "Sorry! M'sorry, I din't mean it! Please don't hurt me!"
Father froze where he was, his mouth hanging open like he wanted to say something but the words wouldn't come. "Harry," he whispered finally. "I'm not going to hurt you. I . . . I was surprised. I have not seen you do that before."
Harry slowly lowered his arms, chiding himself for forgetting that Father didn't mind magic, that Father would not beat him or lock him in the cupboard if he did any freaky things. "You do it, Father. With books and potions and all . . ."
Father was quiet for a long minute, and Harry could not tell what he was thinking. His dark eyes were very hard to read right now. Then he nodded. "Yes, but understand, Harry, I did not realize that you were capable of summoning objects."
"I never done it before," Harry admitted. One shoulder went up. "I was just in a hurry, 'cause Tree's hungry."
Father nodded again, this time with a slight crinkle around his eyes that meant he was smiling. "Very well," Father said. "Best get that plate together for her then."
Harry smiled back. "Yes, Father." He climbed back into his chair so he could reach the platters of food, and carefully broke a rasher of bacon into easy pieces for Tree to eat, then scooped scrambled egg onto the plate, too. After he'd set the plate on the floor and made sure Treacle had started in on it, he returned to his porridge, which had cooled considerably.