Down in the living room, Snape sat motionless for a long time, his eyes dark. The tea on the table had gone cold, but he didn't bother to touch it. The image of Harry smiling as he mentioned Lovegood – a smile he had never seen directed at himself – lingered in his mind. A sharp, stinging thorn was lodged deep in Snape's chest.

  "Healed," he scoffed softly to himself. "Such sentimental nonsense."

  Since when had he begun to crave that gaze, that smile, directed towards him?

  The thought made Snape feel disgusted with himself once more, but the emotion was undeniable. It had taken root, clinging to him like a poisonous vine.

  "Luna Lovegood," he repeated her name with a voice full of sarcasm. "A peculiar child, her mind filled with outlandish, delusional nonsense. A frivolous daydreamer."

  He stood up and walked to the bookshelf, pulling out an old herbalism book. His fingers turned the pages, but his eyes couldn't focus on a single word. A plan was beginning to form in his mind – unclear, just a vague but dangerous urge: how to make the boy no longer rely on anyone but him.

  Perhaps, just a little more, little by little, he would make the boy realize: no one but him could truly understand and care for him.

  Not even Luna Lovegood.

  The light from the lamp swept across the room, illuminating the white bedsheets where Harry sat, halfway through a book. The door creaked softly as Snape pushed it open, his black robes swishing lightly on the wooden floor.

  "Time for your check-up," his voice was as even as ever.

  Harry put down his book. Professor Snape approached, withdrew his wand, and murmured incantations, faint green rays scanning Harry's body one by one.

  "You haven't had any pain or vomiting today, have you?" Professor Snape asked.

  "No, sir."

  "Very good, I can see the toxins are being eliminated quite effectively, your health will improve day by day," he said, though a part of him wasn't entirely pleased. While he didn't want the boy to suffer from wrenching pain and vomiting, he felt annoyed at the thought of him leaving soon.

  Snape returned his wand to his sleeve. Instead of turning away immediately as he usually did, he stood still for a moment, his deep black eyes unfathomable.

  "Potter," he hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. "About this afternoon, perhaps I was a little… too harsh."

  "You mean…?" Harry asked, his voice full of suspicion.

  Snape sighed, a rare look of helplessness fleeting across his face.

  "I mean… I have no right to interfere in your private affairs. My remarks were… inappropriate."

  Harry was silent for a moment, trying to digest these words. This was an unexpected change. In just a few weeks, Professor Snape had apologized to him twice? Had he somehow wandered onto another planet? Granted, the cellar incident had been beyond the pale, but this, under normal circumstances, Professor Snape wouldn't even refrain from sneering or yelling at him, let alone actually apologizing.

  "Your feelings are your own business," he said, his voice a bit stiffer than usual. "I have no right to judge or make baseless assumptions."

  Silence fell over the room again, but this time it wasn't as tense as before. There was an awkwardness, an embarrassment between them. Finally, Snape spoke, breaking the silence:

  "Tomorrow, I intend to take you to buy clothes. You… need more clothes. What you have…" He frowned, glancing quickly at the baggy pajamas Harry was wearing. "…is not up to the minimum standard."

  Harry's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to protest, but Snape raised a hand to stop him.

  "No arguments. You will go."

  He turned and left the room. The door closed gently behind him, leaving Harry sitting there in a daze, wondering if the real Professor Snape had died and this was an imposter. He pinched his cheek hard to verify if he was awake or dreaming before reluctantly admitting that he was indeed in reality.

  Why was Professor Snape acting like this? Granted, he might feel guilty for hitting and locking Harry up, but going so far as to take him shopping was truly absurd.

  The next morning, when Harry went down to the kitchen, Professor Snape was already there, dressed discreetly in a long, black Muggle-style coat and a grey scarf.

  "I will use Polyjuice Potion to disguise myself in case any wizards recognize me with you, it would not be beneficial for the Order's work," Professor Snape said briefly, placing a vial of potion on the table. "You, however, don't need to, you still need to try on clothes."

  Harry awkwardly scooped a few spoonfuls of cereal for appearance's sake. He had never imagined the day he would go shopping with Professor Snape… Seeing the boy eat so little after he had gone to the trouble of cooking for him, Snape felt a flicker of irritation, but he said nothing. He picked up a slice of toast from his plate and began to eat, unfolding the morning's Daily Prophet.

  After breakfast, Harry stood up, but Snape pointed to the clothes he was wearing – a short-sleeved t-shirt and trousers – and said:

  "A late frost is gripping the entire country, the temperature is significantly lower than usual for summer. If you go out dressed like that, I guarantee you'll catch a cold. Go upstairs and put on a jacket and scarf."

  "But…"

  "Is it a common bad habit among teenagers like you to argue with adults before thinking properly?" Snape's voice sharpened.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Unable to say another word, Harry gave him a searching look and went upstairs. He still wasn't used to Snape's excessive concern for him.

  When Harry returned to the living room, the Potions Master had disappeared, replaced by an unfamiliar middle-aged man with black hair and deep blue eyes, who placed a warm potion in his hand.

  "Drink this first, then we'll leave."

  "Where are we going, sir?" Harry asked. He had looked at the scenery outside through the window hundreds of times over the past few weeks and hadn't seen anything that could be called a clothing store; most of the buildings were houses for workers in the nearby industrial area.

  "Plymouth," Professor Snape replied, waiting for Harry to finish his potion before taking his hand and heading for the door. Harry flinched slightly at the sudden action, but the professor didn't seem to notice.

  A dry "pop" echoed in the quiet space, and immediately, the surroundings dissolved into a colorful and noisy chaos. Harry staggered slightly, clutching Snape's arm for balance. When his vision stabilized, he looked around. They were standing in a small, damp alleyway that smelled faintly of exhaust fumes, but just stepping out of it revealed a completely different world: wide streets bustling with people, tall modern buildings of glass and steel reflecting the glittering sunlight. Noisy traffic crawled along the roads, bright signs hung in front of clothing stores, cafes, and bookstores. The salty air carried the scent of the sea, and the wind from the harbor brought the echoing cries of seagulls overhead. The vibrant noise of the big city was completely different from the dreary area of Spinner's End. Harry had never traveled far from Southeast England before. Surrey had everything, and it bordered London. Plymouth, in his mind, had only existed as a faint dot on maps. It wasn't until he became friends with Luna that this city became more noticeable to Harry, as it was in the same county of Devon – where she lived. Despite its somewhat silly and fanciful nature, he wondered if there was any chance of accidentally meeting Luna here?

  Professor Snape pulled Harry into a shop on the main street. Inside, warm yellow lights illuminated rows of neatly folded jeans, shirts, and t-shirts. A middle-aged Muggle woman looked up as they entered, offering a friendly smile.

  "Can I help you two gentlemen?" she asked.

  Harry froze.

  Snape raised an eyebrow slightly, a flash of extreme discomfort crossing his eyes – but very quickly, he lowered his voice and said:

  "The boy needs a new wardrobe. Everything. Simple, easy-to-wear items."

  Harry's face flushed, wanting to disappear into the floor. Professor Snape, however, acted as if it had nothing to do with him. He gave the shop owner a cold look that made her quickly lead Harry to the teenage clothing section.

  "Try this on. And this too. Don't drag the hems on the floor," the professor muttered, throwing Harry a few pairs of jeans and t-shirts.

  Every time Harry finished trying on an outfit, Professor Snape would give a very brief comment, sometimes disapproving, sometimes agreeing, but Harry noticed he was very selective: good fabric, suitable for his build, easy to match, wearable for many occasions, and not following trends no matter how much the shop owner tried to persuade them. When it came time to pay, the professor pulled out a small leather pouch and discreetly flicked his fingers. Neat stacks of British pounds appeared. The shop owner's eyes lit up, and she chattered praises about the "father" who doted on his son as she wrapped the clothes. Professor Snape merely snorted, not bothering to respond.

  The two of them continued through several other shops, buying a full range of clothes, hats, shoes, gloves, and scarves for both warm and cold weather. Harry felt a bit awkward as the professor paid for everything. He didn't know how much Hogwarts professors earned, but the prices of the items weren't small – these were all shops on the main street, mostly well-known brands he had seen advertised in Aunt Petunia's magazines. Harry didn't want to owe Snape anything, not at all. After five years of being tormented, provoked, and mocked, a few weeks of kind treatment couldn't make him like this man.

  Around noon, the two of them left the last shop, and it had begun to rain lightly. Fine raindrops mingled with the wind blowing from the harbor, blurring the streetlights that had just come on. Harry adjusted the bags on his shoulder, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head. Beside him, Professor Snape also pulled up his dark cloak. He looked down at the boy, noticing that his scarf was loose, and, to Harry's astonished gaze, he bent down and adjusted it, a surprisingly gentle gesture.

  "It's not necessary…" Harry recoiled instinctively. "I can do it myself."

  "Stand still," Snape dismissed, holding the boy firmly.

  Under the drizzle, Harry looked at his professor, his green eyes filled with confusion and complexity. Unable to hold back his long-standing question, he blurted out:

  "Do you feel guilty about what you did that day?"

  Snape stopped his movement.

  "If you regret it and want to make up for it, then thank you, but I don't need it," Harry tried to say gently. "You can just leave me alone."

  But that doesn't mean I'll forgive you, he thought silently. No, Snape, I will never forget what a monster you can be.

  The professor looked directly into Harry's eyes. There was something hidden behind that gaze that made him uncomfortable, but he couldn't quite decipher it.

  "You may not believe it," Snape said, adjusting the scarf, "but I do these things, initially out of regret, but now, entirely because I want to take care of you, Harry."

  It was the first time the professor had called him by his first name.

  Harry stared at Snape as if he had seen an alien. The professor wasn't surprised by that reaction.

  "In the past, I misjudged you and let my prejudices blind me for too long. I treated you wrongly, and I deeply regret it," Snape hesitated. "But time cannot be turned back. Now, I truly want to care for you more because you deserve to be loved."

  Under the drizzle, Harry stood frozen.

  Professor Snape's words seemed to belong to a world Harry didn't know – a world where the professor was forever the silent enemy, the one who always sought to belittle and humiliate him in front of his friends. In Harry's mind, Snape was synonymous with the gloomy days in Potions class, the contemptuous glances, the cold criticisms.

  And now, the professor was standing there, telling him that he wanted to take care of him? That he deserved to be loved?

  A part of Harry wanted to laugh – laugh out loud at this incredible absurdity. But the other part couldn't. His throat tightened, as if a lump was blocking his words.

  Harry stared at the man before him. In those deep eyes, for the first time, he didn't see mockery or contempt, only a raw, clumsy, and distressed emotion. He pressed his lips tightly together. A part of him screamed, demanding rejection, demanding to push him away. But the other part – the vulnerable part he always tried to hide – secretly wished those words were true.

  Finally, Harry lowered his head, his voice hoarse:

  "I don't know… how much I can trust you…"

  A long silence stretched between them. Snape looked at him for a long time, then said slowly, firmly:

  "You don't have to trust me immediately, Harry. I will show you, with actions, not words."

  His voice wasn't loud, but it was steady, like a promise he was making to himself as well. Harry clenched his fists. A strange feeling crept into his chest – not exactly trust, not exactly doubt – just a small, fragile but real spark of warmth.

  Snape said nothing more. He simply placed a hand gently on Harry's shoulder, an awkward but sincere touch, then softly guided Harry to continue walking through the misty rain.

  However, just as the two of them had taken a few steps, a voice called out:

  "Harry!"

  A slender figure stood under the awning of a roadside cafe, long blonde hair blowing in the wind like silken threads. She wore a slightly crooked hat and held a book in her arms. Her eyes were joyful, and she was waving frantically at Harry. He froze for a few seconds before his heart gave a powerful leap.

  "Hello, Harry!" she said, her clear voice ringing through the rain. "What a coincidence!"

  Harry hurried forward before he could think. Snape reached out to grab the boy, but his nimble feet had already crossed the quiet main road, running towards the smiling blonde girl as quickly as the wind.

  A bitter emotion twisted in the professor's gut.