Professor Snape had promised Dumbledore to seriously consider Potter fairly, without being influenced by his parents, and once he made a promise, he would keep it. Perhaps, even if the Headmaster hadn't asked, deep down he also wanted to try. Hadn't Snape made a fatal mistake by hastily labeling Potter as a spoiled brat who meddled in the potions lab and was too arrogant to admit his mistakes, to the point of almost killing him? Had he misjudged him in other matters as well? For the first time, Snape realized that the people he liked and respected, including all the professors at Hogwarts and members of the Order, even those who had only met Potter since the previous summer, all liked the boy. After the incident in the cellar, Snape felt his stubborn views on Potter wavering.

  He wanted to understand the boy better, but Harry remained holed up in his room, only coming out for personal hygiene and meals. In recent days, he had been engrossed in the book Lovegood had sent him, so he hadn't bothered to come down to the living room to choose another one. Apart from the kitchen, Snape only saw him when he pressed the bell on his bedside table whenever he had a pain attack or vomited blood all over his room. At Hogwarts, he hadn't been like this. Potter had been very fond of wandering around the castle with his two inseparable friends. Granted, this house was neither particularly remarkable nor spacious enough for aimless wandering, but staying cooped up in his room all day wasn't good for a growing child.

  However, a visit to the Headmaster's office at Dumbledore's invitation gave Snape an idea to start a conversation with the boy.

  As Harry sat on his bed, engrossed in the last pages of the book Luna had sent, there was a knock on the door. He stiffened.

  He didn't like Snape coming in here at all. In this house, this was the only area where he felt somewhat safe and private. Yet, Snape was still the owner, and he didn't want to create another reason for conflict with him. All he wanted was to get through this miserable summer peacefully and unharmed.

  "Come in," Harry said.

  The door creaked open, and the man in black robes entered. Harry wondered why Professor Snape could wear the same fashion year-round. Then he looked at the greasy hair and realized he was demanding a bit much from someone with one of the lowest levels of self-care in Britain.

  Snape pulled the chair from beside the desk closer to the bed, and as he did so, he happened to notice the parchment sheets on the desk. They depicted the portraits of a man with messy hair and glasses and a woman with long hair falling to her waist. Beside them was another drawing of a man with shoulder-length hair, a bright smile, a face etched with hardship and age lines, but which couldn't conceal the roguish charm of his youth. The drawings were very carefully done, perfectly capturing the likeness of the subjects.

  Harry snatched the drawings from Snape's hand, rolled them up, and shoved them into his trunk. He thought the professor would either yell at him for his insolence or burst into mocking laughter. But no, Snape did nothing. He stood watching Harry close the trunk lid and asked, "Did you draw those pictures yourself?"

  Harry nodded stiffly.

  "...Very beautiful," Snape said after a moment of searching for words. He wasn't used to complimenting people, especially Potter, but the drawings were very expressive, and he had reminded himself not to be sarcastic as he used to be. No, because of his promise to Dumbledore and perhaps, deep in his heart, because of Severus Snape himself.

  Harry stared at him as if he had just heard the most unbelievable thing in the world. After confirming he hadn't misheard, he blinked and mumbled, "Thanks."

  "I didn't think you knew how to draw," Snape said.

  He tried to search his memory to see if Lily had this hobby, but no, and that damned James Potter certainly didn't have an artistic bone in his body. He looked down at the boy's hands, long and slender fingers. There were scars and small calluses, but they didn't detract from their elegance. Perhaps that wasn't the right word to describe a boy's hands, but it was true.

  "It was one of my pastimes when I was little," Harry hesitated, "because I wasn't allowed to touch the Dursleys' toys."

  Snape recalled the Occlumency lessons last year. He had seen how Potter's aunt and uncle treated their nephew. Perhaps only slightly better than how his own father, Tobias, had treated his wife and son. Yet, at that time, he had hated Potter so much that he had even mocked that pain and felt a perverse satisfaction in the boy's embarrassment.

  At this moment, Snape just wanted to slap himself several times. Both victims of neglect and coldness, yet he hadn't sympathized with the boy but had deliberately ridiculed Potter. It was truly…

  "So how do they treat you now? Still the same as before?" Snape sat down on the chair.

  "Still the same, except I'm not locked under the stairs anymore like when I was little," Harry shrugged, running a hand through his messy hair. "Oh, and Aunt Petunia hasn't thrown a frying pan at my head as much in recent years."

  "Thrown a frying pan at your head?" Snape's voice sharpened. Petunia Evans was indeed cruel to her own nephew.

  "Never hit me though," Harry looked at the professor, his expression indifferent. "But Professor Snape, what are you doing in my room?"

  Snape now remembered the reason he had knocked on Potter's door. Taking a deep breath, he said, "After your godfather died, Black left his entire family fortune to you, including the house at Grimmauld Place. This has made you one of the richest people in Britain."

  Money?

  Whatever. Harry was grateful for his godfather's generosity, but he didn't want Sirius's gold; he wanted Sirius.

  "The Order can continue to use that house as headquarters. I don't want it," Harry never wanted to set foot in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place again. He thought he would be forever haunted by the memories of Sirius pacing alone in the dark, musty house, imprisoned in a place he had risked his life to leave.

  "We have also temporarily vacated it."

  "Why?"

  "The Black family tradition is to directly bequeath the ancestral home to the male heir. Your godfather was the last of his line, along with his brother, Regulus Black, who died previously. Neither had children. Although Black wanted you to inherit the house, it's possible that some enchantments were placed on it to ensure that the owner was a pure-blood wizard. If those enchantments still exist, ownership would pass to the highest-ranking living relative, which means Bellatrix Lestrange."

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  Without realizing what he was doing, Harry shot to his feet. Bellatrix Lestrange, the one who had killed Sirius, would inherit the house?

  "No," he said fiercely.

  "Obviously, we don't want her to inherit the house either. The situation is dangerous and complicated. We don't know if the enchantments we ourselves placed on the house, for example, the Unplottable charm, will still be effective once ownership no longer belongs to Sirius Black. It's very likely Bellatrix will arrive at the doorstep at any moment. Naturally, we have to relocate until we clarify the ownership of that place."

  "But how can we know if I'm even allowed to own it?"

  Professor Snape waved his wand. A loud "crack" echoed, and Kreacher appeared.

  "Kreacher no, Kreacher no, Kreacher no!" the house-elf shrieked, stomping his dirty feet and tugging at his large ears. "Kreacher belongs to Mistress Bellatrix, Kreacher belongs to the House of Black, Kreacher does not want to follow the insolent brat Potter, Kreacher no, no, no!"

  Harry watched the writhing, screaming house-elf with disgust. The thought of being responsible for a creature that had betrayed Sirius made him feel nauseous.

  "Give him an order," Professor Snape said. "If he has been transferred to your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we will have to consider other measures to isolate him from his rightful mistress."

  Kreacher's cries were deafening. Already feeling a long-simmering frustration, Harry frowned and yelled, "SHUT UP!"

  For a moment, it looked as if Kreacher was about to suffocate. The house-elf clutched his throat, gasping frantically, and pounded the floor with both hands and feet, but remained completely silent.

  "Good, that simplifies many things. You are the rightful heir to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, and to Kreacher."

  Staring at the house-elf with deep loathing, Harry rubbed his temples, pondered for a moment, and said, "Kreacher, I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the school kitchens."

  The house-elf looked Harry up and down with the most profound disgust, then with a loud "crack," he vanished.

  "I don't want to keep him here," Harry sat back down on the bed, explaining, "He led Sirius to his death."

  This statement reminded him again that the man sitting right in front of him was the one who had constantly taunted and provoked his godfather, and he was the only one in the Order who wouldn't show a shred of remorse, in fact, quite the opposite, extremely triumphant. Anger surged again in Harry's chest. He said, his voice icy, "If there's nothing else to discuss, I think you can go and rest now."

  Slightly stung by the blunt dismissal, Snape didn't flare up as he usually would. That was a remarkable improvement, considering his past five years of tormenting the boy. He said loudly, "You need to get out of this room more, Potter. Staying in here all day is not good for your health."

  "I'm fine in here," Harry replied curtly.

  "As you wish, but if you mope around all day, I reckon by September you still won't be well and will have to move your belongings to my dungeons," Snape raised an eyebrow.

  Harry glared at the Potions Master, his throat tight with bitterness. Imagining the entire school knowing he had to live with this old bat made him want to find a hole to crawl into out of sheer humiliation.

  "I have expanded the space behind the house into a garden," Professor Snape continued. "You should go out there for some fresh air."

  With that, he stood up and walked out. Harry watched the retreating figure in black robes, hesitated for a moment, then picked up Luna's book and left the room. Between going out into the garden and being ridiculed by the entire school, the former was the obvious choice.

  Hidden behind a wooden door was a small garden, only about 400 square feet, but neatly arranged. A small gravel path led through a lush green lawn, flanked by thriving herb beds: mint, purple mandrake, and wormwood. In one corner of the garden, a vibrant purple wisteria trellis swayed gently in the breeze, emitting a soft fragrance that evoked distant days buried deep in the past. In the center of the garden, a dark wooden bench was placed under the shade of an ancient mistletoe tree. The garden couldn't be called luxurious, but it certainly wasn't designed according to Professor Snape's tastes – a man harsh and unyielding from head to toe. Harry suspected that the professor had expanded this space for him.

  "He's trying to be nice after the cellar incident," he muttered, gazing at the clusters of wisteria flowers. "But Snape is still Snape. The cruelty can only be temporarily hidden, not erased."

  Nevertheless, Harry liked this garden. It was much better than his bedroom. He sat down on the bench and continued reading his book.

  From inside the house, through a small window, Snape watched the boy. He was much thinner than before, his skin pale and his chin sharp. Although Snape had tried to make some of Potter's favorite dishes, the boy ate sparingly, picking at his food with an irritating lack of appetite, while clearly before the incident in the cellar, he hadn't been like this.

  However, at this moment, Snape suddenly noticed how different Potter was from his father. In his memories, James Potter had been a boisterous youth, always full of energy to the point of roaming the castle with his inseparable friends, hexing other students for amusement. Not for a single second in Snape's life could he have imagined that insolent brat sitting under a wisteria vine, tilting his head to read a book with such stillness and gentleness. The way Potter turned the pages, touched the flower clusters, or closed his eyes to rest was all very scholarly and quiet.

  Sunlight gently rested on his soft black hair, dyeing it an unusual warm ash color. Strands of hair fell across his forehead, swaying slightly in the breeze, making Potter look almost fragile, so much so that Snape had a fleeting, strange thought: if no one was there to hold him, the boy would disappear one afternoon, dissolving into these wisteria branches.

  Snape suddenly felt a strange sensation stir within him – a sensation he should never have for a student, especially for Harry Potter.

  The slender figure, the thin wrist moving slightly as he turned the page, the black hair in the soft light… all suddenly became too vivid. In a dizzying moment, Snape realized he had been watching Potter not as a teacher concerned for his student, but as… something else, unfamiliar, wrong.

  No, he thought, almost snarling the word in his mind, it was just Potter's illness making him look weaker than usual, the heavy burdens and responsibilities weighing on Snape's shoulders all this time.

  He took a step back, roughly adjusting his robes as if using a physical action to sever that detestable train of thought. Just then, Harry looked up, perhaps sensing Snape's gaze. His green eyes were bewildered and still held a hint of instinctive wariness.

  "Professor… what are you doing there?" Harry asked, his voice small but audible.

  Snape flinched, as if someone had caught his hand while doing something forbidden. He immediately straightened up, his black robes swished softly, and he glanced away with the cold, practiced expression he had honed over the years.

  "Just checking if you were still alive," he replied dryly.

  Harry frowned, about to look back down at his book when he suddenly winced, clutching his side. A sharp, knife-like pain cut through his flesh, causing him to double over. Without Harry saying a word, Snape strode over. With a practiced movement, he pulled a vial of potion from his robes. Harry snatched it immediately.

  When the soft skin on the boy's hand accidentally brushed against his, Snape felt as if he had been pricked by a needle – a foolish and idiotic embarrassment that he immediately suppressed in his mind.

  This is just responsibility, Severus. Just responsibility.

  He reminded himself again, with a harshness even greater than what he usually reserved for his students.

  The boy gulped down the entire vial of potion, leaned back against the bench panting, his hand clutching his stomach. And despite himself, Snape's black eyes were drawn to his lips, pink, soft, and slightly swollen. Traces of the clear potion still lingered, forming a thin, wet sheen that made them seem to glow in the sunlight. A small drop slid down Harry's chin, sparkling like a crystal before vanishing.

  Snape frowned slightly, trying to dispel these unusual thoughts. This was Potter, Potter, Potter, he was Lily's son, Lily's son, Lily's son, Lily's son and that dead brat rotting in his grave.

  Snape turned away abruptly, striding back into the house. This agitation was dangerous, it shouldn't exist, it wasn't right, not right at all. But no matter how hard he tried, the image of those wet, pink lips lingered in his mind.