Severus Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "What is that?"
"Harry. Twelve, isn't he? I was just saying it's an awkward age," she said, with a smile. "'Tweens', I believe they call them nowadays."
He said nothing, wishing for the feast to end, and soon.
"It means–" she began.
" –I know what it means, Pomona. Or do you really think we so dim-witted?" he snapped.
Pulling a face, the herbology professor turned away.
"It's worse than we thought," she whispered – a little too loudly – to Professor Flitwick, who was sitting further down the table. "I told you he wasn't cut out for this parenting malarkey!"
Snape sighed, but settled on pretending he had not heard.
After all, perhaps Sprout was right. Maybe he wasn't cut out to be a father to the boy.
But the summer hadn't been so bad, had it?
He glanced down at the Gryffindor table where, once again, Harry was scowling back at him.
They'd gotten along well, and surprisingly, the boy really had been next to no trouble.
But what had happened to that annoying first year, who had trotted around in his shadow, demanding stories be read to him and throwing himself into the professor's lap at every opportunity? That boy hadn't joined him at Spinner's End – the version that had was fiercely independent, scarcely a child at all.
At first, Severus had considered the fact that Harry was just growing up. Later, however, it had occurred to him that the boy having lived in a loveless home for such a long time might instead be the cause – perhaps he simply didn't know how to be a child. How ironic then, that he had found himself with Severus Snape, who had no idea how to be a father.