Both Harry and Lupin watched in horrified fascination as the door to the toilet swung open, revealing a furious Argus Filch.

“Knew it was you,” wheezed Filch. He was red-faced, panting, and dotted with beads of sweat, his eyes swivelling from Harry to Remus and back again. Considering he’d obviously just put forth a great deal of effort in entering the toilet, Harry thought, he looked rather pleased with himself. Indeed, underneath his furious exterior, Filch was giggling like a giddy schoolboy. Of all the students in this wretched school, Harry Potter was by far Filch’s least favourite student, which made it quite a pleasure to watch the boy squirm.

“I haven’t done anything,” said Harry and Remus simultaneously, trying desperately to avoid looking into one another’s faces. Filch would not appreciate it if they broke into a fit of manic laughter while he was trying to punish them for whatever it was they had done.

“No, eh?” The ratty old man leered at them, his breathing laboured as it often became when a fit of excitement overtook him. “Haven’t done anything, have you? ‘Course not. You’ve only been caught in the girl’s lavatory, no doubt planning some evil little scheme concerning my clean floors or a valuable object. Well, I’ll not stand for it this time! Which class are you in? Be quick, boys; I’ve got a puddle of vomit that wants attending to on the fourth floor!”

Remus grimaced.

“We hadn’t even realised that, sir,” he said quickly, reaching up to ruffle his hair. Harry moaned protestingly, sighing in relief as the hand lowered.

Filch squinted at them as if he was trying to figure out if they were lying or not. “What’s wrong with him?” He jerked his head at Harry, who dropped his head hastily to hide a poorly concealed grin and moaned again. “He sick? Because, if he is, he can get out of this lavatory. I’ve cleaned it once, and I’m not doing it again, you filthy little buggers --- always making messes out of my spotless - - -“

“He’s got the stomach flu,” replied Remus, elbowing Harry sharply. He drew back, winded and gasping for air. “Professor Snape sent us to the toilet because it wasn’t bad enough to go to the Hospital Wing, but he didn’t want him being ill all over the Defense class. With Professor Lupin out as well, he wanted to make sure it wasn’t something that might spread.”

Harry thought privately that anyone who believed that lie had to have a smaller brain capacity than Dudley. Since when did Snape care about students being ill? It was less that he had to teach, which seemed to be his goal in life: Kill the students with sarcasm and a complete lack of human compassion, or let them all die of disease. Filch appeared to be deeply in thought for a moment before he nodded. Harry could hardly believe their luck. Who would have known Filch was such an idiot?

“I’ll take you back to Professor Snape, then, and let him deal with you,” he sang gleefully, attaching his bony fists to both their arms. He looked positively delighted by the very idea of it. Deciding he’d best play along with Remus’s weak story, Harry groaned, doubling over. Filch had less sympathy than an angry cat, for he found himself being dragged along the flagstone floor, groaning for real this time as his arm shot up with pain.

“Here we are.”

Sickened by the caretaker’s throaty chuckles, Remus and Harry sprang away. Snape stopped mid-sentence, glowering at them.

“I presume you have a reason for so uncouthly interrupting my lesson, Argus,” he said icily; the temperature of the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Ron and Hermione were standing, looking concerned, as their eyes shifted between the two boys and Filch.

“Caught these two having a nice little chat in the girl’s lavatory, professor. That should warrant at least a week’s worth of detention, I’d say, not to mention what they were most likely planning on doing . . . .”

“Thank-you, Argus. I will deal with them.” Dismissing the man with a brief wave of his hand, Snape said depreciatingly, “You are disrupting an important lesson. You may leave.” His eyes gleaming with a sort of manic energy unknown to Harry, Snape looked positively terrifying. He appeared to have grown several feet within the last few seconds, not to mention his almost genocide-inspiring expression. The rest of the class was silent, their eyes glued to Harry and Padriac.

Filch immediately looked disappointed.

Guess that puddle of vomit wasn’t so important, then.

“Proefessor, they---“

Snape had his silently fuming face on. His skin was pale, flushed ever so slightly at his cheeks, causing him to look feverish. He was chewing the inside of his cheeks furiously. It was obvious to Harry that he wasn’t going to live long standing next to the crotchety old caretaker. He sidestepped instantly, bumping into Lavender Brown who squealed and scurried into the chair next to her.

“As interesting as it would be to hear a painfully detailed account of what my apprentice and Potter were doing together in a girl’s toilet, I do not have the time for it.”

Harry choked, wide-eyed at the statement. The rest of the class was giving him funny looks, as if it was somehow his fault that Remus led them into the wrong lavatory. Filch spluttered behind them, looking put out. For reasons unknown to both Harry and Remus, he stayed where he was, muttering about wanting to speak to Snape.

“Did your time under Umbridge addle your brains? I said leave.”

Looking rather like a guppy fish out of water, Filch stalked into the corridor, leaving a trail of sniggers and muttered jokes behind him.

“Settle down,” drawled Snape, although, Harry thought privately, he looked as though he was enjoying himself. “Potter, Padriac, return to your seats before you waste anymore of my time. I will have a word with you after class.”

The fun was over. Harry and Remus reluctantly moved toward their prospective tables, frowning.

“Well?” demanded Ron in a stage whisper, casting Harry a withering glare. “What happened? What did he do to you, mate?”

Harry’s ears perked up, interested. If Remus’s lie was not any better than the last one, the game would be up before they could say ‘over’.

“He tried to hex me, but we’ve already learned all the stuff he was using in the DA last year, so it was - - - I’ll tell you later.”

Snape, like the bat he was, had swooped down on them, looking livid. “Ten points from Gryffindor,” he snapped irritably. Ron began gibbering something about Dark Wizards attacking his best mate, and it was really that Domingart kid that wanted punishing, but was cut off by a sharp kick in the shin, courtesy of Hermione. “Make it thirty, and remember the next time you open that flapping mouth of yours that I will not be so lenient.” He moved on to the next table, ignoring Ron’s hiss of, “lenient my arse!”

Deciding to take advantage of this minor distraction, Harry slipped a crumpled bit of parchment onto his lap, tapping it discreetly with his wand and muttering, “Scribonata.” It was an invention of Remus’s while they were still doing Harry Lessons. That way, he explained, they could speak with one another, but no one would know who it was they were writing to.

You’re a horrible liar, he scribbled. The message flickered for a moment before disappearing. It was almost like writing in Tom Riddle’s diary, Harry mused, only Remus wasn’t out to kill him.

I know Filch. He would believe I was really Cornelius Fudge if I promised him a promotion, came the reply. Harry snorted, shrugging off the curious looks he was drawing and returning to his parchment.

And I know Snape. He’ll murder us.

No, just you. I’m a professor.

And I’m, Harry scrawled, glancing around him nervously. Snape drifted by, his eyes fixed on Harry’s lap. He passed, looking uninterested, but there was suspicion in his eyes. Sighing, Harry wrote quickly, You’re brilliant. Snape didn’t even notice.

The message appeared instantly.

Someone had to be the clever Marauder. I’ve charmed them to look like homework. All you have to do is tap the parchment and say the name of the class. It has several textbooks stored inside, and a few of the sixth year essays I’ve been grading.

Genius. How did we get in the girls’ toilet anyway?

I don’t use those lavatories. I don’t know which one is which.

You can charm a parchment to look like my potions homework, but you can’t tell the girls’ toilet from the boys’?

I’ve told you, I use the teachers’ lavatory. It’s down an entirely different corridor.

There’s something called a urinal. It’s a lovely little invention for men. If you haven’t notices, girls’ lavatories don’t have them.

Are you sure you aren’t Padfoot’s son?

Harry didn’t bother with a reply. Across the room, he could see Remus gathering his things. Ron was chatting animatedly about the Cannons while Hermione rolled her eyes, looking thoughtful. She was most likely trying to think of where Professor Lupin could be and why Snape was teaching the class. Harry had never realised before how suspicious he and his friends could be. Everything always had a hidden meaning with them. He smiled to himself, not bothering to stand up, as he stuffed his book and parchment back into the bad he’d been given earlier by Snape.

“Come here, Potter,” Snape commanded direly from the front of the class. Ron shrugged, following Hermione into the corridor. They would no doubt be waiting for their friend by the door, dying to hear if anything interesting happened. Snorting, Harry made his way to the front where he stood at Lupin’s side, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Padriac, you may tidy up the classroom while I have a word with Potter. Begin in the back, and don’t come back until you have finished.”

Harry scowled, furious. Snape was deliberately stopping him hearing the conversation, which meant that it must be an important one. He briefly debated eavesdropping, but the minute the thought entered his mind, a buzzing filled his ears, rendering him incapable of hearing anything properly. Snape. That filthy slime-ball.

They were taking ages, and Harry was sick of collecting rubbish. They had house-elves for this sort of thing, didn’t they? He smiled grimly, imagining what Hermione would have said to that. No, he shouldn’t be thinking about Hermione. She was the enemy now. Or rather, she was friends with enemy. He couldn’t do that to himself. It was torture enough to look over at the table that used to be his and know he would not be able to sit there again, to know that everyone sitting there thought he was some horribly evil Dark Wizard. What would Sirius have done?

Harry knew the answer to that one. Sirius would loudly proclaim that he was bored and string them up by their ankles. That would be a laugh.

“Padriac.”

The laughter died in his throat as Snape’s voice found a way through the rapidly disintegrating buzzing. Harry’s stomach flew a few centimetres up his throat, clogging his airway. What would Snape have done in a situation like Harry’s?

“Master,” said Harry carefully, his eyebrows raised. Trying desperately not to laugh, Remus gave a sort of half-snort and ducked his head, largely resembling a confused pig.

“You have Charms next, and then lunch,” Snape announced. It was all Harry could do to stop himself telling the man that he already knew his time-table, thank you very much. Instead, he opted for what he hoped was cool indifference. “Stop making faces,” barked Snape. “Are you in need of a Constipation Concoction?”

This time, Remus really did laugh. Harry, red-faced and indigent, stalked out, his silently chuckling friend trailing behind. Trust Snape to ruin everything on an already ruined day. Actually, now that he thought about it, Harry realised, it was Snape’s fault his day was going along so poorly. If Snape didn’t have to be such a git to everyone, Harry might have actually made a friend or two. He wasn’t expecting the massive popularity of Harry Potter, if he did say so himself, but maybe a nice Ravenclaw might have taken a liking to him.

“I’ve got Charms with you,” said Remus in a hushed tone. He was stiff-backed and looked almost nervous. “I need to speak with you after dinner today. See if you can get Severus to let you go for a bit. He might if you tell him Dumbledore needed to see you. I have something for you. Come to my office after school.”

What was this mystery thing Remus had for him? Harry pondered on it all through Charms and ended up doing a horribly botched job on his Laughing Charm. He groaned along with Ron and Neville as Flitwick assigned them extra work for the night. Transfiguration went the same way. Think about what Remus said, ignore his work, blow something up, get extra work. By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was almost surprised he hadn’t sent more people to the Hospital Wing. The Gryffindor house cursed his name as they waited for the return of Neville Longbottom and Parvati Patil. Ravenclaw shunned him entirely after Terry Boot’s face erupted in boils during Transfiguration, and Hufflepuff was furious that he’d nearly cost Hannah Abbott her fingers while working with a Venomous Tentacula during Herbology.

Ironically, the Slytherins seemed to be the only ones that were spared Harry’s horrible mishaps. He had a feeling no one else would be willing to consider the fact that everything was done by accident alone. Already, rumours were flying that Padriac Domingart was single-handedly trying to kill off he rest of the school.

“To make You-Know-Who’s job easier,” explained the ever-pompous Ernie Macmillan.

Considering everything that had been happening, Harry was thoroughly disgusted with the school. He had thought second year was bad enough, but apparently these people were better at rumour-spreading and overall pig-headedness than they showed then. Padriac Domingart was being compared to the Heir of Slytherin, Lucius Malfoy, and Cornelius Fudge. Naturally, the latter was the worst insult in Harry’s mind.

Fudge? Why would they ever compare him to Fudge? Nonetheless, he’d heard several small Hufflepuffs discussing it. Remus’s surprise could not come soon enough.

“Everyone hates you,” said a small voice to his left. Harry turned, surprised, to find the first-year from earlier that day grimacing at him.

“Zachary Gray,” the boy whispered, holding out his hand.

Harry nodded slowly, holding out his own hand. Was this some joke being played on him by the fates? Alright, so he said he wanted a friend, but a first year?

“Padriac Domingart.”

Zachary pulled away, nibbling at a piece of bread and regarding Harry cautiously. “They think you’re evil,” he motioned toward the rest of the Hall where the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw tables glared back. “The rest,” he nodded toward the Slytherins, “are afraid Professor Snape’s sent you to spy on us. Graham can’t even hear you name without shuddering.”

Another boy Harry recognised almost instantly as Graham Pritchard nodded, averting his eyes quickly. Harry smirked. Slytherins afraid of him? This was almost worth the rest of the school hating him. He couldn’t wait to tell Ron.

Oh, right. Ron and him weren’t friends anymore.

“I’m not afraid of you,” said Zachary bravely, puffing out his chest a bit. “I’m even talking to you.”

What was he looking for, a trophy? Harry shrugged, returning to his chicken. It tasted like cardboard and was difficult going down his throat, but he shoved it down anyway. Snape would ask why he wasn’t eating if he left his food untouched, and he really didn’t need another lecture today.

“You said the Dark Lord was a Halfblood,” Zachary pressed on. So this was what the little bugger wanted. Information on Voldemort. He should have known.

“He is,” said Harry, amused by the shocked expression on the boy’s freckled face. “His mother was a witch and his father was a Muggle.”

Zachary choked, his face bright pink under the freckles. This was news to him, and to Graham Pritchard, who turned around quickly, looking flustered. Draco Malfoy leaned closer, no doubt trying to catch more of the conversation.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much more,” Harry affirmed, shrugging. “My old Potions professor told me in Accademia, but he’s dead. He never told me anything else.”

The table returned to its usual activity, disappointed. Graham Pritchard still eyed Harry as if he saw something else behind the flimsy cover-up, and Malfoy looked suspicious, but that was to be expected. They were Slytherins after all.

“Thanks,” Zachary whispered, wiping his brow with a tiny hand. Once again, Harry saw the shiny patch of skin. It was smaller than a knut, white, and looked to have once been a painful burn. He also noticed with an increased feeling of satisfaction, that the boy sat straighter. For a Slytherin, Zachary Gray didn’t seem so horrible. Actually, he was sort of like a smaller, freckled version of Colin Creevey---without the annoying obsession of all things Potter.

“Erm, sorry,but I’ve got to go,’ said Harry quickly, shouldering his bag.

Remus had risen from the Gryffindor table and was bidding Ron and Hermione a brief farewell, promising to meet them later in the common room. Harry waited until his friend was gone, casting a glance in Snape’s direction to make sure the man wasn’t paying attention, and sped out himself, muttering about his extra Charms work. No one bothered with him at the Slytherin table, but the Gryffindors watched him with narrowed eyes as he made his exit.

Probably think I’ve been summoned to tea with Voldemort or something, thought Harry grimly.

The empty corridors echoed with the sounds of his uncertain footsteps, long shadows cast on the walls by the ever-burning torches in their brackets. Harry ignored them, keen to be in Remus’(no)s office. He wanted to know what his friend had for him that was so important. Was there a book on advanced Magic that might help him defeat Voldemort? That was Hermione’s thinking there. Perhaps something previously owned by James or Sirius?

“Come in quickly. You won’t have much time before Severus wonders where you’ve gone off to.”

Remus was waiting by the door, looking anxious.

“Why did you want me to---” Harry began, but was cut off. A thick, heavy envelope was shoved into his hands.

He hadn’t even had the chance to look at it before two hands grasped his elbow, pulling him back into the corridor. “Read it when you’re alone,” hissed Remus, glancing around. “It’s not dangerous or anything, but I can’t imagine Severus would appreciate you having it. I found it last night in my things and thought you might like it---go now.”

As if from a long way off, Harry could hear the chattering voices of the rest of the school as they made their way to the House common rooms. He darted out, the envelope tucked safely away in his robes. The anticipation began to rise with each step down to the dungeons. There was a meeting with Snape before he could go to the Slyhtherin common room. He sighed. Remus said Snape wouldn’t appreciate Harry having whatever was in the envelope. That meant he would have to wait at least a bit longer.

“Come in.”

Snape’s cold voice sounded even more menacing from behind a stone wall. Harry entered the office carefully, comforted by the thickness of the parchment in his robes. As soon as he could get out . . . .

“I trust you have been practicing your Occlumency,” said the man, sounding as though he didn’t trust it at all. Harry didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head. Smirking, Snape drew his wand. “I take your lack of a pathetic excuse as a sign that you have not. Wand at the ready, boy.LEGILIMENS!”

It was the same, if not worse, than last time. Harry collapsed onto the floor in a panting heap of black cloth.

“Up, Padriac. I’ll not have you lying on the floor like a child. Stand up.”

“Kiss my---” Harry began breathlessly, gasping as a stinging sensation on his arm told him that Snape didn’t want to kiss anything Harry Potter.

“Stay there,” commanded the Potions Master. “We will pick up where we left off. I have the Pensieve ready.”

Brilliant. Now he would get to spend an entire two hours staring at his younger self and hoping to Merlin Snape hadn’t been paying attention. He wasn’t disappointed. Tonight’s memories were even drearier than the last. They had visited seven year-old Harry at Piers Polkiss’s Holy Communion, a stuttering eight year-old Harry buying groceries for Aunt Petunia and now came the last. Harry stepped forward, determined to come up with a memory that would at least make Snape leave the lessons alone for the night.

“Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

The familiar sensation of falling through blackness filled Harry, followed by the soft thud of his feet landing on the carpet in front of his cupboard. Eight years old and shivering with cold under his tent-sized t-shirt, the younger Harry Potter was a pathetic sight to behold. Behind him, Snape cleared his throat, stepping smartly in the cupboard and staring expectantly at his apprentice.

“Get in there, boy.”

Uncle Vernon, meaty fists waving in the air, pushed the child in behind them. Little Harry shuddered, curling into a tiny ball on his cot. It was nearly Christmas and he was half starved. This was one of Harry’s most vivid memories, something he’d only discovered in third year during Remus’s Patronus lessons.

“It’s cold,” whispered the tiny boy on the cot, scrunching his nose to stop his glasses falling. The spiders above ignore him and continued building webs, leaving Little Harry entirely to himself.

“Piers had a Communion a couple of months ago,” said Harry, staring straight through the two older people on his cot to read the label of a bottle behind them. It was odd being looked through. “He says I’m going to a very hot place that’s full of nasty people because I haven’t had one, and Aunt Petunia said I don’t need it. I dun even know if you can hear me, Mum, Dad. I haven’t got any of those nice things the other boys have. Maybe I can’t talk to you because of the Communion.” He thought for a minute, oblivious to Snape’s incoherent mutterings of what sounded amazingly like “mindless dolt”.

“I wish you were here with me right now. You wouldn’t really be proud of me. I mean, my homework is never done, and I’ve got horrible stick-up hair that never gets short, except for the time Aunt Petunia cut it. I’m not very clever either, and I do . . . odd things. I don’t care if Uncle Vernon calls me a freak, but he calls you that, as well. I wish I could stop him, Mum. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Harry watched his younger self with dark eyes, wincing at each rasping breath, each muffled sob. He had never spoken to his parents before, and eight was a horribly lonely age for Harry Potter. One of the worst actually. The pain was still fresh in his stomach as he watched the small boy cry. It wasn’t fair that a little boy should be crying in the dark like that while his fat cousin watched television shows and stuffed his piggy face with ice cream all day.

“I got a gold star on my drawing. I didn’t tell anybody, because Dudley would ruin it, but I got a gold one. Gold is the best, you know. I never get the best on anything, but I was the only one with a gold star on my drawing. I dunno why. I think you’d like that. Do you like gold stars? I still have it. I can show it to you sometime, if you like. It’s very special.”

He stopped, appearing to be at a loss for what to say. What did an eight year-old say to the parents he never knew? Why didn’t you take me with you? Did you love me? Do you like my new shoes?

“Sometimes it gets lonely in here. It’s always so dark, my eyes hurt when I come out in the morning. I . . . I miss you. I know it’s silly because I didn’t even know you, but I still do. It’s like when Dudley gets new toys and I don’t get anything. He’s got his parents, but you didn’t stay with me. I just have to watch his and talk to spiders and wish it was you. I wish you were here right now. I could show you my star for real, and the book I learned how to read. It’s a really big one. Mr. Sparkes says I’m the best at reading it. It’s about-it’s about a boy and his dog and they go on a adventure. I think I’ll do that someday. I could take my new friend. He’s my secret, Mum. His name is Mikey, and he doesn’t like Dudley’s gang. He says we can be friends, and we don’t have to keep it a secret, but Dudley would beat him up if he knew. I think I’ll just keep it a secret, then. I don’t want Dudley beating up my only friend.”

It was different talking to his mum and dad. No one was there to hear him, but he felt as if someone was listening. Someone had to be listening.

“Mikey is really nice. You’d like him, Dad. I know you would. He’s got two dads. His older brother Matthew says it’s because their mum can’t just bang one bloke. I dunno what that means yet. Matthew says he’ll tell me when I’m older, but I think I get it anyway. Their mum must be a secret agent that kills people, and Mikey’s dads are on her list. That’s why she’s banging them. She has a gun and kills them with it. Clever, huh? It’s just like the secret agent in Dudley’s television show.”

He glanced around, wiping his eyes with a grimy little hand.

“I watch that sometimes, when no one’s looking. They don’t notice if I crack my door a bit, and I can see the television from here. You know, Mikey says his brother can take us to the cinema on Monday after school. You won’t be angry if I go, right? Even if I lie? Good.”

A loud thud outside the door told all three that it was time to wrap up. Snape and Harry stood, waiting for the child’s final words before they could take their leave.

“I’d better go,” said Harry, wiping his eyes again. “I’ll talk to you later. Erm . . . love you.” Turning over, the boy sniffed once more and fell into a deep, untroubled sleep. Snape and Harry remained on the cot for several minutes, each enveloped in his own thoughts. It became apparent that nothing else was going to happen in this particular memory, a fact Harry was grateful of. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the cupboard that night.

Snape’s gloomy office came swimming back into view, leaving Harry to think longingly about the cosy walls of his cupboard. Walls without jars of disgusting slimy things lining them.

“You may leave for the night, boy,” Snape granted, levelling Harry with a calculating stare. “I will see you in the morning. Go straight to your common room. I will know if you disobey me.”

Nodding quickly, Harry made a break for the door. He wanted to get away from those memories and see what was in the envelope. Slytherin would be full of greasy little gits peaking over his shoulder. He didn’t need prying eyes.

What I need is a place to open this in peace. All by myself ,

The door appeared instantly, giving way once again to the comfortable ocean-themed room from before. The black-haired boy in the painting gave him a crooked smile, waving his shovel and pail. Harry waved back, dropping onto the bed with a contended sigh. Finally, he would be able to see what Remus had been making such a fuss about.

The envelope opened easily; an equally thick, folded sheet of yellowed parchment fell into his hands. Breathing laboured with excitement, Harry began to unfold it carefully. He grinned fully when he saw the untidy scarlet handwriting.

Sirius.

“What was Remus in such a tizzy about, then?”

Ah, there it was. The letter began with three of the most simple and painful words Harry had ever read in his lifetime:

To my friends.