After the incident with the chocolate Buttons, Harry and Snape stayed away from Slattery’s dingy little shop. Snape’s house on Spinner’s End, Harry had quickly learned, was as dark and imposing as the man who inhabited it. It sat on the very end of a crooked lane of identical houses, smoke-stained bricks and dull windows all. They were just out of Birmingham, Snape said, in a mostly-unknown little corner of the county. The village was named (quite appropriately, Harry thought, from what he had seen of it) Rottidge, and the street was Spinner’s End, though Harry had privately renamed it Sodding Bend, and he thought it rather fitting.

‘Inkpot in the centre of the table,’ Snape observed as he swept past the kitchen table, no doubt headed toward the box of biscuits Harry knew was hidden somewhere deep in the cupboard. Snape had pointedly refused to share them; claiming Harry must first “earn” the privilege of “nonessential sweets and such”. It was bollocks, certainly, but he could hardly argue, as Snape was the one in charge of mealtimes, bedtimes, worktimes, bathtimes, recreational times and relaxation time.

Harry glowered behind the man’s back and moved his Colour-Change ink to the centre of the wooden table, but not without spilling several large, purple-black drops onto it. Snape had busied himself rummaging through the cupboard, and Harry was left to finish the essay he needed to complete for Charms.

Tongue between his teeth, he scratched out a single, red sentence:

I hate Cheering Charms.

It was effective enough, he thought, and got to the point rather quickly. He set about to add another and hopefully form a paragraph of sentences all stemming from the “I hate” mould.

I hate potions. I hate Malfoy. I hate Gryffi – Slytherin. I hate Dursleys. I hate Privet Drive. I hate Little Whinging (Whinging!). I hate Surrey. I hate ugly little mill towns in the West Midlands. I hate chimneys. I hate bricks. I hate fish and chips. I hate biscuits. I hate milk. I hate Slattery. I hate Brummies. I hate Brummy kids. I hate Brummy mums. I hate Brummy dads. I hate Brummy houses. I hate tiny bedrooms. I hate HBP. I hate number six, Sodding Bend, Rottidge, Just Out of Birmingham, West Midlands, England.

P.s. Tell Voldemort not to bother. I’ll finish myself off if in this dunghill.

He glanced over his handiwork, quite pleased with the clean-cut lines of neatly written hate, and went on:

I love. I love my mum. I loved my mum.

And at the very bottom he scrawled in neon blue for effect,

DOWN WITH DUMBLEDORE.

DOWN WITH DUMBLEDORE.

DOWN WITH DUMBLEDORE.

If I had a Cheering Charm, I’d be offering the Brummies sherbet lemons and Invisibility Cloaks. The end.

It was, of course this very moment that Snape chose to wander over, three biscuits held in his sallow fist, as he chewed on a third, and a curtain of greasy hair swept across his cheek. Peering over Harry’s shoulder, he sniffed and dropped a biscuit onto it, sweeping out with a stiff, ‘If Sodding Bend is the very best you can do, I’d say you’ve got a day to live when the Dark Lord finds you.’

Harry had never been so perplexed in his life.

---------

‘But why? They’re all dead, anyway!’

Fixing Harry with a stern glare, Snape held out the pruning shears. ‘Now, if you will.’

‘I won’t,’ Harry grumbled.

He began to rethink a second later, sitting on the crumpled front step with a stinging left ear and half of a handprint across his cheek.

‘Wait! Sir! Er, professor! Master! What the hell am I s’posed to call you? Come back! I’ll do it! Come back!’

But Snape had gone, and he had locked the door behind him.

Harry sat on the front step for a good half hour, watching the quiet street with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Snape was a sodding git, him and his stupid bushes. He sighed, resting his head on the rail. A woman laden with shopping bags passed by, looking weary and slightly harassed. She stopped when she caught sight of Harry, dropping the bags by her feet and setting meaty hands on meatier hips.

‘Well?’ she said. Harry glanced around, but he was the only one, and she had fixed her beady eyes on his puzzled face. ‘Aren’t you going to help me?’ He shrugged, and she glowered, doing a good impression of Mrs Weasley when she was angry with Ron or the twins. ‘I suppose you want to be paid, do you? Expect it, more like. You young people are all the same, aren’t you?’

Nonplussed, Harry shrugged again and nodded. The woman seemed to expect this answer. Sending him a glare to rival one of Snape’s, she beckoned him over with thick, sausage fingers and instructed him to lift the heavier of the parcels.

‘Skinny mite, are you?’

Harry shrugged.

‘The quiet sort, too. Don’t think you’ll get off taking my things. Those are for Christmas, they are, and I’m not having every thieving little sprog like you taking off with them. Do you understand that?

‘And mind you don’t drop them. There’s glass pieces in there, and they’re rather dear, aren’t they? Cost me twenty pounds for half of the teapot – the lid, I tell you! And just that – twenty pounds. D’you know how much that is, young man? You be careful with my things.’

She reminded him of an overgrown pigeon, fat and full of air.

‘Why don’t you talk, hm? Don’t speak English, is it? You’re French, are you? Is that it?’

The woman laughed to herself, and Harry almost winced at the grating sound. They had moved only a few paces from Snape’s house, but he was feeling guilty already. What if this were some elaborate hoax? What if this was not an innocent woman at all, but a test planned by Snape to see if Harry could be trusted? Maybe it was Tonks. And maybe…maybe he was winding himself up.

‘No,’ said Harry; he shouldered the largest of the bags and felt his knees buckle slightly under the weight. ‘I speak English.’

She huffed in her annoying, Mrs Weasley-ish way and snatched the smallest bag from him. ‘What’s your name, then? Haven’t you got any respect? You young people are all the same these days, I’m telling you. All the same!’ She softened, patted the large, heavily sprayed thing that was her hair, and continued, ‘That’s Mrs Hightowler to you. I’m Richard’s mum. You know Richard, do you?’

He introduced himself as Patrick Trotter III, and Mrs Hightowler gave a start.

‘You look a horrible lot like a lad I knew ages ago,’ she explained hurriedly, glancing back at number six. Harry smiled.

‘Like me? He was sour, was he? And ugly?’

Mrs Hightowler frowned, but Harry could see the cogs working in her brain, and he knew he had upon something.

‘And unpleasant. Was he unpleasant?’ he urged her. The woman coughed, gave him a sad little smile, and picked up where she had left off, waddling the way toward wherever they were headed.

‘The Snapes were an unpleasant family on the whole,’ she said softly, and Harry felt his heart skitter.

They stopped in front of number three, where the sounds of loud punk music boomed from a radio somewhere upstairs, and a cat wailed in time to the rhythm on the front step. The house, while just as dirty on the outside as the others on in the lane, had white curtains and flowerboxes full of sturdy little white flowers.

‘MUM!’

A podgy little boy in a blue clown jumper tottered down the steps. He could not have been older than six, with chubby little paws and a round, cherubic face, large blue eyes blinking from beneath thick eyelashes. He eyed the bags much as Dudley would have, with a greedy glint to his blue eyes and a curve at the corners of his mouth. Please, Harry thought desperately, let this not be Richard.

It was not.

Next minute Mrs Hightowler was surrounded by the little boy and a team of others. There was a stocky boy of about fourteen, glowering at Harry, a boy who looked to be about Harry’s age with skinny wrists and the same lash-framed blue eyes as the little podge by the door. A girl leant against the brick wall, flicking a cigarette lazily at a towheaded boy with crooked teeth, while three others – all with thick brown hair and eyes to match – opened the door further and began unloading parcels into the hall.

‘Patrick,’ interrupted Mrs Hightowler. Everyone turned to Harry. ‘This is Richard, my oldest son (she pointed to the blue-eyed boy with the skinny wrists), and my youngest, William (the little boy stopped tugging at the hems of her skirt for a moment, to regard Harry with wide, unblinking eyes), and the others are friends of my Richard – Benjamin (the towheaded boy gave a nod), Tom (the stocky boy nodded as well, then returned to rummage through the bags),’ Mrs Hightowler pointed to the girl with the cigarette next, her eyes narrowed, ‘Claire, who shall ruin her lungs she smokes anymore,’ the brown-haired trio were next, and they stood self-importantly by the door, all smiling smugly, ‘and that’s Sean, James, and Malcolm. Say hullo.’

They each said hullo in turn, Harry returning the greeting with a brief jerk of his head. Mrs Hightowler glared round at them all for a moment before pressing a crushed note into Harry’s hands and hurrying William into the house. Harry was left alone with the others, leaning against the rail (which was in far better condition than Snape’s).

It was Richard who spoke first, obviously feeling obliged, as it was his house. ‘Hightowler,’ he said pointedly.

Benjamin poked his own chest and stepped forward. ‘Boyd.’

‘Boocock,’ hissed Claire; several small sniggers erupted from Malcolm, ending only when Claire flicked her cigarette at him.

‘Cofton.’ Sean pointed to James, and then himself. ‘Both Cofton.’

Tom seemed to be the least interested as he said lazily, ‘Slater to you, arsehole.’

Last came Malcolm, who stepped out to offer Harry his hand. ‘Barraclough,’ he added, almost grudgingly. They all looked to Harry expectantly.

Taking the hint, he pointed to himself and said, ‘Trotter.’

Malcolm laughed again, but the others regarded him solemnly for a moment until Claire broke the silence with a huffy, ‘He’s salvageable, I s’pose. Not exactly a supermodel, is he?’

More sniggers this time, from all but Hightowler. Raising an eyebrow, he pulled a box from his pocket and offered Harry a thin, cheap cigarette. ‘Fag?’ Harry refused, but Slater and the Coftons each took one and lit up. Hightowler straightened. ‘You live at number six,’ he pointed out.

‘Yeah.’

‘With that greasy bastard, at the end of the lane.’

‘Yeah.’

‘He your dad?’

They were all interested now, craning their necks to get his answer. Snape appeared to be an unpopular neighbour in Rottidge.

‘My professor,’ explained Harry. He put on the airs of someone who was at great pains to explain something to a small child, pursing his lips and flicking a spare strand of hair from his face.

‘Where from?’ asked Slater. He leant in father than anyone else, the fag smouldering in his pale hands.

This was what he had been waiting for. Like Dudley’s gang back at Little Whinging, this Rottidge crew thought they were fairly hard. Harry swallowed; releasing the breath he had been holding, and drawled to the best of his ability, ‘St Brutus’s.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Cofton (James, Harry guessed) snorted. All but Slater nodded in assent, but the younger boy looked slightly green.

‘St Brutus’s?’ he asked weakly. Harry nodded. ‘In Somerset, is it?’

‘Er,’ Harry was at a loss. St Brutus’s existed? ‘Yeah, I guess.’

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Tom slumped against the brick wall, hanging his head. There was a defeated look about him, with his slouched shoulders and curly hair falling over his face. He was the only one, Harry noticed, to have long hair, with the exception of Claire Boocock.

‘Damn. I thought my mum was winding me up on it. She wanted to – ’

‘What’s St Brutus’s?’ Boyd interjected, for which Harry was very grateful. Slater moaned where he was on the wall, and Claire passed him another fag.

‘It’s crap, that’s what it is,’ he groaned. ‘It’s locked doors and they cane you when you get in for it, and the food’s worse than St Francis. It’s ages away in Somerset, and it’s for criminal boys, you know, my mum thinks I’m in for it, anyway.’

The others crowded round, offering their condolences and promising they wouldn’t let “that old hag” send Slater packing, but it was Harry, Harry who stayed silent against his rail, Harry who watched Slater with unflinching grey eyes, with no sympathy, who stared because he felt the worst of the lot, even without knowing the boy. Harry knew he was looking at a doomed man.

Gathering his bearings, Slater straightened and turned to the newcomer. His lips were thin; the stocky frame tense, as though he was afraid Harry might reach out and infect him with something at any given moment. ‘You’re not from here, Trotter? You’re accent’s different.’

‘No,’ answered Harry indifferently.

‘And you’re not from Somerset,’ Claire cut in. ‘I’ve got cousins, and they don’t sound nothing like you.’

‘No,’ Harry nodded. They were a hard bunch, difficult to build a story round. ‘Not Somerset, either.’

‘Not up north, either. Where’re you out of, then?’

Harry licked his lips, thinking fast. Harry Potter had grown up in Little Whinging, Surrey, but that was dangerous information to give out, regardless of circumstances. Padriac Domingart, he knew, had been raised in a Muggle orphanage in Ireland, but he did not sound Irish in the least, and this lot were hardly stupid.

‘London,’ he said thickly, searching for the name of a subsection in which to place himself. ‘Hackney.’ Charlie Bournemouth in the third form had been from Hackney, Harry recalled. So, Hackney it was, and London was not so very far from Little Whinging at all. ‘But I was born in Ireland.’

This drew a mixed reaction from the group. Hightowler nodded thoughtfully upon hearing Hackney, and showed very little reaction on anything else. Slater’s eyes widened a bit more, and he mouthed “Hack-ney?”, while Claire Boocock and Barraclough scowled, the Coftons sniggering to themselves.

Finally, when it seemed no one would speak, Cofton (Sean, Harry thought), said loudly, ‘Bit of a mick, then, are you?’ His brother sniggered, though no one else joined in.

‘Let him alone,’ Hightowler ordered, eying Harry with keen interest. He took in everything – the genetically rotten nose, piercing grey eyes and high cheekbones, feminine lips, crooked teeth, pale skin, lank hair. Harry could feel himself squirming, red-cheeked, and he suddenly realised what it must have been like for Snape, looking as he did and having everyone taking in how ugly he was. ‘Hackney’s a hard place,’ said Hightowler at last. Harry nodded slowly, pretending to remember it.

‘This is bollocks,’ Barraclough snorted. Claire nodded in agreement, glowering at Harry in turn.

‘I’m not hanging around this git, Hightowler,’ she sniffed. Slater glared, but Hightowler simply nodded and shrugged.

‘Go on then, Boocock, Barraclough,’ said Hightowler, reminding Harry of Remus, ‘I’ll see you later. My mum’s invited you all to dinner.’ He turned to Harry, looking almost apologetic. ‘We’ve just met…’ he began, but Harry raised a hand to cut him off.

‘Snape’ll kill me anyway, knowing I’ve been out talking to people in the first place.’

‘I forgot you lived with Snape,’ said Boyd, and both Slater and the Coftons nodded. Claire sniffed derisively, and Harry noticed she had chosen to stick around, despite Hightowler’s warning glares.

‘Snape’s a bastard,’ said Barraclough, and the others agreed. Harry nodded, though he could feel an unfamiliar fluttering in his chest. It felt wrong somehow, to be speaking of Snape this way. ‘Hey - ’ Barraclough straightened, looking suddenly very eager. ‘He beats you, does he?’

‘Belt up, Malcolm.’

‘Arsehole.’

‘Bloody sod.’

‘Let him alone, Malcolm.’

Barraclough smirked, brushing thick hair from a thicker face and blinking. ‘Where else’d you get that bruise from, hm?’ Claire tossed her ashes at him again, and Slater muttered something hurriedly, but Barraclough only grinned at them.

Before anyone else could respond, Mrs Hightowler poked her head out of the door and shouted, ‘Dinner, the lot of you! No food if you come in late, and wash your hands!’ She sent Harry the very same apologetic glance Richard had moments before. ‘I’d have you over, Patrick, but the Snapes….’

She needn’t have anyway, for somewhere in the mad rush for the door, Harry had found his way back to Spinner’s End, his head reeling. Snape opened the door almost before he could sit, pulling him inside with an iron fist and a steely glint to his eye.

‘So.’ Harry felt himself flinch away. ‘So.’

He debated for a moment whether to run off, but opted against it in favour of keeping the ability to sit for long periods of time. ‘I’ve made friends,’ said Harry brightly, cutting him off before he got the chance to lay it on thickly. ‘That woman, Mrs Hightowler, she says she knew you.’ He said all of this in one breath and very quickly, leaving off on the last sentence pink-cheeked and panting slightly. Snape simply cocked an eyebrow. 'I didn't mean to go talking to people (the eyebrow ascended higher yet), but she came up (and higher), and, I mean, I had to help her...'

'I do not believe I have explicitly forbidden you talking to the neighbours,' stated Snape, and Harry frowned. Snape definitely had never said he could talk to the neighbours, either. 'The Hightowler family has resided in number three for as long as the Snapes have in number six. I would tell you now not to base your entire opinion of this village from one neighbourhood.' He gave the discarded Charms essay a meaningful glare, and Harry felt himself shrink a bit. 'I was raised here, as were the majority of this village. They would not take kindly to you insulting their home, I'm sure.'

Harry felt as though he could sink into the floor, his face beet-red, as he muttered, 'Yes, sir.'

'Dishes, and then bed. You may bathe in the morning if you so desire, and mind you put everything back in its rightful place.'

With those few, familiar words Snape swept out, leaving him behind to wash a sinkful of dishes and pots. The dishes were easy enough to clean, but the pots were coated in caked-on stew residue which stubbornly refused to come off and made Harry wonder just what they had eaten for lunch that day. After drying the last glass and setting it carefully into a cupboard, he trudged upstairs to the tiny bedroom again, forgetting pyjamas and toothbrushes in favour of a bed with sheets and a blanket.

Where he had been exhausted only moments before, Harry now found that he was wide awake, the thin blanket pulled short over his toes and under his chin. He felt suddenly as if it were too dark, but there was no light-bulb overhead to turn on with the pull-cord that dangled from the grey ceiling. Indeed, there was no source of light from anything but the cracked street-lamp outside, and a dim strip of yellow light from under the door across the hall.

Bed had always been a time for thought, for homework, for escaping the Dursleys or housemates or school problems. Matters were slightly more pressing now, and far more confusing. What he knew, Harry reckoned, was only a portion of what was really going on, and what did he know? He knew that the Ministry was furious because Harry Potter was lying immobile in a private hospital room and could not be contacted or visited by any save Dumbledore. He knew that with the exception of himself, Dumbledore, and Snape, Remus was the only other who knew of the plan. Malfoy wanted him to poison Dumbledore, and both he and Snape would be visiting Malfoy Manor sometime during the holiday. Ron and Hermione hated him. His old house hated him. His new house despised him. Snape...was a complete mystery.

And, what more was there to know? The things Dumbledore had shown him during their private lessons? What about his mum, he thought suddenly. Why had no one ever explained how Snape was his father? What happened to James Potter, and hadn't Snape hated his mother? What had changed? Why was no one telling him this?

Settling back against the pillows, Harry whispered into the still night air, 'I understand how, I just don't understand why.'

Outside, the flickering bulb in the street-lamp went out, and a cat meowed loudly. The music blaring from the Hightowler house filled the quiet street of Spinner's End with Muggle punk, and Harry Potter went to sleep.