Harry brought the goblet of juice to his lips, holding it with both hands under Severus' watchful eye. The taste must have surprised him because he looked up suddenly at Severus, then ducked his head again.
"What is it?" he asked the boy, after swallowing a bite of porridge.
"I never had this juice before, sir."
"It's pumpkin juice," Severus told him. "I don't think many Muggles drink it."
"Muggles, sir?" The boy's voice was very hesitant as he formed the question, and Severus knew this was another of those infernal rules from his old home.
"You are allowed to ask questions, too, Harry," he said quietly. "I would prefer that you did, in fact, rather than act out of ignorance. As to your query, Muggles are people who don't know magic. People like your relatives, but also the many people who don't even know that the Wizarding world exists. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, um, Father," the boy said, and took another sip of his juice. But his face was completely blank, and Severus knew there was something off, lurking under the surface.
"Do you have another question?"
"Yes, sir." The boy glanced at him briefly. "Are all Muggles . . ." The boy's knuckles were white where he gripped the goblet, and his face maintained the mask of indifference, but Severus could almost feel the tension flowing through the tiny body.
"Are they all what, Harry?" he pressed, although he was pretty sure he knew what the boy would say . . . or what he wanted to say. He had it in his mind that it would help the boy to be able to voice his feelings towards his relatives, but when the boy remained silent, and obviously distressed, Severus did not push further.
"Muggles are like Wizards in some ways," Severus told him. "One way is that not all of them are the same. Some do good things, and some do bad. You happened to have run afoul of some of the bad ones." He didn't say anything about his own despicable choices in the past, or the extremes of emotion that existed in the Wizarding world with respect to Muggles, or those wizards born of Muggles. There was no point to it, not now.
"You have another question?"
"Yes, sir." The boy hesitated again, and it was a struggle, Severus could see, for him to put his voice to it. Severus waited, with more patience than most would give him credit for, and was rewarded at last. "What's a wizard?"
----
Harry ducked his head, knowing he'd been wrong to ask. Is father looked so shocked! And no wonder. He shouldn't have asked about wizards. Didn't he know that "magic" was the worst word he could ever use? Hadn't Uncle Vernon reminded him, again and again, that magic was forbidden, and freakish, and wrong wrong WRONG!
But a moment later, his father cleared his throat. "A wizard, Harry, is someone who can use magic. Like me, and you."
"No!" Harry jumped, dropping his goblet and unseating his bowl of porridge. He scrambled back on the bed, farther out of reach. "I'm not! I can't be. It's freaks who use magic."
"WHAT??" Harry's father stood, too, and paced to the door, and Harry cowered against the headboard. When his father turned back round, his face was red, just like Uncle Vernon's got before he started hitting. He jabbed a finger in Harry's direction. "You are not a . . . a freak. I am not a freak. You can use magic and so can I, and so can a lot of other people: wizards, witches, even Dappin and other house elves. I don't know what they told you in that . . . family of yours, but I don't want to hear that word pass your lips again!"
Harry nodded frantically. At least one rule was the same. "Magic" was still a bad word.
It took a few minutes for Harry's father to sit back down again, and he gestured sharply to the tray and the spilt porridge and juice. In a trice, it was gone! Cleaned away. Harry gaped at where the mess had been, then closed his eyes and bowed his head. He wasn't supposed to see that, wasn't supposed to know. Ohhh, he was in for it now.
But nobody hit him.
Nobody yelled anymore. After a while, Harry stopped trembling and opened his eyes. He sat back down, cross legged, against the headboard. Keeping a careful watch on his hands, he squeezed them tight so they wouldn't shake.
"Eat up, now," his father said into the long silence, and his voice was quiet again, soothing as silk over sand. "Else you will be hungry all through the ceremony, and no one wants to hear your belly growling during such an auspicious occasion."
Glancing up quick, Harry snatched a piece of toast and nibbled on it. He had been going to wait until his father was done before taking anything, like he was supposed to, but his father pushed the plate at him and told him to eat, even while he was still eating! His belly felt comfortably full, and he knew he should stop now, after the porridge and juice, too, but he didn't want the food to go to waste. Nothing was worse than that!
His father cast looks in his direction every so often that made Harry feel odd, like the man was considering something. He hadn't made Harry say anything more about magic or about his aunt and uncle, so that was okay, but he looked almost sad again. Harry wasn't sure why his father should be sad, but was sure it had something to do with magic.
After another nibble or two, Harry scooted a little closer and put one of his small hands on the dark cloth covering his father's arm. His father looked at him, his black eyes wide in surprise. Harry's stomach fluttered in fear, but he managed to say, "I'm sorry, Father."
"Whatever for?"
"'Cause of making you sad. 'Cause of what I said. I'm sorry, I'm . . . I'm not a good son."
"Oh, child," his father said softly, and put his own hand on top of Harry's. Through an act of will, Harry didn't pull away. The hand squeezed his, gently, as if he knew what it cost Harry to let someone touch him like that. Then the long, slender fingers patted the back of his hand, and it was nice, almost. Harry thought he maybe even liked it.
"You will be a fine son. You are a fine son."
The look in the obsidian eyes was so raw, so open, Harry had to look away again. He felt the prickle of tears, and blinked them fiercely away. "Thank you, sir," he whispered, his throat aching.
"Try to eat a little more," his father said, breaking the silence again. His voice sounded odd, like he had a tickle in this throat, just like Harry did. "And then we'll see about that ankle."
"Yes, sir," Harry said, and picked up his toast again. "Thank you, sir."
----
Severus had put the boy to sleep again before working on the ankle. After the child's reaction to even the possibility that he possessed magic, Severus was not willing to frighten him again. Already, he'd fractured the fragile trust building between them, by losing his temper once more at the damned Muggles Harry had been living with. He knew the words Harry spoke about magic were not his own, but parroted from his so-called family. It was yet another hurtle they would have to clear, in time.
Meanwhile, he let the process of working on the delicate strands of tendon and muscle in the boy's leg and foot soothe his own nerves. There was a good deal of damage around the still-growing bones, but after casting a few charms to reduce swelling and relax the muscles, he found it not as difficult as he had feared to fix. It would still be a bit weaker than the other foot, and for the next week or two, he'd have to make sure the boy went easy on the abused ankle, but he was pleased with his success.
He left the boy sleeping – having noted the dark circles under Harry's eyes that spoke of a restless night – as he went to shower and dress in the light clothes he would wear under his formal robes. Under the spray of warm water in the master bathroom, he went over the morning's fiasco in his mind again and again. He would have to get a grip on his temper when dealing with the child. There was no other course.