Chapter Text
As stern a man as he was, it wasn’t without exceptions.
Some situations warranted a certain… delicacy, not that he would describe many of his actions that way. There weren’t many circumstances in which he allowed his sternness to melt away, but one such instance had been a little dropping in his class.
It wasn’t often especially given the strict guidelines in place for students who mentally regressed but it still happened. The first occurrence that year had been the Longbottom boy, toward whom Snape could admit he was particularly harsh.
It had started with a wobbling lower lip, followed swiftly by an all-out fit of tears after his barked reprimand.
The shocked faces of all of Minerva’s little lions had been almost insulting when he lowered himself to the floor to comfort the child, scooping him up and soothing him as he continued to teach. As warranted as his softness had been, he hated their reactions most of all.
It was different; or at least, that’s what he told himself. That was how he justified it. It wasn’t like dealing with an ordinary preteen; littles were smaller, gentler, more vulnerable. It was instinctual, indulgent even a rare allowance to offer comfort instead of scathing remarks. Not that he didn’t enjoy the latter, but still, it was different. Always different. And almost always justified, even if it meant lowering himself or his reputation just that little bit.
But enough reminiscing; the present called for action, even if he wasn’t quite sure what that action should be.
Faced with a similar situation, he found himself uncertain, despite his usual protocol. A regressed student always warranted the same response on his behalf, yet this time, he hesitated. And he felt rotten for it. Because this wasn’t the Longbottom boy.
This was Harry James Potter: The Boy Who Lived.
***
Snape was a git.
That was common knowledge, as much a fact of life as the sky being blue or Ron being absolute rubbish at Gobstones.
Still, Harry had been surprised all those weeks ago when Neville regressed. He’d expected a horror show, a confrontation so dreadful he might have regressed himself out of sheer terror. Instead, Snape had simply picked Neville up and comforted him.
He wasn’t the only one shocked, judging by the gaping mouths of his classmates but Harry’s surprise went deeper. He was the only other little in Gryffindor in their year, and he found Snape’s newfound softness… intriguing.
Everyone knew Snape didn’t like Neville, but Harry wondered: would Snape’s gentleness toward littles outweigh his hatred for Harry Potter?
Not that he intended to find out. Even with Snape’s hidden fondness, the last thing he wanted was to be taken care of by his Potions professor. Yuck.
“Pay attention, Potter. Daydreaming has no place in my classroom,” Snape sneered, yanking him from his thoughts. Harry pouted in his seat.
He really did hate Potions.
Ron nudged him with a questioning look as Snape’s monotone droned on and maybe that was what started it. That low, steady tone had a way of loosening his control, letting the tension he’d been holding slip away.
Ron’s expression shifted to disapproval as he caught on to Harry’s struggle. Both he and Hermione had been relentless about Harry’s refusal to follow his regression schedule. He was on the verge of intervention from the little care team Hogwarts employed, but lately, with the murderous voices in the walls and everything else, regression had felt like the least of his problems.
Despite Ron’s worried glances, Harry faced the board, pretending to focus on the lesson. It worked until it didn’t.
It was Malfoy. It was always Malfoy.
A sharp pinch to his arm not enough to hurt, but enough to send tears welling up in his eyes and a frustrated shout bursting from his lips.
“NO!” he yelled, spinning around to glare at the smirking blonde, whose expression faltered at Harry’s uncharacteristically tearful face.
The entire class froze as their no-nonsense professor strode forward, robes billowing.
“Can’t restrain your troublemaking for even one moment, you abhorrent boy—” Snape cut off mid-sentence.
Harry glared harder, tuning him out. Snape would just scold him anyway. He didn’t care to listen.
A cool hand tilted his chin upward. Coal-dark eyes met his, studying, searching and finding what Harry had tried to hide.
“Of course…” Snape muttered. Then, louder: “Malfoy. Detention for antagonizing a little.”
Harry blinked in shock, his mind fogging as regression pulled him under. Tears came freely now. He couldn’t have stopped them if he’d wanted to. And Snape seemed to understand that.
As Harry’s thoughts blurred, his earlier curiosity returned in hazy fragments. How would Snape treat him?
***
He didn’t know why he hesitated especially when confronted with those eyes, but then again, he was also confronted with the ghost of James Potter. And that was someone, he had no desire to care for.
Still, looking at him, really looking at him, the boy’s small chin trembling in his hand he could almost separate them. James had never had this softness about him. For all their similarities, Harry was smaller, slighter, far more fragile.
Finally, Snape decided.
“Come here, then. You can’t be expected to manage the practical like this,” he murmured, smoothing down Harry’s wild curls as he lifted him from his seat.
Harry was quiet. Quieter than expected. Snape knew the boy was a little, of course, but he’d never cared to learn more: his age range, his temperament, none of it had seemed relevant. Yet the silence unsettled him. The wide green eyes. The absence of words.
Was it shyness, or was he simply very, very young?
The rest of the class snapped out of their stupor quickly when Snape glared over Harry’s head, scurrying to begin their work. Snape carried the boy behind his desk, to the small, curtained area he kept for situations like this.
It was awkward, undeniably so. Letting that instinct for caregiving surface, even for this child, rubbed against everything in him. Yet it didn’t vanish entirely. Not even for Harry James Potter.
Predictably, Ronald Weasley proved his usual brash self, abandoning his cauldron to rush forward.
“Sorry, mate, but I told you so! You should’ve regressed ages ago,” Ron said, slipping something into Harry’s small hand. The boy pouted and gave a small, indignant screech as he sat in the soft playpen Snape had set up, clutching the secret treasure.
Snape raised an eyebrow, more at the exchange than the object itself.
“A word, Weasley,” he said.
The redhead grimaced but obeyed. “I—uh, what do you need, sir?” he asked, tacking on sir as an afterthought.
“In your rather one-sided conversation, seeing as your friend is clearly in no state to contribute, you mentioned something about him needing to regress ages ago?” Snape prompted.
Weasley flushed crimson. “I told him, sir- Hermione too! He’s at risk for intervention from the little care team. He can only skip one more scheduled regression before—”
Snape stopped listening. Intervention? That was rare. He hadn’t heard of a case yet this year. He’d served on the little care team himself a few times; an assignment Poppy often gave to more experienced staff rather than the usual student volunteers.
If Weasley’s claims were true, then yes, Harry was overdue for a visit to the infirmary.
The rest of the lesson passed by uneventfully, save for Snape’s divided attention between his students and the small, dozing figure in the playpen. When the bell finally rang (miraculously without Longbottom causing catastrophe) Snape gathered the boy in his arms and headed for the hospital wing.
Thankfully, Harry’s eyes stayed closed. Snape had the distinct feeling that once they opened, the boy would be very displeased.
***
Someone was carrying him. Rocking him. No, walking. He bounced gently with each step, too tired to care where they were headed.
He popped the pacifier Ron had slipped him earlier into his mouth, sighing around it in sleepy contentment. For a moment, he drifted… until the smell hit him.
Herbal. Medicinal. Familiar.
The hospital wing.
His eyes flew open, trembling as soft hiccups escaped behind the pacifier. Snape murmured something low and soothing, rubbing his back as Madam Pomfrey appeared to meet them.
Words blurred together above him:
“Hasn’t dropped in—little care team—assign—”
He couldn’t follow. Not really. He just caught the phrase little care team and felt a faint flicker of panic before it faded into exhaustion.
It had been too long since he’d regressed. Now that he had, it was like sinking into a deep well: too far down to climb out. But it wasn’t so bad down there. Not when he could finally rest.
***
Harry was fussing, an overtired child fighting sleep. His droopy green eyes blinked open just to shut back closed.
“He usually isn’t this young,” Poppy murmured, summoning a thick stack of scrolls. “Littles don’t regress this far down or so abruptly unless something’s wrong.”
Snape nodded slightly. He hadn’t known the boy’s range, but he agreed. Something was wrong.
“The Weasley boy mentioned he hasn’t dropped in quite some time,” Snape said. “Apparently, he’s nearing intervention.”
“I was hoping he’d use his next scheduled day to regress naturally,” Poppy sighed. “But I think we’ll proceed with intervention regardless. You’ve volunteered before, Severus. Would you be willing to take him on?”
He froze. Of all things, he hadn’t expected that.
Caring for the boy in the moment was one thing. Being assigned to him formally, continuously was another. Could he manage it? Could he separate himself enough to care for Harry Potter without seeing James every time he looked at him?
He glanced down. The child had finally drifted off, pacifier bobbing gently as he breathed. He looked impossibly young and desperately in need of care.
Snape sighed. He really did have a soft spot for littles.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it.”